From Palms to Passion

Background: This past weekend I preached for Palm Sunday, at Christ Church Easton‘s Alive @ 5 Saturday service and at St. Andrew’s Chapel in Sudlersville (one of two churches in St. Luke’s Parish) on Sunday. The Palm/Passion Sunday readings include both Jesus’s triumphant entrance into Jerusalem as well as his suffering and execution on the cross. This is the text of the sermon I gave over the weekend.

From Palms to Passion: Heartbreaking, Necessary, Life-Giving

One of the things I appreciate about the Episcopal liturgy for Palm Sunday is that we get the full story. We are not left cheering waving our palms, we also have to stare into the face of Jesus being crucified. The feeling we get, going from palms to passion in such a short time, might be whiplash. How can you go from “Hosanna” to “Crucify Him!” so quickly?

When we think back over our lectionary journey over the past few weeks: Jesus giving sight to a blind man, raising his friend Lazarus from the dead, this triumphant entrance into Jerusalem seems just right. This is a man who can perform miracles, an inspiring teacher, one who brings hope and healing to the poor and the sick. Surely, he has the power to change the direction of the people of Israel, to challenge the Roman Empire, there’s no way they have anyone equal to Jesus.

We can understand when the crowds get fired up:  “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”

Finally! We’ve got our guy—he’s here! You better look out now!

I wonder if anyone has had a period of riding high in your faith, in your life. Maybe it was soon after you found faith. You felt energized, you could feel and see God speaking to you in different ways. When you read the Bible, you always find a verse or a phrase to take with you into the day. And you think, yes, everyone needs to feel this, God is good, all the time.

Happily, we find those places and times at different points in our life. It’s not just a one-time thing. And when we are there, it’s easy to follow the crowds—the blind gaining their site, the poor and hungry being fed, Lazarus being raised. Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!

This Jesus guy is great!

Here he comes, his triumphant entry into Jerusalem…riding on… a donkey?

Then he goes into the Temple and flips tables and angers Temple leadership. Then he gets arrested.

Are we still with Jesus when he’s called into question? What happens when the road of our faith lives gets bumpy. When we struggle, when God seems quiet in our lives.

Do we stick with Jesus when there might be a cost we don’t like associated with following him?

For the crowds in Jerusalem, it becomes pretty clear this is not the guy: the Messiah wouldn’t be arrested and sentenced to be crucified. Why would the Messiah, the one God sends to bring victory to his people, have this happen to him? He is supposed to win.

This guy must be an imposter. So the crowds put down their palms and call for the cross, when the cross meant to put someone to death. Crucify him!

When we read the Bible from a Christian perspective, we always want to identify with Jesus and the disciples. We know we are on Jesus’s team now, so we shout “Hosanna!” and next week, “He is Risen!”

We look back on history and see things like slavery, the Holocaust; we can look back and say, those things are wrong, they should never have happened. And that is true. And at the same time, I think it helps us to realize that people go with the crowd for a lot of reasons, including personal safety, for self-preservation, to not have to pay the cost of standing up for something or someone who is challenging those in power.

That even though we are Jesus followers now, that is in part because WE KNOW that he conquered death, we know how the story turns out… Maybe as things unfolded around them, we can understand those in the crowd. Maybe I would have been one of them. Maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to judge.

As we walk through the passion and suffering of Jesus today and through Holy Week and Good Friday, take time to look at the different characters in the readings. Be mindful that we encounter these same kinds of characters in our lives every single day, and sometimes we are these characters—these human beings with fears, doubts, questions, and who all need grace and mercy the same way that we do.

And realize that Jesus’s walk to the cross, his suffering, his death, and resurrection were for all of us, to make everyone recipients of God’s grace and forgiveness. Even and especially those who shouted, “Crucify him!”

When we look around today, we can still see why Jesus’s redemptive sacrifice on the cross was necessary.

Writer Debie Thomas, in her book “Into the Mess & Other Jesus Stories” says:

“In the cross, we are forced to see what our refusal to love, our indifference to suffering, our craving for violence, our resistance to change, our hatred of difference, our addiction to judgment, and our fear of the Other must wreak. When the Son of Humanity is lifted up, we see with chilling clarity our need for a God who will take our most horrific instruments of death and transform them at great cost, for the purposes of resurrection.”

When we arrive at Easter Sunday next week, we celebrate Jesus’s victory. But for his kind of victory to happen, it had to come out of the darkness. How can we see and appreciate light without understanding what darkness is like?

How can we appreciate love without knowing what heartbreak feels like?

Palm Sunday is a day of heartbreak. It feels like a loss. The disciples scatter and it doesn’t occur to them that something that is impossible could happen. Jesus has taught them so many parables that when he tells them he will be killed and on the third day be raised, that’s got to be a metaphor, right?

The disciples feel defeated. And as we hear Jesus cry out from the cross, he too experienced what defeat feels like. Allow yourselves this week to feel that defeat, to think about Jesus’s suffering and the suffering that is real around the world and here in our community.

But we also get the blessing of knowing that this defeat is temporary; it is short lived. It is what pastor and author Frederick Buechner calls “The Magnificent Defeat.” It’s only a defeat of worldly things, including power and death, by heavenly things, by God’s love, which is eternal, which goes beyond death; by God’s light, which overcomes the darkness, by God’s truth, which not only follows but fulfills the law, and God’s mercy, which forgives even murder on a cross.

It’s the darkness of Palm Sunday and Good Friday, which give us the light of Christ. Jesus took an instrument of death, the cross, and turned it into a symbol of life and love overcoming death.

We read these readings, we have these liturgies, we gather to tell and discuss these stories to remember the sacrificial love of Jesus. We invoke the bread and wine of the Last Supper to participate in the sacrament that he asks us to continue. Not just as something that happened in the past, but as something that is present for us today.

To get to the empty tomb and the new life of Resurrection Sunday, we have to stop so that we can look at and contemplate the cross.

This is the moment where we see what taking up his cross costs Jesus.

Remember that Jesus asks his would-be followers to take up our crosses and follow him.

What does it mean for us to take up our crosses? Debie Thomas writes:

“To take up a cross as Jesus did is to stand, always, in the center of the world’s pain. Taking up the cross means recognizing Christ crucified in every suffering soul we encounter, and pouring our energies into alleviating that pain, no matter what it costs us.”

This is what is means to love like Jesus. To love when everything is on the line. To have our hearts broken. To show by our actions, that our love for God is real and that we have skin in the game. That we remember and are grateful for the new life that Jesus made possible with his own life.

Making Time

Yesterday I made time. I knew I needed to. Stress has been high, sleep has been hard to come by, mental, emotional, and physical clutter were building in my body.

I threw books, a notebook, and pens in a bag. Parked at the Oxford Conservation Park, hopped on a skateboard and cruised for a bit. I found some shoreline near my thinking/praying tree at the Oxford Cemetery. And I sat. And breathed. And prayed. And listened. And watched. And read.

Marcus Aurelius had this to say in his “Meditations”–

Everything is transitory–the knower and the known.

Constant awareness that everything is born from change. The knowledge that there is nothing nature loves more than to alter what exists and make new things like it. All that exists is the seed of what will emerge from it. You think the only seeds are the ones that make plants or children. Go deeper.

Even when we know that’s true, change can still be tough to take in. I’ve become a fan of Ryan Holiday and The Daily Stoic and his Painted Porch Bookshop near Austin, Texas. He motivated me to pull Marcus off my bookshelf. Holiday points out the tenet of stoicism that asserts that we can’t control much of what life throws at us, but we can control how we respond to it. That’s something to sit with.

This is what Luci Shaw says in her poem, “Few Words”–

To write with
restraint, with
few words,
is to give each
a great power
that stands
for itself on
the page–
this red bird,
that crescent moon.
Each sentinel
of meaning
pointing us
to what
it stands for.

I prefer to write and speak with few words. The right ones when I am lucky enough. To listen more than I talk. Creation, God, and other people have much more to offer than I do.

A friend sent me a copy of Allen Levi’s “Theo of Golden” in the mail, saying it seemed like it would resonate with me. When I started reading it, the story starts a short time before Easter. I am a sucker for books that correspond in time to where we are, so I jumped in. It’s too early to write about the book in itself, but I am drawn to three ideas on the blurb on the back of the book.

It says it is a novel about:

  1. “the power of creative generosity”
  2. “the importance of wonder to a purposeful life”
  3. “the individual threads of kindness that bind us to one another”

The phrase “creative generosity” has been on my mind since reading it. We can be generous with money, generous with time, in ways that have become expected. But what does it mean to be creative with our generosity? To offer something unexpected? What does it feel like to receive creative generosity? Like someone sending you a book unexpectedly in the mail, thinking it may speak to you or wake up something in you?

Wonder is my jam. I’ve written “Wired for Wonder” as my mantra or a guiding principle. The idea of the “importance of wonder to a purposeful life” is intriguing. Bringing wonder and purpose together is both necessary, but often overlooked. I want to walk farther down this path.

We get that kindness is a good thing and that we should be kind to one another and to ourselves. Well, we might not all understand that, but we should. That kindness binds us to each other, I want to dwell and reflect more on that. We need to realize the connective threads of our humanity more these days than I can express.

Though I have started and am loving “Theo of Golden,” the gift of these phrases and thoughts before I even opened it, is its own creative generosity.

Yesterday I made time to sit and read outside when I almost didn’t. This morning I made time to write it down and share it with those who will take the time to read it. Today, I hope you make time to do what the Spirit calls you to do.

What Do We Do with John 3:16?

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”

This is likely the most quoted verse in the New Testament. For we Christians, it is probably the most quoted verse in the whole Bible. We see it held up on signs by fans at sporting events, printed on billboards, worn on t-shirts.

My brother-in-law and I, decades ago, once made a John 3:16 sign with markers and poster board and floated it across a narrow channel on the bay side of Ocean City in the middle of the night and took pictures of ourselves standing on a small island ironically holding our John 3:16 sign to show that we had claimed and conquered the island.

Which is to say: so what? This quote encapsulates something key and wonderful about our faith. What do we do with it, or about it? What do we do with it in terms of our lifestyle? How does it change the way we live our lives?

For too many people, I don’t think it translates, by itself, into a transformed life or consciousness.

It makes me think sometimes, what if the most quoted lines in the New Testament or the Bible for Christians were:

Or Matthew 5:9, which says: “Blessed are the Peacemakers”

Or John 13:35: “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

Or Matthew 25:40, “Just As You Did to One of the Least of These You Did to Me”

How much different would our view of ourselves or our impact on the world be, if what we quoted talked about grace embodied, not simply grace received?

Or what if we included John 3:17 as part of our marketing message to complete the “God so loved the world” thought, and we read, “God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”

Jesus came to do something wonderful, something transformational, something life-changing for the people of the world. John 3:16, by itself, hasn’t seemed to have that effect on those who read it or hear it.

But Jesus gives us something to work with in his conversation with Nicodemus. He asks us to think, and to change, if necessary, rather than just shouting out Scripture.

We know this story a bit, don’t we? Nicodemus, who is a Pharisee, a leader of the Jews, comes to Jesus at night. He comes at night so no one sees him talking to Jesus. Going to Jesus for teaching could ruin Nicodemus’s reputation. Jesus is not an “insider,” he challenges the Pharisees. But there is something in Nicodemus that needs to meet with Jesus, to know what he’s all about.

Nicodemus begins his conversation with incredible vulnerability:

“Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.”

Can you imagine, going up to someone who challenges the way you think, the way you act, the way you live your life, and leading with that kind of admission? Wanting to learn from them? Would I have the guts to do that? Would you?

And Jesus answers in a way that sends Nicodemus reeling:

“Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”

Oh, wow. I guess I should have warned you about this. There are two parts of today’s reading that can be sticky for those outside the faith, those who are looking in at Christianity. This is where we get the term and idea of “born again Christian.”

Born-again Christians have their own reputations as being the people you don’t want to run into at the grocery store or a concert. They are thought of as pushier, over-zealous. And overly interested in whether YOU have been born again or saved.

That’s another aspect of this reading that has gotten a bad rap. What does Jesus mean when he says born from above? That’s what Nicodemus is trying to wrap his head around.

Jesus, this is crazy talk. Once we are born from our mothers, we can’t be born again. We’re already here.

And Jesus says, that’s not the kind of birth I’m talking about. We’re all born of the flesh. I’m talking about the Spirit.

“No one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit.”

This is a spiritual birth, or re-birth. In Nicodemus’s defense, this is a hard concept to get our heads around, especially if you’ve never experienced or heard about something like this. I recently came across something that strikes me as a helpful way to think about being reborn.

In his book, “The Healing Path,” author James Finley talks about becoming a clinical psychologist, this is after having lived for years as a monk and then becoming a spiritual retreat leader. During his doctoral studies, he had a year-long internship at a Veterans Administration Hospital and Finley was assigned to an inpatient alcohol treatment unit.


Many of the men there for treatment were Vietnam vets. You can imagine that alcohol abuse was only a part of what they were dealing with.

Finley learned that some years earlier the men on the unit developed an initiation rite for those who wanted to be admitted to the program. He watched it as a new person came in for the first time.

He said that all the men sat in chairs lined around the walls of the room, except for two empty chairs in the center of the room, left facing each other. The man seeking to be admitted sat in one chair, and one of the men in the unit who was conducting the initiation sat in the other.

And he asked the newcomer, “What do you love the most?” The guy was confused, caught off-guard, and said, “My wife.” And all the guys along the walls got loud, gave him a hard time, shouted some things.

He was asked again, “What do you love the most?” The newcomer thought and said, “My children.” Same response from the men, raucous, not having it.

The same question, “What do you love most?” And finally the newcomer answered, “Alcohol.”

And the moment he said it, all the men stood, gave him a standing ovation, the newcomer was asked to stand and one by one, every man there lined up to hug him and welcome him into their midst, as one of them. And everyone in the room, Finley included, had tears running down their faces.

Finley writes about the newcomer, “In his moment of awakening, he was vulnerable… As the man stood there with tears streaming down his face, he was childlike, meaning he was guileless and open-faced, free of posing and posturing. And in his child-like transparency, true spiritual maturity was being manifested in the world…

“He knew nothing. In this unknowing, all his foggy assumptions, conclusions, and answers that were formed and sustained in his addiction were eclipsed by a luminous, empty-handed understanding that lit up his mind and heart in ways that he had not as yet even begun to comprehend.”

“He was dying before our very eyes. For in this moment the alcoholic in him that, for so many years claimed to have the final say in who he was, was dying. And in this death he was being born before our very eyes as someone newly emerging out of the darkness into the light.”

This was a man, who was being born again. His old life, his old self, was dying. And a new life was beginning. He had to surrender his old way of seeing and being, everything about that life, in order for a new life, a new birth to start.

That’s a powerful metaphor for us, who are being given a chance to let go of the life the powers of the world have us living and opening ourselves to being born anew in the Spirit, with how Jesus calls us to live.

This is not the kind of birth we can see with our eyes, like the birth of a newborn baby. Jesus says, you can’t see the wind, you don’t know where it comes from or goes, but we know it from the sound.

We know the new life in someone born of the spirit by their life. By who they are and what they show us.

At the time when this Gospel was written, it was unthinkable that someone could declare “I believe” and not have it show in their life. If you had received and accepted this amazing grace of God so loving the world that he gave his only Son—you would embody that grace—you would live it out in the world.

I love this quote by writer Debie Thomas who says:

“When the writers of the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament wrote of faithfulness, they were not advocating for intellectual assent. They were making a case for trust, fidelity, dependence, and love. To believe in God was to place their loving confidence in God. To entrust their hearts, minds, and bodies into God’s hands… What does it mean to believe in Jesus? It means becoming a newborn: vulnerable, hungry, and ready to receive reality in a fresh way. It means coming out of the shadows and risking the light… Why is belief important to God? Because love is important to God. To believe is to BE LOVE.”

This may all sound crazy. It certainly did to Nicodemus. Nicodemus came to Jesus at night, in secret, hoping to understand what he was all about. And he leaves that night perplexed and confused.

But that’s not the end of the story for Nicodemus. He is one of the few characters we encounter in the Gospels who we get to see again two more times in the story.

In John chapter 7, the temple police ask the Pharisees why they don’t arrest Jesus and it is Nicodemus who steps in to defend Jesus saying, “Our law doesn’t judge people without first giving them a hearing does it?”

And then again, in John chapter 19, after Jesus has been crucified, it is Nicodemus, “who first came to Jesus at night” who brings a mixture of myrrh and aloes, weighing 100 pounds; who with Joseph of Arimathea takes Jesus’s body, prepares it and wraps it in linens, and lays Jesus in the tomb.

This was at huge personal risk to Nicodemus—being associated with the man who had just been publicly executed.

Nicodemus leaves his first meeting with Jesus confused, humbled, and probably heartbroken, not understanding what it means to be born of the Spirit.

And then, as he lives, as he prays, as he thinks, Nicodemus, risking his reputation and his life, shows us what it looks like to be born again, of the Spirit.

Maybe this reading is not about the waving a sign in the stands.

It’s not simply about receiving the grace of John 3:16.

Maybe it’s about embodying that grace once we’ve received it. Maybe it looks like risking our reputation, risking ourselves, risking the light—being vulnerable and open to Jesus so that we can give up our old way of living to be born again of the Spirit.

Caravaggio, “The Entombment of Christ”

Being Salt and Light

Background: last weekend I preached at Christ Church Easton on our lectionary reading, Matthew 5:13-20, where Jesus tells those listening to his Sermon on the Mount that they are the salt of the earth and the light of the world. This is the text of my sermon, bouncing off of Bishop Jake Owensby’s book “A Full-Hearted Life” and commentary from the SALT Project blog.

“Being Salt and Light”

This is our second week sorting through parts of Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount, as it’s come to be known in Matthew’s Gospel. The full sermon goes from chapter 5 through chapter 7.

Jesus sees crowds of people gathering and he goes up a mountain, sits down and teaches.

It begins with the Beatitudes: the “blessed are” statements, where those considered “blessed” are not people many would consider fortunate or lucky. Last Sunday on Zoom, Rev. Anne Wright walked us through the Beatitudes, pointing out that being blessed isn’t about having good things happen to us; part of the blessing is that when we go through difficult times, God is with us. We are blessed in being close to God and not being alone in our dark nights of the soul.

This week’s reading picks up right where last week left off. Continuing to teach, Jesus tells his disciples, his listeners, that they are the salt of the earth and the light of the world. Those things are great, but they come with a warning: if salt has lost its taste, you have to throw it out, and don’t hide your light, let it shine so that others can see.

What does it mean to be salt and light? Let’s take a look at a few things here.

First, Jesus isn’t asking his listeners to become something new; he doesn’t tell them to “become” salt and light. He says, you ARE these things already. In the book we’ve been reading in small groups, “A Full-Hearted Life” by Episcopal Bishop Jake Owensby, he reminds us that we are all God’s beloved. God made us with and out of love. We don’t have to do anything, we are loved.

We are salt and light. Jesus is telling his listeners, and us, to act like it; to be who we were created to be.

Another aspect to this, salt losing its flavor or light being covered up: our faith is not supposed to be a hollow faith. It’s not a matter of doing things because we are supposed to do them. Even things like going to church, helping the poor, praying—all things that are good for us to do, but not if we are going through the motions; doing them because we are told to do them.

Bishop Owensby in talking about the world and the church today says that we see a lot of “functional atheism.” He says:

“a longing for the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Moses—a longing for a relationship with the risen Christ—no longer animates the lives of many people, even church-going, creed-professing people. Our life-shaping desire is no longer focused on the Transcendent God. Many lives—including the lives of self-identified Christians—are centered on things of this world.”

One of the things Owensby points out is that many lives are centered around work, instead of our relationship with Christ. He says “workism,” is “the belief that work is not only necessary to economic production, but also the centerpiece of one’s identity and life’s purpose.”

Workism is a spirituality that measures human value as a function of productivity and efficiency. Workism “distorts worship, prayer, feeding the hungry, housing the homeless, and all spiritual practices into transactions.”

If you are coming to church, or you consider yourself a Christian, just because you want to go to heaven, or so you will be well thought of in the community, those are transactions.


Owensby says that spiritual practices are supposed to be “responses to the infinite love that God has always already given us, not pleas to receive what we do not have.”

We are already God’s beloved. All of us. We are already salt and light.

Faith is not performative. It’s meant to be heart-centered. It’s meant to be a response to, and a part of, our relationship with God.  

As Jesus continues teaching to the crowds, he says:

“Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished.”

Okay, Jesus, that’s a bit of a head-scratcher. What does it mean to “fulfill” the law? Here is what our friends over at the SALT Project website have to say:

“the underlying notion is that when something is “fulfilled,” it’s truly embodied, incarnated, filled out, brought to life. When we “fulfill a responsibility,” for example, we perform it — we give it form… To “fulfill the law,” then, is to embody its essential features, to “fill out” and exemplify its meaning, spirit, and substance.”

Jesus has come to embody, fill out, bring the law to life. If we want to see what it looks like to live out the law—look at Jesus. If we want to see what it looks like to be salt and light: look at Jesus.

As he continues his Sermon on the Mount, Jesus is going to spell out in greater detail how we are to live, some of the things we are to do in fulfilling the law the way that he does.

The difference between “following the law” and “fulfilling the law” can be the difference between salt that’s lost its flavor and light that’s being hidden, and the salt and light we were created to be.

The laws say: don’t murder anyone, don’t steal, don’t commit adultery, don’t covet, don’t worship false idols.

Are we being salt and light if all we are doing is following these laws, these “don’ts?”

What’s the difference between following and fulfilling these laws? Later on in Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus is pressed on which law or commandment is the greatest and he replies:

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets.”

It’s not a statement on our actions, it starts with our hearts. It isn’t just don’t do these things that are harmful; we are meant to love God and love each other. 

If we love God, we won’t worship work and put works as idols where we are meant to put God. If we love each other, we are not going to murder, steal, or covet.

Being salt and light happens when we soften our hearts in love and turn away from making the things that the world seems to hold dear—money, power, status—the center of our lives.

This is counter-cultural today and it was counter-cultural in Jesus’s time. It’s not a message we hear from CEOs to stockholders, but it’s the message Jesus tries to get through to his followers in order to change the world; to bring about the kingdom of heaven. We are made by God to love and be loved.

If from our hearts we love God with everything we have and we love our neighbors, we don’t argue with each other whether it’s okay to kill someone, or not pay them a living wage, or to treat them as less than human. If we act with and from love, we know what to do. We know how to be salt and light.

The order of the Sermon on the Mount matters here. Jesus starts with talking about blessings and then says you are salt and light.

He doesn’t say: go be salt and light and then you will be blessed. He says even when you don’t think you are blessed, you are. You are salt and light. Being so, go do what salt and light do.

It’s not a matter of performing our duties. It’s a matter of sharing the love we receive from God to be a blessing to others.

We aren’t required to do this; we get to do this.

We are loved and made to love others. We are blessed and made to bless others.

This is not something we can force or yell at or argue into someone. These are inherent gifts, given to us, that we get to share in gratitude with joy and love.

And if that feels like pressure, to be salt and light in a world that desperately needs both, what do we know about salt:

It takes just a little salt to add flavor to whatever you are making. You are enough.

What do we know about light? If you are in a dark room, a match, a candle, a flashlight, or even the light from your phone, all of a sudden illuminates the whole room.

You are enough to make a difference. It’s who you were created to be.

We have Jesus as our model. We have the Holy Spirit as our guide and helper. And we have each other to both encourage and be encouraged by. 

We can start by sharing God’s love with those around us. We can do our small part. And be a part of where things go from there.

We can do this, following Jesus, with God’s help.

Second Sunday of Advent: Change Your Life

Background: Last weekend was a preaching weekend for me at Christ Church Easton, on the Second Sunday of Advent. The Gospel reading was Matthew 3:1-12, where John the Baptist is telling people to “Repent!” and baptizing them in the River Jordan. Below is the text of the sermon I gave at our four weekend services.

“Change Your Heart, Change Your Mind, Change Your Life”

We started Advent last weekend with Jesus telling his disciples to BE READY! Or KEEP AWAKE. We don’t know when God is going to break into the world, or break into our lives, so we’ve got to be ready.

This week, we encounter John the Baptist, who is Advent personified. He might be the perfect Advent spokesperson, or the best possible hype man for Christmas, for the incarnation. That’s what John came to do.

Two words that stand out for me in today’s reading are REPENT and PREPARE.

John says, “REPENT! The kingdom of heaven has come near.” Repent is one of those church words that we like to stay away from. It’s got some baggage. What we might hear instead as John calls us to repent is: change your heart, change your mind, change your life.

Our normal way of doing things, the same-old, same-old isn’t going to cut it. Turn around. Stop doing what you are doing. And change your heart, your mind, and your life.

Why do we get John the Baptist in our second reading of the church new year? John isn’t Jesus, do we really have to listen to him? What makes John the Advent spokesperson?

First, you can’t miss him. He stands out. Aside from Jesus, he is the most memorable character in the Gospels. We don’t often get much in the way of descriptions of people from our Gospel writers, but we do with John. When we hear his name, we probably all think about his camel hair clothing, his leather belt, and his go-to diet of locusts and wild honey.

John the Baptizer takes his job seriously and people take him seriously. For someone who cuts such a strange figure, people listen to him. Matthew tells us:

“the people of Jerusalem and all Judea were going out to him, and all the region along the Jordan, and they were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins.”

People from all over were going out into the wilderness to John. This isn’t going to coffee hour; they were being baptized in a river and confessing their sins. And John was so charismatic and influential in doing this work that we hear about him and his followers through the Gospels and all the way into the Book of Acts.

John walks the walk. He was not a hypocrite. What he told people to do, he himself was doing. He gave his life to God and to the mission God called him to.

John’s message: change your heart, change your mind, change your life, was not and is not an easy sell.

We have this sense of church sometimes that we want to enjoy ourselves, hear good music, catch up with our friends, hear a sermon that inspires us, and to walk out of church with a nice feeling.

For some people, going to church is entertainment. If I don’t like the music, if I don’t like the pastor, or if someone says something that makes me mad, I’ll just find another church.

That’s not what John was about. John called people out. He made them uncomfortable. If John was preaching REPENT in the same way today, you wouldn’t invite him to your holiday party.

And we certainly wouldn’t want John as a greeter at the front door:

“Welcome, you brood of vipers! You think going to church is going to save you? God could raise up the slate from your front steps and put them into the church pews. You better bear fruit worthy of repentance.”

I’ve always appreciated the analogy for repentance of taking a trip in your car. It doesn’t matter how fast you are going if you are going in the wrong direction. We might think, well, we’re going at a good speed, the car is nice, the radio station is coming in clear, all distracting us from the fact that we are actively moving away from the place we are trying to get to.

When that’s the case, the only sensible thing to do is to stop. And turn around. That’s what John is trying to get across. The companies who sell gas, service your car, and put shopping malls up on your way, none of them care where you are going or what direction you are going in.

John cares. Because God cares.

If we want to get to the place that God wants us to go—which by the way, isn’t a place, it’s a way of being, a way of seeing, a way of treating each other—then we need to change our hearts, change our minds, and change our lives. Both individually, but also as a church, as a community, as a country, as a world. The way the world is heading does not lead to the kingdom or kingship of God.

There was a poignant line in the Advent study we are doing this month, where Randall Curtis, who is a youth and family minister at an Episcopal Church in Florida, talks about the distractions and busy-ness that bombard us this month and he says:

“These distractions are the new ‘drunkenness and worries of this life,’ which means that as we prepare for Christmas and God breaking into the world, we will have to make sure we look up from our phones to see it.”

Ouch. But isn’t that the truth.

Maybe John’s message still applies to us today.

Talking about all these qualities of John—his influence, his popularity, his dedication—the thing that makes him the hype man for the coming Incarnation is: John doesn’t need things to be all about him. In fact, he points to someone else coming, who is a way bigger deal than John is:

“I baptize you with water for repentance, but one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.”

John points to Jesus. The season of Advent points to the Incarnation of Jesus. This is a season not only of being ready, of staying awake, but of making sure our hearts, our minds, and our lives, are in fact preparing the way, and if they aren’t, then we need to repent, to change so that we are going in the same direction that Jesus is.

When people heard John, and when they heard Jesus, the ones with the ears to hear, listened to them and changed. I wonder if the church still holds that place, that authority, that someone might hear a critical, difficult message, go home, think about it, pray about it, and make a change in their lives if it is warranted.

Or is church just something we do, something we are, to feel good and to confirm and encourage us in the ways that we already are?

We’ve touched on repentance. What about preparation? John the Baptizer was preparing the way for Jesus, the same way Advent prepares the way for Christmas. If our lives are going in the wrong direction, the first thing we need to do to prepare the way for Jesus is to change our hearts, our minds, our lives.

John is doing his work so that we are ready for Jesus. Prepare the way, prepare our hearts. Jesus looks and acts differently than what the world wants us to focus on right now.

At a time when power and status are grand-standing, Jesus is going to come into the world as a defenseless child born to non-descript parents. At a time when we’re told vulnerability and empathy are weaknesses, the coming Incarnation meets us in our human-ness. Jesus says let me show you what vulnerability and empathy are.

Preparing our hearts and our lives for Jesus means letting go of the things that harden our hearts and blind us to the struggles of others. Our hard hearts and our lack of compassion are the chaff that will burn in unquenchable fire. It’s the love of God that wins out.

Anglican priest Tish Harrison Warren writes that:

“It is the love of God, in the end, that wins the day. The love of God is the blazing fire that purifies us, remakes us, and sets right all that is broken in us and in the world. The love of God brings us to repentance. The love of God sets the oppressed free and makes all things new. The love of God insists on truth and justice. The love of God reveals every hidden thing. And it is this love that is coming for us.”

The love of God IS the kingdom of heaven, which is drawing near. The love of God, the kingdom of heaven is coming to us in the person of Jesus Christ. Let us change our hearts, our minds, and our lives to prepare the way.

Forgiveness

Context: At our Wednesday healing service at Christ Church Easton this week, the Gospel reading was Matthew 18:21-35, the Parable of the Unforgiving Servant. At the end of the parable, the unforgiven servant (who had been forgiven by his master, but wouldn’t forgive his fellow slave, was being tortured for his unforgiveness. The following is a brief homily and discussion question we had on forgiveness.

Forgiveness

Remember, parables are stories that are meant to make a point. They aren’t to be taken 100 percent literally. To say that you are going to be tortured until you learn forgiveness sounds a little ridiculous.

But I am going to say to you that in this case, that’s actually true. Every one of us is tortured until we learn how to forgive.

When we hold resentment and unforgiveness in our hearts against someone, that feeling takes control over us. Kessler Bickford, who sometimes joins us at the healing service has given programs on forgiveness and she used the analogy of not forgiving someone being like having a huge fish on a fishing line, that we can’t pull in, and it’s digging into your hands and pulling the boat, and the fish is determining the direction you go and becomes the only thing you can focus on. And the only way forward is to cut the line, to forgive, so you can get back to living your own life.

Another famous analogy is that not forgiving someone and holding onto hate and resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.

Not only does it not work, it kills you in the process.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu, in “The Book of Forgiving” put it as eloquently and effectively as you can:

“Until we can forgive, we remain locked in our pain and locked out of experiencing healing and freedom, locked out of the possibility of being at peace.

“Without forgiveness, we remain tethered to the person who harmed us. We are bound with chains of bitterness, tied together, trapped. Until we can forgive the person who harmed us, that person holds the keys to our happiness; that person is our jailor. When we forgive, we take back control of our own fate and our feelings. We become our own liberators.”


It’s in that sense that the parable hits home: we are tortured when and while we don’t forgive. And that torture is self-inflicted.

Forgiveness is the way forward for Jesus and our way forward with Jesus.

The Lord’s Prayer is the prayer Jesus taught his disciples. Every time we pray it, we say:

“And forgive us our trespasses,
as we forgive those who trespass against us.“

And though we prefer the language that we know, the more accurate translation of those lines is:

“Forgive us our sins
as we forgive those who sin against us.“

If we ourselves ask for and know we need forgiveness when we slip up, what sense does it make to deny forgiveness to someone else? That’s what this parable tries to make clear—the hypocrisy of that kind of stance.

We’ve got not forgiving as being tortured. We have forgiveness as the way forward that Jesus asks us to take.

I also maintain that forgiveness is the only, or at least the main thing that will change the world. It’s hard to disprove the saying, “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.”

On a national and global scale, unforgiveness, resentment, anger lead to wars, crimes against humanity, you name it. And the only direction it goes when unchecked is to get worse. Give someone more resources or more weapons, conflict continues and elevates.

In Luke’s Gospel, as Jesus is being tortured and killed on the cross, he says, “Father forgive them for they don’t know what they’re doing.”


Often when people react or act in violence and hatred, they don’t know what they are doing. They are seeing only through those limited lenses.

If you want to know if we have a forgiving God: in the Resurrection, when Jesus overcomes the death that humans gave him, we don’t see God looking for vengeance or retribution, instead we see Jesus doubling down on everything he had been saying, showing, modeling—love God and love your neighbor; if you are my disciples, they will know you by your love.

If we are going to get ourselves from the kingdom of the world to the kingdom of heaven, it’s going to be on the road of love and forgiveness.

How do we get there from here? What does it take in our lives, in your life, to more fully embrace forgiveness?

In some cases, it can be seeing the person or people who we need to forgive as human beings who make mistakes. It is realizing that it is often hurt people who hurt people.

Archbishop Tutu, in his book, explains a fourfold path of:

Telling the story
Naming the hurt
Granting forgiveness
Renewing or releasing the relationship

It’s an important thing to remember that forgiving someone doesn’t mean becoming best friends with them or even having them in your life.

Of course for some of us, the person we most need to forgive is ourselves, and that is a process as well.

Since Desmond Tutu has literally written the book on forgiveness, let’s give him the last word:

“When I cultivate forgiveness in my small everyday encounters, I am preparing for the time when a much larger act of forgiveness will be asked of me, as it almost certainly will. It seems none of us journeys through life unscathed by tragedy, disappointment, betrayal, or heartbreak, but each of us has at his or her disposal a most powerful skill that lessens and can even transmute the pain. This skill can, when given the chance, win over an enemy, heal a marriage, stop a fight, and—on a global scale—even end a war. When you set out to change the world, the job seems insurmountable. But each of us can do his or her small part to effect change. We can change the world when we choose to create a world of forgiveness in our own hearts and minds.”

With This Thirst

Sitting on the bank of the cove, watching a Weeping Willow move in the wind and feeling the same breeze on my skin is worth waking up for. I’ve been looking for this solitude and this quiet. Ordination to the priesthood is this Saturday and I want to rest in the afternoon.

The current is coming to a head from opposite directions and swirling right in front of me. I’m sitting under my praying/thinking tree at the Oxford Cemetery, where family and friends are buried and over the past year I have officiated funerals. This is a place where past, present, and future dwell together.

The cove itself is home if a body of water can be home: I’ve gotten boots stuck in the mud here at low tide as a kid, canoed, come and gone by Boston Whaler, kayaks, and paddleboards. That’s part of what draws me here to pray and listen, to read and write, and skateboard to get to the spot.

“Oh, feed me this day, Holy Spirit, with
the fragrance of the fields and the
freshness of the oceans which you have
made, and help me to hear and to hold
in all dearness those exacting and wonderful
words of our Lord Jesus Christ, saying:
Follow me.”

–Mary Oliver, from “Six Recognitions of the Lord”

Mary Oliver should be read outside. I have her book “Thirst” and Frederick Buechner’s “The Alphabet of Grace” with me. “Follow me.” That’s it in a hazel nut.

I get up and skate back to and around the conservation park. It’s lightly raining, the kind of rain that wakes your skin up. I stop when I see purple, per Alice Walker’s advice, which I follow meticulously. Then I head over to the Oxford Park.

Twelve years ago this month, I sat in the park reading this same copy of Buechner’s book. I look back over what I underlined then. This was at the end of a summer (2013) where I knew in my bones that I was supposed to go to seminary. It made no sense. I reached out to Fr. John Merchant, the chaplain at St. James School when I was there, and he told me it didn’t have to make sense. I read Buechner and Barbara Brown Taylor and Thomas Merton and I was stirred and moved and then laid all that aside, taking a job to head back to Washington, DC, to work as a technical writer.

I don’t have words to describe what the 12 years in between have been, except to say heels-over-head, upside down, life-changing; from profound heartbreak to indescribable joy, confusion and clarity, discernment, wonder, awe, gratitude, and everything in between, ultimately shedding some parts of myself and growing in others to where I feel alive in ways I wasn’t. Living now with my whole and open heart.

Here’s a bit of Buechner:

“You are alive. It needn’t have been so. It wasn’t so once, and it will not be so forever. But it is so now. And what is it like: to be alive in this maybe one place of all places where life is? Live a day of it and see. Take any day and be alive in it. Nobody claims that it will be painless, but no matter. It is your birthday, and there are many presents to open. The world is to open.”

Part of that I underlined 12 years ago, but it didn’t register. Each day is new, each day is a gift that we get to live and be alive in. Be grateful.

In the park, I often sit on a bench set off to the side at the edge. It’s in the shade. As I sit there, a child belly-laughs on the swing with her father; a workboat motors down to pull into the marina nearby; a man pulls his crabpots up on his dock; people and dogs come and go; the sun breaks through the clouds infrequently but unmistakably.

Today isn’t a day for revelations. It’s a day to rest and be glad in. It’s a day to breathe, a day to smile, a day to pray. I finish Mary Oliver’s book with the title poem, “Thirst,” which I have been reading a lot lately:

“Another morning and I wake with thirst
for the goodness I do not have. I walk
out to the pond and all the way God has
given us such beautiful lessons. Oh Lord,
I was never a quick scholar but sulked
and hunched over my books past the
hour and the bell; grant me, in your
mercy, a little more time. Love for the
earth and love for you are having such a
long conversation in my heart. Who
knows what will finally happen or
where I will be sent, yet already I have
given a great many things away, expect-
ing to be told to pack nothing, except the
prayers which, with this thirst, I am
slowly learning.”

With this thirst, I am slowly learning.

A Personal Prayer

When I walked to the shoreline, there was a Kingfisher just down the bank.

Across the creek, a Great Blue Heron plodded.

This morning I got a note from a friend who has cancer and is struggling through treatment. He was flown to Hopkins and is in the ICU. He asked for prayer.

I prayed. I wrote and sent him a prayer. I am praying. I will be praying. I haven’t stopped. It never feels like enough.

What I want for him is a miracle. A return to health and home and family and worship and all the things he loves and that love him back.

How about a miracle, God? Have you seen the world lately? Have you seen how we behave? How we treat one another? Most of us don’t deserve miracles. But you still give them. I can’t always figure out why or where, but it’s not on me to do that. Miracles are you, God.

I can hear Bob Weir singing, “I need a miracle every day”–and I get that.

I feel it in my soul–the miracles of morning coffee and a hug in the kitchen, and making breakfast for my daughters, of a world where the seasons change and there are Kingfishers and Herons on the shoreline.

I think of the ICU. Where miracles are breath. And modern medicine. Doctors and nurses. Love of family. Technology. Communication. Patience. Time. Prayer. Hope.

I sit on the shoreline praying for my friend. I feel your presence all around me.

A jet flies over with its landing gear down; it’s a majestic sound and sight. It’s a miracle you’ve given us through the minds, reason, and intellect you created in us.

I pray now with tears in my eyes for multiple friends with cancer who love you and who share your love with others.

We all need miracles every day. Send some extras to those with cancer and to their families. Keep them connected to your love, your peace, your healing.

I lift them up to you, God.

Thanks for listening.

Love you.

Amen.

Live Now What Matters Forever

Background: My August preaching weekend at Christ Church Easton gave me Luke 12:13-21, where Jesus tells the Parable of the Rich Fool, who wants to build bigger barns to store all his stuff. Following is the text of my sermon.

“Live Now What Matters Forever”

There is a lot going on in today’s Gospel reading that gets my mind and my heart churning.

Someone in the crowd says to Jesus, “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the family inheritance with me.”

 And Jesus’s answer may seem for our day and time like one of the most un-Jesus responses we can imagine:

“Friend, who set me to be a judge or arbitrator over you?”

Some followers of Jesus today like to lift absolutely everything up for Jesus to help us to make our decisions, to settle our disputes.

But Jesus may say to us sometimes, “That sounds like ‘your problem.’ That sounds like something you guys are going to have to figure out for yourselves.”

Certainly, this nameless person from the crowd has his own self-interest in mind and wants to get the teacher he looks up to, to weigh in on his side, to tell his brother to give him some money and some land.

It may astonish us that in dealing with family matters, Jesus’s answer to us might be, “Friend, who set me to be a judge or arbitrator over you?”

Not the answer we were hoping for.

One of the reasons Jesus doesn’t have an interest in answering this question or settling this dispute is that he sees it is leading the person, his brother, and the crowd in a bad direction. If this is the kind of question you really want to spend your time with Jesus going through, you’ve got a bigger problem.

Greed and hoarding possessions are not going to help you. And then Jesus does one of the most Jesus things he does when asked questions.

He says, “Let me tell you a story…”

I love that Jesus’s answer to some of the most vexing questions and profound problems when the crowds press him for answers is… “Let me tell you a story.”

Franciscan and author Richard Rohr says:

“The way Jesus usually answers questions is by telling a story. There is creative and healing power in a story. It doesn’t avoid the question, it goes to the root of the question… That’s the way the great masters of religion always taught—by simply telling stories and giving the soul room to grow and understand.”

If Jesus gives them an answer, they are done thinking about the matter. It doesn’t help them grow; it doesn’t help them understand the deeper currents that are underneath the question.

Jesus’s parables work on us. They stick with us. And their meanings move around for us.

Teacher of preachers Tom Long wrote a book on Jesus’s parables and the word he uses for parable is “riddle.” Long says:

“One of the best definitions of parable is: riddle. A parable is a riddle, there is some puzzle to be solved, some enigma to be plumbed. And the thing about Jesus’s parables, just when you think you’ve got it… a trap door opens and you fall down into a deeper level of mystery. By the way, I think insufficient attention is given to the fact that we serve a Jesus whose favorite method of teaching was not rule, law, spiritual truth, principle, but riddle…  All this is to say, that parables, and particularly Jesus’s parables aren’t clear, cut and dry, and don’t lend themselves to a quick and easy interpretation, or they wouldn’t be doing their job.”

Jesus told them this story, this riddle:

The land of a rich man produced abundantly. And he thought to himself, `What should I do, for I have nowhere to store my crops?’ Then he said, `I’ve got an idea: I will pull down my barns and build bigger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I will say to my soul, `Soul, you have plenty of goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.’ 

But God said to him, `You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?’

If our most pressing question of Jesus is to solve our inheritance problems, to solve our financial problems, Jesus says, I’ve got a warning for you—you might be focusing on the wrong things. It’s not that money isn’t important, but it can cause us to lose focus on the biggest things in life… which includes the fact that we don’t know how much time we have in this life.

I absolutely love how Richard Rohr brings this parable and this reading to a point. He says:

“‘Live now what matters in eternity’ is Jesus’s message. Live on earth what’s happening in heaven… That’s the kingdom: live now what matters forever.”

LIVE NOW WHAT MATTERS FOREVER. There’s your bumper sticker or your t-shirt from today’s Gospel. There is something to tape to your mirror or above your coffeemaker, or somewhere you’ll see it every morning when you wake up.

There is a poet named Maggie Smith whose work I am a big fan of. She always seems to bring big issues and questions into the here-and-now in ways that stick with me. When she posts on social media, she’ll often use the heading “Life lately” and include a bunch of pictures and captions of what’s been going on with her.

“Life lately” for me has been Clinical and Pastoral Education—Rev. Kelsey and I have three weeks left out of our 16-week programthat is our last requirement to be ordained as priests. In my experience, seminary helps train your brain, CPE helps mold your heart.

Sitting with and opening myself up to strangers, and sometimes friends, who are in the hospital, softens my heart in ways that I couldn’t have predicted.

Last week at the Easton Hospital, I checked in on an older gentleman who was eating his lunch. I introduced myself as the chaplain for the day, and he said, “What denomination are you?” I said, “Episcopal.” He said, “Good, that’s the only good one!”

Over the next hour he told me his entire life story: father died when he was nine, military school, jobs he had, marriages, divorces, kids dying, mistakes he made, luck he has had, good times, bad times, and when he was wrapping things up he said, “Now you’ve heard my confession.”

Sometimes visits go that way. I get a sense of someone who is in the hospital, in some cases they are lonely, they are stuck in bed in a place they would rather not be and their main interaction is with medical staff who are responsible for a whole lot of people and don’t have time to address things like loneliness, anxiety, fear; they don’t have time to hear someone’s story; to come alongside them and be present with them for a few minutes, for an hour.

The time we spend together matters. A personsitting in the hospital can feel seen and heard and human, even if just for a little while.

LIVE NOW WHAT MATTERS FOREVER.

During the announcements, my friend Jack Anthony is going to tell you a story about Stephen Ministry. Stephen Ministry is a program that became a part of Christ Church in 2005 and that trains people to walk beside someone going through a difficult time in their lives. There are more than 100 people in our congregation over these last 20 years who have responded to a call in their hearts to learn to be more loving, more empathetic, more compassionate; to be better listeners, and to make themselves available for people who are hurting. Last year, my wife Holly went through the training and became a Stephen Minister. And the whole experience has blessed her in amazing ways. They are offering the next training this fall. Maybe it is something that speaks to you.

What I am learning in CPE and what you learn through becoming a Stephen Minister is very similar. How to listen. How to be present. What love looks like when the conditions aren’t perfect.

These are not skills or experience that apply only to visiting a hospital or spending time with a care receiver.

“Life lately.” I helped with a celebration of life on Friday for a man and family I have known since I was in elementary school. The man’s name was Ed Bishop, one of the kindest human beings I have ever met. People got up and told stories. A neighbor pointed out that even after almost 60 years married, Ed and his wife Wendy wouldn’t feed the birds without each other because they loved doing it together. The number of people there Friday who were in their late 50’s and showed up with their families who said that they learned what unconditional love and kindness were from being friends with the Bishops’ two sons and seeing these qualitieson full display from their parents. Ed Bishop lived now what matters forever and showed people what that looks like.

At the service, I got to catch up with a number of long-time friends who I hadn’t seen in quite a while. My daughters are 23 and 20 years old. Some of my friends have younger kids and I’ve heard a few times lately, “it must be nice to have your kids out from under, working, not needing you all the time.”

I look back at the years when the girls were under foot, and it takes a lot of time and energy to get through all of that. But I found that most of the problems that they had then, I could fix. I could do something about. Tie a shoe. Clean a cut and put a Band-Aid on it. Drive them to school. Decide who got to pick the movie they would watch.

The problems the girls have now, I can’t fix. I can’t solve for them. Heartbreak, relationships,loneliness, anxiety. Epilepsy. Seizures. These things above my pay grade.

You know what I have found that I can offer? Time. Presence. Love. I can be there. I can listen. I can come alongside them. We can do life together.

We can live now what matters forever.

Each of us has that chance every day. If Jesus had continued his parable, his story, and given us an alternative to building bigger barns, I’d bet it would be a story of showing love and care to people who need it. That’s the kingdom Jesus wants to help us build.

Showing Up

This slow morning time, unrushed with coffee and reading and writing and prayer and wonder and gratitude, is important enough for me to get up before everyone else; to find and carve out a spot in the still dark; to turn on a light like a starting gun—sitting down to begin, but not a race, permission, time, a gift.

Sometimes it is something I see: hummingbirds and Cardinals, butterflies, cats jumping fences or lounging on the porch, the dog curled on the tile floor.

Sometimes it is something I hear: I have learned the Indigo Bunting’s song, the snorting of deer on their path beyond the fence, the fish pond’s filter, peepers or bullfrogs, cicadas in the trees.

Sometimes it is something I read: a poem, Scripture, commentary, a story, an essay, a question.

Sometimes it’s writing: spinning a thought into a sentence, finding new words for something I have felt my whole life or just felt for the first time, lending voice to compassion or wonder, the beginning of a sermon, an epiphany small or large.

Sometimes it comes in prayer: a word, a question, a connection, a feeling, a name, a calling, a passion, tears, laughter, a smile.

What I know: I only get these gifts if I show up.