Sermons

Christianity as a religion is very good at using things from the world around us to tell our stories. We talk about the nature that surrounds us; we talk about the culture of our time; we talk about our communities; and we talk about the ideas, the philosophy, that controls our thought world. Christianity has been very willing to take on ideas from many different cultures and make them part of our life together. That’s because, fundamentally, Christianity is a religion about relationships, not ideas. Relationship with Jesus, relationship with God, and relationship with one another in this world and the next. It’s not really a religion about agreeing to a set of intellectual statements; they are important, but it’s not what sits at the heart of our faith; that’s relationships. 

This week I watched Hamilton with my eldest. We had never seen it before and knew nothing about it other than it was created by the person who did the music for Moana, and Twice loved it. Be warned, this sermon comes with spoilers. The show starts by introducing Alexander Hamilton, a poor, scrappy, precocious, talented, ambitious young literal orphaned bastard, seeking to make a name for himself in a world that disdained him. Once we’ve met the protagonist, Lin-Manuel Miranda sets the recurring musical theme with the lyric: “I’m not throwing away my shot”. It’s deeply appropriate given that, despite Hamilton being instrumental in the Revolutionary War as George Washington's Secretary, despite him writing 2/3 of the Federalist Papers, and despite him being the first Secretary of the Treasury, about all anyone knew about Hamilton before this musical was that he died after losing a duel to his best friend, Aaron Burr. 

On the Isle of Iona, where I used to live, the ferry keeps different schedules in the summer and the winter. In the summer there’s a lot more sailings to cope with the higher number of tourists visiting the island. In the darkness of winter, there are far fewer sailings, and the first crossing is later in the day, but if you need to get to the mainland before noon, you can book the early morning ferry. This means that they will sail a roll-on/roll-off six-car ferry over a mile of choppy sea in the dark, often against strong winds, in storms and torrential rain to pick you up, before anyone else on the island is even awake. I used to be able to see the ferry leaving its mooring from my kitchen, and I knew if I left as soon as I saw it, by the time I reached the jetty the ferry would almost be there. 

Last week we heard Jesus tell of how those who are teachers of the Kingdom of God are like the scribes who bring old and new things out of their treasury. Well, today’s gospel reading is an oldie, but goldie; it is the story of the feeding of the 5000, and that title comes from just counting the guys who follow Jesus in the wilds; there are a lot of women and children present. It could easily be more than the population of Augusta that showed up; exact numbers don’t matter. The point is it’s a really, really big crowd who won't leave Jesus alone. Not even the disciples had been invited on this trip, yet they all showed up anyway. Jesus has pity on them as they gathered around. He heals and teaches, and they are happy to be present, so they will not go away. The time comes for them to eat, and the inevitable happens: every event manager's worst nightmare: the catering doesn’t show up. The disciples, who remember where not invited along, ask Jesus to send the crowd away. I like to think Jesus is a little short with the disciples, refuses to reject the crowds, and commands them to feed the multitude. 

Today we continue thinking about inviting, welcoming, and connecting with folks here at church. Last week was inviting and this week the focus is on welcome. This is already our strong suit; we enjoy welcoming people. When given the frame of welcome, our gospel reading becomes very interesting. Jesus has a habit of teaching about the Kingdom of Heaven in paradoxical parables. Apparently contradictory stories that rely on telling us what the Kingdom is like. Jesus doesn’t tell us about the borders and history of the Kingdom of Heaven, like it’s an earthly country. He doesn’t give us a map through the physical world to get there. Jesus makes clear that the Kingdom of Heaven is a kingdom in the heart, a kingdom that is more like a fraternal organization than a sovereign state. But even that doesn't do justice to Jesus' teachings, because he doesn’t give clear instructions so we know how to act as part of the Kingdom. He doesn't teach exactly what to do in God’s Kingdom, nor does he give us magic words to make the Kingdom come into our lives, to make God’s reign present with us. 

Today we have heard a parable of Jesus, one that I suspect feels less comfortable for us as Lutherepiscopalians, Episcoplthertailines? For us, this parable, when heard with the ears of 2026, through the past two decades of culture wars and growing polarization, becomes very disturbing. We are inclined to hear the weeds and the wheat as people. Some destined for destruction because of the seeds implanted in them by the devil. Some destined for heaven because of the seed implanted in them. It's an image that creates us-and-them groups: us perfect, them the devil. An image that is scary and separates us off into our own safe corner of the field, forever impossibly trying to drive out the devil. But that's not how I read this parable of the sower. If we think about this story in connection with last week's parable in which Jesus calls the gospel good new seeds, it becomes clear that the devil's seed are those things that stop the growth of God in our lives. And the weeds that steal space in the field. 

Since this is an instructional Eucharist, we need to start by saying what the point of this part of the service is. It has a lot of different names; it’s often called a sermon, a homily, the message, teaching, preaching, or reflection. I was taught that the aim of this part of the service is to connect our readings from Scripture we hear in the church on Sunday to the rest of our lives. To do so, the preacher might talk about the whole of a book in the bible, or a chapter, or a paragraph, or just one single word. The point of having someone who has been trained in understanding scripture share their insights and reflections is to get you thinking, and praying, and wondering about these readings for the rest of the week. 

Happy belated Independence Day to everyone. I hope you all had a fun and joyous Fourth yesterday. July 4th always feels like a celebration of how much Americans love America. Or at least how much we love our flag, hot dogs, and fireworks! This year is the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, and I found myself asking; “what does it mean, to love our nation?” It’s fair to say many people identify different elements about America that they love, and that is possibly the most American thing you could do. When the founding fathers declared independence, they were not able to form a single nation, but rather a confederation of 13 separate states, each their own country. State flags continue to be flown and co-opted for the interests of different groups. I’ve seen lone pine flags, the original flag of Maine, with a rainbow banner showing the LGBTQ community's pride in Maine. I’ve also seen lone pine flags with the words “pray for Maine” underneath; an adaptation used at white nationalist rallies. My brother-in-law even reported that he saw one in Utah, which made him incredibly angry because he does not believe white nationalism represents us, his home state. The first and foremost way to love America is to love the bit of America that you live in, and I love Maine. 

Today’s Gospel reading was short and sweet. Even giving a cup of water, in Jesus name, comes with reward, regardless of what the person you give it to does with the water. Today’s reading shows the truly miraculous power of generosity and relationship building. It shows how giving to others grows the kingdom of God, whether you offer time, talent, or treasure. Whether you give prophecy, peace, or presence. Yet this passage comes at the tail end of Jesus' challenging instructions to the 12 apostles, right after the reading we had last Sunday. Where Jesus says that he has come to bring conflict between sons and fathers, mothers and daughters, mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law. Fights within the household, like the Real Housewives of Galilee. So what is happening here? Well, Jesus has told us how the gospel breaks apart families by insisting on more appropriate boundaries in relationships and on our growth in holiness. Now Jesus shows the other side of the coin and starts to reveal the new kind of family he is creating, called the church. Old relationships can become broken and strained by our growing faith. But new relationships are forged and grow through the generosity the gospel imparts to our hearts. 

My grandparents' house, where my uncle now lives, is an old farmhouse. Well, it would be old in Maine, it was built in the 1960s! It sits on a 1-acre lot carved out of the corner of a field right next door to a shed of tractors and combine harvesters, which gave the house its name Barnfield. My mother loved it when the field behind her parents' house was planted with wheat. At first, you see small, green sprouts pushing up through the heavy clay soil. They shoot towards the sky, eventually turning into long storks that bend towards the ground with the sheer weight of ripening grain. The farmland in Norfolk is very fertile; it’s made up of rich glacial wash deposited at the end of the last Ice Age. Very much like Aroostook County's large flat fields, only because of the mild climate in that part of England, it can grow three or sometimes even four crops a year. When the grain is fully grown, we’d walk through the field behind the house along a public footpath that leads up to the medieval church. I liked to run my hands through the standing stalks on either side, feeling the spiky kernels bounce against my hands. A field ready for harvest has a good dusty malt smell, like a sweet beer. 

Before I begin, a trigger warning; today we recall Rachel's day, and this sermon will reference the death of children. It's even in our gospel, which the lectionary has given us. This gospel reading has three elements that are all tied together to make a whole. We have Jesus calling Matthew. Yes, it's that Matthew, who is writing the gospel we are reading. Then we have the story of the synagogue leader whose daughter has died, and finally, we have the woman who has been sick for twelve years and who takes healing from Jesus without asking. And all on a day when we are recalling the loss of children's lives to guns in our nation. 

Trinity Sunday is often cited in preaching classes as one of the scariest Sundays to preach. You’re not given a straightforward story of Jesus doing a miracle; you're not given a parable that you can explain using three clear points that the professor in homiletics can swoon over. Homiletics, by the way, is just the fancy word for preaching. No, you are given the very essence and nature of God. You are given the claim that took the best minds in the church over 300 years to really agree on. And even now, some of the smartest Christians can’t entirely agree on what the Trinity is. As a preacher, you are given something so key to our faith that it is the key reason the church separated from the synagogue, and we are no longer Jewish, and yet it only has a few direct references in the biblical texts, and today we read two of them, both only one verse long!

There has been a lot of debate throughout history about what a sacrament is. In seminary, I was taught a helpful phrase to explain: “A sacrament is an outward and visible sign of an inward invisible grace.” This statement was first published in English in the Book of Common Prayer in 1662. I love this definition of a sacrament, but it is also a bunch of churchy language. So it doesn’t answer the simple question, “What does sacrament mean?” Dictionary.com tells us that a sacrament is, “an outward sign combined with a prescribed form of words and regarded as conferring some specific grace (a special favor from God) upon those who receive it.” The words and actions of the outward and visible sign are to show something inward and invisible that is being given, a grace. But doesn’t that mean what’s on the outside doesn’t really matter? It's just highlighting what’s happening, right? If God gives grace on the inside, like at Pentecost, anyone can be full of grace, so why do you need that outside sign? 

I think it might be helpful to have an example Mainers are more familiar with. So I’m gonna talk about cars. Specifically, I’m gonna talk about my cars, which are always second, third, or even fourth-hand cars, and so, as anyone who heard about last year's synod knows, they have some fun adventures. Every year, when it’s time for my state inspection, I check my bank balance and ask the question: how painful is this going to be? Many Mainers have a “sticker guy”. A mechanic who will put a state inspection sticker on anything, so long as you pay them for their own profit. I’ve never had a sticker guy, instead I’ve been blessed with mechanics who have integrity. They will only put that outward and visible sign that my car is safe to drive if my car is actually safe to drive. They all sucking their teeth and say wonderful things like, “Oh, this is gonna be really expensive. It’s gonna be like 200 bucks.” 

That is what sacraments are like. They are an outward sign that things have really happened inside. Things that make a person right, make them safe, make them full of all the goodness that God wants for them. Sacred means set aside for God, and so sacraments are those outward signs, those stickers, attached to people, times, activities, and events to show that through that moment and through those people, God is entering into life in a particular way. Part of the debate throughout history around sacraments is how many sacraments there should be. The medieval Church talked about seven sacraments. They are Confirmation, Reconciliation, Anointing the sick, Marriage, Ordination, and, of course, Baptism and Eucharist. 

They are still held by the Roman Catholic Church to be the signs that the church gives to show the presence of God in people's lives. These moments are outward and visible signs of the inward and invisible grace in the life of the church. 

The Reformation happened because Martin Luther pointed out that, at the time, many of these sacraments were no longer showing God‘s grace, but were being abused by the clergy who demanded payment before giving these signs of grace, for their own profit. Luther thought this was really wrong. Grace is a free gift of God, not for sale by the church. It’s not very gracious to say God only comes into the life of those who pay. What do we think grace is, cable TV? Luther’s solution to this problem was to talk about only the two sacraments that were still freely given: Baptism and the Eucharist. Baptism and Eucharist are called the Dominical sacraments. Dominus is Latin for Lord, and dominical means that they were commanded by Jesus our Lord. 

In the great commission, Jesus tells his disciples to go out and baptize people of every nation in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. And at the last supper, Jesus takes the bread, blesses it, and shares it with his disciples, telling them to do this in remembrance of me. These two sacraments are clear outward and visible signs, commanded by Jesus himself. Christians baptize and celebrate the Eucharist to show the grace that is within our lives because Jesus told us to. We, as a community of Christians, will fulfill these commands today. Luther thought the medieval church was a dodgy sticker guy who would slap a sticker on anything if it made them some money. He wanted to reform such abuses, and so he reduced the number of sacraments to what Jesus had directly commanded. 

But I’d love to offer a different perspective that comes from the Orthodox church. While the medieval church in Western Europe wrote all its theology in Latin, the churches in the Eastern end of the Mediterranean wrote their theology in Greek, and they had a different approach to sacraments. For a start, they didn’t call in sacraments; that’s a Latin word, they call them mysteries. The sacraments are outward and visible signs that are still mysterious when it comes to what is really going on inside. 

Is God present in our lives because of the outward sign? Well, yes, but only because the internal world of each person who receives these signs is changed by God’s mysterious grace that comes into our lives. Do we understand how that grace will work within us? No. We can’t predict what God will do in our lives, but we do know that God is with us because we are willing to hand over our lives in these mysteries, in these sacraments. 

The free grace of God does not depend on these signs. The Holy Spirit is wild like a goose and is capable of coming on those who are not baptized. Grace can be within us regardless of the signs on our outsides. Your car can be perfectly safe even without a state inspection sticker. Your life can be filled with the grace of God and the Holy Spirit, even if you are not baptized, even if you never come to Eucharist. Yet we all know it’s good to carry the signs on the outside that the inside is working as it should be. We don’t visit our doctors for our annual physical, our annual bodily inspections, because we want the note in our chart saying we had an annual physical. We go because we want to know that we are healthy. The church baptizes and celebrates weekly Eucharist, so we know that we are in a healthy relationship with God. So we can learn to see and trust God’s revealed presence within each other. Not just in these moments, but in the rest of our lives. Sacraments exist so we can see God’s mysterious presence in all things and be changed by that vision. All our Church mysteries point to that great mystery, God, who is ever-present in the life of the world. 

So this Pentecost, as we renew our own baptismal vows, and as we bring Brody into the family of God through baptism, know that Christ has already been working in all life around us. Know that God is already present in our world, and in our hearts, regardless of the outward signs that we carry. But more than just being present, God wants us to accept the great mystery of this life. To be able to look at all our lives and say it is good because God loves us through it. If you have never been baptized, if you have never come to the altar for Eucharist, know that God invites you to come and discover what is already within you. To come and discover what it is like to live knowing the words for the inexplicable joys in your life. God invites you to join with those who seek to make more of our lives than merely surviving, to join us who seek to live life to the full in the knowledge and love of God. So we pray, come, Holy Spirit, dwell amongst us all, and give us the eyes of Christ that we might see the love of God in everything we behold. Amen.

Today, we have heard the story of Jesus' ascension from the book of Acts and Jesus' declaration before his ascension from John’s gospel: “So now, Father, glorify me in your own presence with the glory that I had in your presence before the world existed.” The story of the ascension can seem a little unbelievable. I swear, I was standing right next to him, and then he floated up into heaven. I know this story, it's one told a lot in Waldo County and it's on the History Channel all the time, because it's aliens, right? It's always aliens. Or maybe it's one of those transporters from Star Trek beaming Jesus up. Some of the miracles of Jesus' life seem like the hardest things to accept in our gospels, the stuff of pure fantasy or science fiction (which is just magic with scientific-sounding words). Jesus' moral teachings can be taught without miracles, and maybe they would be more acceptable to the rationally minded, right? Thomas Jefferson thought so, which is why he created his own translation of the New Testament, The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth, a gospel with all of the miracles cut out. A great moral idea from a man who infamously kept one of his teenage slaves as a mistress. 

You may or may not recall that I have talked before about the fact that we don’t really have much to do with sheep in Maine. So it might surprise you to learn that Maine has its own breed of sheep, the Katardin Sheep. Katardin sheep are really weird sheep, which is not surprising for a Mainer. They were bred to be meat sheep in the 1960’s. Katardin sheep have hair, not wool. Unfortunately, mutton has not revived as a popular meat, and they have remained a rare breed, but if you want to see them in person, there is a flock at Guini Ridge Farm in Union. Maine's history with sheep farming goes way back. Before the financial crash of the 1840’s, most of Maine had been cleared for farm land. Creating a patchwork of 80-acre parcels. Unfortunately, Maine farms grow more stones than crops, so most of Maine was turned over to grazing for sheep, who didn’t mind eating around the rocks, even when they were on steep slopes. Each farmer piled up the field stones into dry stone walls to keep the sheep on their own land. Following the financial crash, sheep farming was no longer profitable, so the pastures were abandoned, letting them grow up into the woodlands we know today. The stone walls collapsed, but can still be found running throughout the woods of Maine, a reminder that once we knew a lot about sheep. 

When the two disciples encounter Jesus on the road to Emmaus, they are returning home on the last leg of a pilgrimage. Ruth Burgess of the Iona Community says that, “Pilgrimage is traditionally a journey to a holy place - a place where saints have walked, a place where God has met people and blessed them.” The nature of pilgrimage is a journey with return. The way I see it, pilgrimage has three parts. First, you are sent out to go to a place where you expect to meet God. Next, you have time at that place, the pilgrimage site. However long you stay, this is often considered to be the highlight of the trip, the thing you tell everyone about when you get home. Third and finally, you have the journey home. Pilgrimages are traditionally there-and-back-again adventures. As we know from good adventure stories, the character who sets out and the character who returns are seldom the same. The process of the journey changes them. 

Mainers are interesting people. Culturally, Maine straddles the line between skeptical, reserved, intellectual, highly educated Yankeedom, and Appalachia. The result is people who think long and hard about things before deciding that aliens are real and have abducted their neighbor's cow. I think it's in part to do with where we live, because Maine is full of woods. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but those woods are full of mystery. Consequently, many of the people who live here report seeing strange and inexplicable things among the trees, including Bigfoot. Or as he is locally known by his French name, the Loup Garou. One of those who believes in the Maine bigfoot, is my brother-in-law. He is a very smart man, who loves hiking with his dogs, going on hunts, and has spent more time in the wilderness than I’ve spent in my backyard. He knows these woods, and the animals who make their home here. He knows enough and is smart enough to know that there is a lot that cannot be explained in the Maine wilderness. 

For seven years from 397 to 404, the Archbishop of Constantinople, modern-day Istanbul, in Turkey, was a man named John. In his lifetime, people started calling him John Chrysostom, which means John, golden-tongued, because he was such a good preacher. Back in the day, before the internet, before TV or even radio, going to a good sermon was entertaining, and John preached from the heart, with the power of the spirit; he didn’t even have notes! In fact, he had his secretary write down everything he said so he could publish it later, which is how the greatest Easter sermon ever preached was preserved. So good was John Easter's sermon that every year, all Orthodox churches read it again. One less sermon to write, sounds good to me. I feel there are a few things God’s spirit wants us to hear John didn’t clearly say, so here is my 2026 remix of the best Easter Sermon ever preached. 

John’s gospel doesn’t talk about miracles; instead, John calls all of Jesus miracles signs. Signs that point to the true miracle, that God comes to us in Jesus with faith, hope, and love. Faith in us, hope for us, love of us, all come to us in the person of Jesus. Jesus is the reality of love. God‘s love comes down into the world of humans. That small, tight-knit social world that we humans create within the wider, more accepting natural world that God has made for us. Jesus is God‘s love come as a person, and Jesus miracles are signs of that love that points to God‘s willingness to risk all in loving humanity as a human. Signs that heal not only bodies, minds, and spirits but also whole communities and the relationships within them. Heals those scarred by separation and hate. If the Christmas story is that love comes down as Emmanuel, God with us, then the story of Holy Week is the story of what God is willing to risk to be love to us. 

This is a long reading, and there is a lot that God can show us from it if we are only willing to chase down each line of inquiry, so I want to pick out two things to consider. First is the question of “why is there suffering?” And the other is the healing nature of Jesus' solidarity with those who suffer. Jesus' disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Jesus answered, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.”