Fear Less; Love More

Sermon for June 15, 2025 (Trinity Sunday)

You know it’s a challenging weekend when you’re checking your phone not for baseball scores or party pics but to see whether our country is at war in the Middle East, or whether another duly elected representative has been shot, or whether the National Guard is being deployed in our city.  I’m not a fearful person, but anymore I find myself fearing the next shoe to drop.

I imagine that’s what many of us are bringing as we come to worship this morning.  And what do we find when we arrive here at church?  Well, today we’re observing Trinity Sunday, our annual celebration of the nature of God.  Could anything be more esoteric and less relevant to what’s going on in the world around us?

Well, oddly enough, I think Trinity Sunday is just what the heavenly doctor ordered for us today.  Because – as war rages between Israel and Iran, and as lawmakers die in targeted political violence, and as Americans take to the streets in fear of domestic enemies real and imagined – we need to remember what God we serve, who that God is, and how that God calls us to live out our divine image and likeness.

The doctrine of the Trinity is notoriously baffling.  And, like most deep mysteries, the more we analyze it, the muddier it becomes.  We want clarity and certainty about this God who creates and redeems and sustains all creation.  For us to seek that kind of clarity about God is a bit like a dog trying to plumb the depths of his owner’s heart and mind.  Petey and I have a deep connection, but I don’t think he’s ever going to understand why sometimes he can sit on my lap and sometimes I leave him for hours.  But at the end of the day, maybe it’s enough for him to know that I truly love him, and that I want him to love me, and that I need him to be a good boy.

For us, the doctrine of the Trinity is hazy not because it’s complicated, a divine technical manual we can’t understand.  Instead, it’s hazy because it’s a metaphor, and all metaphors break down if you press them too hard.  The Trinity is a poem that tries to bear incomprehensible mystery.  As we’ll hear in a few minutes, when we look deep to find the God who is ultimate Love and ultimate Being, the best that the Prayer Book can come up with is this: that we “give thanks to you, Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth; for with your co-eternal Son and Holy Spirit, you are one God, one Lord, in Trinity of Persons and in Unity of Being; and we celebrate the one and equal glory of you, O Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit” (BCP 380).  Well, that really clears it up, right?

So, what’s the dog version of the doctrine of the Trinity?  How about this: The nature of God is relationship.  Grammatically, God is a singular that lives plural – like a couple, or a family, or a church … or a nation, when we follow our better angels.  When we look to God, we see Father, Son, and Spirit; Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer; a plurality living as a unity.

If that’s how God is, it begs the question of what God is.  Well, we know the answer to that one, right?  If I say, “God is blank,” what word comes into your head and heart?  Let’s try it.  God is --- [Love.]  Right!  As our past Presiding Bishop Michael Curry likes to say, “If it’s not about love, it’s not about God,” for God is love.

Well, that’s lovely.  But meanwhile, Israel and Iran seem to be opening the door to Armageddon.  Meanwhile, Americans are in the streets this weekend, either in support of the president and the military he’s deploying against citizens, or in support of a messy constitutional system that rejects the rights of kings.  So, on this fraught and anxious weekend, the Church is asking us to sit back and contemplate God’s nature?

No.  The Church is asking us to act in such a way that our lives reflect God’s nature.  We’re called to live in relationships of Love – regardless of the fear of any moment.  And I want to share two examples of this, both from yesterday.  It’s a holy accident that these offerings took place at the same time and on the same weekend that we’re witnessing war in the Middle East and confrontation in our cities.  We didn’t plan it this way, but the Spirit ends up using these offerings as complementary examples of how to live out God’s way of Love.

First, on Friday night and through the day Saturday, about 20 people gathered in Atchison, Kansas, for our first overnight retreat in several years.  The theme was from Psalm 46: “Be still and know that I am God” (46:11 BCP).  Through learning, contemplative prayer, and praying by making art, the retreatants built their muscles for a disciple’s most important work – the work of seeking and practicing God’s presence.  When we learn to pray, we learn to build our relationship with God, opening ourselves to receive the Father’s creativity, the Son’s compassion, and the Spirit’s power.  And, of course, what flows from that relationship doesn’t stop with us, because it’s through creativity, compassion, and power that we follow Jesus in service to this world God loves.

So, on that note – also on Saturday, dozens of us came out to serve at our first-ever Summer Free Store.  For a couple of decades, we’ve shared food and warm clothing with our neighbors in the chill of winter.  This year, we added a summer version, partnering again with our friends at St. James Church on the Paseo.  Two hundred sixty kids and parents, from our partner schools and beyond, received underwear, socks, clothes, hygiene items, and books for summer vacation.  The families also enjoyed burgers and dogs, shaved ice, yard games, and music.  There is so much that’s good about this.  Not only were our volunteers serving Christ in the families who came to the Free Store; they were also working alongside our partners at St. James, building relationships as, together, we honored the dignity of the folks God sent our way.

These two examples of living in holy relationship happen to have been parish programs.  But walking in Love is something Jesus’ followers do across all the steps of our lives.  We remembered that truth just last Sunday, as we reaffirmed our Baptismal Covenant.  We proclaimed our trust in the Trinity who creates and redeems and sustains us.  And then we promised that we’d follow God’s example of relational living.  Rather than giving in to fear and despair, we promised that we’d gather for sustenance with fellow travelers on this way of Love.  We promised that we’d turn back toward Love when we’re deceived into turning away from it.  We promised that our words and actions would share the good news Jesus shared about Love’s power.  We promised that we’d seek and serve Jesus in all people.  And we promised that we’d strive for justice and peace by respecting the dignity of everyone – those we like and those we don’t.

In a nutshell, we promised we’d choose love over fear.  And next Sunday, you’ll have an opportunity to make that choice in an outward and visible way.  At last Thursday night’s book discussion at HJ’s, the group was reflecting on this fraught time we’re in.  And out of that fear came an idea about how to love instead:  What if the church made up yard signs and stickers we could take home to remind ourselves and our neighbors that fear doesn’t get the last word?  It was a brilliant idea, so we’re doing it.  When you come next Sunday, you’ll find yard signs and stickers in the entryway.  I hope you’ll take them home as a reminder of how to live so that your life reflects the nature of this God we worship.  It comes down to just four words:  “Fear less.  Love more.”

That love, the Love of God, is not just a cozy feeling or a shelter from the storm.  It’s the power to act – the power to live out the relationship we see among the Father and the Son and the Spirit – and it can take many forms.  So, following the model of the Holy Trinity, live Love that changes the world.  Write your congressman.  Call your senator.  Post on your socials to support people’s dignity.  Peaceably assemble.  Serve a child.  Talk with someone on the other side.  Build something holy with someone you don’t understand.  Look for Jesus in the face of your enemy.  Work for justice.  Pray for peace.  Fear less.  Love more.

It's Only Good News If You Can Hear It

Sermon for June 8, 2025 (Pentecost)
Acts 2:1021; Romans 8:14-17

This is one of those Sundays when we test the limits of what the liturgy can hold.  It’s Pentecost, the day we remember the coming of the Holy Spirit upon the disciples, fulfilling Jesus’ promise that God would empower them to invite people into the Way of Love “in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth” (Acts 1:8).  So, to celebrate the Spirit’s boundless and surprising love, we processed in with doves swirling above you; and at the 10:15 service, the kids will be part of the procession waving little red flames.  To help us remember the Spirit’s gift of many tongues, we read the Gospel in many languages this morning – and thanks to those who made that happen.  At the 10:15 service, we’ll witness the Spirit empowering five children of God through baptism, and we’ll celebrate how the Spirit brings new members into our parish family.  And finally, in our Prayers of the People at the 8:00 service, we’ll join with other congregations in our diocese praying for victims and survivors of gun violence.  Today is Wear Orange Sunday, which you’ll note from the pins we’re wearing.  In this annual commemoration, we ask the Spirit to guide us in keeping our homes and communities safe from the violence we grieve in our prayers for the departed every week.

Beyond the church’s walls, this weekend includes another way the Spirit is moving us along Jesus’ Way of Love.  As our city is marking its 50^th annual Pride Fest, area Episcopal congregations took part yesterday in a Pride Mass at St. Paul’s in Westport before joining the annual Pride Parade.  Several of us from St. Andrew’s were there, helping to affirm what the Holy Spirit’s been saying ever since that first day of Pentecost:  God loves all.  All means all.  So, pass the peace to those who didn’t realize they’d be welcomed as members of God’s family.

And for some hardy members of the St. Andrew’s family, yesterday’s work to pass the peace began even before the Pride Mass at St. Paul’s.  As you know, every Saturday, we host the Brookside Farmers’ Market at HJ’s.  The parking lot is filled with vendors offering some of the freshest and healthiest veggies and treats you’ll find anywhere.  I was blessed last week to take home a couple of bags of lovely greens – I couldn’t identify them all, but they made great salads.  And there at the Brookside Farmers’ Market every Saturday, one of the tents in the parking lot belongs to us.  At the St. Andrew’s tent, and at HJ’s Café, market-goers can enjoy excellent coffee from our Brew Crew inside and from our Coffee-Tent Crew outside.  It’s a tremendous ministry of presence, people using their gifts of the Spirit to engage with customers, farmers, and other vendors.  Offering a smile, friendly conversation, and a fresh Aztec Mocha Latte, the Brew Crew and the Coffee-Tent Crew live out what the sign on HJ’s proclaims:  God loves all.  All means all.  Pass the peace.

Now, I think it’s right and good to be welcoming our neighbors at the Farmers’ Market, and praying for victims of gun violence, and representing the church in the Pride Parade.  I also know all this is not everyone’s cup of coffee.  In fact, I know some of us would say the church shouldn’t be “out there” as much as we are.  In fact, I know some of us would see participating in Wear Orange Sunday or Pride Fest as political acts rather than acts of ministry or evangelistic witness.

Here's why I don’t see it that way.  There will always be intersections between the Church’s witness and political advocacy.  That’s been true and continues still, whether the topic was slavery, or the nation’s wars, or civil rights, or women’s rights, or when personhood begins, or care for God’s creation.  As we’ll say in a few minutes when we affirm our Baptismal Covenant, following Jesus in the Episcopal tradition includes striving for justice and peace, and respecting the dignity of every human being.  It’s part of our job description as baptized people.  So, we’ll never be able to separate political advocacy completely from the witness of discipleship because, in the Venn diagram, where those circles intersect is in fostering the well-being of God’s beloved children.

That gets messy for us, especially in a nation that’s struggled for 236 years to discern what it means to separate church and state without separating ethics from public policy.  But I think this messy work is a natural consequence of what God was doing on that first day of Pentecost.

From that day forward, the Holy Spirit has been giving Jesus’ followers not just the call to speak to people in different languages but to share God’s love in different cultural contexts.  If Jesus had come just to reform Judaism, like all the other prophets, that cross-cultural work wouldn’t have been part of our call.  He would have had his followers stay put in Judea and Galilee, and they would have taught people how to follow Yahweh most faithfully, just like the prophets who came before.  But on that day of Pentecost, God said to Jesus’ followers, “Your work is greater than that.  You are the body of Christ, the presence of Jesus in the world now; and I want you to take his way of love on the road.  I want you to go to the ends of the earth with this movement.  But don’t worry,” God said; “I don’t expect you to do it all on your own.  I’ll send you the Holy Spirit as your source of power – to be your advocate, your helper, your counselor, your comforter.  Through the Spirit’s power,” God said, “I want you to share Jesus’ love in ways that people at all the ends of the earth will understand.”

The religious scholars call it contextualization or inculturation – the idea that good news is only good if it actually speaks to the people who hear it.  The Church hasn’t always done a great job of this.  In the bad old days, missionaries crossed oceans to demand faith, and land, at gunpoint.  Even in more recent times, the good news was more about escaping the hell fire that your sins deserved, rather than leaning on God’s everlasting arms.  Reacting against that brand of evangelism, many of us in our Episcopal tradition went too far and thought, “All we have to do is unlock the doors and be nice, and God will bring us more nice people like us to fill the pews.”  But from that first day of Pentecost, God has been empowering us as people who are sent – sent to share good news in ways that folks beyond the Church can actually hear.

And so, we come back to this very full worship service on a very full weekend empowered by a very busy Holy Spirit.  We share coffee at HJ’s to speak to neighbors at the Farmers’ Market.  We wear orange pins to speak to those whose hearts break every time we read the names of more neighbors who’ve died from gun violence.  We walk in the Pride Parade to speak to those who’ve been told by churches that they don’t matter, or worse – saying instead, “You are a beloved child of the God who’s more interested in being your Dad¹ than being your Judge.”  On Pentecost especially, the Holy Spirit says to the Church, “You know how to invite people into this Way of Love:  Show up alongside them, and pass the peace.”  

That’s a language the Spirit teaches all of us to speak.

1.      See Romans 8:15. “Abba” is an intimate form of address in Aramaic, roughly equivalent to “Dad” or “Papa.”

The Way Back to the Garden

Sermon for May 25, 2025
Acts 16:9-15; Revelation 21:10,22-22:5; John 14:23-29

I wonder whether it’s right to wish you a “Happy Memorial Day weekend.”  As we know, it’s the unofficial start of summer, and I imagine we’d all be glad to have a little more time and space to breathe.  But, of course, this holiday honors those who’ve given their lives in faithful and heroic service to their country.  So, although it’s great to enjoy a long weekend, marking Memorial Day is an odd mixture of gratitude and joy that springs from suffering and grief.

Maybe that mixture happens more than we might think.  Twice recently, I’ve found myself in joyful celebrations that sprang from suffering and grief.  The first was the JVS Global Table event, an annual fundraiser to support the work of one of our outreach partners, Jewish Vocational Service, which resettles refugees from around the world.  Recent federal funding cuts made this event all the more important; and it met its fundraising goal, thanks be to God, because the refugees’ stories are so compelling, paralleling Jesus’ own experience as a refugee child in Egypt.  The suffering of these families is certainly beyond anything I’ve ever known, but the refugees who spoke that night didn’t dwell on their grief from what they lost and left behind.  They celebrated the new life that came through the refugee-resettlement process – new life they themselves receive and new life they give to the communities where they live and work.

The second celebration like this was here at HJ’s three weeks ago – our annual Haiti Party.  Now, life in Haiti has been hard for decades, but the past few years of anarchy and gang violence have brought the lives of everyday Haitians to a new low.  For those of us who’ve been to Haiti, and talked with the teachers at our partner school, and watched the kids lining up each day to salute their flag and dream of a better life – being there gives you this odd feeling of grief and joy simultaneously.  And the other night at HJ’s, something similar was happening.  You incredibly generous people of St. Andrew’s came though again, providing more than enough to feed over 400 kids a hot, nutritious lunch each school day.  For us Haiti fans, tears of joy that night flowed not just because these kids will have nutritious food but because, in the world they know, nutritious food is far from a given.  Our joy is Jesus’ joy – bringing the hope of new life to God’s beloved children beaten down by the suffering that their life is.

This odd mixture of suffering and joy just seems to run through the Christian life.  In the reading from Acts this morning, Paul and Silas obediently follow the lead of the Holy Spirit, interrupting their own travel itinerary based on nothing but a dream and crossing the Aegean Sea from Turkey to northern Greece, though they don’t know who they’re coming to help.  In Philippi, they hang out for a few days until a chance meeting at worship links them up with a woman named Lydia, a wealthy merchant dealing in luxury goods.  She opens her heart to God’s love and opens her villa to the visiting apostles.  And Paul and Silas baptize Lydia and the members of her household as followers of Jesus’ Way.

But in the section of Acts just after today’s reading, Paul and Silas find themselves being beaten and imprisoned by the local authorities.  They had the temerity to cast out a demon from a fortune-telling enslaved girl, liberating her into new life but leaving her worthless to her owners.  Yet even after being whipped and imprisoned, Paul and Silas end up sharing the message of new life with their jailer, bringing him and his household into the Jesus movement.  Certainly, Paul would never have scripted things this way.  But, again, suffering and joy seem to walk hand in hand.

A similar scene comes to light in the Gospel reading.  This is a rough moment we’re overhearing – Jesus talking with his friends at the Last Supper.  He’s about to go up against not just the religious leaders who’ve been trying to silence him but against the Roman governor, who’s happy to use political violence to keep the peace.

As Jesus is talking with his friends at dinner, he knows where his path is going, but he takes the opportunity to reassure them and strengthen them to get through what lies ahead.  Remember, he says, no matter what happens, the Father and I love you.  Remember, he says, I’ll return and make my home with you.  And in the meantime, he says, the Holy Spirit will come to walk alongside you, reminding you of God’s purposes and empowering you along the Way.

So, Jesus says, in the midst of the fears this world imposes on us, remember that you already have God’s peace.  This is not peace on the world’s terms – the “peace” of empire, the peace that comes when one person has his foot on someone else’s neck.  This is peace not as the world gives but the peace that empowers us to live with our hearts untroubled and unafraid.

But wait, there’s more – one more glimpse of the joy that awaits us, even as we suffer now.  It’s the final section of the Revelation to John.  Now, many folks write off Revelation as fodder for crackpots and charlatans.  But just because some people want to use it to toss their own enemies into a lake of fire, that doesn’t diminish the stunning hope that Revelation has to share.

Last Sunday, we heard the beginning of this vision of God reuniting heaven and earth, recreating the Eden God offered in the beginning.  As God’s holy city comes down to make the earth new, those who suffered find themselves hungering and thirsting no more as they drink from the water of life with God wiping the tears from their eyes.

Then, today, we heard what our renewed earth looks and feels like.  There’s no need for sun or moon in the heavenly city because God’s love lights it up.  That light draws the nations to the source of eternal love; it leads small-time emperors to serve God instead, bringing tribute rather than a sword.  Through the heavenly city flows the river of the water of life, God’s gift to all who grieve and suffer now.  And on either side of that river is the tree of life, the tree that stood in the midst of Eden, the tree from which Adam and Eve were told not to eat, the tree that lets us live forever.  It offers its fruit year-round to sustain the people of God, and its leaves “are for the healing of the nations” (22:2).  There, even such as us will see God face to face, basking in the light of love as we “reign [with Christ] for ever and ever” (22:5).

I don’t know about you, but I’d say:  How about tomorrow, Lord?  Bring it on.

Well, as we wait, what might we take away from God’s double-edged promise of suffering and joy?  I think it’s all about deciding where to focus.  Yes, the cost of our nation’s freedom is high.  Yes, people nearby and far away suffer in the face of sin and evil.  Yes, we often find that no good deed goes unpunished.  Yes, the road to resurrection runs through the Place of the Skull.  Yes, those basking in the light of God’s love eternally have known their darkness in the here and now.  Yes, weeping spends the night – but “joy comes in the morning” (Psalm 30:6 BCP).

And as we wait for it, as life takes its toll on those who don’t deserve it, we have the power and the call to follow Jesus anyway.  Though God has yet to redeem creation in the fullness it will see, that work is underway – in us.  The Church is God’s anticipation of the heavenly city to come.  The Church is God’s downpayment on the promise to make us whole again, to break the devil’s bargain and get us all back to the garden.¹  

Our work may seem small now:  What good could it do to say our prayers?  What good could it do to stand with a few people in need?  In fact, our work to stand with refugees or Haitian children is downright nonsense on the world’s terms.  A mindset of utilitarianism would ask, “Are refugees or Haitians worth the effort it takes to help them?”  A mindset of “survival of the fittest” would ask, “Why can’t refugees or Haitians take care of themselves?  And if they can’t, why is it my problem?”  

But as the Body of Christ in the world – as those who serve the first course of the banquet of the kingdom of heaven – we would ask, “Are they not God’s children?  Are they not beloved?  Are they not our neighbors we covenant to love?  Are they not our siblings whose dignity we covenant to respect?

So, what’s the message for us?  In the sorrows that might make giving up seem rational, choose a life of full-hearted hope.  After all, we who follow God’s Way of Love – we are more than we seem.  We are citizens of the heavenly city now.  We are God’s downpayment on redemption.  We are the harvesters of the tree of life.  We are the first fruits of the new creation.

1.      Thanks and apologies to Joni Mitchell in “Woodstock.”

The Motherhood of God

Sermon for May 11, 2025 (Mother's Day)
Psalm 23; Revelation 7:9-17

Happy Mother’s Day!  As I said in the article in the bulletin, Mother’s Day seems like a church-related celebration – if nothing else, it gets a few husbands to church who might not have come otherwise.  But the Book of Common Prayer doesn’t appoint special readings or prayers for Mother’s Day.  Instead, today we’re marking the fourth Sunday of Easter – what tradition calls “Good Shepherd Sunday” because the prayers and readings highlight Jesus as the one who guides us through the full-hearted life of resurrection.  But this year, Good Shepherd Sunday and Mother’s Day fall on the same date.

So, why does secular Mother’s Day feel like it should be a celebration on the Church calendar?  And does Mother’s Day have anything to do with seeing Jesus as our Good Shepherd?

Well, this might be heresy to some of my more liturgically proper colleagues, but I think the culture gets it right in seeing Mother’s Day as a churchy celebration.  Why?  Because it recognizes something we’ve had trouble admitting historically: that there’s a lot of the feminine in the way God tends and cares for us.  Over the centuries, that’s been a hard thing for the deeply patriarchal Church to wrap its mind and heart around.  And it’s still true today, too, especially in Christian traditions that give only men access to leadership.

But think about the Gospel accounts of Jesus’ ministry.  How does he spend his time; what do we find him doing?  Is he ruling over people – building alliances, planning strategy, punishing opponents, wielding authority?  Never.  In fact, explicitly, he calls his friends and followers to turn away from that model of power and, instead, follow his lead: engaging with those others reject, healing broken bodies and broken spirits, prioritizing the needs of the powerless, working for the well-being of others, washing dirty feet.  Jesus’ version of power turns the world’s expectation on its head.  And it sounds a lot like the way women have been exercising power through most of history – less through dominance and more through relationship.

So, when we think of Jesus as our Good Shepherd, it’s this loving approach to leadership we have in the back of our minds.  Now, I’ve never been a shepherd, so I have to be careful in what I claim here.  But I think it’s safe to say that shepherds don’t lead the sheep by dominating them at the sheep’s expense.  Shepherds don’t form alliances, other than with sheepdogs.  Instead, shepherds are invested fundamentally in the sheep’s well-being.  Now, do they exercise power?  Definitely.  That shepherd’s crook is both a weapon for fending off the wolves and a management tool for whacking the sheep into line, literally and figuratively.  But here’s the difference between that exercise of power and what’s often happened across our social history:  Good shepherds use power not to exalt themselves but to care for the needs of each sheep.

Even in a deeply patriarchal society like ancient Israel, God raised up this contrast version of power.  The mission for holy kingship in Israel was to prioritize the needs of the people – tending to them, not dominating them.  You can hear it in the prophets’ expectations of the Messiah, the king that God would send to save the people from their oppression by foreign masters.  As we remember each Palm Sunday, the king that God was sending would come humbly, not on a warhorse but on a donkey.  And that ruler wouldn’t be following his own agenda but advancing the purposes of the One who was really in charge.  And at the top of that agenda was the well-being of each beloved child made in God’s image and likeness.  That true power is what we still see in leaders who empty themselves, who pour themselves out, to model God’s truth that each sheep is worth caring for.

It kind of sounds like a good mom, doesn’t it?

Now, identifying these leadership traits as feminine is not some modern, politically correct innovation.  Six hundred years ago, God was revealing this truth to a young woman in an English village who’s become one of the most influential spiritual guides of our own age – Julian of Norwich.

After nearly dying from a devastating illness, Julian received a series of visions from God showing that the top-down model – power for the sake of order and control – isn’t God’s way at all.  God is not who the theologians of the day imagined, some feudal lord beset by unruly peasants who affront the lord’s honor through sin and need a champion to save them from God’s wrath.  Instead, Julian would have said, sin is just the cost of being human, life’s lessons that teach us to follow the faithful path of doing the next right thing.  For Julian, all things come from God’s Love, and all things exist to complete God’s Love.  God’s Love is all in all.

And here’s our part in that story:  Our salvation comes from Jesus, who gives himself up completely to show us how it’s done.  In the second reading today, in the vision of God redeeming all things at the end of the age, Jesus is the Lamb who has been slaughtered and yet who reigns, “the [sacrificial] Lamb at the center of the throne” who is also our shepherd, guiding us to springs of the water of life and wiping away every tear from our eyes” (Revelation 7:17). He’s not just the one who wields power; he’s the ultimate revelation of power from the God whose nature is motherly Love.

Well, all that’s not going to fit on a Mother’s Day card, and no one would buy it anyway.  But, at least for me, when I give thanks for my mother, I’m remembering her model of self-giving leadership.

At home, she was the one setting the boundaries, marking out how far we four sheep could stray before she turned us back around.  She was the one binding our wounds and tending our illnesses.  She was the one willing to have the uncomfortable conversations with maturing kids not just about sex but about what love’s intimacy means.  And, for me, when I was a teenager, she showed me what the shepherding work of ministry looked like, too, as she served as the Episcopal lay chaplain at what was then Southwest Missouri State University.  I watched her lead Evening Prayer and engage with the students.  I watched her interact with the guys in the other offices of the campus ministry center – the Catholic, Methodist, and Disciples of Christ pastors – and work with them as an equal partner in planning programs.  And I saw those pastors respect her for the passion, heart, and practicality she brought to their shared work.

So, this Mother’s Day, I invite you to think about where you’ve seen the Love of God roll up its sleeves and get to work in the world.  Who was doing it?  What did it look like?  Whose interests were being served?

And then, look at your own life of blessing.  Who has led you through the valley of the shadow of death?  Who has spread a table for you in the darkest times, and anointed you for healing, and made your cup run over with love?  Where have you found a foretaste of paradise, a glimpse of what it’s like to hunger and thirst no more, to find protection from the scorching heat, to drink from the water of life, and to know that your tears will be wiped away?  As you remember where and how you’ve seen divine power at work most directly, you’ll recognize its source:  Welcome to “the motherhood of God.”¹

1.      https://www.christiancentury.org/article/features/julian-theologian

The Next Right Thing

Sermon for the Consecration of the Rev. Amy Dafler Meaux
Grace & Holy Trinity Cathedral, Kansas City, Missouri
Isaiah 2:2-4; Luke 10:1-9
May 3, 2025

Well, it is right, and a good and joyful thing, for all of us to be gathered here this morning, as we witness nothing less than the kingdom of God coming near in Bishop-Elect Amy’s consecration.  As we celebrate, it certainly seems this day is all about her.  But Amy would be the first to say, “No, no – it’s about y’all.”  And she’d be right.  After all, in the reading we just heard, Jesus isn’t sending out one super-apostle to bring in the harvest.  So, although only one of us is being consecrated today, all of us are being sent.

Now, you clergy from here in West Missouri – you may be thinking, “Didn’t I just hear a sermon on this Gospel reading?  And didn’t I hear it right here in this room?”  Yes, you did.  It was Bishop-Elect Amy’s text for the Chrismal Eucharist two and a half weeks ago.  So, she and I get to play a little “dueling sermons” with this story.

But before we go there, I want to make a stop at our Old Testament reading.  Hear again the word of the prophet Isaiah: “‘Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob, that he may teach us his ways and that we may walk in his paths.’  For out of Zion shall go forth instruction…” (2:3).  Or, for us in West Missouri, maybe the text should say, “Out of Kansas City shall go forth instruction.”  I mean, don’t you feel a bit like you’re climbing the mountain of the Lord when you climb the long staircase to the bishop’s office in our diocesan center?  As we ascend that holy hill, we wonder just what we’ll find up there.  We might fear we’ll find judgment.  (Oh, wait, maybe that’s just me.)  Perhaps even worse, we fear we’ll find pleasantries – kind words lacking the power to heal.  Or, maybe worst of all, we fear we’ll find indifference.  As we climb those steps, we wonder: Will the bishop on the mountaintop give a hoot about my church – or me?

If you’ve spent any time with Bishop-Elect Amy, you know the answer.  It’s, “Yes.”  Whether she’s eating cookies with you after worship, or holding your hand in the hospital, or telling you hard truth, she is there – locked in, no matter what you’re bringing.

And with that gift of her relational wiring, Amy will continue Bishop Diane Jardine Bruce’s good work to teach us what Isaiah says we’re supposed to be learning when we go up the mountain of the Lord, which is how to beat our swords into plowshares.  If you’ve been around here any length of time, you know: In West Missouri, we like to grouse about the person at the top of that long flight of stairs.  We sometimes presume ill intent – not just about the bishop but about our fellow travelers along the Way.  And we like to triangulate.  Boy, do we like to triangulate.  Now, I’m sure all of you outside West Missouri know nothing about things like this….  Well, we’ve been blessed to have a bishop-provisional at the top of those stairs who’s helped us work on these unhelpful patterns.  And we’re now blessed with a bishop-elect who’ll continue teaching us to beat our relational swords into plowshares.  

How?  Through this simple yet divine wisdom: “Do the next right thing.” It’s one of Amy’s mantras, actually, but specifically in this case: When tempted to grouse to someone else, do the next right thing and talk to the person you need to talk to.

Turns out, that advice to do the next right thing is also what will guide us to move beyond our relational challenges and take our next steps in mission, revealing God’s reign and rule in the communities and neighborhoods of West Missouri.  Now, let’s pick up that reading from Luke’s Gospel.  When Bishop-Elect Amy stood in this pulpit two and a half weeks ago, she asked us whether we were ready to join the 70.  “What do you think?” she asked.  No mapping out the journey; no cash in your pocket; no luggage; no shoes, even.  Sound like fun?

Well, some of us were thinking, “Yeah, you bet.  Let’s leave tomorrow.”  Some of us have been waiting with eager longing for the kairotic moment when God’s mission aligns with renewed zeal among the people of West Missouri, this kairotic moment, when we who stand as Jackson Kemper’s heirs are ready once again to make our way along the rivers and routes of this good land to the next village Jesus wants to bless.  Some of us have been waiting, and now we’re ready to go.

Well, maybe not so fast.  At least not so fast that our initial burst of inspiration might be too quickly spent – and leave us spent, too.  So, instead?  As we go out for the harvest, play the long game.  Build relationships.  Listen, like your life depends on it.  Come alongside those who are strangers now, and remain with them so you can learn not what you want to give them but what they need from Jesus.  That’s how God uses us to “cure the sick” we find among us today (Luke 10:9): those afflicted with hunger on every level, with disconnection, with hopelessness, with despair that sees the news and asks, “Really – this is as good as it gets?”  As Bishop-Elect Amy said from this pulpit two and a half weeks ago, “We have one job – the Gospel.  And every time our communities and our churches and our ministries and our lives bring hope, the kingdom of God is near to us.”¹

So, how do we go about doing that one job?  By doing the next right thing.

You know, doing that next right thing usually doesn’t feel very triumphant.  At least in this chapter of eternal life, the kingdom of God doesn’t come with trumpets and cymbals.  And, by the way, when it does come with trumpets and cymbals, it sure won’t be any of us taking center stage.  No, in this chapter of eternal life, we reveal the reign and rule of God simply by doing the next right thing in the particular contexts we’re blessed to serve.

We’ve seen it over and over again in nearly 200 years of mission by Missouri Episcopalians.  We saw it in 1836 when Jackson Kemper insisted on planting a church 150 miles upriver from St. Louis, in Boonville, when there were many closer ports.  We saw it in the cold November of 1857 when Deacon Joseph Corbyn rode out from Independence on a mule to serve people in the small town of Kansas City.²  We saw it in 1859 when Marie Burden in Springfield wrote the priest at Christ Church Cathedral in St. Louis to send someone to baptize her daughter; Marie and two other people were the congregation for the first service of what would become Springfield’s Christ Church.³  We saw it when Grace Church in Carthage was organized in 1869⁴ and just five years later started a mission in Joplin that became St. Phillip’s.⁵  We saw it in 1882 when Fr. Henry David Jardine and others at St. Mary’s in Kansas City saw a need to serve people with no access to health care and organized what eventually became St. Luke’s Health System.⁶  We saw it again in 1882 when Fr. Charles Cummings organized St. Augustine’s in Kansas City to serve those unwelcome in white Episcopal congregations⁷ – and then St. Aug’s persevered against ecclesial racism for 68 years before being admitted as the parish it had long qualified to be.⁸  We saw it in 1912 when Fr. Robert Spencer, before becoming bishop, opened up Trinity Church in Kansas City to migrant railroad workers and, when asked for a quote, told the newspaper, “This is Christ’s house.  He would have taken them in….  There is no story” here.⁹  We saw it when West Missouri Episcopalians gave more than $113,000 in today’s money to fund mission work during the depth of the Depression.¹⁰  We saw it in church planting from the 1950s to the 2000s, giving birth to congregations from Raytown to Camdenton to Noel.  We saw it in 1991 when we named a diocesan missioner to people who speak Spanish, eventually funding it for full-time work and now yearning to expand it further.

And we see it today.  We see it in our witness, in Springfield and St. Joseph so far, to remember and reconcile from West Missouri’s 25 lynchings.  We see it in welcome and witness for members of the LGBTQ+ community and people with disabilities, not just in public events but in parish leadership.  We see it in “Wear Orange” Sundays and other work against gun violence.  We see it in ministries to serve people who are hungry, as well as people hungry for welcome and connection over a cup of coffee.  And we see it in one-insulated congregations supporting each other beyond paying their assessments – in fact, in the baptism of a new member, a high-school senior, at Christ Church in Lexington on Easter Day.

None of these in-breakings of God’s reign came with trumpets and cymbals.  Instead, each expression of our missional DNA was simply the next right thing for Jesus’ laborers in the field to do.

Now, even when it is the next right thing, there’s no guarantee it’ll last forever.  In 1890, at West Missouri’s first convention, our diocese had 54 congregations in 46 communities.¹¹  Today, we have 47 congregations in 36 communities. So, to tell the hard truth out loud: No congregation or ministry gets an automatic perpetual lease in God’s kingdom.  And it will fall to us, as we do the next right thing, to discern when some efforts need to give way so new efforts can arise.  Just as birth and death and resurrection is the rhythm of Missouri’s seasons, so it is the rhythm of God’s mission.

But we’ve come to a time, thanks be to God, when we can turn down the volume of our own anxieties enough to ask Jesus where and how our next expressions of mission should be.  For that, I’m grateful to all who’ve stepped up in diocesan leadership over the past three and a half years, doing the work of asking hard questions, hearing truth in love, and finding our path forward.  I’m grateful to Bishop Diane for showing us how to travel that holy way.  And I’m deeply grateful that our Lord, who sends us out “like lambs into the midst of wolves” (Luke 10:3), has given us a next shepherd wise enough to know she won’t have all the answers for us suppliants climbing the mountain to her office.  Instead, our next shepherd knows how to listen to each and every sheep that bleats at her.  She knows how to lead us to trust God and ourselves enough to do the next right thing.  And she knows how to lean in, in every conversation, to show us that, indeed, the kingdom of God “has come near” (Luke 10:9).

1.      Meaux, Amy Dafler. Sermon for the Diocese of West Missouri Renewal of Clergy Vows, April 15, 2025. Available at: https://diowestmo.org/watch-the-clergy-renewal-of-vows-service-april-15-2025/. Accessed May 2, 2025.

2.      Welles, C.B.F van Alstyne. A Documentary History of the Episcopal Church in West Missouri. Chillicothe, MO: Community Press, 1964. 41.

3.      Welles, 43-44.

4.      Grace Episcopal Church, Carthage, Missouri. “About Grace.” Available at: https://gracecarthage.com/about/. Accessed May 2, 2025.

5.      Welles, 69.

6.      St. Luke’s Health System. “History.” Available at: https://www.saintlukeskc.org/history. Accessed May 2, 2025.

7.      St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church, Kansas City, Missouri. “Our History.” Available at: https://staugustineskc.org/our-history/. Accessed May 2, 2025.

8.      Welles, 215.

9.      Spicer, Kathryn. “The Unsuspecting Missionary: Bishop Robert Nelson Spencer and the Diocese of West Missouri.” Paper written in commemoration of the 125^th anniversary of the Diocese of West Missouri. 2014. Available in the diocesan archives. 7.

10.   Spicer, 11-12.

11.   Journal of the Primary Convention, Diocese of West Missouri. Convened at Grace Church, Kansas City, June 3, 1890. Available in the diocesan archives. 6.

Take the Bet

Sermon for Easter Sunday, April 20, 2025
Luke 24:1-12

I want to talk about eternal life.

I mean that in a few senses.  First, it’s kind of my job, especially today – and Happy Easter, by the way.  So, I want to talk about eternal life because resurrection is what we’re here to celebrate.

But it’s deeper than that.  In fact, I think eternal life is on many of your minds, too.  As I’ve been preparing a couple of people for baptism, and talking with parishioners otherwise, I’ve been struck by the number of times recently that someone has said, basically: “This eternal-life thing – what is that?  Is it real?  And what’s heaven like, anyway?”  When the same questions surface, over and over, I think it’s a sign they’re on the minds of quite a few of us.

But it’s deeper than that, too, this desire I have to talk about eternal life.  Over the past couple of months, it’s become quite personal.  As many of you know, my wife, Ann, died in early February.  We gathered here a week later for her funeral and committed her remains there in the columbarium.  In our prayers that day, we proclaimed that “life is changed, not ended” when we die (Book of Common Prayer 382).  Well, I want to talk with Ann about that.  I’d give a lot to know what she’s experiencing now, or not experiencing now.  I want to ask her the same set of questions I’ve been hearing parishioners ask me: “This eternal-life thing – what is that?  Is it real?  And what’s heaven like, anyway?”

Much as I enjoy talking with Ann on my morning walk with the dog, I don’t get direct answers to questions like these.  Now, I do get a clear sense that she’s with me, and I do come away from those conversations with insights I believe she’s offering about who I am or what I’m facing.  But I have to say, she hasn’t shared any specifics about what heaven’s like or how she’s spending her time.

I’m assuming I’ll have to wait to find out about those details until this chapter of life closes for me.  So, those important questions linger, especially the biggest one: “This eternal-life thing – is it real?”

That’s the question of the day, right?  It’s certainly the question in our Gospel reading this morning.  The scene opens with the “women who had come with [Jesus] from Galilee” returning to the tomb (Luke 23:55).  They’d been there on that brutal Friday they want to forget, as they watched their friend and Lord bleeding and suffocating on a cross.  They’d been there to attend to the details of death, honoring his body by washing and anointing and wrapping it for burial. They’d observed Sabbath rest on Saturday; and now, Sunday morning, they’re returning to finish the work of giving their friend and their Lord a proper rest.

But, as Luke’s story tells us, they find “the stone rolled away from the tomb” and the body gone (24:2).  It’s the only way this tragedy could have gotten any worse.  Luke says the women are “perplexed” by this (24:4), which sounds to me more like students struggling to solve an equation, not the anger and terror of immediate grief.  My hunch is the women are much more than perplexed – but then “suddenly two men in dazzling clothes [stand] beside them” (24:4). Now Luke gets more real and says they’re “terrified” (24:5).  No doubt.  Not only is Jesus’ body gone, but the women are looking at angels, God’s own representatives – and their tradition tells them that those who see God or God’s representatives don’t live to tell about it.

But the angels change everything by changing the conversation.  The question isn’t, “Where’s the body of Jesus?”  The question is, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here but has risen,” just as he told you (24:5).  And as they remember what Jesus had told them, the women feel deep trust flooding their hearts.  It’s their breakthrough moment – and, for them, life will never be the same.

So, the women run back to where the disciples are hiding out.  They tell this life-changing news “to the eleven and to all the rest” (24:9).  But even after three years of walking with Jesus; after three years of watching him heal the sick, and restore sight to the blind, and raise the dead; after Jesus had said, three times, along the way to Jerusalem that he’d be mocked and insulted and flogged and killed “and on the third day … rise again” (Luke 18:33) – even after all this evidence and direct testimony from Jesus himself, the guys back at the hideout say, “Come on.  No way.  Things like that don’t happen.”  As Luke puts it, “These words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them” (24:11).  Even Peter – “the rock” on which Jesus will build his Church – even Peter goes to the tomb to see the evidence and then goes home, dumbfounded but not necessarily convinced.

So, if you’ve come here today wondering, “This eternal-life thing – is it real?” – well, it seems you’re in good company.  Or, I should say, it seems we’re in good company.  Because we’re all asking that question, on one level or another.

Having been to the tomb myself recently, here’s what I’d say.  Is it real?  Yes.  Simply, yes.

And how do I know?  Well, that’s trickier.  It’s not so much that I know, in our modern sense of knowing things by solving equations or seeing evidence.  It’s more accurate to say that I trust this eternal-life thing is real.  In fact, it’s even more accurate to say that I stake my life on it.

Why?  

Well, although it’s not about the evidence, the evidence is pretty good.  Even something as secular as Jurassic Park puts the truth like this: “Life finds a way.”  Every year, the earth astonishes us by dying and rising again; and this year, to my eyes at least, that resurrection was simply stunning.  The pear trees and cherry and magnolia and redbud and dogwood and lilacs – they seemed not just brilliant but long-lasting this spring.  As I was driving out to Lexington, Missouri, two weeks ago to lead worship there, the fields were lit in purple, artistry no human hand had created.  Instead, I learned later, all that purple was from a plant whose beauty transcends its humble name, “henbit deadnettle,” as it carpets the fields in color just for the heaven of it.  Every culture around the globe knows, on some level, that death is not the end.  We Christians see that truth most fully in Jesus – his life, his death, and his resurrection – and so we trust him when he says to us, “This is your story, too.”

And if we look at our own lives, many of us, probably most of us, can remember turning points when life beat death.  It happens when we fall in love and decide to walk in it for the long term, despite how hard that gets.  It happens when that love brings new life into the world, despite how the first chapter of your relationship closes.  It happens when we choose to heal a broken relationship, despite the pain that says just walk away.  It happens when we care for a loved one, or a friend, or a stranger, despite receiving hardship in return.  Just as life finds a way, the best of life finds its way, too – the way of love that takes on pain, and wins.

And, so, we follow that way of love by walking in Jesus’ footsteps.  Our baptismal candidates at the Easter Vigil last night, along with a high-school senior being baptized in Lexington this morning – they chose Jesus’ path as they pledged the Baptismal Covenant.  Many of us have renewed those promises time and time again, at every baptism or confirmation we attend.  And what is it we sign on for?  Well, given the temptation to worship myself in isolation, I’ll choose to worship God in community.  Given the temptation to do whatever I want, I’ll choose to resist evil and turn back to God when I lose my way.  Given the pressure to keep quiet about the things that matter most, I’ll choose to proclaim that Love comes from God and comes first in my life.  Given the secular sanction to view people as objects to exploit, I’ll choose to love my neighbor as myself.  Given our current tribalism that says others are worth less than me, I’ll choose to respect the dignity of all as the key to practicing justice and peace.  That’s the way of living that springs from trusting in this “idle tale” that life finds a way – trusting that Jesus walked out of that tomb; trusting that, in death, life is changed, not ended.

But – what if I’m wrong?  What if the Romans and the religious leaders got it right, and somebody just stole Jesus’ body from the tomb?  What if those purple fields of henbit deadnettle in the Missouri countryside are nothing but weeds after all?

It comes down to a maxim known as Pascal’s wager, named for Blaise Pascal, a French mathematician, physicist, inventor, philosopher, and, turns out, follower of Jesus from the 1600s.  Pascal’s wager goes like this:  When I die, if I’ve been wrong to trust in this eternal-life thing, what’s the worst possible outcome?  Well, the worst possible outcome is that I’ll have loved God and loved people – and when I die, I’ll finally get some rest.  But – what if I’ve been right?  Well, when I die, if I’ve been right to trust in this eternal-life thing, I’ll finally get the answers to those questions I keep asking Ann every morning on my walk.  And, tremendously better, she and I can keep having those conversations, in person, forever.

That’s a bet I’ll take any day – especially this day.

Deep Down, You're Not Wrong

Sermon for March 23, 2025
Sermon Series: "Who Am I" -- Week 3: I am precious and worthy of redemption.
Exodus 3:1-15; 1 Corinthians 10:1-13; Luke 13:1-9

We’re continuing our Lenten preaching series this morning, this exploration of “Who Am I?”  So far, we’ve looked at two very different ways of answering that question.  Two weeks ago, we asked, “Who am I?  I am powerless to defeat sin and evil.”  Then, last Sunday, we asked, “Who am I?  I am God’s own.”  And today, we ask, “Who am I?  I am precious and worthy of redemption.”

Well, if you listened to the last two readings this morning, you might think we used the wrong sermon theme this week.  You probably didn’t hear a lot of “precious and worthy of redemption” there.  In First Corinthians, Paul tells a cautionary tale about our spiritual ancestors of the Old Covenant.  “God was not pleased with most of them,” Paul says, and he mentions several examples, with God smiting idolaters and philanderers and complainers.  “These things happened to them to serve as an example” to us, Paul says.  Yikes.

Then, in the Gospel reading, we hear Jesus laying out judgment pretty clearly:  “Unless you repent,” he says, “you will perish” (Luke 13:3).  Jesus tells a parable about a landholder who’s ready to cut down an unproductive fig tree.  The landholder has been waiting for years, and still no figs.  His kindly gardener talks him into waiting one more year before taking the axe to the roots.  OK, Jesus says, but know the clock is ticking.

In other words, actions or inactions have consequences.  And if those actions separate us from God, we should expect the consequence to be punishment.  It’s hard to argue with that, especially as we make our way through this season of self-examination and repentance.  As we heard at the beginning of our worship today, “If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us” (BCP 352).

Unfortunately, I think many of us internalize that message about sin differently from the way Jesus and this Lenten season intend.  I think we often hear God not just judging our actions but judging ourselves, at a deep level.  And the result is the difference between guilt and shame.  As writer Brenae Brown puts it, guilt is “holding something we’ve done or failed to do up against our values and feeling … discomfort.”  Shame is believing that we’re inherently “flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging.”¹  In other words, guilt says, “I’ve done something wrong.”  Shame says, “I am wrong, deep down.”  

Our culture doesn’t help us much because it thrives on condemning people as wrong, deep down.  These days especially, we’ve come to a point where we regard our opponents not as incorrect but as bad – nasty and evil.  Not only is that a pretty dark view of humanity but, practically, it also precludes progress.  After all, good people don’t work with bad people, right?  So, what way forward is possible other than conflict if you see your opponent as nasty and evil deep down?

Much of American Christianity doesn’t help us with this either.  I won’t ask for a show of hands, but I wonder how many of us have experienced pastors or churches that left you feeling not guilt but shame – that something’s deeply wrong with you?  Of course, conveniently enough, the antidote for this deep wrong just happens to be offered by the church or pastor doing the shaming, right?  If you do X, Y, and Z – or if you believe X, Y, or Z – you won’t be so nasty and evil after all.  Well, if your church is trying to convince you that you’re really not OK, deep down, then it’s time to find a new church.

So, what might it look like to see people differently?  Thankfully, Scripture gives us a truer, and more complicated, point of view.

Today, we heard the story of Moses and the burning bush.  This is Moses, the liberator of the Israelites, the one who faced down the king of Egypt and demanded, “Let my people go!”  And what we heard today is part of his origin story, the account of his calling from God.  Moses is out there on a desert mountain, tending his father-in-law’s sheep, when he comes across this crazy bush.  The bush is on fire, but it’s not burning up.  It’s just burning.  This catches his attention, and Moses thinks, “I need to go see why.”

When he does, God sets the hook, calling Moses by name from the burning bush.  God notes that there’s something very strange and wonderful happening here on this “holy ground” (Exodus 3:5) and that Moses needs to acknowledge it by taking off his shoes.  Actually, the Hebrew word is more interesting than that:  God tells Moses to “shed” his sandals, like a snake would shed its skin.²  All that is rough, all that is broken – shed it, God says, and stand before me ready to be made new.

Let’s hit “pause” on the story for a second.  Why would God frame it that way?  Why does Moses need to shed the cracked and dirty hide covering his feet?  Because, like all of us, Moses has a backstory.  He isn’t just some shepherd tending his sheep.  Moses was saved, by God and some heroic Hebrew women, when the Egyptian king was trying to destroy the Hebrews by killing their baby boys.  But, ironically, Moses was rescued and raised by the king’s daughter, making this Hebrew slave now an Egyptian prince.  Eventually, Moses grows up and witnesses Egyptian security forces harassing Hebrew slaves; and Moses kills the officer who’s responsible.  Now a murderer and an enemy of the state, Moses flees to the wilderness and takes up a new identity as a shepherd.  But God knows who he is.  God knows Moses was the baby saved for something special.  And God knows Moses has blood on his hands.  So, like all of us, Moses has some things about himself he needs to shed as he stands in the presence of the sovereign of the universe.

So, back to the story:  If you’re Moses, standing before the burning bush, what are you thinking at this point?  You’re thinking, “I’ve been caught.”  You can run, but you can’t hide, at least not from God.  Maybe that fire in the bush is burning for him.  No wonder Moses “hid his face, for he was afraid to look at God” (Exodus 3:6).  Wouldn’t you be?

So, with Moses’ old skin shed and his feet ready for a new path, God gets to work.  “You’re not here for judgment,” God says. “You’re here for an assignment.  Remember the fury you felt at the Egyptian who abused your people?  It’s time to solve the problem,” God says.  “These people of Israel, these people I love – I want to deliver them from their suffering and bring them to a place of bounteous life.”  

And Moses is thinking, “Yeah, go for it, God; bring the heat.  Smite those Egyptians, and conquer Pharoah, and let justice roll down like an ever-flowing stream.”  

But God has a different idea.  It’s not time to call out the heavenly army.  Instead, God says to Moses, “I will send you to Pharoah to bring my people out of Egypt.” (3:10)  And Moses says, “Wait, what?”

*  *  *

After thousands of years of telling, this story may lose a bit of its punch.  But think about this:  The Lord – the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the One who is Being itself – the Lord has sought out and raised up a murdering refugee to be the instrument of liberation for God’s beloved people.  Moses has done nothing to deserve his special assignment.  In fact, he himself knows he has no capacity to pull this off:  He says, “Who am I that I should go to Pharoah and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” (3:9).  You’ve got the wrong guy, God.  You’ve got a guy who deserves punishment, not freedom.  And, yet, you’re going to free me from my prison of guilt so I can go and set your beloved people free?

You know, God never says to Moses, “It’s fine you murdered that Egyptian.”  Moses knows he’s standing in judgment, for God’s judgment is a real thing.  But here’s where it differs from how we usually think about it.  God’s judgment doesn’t say, “Because of what you’ve done, you’re nasty and evil.”  God’s judgment says, “You know you let me down.  You know you missed the mark.  You know it better than anyone.  Don’t do it again.  In fact, act against who you’ve been, and choose to live differently.  Let me set you free,” God says, “so you can bring new life to others.”

That’s what redemption means, actually.  To be redeemed is to be freed from bondage at a cost.  Back in the day, enslaved people were redeemed when they or someone else paid a price that bought their liberty.  God redeems the undeserving Moses so Moses can redeem the undeserving people.  And now, God frees us from bondage, too, even though we haven’t earned it, so we can be instruments of liberating love for others, who haven’t earned it either.

It’s a stunning thing, right?  Despite what I know to be true about myself, God says to me, “Sure, you’ve done wrong.  But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong, deep down.  You are my beloved child,” God says.  “You are precious and worthy of redemption,” God says.  “So, go and live that way.”

1.      https://brenebrown.com/articles/2013/01/15/shame-v-guilt/

2.      https://biblehub.com/hebrew/5394.htm