October 26, 2025

I had an opportunity this past week on Thursday evening and then all day Friday to spend time in deep discernment with a number of our aspirants to ordained ministry. About a year, year and a half ago, the bishop asked me to serve on what's called our Commission on Ministry, one of the elements of diocesan life, one of the commissions who journey with these folks as they discern their call either to ministry in the diaconate or ministry to the priesthood. Every two years we have a retreat with the aspirants for priesthood ministry for priestly ordination, where we gather with them. We spend time getting to know them, discerning with them this call that they feel on their lives.

We gathered at the Claggett Center. Now, if you haven't had a chance, I invite you to go up. It's kind of funny for me, at least, because for many of our fellow Episcopalians in the Diocese of Washington, it's quite the journey north, especially for our folks all the way down in Calvert, Charles, St. Mary's counties. But for us it's about a 20-minute drive, just up in Bucky's town.

Claggett is named for Bishop Thomas Claggett, the first bishop of Maryland, who spent his entire life on the coastal plain, along the Chesapeake, even some amount of time here, kind of in this Piedmont transitional zone. But he never went beyond the mountains. He lived his entire life kind of in this ethos. And I think it's kind of interesting that Claggett is where it is because you see those first rolling foothills of the Blue Ridge as you look across the fields and the spaces that you were provided at that retreat center.

I was thinking about that barrier that the mountains presented for so many in the early years of European settlement here in Maryland. And I was thinking about it in the context of this ordination journey and in the context of what we hear in our gospel lesson today from Jesus.

In the first case, as we talked to these aspirants, to a person, they highlighted at some point in their sharing with us the place of brokenness or the place of incompleteness that they encountered. They had some point at which they came to realize they could not do life on their own. They could not follow this call on their own. They could not deny any longer the things that Christ was inviting them into. There was fundamentally, at some level, a recognition that community, that support, that greater engagement with others was their path forward.

That might seem somewhat of a strange juxtaposition if we think about at least the narratives that we have been taught about that barrier of the Blue Ridge, of the Alleghenies. The great mythos we have around these early frontiersmen and women, Daniel Boone and his family, John Cressop here in Maryland, one of the earliest settlers in Cumberland. This idea that they left community, that they made it on their own. They struggled and found a path forward, that they had a resiliency within themselves that helped them to survive.

Just recently, I've learned that there's actually a growing body of scholarship that suggests for many of these folks, Cressip, Boone, others, who were crossing the mountains in the 1750s, they were in point encountering a landscape devoid of humans, but a landscape that was only recently devoid of humans. That in many instances, the tragedy of smallpox had impacted Native American communities that were quite numerous and quite present in a lot of those places just on the other sides of the mountains. But those communities had dwindled. People had relocated.

And so when Boone, when Cressip encountered these spaces, they saw an empty landscape, but one that nevertheless had remnants of cultivation that they didn't recognize as human impact. They saw it as some sort of divine engagement of God setting the place of goodness before them. And yet, in truth, they were able to flourish because of what had come before. Because of those who had tended and cultivated the landscape before them.

I want to really focus on that today, because I think so often in this particular parable, our takeaway can be that final statement of the author of the gospel, that Jesus looks upon these and says, "Those who exalt themselves will be humbled. And those who humble themselves will be exalted." We see it fundamentally as a matter of pridefulness, as a matter of arrogance.

But I want to focus us on where Jesus begins. In verse 9 we hear, he also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves. And I want us to focus on that today. Because I think our experience of arrogance, our experience of pridefulness, the pitfall that those things have for us in our society are often the pitfall of thinking we can go it alone. It is such a fundamental part of our national narrative: the pull yourself up by your bootstraps mentality, the self-made man and woman, that we do not need to rely on anything or anyone beyond our own abilities.

That kind of makes sense when you think about what this Pharisee is doing, too. Because what is piety? What is devotion? Except that seeking or that openness to seeking that which is beyond you, larger than you, that which helps you enter into a greater and more meaningful whole.

And surface, fake piety. It's piety that thinks, "I just need to do this for the showmanship of it, to look good amongst my friends. I don't actually need these acts of contrition, these acts of prayerfulness, because at the end of the day, I can take care of myself. I can do everything that needs to be done."

I want to suggest, friends, that that kind of thinking, that kind of trap, is so very prevalent today, and is as prevalent today as it was for this community to which Jesus was speaking. We so often find ourselves enamored with our own echo chambers, with our own beliefs and our own capabilities. And the place of greatest growth, the place of greatest goodness, the place of most profound truth that we have on offer to us, is those spaces and places of community and connectivity and relationship.

There's so much doom and gloom today about the church, unfortunately. And some of you may well have seen this, heard it. It's not uncommon to have thought pieces written in popular media about the decline of the church. And even in point of fact, within the church itself, we can get wrapped up in this kind of individualism: What do we need to do to pull ourselves up? What do we need to be? How do we need to contort ourselves to make the most of the opportunities we have before us? Such a very easy trap to fall into.

And yet, our invitation today is to step back from that kind of thinking and to reorient ourselves, not around our own drives and motivations, but where we are finding community, how we are cultivating community, how we are resourcing the support and love of others to be most fully who we are being called to be.

In the study of mission in the church, there's a specific way of talking about this. For so many decades and frankly centuries in the Christian tradition, we have talked about the mission of the church. What are we doing to go to other people to get them to become Christians, to convert them to our denomination, to convince them of the rightness of our way of being in the world? And in the last 50 years, with the rise of post-colonial theology and other academic reflections on this subject, conversation has shifted to the question: What is the Missio Dei? That's your fancy word for the day. The Missio Dei: the mission of God. What is God doing? What is God on about? And how as a community in relationship to God, a God because of God's Trinitarian nature who is fundamentally community God's self, how are we participating in the work of that larger reality? The moment we get mired in those go it alone attitudes is the moment we lose sight of that greater call and truth that we should fundamentally be oriented towards.

The more we've lived into that, the more we've cultivated that sense of community, the more we've found our path forward. In the midst of all the doom and gloom thought pieces, we've now seen in the last year to 18 months a number of new observations: that especially on the other side of the pandemic, this incredibly isolating and individual experience of loneliness, folks are seeing the need, are desperate for the place of community again. And yes, the church is a part of that, spaces and places in society as well.

But we're reinvigorated in our sense and in our recognition that we cannot go it alone. And that whatever our great national narratives are about who we are, we're finally coming to that recognition that we are only who we are when we are fully together and fully supportive of one another.

And you may look at me today and say, "Father John, I cannot see that in the landscape of all the chaos currently surrounding us." And I hear that. I see the places where things are falling apart. But, but, I still see. I still hope for those green shoots of new life that even in incremental and kind of stagnated ways are beginning to bring forth that transformed and new way of being.

So friends, today I invite us to embrace the invitation into community, to be those people of deep humility like this tax collector, and to offer ourselves anew to the greater work of community that is before us. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

October 19, 2025 Archdeacon Steve Seely, EDOW

Good morning, St. Anne's. Oh, you're going to have to do better than that. I mean, it's 10:20. You should be awake by now. Good morning, St. Anne's. Excellent. It's a joy to be with you today and bring you greetings from Bishop Mary Ann and all the staff at Church House. We give thanks for the faithful ministry of this parish and the way you live out the gospel here in Damascus.

Bishop Marianne joins me in holding this community and especially your Deacon Janice in our prayers today. For the past three-plus years, Deacon Janice has served among you with a servant's heart, listening deeply, walking alongside you in prayer, and helping this congregation keep its eyes turned outward towards the needs of the wider community. Her ministry has been a living reminder of what the diaconate is meant to be, a bridge between the church gathered and the world God loves. Today we give thanks for her faithful service, for the countless quiet ways she has shared Christ's love among you, and for the seeds of compassion and justice she has planted that will continue to bear fruit here at St. Anne's. And so on behalf of Bishop Mary Ann and the Diocese of Washington, I want to say thank you to Janice and to all of you. You have embodied that partnership between priest, deacon, and laity that makes the gospel visible in this place.

Let us pray. Holy God, open our ears to hear, open our minds to understand, and open our hearts to love. In the name of one God, creator, redeemer, and sustainer. Amen.

Years ago, I actually got to thinking about it, and it's been over 20 years ago. I was the youth director at the Episcopal Church of the Resurrection in Oklahoma City. Every Sunday evening, teenagers would gather, as teenagers do, and there were about 20 or so in our group. And we'd been talking about prayer for a couple of weeks, and after church was finished in the morning on a particular Sunday when we were going to finish up our series on prayer, I opened up the soda machine. And I moved all the cans of soda to different slots so that when you pushed a button, you didn't get what you were expecting. Now, you might think I was doing that to be a practical joker, and there would be some truth to that, but I had a method to my madness.

So that evening all the kids showed up and I had a roll of quarters and I gave them each 50 cents. Cokes were cheaper then. Gave them 50 cents and I said, go get yourself something to drink, my treat. And so off they went to the Coke machine that was in the hallway down from the youth room. And the first kid put two quarters in and hit the button. And they didn't get what they expected. And of course then a conversation started among the kids. And so the next one said well I'll try and put two quarters in thinking maybe it was just a fluke and they didn't get what they wanted either. In fact only one kid got what he wanted because there was only one slot that I didn't change. That was grape soda. Not knowing that there would be one kid who wanted grape soda. So if you pressed Coke, you got Sprite. If you pressed Diet Coke, you got a Dr. Pepper, and so on. And so you can imagine the conversation amongst these teenagers about the messiness of the Coke machine. And I said, well, you're just going to have to live with what you got, because I don't have the key, which was true. It was locked up in the office.

Small technicality. And I said, so you know, and I was known for odd lessons. You know, sometimes prayer feels like tonight's Coke machine. You ask God for one thing, and something completely different shows up. You press the button for peace, and perhaps you get patience instead. Or you ask for clarity, and you get confusion that somehow leads you to trust. The thing is, you still get a drink. You're still sustained. You're still being answered, but perhaps not in the way you were expecting or desired. This Coke machine God we imagine, the one where you put your coins in and press the button and get exactly what you ordered just doesn't exist. Prayer isn't mechanical and God isn't predictable.

That's what Jesus is teaching in today's gospel. Prayer isn't about pressing buttons or getting results. Prayer is about relationship. In this passage from Luke, Jesus tells his disciples a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart. In a certain city, he says there's a judge who doesn't fear God or respect people. There's a widow, one of the most powerless people in her society, who keeps coming to him saying, grant me justice against my opponent.

For a while, he refuses. But finally, I suspect just to stop her from bothering him, he gives in. It's tempting to hear this story about nagging God until God gives in. But that's not who God is. God is not the unjust judge. God doesn't get worn down by our persistence. This parable isn't about results. It is about relationship.

You see, the widow keeps showing up. That's the heart of it. She keeps showing up. She doesn't have power or privilege. What she has is persistence. She keeps coming because she refuses to give up hope that justice is possible. And that's what prayer really is. Not magic words or divine transactions, but companionship with God. The practice of showing up again and again, even when it feels like nothing is happening. It's like any deep friendship or marriage perhaps or any other kind of close relationship. Some days bring laughter and connection. Other days bring silence or frustration. But the relationship endures because we keep showing up. Prayer is the same way. It's not about shaking the Coke machine. It's about maybe sitting at the kitchen table with each other. Sometimes talking, sometimes listening, and sometimes just being together in the quiet. That's the difference between transaction and relationship.

This parable reminds me of a neighbor I had in the first house I bought, Mrs. Harper. The house was an old home in an old neighborhood, what's known today as a craftsman. steps up to the landing, and then more steps up to the front porch and then inside. And Mrs. Harper, who lived across the street, kept mostly to herself until her husband died. After that, she found every possible reason to knock on my door or to wave me down while I was mowing the grass. Or even to yell across the street when I was sitting on the porch, "Are you having trouble with your mail like I am?" Or some other excuse to have a conversation. It was always something with her, always something that nagged at her, but not at me. I'll admit there were days I thought, oh, Mrs. Harper, Mrs. Harper. It's kind of like Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman. Mrs. Harper, please just one quiet evening. She could be relentless.

But one night after she walked back across the street, it hit me. This wasn't about the mail or any other reason she had voiced in recent weeks. It was about relationship. She was lonely. After Mr. Harper died, she was reaching out in the only way she knew how. Her persistence wasn't a nuisance. It was a plea for connection, for companionship, and for someone to notice her presence and her pain. Through Mrs. Harper, I can't help but see something of the widow in today's gospel, and something of us too. When we keep coming to God in prayer, we're not pestering God for results. We're reaching out for relationship. We're saying, don't forget me, Lord. Stay near.

Earlier this week, as I met with my spiritual director, we were both talking about preaching today, and we were sharing with each other that we were still waiting for the Spirit to speak to us. These two behind me are probably nodding their head at that. They've had weeks like that of what are we going to say about this gospel reading or this passage of scripture. I was sharing with Brett sometimes how in conversations I have with people in our parishes or in the lobby of my apartment building, people talk about the relentless and persistent people on the street. I shared with him how years ago somebody said to me, you can't ignore the people on the street. That might be Jesus testing you. Brett associated that with that line from Matthew 25, what you do to the least of these you do to me. And I said to Brett, what if that's not a test? What if instead of looking at that as a test of having that interaction with that person on the street, that unhoused person that's asking for help, what if instead that's an opportunity? Not a test, but an opportunity. An opportunity to actually see the face of Jesus in our fellow human being.

That changes everything, doesn't it? Acts of compassion aren't about earning points with God. They're about deepening our companionship with God. And that ties right back to the widow. She's the one of the least of these. The poor, voiceless, even dismissed. But she's also the one Jesus lifts up as a model of faith. When we meet the modern widows of our time, those who are ignored or pushed aside, we're not performing charity for God's approval. We're meeting Christ himself and participating in God's justice and love.

But we need to be careful. It's easy for peace or prayer or justice to become performative. When leaders speak of peace while normalizing cruelty, the peace becomes hollow. And likewise, when faith becomes about image or reward, it becomes an empty ritual. That's what happens when we turn sacred things into transactions.

Jesus calls us back to something deeper, the kind of peace and prayer that flow from relationship, restoration, and justice. Or to put it plainly, dignity and love. Then comes that probing question. If Jesus were to talk with you about your faith, what would he find? What does faith even look like? Maybe faith isn't about having all the right answers. Instead, maybe it's about whether we keep showing up. Whether we will sit at the kitchen table to have a conversation. Whether we keep praying even when the Coke machine seems jammed. Or when the drink that drops isn't the one we wanted. Whether we keep serving and loving even when the world grows cynical or weary. Faith isn't measured by how often our prayers are answered. It's measured by how faithfully and persistently we stay in relationship. How we let prayer form us into people of compassion and courage.

Friends, I believe that Jesus is inviting us through our faith into a deeper kind of prayer. A prayer that's less about asking and more about abiding. Less about results. More about relationship. Less about vending machines and more about kitchen tables. And that invitation extends beyond prayer because when we live in companionship with God, we can't help but be drawn into companionship with others. The widows, the weary, the unseen, the hurting, even the Mrs. Harpers of the world. That's the call of discipleship. That's the diaconal heart of the gospel. Not a test, but a privilege to serve God and Christ and those who need love the most.

So maybe the question for us this week is simple. Where is God inviting you to keep showing up? Is it in prayer? Is it in service? Is it in compassion? Don't lose heart. Keep showing up. Because that's where relationship grows. That's where God's justice begins to take root. And that's where faith is found on earth. So the next time you pray, resist the urge to shake the Coke machine. Instead, pull up a chair at the kitchen table, sit down with God, talk, listen, laugh, cry, even argue if you need to. And when you rise from prayer, carry that companionship into the world. Because you just might meet Jesus in the face of someone who has been waiting for you to show up. May we be people who keep showing up. In prayer. In hope. And in love. Amen.