March 1, 2026

So, I apologize if this seems a little bit of dark humor or not quite befitting the seriousness of the situation we find ourselves in and the levity of this moment. But I have to admit I found myself kind of chuckling last night because I’m about at the point where I think I’m going to give up writing my sermons until Saturday night or Sunday morning. The chaos of the world right now is so overwhelming that inevitably it seems like something happens, no matter how far in advance I prepare things, that utterly shifts and transforms what I have to say to you each Sunday morning.

I don’t want to say any of that to dismiss or excuse any feelings that any of you have, but I’m also constantly and painfully aware of how fraught all of this is too. Almost every single issue we’re confronting right now as a community, a region, a nation, and a world has myriad complexities and complications. It’s so very hard sometimes to figure out who we are, where we stand, and what it is that we should be about as a Christian community.

I want to start this morning in a place that I had not intended to start at all 24 or 36 hours ago, but I’m going to start with a letter from our fellow bishop in the Anglican Communion, my beloved friend Archbishop Hosam Naoum of Jerusalem. Archbishop Hosam is the Anglican bishop in Jerusalem, but he is also the provincial head—the presiding bishop—for the entire Church of the Middle East, which covers every single geographic region presently impacted.

Yesterday he wrote this letter. It describes a coordinated and massive military assault by the United States and Israel against numerous cities and installations within Iran, followed by retaliatory strikes across the Middle East. He calls upon the global church to join in urgent, unceasing prayer for the protection of the innocent, to offer one another the sanctity of love, and to remain bridge builders even as diplomatic windows seem to close. He reminds the world that our hope is not in missiles or might, but in the Prince of Peace.

It is a powerful witness to the foundational strength of our Christian faith in times of peril. I want us to think about Archbishop Hosam’s words as we encounter our gospel lesson, because we meet a passage full of ambiguity. Nicodemus is an enigmatic figure, mentioned only in the Gospel of John at three points: in chapter 3, when he comes to Jesus by night; in chapter 7, when he speaks cautiously before the Sanhedrin; and in chapter 19, when he helps prepare Jesus’ body for burial.

Nicodemus is educated, privileged, and powerful—a Pharisee and a member of the Sanhedrin. Yet he comes to Jesus secretly, under the cover of darkness. His transformation is never clearly shown, but Jesus does not condemn him. He meets him where he is. Jesus offers relationship and companionship even as Nicodemus wrestles with his limited worldview.

Years ago, when Julie and I first joined the Episcopal Church in Arkansas, I met a woman named Freshta, an Iranian‑American who prayed constantly for her two brothers still in Iran. They had converted to Christianity and lived in fear of persecution. Week after week we prayed for their safety. I think of them now as our world again trembles with conflict. As we hope for new freedom in Iran, we cannot ignore the tragedy of how such change often comes—through violence, uncertainty, and loss.

Closer to home, I think back to my time in the Boy Scouts as a child. Only years later did I realize that several of my fellow Scouts were boys who were gay or bisexual. Scouting offered them a rare refuge of safety and acceptance in a community that was otherwise inhospitable. Later, in college, I became friends with Xander, a trans man, who helped me understand more deeply the experiences of our transgender siblings. The Scouts once stood for inclusion and character formation for all, but recent national decisions have reversed much of that progress.

As a church that charters Scout troops, we face the question of how to respond. Who would we be if we simply abandoned them because of disagreement? We are called not to withdraw in anger but to remain in relationship, offering transformation and new life to everyone regardless of who they are or what they face.

I found my answer in preparing for a service with our Holy Trinity South Indian brothers and sisters last night. Their lectionary reading was from Mark 2—the story of the paralyzed man lowered through the roof by his friends to reach Jesus. The text says that Jesus saw their faith, the collective faith of the community, and had compassion. Through the faith of the many, he restored the one.

So what does it mean for us to be bridge builders and purveyors of Christ’s love? Between the Gospel of Mark and the Gospel of John, we find two complementary answers. Sometimes we must act boldly—digging through roofs, breaking barriers, getting our hands dirty so that others may encounter Christ. At other times we must simply be companions—sitting with those who wrestle in darkness, listening, loving, and waiting without resolution.

Jesus did not abandon Nicodemus. He engaged him in patient dialogue. Things were left unresolved, yet love remained. And sometimes that is our calling too: to dwell in uncertainty, to offer presence instead of answers, and to extend grace to a hurting world.

I don’t know where each of us finds ourselves today or what actions God will call us to take. But we will be called at times to labor and at times to wait, to act and to accompany. Both are faithful responses.

And so my prayer for us this morning is that, in the midst of chaos and division, we may hear again the call of Christ—to be repairers of relationship, restorers of love, communicators of compassion, and proclaimers of an alternative way: a kingdom not of this world, but one that reveals the fullness of who we are as beloved children of God.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.