August 2, 2026

I've talked about this before, but I find those little serendipities of life fascinating. Those times where often we look back retrospectively and we can see how the puzzle pieces just sort of fit exactly in the ways they needed to, to be what they needed to be in the moments we needed them.

And I was thinking about that this week because I've had a couple of days to myself. Julie's been traveling briefly with a friend of hers, supporting a book tour that her friend is on. And Anna went and stayed with my parents for a couple of nights at their new home outside of Frederick. And so, for some time, I took an opportunity to do something I've been wanting to do for some time, which is to go back and re-watch Fiddler on the Roof, which when you have a five-year-old, taking three hours to watch a movie is a pretty impractical reality.

And so I wanted to take advantage of this time to do so. It's a movie that I think the last time I watched it all the way through was on VHS, and that tells you how long ago it was that I viewed it. And I remember not being able to comprehend or process the entire story and understand the complexity of what was being said and the narrative arc of the story. But in the complexity of the world we're presently facing, and the realities of some of those very same geographic spaces having destruction, violence, persecution wrought upon the communities in which those folks exist, I wanted to go back again with fresh eyes, with the knowledge and awareness I have these many years later, to sort of see what I thought and how I reflected on it differently.

And remarkably, that story, that narrative in Fiddler on the Roof has some dramatic parallels to what we encounter in our readings today. For those of you who have maybe never watched the film or seen the play, it centers on a family in pre-revolutionary Ukraine, what is today Ukraine, and they're a Jewish family suffering the difficulties and persecutions of impoverished rural life in a system and a society that disadvantages them. And not only disadvantages them, but is actively beginning to persecute them through the pogroms of those years. And yet it's about survival in the midst of so many difficulties. And in some ways it's about joy and love and happiness in the midst of those difficulties and persecutions.

Why do I find parallels with what we encounter in today's readings? Well, I want to start at kind of a surface level. We have the great narrative of loaves and fishes here in Matthew chapter 14. It's a narrative we hear in all four of our Gospels. Now, in the Gospel of St. John, we have the added detail that the one bringing these fish and loaves is a young boy. But otherwise, we have a consistent narrative here that there is an abundance even in the meagerness of these two offerings. That God shows up in this miraculous way to provide the sustenance and needs of this great crowd who have assembled in this desolate, deserted place.

There's another element of that that we miss picking up where we do here in chapter 14. Because immediately prior to this experience, Jesus and his disciples have received word of John's death, John the Baptist's death. And that's actually in verse 13 where it says, now when Jesus heard this, that is what he's responding to, is the tragedy of this killing. But even in the midst of this tragedy, even in the midst of this despair, even in a place of desolation and desertedness, God shows up. God shows up with the means for sustenance, with the means for survival.

And I suspect for many of you who have been here for some number of years, that this is a story not unfamiliar in the life of St. Anne's. How many times we've been in precarious circumstances, financially or otherwise, and yet what meager offerings we have seem to multiply and see us through. That God shows up in this kind of miraculous way to provide a path forward.

And that is partially the story in Fiddler on the Roof. A community that struggles, a community that has so very little. And yet with that meager amount, they seem to make it day by day, month by month, year by year.

But there's another layer, too. One of the things that I think goes unappreciated in the readings we have today is the point of God's love in the midst of that sustaining power. It's not just that God uses these meager means to transform and find a way forward each time that that happens. But it's that God loves us enough to show up for us in those ways.

We hear this in the gospel passage. Jesus, in the announcement of John's death, removes himself for this time of prayerfulness, for this time of recentering his own ministry and life. We see this again and again in Jesus' ministry. He removes himself for a time of prayerfulness, for a time of rest and restoration. And yet, as so often happens, people get wind of where he is and they seek him out. Because they have needs. Because there is work unfinished. And it could be so very easy for Jesus to get frustrated and say, I need you to just wait a minute. Come back next week. Come back tomorrow. But what does it say in verse 14? He saw a great crowd and he had compassion for them. That he shows up. He shows up with mercy and love even in this time of difficulty, in this time of sorrow.

Our brothers and sisters in the Missouri Synod form of Lutheranism, I think, possibly get something right in their lectionary cycle this week. Like many of us, they're reading these same readings. First reading from Isaiah, this passage from St. Paul's epistle to the Romans, this section of St. Matthew's gospel. But they choose, instead of Psalm 145, which pretty much all the rest of us use—us, our Roman Catholic brothers and sisters, our United Methodist brothers and sisters—they choose Psalm 136, whose refrain throughout the entirety of the psalm is "for his mercy endures forever." The psalm begins and ends with give thanks. Give thanks to the Lord or give thanks to God. For his mercy endures forever. Underline everything we hear today is this assurance that God's mercy abounds. Even when things are difficult, even when things are uncertain, even when brokenness seems to be the word of the day, the reality of the moment, there is this transforming, life-altering love, compassion, mercy that continues to break through and show up.

And that brings me to another element of our readings. And that is our responsiveness to that love and that mercy. Because so very often, I think it is easy for us to hear the narrative of God's mercy, of God's grace, of God showing up for us in these times of need, and to forget that we have a role in responding to that grace. That it is not simply that we are fed and nourished, but that we are activated to respond and reply with love and compassion in our own ways. That we show up too, even as God shows up for us.

And that is part of what St. Paul is talking about in his Romans passage from chapter 9. And I want to acknowledge that we are in a kind of tricky place this Sunday. If you have paid close attention, we have spent the last three weeks reading through almost the entirety of chapter 8 of Romans. Today we have the first five verses of chapter 9. And then next week we skip ahead to chapter 10. It's not the easiest chapter of St. Paul's epistle. It's actually kind of messy. It's fraught. And our lectionary editors have kind of glazed over that to jump ahead. And so I want to spend the moment just thinking about what it is that we're missing, but how it shapes and forms how it is that we might respond to the needs and the places of compassion and mercy that we're called into in the world as our response to God's mercy for us.

Chapter 9 overall, and I think this is one of the reasons why it's so sticky and messy, is an exploration of what it means for the people of Israel to be covenanted to God and what that means in light of Christ coming among us, Christ offering this new way of being, this new relationship. What it means for the Israelites to have the covenant, to have the promise, to have the name of chosen, and for then this new community, this new way, this all-encompassing path through Christ to unfold the whole world. And sometimes, throughout the history of Christianity, this has been read in problematic ways that diminish or obfuscate the important place of the people of the covenant, of the Israelites, and the greater work that God is doing in the world. It's used—to use a fancy term—in these kind of supersessionist ways that Christians are the new Israelites, that we replace the old covenant with the new.

But from the very beginning, Paul frames things differently. If we pay attention to verse 3, he says, "For I could wish that I myself were accursed and cut off from Christ for the sake of my own people, my kindred according to the flesh." This is not language of love in an explicit way, but it is language of love in this implicit sense. Paul is saying, I wish that I could take on the burden of this way so that my people could feel fully the mercy and compassion of God that has come through Christ. May I take on the struggles so that there is a better way forward for all.

Tevye, the patriarch of the family for whom Fiddler on the Roof is focused, again and again has the same kind of dynamic in his life. His way of being, his culture, his society, his whole perspective on life is constantly challenged, reframed, reoriented. And in the midst of that challenge, most of the time, he's able to respond with compassion and love. That he prioritizes mercy over and against rigidity.

And when we think about how we are to respond to the great gifts that we are given in God, we need to keep that in mind. Because in times of scarcity, in times of meekness, in times where things seem very thin and frayed, I think it's the all-too-human reaction to circle the wagons, to be more conserving—I was going to say conservative, but that's such a loaded term in these days—but to be more attuned to holding tightly to what we have than to have a spirit of generosity. Of taking the meager loaves and fishes that we have been provided and trust that God is going to multiply them and use them for his greater good and for the transformation of all. Were that we, like St. Paul, had this willingness to take on the burden of our brothers and sisters, to help them see a better day and a better way forward.

And I want to acknowledge that we're not always going to hit the mark on this score. For all of Tevye's compassion and mercy, in the ways that he begrudgingly accepts two different marriages of daughters of his that don't go exactly the way he wants them to, he still struggles with his last daughter and her desire to marry outside of the Jewish community entirely. And even at the end of the story, that tension is left unresolved. He cannot fully bring himself to accept and embrace that reality.

And we all have those challenges and difficulties. We all have those broken limitations in our lives, in our life as a community of faith. Those places where we just don't hit the mark. We don't exude the compassion and mercy that God offers us in the fullness of His love.

But nevertheless, our call in each and every moment is to discern and strive towards the fullest and most complete version of that love and mercy that we can live into. And to constantly seek after a fuller and more complete sense of love and mercy in the world around us.

And so today, friends, as we reflect on these readings, as we hear the miracle of the loaves and fishes, as we are once more reminded of the assurances that God offers us in showing up, even when we have very little, even when things seem very tenuous, we have the ability to glory in that mercy and to be renewed in our commitment to living into it most fully, emulating it most completely, and following after God in our own spaces of compassion and mercy giving. And may we as a people continue to strive for that ideal in this time and in all the times to come.

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

July 27, 2026

Friends, I speak to you this morning in the name of God, who is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Please be seated. I want to invite you all to do something while I'm offering my homily this morning, at least at the beginning. In the pews right in front of you, you'll see prayer books, you'll see hymnals. I invite you to pick one of them up. Maybe you have to pick up a couple. But if you turn to the front cover, in many of those hymnals, in many of those prayer books, you see memorial plates. These hymnals, these prayer books, they've been donated, dedicated by faithful members of our community in ages past.

A couple of years ago for our stewardship campaign, I reflected on the many names of these folks who have been a part of this community over the years and generations. But I want to invite us to think about them, to think about the legacy that they offer us. Maybe this upcoming week, if you have a name in one of your hymnals or your prayer books, pray a special prayer of memory for that person, for that family, for the legacy that they have left us as the people of St. Anne's.

I went to Virginia Theological Seminary down in Alexandria. I've talked about this several times before. Just before I started seminary in the fall of 2010, the chapel burned down at the seminary. It took them several years to rebuild it, but it just so happened that my second year in seminary was the great year of dedication for this new, wonderful building that had been built. It was pristine and fresh, and it kind of felt unlived in.

One of the great members of the international Anglican communion that we had with us at that celebration of dedication was the then Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby. I remember during his homily at this service of dedication, he remarked on the power of prayer. What makes these spaces sacred, what sets places apart, are the generations and layers of faithfulness, of prayerfulness, of lived experience that soak these places in meaning, in this great spiritual power that they come to imbue.

It really captured me in thinking about that, because the work that we do—the work that God does through us—has a staying power, a legacy. It adds to the generations of faithful who have come before, who have in their own ways dedicated their life's energy to keeping the faith alive and real and lived in the many spaces and places in which we reside and go in our lives.

There's this great image, if you ever have the chance to go to the Holy Land, in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. There's a pathway down to this crypt where it is said that St. Helena found the true cross of Christ. All along the passageway are centuries, millennia now, of etched crosses that pilgrims have put into the stone walls of that passageway. It is a physical reminder to us of that same layeredness that we experience, and the ways in which we are shaped and formed by that history.

I'm talking about all of that today because we celebrate our patronal feast of Saint Anne, or Saint Anna, today. It is celebrated in conjunction with her spouse, St. Joachim, and they are identified as the parents of the Blessed Virgin Mary. But what's interesting and unique, and frankly kind of difficult about them for me in preaching this Sunday, is how very little we actually know of them. They are not attested to anywhere in Scripture. It's only the Protoevangelium of St. James, an extra-biblical source that comes about 100 years after Jesus died, that preserves their names and gives any kind of description of them.

Even that text focuses almost exclusively on the life of Mary. It's about her, about the power of her faithfulness. So even in the brief sources we have, the majority of what we know of our patron saint, Anne—of the life of Anna and Joachim—is inferred from the life and the faithfulness of their daughter, Mary.

I think that's instructive. It's not necessarily a fault or a difficulty, because it helps us reflect on the same experience we have had as the faithful in our own day and time. We can talk about it as a community of faith, of who we are as St. Anne's, precisely where I invited us to begin today. These myriad numbers of people, many of them unknown to the majority of us as the present-day congregation—though, Janet, maybe you would recognize a lot of these names!—are folks who have come in and out of our lives. They are often forgotten to time, to history, and yet have deeply shaped and formed the experience of who we are today. They have influenced in their myriad ways the culture and character of the way we live out our faith in this time and this place.

They are for us our Annas and Joaquims. Their legacy, their memory, is lived through who we are and the important emphases we place on our life as an ongoing Christian faith community.

Interestingly, we're named precisely because of this dynamic. Many of you may know that our very first building, what is now our parish hall, was built with the financial support of All Saints Church in Chevy Chase. At the time that it was built, we gave to All Saints the opportunity to name our congregation. We invited their rector at the time, Dr. Edward Berger, to come up with a name. He said, "Well, I immediately think of St. Anne." He was born on St. Anne's day himself, but he had also led at one point in his life St. Anne's Episcopal Church in Annapolis.

He reflects in this beautiful letter he wrote to us in the early 1960s on how the quiet and unassuming character of St. Anne shaped and formed him through his life. It was always this kind of background witness to the great saints in heaven through his connection to the feast day and his birth, and also through the lived, ongoing experience of the faithful in this congregation he led at St. Anne's in Annapolis. It's all those unremarkable and unremarked-upon experiences of faithfulness that together build towards this great witness to the Christian faith that so shaped and formed him.

That's us, too. The many ways that we live our faith life today, the many gifts that we bring to our community, have been shaped and formed and concretized by these unknown faithful who have come before us—these myriad numbers, hundreds if not thousands, who have walked through these doors, worshipped in these pews, and guided and shaped us in their own quiet ways.

What is it that we're carrying forward through their legacy? What is it that we offer in our witness? I think we can look around us and name many of those: our commitments to works of social justice; our deep, abiding support of those who have needs in our community through Damascus Help or now through The Hub; through the very many outreaches that we have had to seniors and to others; to the ways in which we cultivate a life of community through our music, through our fellowship offerings; to the many ways that we are a presence of connection to the community and region around us.

These are all the values that we are carrying forward from the generations who have gone before us, who in their quiet, unassuming ways shaped and formed us to be those people in this time and place. We remember them today, inasmuch as we remember Saint Anna and Saint Joachim. We're reminded of their quiet presence, their unassuming witness that has led us to be the people we are in this place.

But there's a final turn, too. It's this reflection on who we are in this moment—what it is that we do in carrying forward our own witness in our own time, how we shape and form those who are going to come after us. What is it that we are leaving them? How is it that we are offering them a vision for the kingdom of God for them to live into, embrace, and support in the times that are ahead, in the lives that will be led in the future?

So often today in our society, in our world writ large, we have this assumption that our legacies last only as long as the structures that we build to memorialize them—that our permanence is related to our memory, that we don't want to be forgotten. We want to have our names on things. We want to have some kind of concrete, physical way of remembering and acknowledging who we are.

And yet, as many of our Eastern Orthodox brothers and sisters have often taught us throughout the centuries (and in other parts of our Christian faith as well), the greatest witness that we have is in our deep humility—in our ability to let go of that need or desire for recognition, for remembrance. It is to let our legacy be the good work that continues on, even if we are not the ones named for it, even if we are not the ones remembered for it, even if the legacy of our work is shaped and formed more by those who come after us. It is nevertheless the work that God is calling us into. It is nevertheless the depth and power of our faithfulness.

So today, as we remember those who have come before us in this place, and as we remember in each of our own individual lives the great many who have shaped and formed us in their own quiet witnesses and ways, may we be renewed in our own commitment to being those faithful witnesses at this time for those coming in the future ahead of us. May those who follow us reflect and live most fully into the things of the kingdom that we help to communicate and bring forward in this day and in this time.

I'll finally remark on this: We are blessed to have Adekoya serving with us today. After we do our prayers for anniversaries and birthdays, we will be celebrating him as he has graduated high school and prepares to transition to college. This is a time of life in which we are brought to mind of this experience of transition, of influence, of remembering those who have come before and acknowledging and celebrating those who are coming after.

Adekoya, I invite you as you make this transition to be ever mindful of those influences of goodness and compassion that have surrounded you, formed you, and shaped you in these many years of your life here. In this moment in a societal sense, where the impulse is to speak loudest and be most dominating, remember the goodness and holiness and quiet fortitude. Remember the goodness and holiness of being present to the present moment in small and maybe often unacknowledged ways—that perseverance of the faith that shapes and guides us over the course of our whole lives.

And so, for all of us, may we have this moment of pause to look backwards and forwards, to celebrate the great legacy of Anna and Joachim, and to be renewed in that same sense of quiet faithfulness for ourselves, now and always.

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