Author: Rosemary Lovelace

1st Sunday after Christmas – Baptismal Service – Mark Winward

During this Christmas season, we continue to celebrate the new life of Christ, born to us in a manger. But today we are also celebrating new life in Christ in the baptism of Matthew Dabrowski. Christmas is not only about remembering something that happened long ago. It is about what God is still doing—bringing light out of darkness, life out of death, and hope into a broken world.

For some of you, this service may feel unfamiliar – and you may not know exactly what to expect. That has been true for centuries. There is a legendary story from the fifth century about King Aengus, who was baptized by St. Patrick. During the service, Patrick accidentally stabbed the king’s foot with his shepherd’s staff. Remarkably, the king said nothing. Afterward, Patrick begged for forgiveness and asked why the king had suffered in silence. The king replied, “I thought it was part of the ritual!”

Thankfully, baptism no longer involves that kind of pain—though I can’t promise the sermon will be entirely painless. But the story reminds us of something important: baptism has always been a significant moment in the life of the church, profoundly mysterious, and deeply meaningful.

Except in emergencies, baptism is celebrated in the presence of the gathered Church because we recognize baptism is not a private act. It is incorporation into the community of believers. And that’s not into a particular denomination, but into the one Body of Christ. As Paul writes, “There is one body and one Spirit… one Lord, one faith, one baptism.” Before we are Episcopalians or anything else, we are Christians—claimed by Christ, joined to him, and joined to one another.

That truth is proclaimed with particular force in today’s Gospel. In December of 1968, as the world reeled from war, protest, and fear, the crew of Apollo 8 orbited the moon. On Christmas Eve, they turned their camera back toward Earth, and humanity gasped as for the first time we watched our planet rise over the lunar horizon—small, fragile, and beautiful. As millions watched, just for a moment the world saw itself as one, and astronaut William Anders read: “In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth.”

John’s Gospel begins by delving in the mystery of the Creator and our common humanity. 

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Before time, before matter, before history, there was the Word—Logos—eternal, personal, divine. And then John tells us the heart of the Christian faith: “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

God did not remain distant. The Creator entered creation. The light that called the universe into being stepped into the darkness—not to condemn it, but to save it. This is why Christmas matters. And this is why baptism matters. Because God took on our humanity, becoming one of us and forever elevating humankind.

John is honest, though, about the world as it is. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness could not overcome it. As world failed to recognize its Creator, our alienation from God became a chronic condition of humanity. But John does not leave it there. He writes, “To all who received him… he gave power to become children of God.” Not by effort. Not by achievement. But by grace.

Grace is at the heart of baptism. God claims us by name and says, “You are my child.” Baptism then becomes a lifelong calling to live as one who belongs to Christ. And as that identity of belonging deepens in our hearts, we seek to live a life pleasing to God and loving our neighbor as ourselves – striving for justice and peace and respecting the dignity of all.

In a few moments, Matthew will profess his faith in Christ, and all of us will be reminded of our own baptismal promises: to renounce evil, to turn from sin, to trust in Jesus Christ as Savior and Lord, and to live that trust through prayer, service, justice, and love. Matthew will be baptized into the one, holy, catholic Church—the Body of Christ across all times and places—and, in due time, invited to affirm that faith within our Anglican tradition.

From this day forward, the Church recognizes that Matthew belongs at this table, is nourished by this bread and this cup, and shares fully in the life of Christ’s Body. For all who are baptized—regardless of denomination—the table is open. And for those who are not baptized, you are invited into worship, into prayer, into community, and come to embrace the grace God longs to give you.

So today, whether baptized or not, Episcopalian or not, I ask you to stand with Matthew. Renew your own baptismal promises. Receive again the good news that the Word became flesh, that light has overcome the darkness, and that God is still redeeming lives—calling us not only to believe, but to live into being children of the light.

Christmas Eve – Mark Winward

But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see – I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.” (Luke 2:10–11, NRSV)

For just a moment this evening, I invite you to pause and consider the immensity of what we are celebrating. The claim at the heart of Christmas goes far beyond our sentimental memories of this story depicted in Christmas pageants. The central claim of Christmas is truly staggering – and if we dare to consider it, nothing will ever be the same. Think about it: the God of all creation became one of us.

When we begin to grasp even a bit of the grandeur of the universe, that claim becomes almost overwhelming: The Creator became one of us. Science describes a cosmos so vast that our minds struggle to hold it. Douglas Adams captured that sense of scale in his whimsical science fiction, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, when he wrote, “Space is big. Really big. You just won’t believe how vastly, hugely, mind-bogglingly big it is.” Yet for all that sense of wonder, Adams couldn’t imagine that such immensity might point beyond itself to Something greater than us. Astronauts, however, often speak of something called the “overview effect.” Seeing the Earth from space, suspended in darkness, many experience a deep sense of awe – sometimes even a spiritual awakening. Others feel disoriented or shaken, confronted by both the fragile beauty of our world and the cold vastness beyond it. And the more we explore the universe, the more immense it seems to become.

To put that scale simply: if you could drive to the sun at highway speed, it would take nearly two centuries to arrive. That distance is just one astronomical unit. A light-year is over 63,000 times the distance from the earth to the sun – and the observable universe stretches across an estimated 93 billion of light-years. If scientist have correctly estimated the age of the universe to be 13.8 billion years, it would take 82 million times the age of the universe for you to drive across it. Now if your eyes glaze over with all those numbers, it’s because such sheer magnitude defies our ability to grasp it. And yet, in a small corner of that vast universe lies our rather unremarkable galaxy. Within it, an unremarkable star. Orbiting that star, a small, life-bearing planet. On that planet, God created human beings in his image – capable of memory and reason, creativity and love – intentionally designed from the beginning for community with one another and with God.

And we turned away. Again and again, God called us back, longing for relationship with us, but we ignored that call. That alienation from God isn’t merely an abstract theological problem; it shows up in very real ways – in our loneliness, our fear, our pride, our broken relationships, our sense that something isn’t as it should be. We try to fix it ourselves, to live life on our own terms, but the distance remains.

Then God did the unimaginable.

The Creator of that planet, that star, that galaxy, that incomprehensibly vast cosmos didn’t abandon us to our rejection of him. Out of love – pure, costly love – the great “I Am,” the beginning and the end, became one of us. God broke into human history. God embraced our human limitations. God became flesh. In that moment, humanity was forever changed. In a forgotten corner of the Roman Empire, in a small shepherding town, in a stable no one would have noticed, the universe shifted. For a brief moment, that stable became the center of all creation, because the ruler of the universe had come to find us.

If we really take this claim seriously – that God became human – then every other miracle in Scripture seems almost secondary by comparison. Burning bushes, walking on water, even the empty tomb all flow from this astonishing truth. Christmas is the foundation upon which everything else stands.

How you interpret the meaning of this night will inescapably lead to your answer to the question Jesus himself posed: “Who do you say that I am?” That question confronts each of us tonight. Not “What do you think of Jesus’ teachings?” Not “Do you admire his example?” But who is he for you? Is he merely a distant historical figure, a wise teacher from long ago? Or is he the living God who stepped into human history and comes even now to meet you?

The extraordinary claim of the Gospel is that all of us – rich or poor, powerful or powerless, confident or uncertain – stand on the same ground. We are estranged from God in ways we can’t repair on our own. Scripture calls that reality sin: our persistent tendency to turn inward, to insist on our own way, to live as though we do not need God. The result is a separation we can’t bridge by effort or good intentions. That is why the baby in the manger matters. That is why the angels erupt in song. John’s gospel captures the meaning of this night in words many of us know by heart: “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” (John 3:16)

We hear those words so often that we risk missing their impact. God so loved the world. Not humanity at its best, not the world cleaned up and put together, but the world as it is – fractured, fearful, and lost. God’s response to that world wasn’t condemnation, but self-giving love.

The good news the angels proclaimed is that this child – wrapped in cloths and laid in a feeding trough – came to bring life. Life for anyone and everyone. Not just survival, not just moral improvement, but abundant life rooted in a restored relationship with God.

This child grew into a man who gave himself completely, even to the point of death, so that our alienation would not have the final word. And death itself couldn’t hold him. The one we remember in the manger lives still. Some know his presence as comfort. Some know his strength in moments of weakness. Some know a joy that carries them even through sorrow – a joy we freshly glimpse at Christmas.

So what does this mean for us? It means that God’s priorities are remarkable different than that of this world. Where our politics divide and categorize, God draws near and unites. God isn’t impressed by status or power or whatever your identity may be. God came so that no one would be beyond his reach. God sent his Son so that you might know him, and in knowing him, learn to love as you are loved. Imagine for a moment that the King of all Creation is, quite simply, is in love with you. But he came not only to be loved in return, but so that his love might flow through you into a world still aching for hope and reconciliation. My prayer for us this Christmas is that we might welcome him anew, walk with him in the year ahead, and discover more deeply his strength, his joy, and his life – given for you, and for this wounded world. Amen.

4th Week of Advent – Year A – Mark Winward

Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly. But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” All this took place to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet: “Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel,” which means, “God is with us.” When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him; he took her as his wife, but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus. – Matthew 1:18-25, NRS

We all know quite well the story of the Annunciation. An angel appears to the Mary, who is engaged to Joseph, and said, 

 “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.”

Mary said to the angel, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” The angel said to her, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God.”

Luke goes on to tell of Mary visiting Elizabeth, where we’re introduced to the magnificent Song of Mary: “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior…” Then he tells the familiar story of the manger, the angelic host, and the shepherds that we will hear more about this Wednesday, Christmas Eve.

But going back to the Annunciation, what about Joseph? Put yourself in his shoes. How do you think he felt? How would it have been for him to believe Mary’s explanation for her pregnancy? Today’s selection from Matthew attempts to answer that.

Matthew doesn’t begin his gospel with a miracle of spectacle; he begins with a crisis. Mary is engaged—betrothed—to Joseph, yet she’s now pregnant with someone else’s child. In their time and culture, betrothal was legally binding: breaking it required divorce, and unfaithfulness during betrothal counted as adultery—which would most likely end in the stoning. Personal honor and public shame loomed as probable realities, and Joseph now faces a decision that at the least could ruin both Mary’s life and his own reputation. And Jospeh doesn’t have very much to go on. But one thing is certain: he’s not the father.

But Matthew calls Joseph “righteous,” meaning he takes God seriously and intends to live in obedience to God’s law. He can’t simply ignore what he believes to be sin. And yet, Matthew also tells us that Joseph doesn’t want to expose Mary to public disgrace. So he looks for the most merciful path available to him: a quiet divorce.

While tormented by these thoughts, Joseph falls asleep. And in the tradition of the Hebrew patriarchs and prophets, a stunning appearance of the angel of the Lord breaks into his dream. Invoking Joseph’s royal lineage, this messenger from God announces: “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.”

This redefines Joseph’s whole reality. If this is indeed true, God is acting in a profound way here – and in Joseph’s very own life – unexpectedly and extraordinarily breaking into human history!

Upon awaking, Joseph’s response—like Mary’s in Luke—is obedience. He chooses to take Mary as his wife, abstain from relations with her, and name the child “Jesus”—literally “God saves”—in fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy that the Messiah will be named Emmanuel, “God with us.”

Although from different perspectives, the gospels of Matthew and Luke agree Jesus was conceived by the Holy Spirit and his mother was a virgin. Matthew’s account doesn’t attempt to embellish the story or convince us; he assumes it’s true. The implication is that the miracle of Jesus’ birth was so well known in the Christian community that he has only to state it.

Now, I appreciate that for many people, the idea of the virgin birth is a bit of a stretch. When we hear this Gospel, we often get stuck on questions of biology rather than theology—on whether such a thing could actually happen, rather than on what the story means in telling us how God chose to act in human history. 

Let me clearly say up front that I personally affirm the biblical witness to the virgin birth. And I feel I can do so without embarrassment – because the heart of faith has always been the conviction that reality is far bigger than our daily experience. We worship a God who creates out of nothing and who raises the dead. In that light, the miracle of Jesus’ conception isn’t a sentimental tale, but part of a larger pattern: God acting decisively and graciously, breaking into a world that is incapable of saving itself.

The virgin birth isn’t just about a miracle of birth: it’s about a miracle of grace. My old theology professor, Reginald Fuller, put it well: 

“Jesus is not the product of human evolution or the highest achievement of the human race. He is the result of the intervention of a transcendent God into human history. Simply put, Jesus comes from God. He is God’s Son. The emphasis isn’t on human merit, but on divine initiative – on the creative, life-giving power of God acting where human possibility runs out.”

Matthew makes it very clear why this matters. The angel tells Jospeh the child is to be named Jesus, “for he will save his people from their sins.” Scripture is uncompromising about the human condition. As Paul writes, “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God,” and “the wages of sin is death.” But he doesn’t stop there: “The gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.” The miracle of Christmas isn’t condemnation, but restoration. When humanity was lost, God didn’t abandon us. God came to us.

Now I appreciate words like “sin” and “death” can sound harsh or outdated to modern ears. We may hear them but miss the good news entirely. At its heart, sin isn’t merely moral failure; it’s estrangement – from God, from one another, and from our own deepest calling. But the good news is that God refuses to abandon us despite our abandonment of him. Like the prodigal son, we were lost—and now are found. Still, to be found, we have to first be honest with ourselves about being lost.

Throughout Scripture, God’s saving work begins not with the self-sufficient, but with those who recognize their need. Moses pleaded with God about being unworthy before the burning bush. The Psalmist proclaims, the sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit. The prophet Isaiah cries, “Woe is me! I am a man of unclean lips.” And the Apostle Paul ashamedly confesses that he persecuted the very church he would later serve.

My point is: grace – that is, God’s unmerited favor – begins where the illusion of self-sufficiency ends and dependency on God begins.

So what does Matthew have to say to us at the opening chapter of his Gospel?

First, our faith begins with God’s action, not ours. God has broken into human history in the person of Jesus Christ. Before anyone understands, before anyone obeys, before anyone gets it right, God is already at work to save. The Gospel isn’t calling us to “try harder.” Its Good News is that “God saves” and “God with us.”

Second, “God with us,” is not some abstract doctrine. Matthew begins his gospel naming Jesus, Emmanuel, “God with us,” and ends with Jesus’ final words, “And remember, I am with you always to the end of the age.” Matthew reminds us in Jospeh’s example that God’s presence is a lived reality, meeting us precisely where obedience feels costly and faith feels risky. Emmanuel doesn’t remove the cost of discipleship; Emmanuel means we don’t bear that cost alone.

So what does this mean to you? As we step closer to the threshold of the manger this week, let me suggest one concrete step for you personally to take that’s simple, demanding, and inspired by Joseph’s obedience: Identify one relationship or one act of obedience you have been postponing because it feels risky: an apology you owe, a truth you need to speak, a forgiveness you have been resisting, a boundary you need to set, or a commitment you have been avoiding. Then do the next faithful thing—quietly, without defending yourself, without worry about managing your reputation—and entrust the outcome to God.  Because the Gospel does not promise that obedience will be easy. It promises that God will be with you to the end.

The Third Week of Advent – Year A -Mark Winward

Stir up your power, O Lord, and with great might come among us; and, because we are sorely hindered by our sins, let your bountiful grace and mercy speedily help and deliver us; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit, be honor and glory, now and for ever. Amen. – BCP 212

Advent as a Season of Holy Disruption
One of the most striking prayers in the Anglican tradition begins with a simple but dangerous request: “Stir up your power, O Lord, and with great might come among us…” It sounds harmless enough. But when you stop to think about it, that’s a bold thing to say to God. When we ask God to stir us up, we’re asking God to disturb what’s grown comfortable, to disrupt what’s settled into routine, and to wake us up to what God’s doing—whether we’re ready for it or not.

Advent is precisely the season when the Church dares to pray like that. Advent isn’t meant to lull us into sentimentality. It’s meant to prepare us—to unsettle us just enough to make room for God. The trouble is: human beings are creatures of habit. We fall into patterns of living and thinking that feel natural simply because they’re familiar. Over time, those patterns can become ruts—paths we walk without thinking because they’re already worn deep.

The Persistence of Long-Established Patterns
There’s a well-known story—whether historical or not—about how modern transportation systems still bear the imprint of very old choices. The legend goes that the standard U.S. railroad gauge—4 feet, 8½ inches—was inherited from England, where many early locomotives were built. British railroads, in turn, used that gauge because it matched earlier tramways, which themselves followed the width of existing wagons. Those wagons were built to fit the ruts already worn into roads—roads that, according to the story, dated back to Roman times. The ruts were supposedly set by Roman war chariots, sized to accommodate the rear ends of two horses. And so, well into the 21st century, much of our overland transportation is said to be constrained by the width of two Roman war horses’ hindquarters—at least if the story’s to be believed! But the point isn’t really the history. It’s that once a practice becomes firmly established, people tend to keep doing it. When something settles into being “the way things are,” we often stop questioning it.

That’s true for spiritually as well. We develop assumptions about God, about ourselves, about how faith’s supposed to work, and we rarely stop to examine them. Advent exists to interrupt that momentum. Advent is a season of examination, but it isn’t the same as Lent. Lent prepares us for a death. Advent prepares us for a birth. Both involve self-reflection, but Advent does so with joy and expectancy rather than sorrow alone. It’s, in a sense, a season of holy disruption—an invitation to look honestly at the paths we’ve been walking and ask whether they’re still leading us toward God.

John the Baptist and Faithful Questioning
That spirit of questioning brings us squarely into today’s Gospel. When we meet John the Baptist in this reading, he’s no longer standing by the Jordan preaching repentance. He’s in prison—waiting, isolated, with nothing but time and questions. This is the same John who proclaimed the coming kingdom of God, who baptized Jesus, and who saw the Spirit descend from heaven. And yet from prison he still sends messengers to Jesus with a startling question: “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?”

It’s tempting to see this as a failure of faith. But John’s question sounds profoundly human. John had expected God to act in a certain way. Many people did. Under Roman occupation, they imagined the Messiah would overthrow oppressors and restore order through unmistakable power. Jesus, instead, was healing the sick, restoring the outcast, and proclaiming a kingdom that didn’t look like what anyone expected. When circumstances failed to match expectations, as often happens to us, doubt crept in.

What’s striking is how Jesus responds. He doesn’t scold John. He doesn’t rebuke him for wavering. Instead, he points to what’s happening: the blind see, the lame walk, the deaf hear good news. Jesus quotes Isaiah, not to condemn John, but to remind him that God is indeed at work—just not ccording to familiar patterns.

And then Jesus does something remarkable: he praises John as the greatest of the prophets. Doubt, it seems, wasn’t a disqualifier. Faithful questioning didn’t place John outside of God’s purposes. That matters, because it reshapes how we understand our own faith. When circumstances unfold differently than we expected, we often assume something’s gone wrong— either with God or with us. But Scripture suggests another possibility: perhaps God’s doing something new, something beyond our worn assumptions. That insight shapes how we think about salvation and holiness.

Holiness as Gift, Not Achievement
We live in a culture that often imagines life as a points system—good behavior earns rewards, failure earns penalties. It’s a terrifying way to live, because no one finishes with a perfect score. Scripture offers a far better gospel. Our standing with God doesn’t depend on accumulating spiritual points—it depends on God’s reaching out to us. Holiness, in Scripture, doesn’t mean being perfect – it means being set apart for God’s purposes. When God says, “You shall be holy, for I am holy,” it isn’t merely a demand—it’s a declaration of a relationship. In Christ, holiness isn’t something we achieve, it’s something we receive. We’re holy because we belong to the Holy One and are literally his Holy Family.

That truth also changes how we think about our feelings. Our culture places enormous importance on how we feel. Scripture, however, never suggests that our acceptance by God depends on our emotional state. We’re not called to feel holy; we’re called to be holy. Not called to feel joyful; called to be joyful. Feelings matter, but they aren’t our foundation.

The Advent Hope
Advent reminds us that God’s work in us doesn’t depend on our readiness, our certainty, or our emotional confidence. God stirs us up anyway. And that’s the good news of this season. God doesn’t leave us stuck in old ruts. God comes to wake us up—not to shame us, but to prepare us. To call us beyond what we’ve always been into what we’re becoming in Christ. So once again,

we dare pray that dangerous prayer:
Stir us up, O Lord.
Wake us up.
Prepare us.
Make us ready for the new life you are bringing into the world!
Amen.

2nd Weerk of Advent Year A – Mark Winward

Advent’s Central Question: Have We Prepared Him Room?

More than just a countdown to Christmas, Advent is a season for holy housecleaning that invites us to take stock of our lives and ask how ready we are to welcome the Lord. As the beloved Christmas carol Joy to the World proclaims, “let every heart prepare Him room,” Advent prompts us to anticipate Christ’s coming while examining the condition of our hearts. It asks the most profound question of our faith, “Have we prepared room for Christ?”

John the Baptist: A Life Shaped for Readiness

In today’s Gospel we meet John the Baptist, a character people found impossible to ignore. Some believe John may have been influenced by the Essenes, a community known for repentance, cleansing, and expectation of the Messiah. Whether or not that’s true, everything about John pointed to readiness. To us, John would have looked a bit unhinged—camel hair clothes, a leather belt, living on locusts and honey, his skin weathered by the desert sun—but none of this was accidental. John intentionally modeled himself after Elijah, because Scripture had taught the people to look for Elijah’s return before the Lord’s coming. His very appearance pointed to his message: “Prepare the way. Something is about to happen.”

And that message carried both warning and promise. John confronted the Pharisees and Sadducees for confusing ritualwith righteousness. He shook the complacent awake, yet he lifted up the humble. Proclaiming the words of Isaiah, John spoke of comfort, forgiveness, and the leveling of obstacles—yet woven into that good news was an urgent call: the Lord is near, and the time to prepare is now. His preaching, his lifestyle, his urgency pointed to one reality: All is us need to be ready to meet the Lord.

Three Movements of Preparation: Repent, Live Now, Expect God to Act

That same call echoes to this day. John invites us to a housecleaning of the heart. Just as we would tidy our homes before an honored guest arrives, we are called to prepare ourselves for the coming of Christ.

• First, he calls us to repentance—to turn from old patterns that diminish our lives and to orient ourselves again toward God.
• Second, he calls us to live fully in the now, because “the kingdom of God is at hand,” and there is no time to delay.
• And third, he urges us to expect God to act. The Messiah comes not only with water but with the Holy Spirit and with fire—to transform us from the inside out.

A Living Witness: The Daughters of the King

This morning we will see such preparation and transformation lived out as we commission new Daughters of the King. When a woman becomes a Daughter of the King, she seeks to deepen the promises she made at her baptism and confirmation. She receives the Silver Cross of the Order not as an ornament, but as a daily reminder of the promises she makes before God. At its center are the words Magnanimiter Crucem Sustine—“With heart, mind, and spirit, uphold and bear the cross”—and the letters FHS, “For His Sake.” Just as John pointed beyond himself to the coming Christ, the Daughters take on a rule of life that points beyond themselves—to Christ and His kingdom.

Their rule of prayer commits them to daily intercession, for the spread of the kingdom of God, the unity of the Church, and support of their parish. Flowing from prayer comes the rule of service, through which every Daughter seeks to embody the love of Christ. Prayer and service together support the primary work of the Order: evangelism—proclaiming the love of Jesus to a hurting world through word and deed. The faith of a Daughter isn’t hidden, but lived, shared, and offered so that others might come to know the saving grace of Christ.

And each Daughter doesn’t walk alone. She is supported by a worldwide Christian sisterhood, a community devoted to encouragement, accountability, and spiritual growth. Their pledge beautifully echoes John’s call to readiness:

I am but one, but I am one.

I cannot do everything, but I can do something.

What I can do, I ought to do.

What I ought to do, by the grace of God I will do.

Lord, what will you have me do?

This is the posture of Advent. This is the spirit of preparation.

Christ Is Near: The Invitation Before Us

So in this special season, we’re reminded Christ is near. The time to prepare is now. John urges us to clear the clutter of our hearts, and today the Daughters of the King publicly embrace that call—for His sake. As they take their vows and receive their crosses, they demonstrate what it looks like to live expectantly, courageously, and faithfully—turning from the past, rooted in the present, and ready to do the transforming work of God. Have all of us, likewise, prepared Him room?

1st week of Advent, Year A – Mark Winward

When I was a teenager, my very first job was painting picket fences in an ancient cemetery with the remains of those who had gone on to glory almost 400 years ago. During my breaks, I became fascinated by epitaphs—those final words etched into stone to summarize a life. A common 17^th century epitaph ominously warned:

“Stranger, pause as you pass by; as you are now, so once was I. As I am now, soon you will be; prepare to die and follow me.”

Not all epitaphs are that dour. In Ribbesford, England, one reads:

“The children of Israel wanted bread, and the Lord sent them manna; old clerk Wallace wanted a wife, and the Devil sent him Anna.”

On a more serious note, one doctor buried in our cemetery left behind these inspiring words:

“If you could see where I have stepped, you would wonder why you wept.”

But one of the most striking of all is found in rural Louisiana. A woman lies buried beneath a 150-year-old live oak tree, and in keeping with her instructions, only a single word is carved into her headstone: 

“Waiting.”

That one word summarizes the theme that binds today’s readings—waiting to meet the Lord.

As we enter the season of Advent in preparation for Christmas, our lectionary readings continue this theme. While we prepare to celebrate the first coming of Christ, the texts intentionally blur with those that look toward his second coming. I recognize that talk of the “end of the world” doesn’t necessarily sit comfortably on modern ears. Most people today have a hard time believing in any literal, future encounter with God in history. Yet scientists tell us that an end will come—the question is how. 

But we don’t have to venture into cosmology to face the reality of an end to all things. Two facts are hard to deny: humanity has hardly “arrived”—our problems seem more complex than ever—and humanity cannot survive forever. Whether through war, disease, natural disaster, or simply the eventual expiration of our universe, something will eventually bring history to an end. But if you believe the universe is more than an accident, then logically it must have been brought into being by someone or something Intelligent. And wouldn’t such an Intelligence, most likely, be invested in the flourishing of other intelligent life? 

If that Intelligence has an interest in humanity – and we know history has an expiration date – is it reasonable to believe that things will simply continue indefinitely as they are? Scripture responds with the story of God breaking into human history, not simply so humanity might survive, but so we might flourish and be in relationship with Him. Now if, as Christians believe, a loving God has broken into history through the person of Jesus Christ, isn’t it reasonable to expect that he will do so again before the end? That is exactly what we affirm in our eucharistic liturgy when we proclaim: “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.” This is the central Christian hope: that God loves us to the point of death, that Christ is triumphant over the grave, and that He will come again to complete the work He began.

I used to be very concerned with the details of Christ’s return—when, how, and under what conditions—until I met a wise young Russian Orthodox woman on a college tour tracing the trail of the Church Fathers. At the time, her veneration of icons and dedication to the saints seemed strange to me, yet I could not ignore the depth and serenity of her faith. One day I asked her: “What do the Orthodox believe about Jesus coming again? Will he literally return? Is the time soon?” She paused thoughtfully and replied, “I’m not really sure. What I do know is that I need to have my life right with God and be ready to meet Jesus.” Her answer stunned me. Suddenly I realized that how Jesus comes is, in many ways, academic. What matters is: one way or another, one day he will come for each of us.

Yet many in this world live under “the illusion of invincibility.” Perhaps people believe in God, they know their lives will one day end, but they assume that meeting with God is so far in the future that they can live their lives however they wish. Young people often especially feel this sense of invulnerability, which is why risky behavior can seem natural to youth. The fact is simple: life as we know it will come to an end, whether through death or at Christ’s return. The real question is: How will He find us? Living unprepared under the illusion of invulnerability – or living as his disciple, preparing in this world to meet Him in the next?

While some people fail to prepare at all, others prepare so much for the next world that they neglect their responsibilities to this one – so focused on heaven that they are of no earthly good. In the extreme, this mindset is used to ignore injustice, neglect the poor, or abuse the environment under the assumption that Jesus will return soon and fix it all. Balanced discipleship requires both immediate readiness and long-term responsibility. The Christian writer Michael Wilkins expresses it well: “Live as though Jesus is coming back today; plan as though he is not coming back for a hundred years.”

What the “end of days” means for each of us comes down to our relationship with Christ. Advent is a special time to prepare our hearts to meet Jesus. Over the next four weeks, consider setting aside ten minutes each day to make room for Christ—not by adding something, but by removing something that normally fills your attention. If you know him, love him, and genuinely desire to see him face-to-face, then the end of our days becomes not an ending, but a beginning—the fulfillment of our deepest hope for ourselves and for this tired old world. And when that day comes—whether at the end of history or the end of our earthly life—may He find us as that woman beneath the old oak tree chose to be remembered: waiting.

27th Sunday after Pentecost

Proper 27/C Veterans’ Sunday – Mark S. Winward

Hope Beyond the Battlefields of This World

Introduction

Today’s Gospel recalls the exchange between Jesus and the Sadducees—a conversation about life beyond this world, about what endures when all else is lost. The Sadducees, who denied the resurrection, posed a question about marriage to ridicule belief in life after death. But Jesus’ reply revealed a deeper truth: that the life of the world to come is of a different order entirely—one that transcends the limitations and pain of this world.

It is fitting that this Sunday’s lectionary readings fall close to Veterans Day, or Remembrance Day as it is known elsewhere, marking the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month when the guns of the Great War fell silent in 1918. On Veterans Day we remember those who gave “the last full measure of devotion,” and this morning we bring their stories to the foot of the cross, where death is defeated and hope takes root.

The Reality of This World

The Great War took a staggering toll—ten million dead, nearly forty million wounded or missing. Humanity had advanced the science of destruction but not yet the compassion of healing. On the battlefields of Flanders, red poppies bloomed among the graves, and they became the enduring sign of remembrance—a fragile reminder of a shattered world.

Job knew something of that desolation. He lost his family, his home, his health. His friends offered empty words; his wife said, “Curse God and die.” Yet out of that anguish, Job made one of Scripture’s boldest affirmations: “I know that my Redeemer lives, and that at the last he will stand upon the earth.” Even amid ruin, Job claimed resurrection hope—the faith that God’s justice and love would yet have the final word.

The Nature of Heaven and the Promise of Resurrection

Jesus’ reply to the Sadducees reminds us that heaven is not a continuation of earthly life but its transformation. “Those who are considered worthy,” he says, “are like angels”—not because they become angels, but because they are caught up into a new reality of being, where love is perfected and fear is no more. Heaven is not the extension of our struggles; it is the fulfilment of our redemption.

That truth lies at the heart of the Gospel. The cross wasn’t merely a tragic ending—it was the collision between God’s justice and love. The resurrection is the creative explosion that follows—the triumph of divine mercy over human cruelty. Without Christ’s resurrection, our remembrance of each of us would be despair; with his resurrection, our remembrance becomes hope.

No Greater Love

Jesus said, “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” Those words echo in the hearts of those who have served. Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, and Marines have not only fought for their country but for one another—for that “band of brothers” bound by a love stronger than fear.

Many of you have known that kind of love, or borne its cost. Across the beaches of Normandy, the mountains of Korea, the rice paddies of Vietnam, the sands of Iraq, and the plains of Afghanistan echo the pleas of those who paid the ultimate price for our freedom: “Earn this.”

The question for us, then, is how we live in response to such sacrifice. Do we live as people whose freedom was dearly bought—with gratitude, humility, and service to others? How do we honor those who laid down their lives except by living lives worthy of their gift?

Hope for the Living and the Dead

The Sadducees’ vision saw nothing beyond the futility of this world, but Christ calls us to a greater hope. The same love that led him to the cross leads him still—to raise the fallen, to comfort the broken, to bind up the wounds of the world. Those who have borne arms in defense of others, who have risked their lives for peace, participate—however dimly—in that divine love.

And so, today we remember: not only the dead but the living; not only the battles fought but the peace they longed for.

This morning, as our offertory anthem, we will hear the majestic poem by Sir Cecil Arthur Spring-Rice, I Vow to Thee, My Country, which captures such love beautifully:

I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above,

Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love;

The love that asks no question, the love that stands the test,

That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best;

The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,

The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.

And there’s another country I’ve heard of long ago,

Most dear to them that love her, most great to them that know;

We may not count her armies, we may not see her King;

Her fortress is a faithful heart, her pride is suffering;

And soul by soul and silently her shining bounds increase,

And her ways are ways of gentleness, and all her paths are peace.

Love of country—love that never falters and pays any price—resonates with tones of that heavenly country, our true home. What ennobles those we remember, and those who have dedicated their lives in service to God and country, is selfless service—the very essence of heaven.

Conclusion

On this Veterans Sunday, as we honor the courage of those who served and remember the cost of freedom, let us also look beyond the grave to the God who redeems all things. For our Redeemer lives. He stands upon the earth, and because He lives, so shall we. My prayer is that our lives may, in gratitude and service, bear witness to that irresistible love which is stronger than death.

Amen.

Proper 25 – Katharine Armentrout

The Parable of the Pharisee and the Tax Collector

This morning Jesus is talking to “some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous”.

And he tells us this familiar parable about the self-righteous Pharisee who recites all his good deeds to God and makes clear that he is not like other sinners and certainly not like that tax collector over there.

One writer said the Pharisee’s recitation was like a “personal progress report or, to use a new phrase, it is a “humble brag!”

And the Pharisee’s recitation reminded me of that old country song by Mac Davis: “Oh Lord it is hard to be humble when you are perfect in every way.”

But.. the fact is that he does fast more than required under Jewish Law and he does pay more tithes than are required.

And, he assures those who listen, that he isn’t like “ other people” – those thieves, rogues, adulterers, and certainly not like the Tax Collector over there. ,  

But… the problem with his prayer is that it really isn’t a prayer as you and I might think of one.

A prayer is ordinarily addressed to God with a heart-felt request or a deep offer of thanks for God’s blessings.Instead he recites proudly his righteous deeds, using the first person pronoun “I” five times in just a few sentences. It is I,I,I! 

Yes, I think he is sincere in thinking he has done well by following the rules of God’s desires under those rules – which is faithfulness.

But he is ignorant of his of what a real prayer is.

He has good feelings about how faithful he thinks he is, how he follows all the rules, but he it is all focused on himself.

In fact Jesus calls our attention to his problem when he says at the beginning: “Jesus told the parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and treated others with contempt.” 

And … we can see the blatant contempt of the Pharisee for others when he says,

God, “I thank you that I am not like other people, thieves, rogues, adulterers or even like this tax collector.” 

His contempt for others blocked him from looking inward at his own soul and his own relationship with God. 

The problem was his pride, I think. He did not come before God with any kind of reverence, any kind of humility, any sense that he might have erred, or as my friend used to say, “that he had fallen short of the glory of God.”

There was no recognition that his contempt for people placed him outside God’s loving nature.

He came into that Temple without any reverence for God.

But, as far as he was concerned, he had checked off all the boxes of being a faithful person,

without looking for the heart of God

and without looking deeply at what is important to God, and

what our God desperately wants us to care about. 

Jesus goes on though after this lengthy recitation by the perfect Pharisee to tell us the story of the Tax Collector.

Jesus describes the desperately humble tax collector, whom we are to know was a collaborator with the Roman Empire. He really was a traitor to his own people.  

He was despised by most in his world, unwelcome in most houses. In Jewish culture he was the ultimate bad guy.

And, unlike the proud Pharisee, he acknowledges that he is outside the usual faithful people in the Temple,

he even stands bent over and far off – to the side in the Temple.

He is so aware of his sinfulness that he is barely able to lift his head to pray.

And he prays only one, heart-wrenching line: “ God be merciful to me, a sinner.” 

“God be merciful to me, a sinner.”

And, surprise of surprise, it is the tax collector that Jesus says went home justified. 

And the explanation for this surprising turn of events, is simple:

Jesus said: “For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted.”

So how did the Pharisee, who was rigidly attentive to the requirements of the Law, fall short?

He tithed more than most, he prayed constantly, he gave alms.  

Quite honestly he sounds like the kind of person we might want in our church…

except for the fact all his practices seem to have become for him a path to self-righteousness instead of an openness to God and God’s love. 

And, at first reading, this seems a very simple parable.

We may be tempted to draw the conclusion from it, that to be justified before God all that we have to do is acknowledge that we are not like the Pharisee…

That we just need to be humble before the Lord.

But, in a way, isn’t that what the Pharisee did: he thanked God that he was not like the others.

And don’t we do that exactly that when we say, “Oh God, I thank you that I am not like that Pharisee!!”

We may hear this parable as a lesson on humility, as one writer put it. We hear: “Don’t be proud like the Pharisee. Go home and be humble like the tax collector.”

And, poof, just like that we fall into a trap:

We take this parable, and instead of seeing God’s abundant, overflowing love for all of us, regardless of our faults,

regardless of what we are and what we have done,

we turn it into a story about how we can earn or merit God’s Love. 

We pray: ”Oh Lord, honestly I am not like the Pharisee. I know I am a sinner like the tax-collector. Honest, I acknowledge that I really have sinned and ashamed of the things that I have done.

And, as a friend of mine used to say. “I know that I fall far short of the glory of God.”

Trying hard to show God how humble we can be. Asking all the time, “What can I do to be worthy of your love?” Trying hard to be worthy.

But … did you notice that there were no questions of the Tax Collector? Once he came to God and asked for God’s mercy there was no requirement to list every last sin,

Once he came and asked for God’s mercy, there was no requirement to pledge that he would repay what he had stolen, that he would amend his life..

There was nothing, nothing but God’s gift of forgiveness and His blessing sending him on his way.

Once we come to God there is nothing but God’s free gift of love and forgiveness. Love and forgiveness.

Why is this hard so for us? Why do we feel we must do something to deserve God’s love.

I think for many of us it is because we have grown up in a world of meritocracy…where nothing is free. You have to earn it all.

And we grow up thinking our merit is in the grades we get in school,

our merit is in the job or partnership we manage to achieve, the special house we build;

Or that our merit is in how much money we donate to the church or to Doctors Without Borders, or Alzheimer’s research.

Or how many hours we have given to help others.

Our society attaches value, worth to all of these things.

And we somehow believe that God will love us because of those efforts that we have made. 

We believe we have to “merit” God’s love; that we have to do something to earn it, if we could just figure that out.

And, I think, we often don’t really believe that God forgives us all the sins we have committed, the mistakes we have made, the injuries we have inflicted. 

We say our confession but then we wonder, are we really forgiven?

Do we really believe what this parable makes plain:

that there is nothing that we can do that will make us merit God’s love for us, except to come to God.

It is God’s overflowing, never-ending love for us that we have to understand and accept.

I have learned a bit about this kind of acceptance up at Arrendale with the women.

In an echo of the Tax Collector who asked for God’s forgiveness and went home reconciled, some of the women at Arrendale are examples of those who believe in the power of God’s never-ending love and forgiveness despite all that they have done.

These women, many of whom have committed serious, dangerous crimes, have come to understand that God loves them unconditionally despite their past lives. They don’t have to “merit” God’s love. They have come to deeply believe in this promise of Jesus.

There is a song they sing, often at the top of their lungs, that reflects this understanding:

The song is titled “The Never-Ending Reckless Love of God.” They sing:

“Oh, the overwhelming, never-ending, reckless love of God. Oh, it chases me down, fights ’til I’m found, leaves the ninety-nine.

I couldn’t earn it, and I don’t deserve it, still, You give Yourself away. Oh, the overwhelming, never-ending, reckless love of God..”

It is God’s overflowing, never-ending love for us that we have to understand and accept as this parable makes plain.

There is nothing that we can do that will merit God’s love for us, except come to God, and take the love He pours out on us and pass it on to others…

And instead of trying to show how we merit that love, I think we are called to take this never-ending, reckless love of God and pass it on to others…Amen.

Sara Miller-Schulte

Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart.
He said, “In a certain city there was a widow who kept coming to the judge and saying, ‘Grant me justice against my opponent.’ And for a while he refused; but later he said to himself, ‘You know, because this widow keeps bothering me, I will grant her justice.”

And Jesus said, “Will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night?”

And we who have itching ears make this into a story about how God will give us what we want if we just pray until something happens.

But God is not the unjust judge.

The Lord said, “Listen to what the unjust judge says:

He says, ‘Though I have no fear of God — that’s a clue — and no respect for anyone, yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will grant her justice.”

Justice is easy.
In fact, in granting the widow justice, the judge is making a ruling on her case; He is doing his job.
He is doing the barest minimum of what one might be moved to call a good work. So in describing this judge, Jesus is not saying something about God — he is saying something about us.

Earlier in Luke’s gospel, Jesus says, “Is there anyone among you who, if your child asked for a fish, would give a snake instead of a fish? Or if the child asked for an egg, would you give a scorpion?

If you, then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!” Is there anyone among you who, if your neighbor asked for justice, would turn a deaf ear instead of giving him justice?

Justice is a good gift.
We are promised better gifts. If you have not used this beautiful font for a baptism recently —
or witnessed one somewhere else — You might not remember our prayer for the gifts of the Holy Spirit. which are promised to each one of us in our baptism:

an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love you (O Lord), and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works.

And the result is that — even before we ask, “everyone who belongs to God may be proficient and equipped for every good work.”

So Jesus talks about the need to pray always and to not lose heart. Paul talks about it in a letter.
He talks about it in most of his letters. “Since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry,” he tells the Corinthians, “we do not lose heart. We refuse to practice cunning or to falsify
God’s word, but by the open statement of the truth we commend ourselves to the
conscience of everyone in the sight of God.” And he urges the people of Philippi to be anxious about nothing, “but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be
made known to God.”

By the time of his letters to Timothy, Paul was in prison for disturbing the empire’s peace — I leave it to you to decide whether that is justice — and his instructions are a little different, but the theme is the same:

“Proclaim the message, Timothy; be persistent whether the time is favorable or unfavorable; convince, rebuke, and encourage; endure suffering, do the work of an evangelist, carry out your ministry fully.”

“As for me,” he continues, “I have fought the good fight;
I have finished the race;
I have kept the faith.
From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give me on that day, and not only to me but also to all who have longed for his appearing.”

That longing is a little bit lacking in the story of the widow and the judge: In a certain city there was a widow who longed for justice against her opponent. And there was a judge, who refused for a while, but later he said to himself, ‘I will grant her justice, so that she may not wear me out by continually coming.’

If we are like the widow, if we pray until something happens, then what happens when we get the thing that we longed for — if the thing that we longed for was wisdom or peace or strength or health or justice…

Or anything other than the presence of the one who made and sustains us?
Do we then find something else to long for,
Over and over, so we’re never really quite satisfied.

Do we pray until something happens and then stop? The unjust judge is pretty sure
the widow will wear him out by continually coming back and back and back —
until she gets the justice she demands. Then she will leave him alone.

And will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night?
But I put it to you that God does not give us justice and peace, the crown of righteousness,
an inquiring and discerning heart, or any other good gift, in order to get us to go away.

God invites us into relationship, Into ongoing prayer and the life of faith;
And in this context, our prayers might look a little less like a list of demands
And a little more like an ongoing conversation. Among our petitions we might include the occasional prayer of thanksgiving in gratitude for God’s abundance.

But: If we are like the widow, if we pray until something happens, what happens if we never get the thing that we longed for? Because you and I all know
That God does not always Answer prayers by giving us the thing That we asked for —
No matter how persistent we may be.

And when this happens to you —
That’s when, not if —
When this happens to you,

it is not because your prayers are not eloquent enough

or your faith is not strong enough or

your good works are not good enough —

Or you are not good enough —

Or any of the horrible and well-meaning things that people say.
It’s just a thing that happens.
And it’s hard.
But we’re in good company.
When Jacob grappled with the man by the river,
He didn’t win, exactly.
He walked away with a broken hip, which he did not ask for.
And he never learned the man’s name — which he did ask for.
But he did get his own new name — which he did not ask for.
And he received a blessing, which he did.
Did he come out ahead?
I’m not sure.
But Israel believes he saw the face of God, and lived.
And that relationship lasted the rest of his life.

In a certain city there was a judge who neither feared God nor had respect for
people.
In that city there was a widow who kept coming to him.
He said to himself, “I will grant her justice.”
Likewise, God will quickly grant justice to his chosen ones.
But this is not a parable about justice.
This is not a parable about what God will do for us.
Jesus told us a parable about our need to pray always and never to lose heart.

St. Francis of Assisi – Katharine Armentrout

“But God said to him: ‘You fool!  This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?  So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God?’” Luke 12:20-21

I imagine that St. Francis, or as he was known as a young man, Francesco, had those words of our Gospel in his head as he tore off his rich silk clothes and ran naked through the town of Assisi.

He was determined to leave the world of wealth and power he had been born into and to take up his life, following the teachings of Jesus, always asking himself: What would Jesus do?

Because one thing we know about Francis – he always asked that question that was so popular in our 1990s: ”WWJD”  What would Jesus do? What would Jesus do? 

As a young man Francis had long felt a call to follow Jesus.  He had entered the army, convinced that he was called to serve God in that way.  

Unfortunately, he was captured, imprisoned and became very ill.  He father, a wealthy merchant, ransomed him and brought him home.

After recovering from his illness Francis decided to follow Jesus by devoting himself to serving the poor and tending to their needs, as Jesus had done. 

One day, he entered a tiny, ruined chapel for a prayer time. There was   a crucifix still on the wall. As he knelt in prayer, he looked up to the crucifix, and a voice came to him saying “Francis, rebuild my church”.  

He took those words literally. He began to gather the materials to rebuild the chapel. He even sold some fine cloth from his father’s business, and his own horse, to raise the money for those materials.

His father was furious, thinking of that as theft and he was distressed that Francis had no interest in the business or the many possessions of their family.

That was the breaking point for Francis who saw the money made from the sale of the cloth as resources for God.

In a public confrontation with his father before their bishop, Francis rejected his father’s way of a rich life, tore off his clothes, and literally ran naked through the town –

a very vivid declaration of commitment to a life dedicated to following Jesus.    

From that point on he took on a life of poverty and    patterned his life on the teachings of Jesus.  

In Jesus’ time lepers were outcasts – literally forced to live outside town walls so that they would not infect others.  But we know, from Luke 17, that Jesus spoke with lepers and cured them.

By the time of Francis’ life, leprosy was still prevalent. Most people shied away from any contact, let alone feeding, bathing and comforting them. Not Francis.  He began his ministry of following Jesus by helping the lepers in Assisi.

Jesus, in Luke 14, says not to invite your rich friends to a banquet but to invite the poor, the crippled, the blind and the lame.

So…Francis did just that…eating and serving those on the margins, forgoing his connections to the wealthy citizens of Assisi.

Jesus, in Luke 6, in a startling statement says, “If someone takes your coat, give him your shirt too.”  

Well, someone grabbed a hood from one of Francis’ followers and that man ran after the thief to offer him his robe.  Just an illustration of how thoroughly Francis, and his fellow friars, asked the question “WWJD.”            

Jesus, in Matthew 10, tells his disciples, “As you go, proclaim the Good News. The Kingdom of Heaven has drawn near…Cure the sick, cleanse the lepers…Do not take any gold or silver or copper to take with you in your belts, no bag for your journey.” 

So Francis and his faithful traveled widely, often barefoot, in plain robes, with no gold, no silver, no copper.  Without any provisions. 

They preached with love the Good News and tended the sick, the blind, the outcast. They slept in churches and depended on the goodness of others for their food.

In every way throughout his ministry, Francis asked “What Would Jesus Do?” and then he tried to follow that way:

Perhaps the most radical aspect of Francis’ ministry, one that literally changed the thinking in Medieval world and our world,

was his deep, profound reverence and love for God’s creation and all that is in it – a reverence and love which he learned from the Gospels.

We are here today with our dogs, cats and other creatures that God loves in honor of that aspect of St. Francis’ teaching

Partly we have that appreciation for God’s natural world thanks to St. Francis. With a few exceptions, from the fall of the Roman Empire in 476 AD to the time of Francis, the church was teaching that “anything that was not God – or otherworldly – was evil”. 

This included the natural world around us…which was seen as a distraction and a temptation that lured souls off the path of righteousness and salvation. No deep love for the beauty of the God’s world

In contrast Francis saw the natural world as a reflection of the goodness of God. He absorbed this from the teachings of Jesus.

Mustard seeds, lilies, grains of sand, fig trees, and sparrows. 

Wheat fields, the waters of the lakes, and a wonderful barbecue on the beach in the Gospel of John. 

Jesus taught that all of these, in keeping with the established Jewish tradition, were a manifestation of the goodness of God’s world.

And Francis focused on that teaching, telling us that creation was an expression of God’s love and goodness. He taught that the natural world holds God’s imprint, and therefore the experience of the physical world can open us to a spiritual dimension. 

His love of animals and care for them as God’s creatures has created this festive time today – for the blessing of animals.  Remember – he talked to them too, so that those of us who talk to our animals should not consider ourselves crazy.  

I think many of us who are privileged to live up here and see the beauty of a sunset over our ridges, the dogwoods in bloom in our woods, the explosion of beauty in our world, see these things as an expression of God’s love for creation and see God’s beautiful imprint in our world.

We can thank Francis for listening closely to the love Jesus had for our world and for opening the eyes of the world to God’s wondrous creation.

As a measure of how Francis is seen as the pre-eminent teacher and lover of natural world, Pope John Paul II declared Francis the Patron Saint of Ecology in 1979. His teaching of the sacredness of our world undergirds our efforts to preserve our creation from climate change.  And we are thankful that Francis led the way.   

The legacy of Francis continues to this day.  He was granted permission to form a new religious order, which we know as the Franciscans. 

The Pope was reluctant at first to grant the request, fearing the radical poverty of those who followed Francis would cast a bad light on the papacy and other religious orders who lived, at times, rather extravagantly.   

But the pope changed his mind after he had a dream in which he saw Francis holding up a crumbling but important church in Rome. 

The pope came to believe that Francis and his monks would help reinvigorate the faith of the people and the churches.(which, by the way, he did) and the pope granted Francis request to form a religious order.

The Franciscans are now familiar to us as the religious order that wears the very plain brown robes, ties them with a rope and wears sandals, living a life of deep simplicity. This order, which Francis began in 1209, is now the largest religious order in the Catholic Church.

And Franciscans daily ask, in their way, WWJD as they serve the poor in cities all over the world, teach in schools, work for social justice and care for our creation.

Now lest this story of Francis and all his different ways of serving our Lord leave you a bit overwhelmed – all the different ways he served, trying to make life better for people and the created world, 

lest it leaves you wondering how on earth you can continue in some way the work of St. Francis

I am reminded of the Order of the Daughters of the King, a group of women here and in many Episcopal churches, which is devoted to daily prayer and service. They have a wonderful rule of life which includes an important perspective: 

“I am but one, but I am one. I cannot do everything, but I can do something. What I can do, I ought to do. What I ought to do, by the grace of God I will do. Lord, what will you have me do?”.  

They ask: “I am but one, Lord.  What will you have me do?”   

That may be just another way of asking WWJD. “What would Jesus do?”.  What would Jesus do…one thing at a time.  Amen