September 20, 2026

I am not in the habit of titling my homilies or my sermons, but if I were, today's would either be Letting Go of Our Ego or Kingdom Economics 101. And as you might expect, these are both based on our gospel parable today, which, as well known as it is, is unique to St. Matthew, and is only read once today in the entirety of the three-year lectionary cycle.

That said, for those of you who are night owls like me, or who faithfully attend the Easter vigil service, this will sound familiar. The rhetorical framework of our parable is heard every single year during the great vigil of Easter, when I read the greatest homily ever preached. In the tradition of our Orthodox and Eastern Christian brothers and sisters, I always recite the 4th-century Paschal homily of St. John Chrysostom.

It begins:

Are there any who are devout lovers of God? Let them enjoy this beautiful, bright festival. Are there any who are grateful servants? Let them rejoice and enter into the joy of their Lord. Are there any weary with fasting? Let them now receive their wages. If any have toiled from the first hour, let them receive their due reward. If any have come after the third hour, let them with gratitude join the feast. And they that arrived after the sixth hour, let them not doubt, for they too shall sustain no loss. And if any delayed until the ninth hour, let them not hesitate, but let them come too. And they who arrived only at the eleventh hour, let them not be afraid by reason of their delay. For the Lord is gracious and receives the last even as the first. He gives rest to them that come at the eleventh hour as well as those who toiled from the first. To this one he gives and upon another he bestows. He accepts the work as he greets the endeavorer. The deed he honors and the intention he commends.

Let us all enter into the joy of the Lord. First and last alike receive your reward. Rich and poor rejoice together. Sober and slothful celebrate the day. You that have kept the fast and you that have not, rejoice today for the table is richly laden.

Now, this sounds all well and good and wonderful, but let me tell you that by this accounting, the vast majority of us are those who came at the last, the slothful who did not keep the fast.

Many of our CSI brothers and sisters from Holy Trinity have Eastern Orthodox family members or backgrounds, and they can tell you something of the intense fasting called for in this tradition. I remember years ago, I had a Greek barber named Bill, and one Lent I witnessed him getting gently tsk-tsked and corrected by a fellow Greek because he had oil on his salad.

In the economy of St. John Chrysostom, we are those, even those who did not follow that strict of a fast, we are those still called to the great banquet feast of the Lord. And we might be tempted to just stay there, to bask in the glory of our enlightened perspective on law and grace, where we have taken up our version of the yoke of Christ because the burden is light. The frankly cringe-worthy joke that we like to banter about about ourselves, that we are Catholic light, that we have all the pomp but none of the guilt.

But here's the thing. All of that pithiness aside, we often just as easily view ourselves as those who have toiled from the first, and we in our own way retain a criteria of judgment for excluding or lessening the reward of others. As a whole tradition, how quickly we can judge others who haven't struck just the right balance or the right doctrine or right practice in the way that we have. Like Thomas Cranmer, believing ourselves to have retained or reclaimed the true and original form of Christian faith and worship.

Or, as the particular community of St. Anne's, how often do we find ourselves saying things like, "Service is in our DNA," or framing our Christian identity around our firsts: being the first to address a variety of social service needs in Damascus, being the first to call a female rector in the Diocese of Washington, being the first to call a gay priest as rector in northern Montgomery County.

And the thing is, those are all moments and places in which this community has felt led by the Spirit to lead other workers into the harvest. But, just as easily, being the first can sometimes prove a stumbling block and a barrier to the greater humility of spirit that we are called into in the fullness of kingdom economics.

None of us are completely free from some level of hypocrisy on this or other scores. I guarantee that all of us have some level of work and sacrifice that we have undertaken, in which we have labored from the first, and in which we want our dedication to be lauded above the rest. To be fair, I also guarantee that all of us can think of times when we were the latecomers, granted inclusion or approval when we did the very least.

And our challenge today is not so much to bask in the glory of what we have been gifted or granted, or to laud what we have accomplished. But our challenge today is to do the hard work of recognizing the places and spaces where we remain the grumblers and the naysayers in the economy of the kingdom.

And what does that grumbling or nay-saying look like? It can look like the dissatisfaction of not seeing the rewards we feel we deserve or that we feel that we expect. We step out boldly in faith, embracing radical inclusivity, and it transforms the world around us. It gives people on the margins, like the Ninevites in today's Old Testament reading, hope, and new life. But it doesn't bring us the fulfillment we expect. It doesn't increase our congregation numerically. It doesn't improve our financial prospects any more robustly. And we, like Jonah, are left grumbling.

Or like the Israelites in the alternative Old Testament lesson today, grousing about the journey of liberation that we have undertaken. Why can't we just go back to the familiar we knew? It wasn't ideal, but it's better than this.

It can also look like disdain for those who have not labored in the same way we have, or have not come to the same place that we have arrived at. And there are some hard truths here, if we're honest. We are proudly part of the international Anglican community, and we glory in the fact that we are part of something significantly larger than our national provincialism. But then, what do we do with the fact that women's ordination and full inclusion of LGBTQ folks in the leadership of the life of the church are still considered theological matters of conscience on which we can agree to disagree as part of that communion?

What does that truly mean for us to live that reality? If we're honest, I think many of us would say we can't actually do that. We struggle to accept that this is an acceptable disagreement.

Yet, then, in our enlightened little bubbles, how many of us grumble and grouse about the inconvenience of, say, school closures for the Jewish high holidays or other minority festivals and religious observances that often complicate our expected routines framed around the largely Christian cultural milieu? And yet many of our international siblings who have many very different theological attitudes on matters very important to us, prophetically witness to a way of great mutual respect and flourishing among a variety of different cultural and religious diversities.

Living as fully as possible within the structure of kingdom economics is so very, very hard. And what then is our constructive turn for today?

Well, I want to suggest, friends, that it is the turn of work, of acknowledging that we always have places of further refinement and greater development to undertake. It is labor towards liberation, toil towards transformation.

Our CSI siblings have a great collect this week, as their theme for this Sunday is living in unity in the midst of this diversity, in the midst of plurality. And the collect goes:

Gracious and merciful God, we thank you for the gift of this world, a world filled with diverse cultures and faiths. We are grateful for the opportunity to live alongside those who hold beliefs different from our own, and for the privilege to learn from their perspectives. We pray for the strength to build bridges of understanding and friendship with those who are different from us. Help us to see the common humanity that binds us all together and to celebrate the unique gifts that each person brings to the world. Grant us the wisdom to appreciate the beauty and richness of our diverse world and the courage to create a society where all can live together in harmony and mutual respect. Through Jesus Christ, our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, world without end.

And I invite us, again, to listen to those operative clauses:

• We pray for the strength to build bridges of understanding and friendship with those who are different from us.

• Help us to see the common humanity that binds us all together.

• Grant us the wisdom to appreciate the beauty and richness of our diverse world.

It's about labor. But it's labor that seeks transformation. Transformation of ourselves and others, even, maybe very often, when it is most dislocating, most uncomfortable.

I will never forget one of my seminary professors, the Reverend Dr. Allison St. Louis. She was one of the first women ordained in the Anglican Church in Jamaica. And she was very highly respected and regarded within that community. She was regularly invited back to preach and give talks and lead retreats and workshops for lay people and clergy.

But, in the very formalized, proper context of island Anglicanism, many of the folks that she went back to struggled with her witness rubbing up against tradition. And for years, they just couldn't bring themselves to not call her Father St. Louis, even though she was very clearly a woman. And even though it drove her up a wall, she did not let the discomfort, and frankly, the dehumanization prevent her from laboring in a vineyard ripe for transformation.

And my prayer for us this morning is that we may also have such strength, such grace, such humility in the economy of the kingdom in our context, in our community, and in our world today.

Amen

September 13, 2026

Do you all know the idiom, seeing red? It's a fairly common turn of phrase in our culture and society today, and it's actually one of the few idioms that we have in English that is, as far as I can tell, exclusively American in origin.

A lot of the turns of phrase and idioms we have come from Europe or come from other cultures that predate our usage of English in the United States. But seeing red dates to somewhere in the early 1900s, and as best as folks can tell, it relates actually to bullfighting in Spain. It's an image of the bull seeing the red sash of the matador, or his capote, the cape that, you know, twirls around. But it's actually kind of an irony because bulls are colorblind. They don't actually see red. What they are reacting to or responding to is the movement of the cape, the movement of the matador in the bull ring.

But this irrationality is in a way kind of sensible to the idiom. When we are victims of violation, when we have been hurt or sinned against, sometimes all we see is red, even if it's an irrational red. We get irrationally angry and upset. Things don't make sense. It is often because it is not just about that specific violation, but that that violation or that moment of sin against us triggers the hurt. The layers of pain. The layers of other sorrows that are wrapped up in that moment of violation. And so this image of seeing red, even if we don't physically see red, even if we're reacting to something other than color, we still have this anger, this hurt, this violation.

Fifteen years ago, September 11th was on a Sunday, a Sunday just like this one. And I more distinctly remember the next day, that Monday morning. I was working at the time at a counseling center in North Little Rock, Arkansas. It was an old kind of Victorian house. And that Monday morning, before our clients arrived, I sat out on the porch having a cup of coffee with one of my fellow therapists, a woman named Diane. And we were talking about what at that time was the 10th anniversary of the September 11th attacks. This counseling agency and the majority of the work we did was with military personnel. Folks immediately and directly impacted by everything that had happened in the years after 9/11.

And it wasn't just, as we talked about it, the death of those 2,977 people on that day. As we talked about the impact that that moment had had on all of the people we work with, the society that we live in at large, Diane and I were realizing and reflecting on how that moment of 9/11 was so much more of a violation. It was a violation of the security and safety we thought we had. The violation of this kind of late 90s idealism we had in the United States. We seemed to be on this upward trajectory. Our economy was doing well. We had this very prominent and impactful role in the international community. We seemed to be in this moment of ascendance.

And all of that came crashing down in the moment of that great tragedy on 9/11. And I want to be careful what I say here. It's not so much that our anger and pain in that moment was irrational, but it was so much larger than just what happened on that day. The violation was so much greater than just the tragedy of that loss of life.

And in some significant ways, this truth lies at the heart of Jesus' admonition to us today in our gospel lesson. Peter's question here is a rather straightforward one. But Jesus immediately jumps to the irrational. Let me explain what I mean.

If we remember back to last week, especially last week when I kind of expanded the scope of what we were reading back to the beginning of chapter 18, this whole discussion began with this question of who is the greatest in the kingdom of God, and Jesus turned that on its head. He spoke about the faith of innocence and the profound witness of children. And then he moved into the actual reading we had where he gave this rather clear and straightforward instruction. This very sensible and principled path to address conflict when it arises. Start with the one-on-one admonishment and then build from there only if necessary.

And Peter's question today kind of builds from that moment. Okay, Jesus, you have given us this very clear framework for addressing conflict. Now, what are we to do about forgiveness? And Jesus seems in this moment to instantly read Peter's mind. Peter's initial suggestion of seven times is very law-abiding. That is in relationship to Torah law, to Mosaic law. Peter is essentially saying, okay, Jesus, you have told me how to address conflict. Now, how long do I have to do that before I can write someone off? How long do I have to wait before I can cast them out of my life, to reject them for the thing that they have done against me?

And here is the first irrationality. Jesus says 77 times 7. That is 539 times of forgiveness, which is not strictly what he's saying. He's not telling Peter, you know, keep a tally, and when you hit that mark, then you're in the clear. No, what he's saying in a metaphorical sense here is you forgive indefinitely. You forgive forever. And that's really tough.

But it gets even worse. Jesus then tells this parable about this wicked servant who has amassed an incalculable debt. A talent was a weight of silver, about 80 pounds worth of silver. And I read one commentator who suggested that 10,000 talents was more than the entire yearly financial output of Rome in the time of Jesus. So, like 77 times 7, this is a metaphor to say that the slave owed an infinite debt that could never be paid off. There was just no way in any lifetime or multiple lifetimes that this could have ever been reconciled.

And yet in this moment, we have a second irrationality. That the landowner forgives this incalculable debt. That this debt of multiple lifetimes of ownership is forgiven. The slave is redeemed by the compassionate forgiveness of the landowner.

And this is irrational because it's clear that this slave does not deserve this kindness. His immediate attitude probably speaks to a personality that was well known. He was probably an irascible, incorrigible character who treated everyone terribly. And we see this. We see this immediately. Because he turns around and abusively treats a debtor of his own who owes something like three months' worth of wages.

This guy owes an infinite debt, a debt that could never be paid off, and the person that owes him owes him something like three months of wages. An infinitesimal amount of money.

In some ways, this character of this wicked slave is not terribly unlike the story we have from Genesis with Joseph today. Because his brothers completely concoct this narrative. We don't really see that in the reading we have. But if we go back and look at Genesis more broadly, there's never a moment in Jacob or Israel's life as he is drawing closer to death where he explicitly says what the brothers say he says. It is as if they get together after he has died, after Jacob has died, and said, "Okay, we are now fearing what Joseph might do to us, so let us tell him this story, let us lie to him about what our father has promised, so that he might have mercy on us."

And it seems very clear throughout the whole of the Genesis narrative about Joseph that he is a very astute and shrewd man. He is very, very aware of what's going on. And I have to but wonder if he hears this narrative and immediately in his mind, kind of like this landowner says, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course, of course our father said that." But he doesn't call his brothers to account. He doesn't call them out on their deceptiveness. He forgives.

He forgives even when they are continuing to violate this covenant of brotherhood, as they are continuing to lie to him and not be straightforward.

But both of these narratives, of this wicked slave and of the brothers of Joseph here, speak to something more profound. And it's not something Jesus explicitly says, but it comes out of his admonition here. It is the detachment of forgiveness from consequence. And I think this is something we, in our society, very frequently wrestle with. Because we see the two necessarily having to go together.

And what I mean by that is that I think this is something that many of us often struggle with on both sides of this equation. Whether we are the one who has been sinned against or violated, whether we are the perpetrator or the violator—because like Joseph's brothers, sometimes that violation, when we are the perpetrators, continues to gnaw at us. It was 17 years—17 years Jacob lived in Egypt with Joseph. 17 years that the family had been reunited and lived together. And yet even at the end of that time, they were still fearful of their lives. They still wrestled with the sin of what they had done to their brother. It had continued to eat away at them.

But what we hear today is that this forgiveness is not simply saying, "I have been violated and I'm going to let bygones be bygones." But to say, "I forgive you. I honor and respect the dignity of your personhood. But there's still going to be some level of accountability." The brothers still served Joseph in Egypt. They still had this position of restitution, of working under him to repair that relationship. But it was restitution born of a reconciling act. They still dealt with the consequences of their actions, even as they were forgiven and restored in their humanity.

Back where I began with this image of seeing red, when we get fixated on the violation and often lose sight of this important nuancing that Jesus calls us into. This careful and humane way that Jesus calls us into full and honest relationship with each other.

I reflected as I was preparing for the sermon today on how impossible that can often seem. Like many points in Jesus's life and ministry, it feels aspirational, a nice idea, but out of reach for us, for lived human experience, for our everyday lives, and the reality of pain and hurt that we suffer or that we inflict on each other.

But I want to end on a powerful, life-transforming example of how this actually does manifest. As out of reach as this may seem, there are powerful witnesses to this kind of reconciliation that live among us.

As you all have seen in the communications, is Julian Steele Musser. And his middle name is in honor of a man that Julie and I met when we first joined the Episcopal Church in Arkansas, a man named Marion Steele Hayes. And like us, he had actually grown up in the Southern Baptist Church, and he had married one of the first female priests in all of the South. But he was an Arkansas Supreme Court justice. By the time we knew him, he was retired. But one of his principal legacies as a Supreme Court justice in Arkansas was his steadfast and committed opposition to the death penalty.

And that connected with us deeply in our own experience, but especially for me personally, because when we joined St. Peter's, I was working at that time as the religious outreach director for the Arkansas Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty. And Judge Hayes and I spent long hours discussing the challenges and the difficulties of working towards that goal of abolishing this system of death in our country because of the reality of pain and hurt and violation that so often underlies it.

But one of the realities that he and I often also shared in was the transforming witness of those who have been violated. There's a powerful national organization that was very active in Arkansas called MVFR: Murder Victims Families for Reconciliation. These were the family members of people who had been killed, who had been murdered, who had been violated in the most severe way. Their humanity had been destroyed in an act of death. And yet these family members sought not more death, but reconciliation and restitution. They sought what is often referred to as restorative justice.

And I love that word because justice is still on the table. Justice is still at hand. The consequences of actions are still acknowledged. But it is consequence with the aim of restoration. Consequence with the aim of restored dignity.

And one of the most profound examples that I have ever come across of this is a woman named Charlotte Evans. She came a couple of times to Arkansas to tell her story. Her son was murdered at five years old, just out playing in the street, by a 15-year-old kid named Raymond Johnson, who was being stupid, who was wrapped up in the wrong affairs, running with the wrong crowd, and had shot a gun out of a car in an attempted drive-by shooting.

And Charlotte, in the process of the trial, in the process of dealing with the loss of her child, had this moment of superhuman, divine strength, in which she said to Raymond, "I have lost a son. But I forgive you and I adopt you. You are now my son."

And in his arrogance as a 15-year-old thinking that he knew how the world worked, he didn't respond to her. He didn't acknowledge that reality. And he went off to prison. He was actually sentenced as an adult and sentenced to life imprisonment.

And about 10 years later, as a young 20-something, he reached back out to her and he said, "I need a mother. I am broken and I need what you offer."

And they developed a relationship. They found a place of restoration. And he continued to suffer the consequences of his actions. He continued to serve that prison sentence. But Charlotte, in this divinely inspired strength, was able to see the dignity of his personhood. Able to see the potential of a reconciled and renewed relationship.

And I think it is so very fitting today that we have these readings this year with this proximity to an act that was so violating for us as a nation and a country. Because it brings us into mind of what this true and total transformation can look like. How it is that we might live ever more fully into a call of renewed and restored relationship.

And it's renewed and restored relationship with honesty, with transparency, with the recognition of consequence, but ultimately with the real and true profound power of recognizing that every single one of us, even the most deranged, despicable, hurtful person in the world, is a person made in the image of God. Someone with their own power to be transformed and renewed. A person who deserves compassion and love. A person who deserves forgiveness.

And sometimes we find in ourselves those places of brokenness. Where we wrestle. To reconcile ourselves. Or to be reconciled to the ones that we have hurt. And in this moment, we hear in this admonition from Jesus, this promise from God, that we can be reconciled. Even as we reconcile with those who have hurt us.

And as we say every single Sunday in the Lord's Prayer, "Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us." We have a profound moment today to not just say that, but to really and truly reflect on the depth of what that means. To wrestle with the challenge and the difficulty of living that and embodying it, but also hearing in the words of our Savior the promise that that transformation can have, the promise of what that reconciliation can look like.

And so may we be strengthened today on either side of that equation to be reconciled and to reconcile, that we may ever more fully live into the heart and the life of God that He is calling us into in each and every moment.

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