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.

 

Walks of Mercy

Walks of Mercy

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

June 7, 2026

Year A, Proper 5: The Second Sunday after Pentecost

Hosea 5:15-6:6

Psalm 50:7-15

Romans 4:13-25

Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26

I mentioned to you once before that Sue and I have a daily inspiration calendar that we keep on a windowsill in the kitchen.

Part of my morning routine, when I have my first glass of water of the day and wait for the coffee to brew, is turning the calendar page to the message of the day.

Sometimes the messages are kind of obvious or trite, like “Hang in there!” or “You’ve got this!”

But, once in a while, there’s something a little more meaningful – a message that makes me think.

Like, for example, this past Thursday, when the message was: 

“You are not your mistakes.”

“You are not your mistakes.”

And that little calendar message reminded me of an experience I had many years ago.

I had the wonderful opportunity to meet Sister Helen Prejean, a Roman Catholic nun who has spent much of her life ministering to people on death row and advocating for the abolition of capital punishment.

She’s best known for writing the book Dead Man Walking, which was later adapted into a hit movie.

Sister Helen came to speak at the school where I was teaching. And, before the event, some of my colleagues and I were invited to have dinner with her. 

Pretty cool.

One of the things I remember from that dinner was how funny she was – telling jokes, making all of us laugh. I never would have expected someone who does the heavy work she does – someone who has seen the hard things she has seen - to be so joyful, but she was.

Now, even back then, I’m sure Sister Helen had done a million of these events, so she had heard everything that anyone might say to her about the death penalty. 

She didn’t deny the need for accountability and justice, or the reality that some people are just too dangerous to live freely.

She was patient and respectful of other views, but, in response, she had an argument, a refrain, that I have never forgotten – words very close to that little inspirational calendar message:

“We are all worth more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

That’s good news - when we’re the ones who’ve done wrong.

But it’s also hard news to accept when we’re the ones who have been wronged and harmed, when we have been devastated by the actions of another.

“We are all worth more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

I love the opening of today’s gospel lesson, “As Jesus was walking along…”

I love that.

In fact, I’ve been thinking of today’s gospel lesson as Jesus’ walk of mercy.

As Jesus was walking along, he sees Matthew sitting at the tax booth. Jesus calls him and, amazingly enough, Matthew gets up from his place of work and follows Jesus.

And then we jump to a dinner, probably at Matthew’s house, maybe to celebrate Matthew’s decision to follow Jesus. And it seems like Matthew has invited his friends – more tax collectors! - to meet Jesus and the disciples, everybody together to celebrate this amazing turn of events.

Well, not everybody.

The religious people - they tsk, they shake their heads, they disapprove of Jesus partying with the wrong kind of people.

Now, to be fair to the religious people, tax collectors in this time and place were particularly despised, and for good reason. These tax collectors were Jewish people who worked for the hated Roman occupiers. And the tax collectors made their money by overcharging people and skimming off the top.

The tax collectors were seen as traitors to their own people.

And it does seem like Matthew did really well for himself since he was able to have everybody over to his place for a big party.

Matthew has done wrong – he’s hurt people, he’s hurt his own people.

People have good reason to despise Matthew.

But notice Jesus offers no judgment, no condemnation.

Instead, he simply calls Matthew to leave that life behind – and Jesus is happy to celebrate Matthew’s “yes.”

“We are all worth more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

As Jesus’ walk of mercy continues, he encounters two desperate but hopeful people - and offers them a different kind of mercy.

One is a synagogue leader whose daughter has just died. You would think this isn’t a moment for hope - it seems like all options have been exhausted – the flute-players and the crowd of mourners are already gathering – and yet - and yet - this man asks Jesus to make his daughter live.

And then, there’s this poor woman, bleeding for 12 years – everybody probably gives her a wide berth - you’d think she would have given up by now – and yet – and yet - she touches the fringe of Jesus’ cloak – something she really shouldn’t have done.

And as we heard, the faith of both the desperately hopeful father, and the desperately hopeful woman is rewarded.

Jesus’ walk of mercy.

Two thousand years ago, Jesus walked the earth in a particularly merciless time and place.

Just getting through the day was challenging – disease and danger lurked around every corner – and it was best to avoid the sick and desperate as much as possible.

The Roman occupiers were brutal, crushing any sign of dissent or rebellion, draining the poor for their own prosperity and glory.

And, sometimes, religious people were quick to judge, and stingy with mercy.

Compassion was in short supply.

But when Jesus walked the earth, he revealed a different way – a walk of mercy, calling the unlikeliest, most flawed, most messed-up people, to join his little band of followers – inviting them to choose a way of repentance, forgiveness, and new life – teaching them and all of us that we are worth more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.

When Jesus walked the earth, he offered a different way – a walk of mercy, offering healing – sometimes physical healing but more often soul healing - when all hope seemed to be lost.

In our own merciless time and place, Jesus still walks the earth – in and through us.

Compassion may again be in short supply, but it must not be so among us.

We are called to our own walk of mercy – inviting everybody - especially the unlikeliest, most flawed, most messed up people - to Jesus’ party – offering soul healing when all hope seems to be lost.

We are not our mistakes.

We are worth more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.

So, together, with God’s help, may we continue Jesus’ walk of mercy.

Amen.

Renewal

Renewal

Garrison Forest School

Baccalaureate Service

June 4, 2026

It is an honor and joy for me to be here with you today – and a privilege to share a few words.

Thank you so much to Ann Teaff for your friendship and for extending such a warm invitation and welcome.

I bring you greetings from St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, your neighbor just up the road.

As many of you know, St. Thomas’ and Garrison Forest share a long and rich history.

Right from the start and continuing today, many of our parishioners have entrusted their daughters to this school – and many of our alumnae parishioners have continued to serve both Garrison Forest and St. Thomas’ with great devotion, skill, and generosity.

Earlier this afternoon, I was vividly reminded of our meaningful connections when I gathered in our cemetery with some members of the Class of 2026 as they remembered your founder, Mary Moncrieffe Livingston, placing flowers on her grave.

And, for nearly a century, it was the beautiful tradition to have the Baccalaureate Service up at St. Thomas’.

Unfortunately, like so much else, that tradition was interrupted by the pandemic.

We had hoped to return to the church this year, but we have a construction project going on right now that made that impossible – but I look forward to renewing that tradition next year.

Renewal.

I think about renewal all the time.

I arrived at St. Thomas’ five years ago, when the pandemic was still lingering.

We were back in church but masked and socially distanced – you remember those hard days.

At the end of the summer, when we began to plan for what’s sometimes called the “Homecoming Service,” we decided instead to call it “Renewal Sunday” – a chance for us to renew our relationships, to renew our commitment to one another and to the church.

And, you know, the truth is that we need renewal all the time.

Schools and churches and all sorts of institutions need renewal.

Our bodies and souls need renewal.

Relationships need renewal.

And so, I’m very glad and excited and thankful that we have begun to renew the old friendship between Garrison and St. Thomas’.

And I’m not the only one who’s happy.

This past Sunday, when I told the congregation that I would be speaking here today, there was plenty of nodding and lots of wide smiles.

Of course, renewal is not the same as duplication.

So, I’m sure that our relationship will be somewhat different from the past – we’ve all changed.

And who knows, maybe we can even widen the circle a bit and work with other institutions and people of goodwill to support one another and serve our community.

So, thank you again for having me today.

I look forward to our ongoing renewal.

And may God bless the Class of 2026 and Garrison Forest School.

Pentecost Stories, Loud and Quiet

Pentecost Stories, Loud and Quiet

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

May 24, 2026

Year A: The Day of Pentecost

Acts 2:1-21

Psalm 104:25-35, 37

1 Corinthians 12:3b-13

John 20:19-23

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Over the last eight weeks – for the past 50 days – we have shouted out so many alleluias.

And today we’re still ringing out our alleluias because today we celebrate the great Feast of Pentecost:

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

The Lord is risen. The Lord has ascended. And just as he promised, the Lord has not left us comfortless, has not left us orphaned.

Today, on the great Feast of Pentecost, we remember and celebrate the gift of the Holy Spirit.

The Holy Spirit - the Spirit of God at work in the world – the Spirit of God at work in the Church, right here and now, right this very minute.

You may have noticed that today we heard two different Pentecost stories.

The first, from the Acts of the Apostles, is very public, dramatic, and loud.

We pick up with the disciples in yet another unsettling in-between time. Jesus has ascended into heaven. He promised that they would receive the Holy Spirit. But nothing has happened yet. So, the disciples are in Jerusalem, they’re sticking together and they’re praying, and they’re waiting. 

And on the fiftieth day, suddenly the Holy Spirit blows through the house, propelling the no-longer-frightened disciples out into the streets, out into a diverse world of many peoples and languages, proclaiming to absolutely everybody the best news of all time:

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

You know, that all happened a long time ago, but, if we pay attention, loud Pentecost stories happen all the time.

For example, just a few weeks ago, some of us gathered at our cathedral for the confirmation service - that was a loud Pentecost story.

It was a joy to be there with our seven youth confirmands, the last class taught by our extraordinary teachers Paul Corbin and Greg VanGeison, and our two adult confirmands, and their families.

Now, I know that we all like when Confirmation happens here at our own church, when the bishop makes her visitation. And I get that, and I agree, it is really nice – it’s like a family celebration.

But, on the other hand, it’s also very meaningful to gather with our bishop at our cathedral with Episcopalians from many different churches.

And at this year’s service, there was a very diverse group of people, maybe not so diverse as the crowd in Jerusalem on the first Pentecost, but it was still beautiful to see.

Since there were many Spanish-speakers present, one of the Bible lessons was read in Spanish, and the preacher alternated between English and Spanish – which, I have to say, was pretty impressive.

As I sat in the pew listening to all of this and looking around at all of these people from different corners of our diocese, I thought that this was a bit like that first loud Pentecost story – all of us able to hear the Good News, the best news of all time:

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

And then in today’s lesson from the Gospel of John, we heard a second Pentecost story – a quiet Pentecost story.

In this story, it’s the evening of the first Easter.

The disciples are together, traumatized, frightened, confused by all that has happened in Jerusalem over the last few days – Jesus’ death on the cross, and the reports of an empty tomb.

Then, suddenly, the Risen Christ appears.

The Risen Christ is still himself – he still bears his crucifixion wounds – but he is transformed – locked doors are no obstacle for him.

Knowing that the disciples are frightened, the Risen Christ’s first words are, “Peace be with you.”

And then, the Pentecost story: the Risen Christ breathes on them and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit.”

This is a different kind of Pentecost story, isn’t it?

It’s much quieter, much more intimate, and personal.

This all happened a long ago, but, if we pay attention, quiet Pentecost stories happen all the time.

So, back to the Confirmation service.

The confirmands and their teachers, clergy, and families were called forward by church – so when it was our turn, all of us from St. Thomas’ were together, standing in front of Bishop Carrie who stood before the altar.

One by one, our confirmands each knelt before the bishop.

Some were nervous, some were very serious, and some seemed to play it cool.

And then, one by one, she asked each confirmand to state their name.

“Chidera. Annie. Bucky. Charlie. McLane. Elizabeth. Alice. Jackson. Annette.”

And then she asked each confirmand if they wish to be confirmed.

“Yes. Yes. Yes,…”

And then, one by one, the bishop placed her hands on each of their heads and prayed, “Strengthen, O Lord, your servant, with your Holy Spirit…”

Because I wanted to take pictures, I was standing in a spot off to the side that gave me a clear view as each of the confirmations took place – and, although this was all happening in public with lots of people watching – this was a quiet Pentecost story, as quiet as a person saying their name, as quiet as a person saying “yes” to God, as quiet as the bishop inviting the Holy Spirit to strengthen each one of them, each one of us.

Pentecost stories, loud and quiet.

Today, on the fiftieth and final day of the Easter Season, on the great Feast of Pentecost, we remember and celebrate the gift of the Holy Spirit.

The Holy Spirit - the Spirit of God at work in the world – the Spirit of God at work in the Church, right here and now, right this very minute.

We heard two old Pentecost stories – loud and quiet.

If we pay attention, we’ll find that Pentecost stories happen all the time.

Sometimes these Pentecost stories are kind of loud, like a joyful bilingual Confirmation service.

But more often, these Pentecost stories are kind of quiet, whispering our name, whispering “yes.”

These Pentecost stories are a quiet as a held hand, a caring call.

As quiet as creating a quilt to share with someone sick and frightened.

As quiet as sitting beside a child trying to make sense of math.

As quiet as Michelle Schmidt teaching Sunday School week after week, unseen by almost everybody.

Yes, often, these Pentecost stories are quiet, like two good men, Paul and Greg, offering decades of service to our young people and asking nothing in return – faithfully and generously sharing the best news of all time:

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.