Draw the Circle Wide

Draw the Circle Wide

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

August 16, 2026

Year A, Proper 15: The Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost

Isaiah 56:1, 6-8

Psalm 67

Romans 11:1-2a, 29-32

Matthew 15:10-28

So, one of my summer projects has been trying to deepen my relationships with some of my local clergy colleagues.

I’ve been here five years now, and while I’ve made a couple of clergy friends, there are lots of other people I don’t know well or even at all. So, I’ve been taking advantage of the somewhat slower summer pace to get together for lunch.

Last week, I had a kind of leisurely lunch with a priest who I have gotten to know a bit, but this was definitely our richest conversation. 

We share an interest in social justice and community organizing, so we talked some about that.

And we also got to talking about our futures and she asked me a question that kind of threw me, a question that I don’t think anyone had ever asked me. She said:

“Do you think you’ve achieved the goals that you had for your priesthood?”

“Do you think you’ve achieved the goals that you had for your priesthood?”

I didn’t really have an answer.

I’ve never been one of those people who had a big goal – like those kids in elementary school who knew they wanted to be a doctor, a nurse, a lawyer, whatever and did what they had to do to achieve that goal.

I’m sure some of you were like that, but not me. 

And my first thought was that over the past couple of decades, my goal has often been to “get through it” – not in the sense of “get it over with” (although, sometimes…), but more in the sense of, “I need to get through the ordination process, get through seminary, get ordained, get a job, and so on…”

And wherever I’ve been, including here, I’ve certainly had goals – here, I think of helping to stabilize the church after the pandemic, of moving outreach (which has always been very important here) but moving outreach to a more central place in the church’s life.

Another goal was to reach the point where we could hire a second priest (check!) and now to be the best mentor I can be for Rev. Amelia.

So, plenty of goals.

But, you know, sometimes you can forget your own story.

So, after struggling a bit to think of some big capital “G” goal, I finally remembered my story – in fact, I remembered something I once told you – how, when I was a high school history teacher, I loved having a freshman homeroom – I loved creating a place where the freshmen felt welcome and safe. I loved creating a real sense of homeroom community.

But then, you know how it goes, the school year would end and the following year I would have to start this community-building work all over again.

And it was the goal of helping to build, to strengthen community – a community that lasts much longer than a school year – a holy community of welcome, love, and care – a holy community of baptisms, weddings, funerals, and all the wonderful and hard stuff in between, it was that capital “G” goal that attracted me to this work.

It’s work that I think of as “drawing the circle wide” – drawing the circle wide, inviting everyone in, including, yes, people we may not like, people who seem different, people with whom we disagree about all sorts of things.

Draw the circle wide.

In today’s gospel lesson, we hear Jesus draw the circle wide, at least eventually.

It takes a minute, but Jesus draws the circle wide enough to include this poor Canaanite woman – she’s not a Jew, she’ a Gentile – this persistent woman who annoys the disciples – this desperate mother who begs Jesus to heal her daughter.

“Lord, help me.”

Just like all of you parents, this woman is willing to do anything for her sick child, even asking a Jewish teacher and healer for help – and she doesn’t give up, even when Jesus seems to harshly dismiss her:

“It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” 

To which she offers one of the best comebacks ever:

“Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.”  

And hearing that comeback, Jesus praises her faith and heals her daughter “instantly.”

And, I don’t know, maybe that was the plan all along, or maybe Jesus was testing the woman’s faith.

Maybe.

Or maybe… the woman’s bold and courageous persistence – her faithfulness – moved Jesus to reach beyond his own Jewish community – to draw the circle wide – wide enough to include this desperate mother and her sick daughter.

Draw the circle wide.

For us, drawing the circle wide is not so much about growing the church, though inviting and welcoming everybody is really important, of course.

But drawing the circle wide is more about sharing our many blessings and gifts – I mean, we are so blessed to be part of this church, right? 

Drawing the circle wide is supporting one another in our times of need and sorrow - and inviting others to step into the circle to share their blessings and gifts.

Drawing the circle wide is about rejecting a culture that teaches us to fear and even hate other people – it’s about following a different way, following the way of Jesus, listening to the voices of others, especially when they cry for help.

Drawing the circle wide changes our hearts.

Community can be quite challenging and sometimes it will even break your heart, but on the whole, being here, being with lots of different people, being here with lots of different kinds of people softens our hearts – and, as Jesus points out in the first part of today’s gospel lesson, our hearts are really important – it’s our heart that can spew out really ugly stuff or share incredible love and generosity. 

Finally, drawing the circle wide moves us in a God-ward direction, moving closer to Isaiah’s beautiful vision of lots of people, people of all different backgrounds, Jews and Canaanites, and Marylanders and, oh yes, New Jerseyans, all of us gathered on God’s holy mountain, loving and praising God, forever.

All week, as I’ve been reflecting on today’s sermon, I’ve been mindful that right now there are quite a few of us who are facing some very hard times – and I hope and pray that being part of our St. Thomas’ circle is a comfort and support for them, for you.

A most important goal.

And I’ve also been thinking about words written by Gordon Light, a Canadian Anglican bishop, words that have been set to beautiful music, words that are meaningful even unadorned with melody:

“Draw the circle, draw the circle wide.

Let this be our song. No one stands alone.

We’ll stand side by side.

Draw the circle, draw the circle wide.

Draw the circle, draw it wider still.

Let this be our song, be our song: no one stands alone.

Standing side by side.

Draw the circle, draw the circle wide.

In your sadness and in your grief,

All the pain, it seems there’s no relief.

We will hold you until the storm subsides.

Draw the circle, draw the circle wide.”

Amen.

More than Enough

More than Enough

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

August 2, 2026

Year A, Proper 13: The Tenth Sunday after Pentecost

Isaiah 55:1-5

Psalm 145:8-9, 15-22

Romans 9:1-5

Matthew 14:13-21

In last week’s sermon, I talked about “spillages,” this idea of free-writing – just writing whatever pops into our head, not worrying about grammar or spelling or clarity – just letting it all spill out onto the page.

And I suggested that our prayer can be like that – our prayer can be “spiritual spillages” – just spilling out our hearts to God, all the good, bad, and ugly stuff – spilling out our hearts with confidence because we know that God already knows what’s in our heart and God will not let go of us, no matter what.

I have found “spillages” to be a really rewarding practice, both for my writing and my spiritual life.

But one unexpected side effect has been that I seem to remember my dreams better.

I try to write early in the morning, as soon as I can brew that first cup of coffee.

And to my surprise, often my “spillages” begins with recalling as much as I can from that night’s dreams.

So, on Wednesday morning, I remembered a dream that seems to have included all of you.

We were all together at a party – it was kind of like a cocktail party – some people were sitting down but most people seemed to be standing, juggling their beverage and one of those little appetizer plates and a napkin – you know how that it is.

I think we may have been on a boat – it felt like that – and it was crowded – we were all very close together.

And as I remember it, we were all there – I saw people I see all the time but also some people we don’t see very often and others who haven’t been here in quite a while.

And the emotion I remember feeling was joy – joy at being together and celebrating – I don’t know what we were celebrating – maybe we were just celebrating being together – celebrating that there was more than enough – more than enough food and drink – more than often friendship and fellowship – more than enough love. 

More than enough.

Now, by Tuesday night, I was already thinking about today’s gospel lesson – the familiar story of the Multiplication of the Loaves and the Fishes – so, my dream may very well have been shaped by this most beautiful story – a story so important, a story that reveals so much about Jesus, that it’s the only one of Jesus’ miraculous signs included in all four gospels.

The story begins with Jesus taking a boat to a deserted place for himself. 

But this attempt at getting some alone time fails – the people are simply too hungry – they are hungry for Jesus, hungry for his teaching, hungry for his healing, and, it turns out, the people are just plain hungry.

To their credit, the disciples realize that the hunger of this huge crowd in a deserted place is a big problem.

They try to get ahead of the problem by telling – not asking, but telling – Jesus to send the crowds away, so they can go to town, buy food, fend for themselves.

Seems reasonable, but the disciples should have known that Jesus would have something else in mind. Jesus says,

“They need not go away; you give them something to eat.”

Again, the perfectly reasonable disciples think this is impossible – they’ve only got five loaves and two fish – there’s just nowhere near enough for the thousands of hungry people.

Well, you heard the story.

With Jesus there is enough.

With Jesus there is more than enough.

But, like the first disciples, believing in that abundance, recognizing that abundance, sharing that abundance, can be a challenge – we need reminders, we need to pay attention.

I’ve told you before that, by nature, I tend to be an anxious person – I see my glass as half-empty. My mind often quickly flies to the worst-case scenario.

What if, what if, what if…

But, partly because of the writing - the spillages, the journaling – I think I’ve been doing better with that – I’ve been doing what a very wise parishioner suggested, “Remember to pray and think positively.”

And last week, when I met with my spiritual director, we talked about some of the good stuff that’s happened lately – the capital campaign, the church construction nearing the finish line, Sue’s exciting new job, the writer’s conference, the arrival of Kate Julian, who will be working with our children and youth.

Enough.

More than enough.

Much more than I could have ever imagined.

Now, that doesn’t mean that I don’t have to deal with fears and challenges, of course.

And, probably more than anybody, I’m aware of the fears and challenges that many of you face – and I also know that I don’t know everything that’s going on in your lives.

But I think of the long-ago thousands of hungry people enjoying what I’m sure was a particularly delicious meal of bread and fish.

I think of my dream of all of us gathered on, let’s call it the S.S. St. Thomas, all of us close together, feasting, celebrating.

I think of our capital campaign and the sandwiches made for Paul’s Place, right here, by our parishioners, just this past Wednesday morning.

And I think of the service I attended at our cathedral on Wednesday afternoon.

You may remember that back in June I told you about a man I called “Mark.”

Maybe about a year and a half ago, Mark was diagnosed with a very serious case of cancer. One of our parishioners connected him to me and we had a couple of long, challenging, but also rich and beautiful phone conversations.

And then he was doing better and we just exchanged a few quick texts, just checking in.

But then a few months ago, unfortunately, Mark’s cancer returned. And he got back in touch asking if we could meet in person, that he had a question for me.

And if you remember me telling you this story, you may remember that he had been going around asking different people a question that I certainly did not expect:

“Why do you believe in God?”

That threw me a bit, but we ended up having a very long and meaningful conversation.

And then, about two weeks ago Mark texted me again. He wanted to tell me that he had decided to become an Episcopalian, that he had joined a church near his home. I was sorry that it wasn’t St. Thomas’, but very glad that he had found a spiritual home as he and his family journey down this next hard stretch of road.

Well, on Wednesday afternoon, about 25 of Mark’s family and friends gathered at the cathedral where Bishop Carrie formally received Mark and his wife into the Episcopal Church.

This was one of the most moving services I’ve ever attended – a dying man who has been on a spiritual quest chose to say yes to Jesus, chose to become a disciple, chose to trust that God will not let go of him, no matter what.

When it was time for Communion, we all gathered around the altar, making this ancient ritual feel more like a family meal.

It felt more like what we call the Last Supper but what was really the “first supper.” Gathered around the altar together, seeing each other’s faces, watching as one by one we stretched our hands and were fed, it felt like that amazing day when the disciples and thousands of hungry people discovered that with Jesus there is enough, there is more than enough.

With Jesus there is enough.

With Jesus there is more than enough.

Amen.

Spiritual Spillages

Spiritual Spillages

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills, MD

July 26, 2026

Year A, Proper 12: The Ninth Sunday after Pentecost

1 Kings 3:5-12

Psalm 119:129-136

Romans 8:26-39

Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

So, I’m still buzzing about the writers’ conference I attended down at St. Mary’s College in southern Maryland.

It’s been a month ago already, but I feel like I’m just beginning to absorb all that I experienced and learned during that amazing week from the outstanding teachers and super-talented participants.

And as I’ve continued to reflect on that time and those lessons, I’ve come to see that there is quite a lot of overlap between cultivating a creative life and nurturing a spiritual life.

In fact, a friend of mine told me the other day that she heard a poet say that all poets want to be priests!

And, perhaps, the opposite is true, too: all priests want to be poets!

On our first full day at the conference, we gathered for a talk about how to make an “artful life.”

And we heard that the most important thing is to simply show up, to make a commitment to doing the work, choosing to give the work our time and attention, creating a good habit - because nothing is going to happen unless we devote time and attention. Maybe that’s actually writing (or painting, or making music, or sculpting, or whatever). Or, maybe that’s just shutting down all our devices and just thinking, imagining, seeing where our minds and hearts take us.

One of the best tips I picked up was spending some time each day “free-writing,” just writing whatever comes to mind, not worrying about content, grammar, spelling, making sense…just writing.

One person called this free-writing, “spillages.”

Letting the thoughts and words just spill out of us – spillages – and then, occasionally, looking back over our spillages and maybe “gleaning” some memory, or idea, or even just a word, that we might want to explore or pursue.

Spillages.

Turning to today’s Bible lessons, honestly, it’s hard to know where to begin.

In the Old Testament lesson, we have God sounding kind of genie-like, saying to King Solomon, “ask what I should give you.”

And Solomon asks for wisdom – which, when you think of it, is a really wise request. Perhaps that’s a reminder that God is not a genie, that God has already given us all the good gifts that we really need.

And in today’s gospel lesson, we heard a collection of Jesus’ parables.

Jesus gets us thinking about the importance of smallness – the potential of smallness – the tiny mustard seed grows into a home for birds – the little bit of yeast produces a whole lot of bread - and the small pearl is so valuable that at least one merchant would sell everything to possess it.

And Jesus also reminds us of judgment – that we will be held responsible for how we live our lives – so, if we need to change our ways, the time is now.

And then there is the particularly rich passage from St. Paul’s Letter to the Romans – there’s enough in there for many sermons, but I’ve been especially reflecting on Paul’s beautiful – and very honest - words on prayer:

“The Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words.”

If you were here a couple of weeks ago, you may remember that we heard one of Jesus’ most familiar parables, the Parable of the Sower.

And in my sermon, I suggested that while the sower and the seeds are definitely important, the parable really hinges on the soil – is the soil healthy enough to receive the seeds, to nurture the seeds, to allow the seeds to take root and grow into something abundant and beautiful?

And of course, the parable is not really about agriculture or gardening – it’s about our souls, about how we receive the Good News, how we welcome God’s blessings and let God’s gifts take root and grow in our hearts, producing amazing abundance for us and for others.

And I talked about how we might cultivate our “soil” by, for example, cutting back on cable news, by just talking and talking and listening together.

But one of the most important ways for us to open our hearts, to cultivate our souls, is prayer – prayer when we’re together here, and also prayer when we’re alone, when it’s just God and us.

And this is exactly where a lot of us run into a problem.

I can’t tell you how many times parishioners, both here and everywhere I’ve been, how many times people have said to me, “I don’t know how to pray.”

“I don’t know how to pray.”

If it’s any comfort, this is a long-standing problem.

Jesus’ own disciples asked him to teach them how to pray.

And as we heard today from St. Paul, writing in the middle of the first century, even he, even the earliest Jesus followers, they did not know how to pray as they ought.

There are, of course, many thousands of prayers that we can read and recite.

And there are many thousands of books on prayer – I’ve got a bunch of them that I’m happy to lend you.

But the longer I’m at this, I’m more convinced that learning to pray is a lot like what I learned at the writer’s conference:

Showing up.

Making time – even just a little bit of time.

Listening carefully.

And maybe we should try spiritual spillages, whether we write it down or think it or just say it – just let it out and tell God what’s in our heart.

And, who knows, as we spill our hearts, we may glean some holy insights, some ideas or nudges that we might want to explore more deeply.

And, no doubt, our prayer will always be imperfect but, as St. Paul understood, the Spirit intercedes on our behalf with “sighs too deep for words.”

And, of course, God already knows what’s in our hearts anyway, God understands our hearts far better than we ever will.

And, you know, maybe prayer – our imperfect spiritual spillages – maybe prayer is like a mustard seed that can take root in our souls, growing our hearts, growing our souls, our lives – making our hearts even more beautiful than a pearl, making our lives more beautiful than we could have ever imagined.

So, at this point, I’m hoping maybe at least some of you are considering giving a little more time to prayer.

But maybe some of you have tried many times and felt like you’ve failed, and all this talk of spillages and gleaning has been… unconvincing.

I get it – and while prayer is certainly important, it’s not what’s most important.

What’s most important is that God has already given us everything we really need.

What’s most important is God’s indissoluble, unbreakable bond with us.

What’s most important is that, while we will be judged on our lives, God will not let go of us, no matter what.

And nobody has ever expressed this great and comforting truth better than St. Paul. So, I’ll give him the last word:

“For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

Amen.

Clean Hearts, Remediated Souls

Clean Hearts, Remediated Souls

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

July 12, 2026

Year A, Proper 10: The Seventh Sunday after Pentecost

Isaiah 55:10-13

Psalm 65:1-14

Romans 8:1-11

Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

“Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit with in me” (Psalm 51:11). Amen.

Very much like Baltimore, my hometown of Jersey City was once an industrial powerhouse. 

Beginning in the 1800s and stretching all the way into my childhood and teenage years, the city was dotted with warehouses, railyards, and many factories.

The Joseph Dixon Crucible Company had a giant factory that cranked out the iconic Dixon Ticonderoga pencils – without knowing it, you’ve probably held in your hand a sliver of Jersey City.

Colgate-Palmolive had a huge plant on the Hudson River waterfront, just a few blocks from my high school. The perfumes used in soap and detergent wafted in the air as we made our way to and from class.

Not too far from where I grew up, there was an ink factory. And many Jersey City kids of my vintage have fond memories of witnessing the very strange sight of workers outside on their break, covered from head to toe in ink, purple people.

And there were lots of other factories, making all sorts of things, employing many thousands of people, doing work that may not have been particularly enjoyable or always safe, but provided a reliable income and the chance for a decent life.

Of course, almost all those factories have since closed, all those jobs that weren’t automated were moved south or west or overseas.

Some of the old industrial sites have been torn down and others have been converted into condos or office buildings – the city is now quite different than when I was a kid.

But, no surprise, all that industrial activity has left a poisonous environmental legacy in the city – over the last few decades there have been many clean-ups, with one of the biggest at the site of a factory that once produced chrome.

Not only was the chrome factory site contaminated, but chromium-contaminated soil was used as fill throughout the city for much of the last century – so there was chromium all over the place.

Until a few decades ago, when community organizers – lay people and clergy –led the fight to clean up this toxic mess. As you’d guess, there was a lot of resistance to paying for this expensive work, but in the end, there was a remediation that took many years to complete.

But even still, anyone growing vegetables or fruit in Jersey City would be wise to have the soil tested, or just play it safe by using fresh soil in a planter box.

I got to thinking about this Jersey City story of contamination and cleaning, when I first sat with today’s gospel lesson, what Jesus calls, and what everybody else usually calls, the Parable of the Sower.

And certainly, the sower is an important character in the parable – the sower generously provides all those seeds, all those sources of life.

And isn’t it interesting that the sower doesn’t seem to be as careful with the seeds as we might expect?

Now, just like I don’t know much about sheep or math or beasts of burden, I don’t know much about farming or gardening – but I do know that seeds are valuable – precious - so it’s odd that this sower seems to be, well, wasteful, tossing seeds all over the place, including locations where they are unlikely to take root and grow.

So, the sower is important to the story and the seeds are obviously important, but it seems to me that the parable really hinges on the soil.

The bad soil – the path, the rocky ground, the thorns – the bad soil cannot receive the gift of life, cannot nurture and grow those seeds into something beautiful and nourishing.

But the good soil – the good soil receives the seeds – the good soil nurtures the seeds, and produces amazing abundance.

Of course, as we heard in Jesus’ explanation in the second half of today’s gospel lesson, this parable isn’t really about a sower, not really about seeds or soil.

The parable is meant to get us thinking about how well our hearts, how well our souls, how well our “soil,” can receive the Good News, can welcome and understand the Good News, how well we can let it grow inside us, let it grow into abundance, grow into something amazing.

Unfortunately, just like the land in Jersey City and many other places, our hearts and souls can be poisoned.

 

Our souls can be poisoned when we’re not deeply rooted, when we don’t give much thought to what we really believe, what’s most important to us, our values, our priorities, what we are willing to sacrifice.

What would we stand for, who would stand beside, no matter what?

Our souls can be poisoned when we’re too concerned with worldly things (as important as they may be), when we judge ourselves or other people based on possessions, how much we have or don’t have - when we allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by the world’s troubles, forgetting that love is more powerful than hate, life conquers death, and God just won’t let go of us.

Our souls can be poisoned - and I think we can all agree that there is so much spiritual poison all around us.

This poison can harden our hearts, giving us a kind of amnesia. We forget that here on our earth, we are all siblings, with much more in common that whatever might divide us.

We learn the wrong lessons – that we should be angry all the time, that we must fear one another, that if you win, I lose; that there just isn’t enough to go around for everybody.

And just like at the chrome factory, some of this poisoning is carelessness – just not paying attention – and some of this poisoning is quite deliberate.

In any event, the solution is the same:

We can ask God to clean our hearts, to remediate our souls.

And, while this work doesn’t require hazmat suits, it will probably require us to turn off the cable news – or, if we can’t go cold turkey, cut back, and maybe sometimes even watch cable news from “the other side.” 

This work calls us to shut down our screens and talk with actual human beings, to observe closely and listen carefully, to give most people the benefit of the doubt, because the truth is that most people just want a decent life for themselves and their families and are doing the best that they can.

And this will come as no surprise, but I believe that remediation of our souls happens when we come here, each Sunday, as often as we can.

Our souls are remediated when we come here and get reminded of those hard baptismal promises: to seek and serve Christ in all persons, to respect the dignity of every human being.

With God’s help.

Our hearts are cleaned when we gather here with other people, probably some people we otherwise would never have met, might never spend time with – when we’re here with all kinds of people, some people with whom we probably disagree about a whole lot, and yet, and yet, we pray together, do good together, and love one another.

Our hearts are cleaned, our souls are remediated – and then our soil is healthy and rich with spiritual nutrients, ready to receive all those holy seeds God is sowing all over the place, everywhere, ready to welcome the Good News of Jesus, and, with God’s help, nurturing those seeds into a transformed city, into a beautiful garden, God’s dream made real.

And so, we pray: 

Create in us clean hearts, O God, and renew a right spirit within us.

Amen.

Yoked with Jesus and Yoked with Each Other

Yoked with Jesus and Yoked with Each Other

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

July 5, 2026

Year A, Proper 9: The Sixth Sunday after Pentecost

Zechariah 9:9-12

Psalm 145:8-15

Romans 7:15-25a

Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

Two Sundays ago, right after the 10:00 service, I loaded up my trusty Honda Fit and drove down to Southern Maryland, to St. Mary’s College, where I would spend the week at a writing conference.

The conference was a truly amazing experience in a beautiful place – really one of the best weeks of my life – but it did mean that I was away from Sue and our cat posse for a week - and I also missed out on a few things here at St. Thomas’, most especially the baptism of little Millie last Sunday at the 10:00 service. 

Now, I could have pushed myself and been here – we all know I love a baptism – but I was content to leave that privilege to Rev. Amelia, who, of course, did a wonderful job.

Together, you – we – pulled up another chair at the Christian table for Millie, who has begun her Christian life with the support of her parents, godparents, grandparents, and all of us.

In baptism, God made an indissoluble, unbreakable, bond with Millie

And at Millie’s baptism, like at every baptism, the whole congregation renewed the Baptismal Covenant.

I think a lot, and talk a lot, about the Baptismal Covenant, especially those five big promises that we make – to continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to resist evil and repent when we mess up, to proclaim by word and example the Good News, to seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbors as ourselves, to strive for justice and peace among all people, respecting the dignity of every human being.

At the baptismal preparation meeting with Millie’s parents, Rev. Amelia spoke about the Baptismal Covenant – and one of the things we always point out is that these promises are hard!

To seek and serve Christ in all persons – it’s that “all” that trips me up every time – go ahead, think of a person in whom, no matter how hard you try, you just can’t see Christ. Now, to seek and serve Christ in “many” people or even “most” people, sure thing, I’m in. But “all,” that’s hard.

And it’s hard “to strive for justice and peace among all people, respecting the dignity of every human being.”

That’s why the response to each of those hard promises is “I will, with God’s help.” 

“I will with God’s help” reminds us that we don’t – can’t – keep any of these promises on our own.

The Christian life is only possible because we are bound to God - and we are bound to one another.

Or, to use the image that Jesus gives us in today’s gospel lesson, we are yoked – yoked with Jesus and yoked with each other. 

Among other things, my writing conference was yet another reminder of how much I don’t know – there are so many writers and writing techniques that are unknown to me – and that’s both exciting (it’s fun to learn new things) and daunting (will I really be able to learn all this?).

If we’ve been together for a while, you know a few other things that I don’t know much about – sheep, math, or golf.

I also don’t know much about beasts of burden or about yokes.

So, if you’re like me, it’s worth mentioning that a yoke is a crossbeam placed over the necks of working animals, like oxen, to bind them together, so they can work in unison, work more effectively.

In the Old Testament, “yoke” is usually used as an image for oppression, but, in his usual Jesus way, Jesus takes that metaphor and gives it a new twist – Jesus’ yoke is easy, Jesus’ burden is light – Jesus’ yoke is easy because it unites us with him, and unites us with one another.

So, yesterday, July 4, was a special day – it is remarkable that our great American experiment has reached the milestone of 250 years. Lots to celebrate – and, of course, much work still to be done to perfect this union of ours.

But, you know, last Wednesday, July 1, was also a special day.

We celebrated the Feast of Pauli Murray – Baltimore’s own, born here in 1910 – the Rev. Dr. Pauli Murray.

Her story is amazing – essentially orphaned at a young age, she faced many obstacles and much rejection because of her race and gender, and yet she persevered, managing to do many great things.

She was an activist and a lawyer – she certainly did her part to create a more perfect union, helping to lay the groundwork for the landmark case, Brown v. Board of Education – she was a friend of Eleanor Roosevelt – she was a poet – Annette Brown powerfully read one of her poems at our North Cemetery service – and, kind of late in life, she went to seminary and was ordained an Episcopal priest, among the first women to be ordained, and the very first African-American woman.

Against stiff headwinds, Pauli Murray achieved much, thanks to her own gifts and perseverance, of course, but as a person of faith, I think she would agree that it was her bond with God gave her the strength and courage to keep going – that being yoked with Christ and with other Christians of goodwill, may not have made things easy, but made possible what might have seemed impossible.

Yoked with Jesus and yoked with each other.

The other thing about July 1 is that it was my fifth anniversary as rector of St. Thomas’ – that feels fast to me, though your mileage may vary!

But, just like a milestone birthday, or a birthday before a milestone birthday, this little milestone anniversary got me thinking about these very active five years, reflecting on some of the highlights of what we have done together.

Around four years ago, one parishioner raised the possibility of assisting refugees fleeing Afghanistan as the Taliban returned to power. That idea blossomed into a group of parishioners gathered around the table trying to figure out very complex refugee rules and regulations, and that led us to become friends with other people and other institutions doing this holy work of hospitality, and, finally, that developed into welcoming a beautiful family into our lives here at St. Thomas’.

Yoked with Jesus and yoked with each other.

For years, parishioners volunteered as readers over at Owings Mills Elementary School, but then a couple of years ago, that seed of service grew into a new and exciting and transformational afterschool enrichment program: Owls First. Our own parishioners relearned elementary school math and tutored young children while also offering them recreation, and then we widened the circle even more by inviting kids from Owings Mills High School to also serve as tutors.

Yoked with Jesus and yoked with each other.

It was about four years ago that a couple of parishioners began to wonder about the handful of grave markers resting just north of the churchyard wall. Well, those questions led us on quite a journey of discovery, learning a lot more about our history, finding out that many more people than we might have imagined – both enslaved and free – rest in that little strip of land.

We spent a great deal of time discussing and reflecting on how best to honor and memorialize these people who had been mostly forgotten, and, of course, just two weeks ago, our bishop led us in a consecration service that none of us will ever forget.

Yoked with Jesus and yoked with each other.

And then there is the capital campaign.

Honestly, when this idea first came up, none of us really wanted to take it on, but because our lay leaders care so much about this place and its future, they said “yes.” We were able to assemble a wise, talented, and energetic team, we hired a consultant who sent us Mel Kalagian, who we all came to love, and we got to work, not entirely sure how it was going to work out but so moved by the response – touched by both your generosity and the stories of how much this church – this community - means to you, to all of us.

Not only has the capital campaign been successful in pledges – it’s also helped to bring us closer together.

Yoked with Jesus and yoked with each other.

And as I reflect on all that we have done over these past five years, it’s obvious that we have not done any of it on our own - we could never have done any of it on our own.

In baptism, God makes an indissoluble, unbreakable bond with us.

Jesus has called us to take on his yoke – a yoke so much easier than going it alone - a yoke we do not wear alone.

We are yoked – yoked with Jesus and yoked with each other.

And, with God’s help, like Pauli Murray and so many saints, past, present, and future, we can do even more holy things, amazing things, together.

Amen.

Gathering Together

Gathering Together

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

June 20, 2026

The Consecration of the North Cemetery

Isaiah 61:1-4

“Dark Testament Verse 8,” by Pauli Murray

Revelation 21:1-5

John 6:37-40

Some of you may be familiar with the Jewish idea of tikkun olam, which translates to “repairing the world.”

Tikkun olam – repairing the world.

In Judaism, there are many different interpretations and understandings of tikkun olam.

I’m simplifying, but some mystics have imagined that the universe shattered at the moment of creation – and these mystics believed that some of God’s light remained in the material world – little sparks of God’s light in all these shattered and scattered pieces – God’s light in and among us.

And, of course, the universe continues to shatter each time we choose hate instead of love, greed rather than generosity, fear over hope.

And these mystics believed that our task is to gather together all these pieces of God’s light, to repair and restore the world to the wholeness that was always intended.

And we do this “gathering together” through prayer and worship, and by doing good works, by easing pain and hunger, and by seeking the lost.

For us, Jesus models this work of repair.

His great desire is to draw the whole world to himself, that we might be one as he and the Father are one, offering an everlasting embrace to all of us, but especially to the poor, the suffering, the outcast.

And Jesus promises that not even death can separate us.

It is so good for us to gather together here this morning.

Today we celebrate the next step in a journey that, in one way, began long ago, when enslaved people were first buried in land near our church – a journey that, in another way, began about four years ago, thanks to a couple of parishioners – Bob and Carla Kenyon – who are here today all the way from Kansas!

As Bob and Carla made their way to and from the parking lot and the church, they began to ask about the handful of monuments standing just outside the churchyard wall.

What was once called the “Colored Cemetery” was not a secret – there’s a passing mention in our official church history and, in fact, burials continued into this century – but most of us knew little or nothing about the history of that land and the identities and lives of the people who rest there.

And so, with the full support of our wardens and vestry, we began this work of repair, this work of remembering, this work of re-membering, of gathering together parts of our community long separated and forgotten.

Jean Baker connected us to Malissa Ruffner, a brilliant historian and genealogist. And we commissioned Malissa to learn as much as she could about what we now call the North Cemetery, to research the history of that land and the lives of the people buried there.  

And she pieced together a complicated story of interconnected families, a story of land passed down through the generations until it finally came into our possession in the surprisingly late year of 1954.

We brought in a ground penetrating radar company whose scans discovered more graves in that small strip of land than we might have imagined.

Malissa, and also Chris Runice, learned the names and stories of some of the people buried in the North Cemetery, enslaved people and their free descendants. 

And in a few minutes, Malissa and Chris will read those names – but we know there are many others whose names – whose sparks of divine light - are unknown to us, but are never truly lost, never forgotten by God.

We spent quite a lot of time pondering how best to honor the people in the North Cemetery – and early on there was some discussion of moving the churchyard wall to include those graves.

That would have been a powerful symbol but after much reflection we recognized that, while that move might have made us feel better, it would have erased part of our history that we should not, must not, forget.

Instead, thanks to the leadership and persistence of Frances Rockwell, we have a new North Cemetery gate, new plantings, and a simple but beautiful monument that will inform, or remind, anyone making that well-worn trip between the parking lot and the church, that this is holy ground.

The North Cemetery is and always has been sacred, of course, but we don’t know if it’s ever officially been consecrated.

So, we are all very grateful that Bishop Carrie is here with us today, to lead our service and to offer the prayer of consecration.

And it’s especially appropriate that our bishop is here because part of the bishop’s vocation is to gather us together, to be both a symbol and builder of unity – our unity with the people of our diocese and with the church around the world.

Gathering together today is just the next step on our journey of repair, of remembering, of re-membering.

We cannot fully heal the wounds of generations past.

We will not complete this work – our song of hope and love must go on – but I pray that today, here at St. Thomas’, the world is a little less shattered, that the world looks a little more like what God has always intended and dreamed.

Amen. 

Traveling Light

Traveling Light

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

June 14, 2026

Year A, Proper 6: The Third Sunday after Pentecost

Exodus 19:2-8a

Psalm 100

Romans 5:1-8

Matthew 9:35-10:23

One of the things about my job is that almost every day brings something unexpected.

At the start of each week, I draw up my to-do list and there are always recurring events – staff meeting, our weekday and Sunday services, I meet with the wardens every Monday – but there are things that never make it onto the list but always happen: an unexpected phone call or email or someone shows up at the office looking to talk.

I can’t say that I always welcome these interruptions – sometimes it means I don’t get started on my sermon until it’s uncomfortably close to Sunday morning – but over the years I’ve learned that these surprises are often holy – they are “holy interruptions.”

For example, last week I received a text from someone I had not heard from in more than a year.

I’ll call him “Mark.”

Mark is not a parishioner, but a parishioner had given him my name and number, suggesting that we should talk.

You see, Mark had been diagnosed with cancer, and he faced a grim prognosis.

We had a good phone conversation. We talked about life, death, family. I added him to our prayer list – he’s been on the long-term list ever since. I reached out a couple of times, and we texted a little bit. But fortunately, he was doing better and I didn’t hear from Mark again – until I received last week’s text.

He said his cancer was back and asked if we could meet and I said yes, of course. 

On Thursday afternoon, while I waited for Mark to arrive, I kind of rehearsed in my mind what I thought he might want to talk about.

I imagined him asking that familiar but always very difficult question: why does God allow bad things to happen to good people?

Why is it, that it seems so often we lose kind and loving people, while people who do awful things, who even seem to enjoy hurting others, they just go on and on?

I know that this hard question has been on the minds of many in our community, especially lately.

Well, anyway, Mark arrived and he updated me on his health situation, which is very serious.

He told me about his struggles with faith and especially with the institutional church, which has disappointed and failed him, as it has so many others.

And then he told me that he had been going around having conversations with different people and asking them:

Why do you believe in God?

And that’s what he had come to ask me:

Why do you believe in God?

This was not the question I expected.

And I knew that I couldn’t fall back on my seminary education, or even my two decades of ordained ministry.

I knew Mark was looking for me to answer from my heart.

I breathed for a couple of beats and then I said that I don’t think “believing” in God – I don’t think of “faith” - as an intellectual exercise. Faith is not something that I can be talked into, not something that I can be convinced of.

Instead, for me, faith is trust – trust that there is Pure Love and Mercy behind the love and mercy that I’ve experienced in my life.

Faith is trust – not that my life will be free of mistakes or without suffering – but trust that I am being guided and nudged along the way. And that, even when everything seems to go wrong and all hope is lost, somehow Pure Love and Mercy offers new life.

And then I told him a story – a story that most of you have heard at least once.

I told him the story of how a teaching colleague invited me to come to her church sometime and how accepting her invitation and walking into St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, just a few blocks from our house in Jersey City, changed the course of my life, eventually leading me to be sitting across from Mark in my office here at St. Thomas’.

I told him how the rector of St. Paul’s came down the aisle and stretched out his hand and said, “I’m Dave. Welcome to St. Paul’s” – marking the start of a most unlikely and unexpected friendship, a brotherhood.

That Sunday morning at St. Paul’s, I knew that I had found “it,” although I had no idea what “it” really was.

But now, I believe “it” was God – “it” was Pure Love and Mercy behind the warmth of the welcome and the beauty of the service and the church – Pure Love and Mercy inviting me into new life.

Mark and I ended up talking for more than two hours – a very rich and meaningful conversation – a real gift for me and I hope for him, too.

There is a whole lot going on in today’s gospel lesson, the sending of the “twelve disciples” to continue the work of Jesus. 

Jesus gives them many warnings and instructions, but I’m especially struck by how he tells them to travel light: “Take no gold, or silver, or copper in your belts, no bag for your journey, or two tunics, or sandals, or a staff.”

I’ve been imagining these first disciples – most of them uneducated, illiterate, no seminary education for these guys.

The first disciples, who we know were often thickheaded, unsteady, and unreliable - I’ve been imagining them heading out into the world, traveling light, with the daunting task of proclaiming the good news that the kingdom of heaven has come near, curing the sick, raising the dead, cleansing the lepers, casting out demons.

We know that they were not always successful, but I bet they were most effective when they told stories, when they told their stories.

After all, that’s what Jesus did. 

He told stories.

So, I imagine Matthew telling the story of how one day he was sitting at his tax booth, conducting his business as always, when Jesus called him to follow and he did and that changed everything.

I imagine the disciples telling the story of the woman who had been bleeding for twelve years and one day she touched the fringe of Jesus’ cloak and she was healed.

I imagine the disciples telling the story of how one day there were thousands of people gathered with only a little bit of bread and fish to go around and how Jesus told them that there would be enough and there was enough, there was more than enough.

I imagine the disciples saying I didn’t know what I was looking for but I found “it” in and through Jesus – that in this person (yes, he’s from Nazareth, believe it or not!) – in this person we experience love and mercy like we’ve never experienced before. 

Like us, these disciples didn’t have the answer to every question, but I imagine them starting the church by traveling light, carrying only their stories.

And I imagine us traveling light, carrying only our stories.

I imagine us sharing our stories during all those holy interruptions.

I imagine us telling the story of how so many in our community have embraced the George Family with love and support during their time of tragedy and grief.

I imagine us telling the story of how, in a time of great division, we have mostly managed to stick together, definitely not agreeing about everything, but able to pray, love, and serve together.

I imagine us telling the story of a place where everyone is welcome, no matter if they can say the creed without a single doubt, or aren’t so sure about everything we say we believe – and, you know what, that’s OK.

I imagine us telling the story of welcoming strangers from a faraway land, the story of caring for children not our own, the story of making Thanksgiving and Christmas happen for families in need, the story of offering dignity to people lined up outside the Community Crisis Center, the story of remembering and honoring our brothers and sisters resting in the North Cemetery.

It’s through our stories that God – Pure Love and Mercy - offers healing and new life.

And who knows, maybe every once in a while, a couple of newcomers will wander in, hear our stories, and realize that they have found “it” – finally they have found the Pure Love and Mercy that sustains the world.

And the story begins again.

Amen.