Parables: A Kingdom Collage

Sermon for July 26, 2026
Matthew 13:31-33,44-52

This morning, I’d like to take you to my dining room – specifically, to one wall in my dining room.  On this wall hang 11 frames.  Because I have such little artistic imagination, those frames hang in greater symmetry than I really intended, reflecting a need for balance I can’t seem to shake.

But here’s what you see.  There’s a frame of three group shots of my wife, Ann; our kids; and either Ann’s mom or me.  There’s a photo from the last dinner we all shared, when the kids and their spouses were in town a couple of weeks before Ann’s last illness.  There’s a print of Rembrandt’s painting The Return of the Prodigal Son.  There’s a shot of Ann holding Kathryn the day after Kathryn was born.  There’s a frame of nine snapshots taken over 20 years or so, images of Ann and me, or Ann and the kids, in special places we’d visited.  There’s a frame with three shots of the kids, Ann, and Ann’s mother, marking that multigenerational bond across the years.  There’s a snapshot at the beach when Kathryn and Dan were 6 and 4, grinning and running in step to escape the wave behind them.  There’s a shot of Ann looking back over her shoulder, caught in beautiful surprise.  There’s an impromptu portrait of Ann in a botanical garden, with flowers all around her.  There’s a painting by a parishioner imagining a heavenly garden.  And there’s a calligraphed verse of Scripture, from John’s Gospel:  “My peace I give unto you; therefore, let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” 

Each of these images has a story and tells a story.  Any one of them would stand on its own that way.  But taken together, despite the overbearing symmetry, these images say something more.  They’re a collage – a collage of love.  Now, this collage doesn’t pretend to define love or capture its fullness.  But it certainly reveals love as my family knew it.

OK – why am I telling you this?  Because I think our Gospel reading today offers something very much like these images on my dining-room wall.  This reading is a collage of the kingdom of God.

You know, we throw around that term a lot – the kingdom of God or the kingdom of heaven.  But God’s authority, God’s rule over all creation, isn’t like an earthly ruler lording it over his subjects.  In fact, God’s authority turns our expectations upside down … which, I think, is why Jesus doesn’t just give us one straightforward analogy to help us see the kingdom but, instead, one parable after another.  “The kingdom of heaven is like this” or “the kingdom of heaven is like that” – but no single one of them is enough to capture the reign and rule of God on its own.

So, following the two parables we heard over the last two Sundays, first about the sower and then about the weeds and the wheat, Jesus today gives us five rapid-fire parables, five more glimpses of the bigger picture.  Or, if you imagine yourself standing in an art gallery, it’s five more pieces on the kingdom’s wide canvas, five more fragments of the heavenly collage.

First is the parable of the mustard seed, which begins as “the smallest of all the seeds” but grows to offer safe haven where the birds can build their nests (Matthew 13:32).  Then comes the parable of the yeast: that the authority of God is like “yeast that a woman took and mixed in with [50 pounds] of flour until all of it was leavened” (Matthew 13:33).  In these two snapshots, the images are surprising.  God’s authority seems small and insignificant, like a tiny seed or a few pinches of yeast – not like the power kings usually wield.  But with time, the effect of God’s authority grows substantial.  Like the mustard seed, it gives us shelter from all that bears down on us.  Like a few pinches of yeast mixed into 50 pounds of flour, it changes everything, transforming life from run-of-the-mill to rich and remarkable. 

So, here’s what we know about God’s authority so far:  It starts out small; it surprises us with what it becomes; and it changes everything around it.

Then, we get two more parables.  First, Jesus says God’s reign and rule is like a “treasure hidden in a field, which someone found and then hid; then, in his joy, he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field” (Matthew 13:44).  Then Jesus says a person in God’s kingdom is like “a merchant in search of fine pearls; on finding one pearl of great value, he went and sold all that he had and bought it” (Matthew 13:45). 

So, Jesus says, God’s authority is a treasure, something to be deeply desired.  Well, that seems odd.  I mean, our desires usually run along the lines of what we see on TV commercials – the freedom to sit on the beach with a cold beer in our hands or the power to whip out our Visa cards and buy whatever we want.  But Jesus says God’s authority is the real treasure.  And, he says, if we understood what a treasure it is, we’d risk everything to live under it.  Maybe that sounds crazy.  But remember the picture Jesus paints of God’s kingdom in the Sermon on the Mount – when the poor are fed, when the merciful are blessed, when the peacemakers win, when enemies reconcile, when people hear God’s word and live by it (Matthew 5:1-12).  Deep down, I think that is what we desire.  We want to live in relationship with God and each other; we want to be agents of reconciliation in the world; we want to see God’s righteousness become our way of life.  If that’s not treasure, I don’t know what is.

Then, finally, Jesus gives us the parable of the fishing net: that the rule of God is like “a net that was thrown into the sea and caught fish of every kind; when it was full, they drew it ashore, sat down, and put the good into baskets and threw out the bad.  So it will be at the end of the age.” (Matthew 13:47-48)  This piece of the collage shows how God’s authority works on us – in a way that’s so subtle we may not even realize it’s there until it’s already gathered us in.  Now, I’ve never been a fish, so I don’t know; but I imagine a fish doesn’t have much of a sense of what’s happening to it until the net closes and it’s already caught.  I think being under God’s authority is like that:  It’s true regardless of whether we realize it.  Of course, for some people, a blinding light does knock them off their horses and make them change their lives.  But I think, for most of us, God sort of creeps up and draws us in before we really know what’s happening.  So that’s the final thing we learn from these five glimpses of the kingdom:  God’s reign and rule is subtle, catching us before we realize we’ve been caught.

OK, now imagine you’re an artist, and you’re making your own collage of the heavenly kingdom.  You’ve chosen images that speak to you about the mustard tree, the leavened loaf, the treasure hidden in a field, the pearl of great price, and the great catch of fish.  Now your task is to arrange them, to form them into a collage that says more than the sum of its parts.  How might you put the pieces together?  What arrangement might you choose?  There’s always the shape of the cross – can’t go wrong there.  But maybe you make a circle.  Maybe you evoke a sunrise.  Maybe you float the images on the water of life.  Maybe there’s an open doorway, with these five images inviting you to step in and find what’s been calling your name forever.

Or, if you’re like me and you kind of stink at visual art, maybe you’d rather have another parable – a parable to make sense of the parables.  How about this:  The kingdom of God is like being in love.  Now, you can picture that in any context that works for you.  Maybe you’re in love with your partner; maybe with your child; maybe with your family; maybe with a soul friend.  But that love can help you picture the kingdom of heaven.  Like the mustard seed, love starts small; but it grows into something steady and solid, something that shelters and sustains us.  Like the yeast, love starts off almost unnoticed; but with time, it has its way with us and changes us into so much more than we were before.  Like the treasure in the field and the pearl of great price, love is the greatest prize we could ever hope for, despite the fact it’ll never make us rich or powerful.  Like the fishing net, love sneaks up on us and draws us in, binding our life to the life of our beloved before we even know we’re caught. 

And, like love, the reign and rule of God is something we ultimately have to choose.  Despite God’s awesome power and ultimate authority, God doesn’t lord it over us the way we’d expect a king to do.  Even at the end of the age, when the fishing net is finally hauled in, God doesn’t insist that we live under heaven’s authority.  We can always choose to live apart from God, following the world’s authority instead.  As St. Paul said, the kingdom of love “does not insist on its own way” (1 Corinthians 13:5).

But given the chance to dwell in heaven, would you really choose anything else?

Christian Americans: Do What's Hard

Sermon for Independence Day (transferred), July 5, 2026
Deuteronomy 10:17-21; Psalm 145:1-9; Hebrews 11:8-16; Matthew 5:43-48

Happy late Fourth of July, the 250^th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.  I talked about the preamble to that amazing document in the sermon two weeks ago, for Juneteenth – specifically the national vision statement the Declaration gives us: that “all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”¹  I believe we’re tremendously blessed to have our national creed stated so clearly.

But, of course, a creed is there to be lived out.  In our Baptismal Covenant, we begin by stating the Apostles’ Creed – what we believe about the nature of God – and we flesh it out with five promises about how we’ll live our belief.  Well, we needed a guide for living out our national creed, too; and that’s the Constitution.  It’s far from a perfect document, as its 27 amendments make clear.  But it begins with words that will never be amended, our nation’s purpose statement – the Constitution’s preamble.  If, like me, you’re of a certain age, and you were blessed to watch Schoolhouse Rock along with your Saturday-morning cartoons, you might even carry our national purpose statement in your head, set to music.  I will resist the temptation to lead us in singing it, but here it is:  “We the People of the United States of America, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.”²

Now, as we hear that national purpose statement, there’s one important detail that doesn’t come through, one that mattered to the people who wrote it.  That detail is the look of the words on the page.  I imagine you can see it in your mind’s eye.  When you picture the preamble of the Constitution, what stands out, of course, are the first three words: We the People, written five times bigger than the rest of the text.

Now, those three words didn’t come down on tablets from Mt. Sinai.  They were a choice, and they reasonably might have been different.  The Constitution could have begun, “We the delegates to this Constitutional Convention” or “We the States now United” or “We the victors of the late Revolution.”  But, instead, the Constitution begins, in giant letters, “We the People.”

And, it turns out, there’s a story behind that, something I learned from a newspaper column last week.  The column is about “The Founder … We Don’t Remember,” a man named James Wilson.³  James Wilson was a delegate to the Constitutional Convention in 1787; and, it turns out, he was one of the primary editors of that great document, so he has a place close to my heart.  He was on the five-person Committee of Detail, and he wrote the first draft, which compiled all the previously adopted resolutions and proposals.  And that first draft, in Wilson’s handwriting, began with, “We the People….”⁴

Like all of us, Mr. Wilson had a backstory, and his backstory makes those first three words all the more poignant.  In 1779, three years after Independence, Wilson was living in Philadelphia, a wealthy lawyer with one of the city’s finest homes.  Four years into a brutal revolution, with the economy a shambles, the regular folks of Philadelphia were not exactly impressed.  Wilson and his family were living in opulence when most people couldn’t afford what little food there was.  People also questioned Wilson’s allegiance because he had opposed the highly democratic state constitution proposed for Pennsylvania, and he’d defended loyalists being tried for treason.  So, one night in 1779, a drunken mob set out for Wilson’s beautiful home, looking to even the score.  The mob attacked.  In the firefight, seven people were killed and another 17 wounded.

Wilson escaped, but I can’t imagine how traumatized he must have been.  You could see how he might have broken with the movement at that point and hightailed it off to Canada.  Instead, Wilson remained because he could understand why the mob was so upset and looking for someone to blame.  Wilson had grown up poor in Scotland before his family emigrated to the colonies.  He knew what it was to be hungry and under the English thumb.

So, instead of nursing resentment toward the people who’d attacked, Wilson doubled down on democracy.  There in the Constitutional Convention, he pulled a copy of the Declaration of Independence from his coat pocket and read from it to the other delegates, reminding them that the people of the colonies had bound themselves together to advance their inalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.  His point was that “the people are … ‘the legitimate source of all authority’”⁵ – despite the fact some of them had stormed his house and tried to kill him.  So, the first three words from Wilson’s Constitutional drafting committee are the ones that ring down to us today: “We the People … ordain and establish this Constitution.”

We find ourselves in a day when focusing on the well-being of those who aren’t part of your own tribe might seem naïve.  I imagine it seemed naïve back in the day, too.  Even more so than now, the Revolutionary period was a time of extremes.  You had leading citizens renouncing their national identities.  You had brother fighting against brother, our Civil War, Part One.  You had poor people literally rioting in the streets, shooting cannonballs into the homes of wealthy lawyers.  Common purpose must have seemed like a pipe dream.  Maybe it still does.

I think James Wilson might have said that what unifies us is choosing to be us.  We may not get it right in any given moment – in fact, you can read our history as one example after another of not getting it right.  But you can also read our history as call and response: the call to remember whom we aspire to be and the response of taking one more step to expand the boundaries of “We the People” balancing liberty and justice for all.

So, as we celebrate this feast of Independence Day, I hear our readings as a call to notice how the Good News and our national aspirations intersect, and then a call to remember whom we aspire to be, in both our spiritual and secular lives.  Maybe most fundamentally, I think the Good News and our national aspirations intersect by calling us to pursue not what is easy but what is hard – the “narrow door” through which Jesus calls us to step into God’s kingdom (Luke 13:24).

First, from Deuteronomy, we heard Moses, on the doorstep of the Promised Land, reminding his people to default toward humility despite being God’s chosen.  Yes, Moses says, God has blessed and is blessing you beyond measure.  But remember why: to live out the heart of the One who formed you.  “The Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome, who is not partial and takes no bribe, who executes justice for the orphan and the widow, and who loves the strangers, providing them food and clothing.  You shall also love the stranger,” Moses says to these people about to occupy other people’s lands, “for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (10:17-19)  Once you’re in charge, Moses says, it’ll be easy to think you did this all on your own and then to serve your own interests.  But you’ve been chosen to show God’s ways and purposes to others.  So, follow God’s lead, Moses says, and do what’s hard instead.

Then, from the Psalms, the writer praises God’s “unsearchable” greatness (145:3), awesome majesty, and “wondrous works” (145:5).  And what do those wondrous works look like?  How does the creator and sovereign of the universe wield ultimate power?  “The Lord is gracious and merciful,” the psalmist says, “slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.  The Lord is good to all and has compassion over all that he has made.” (145:8-9)  All … not just the blessed, not just the chosen, not just the familiar, but all.  Loving the good and the faithful would be easy.  But God does what’s hard instead.

Then, in the epistle, the writer reminds these Jewish followers of Jesus that their founding father, Abraham, was someone with no capacity for great things on his own.  Instead, what Abraham had was an immense capacity to trust that, even in what seems like endings, God is always working something new.  Abraham and Sarah stepped into their journey with God not in fear but in hope.  Their focus was the homeland not where they were but where they were going – “a better country, that is, a heavenly one” (11:16).  Getting stuck in present fear and failure is easy.  But God calls us to do what’s hard, to help build what’s coming, instead.

And finally, in Matthew, Jesus tells his followers absolutely the last thing they want to hear.  In the Sermon on the Mount, the Torah version 2.0, Jesus says over and over not to ask, “What’s enough?” but to ask, “What is God’s heart?”  Don’t just not murder each other; reconcile with each other.  Don’t just not commit adultery; respect each other as equals, not objects.  Don’t just follow the rules in punishing evildoers; kill them with kindness to change their hearts.  Don’t just love the neighbors who love you back; love even your enemies and pray for your persecutors.  Following the law and reveling in self-righteousness – that’s easy.  But God calls us to do what’s hard, to expand the circle, instead.

Our nation’s 250^th birthday is certainly a time to celebrate, but it’s also a time to remember – to remember the deep complexity of what it means to live as a faithful follower of Jesus among “we the people” in 2026.  The easy way is Christian nationalism – to wrap the baby Jesus in the American flag and decide, in advance, that if the United States does something, it must be God’s will.  The more challenging path is to be not a Christian nationalist but a Christian American.  That means patterning my life on the vision and purpose of the Baptismal Covenant.  It means patterning my civic engagement on the vision and purpose of our nation’s founding documents.  And it means, every day, whether in the pew or in the public square, to choose to be part of “we the people” called by God to do what is hard.

1.       “Declaration of Independence: A Transcription.” National Archives. Available at: https://www.archives.gov/founding-docs/declaration-transcript. Accessed July 3, 2026.

2.       “The Preamble.” Constitution Annotated: Analysis and Interpretation of the U.S. Constitution. Available at: https://constitution.congress.gov/constitution/preamble/. Accessed July 3, 2026.

3.       Wegman, Jesse. “The Founder We Need Is the One We Don’t Remember.” New York Times, June 26, 2026. Available at: https://www.nytimes.com/2026/06/26/opinion/declaration-independence-constitution-james-wilson.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share. Wilson’s story, as told here, comes from this article. See also Wegman’s book The Lost Founder: James Wilson and the Forgotten Fight for a People’s Constitution.

4.       “Manuscript of the Committee of Detail Report, August, 3, 1787.” American Treasures: Documenting the Nation’s Founding. Available at: https://constitutioncenter.org/american-treasures/manuscript-of-the-committee-of-detail-report/kiosk. Accessed July 3, 2026.

5.       Quoted by Wegman and found in Farrand, Max, ed. The Records of the Federal Convention of 1787. Rev. ed. 4 vols. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1937. Volume 1, Chapter 13, Document 18. Available at: https://press-pubs.uchicago.edu/founders/documents/v1ch13s18.html. Accessed July 3, 2026.

Calling Balls and Strikes

Sermon for June 21, 2026, celebrating Juneteenth
Amos 5:18-24; Psalm 137:1-8; Galatians 3:23-29; Luke 4:14-21

In addition to praying for fathers on this Father’s Day, we’re marking the Juneteenth holiday this morning.  As you probably know, it’s the anniversary of June 19, 1865, when the news of freedom finally came to enslaved people in Texas, the last formerly Confederate state to receive that good news.  I think there’s symbolic resonance in the fact that Juneteenth and Independence Day fall just 16 days apart.  To me, they seem like two acts of an unfolding drama, with Juneteenth being America’s second Independence Day.

Meanwhile, in the spirit of preparing for our nation’s birthday, I decided to watch the recent Ken Burns series on the Revolutionary War.  I’ve been a Ken Burns fan for a long time; and, of course, the production is fabulous.  But here’s what I especially appreciate about Ken Burns:  He works hard to capture the deep complexities and paradoxes of American history.  He told an interviewer that, on the wall in his editing room, there’s a neon sign that reads, “It’s complicated.  It means that, no matter how good that scene is,” Burns said, “if you learn new, complicating, destabilizing information, you are obligated to change [that scene].”  Ken Burns sees his role not as a historical judge but as one who tries to tell the whole story.  As he puts it, he strives to “call the balls and strikes for everyone involved.”¹

As we look toward our 250^th celebration of independence, we will rightly remember the nobility, even the holiness, of the modern world’s first experiment in self-governance.  As Abraham Lincoln famously framed it in his day, our founders brought forth “a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”²

I think Ken Burns would say the key word in Lincoln’s reflection is this: “proposition” – the proposition that all people are created equal.  The American Revolution wasn’t fought to make everyone in the colonies politically equal.  Just ask a woman, or a Native person, or a Black person, or a poor person back in the day.  But the American Revolution rested on the proposition that all people should be politically equal.  It was the beginning of “a process story,” Ken Burns says.  “We are in pursuit of happiness.  We are for a more perfect union.”³ 

And his series on the Revolution recognizes this stunning disconnect: that our founders couched their arguments for liberty explicitly in contrast to slavery – in the sense that they refused to be England’s slaves.  On one hand, it’s deeply hypocritical for people who own other people to argue against the evils of being enslaved.  And, at the same time, as Ken Burns says, “that hypocrisy is the place in which we are, strangely enough, able to grow.”⁴  Here’s why:  Once the slaveholding founders could “articulate and distill a century of Enlightenment thinking into one remarkable [phrase], … that all men are created equal – it’s done,” Burns says.  “Slavery’s done.”⁵  Maybe so, but that ending takes two wars and 89 more years to come about.  The Juneteenth holiday reminds us that committing ourselves to a holy aspiration isn’t the same as accomplishing it.  The work keeps going – for our nation as a whole, for its individual citizens, and particularly for us – we Americans who strive to follow Jesus’ way of love.  As we try to walk that path faithfully, we benefit from the clear eyes of someone like Ken Burns – an umpire who calls the balls and strikes as fairly as he can.

I think our readings today do that, too – God’s Word calling balls and strikes on our work of faithful living.  We started with that reading from Amos – a spiritual wake-up call.  “So,” the prophet says to the leaders of Israel, “you think you want to see the Day of the Lord?  Really?  It might bring a message you don’t want to hear.  It might be like running from a lion only to find a bear waiting for you.”  The prophet says Yahweh isn’t looking for the kind of righteousness we usually offer – neither perfect church services nor national prayer meetings – if those observances don’t reflect our hearts and our lives.  “Don’t just sing me pretty songs,” Yahweh says.  “‘Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream’” (Amos 5:24).  We can take that two ways, and both would be right.  Let the waters of justice and righteousness flow through you, Amos says, so that the way you live channels God’s Love.  And, Amos warns, if you don’t, then may the waters of justice and righteousness roll down on you in judgment.  As the divine umpire, Amos is calling a lot of balls here in a time when those who held power ignored the folks on the sidelines.  And, just as Israel failed to find the strike zone, so have we in our history, as our path toward liberty has wound through enslavement and lynchings and differential standards of justice … and the profound forgetting of those things.

Our psalm today, too, reminds us how God’s Word takes to task those who are unconcerned with the well-being of others.  The writer is reflecting on the Jewish people’s exile in Babylon – how they were carted off as spoils of war by the Babylonians and held in a foreign land, expected to sing happy songs for people who’d shipped them in as cheap labor.  The psalm asks God to remember this and to right the scales of justice.  And the psalm asks us to do the same now – to remember our history and live differently because of it.

Then we have the reading from Paul’s letter to the Galatians.  It’s the source of a Gospel claim that reminds me of the fundamental claim in our Declaration of Independence.  In Galatians, Paul says that Jesus’ life, death, resurrection, and ascension have changed the game spiritually, rewriting the rules.  If you’ve been baptized, you’ve put on Christ as your identity, Paul says.  You’re no longer allied with the tribe you allied with before.  In this Christian way of living, no one ranks higher than anyone else.  “There is no longer Jew or Greek,” Paul says, “there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus” (3:28).  It’s a truth Paul holds to be self-evident – that all followers of Jesus are re-created equal.  If we let that sink in, it undoes every claim we want to make about our superiority, our especially beloved status in God’s eyes – for ourselves and for our nation.  There is no room for “God loves my tribe best” in the new world order Christ has begun.  And by naming it so clearly, Paul narrows the strike zone, making us work hard to land our pitches if we want to get the umpire’s call.

And then we have the reading from Luke – Jesus’ inaugural address for the reign and rule of God, his agenda for a heavenly country (Hebrews 11:16) in process.  In his hometown synagogue, alongside friends and neighbors who’d known him as a kid, Jesus unrolls the book of the prophet Isaiah and declares his Kingdom’s founding principles:  “‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.  He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.’” (4:18-19)  Then Jesus rolls up the scroll, takes his seat, looks around, and brings those ancient words into people’s lived experience:  “Today,” he says, “this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing” (4:21).  A new birth of freedom has come, he says.  Now, these words of the prophet aren’t new.  The Jewish leaders would have heard them and said, “Yeah, that’s how God sees us.  And because we’re specially blessed, God will restore us to the greatness we once knew.”  “Well, no,” Jesus says.  “You are people God loves, absolutely – and that means all of you, not just the folks at the top of the heap.  And when you love people the way God does, you want to lift up especially those who have the farthest to rise.  So, join me,” Jesus says.  “Don’t rest in your power.  Take Love on the road, blessing those who most need to be freed from all that holds them back.”  It’s inspiring … unless it cuts too close to the bone.  Just seven verses later, the hometown crowd is trying to throw Jesus off a cliff, literally.  They heard the umpire calling balls and strikes the way he saw them, and they wanted that umpire gone.

Our personal histories and our nation’s history are parallel paths.  As individual children of God and as the first nation founded on equality, we are beloved – but we aren’t complete.  There are times we glimpse the heart of God, and there are times we look away.  There are times we claim God’s Word as our own, and there are times we slander others as “less than.”  There are times we see that all people are created equal and that God wants us to help those at the bottom to rise – and there are times we see our blessing as a sign that, somehow, we deserve it more than “they” do.  Juneteenth is America’s other Independence Day because it helps us remember that true North isn’t where we are but where we’re going, the place we aspire to be.  We, and our nation, are works in process.  And we have to hold, in living memory, the complexity of that process – both the times we live God’s love and the times we try to throw Jesus off the cliff.  Neither the story of our nation nor the story of our salvation is an ESPN highlight reel.  We’ve got to call the balls and the strikes as they come if we want to leave the field with a win. 

1.      Tomasky, Michael. “‘A Story We Think We Know’: Ken Burns on The American Revolution.” The New Republic, Nov. 11, 2025. Available at: https://newrepublic.com/article/201497/ken-burns-american-revolution-documentary. Accessed June 19, 2026.

2.      Lincoln, Abraham. “Gettysburg address delivered at Gettysburg Pa. Nov. 19th, 1863.” Available at: https://www.loc.gov/resource/rbpe.24404500/?st=text. Accessed June 19, 2026.

3.      Tomasky, op. cit.

4.      Gross, Terry. “Ken Burns’ ‘American Revolution’ series includes voices the founders overlooked.” Fresh Air, Oct. 20, 2025. Available at: https://www.npr.org/2025/10/20/nx-s1-5580245/ken-burns-american-revolution-series-includes-voices-the-founders-overlooked. Accessed June 19, 2026.

5.      Tomasky, op. cit.

How We Live Matters More

Sermon for June 7, 2026
Hosea 5:15-6:6; Psalm 50:7-15; Romans 4:13-25; Matthew 9:9-13,18-26

As I said in the column this weekend, we’re beginning several Sundays when our worship will mark events and holidays that aren’t part of the Church’s calendar.  Today, in addition to observing the second Sunday after Pentecost, our diocese and St. Andrew’s are marking Wear Orange Sunday, which raises awareness of gun violence and encourages us to help prevent it.

Wear Orange Sunday comes on the heels of yesterday’s participation in Kansas City’s Pridefest.  Our diocese, and members of our congregation, took part to affirm that all people are beloved by God and welcome to participate fully in the Church’s life and work.  Then, on June 21, in addition to marking Father’s Day, we’ll honor the national Juneteenth holiday, which celebrates the end of enslavement in the United States and asks us to keep working toward justice for all.  And finally, on July 5, we’ll honor our nation’s 250^th birthday by observing Independence Day, an official feast on the Episcopal Church calendar that we celebrate here each year.

Now, some of us will take exception to one or more of these observances.  And that can come from either direction – from those who will think we’re overdoing it or from those who will think we’re underdoing it.

Take today’s observance of Wear Orange Sunday.  As I said, the focus is preventing gun violence, and we’ll intercede about that in the Prayers of the People, along with our regular remembrance of those who’ve died in violent acts.  I imagine some of you see Wear Orange as a political statement, a critique of Second Amendment rights.  Others of you would want more – maybe lighting the church in orange floodlights this weekend.

Then there’s our participation in Pridefest.  We were there yesterday to support the legal rights of LGBTQ people and their full inclusion in the life of the Church because, historically, they’ve been denied those things.  Some of you would take exception to us participating in Pride, seeing it as a political statement.  Others of you would want more – maybe a Pride flag flying on our lawn.

Then there’s our observance of Juneteenth in two weeks, when our readings and music will honor the national holiday.  As I said, Juneteenth celebrates the end of enslavement in the United States, our centuries-long original sin.  Of course, by itself, ending slavery didn’t redeem America’s racial history or heal its future.  But I’d say ending slavery is certainly something worth celebrating, part of our nation’s movement toward justice.  Some of you would take exception to that, seeing a Juneteenth celebration as a political statement.  Others of you would want more – maybe us sponsoring a community Juneteenth event.

And our suspicion of civic observances isn’t limited to those that people might see as progressive.  On July 5, we’ll celebrate our nation’s 250^th Independence Day, a feast with its own appointed prayers and readings, as I said; and we’ll sing national hymns like “God of our fathers,” “God bless our native land,” and “Eternal Father, strong to save.”  Some of you would see marking Independence Day in church as a political statement – an act that cozies up to Christian nationalism, the movement that twists the Good News to claim that God likes America best.  Others of you would want more – maybe a 21-gun salute after worship.

So … why do we do this?  Why do we mark these civic moments in church?  Wouldn’t it be easier just to put on blinders, and follow the prayer book, and let the world spin outside?

Yes.  It certainly would.  We could just offer the appointed sacrifices, so to speak.  But I think Jesus and the prophets might have something to say about seeking righteousness that way.

In the Old Testament reading, from Hosea, God says, “Listen:  Good intentions aren’t sufficient.  When the crunch comes,” God says, “my people turn back to me and offer their obligatory worship – but is that enough?  No,” God says. “‘I desire steadfast love and not sacrifice, the knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings’” (6:6).  Your prayers and worship matter, but how you live matters more.

The psalm today makes the same point with a little more divine snark.  God says, “Look, your worship is fine; ‘your offerings are always before me.’  But do you think that’s most important?  ‘Do you think I eat the flesh of bulls or drink the blood of goats?  Offer to God a sacrifice of thanksgiving, and make good your vows to the Most High.’” (Psalm 50:7-14 BCP).  Yes, prayers and worship matter.  But how you live matters more.

The apostle Paul picks up a similar theme in today’s reading from Romans.  Gettin’ right with God doesn’t come by keeping the Law but by following Abraham’s example of faith, Paul says.  It has to be that way so that God’s promise may rest on grace, not obligation or scorekeeping.  Abraham’s story shows the kind of trust that God’s looking for.  With a straight face, God promised a couple of childless centenarians that they would have many descendants.  And what God heard from them was, “OK.  We trust that you’ll keep your word, so we’ll follow your lead.”  That kind of trust is what lets us experience grace, God’s love freely given.  It’s not about being rewarded because we got our prayers or worship right.  Trusting and living faithfully – that’s what puts us into right relationship with God.  Your prayers and worship matter.  But how you live matters more.

Then we have Jesus in today’s Gospel reading.  As the religious experts watch his every move, Jesus calls the worst person in the world as one of his disciples – Matthew, the tax collector.  Everybody holds Matthew in contempt.  The Romans see him as a dirty peasant so weak he’s willing to collude with them as a parasite to his neighbors.  The Jews see him as a traitor and collaborator with the Empire who gets rich off them in the process.  Matthew is the last guy anyone would call righteous.  And yet Jesus calls him.  And Matthew – for the first time basking in God’s Love rather than everyone’s contempt – Matthew leaves his tax booth, follows Jesus, and invites him to dinner with other misfits and losers.  Of course, Jesus goes; and, of course, the religious leaders are scandalized.  Quoting what we heard from Hosea earlier, Jesus looks at them and says, “Don’t you get it yet?  ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’  For I have come to call not the righteous but sinners.” (Matt 9:13)  The point works in two directions:  To Matthew, and to all of us who serve the wrong gods and take advantage of each other, Jesus says:  Straighten up.  And – to the religious authorities, and to all of us who are sure God’s on our side, Jesus says:  “Practice mercy.  Yes, your prayers and worship matter.  But how you live matters more.”

And then, for good measure, Jesus follows up his teaching by showing us what life can look like when we practice righteousness by the choices we make, not by the tribe we choose.  A leader of the local synagogue risks his credibility with the Pharisees by putting his trust in the Love he sees standing there before him.  The synagogue leader says to Jesus, “My daughter has just died; but come and lay your hand on her, and she will live” (Matt 9:18).  And, in a beautiful turn, Jesus – who’s just called Matthew to follow him – gets up and follows this local pastor to his house.  Meanwhile, a woman in the crowd sees the same Love standing before her, and she takes a huge risk, for herself and for Jesus, by coming up and touching his cloak.  That act exposes her to even more rejection by the community.  She’s already a perpetual outsider because her bleeding makes her ritually unclean; now, she’s in trouble because this unclean woman has touched a man, and a rabbi at that, thereby making him ritually unclean.  Jesus knows this, but he doesn’t care.  When he turns and looks at her, he sees her deep trust in the power of Love to heal us.  So, he simply says, “Your faith has made you well” (9:22).  Then he arrives at the house of the trusting local pastor and quietly brings his daughter back to life.

Yes, these are miracle stories, but they’re more than that.  These are glimpses of what life looks like when we align our hearts and our hands with the God who is Love – when we trust in Love to heal us and our world and then follow Love’s way with each next step.  Gettin’ right with God isn’t about being on the right side or meeting the right obligations.  Gettin’ right with God is about letting Love flow through us.  Our prayers and worship matter.  But how we live matters more.

So … back to the civic observances in our worship over the next few weeks:  Ultimately, they aren’t the point – but they do matter because worship forms us, for good or for ill.  To me, the reason we’d honor the full inclusion of LGBTQ folks, or pray against gun violence, or celebrate the end of enslaving people is because doing those things reminds us that some of God’s beloved children have been, or currently are, at risk of harm.  We’d include them and their lives in worship because doing that helps us remember that God wants all of us children to live in the fullness of divine Love.  And then, about celebrating Independence Day – why would we do that?  We’d offer our nation to God through our worship because doing so reminds us of what is holy in our national DNA and inspires us to live that out.  We engage civic life in our worship because it’s a way we can remember forward – a way to remember both who we are – God’s beloved – and how God calls us to be instruments of Love today, and tomorrow, and the next day.

Now, where all this gets complicated is in the practicalities.  Today, some of us are wearing orange to remember victims and survivors of gun violence.  That’s great.  And … when do we get to the Sundays when we’ll wear special colors to remember people who are hungry, or children who lack educational opportunity, or families who can’t afford a decent place to live, or people who are persecuted for their faith?  The list could go on and on – I’m sure we could find 52 of them, one for each week.  How do we decide which aspects of civic life should be included in worship?  I just think we have to be careful about the temptation to devote a Sunday to everything – which, of course, would leave us with the paradox that when everything is special, nothing is special.

But, again, I think Jesus and the prophets would ask us to remember why we honor what we choose to honor.  The point is not virtue-signaling.  The point is not aligning a congregation with a cultural tribe.  The point is not meeting religious obligations.  The point is to remind us of the reign and rule of God – the way Love, and only Love, can upend injustice, and heal what’s broken, and make us and our society whole.  The point is that, although our prayers and worship matter, how we live matters more.

The Unknown Apostle

Sermon for May 24, 2026, Pentecost and Memorial Day Weekend
Acts 2:1-21

This morning, I want to tell you about someone about whom we know virtually nothing.  So, as you might guess, that makes for a pretty short story – and, it turns out, a short sermon.  You can thank me later.

This man’s story, such as we have it, comes in the Acts of the Apostles just before the reading we heard today about the Holy Spirit empowering the dazed and confused followers of Jesus.  As you might remember from Bishop Amy’s sermon last week, the disciples had been hanging on for 10 days by this point, more than anxious to learn what was coming next and when to expect it.  The last thing they saw of Jesus were the soles of his feet as he ascended into heaven, after promising them that the Holy Spirit would be coming their way “not many days from now” (Acts 1:5).  That’s all well and good, if you’re the one who’s making the promise.  If you’re the one hearing it, as you watch your resurrected Lord floating off into the clouds, it might leave you feeling a bit at loose ends.

So, just after Jesus made his exit, as the disciples found themselves waiting for what would come next, Peter got the idea that they should raise up a little more talent.  The followers of Jesus, about 120 people at that point, were short one lieutenant after Judas had turned traitor and ended up dead.  So Peter said they should name someone to take his place, one of Jesus’ other friends who’d been there from the start of his preaching and teaching.  They nominated two men – Joseph called Barsabbas and Matthias.  Scripture tells us nothing about either of them, but presumably they were the two most qualified of the guys who didn’t make the first cut, the best of the B team.  So, the community prayed, asking God to reveal which of these two minor leaguers should be called up, and they drew lots to learn which one God wanted.  The winner was Matthias, so he joined the ranks of the top 12, the leaders who would represent the 12 tribes of a new Israel and carry the good news “to the ends of the earth.”

And then?  Then Matthias drops out of the story, never to be heard from again.

That doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten him exactly.  Like the other 11 apostles, Matthias has his own feast day, though different denominations mark it on different dates.  After Matthias received the gifts of the Holy Spirit on Pentecost, the tradition says different things about him.  He may have brought the good news to Cappadocia (in modern Turkey) or to Georgia, in the Caucasus south of Russia.  Another tradition says he was martyred by both Jewish and Roman authorities, the Jewish leaders stoning him for a while before a Roman soldier cut off his head.  But, honestly, we don’t know.  We can only guess what happened to Matthias, the second-string apostle who got his 30 seconds of fame and then disappeared.  You may be interested to know that, now, Matthias is the patron saint of carpenters, tailors, alcoholics, smallpox, hope, perseverance, and Billings, Montana – about as random a list of patronage as it gets.

Despite the uncertainty, I kind of love the character of Matthias.  Matthias is a placeholder.  He’s the living embodiment of, “Who’s next?”  His story teaches a vital lesson about this new Christian movement:  It’s precisely that – a movement.  There will always be the next person to promote.  There will always be someone waiting in the wings.  As the Holy Spirit showed so powerfully on that day of Pentecost, as Jews from all over the Roman Empire heard the good news of Jesus in their own languages, this is a bottom-up movement.  And the right person with the right gifts is just waiting to step up.

I see Matthias as the spiritual equivalent of the unknown soldier.  This is Memorial Day weekend as well as Pentecost.  Many of us have friends or family members who’ve served; many of you have served yourselves.  Just check out the page in the bulletin listing 105 names.  And those are just the ones we know about; I’m sure there are 105 more.

When I visited Washington years ago, I got a little teary at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.  It wasn’t my father in there, but it could have been.  At the end of the Second World War, my father came of age and enlisted.  Thankfully, his deployment was to San Diego not Saipan, where he served as a Navy corpsman, a medic, helping to heal the wounded coming home.  By the time he served, more than 400,000 Americans had died to defeat authoritarians in Germany and Japan, and it’s only because of the atom bomb that my father didn’t take part in invading Japan.  I have tremendous respect for those who went the distance, for the thousands now unknown to history who answered the call in the Pacific and in Europe, who gave themselves to bring light to vanquish the darkness.

Well, back to Matthias, the virtually unknown apostle:  We don’t know where he was sent, but sent he was.  That’s what it is to be an apostle.  The word itself means one who is sent – a representative of a higher authority who delivers the message the authority wants to share.  Whether it was in Turkey or Georgia or somewhere else, Matthias took the words of his ruler on the road.  In an empire that prospered by draining resources from the people it oppressed, Matthias shared a different story – a story of a divine king who was Love in the flesh and who’d sent a Spirit of Love to bring to the nobodies power beyond anything Caesar could muster.

And, of course, Matthias was only the first among millions and millions of unknown saints – regular folks who said their prayers, and loved the people around them, and offered a word of hope when the opportunity presented itself.  Those millions cascaded down history, ballooning into billions. Those unknown saints include the two new Christians we’ll baptize this morning, as well as the normal people sitting to your left and your right, as well as the extra normal person you saw when you looked in the mirror this morning.  Matthias shows up in Scripture, for his grand total of three verses, because Matthias is you.  You are the unknown apostle.  And this morning, I salute you.

Doorway Moments

Sermon for May 10, 2026 (Easter 6, Mother's Day, and Graduating Senior Recognition)
John 14:15-21

(The sermon began with remembrances from seniors Evan Murray and John Kirmer.)

Evan and John, thank you so much for sharing those memories of your time here at St. Andrew’s.  This is a bittersweet day in a bittersweet season for our graduating seniors, a time of celebration and farewell.  It’s hard to hold those realities together – it’s confusing how we’re supposed to feel in times like these, these liminal spaces of our lives.

Evan and John, and all our graduating seniors – that’s where you’re standing right now, a place where we’ve all been and where we all will be – in a liminal space.  That’s a five-dollar word for a transitional time.  That transition may be a moment, or it may be a longer phase.  But in any case, it’s a time when we look both backward and forward, simultaneously remembering and anticipating.  That word liminal comes from a Latin word for a doorway, and I think that applies pretty well to us, with all the rich realities we’re bringing before God this morning.  This is a day and a season for standing in the doorway.

Our seniors and their families certainly know the mixed feelings of liminal space.  The grad parties, the honors, the sense of relief – all that is very real.  And right there alongside it is your very real grief about impending goodbyes and uncertainty about what’s next.  In our transitions, we look backward into the room where we’ve been, and we look forward to the room we’re entering … and we just want to stand in the doorway a while, reveling in what we’ve accomplished and steadying ourselves for what we can’t quite yet see.

That’s where Jesus and his friends are in today’s Gospel reading, too – the liminal space of the Last Supper.  As John tells the story of that night, Jesus talks nonstop, for four chapters, trying to help his friends remember what they’ve shared over the past three years and prepare for what’s going to happen.  He’s just told them he’s about to leave and that his going will be very hard – for him and for them.  It’s the last thing his friends want to hear, and they don’t understand it anyway.  He’s told them he’ll prepare a place for them where he’s going.  “Don’t worry,” Jesus says; “you know the way.”  But his friends can’t begin to see it.  “We don’t know where you’re going,” Thomas complains; “how can we know the way?” (14:5).  For any of us who’ve been in a real doorway moment, we’re right there with Thomas.

When we stand in that liminal space, Jesus gives us two assurances.  First, he tells his friends that, actually, they don’t have to know precisely where they’re going.  We always hear that life is less about the destination and more about the journey, right?  Well, by the same token, success in God’s eyes isn’t about mapping the right destination; it’s about following the right person as you head toward whatever comes next.  “I am the way, and the truth, and the life,” Jesus tells his friends (14:6).  “Trust in that, and follow me.”

Here’s the other assurance Jesus gives his friends as they stand in that liminal space – what we heard in the Gospel reading today: that they won’t be going it alone.  Even though Jesus will be gone, he’ll “ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate,” Jesus says – “the Spirit of truth” who will “be with you forever” (14:16-17).  Now, Jesus does have expectations of his friends as they move into the next room of their lives:  “If you love me, you will keep my commandments,” he says (14:15).  As we learn in every room through which we pass, we’re accountable for the choices we make.  But, as we poke our heads through the doorway, and crane our necks, and try to see what lies ahead, we won’t be doing it on our own.  “I will not leave you orphaned,” Jesus says (14:18).  With the Holy Spirit guiding our steps, we’ll abide in nothing less than divine Love itself.  “Those who love me will be loved by my Father,” Jesus says, “and I will love them and will reveal myself to them” (14:21).

In these doorway moments, sometimes we can’t wait to step into what’s next; and sometimes we’d give anything just to stay a little longer where we’ve been.  No matter what this liminal space is like for you, just know that you aren’t alone in it.  And know that the Spirit of Love will be guiding and equipping you for the work that awaits you in that next room.

As we celebrate this Mother’s Day, I want to leave you with something my mother gave to my sisters and me.  Every time she saw us getting ready to walk out the door into whatever lay ahead for us that day, she had a mantra she’d repeat.  It was her blessing, really – her way of reminding us how to follow the Way and thrive in whatever lay ahead, even if we couldn’t see it.  As we opened the door to step outside, my mother would say, “Learn something, love somebody, and have a good time.”

Learn something, love somebody, and have a good time.  Whether you’re stepping through the doorway in trepidation or in joy, those are good words to help you find the Way. 

Where's Jesus?

Sermon for April 19, 2026
Luke 24:13-35

Well, it’s been a week when a certain meme bearing a resemblance to Jesus has been the talk of social media.  But instead of dwelling on that, I want to ask the question I think our Gospel reading might point us toward:  If we were seeking Jesus, just where would we look, anyway?  To explore that, let’s take a little journey and see what we find.

The journey starts in the Holy Land.  Almost three years ago, I was blessed to take a Holy Land pilgrimage.  Of course, that journey included visits to the most significant locations in our faith family’s history.  In fact, the itinerary took a loosely chronological approach to Jesus’ life, with the trip’s next-to-last day including the site of Jesus’ crucifixion and burial.  

Then, on the last day, to celebrate resurrection, we went to Emmaus, the location for our Gospel reading today.  We intrepid travelers piled onto the bus, again, for day 10 of lurching through antiquity.  By this point, we knew the drill:  Sit in traffic for a while; listen to Ranya, the guide, tell the story of where we were headed; wind along tiny roads through the hills or the desert or the cliffs, marveling that the driver never did hit anything.  Once we got to this day’s destination, seven miles or so out of Jerusalem, we crept up an even smaller road, climbing an impossible hill; and we piled out of the bus to see … well, a church.  Another church.  It should have been obvious, of course, but most of the places we went didn’t have any structures from Jesus’ time still standing.  And, even if you’re visiting something in nature, something other than the site of a holy building … who knows historically which cave in Bethlehem housed the Holy Family, or which hillside by the Sea of Galilee hosted the feeding of the 5,000?  Pilgrimage is an approximate thing.

Anyway, near the place where at least some historians think Emmaus was, we piled out of the bus to see a church dating from centuries after Jesus would have walked the road there.  Now, the church was cool; it was a Crusader structure built just before the Christian conquerors were kicked back out of the Holy Land – so close to the end of the Crusader empire that the Christians never even got to finish their paintings in this church.  Well, as we’d done a couple of dozen times by this point in the pilgrimage, we walked into the church, heard five minutes of history, did the Clark Griswold head nod as we looked around, and walked back out again.  The bloom was off the rose, as far as church-visiting was concerned.  And, at that one, near the site of Emmaus, I didn’t feel any particularly inspiring presence of Jesus.

Gathering for worship overlooking the hills where Emmaus
may have been.

           Then we got back on the bus for a short drive to another church.  This one was closed for repairs, but we were there to use its garden perched at the edge of the cliff.  In the garden were stone benches and a rough table – a spot set aside for pilgrim groups to use for worship.  And walking up to it, we were blessed with a lovely view across the sparse, rough, beautiful Judean hill country.  There, we celebrated Eucharist.  We followed Jesus’ lead, as we’d each done a thousand times before and since:  We took simple bread and wine, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to each other as the wind blew our hats off.  We’d come together as strangers 10 days earlier, each with a different reason for being there.  But by this point, we were us: a band of pilgrims whose hearts God had been forming – including, in some way, forming into one, at least for a given time.  As that pilgrim band, we weren’t just individuals receiving Jesus.  We were the Body of Christ in that place at that moment, bound together by Love to be Love in the world God gives us to inhabit.

Now let’s bring our journey a little closer to home.  Last Wednesday, I was at Mission Chateau for the monthly service we do there, and we were using the readings appointed for today, including this Gospel.  I told basically the same story about Emmaus I just shared, giving thanks for what the theologians call the mystery of incarnation – the way Christ shows up among us, still making us new through his gift of resurrected life when we’d least expect it.  For at least some in the group gathered there, this Emmaus story rang true; one worshiper told me later she was grateful for the reminder that God does, indeed, come alongside us – especially given the grief she’d been carrying.  It was lovely.

But, even though the Body and Blood had been consumed, God wasn’t done showing up that day.  After nearly everyone had left, another one of the residents asked if I’d come sit with her.  She was someone I’d seen before at these services but not someone I really know.  I sat down, and we exchanged pleasantries for a minute before she said, “I want to tell you something.”  She locked eyes with me, to make sure I was really listening, and she said:  “I see things sometimes – visions.  Now, when you were standing there at the table, saying the Eucharistic prayer, I saw Ann [my wife, Ann] and Jesus, standing there on either side of you.”  Then, she reached out, patted my chest, and said, “I want your heart to know the peace they were here to bring you.”

Now, here’s what that woman didn’t know, something I’m not sure I’ve shared here, either.  Honestly, I am not blessed with visions of Ann.  I don’t glimpse her coming around the corner or sitting next to me on the couch.  And, honestly, I’m not blessed with visions of Jesus out of Hollywood central casting, either.  But … there have been a number of times, as I’ve stood behind St. Andrew’s altar saying the Eucharistic prayer, when I’ve known that they’re with me – both of them, Ann and Jesus, standing on either side of me.  It’s not a visual thing, but it’s real presence.  And those moments of presence make me smile like pretty much nothing else does.  Anyway, that’s what this woman saw Wednesday morning – Ann on one side of me and Jesus on the other, as I stood behind a table in the Mission Chateau library, offering the Eucharistic prayer.  I can’t tell you how grateful I am that she told me what she’d seen.

You know, there are so many Jesuses out there we might seek.  There’s the Jesus of history, pursued by pilgrims across the ages, in person and in study and in prayer.  There’s the Jesus of our life together in the here and now – the faithful company of disciples wherever we find ourselves, the Body of Christ in a particular place, whoever they may be and wherever they may stand.  There’s the Jesus who sidles up alongside us when we’re not looking, the one who catches our eye and asks some question we’ve probably been avoiding, a question that’s been burning within us.  And then there’s the Jesus of sacrament, the bread and wine that becomes Body and Blood, a real presence in your hands and on your lips, so much more present than the mere physicality of wheat and grapes.

It’s this last Jesus we’re most accustomed to – and, honestly, we find him so often this way that Communion can become just something we do.  But it’s all about what eyes we use when we look to that Bread and that Cup.  You don’t have to have my new friend’s gift for visions to encounter the living Christ at this altar.  We come forward, and God never fails to show up – taken, blessed, broken, and given for you, an outward and visible sign of love for us that becomes a sure and certain gift of love to us.  You just have to come with the eyes of faith wide open.  You just have to stretch out your hands into heavenly space, breaking that plane marked by the altar rail, the thin place between yourself and what’s next, the thin place between eternal life, chapter 1, and eternal life, chapter 2 – you just have to stretch out your hands into that heavenly space to find divine Love so really present you can taste and see it.

And then … you go back to your seat.  You go back to your grocery list, or your project at work, or your kid’s questions, your last glimpse of your beloved.  Just as the two disciples experienced at Emmaus:  On this side of eternal life, Jesus will inevitably fade or fly away.  And just like the two of them, we want that moment of real presence to last.  But, no.  Jesus doesn’t work that way, at least not yet, not here, not now.

And why?  Because we have to move from the sublime holiness of real presence back to the ordinary holiness of whatever life brings next.  After our divine encounter, we’ve got work to do, we pilgrims on this path together.  It’s an insight that goes back to St. Augustine in the 400s:  He lifted up that consecrated Bread and Wine, and he said, “Behold what you are; become what you receive.”  Behold what you are; become what you receive.  Just like the bread, just like Jesus himself, we are taken, blessed, broken, and given for God’s work in this world.  We bear Jesus into all our moments, from the mundane to the miraculous, the Body of Christ given for the world here and now.  Turns out, we become the One we’ve been waiting for.

Don’t believe me?  Well … maybe now, maybe later – in fact, maybe during Communion – stop a minute.  Look to the left, look to the right, and behold the face of God.