February 8, 2026

I've mentioned before the great Old Testament scholar, specifically scholar of the Psalms, Walter Brueggemann, who grew up in a Reformed tradition but joined the Episcopal Church. He said that he joined the Episcopal Church because we actually sang all the Psalms. So many traditions will exclude certain of the Psalms because they're uncomfortable or they're too difficult for us to understand. And he said, "You all use the whole of the Psalter, and that drew me to your tradition. But you set those Psalms to such beautiful music that you do not know often what you are singing."

He went on to say—and this is where I was thinking about him again today—that that was true of a lot of our hymnody. He said that we, especially as Protestants, sing so gustily, so proudly, some of these ancient hymns of our Protestant tradition, and yet they have the worst theology. We sing attributes of God that are horrendously misplaced or misunderstood. But today, today we have one of the great hymns of our Protestant tradition that is also incredibly rich in its theology.

"God of Grace and God of Glory" was written by Harry Fosdick, who was a Baptist pastor who lived through the horrors of World War I and penned this hymn in 1930. It was written in that interlude period in the immediate aftermath of the Great Depression in the United States, on the cusp of world tensions and difficulties that people were already peripherally aware of. Fosdick wanted to call our attention to all of those challenges—to recognize where we were as a people and where we were emotively in the moment of so much turmoil and uncertainty.

"Lo, the hosts of evil round us scorn thy Christ, assail his ways. From the fears that long have bound us, free our hearts to faith and praise. Grant us wisdom, grant us courage for the living of these days." The fears that bind us—it's so healthy and appropriate to name that. How prescient that same feeling feels in this moment: the feelings of uncertainty, of fear, of the collapse of everything that we thought was so stable and good.

But this experience of that pain and turmoil is not new. We've been in similar places before. And our invitation, beyond our readings today and where we find ourselves in the church here, is to return to the God who sustains and creates and evermore cares for us. We are invited to ask for that wisdom and courage. Those two things are not separate, but intertwined: the wisdom and courage to be faithful livers of this hour.

To be the people of God's compassion and kingdom means engaging in God's work of resilience, restitution, and transformation. It is through that wisdom and courage to stand and speak that we have the ability to move emotionally—to not simply get caught up and taken with the anxieties of the moment, but to be able to respond to them and offer something of value, meaning, and transformation.

One of my professors in seminary often talked about the fundamental character of the gospel as being a comfort to the afflicted and an affliction to the comfortable. The more I have sat with that adage over the years, the more I think it is not simply a truism, but a reality of our complicated lives. Even as individuals, we are often experiencing both of those realities in the present moment. There are parts of our interbeing that are afflicted and in turmoil, where the gospel is a comfort in places of deep distress where we feel there is no light on the horizon. We are given the wisdom of that better future and the promise that all will be made right.

But also, many of us often have those places of comfort, stability, and ease to which the gospel afflicts us. These are the places where we need to have courage—courage to accept that we are being called into a challenging and fraught space. Our faith is not just about a place of grace and comfort for ourselves, but the work of transformation and the good news we are called to share with the world. Both of those things are fundamental to how we move forward as Christians.

Jesus' admonitions in the gospel today are a good example of this tension. He says two different things that we hear in different ways depending on our locations. For some, we hear an admonition to the law—that we are to be abiders of the law. For others, we hear a challenge to the way the law is being lived out, such as the corruption of the law by the Pharisees and scribes. Both of those things are co-equally present in what Jesus says today.

We have to step back and ask what this means for us. This particular gospel passage has been a fundamental aid when we get caught up in trying to structure concrete parameters around how we are to live. Throughout the centuries, we have often fallen into the same pitfall as the Pharisees. We take the law as the landscape of acceptable behavior and the boundary markers for where we can go. Then, we draw even narrower boundaries for ourselves, being even more restrictive to ensure we don't approach a violation.

Yet, what Jesus points to is that the law was never intended to be those boundary markers. From the beginning, the law was intended to be the starting point. It was not a perimeter, but an embarkation. It is the least of what we are to do, and very often, we are called to more. We follow the law as a guidepost to live most fully and expansively into the things God is calling us into: compassion, hospitality, goodwill, and care.

When we look at the world today, we see violence and discord. We see the state of migrants, refugees, and people in our own context who have been left behind by social systems. We find people who need care and love, yet we find a system that objectifies, suppresses, and alienates. The law of abundance we are called to live into is this law of compassion and care in those spaces of brokenness.

I want to acknowledge a practical matter. We sometimes get tied up in knots over whether or not to act because we don't know the implications of our work. Last weekend at our diocesan convention, we passed a resolution to strengthen our efforts to support the migrant and refugee community in Washington D.C. I supported and voted for it because of the labyrinthine challenges they face.

However, someone in my community shared that it's not a black-and-white issue. In responding to the migrant crisis, the District of Columbia has offered greater access to subsidized housing, which has, in essence, further restricted access for existing people who were already trying to receive support. I went back to understand this more fully, and there is truth to it. Affordable housing is at a crisis level. Because of the current political moment, many resources are helping migrants navigate the system, while some who have been long in the system are getting lost.

This made me realize that even in the good we were doing, there is an unintended consequence impacting another community that also needs love. The question for us is not "which option do we go with?" or "what is the lesser of two evils?" but "how might we continually strive to live most abundantly within the law of compassion?" Yes, what we did was a holy thing, but what more can we do?

Our black-and-white, bifurcated ways of viewing the world are insufficient for this moment. I come back to the words of the hymn: in that space of inadequacy where we feel we cannot do enough, we have this plea to be granted wisdom and courage for this hour. Even if it’s messy, even if it doesn't completely hit the mark or fix every problem, may we live with wisdom and courage, doing everything we can to be a people of good news.

February 1, 2026

Friends, as I read our lessons for this week, I was taken back in my mind to some degree to my years of training in seminary. And when you think about it, and I suspect some of you maybe have had similar circumstances, it's inevitable when you put a whole bunch of people together who have a very narrow focus in their life's work, that the intricacies or the small minutia of debate and division within that scope becomes even more pronounced, more present in the midst of your community.

The seminary I attended, Virginia Theological Seminary, is in Alexandria, and it was founded in 1823. And it was actually founded at a time in the history of the Episcopal Church in the United States when there was real concern about the theological direction that we were taking as a denomination. There had been an effort to establish a training facility for clergy at the College of William and Mary down in Williamsburg, Virginia, but a group of Episcopal men in the sort of DC region north of Williamsburg became very concerned about the influence of Deism.

Deism is the kind of theological position that God is the creator and the initiator of the world, but then sort of takes this hands-off approach where everything sort of works as it is naturally inclined to do—the sort of image of the watchmaker creating the watch and then letting it run of its own volition. And they saw in that a real challenge to Orthodox Christianity, to the belief of a relational, loving, personal God who has a vested interest in our lives as human beings. And so they pushed against the effort to sustain the theological training facility at Williamsburg and eventually created Virginia Seminary in Alexandria.

But it was created in this tension between different ways of being Christians. It was created in this time and in this space where there were debates about what authentic Christianity entailed, and down through the generations, some of those debates continued to percolate or to manifest in different ways. At the time I was in seminary—and I think this to a degree is still some of our present reality in the Episcopal Church—there were different divisions over what constituted sort of right and proper worship.

I had some evangelical classmates who were quite dismissive of our 1979 admonition in the new prayer book that we have Eucharist every Sunday. To them, the part of our Christian experience is the interpersonal, the convicting and transforming reality of God speaking to us, not through the sacraments, but through the experience of hearing the words of Scripture and being transformed by those words and being renewed in the teaching and the preaching of the church. And so they were dismayed by the kind of broad shift towards the centrality of the service being the Eucharist.

Whereas Anglo-Catholic classmates of mine felt like not only have we anchored ourselves now in the Eucharist, but we still have more work to do. We need to be mindful of the many ways that the saints and those who have gone before us are a lively part of our experience, that they remain alive within our prayer lives, that they are intercessors for us. And we need to embrace ever more fully the fullness of the Catholic gifts that are given to us within our tradition within Anglicanism.

And you may look at those today—you may hear me talking about them in the midst of this homily—and feel your eyes glass over. And rightfully so. These are very "in the weed" details of the sort of intricate divisions that you have when people spend way too much time reflecting and thinking about these things. And you might also think, in this present moment, and I think rightfully so: what does any of that have to do with who we are as the church and what we are on about as Christians, but Christ is calling us to be and to do?

I think St. Paul hits the nail on the head here in this passage from 1 Corinthians, because inevitably, when we as Christians get together, we start nitpicking at the finery. We start nitpicking at the stylistic choices, or we start focusing or obsessing over the details of who we are as a community. And we become insular. We become too focused on ourselves and our "rightness" or righteousness, instead of focusing in every moment on the larger reality of Christ working within us.

We as Christians, as the church, are fundamentally the body of Christ. We are the bride of Christ. We are the conduit through which Christ manifests himself in the world and through which Christ works in the world. We participate in the work that God is unfolding because it is precisely our vocation. It is our reason for being to be the people of that gospel and good news in the world around us. And so often, so often, we can get sidetracked from that reality and we can lose the focus of who we are and what we are on about.

And so when we reorient ourselves, we then have that question of what does it mean? What does it mean to be the body of Christ? To be the outworkers of what Christ is doing in the world around us? What is that ministry when we can lay aside our differences and be united? Well, I think our gospel lesson gives us some examples, some examples among many, of that reality.

Jesus moves at the very beginning of our gospel lesson today because of an example of state violence. The powers that be have taken John into captivity and have killed him. Jesus is acting in a moment of great upheaval, in a moment of great despair, of great anguish. But he does not simply react to that. There is a reaction and a response—I don't want to dismiss that—but he is reacting in relationship, in transformation, and inaugurating his ministry and seeking out these men to follow him. He is moving forward with the work that he is on about.

And there's a powerful element to the gospel narrative that we have today, one that I think sometimes we read and simply gloss over without really giving enough consideration to, and that is the instantaneousness with which the disciples follow him. He calls them once, and they leave everything to seek after his teaching, to follow in his footsteps as he goes on about the work that he is doing.

How incredible that is. How many of us have done that? I dare say that there's probably a fairly small percentage of us who have experienced that kind of transition. So often in our lives, even when we have this sort of powerful mountaintop experience—you know, let's say we go on retreat or we have a particular service that revives our soul—there's something that just speaks to us in this instant moment of deep connection to God, where we feel our entire perspective renewed, transformed, made anew, where we see things in a totally different light. And that might last for a season. That might carry us through a set of hours, a set of days.

But inevitably, it seems again and again that our mind begins to wander. That we begin to come back to those old patterns, those old habits. We begin to reorient ourselves around the things of the world. That "high" of that moment of transformation seems to wane. But the disciples, there's no indication that they ever give up. There are other examples in the Scripture where Jesus invites them to leave, and Peter profoundly says at one point, "Where else would we go? We've already given up everything to follow you. We've made our decision and we are sticking with it."

And I don't want to say that none of us have ever experienced that level of transformation. But I think in the comfort and in the complacency of our lives in the United States, so often we don't appreciate the fullness of that reality. One of the greatest testimonies to that kind of reality that I've ever encountered is my friend Santino, who worked at my seminary and has aspirations and dreams one day of completing his undergraduate studies and going to seminary himself to become a priest.

Santino comes from Sudan, and what is today modern South Sudan, but at the time was just part of the whole of a unified Sudan. And he was one of the Lost Boys that you may, if you're old enough, remember all of the news and attention being paid to them back in the 80s and early 90s. And he came out of that region of violence and desolation that is Darfur.

Santino's story is of literally one day his life radically changing. His village was attacked; he and some other boys ran into the bush and in that moment never turned back. They kept going on a long journey for days until they reached a refugee camp, eventually made their way from that refugee camp to one in Kenya, spent time in Kenya before being able to come to the United States. But an instantaneous experience changed the entire course of his life.

And you think about the upheaval, the devastation, the darkness of that moment. And yet, Santino so often expresses the gratitude that he has in his life for the blessing he's had to come to the United States, for the gift of life that he continues to enjoy while he supports and works to alleviate the pain and the struggle that his fellow countrymen continue to experience in that region of the world. He sees nothing but blessing in the trauma that he encountered because of the transformation that that trauma brought about in his own life.

And I think so often that that is something that we can miss. And I'm not trying to excuse away or to minimize the pain, the sorrow, the hurt that happens in traumatic experiences. Moments of violence and hatred in this world should be condemned, should be resisted. But even in the midst of violence, even in the midst of dark hours, new life, transformed life is at hand. And that's what Jesus invites us into today.

And the moment, going back to St. Paul—no matter if it's theological divisions within the church, social divisions within our society—the moment that we find ourselves caught up in the minutia of debating which camp is right and which camp is wrong, losing the larger sight of the call to transformed living, the call to inviting people to follow us... to follow us as followers of Christ, to point through ourselves to the new way, to the renewed way, to the transformed way that Christ is offering, then we have missed the mark.

It is for us, always and forever, to be the conduits of that grace, the conduits of that gospel good news. And may we hear that anew, and that invitation anew to us, that call and responsibility anew to us today as we move into whatever the hours, days, weeks, and months ahead may hold. May we evermore show forth the light of transformed living, and to call all—every single one of us—into that light of new life.

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