That Which We Have Heard & Known

Occasional thoughts of an Anglican Episcopal priest

The Gospel Is Off Center: Sermon for the 22nd Sunday after Pentecost 2026 (RCL Proper 25A)

Several weeks ago, I arrived here at Trinity too early for the late service, but too late for the education offering, so I sat down in the nave and watched the sacristans setting things up. I noticed that the Gospel Book for a while was not placed squarely on its stand, but was off to one side. Now, to be fair, it didn’t remain that way: it was soon picked up by the acolyte who carried it in the procession and, when she later replaced it on the stand, it was centered. Nonetheless, it reminded me of the director of the Altar Guild in the first church I served as a priest, a lady named Jackie.

Jackie was a stickler when it came to the set up of the altar. The candles’ bases had to be placed exactly two inches in from each end of the altar, exactly two inches back from the front edge; the linens had to be placed just so; the chalice had to be centered; the veil on the chalice had to be draped evenly; the orphrey band on the veil had to be centered and, if it had a directional design, that design had to be running the proper direction.

With Jackie, there was no other way. There was no easier or more relaxed way to do things. No middle ground. No compromises.

Jackie could spot something out of place, out of balance, or off center at a hundred paces. And if it was, she’d let you know. Not in a mean way, though. She never raised her voice; she was never snarky. She would just mention the error … with just a hint of disappointment in her voice.

I only worked with Jackie for two years, but 40 years later if I notice that something in the way an altar is set up for worship is out of balance, the voice I hear in my head remarking on it is Jackie’s. So that morning, sitting here in the nave of Trinity Cathedral, when I noticed the Gospel Book not placed squarely on its stand, I heard Jackie saying, “The Gospel is off center.”

Now, as I know you are all aware, we are in the midst of a midterm election, a time of national decision-making. For months we have been treated not only to the various candidates’ signs, emails, texts, phone calls, and broadcast media ads, but also to the predictions, pronouncements, and unsolicited advice of pundits and prognosticators. They seem to have increased in volume and frequency as early voting has gotten underway. And the great majority of those advisers seem to promote what they call “moderation” or “centrism.” “If [a certain party] want[s] to win, they need to start driving in the middle lane,” advocated one headline.[1] “Moving to the center is the way to win,” echoed another.[2] “Americans favor compromise,” proclaimed a third.[3]

But when I read those news items, Jackie’s voice keeps repeating itself in my head, “The Gospel is off center.” And as I pondered today’s lessons, the Gospel story of Jesus’ conversation with the lawyer who asks about the most important commandment and the 19th chapter of Leviticus from which part of Jesus’ answer is drawn, that observation – “The Gospel is off center” – kept resonating with me.

When asked about the commandments, Jesus quoted two verses from the Torah: Deuteronomy 4:5 which says, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might”[4], and a part of Leviticus 19:18 which (as we heard in the lesson today) reads in full, “You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against any of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the Lord.”[5]

The 19th chapter of Leviticus has been called a “sort of a one-chapter summary of Jewish values, laws, and ethics,”[6] a kind of Cliff’s Notes encapsulation of Torah. After a section on religious ritual, it is organized in “pentads,” groups of five precepts relating to diverse duties which the law of holiness requires from person to person. “[T]he diversity of topics covered [demonstrates that]… Holy living is a comprehensive way of life. It touches on every aspect of … experience.”[7]

Our lesson from Leviticus 19 this morning combines the first two verses of the chapter with one of these pentads which concludes with the admonition to love one’s neighbor and the reminder that God is Lord.

In the first two verses of the chapter, Moses is instructed to teach this summary of the Law to the Israelites beginning, as we heard, with God’s statement: “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy.”[8] This is not simply a blessing or a promise. The original Hebrew makes it clear that it is an order, an imperative admonition. This is not God saying that God will make the Hebrews, or us, holy; God is saying that being holy is our responsibility. That’s what the Law of Moses and the Gospel are both all about, being holy and –– and guess what? –– there’s no “moderation” about that, no “centrist compromise,” no half-way point between whatever is not holy and holiness.

“The Gospel is off center!” As Dr. John Bishop of the Roman Catholic organization FOCUS has noted, the Christian faith “does not allow us to compromise. And it requires us to be radical.”[9] Similarly, the late Presbyterian urban missionary Tim Keller said

Christians should never seek a middle ground for its own sake. *** [Christian] doctrine is not a middle way. It “diagonalizes” the alternatives. It “subversively fulfills” the alternatives. That is, it fully critiques both and yet fulfills the best aspirations of both at the same time, without merely combining them or borrowing from them. The biblical position is not somewhere on a spectrum between alternatives—it is off the spectrum yet acknowledges the concerns of all the positions.[10]

When Jesus is asked in today’s Gospel lesson what the greatest commandment is, he answers, “Love.” The most important part of being holy is loving our God and loving our neighbor. The two are inextricably linked, as the writer of the First Letter of John well understood. He wrote:

Those who say, “I love God,” and hate a brother or sister are liars, for those who do not love a brother or sister, whom they have seen, cannot love God, whom they have not seen. The commandment we have from him is this: those who love God must love their brothers and sisters also.[11]

Love them. Not “like them,” not “tolerate them,” not “get along with them,” not “put up with them.” Love them! “The Gospel is off-center.” It’s all the way to that extreme. We must go all the way: love God and love our neighbors as ourselves.

I don’t have to tell you what that looks like. You already know. I know you’ve heard it preached from this pulpit many times because I have sat here with you listening to the same sermons and hearing the same scripture. It’s in the 25th chapter of Matthew’s Gospel:

I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.[12]

Not “I was hungry and you gave me food stamps with restricted purchasing power;” not “I was a stranger and you made me go to immigration court;” not “I was sick and you gave me limited insurance coverage.” There’s no “moderation,” no “centrist compromise” about these things: “The Gospel is off center!” As Pastor Keller said, it’s not even on the continuum. It’s its own thing and makes its own demands.

But we live on that continuum. Every day we face decisions on the political spectrum and right now, as I noted, we are in the midst of an election. How we behave in the midst of the campaign, whether we are candidates or voters, and the positions we take and act upon, including our votes, ought to be influenced by our Christian beliefs. If they are not, something is wrong. As Pope Paul VI and the Roman Catholic bishops of Vatican II wrote in 1965 in the pastoral constitution on the church in the modern world entitled Gaudium et Spes, “Th[e] split between the faith which many profess and their daily lives deserves to be counted among the more serious errors of our age.”[13] Our Christian faith must be reflected in our ballots!

Now, I do not intend to tell you who to vote for nor how to vote on the issues. The IRS may have changed the rules about preachers endorsing candidates, but I continue to think that that is wrong, and I will not do it. What I will do, however, is tell you that my religion impacts my voting, and what I can do is share with you how the “off-center Gospel” informs my decisions, and you can do with that what you will.

For example, in Leviticus 19, fleshing out the love-your-neighbor rule, God additionally commands,“The alien who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you; you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt.”[14] So I ask which candidates are most likely to adopt policies that treat immigrants and refugees with dignity and respect, and which are likely to adopt policies that fail to do so, because when I vote for them, their actions and their policies become mine. Christian moral teaching is clear that, although sinful behavior is a personal act, “we have a responsibility for the sins committed by others when we cooperate in them,” especially if we do so “by ordering, advising, praising, or approving them,” which a vote for a candidate certainly does.[15]

The prophet Micah told us that what God requires of us is “to do justice and to love kindness.”[16] It matters to my politics as a Christian that I cast my vote in a manner that reflects this, so I ask, “Which candidates’ behavior and proposed policies come closest to doing justice and loving kindness?”

Jesus suggested that the Father blesses those who do the things I listed from Matthew 25 and turns away those who do not, so it matters to me which candidates’ and which parties’ proposed programs and policies come closest to accomplishing those things.

When Jesus was arrested, one of his disciples drew a sword and cut off someone’s ear, but Jesus said, “Put your sword back into its place; for all who take the sword will perish by the sword.”[17] So I want to know which candidates and which parties are less likely to make use of the modern-day equivalent of a sword in their statecraft and policy making.

I could go on, but I think you get my point. I need not vote for religion to have a place in American politics because like it or not, it already does. Religious faith informs the vote of many of the electorate, including me. I try to vote in accordance with Christ’s teachings because my religion has a place in my politics. And because “the Gospel is off center,” I am not a centrist.

Nine years ago, as the campaigning was getting underway for another midterm election under the same president who is now in office, Prof. Kevin Watson of Asbury Theological Seminary wrote an essay entitled My Struggle with Centrism. He ended it with these words:

For Christians, there is no inherent value in being centrist. In fact, centrism is by definition an unstable concept that is fundamentally bound to the prevailing winds of culture. To be in the center, or the middle of extremes, you first have to know what the extremes are. And they are constantly changing. And then you have to move your beliefs and values to the center. This means that one’s beliefs and values are not first informed by Scripture, or the deep riches of the Christian tradition, but by one’s cultural context, whether it is accountable to the gospel or not.

There is simply no way of knowing ahead of time that following Jesus will lead you between two extremes. And Christians should be committed to following Jesus, whether doing so means we receive the respect of the broader culture that comes from being a centrist, or whether we are despised by the culture we live within as radical extremists.

Put differently, I cannot imagine a reading of the Gospels that could convincingly argue that Jesus was a centrist. Centrists, after all, are rarely crucified.[18]

He’s right. Centrists are rarely crucified, but holy people often are, and “You shall be holy, for … the Lord your God [is] holy.”

I’m confident that the people of Trinity Cathedral, if you have not already done so, will vote in this election, that you will do your part in the important work of national decision-making. As you do, I encourage you to contemplate today’s Gospel lesson, the two greatest commandments –– love God and love your neighbor –– and to consider carefully how they may inform your vote.

Remember, the Gospel “does not allow us to compromise. And it requires us to be radical.”[19]

The Gospel is off center! Amen.

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This homily was offered by the Rev. Dr. C. Eric Funston on the 25th Sunday after Pentecost, October 25, 2026, to the people of Trinity Episcopal Cathedral, Cleveland, Ohio, where Fr. Funston was guest preacher.

The lessons for the service were Leviticus 19:1-2,15-18; Psalm 1; 1 Thessalonians 2:1-8; and St. Matthew 22:34-46. These lessons can be read at The Lectionary Page.

The illustration is a picture of the “off center” Gospel Book on the altar of Trinity Cathedral.

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Notes:
Click on footnote numbers to link back to associated text. Unless otherwise indicated, all quotations from Scripture are from the New Revised Version Updated Edition.

[1] Douglas Schoen and Carly Cooperman, If Democrats want to win, they need to start driving in the middle lane, The Hill, October 27, 2025

[2] The Editorial Board, The Partisans Are Wrong: Moving to the Center is the Way to Win, The New York Times, October 26, 2025

[3] Daniel Miller, Americans favor compromise from politicians to get things done in government, poll shows, Live Now Fox, September 29, 2025

[4] Deuteronomy 4:5 (NRSVUe)

[5] Leviticus 19:18 (NRSVUe)

[6] Rabbi Richard Address, K’doshim (Leviticus 19:1-20:27) A Holiness Formula, Jewish Sacred Aging, May 9, 2024

[7] Rebecca Hancock, Commentary on Leviticus 19:1-2, 15-18, The Text This Week, October 25, 2026

[8] Leviticus 19:2 (NRSVUe)

[9] John Bishop, Catholic Social Teaching and the New Evangelization, FOCUS, July 23, 2020

[10] Tim Keller (1955-2023), X-thread, Oct 8, 2021, citing Christopher Watkin and Daniel Strange. See, e.g., Christopher Watkin, Biblical Critical Theory: How the Bible’s Unfolding Story Makes Sense of Modern Life and Culture (Zondervan Academic, Grand Rapids:2022), and Daniel Strange, Strange Times: It’s Not Rocket Science … Even If It Is, Themelios, Vol. 48, No. 2 (August 2023), p. 273

[11] 1 John 4:20-21 (NRSVUe)

[12] Matthew 25:35-36 (NRSVUe)

[13] Pope Paul VI, Gaudium et Spes, Paragraph 43, December 7, 1965

[14] Leviticus 19:34 (NRSVUe)

[15] The Proliferation of Sin, Catechism of the Catholic Church, Part 3, Section 1, Chapter 1, Article 8, Paragraph V (1993)

[16] Micah 6:8 (NRSVUe)

[17] Matthew 26:52 (NRSVUe)

[18] Kevin M. Watson, My Struggle with Centrism, Kevin M. Watson Blog, September 7, 2017

[19] Bishop, op. cit.

A Dual-Nature Ordination Anniversary Meditation: June 21, 1996 (Pentecost 4, RCL Year A)

I am not preaching today, the 35th anniversary of my ordination to the priesthood. If I were, I might offer something like this, but then again I might not. These are simply my thoughts apropos of today’s gospel lesson (Matthew 10:24-39) in light of the day. Particularly Jesus disturbing statement, “Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword…. and one’s foes will be members of one’s own household.”[1] I would start the sermon with the story of a dog.

In November, 1941, a brick maker named Carlo Soriani found an injured puppy by the side of the road in the village of Luco di Mugello, which is a neighborhood in metropolitan Florence. He took the puppy home, nursed it back to health, and then he and his wife adopted the dog and named it “Fido” (pronouncedo “Fee-doh” in Italian), a name meaning “faithful.”

Mr. Soriani worked at a brick kiln some miles away from his home. Every morning he went to the bus stop at the Piazza Dante in the center of Luco di Mugello accompanied by Fido; he’d get on the bus and Fido would go back home. Every evening, Fido would go to the bus stop and wait for Carlo, and then they’d walk home together. Everybody in Luco di Mugello got to know Fido.

On December 30, 1943, the brick kiln was bombed and Carlo Soriani was killed. That evening, Fido went to the bus stop like he always did, but Carlo didn’t get off the bus. Fido went home, but he returned to the bus stop the next evening to wait and, again, no Carlo. He did it again the next evening, and the next, and the next. Fido went to the bus stop to wait for Carlo every evening for the next 15 years, until he died, at the bus stop, on the night June 9, 1958. Mrs. Soriani buried Fido in the municipal cemetery next to her husban Carlo.

The village erected a statue of Fido at the bus stop in the Piazza Dante which is still there; it bears the legend “A Fido, Esempio di Fedelta (To Fido, Paragon of Faithfulness)”. I learned of Fido and saw his statue when, in June of 1969, I spent part of the summer in Florence with my brother Rick and his wife Jan. They were there because Jan was working on her doctorate in Italian literature; Rick and I went to the Dante Aleghieri Scuola per Stranieri and tried to learn to speak Italian. It was a great summer, one of those formative experiences that stay with you all your days.

Twenty-two years after that summer, as I mentioned before, on June 21, 1991, the Rt. Rev. Stewart Clarke Zabriskie, then Bishop of Nevada, and the college of presbyters of that diocese, laid hands on me and made me a priest. So this is a day of great happiness, because the gift of the priesthood has been a source of profound joy through all these three-and-a-half decades. To share the gospel of love, to preside at the Holy Eucharist, to stand with people at the brightest and at the darkest times of their lives – at weddings, at baptisms, at hospital bedsides, at gravesides – and to offer them God’s blessing and the message of hope; these are the sources of that joy. So today I celebrate.

But it is also an anniversary of profound grief.

Two years to the day after my ordination, Rick, who was my only sibling, died of brain cancer, glioblastoma, the same disease that killed the late Senator John McCain. It’s a horrible disease, invariably fatal. Back when Rick was diagnosed the average lifespan following onset of symptoms was six months; for Rick it was nine. His first signs manifested in October 1992, but were misdiagnosed as a stroke. It wasn’t determined to be cancer until January. When it was, he set himself a goal: to live long enough to see his daughter Saskia, his firstborn, graduate from college, to be there for her on that big day in May. To make that goal required some truly heroic and, frankly, sacrificial palliative measures.

Rick was the vice-president of San Diego State University in California, where he was also Dean of the Faculty and chair of the Department of Political Science. He had authored several books and scholarly articles; he spoke four languages, loved baroque music, read English and French mystery novels, and collected modern art. He gave all that up in order to be with Saskia on her graduation day. To extend his life long enough that he could do so, neurosurgeons excized as much of the tumor as possible, taking a good deal of brain matter with it. He lost much of his memory and his ability to communicate. As the disease progressed, that worsened. The last time I spoke to Rick, just a few days before he died, he couldn’t remember his children’s names; he couldn’t remember the three colors of the lights on traffic signals; he could barely frame even the simplest sentence. The tragic thing was that he knew he used to be able to do all those things and so much more, but he’d given them up to stand with his daughter as she graduated from college. That’s faithful parenting in the face of adversity.

Faithfulness is what Jesus is talking about in today’s story from Matthew’s gospel. When he says these hard and, frankly, harsh words, that he brings not peace but a sword, that because of his gospel there will be conflict within families, that his followers must love him more than they love their parents or their children, that “those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it,”[2] he is talking about what the great German pastor theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer called “the cost of discipleship.”[3] Being faithful to the teaching and example of Jesus of Nazareth is costly. Faithfulness of any kind makes demands; Christian faithfulness demands sacrifice, especially.

For priests, this means giving up a normal life. Our tradition does not demand as much as some others. We are not expected to be celibate and forego the pleasures and demands of marriage and parenthood, but we do give up the idea that our time is our own, the notion that “what we do” is something we can leave behind at 5 o’clock each evening and return to at 9 a.m. the next day, the concept of a “weekend.”

Frankly, we also give up the institution of friendship. Oh, we have colleagues and people to whom we grow close, but my wife once wisely observed a couple of years after I was ordained, “We no longer have friends; we have parishioners.” As much as we protest against it, claiming there is no difference between the laity and the ordained, the truth is that once the bishop lays hands on a person, there is a change in the way one is perceived by others, a change in all your interpersonal interactions. If you don’t believe me, just put on a dog collar for a day and go about your usual activities. People stop telling you risque jokes. They look at you horrified if you utter a curse word, lose your temper, or criticize a politician in public. And if they do any of that, even if you don’t know them, they will turn to you and apologize. The first few times it happens, it’s really weird. Especially when it comes from people whom you’ve known for years!

And it happens not just to you, but to your family. Clergy life is often described as “life in a fishbowl.” Everyone in your parish knows your business, or at least thinks they have a right to know your business (although they may not think you have any right to know theirs). Your social life as a family becomes inextricably tied to your church; you don’t really have much time for one outside the parish. And the result is that you become painfully familiar with the phenomenon of “ghosting.”

You know that is, right? Wikipedia defines it as “the practice of suddenly ending all communication and avoiding contact with another person without any apparent warning or explanation and ignoring any subsequent attempts to communicate.”[4] This is frequently how people leave church congregations. They just disappear. They ghost the pastor and many of the other members. Why did they leave? There are many reasons people stop attending a church: some because they disagree with something that was preached or some position taken by the church or the priest; most for other reasons. But you don’t know. You try to find out; you get rebuffed. You doubt yourself. Was it something you said or did? You feel like Fido, the Italian dog. These people you showed up for, whose weddings you were part of, whose babies you baptized, whose hands you held through illness and the deaths of loved ones and the losses of jobs, for whom you keep showing up, don’t … they don’t show up, and they never do again. And it hurts. Whatever the reason may have been, losing the people you’ve grown to love – especially if it’s by ghosting – hurts!

Like Fido, you keep coming back. You keep waiting for these people who became important to you, but whom you no longer see. Like my brother, you cut away parts of yourself so you won’t feel the pain of the abandonment. Like the person Jesus describes in the gospel lesson, you accept that the person who has ghosted you is no longer part of your church family. You don’t want to think of them as “enemies” (the word Jesus uses in this gospel passage), but the part of your life that they were a part of is lost. Faithfulness to your calling as a priest, faithfulness to Jesus’ gospel, demands that you experience this.

Of course, this is true to some extent of everyone who tries their best to be faithful to Jesus. I’m sure everyone has experienced friends, companions, colleagues, or co-workers who, upon learning of your commitment to your faith, have turned away to one extent or another. We all have to deal with the harsh truth of Jesus’ words.

I remember wondering, as I was preparing for my ordination, why Psalm 43 is appointed for the ordination of a priest because it contains this verse which seems so incongruous, the fifth verse:

Why are you so full of heaviness, O my soul?
and why are you so disquieted within me?

35 years later, after 35 years of showing up and after 33 of these paradoxical anniversaries, I no longer wonder about that.

Faithfulness to Jesus is a source of great joy, but it can be … it will be; Jesus assures us of this … it will be also a source of great pain and profound griet, of great heaviness and enormous disquiet. The dual nature of this anniversary, a celebration of my ordination and the grieving over the loss of my only sibling, reminds me of the sacrifices that faithfulness requires, and keeps me grounded. Instead of wondering about Psalm 43, I find I can pray its last verse with thanksgiving:

Put your trust in God;
for I will yet give thanks to him,
who is the help of my countenance, and my God.[5]

Amen.

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This is not a homily. I have, as of early June 2026, stepped aside from prieslty ministry for the time being, so on this anniversary I neither presided nor preached at Sunday worship. This is simply a meditation, written off the cuff, with very little editing.

The illustration is a snapshot of my late brother and me at the reception following my ordination service at Christ Church Episcopal, Las Vegas, Nevada, on June 21, 1991.

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Notes:
Click on footnote numbers to link back to associated text. Unless otherwise indicated, all quotations from Scripture are from the New Revised Version Updated Edition.

[1] Matthew 10:34,36

[2] Matthew 10:39

[3] See Dietrich Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship (Scribner, New York:1963)

[4] Ghosting (behavior), Wikipedia

[5] Psalm 43:5-6 (BCP Version) from The Book of Common Prayer 1979

E Pluribus Unum: Sermon for Pentecost and Memorial Day, 24 May 2026

Their names were Curtis Adams, Mager Bradley, George Davis, Jr., Thomas Forte, Robert Green, James Leatherwood, Nathaniel Moss, George Motten, William Pritchett, James Stewart, and Due Turner. They came from Alabama, Mississippi, West Virginia, Texas, Arkansas. Thrown together by war, they were members of the 333rd Field Artillery Battalion, a segregated African American unit serving in Belgium during World War II. When the Germans began what came to be known as “the Battle of the Bulge” in December 1944, the 333rd stayed in place to support the withdrawal of the mostly white infantry regiments around them. These eleven men were captured by the Waffen-SS in a forest near the town of Wereth; they were tortured and murdered, and their bodies left unburied. Although the fact and nature of their sacrifice was well documented, it was never officially recognized by the U.S. government until 2017.[1]

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Death of a Nation: Sermon for the Fifth Sunday in Lent – 22 March 2026

I asked ChatGPT’s image generator, “What sort of image would you create to illustrate the concept of a dead nation?” and this is what it produced.

Nations die. Just like people. The reasons nations die are as varied and numerous as the reasons people die. Some nations die because they just get too unwieldy to survive, like the Roman Empire. It simply became too large to manage, which led to a fatal weakening of its political structure and military capability, and ultimately to its collapse. Some die because of internal rot. The German Weimar Republic, for example, died when its president appointed a madman named Adolf Hitler to be its chancellor, and he in turn dismantled its democratic institutions. The Weimar Republic died, replaced by the Third Reich, which was supposed to last a thousand years, but it died in the most common way nations die – because they are conquered.

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An Unjust War: Sermon for the Third Sunday in Lent – 8 March 2026

There is an aphorism about preaching that says the preacher “must hold the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other.” This is often attributed to the influential Swiss theologian Karl Barth, whom Time Magazine in the 1960s called “the greatest living Protestant theologian.” Truth is, however, that he never really said it. What he actually said, in an interview with Time in 1963, was, “Take your Bible and take your newspaper, and read both. But interpret newspapers from your Bible.”[1] In other words, try to understand events in the world through the lens of Scripture and take guidance from it as you seek to live in this world.

As I followed the news media the past few weeks, two stories stood out for me. One was the witness of the women who are the surivors of Jeffrey Epstein’s human trafficking enterprise. The other was the tale of the US Women’s Ice Hockey team who won the Olympic gold medal but were nonetheless made the butt of a joke by the president. It seemed to me that John’s story of Jesus’ long conversation with the Samaritan woman at Jacob’s well offers us a lens through which to view these news stories. So I started making notes for a sermon along those lines.

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Satan Is a Bully: Sermon for the First Sunday in Lent – 22 February 2026

I assume that everyone here has seen A Christmas Story?[1] It’s hard to live in the Cleveland area and not to know about the 1983 cult classic Christmas movie, and by now, with the Turner movie channel running it as a marathon every Christmas, to have seen it. Do you remember the character “Scut” Farkus? That was the bully who, accompanied by his toady Grover Dill, made Ralphie’s life miserable. Until, that is, Ralphie had simply had enough and exploded, knocked Scut down into the snow, and gave him a bloody nose. This morning, I’m going to try to convince you that that’s sort of what’s happening in today’s gospel lesson.

A rather standard way of preaching the Temptations of Christ is to say that Satan’s point is to raise doubts about whether Jesus is who he thinks he is by casting doubt on his relationship with God, and that Jesus’ rejections of the temptations “prove his identity as God’s divine and beloved son.”[2] I’m probably a heretic, but I don’t think that’s the point of this story at all; that’s not what this episode is about.

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Loneliness and Light: Sermon for 5 Epiphany – 8 February 2026

“You are the light of the world. … [L]et your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”[1]

Last week, I read this story on Facebook:

I own a small bakery. Business has been slow. Rent is up. I was thinking about closing. Last Friday, a teenager came in. He looked nervous. He counted out change for a cookie. He was short 50 cents. “It’s okay,” I said. “Take it.” He ate it at a table, looking at his math homework. I walked over. “Quadratic equations?” He nodded. “I don’t get it.” I sat down and helped him for 20 minutes. He got it. He left smiling. The next day, he came back with two friends. They bought cookies. The day after that, five kids came. Apparently, he told the school, “The lady at the bakery helps with homework.” Now, my bakery is the after-school hang-out spot. It’s loud. It’s messy. There are backpacks everywhere, Yesterday, I found a note in the tip jar. It was wrapped around a $20 bill. “Thanks for helping my son pass math. A Mom.” I’m not closing the bakery. I think I finally found my purpose. It’s not cookies. It’s community.

This baker is a light shining before others. I think that both Jesus and the prophet Isaiah would have approved of this baker.

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Incarnation and Democracy: Sermon for the First Sunday of Christmas, 28 December 2025

I’m sure you’re all familiar with Howard Thurman’s meditation entitled The Work of Christmas:

When the song of the angels is stilled,
when the star in the sky is gone,
when the kings and princes are home,
when the shepherds are back with their flocks,
the work of Christmas begins:
to find the lost,
to heal the broken,
to feed the hungry,
to release the prisoner,
to rebuild the nations,
to bring peace among the people,
to make music in the heart.[1]

This year I think I would have to suggest that there is one more task to add: to preserve democracy.

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The Threefold Cord – A Wedding Homily

When a couple gets married in the Episcopal Church, our canon law requires that they spend some time in pre-marital counseling, usually with the priest who will preside at their wedding. That didn’t happen in this case. I’ve spent no time helping P____ and L____ to build a strong foundation for their marriage; we haven’t talked about the theology of Holy Matrimony, or about communication, or conflict resolution skills, or any of the key issues of married life like dealing with finances, children, and extended family. No, my colleague the Rev. Lisa _______ did all of that. She was supposed preside today, but a member of her family announced that they were getting married today, so she asked me to step in, so it’s my privilege to witness and bless P_____ and L_____’s union.

In any event, I know that Mother Lisa has been over all of that with them, so this sermon is not for them. It’s for you, their family and friends; it’s about their marriage, but it’s for you.

If you were raised in the church you probably went through confirmation classes at some point and had to learn some bits of the catechism. You may remember learning about the Sacraments; there are seven of them. Holy Baptism and Holy Communion are the big ones, the ones Christ himself established. Then there are five others which the church created under, we believe, the guidance of the Holy Spirit. One of those five is the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony.

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Not ORPman’s Prayer: Sermon for Pentecost VII, Proper 12C – 27 July 2025

Do you all know what a tort is? Tort … T-O-R-T … no E on the end; I’m not talking about those wonderful little German or Austrian pastries. A tort is a civil wrong that causes harm to another person, resulting in legal liability for the person who commits the wrong. You leave a puddle of milk on the floor of your grocery store knowing it’s there, then someone slips in it and injures themselves: you have committed a tort. You speed through a stop sign, collide with another car, and injure the driver: you’ve not only broken the law, you’ve committed a tort.

A million years ago when I was in law school studying the law of torts with Professor Bill Lynch of blessed memory, I was introduced to the superhero of Anglo-American civil jurisprudence: the ordinary, reasonably prudent person, often called “ORPman”. ORPman’s super power, as you can tell from his name, is ordinary, reasonable prudence. His conduct is the standard against which allegedly tortious behavior is judged. His conduct is always sensible, never outrageous, not too timid, nor too bold. He is not a coward, but neither is he an excessive risk-taker. His expectations are rational; he is not demanding, but neither is he a doormat.

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