Tag: love

Carry the Light

On By J. Barrett LeeIn Sermon1 Comment

Sermon for Proper 27 A

Matthew 25:1-13

On October the 22nd, 1844, there was a group of people who were expecting something very, very big to happen. They were known as the Millerites, and they believed that they had figured out the exact day of the second coming of Christ.

And so they had prepared themselves in every way conceivable, selling possessions, quitting their jobs, gathering in prayer and waiting for the end of the age to come upon them. And then October the 22nd, 1844, came and went. And October the 23rd dawned like any other day will.

This became known among them as the Great Disappointment. I don’t want to make fun of them too hard, because they were waiting in faith for the fulfillment of all that Christ had promised: for the world to be set right, for every tear and sadness to be wiped away, as it says in the Scripture.

These were people who lived in hope, mistaken though they were about the exact time and date. I think all of us can relate to the Great Disappointment in some way or another. We have experienced disappointments of our own when we’ve been awaiting test results, or when we’ve been faithfully praying through mending a broken relationship that doesn’t work out, or when we’ve been out there doing the hard work of getting an education and looking for a job and it’s not materializing.

Sometimes when we just watch the news and we see this world that is the way it is, rather than the kind and gentle world that Jesus envisions for us, we too can understand disappointment.

And that’s what today’s Gospel brings us into. Jesus tells the story of these ten bridesmaids who have an important job as part of the wedding ceremony: Their job is to carry the light. Back then, if you recall, there were no street lamps or flashlights.

It’s hard to find your way in the dark, so you need people who carry torches, who walk with you and ahead of you to light the way to where the celebration begins. The bridesmaids, in addition helping the couple to celebrate, also serve a practical function in weddings in the ancient world.

On this particular occasion, the bridegroom is late and things are not going according to schedule. All of the bridesmaids fall asleep, which I think is a very interesting detail. No matter how faithful or how wise you are, everybody needs a nap sometime.

In the midst of the waiting, the time stretches on, the light grows dim, and finally, unexpectedly, they hear the shout at midnight that the bridegroom is coming.

The time is at hand. And there’s the five wise bridesmaids who have brought extra oil for their lamps, and the five foolish bridesmaids who did not. And the foolish bridesmaids say to the wise ones, “Give us some of your oil!”

The wise ones say, “No, we can’t. There won’t be enough.”

Jesus tells the story in this way to underscore the seriousness of the commitment that he’s talking about. Symbolically, he is talking about how prepared we are (or not) for the fulfillment of God’s promises in this world. We are still waiting, after 2,000 years.

While the wise bridesmaids were unable to share their oil, there was something else that I think maybe they could have shared: their light. I wonder: what if the foolish bridesmaids had not gone into town to find a late-night oil dealer, what could have happened instead?

If they had stayed with the wise bridesmaids and shared their light, there would not have been the danger of running out of oil. Then everyone would have made it to the celebration on time.

The wise ones couldn’t share their oil, just as we cannot give our personal faith to someone else, but we can share the light that we carry with us.

It makes me think of the pandemic, when we were all locked down, social distancing, and so many things were shut.

My family and I were holed up in our house, like most were. After a while, one of my neighbors had an idea. She said, “Could we gather outside, and social distance, just to be able to see one another’s faces?”

That’s what we ended up doing. On Tuesday night, everyone came over to our backyard. We stayed the six feet apart and ordered pizzas (we socially distanced the pizzas too).

It didn’t make the pandemic go any faster. It didn’t resolve the global crisis we were experiencing, but it helped us to share one another’s lives.

It was a comfort to us. It gave us strength and hope. It was a really sacred time that we had on those Tuesday nights.

There was no church service. It was just pizza and conversation from six feet away. Even in the darkest of times, we were able to share our lives with each other.

We Christians, as people of faith, have an opportunity to share our lives with one another. What that asks of us is that we trim our lamps and keep our oil stocked. That’s an analogy for our spiritual practices and good works. That’s what keeps the light of faith burning within us.

But it’s also true that each of us is only human, so our individual light can’t burn perpetually. Every now and again, the light within us gets a little dim, because we all have tough days.

That’s when we can lean on each other, to borrow some of the light.

We can’t borrow the oil, but we can borrow the light.

If I’m really honest, there’s a little bit of the wise bridesmaid and the foolish bridesmaid in me at all times.

There are some ways in which my oil is fully stocked and my light is burning brightly.
At the same time, there are parts of my life where it’s not burning so brightly, so I need to lean on someone else. I need to ask for help.

That’s okay. Because the good news is that the wedding is not canceled, even though it’s delayed. The celebration is still coming.

If we can do our part to hold on, keep our lamps lit, and ask for help when our lamps grow dim, then we have a better chance of making it through the dark of life’s great disappointments.

This is the gift that God gives us: The gift of each other. The gift of the light that is within us. There are so many ways that we can share gift.

Here in our church, we also have The Book of Common Prayer.

This book is one of the ways that the church is able to carry the light for us when our own hearts grow dim. This collection of prayers and liturgies, some of which are hundreds or even thousands of years old, help us to find the words to pray when we can’t think of the right words.

Some days, I come to church and can pray every single one of those words from the bottom of my heart. Some days, I’m tired and barely making it through. But the words of our liturgy sustain me. It’s a gift that can sustain all of us as well.

The promise holds true: the celebration is still coming. We don’t know how long we have to wait, but we know that the darkness will not have the last word.

So, let’s hold on to the light and hold on to each other.

Why We Fight

On By J. Barrett LeeIn Sermon, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Sermon for Proper 18, Year A

Matthew 18:15-20

HE Proper 18 A 2026Download

When we Christians fight, we fight to win.
The question is: “Win what, exactly?”

Athletes are trying to win a game.
Politicians are trying to win an election.
Lawyers are trying to win an argument.
But what are Christians trying to win?

Church is not a game.
I don’t slam-dunk the gospel book after the reading.
(Although… someone did send me a meme this week that said: “If people cared about church as much as they cared about football, they would dump Gatorade on their pastor’s head, whenever he makes a good point.” All I can say to that is: “Please don’t.”)

But you know… there is a game that we play in our broader society. That game is called “the economy.” And the points we score are called, “dollars.” Sometimes we can get caught up playing that game.
Unlike politicians, we’re not trying to win an election. We’re not trying to beat an opponent to gain power.
When we argue, like lawyers often do, we’re not trying to win an argument.
So, what then are we trying to win?

That’s exactly what Jesus is talking about in today’s gospel. He has a lot to say about why we fight and how we fight.

To begin with, he talks about the facts of the fight itself.
He says, “If another member of the church sins against you…”

Has anyone in this room ever sinned against anyone else in this room? I have.
We are human beings. We are flawed. We are going to disagree with one another.

As you have heard me say many times before, and will hear me say many times again, that is baked into our Episcopal tradition. For us, faith is always a dialogue between Scripture, tradition, and reason. People sitting in the same pews, sometimes for years, will disagree on particular interpretations of Scripture or ways of doing church. We, as Episcopalians, recognize that. On top of that, we recognize that we are indeed all flawed human beings, who are doing our best and sometimes failing. That’s life.

Jesus gives us an example of how we’re supposed to have these fights. He says, “If another member of the church sins against you, go and point out the fault when the two of you are alone.”

That’s an invitation to relationship: A direct encounter with our siblings in Christ. We, as Christians, may not always see eye-to-eye on everything. But at the very least, we can have those conversations face-to-face.

Next, Jesus gets into why we fight. What is the goal that we are trying to accomplish? What are we trying to win?

He says, “If the member listens to you, you have regained that one.”
Notice that he does not say, “If the member agrees with you, you have won the argument.”
He says, “If the member listens…”

It’s about listening to one another, even if we don’t agree, to the end that, hopefully, we will have “regained that one,” which is actually a poor translation of this text. In Greek, that text literally says, “you have won your brother.” Which, of course, can also apply to our sisters and non-binary siblings in Christ.

It is about people.
That’s why we fight.
We’re not fighting to win an argument.
We’re fighting to win each other.

After that, Jesus talks about what happens when this conversation does not go well, and what happens when it does go well.

When that does not go well, he says, “If the member does not listen, take along two or three others.”

He’s talking about widening the circle of community, a little bit at a time. The point is not to gang up on someone, but to increase the scope of the conversation. It’s about asking ourselves, “Whose voices are not yet in this room? Who else do we need to be listening to, that we are not listening to right now?”

And then there’s a follow-up step to that: If they don’t listen to the smaller group, bring them to the wider community, in hopes that, by widening that scope of the community again, you can continue to hear more voices, more perspectives, and gain greater wisdom.

As Proverbs says, “In a multitude of counselors, there is wisdom.”

Finally, if even that doesn’t work, Jesus says, “Let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a Tax collector.”

That’s not about kicking them out. That’s about saying, “We cannot come to a mutual understanding that will allow us to remain in relationship.” And so, sometimes, the community needs to draw a boundary. But that does not mean giving up on those who are on the outside.

Because Jesus said, “Let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a Tax collector.”
Do you remember how Jesus feels about Gentiles and Tax collectors? He gives them unconditional love. He makes them the special recipients of mercy and compassion, especially as those who are outside the community of faith.

So, what happens when it does go well? What happens when, somewhere in this process, each of us begins to step outside of our own little egos, meet one another face-to-face, and really listen to one another?

Jesus tells us, “Whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven. And again, truly I tell you, if two of you agree on earth about anything you ask, it will be done for you. For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am in their midst.”

This talk of binding and loosing is a little confusing. What Jesus is saying is that there is power in community. When we come together face-to-face, work through the hard conversations, and listen to one another, there’s a power in that, and it gives us the ability to make a difference in our lives and in the wider community.

At the end, Jesus says, “Where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.”

Somehow, in this process, of gathering, listening, and working through the hard stuff, Christ is indeed among us.

My favorite verse of scripture is 1 John 4:16, “God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them.”

If God is love, then the only way to really worship God is by loving one another. The only way to honor love is through love.

In later Christian tradition, the fathers and mothers of the Church came up with what we now call the doctrine of the Trinity. Our conception of “God” is not simply that of an “old man in the sky.”

For Christians, God is a community of persons: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, existing in a state of eternal and perfect love. That is why we say that “God is love.”

God is a community, so paying attention to the quality of our life in community is the way to honor the God who is love and who is a community.

As Christians, this is how we fight. And this is why we fight.
We fight to win.
Not to win points, or to win power, or to win an argument.
We fight to win each other.

Whenever we do that, by sitting down, face-to-face, and listening, we will find in some mysterious way that Christ is indeed here among us.

The Gates of Hades Shall Not Prevail

On By J. Barrett LeeIn SermonLeave a comment

Sermon for Proper 16, Year A

Matthew 16:13-21

When I was in seminary, I had a friend named Cole.

Cole and I had a class together that met out of town, about two hours away, and Cole would regularly give me a ride. Two hours was a long drive, so we’d get to talking, and we would talk about everything: Faith, family, the future.

We talked about where God might be calling us in life. We talked about family because he was about to become a dad, and I was about to get married. Those conversations became really important to me because I was at a moment of transition in life, thinking about my future and my calling.

I had gone to seminary thinking that I was going to be some fancy professor, but along the way, I started sensing something changing. It began to occur to me that I might actually be called to be a priest. And Cole was one of the people who was alongside me while I was wrestling with that question. Cole was a friend who could truly see me.

Maybe you have had friends like that in your life: Someone who really sees you, deep down. Sometimes they can see things about you that you can’t even see about yourself. Somebody who helps to shape you into the person that you are becoming. And maybe you’re helping shape them in that same way. Those kinds of friendships are really special and mysterious.

I bring that up because there is a moment of a deep seeing between friends that happens in today’s Gospel.

Jesus and his disciples are traveling through the region of Caesarea Philippi, and Jesus conducts an opinion poll of the disciples: “Who do people say that the Son of Man is? ”

The disciples gave him the answers they had heard: “Some people say John the Baptist, or Elijah and Jeremiah, or the other prophets.”

Then Jesus makes the question a little more personal: “But who do you say that I am?”

Simon Peter is the one who answers, saying, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

Simon sees Jesus for who he is. And Jesus then blesses Simon.

And there’s something else in this passage that I had never noticed before this week:
Jesus then turns around and talks to Simon Peter about who he is.

Jesus says to Simon, “I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it.”

So, Peter sees Jesus.
Jesus sees Peter.

I see you.
You see me.

I don’t think Jesus is only seeing a secret identity that Peter already had inside of him and was waiting for someone to notice. He is seeing who Peter is becoming. Because Peter isn’t finished yet.

Peter gives a pretty good answer, today: “You are the Messiah, the son of the living God.”
But next week we’re going to hear the story that comes right after this in the Gospel, where Peter gets it completely wrong.
So, that should assure us that being Jesus’ disciple and friend isn’t about having all the right answers, because none of us do.

Peter is still becoming the person he’s going to be. Jesus sees that in him, even as Peter sees Jesus for who he is.

I see you,
and you see me,
and we become us.

This is not just about Peter. It’s about all of us.

Jesus says, “On this rock, I will build my church.”

He’s not talking about a building or an institution. He’s talking about the community of gathered disciples that now covers the Earth and spans the last 2,000 years. This is about all of us seeing each other and loving each other into who we are.

And then, finally, Jesus says something else that’s really, really remarkable:
He says, “The gates of Hades will not prevail against it.”

Which brings me back to my friend Cole:

At the end of seminary, in those days before social media made it possible for us to stay in touch with everybody we’ve ever met, Cole and I decided that we respected and loved each other too much to lie to each other.

I was going to the East Coast and Cole was going to the West Coast. We weren’t going to make false promises about calling every week or writing letters. We knew that probably wasn’t going to happen.

So, instead of fooling ourselves, Cole and I told each other the truth. We gave thanks for the beautiful time we had together, for the ways that we had shaped each other as fellow disciples of Jesus, for the love we shared as brothers in Christ, and then we went our separate ways.

A couple of years later, Facebook became a thing, and we got back in touch. We were never as close as we had been on those days when we were making those drives, but the fondness remained.

And then, about a month ago, Cole died of cancer.

I reached out to his wife. I attended his memorial service online. I got to hear all these amazing stories of the people who had loved him in the 20 years since I had last seen him. I got to hear about the kind of husband, and father, and pastor that Cole had become. And I was filled with so much gratitude for him, even as I was missing him.

That’s when I was struck by Jesus’ words about the gates of Hades not prevailing:

Hades means death. It is the Greek name for the underworld and the god of death.
According to Jesus, Hades has gates.
And gates are defensive.

We tend to think of death as something that is attacking us, so we huddle in our churches and pray that it will eventually give up and go away, but that’s not how Jesus sees death.
According to Jesus, we are the ones attacking death, and death is on the defensive.

We’re afraid of death, but it’s death that should be afraid of us.

Jesus says that Hades is behind those gates and the gates will not hold.
Death will not have the last word.

I think I learned something about that at Cole’s memorial service.

The love that he and I shared was greater than the geographical space between us, and even bigger than the space between life and death itself.

Death cannot undo what love has made.

Kindred in Christ, I think our calling this week is fairly simple:
Look deeply and really see one another, not just with the eyes of our heads, but with the eyes of our hearts.
Know one another deeply and allow yourself to be known.
Help nurture one another into who we are becoming,
so that, like Jesus and Peter, we too can say:

I see you,
you see me,
we become us,
and, by the grace of the living God,
death cannot undo what love has made.

Pastor Cole Meckle

The Sin of Stupidity

On By J. Barrett LeeIn SermonLeave a comment

Sermon for Proper 15, Year A

Matthew 15:10–20, 21–28

Dearly beloved kindred in Christ:
Don’t be stupid. Amen.

Okay, I should probably unpack that a little bit before I sit down. When I say, “don’t be stupid,” I’m not talking about a lack of intelligence or knowledge. That’s ignorance. And the fact is that every single one of us is ignorant about something (or many things).

Stupidity is not a lack of information.

Learning is hard work, but there comes a point when it takes more work to not learn something than it would take to just go ahead and learn.

And when we reach that point, we have become committed to our ignorance. And it’s that commitment to ignorance that I define as “stupidity.”

Therefore, stupidity is not an intelligence problem at all. It’s a moral problem.

Stupidity is a sin in the eyes of God.

I bring this up because today’s gospel contains a story where Jesus refuses to be stupid.

The scene begins with him traveling to the region of Tyre and Sidon. This is Gentile territory, not Jewish. A bunch of pagans running around with different culture, and different customs. Things that Jesus and his disciples were probably not familiar with on a day-to-day basis.

While they’re traveling through this area, a very impertinent woman comes and starts shouting after them. “Jesus, Lord, Son of David, have mercy on me!”

And at first, Jesus is just ignoring her, not responding at all, until his disciples get annoyed.

“Jesus, can you send her away or something? She’s really getting annoying.”

Jesus says, “Listen, ma’am, I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.”

Does she listen? No. She stays on him, blocks his path, kneels in front of him, and says, “Lord, help me.”

Jesus says something really rude at this point. He says, “It is not fair to take children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

He’s calling this woman a dog. We have a word for that in English. I’m not going to repeat it, but you know what it is. It’s really uncomfortable to imagine Jesus talking to someone in that way, especially someone who’s just a mother seeking help for her child! So what if she’s from a different culture?

But still, this woman doesn’t give up. She says to him, “Yes, Lord, but even the dogs receive the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.”

Jesus is taken aback.

“Woman,” he says, “great is your faith.”

And let’s not gloss over that moment. Remember that Jesus, a faithful Jew, the central figure of the Christian religion, is talking to a pagan and saying, “You’ve got a lot of faith.”

That’s the way Jesus interacts with people of different religious beliefs.

What we see happening here is Jesus changing his mind.

That also might make us uncomfortable.

We have this idea that Jesus is perfect, he’s the sinless son of God, and things that are perfect don’t change. So why would Jesus change his mind? Unless… changing is part of his perfection.

Jesus here is refusing to be stupid. He’s willing to change his mind when love demands it.

In the beginning, it seems like he really thought his whole movement was just for Jews only. But then, as a result of this encounter, Jesus changes his mind.

In Luke’s Gospel, it says that Jesus “increased in wisdom.”
In the letter to the Hebrews, it says that Jesus as the son of God “learned obedience.”

Jesus learns.
Jesus grows.
This makes sense because Jesus was fully human.
And human beings grow.

If that’s true for Jesus, then it can be true for us too.

I think of the people who I tend to write off because they disagree with me, or because I think they don’t know as much as me about something.

Sometimes I get a big ego about it.
I want to write them off, and in that moment, Jesus comes to me and warns me about the sin of stupidity.

The sin of stupidity is not about being wrong. It’s about being so convinced that I am right, that I am not willing to consider any other perspectives, or change my mind, no matter what truth or love demands of me.

That’s the sin that Jesus avoided and gave us an example for how to avoid.

Here in today’s gospel, the incarnate Son of God is willing to be challenged. He’s humble enough to consider someone else’s situation and change his mind when he’s presented with new information.

Jesus refuses to be stupid.
Our invitation is to do likewise.

As we go into this week, encountering people who may differ from us or disagree with us, let’s remember how Jesus acted with someone who disagreed with him:

Let’s keep an open mind.
Let’s be like Jesus.

And most of all,
Let’s not be stupid.

The Last Word

On By J. Barrett LeeIn SermonLeave a comment

Sermon for Proper 13, Year A

Matthew 14:13-21

When my wife and I argue (and believe me, we do), we don’t usually shout or call names. We do something much more insidious: we commit time abuse. We take an issue and analyze it to death, sometimes into the wee hours of the morning.

We do this because each of us is vying for the last word in the discussion. We don’t just want to win the argument; we want to drop that last bit of wisdom that makes the other person go, “A-ha! I see your point. You’re so wise. I’m so lucky to be married to you.”

Of course, when both of us are trying to get the last word, nobody really wins.

In life, too, we often assume that the last word is the thing that defines everything else. Whether or not this is actually true, we often live as though it is.

Today’s Gospel is a story about what gets the last word. But that fact only becomes clear when we realize that this passage is the second half of a two-part story. The first half happens in the twelve verses immediately preceding the section we heard today. Our lectionary skips over that first half because it is far less pleasant than the one we read this morning.

In the first half of the story, King Herod Antipas holds a luxurious banquet for his courtiers. At this banquet, his stepdaughter performs a dance that delights the guests so much that Herod rashly promises to give her anything she asks. At the urging of her mother, she asks for the head of John the Baptist on a platter.

Matthew tells us that Herod is grieved by the request. But in the end, he gives in because he is afraid of losing face before his guests. Herod allows fear to have the last word. And the final effect of that word is death.

Our Gospel picks up immediately after that story.

Jesus hears that his friend John the Baptist has been murdered.
Understandably, he withdraws by boat to a deserted place to be alone.
If anyone had reason to say, “Not today,” it was Jesus.
But the crowds follow him. And Matthew tells us something very simple:
“He had compassion for them and cured their sick.”

The story that follows is another banquet.
Unlike Herod’s banquet, this one is not held among the privileged elite in luxurious halls of power, but among ordinary people in a deserted place.

Jesus blesses and shares what little is available: five loaves of bread and two fish. When everyone has eaten, twelve baskets of leftovers remain.

At Herod’s banquet, fear has the last word.
At Jesus’ banquet, love has the last word.

Jesus refuses to let his own pain have the last word in how he responds to others.

Herod, tragically, allows fear to become the final voice, and the result is more death.

But for Jesus, love has the last word, and the result is more life than we know what to do with.

This is what Jesus is like.
This is what God is like.
And this is why, from this hillside to the upper room to the empty tomb, love always gets the last word.

Dorothy Day, the Catholic activist who founded houses of hospitality during the Great Depression, was frequently asked whether there was room for one more hungry person at the table.

Her answer was always the same:
“There is room for one more.”
Years later, she titled her memoir of that ministry Loaves and Fishes.
Like Jesus, she trusted that God’s love was greater than human scarcity. She lived as though love, not fear, should have the last word.

Kindred in Christ, every one of us comes to this place carrying something, whether that is grief, anxiety, frustration, or exhaustion.
We cannot always choose what happens to us. But by God’s grace, Christ can slowly reshape how we respond.
He meets us in our own pain.
Not by pretending it isn’t real.
But by refusing to let it have the final word.
And as we are fed at his table, Christ teaches us to let love—not fear, not cynicism, not pain—have the last word in our own lives.

This week, someone will cross your path while you are carrying your own burdens.
Perhaps the invitation of this Gospel is simply this:
Before fear, cynicism, or pain gets the last word…
Remember the One who came ashore grieving, saw the crowd, and had compassion.
He refused to let his own pain have the last word in how he responded to others.
Because in Jesus Christ, love gets the last word.

At Herod’s table, death had the last word.
At Christ’s table, love had the last word.
At Calvary, death seemed to have the last word.
At Easter, love had the last word.

And because love gets the last word, there is always enough grace, enough mercy, and enough room for one more at Christ’s table.

Love Has a Vision

On By J. Barrett LeeIn SermonLeave a comment

Sermon for Proper 9, Year A

Genesis 24: 34-38, 42-49, 58-67

When people ask my wife and me about how we met, we have to ask them to please be more specific.

Because, here’s the thing: We met twice.

The first time was at a campus ministry conference in western North Carolina in the late 1990s. It was not unlike many of the brief encounters one has at a conference. We shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, established that we had a mutual acquaintance, and compared notes on what we were learning.

Then we said goodbye. And that was that. Or so we thought.

The second time we met was four years later, on a bus in Vancouver, Canada. I was a fresh-faced seminarian, and she was a year ahead of me. She had noticed me around campus and wanted to welcome me to the school. Once again, we exchanged pleasantries and established the same mutual acquaintance as before. In that moment, we both experienced a sudden case of déjà vu.

Hadn’t we had this exact conversation before?

Sure enough, we were the same two people who had met years prior, over three thousand miles away.

What are the odds of that happening?

To make a long story short, we started dating a month later and got married a year and a half after that. So that’s why, when people ask how we met, we have to ask them: “Which time?”

Stories like that raise interesting questions.

Was that God? Was that coincidence? Was it somehow both?

If life is nothing but random coincidence, we might wonder: Does that mean our lives are nothing more than accidents? But if every detail has already been planned out ahead of time, we might wonder something else: Are we really making choices at all, or are we just actors reading from a script someone else wrote?

Somewhere between meaningless accident and a rigid script, people of faith have always looked for another way.

Pastorally, I frequently sit with people who wrestle with this question, not as an abstract philosophy problem, but as a very personal one: “If God has a plan for my life, how do I know if I’m following it correctly?”

People ask this when they are deciding what to do about a job, a relationship, or any number of important decisions. Underneath all those questions is usually a deeper one: “What if I choose wrong?”

And that creates a lot of anxiety because sometimes we imagine God’s plan like a hidden treasure map. Somewhere out there is the one correct answer, the one perfect path, the one thing we are supposed to do. And if we make the wrong turn, we worry that we have ruined the whole story. But what if God’s plan is less about what happens to us and more about who we are becoming?

When I hear the words, “God has a plan,” I like to translate that in my head as: “Love has a vision.”

Scripture tells us that “God is love,” and love’s vision, I think, is less about predicting every event in our lives and more about shaping us into the kind of people we were created to be.

Love’s vision for my life is that I become more loving. Or, to put that in more traditional Christian language: God’s plan for my life is for me to become like Jesus, in my own particular way.

That is exactly the kind of mystery we encounter in today’s reading from Genesis.

The story of Isaac and Rebekah is one of the great romantic “meet-cutes” of the Bible. I like to think of it as Sleepless in Seattle for arranged marriages.

Abraham sends his servant on a mission to find a wife for his son Isaac. The servant prays that God will guide him to the right person, in the right place, at the right time. And then along comes Rebekah.

The amazing thing about Rebekah is that she does not wake up that morning saying, “Today I am going to participate in the divine unfolding of salvation history.” She goes to the well and sees someone who is thirsty, so she gives him water. That’s it.

She sees a stranger in need and does the next loving thing.

The servant sees providence. Rebekah sees a neighbor. And somehow, mysteriously, both are true. Maybe providence looks like ordinary people choosing compassion.

There is no booming voice from heaven. No angel appears to explain the plan. There is simply a person choosing compassion in the moment that is in front of her.

The Church has a word for this process of listening for God’s guidance. It’s called discernment.

Discernment is not easy. It is more art than science. It involves self-awareness, education, paying attention to our intuition, seeking guidance from wise people we respect, committing ourselves to prayer, and studying Scripture. But ultimately, discernment comes down to learning to ask the old question: “What would Jesus do?”

Because we may never know for certain whether God wants us to marry a particular person, take a particular job, or choose a particular path. But we do know the kind of people Jesus calls us to become: compassionate, courageous, and wise.

Yesterday, I got a phone call from one of our long-time parishioners, who has asked to remain anonymous. This person was passing by the church and saw several people and a dog sitting in our memorial garden. Knowing how hot it was outside, this person felt moved with compassion to buy lunch for the people and their dog. And when I heard that story, I immediately thought of Rebekah.

I don’t know whether this parishioner woke up yesterday thinking, “Today I am going to fulfill God’s plan for my life.”

Probably not.

They saw people who were hot and hungry. So they did the next loving thing.

So far as she knew, Rebekah was just being kind to a thirsty stranger and his animals. She could not have known the full story that was unfolding around her.

And maybe that is true for us too. Maybe God’s plan is less like a treasure map and more like a compass. We do not always know where we are going or how to get there. But we know if we are walking in the right direction—the direction of love.

In today’s gospel, Jesus says: “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”

That is who Jesus is: A safe place for the weary. A place of compassion in an often unkind world. And that is who we are called to be.

We may not always know what the future holds. Maybe it’s not even our place to know. But we can trust that whenever we choose compassion, whenever we offer kindness, whenever we become a place of rest for those carrying heavy burdens, we are stepping into love’s vision for our lives.

We are becoming more like Jesus, doing the next loving thing. And maybe, without even realizing it, we are exactly where we need to be.

How God Handles Rejection

On By J. Barrett LeeIn Sermon2 Comments

Sermon for Easter Sunday

“The same stone which the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone. This is the Lord’s doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes.” (Psalm 118:22-23)

“The same stone which the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone. This is the Lord’s doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes.” (Psalm 118:22-23)

These two verses from Psalm 118, which we read this morning, have something to teach us about how God handles rejection. And they are absolutely perfect for Easter Sunday.

Most of us have some funny ideas about God and rejection. Maybe because we’ve been taught them, or just picked them up from human relationships, but we have this idea that if we reject God, then God will reject us. That we have a kind of constant level of anxiety with that assumption in our minds.

We think, well, what does rejecting God entail? And often the answers people come up with are believing the wrong things, doing the wrong things, saying the wrong things. That, oh, you know, if I leave this church, then I’ve rejected God. If I don’t believe this or that doctrine, or if I commit some circumstance, then I turn from God, and therefore God will reject me right back. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Go directly to hell.

Again, we assume this based on human relationships, because humans, as we know, have needs. Humans have egos. A lot of our relationships are built on that mutual exchange where we help one another out. I’m nice to you, you’re nice to me, but if I’m not nice to you, maybe you’re not so nice to me.

And we project that onto God.

But the thing is, God doesn’t have any needs. And God doesn’t have an ego to bruise. So that kind of creates a question mark over our assumption that if we reject God in some way, that God will reject us.

But that’s where this verse comes into play:

“The same stone which the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone.”

I was reading a story earlier this week that illustrated this really well.

There was a five-year-old kid in a store who wanted his mom to buy him a toy, and she said no. And the five-year-old kid, as five-year-olds sometimes do, lost it and just shouted, “I hate you!”

And the mother—her mom was so great in this moment. Mom didn’t freak out, didn’t punish, did not reject the kid who had rejected her, and said, “Okay, you hate me. But I love you. And your hate doesn’t change my love.”

That’s how good parents are.

And when we think of our image of God in the Christian tradition, that parental imagery is a big part of that. And so if our human parents can understand that rejection is not mutual—that the parent’s love is not undone by the child’s hate or the child’s momentary tantrum—how much more does God understand that?

Here on Easter Sunday, of course, we are celebrating the resurrection of Jesus. Our first reading outlines this handling of rejection a little more concretely.

They say Jesus came among us doing good, healing those who were sick. And people didn’t like that, for some reason. And they killed him by hanging him on a tree—a euphemism for crucifixion.

But then God raised him up on the third day.

That is the ultimate way of rejecting rejection, which is what God does.

God does not reject those who reject God.

God is love itself, and therefore love itself rejects rejection itself. That’s just how love works. And it is the fundamental truth of our entire existence—of your existence.

You are loved. Full stop.

That’s it. You are loved, and there’s nothing that you can do about it. Absolutely nothing.

We think that oftentimes our doubts about theology or faith or belief get in the way of our relationship with God. We think that our sins have that power. We get anxious about that. And we’re anxious, and, oh no, my doubts, my sins, can keep God from loving me.

But then sometimes these fancy preachers tell us, “Oh, God is loving and God will forgive you,” but we’re still feeling anxious. So now I’m anxious about the fact that I’m anxious, and I’m just spiraling.

And it is in that moment that it’s worthwhile to remember that fundamental truth of your existence: that you are loved. There’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.

God rejects your rejection, but does not reject you.

So when those feelings are arising in you—your doubts, your sins, your anxiety, your anxiety about your anxieties—just take a breath and let it be there in that moment.

Because that’s the raw material of your own resurrection that’s happening.

You know, if you’re experiencing doubt, that just means you’ve got a really good, critical-thinking brain. If you’re wrestling with sinful desires of whatever kind, all that means is that you have some legitimate needs that you’re trying to get met. If you’re anxious, that just means you’re trying to keep yourself safe. If you’re anxious about being anxious, what that means is you care about what’s right.

And all of those are good things that God will work with in the building—perhaps the rebuilding—of your world.

You are not rejected. You don’t have that much power.

You know what? This isn’t even theology—it’s just math.

Think about it: a finite creature does not have the power to out-sin the love of an infinite God. It’s just math.

So if you’re experiencing any of those anxieties, or your anxiety is about your anxiety, if you live with that fear that something you’ve said or believed or done is going to separate you from God, I invite you to let that go and return to the fundamental truth of your existence:

That you are loved, and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.

That is how God handles rejection.

And that is the truth that the Church proclaims on this and every Easter Sunday:

That the Lord is risen indeed.

Alleluia.

One Step Closer

On By J. Barrett LeeIn SermonLeave a comment

Sermon for Maundy Thursday

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

When my family and I first adopted our two cats, we didn’t see them for about a month. They hid down in the basement and would only come out after the noisy humans had all gone to bed.

That’s just how cats are:
If you try and chase them, they will look at you like, “You make poor life choices,” and then run away.
You can’t chase a cat into loving you back. You have to respect its boundaries, sit still, and let the cat decide if and when it’s going to come close to you. If you do that, it might, eventually, cuddle up to you.

Now, that’s not just about cats. It’s about us too. Because human beings, like cats, don’t open up unless they feel safe.

This is certainly true in our relationships with others, but it’s also true in our relationship with ourselves, and it’s even true in our relationship with God.

Tonight’s Gospel places us in a small room. Before the crowded spectacle of the cross and the empty tomb, this is a very quiet and intimate scene.

And it’s also deeply uncomfortable, because Jesus does something strange: He gets up from the table, takes off his outer robe, wraps a towel around himself, and then he kneels down to wash their feet. Not as a teacher giving a lecture. But as a servant. He comes uncomfortably close.

When he comes to Peter, Peter does what many of us would do: He resists.
He says, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?”
It’s too much for Peter.
And Jesus doesn’t force him.
He doesn’t grab Peter’s foot and say, “You’re going to get this, whether you like it or not!”

Instead, he has a conversation.
He says, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.”
Peter doubles down, “You will never wash my feet.”
And Jesus responds, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.”

Jesus doesn’t coerce Peter, but he’s honest about what’s at stake:
Because, at some point, if we never let ourselves be loved in ways that might make us feel uncomfortable, we miss the opportunity to be in an honest relationship.

Love meets us where we are…
and then it respectfully asks, “Can I come a little closer?”

I saw something like this play out years ago when I was in chaplaincy training.

In my training cohort, there was a resident who was very clear about their boundaries from the beginning—emotional boundaries, physical boundaries, what was okay and what wasn’t.

Someone else in the group kept trying to push past those boundaries… and it created a lot of tension.

But there was also someone in the group who took the boundaries seriously.
Who let things be what they were—and didn’t push or try to get more than what was being offered.
And over time, something shifted. Trust began to grow.
And one day, the person who had been so guarded was the one who initiated a hug with the one who had respected their boundaries…

Respect created trust, which made intimacy possible.
It wasn’t forced.
It was chosen.

And that brings us to tonight.

After washing the disciples’ feet, Jesus said to them, “I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you… If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them.”

So, in a few moments, you’ll be invited forward to participate in a reenactment of Jesus’ foot washing ritual.
And I want to say this clearly:
You have options.

  1. You can come forward and have your feet washed.
  2. You can come forward and have your hands washed instead.
  3. You can remain where you are and take it in with your eyes.

And here’s the most important moment in this ritual:
Not the moment when feet are getting washed, but the moment just before that, when you’re deciding which option you will accept.

Pay attention to what you’re feeling in that moment.
What’s happening inside of you?
Is it fear? Curiosity?
And then—after checking in with yourself—I want you to honor your boundary.
If it feels safe enough…
take one step beyond your comfort zone.
Not ten steps all at once.
Just one step.

Because love meets you where you are.
And it invites you to come closer.
But it never forces you.

This isn’t just about what happens here tonight.
This moment is a small picture of something larger:
It’s about how love works in the rest of your life.

There are places where you need to draw boundaries—and that is good.
Healthy boundaries protect what’s important.
But sometimes, we draw those boundaries farther out than they need to be. Instead of protecting us, they keep us from experiencing the love we want.

There are places where love is waiting, not demanding, but inviting us to come closer.

Maybe it looks like a conversation you’ve been avoiding.
Maybe it looks like telling yourself a hard truth about something that matters.
Maybe it looks like offering a small act of care where it would be easier to just look the other way.

Not a leap.
Just one small step.

Tonight, we begin with a ritual: A symbolic act where the deepest pattern of love is revealed.
But the real test is how we choose to live, after we leave this place.

Love meets us where we are…
and invites us to come closer.
The question is: What do we do with that? Will we take the next step?

Just like Jesus said, “If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them.”