Emptying / Replenishing

Emptying / Replenishing

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

September 27, 2026

Year A, Proper 21: The Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Ezekiel 18:1-4, 25-32

Psalm 25:1-8

Philippians 2:1-13

Matthew 21:23-32

Some of you know the story of how I first got interested in poetry.

It was all thanks to my longstanding habit of reading newspaper obituaries!

Like many other people, I appreciate reading about the lives of different people – their achievements, failures – their legacies, for better or worse.

Well, at some point on October 28, 2020, I read the obituary of a poet named Diane di Prima – I had never heard of her, but I was interested to learn about her adventurous and counter-cultural life.

But what really caught my eye and captured my imagination – and really began my journey into poetry - was an excerpt included in the obituary from one of her later poems called “The Poetry Deal.” In the poem, di Prima addresses “Poetry” itself, as a kind of muse. 

Here’s the excerpt:

I’d like my daily bread however

you arrange it, and I’d also like

to be bread, or sustenance for

some others even after I’ve left.

A song they can walk a trail with.

It was the line, “I’d also like to be bread” that jumped out at me.

Over the past six years, I’ve thought a lot about those words, and I’ve even quoted di Prima’s poem in a couple of sermons.

Now, di Prima was a committed Buddhist, but she did have a Catholic background, and I think we can hear in her poem obvious echoes of the Eucharist, of Holy Communion.

Each time we gather around the table, Jesus becomes bread for us, nourishing us, uniting us with him and with one another.

And then when we leave this place, carrying the Bread of Life in our bodies and our souls, we are meant to be bread for others, bread for the world, giving of ourselves to help satisfy the world’s great hunger for justice, mercy, peace, and, most of all, love.

My spiritual director and I have spent a fair amount of time reflecting on this image of “being bread,” of giving away our lives as food for the world.

And I see our beautiful and super-active servant church “being bread” all the time. I see you “being bread” in all the life-changing ministries that, with God’s help, you make happen, day after day.

Of course, when we give away our lives in service to others, we are following the way of Jesus.

I’d like to draw your attention back to our second lesson from St. Paul’s Letter to the Philippians.

In this beautiful passage, Paul describes the self-emptying of Christ – the self-emptying of God in a particular person, in a particular time and place, Jesus of Nazareth.

The beautiful Greek word for this self-emptying is kenosis.

And to describe this self-emptying, most scholars think that Paul quotes a very early Christian hymn:

 “Christ Jesus…who, though he was in the form of God did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death – even death on a cross.”

Jesus gives away his life in his teaching and healing, gives away his life in his conflicts with the religious authorities who wonder about the source of his authority.

Jesus gives away his life in his patience with his own followers, and in his arrest, torture and death – what sure seemed like the end but was instead the glorious beginning.

Self-emptying.

Emptying.

But that’s not the whole story, because throughout the gospels, we also see Jesus replenishing.

At several points, we’re told that Jesus heads out into the wilderness, for some time alone in prayer with the Father.

Now, this didn’t always work out – the crowds and Jesus’ own followers were determined to find him, hungry for more teaching, more healing, more bread – but, at least sometimes, Jesus was able to shake them and find some time and space to rest and replenish.

Emptying / replenishing.

Emptying / replenishing.

As you know, my sabbatical begins this week and today will be my last Sunday with you for about two months.

One parishioner asked me if this sabbatical was just a cover while I look for a new job! So, just in case you’ve had the same thought, let me reassure you – or, maybe, disappoint you – that I’m very happy here – I mean, really, what could be better than what God gives us at St. Thomas’?

In fact, the truth is I have never been more content – and actually, it’s one of the reasons I have mixed feelings about the sabbatical – I don’t want to miss out on so much good stuff that’s happening here, all that’s coming up in the next two months.

Of course, even in a place as wonderful as this, there are always challenges, problems, and, yes, suffering.

And one of my ongoing worries for St. Thomas’ is that all the activity of our super-active servant church is going to wear you out, that all this “doing” is going to burn us out, leave us empty, no longer able to be bread for anybody.

The concern about burnout is one of the reasons why sabbaticals are included in clergy contracts.

But I am acutely aware that most people – that you – don’t ever get a sabbatical.

There’s no sabbatical from work.

And the heavily scheduled kids of today don’t experience the long, lazy summer sabbaticals that many of us remember.

And, of course, there’s no sabbatical from being a parent or grandparent.

And, for all of us, there’s no sabbatical from bills to pay, no sabbatical from fears of illness and loss, no sabbatical from grief, no sabbatical from the problems of the world and our land, no sabbatical from the high cost of filling the gas tank.

So, since I’m the only one getting a sabbatical, I worry that here at St. Thomas’ there’s a whole lot of emptying, but maybe not so much replenishing.

Now, of course, I hope we are replenished when we gather here on Sunday, when we have fellowship together, or when we come together on Zoom Bible and book study, or when we join together on Wednesdays at noon for Communion and anointing, or when we gather around the library table on Thursday mornings.

I hope we are replenished by all of that and more, but I worry it’s just not quite enough.

So, I looked into this and, unfortunately, I do not have the power to grant you all a sabbatical.

I would if I could, believe me.

But I can make a request, a promise, and a suggestion.

Over the next two months, I ask that you pray for me – pray that I will not squander this precious gift, that I will accept the opportunity to replenish, and return renewed and refreshed – and I also ask that you pray for Sana Brooks and Rev. Amelia and everyone who will carry more responsibility - and do more work - while I’m gone.

And my promise is that I will pray for you.

And now, my suggestion.

I suggest that you take a mini-sabbatical.

If you don’t regularly pray, spend, I don’t know, a minute, five minutes, telling God what you’re thankful for, what you hope for, what you fear and worry about. Maybe pray for all the many people on our prayer list.

Other mini-sabbatical suggestions:

Turn off the cable news, already!

Maybe start keeping a journal – maybe a “spillage journal” – just let it flow and discover what’s in your heart.

Maybe reach out to an old friend, or someone you know could really use a boost.

Maybe just look out the window for few minutes, look and listen – really listen to the sounds, watch the leaves fall from the trees.

Maybe write a poem – just for you - it really doesn’t have to rhyme, you know!

Maybe come by the Old School Building for Evening Prayer or Morning Prayer, our beautiful and most quiet services.

Come up with your own ideas – you know what’s best for you - and the mini-sabbatical possibilities are endless.

I really hope you’ll give it a try.

And then, with God’s help, two months from now we will all be a little more renewed, replenished, filled with even more bread. 

More bread to share with our hungry world.

Amen.

God is “Unreasonably” Generous

God is “Unreasonably” Generous

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

September 20, 2026

Year A, Proper 20: The Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost

Jonah 3:10-4:11

Psalm 145:1-8

Philippians 1:21-30

Matthew 20:1-16

Well, fortunately, we had a "somewhat" less intense week here at St. Thomas’.

Yesterday afternoon, we celebrated the third and final of our September weddings. Gordie Schroeder and Maggie Winkler exchanged some big promises, pledging to give one another joy, vowing to be there for each other in times prosperity and adversity, always, no matter what.

It was a particularly sweet wedding – Gordie was so excited, so joyful, that he broke with tradition and kissed his bride right at the start of the service, rather than waiting for my invitation at the end!

And, you know, why not?

And, last week, as most of you know, I announced my long-planned sabbatical – a time of rest and renewal that, believe me, I recognize is quite a gift and privilege – I know it’s not something that most people get to experience. 

I’m very grateful – and I’ll have more to say about that next week.

But, of course, much of the week was spent absorbing the death of Jim Wolgamott.

I’ve sat with my own grief – Jim was both a parishioner and also a good friend.

And I’ve talked with some of you as you have reflected on Jim’s beautiful life of love and generosity.

And, no surprise, during this past week many of you have surrounded John with so much love and support.

I’ve also been especially touched by the grief in our Afghan community.

Jim gave countless hours to helping our Afghan friends – driving them to appointments, helping them navigate American bureaucracy, sharing his wisdom, giving driving lessons, celebrating joyful events, and consoling them in times of fear and disappointment.

This work meant the world to Jim – he couldn’t talk about our Afghan friends without tearing up.

And now these people who have endured so much upheaval, so much suffering and loss, but have somehow remained so grateful, kind, and generous – in fact, one family has provided delicious food for today’s fellowship – these people who could have grown understandably callous and coldhearted – they are deeply mourning Jim – and they’ve been sharing the most beautiful tributes.

Here’s just one example:

“This world has lost a truly humble, caring, kind, and beautiful human being. Jim, the love you shared with everyone will never be forgotten. We will continue to follow your path and carry your legacy in our hearts. Rest in peace, Jim. Love you always.”

So beautiful, right?

How generous of God to dream up Jim and share him with us for a time.

How generous God is to us.

And how generous God is to others – how generous God is to others, including people we might think do not deserve God’s generosity – you know, the people who do bad things, the people perceived to be our enemies, the people who sure seem to be getting way more than they deserve.

You know, those people.

Which brings us to today’s Bible lessons.

Today we heard two of my favorite Bible passages: the first is the end of the Book of Jonah.

In case you’ve forgotten the Jonah story – in case all you remember is the whale (or, actually, the “big fish”), here’s a quick recap:

God had called Jonah to preach repentance to the people of the city of Nineveh, the capital of the Assyrian Empire – and, God says, if the people of Nineveh don’t change their ways, God would destroy the city.

But the Assyrian Empire was an enemy of the people of Israel and, frankly, Jonah doesn’t want to go there, and he certainly doesn’t want to convince them to repent.

Jonah has no problem at all with God wiping out the people of Nineveh. 

Please, Lord, go right ahead - let them die!

So, to avoid God’s call to Nineveh, Jonah gets himself on a boat heading in the opposite direction.

But God is nothing if not persistent, so God kicks up a fierce storm, and long story made short, Jonah gets thrown overboard and, in the most famous part of the story, Jonah is swallowed by a big fish.

Now, I’m pretty sure that three days and nights in the belly of a big fish will get you rethinking your life choices - and so, no surprise, Jonah prays for salvation, which our generous God gives him.

Given a second chance, Jonah now goes to Nineveh and reluctantly calls the people of the great city to repent before it’s too late.

And sure enough, everyone from the king on down puts on sackcloth and ashes – they repent – and God spares the city.

But Jonah, he is none too pleased.

Jonah is not pleased, but he’s not surprised. 

Jonah knows that God is gracious, merciful, loving – he knew that God is “unreasonably” generous – generous enough to release him from the belly of the big fish, generous enough to spare our enemy, generous towards the people we like the least, even the people we hate.

And it’s interesting that the end of the Book of Jonah is not neat and tidy.

God asks Jonah a rhetorical question, “Should I not be concerned about Nineveh, that great city?”

And that’s the end. 

We never hear Jonah’s answer – though maybe we can imagine it.

And maybe we can imagine our answer, too.

What do we do with God’s “unreasonable” generosity towards people we don’t like or trust, the people who’ve done wrong, who’ve gotten away with something, the people we think don’t deserve God’s generosity?

I love today’s parable – often called the Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard, but maybe it should be called the Parable of the Generous Landowner.

I love this parable because I am absolutely sure that our reaction is exactly the same as people 2000 years ago.

We sympathize with – we identify with - the workers who have been out in the vineyard all day – I mean, that’s some hard work – they’ve been out there under the sun, bent over the vines, and, wait for it, they get paid the same as workers who got hired in the middle of the afternoon or even those hired at the end of the day! 

Yes, OK, it’s true that the early morning workers are getting exactly what they were promised, but still, whether it’s the first century or the twenty-first, we cry out:

“Not fair!”

“Not fair!”

It’s not fair. 

But, God is not fair.

God is better than fair.

God is “unreasonably” generous – and sometimes we don’t like that at all!

We all know that we are living in a time of many troubles:

War, environmental catastrophes, rising prices.

A time of dividing and tearing down rather than uniting and building up.

There are troubles right here in our own community: illnesses, broken relationships, fear, regret, and, of course, grief. 

This past week, as I’ve talked with people about Jim’s death, some have said it’s not fair that we lost such a good man, not fair because there are so many not-good-at-all, not-loving-at-all, not-generous-at-all people who continue to walk the earth, doing so much damage.

I get it, of course.

And I confess that the same thought has crossed my mind.

And it is sorely tempting to be bitter like Jonah and resentful like the morning laborers.

That cry of “Not fair!” might even feel good - for a little while, anyway

But we know that bitterness, resentment, and anger will only harden our hearts. 

This is not the way.

Like our Afghan friends who have endured so much, the way for us is gratitude - gratitude that God is “unreasonably” generous.

Gratitude for young love like Gordie and Maggie’s, love that just can’t wait for a kiss.

Gratitude that we are part of this beautiful community where we hold one another close, especially in times of fear, pain, and grief.

Gratitude that God never abandons us in the belly of the beast.

Gratitude that God gave us Jim Wolgamott.

Gratitude that Jim’s life embodies the Way, points us to the Way:

The Way of love, forgiveness, generosity, and gratitude –– the Way of Jesus – the Way of our “unreasonably” generous God – the Way that always leads us to new life.

Amen.

More Than We Can Ask or Imagine

More Than We Can Ask or Imagine

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

September 13, 2026

Year A, Proper 19: The Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost – Renewal Sunday

Genesis 50:15-21

Psalm 103:1-13

Romans 14:1-12

Matthew 18:21-35

This has been a very intense few days here at St. Thomas’.

We’ve been preparing for today, for Renewal Sunday, and I’m pretty sure we’ve broken our record for squeezing in as much as possible into a single day – first Sunday back in the church; a baptism; Sunday School registration; backpack blessing, welcoming our new ministry intern, the Rev. Nathanael Gibson; an outreach project; and celebrating the success of our capital campaign with a festive lunch – and the ice cream truck!

That is a lot!

Yesterday afternoon, we had our second September wedding – and it was another beautiful one as Jack Wells married Casey Adams.

On Friday, the church was full for Alec Miran’s funeral – there was even a CNN crew here recording the service in honor of their much loved and respected producer.

And, for the last few days, many of us have been praying especially hard for Jim and for John and for everyone who loves them so much – and those prayers will continue for a long time, and that love will never end.

And, of course, Friday was the 25th anniversary of the September 11 terror attacks. We had a small, meaningful service in the Old School Building – and for those of you who couldn’t be there but might be interested, I made some copies of my reflection along with a poem that I wrote about my experience that day – or really the day before.

Most of you know that back then I was a high school history teacher.

And thinking back twenty-five years got me thinking back to that other life – one that I still miss sometimes.

There have been times over my years in the church, especially when things weren’t going well or when I was unhappy, angry, or disappointed about something or other, times when I’ve wondered what my life would have been like if I had stayed in the classroom, if I had remained at St. Peter’s Prep.

I’m sure it would have been – would have continued to be – a good life.

But then I think of how much I would have missed out on – so many different and rich experiences – the joy of baptizing a child (or the occasional adult!), the privilege of sitting by the bedside of the sick and the dying, the challenge of finding the right words for all sorts of occasions – and most of all, I think of the people I would have never met, would have missed out on.

I think of you.

And I think of those who have gone before us and are now among the “great cloud of witnesses” praying for us, cheering us on, in heaven: people like Jim Piper, Sandy and Beaumont Martin, Donna Gribble, Cynthia Murray, Kitty Washburne, and now, today, I think of Jim Wolgamott – who has now joined a choir even better than ours.

And when I think of all these wonderful people – and how God has brought us together for a time to love one another, to pray together, to do good together – I’m reminded of a familiar verse from the Letter to the Ephesians:

“Glory to God, whose power working in us can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine.”

More than we can ask or imagine.

That’s God.

That’s what God calls us to.

That’s what God offers us.

And that’s our story, that’s the story of our wonderful people, our amazing ministries, that’s the story of our capital campaign.

That’s the story of St. Thomas’.

More than we can ask or imagine.

Today is Renewal Sunday, and, yes, there’s a whole lot going on.

And as is so often true in life, joy and sadness are mixed together.

But, this will come as no surprise, at the heart of today is Baptism – the baptism of young Andrew Carrington Springs in a little while, and also the opportunity for all of us to renew our Baptismal Covenant, to renew these big promises – big promises that we can only hope to keep with God’s help – big promises that demand more of us than we might think possible or even reasonable.

To seek and serve Christ in all persons.

To strive for justice and peace among all people.

To respect the dignity of every human being.

It’s that “all” and “every” that trip me up every time.

And yet, just as Jesus told Peter that he must forgive not just seven times – already a big number and even bigger when you remember that seven represented perfection – no, Jesus tells Peter that we must forgive not just seven times but seventy-seven times or some translations say seventy times seven times – infinite forgiveness, with God’s help.

God always calls us to more.

God calls us to more.

And God offers us more.

More help, more grace, more love, more beauty than we can ask or imagine.

Jim Wolgamott knew that and he lived that – he lived a life of hope, gratitude, and generosity – what a gift for us all.

And so, with our own hope, gratitude, and generosity – here in our old but beautifully renewed church - today we renew our faith, and we renew our commitment to God and to one another.

“Glory to God, whose power working in us can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine.”

Amen.

Clarity

Clarity

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

September 11, 2026

Service of Holy Communion and Remembrance

Isaiah 61:1-4

Psalm 31:1-5, 19-21

Romans 8:31-39

Matthew 5:1-10

I think most of you know that my hometown, Jersey City, is just across the Hudson River from Manhattan.

And, although not all Jersey City people are this way, my family was always very New York City-focused.

When I was a kid, there were many weekends when my parents, sister, and I would take the PATH train under the river and into “the city.”

Sometimes, we went up to midtown – but often we’d go downtown, taking the PATH train to the World Trade Center and walking around Lower Manhattan: St. Paul’s Chapel, Trinity Church, Wall Street, Battery Park…

I’m just old enough to remember when the World Trade Center was being completed – I remember one time we saw masons laying bricks in the concourse floor.

Because of all those childhood trips and then later trips as a teenager and adult on my own or with friends, there were few places more familiar to me than the World Trade Center.

I can still so clearly see the very 1970s brown-and-gold signage of the PATH Station, the long bank of escalators from the station up to the concourse, the Gap store at the top of the escalators, the Borders bookstore, the whoosh of the super-fast elevators, the gusts of wind whipping around the plaza at the base of the towers.

I can still see it all so clearly, hear it, feel it.

The day when all of that and much more was lost forever, began with great promise.

Of course, we remember that clear, deep blue sky, that beautiful start to a late summer day.

But for me, that morning was extra-hopeful because the previous night, I had attended my very first seminary class – I was just dipping my toe, testing it out, and I was so excited – it felt like the rest of my life was about to begin

God felt so close.

Tuesday, September 11, 2001, was the second day of school at St. Peter’s Prep, located a few blocks from the Jersey City waterfront. St. Peter’s is my alma mater, and I was a history teacher there – and my top floor classroom had a great view of the New York skyline.

That day, I had a free first period and so I clearly remember the first reports in the faculty room of a plane hitting one of the Twin Towers – we all assumed it must have been a small plane.

I clearly remember a colleague who was sure that some air traffic controller must have really screwed up.

I clearly remember:

The woman stopped in traffic in front of the school, weeping, gasping, her face pressed against the steering wheel.

The fireball as United Flight 175 struck the South Tower.

Watching from my classroom window as the North Tower fell, hearing the rushing sound all the way across the river, a room full of silent boys looking to me for answers.

Our principal’s frequent announcements on the PA, remaining amazingly calm in the crisis, doing his best to reassure us.

Sue’s family leaving messages on our answering machine, panicked, not sure where exactly her office was in the city.

A friend in Germany leaving a message, frightened, choked with tears.

The alarming reports about where else we had been hit, some proving to be true – the Pentagon! - some not.

The people, covered in dust, who made their way across the river by ferry.

It took Sue all day to get back to Jersey City and after we were finally reunited, we stopped at the Burger King drive-thru to pick up dinner.

Getting a call from the rector of our church, Dave Hamilton, checking that we were OK, letting us know that he was having a service that night at the church – and Sue and I walking up to the church, passing a man screaming at a cab driver who had double-parked.

Gathering in the dark church with, I don’t know, maybe 25 other parishioners.

I can’t recall a word Dave said that night, but I clearly remember that in that holy place, even after all that we had witnessed, even after everyone and everything we had lost, and even with the fears of what was yet to come, I clearly remember that, somehow, God felt close.

There was unspeakable suffering – and much confusion and fear - but the events of September 11 and the days that followed offered us clarity.

Clarity about what is most important:

The voicemails we heard from people trapped in burning buildings or on doomed planes, reminding us of what is most essential – over and over, they said, “I love you, I love you.” 

The courage and sacrifice of firefighters and police officers and other first responders who raced into horror, so many losing their lives.

The workers who continued to search and dig in the smoking ruins, first for survivors and then for remains, for many months, doing incredibly grim and dangerous work – work, as we have witnessed in the years since, destructive to their health.

Clarity also about our place in the world – that the vast oceans no longer defend us from attack, that we are vulnerable much like all people are vulnerable.

Clarity about resilience – it didn’t seem possible at the time, but somehow, with God’s help, we continued with our lives – for better or for worse, a memorial and a museum, a soaring train station, and, yes, a shopping mall now occupy “Ground Zero.”

And finally, clarity about the great choice before us – the choice between two opposing ways of life:

The way of violence, hate, vengeance, and war.

Or the way of love, generosity, sacrifice, and peacemaking.

In today’s gospel lesson, in what we call the Beatitudes, Jesus presents his downside-up vision of God’s kingdom, the realm where it’s the poor in spirit, the mourners, the meek, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness who are the blessed ones – God’s kingdom where it’s the peacemakers and the persecuted who are blessed.

I don’t know, maybe after everything we’ve been through that all sounds naïve or nonsensical - maybe that‘s how it’s always sounded, but I’m convinced that it’s really the only way – Jesus’ way of love, generosity, sacrifice, and peacemaking is the only way for us – because the other way offers no hope and leads only to more suffering, more destruction.

The way of Jesus takes courage, requires faith that, as St. Paul writes, nothing will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

With clarity, may we remember the events of September 11, 2001, the lives lost in New York, Washington, and Shanksville - the families and dreams shattered.

With clarity, may we recall the heartbreaking expressions of love, the extraordinary acts of heroism.

And with clarity, may we trust that, even when buildings fall and evil and death are all around us, God will never let go of us, no matter what.

Amen.