A sermon for the Second Sunday of Easter, April 27, 2025. The scripture readings are Acts 5:27-32, Revelation 1:4-8, John 20:19-31, and Psalm 150.

Many have been moved by the faith and witness of Pope Francis over the last few months, and especially in the last few weeks, leading up to his death on Easter Monday. We join our Roman Catholic sisters and brothers in praying for the repose of his soul and in continuing to give thanks for his life. May the church continue to live out his love for the poor, the immigrants and refugees, the imprisoned and forgotten.

In 2021, Pope Francis was addressing a conference of young people and he said the sorts of honest, simple things that so often got him into trouble with some of the more rigid, conservative factions of the Church.  Pope Francis encouraged the young people, “Don’t be afraid of doubts.” “Don’t be afraid of doubts . . . [because they’re] not a sign of the lack of faith . . . . [but instead] doubts should be considered ‘vitamins of faith’ because they help to strengthen faith and make it ‘more robust.’”

They enable faith to grow, to become more conscious, free, and mature. They make it more eager to set out, to persevere with humility, day after day. Faith is precisely that: a daily journey with Jesus who takes us by the hand, accompanies us, encourages us, and, when we fall, lifts us up. He is never afraid to do this. Faith is like a love story, where we press forward together, day after day. Like a love story too, there are times when we have to think, to face questions, to look into our hearts. And that is good, because it raises the quality of the relationship!  [Meeting with Young people, Address of His Holiness Pope Francis, Saint Dionysius School of the Ursuline Sisters in Maroussi, Athens, Monday, 6 December 2021, https://www.vatican.va/content/francesco/en/speeches/2021/december/documents/20211206-grecia-giovani.html

On this Second Sunday of Easter, St. Thomas the Apostle (sometimes called, Doubting Thomas) reminds us of just what Pope Francis was pointing to—a way in which doubt can lead to a deepening of faith, a reach for Jesus, and the feeling that he is taking us by the hand to guide us onward.

We can learn from the Apostle Thomas, from Pope Francis, and from all those who have gone before us and have been honest about their doubts.

Way back in Exodus, we can remember that when Moses is called by God, Moses has his doubts. Abraham and Sarah laugh when the angels tell them that they’re going to have a son in old age. Their doubt makes them laugh out loud, and that laughter continues, as they name their son Isaac, a name that means “laughter.”  Jonah doubts.  Jeremiah doubts. The Samaritan woman at the well doubts the living water offered by Jesus. Zaccheus the tax collector doubts God’s love can even include him. Even Mary the Mother of Jesus was part of his family who worried that he had lost his mind and wanted to bring him home (Mark 3).

Perhaps even more surprising, if we look closely, it seems as though even Jesus sometimes doubts.

He doubts his mission: as he first imagines he is sent only to save the Jews, it takes a Samaritan woman to widen his perspective. Jesus doubts his disciples as he predicts that Peter will quickly lose heart will deny having anything to do with Jesus. In the garden, Jesus wonders if God is there, and on the cross, Jesus again wonders if God has forgotten.

I mention all of these people of tremendous faith that we encounter in scripture, and (at the risk of heresy) I mention Jesus, as well, to point out that St. Thomas is not alone in his doubting. And I think we miss a lot of what God would have us see, if we pretend that doubt is an abnormal or subnormal place to be. Sometimes we are filled with faith. Sometimes we doubt. God is still God.

And so, where does that leave us, when we doubt?  When we’re in doubt, I can think of at least three ways in which God might actually use doubt to bring us closer.

First, we can question. Through faith and with faith, we can research, read, study, and question. The theologian Paul Tillich argues that doubt is included in every act of faith. In fact, his book The Dynamics of Faith he writes

In those who rest on their unshakable faith, pharisaism, and fanaticism are the unmistakable symptoms of doubt which has been repressed. Doubt is overcome not by repression but by courage. Courage does not deny that there is doubt, but it takes the doubt into itself as an expression of its own finitude and affirms the content of an ultimate concern. Courage does not need the safety of an unquestionable conviction. … Even if the confession that Jesus is the Christ is expressed in a strong and positive way, the fact that it is a confession implies courage and risk.” (Chp. 6, Sect. 1)

Tillich uses the wonderful word, “courage,” which includes in it the French word for heart, “Coeur.” To have courage is to allow the heart to lead us—through doubt, through fear, and eventually, through faith.

“Love the questions themselves. Live the questions now,” was the advice of Rainer Maria Rilke to a young poet.

Second, we can ask for help. Share doubts with another, we’ll not only find that we’re not as isolated as we think, but chances are that the person has also had doubts and can understand our questions.

And third, we can do what saints and sinners of every age have done: we can give the doubt to God. Teresa of Avila, the 16^th century nun and reformer famously prayed for some 18 years feeling as though her prayers were not really being heard. But she kept on and is one of those very few saints who is said to have found union with God in prayer.

And so, when we’re doubting, we can learn something. We can lean on someone. We can love God.

We are given “doubting Thomas” as a brother in doubt and faith, a fellow disciple who paved a rough way for us to faith. St. Thomas not only stands as the father of Indian and Syrian Christianity, he also stands as a patron for those whose faith does not come easily, with those whose faith includes a measure of doubt, a bit of suspicion, maybe even a little cynicism.

It’s ok to doubt. It’s ok to wonder. It’s ok even to be a little suspicious—especially since for one (if not more) suspicion eventually has led to sainthood.

Especially at this time of year, may we be honest with out doubts and honest with our belief– perhaps even using doubts as “vitamins of our faith.” May we know that wherever we may be, God loves us and wants to come to us.

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

A sermon for Easter Day, April 20, 2025. The scripture readings are Acts 10:34-43, 1 Corinthians 15:19-26, John 20:1-18, and Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24.

A few years ago, when I worked at a church in midtown, one morning, I was walking down Sixth Avenue. I was dressed as a priest, with my black suit and white collar. I saw a woman heading towards me and began to get that sort of panic of knowing that I knew her, but could not think of her name. Closer, she came, as I searched my mind. Had she been attending church recently? Was she part of the family at a recent wedding? I certainly hope she wasn’t someone I had just met at a funeral, and now had forgotten…. On and on, my mind tried to come up with the name, but nothing came forth.

Finally, as we were about to pass, I simply smiled at her and said, “Hello, how are you?” She responded with the most beautiful British accent, “Good morning, Father.” As she passed, I realized that I did not know her at all—it was Dame Judi Dench, the actress!

Now, I’m not suggesting that my encounter was exactly like Mary Magdalene’s meeting the gardener on Easter Morning, nor am I suggesting that God was disguised as Judi Dench (though she has been rather “godly” in some of her roles…. But I am suggesting that in the same way that we can be surprised by someone right in front of us, not fully recognizing them for who they are, in a similar way, God shows up for us in surprising ways.

And that a part of what is happening with the Resurrection.

Over and over, in scripture, in history, and in our lives, God shows up in what might seem like the least likely person, in the most unlikely of places. God shows up to Abraham and Sarah in the form of three strangers. God shows up to Jacob in a wrestling match of a dream. In the Book of Esther, God shows up in the words and acts of Queen Esther, Mordecai, and even a Persian King. God shows up in Bethlehem, in the carpenter’s shop, and in dusty Palestinian villages. God is in the garden. God is on the cross. And God shows up at a fish fry on the beach that first Easter morning. God shows up as a wanderer on the road to Emmaus.

When has God shown up for you? Was it in someone you knew, or a total stranger? Was it through a book, or a movie, a piece of music, or a sudden insight? Did it happen in church, or at work, or at the beach? Or was it, like with Mary Magdalene, in a garden?

That Easter morning, Jesus shows up as a gardener for at least two reasons, I think. The first is to remind us to be on the lookout for him. God is often disguised in our world, but with eyes of faith, we can see and rejoice and be a part of the continued resurrection of his love.

But there’s a second reason why Jesus appears as a gardener: It’s because sometimes we are called to appear as Jesus, to be his hands and feet and mouth in the world. We’re called to speak up for those who have lost their voice or had their voice taken from them. We’re called to reach out and help heal. We’re called to grow and cook and feed the hungry, to build and provide in order to house the homeless.

Symeon (the New Theologian), a tenth century mystic, puts this beautifully as he writes

We awaken in Christ’s body
as Christ awakens our bodies,
and my poor hand is Christ, He enters
my foot, and is infinitely me.

I move my hand, and wonderfully
my hand becomes Christ, becomes all of Him
(for God is indivisibly
whole, seamless in His Godhood).

I move my foot, and at once
He appears like a flash of lightning.
Do my words seem blasphemous? — Then
open your heart to Him

and let yourself receive the one
who is opening to you so deeply.
For if we genuinely love Him,
we wake up inside Christ’s body

where all our body, all over,
every most hidden part of it,
is realized in joy as Him,
and He makes us, utterly, real,

and everything that is hurt, everything
that seemed to us dark, harsh, shameful,
maimed, ugly, irreparably
damaged, is in Him transformed

and recognized as whole, as lovely,
and radiant in His light
he awakens as the Beloved
in every last part of our body.

And so, this Easter and always: Keep your eye out for the gardener. Or the actress, or the taxi driver, the nurse, the waiter, the politician, real estate agent, teacher, or kid playing soccer. It may be Christ shining through.

And live aware, as well, that Christ may just as soon shine through you to bring his light more fully into the world.

Alleluia, Christ is risen. The Lord is risen indeed, alleluia.

A homily offered in the Good Friday Liturgy, April 18, 2025. The scripture readings are Isaiah 52:13-53:12, Hebrews 10:16-25, John 18:1-19:42, and Psalm 22.

The strangeness of this day is captured in the way we name it: Good Friday. Some suggest that this may have originally been “God’s Friday,” later shortened simply to Good Friday. Nonetheless, theologians suggest that it is good, in that it is because of this day, that salvation is accomplished for us.

Good Friday reminds us of how Easter is possible. It represents the darkness before the light, the depth of emptiness before God returns with love. It represents time in hell. But especially in John’s Gospel, we also see the triumph of the cross—even on Good Friday.

The cross has often been used as a triumphant image. From the very beginning the cross was used a symbol of strength to keep weak people in their place. The cross on which the Romans nailed a criminal was meant to be a triumph over crime, but also a triumph over disorder, a victory over anyone who might challenge the Roman rule.

One of the most famous crosses is the one that appeared in the sky for Constantine, just before the Battle at the Milvian Bridge in 312. The symbol of the Chi-Rho, forming a cross and representing the first two initials of Christ appeared in a vision. That vision assured Constantine that he would have victory over his opponents. Constantine instructed his soldiers to put the symbol of the cross on their battle standards, and they marched forward. It was victory, and Christianity was soon legalized.

There are many places in the history of our faith where the cross has been used as a symbol of victory over other people, over people I disagree with, or people I dislike, or people who are my enemies, or people who I decide are evil. But to use the cross in such a way, to imagine the cross as a weapon over other people is to misunderstand completely the language of Holy Scripture, the teachings of Jesus and the very power of the cross.

On Palm Sunday, we heard the epistle Reading from Philippians proclaim that God has exalted Christ. Christ is exalted, his is lifted up, but it is an exaltation won through obedience, through humility, through service, through hardship, through sacrifice, through love. God himself, in the form of Jesus, “emptied himself, taking the form of a servant.”

Jesus is exalted when he heals a blind person. He is exalted when offers food to a hungry person. He is exalted when he kneels to wash the feet of his friends.

Elsewhere in John’s Gospel Jesus assures us that when he is lifted up, he will draw all people to himself. The cross is a victory, but it’s a victory over all that might possibly keep people from Christ. The cross is a victory over death, a victory over disease, a victory over ignorance, a victory over evil.

It is on the cross that God’s heart breaks. But through that heartbreak, the power of love is unleashed in the world in completely new way, a way that wipes away sin, that dries up tears, that raises the dead to immortal life.

Through the cross,
the soul of Christ sanctifies us,
the body of Christ saves us,
the blood of Christ makes us drunk with life,
the water from the side of Christ washes us. (paraphrase of Anima Christi from St. Ignatius of Loyola)

As we give thanks for the love of the cross, may we know the exaltation of those who offer themselves in the service of others. May we use the cross, and be used by the cross, to draw others to Christ, to his love and to his life everlasting.

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

A sermon for Palm Sunday: The Sunday of the Passion, April 13, 2025. The scriptures are Isaiah 50:4-9a, Philippians 2:5-11, Luke 23:1-49, and Psalm 31:9-16.

Every time we pray The Lord’s Prayer, we ask God to “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”  The Ecumenical version, that we use at 6PM puts it a little more bluntly by asking, “Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.”

There’s an implication that we are forgiving our enemies, or that we are at least trying to forgive those who sin against us. But are we? Do we?

At my most honest, I would confess that I don’t always try to forgive those who might be my enemies, and I sometimes don’t even consider trying to forgive some of those who sin against me. Like St. Augustine who, in the 4^th century, prayed “O Lord, make me chaste—but not yet,” I tend to think, “Help be forgive—but not yet.”

But for me, that’s where Jesus becomes most real for me. Especially when I can’t bring myself to forgive as God asks me to, I just have to pray in honesty, “Jesus, you know I can’t bring myself to fully forgive so-and-so, or such-and-such, but work on me, and work on them.” Basically, what I’m doing is taking Jesus up on his generous, loving offer, when he says, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens.”

And so, even when I can’t forgive, especially when I can’t forgive as I should, I know someone who can.

In today’s long Gospel Reading, as we hear St. Luke’s version of the Passion, the events that lead to Jesus being crucified on a cross. We hear that even from the cross, Jesus forgives. As he is nailed to a cross between two thieves, Jesus prays for the soldiers who are committing crimes against him, against the others, against many other innocent or poor, or weak people. “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” In our current culture of anger, outrage, whether it’s righteous anger, or justified outrage, and independent of whether another person “deserves” our forgiveness, the unwillingness to forgive, or the refusal to forgive, can take it toll on us. It can wear us down. It can make us bitter. Worse, it can turn us into the people we can’t bring ourselves to forgive.

Pope Francis put it beautifully in one of his sermons:

When we resort to violence, we show that we no longer know anything about God, who is our Father, or even about others, who are our brothers and sisters…. We see this in the folly of war, where Christ is crucified yet another time. Christ is once more nailed to the Cross in mothers who mourn the unjust death of husbands and sons. He is crucified in refugees who flee from bombs with children in their arms. He is crucified in the elderly left alone to die; in young people deprived of a future; in soldiers sent to kill their brothers and sisters. ‘Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.’ Many people heard these extraordinary words [as Jesus prayed them from the cross], but only one person responded to them. He was a criminal, crucified next to Jesus. (Pope Francis, April 10, 2022)

This week, we are invited to follow Jesus even more closely.

The Daily Prayers take us with him through Jerusalem.

On Wednesday night, we pray through the Office of Tenebrae, and notice the ways in which some of the Hebrew scripture prophecies play out in the life of Jesus. We practice praying even as candles are extinguished, and light seems to fade. But then, in the deep darkness, we’re reminded again that “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”

On Maundy Thursday, we see and imitate again, how Jesus serves, how he lives out a kind of simply humility by being present and serving others.

On Good Friday, from Noon to Three, we reflect more deeply on the Stations of the Cross and at Seven, we pray through the whole Good Friday Liturgy, as we hear again the Passion according to St. John.

Saturday is the day in which things were quiet. Jesus was in the tomb. But Saturday night, we count time with our Jewish brothers and sisters, and observe the Eve of Easter, at 7PM in the Church Garden, we celebrate the first Holy Eucharist of Easter.

On Easter Day, some of us will be up early. We’ll meet at Carl Schurz Park for a 6AM Sunrise service on the Promenade. Then, at Holy Trinity, we’ll celebrate Easter all day—at 8AM, at 11AM and at 6PM.

I invite you to make your way to the Cross this week. Take whatever weighs you down, whatever burdens you, whatever worries you, and put it into the hands of the Wounded One who always forgives, moves us into forgiveness, and leads us in the way of love.

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

A sermon for the Fifth Sunday in Lent, April 6, 2025. The scriptures are Isaiah 43:16-21, Philippians 3:4b-14, John 12:1-8, and Psalm 126.

The Gospel evokes strong images that are easy to imagine: an evening in Bethany, a small dinner party, a jar of perfume, an unexpected act of intimacy and devotion. Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, takes a pound of costly ointment, anoints Jesus’ feet, and wipes them with her hair. John tells us that the fragrance filled the house. It is a deeply personal moment of worship—no grand speeches, no miracles, just an act of pure love. At its heart, what we witness in that moment is an image of friendship with God.

Friendship with God. It may seem like a bold idea, even presumptuous. Who among us feels worthy to be called a friend of the Divine? And yet, again and again, the story of Scripture invites us in. Abraham was called a friend of God. Jesus tells his disciples, ‘I no longer call you servants… I have called you friends.’ And in today’s readings—Mary’s quiet act of devotion and Paul’s passionate pursuit of Christ—we are drawn into the deep, unfolding mystery of what it means to live in friendship with God.

This friendship is not simply about belief or religious practice. It is something deeper, more intimate and relational. It is about knowing Christ and being known by him, about sharing in his life, his suffering, and his joy. It is about love that goes beyond duty, about presence, about surrender.

The passage from Philippians gives us a glimpse into Paul’s heart, and it is a heart that longs fiercely for communion with Christ. Paul, once a Pharisee firm in his religious credentials, now says that all of that—his status, his heritage, his achievements—is loss compared to the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus. Not just knowing about him. Not merely worshipping his teachings or his example. But knowing him.

‘I want to know Christ,’ Paul writes. And we might pause there. Because it is so easy—even in our faith—to fall into abstractions. To follow a code, to debate theology, to attend rituals, and yet to remain distant from the One at the center of it all. Paul reminds us that the goal is not the system—it is the person. The friendship.

‘I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings,’ Paul continues. That is a striking juxtaposition—resurrection power and suffering, held in the same breath. True friendship with Christ does not involve walking only in the light of Easter morning. It also means walking the road to the cross. It means identifying with Jesus not only in glory but in grief, not only in triumph but in pain.

That is exactly what we see in Mary’s act in John 12. Her pouring out of perfume, her kneeling at Jesus’ feet, her drying them with her own hair—this is no mere act of hospitality. It is something more profound. It is an act of preparation, a gesture that looks ahead toward the coming sorrow of Holy Week. Mary understands—perhaps better than the Twelve—that Jesus is moving toward death. While others are plotting, arguing, or distracted, she enters into his suffering with love and presence.

It is significant that Mary’s friendship with Jesus is not expressed in words, but in action. The kind of action that costs something. The ointment she uses is worth a year’s wages—a life savings in a jar. Judas, watching from the side, is offended. He does what people often do in the face of deep devotion—he masks discomfort with criticism. He pretends to care for the poor, but in reality, he cannot comprehend this kind of unfiltered, extravagant love.

But Jesus defends her. ‘Leave her alone,’ He says. ‘She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial.’ He receives her act as a prophetic witness, an early glimpse of what many will not understand even after the cross.

That is one of the truths about friendship with God—it often invites us into gestures the world cannot understand. It may look foolish or wasteful to others. People might say, ‘Why this devotion?’ ‘Why this commitment?’ ‘Why this sacrifice?’ The world measures in efficiency and profit. But love—real love—does not measure. It pours out. Freely. Recklessly.

As government support and funding are cut from programs that help people and as organizations and institutions are targeted or singled out, we’re called even more to loving acts in the name of Christ—welcoming the poor, the victimized, the ignored. Mary acts even in the face of Judas the bully.

As we approach Holy Week, Mary’s act also asks us how might we offer ourselves in friendship to Christ, not simply as bystanders of the Passion, but as participants? What do you value so much that giving it to Jesus would seem like a waste to onlookers? Is it your time, your leadership, your possessions, your reputation? Can you lay it down at his feet—not for recognition, not for obligation, but for love?

True friendship with God means drawing near even while others pull away. It means sitting with God not only in flesh-and-blood celebration, but in grief and silence. It means walking with him when crowds shout Hosanna and when those same crowds cry Crucify. It means refusing to be only Sunday disciples. It means lingering with him in the Garden, watching with him at Gabbatha, standing with the other Mary’s at the foot of the cross.

And yet, it also means tasting the power of his resurrection. The paradox at the center of Paul’s words in Philippians is the paradox at the heart of Holy Week: suffering and glory, cross and empty tomb. The same Jesus who invites us into the fellowship of his suffering raises us into new life. Friendships tested in trial find deeper joy in the morning.

But how do we cultivate this friendship? How do we, like Mary of Bethany and Paul, draw close?

Paul says, ‘I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own.’ Friendship with Christ is not first our doing—it is a response to how he has already claimed us. He has already called us friends. He has already offered covenant, presence, and grace. We pursue him because He first pursued us. He has made us his own. And so, we run this race—not as those who strive to earn a place, but as those who run toward someone who is already running toward us.

In these final days of Lent, in the shadow of the cross, we have a chance to draw close. We have a chance to sit at his feet, to be still and listen, to notice his wounds, to honor his death, and to await his rising. We do not need clever words. We do not need perfect faith. But we do need open hearts.

Let the fragrance of Mary’s devotion linger in your soul this week. Let Paul’s single-minded hunger for Christ challenge you. And let your own friendship with God deepen—not only through acts of prayer and fasting, but in love and presence.

The days are coming when the world will turn away. But we are invited, by mercy and grace, to move closer. To the upper room. To Gethsemane. To the foot of the cross. And to the empty tomb.

Because friendship with God does not end at the grave—it carries through it. And it begins again with a word spoken in a garden: ‘Mary.’ The voice that called a friend still calls to each of us—by name, in love, and forever.

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