Tuesday, March 17, 2026
Sunday, March 15, 2026
HOMILY: "Lazarus, Come Out!"
Sunday, March 15, 2026
John 11:1-44
John 11:1-44
The Fourth Sunday in Lent
1.
James Loney’s not a household name. And he’s not a preacher either. But maybe fifteen years ago, I heard James Loney preach a stunning sermon on this same text, the very story we’ve read in full this morning. And I’ll never hear it again, this story, without thinking of him and his astonishing testimony that day. He made this strange story come alive in a way that seemed not just curious, but compelling and even contemporary.
“Then Jesus, who was intensely troubled, approached the tomb—a small cave covered by a massive stone. And Jesus said, ‘Take away the stone.’ But Martha said, ‘Lord, he has been dead for four days…’” And then Jesus cried out, with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!”
James Loney is a Canadian peace activist—who was serving in the early-2000s with a Christian Peacemaker Team in Iraq, when he and three others were kidnapped by Iraqi insurgents and held captive for four months. All four of them were daring and kind, all four committed to nonviolence and compassion as the substance of faith itself. And all four were in Iraq to keep ordinary Iraqis safe in a fierce and unpredictable war zone. And then, one day, they were simply and suddenly taken. Kidnapped.
And preaching on this text, this outlandishly improbable text, James talked about his own captivity, those four long months in dark, confined spaces; those four long months of knowing next to nothing about what might happen next; those four long months of hoping beyond hope for good news and freedom. He talked about unexpected connections, clipped conversations, with his captors. He talked about faith tested and lost and found again.
And then he talked about his partner—who had waited at home in Ontario all those months, waited for any news at all; his partner—who had prayed day after day after day despite fears beyond his imagining. And he talked about how it was that his partner had dared not speak out or ask for any kind of support, so concerned was he that James would be endangered in captivity had their relationship been made public. That, if revealed, his orientation would further jeopardize his life. All of this wondering, all of this longing, all of this doubting and hoping—stretching out over weeks and months in captivity.
But it was his first experience of coming out, coming out as a gay man in his 20s, that James started with. As he preached that day. How like Lazarus, he’d been “entombed” (his word) in a world of anxiety and despair, silence and fear. Held captive by his culture’s bigotry, even his beloved church’s homophobia. And how Jesus’ story had penetrated all that angst, and the isolation he’d experienced as a young gay man. Jesus the Waymaker, he said. Jesus the Morningstar, he said. Jesus the Lover of all lovers. And how Jesus—in effect—had called James out of that closet, out of that tomb, out of silence and captivity and fear. Which was wild—because all around him in those days Christians were using “Jesus” to reinforce those fears, and insist on his silence, and pass judgment on his deepest and dearest values and hopes.
But James Loney had heard Jesus say, “Come out!” “Rise up, and come out!” In his sermon he said: “It’s right there in the text. I heard it in the text—and it was as if he was speaking directly to me.” And that journey of self-discovery and gracious acceptance, and holy affirmation—so radically did it open his heart that James soon embraced other movements for peace, intersecting commitments to human rights, and a practice of nonviolent resistance rooted in Jesus’ own teaching. Because now coming out meant diving in. Self-discovery meant daring discipleship.
2.
When he was freed at last in March 2006, and finally reunited with his partner, James could say that coming out that first time had been a memory, a story, even a promise that sustained him throughout those four long months of captivity in Iraq. “In the end,” he told us, “I knew that the universe was on the side of liberation and that God would always seek out the weary and the lost.” “In the end,” he told us, “I trusted that there would be friends on the other side waiting to unbind all the chains, all the cloth, all the trauma that bound me.” He was honest in saying that, for months after his release, he lived with terrible tremors and unimaginable premonitions; and that he rarely slept through the night without nightmares. “But like Lazarus,” he said, “I have a whole community standing by to love me, to comfort me and to unwrap the binding cloths that cling to my soul.” And he used the present tense. Because the unwrapping, the unbinding, the tender touching of community: it never ends. And that’s the church. I'm convinced of it. We can do that for one another. That’s exactly what Jesus is talking about.
It’s worth noting that seven months after their release, James and his friends held a special press conference in London—where they publicly and openly forgave their captors. Can you imagine? It was a year to the day after their kidnappers had first threatened to execute them on camera in Iraq. But in their joint statement in London, they said, "We unconditionally forgive our captors for abducting and holding us. We have no desire to punish them." I mean, this is gospel stuff. "We unconditionally forgive our captors for abducting and holding us. We have no desire to punish them." It’s like Jesus up there on the cross, rejecting violence and vengeance once and for all, and calling out, across all time and distance: “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing.” “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing.” If violence and vengeance bind our spirits to regret and despair, forgiveness (it seems) is the great unbinding. The practice that finally frees us.
Again, for Jesus and for James Loney, coming out means setting aside revenge, casting off despair, even choosing to love the enemy, the captor, the foe. Coming out means seeking peace, pursuing reconciliation and believing in our shared humanity. Across all borders. Including all differences. Uniting us as one human and holy family. Worthy, every one of us, all of us, of love and respect.
And is it not true, then, that in this way, every one of us, every one of Jesus’ disciples is called—as James Loney was—to come out? To come out of the shadows of silence into the bright light of self-love and unfettered affirmation? To come out of the confining spaces of fear and anxiety into the open air of service and costly solidarity? To come out of the paralyzing logic of war and punishment into the liberating love and mercy of God?
When Jesus cries out for Lazarus, he cries out for you and me, for the church and for every soul would follow. “Lazarus, come out!” “Children of God, come out!” “Church, come out!” Discipleship (you see) requires our awakening: our awakening to divine grace, and our courage in going where grace would have us go, and our commitment to the One who goes before us. Jesus insists that you and I come out, that we choose to come out, over and over and over again. To be Christian is to come out. Bold and brave, compassionate and kind, resisting vengeance and violence, and choosing mercy instead. Not just in principle. But in the push and pull of daily life.
3.
And maybe there’s another indication in today’s story of what this kind of ‘coming out’ means in Christian life. And maybe we see it unfolding as Mary rushes out to find her sister Martha, and their dear friend Jesus, just outside the village. Lazarus has died. And for whatever strange and bewildering reason Jesus has delayed his visit. And now Mary falls at his feet, exhausted and brokenhearted and surely even disappointed. And she says to him, “Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would still be alive.”
And when Jesus sees Mary weeping and Martha too, and others with them shaken by grief and lamentation, he is deeply, deeply moved. And he says to them, “Where have you laid his body?” And they say to him, “Lord, come and see.” And as they walk on together, toward the tomb where Lazarus lies, Jesus begins to weep. Openly. Jesus begins to weep openly.
And this too is our calling. This too is the church’s vocation.
When our neighborhoods and communities are terrorized by masked vigilantes, we have every reason to weep. When our country’s weapons, our country’s soldiers are deployed to rain fire and destruction on distant deserts and faraway cities, we have every reason to weep. When our faith itself is weaponized by nationalists and racists to justify hatred and scare our children, we have every reason to weep.
Our grief is itself a holy gift, you see, even a sacred obligation, and a sign of the Spirit’s proximity, the Spirit’s partnership in our time of great need and unrelenting sorrow. So Jesus begins to weep. Openly. Jesus begins to weep openly. Holding nothing back. Unafraid of his pain. Trusting that his tears are themselves sacraments of the Spirit’s transforming power. Preparing even in this very moment to touch the world’s pain with healing love. I have to believe that as he weeps he remembers his baptism. The waters running like streams down his cheeks. The love unbound in his heart. And now, weeping, he turns toward Lazarus. In the tomb.
Lazarus (you see) is that dear child, off to school in the morning, but clinging fast to his mom, or hanging on to his dad, just hating the idea of going to school, because he fears the bullies at recess. Lazarus is bound in bands of cloth and his sisters grieve. And Jesus too is weeping now.
Lazarus (you see) is that bright-eyed undergrad, falling in love on campus for the first time, now going home for spring break, but afraid to tell her dear friends at church, even her family at home, that she’s gay. Lazarus is bound in bands of cloth and her sisters grieve. And Jesus too is weeping now.
And Lazarus is that Cameroonian refugee, who’s risked absolutely everything to protect his life and his family; who’s hounded by an increasingly fascist government, at risk of being kidnapped (at any time) by cloaked agents of that government; who’s imprisoned—essentially—in his own home, in his own four walls. Lazarus is sealed in, bound up, and his friends grieve. And, again, Jesus is weeping now. Jesus is weeping now. It’s what Jesus does.
And Lazarus is the Free State zealot in Concord—whose guns are his only sacraments, who dreams of a world where all of us are packing heat and looking for trouble, who imagines that his deadly guns (and only his guns) make him safe and brave, who thinks that all this is democracy and security and peace. Lazarus is imprisoned by an American addiction and his own fears. And, yes again, Jesus is weeping now. Jesus is weeping too.
1.
“Then Jesus, who was intensely troubled, approached the tomb—a small cave covered by a massive stone. And Jesus said, ‘Take away the stone.’ But Martha said, ‘Lord, he has been dead for four days…’” And then Jesus cried out, with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!”
James Loney is a Canadian peace activist—who was serving in the early-2000s with a Christian Peacemaker Team in Iraq, when he and three others were kidnapped by Iraqi insurgents and held captive for four months. All four of them were daring and kind, all four committed to nonviolence and compassion as the substance of faith itself. And all four were in Iraq to keep ordinary Iraqis safe in a fierce and unpredictable war zone. And then, one day, they were simply and suddenly taken. Kidnapped.
And preaching on this text, this outlandishly improbable text, James talked about his own captivity, those four long months in dark, confined spaces; those four long months of knowing next to nothing about what might happen next; those four long months of hoping beyond hope for good news and freedom. He talked about unexpected connections, clipped conversations, with his captors. He talked about faith tested and lost and found again.
And then he talked about his partner—who had waited at home in Ontario all those months, waited for any news at all; his partner—who had prayed day after day after day despite fears beyond his imagining. And he talked about how it was that his partner had dared not speak out or ask for any kind of support, so concerned was he that James would be endangered in captivity had their relationship been made public. That, if revealed, his orientation would further jeopardize his life. All of this wondering, all of this longing, all of this doubting and hoping—stretching out over weeks and months in captivity.
But it was his first experience of coming out, coming out as a gay man in his 20s, that James started with. As he preached that day. How like Lazarus, he’d been “entombed” (his word) in a world of anxiety and despair, silence and fear. Held captive by his culture’s bigotry, even his beloved church’s homophobia. And how Jesus’ story had penetrated all that angst, and the isolation he’d experienced as a young gay man. Jesus the Waymaker, he said. Jesus the Morningstar, he said. Jesus the Lover of all lovers. And how Jesus—in effect—had called James out of that closet, out of that tomb, out of silence and captivity and fear. Which was wild—because all around him in those days Christians were using “Jesus” to reinforce those fears, and insist on his silence, and pass judgment on his deepest and dearest values and hopes.
But James Loney had heard Jesus say, “Come out!” “Rise up, and come out!” In his sermon he said: “It’s right there in the text. I heard it in the text—and it was as if he was speaking directly to me.” And that journey of self-discovery and gracious acceptance, and holy affirmation—so radically did it open his heart that James soon embraced other movements for peace, intersecting commitments to human rights, and a practice of nonviolent resistance rooted in Jesus’ own teaching. Because now coming out meant diving in. Self-discovery meant daring discipleship.
2.
It’s worth noting that seven months after their release, James and his friends held a special press conference in London—where they publicly and openly forgave their captors. Can you imagine? It was a year to the day after their kidnappers had first threatened to execute them on camera in Iraq. But in their joint statement in London, they said, "We unconditionally forgive our captors for abducting and holding us. We have no desire to punish them." I mean, this is gospel stuff. "We unconditionally forgive our captors for abducting and holding us. We have no desire to punish them." It’s like Jesus up there on the cross, rejecting violence and vengeance once and for all, and calling out, across all time and distance: “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing.” “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing.” If violence and vengeance bind our spirits to regret and despair, forgiveness (it seems) is the great unbinding. The practice that finally frees us.
Again, for Jesus and for James Loney, coming out means setting aside revenge, casting off despair, even choosing to love the enemy, the captor, the foe. Coming out means seeking peace, pursuing reconciliation and believing in our shared humanity. Across all borders. Including all differences. Uniting us as one human and holy family. Worthy, every one of us, all of us, of love and respect.
And is it not true, then, that in this way, every one of us, every one of Jesus’ disciples is called—as James Loney was—to come out? To come out of the shadows of silence into the bright light of self-love and unfettered affirmation? To come out of the confining spaces of fear and anxiety into the open air of service and costly solidarity? To come out of the paralyzing logic of war and punishment into the liberating love and mercy of God?
When Jesus cries out for Lazarus, he cries out for you and me, for the church and for every soul would follow. “Lazarus, come out!” “Children of God, come out!” “Church, come out!” Discipleship (you see) requires our awakening: our awakening to divine grace, and our courage in going where grace would have us go, and our commitment to the One who goes before us. Jesus insists that you and I come out, that we choose to come out, over and over and over again. To be Christian is to come out. Bold and brave, compassionate and kind, resisting vengeance and violence, and choosing mercy instead. Not just in principle. But in the push and pull of daily life.
3.
And maybe there’s another indication in today’s story of what this kind of ‘coming out’ means in Christian life. And maybe we see it unfolding as Mary rushes out to find her sister Martha, and their dear friend Jesus, just outside the village. Lazarus has died. And for whatever strange and bewildering reason Jesus has delayed his visit. And now Mary falls at his feet, exhausted and brokenhearted and surely even disappointed. And she says to him, “Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would still be alive.”
And when Jesus sees Mary weeping and Martha too, and others with them shaken by grief and lamentation, he is deeply, deeply moved. And he says to them, “Where have you laid his body?” And they say to him, “Lord, come and see.” And as they walk on together, toward the tomb where Lazarus lies, Jesus begins to weep. Openly. Jesus begins to weep openly.
And this too is our calling. This too is the church’s vocation.
When our neighborhoods and communities are terrorized by masked vigilantes, we have every reason to weep. When our country’s weapons, our country’s soldiers are deployed to rain fire and destruction on distant deserts and faraway cities, we have every reason to weep. When our faith itself is weaponized by nationalists and racists to justify hatred and scare our children, we have every reason to weep.
 |
| Raising Lazarus / Eric Wallis |
Lazarus (you see) is that dear child, off to school in the morning, but clinging fast to his mom, or hanging on to his dad, just hating the idea of going to school, because he fears the bullies at recess. Lazarus is bound in bands of cloth and his sisters grieve. And Jesus too is weeping now.
Lazarus (you see) is that bright-eyed undergrad, falling in love on campus for the first time, now going home for spring break, but afraid to tell her dear friends at church, even her family at home, that she’s gay. Lazarus is bound in bands of cloth and her sisters grieve. And Jesus too is weeping now.
And Lazarus is that Cameroonian refugee, who’s risked absolutely everything to protect his life and his family; who’s hounded by an increasingly fascist government, at risk of being kidnapped (at any time) by cloaked agents of that government; who’s imprisoned—essentially—in his own home, in his own four walls. Lazarus is sealed in, bound up, and his friends grieve. And, again, Jesus is weeping now. Jesus is weeping now. It’s what Jesus does.
And Lazarus is the Free State zealot in Concord—whose guns are his only sacraments, who dreams of a world where all of us are packing heat and looking for trouble, who imagines that his deadly guns (and only his guns) make him safe and brave, who thinks that all this is democracy and security and peace. Lazarus is imprisoned by an American addiction and his own fears. And, yes again, Jesus is weeping now. Jesus is weeping too.
Saturday, March 14, 2026
Monday, March 2, 2026
Sunday, March 1, 2026
HOMILY: "Dance a Revolution"
AN INTERPRETATION OF PSALM 23
Thomas Merton
My Lord God
I have no idea where I am going.
I cannot see the road ahead of me
and I do not know for certain
where it will end.
Nor do I know myself,
and the fact that I think
I am following your will
does not mean that I am actually doing so.
But I believe
that the desire to please you
does in fact please you.
And I hope that I have that desire
in all that I am doing.
I hope I will never do anything
apart from that desire.
And I know that if I do this
you will lead me by the right road,
though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore I will trust you always.
Though I may seem to be lost
and in the shadow of death,
I will not fear,
for you are ever with me,
and will never leave me
to face my perils alone.
A PRAYER FOR A REMEMBERED DEATH (for Ash Wednesday)
A prayer/psalm by the Rev. Micah Bucey (Judson Memorial Church/UCC in NYC)
I was hemming and hawing about my fears:
Will my body be safe?
Will my mind be safe?
Will my heart and my lungs be safe?
Should I make this choice?
Should I raise my voice?
Should I put my privilege and my life on the line?
And my sweet sister smiled and said,
“I once met a woman who shared that,
When her fear for her own life
Started to pull her back from actually living,
She stopped and said to herself,
‘I am already dead.’”
And my brain broke open.
I am already dead.
I am dust and I am stardust,
A fragile collection of glitter crumbs,
Ages-old, already honed by countless supernovas,
Who decided to come together and dance,
For a short, sacred time,
As one magical me-made shape.
My cells and my soul will move together
Until the moment they tear apart and drift off
To become another star, another shape,
Another fear-filled, already-dead, living thing.
So live.
You are already dead.
And every tiny, shiny particle
That makes up your parts
Knows how to dance a revolution,
Because they’ve done it all,
Endured it all,
And danced it all before.
You are new and you are infinite
And you are finite.
And that is freedom.
So move with the courage of
The supernovas who continue to shape this world.
You were born to die
Like the brave beings who have blazed before,
Who looked fear in the eye and said,
“I am already dead, so I’m gonna go out living.”
You are dust and you are stardust
And to both will you return.
So turn it out while you’re here,
Feel the fear,
But also feel the fire
That is not only burning you alive,
But burning you to life.
Sunday, March 1, 2026
The Second Sunday in Lent
Psalms New and Old
1.
Last weekend, during our celebration of Henry Smith’s life and spirit, one of Henry’s friends shared a lovely story about the two of them riding a bus across Cuba some years ago. Some of you were here to hear it. You could see in her eyes that this was a story she just had to tell. And she remembered the bump-bump-bumping of the old bus on the roughly paved Cuban roadway. And she remembered the two of them sharing a knowing look (she and Henry) as their bladders—bladders of a certain age, of course—registered each and every bump and quietly, but urgently, insisted on attention. And action.
And then Henry’s friend remembered how at last they prevailed on the bus driver to pull over for the two of them, in the Cuban countryside. And she remembered—with a certain gleam in her eye—the two of them dashing out into the grassy fields of Cuba to relieve themselves at last. She remembered their shared sense of relief and even joy. In the grassy, recently irrigated fields of Cuba. And then she might have said something like, “I’ll always remember Henry Smith as I knew him that day!” Glad and giddy. And we all laughed with her. A happy and healthy and Henry Smith kind of laugh.
And then, as fate would have it, or the liturgy that day, we read the 23rd Psalm – out loud. Together. It was in the program. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want; he makes me to lie down in green pastures; he leads beside still waters; he restores my soul.” Sometimes, not always, but sometimes, the Holy Spirit does her magic and makes the old book new.
Because it struck me then that this beloved psalm isn’t a relic of somebody else’s faith, or a sober artifact of a distant time. It works because it captures so honestly the gratitude of a beleaguered soul. It works because it reflects soulful intimacy—discovered in faith, shared with friends, awakened in green pastures and beside still waters. We are created for communion. We are created for community. We wander away. We wander back. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want; he makes me to lie down in green pastures; he leads beside still waters; he restores my soul.”
And sometimes you need a bus driver to pull over on a bumpy Cuban highway. And a friend to run with. And in these ways, and so many more, God is with you, in the midst of the ordinary; in the swollen bladders of your old age; in the dried-out, grassy fields that welcome your need and your gratitude. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” We have all that we need. We are enough.
For ever and ever, I’ll remember that image of Henry Smith, running into the fields and sauntering back to the bus happy and whole. Smiling at his friend.
2.
Now Thomas Merton comes to the old psalm in a very different way, of course. The poem that Katie’s read this morning is his 1960 interpretation. Out of his own midlife experience of the 23rd Psalm. And it seems he’s wrestling here with a sense of profound uncertainty and bewilderment. The kind of bewilderment that’s familiar, even unnerving, to most of us.
“My Lord God,” he begins, “I have no idea where I am going. I cannot see the road ahead of me, and I do not know for certain where it will end.” And while that’s raw and honest enough, it’s this next line that names what sometimes seems unnameable: “Nor do I know myself…” “Nor do I know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.” I mean, I know this is New England, but does somebody want to say, Amen? In the sixty years since this poem was written, it has given voice to a strange dis-ease so many have in the religious life. “Nor do I really know myself…” And its genius, I think, is in its ragged humility: We can love God with our whole hearts, and still despair for confirmation of God’s call in our spirits or God’s direction in our lives. We can desire God with our whole hearts, and still wonder if what we’re hearing is verifiable and true. “Nor do I really know myself…”
As you know, these forty days of Lent correspond to the forty days Jesus spends in the wilderness—just after his baptism and before he begins to build his movement of bread breakers and boundary busters and disciples. For forty days out there, Jesus fasts and prays, wonders and wanders around, rambles the grassy fields of his homeland and wrestles with his faith and its implications.
And so it ought to be in our own practice. Our Lenten journeys embrace reflection and discernment, and even confession and struggle in our spiritual lives and our walk with Jesus. We too can welcome uncertainty, and bewilderment, and even confusion along the way. In fact, it has to be so. Because there’s so much we don’t know. Because there’s so much that’s just not clear.
Isn’t it curious that Jesus goes fasting after his baptism. After he receives God’s blessing, God’s thrilling blessing, and the anointing of Spirit in the Jordan River, after he’s been named and claimed by Love, after all that, he goes out to the wilderness not to picnic, but to struggle. The blessing itself seems to insist on this, to provoke his own season of temptation and wonderment. Faith and doubt go hand in hand. For Jesus, yes; and for you and me too.
“Nor do I know myself,” says Thomas Merton in his psalm, “and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.” Christianity—at its very heart—insists on this kind of humility and openness. I don’t know. I need help knowing. And prayer then can bear our questions, and voice our vulnerabilities, and offer up our “not knowing.” That we might meet God in the wilderness. In the questions themselves.
Psalms New and Old
1.
Last weekend, during our celebration of Henry Smith’s life and spirit, one of Henry’s friends shared a lovely story about the two of them riding a bus across Cuba some years ago. Some of you were here to hear it. You could see in her eyes that this was a story she just had to tell. And she remembered the bump-bump-bumping of the old bus on the roughly paved Cuban roadway. And she remembered the two of them sharing a knowing look (she and Henry) as their bladders—bladders of a certain age, of course—registered each and every bump and quietly, but urgently, insisted on attention. And action.
And then Henry’s friend remembered how at last they prevailed on the bus driver to pull over for the two of them, in the Cuban countryside. And she remembered—with a certain gleam in her eye—the two of them dashing out into the grassy fields of Cuba to relieve themselves at last. She remembered their shared sense of relief and even joy. In the grassy, recently irrigated fields of Cuba. And then she might have said something like, “I’ll always remember Henry Smith as I knew him that day!” Glad and giddy. And we all laughed with her. A happy and healthy and Henry Smith kind of laugh.
And then, as fate would have it, or the liturgy that day, we read the 23rd Psalm – out loud. Together. It was in the program. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want; he makes me to lie down in green pastures; he leads beside still waters; he restores my soul.” Sometimes, not always, but sometimes, the Holy Spirit does her magic and makes the old book new.
Because it struck me then that this beloved psalm isn’t a relic of somebody else’s faith, or a sober artifact of a distant time. It works because it captures so honestly the gratitude of a beleaguered soul. It works because it reflects soulful intimacy—discovered in faith, shared with friends, awakened in green pastures and beside still waters. We are created for communion. We are created for community. We wander away. We wander back. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want; he makes me to lie down in green pastures; he leads beside still waters; he restores my soul.”
And sometimes you need a bus driver to pull over on a bumpy Cuban highway. And a friend to run with. And in these ways, and so many more, God is with you, in the midst of the ordinary; in the swollen bladders of your old age; in the dried-out, grassy fields that welcome your need and your gratitude. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” We have all that we need. We are enough.
For ever and ever, I’ll remember that image of Henry Smith, running into the fields and sauntering back to the bus happy and whole. Smiling at his friend.
2.
Now Thomas Merton comes to the old psalm in a very different way, of course. The poem that Katie’s read this morning is his 1960 interpretation. Out of his own midlife experience of the 23rd Psalm. And it seems he’s wrestling here with a sense of profound uncertainty and bewilderment. The kind of bewilderment that’s familiar, even unnerving, to most of us.
“My Lord God,” he begins, “I have no idea where I am going. I cannot see the road ahead of me, and I do not know for certain where it will end.” And while that’s raw and honest enough, it’s this next line that names what sometimes seems unnameable: “Nor do I know myself…” “Nor do I know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.” I mean, I know this is New England, but does somebody want to say, Amen? In the sixty years since this poem was written, it has given voice to a strange dis-ease so many have in the religious life. “Nor do I really know myself…” And its genius, I think, is in its ragged humility: We can love God with our whole hearts, and still despair for confirmation of God’s call in our spirits or God’s direction in our lives. We can desire God with our whole hearts, and still wonder if what we’re hearing is verifiable and true. “Nor do I really know myself…”
As you know, these forty days of Lent correspond to the forty days Jesus spends in the wilderness—just after his baptism and before he begins to build his movement of bread breakers and boundary busters and disciples. For forty days out there, Jesus fasts and prays, wonders and wanders around, rambles the grassy fields of his homeland and wrestles with his faith and its implications.
And so it ought to be in our own practice. Our Lenten journeys embrace reflection and discernment, and even confession and struggle in our spiritual lives and our walk with Jesus. We too can welcome uncertainty, and bewilderment, and even confusion along the way. In fact, it has to be so. Because there’s so much we don’t know. Because there’s so much that’s just not clear.
Isn’t it curious that Jesus goes fasting after his baptism. After he receives God’s blessing, God’s thrilling blessing, and the anointing of Spirit in the Jordan River, after he’s been named and claimed by Love, after all that, he goes out to the wilderness not to picnic, but to struggle. The blessing itself seems to insist on this, to provoke his own season of temptation and wonderment. Faith and doubt go hand in hand. For Jesus, yes; and for you and me too.
“Nor do I know myself,” says Thomas Merton in his psalm, “and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.” Christianity—at its very heart—insists on this kind of humility and openness. I don’t know. I need help knowing. And prayer then can bear our questions, and voice our vulnerabilities, and offer up our “not knowing.” That we might meet God in the wilderness. In the questions themselves.
Thursday, February 26, 2026
Monday, February 23, 2026
Thursday, February 19, 2026
Sunday, February 15, 2026
HOMILY: "Christ Disheveled in a Blue Bathrobe"
Sunday, February 15, 2026
1.
I’m thinking this Transfiguration Sunday of a picture I saw this week—I think it was published in a Minneapolis paper—of a rather disheveled woman in an ordinary aqua blue bathrobe; and she’s using her phone to film ICE agents in the street, early one morning, as they aggressively detain immigrant neighbors and force them into unmarked vans. And it’s probably 5 degrees outside.
I imagine she’s been sitting at her breakfast table four or five floors up, enjoying a perfect cup of dark roast coffee with a warm English muffin, and closing her eyes with gratitude for the simplicity of a day to herself. And I imagine she’s been listening to a little music in the background, maybe a little morning jazz on her favorite radio station. Something easy and sweet.
But then her phone buzzes, a notice comes in on a Signal channel, and she dashes four flights down, into the street, without wasting even a moment to get dressed. ICE agents masked up and wound up. Whole families traumatized. And the robed woman shows up for her neighbors exactly as she is, precisely as she is, human and heartbroken, her whole self. In her aqua blue bathrobe. Because this moment in our history is not about heroism or saviorism or any of that; it’s about showing up. As we are. As she is. Just showing up. For our neighbors.
The irrepressible Alan Watts once said: “The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” And it may well be that this is the message, the invitation, even the gospel this Transfiguration Sunday. “The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” She is something like an icon. The woman in her bathrobe. Without brushing the hair from her eyes. Leaving the radio on. Down four flights and into the street. Her phone ready to roll. Showing up for her neighbors.
And I’m reminded, then, of these lines in Beverly Tatum’s psalm:
And what does God’s Love require of us?
Throughout the ages it is the same:
to act justly and to love mercy
and to walk humbly with our God.
Let us listen and follow directions.
Let our actions be our song of praise.
Isn’t that the line for 2026? “Let our actions be our song of praise.”
2.
We might say that Transfiguration Sunday is something of a “liminal” moment in liturgical time. Which is to say it’s not yet Lent; that begins on Wednesday, this week, with the tracing of ashes and dust into our skin and skulls. Not Lent, but not Epiphany either. In liturgical time, we’re between seasons, off of one well-worn path, but not yet onto the other. And that’s what liminality is, right? A space where old paths no longer track, and new trails have yet to reveal themselves. A longtime relationship unravels. Graduation beckons. A partner dies. A new calling arrives. Liminal seasons. And in these liminal seasons, we wander a little, or even a lot. We have to. Once trusted truths seem less certain. Trails once loved don’t work. The world seems both bigger and stranger.
I imagine this is something our friends in Minneapolis and Portland have lived with this past month. The world seeming both bigger and stranger. Their streets seeming dangerous and cruel, and yet, and yet, holy ground just the same. Holy ground. Where old paths no longer work, and new trails have yet to reveal themselves.
I don’t know why, exactly, but all those icicles out there, all those spikey, dripping icicles are signs to me of this liminality, this betweenness, today; not yet warming into spring, but not frigid, freezing winter either. Symbols of transformation, spiritual and communal and ecological. Change is in the air, and it’s in our bodies, and it’s in our communities, and it’s even in our eaves and gutters. And where all this change is going is anybody’s guess. But ambiguity need not be the enemy of faith; if we’re prayerful about it.
You do not have to be a literalist to find that Jesus and the stories of his life awaken in you a spirit of courage that defies complacency and despair. You do not have to be a fundamentalist to find that Jesus and the traditions around his story inspire practices that make your heart tender for service and resistance. And you do not have to be a zealot to find that Jesus walks with you, a source of wisdom in seasons of unrest, a companion and friend along roads once deserted.
Not the fundamentalist version of Jesus, the Jesus who aims to supersede all other teachers and saviors; and not the orthodox version of Jesus, the Jesus who threatens the world with judgment lest we wander from his side.
No, Jesus matters, because in his company we awaken to awe and wonder at the heart of biblical faith. Jesus matters, because in his company we awaken to the holy gifts discovered in neighborliness and solidarity. Jesus matters, because in his company we find mercy in transgressing boundaries and crossing borders and embracing God’s call to unity and communion. We break the rules that need to be broken, as he does, in order to reveal God’s love in human form and ordinary time.
Sunday of the Transfiguration
1.
I’m thinking this Transfiguration Sunday of a picture I saw this week—I think it was published in a Minneapolis paper—of a rather disheveled woman in an ordinary aqua blue bathrobe; and she’s using her phone to film ICE agents in the street, early one morning, as they aggressively detain immigrant neighbors and force them into unmarked vans. And it’s probably 5 degrees outside.
I imagine she’s been sitting at her breakfast table four or five floors up, enjoying a perfect cup of dark roast coffee with a warm English muffin, and closing her eyes with gratitude for the simplicity of a day to herself. And I imagine she’s been listening to a little music in the background, maybe a little morning jazz on her favorite radio station. Something easy and sweet.
 |
| Photo by Leila Navidi, Minnesota Star Tribune |
But then her phone buzzes, a notice comes in on a Signal channel, and she dashes four flights down, into the street, without wasting even a moment to get dressed. ICE agents masked up and wound up. Whole families traumatized. And the robed woman shows up for her neighbors exactly as she is, precisely as she is, human and heartbroken, her whole self. In her aqua blue bathrobe. Because this moment in our history is not about heroism or saviorism or any of that; it’s about showing up. As we are. As she is. Just showing up. For our neighbors.
The irrepressible Alan Watts once said: “The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” And it may well be that this is the message, the invitation, even the gospel this Transfiguration Sunday. “The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” She is something like an icon. The woman in her bathrobe. Without brushing the hair from her eyes. Leaving the radio on. Down four flights and into the street. Her phone ready to roll. Showing up for her neighbors.
And I’m reminded, then, of these lines in Beverly Tatum’s psalm:
And what does God’s Love require of us?
Throughout the ages it is the same:
to act justly and to love mercy
and to walk humbly with our God.
Let us listen and follow directions.
Let our actions be our song of praise.
Isn’t that the line for 2026? “Let our actions be our song of praise.”
2.
We might say that Transfiguration Sunday is something of a “liminal” moment in liturgical time. Which is to say it’s not yet Lent; that begins on Wednesday, this week, with the tracing of ashes and dust into our skin and skulls. Not Lent, but not Epiphany either. In liturgical time, we’re between seasons, off of one well-worn path, but not yet onto the other. And that’s what liminality is, right? A space where old paths no longer track, and new trails have yet to reveal themselves. A longtime relationship unravels. Graduation beckons. A partner dies. A new calling arrives. Liminal seasons. And in these liminal seasons, we wander a little, or even a lot. We have to. Once trusted truths seem less certain. Trails once loved don’t work. The world seems both bigger and stranger.
I imagine this is something our friends in Minneapolis and Portland have lived with this past month. The world seeming both bigger and stranger. Their streets seeming dangerous and cruel, and yet, and yet, holy ground just the same. Holy ground. Where old paths no longer work, and new trails have yet to reveal themselves.
I don’t know why, exactly, but all those icicles out there, all those spikey, dripping icicles are signs to me of this liminality, this betweenness, today; not yet warming into spring, but not frigid, freezing winter either. Symbols of transformation, spiritual and communal and ecological. Change is in the air, and it’s in our bodies, and it’s in our communities, and it’s even in our eaves and gutters. And where all this change is going is anybody’s guess. But ambiguity need not be the enemy of faith; if we’re prayerful about it.
There are layers and layers of meaning and mystery in the story of Jesus’ transfiguration on that mountain in the countryside. The storyteller wants us to see Jesus, to imagine Jesus, to understand Jesus in the great tradition of the Hebrew prophets, prophets like Moses and Elijah. Like Moses and Elijah, Jesus comes to make a claim for God’s universal love, for God’s justice and mercy. And like Moses and Elijah, Jesus will insist on covenants of compassion and kindness. People of faith showing up.
And then, did you notice how the storyteller playfully mocks Peter’s fascination with permanence? Peter’s passion for memorializing this moment in sanctuaries that mark it forever as more precious, even more holy than others? It’s to be expected. Of course Peter wants to build a retreat, or a temple or maybe even a spa on that mountain. It’s a pretty cool spot.
But of course, Jesus quickly insists that they retrace their steps, that the summit is not their home, that the work of love awaits in the valleys and villages below. And as the disciples follow him down, stepping with him into the lives and heartache of human communities there, the disciples begin to wonder aloud and discuss among themselves what this resurrection business is really all about. When he says he will rise from the dead, what in the world is he meaning to say? It’s not all that obvious.
And again, we’re in a liminal space, a liminal season. A season for conversation and discussion, a season for bewilderment and wonder. Only when we let go sometimes, only when we peel away old habits and certainties, does grace reveal herself anew. Ambiguity is hardly the enemy of faith; it can indeed be faith’s good friend. If we’re prayerful about it.
3.
The most compelling message in all this may be hidden in plain sight. And that’s simply this: that Jesus matters. Jesus matters.
And then, did you notice how the storyteller playfully mocks Peter’s fascination with permanence? Peter’s passion for memorializing this moment in sanctuaries that mark it forever as more precious, even more holy than others? It’s to be expected. Of course Peter wants to build a retreat, or a temple or maybe even a spa on that mountain. It’s a pretty cool spot.
But of course, Jesus quickly insists that they retrace their steps, that the summit is not their home, that the work of love awaits in the valleys and villages below. And as the disciples follow him down, stepping with him into the lives and heartache of human communities there, the disciples begin to wonder aloud and discuss among themselves what this resurrection business is really all about. When he says he will rise from the dead, what in the world is he meaning to say? It’s not all that obvious.
And again, we’re in a liminal space, a liminal season. A season for conversation and discussion, a season for bewilderment and wonder. Only when we let go sometimes, only when we peel away old habits and certainties, does grace reveal herself anew. Ambiguity is hardly the enemy of faith; it can indeed be faith’s good friend. If we’re prayerful about it.
3.
The most compelling message in all this may be hidden in plain sight. And that’s simply this: that Jesus matters. Jesus matters.
Not the fundamentalist version of Jesus, the Jesus who aims to supersede all other teachers and saviors; and not the orthodox version of Jesus, the Jesus who threatens the world with judgment lest we wander from his side.
No, Jesus matters, because in his company we awaken to awe and wonder at the heart of biblical faith. Jesus matters, because in his company we awaken to the holy gifts discovered in neighborliness and solidarity. Jesus matters, because in his company we find mercy in transgressing boundaries and crossing borders and embracing God’s call to unity and communion. We break the rules that need to be broken, as he does, in order to reveal God’s love in human form and ordinary time.
Tuesday, February 10, 2026
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