May 10, 2026
/I began this morning by offering you all the warmest greetings from our brothers and sisters at Trinity on the Hill Episcopal Church in Los Alamos, New Mexico. My friend, Mother Mary Ann Hill, is the rector there, and I had the funniest thing happen on my Sunday visit two weeks ago.
I’m going to be honest with you all. To this day, I go to diocesan gatherings here in the Diocese of Washington—even gatherings with other clergy who you would think know something about the Diocese of Washington—and I introduce myself, and they say, “Now, where is Damascus again?” They give me a blank stare when I try to describe so-called upper Montgomery County.
But there, in the canyon lands of northern New Mexico, in little Los Alamos, population 13,000, I walked into coffee hour to a chorus of “Damascus! Of course—we love Jimmy Cone!”
Here’s the thing: Los Alamos, being Los Alamos, has a number of folks who have worked at DOE in Germantown, or NIST in Gaithersburg, or the Nuclear Regulatory Agency in Rockville. It’s a little Montgomery County enclave at 7,300 feet above sea level in the desert southwest. It’s a place where we, who sometimes may feel unseen, are very much seen.
And I think that’s a fitting connection to our lessons today.
In both Acts and the Gospel of John, we encounter the God of the unknown and the God of the unseen. This is explicitly said in Paul’s sermon to the Athenians: “What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you.” In the Gospel, Jesus more indirectly alludes to this truth in his farewell discourse: “In a little while the world will no longer see me, but you will see me.”
God is the God of the unknown and the unseen.
If there is one truth I want you to remember today, it is this—because it operates on so many levels in our lives.
I mentioned already our status as Saint Anne’s in Damascus—on the very periphery of the Diocese of Washington, often feeling removed from everything else going on. But as Christians, especially those committed to regular Sunday worship, there is also a sense of social and political misalignment. There is awkwardness in acknowledging our faith when it is often co-opted or corrupted. There is awkwardness in setting aside time for worship in a culture that does not prioritize it.
It can feel like we are not aligned with what is happening around us when we proclaim a gospel of truth, justice, compassion, and love.
There is a real sense that God is the God of our unseen-ness.
This is especially meaningful today, as we observe Mother’s Day.
Anna Jarvis, an early 20th-century suffragette, worked to establish Mother’s Day in honor of her mother and the role of women in society. Yet later, she became deeply dissatisfied with how the day was commercialized—turned into something about buying and selling rather than honoring.
In the 1980s, sociologist Arlene Kaplan Daniels named what she called “invisible labor”—the essential, often unnoticed work that keeps society functioning. This labor is frequently done by women and is underappreciated and unseen.
This is a moment to recognize the seen-ness of the unseen—to understand that God is present in that work, that God is especially the God of the unseen, the underappreciated, and the invisible.
In New Mexico, there is a deep cultural devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary. You see memorials and depictions of her everywhere—a commitment to remembering and honoring her.
Mary represents the fullness of motherhood, but also something broader: the work of mothering as compassion, support, and love. This is not limited to biological mothers, but includes all who take on that role in the world.
Today is a day to acknowledge that God is especially present with those who go unrecognized.
Mary proclaims this in the Magnificat: God lifts up the lowly, fills the hungry with good things, and brings down the powerful.
But this message is not just about recognizing that God is with the unseen. It is also about our responsibility.
Too often, the Church has treated invisibility as a virtue—that people should quietly do important work without recognition. But that is not the full message of the Gospel.
We are called to name what is unseen. To acknowledge the invisible labor that holds the world together. To proclaim the presence of God in those places.
We often sense that this work exists—we know, at some level, that things are held together by unseen efforts—but we do not name it.
We are called to name it.
We see this also in broader society. There is a growing focus on health, fitness, and self-improvement—CrossFit, gym culture, wellness movements. Even in psychotherapy, there is an emphasis on self-actualization and personal fulfillment.
None of these things are inherently bad. They contain glimpses of truth and of God’s presence. But they are not the fullness of God.
We are invited to help people see beyond these fragments—to recognize the deeper reality of God’s presence and fullness.
We are seen by God at all times and in all places. God is at work everywhere. But often, that presence is not fully understood. Sometimes it is even distorted or overshadowed by harmful expectations, including within the Church itself.
So today, I invite you into two reflections.
First: in those places where you feel invisible—especially for those who are mothers or engaged in the work of caregiving—know that God sees you. God recognizes your dedication, your sacrifice, and your worth.
Second: we, as Christians, have a responsibility to proclaim that seen-ness. Like Paul, we are called to name the unknown God—to point out God’s presence where it is overlooked.
We are called to help others recognize what they already sense but may not fully understand.
I saw this powerfully in New Mexico, particularly in time spent reconnecting with communities on Navajo Nation.
Navajo Nation is roughly the size of the state of Virginia, and there are only 13 grocery stores across the entire nation. Food insecurity is a major issue. Employment opportunities are limited. The challenges are profound.
And yet, in the midst of that, there is a deep and powerful proclamation of God’s presence—of hope, of transformation, of new life.
Julie and I spent time with my classmate Cornelia Eaton, who serves in leadership in the diocese there. Despite significant challenges in her life, her optimism and her witness to God’s goodness were deeply moving.
Her ability to proclaim the God of new life in the midst of struggle was transformative to witness.
I pray that we carry that strength with us—that we recognize that we are seen, and that in being seen, we are called to proclaim that truth.
To help the world understand more fully who God is, and how God is at work all around us.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.