Sermon from 1/4/26 "In the Beginning"

 John 1:1-18

As I sat on the couch watching the ball drop in Times Square I thought about a few things. First, I thought about how convenient it was when we lived in Colorado to watch the ball drop at 10 pm our time and then send the kids to bed. Then, I thought about what the experience must be like for the over 1 million people packed into Times Square. I googled “what time do you have to arrive for New Year’s Eve at Times Square” and found a set of tips. It said that gates open at 3pm but you need to arrive much earlier, like 10 am if you want a good spot. It also says “You’ll be standing for many hours in the cold, so bring layers, snacks, water and patience.” Furthermore, “There are virtually no public restrooms, so many people wear diapers …” oh and no chairs allowed. Also, it said with wind chill, the temperature felt like it was in the teens. I felt grateful for my warm couch.

          It is an interesting thing to think about. Millions of people standing with no chairs for about 14 hours in the freezing cold … likely in wet diapers. And all to watch an occasional famous or once famous performer if you are close enough to the front and a few scattered hosts making jokes and then a giant ball descend in the last 10 seconds. And then … that’s it. It’s a new year.

          The promise of a new year is a lovely thing and I would say worth getting excited about (like silly hats and noise makers excited if not wet diaper excited). There is something alluring and promising about throwing away the old calendar and having a fresh start. It’s all about looking forward, imagining what can be and saying good bye to the past. Picturing a newer, fitter, healthier, wealthier, happier version of ourselves and with determination, deciding on a resolution or two that will get you there. It is a time of optimism, hope and the courage to commit to new things.

          One of my favorite New Year’s practices is to pray John Wesley’s Covenant Prayer which we prayed today and is in your bulletin if you want to look at the words again. I love this prayer. I love the drama of it, the strong words of commitment and determination but also of relinquishing control. These words of newly handing over all that we are to God and trusting in God’s will for us, God’s story for our new year. It is like an offering of our plans, our will, our thoughts on what is best. An offering to God, to be blessed, accepted and transformed. It is a prayer that can be said at any time, but I love saying it at the start of the new year when hearts are a bit more open to possibility and new direction.

          It is also a fitting response to an epiphany. When one realizes that all that we are comes from God and that God loves us and wants what is best for us, then one wants to respond to that epiphany with an act of devotion, like a covenant prayer. And today is when we celebrate Epiphany Sunday. The Epiphany we celebrate is the arrival of the wise men at the sight of the star over where Christ is born. While we often add the wise men to our Christmas nativity scenes, it isn’t until later, on Epiphany that we celebrate their arrival.

 

          The arrival of the wise men takes it from an intimate birth scene to an international event. The wise men represent all of us who live far from that place, all of us who come from different backgrounds, but are called to follow the star, the light of God’s love present to us in Jesus Christ. And it comes with a calling, to continue to spread the news, spread the word, tell others that God has come to earth in the form of a baby and his name is Jesus. Like New Year’s resolutions and the covenant prayer, it is marking a new start, it is forward focused, looking ahead at the new calendar and committing ourselves to a new path. In this case, a path with Christ, illuminated by the bright star of God’s love.

          It is interesting that with all of this future-focus with all of the determination to follow a new path, with all of the fresh calendars being hung, the Christmas trees on the curb for the garbage collection, the decorations being put away and the promise of a fresh new start … today’s Gospel reading has us looking not forward, but back … way back … as far back as you can get … all the way to “In the Beginning.”

          You see, the beginning of the Christmas story has different starting points in the four different Gospels (of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John) in the Bible. Luke begins his story with a telling of what happened to Zechariah and his realization that he and his wife Elizabeth would birth John the Baptist and then we hear about Mary’s encounter with the angel Gabriel and then the birth of Christ. Matthew starts his telling of the story with the lineage of Christ, showing the family line from Abraham to David to Jesus and then he tells the story of Christ’s birth. And Mark, who tends to be in much more of a hurry with his storytelling, skips all of the birth explanation and begins right with John the Baptist baptizing and Jesus coming out of the wilderness, getting baptized and getting right to work. Those are the beginnings of three of the Gospels. The other one is John, which we read today.

          John begins his telling of the story of Jesus way back to the very beginning of all of creation. Even starting with the words “In the beginning” which is meant to call the reader back to those words in Genesis and the beginning of all of creation. John explains that the Word was with God all the way at the beginning. The creation of the universe poured out from a divine intimacy between the Word and God. Creation born out of love. From the beginning, God intended to be in relationship with creation, that the Word would become flesh and dwell among us. The salvation story was always a part of it. All the way back in the beginning.

 

          I think there is something really lovely and important in taking a look back. Yes, New Year’s is a time of new beginnings and future plans and looking ahead, but also, what if we take a moment and look back. Not to see our flaws and our mistakes, but to acknowledge who we are, where we have come from, all of the brave things we have done and all the ways God has walked this journey with us.

          I thought about this as I worshipped with you all here on Christmas Eve. Sometime before the worship service I realized it had been a long time since I preached on Christmas Eve. When I decided to have my second son, I took family leave from full time ministry. For several years I stayed home with my two kids and worked as a supply pastor, filling in for clergy on vacation. I got involved at the church where my husband was serving and helped teach Sunday School and start a Vacation Bible School. And then we moved to Colorado and I worked part time on staff where my husband was the senior pastor. And when you are on staff, you don’t typically preach Christmas Eve, clergy often jokingly call the Sunday after Christmas “associate pastor’s Sunday” because the senior pastor typically covers Christmas Eve. So I realized the last time I preached a Christmas Eve service was 13 years ago.

          I remember it well. I remember taking my baby to my husband’s 4pm service and then leaving the baby with a church member as I left early to get to my service. I remember driving in the cold and dark and thinking about all the families gathering together in the pews and around dinner tables and wishing I could be with mine. But I also remember that moment, that beautiful moment when the lights were turned off, the candles lit, and the voices singing Silent Night in the dark. I remember standing in front and feeling so full of love. Looking out at the packed church and seeing the faces of college students home for Christmas, babies I had baptized, couples I had wed, families of those I had buried and I remember feeling so much love, love for them and love from them.

          As I stood up here Christmas Eve and looked up in the darkness of Silent Night to see the packed church with faces illuminated by candle light, I felt a flood of emotion. I could see all of these faces that are new to me and are so full of love and welcome and hope and I could also feel the love of all of those I have shared that moment with before, ones I follow on social media, ones I receive Christmas cards from and ones I have loved and lost. And I felt so overwhelmed with love that my breath caught and my eyes filled. It was beautiful and a moment I will cherish.

          Sometimes it is good to look back. To look back and see the faces of those who have loved us and those we have loved. To see all the twists and turns on the journey that we have weathered and to look way back, way, way back, all the way back to the very beginning and know we were always loved, from the very beginning.

Christmas Eve Sermon at First UMC East Greenbush

 

Luke 2:1-20, 12/24/25 “A Great Light”

          I’ve been thinking about Trick or Treating … wait … do I have the wrong holiday?  Actually, I have been thinking about when I took my son trick or treating and when it got dark, I reminded him that the way to tell which house you could go to was whether or not their front porch light was on. The light on meant you were welcome there and a light off meant, don’t go that way. But it isn’t just trick or treating, we use lights to signify welcome in a lot of different ways. If the vacancy sign is lit that means there is room at the hotel, if the lights are on at the store it means it is still open and a lit walkway says “welcome … here is the path.” A light in the dark says a lot. The bright beams breaking through the darkness to illuminate the path before you, the warm soft glow on a dark cold night to say “here is a place of comfort and care.”

 

          The reading from Isaiah talks about light: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light …” And then in the reading from Luke, we see that great light. It comes upon shepherds in the night. It says an angel comes and “the glory of the Lord shone around them.” The glory of the Lord is a light shining. And soon there is “a multitude of the heavenly host.” That’s a lot of light way out in those dark fields with those shepherds. It says the shepherds were “keeping watch over their flock by night” these are people who know the dangers that come in the darkness. These are people who know the darkness well. When the world sleeps, they remain awake, vigilant, waiting for dawn to reveal the safety of their flocks. This is where the glory of the Lord shines … around those watching for danger, those sitting in the dark. A warm and brilliant light shining welcome, here is the path, here is safety.

          What’s so amazing about this light is that it is like an illuminated “open” sign, showing that the door between heaven and earth is open. The light shines upon an opening into heaven, where God is poured out here onto earth. Later, Jesus will ascend back on that same path, and here we see the light is on, the heavens have opened and here is the way.

 

          Some people call these thin places. Those times, moments or locations where the veil between heaven and earth feels thin, or maybe even nonexistent. As a hospital chaplain, I am honored to be able to sit in these thin spaces with people. Sometimes when someone takes their last breath and then falls into the arms of God and sometimes when a new life takes their first breath in the arms of their mother.

          About once a week I make the rounds through the post-partum unit. Unlike most others at the hospital, the people I meet here are not sick, but rather standing at the edge of a brand new chapter of their lives. And it is beautiful, and joyful and amazing, but also … terrifying. When the angel comes to the shepherds it says they are “terrified” and the first thing the angel says is “do not be afraid.” These thin places, these in-breakings of the Holy Spirit can be terrifying. And I often see that on the faces of brand new parents. They just had an overwhelming experience and now are sitting there with a new life that wasn’t there before. They are figuring out feeding schedules and paperwork and phone calls right after this unbelievable life-changing event. I remember, after I had my first son, when people would say he was beautiful, I would widen my eyes and say “I know right!” Saying thank you felt strange as I held that little miracle, I was in awe of this new tiny person. It felt like a gift from God and something amazing to behold and not something I would take credit for.

          When I see all those tiny new lives in the post partum unit on the day of their birth, I feel like I am walking along a thin space. There is a light and a beauty that shines around their tender skin and wrinkled toes and I often find myself wiping a tear as I pray for them, it is a moving experience to be in that place.

 

          But it can also be a hard experience. As I go from room to room it is abundantly and starkly clear that not every baby gets the same starting point in life. Some start their lives with loving parents putting so much thought and care into getting everything just right for them- with a home stocked with fresh diapers, new onesies and photo frames just waiting to be filled with happy memories. But that isn’t the story for all of them. Some are born into different circumstances and that is hard to see.

 

          Jesus was one of those babies born into different circumstances. He was born to a young couple without a roof over their heads. He was born sharing space with stinky animals. Biblical scholar Luke Timothy Johnson writes, “However we construe the manger and the lodge and the wrapping bands put on the baby and the visit by shepherds, there is no doubt concerning Luke’s portrayal of the economic or social level of Jesus’ first companions … [the shepherds] are certainly among the lowest-esteemed laborers. Mary and Joseph, in turn, are transients … people who lack adequate shelter.” It’s quite the scene … a wild scene really … and entirely unexpected. Who would imagine that here, in these circumstances, God chooses to dwell with humanity? That here in this darkness, in these circumstances, comes a great light.

          The vacancy light shines through a bright star saying, “here is room,” even though the inn may be full, here we find abundance and a message of love shining bright enough for the whole world to bask in.

           I have this really clear memory from when I was little. We lived down the street from the high school and we were walking home after my older sister’s band concert. It was cold and snowy in northeast Ohio and I must have been no older than 8 years old and yet I can see it so vividly. There in the cold, dark ordinary night I looked up and saw the big bright multi-colored bulbs hanging on the front porch of our house and I remember feeling so warm inside. There was home and it was Christmas time, and the joy was intense and warm and filled my heart and the lights were so bright against the dark sky.

          I think of that every year at Christmas, that way in which a child’s heart can truly capture the joy of Christmas. The indescribable, warm and welcoming joy knowing that God is with us, God has come. Just as promised.

           This is the great light Isaiah spoke of.  The great light of God’s love shining here on earth to say, “here is the path, this is the way, you are welcome here” the same light that warmed the shepherds flows into the soft candlelight that will soon fill this space. A welcome light.

Wherever you are on your journey, whatever darkness you may find yourself in, see this light on, see this welcome and know that God is here, with a light that can never be extinguished. Merry Christmas.

Sermon from the Fourth Sunday of Advent, First UMC East Greenbush

 

Sermon from 12/21/25 Matthew 1:18-25

          It was a cold, dark winter’s night, the day was drawing to an end as clothes were traded for pajamas and the promise of sleep was near … and in that cozy stillness I heard these words, “mom, I need help with my math homework!” I took a deep breath, gently moved the cuddly dog from my lap and dove in to the great unknown … that is middle school math. My son had been absent so he missed the lesson. I looked at the worksheet and everything I ever knew seemed to run out of my mind. It looked nonsensical. I said “are you sure about this whole advanced math thing, maybe try regular math.” But there was no laugh from him, only the look of distress that comes when you are stuck. We started looking over the sample problems, reading the problem over and over again, trying different numbers in different places. I knew that somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain these lessons were buried from learning them years ago, but things have changed and the formulas the teacher used in the example looked completely unknown. As I sat there writing numbers and trying my best to tap into my inner middle-school student, my son said “I got it!” and he started spouting off numbers and writing quickly and then had a big smile. I looked at his work and nodded and said “oh, ok!” clearly not knowing what the heck he was talking about. But he really wanted me to stay with him in this, so he explained it a few times and eventually it kind of made sense. And man did I feel proud of myself. As I tucked him into bed he said “that math homework took SO long” and I said “yeah, but it was kind of fun” and he said “yeah, it was.”

          We got there. What started out as utter confusion eventually moved to trust as I watched his brain put the pieces together and then ended with enlightenment as we both felt so satisfied in having figured it out.

          This journey from confusion to trust to enlightenment is not one confined only to the complications of middle-school math. It is a familiar journey for anyone who has lived and breathed. And it is an ancient one, as we heard in the Gospel reading today.

         Today’s reading opens a door into the mind of Joseph. It starts with confusion. He was engaged to Mary. This meant that there was likely a ceremony of engagement after which she would stay living at her father’s house for what could have been a year or a few years and then he would come and take her to their new home together. And during this time of not living together, she becomes pregnant. Joseph is confused and wants to follow the rules but also does not want to publicly shame her, so he decides to quietly end things. But, as he is still thinking this over, one translation says “as he was considering this” [1] he has a dream. Imagine what this was like for Joseph. He was likely quite young and here he is dealing with this unexpected shock and trying to figure out what he will do. The stakes are high, the life of the woman he loves may be at stake, and yet, he wants to do what he believes to be right.

           It is in this state that Joseph has a dream. In the dream he sees an “angel of the Lord” who lays it out very clearly and directly: don’t be afraid, take her as your wife and name the baby Jesus. And that’s enough for Joseph. He has trust, complete and total trust, all confusion and contemplation is over and he does what the angel told him to do in the dream.

         It’s interesting if you think of this in the context of an origin story. In movies and comics, every hero has some sort of origin story that defines their life and their mission. For Batman, it was watching his parents get killed by a criminal as a young boy and vowing to avenge their deaths by devoting his life to fighting crime. For Superman, it was surviving the destruction of his home planet, getting adopted and discovering his superpowers. Spider-Man too has lost his parents and when he is bitten by a spider as a teenager he has to sort out his powers and his capabilities as a young man. All of these are very dramatic and heart breaking.

          And here we have the origin story of Jesus. Two young people with plans, thrust into a divine salvation story by appearances from an angel. And both of them, both Mary and Joseph quickly move from confusion to trust. The origin story of the life of Jesus begins with two confused people who decided to trust.

         Trust is a tricky thing. It can be easy like when you know and love someone who has proven themselves, or it can be really hard like when you are afraid and a relationship feels shaky. Trust can break your heart, but often we are forced into it. Every day we trust that the other people driving cars on the road will follow the laws. We trust that our bodies will do what they need to so we can keep going, we trust that the sun will rise and set, we trust that we will get a paycheck, the heat will work and the house will stay standing. And we have to see horrible stories on the news of frightened people fleeing and trust that we can still gather, send our kids to school and maintain hope in humanity. It can be hard.

          And yet, here we are, trusting each other with our prayers, our concerns, our hearts and our stories. Praying to God from the depths of our hearts and trusting that God hears our prayers. Daring to open our hearts in worship to beauty, to hope, to peace and to love, knowing that this world can break your heart.

          But this decision, this wild, bold, maybe foolish, vulnerable decision to trust … this is the origin story of our Savior. This trust is how God breaks into the world, takes on flesh and saves us. Matthew tells us that Jesus did not drop out of thin air, he did not triumphantly descend from the clouds on a throne, he did not fly in from a spaceship …. He was born of trust. God chose to work through human hearts, to quiet fears and invite trust. The origin story of the one we worship, the one we give our hearts to, involves a young couple holding onto a dream, trusting a vision.

          I wonder, where God is calling your heart to trust? Maybe to trust in God’s presence, the love of another, the possibility of peace or that word that we often keep trying to grab but keeps slipping through our fingers … hope.

          Remember, the story doesn’t end with a young couple trusting a vision. There is more to come. Joseph’s journey goes from confusion to trust to enlightenment. There is a star coming, a light to shine in the darkness, the angels are not done speaking. This story will go from one man’s dream, one women’s vision to enlightenment for the world and for ages to come. Trust opened the door for enlightenment.

 

          Our Advent journey is nearing its end. Maybe that brings nervousness, worry about unfinished shopping lists, unbaked cookies, unsent cards and unanswered emails to get to before everything closes. Or maybe it means a heart bursting with excitement like a child who thinks 4 days until Christmas is an impossibly long time to wait. Either way, I invite you to use these final days of Advent to look into your heart and see where God may be inviting you to trust. To reflect on how that word trust makes you feel, and gather the courage to keep the door open to God’s calling.

 

          It’s really all pretty wild. A young man finds out that the one he is engaged to is pregnant and in his confusion an angel tells him exactly what to do and then … he does it. He trusts. Mary too, trusts and together they embark on a journey. A journey that would result in a light like no one had ever seen. I wonder if after the confusion, the fear, the trust, the enlightenment, I wonder if Mary and Joseph looked at each other and said “that was wild … but it was also kind of fun.” Like my son and I did after he finished his math homework. And sure, middle-school math isn’t exactly ushering in the birth of Christ … but over and over again in life we are invited to open the door to trust and even though it may not go as we planned and our hearts may even get broken … God still enters that door, God still shows up … with a light that can never be extinguished so … stay tuned … because we are about to witness that light together and celebrate the next part of a wild story.

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[1][1] Harrington, Daniel. Sacra Pagina: Gospel of Matthew. Liturgical Press 2007. Pp. 34

Isaiah 11:1-10 “Waiting”

 

Sermon from First UMC East Greenbush 12/7/25 

          When I was 18 I got my own apartment. I was excited to live on my own, but it was lonelier than I expected. Preparing and eating dinner by myself was not as exciting as I had pictured. One of my dear friends who had moved away for college got me a plant. It was a tiny little thing in a tiny little pot. She assured me it was easy to take care of. I was grateful for another living thing in my apartment and enjoyed watching it grow. When I graduated college and moved to New Jersey for Seminary I took my plant with me, it had moved to a medium-sized pot and fit nicely in front of the window. After Seminary, when I got married and moved into the parsonage of my first church, it came along. It was much bigger and now in a much larger pot. It stood in front of the sliding glass door and kindly let out a slight droop to remind me when I had waited a bit too long to water it. It came along when I moved to my next church and eventually shared its pot with a bright plastic flower that my son stuck next to it. Eventually it became time for our next move, and this time we were moving from Ohio to Colorado. What would I do with my big plant in its big pot? It wouldn’t fit between the car seats and the movers said they didn’t take plants. I asked again and the movers said they would put it in the truck but since this was in January and the truck was not heated, they couldn’t guarantee it would make it.

 

When the truck arrived there was the plant and it was looking very sad. I tried my best to help it as it became more and more shriveled but eventually it cracked and fell and there was nothing I could do but put it in the compost. There the empty pot sat, for some reason I didn’t immediately clean the soil out of it. And after a few days or so, I saw something. Something small and green right in the spot where the roots were left. I excitedly said to my husband “a shoot from the stump!” (these are the kinds of references two clergy make with each other). And sure enough, new life emerged. There was still life in that pot, even after the death and decay, a fresh new sprout burst forth.

 

          A “shoot from the stump” is a phrase from the Isaiah reading that we read today. In order to fully understand it, we have to back up a bit and look at the verses before it. In Isaiah chapter 10 verse 34 it says, “He will hack down the thickets of the forest with an ax, and Lebanon with its majestic trees will fall.” This is referring to the dynasty of David. King David came from the line of Jesse. He was the much anticipated, much longed for king chosen by God. And now, that line of David was but a stump. A stump is a dead plant from which nothing can grow and represents what Biblical Scholar Walter Brueggemann calls the “deep failure of the Davidic dynasty.”[i] As Pastor Mary Beth shared in her sermon last week, Isaiah is writing during a time of increasing power and destruction by the Assyrian army and the decline of Israel. It was a scary and uncertain time marked by lack of faith, injustice, corruption and oppression. The days of David’s rule seemed but a long dead stump.

          And then … we get this passage today. A beautiful poem about hope and possibility. It starts with a shoot from a stump. Life out of what was dead. A seemingly impossible situation, new life from death. A new reality in which righteousness and faithfulness are the basis of rule. Where the poor and oppressed are cared for. The vulnerable protected. And where “The wolf shall live with the lamb; the leopard shall lie down with the kid; the calf and the lion will feed together, and a little child shall lead them.”

          Impossible ... You might say. A lion and a lamb together in peace? It goes against everything we know about the animal kingdom and animal instincts. Impossible … there is no way a little child could bring about a peace which has eluded wise and aged rulers for all time. Impossible … new life coming from a stump, from hopelessness and despair.

 

          How could this be? We are told in this poem that it is “the spirit of the Lord.” It says, “the spirit of the Lord shall rest on him.” Brueggemann says “The  Spirit of the Lord has the capacity to do what the world believes is impossible.” The lion and the lamb together would mean a world not dominated by threat and hostility. A world where the vulnerable are cared for. Where there is courage to trust. Where rage and violence, revenge and hatred give way to love and care, bridge-building and hope. Where safety, health and security are not only for those who can earn enough, inherit enough, perform enough, but for everyone. True peace … for even the vulnerable lambs. Can you imagine?

          Isaiah asks us to. Imagine what the Spirit of the Lord can do. What seems impossible. A child leading the way.

 

          For us Christians, we believe that Jesus is the one who comes. He comes from the line of Jesse, a shoot from the stump. One who rules with the Spirit of the Lord. Who cares for the least, the lost and the lonely and makes possible this impossible vision of a world ruled by love and peace.

          It would be a long, long, long time between these words of Isaiah and the birth of Christ. A long time of waiting.

          I hate waiting. My husband teases me that I would rather risk breaking my back to carry something heavy than wait for him to come help me. I am always the one in my family of four sitting in the car waiting for everyone else to get ready to go. And when I have to wait like in the long lines at Disney World, or for the thermometer on the turkey to pop or repair man to finally come or for even harder things like medical test results or word that a friend or family member struggling is ok or for pain to end … it’s agonizing. Waiting is hard. Sitting with uncertainty is hard. Trusting that everything will work out is hard.

 

          Eckhart Tolle writes, “Waiting is a state of mind. Basically it means that you want the future; you don’t want the present.” And if you think about it, it is true- the awareness that you are waiting is really a state of mind. We may be in agony waiting for the plane to arrive and board at the airport but then realize that even if we were at home we would be doing the same thing- sitting there staring at our phone. Waiting takes us out of the present moment and leaves us focused only on what will, could or might be. It leaves us building an imagined future in our minds rather than receiving what comes with openness.

 

          And … if you think about it … we are actually living in the long awaited present of those who have gone before us. We are their hopes, their anticipated futures, their dreams. We are living after Jesus has come, we know that God has made possible what was impossible. God has come, to be with us, to bring love, peace and hope.

 

          But the world is not perfect. We live in that space between the birth of Christ and the day when all shall be made well and Christ will come again. And we may find ourselves looking around at dashed hopes, cut down trees, dead stumps and despair.

 

          But Isaiah reminds us that the Spirit of the Lord has more in store. This Advent, let us wait with trust, knowing that God makes all things new. And that we can be the shoot, bringing all that we hope for into the world. Living lives with righteousness and faithfulness, bringing care to the lonely, bringing peace to those in fear and justice to the oppressed. We can be a people who believe in stumps, even when it looks like there is no life left in them.

 

          Before Thanksgiving, I was able to join the youth group as they went to Hawthorne Ridge and spent time with residents there. These young people spent their day off of school sitting and talking with people they didn’t know. They talked about what they are grateful for and listened as the residents told their stories of gratitude. They prayed together and made crafts and spent time in genuine connection. Young people leading the way with care and love. Bringing shoots of a future hoped for to others.

 

          But before I finish, I don’t want to leave you wondering … how is my plant today. The one I got when I was 18 that has traveled all over the country with me. Well, when it was time to make the trip to New York from Colorado, the movers wouldn’t take it. After packing two kids a dog and everything we needed for a 29-hour cross country drive into our Subaru, it didn’t fit in the car. So I gave it to my friend Tanya. When I moved to Colorado I knew I was going to be far from family and I prayed that I would make friends in that new place. Tanya is one of those friends. One of those friends who loves whole-heartedly and isn’t afraid to be the first to cry at beautiful moments. She attended my kids’ preschool graduations and sporting events and loved them as they grew. The kids often asked if they could sit with “Miss Tanya” in church.  She supported my volunteer projects and always showed up for us with flowers (she is a florist). She was one of the first people we told that we would be moving. And through her tears and broken heart she hugged us and meant it when she said she was happy for us. She was a shoot from the stump. When I moved to a new place where I knew no one and felt alone, she brought love, warmth and a new possibility of feeling at home. And so I am happy to know that my plant is there with her, in that place of love. It reminds me to always trust, that the Spirit of the Lord is bringing new life, and it’s worth waiting for.

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[i] Brueggemann, Walter. Isaiah 1-39. Westminster John Knox Press, 1998, pp 103.

Sermon from 11/23/25 Christ the King Sunday

 

Luke 23:33-43. Colossians 1:11-20

“Expectations”

          Today is Christ the King Sunday. This means it is the last Sunday of the church year. Next Sunday Advent begins and with it a new church year. So today is the culmination of the past year. It began with waiting in anticipation of a birth, then Christmas, and then the events of the life of Jesus, a journey to the cross, an empty tomb, resurrection and then the building up of the community of Christians beginning with Pentecost and tongues of fire. Then we journeyed through the teachings of Christ and now today … Christ the King Sunday.

          An entire year of build-up- story after story, parables, miracles, teachings, prayers, healings, doubts, conversions, baptisms, promises, revelations all leading up to this. This moment of recognizing Christ the King. It’s as if we have been turning the pages of this cosmic story, sitting on the edge of our seat, surprised, delighted, frightened, wondering what will come next. The pages remaining becoming thinner than the pages read and our excitement building … how will it end? As we turn the pages with anticipation we come down to the very last one and with hands shaking with excitement, eyes opened wide prepared for wonder and awe, we come to this … this lesson read today from Luke’s Gospel. The words painting the picture on this final page of our church year and the picture is of Jesus, hanging from a cross, being mocked.

          Is this what we were expecting? Is this the glorious image we hoped for when we pictured Christ the King? Perhaps you find yourself slumping into the seat you once sat on the edge of, loosening the wide-eyed gaze of excitement and shaking your head with a puzzled brow … asking “is this it?”

          It is a very unflattering picture. Jesus has had his clothes taken, he has been beaten and he has been hung on a cross for all to look at. He is next to criminals. This passage that was read is not one of celebration and praise that one might expect for a king, but rather one of mockery. The heart of the passage is teasing, humiliation … let down. Instead of a royal banner pronouncing him king, the only titles we hear are said with cruelty. We hear it from the people who say “let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!” Then the soldiers saying “If you are King of the Jews, save yourself!” And then one of the criminals next to him saying “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” This embarrassment, this cruelty, this heartlessness … is this what you were expecting on this Christ the King Sunday?

          Expectations can be a beautiful thing, an opportunity to live in the excitement of anticipation, something to hang our hope on … or they can be a painful and disappointing thing. Expectations may come from our convictions and hopes. Or they can come from our fears and insecurities.

           My husband is in a position of leadership; he is the Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Albany. This means that he oversees 105 churches and represents the Diocese to the wider church. A few weeks ago he got a very well-written letter full of sincerity and passion. The writer of it laid out all that he saw happening in the country that was upsetting- people living in fear, violent arrests, injustices and dangerous language deepening divisions. He then asked “Bishop, what will you do?” and implored my husband to “do something” to use his position and voice to speak against the President, the leaders and make a change. That very same week my husband received another letter that was again full of sincerity and passion. This writer laid out what he saw as the upsetting things happening in this country- people attacking the president, violence against Christians and dangerous language deepening divisions. He too implored my husband to “do something” to use his position and voice to change things, only this writer believed that means speaking for the President and fighting for the actions that the other person is so horrified by. As I looked at these letters from my position as spouse to my husband, I felt the weight of expectations on him. So much expectation on what he can do, what he should do. And I understand because I too wish there was a hero to come and save the day, but I also recognize that placing that expectation on one single human is likely not the best bet.

          It brought up a memory for me from some time ago, I was a newly ordained pastor, about 25 years old and serving in my first appointment. I was an associate pastor and the senior pastor was out of town. We received a request for a funeral and I responded. I met with the family and felt that something was “off” as they looked at me and barely said a word, but I was grateful for an “in-law” who was open and shared all kinds of stories and memories of the loved one who had died. On the day of the service, I walked into the funeral home and it was like one of those moments in a movie where someone walks into the bar and the music stops and everyone turns and glares with suspicion at the person who walked in. It was me, I was the one they were glaring at. I didn’t have to wonder long because some folks were thoughtful enough to whisper loud enough for me to hear as they expressed their disappointment that the pastor was a woman … and even worse … a young woman. I continued on, telling myself that the expectations were so low that surely I could disappoint no further. But the weight of expectations … crushed expectations was felt.

          We all live with the weight of expectations. And, let’s be honest, the heaviest of them all are the ones we likely put on ourselves. We walk around under the weight of our own expectations of the kind of employee, parent, spouse, friend, Christian, human we should be. And then also the weight of our own disappointment when we, of course, cannot meet those … because we are human and we are not perfect.

          We look in the mirror and ask ourselves “is this what I was expecting?” And we probably also look at our world and ask the same thing. And there is pain in that. I look around and see a world I was not expecting or hoping for. A world of inequality, fear, pain, discrimination, hatred, violence, environmental destruction and war. This is not the world I hoped to raise my children in. This is not the world I thought we were working toward. This is not the world of realized hopes of peace, love, kindness and justice. And sometimes that is scary, sometimes it breaks my heart and sometimes I want to cry out for a hero. So I too sit with hope and longing as we turn the page to find our Messiah, the one promised by God, longed for, the chosen one, the Savior.

          But what I find doesn’t look anything like the story book expectations I have for a hero. Actually, it’s so much better than that. Jesus dying on the cross is not a pretty picture. It is painful and it is heart-breaking but it is real and it is exactly how he told us it would be. It is a divine act of love to bring each of us into a restored relationship with God. A divine act of love for our broken and violent world. A violence and brokenness that Jesus knew deeply and yet, he still came for us. As Jesus was hanging from the cross being mocked as the air left his lungs, one of the criminals beside him said “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” This criminal knew he had done wrong, he knew he was a criminal, he saw Jesus on the cross next to him, saw the mocking, saw the pain and yet he asks for Jesus to remember him. And Jesus says, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

         The one being mocked says these words to the one who is being punished for crimes, showing us that there are no barriers separating us from God’s love. Jesus gives assurance to this criminal, this man who surely did not meet the expectations of others. Christ the King is not a hero just for the lucky few, the privileged ones, or those who are perfect, he is a savior for the world. He knows that we are human, that we sin, that we make mistakes, that we fall short, that we get lost in the pain of the world and yet, he assures us of salvation. He calls us to lift our gaze from the hopelessness and despair to a place called Paradise, to a restored relationship with God, to a peace that cannot be earned.

          And living in that love we are called to hold on to that hope, to persevere in the darkness, to bring light into the world. We are called to make this earth look like the kingdom of God and have courage to live not for the expectations of the world, but for the love of Christ.

         As the reading from Colossians says, “May you be made strong with all the strength that comes from his glorious power, and may you be prepared to endure everything with patience, while joyfully giving thanks to the Father, who has enabled you to share in the inheritance of the saints in the light. He has rescued us from the power of darkness and transferred us into the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.”

          Perhaps not what we expected …but so much more.

"Simple Answers" Sermon from 11/9/25

 

Sermon from First UMC East Greenbush, Luke 20:27-38

          It’s an absurd situation … intentionally. Even for back then when life expectancy was shorter and there were no resources for family planning, even then, it’s an absurd situation. Seven brothers, each one dying one at a time, without children and then marrying the same woman until finally all seven have died and the widow remains. It is intentionally absurd because there is no genuine curiosity behind it. We are told in the first line of this passage from Luke that those asking it, the Sadducees, “say there is no resurrection.” So we already know they do not believe what Jesus is teaching. So they come up to Jesus with this scenario to see what he will say. They aren’t looking for enlightenment, they are looking to prove him wrong, to make him look foolish, they are looking for a “gotcha” moment.

         A gotcha moment is when someone seems to be asking a question but is really just hoping to trick you, puzzle you, or make you look stupid. People love these moments. They love to see people stammer, stutter or admit that they don’t know something. I can imagine that if this scene was taking place today, there would be a big group of people standing around with their cell phones up, hitting record and hoping to get a big moment to post on Instagram. It’s like all those cameras positioned around the plane, watching as a president descends down the staircase, hoping to catch a trip, a stumble, anything that people will click on or laugh at or use to prove a point about weakness. That’s where Jesus is standing in this scene from Luke, he is at the top of the stairs, about to walk down and the Sadducees are sure hoping he will miss a step.

           But he doesn’t. Like so many other times in the Gospels, Jesus avoids the trap and not because he sidesteps it, but rather because he faces it with the truth, a deeper truth. Jesus answers this question by taking it to another level. He will not engage with their premise because he knows they lack understanding. It’s like the Sadducees are looking at a map of their neighborhood and thinking it’s a map of the earth. They aren’t seeing beyond what is in front of them. They are caught in the details, the legalities, the day to day existence they see and trying to apply that to eternity, to the ways of God, to the great Divine mystery.

           I believe that questions of faith are important. I know that in my own faith journey, questions of faith have deepened my relationship with God and strengthened my faith. There are many examples in the Bible of people wrestling with God, crying out their doubts, digging deeper, and coming out changed … renewed, lit from within by a burning desire to stay close to God. But there is a difference between asking questions to dive deeper into a relationship with God and asking questions to put up walls and barriers on that relationship.

           Before I moved to New York about a year and a half ago, I was a youth pastor at a large church. I got to walk alongside young people as they challenged, questioned, wondered at and celebrated their faith. I loved sitting with teens and young adults as they started asking questions about what they believe. The questions showed that they were taking their faith seriously, they were figuring out how to apply it their lives, their goals and their decisions. They were making sense of the world and inviting the Holy Spirit into that. And, at a certain point, they had to decide whether to dive in to the mystery and accept that we can’t understand everything, we can’t always make sense of God’s ways- and embrace faith or decide to pull away. And honestly, that’s a decision we probably make over and over in our lives as we grow, mature and encounter new struggles and new questions.  When we have asked all our questions, will we embrace faith and accept Divine mystery, or will we keep trying to figure it all out for ourselves?

           When Jesus answers the Sadducees, he tries to explain to them how God’s ways are different than what we see in the here and now. He talks about things that defy laws and defy maps and defy what we can experience in the here and now. He talks about being “like angels” and the dead being raised and being “children of the resurrection.” For those of us living here and now, it’s difficult to understand these things. Difficult to wrap our minds around God’s love that never ends, even when we die. Difficult to imagine a time when all of this will be no more and we will be made new in a resurrection with Christ. Death is such a harsh reality and we spend a lot of time trying to wrap our minds around it, run from it, avoid it, worry about it and plan around it. It’s hard to imagine a time when death will be no more.

           Since we moved here, my favorite place to walk my dog is a cemetery. I live near Albany Rural Cemetery and my dog and I have had the opportunity to explore its many paths, look at its many colorful trees and listen to the many sounds of the creeks and waterfalls. It’s a place where I go when I want to clear my head and just be present in the moment. I don’t listen to music or talk on the phone, I just hear the sounds of the birds, the rustling leaves and my footsteps. I look at the distant hills, the flowers and blue sky. And I also look at the graves. I think about the stories behind them. I look at the grave with the life-sized statue of a curious three-year old boy looking at a book and think about the mother who had that made, the mother who still wanted to see her son standing there, innocent and present. I look at the big fancy towers and marble buildings and think about the family patriarchs and matriarchs who decided on materials that would last, stones big enough to be around for a long time, structures sturdy enough for whatever weather may come. I look at the freshly placed flags by the graves of veterans and think of the people who placed them there, people who are devoted to doing the research, finding the graves and carefully placing the flags so that the legacy of courage, sacrifice and dedication isn’t forgotten. I look at the graves with matching benches next to them, benches made by loved ones who couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them there and wanted to make a spot where they could still be together.

          All of it out of love. In the hospital I sit with families as they try to soak up every last second, every last breath before the machine stops beeping. Death is a harsh reality. And it is hard to let go.

          So I get it. If a man marries a woman and she doesn’t have children and he dies and then she marries the brother and he dies and the next brother and the next and the next … who will she be married to in “the resurrection?” It’s almost a way of asking, how do we keep this life going? How do we hold on to the attachments we have here? How to we make sense of things and feel safe? How can we make what is unknown feel predictable?

          Like the beautiful stones placed with love, we want a way to still experience the ones we love here on earth.

          But Jesus says, it’s not like that. And maybe that sounds scary, maybe that sounds like something we don’t understand or can’t predict or control or buy or purchase insurance for, but Jesus says …. It’s so much better than that. Jesus says that the dead are “children of God” and that even though they are dead . . . to God “all of them are alive.”

          We are God’s children. God’s love continues across all space and time, it is more than the here and now. God isn’t letting us go. God has got us, even if that isn’t the “gotcha” moment the Sadducees are expecting.

          So breathe easy, it’s ok if we don’t understand it all. We are God’s children and that will never end. God’s love is so much more than our attempts to make sense of things.

           When I am working as a hospital chaplain, I often do rounds in the post-partum unit. I give new parents some time and space to process whatever thoughts, feelings and emotions they are having and then I ask if they would like me to pray. And each family has different things they would like me to pray for, like health or happiness- and I do, but every single time I look down at those tiny little brand new lives, those little toes and soft shoulders, my heart feels overwhelmed by how beloved they are. So innocent and so new, so clearly God’s children. And I pray that every day of their lives they will know how much they are loved. As their skin wrinkles, their bones stretch, their minds deepen and their joints crack, even then, that they will know every moment of every day that they are God’s beloved children. And that is my prayer for you. The Sadducees brought Jesus a complicated question, and he gave them a much deeper, much bigger answer, but also a much simpler answer … it’s love … God’s love in this life and the next.

Sermon from First UMC East Greenbush 10/26/25

 

Rekindling the Flame: Through Humility” Stewardship Sunday Luke 18: 9-14

            I pray a lot. Now, before you start telling me I sound like the Pharisee in this passage, bragging about how pious I am, let me explain. I am a hospital chaplain and a big part of what I do is pray. I go room to room and offer spiritual care and at the end of every visit, regardless of whether the person is young, old, tired, happy, sad, English speaking, Hindu, Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Agnostic, Atheist, male female, in the Emergency Room or Labor and Delivery- I ask if they would like me to pray and the majority of the time the patient says “yes.” And so I pray in room after room. I pray over the babies just born hours ago, the patients whose breath is slowing as it nears the end, the ones with broken bones and the ones who can’t remember where they are. One may think that after so many prayers, they could become rote or feel forced or taken for granted. But actually, all this praying with all these people has given me an even deeper appreciation for the act and an even deeper belief in the importance of it.

 

          And so, I read closely these words from Luke about prayer. You see in this passage we get two very different examples of prayer. Both are men and both are praying in the same place, the temple, and yet, what happens when they begin to pray is very different.

 

          The Pharisee begins by thanking God that he is not like those other people and names them. He even points to the tax collector specifically and says “I’m so glad I’m not like this guy over here!” After this he lists for God the things he has done that God should appreciate - including fasting and tithing. He is telling God to judge, who to judge and what standards to use when judging. His prayer is directing God to value him more than others. If we could see this Pharisee praying, we might see that while he is praying, his gaze is not directed upward- looking toward the heavens and not downward in a posture of humility, but rather looking at everyone around him. While he prays he is comparing himself to what he sees. His prayer posture is a judgmental side eye to those gathered around him.

 

          The second person praying is the tax collector. As the original audience well knew- tax collectors were not well-liked. No one liked the guy who had to chase them down for their money. But in this passage we see a different view of the tax-collector. It says that he was “standing far off” with his eyes down, beating his breast as a sign of repentance and crying out “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” Unlike the Pharisee, he seems unaware of those around him and focused only on himself and God. Rather than list his accomplishments, he identifies himself as a sinner and rather than tell God who to judge, he begs for mercy. Two very different acts of prayer.

 

          And then at the end of this passage the text says, “for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.” I wonder … what does that mean … to be exalted? Given the rest of the story, I don’t think it means exalted in social rank or status, or exalted in any kind of standings or position. Perhaps then, it means exalted toward God, a deeper closeness, a coming closer together with God.

          In his commentary on this passage, Luke Timothy Johnson says, “The love of God can so easily turn into an idolatrous self-love; the gift can so quickly be seized as a possession” he says that the Pharisee can receive no gift because he cannot stop “counting his possessions.” In other words, the gift of God’s love and grace has become something he believes he has or owns or has the rights to, making it no longer a gift but a thing that he possesses. His heart is not open to receiving a gift because he is constantly counting what he has. If all prayer is, is coming before God and asserting how great we are and all that we have, then there is no room for receiving God’s righteousness.  The door is closed, the Pharisee is content with what he thinks he has and his hands are tightly clenched around the door, preventing any gift from God from entering. One man is listing his possessions, the other is asking for a gift, the gift of God’s mercy. How we pray says a lot about our relationship with God, and whether we desire to be exalted by God or if we already think we are high enough.

          When I think about this tax collector looking down and crying out before God I think of one of my favorite places in the hospital. I use the word favorite with some explanation. It’s not my favorite because it is the easiest or the funnest or the happiest or the prettiest. It is my favorite because it is where I consistently experience God’s presence. It is not a fun place, it is not a happy place, it is not pretty. But it is where I have experienced some of my most meaningful visits as a chaplain and when I talk to the staff there they know exactly what I mean when I say it’s my favorite because they too find it to be very meaningful work. It’s the Detox Unit. It is where people go when they are high or drunk and need medical assistance to come off of the substance they have used. It is not a place where anyone hopes to be and yet I feel profoundly honored and humbled every time I go there.

          It is a place filled to the brim with humility. There is a popular song on the radio that talks about alcoholism and going to an AA meeting and the singer says “nobody walks through these doors on a winning streak.” No one is entering Detox with a smug smile or bloated ego. It is a humbling place.

 

          When I first started doing rounds there I went with a bit of trepidation. All I knew was that some time ago there had been an incident and then chaplains stopped going there, but my manager wanted to rebuild the relationship between the unit and the Spiritual Care Department. I wondered what kind of state people might be in. Would I encounter people who were angry or frantic or violent? Immediately I saw that wasn’t the case and I had to check whatever biases or assumptions I had at the door. What I did encounter was open and tender hearts. People of all ages and all backgrounds ready to open their hearts and praying for God’s mercy. And I am humbled to join them in those prayers. It has often become a sacred space where I sit with people as they, like the tax collector, bare their soul before God and grasp at the gifts of mercy the Holy Spirit offers in that space. Like the tax collector, so often they are not looking around at others or telling God what to do, but reaching out from the depths of their soul for a connection with the source of eternal love and unmerited grace. And in that humility I do feel the Holy Spirit’s presence. I feel the presence of God in the light breaking through broken hearts. And I hear the whispers of hope in the relinquishing of control, the admission that we are lost, we are flawed humans and we are not God. There is something really beautiful and really freeing in falling before God in humility.

 

          Sometimes we may think that when all is well, when we have all our needs met, then our faith will be strongest, but the truth is that often God feels nearest when our hearts are broken. Sometimes peace comes when we admit we don’t have it.

 

          I have been thinking about this as I reflect on stewardship. Sometimes people cringe at the mention of stewardship- thinking it’s about taking your possessions, pressuring you to give up what you don’t want to give up. I get that. But I see stewardship as a recognition that all that we have is gift, not possession. Laying ourselves and all that we have before God and praying that what we offer will be transformed by God’s grace into bricks, building blocks for the Kingdom of God here on earth. Or doors, creating openings for the work of the Holy Spirit on earth. And that is why we celebrate it and we make it part of worship. It is offering what we have to God and doing so with hope, hope that God will move in and around and through us.

          Honestly, that’s what I do over and over again when I pray with people. I offer the inadequate words that I have with hope that God will move in and around and through that person that I am praying with. And the more I pray, the more I am aware that this act of prayer is not something I can master or perfect or win at. It will always be my best attempt at putting words to the wordless cries of the heart. But my prayers, our prayers that we pray together, they are an offering, sometimes a shout and sometimes a whimper of hope coming from a place that longs to connect to the source of unending love. And whether we are a Pharisee or a tax collector, happy or sad, in a Cathedral or a Detox Unit, God hears us and for that I am so grateful.