Praying for a Good Appetite

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

August 8, 2021

Year B, Proper 14: The Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost

2 Samuel 18:5-9, 15, 31-33

Psalm 130

Ephesians 4:25-5:2

John 6:35, 41-51

Praying for a Good Appetite

And, just like that, it’s our third Sunday together!

You’ll be glad to know that each week, I’m learning my way around a little better, using the GPS a little bit less.

Each week, I’m learning a few more names – still forgetting and messing up, yes, but I’ll get there.

And, each week I’m beginning to do a little bit more ministry – visiting with people, setting up times to talk with ministry leaders – reflecting on what we’re already doing and what we might take on.

And, I’ve been trying to raise our church’s profile on…Facebook.

I don’t know what you think about social media. As we’ve all seen, at its worst, it can certainly be quite divisive and destructive. On the other hand, it allows us to easily keep in touch with lots of people. And, whether we like it or not, whether we use it or not, the reality is that the church needs to have a strong social media presence – to let people out there know what’s going on in here.

I don’t remember why I started doing this, but about ten years ago I began posting on my own Facebook page a kind of daily devotional – a prayer, or a piece of Scripture, or a quote from a holy man or woman, usually accompanied by a photo.

Some people seem to like these posts so I’ve kept at it all these years. And, the truth is that over time creating these daily devotionals has become an important spiritual practice for me.

Usually, I don’t plan them out. Instead, I get up early in the morning and review the readings of the day, and check out the saint of the day. And I also look at who died on that day in history since, traditionally the church honors people on the day of their death, the day they entered new life.

Maybe this sounds strange or even morbid, but this practice has been a kind of continuing ed., helping me learn about lots of people I wouldn’t otherwise have known.

Anyway, this past Tuesday was the death anniversary of the 20th century writer Flannery O’Connor. 

Maybe some of you are familiar with some of her work.

And, as some of you saw, for my Facebook devotional post that day I used a quote that I really love from O’Connor’s spiritual journal that was first published just a few years ago.

A young Flannery O’Connor wrote, “God is feeding me and what I’m praying for is an appetite.”

“God is feeding me and what I’m praying for is an appetite.”

When I read that quote this time around, I thought about what Jesus has been teaching us these past couple of weeks – about spiritual hunger and the food that endures.

In today’s gospel lesson, we pick up right where we left off last week. To the crowd that had feasted on all that bread and fish and who had come searching for more, Jesus says: 

“I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in my will never be thirsty.”

But, as Flannery O’Connor understood, the question for us is: do we have an appetite for what God wants to feed us?

Or, to put it another way: Do we have a “good” appetite?

We certainly don’t have to look far to find examples of “bad” appetites, right? All we have to do is turn on the news to find endless examples of celebrities and politicians so hungry for fame, pleasure, fortune, and power that they are willing to do just about anything, no matter who gets hurt. And yet, somehow, even when they achieve fame, pleasure, fortune, and power it just never satisfies – it all turns out to be spiritually empty calories.

And maybe we can look into our own lives and hearts and remember times when our bad appetites got the better of us, causing much pain and suffering for ourselves and others.

And, we can definitely look at the Bible and find plenty examples of people’s bad appetites wreaking havoc.

If you were here last week, you may remember that we talked about the story of David and Bathsheba – a profoundly disturbing tale of King David’s bad appetites leading him down the grim path of sin.

Despite everything, God will never let go of David – which is very good news for him and for us - but there will be consequences for David and his family. You may remember that last week we heard the Prophet Nathan predict that the Lord would “raise up trouble” against David from within his own house.

And now in today’s lesson we heard that grim prophecy fulfilled in the person of one of David’s sons, Absalom.

You may have noticed that todays lesson from Second Samuel is kind of choppy – so I’ll try to fill in the blanks without overwhelming you with detail.

So, David had many wives as well as concubines and there were lots of children, lots of half-brothers and sisters. And, David’s family, if you can even call it that, was often an ugly mess.

And there’s nothing uglier than this: one of David’s sons, Absalom, killed another one of David’s sons, Amnon, because Amnon had violated their sister, Tamar.

And because Tamar had been so terribly abused, Absalom thought that their father David would back Absalom’s action, but that’s not what happened. Despite his awful crime, David had a soft spot for his firstborn son Amnon, and mourns his death. So, the angry, but also quite popular, Absalom rebels against his father, beginning a civil war not just in his family, but in Israel itself.

In today’s lesson we hear the grim conclusion of this civil war when David’s son Absalom was killed by David’s own men. This wasn’t what David had wanted – in fact, he had expressly forbidden it – but, you know, often we can’t control the consequences of giving into our bad appetites.

And so, we see just how far David has fallen.

He was a king who simply took what – who – he wanted – a king who engineered the death of the loyal Uriah the Hittite so he could have what and who he wanted.

And now, David is still a king, yes, but he’s a broken man whose son had turned against him, and now that son was dead, closing the door to any hope of reconciliation.

We’re left with the haunting image of a grieving David crying out, “O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Would I had died instead of you, O Absalom, my son, my son!”

It’s quite a tragic story, isn’t it?

And, although our lives are surely nowhere near as dramatic as David and his family, the question remains:

Do we have an appetite for what God wants to feed us?

Do we have a good appetite?

Well, now that it’s my third Sunday with you, let me tell you what I really think.

You know, the people at our church and neighborhood back in Jersey City were very surprised when I announced that I was leaving home and coming down to be here with all of you.

And, I have to say I was – and still am – a little surprised, too!

And, I wouldn’t have put it quite this way at the time, but what drew me to you – or better, how God drew me to you – was that I could see that this church has a good appetite.

I could see your good appetite when I read the parish portfolio and watched your wonderful videos.

I could see your good appetite when I met with the Search Committee and heard and saw your eagerness to begin a new chapter, to get moving again.

I saw your good appetite to welcome even more hungry people to our church, and to be of even greater service to the many hungry people all around us.

And, I saw your good appetite when at the terrifying start of the pandemic, when everything seemed to be falling apart and so many items – very much including face masks - were in short supply, you hung all those masks on our doors, free for any of our neighbors who needed them.

That simple, beautiful act told me so much about your good appetite. 

And, now, here we are – our third Sunday together.

In the intimacy of her spiritual journal, Flannery O’Connor wrote, “God is feeding me and what I’m praying for is an appetite.”

And God is surely feeding us – feeding us with community.

God is feeding us with one another, with the deep roots of people whose families have been here for many generations and people who are about as new to this community as Sue and I are.

God is feeding us with the beauty of this extraordinary place – maybe you saw the pictures I posted on Facebook the other day of butterflies feasting and dancing in our pollinator garden

God is surely feeding us – feeding us most of all with Jesus – with the food and drink that truly satisfies.

But, as always, God leaves us with the choice:

Do we have an appetite for what God wants to feed us?

So, with our sister Flannery, let’s pray for a good appetite.

Amen.

Faith is Trust

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

August 1, 2021

Year B, Proper 13: The Tenth Sunday after Pentecost

2 Samuel 11:26-12:13a

Psalm 51:1-13

Ephesians 4:1-16

John 6:24-35

Faith is Trust 

On the church calendar, this Friday is the Feast of the Transfiguration.

Maybe you remember the story.

One day, Jesus and what’s sometimes called his “inner circle” of disciples – Peter, James, and John – went up a mountain to pray.

Suddenly, Jesus’ clothes were transformed into a dazzling white and he was joined by two of the key figures of Israel’s past – Moses and Elijah.

Of course, the disciples were stunned by what they were seeing during this extraordinary “mountaintop experience!” 

And reasonably enough, Peter never wants to leave this place. He proposes building booths for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah, hoping to hold onto this spiritual high for as long as he can.

But, almost as soon as Peter got the words out of his mouth, the scene became even more amazing – a cloud overshadowed them all, and the voice of God said:

“This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!”

And then, just as suddenly, the cloud and Moses and Elijah vanished, leaving just Jesus and his friends, who now had to go back down the mountain and continue their journey.

The Transfiguration is one of my favorite New Testament stories.

I love the wonder of it – and how it seems to be a kind of sneak preview of Easter, when the barriers between death and new life are broken down forever.

And, I also like the story because I can relate to Peter’s desire to hold on to this mountaintop experience, to not come down from this spiritual high.

Now, I don’t want to exaggerate but, you know, last Sunday here at St. Thomas’ felt a bit like the Transfiguration to me.

It was a spiritual high to meet so many parishioners, with all of you walking up to the church with looks of expectation and joy, and all of you offering Sue and me an incredibly warm welcome.

It was a mountaintop experience to look out at a pretty full church – on a Sunday in July!

It was a spiritual high to hear Wanda and our choir make so much gorgeous music, and, later, to gather with many of you under the hot Baltimore sun, where I was given an autographed Jim Palmer jersey AND a one of a kind St. Thomas jersey. AND, amazingly enough, both Palmer and I are #22! 

Well, I mean, come on. You can understand that like Peter on the mountain, I just didn’t want the day to end.

But, apparently you all had other things to do, and so Sue and I made our way down the mountain, and I spent much of the afternoon on the phone, filling in my parents and friends on all that I had seen and heard.

Mountaintop experiences.

Spiritual highs.

In church last week, we heard the story of the Feeding of the Five Thousand – the “loaves and fishes” – when Jesus and his friends are able to transform five loaves and two fish into enough food for everybody – more than enough, actually, since there were twelve baskets of leftovers.

And now in today’s gospel lesson, we pick up right where we left off last week.

It’s the next day, and the crowd has slept off all that delicious bread and fish, and maybe their stomachs are beginning to growl for more of that good food – and, maybe, like Peter on the mountain and me here last week at St. Thomas’ – they just don’t want this mountaintop experience to end.

Anyway, we’re told they get in their boats and go searching for Jesus.

When they find him, they ask a question that seems like a non sequitur: “Rabbi, when did you come here?”

Jesus, in his usual Jesus way, ignores their irrelevant question and instead accuses the crowd of just wanting more of that good bread. 

That sounds a little harsh to me. I mean, yes, I’m sure they wanted more of that bread – and some of that fish, too, Jesus, if you have it – but I have to believe that what they wanted most of all is more Jesus. After all, any teacher or prophet who could manage to feed five thousand people on five loaves and two fish is worth spending more time with, right?

And then, again in his usual Jesus way, Jesus changes the subject.

We suddenly move from loaves… to believing. 

Jesus switches the conversation from bread… to faith.

Jesus says, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.” 

It probably sounds strange to say this in church, but “faith” and “believing” are concepts that we often misunderstand.

Too often, we consider “faith” or “believing” as a “brain activity,” as agreeing to, or being convinced of, set of propositions.

“I believe this, OK I believe that, and, most of the time I believe the other thing.”

That’s part of faith, for sure, and we’ll do some of that “brain activity” when we say the creed in a few minutes – but that’s only part of faith - and not the most important part.

Faith is a matter of the heart.

Most of all, faith is trust.

Faith is trust.

Faith is placing our trust in God, the God who never lets go of us, no matter what we do or don’t do.

For example: King David.

In our Old Testament lesson last week and this week, we heard the famous story of David and Bathsheba.

King David is of course one of the great heroes of Israel’s history, but the Bible doesn’t shy away from showing his many disturbing character flaws.

Last week we heard that while he should have been leading his army into battle like any respectable king, David was back home in Jerusalem where one day he spotted Bathsheba, a married woman whom he found beautiful and took for himself.

That was more than bad enough, but then, in an act of terrible treachery, David arranged to get Bathsheba’s husband – the good and loyal Uriah the Hittite – killed in battle.

As we heard today, God is predictably displeased by David’s despicable behavior – and, as we’ll hear next week, there indeed will be consequences of this awful deed for David and his successors.

But, despite his treachery – despite his terrible sins - God doesn’t give up on – does not let go of  - David.

And, if God didn’t give up on sinful David, we can trust that God won’t give up on us, either.

Faith is trust.

And, that’s a lesson we’ve had to learn and relearn during the pandemic, right?

We all had to trust that Jesus and his friends would hold together the church during the long months of in-between time, the many weeks when we couldn’t see the way forward, all those Sundays when we were apart, denied even the Holy Communion that we receive here.

In the midst of a pandemic, we’ve had to learn or relearn that faith is trust – that God is not going to let go of us, no matter how scary the world may look, no matter if disease is on the loose, no matter if the institutions we’ve always counted on suddenly seem fragile and vulnerable.

But, God didn’t let go of David - and God won’t let go of us, either. 

No matter what. 

And, I believe that God gives us the occasional mountaintop experience – falling in love, looking into the eyes of a child or grandchild for the first time, the satisfaction of a job well done, witnessing the beauty of a sunrise or a sunset, enjoying the simple pleasure of holding the hand of one we love, and, yes, receiving an autographed Jim Palmer jersey from a loving and welcoming church – God gives us occasional mountaintop experiences as a kind of booster, a way to strengthen our trust during the inevitable times when we are nowhere near the mountaintop, when life looks bleak indeed.

So last week, the crowd had a kind of mountaintop experience when somehow the blessing of Jesus transformed five loaves and two fish into an overflowing abundance.

And, last week I had my own spiritual high – and maybe you did, too – as we began our exciting new chapter together.

  But, like Peter, James, and John, we can’t stay up on the mountain forever.

No doubt, there will be a lot of ordinary days and some really hard days ahead, but, like the disciples and the crowd, we have our mountaintop memories, and, most of all, we have Jesus the Bread of Life, giving us all the strength we need.

Faith is trust.

Amen.

 

Signs of God's Abundance

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

July 25, 2021

Year B, Proper 12: The Ninth Sunday after Pentecost

2 Samuel 11:1-15

Psalm 14

Ephesians 3:14-21

John 6:1-21

Signs of God’s Abundance

        Well, it’s been a long road, hasn’t it?

For St. Thomas’, it’s been just about two years since you said farewell to Malcolm Ellis and embarked on an in-between time filled with all sorts of unexpected – even unprecedented – challenges.

How fortunate we’ve been, that this church has been led so faithfully and so ably by our wardens, Tony and Jesse, and the vestry, and our hardworking and devoted staff, and so many of you who have stepped up to care for one another during a time of uncertainty, fear, loss, and also hope.

And, what a blessing to have had the care from clergy, who have been and are so much more than “supply priests.”

For Sue and me, it’s been just about a year since the summer evening we were sitting on the rectory porch back in Jersey City, when we began musing on what might be the next step for us – just about a year since we both thought that Baltimore might be the right place for us – just about a year since I sent an email to my friend and yours, Canon Chris McCloud, setting in motion a chain of events that has led us to this beautiful church, led me to this pulpit, this morning.

It’s been a long road,.

In fact, the other day one of our parishioners told me that everyone is so happy that we are finally here that I didn’t even have to preach this morning – that I could just stand here and you would all applaud.

That sounded kind of nice and I considered it, but decided I still better come up with something.

It’s been a long road, and I’m sure like many of you, when I reach a milestone or turning point in my life, I can’t help but look at all the twists and turns, the seeming coincidences and random chances that got me to this point.

For example, many of you know that my father has been an Orioles fan for as long as there have been Orioles, and some of my happiest childhood memories include trips from Jersey City down to Baltimore to see games at Memorial Stadium. I especially remember getting there early and waiting in the parking lot to meet players and get autographs. In that more innocent time there was no security in sight.

And, ever since those happy days, I’ve had a soft spot for Baltimore.

But, what if my father rooted for, say, the Cincinnati Reds? Would I now be rector of a church somewhere in southern Ohio?

We’ll never know!

It’s been a long road – and, along with looking back I’ve also been looking ahead – thinking about what God might have in mind for you and me here in this historic place – thinking and praying what kinds of ministries we might expand or begin.

In other churches where I’ve served, we’ve offered a monthly prayer service at a local nursing home.

It’s been very simple – some music, prayers, a Bible reading, a short homily, and anointing with Holy Oil for anyone who wanted it.

And, in my experience, almost everyone wanted it.

As you’d guess, many people in our nursing home congregation suffered from some form of dementia and during the service they would kind of fade in and out.

But, very often, they would snap to attention and join in singing some of the old hymns – especially “Amazing Grace” – and when we would say the Lord’s Prayer – and also when we would recite the 23rd Psalm in the traditional language:

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; they rod and they staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

In today’s gospel lesson, we heard the story of one of Jesus’ greatest and most loved miracles – the Feeding of the Five Thousand – the “loaves and fishes.”

There is a lot going on here.

There are echoes of the manna from heaven that kept the Israelites alive while on their long road from slavery to freedom.

There are images that remind us of Holy Communion – the Bread of Life that we will get to receive in our bodies and our hearts right here in just a few minutes.

And, the way John tells the story, the Feeding of the Five Thousand is the 23rd Psalm come to life.

All of these people – all of these people hungry for blessing, hungry for healing, hungry for a decent meal – all of these hungry people are gathered on a green pasture, looking to Jesus and his friends for some good food.

My favorite moment in the story is when Jesus looks at all these hungry people and asks Philip, “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?”

Philip’s heart and stomach must have dropped, right?

Philip must have thought something like, “Uh, Lord, if you don’t know, how are we supposed to know? I mean, there is no way we could possibly have enough money – enough food – to feed everybody.”

But…there is this boy who has five loaves and two fish. It’s a start, I guess, right?

And, somehow, as always with Jesus, there is enough – there is more than enough.

It is a beautiful story, right?

A great miracle.

But, actually, John never uses the word “miracle.”

Instead, he calls the wonder works of Jesus “signs.”

And, in the case of today’s story what we have is a sign – a most powerful and vivid sign - of God’s abundance.

Signs of God’s abundance.

Now, I don’t know you well, yet, but I’m sure at least some of you are worriers like me – the kind of person whose mind immediately jumps to the worst case scenario – the kind of person, who, like the disciples, frets that there just won’t be enough.

We see that attitude in churches all the time, you know, when we mourn the fact that church attendance isn’t what it used to be, that there aren’t as many kids in Sunday School as in the good old days, and the list goes on and on.

These are real concerns, and a big part of my job is to worry about all of that and to work on turning around those trends.

But, we can’t let those worries keep us from seeing signs of God’s abundance all around us – and not just in a two thousand year old story of loaves and fishes.

There are signs of God’s abundance all around us.

For two years, you have seen signs of God’s abundance as this church has weathered the pandemic, a forced separation from each other, an economic rollercoaster, political instability, plus all the usual challenges of life.

Through it all, Jesus the Good Shepherd has provided all that you need, and more.

At each moment, God has provided good and faithful people who maybe felt they didn’t have enough to offer, who didn’t think they were the right ones for the job, who couldn’t always see the way forward, but who were willing to share their gifts with you, with us.

There are signs of God’s abundance all around us.

Months ago, when Sue and I first turned into the church driveway, we turned to each other and said something like, “Look how beautiful this place is!”

And, a few weeks ago when I brought my dad down with me he said pretty much the same thing, adding the photos that I had taken just didn’t do it justice.

And, as beautiful as this place is, I’ve already learned that the people are even more beautiful. The hospitality and generosity you have offered us have been just incredible.

Honestly, I never thought I’d be living and working in such a green pasture, but God is full of surprises.

And, although I’ve only lived here for a couple of days and still really need GPS to get anywhere, I am convinced that, just like two thousand years ago, there are many thousands of people all around us who are hungry – hungry for blessing – hungry for healing – hungry for a decent meal.

And, I believe that today Jesus is turning to us, maybe with a knowing look and a half-smile, and asking us, “So, how are going to feed all these people?”

And, I can even imagine Jesus waving his hand toward our green pasture and saying, "Get to it."

So, yes, it’s been a long road – a long road for you, and for Sue and me – but now, finally, we are walking the road together – guided by Jesus – and, look, there are signs of God’s abundance all around us!

Amen. 

A Final Note to the Parish: On the Road

A Final Note to the Parish: On the Road

Dear Friends,

Nearly eight years ago, you and I officially began our ministry together with a grand celebration in our beautiful church. The place was packed with parishioners, family and friends, Jersey City Episcopalians, visiting clergy, and a busload of folks from Grace Church in Madison. (Yes, parking was a problem!) Gail Blache-Gill and our choir and guest singers and musicians dazzled us with their artistry. My mentor and friend, The Rev. Lauren Ackland, preached a wise and inspiring sermon. Bishop Beckwith presided with his usual high energy and joyful spirit. For Sue and me, our “Celebration of New Ministry” was a mountaintop experience, a homecoming, and the start of a journey both familiar and unknown.

For our gospel lesson, I selected Luke 24:13-35 – the story of the Risen Christ appearing to the two disciples on the road to Emmaus – a story that I have loved since I was a teenager. The setting is the first Easter Day, and two disciples are walking the seven miles from Jerusalem to a town called Emmaus. Along the way, they reflect on all that has happened over the last few days – the heartbreaking rejection, torture, and death of Jesus and now the unsettling reports of an empty tomb. On the road, as the two disciples try to make sense of all of this, they are joined by Jesus, “but their eyes were kept from recognizing him.”

Without knowing it, the two disciples tell Jesus his own story, and then Jesus replies by teaching the Scriptures in a way that sets their hearts on fire. Finally, when they arrive at what seems to be the end of their journey, the two disciples invite this “stranger” into their home. When they gathered at the table, Jesus “took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them.” In that moment – in the breaking of the bread - the two disciples finally recognized Jesus. And he vanished from their sight.

The now overjoyed and renewed disciples quickly head back on the road to Jerusalem, back to the others, excited to share the Good News, the best news of all time:

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

The story of the Risen Christ appearing to the two disciples on the road to Emmaus is the Christian life in miniature. We travel the road not alone but together. We encounter Christ in the stranger, in Scripture, and most of all in the Breaking of the Bread. We are meant to offer hospitality, knowing that when we welcome the outsider we welcome Christ himself. We are sometimes called to leave home – to step away from what is safe and comfortable, heading back out on the road to proclaim the Good News.

With God’s help, over these eight years, we have been a lot like the two disciples on the road. We have stuck together during hard times. We have welcomed the stranger, sliding over to make room for newcomers in church. We have opened our doors to people hungry for food, community, shelter, and beauty. Especially during the pandemic, we have heard and read the Scriptures. We have blessed, broken, and shared the Bread of Life. And, we have stepped out beyond our church, out into the community, back out on the road, sharing the Good News, the best news of all time:

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

And now, the part of our journey that began eight years ago comes to an end. Today is my last day as your rector. Tomorrow I start my work at St. Thomas’ Church in Owings Mills, Maryland (but mostly, I’ll just be packing!). Especially after our celebration on Friday night, and after reading the many touching contributions to the “memory book,” I feel a tumult of emotions, maybe as mixed up as the two disciples on the road. Sue and I will miss you and this place more than we can say. Just know that this church and this city will always be home for us.

Like many of you, I look to the future with a blend of anxiety and hope. Our world, country, and church are all changing way faster than we can grasp. There seems to be trouble all around. But, although we can’t see what lies ahead, we can be sure of God’s indissoluble and unbreakable baptismal bond with all of us. God will not let go of us, no matter what. And, if we keep open our eyes, ears, and hearts, we will continue to meet Christ in the stranger, in the Bible, and in the Bread. 

We have been through much together during these eventful years, a time when our two churches took the bold step of becoming one beautiful community. We have formed ties of love and memory that will endure, despite the passage of time and the widening of distance. I will forever give thanks to God for the joy of walking beside all of you, on the road.

Your brother in Christ,

Tom

A Simple Song

The Church St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

May 30, 2021

Year B: The First Sunday after Pentecost – Trinity Sunday

Isaiah 6:1-8

Psalm 29

Romans 8:12-17

John 3:1-17

A Simple Song 

“Sing God a simple song.

Make it up as you go along.

Sing like you like to sing.

God loves all simple things.

For God is the simplest of all.”

“A Simple Song” from Leonard Bernstein’s Mass is one of my favorite pieces of music. Some of you who have been around here for a while and pay close attention to such things may remember that Dennis Doran sang it for us at my service of institution as your rector nearly eight years ago.

The other day I was taking one of my famous morning walks in Lincoln Park when it occurred to me that I would like to include “A Simple Song” at this morning’s service, on my last Sunday as your rector.

Later that morning, I texted Gail that I was thinking of somehow working “A Simple Song” into my sermon and she immediately texted back, “I thought so.”

Which really tells you all you need to know about how we have worked together all these years.

“Sing God a simple song.

Make it up as you go along.

Sing like you like to sing.

God loves all simple things.

For God is the simplest of all.”

Now, saying that “God is the simplest of all” may seem to be an especially strange choice today, on the First Sunday after Pentecost – Trinity Sunday – the one day of the year when the church specifically invites us to reflect on the inner life of God.

We Christians hold the mind-blowing belief that God is one, but God is also three: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit – Creator, Redeemer, and Sanctifier.

The Trinity is a great mystery – and, as you may have noticed, we humans really like to solve mysteries, and so over the centuries lots of ink has been spilled, lots of hot air has been spread, all in an effort to somehow “explain” this great mystery.

But, explaining the mystery of the Trinity is a fool’s errand, because the Trinity is not a mystery to be solved.

No, the Trinity is a mystery to be celebrated.

So, that’s what we’re going to do today.

We’re celebrating the mind-blowing reality the Trinity – the great and wonderful truth that the very essence of God – God’s very Being – is a perfect community of love.

God – the heart of all creation – the ground of all that is – God is a perfect community of love.

God is the simplest of all.

And, presumably, the Trinity, the perfect community of love, could have spent all of eternity alone - fulfilled, and content, forever and ever. Amen.

But, that’s not what happened.

That’s not what happens.

In a twist maybe even more mind-blowing than the Trinity itself, God not only chooses to create all of this, God not only chooses to create all of us, but God actually invites us you and me –God invites all of us to be part of the community of love.

We’re all invited to be part of God’s community of love – all of us, including Isaiah who felt unworthy because he had unclean lips, just like everybody else, just like all of us.

We’re all invited to be part of God’s community of love – all of us, including Nicodemus who knew enough to recognize that Jesus was a teacher sent by God but, just like us, he just couldn’t quite grasp all of Jesus’ teaching, at least not yet.

Down through the ages, God has invited us to be part of God’s community of love – inviting us in all sorts of ways – by giving us the beauty of creation – by giving us consciences to know right from wrong – by giving us commandments that spell out how we are to live – by giving us the prophets who call us back to faithfulness – and, most of all, by giving us Jesus who commands us to love one another as he has loved us.

Simple, yes, but not so easy – and impossible if we try to do it alone, impossible without God’s help.

Sing God a simple song – a simple song of love.

It’s a song we sing together.

Now, as a glass half-empty kind of person, coming to the end of my time as your rector has meant, among other things, thinking of what I’m leaving undone.

One piece of unfinished business is the mission statement of our unified congregation.

A while back, the wardens, vestry, and I began to work on that, but lots of other tasks - including the stress of trying to keep the church going during a global pandemic - pushed our mission statement – and a lot of other items – to the back burner.

Some of you have heard me say before that I like to think of the church’s mission as one big feeding ministry. We are called to feed people in all sorts of ways. We feed people through what we do here – feeding people with the Word of God and our fellowship and, most of all through the Body and Blood of Christ.

We feed people by literally feeding them – by giving them good food to fill their bellies – and we feed people spiritually through music and art.

And we feed people by taking a stand for what is right, by speaking up for people who are being crushed by our often rotten system, by caring for everyone, especially the people who can never repay us, or even thank us.

Yes, we are a church that feeds people – and I know that this feeding, and more, will continue long after I’m gone.

So, I definitely like the image of a feeding church, but – and I know this is really last minute - I’m going to throw another idea into the mix – maybe our mission is to sing God a simple song.

When I think back over our eight years together, at our best, that’s what we’ve been doing.

We have been singing God a simple song, and, yes, very often making it up as we go along.

We sang God a simple song when we opened our doors during the week, welcoming just a few faithful people to do the church’s work of prayer, and for many months we’ve been singing a simple song when many more of us call in to Church By Phone, praying for all those people on our prayer list, listening out for each other, noticing when someone’s been missing.

We sing God a simple song when we reach out to the people we know are suffering – the sick and the lonely and the mournful - calling them, or sending cards and notes. 

We sing God a simple song when we give our best - to singing in the choir, reading the lessons and prayers, serving as an acolyte, polishing the silver and ironing the linens, attending seemingly endless meetings, by really sacrificing some of our time, talent, and treasure for the good of the community. 

Speaking of time – maybe our most precious commodity – we sing God a simple song just by showing up – by showing up at church even when we don’t feel like it, by showing up at parish events that maybe don’t interest us very much but we know that our presence and support will mean a lot to others.

And, most of all, we sing God a simple song when, like Isaiah, we say, “Here am I; Send me!” - when we go into the world and extend the invitation to God’s community of love – when we welcome people into God’s community of love, making room for anybody who shows up, the people we like the looks of and, yes, the people we’re really not so sure about.

Sing God a simple song – a simple song of love.

It’s a song we sing together.

Today, as my time of singing with you comes to an end, I’m reminded of an image that my friend and mentor Lauren Ackland gave me, an image I’ve thought about and talked about many times over the years.

The old walls of this building have been bathed in prayer and song, and, in some mysterious but very real way, those prayers and songs remain here – and the people who’ve prayed and sang them remain forever part of this place.

So, I trust that my prayers – my simple song – will remain, too.

And, I know that the people of St. Paul and Incarnation, with a new leader, will go on bathing these walls in prayer and song.

You’ll go on singing God a simple song, accepting and sharing God’s mind-blowing invitation to the community of love.

Amen.

The Usually Quiet Guidance of the Holy Spirit

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

May 23, 2021

Year B: The Day of Pentecost

Acts 2:1-21

Psalm 104:25-35

Romans 8:22-27

John 15:26-27; 164b-15

The Usually Quiet Guidance of the Holy Spirit

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

I love the Pentecost story from the Acts of the Apostles.

The poor disciples, right?

Truly, they have been through the wringer.

Over the course of just a few weeks, the disciples experienced the thrill of the palm parade into Jerusalem when all of those people shouted “Hosanna!” to welcome King Jesus as he rode on into his capital city.

The disciples endured the heartbreaking turn of events when Jesus was betrayed, rejected, tortured, and killed.

The disciples were shocked, confused, and finally overjoyed by the empty tomb and the glorious sight of the Risen Christ, who was mysteriously transformed while still also very much himself.

The disciples must have felt crushed by abandonment when Jesus was taken from them again – they must have been barely able to hold on to Jesus’ promise of the Holy Spirit, whatever that was going to be like.

So, it’s no surprise that on the first Pentecost the disciples are all together – probably sticking close for safety and support – hanging on to each other, waiting to see what, if anything, might happen next.

And then, and then, there was the noise and the light – the gust of wind and divided tongues like fire – this sudden noise and the light propel the disciples out of their room and into the city, no longer afraid, so filled with the Spirit that people conclude that they must be drunk!

But, as Peter insists, it’s not drink. It’s the power of the Holy Spirit, giving them the courage and ability to proclaim the Good News in words that everybody could understand:

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

And, you know, sometimes the Holy Spirit is like that. Sometimes the Holy Spirit is loud and bright, filling us with joy and hope and the certainty of God’s love.

In my own life, I think of the story that many of you have heard, uh, once or twice – the story from more than twenty years ago, the first Sunday that Sue and I walked through those red doors, not knowing what to expect, not really sure if we even wanted to be there – to be here – and, no, it’s true that there wasn’t a sound like rushing wind and I didn’t notice any tongues of flame, but when I looked around and saw the beauty of this place, the love and diversity of its people, the warmth of the hospitality we received, and the extended hand of welcome from the priest, I suddenly knew the truth in a way that I’ve seldom known it, and somehow  I knew that my life was about to change in some big ways.

Sometimes the Holy Spirit is like that.

I think about Lorna’s ordination to the diaconate, just two weeks ago. Of course, we were all overjoyed for Lorna and Carrie and Katherine. And, there was also the excitement of being back in our cathedral, of hearing more than one or two voices say the responses, of being able to exchange the peace, yes, socially distant, but still.

And when the Bishop laid her hands on Lorna and the other two new deacons, I don’t know about anybody else, but I could feel and almost see the Holy Spirit dancing around that old room, propelling us out of our fear and grief and back out into the world, to once again proclaim the Good News in words that everybody can understand:

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Sometimes the Holy Spirit is like that.

And now, here today, in just a few moments, we will turn our attention to the font, where we will have our first baptisms since the start of the pandemic. 

Right here – right there – God will make an indissoluble, unbreakable, bond with these two much-loved children, Eleanor and Harris.

Throughout their lives, God will give them the gift of the Holy Spirit, giving them the strength to keep their big baptismal promises, giving them the courage to pray and to repent, and most of all, to love one another just how Jesus has loved us.

And again, I’m not sure what you’ll be able to see or hear – especially since we won’t be able to crowd around the font like we usually do, and a lot of us are still watching at home on Facebook – so, I don’t know what you’ll be able to see and hear but I have no doubt that the Holy Spirit will be dancing around this old room, too – propelling us out into the world to proclaim the Good News in words that everybody can understand:

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Sometimes the Holy Spirit is like that.

Sometimes the Holy Spirit is loud and bright, making us seem almost drunk with joy, and hope, and the certainty of God’s love.

And, thank God for those moments, right?

But, more often than not, the Holy Spirit offers us not thunder and lightning. No, most of the time, the Holy Spirit gives quiet guidance.

As Paul writes to the church in Rome, the Spirit helps us to pray – to really pray – to pray with “sighs too deep for words.”

And, as Jesus says in today’s Gospel lesson, the Spirit will guide us “into all truth.”

So, yes, I am grateful for the crash and flash of the first Pentecost, and for the similar experiences of the Spirit every now and then – and I’m so grateful that some of us can be together this morning – and I can’t tell you how thankful I am for today’s baptisms – but I’m most grateful for the quiet guidance of the Holy Spirit.

Like the disciples long ago, we have all been through the wringer for the past fourteen or so months.

So much that we took for granted, the way of life that we just assumed would go on forever, the people we could see pretty much whenever we wanted – so much of that was taken away from us.

And, like the first disciples back in Jerusalem, we were left feeling frightened, confused, disappointed, maybe abandoned and angry, and, yes, sometimes, hopeful.

And, when I look back over this extraordinary time, I don’t see much crash and flash from the Holy Spirit, but I do see – I have experienced – quiet guidance.

Quietly, maybe without us even noticing it, the Holy Spirit has been hard at work, strengthening our indissoluble, unbreakable bonds of love, keeping us close even when we’ve been apart, giving us hearts to pray on the phone, sometimes with sighs too deep for words, helping each of us encourage one another when the days seemed so very bleak.

This is what the Holy Spirit is like, all the time.

And this is what I really want to celebrate on this particular Pentecost.

I want to celebrate the quiet guidance of the Holy Spirit.

I want to remember the quiet guidance of the Holy Spirit.

And, today and in the days ahead, as Eleanor and Harris and all of us step out into an unknown future, I want to listen and watch for the quiet guidance of the Holy Spirit.  

Sweet, sweet Spirit, guide us.

Help us to remember that God will never let go of us, no matter what.

Holy Spirit, keep us close, even when we are apart.

Amen.

Our Essential Oddness

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City

May 16, 2021

Year B: The Seventh Sunday of Easter

Acts 1:15-17, 21-26

Psalm 1

1 John: 5:9-13

John 17:6-9

Our Essential Oddness 

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Well, once again we find ourselves living in an in-between time and an in-between place.

As you are well aware, on Thursday, the CDC surprised and also confused a lot of us by loosening many of the Covid restrictions that we have been living with for these many months.

For those of us who have been vaccinated, the CDC declared that we no longer need to wear masks outside and in many cases even inside, although Governor Murphy disagreed about that. And, we’ll be keeping our masks on in church at least for a while.

The CDC announcement came on Thursday, which was also my birthday, and it kind of felt like the whole city was celebrating with me – there were so many people out and about, reveling in the chance to see full faces, and even to hug people we love.

But, we’re not quite there, yet, either – wherever “there “ is. Many of us are understandably cautious, knowing only too well that Covid can come raging back, sending us back behind our masks and into lockdown.

An in-between time and place.

And, here at St. Paul and Incarnation, we’re in an in-between time and place, too.

Some of us are back in church this morning and I’m back in this old familiar pulpit, which means more to me than I can say.

At last, we’re back in our beautiful church able to see each other in person – able to pray together – able to extend a wave of peace to each other – able to receive Holy Communion, at last.

But, things are not as they were in the “before time” – lots of limitations are still in place, and many of our parishioners have chosen to stay home and still participate over Facebook.

An in-between time and place.

And, Sue and I and all of you are in an in-between time, and place too.

Our Sundays together have dwindled to a precious few.

I’m trying to tie up loose-ends here so I can leave the church in the best possible shape for my successor, and I’m also getting ready to move (well, maybe thinking about getting ready to move) and I’m looking ahead to St. Thomas’ and beginning to make some decisions about my next chapter.

Meanwhile, your wardens and vestry are hard at work on the transition, preparing for the first weeks after I’m done, looking ahead to the exciting and challenging next chapter in the story of St. Paul and Incarnation.

Finally, all of us Christians are in an in-between time and place, too.

On Thursday, we celebrated (on the phone, anyway) Ascension Day – the fortieth day after Easter when we recall the ascension of Jesus into heaven.

We’ve begun a ten-day stretch of in-between time – it must have been really strange and unsettling for the first disciples – a strange and unsettling stretch of in-between time after Jesus’ ascension and before the dramatic arrival of the Holy Spirit on Pentecost.

An in-between time and place.

For the past few Sundays our gospel lessons have been taken from a part of the Gospel of John that’s often called the “Farewell Discourse.”

The setting is the Last Supper, but really the Farewell Discourse is a long monologue by Jesus.

It includes teachings, like when Jesus describes himself as the vine and we are the branches.

It includes commands, “Love one another as I have loved you.”

And, it includes a prayer from Jesus to the Father, a prayer that the disciples and we get to overhear.

As you probably noticed, it’s a dense text, but if you pay attention you realize that Jesus is in an in-between time and place, too. In a way, he has already gone to the Father and left us behind, but at the same time he is also still here with us, giving us some final, most important instruction.

And, here’s what I really want to talk about: in today’s selection from the Farewell Discourse, Jesus points out that we his followers are in – you guessed it - an in-between time and place. 

Jesus prays about us, “They do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world. Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth. As you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world.”

That’s the thing about the Christian life: we are very much in the world with all of its beauty and all of its trouble, but we do not belong to the world.

We are in the world but we are not to be of the world.

Or, to put it another way, if we’re living pretty much like everybody else, then we are not faithfully following the way of Jesus.

Which reminds me of one of my favorite books. It’s called Resident Aliens. In it, the authors make the case that the Church has gone off the rails because it has forgotten this key point – we are in the world but we are not of the world – we’re not supposed to live like everybody else.

They argue that we need to recover our essential…oddness.

Here’s what they write, “We believe that many Christians do not fully appreciate the odd way in which the church, when it is most faithful, goes about its business. We want to claim the church’s ‘oddness’ as essential to its faithfulness.”

Our essential oddness.

But, let’s face it, it takes courage to be odd. It’s much easier, far safer, to go along and get along, to keep our heads down, and just live like everybody else.

During this in-between time, some of us have been looking into the history of the Episcopal Church in Jersey City – and you’ll see some of the first fruits of that work next Sunday.

As we’ve talked to longtime parishioners and dug into our records we’ve learned a lot – some of it beautiful and wonderful – the way people found a strong sense of community in our churches – the way the church really was the center of people’s lives – the way clergy and lay leaders offered wisdom and compassion to the congregation.

But, back in the “good old days” the church was very much part of the establishment – it was expected that pretty much everyone went to church – and often the church simply went along with the culture of the time, including racism. Because the church was such a normal part of life, it lost its essential oddness.

So, in the case of Grace Van Vorst, it bears the name of a family that enslaved people, and the church building sits on land donated by that family.

Here at St. Paul’s, Susan has dug into our old registers and seen that parishioners used to be identified by their race – just like they would have been out in the world.

And then, there’s the “original sin” of Jersey City Episcopalianism, the fact that people of color were generally not welcome in our churches, the sin that necessitated the founding of Incarnation, where Black people could worship in peace.

Back then I’m sure there were people who were not happy about this state of affairs, but my sense is most people liked the idea that people had their own churches, or simply accepted it as the way of the world – which, of course, it was.

But, we are meant to be different.

We are meant to be in the world but not of the world.

We are meant to be odd!

Our essential oddness.

And, during this in-between time, when I look back at what we have done together, with God’s help, at our best we’ve been odd.

It is odd to open our doors to anyone who wants to join us, all different kinds of people, some people we like, some we’re not so sure about, some maybe we don’t like at all.

It is odd to invest a lot of time and money into community suppers where we throw open the doors to anyone who is hungry for good food, anyone who longs for community – and it’s even odder that we ended up mostly feeding people who were not our parishioners.

It is odd to walk the streets of Jersey City on Good Friday, praying at places that the world sees as God-forsaken, sprinkling Holy Water to restore God’s good earth that has been stained by violence.

It is odd to put in a ton of work to transform our parish hall into a residence for families who have no other place to live, taking the time to get to know them, to play with the kids, and also to give them the space and privacy that we all crave.

It is odd to invest a ton of money into a community center in a neighborhood that the city has written off for decades as unsalvageable, as not worth the effort. It is odd to dream that a paved-over park occupied by drug dealers could ever be transformed into something beautiful for the neighborhood.

It is odd to open our doors to people from faraway lands, people the world teaches us to fear and despise. It is odd to offer them not a cage but a gorgeous Lighthouse, built by faith and love.

And, it is odd to look into our own past – the good and not so good – acknowledging the failures of our spiritual ancestors and also our own shortcomings, promising to be even more faithful in the future.

Our essential oddness.

So, here we are my fellow “resident aliens,” my odd brothers and sisters.

Here we are, once again in an in-between time, once again in an in-between place.

Like the first disciples we may be feeling uncomfortable, confused, frightened.

But, Jesus is praying for us just as fervently as Jesus prayed for us two thousand years ago – praying that we don’t forget that we are in the world but not of the world – praying that we remember – and even celebrate – our essential oddness.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

Meraki

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

May 9, 2021

Year B: The Sixth Sunday of Easter

Acts 10:44-48

Psalm 98

1 John 5:1-6

John 15:9-17

Meraki

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

So, the other day I came across a beautiful word:

Meraki. 

It’s a Greek word that means doing something with soul, with creativity, or with love. Meraki means putting something of yourself into what you’re doing, whatever it may be.

I immediately thought of some of the best cooks of our parish:

Catherine, who created our Stone Soup Community Suppers, feeding lovingly prepared, delicious, and healthy dinners to any and all who came through our doors – Sonia, feeding lovingly prepared, delicious, and just-as good-as-coffee hour homemade hot lunches, served to the guests at the homeless drop-in center – and Eric, feeding lovingly prepared, delicious, and over-the-top coffee hour feasts, and let’s not forget all those rich desserts.

I could name others, but all of these wonderfully talented and generous chefs prepare food that tastes so good because of good ingredients and the technical skill, yes, but there’s something more. Somehow we can also taste the love that goes into their food - the love that goes into offering something beautiful for other people, especially for people who may not have a whole lot of beauty in their lives.

But, even if you have not had the chance to enjoy the food prepared by our talented and loving chefs, I know that you all know what meraki is – or at least what it sounds like.

Each week you get to hear Gail – who is of course deeply knowledgeable about all kinds of music and is highly skilled in technique, but that’s not why people swoon when they hear her, not why people always ask what church she sings at and what time’s the service, not why she’s in demand at our diocesan services like yesterday’s ordination.

No, you all know that what makes Gail’s music so special is meraki – doing something with soul, creativity, and love – putting something – sometimes a lot – of yourself into what you do.

I couldn’t help but think of meraki last Saturday morning, when a few of us gathered for the blessing of the Lighthouse in its new home in Union City.

Many of you will remember that our own Deacon Jill Singleton started the Lighthouse a few years ago over in the Parish House at the Church of the Incarnation.

Her idea was simple and it was ambitious: to offer our underutilized space as a home for people who had received asylum in the United States.

Lots of people from Incarnation and St. Paul’s and Grace Van Vorst and All Saint’s Episcopal Day School and other friends and supporters all pitched in to make Jill’s bold vision a reality.

I’ll never forget those days when the Parish House was thoroughly cleaned and painted and furnished – so many people coming and going – working so hard to create a safe and comfortable home for people we had never met – in most cases, people we would never meet - people who had traveled through hell on perilous journeys to safety and hope and new life.

One thing I have often said about the leaders of the Church of the Incarnation is that they never said no to ministry – they have been always up for trying new things – and what a blessing it is that they – you – have brought that Incarnation boldness to our unified parish – for example, just look at our new and quite popular small groups, spearheaded by Carol Harrison-Arnold.

And, the people of Incarnation didn’t just provide space for the Lighthouse. With a real spirit of meraki, some parishioners took the time to get to know our guests, stopping by for conversation and to share meals.

And no one took greater interest in the Lighthouse than our dear brother Sidney King, who died one year ago tomorrow, and for whom we still grieve. 

To be honest, maybe because we couldn’t mourn him the way we normally would, sometimes I still have remind myself that Sidney is dead.

Sidney knew what it was like to travel far from home to a strange new land, and, of course, he was a deeply faithful Christian wholeheartedly committed to ministry, so he spent a lot of time with our Lighthouse guests. In fact, now that I think of it, Sidney was kind of like a lighthouse to the guests, helping them to navigate unfamiliar, and sometimes treacherous, waters.

To the guests, Deacon Jill was “Mama Jill” and Sidney was “Papa Sidney.”

Meraki: doing something with soul, creativity, and love.

Meraki: putting something of yourself into what you do.

The Lighthouse closed after we put the former home of the Church of the Incarnation up for sale.

During the many months since, Deacon Jill has persistently worked to reopen at a new location in Union City.

I’ll spare you the unpleasant details except to say that it has been an ordeal  - an ordeal involving lots of bureaucracy, mold, a termite infestation, oh, and, yes, a once-in-a-century pandemic.

Although there were a few times when even the unstoppable Jill Singleton considered throwing in the towel, in the end, with God’s help, the Lighthouse is now ready to reopen.

So, last Saturday, a few of us gathered to bless the new Lighthouse. Now, Jill had kept me informed of all the trials and tribulations, and she told me how beautiful the house now looks, but I was not prepared for what I saw when I walked through the door.

Just like any of us would be glad to eat one of Sonia’s as-good-as-coffee hour lunches for the homeless, the truth is that any of us would be delighted to call the Lighthouse our home.

Not only are the mold and termites gone, but the house is spacious and inviting, carefully decorated, with a nice little backyard, and in the basement there’s even a brand-new washer and dryer donated by our friends at All Saints’ Hoboken.

As I looked around, I thought, this is the gospel in action – this is the gospel in brick and wood and plaster – this is love – this is love of stranger – put into action.

Soon, just like at the old Lighthouse, the guests and hopefully some of you, too, will be breaking bread at the dining room table, under a sign that reads:

“The Sidney W. King, Jr. Room of Hospitality.”

Meraki: doing something with soul, creativity, and love.

Meraki: putting something of yourself into what you do.

Of course, Jesus is the supreme example of meraki.

It’s what drew people to Jesus and it’s what continues to draw us to him. 

Jesus lived a life of perfect love, pouring that love into his teaching and healing, and reaching out to the lost and the outcast.

Jesus lived a life of perfect love, and calls us to do the same, to follow his example and love one another as he has loved us – promising that he will always be with us, giving us the strength to follow him.

Jesus says, “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.”

Jesus says, “And I appointed you to go and bear fruit, fruit that will last.”

And as I’ve been thinking about Jesus’ command to love one another and his wish that we bear good fruit, I keep going back to my new favorite word – meraki –the idea of doing what we do with love, of putting ourselves into what we do – which is really the call – the command - of Jesus, right?

And, with God’s help, when we do what we do with love, when we put something of ourselves into what we do, we produce good fruit – good fruit for people we may never meet, good fruit for people who may never thank us, good fruit for people who can never repay us.

With God’s help, when we put something of ourselves into what we do, we produce good fruit like food for the hungry – good fruit like music that touches our souls – and, good fruit like a Lighthouse that provides safety and shelter to sisters and brothers who have journeyed far and at great risk, in search of what God always offers: new life.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.