Sermon from First UMC, Delmar

  Deuteronomy 34:1-12, Matthew 22:34-46

          When my oldest son was in kindergarten, there was some sort of school issue on the ballot, I can’t remember if it was a mill levy or a bond issue. I attended an informational session about it and after hearing about how long it had been since any school support issue had passed, how underpaid the teachers were and how many building repairs were needed, I became passionate about it. I told my son about it and he too felt strongly so we signed up to canvass an area of our town (which was then in Colorado). He took a backpack of snacks and together we knocked on doors and gave people information about the school issue that would be on their ballots. As anyone who has ever done any kind of door-to-door work knows … you hear a lot of things when you do that. But one thing that I heard repeatedly that baffled me was from people who were retired and casually said “I don’t have kids in the district anymore so it doesn’t matter to me.” It surprised me. I have always thought of education of the young as an important foundation for a society and essential to a strong future for everyone. We all want educated doctors as we age and an overall better world … right? And who knows what people’s stories are and I don’t pretend to know what it is like to live on a fixed social security income as a retired person, but I did find myself thinking about that as I read the Old Testament lectionary text for today from Deuteronomy. In the story we find Moses looking ahead, at a future he will not get to see but is for a community he has deeply invested in.

          We enter the story at the end, when Moses is standing at the threshold of the Promised Land. He can see it. This is everything he has worked for, risked for, suffered for, longed for. At home, we have an evening ritual with our kids of reading a passage of scripture and sharing prayers together before bed. At some point we decided to go to the very beginning of the Bible and read a bit each night. When you read the Bible like this, you encounter the story of Moses at the beginning of the book of Exodus. Then follow it through 40 chapters of Exodus, 27 chapters of Leviticus, 36 chapters of Numbers and to the end here in the 34^th and final chapter of Deuteronomy. As many of you may know, those chapters are not what I would call “easy reads.” There is a lot about goat and grain offerings, skin diseases, battles, counting of tribe members and difficult to pronounce names. It’s a lot of interesting things with a lot of wisdom to be sure, but not exactly an easy to follow narrative bed time story. So it was exciting to get to the end of Deuteronomy, a build-up of all we have read, the climax of this lengthy narrative that has paused and twisted and turned through several books and many chapters … Here it is … the precipice of Mount Nebo, the viewing of the Promised Land. So many lives lost along the way, so many heart breaks and disappointments for Moses, also so many intense and intimate meetings with God face to face … an unbelievable journey.  All to here, this moment. The Promised Land. And so … after all that buildup … Moses sees it … and then he dies … and the chapter ends. It’s a bit of a heart breaking end.

 

          He never gets to go there, and of course we know that’s coming and he knows that’s coming but if you had never heard the story before- you might think, something will change. God will intervene and surely Moses will get to go to the Promised Land. The closing credits of Deuteronomy can’t be on a mound of dirt over a dead Moses, instead, they should be of a frolicking Moses happily consuming milk and honey and celebrating the end of the journey, celebrating the culmination of all they worked so hard for. But no … when you turn the next page you find the book of Joshua … the guy who gets to take them to the Promised Land and gets a book of the Bible named after him … Moses didn’t get either of those things.

          I wonder what that was like for Moses. I wonder if he felt it was all worth it. I wonder if it broke his heart to see it just outside of his reach. But of course I wonder that as a person living thousands of years later and thousands of miles away from where he stood. I live at a time when the world has become much more individualistic and much less communal. When long time communal institutions like schools, churches and organizations are declining and even communal workspaces are disappearing in favor of working from home. When property lines and closed doors are erected to make us feel safe, but also hold others at a distance. And that is not all bad. Individuals should be valued and people should have rights and a person’s story should matter, but I wonder if the world has changed so much that it is hard for us to even imagine the kind of communal thinking that people had during the time of Moses. Maybe … Moses wasn’t disappointed and heartbroken like I imagine, maybe Moses was happy to have done his part for the continuation of the community, maybe it never even occurred to him to feel robbed of an opportunity that his people would enjoy. Maybe he got to die with a heart full of hope … hope of a beautiful future of life in a Promised Land.

          Hope is not always easy to come by. I don’t know about you, but I hear a lot of hopelessness. And it isn’t without reason. There is horrible suffering in the world, there is oppression, poverty, sickness and addiction. And we hear on the news about the degradation of our environment, the destruction of the earth and what feels like a rise in apathy. We all feel the effects of a more divided country, where the distances between us seem only to grow, as perspectives and politics become more deeply entrenched. And on top of all of this there is the looming threat of things like A.I. And fears of how that might be bad for or even the end of humanity. All of this does not instill a lot of hopefulness for the future.

 

          And it may feel cathartic or protective or even rational to throw our hands in the air and say “we are cooked” as young people say today or “we are done for” or “it’s all going to go downhill.” Because disappointment hurts and sometimes caring hurts. So it may feel good to try to not care.

          But that’s not what I see God doing in today’s readings. In the reading from Matthew, Jesus is put to the test as the Pharisees ask “which commandment in the law is the greatest?” And Jesus answers not with a parable or a long speech but straightforward “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.” And the second is, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” Clear and to the point. Love God and love your neighbor … both are about connection. Connecting and devoting our hearts to God and to others. Both are about caring, investing ourselves and our hearts in God’s creation and in others. Both invite us to invest in something beyond ourselves … a different kind of Promised Land where thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Following a God who cares so deeply that God became incarnate through Jesus and touched the sick, loved the lonely, championed the oppressed.

          And in that last chapter of Deuteronomy, after Moses looks out on the Promised Land he searched so long for and will not set foot on … God buries him. In some translations it says in verse 6 “He was buried” but in the original Hebrew it states “He buried him.” Which, the New Oxford Annotated Bible says is a “clear indication that God himself buried Moses.” Biblical scholar Kat Armas writes, “In Deuteronomy, after Moses dies, God takes him to a hidden place and buries him. I don’t think we sit with that image often enough. Like in Genesis, when God takes the time to sew clothes for Eve and Adam, Empire doesn’t know what to do with this kind of God … [but] give me the seamstress God- the one who bends low to stitch together clothing. The one who digs a grave and prepares a beloved body for burial. Give me the embodied God. The one who weeps and comforts and labors and nurses …” This is a God who cares, deeply. Moses may not have reaped the milk and honey benefits of the promised land that his people would see and taste, but he was lovingly laid to rest by the creator of the Universe. And I can’t pretend to know how it felt for Moses to be cared for so tenderly, but having a relationship with our tender and caring God stirs my heart and calls me to care. 

          There are promised lands or expectations or hopes or utopian visions we may never get to set foot in. But we are loved and called to live that love into the world and I think that may be better than even milk and honey

Photo is from the top of Mt. Nebo

Sermon from Celebration of New Ministry 10/8/26 St. Andrew’s Scotia

 

John 15:9-16

          The sun was shining on that Sunday when my two boys and I accompanied my husband, Bishop Jeremiah, on his visitation to St. James, Oneonta. I remember that it was sunny because we processed outside with a bagpipe at the beginning of the service. It was an exciting and full worship service followed by a luncheon with new faces, introductions and delicious food. The kids and I had become accustomed to these visitations, but what we were not used to was what happened next. We were invited to hop in a car and go to Fr. Dean and Olga’s home while Fr. Dean, Bishop Jeremiah and others had a meeting.

         We found ourselves sitting around the kitchen table, in their beautiful home, with their children, talking about everything … life, home, God, Jesus, backgrounds … everything. They were so kind and encouraging when I tried out my elementary level Spanish. The differences in first language meant that we were completely focused on hearing and understanding each other and soon we had easily and warmly transitioned from strangers … to new acquaintances … to friends.  And when Fr. Dean and Bishop Jeremiah returned they joined right in as we comfortably sat in the living room like familiar friends.

 

          This is the memory that came to my mind as soon as I read the Gospel reading for today. “Friends” is the word Jesus uses to refer to his followers. This is part of a longer section where Jesus is teaching the disciples everything he wants them to know before he leaves them. He knows what will happen … everything will change. There will be difficult times, they will make mistakes, they will disagree, they will miss him and they will also do great things in his name, they will spread his word like fire across the earth, they will experience his presence in a new way and they will be filled with the Holy Spirit … and so he instructs them.  And he calls them “friends” and tells them to love one another. The love of Christ is what brought me to the kitchen table of someone I had never met before that day in Oneonta, and what made us friends. The love of Christ is what brings us together today, to celebrate this coming together of not just a new priest, but an open-hearted family with not just a new church but an open-hearted community of believers.

          And it is that love of Christ that my family experienced here when we visited with my husband and listened as you all excitedly talked about a future you hoped for, and showed us around the rectory hopeful about what it could be, as so many of you worked hard together to make it a place of welcome, a place of love, a place where God’s love could turn strangers into friends. And then again when I came here and preached on a Sunday morning. You were able to see this Methodist pastor not as someone passing through accompanying my husband, but a friend in Christ, and so you welcomed me to your worship service.

          Perhaps that’s why when I heard that Fr. Dean was coming here, I was excited. It made sense. I was excited for the love and warmth I felt in their Oneonta home to fill the rectory I toured here and I was excited as I remembered the hopefulness and love I felt here- excited that you could now start a new chapter. When we left here after our official Bishop visit, my husband and I both left feeling hopeful for the ways the Holy Spirit can work through this place. As we walked through the closet full of Christian education supplies, we saw a place where people get excited about welcoming and guiding young people in the faith. There is an energy here, an energy that has brought you through difficult times, united together by the love of God, working as friends in Christ to live out your baptismal calling as faithful witnesses to the world even when you did not have a priest. Finding ways to bring together your callings and your gifts even when building repairs seemed endless and newcomers felt limited.

          But energy and hopefulness alone is not always sustainable. In this Gospel passage, Jesus is not talking about the kind of easy and innocent friendship that comes with exchanging best friend necklaces and calling it quits when things get hard. Jesus is using the word “commandment.” He says “This is my commandment, that you love one another” … and “I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another.” He talks about laying down one’s life for one’s friends as he stands firmly in the direction of the cross where he will suffer and die. His words are not light or easy. This is a command. You must love one another as Christ has loved us. And we know … that is not always an easy command. It requires wisdom. The wisdom to discern what is of love and what is not. The wisdom to find ways to be the body of Christ in the world at a time when the world isn’t exactly interested in that. A wisdom that is gained from facing the difficulties and changes of life with a heart leaning on Christ. A wisdom this congregation has gained from division and uncertain future. A wisdom that Fr. Dean brings from church experience, education, a wide array of diverse living experiences and also an open heart that is not afraid to take risks or make changes when the Holy Spirit is leading.

          Sometimes I look at the world in all of its pain, hatred, war and fear and I think, “what are we doing?” What is even happening, where do we go from here, how do we carry on as followers of a justice-seeking, love-commanding, peace-seeking Savior? And sometimes I hear things about the state of the church, I see reports about the decline of church, churches closing. And as a hospital chaplain I encounter many people who are not interested in church, or don’t even really know what church is or are even angry at the idea of church. I see buildings falling apart, congregations not knowing what to do and a shortage of clergy and I think, “what are we doing?” What is even happening, where do we go from here, how do we carry on as a people instructed to gather together for worship, to take the body and blood of Christ and go forth and make disciples?

         But then I remember. I remember what the church has done in my life, I remember the many many amazing acts of love and witness and faith I have experienced and seen through the church. I remember why I love it so much. And I remember all of the ways the Holy Spirit is at work in the world in and through and around us. Softening hearts, creating friends from enemies, hope from despair and peace from chaos. And I see it. I see it every day. I see it in deep and profound conversations through my work at the hospital, these beautiful moments of connection and divine presence in the midst of pain and suffering that take my breath away. I see it in the beauty of the earth that keeps changing the colors of the leaves and shining in the sun. And I remember. That’s what we are doing. We are doing what we are commanded to do. We are loving one another. This is what Jesus tells us to do and this is what we keep doing because in that love, Christ is made known.

          And so today we celebrate. We celebrate knowing that we carry wounds and scars. We celebrate with a wisdom that comes from knowing life is not easy. We celebrate because we serve a God who loves us deeply and never leaves us. We celebrate because we know what we are commanded to do. Let us love, let us hope and let us celebrate friendship in Christ.

Sermon from St. Peter's Episcopal Church, Albany

 

Matthew 16:13-20

          “Who do you say that I am?” a simple question but also a really complicated question. This chapter, this moment that we read in today’s Gospel, is considered by many Biblical scholars to be the climax of the Gospel story. All of the miracles, the teachings, the sermons, the conversations, everything Jesus has been trying to make them understand … here it comes, a moment of clarity, realization as Peter proclaims “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” And Jesus says “Blessed are you!” and says he is the rock he will build his church upon. And then after this, everything starts pointing to the cross and what is to happen there.  It’s a big moment, that begins with a big question “who do you say that I am?”

         One of the things I love about being a hospital chaplain is the variety of people I get to spend time with every day. In one day I will spend time in the detox unit with someone confronting their addiction, in the postpartum unit with new parents trying to wrap their minds around the fact that they are parents, with people awaiting surgery, people awaiting their final breath and all from so many backgrounds, beliefs, and even languages. For each one, I come in and I ask them about their spirit, their soul, that part of them that is beyond the reach of the MRI or blood test or heart monitor. And in a way, it feels like I am asking that question “Who do you say that I am?” or who do they say Jesus is. Of course, I do not just work with Christians, I sit with people of all kinds of faiths or lack of faith, so perhaps the question would be more like: who is God to you, what is that mysterious, unknowable but deeply knowable, holy, connected presence that makes us all more than just our flesh and blood?

          And the answers are all over the map. Even for Christians, in the same religion, there are a variety of answers to the question. For some, Jesus is an angry judge, displeased, shaking his head and disapproving of themselves or others. For others Jesus is as present in the room as I am, right there by their side through life, arranging their path, celebrating their joys, holding them through sorrows. For some Jesus makes them way too uncomfortable to talk about. For some Jesus is someone they knew a bit when they were younger and are wanting to know better as they get older. For some Jesus is responsible for all bad things and to be blamed and pushed away, for others Jesus is the only thing that gets them through the bad things and someone they feel overwhelming gratitude toward.

          And then on Sunday mornings, as the wife of a Bishop, I get to visit churches all over the diocese and see all kinds of understandings of Jesus. There are altars holding giant crosses, sometimes crucifixes. There are images displayed of Jesus from ancient times, intricate icons, stone statues, Sunday School depictions with a crayon-colored Jesus happily hugging a smiling sheep, Jesus made of Legos, Jesus in the stations of the cross … so many answers to “who do you say that I am?” 

          When I hear that question sometimes it takes me back to those days, over 20 years ago when I was stressing about going before the Board of Ordained Ministry. I knew I would be grilled by various groups of people for several hours, some looking displeased, some taking notes and all deciding if my answers were good enough. I remember feeling the pressure of figuring out the question. This sense that before I could be ordained, I had to have an answer, I needed to know. I had to get it right, after all I would be responsible for helping others know the answer. Who is Jesus?  I read books and took classes and prayed and had discussions and heard sermons … but the clear answer always seemed slightly out of reach, like too much or too movable for words. Who do you say that I am? What if I don’t know? Is that ok?

          Well, Peter knew. It must have felt so good when he nailed it. And then Jesus says he is the rock he will build his church on. A rock is solid, steady, strong, dependable, unchanging, strong. A good foundation for a church. Peter the solid rock. In both Greek and Aramaic the name for Peter is like the word for rock, so it was kind of like a pun. Like if his name was “Rocky” and Jesus says “Rocky is the rock I will build my church on.” [1]Peter must have been feeling really good, he must have been so sure, so solid, so steady.

          I mean, until like literally three verses later when Jesus calls him Satan and suddenly the “rock” has turned into a “stumbling block.” Or in the next story when Jesus tells all the disciples they have “little faith”. Or when Jesus is dying on the cross and Peter denies even knowing him … three times. The rock doesn’t seem quite so steady when you zoom out a bit.

          But even with all of that, Jesus still sticks with him. He is still his rock. Even with the doubts, the not understanding, the getting it wrong. Maybe, Jesus is more forgiving than a Board of Ordained Ministry. Maybe Jesus knows that it isn’t about saying the right words.

          I like to listen to a podcast called Good Hang with Amy Poehler. It’s a popular podcast typically filled with interviews with celebrities and pop culture jokes, so I was pleasantly surprised when I saw an episode where Anne Lamott was the guest. Anne Lamott is a well-published writer who often writes about her Christian faith. She writes about it in a very real, vulnerable, honest way, sharing her struggles, tragedies and heartbreaks. And the podcast episode didn’t shy away from that. In the brightly colored studio typically full of laughs and silly stories, and in an episode preceded by interviews with comedian Will Ferrell and John Cena, Anne brought her real, vulnerable self and her real vulnerable and unpolished faith.

          In the interview she talks about who Jesus is to her or “who do you say that I am.” I particularly liked this part where she says : “I got sober when I was 32 and I had a 2-year-old. And it was very, very scary. And I wrote about it a lot in Operating Instructions. But, you know, I don't have an interesting or sophisticated theological [understanding] I have the theological understanding like a really bright second grader, you know. And I don't have conversations. I'm not asked to have conversations about the triune nature of the deity, you know. People will say, "I can't feel God anymore. I can't feel God right now." And I'll say, "Oh, good. Why don't you sit down? Let's have a cup of tea. Or do you want to go shopping? You want to go for a walk? Or do you want to lie down on the couch with me?" And so I don't … have interesting intellectual answers about faith. I just can feel it. It's truth in me. I just feel it in my heart. It's like I have a heart cave and in it is my little one, my little Annie that I always was, and my big old Annie and Jesus and Mary.”

            I love that image of a heart cave within, and that’s where Jesus dwells. It brings to mind St. Teresa of Avila’s Interior Castle. An indwelling of Christ, a permeation of Christ’s love into our heart. And that’s not always clear or easy to put into words.

          Maybe that’s why Jesus got so excited when Peter confessed who Jesus is, maybe it wasn’t because he knew Peter would always get it right or that he would write the perfect theological treatise or etch it in stone or always be rock solid in his understanding. Maybe it’s because he knew he had made it into his heart. Peter had faith, the kind of faith that goes deep- all the way to the heart cave. The kind of faith that just knows Jesus is there even when nothing makes sense, even when words fail, even when life is overwhelming, even when no one else around you seems to get it. It’s in there, a part of you … part of the fabric of your being. 

          I see a lot of people in the hospital and some confidently say they have faith in God, but many get uncomfortable around the topic and just say “I’m not religious” but then I hear them tell their story. And throughout the story I hear these moments in life when they prayed, times when their heart welled up with gratitude and they thanked God, lonely times when they somehow felt less alone or a pervasive hope that wouldn’t let go. Maybe they don’t have the words for what that is, maybe it’s too deep for words, too hard to pin down or too intimate to explain, but I hear it, I hear the faith that nurtures their soul.

          And that’s what brings us together Sunday after Sunday, even when we can’t put it into words, even when it doesn’t quite make sense to us, but we want to nurture that connection, we want to keep the light on in that interior cave where Jesus dwells. And maybe that’s our confession, our answer to “who do you say that I am?” a life lived with faith.

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[1][1] Harrington, Daniel. Sacra Pagina: Matthew.

11 Years

 

              Today I found myself sitting on a dock in Tupper Lake, in the northern Adirondacks. My youngest was reclined against me as we waited for his lake water-soaked feet to dry so he could put his shoes and socks back on. It was quiet, the sun made the water sparkle. Our view was a panorama of forests and mountains with the occasional sound of a fish making ripples in the otherwise still water. We had been talking the other day about past vacations we have taken and the kids shared the things that make them feel “nostalgic” in the summer. On that quiet dock I decided to softly break the silence and said, “I think one day you will feel nostalgic for this moment.” My son said he thinks that too and said in that moment he felt like “life is really great.” We were squarely in the moment and it felt really good … even if the future would involve putting sweaty socks on not-completely-dry feet.

              The more life experience I gain, the more I realize that living in the present moment is the challenge, that when accomplished brings peace, even if only for a moment. One of the ways to do this is to practice acceptance. Accepting what life is, what life isn’t and that this life and this moment is all we have. In my roles as a hospital chaplain and as a pastor, I have come to see that the outlook, frustration-level, tolerance, ability to experience joy, and hope level of many people is often closely related to whether or not they have accepted their current situation. When patients are so focused on getting out of the hospital, getting answers, finding certainty, or lamenting the fact that they are in their current situation, they are in a very different level of spiritual distress than the patients who have accepted that this is their current situation and they can only live in the present moment without trying to replace all of the uncertainty with guesses and horrible possibilities. I think many of us can find ourselves in either of those two states on any given day. Acceptance is natural and easy because it’s really our only option, but it’s also excruciating and difficult because life can be so hard and uncertainty and lack of control can feel terrifying.

              Eleven years later and I still marvel at how Laura handled this. Many of the people who read this knew her and know that she was the first to name her flaws, that she got frustrated and struggled and got angry that she couldn’t have more time with her kids. And yet, what so many of us also saw was this amazing wisdom and tolerance she embodied, even as her body began to shut down. I remember asking her once how it was that she wasn’t freaking out, and she said that she had to stay strong for her kids. That love kept her in the present moment. She chose to model unrelenting faith in God, steady presence with her family and a tolerance for so much awfulness at such a young age. Because she loved, because her heart was so big. She chose love, that was what guided her and what we all got to experience from her.

              The week before last, I got to see my friend Mark Miller. He was up here to lead the music for a service. I talked to him before the service and even though it’s not exactly easy conversation (those who know me, know I am never shy about breezing right past small talk), we talked about that weekend when he came to the church I was the pastor of in Woodville, Ohio. I told him about my friend Laura and how much she loved his workshop and singing with him. I told him how much she loved his song “I Believe.” I told him how it wasn’t too long after that when we sat down and planned her funeral and she said she wanted that song sung to her as she died and sung by a choir of her friends and family at her funeral. I told him I sang it to her in the Hospice room as her breathing slowed. And how beautiful it was when that big group of people with broken hearts but determined love stood up at her funeral and sang it together so beautifully and how her 10-year-old daughter sang the last verse. He was touched and so grateful to know this.

              That evening at the worship service we sang another Mark Miller song. And my heart filled and my eyes watered as I thought about how much Laura would love it. And as I sang the words, I hoped they might catch the air like incense and somehow travel to that mysterious space where the souls of our departed loved ones peacefully dwell. I felt so grateful that I knew her, grateful for the ways my time with her moved me and changed me and deeply inspired by how she chose love. Even in the depths of pain, she chose love.

In the midst of pain, I choose love.

In the midst of pain, sorrow falling down like rain,

I await the sun again, I choose love.

 

In the midst of war, I choose peace.

In the midst of war, hate and anger keeping score,

I will seek the good once more, I choose peace.

 

When my world falls down, I will rise.

When my world falls down, explanations can’t be found,

I will climb to holy ground, I will rise.

 

In the midst of pain, I choose love.

In the midst of pain, sorrow falling down like rain,

I await the sun again, I choose love.

 

(“I Choose Love” by Mark Miller and Lindy Thompson)

The video of "I Believe" at Laura's funeral

"What Just Happened?" Sermon from 6/7/26

 Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26 “What Just Happened?”

          I remember it like it was yesterday … I was standing in my bedroom putting things away when my phone rang. I looked at the screen, it said “Debbie Earthrowl.” My stomach tightened and I thought “uh-oh.” I had nothing but positive interactions with Pastor Debbie and was always happy to talk to her, but as a United Methodist pastor … when your District Superintendent calls … your first thought is usually “uh-oh.” As pastors who serve under the appointment of the Bishop, and District Superintendents being the regional representative of the Bishop, it usually means a potentially life-altering conversation.

          I, of course, answered. She began to explain the situation … a congregation had an unexpected and sudden pastoral vacancy. She said this is a thriving church that she and the Bishop care deeply about and want to make sure it continues to thrive, so they are hoping to have steady, trustworthy and caring leaders pastor them through the time between pastoral appointments. She described the church, explained that she knew I was working as a chaplain and this would be quarter time, said why she thinks it would be a good fit, and shared a bit about the pastor that had already agreed to do this part time as part of a team. It interested me, but I asked “how far away is it” holding my breath while expecting her to say something like “a couple of hours on the Northway” in that way that so many people around her say it as if the fact that it is on the Northway makes it easy. But she didn’t say that, she said “over the river, probably about 20 minutes from you.” She invited me to take some time to pray about it, talk to my family and discern.

          I was excited, it sounded like a situation that could be a good fit. But I tend to idealize things and when I am excited only think of the positives until my worst-case scenario thinking gets the chance to pipe in and start talking me down. So I thought about it, I talked it over with my husband. He was supportive but said what I was thinking “this will be a real test of your boundaries.” I tend to go “all in” on things and stretch myself a bit too thin. I said I had that thought too but with the chaplaincy job and the coursework I was doing for that, and the kids’ schedule and his crazy schedule, I would have no choice but to have boundaries. So I did what I always do when I am discerning or anxious … I went for a walk. As I was walking and looking ahead and thinking, I suddenly paused, I looked next to me … I was actually in East Greenbush waiting for my son to finish his Euphonium lesson, and there on this side street right off Luther Road, by all the traffic and the library, was a beautiful patch of woods. The sun was glistening on the leaves, a butterfly was finding rest on a bush beside me, the sun was warm, there was a soft breeze and I knew in my heart, God was calling me to this.

          And now, here I am, preaching my last sermon here. It was a strange start, I just kind of showed up on a Sunday and we just kind of started being a church together. From the very beginning Pastor Mary Beth has been a steady, thoughtful, caring and insightful partner and we began to sort of synchronize our time and our gifts in a way that felt natural. But it all came pretty quickly. I was immediately trying to read nametags, tracking down church members who needed visited, figuring out the order of worship, celebrating holidays and making decisions. And then, just like that … the calendar flipped to June.

          As I begin the process of saying goodbye after such a quick and full time, I find myself reflecting back and asking “what just happened?” In that way that we tend to do after something big happens really fast and all at once.

          I started thinking about this as I read the Gospel reading for today. I love this story about Jesus healing the little girl and the bleeding woman. It’s a great passage to study because of the way it is sandwiched together and the way these two stories work together and point to one another. But as I read it in preparation for today, I noticed something different. I noticed how jam-packed it is. At the end of the Gospel reading I felt that same question that I am asking after a quick 9 months of ministry here … “what just happened?”

          In this short passage there is a lot going on. It starts with Jesus inviting Matthew the tax collector to follow him, then he is eating with “tax collectors and sinners,” then he is debating with the Pharisees, next he is taking questions from John’s disciples and teaching, and then all of the sudden he is approached by a man asking him to come heal his daughter who just died. He doesn’t even get there before he is stopped by a woman with a bleeding issue touching him, he heals her and the next sentence he is announcing to a mourning crowd that the little girl is not dead but alive. And he heals her. It is so much, and only a small part of the Gospel story. In fact, the entire ministry of Jesus is like this. It’s place to place, miracle to miracle, teaching to teaching, birth to death. His entire ministry, from the time he begins to his death is likely only about 3 years. And yet it has had an impact for thousands of years. Two thousand years later we find ourselves still asking “what just happened?” as we reflect on it, meditate on it, model our church year after it, and incorporate it into our hearts and lives. God can certainly do a lot in even a short amount of time.

And that is how I feel as I reflect back on this time with all of you. I was so touched by how many people said “thank you for being here” on my first Sunday in the greeting line. I felt immediately cared for and it moved me. Being with you all has felt natural as we have laughed together and reflected together on the difficult questions of life. A big part of my role here has been visitations. I have been welcomed with love and open-heartedness as I have called people, visited nursing homes, apartments and houses, and sat next to hospital beds. It really has been amazing how many times I have heard about someone who needed a visit and was able to see them and connect with them soon before they died. I feel so grateful that I was able to have those encounters before it was too late. When I visit people I am very aware that I bring all of you with me. As your pastor I represent you and this community to those who are unable to gather here in person, or struggling, or dying and that has felt like an honor. Even if it has gone by so quickly.

 And that was always the plan, my focus right now in my life is on my family and chaplaincy. In the fall I will begin my fourth and hopefully final unit of the Clinical Pastoral Education that is required to become a certified chaplain as I hope God will continue to call me and guide me to the work of chaplaincy. But, even knowing it would be fast, I still find myself marveling at all I have witnessed here and saying “what just happened?”

          One of the things I have been trained to do as a chaplain is to write a chart note. So after I visit with a patient, I click on their chart, I select the “spiritual care” tab, I fill out some preset questions and then I write a narrative note. These notes may be read by the rest of the care team, meaning the patient’s doctor, nurse, social worker, another chaplain or any other medical professional that is part of their team. It could also be read by the patient if they choose to access that part of their chart. It may also be read by no one, but even if that’s the case, it still helps me to take that time to pause, reflect and put into brief words what just happened. Because these visits are often powerful, deeply meaningful and spaces where the Holy Spirit shows up in ways that are unexpected, tangible and sacred.

 

          So, I thought it fitting, as your chaplain/pastor to put together a little chart note after our time together. It’s a chance to share what I have seen and also what may be helpful to notice together as we begin the next chapter. So here is my chart note on my visit with you all:

 

          My visit with the people of First United Methodist Church came after a time of sudden change that resulted in pain, confusion, concern and also a desire for steadiness. As I listened to them reflect on this time period, I heard them identify this as a difficult time but also a time when they came together and truly lived out the ministry of the laity. This resolve is evident in the diverse ministries led by passionate members of the congregation, an openness to trying new things and a wide variety of people of all ages participating in the worship services. It is remarkable how many people bring their gifts and time to the worship of God and service to God in this place. Their primary source of distress may be a hesitancy to trust in the stability of the church and the church’s future. I hear this when people comment on how the number of people of all ages has decreased over the course of some decades. I have often offered a reframe by pointing out from my perspective as a new person, how many young people are here and are actively involved. I see many churches that long to have even a fraction of the children and teens this congregation has. The Sunday School and Youth Leader is able to connect to the children and leads from a place of joy and genuine care. The choir director is embraced and loved by the choir, which is a group of committed church members who have amazing gifts that raise the prayers of all of us to God through the gift of music. All of the music ministers, custodians, administrators, and volunteers serve from their heart and care deeply. I have often remarked that people are happy to be here, from the folks who arrive early to set up coffee hour to the tiny acolytes who stretch on their tippy toes to reach the candles. An important task for this church will be to trust. This is a challenge as they have been through difficult times and live in a world that is going through difficult times, but I hope they remember they don’t have to do it all alone. They can partner with other organizations and groups to multiply their ministry efforts, they can empower newer members to find ways to offer their gifts, they can open their hearts to their new pastor who is steady, focused and deeply dedicated to her ministry, and they can trust in the God who changed the world through Jesus Christ in only about three years, and who loves us and never leaves us.

 

It may take some time to reflect and think about what just happened, but I know this … God showed up … God always shows up. Amen.

Sermon from Pentecost 2026 "Birth Stories"

 

Sermon from 5/24/26 First UMC East Greenbush Acts 2:1-21

 

          I don’t always have the best memory, the past two years since we have moved have meant a lot of new people in our lives and a lot of new names and remembering them has been a struggle. But there are some things that stick clearly in my mind even as the years pass. One of those things is childbirth. My oldest is now 14 years old and yet I can picture that hospital room clearly- I remember Nurse Margory, I remember the way my husband looked at me with love and reassurance and I remember the way that experience of intensity and pain and stress brought out some interesting parts of my personality. Mostly humor, when I am nervous I tend to start making jokes and so in the delivery room I became a bit of a comedian. Whether or not I was funny I can’t say, but I thought I was.  But it also brought out another part of my personality, one that I usually try to hide better. That is, my discomfort with uncertainty.

           I remember thinking how ridiculous it was those days before labor, that I was supposed to just keep walking around and living my life with no idea of when this monumental change would come. I had to just put question marks next to everything on my calendar. So I did my best to be prepared, I planned out the worship services for the next 4 months. There would be a pastor coming to fill in, but I wanted to make sure everything was set up to run smoothly, so I remember calling families in early September when it was 70 and sunny out and asking if they would be willing to light the Advent Candle on a Sunday in December. They mostly chuckled and said yes, humoring me. My need to feel prepared and somehow manage uncertainty only got worse as I got closer to the event. I remember vividly in the delivery room the nurse saying “only a few more pushes” and I said “but exactly how many more?” and I remember the doctor saying “it won’t be much longer now” and I said “how many more minutes?” And I kept asking how many more contractions there would be and if they would get worse and how long would they last. At one point I remember the nurse saying “are you like a scientist or something?” as she explained that there were no answers to these questions.

 

          All these years later and the truth of that is still sinking in. There are no answers to many questions. There is a lot of uncertainty in life, a lot of unknown that we just can’t prepare for or plan, a lot of things on our calendars that we just have to put a question mark next to. And that can be hard and it can require faith.

 

          Today is Pentecost, this is a major holiday in the church. When our kids were young my husband and I wanted to establish some kind of tradition so that our kids would recognize the importance of Pentecost. Unlike Christmas and Easter, the secular world doesn’t make a big deal of it and so it can sometimes get overlooked or lost in the end of the school year/Memorial Day excitement. So we decided that we would always have a fire of some sort on Pentecost. Usually (if the fire precautions allowed it) we would make a fire in our little outdoor fire pit and roast marshmallows. Very controlled, very safe and very easy to extinguish. Nothing like the fire at Pentecost …

           Fire is often a symbol used to represent Pentecost … but wind is too. Pentecost is fire and wind, which we know is a wild, dangerous, unpredictable and potentially devastating combination. Having lived in Colorado for 8 years, I know well the fear and concern for wildfires that a dry windy day can bring. And fire and wind is what happened on that first Pentecost.

           It was the fiftieth day after Passover, an occasion when Jewish people would make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem. And the scripture reading tells us that Jerusalem was a diverse place with “devout Jews from every people under heaven living in Jerusalem.” And it is here that a rush of “violent wind” comes and tongues “as of fire” rest on each of them and they start talking. They are all speaking in their native languages and it causes such a scene that onlookers assume they are drunk at 9am. Because how else can you explain such a wild scene? There has to be a way to explain it, make sense of it, understand it … fire from the sky, sudden wind and all these languages spoken and yet everyone can understand each other? Jesus said the Holy Spirit was coming, but did anyone predict it to look like this?

           Peter gets up and declares that these are the last days prophesized by the prophet Joel, the days before the coming of the Lord. He says that the Spirit will come upon “all flesh” not just kings and prophets. The Spirit is here so that everyone can speak to it … young, old, male, female, slave, free. It’s working and moving and speaking through all kinds of people. And that is exciting and beautiful and amazing and … dangerous. This movement is going to be tough to predict, to organize, to control. If everyone has access to the Spirit of God and everyone can prophesy … how do we keep that neat and tidy and safe and within the boundaries of what we want it to be? Sorry for all of you, like me, who like manageable and predictable … there is no controlling this. This is the Holy Spirit and like fire and like wind it can go places we do not expect and cannot control.

 
          In his commentary on this passage, Biblical scholar Gilberto Ruiz says: that many interpretations of the Pentecost event look at all these people of different languages coming together and point to the unity, that everyone can understand each other, but “this interpretation sees difference as a problem to be solved, an assumption that leads interpreters to overlook the fact that no restoration of a common language occurs in Acts 2. Instead, the Galilean disciples are heard in all the dialects represented by their audiences (verses 6, 8). What we witness, then, is the Holy Spirit validating difference and working through it, not erasing difference and working despite it. The oracle from Joel cited by Peter affirms this vision through its vivid language of “all flesh” to describe the Spirit’s permeation of persons of all genders, ages, and social status.” In other words, this is not a smoothing out of differences, but a revelation that the Holy Spirit is at work in those differences, it is an affirmation that we are all different and the Spirit works in and through and among us without having to erase those differences.

 

          This means that we cannot predict or control or make the work of the Spirit look how we want it to look. And that can be dangerous. Let’s be honest, it can be hard to claim the title Christian. There are people doing really horrible things and using that title to justify or even celebrate it. People using it to hurt and demean others, or to grab power or worship wealth, to claim superiority or to abuse. When a movement gets out of control, there are some who will grab it and use it for malicious reasons. That is the risk with opening up a movement to all, with letting the Spirit run wild, humans will find ways to corrupt.

          But if we use that to limit or ignore the true work of the Spirit then we allow that corruption to speak for what is beautiful and loving and just and good news. When people try to twist the movement for their own gain or to hurt others, they are trying to control it, manipulate it and destroy it. But when we embrace the Holy Spirit working in and through and around us we have to embrace faith, let go of our need to control and let it flow. Celebrate it, embrace it and let it flow like a rush of wind through everyone we meet. Pentecost calls us to accept the unpredictability, the wildness the uncertainty and let the fire take over our hearts.

          I remember that moment, way back when I was in that delivery room. I remember when I stopped making jokes, counting minutes, numbering breaths and asking questions. I remember when I stopped clenching my fists, fighting the pain and trying to control it. I remember letting go. It was wild and unexpected and life-changing but that was when this beautiful new life came forth. And that new life has been unexpected and uncertain and unpredictable but more beautiful than anything I could have ever planned or predicted. Pentecost is the day we call the birth of the church. It is the moment when we mark the birth of this wild movement that has spread like wildfire all across the globe and across the centuries. It came about by fire and wind and people letting the Spirit speak through them, that’s how we keep it going. That’s how we fan the flame. We dive in with faith, we let the Spirit speak through us and we celebrate and listen to what that Spirit is saying from each other. All the while trusting, trusting that it’s ok to let go, because what God is doing is so much more than what we have on our calendars.  

         

“Loved” John 14:15-21

 John 14:15-21

          If you ever want to have an awkward and uncomfortable conversation with someone, ask them if they go to church. Believe me, because I have that awkward conversation with people quite often. Not just out of the blue, but as a hospital chaplain, sometimes I am trying to discern where the patient finds community, connection or support. Also, I always ask patients if they would like prayer and in order to know how best to pray, it’s helpful to know if they practice a particular faith. And so I have tried to word the question differently, to make it as open and gentle as possible and to show that I have no ulterior motive in asking. Because people usually think you are trying to judge or convert them.  They almost always think there is something behind it. And so people often respond to that question with defensiveness, guardedness, justifications, guilt or anger. And I get it, people can be judgy or pushy, or even forceful or sneaky with attempts to convince or convert. But it makes it hard when you just genuinely want to know … without the judgement.

          It’s like when you tell people you are a pastor or sing in the church choir or volunteer at church. Often people will get awkward and start explaining why they don’t go to church, or why they missed a few Sundays or their intentions of someday going back. Sometimes they may apologize for swearing, hide their beer or tell you why they don’t like church. I just listen, and try my best to show that I am not actually someone looking to make them feel bad.

          I hear a lot of people say things like “I don’t need to go to church because I don’t need someone telling me how to talk to God, I can do that without someone up there acting like they know better” or “those people go to those churches and think they are so much better than everyone else, but they all have their own problems” or “I went to a church and this person was mean to me and hurt me and I never went back.” Or they list everything any church has ever done wrong. And it’s true … churches are full of people and people do things wrong. I have certainly encountered people in churches who have done or said hurtful things, and even people who have done really awful things. Just as I have encountered people like this outside of the church.

          But when I think of church, I think of the church I grew up in, where I learned to sing Bible songs and was welcomed by dedicated volunteer Sunday School teachers and felt safe, felt loved. I think of times when my stomach hurt with laughter while spending time with a youth group I was leading or all the folks who could no longer attend church in person and welcomed me into their homes as their pastor and told me their stories and sent me off full of love, care and sometimes sweets. I think of watching children carefully bring the light into the sanctuary as acolytes, I think of busy people coming together on a weeknight to plan ways to reach out to the community, I think of people praying for me and my loved ones, I think of seeing people feel safe enough to let their tears out, I think of closing my eyes and feeling closer to heaven as I am lifted by a choir of voices singing to God in unison. I think of all those times of feeling touched, moved, connected … loved.

          Feeling loved is an inspiring thing. In fact, it’s why we as Christians do the things we do. So often people think that we church goers are here every Sunday to earn points and feel holier than others, they feel guilty because they think they haven’t done enough to please God, they feel a distance between themselves and God because they think they haven’t earned God’s good graces. But it’s actually the opposite. We don’t do things to earn God’s love, God’s love is already there for us. God demonstrates this through Jesus Christ, it’s there for free, for everyone, no points needed. We come together in worship, we do acts of service, we care for one another as a response to that love.

          The passage from John that was read begins with this. Jesus says, “If you love me, you will keep my commandments.” It’s about responding from love, not earning love. And keeping the commandments of Jesus is an opportunity to respond to the love of Christ. The commandments of Christ are an invitation, to live out the love that we know and to make the Holy Spirit known.

          In this passage, Jesus is preparing the disciples for a time when he will not be physically present in the way that he is now. He says that God will give them an Advocate, some translations say Paraclete. This is the Holy Spirit who will guide, help, strengthen and comfort them. But Jesus goes on to say that the world does not see or know the Spirit, but that the Spirit will abide with them.

          So this is our call as Christians, to respond to the love of Jesus Christ by showing love to others and in doing so, others will see the Holy Spirit at work and come to know of this presence of comfort, strength and help.

          This means we do have an important role to play. As much as I do think people can be unfair in how they prejudge church-goers or Christians, the truth is, others are watching us, and we have a responsibility to act as followers of Christ. We are called to make the presence of Christ known here on earth. We are called to live out Jesus’s commandments to love others and show others that they are not alone, the Holy Spirit is here. To let others know that they are loved.

          I have always been fascinated by Psychology, so much so that my bachelor’s degree is in Psychology. I like finding what is underneath people’s thoughts, behaviors and actions and I am so very curious about how people think, react to and relate to others. But sometimes I need a break from it. I will find myself watching video clips, reading articles and listening to podcasts and learning so much about the ways in which people’s upbringings, traumatic experiences or subconscious needs are guiding what they do. But then I see love, just pure love and there really is no explanation for it. The kind of love that has no benefit to the person giving it, the kind of love that doesn’t make sense given all the heartbreak someone has been through- the kind of love that reminds you that we are so much more than our psychological traumas, animal instincts or reward driven behaviors.

Several times I have sat with spouses as they lovingly and tenderly cared for their spouse who was suffering due to some circumstance like a traumatic brain injury or disease, and will never be able to reciprocate in the same way or live out the plans they made when they got married, and still … the caregiving spouse loves, they stroke their hair, they talk about the good memories, they offer smiles, they make their spouse feel loved. It doesn’t make sense, it’s hard to explain, it’s the love that Christ demonstrates for us, the kind of love that makes the presence of the Holy Spirit known in the world.

I also see this pure love when I visit new parents right after they have had a baby. At that point most parents are pretty tired, shocked, overwhelmed, worried or dazed, but not the grandparents. In a room where the baby is crying, the new parents are sweating and stressing … off to the side I sometimes see the beaming, happy grandparents. No stress, no worries about how to raise the perfect child or which products are organic enough or how to properly install a car seat, just joy, just peace, just love. It doesn’t make sense, it’s hard to explain, it’s the love Christ demonstrates for us, God’s beloved children, the kind of love that makes the presence of the Holy Spirit known in the world.

 

Today is Mother’s Day. And I know that can bring a lot of emotions for people. Some are missing their mothers today, some are missing their children today and some have complicated relationships with their mothers. Human relationships don’t always fit our expectations or always demonstrate that perfect love that we long for. I know that I am not a perfect mother. I love my kids so much it makes my heart burst, but I am a human, and I don’t do things perfectly. Since they were born, I have prayed that somehow, even through all of my imperfections and all of the pain of the world, my children will feel that perfect, pure love that comes from Christ. The kind that doesn’t make sense, the kind that can’t be explained, the kind of love that will make the presence of the Holy Spirit known to them.

Sometimes, in my work as a hospital chaplain, the hardest part can be leaving the room. Because there are a lot of lonely people in the world and it feels sad to walk out the door, move on with my life and know that people are alone and hurting. So when I pray with patients, I always pray that they will feel the presence of the Holy Spirit in and through and around them, that they will feel held in the palm of God’s hand and know that they are not alone. Because of faith, I believe that somehow, someway in a way that can’t be explained, they are not alone, the Holy Spirit, the Advocate, the Paraclete that Jesus told us about, is there with them.

In May of the year 1373, Julian of Norwich experienced divine revelations from her cell attached to a small church in the town of Norwich, England. She immediately wrote these down and you can read them compiled in a book called “Showings.” Some years ago I got to go and sit in that cell where she wrote these and still, all these hundreds of years later, there is a palpable feeling of holiness in that space, a feeling that the Holy Spirit has been and still is there. These revelations she had are powerful and have captured the faith and hearts of many who have read them. They are words pouring from a heart in the depths of love. In chapter 59 she writes, “As truly as God is our Father, so truly is God our Mother, and he revealed that in everything, and especially in these sweet words where he says: I am he; that is to say: I am he, the power and goodness of fatherhood; I am he, the wisdom and the lovingness of motherhood; I am he, the light and the grace which is all blessed love; I am he, the Trinity; I am he, the unity; I am he, the great supreme goodness of every kind of thing; I am he who makes you to love; I am he who makes you to long; I am he, the endless fulfilling of all true desires. For where the soul is highest, noblest, most honourable, still it is lowest meekest and mildest.”  You can hear the rapturous tone in her writing as she writes of that love which is hard to explain, doesn’t make sense but makes the presence of the Holy Spirit known.

Jesus says “If you love me, you will keep my commandments.” Let us live as a people who are loved, as a people who know we are loved – even if it doesn’t make sense and is hard to explain - and in doing so we will make the presence of the Holy Spirit known here on earth.