Sermons

Easter 4

Mon, 27 Apr 2026 00:53:44 GMT

Ephesus Again

Those who had been baptized devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers.

Awe came upon everyone, because many wonders and signs were being done by the apostles. … And day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved .

Ephesus Again

I get caught up in the momentum of the Acts of the Apostles — the breathless, action-packed adventure story of Jesus’ followers in the earliest days after the resurrection. Can you imagine what it must have felt like to live in that moment? To witness the violent public execution of your beloved leader and teacher by the governing power only to find three days later, from the depths of your grief and despair, that he was actually alive among you? They had to have been in a state of sustained shock. Trauma like that doesn’t leave us quickly.

They were figuring out what this meant for their daily lives. We know this because Acts is not a record of early Christians’ discussions of fine liturgical choices established as eternal and inviolable laws, like whether to use Rite I or Rite II for Sunday services, or whether purple or Sarum blue vestments are the right choice for Advent. Later religious scholars and teachers developed those traditions as ways of remembering what was most important about living out the good news. These first Jewish followers of their learned rabbi Jesus considered themselves a movement within their Jewish faith that noticed new things about holy living . The Jesus Movement is referred to in Acts as The Way for the first half or so of the book as the movement continues to grow. Remember last week’s reading from Acts concludes about 3,000 people joined The Way after Peter’s testimony that Jesus was the Messiah , and our reading this morning concludes day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved.

Retired Presiding Bishop Michael Curry — the one who made Episcopalians famous with his Royal wedding sermon in 2018— ALWAYS refers to The Episcopal Church as The Episcopal Branch of the Jesus Movement. Our charismatic, amazing Presiding Bishop was not telling us to leave behind 2000 years of our beloved church’s tradition. He was urging us to keep the main thing the main thing , and to be sure that our infrastructure — our traditions, trappings, customs, language, and rules — didn’t make it hard for people to connect with the church. People can fail to connect or stay connected to the church because the church is inaccessible, because they just don’t understand the dialect their particular church or denomination is speaking, or because sometimes church rules and traditions arise from the necessities or understandings of a different time, and are no longer consistent with the scriptural foundation of Jesus’ teachings or Jesus’ ways of interacting with people.

Stephanie Spellers, an Episcopal priest and former member of Bishop Curry’s national church staff, recently released her book Church Tomorrow? , a reflection on the NONES and the DONES . That’s not nuns like the Sisters of Mercy. NONES are those who would check “none” on a form for religious affiliation. Increasingly, especially among younger generations, folks have been stepping away — not necessarily from God, but from institutions that have felt distant, rigid, or untrustworthy. The DONES are those who have been part of the church — sometimes for years, even decades — but who have reached a point where they feel finished, worn out, or disconnected, and are no longer finding life there.

Does any of this resonate with you? Do you know anyone who used to go to church but doesn’t any more — maybe because of rules about divorce, fears of whether they’ll feel welcome, or whether what happens at church feels compelling and life-giving, filling a need for community? Are there people you know, in your family, or among your friends or acquaintances, who seem disconnected or lonely, hungry for community but can’t seem to find a way to connect? Reading Spellers’ book, I think of the NONES and DONES I’ve met — people who can no longer hear their shepherd’s voice, as John’s gospel put it this morning, and church just doesn’t resonate with them any more.

Here’s what I think: our opportunity in these days is to go back to Ephesus — back to those times when everything was new, before traditions had formed, before the words of the Book of Common Prayer and the 23rd Psalm we read this morning were as familiar and seemingly eternal as our own names spoken in our shepherd’s voice. So if we can’t hear our shepherd’s voice, what ARE we listening to? What does grab our attention? And what are we as a community DOING about it? Are we a community that helps people hear our shepherd’s voice, or one that adds to the noise and confusion? If the church becomes just another voice competing for attention — another set of expectations, another structure to maintain — then we can’t be surprised when people drift away. But if the church is what it was in Acts, a place where people are known, where bread is broken, and lives are shared, where generosity and gladness are tangible — then something else happens. Then the church is not an obligation, but a place where the shepherd’s voice can be heard more clearly.

That’s where I find myself thinking about our Salvations, and about others who have joined our community in these past years — of pandemic, politics, illness, and war, as so much has changed and we’re carrying so much trauma and uncertainty. Like the followers of The Way in the first years after the resurrection, we’re scurrying around with our hands in the air, processing fear, traumatic change, and enormous political uncertainty in real time while simultaneously figuring out how to live our lives together in community, and what really matters in this context.

What really matters is exactly what we read about in Acts : staying in community, sharing meals, and continually promising God, ourselves, and each other that we’ll try every day to do the next right thing, say sorry when we’re wrong and try harder next time, and treat ourselves and each other with love, respect, and dignity. That’s the recipe. Awe will come down upon everyone , as we read today in Acts, because many wonders and signs will be done under these conditions, And day by day the Lord will add to our number those who are being saved… .

The people of God come into this community — NONES or DONES or whoever they are — not because they have spent decades building its structures and traditions, but because they are seeking purpose, connection, a sense of belonging, and a way to listen for God in their lives. What matters most is not programs, rituals, or policies, but authentic relationship. Faith is always relational before it is institutional. And we’d better watch out, because those of us who are here now are the ones who’ll be saved! When we connect with each other, whether we’re giving life advice or helping a friend with their computer, it’s always true that it’s the helper whose heart is transformed. Through our relationships, we’re drawn back into the heart of the gospel.

We’ve seen it happen here at Emmanuel. Our life-giving collaboration with Newport Classical daily builds a future neither organization could have imagined alone. The Community Bridge welcomes everyone to make their home at Emmanuel. Our Salvations teach us what we’d never know without them and expand our hearts beyond what we thought was possible. The Angel Space gives our community a place to gather and form. Yoga gives us new ways to encounter God together. The pollinator garden — both a symbol and a worker bee — helps our whole community blossom and bear fruit, in the Community Garden and beyond. Deep relationship and authentic community bring Jesus among us, so we can hear our shepherd’s voice. Amen

Easter 3

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 11:59:20 GMT

Sermon for the Third Sunday of Easter

“Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen.” (Lk 24:5)

The great challenge of living well into late life is the loss of so many of our long friendships. Those who have been the foundation of our life. The friends of our childhood, the mile markers of our journey along the path of life. I used to quip that I enjoy funerals more than weddings. You’ve been there. At weddings you suit up in tuxedo or a lovely frock. Accept a glass of champagne from a passing server. Sit at a table, stiffly, with eight strangers. Can’t have a conversation, music’s too loud. Head for the parking lot as soon as the cake is cut.

A funeral is a time of shared remembrance. A time of shared loss as you bid farewell to another close friend. It is a time of shared pain, knowing you will not see that loved one in life again. Yet it is a time of celebration, a time of wonder. In shared words of remembrance, you come to know this departed friend, perhaps for the first time. As you know, I was in the Navy. At the funeral of a close friend, I learned from others present that he, too, had been in the Navy. He never spoke about it. A purple heart was discovered in his desk drawer. He never spoke about it. I learned that every week he visited the elderly, offered pastoral care in a local senior residence. He never spoke about it. Who knew?

Josephine and I were married for 55 years. It was only at her funeral that I came to know her. In the spoken remembrances of her friends, so many friends, I discovered the impact of her life on the lives of others. I had known her in many shared experiences. At home, I witnessed her grace in giving life to our six children. On the road, exploring countless new places, together. But I never comprehended the impact of her life on her many, so many friends. The reception following her funeral was standing room only. During the story-telling, a voice cried out: “What is Joso’s telephone number?” The entire room erupted: “203-869-6953!” Everyone knew. In that moment I came to know her, for the first time. I discovered the living, among the dead.

It is the evening of the third day following the Crucifixion . Those who followed Jesus, his disciples, are overwhelmed with grief. The man for whom they abandoned family, friend and livelihood…is dead. The man they traveled with, ate and slept with for three years…is dead. The man who performed miracles, fed the five thousand, raised Lazarus from the grave…is dead. Their hoped-for messiah, the man who came in power and glory to overthrow the yoke of Rome, is dead. They are confused, frightened. Peter denies Jesus three times. Terrified, they go the mattresses within a locked upper room. Perhaps it was a mistake to follow this man. Soon they will discover how little they knew of this man, this Jesus, during his life amongst them.

Very early this morning, Mary Magdalene and her companions go to the tomb. They discover the tomb is empty. There they encounter two strangers robed in dazzling clothes. Who ask of the women: “ Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. ” (Lk 24) In their moment of angelic inspiration, the women understand. Instantly, they remember ‘all that Jesus had told them:’ “that the Son of Man must suffer many things, be rejected by the elders and chief priests and the scribes, be killed, and after three days rise again.” (Mk 8:31) Overcome with joy, Mary and her companions rush to reveal their good news to the disciples. To those same disciples who consistently failed to understand Jesus. Peter is the prisoner of his worldly image of Jesus. He rebukes Jesus as Jesus forecasts his death upon the cross. “Not going to happen,” Peter shrugs it off. Mary’s joyful news will not change the unshakeable views of these eleven men. They dismiss her message as: “Nothing more than the useless chatter of women.”

Late this evening, two men travel the road to Emmaus. They are downcast. They have lost hope in the man Jesus they knew in life. They have turned their back on Jerusalem. They walk away from the place where the Son of God was revealed on the Cross. They were told of the empty tomb. But they departed on their seven-mile journey in the freshness of morning. Before they might have learned of Mary Magdalene’s subsequent encounter with the risen Christ, whom she first mistakes for the gardener. (Jn 20:17ff) [i]

As the two walk along the road, they are overtaken by another traveler. One whom they describe as ‘a stranger.’ Jesus, this ‘stranger,’ asks them: “what have you all been talking about…?” Jesus’ is curious. Did Cleopas and his companion understand the Divine message revealed on the Cross? “What have you been talking about?” Now Cleopas responds to Jesus, the central figure of all that has happened in Jerusalem. His words, heavy with irony, ask: “Jesus, are you the only one who does not understand?” Our hope for the world is dashed. Our messiah, the one we relied on to overthrow the yoke of Roman oppression, is dead. Cleopas and his companion do not recognize this man, the living Jesus, from among the dead.

Jesus gently encourages them: “from childhood, you were raised with the scriptures. Have you foolishly forgotten all you were taught?” So, as they walk on, Jesus, the teacher, encourages them to remember the words of the prophets who promised the coming of the Son of Man. And as the evening shadows lengthen, Jesus instructs the travelers in the words of ancient scripture that prophesy the coming of the Suffering Servant.

Would that you and I were with them to hear the words Jesus spoke as they walked on together, towards Emmaus, that evening.

In December, my family and I witnessed the performance of The Messiah , Handel’s glorious oratorio. In that work of power and beauty, I hear the words that Jesus might well have spoken to his companions as they walked on into the darkening evening, along that road to Emmaus.

In these ancient words of Isaiah, I hear Jesus comforting the travelers, encouraging them to cast off their grief. Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, Saith your God; For ev’ry valley shall be exalted, the crooked straight and the rough places plain. Be joyful, my companions: For unto us a child is born; unto us a son is given” (Isa 40:1; 9:6). Wipe the tears from your eyes. For through his suffering, we receive the blessed gift of salvation. “ He was despised and rejected of men ;” “ Yet with his stripes we are healed ” (Isaiah 53:3-5). No longer is he the prisoner of death: “ Because thou didst not leave his soul in hell ” (Ps 16:10) No, he has risen to the Father: “ Lift up your heads, O ye gates ” (Psalm 24:7). And invites us to enter the universal kingdom of Christ. “ Hallelujah, Hallelujah: for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth. ” (Rev 19:6)

No wonder the travelers appeal to Jesus to stay on with them for a few days. Who wouldn’t want to remain in the presence of this risen Christ. Now, in their closing moments together, in the breaking of bread and sharing of the common cup, Cleopas and his friend recognize the living Jesus. The one whom they thought was dead. And they rush on to share their good news with the eleven disciples, “I know that my redeemer liveth .” (Job 19:25)

As we are called to do, on our journey through life.

[i] Murphy, The Story of Emmaus

Works Referenced:

This is a sermon delivered to the congregation of Emmanuel Church, Newport, RI on April 19, 2026. I am indebted to the following for their insights into the lectionary: Joel B. Green, The Gospel of Luke, Eerdmans (1997); J. Gilbert Miller,PhD, The Road to Emmaus, Illumify Media Global, (2019); Rev. Richard T. Murphy, O.P., The Gospel for Easter Monday, The Story of Emmaus, Dominican House of Studies

Roger C. Bullard, MDiv

April 19, 2026

Easter 2

Mon, 13 Apr 2026 02:31:22 GMT

1 9 When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors were locked where the disciples were, for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” 20 After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. 21 Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” 22 When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. 23 If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the 24 But Thomas (who was called the Twin [a] ), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. 25 So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

26 A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” 27 Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” 28 Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” 29 Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

30 Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples that are not written in this book. 31 But these are written so that you may continue [b] to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, [c] the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.

Good morning, dear people of Emmanuel. Our beloved Andy Ross was scheduled to preach today, but yesterday morning he was felled by a short-term illness. Our prayers are with him. My Lenten spiritual journey has been deeply enriched by The Rev. Paul Dazet, Senior Pastor of Sandy Hook United Methodist Church in Columbus, Indiana. His the writings are posted on Substack as “A Wounded Healer’s Journal”. His Easter Monday post was a quiet, powerful meditation on the gospel for today.

Rev. Dazet’s meditation moves through each moment of the story, drawing profoundly moving conclusions. I decided to read it to you in lieu of the sermon and am honored and grateful to do that now. It is a rich banquet of faith that I think some of you might want to revisit it. In that hope, and out of respect for his full presentation, I’m attaching the link to the post:

A Wounded Healer's Journal - Still in the Room (The Church That Keeps Thomas)

Amen! Alleluia!!

Easter Day

Mon, 06 Apr 2026 17:26:58 GMT

First Sermon

“Happy Easter. They told the story without me again. I was there before the dawn, before the certainty, before the men found their voices. I saw what they now preach. Yet still, my witness is softened, edited, doubted. This Easter, remember: resurrection was not announced from power, but from the margins. From Mary Magdalene, a woman they tried to forget.”

Esther Mombo, Chancellor, School of Theology, St. Paul’s University, Limuru, Kenya

First Sermon

After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. The women arrive at the tomb, discover it’s empty, and everything is changed. So why did the women discover that Jesus rose from the dead? It’s like that in each of the four gospels, with the women carrying the news of the empty tomb back to the eleven remaining disciples. The disciples, for their part, respond in various levels of disbelief and even disregard. Homiletics professor Tom Long identifies the women’s astonishing Easter morning announcement as the first Christian sermon ever preached. This Easter news is the starting point of all Christian preaching.

I have to say that the disciples’ response is not very reassuring to a preacher, and particularly a woman preacher — particularly to me . Did the disciples leap to their feet with the women’s news that the tomb was empty? Did they shout alleluia, and run as fast as they could to Joseph of Aramathea’s rock cut tomb where Jesus had been laid? They did not, of course — except (in Luke’s account) for Peter, who’s never afraid to go all in for the gospel, even if he might look a little foolish doing it. Luke’s gospel also gives us the disciples’ dismissal of the good news, and while English translations vary, the theme is consistent: The women’s good news seemed to them like "an idle tale," "empty talk," "a silly story," "a foolish yarn," "utter nonsense," "sheer humbug."

Why is this first Christian sermon so quickly dismissed, even by the disciples — Jesus’ closest friends and followers — whom you’d think would be overjoyed to accept it? Do the disciples reject the message because it’s carried by women? That’s a possibility, but I think it’s way too simple an answer. I think that the women have definitely been identified and set apart, but for reasons much more nuanced and subtle than sexism. First, preparing bodies for burial in many times and cultures is tender, loving, motherly, and achingly sad work, even more difficult after witnessing the loved one’s brutal, unjust, and intentional killing. So, especially in that time and place, the women would have been the expected actors in the scene. Also, there’s something specifically important about women’s connection with building and teaching faith, the role that women are given as the first preachers of the good news in each of the four gospels.

In her excellent book Band of Angels , New Testament scholar Kate Cooper thinks beyond gender to the almost universal role of women, specifically and particularly in the first few centuries of the Common Era. Women shaped community, culture, belief, and civilization itself by rearing families, which included moral and ethical development and forming individual and community belief through teaching and storytelling — forming humanity from birth. What if the women found the empty tomb — and preached the first sermon of the resurrection to the disbelieving disciples — to separate clearly the gospel message from politics and power, instead weaving it into the very fabric of families and communities through nurturing, feeding, supporting, and storytelling?

During Eastertide, we’ll see many women in the Book of Acts — Lydia, the seller of purple cloth, Dorcas, Mary, Rhoda, Prisca, and others. Women were the heads of large households — even households that were leaders in commerce, like small businesses. Early Christians worshiped in house churches , made up of extended families and all the domestic, craft, and trade workers that supported the life of the household. When the head of the household converted, the whole household converted along with her. Just for context here in our lives, Emmanuel has its own roots in house church, with domestic workers, tradespeople, and craftsmen meeting in the kitchens of Newport’s big houses until donors from Trinity formed the trust that built and holds Emmanuel Church today. Notice how many of the Apostle Paul’s letters begin with greetings to women, and to their households.

The gospel of love is a tender and powerful message, raised up from the grassroots in families, households, and communities, and not legislated or enforced top down through empire. When the gospel message is co-opted by power, its essential nature changes. The Crusades, colonialism, many wars, and slavery are just a few examples of how Christianity is distorted when it is appropriated and deployed by power, rather than held and nurtured in the bosom of the community. And while ancient Jewish texts prohibited accepting evidence from women because of the “levity and temerity of their sex,” I think there’s more to the disciples’ dismissal of the women’s news of the empty tomb than either gender discrimination or the separation of Jesus’ gospel of love from politics and power.

Isn’t that just how many of us respond? We don’t listen, we disregard, we try to tame, domesticate, or rationalize the news, because the resurrection is a really bold claim, and taking it seriously is risky business . Putting our trust in Mary Magdalene’s and the other Mary’s first Christian sermon — or any sermon ever preached from the core message of the empty tomb — means taking the risk of letting the gospel affect our lives . This is terrifying — risky business indeed. We heard this morning the guards shook and became like dead men at the sight of the angel, before they had even noticed the empty tomb. And Mary Magdalene and the other Mary hear the angel’s message and run to find the risen Jesus with BOTH fear and great joy .

As Wheaton College New Testament professor Esau McCaulley wrote, they are afraid because they recognize that God’s power is on the loose and might very well unsettle the world . Author Annie Dillard also wondered whether modern Christians really understood the unbridled power of the gospel of love.

The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT [on…] Sunday morning[s]. It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews.

I’m not saying you’re not safe here at church, any more than the women preaching the first ever Easter sermon were saying the empty tomb was not good news. I’m saying the good news is powerful, and our response to it can be powerful too. It’s easy to miss among the Alleluias, but the Marys’ fear was reasonable. They had gone to the tomb to bury Jesus. They knew the rituals of grief. But they had no idea how to be leaders in God’s great plan of salvation.

Is that us today? We know how to grieve. We know how to name the things that wound us: aging, loss, illness, unemployment, food insecurity, housing scarcity, war, fractures in our common life. But to partner with the living God in reconciling ourselves to one another, to the stranger, to our political life, and even to those who disagree with us — that is another matter. I have to say that I totally get that the Marys were both joyful AND terrified. What if — just what if — we leave here today like we’ve just heard the women’s Easter sermon for the first time? Not like it’s old hat, or "an idle tale," or "a foolish yarn,” but instead the mind-bending news that love, not death, has the last word? What if we leave here today in fear and great joy (after a lovely coffee hour and Easter egg hunt of course!) and hightail it back home to our own Galilees, away from the death of the cross and the tomb and back into life in the world, healing the sick, casting out demons, feeding the hungry, and welcoming the stranger. Alleluia and Amen.

Good Friday

Sat, 04 Apr 2026 17:19:44 GMT

Anthrakia

The Passion story never gets easier to hear. There’s part of me that says we just need to let that terrifying story speak for itself while we rest here for 12 minutes in stunned silence, taking it all in. I’ve been an Episcopalian all my life — long before I was ordained a priest now almost seven years ago — so I’ve heard, and read, this story for as many years as I am old, and it always just knocks me back. One time at All Saints’ Atlanta, where our family worshiped for 35 years or so, a woman in the congregation was so moved during the reading of the passion that she began to weep and wail, howling with the fresh grief of someone experiencing the passion story for the first time. While it’s also true that she was part of a significant unhoused population in All Saints’ urban neighborhood, and had emotional and behavioral health concerns that contributed to her distress, was her response out of measure with the horror we’ve just heard again? Do we grow numb to the violence, the injustice, and the steadfast, aching, shining presence of Jesus’ perfect integrity even unto death through the passage of years, translations, history, and cultural change? Maybe. It’s horrible, and we can’t lose sight of that.

Elaine Pagels, renowned historian and scholar of early Christianity, describes the different issues at stake in the Passion story told in the gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, versus the Passion story in John. They all tell the same story, but bring out different details and emphases. John’s version, Pagels writes, is “deliberately theological” and therefore “more resistant to straightforward historical reading… .” In John, the passion is not just an execution story but part of a cosmic drama in which Jesus is clearly presented the divine controller of the events as they unfold, fulfilling prophecies from Exodus, Zechariah, and the Psalms. John’s gospel interprets the crucifixion as a revelation of Jesus’ identity, rather than simply the culmination of suffering and abandonment.

Well, that’s a very meta view. But all the same, there has to be something in this story that is both horrifying and all about Jesus’ faithfulness and steady insistence on love. There has to be something here that points us back to Galilee, moving us out of the tomb and into the steady work of God’s good news of belonging and inclusion. Let’s just agree with the eminent Dr. Pagels’ academic assertion that the project of John’s gospel is to tell the story of Jesus’ divinity. But now, let’s lean in close to the text to find the hope and the trail of holy breadcrumbs that lead us back to Galilee, to Jesus’ life of loving, feeding, sharing, and radical inclusion that he suffered and died for in order to show us what God looks like in human skin.

While there’s a glimmer of hope in each gospel’s passion story, in John’s gospel, I think it’s all about the charcoal . Now, are you with me here? We read in John’s Passion, Now the servants and the guards made a charcoal fire because it was cold, and they were standing around it and warming themselves. Peter also was standing with them and warming himself. REALLY? A charcoal fire to warm themselves? We all know that charcoal burns hot and fast, and is and always has been an ideal cooking fuel. Charcoal is not what we would put in our fireplaces on a chilly winter night (or an early spring night in Newport). And even though the passion story in each of the gospels is one of the longest readings in our church year, there is not a wasted word. Every detail is important.

The word for charcoal in New Testament Greek, anthrakia , is used only twice in the New Testament, both times in John’s gospel. The first time is here, when the text tells us that the servants and guards made a charcoal fire because they were cold. The second is later in Galilee, when Jesus shows up on the beach, risen from the dead, to give the disciples some fishing advice and then cook their catch for breakfast over a charcoal fire. Coal fires are set apart in the Hebrew Bible, for the burning of incense, and for purification. In Chapter 6 of Isaiah, just for example, a seraph uses a pair of tongs to touch a live coal taken from the altar to Isaiah’s mouth, purifying him for prophecy. And just in case we didn’t notice the first time, John’s gospel repeats that Peter is warming himself by the charcoal fire — first when he denies Jesus for the first time, and again as the cock crowed after his second and third denials.

Fast forward to the charcoal fire on the beach, which is not just to roast the disciples’ abundant catch for breakfast. We are meant to remember Isaiah, the seraph, and the burning coal that prepared Isaiah to speak for God. On the beach, Jesus asks Peter the same question three times, as many times as Peter had denied him at Gethsemane: Do you love me, Simon Peter ? Peter answers, You know I do, Lord , his distress and conviction increasing with each repetition. By the end, Peter is not simply being forgiven. He is restored, purified, and prepared for the work ahead. We can see the trail of holy breadcrumbs from the glow of the charcoal embers in Gethsemane, leading us from the cross back to our own Galilees, back to the main point of Jesus’ ministry: inclusion, welcome, sharing, feeding, and caring for each other. Feed my sheep. Feed my sheep. Feed my lambs. Today, we stand before the cross. But even here — flattened by the dark horror of the passion — we can see our way by the light of the glowing coals, and follow the familiar aroma of the charcoal cooking fire, back home to Galilee.

Going back to our Lenten Episcopalian orthodoxy for a minute, remember we fast from Alleluias until Easter. The Book of Common Prayer codifies this practice, adding after every Alleluia — just check it out if you don’t believe me — [ In Lent, Alleluia is omitted .]. After divinity school, I had a fellowship at St. George’s College in Jerusalem, where I walked through the Church’s liturgical year with Christians of all denominations, learning their traditions. I learned — with delight and amazement — that our Orthodox Christian friends in Jerusalem don’t fast from Alleluias during Lent! In fact, like people who already know how the story ends, they say Alleluia more during Lent than any other time of year, remembering the resurrection even at the cross. Now, especially after Bishop Knisely’s excellent sermon from this very pulpit Tuesday extolling obedience as the primary feature of a good priest, I’m not recommending that we should just break out the Alleluias on Good Friday. I’m just saying that the horror of this moment on the cross is not the final word. We find our way back to Galilee around the table, in the breaking of the bread and in the prayers, by the glowing embers of the charcoal fire. And now we wait in hope. Amen

Maundy Thursday

Sat, 04 Apr 2026 17:01:26 GMT

Palm Sunday

Sun, 29 Mar 2026 21:29:27 GMT

Lent 5

Mon, 23 Mar 2026 19:24:34 GMT

Lent 4

Mon, 23 Mar 2026 19:22:30 GMT

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Lent 3

Sun, 08 Mar 2026 23:54:10 GMT

The Samaritan Woman

The story of Jesus’ meeting with the unnamed Samaritan woman at the well is a landmark. It is the longest conversation that Jesus has with anyone in the Gospels and it’s among the most important.

Many of us have heard sermons that dwelt on the short exchange between Jesus and the woman about her multiple marriages. They cast doubt on her virtue. Why had she been married five times? Why was she coming to the well alone and at noon instead of in the coolth of the early morning? Was it because other village women shunned her?

I’m afraid I preached at least one of those myself.

Laura Holmes, Wesley Seminary New Testament Professor, set the record straight. She noted that in Hebrew scripture wells were important meeting places of “Israel’s first families”. Notably Jacob met his wife Rachel at a well, and at noon (Genesis 29:1–20). Moses met his wife at a well, too. (Exodus 2:15-22). It means that to first century Jewish audiences, Jesus’ meeting with the Samaritan woman at a well could have honorable—even romantic—associations.

As for the divorces, women simply did not have the authority to divorce their husbands. Instead, Holmes wrote, the Samaritan woman “most likely had [lost] five husbands due to tragedies, either death or being divorced or both.”

What’s important in their brief, pivotal exchange is the woman’s realization that Jesus is no ordinary man, but “a prophet”.

Let’s turn to this remarkable story.

Jesus is seated by a well, waiting alone while the disciples have gone in search of food. The Samaritan woman approaches the well, and Jesus asks her for a drink. Surprised at his speaking to her, she answers by clearly stating the boundaries that kept Jews and Samaritans apart. Undeterred, Jesus presses on with a baffling statement: “If you knew the gift of God and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.” (In Greek, the word here translated living water, also meant a stream or river—so it could be taken literally.)

Jesus’ behavior borders on inappropriate and his speech is strange. In her place what would you have done? She could have turned away, but she stands up to him. She notes the practical fact that Jesus wants a drink but has no bucket. And she challenges his authority. “Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob?” Jesus goes on to make the cryptic, but compelling promise: “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.”

Her heartfelt reply: “Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water.”

Having realized that Jesus is a prophet, the woman takes the lead in the conversation. She goes directly and deeply into matters of faith. She had mentioned their common ancestor, Jacob. Now she brings up the beliefs that divide Jews and Samaritans.

Jesus offers a vision of faith that transcends every division, “God is spirit, and those who worship God must worship in spirit and truth.” In other words, God isn’t defined by places or ancestors or practice. God is spirit. God welcomes all who worship in spirit and truth.

The woman follows, “I know that Messiah is coming….When he comes, he will proclaim all things to us.”

Jesus said to her, “I am he, the one who is speaking to you.”

“I am he”.

You recall that “I AM” ( ἐγώ εἰμι (egō eimi) are the very words that God uses to name God’s self to Moses in Exodus 3:14. This is the first of the IAM statements that are unique to John. While they all allude to Jesus’ identity with and in God, only here is Jesus explicit.

I AM the Messiah , Jesus declares—not to his disciples nor a close friend, not to the Pharisee Nicodemus who had visited Jesus at night in the episode before this one, but to a foreign woman, an outsider, a complete stranger.

It’s a quick, astonishing turn of events. Their dialogue transforms the woman—and Jesus. Her intense engagement, her questioning, her pursuit of truth led Jesus to his momentous declaration.

She rushes back to share the news with her neighbors. The woman’s water jar was a precious possession. Her leaving it behind is symbolic, an important sign of her conversion. In the short time of their encounter, she has moved from being an ordinary woman to a seeker to a disciple to an evangelist. She has become the first apostle—the first sent out. And she is arguably the most successful apostle in the gospels. After all, her witness led to the conversion of a whole Samaritan city.

What does this story mean today for us as people of faith?

I think it’s the lesson that Rev. Carter gave us in his moving sermon last week: we are called to share our faith.

“Evangelize?!!”

Never for the Frozen Chosen! When I was growing up Episcopalians were discrete, reluctant to “impose” their faith. Then many leaders in politics, business, and society were Episcopalians. That was in the 50s-60s--when almost “everybody” went to church. Mainline, moderate denominations ruled the cultural perception of the Protestant church: us, Presbyterians, Methodists, Lutherans, American Baptists, United Church of Christ.

People of my generation quit going to church in droves. We probably thought that the church didn’t need us, that the loving God, the compassionate, inclusive Jesus we knew from our prayers, our hymns, our communities didn’t need us.

We were wrong. It’s clear that as membership in the mainline denominations declined, other, very different visions of Jesus rose to fill the vacuum in the culture at large. The Jesus of love was eclipsed by an angry God of fear.

I’m learning more about this from the Substack posts of people “in recovery” from that vengeful vision of God. Like The Rev. Beau Stringer. Now a Methodist minister, Stringer grew up and became a pastor in a strict, closed evangelical tradition. There, he says, he heard 100 sermons on hellfire for every one on the Beatitudes or on the commandment to love our neighbor as ourselves. Now “Becoming Mainline”, he celebrates the loving Jesus we know from the Gospels. And he revels in the freedom we have to question, to discuss, to challenge, to grow and to change—as the Samaritan woman did.

In a podcast this week Diana Butler Bass echoed Rev. Carter’s call. She was impressed with James Talarico, who shared his faith in a loving Jesus as he campaigned to be the Democratic candidate for Senate in Texas. Bass urged all of us “quiet Christians” to follow suit, to speak up gently, authentically about the Jesus we know. “If faith is one of the things that drives you,” she said, “tell people about it. Tell them why.” When we do, she noted “a different Jesus comes up: one who wants justice, goodness, compassion, care for the least of these, who sets a big table and feeds everyone, bringing love and healing, not exclusion, violence, and hatred.”

God knows—we all know—how much the world needs tenderness, love, and care. So let each of us speak up about the goodness of God that we know from scripture, from our prayers and songs, from our community here at Emmanuel, and in places we serve, like the MLK Center.

Let us do that: for God’s sake and for the sake of this beautiful, broken world.

Lent 2

Mon, 02 Mar 2026 02:35:23 GMT

Lent 1

Mon, 23 Feb 2026 13:15:51 GMT

Ash Wednesday

Thu, 19 Feb 2026 13:43:23 GMT

This Lent I will turn atheism to ashes ^[1]

Around 4:30 today as daylight dimmed, Bobby and I burned the palms from last Palm Sunday in the churchyard to make the ash we’re using tonight. After the Litany of Penitence, we’ll trace a cross of ashes on your forehead with these words from the third chapter of Genesis, the very beginning of humanity’s long story of life with God: for dust you are, and to dust you will return .

The Hebrew Bible tells countless stories of God’s people using ashes to express grief or repentance. Jonah warned the people of Nineva to repent by fasting and wearing sackcloth and ashes so that God would spare them. Job repented in dust and ashes . Jeremiah calls for repentance by saying: O daughter of my people, gird on sackcloth, roll in the ashes . The prophet Daniel turned to the Lord God, pleading in earnest prayer, with fasting, sackcloth, and ashes. The gospels remember sackcloth and ashes as Jewish practices, and early Christians continued to associate ashes with turning our hearts back to God, recorded as far back as the gospels in the first century, and in Tertullian’s writings in the second. From the first century of the Common Era, they sprinkled ashes on their heads and traced ash crosses on their foreheads to mark their intentions of faith.

Now, I’ve been an Episcopalian all my life, and I grew up in the minority in a community of Roman Catholics, so I’m used to these questions: What are you giving up for Lent? What will be your Lenten fast? I’ve heard — and probably asked — these questions many, many times. And — maybe like you — I’ve “given things up” for Lent. I’ve fasted from chocolate, coffee, sweets, and wine. And I wonder whether this was really what Jesus was up to during his 40 days and nights in the wilderness. I wonder if I have grown in discipleship from these disciplines over the Lents of my lifetime, and I wonder if there is a different way to think about it. John the Baptist preached repentance, which in the original Greek of the New Testament would have been the word metanoite — which means a change in the way you see things.

The Latin translation of metanoite is repentance. There are many associated words in English — penalty, punishment, punitive, penal system — and so the use of the word repentance in John the Baptist’s cry in our English translation of the gospels gets all tied up in those associated words. We start to think of repentance as punishment — self-denial, abstinence, and even suffering. We think of repentance as stopping doing bad things rather than seeing and experiencing the world and our relationships in a new way. And sometimes it seems that we need to suffer — or to give things up — for that punishment.

Was Jesus suffering in the wilderness those 40 days and nights? Maybe. Scripture tells us that he was tempted — he wrestled with hard ideas like earthly power, ego, control over his future, and obedience to the life he was choosing. But did he give up chocolate — or more likely in his Ancient Near East context, dates, olive oil, or wine? I’m not sure that was the focal point of Jesus’ experience in the wilderness, even though the gospels said that he fasted. Jesus was working during that time. Jesus was preparing himself for his own earthly ministry, and Lent is the time we prepare for our own earthly ministry — what comes next for us after Easter.

How can we use Lenten fasting to keep our focus on our best intentions of being the people of God we mean to be? I read an essay in The Times by British columnist Giles Coren about his decision to give up atheism for Lent . Coren is part of the growing majority in Western countries that, even if raised to identify as Christian or Jewish, does not attend church or synagogue or hold or practice any faith. The essay is a tender, funny, and accessible description of fasting from skepticism, exercising the discipline , and flexing and strengthening the muscle of faith . I commend the whole essay — called This Lent I will turn atheism to ashes — to your attention.

But the gist of Coren’s writing is the discipline of presence , of simply showing up for the holy, and not getting ourselves all dug in about what we don’t believe, and what we don’t agree with, but committing, and remaining open to discover, what we can commit to, how we do connect, and when we can endorse and affirm. I think it’s really helpful to talk about Lenten disciplines, which expands our thinking beyond fasting — or giving something up — to a practice we take on or commit to keeping. Discipline — you hear the root word there — is also how we become disciples , that is practitioners of our faith. And a huge part of becoming — and discovering to our own surprise that we are — disciples is simply showing up for each other and witnessing each other’s lives, whether triumphs, joys, tragedies, or sorrows.

Any time we connect with each other in love and compassion, even through pain and loss, we are fasting from skepticism , exercising discipline , and flexing and strengthening the muscle of faith . Often we, and our past sorrows, are redeemed by these connections and we are made whole again. We get a “do-over” on a traumatic experience or pain that can help us to relate to that event in a new, more positive way, knowing ourselves as disciples — people of kindness, empathy, faith, and connection. The Lenten discipline I do commit to, with all my heart, is to listen with compassion and empathy to your lived experience and context, always ready to learn something new or change my mind. Let’s make it our Lenten discipline to walk together as who we are: one community of many, and together the body of Christ. I believe that this is the fast that God wants. As Bishop Deon K. Johnson, of the Episcopal Diocese of Missouri writes:

^[1] Giles Coren, “This Lent I will turn atheism to ashes,” The Times Friday, March 7, 2025.

Sermons

Easter 4

Ephesus Again

Ephesus Again

Easter 3

Sermon for the Third Sunday of Easter

Easter 2

Easter Day

First Sermon

First Sermon

Good Friday

Anthrakia

Maundy Thursday

Palm Sunday

Lent 5

Lent 4

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Lent 3

The Samaritan Woman

Lent 2

Lent 1

Ash Wednesday

This Lent I will turn atheism to ashes [1] ﻿

This Lent I will turn atheism to ashes ^[1]