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.

---

[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.

Sermon from 4/26/26 First UMC East Greenbush

 

Psalm 23, John 10:1-10, Acts 2:42-47

          Many years ago I remember asking my then toddler “What do you want for Christmas?” He looked at me with his big eyes and with his little toddler voice said, “a tree and a box.” I dutifully wrote it down on the piece of paper I had titled “Christmas List.” And that whole Christmas season when we took him to see Santa or when others asked what he wanted he said “a tree and a box.” At some point he had seen or remembered images of Christmas and a big sparkly tree with colorfully wrapped boxes underneath and it was exciting, different and beautiful. So that was what he wanted “a tree and a box.” Of course over the years that list changed as advertisements, catalogues, friends and stores offered an array of things to “want” for Christmas. Also, over time, that sense of wonder and awe at the tree and box also changed. I often hear people talk about the “magic” of Christmas for little children, I wonder … does the “magic” go when our awe and wonder at a tree and a box gives way to a detailed and extensive wish list?

           That question, “what do you want for Christmas” forces us to think about what it is we seem to be lacking, what cool things do other people have that we want, what is the next thing that might make us happy? What do you want … can be a leading question, leading us toward the flashy images of happy people with the latest technology, or beautiful people in the latest styles or big fancy things that seem to exude comfort, luxury, piece of mind … Where does that question “what do you want?” lead you?

          Today for the Call to Worship we read together a familiar Psalm. A Psalm that many people recognize and some have memorized. In that Psalm we are being led to a place that is different from advertisements, spending, and influencing. In that Psalm it says the Lord “leadeth me beside the still waters.” Waters that restore the soul. Not the kind of waters that promise to be infused with all the essential minerals to make your skin glow and are on sale for a limited time. Not the kind of waters that require an exclusive pass to access and are only available to the first few in line. We learn in the first verse how to access these waters. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” The path begins not with the question of “what do you want?” but by the absence of wanting … and only trust … following a shepherd.

          This Psalm begins from the perspective of a sheep, following a trusted shepherd to all that is needed, pasture and water. And then it moves to the perspective of a traveler in dangerous territory, protected and guided to this generous display of security through the valley of death, extravagant care and generosity right next to enemies. A breath-taking peace despite scary circumstances. A sense of stability despite complete vulnerability. A place of awe and wonder right in the middle of what is uncertain.

           I wonder about that connection between letting go of want and embracing awe and beauty. When the follower lets go of want at the presence of the shepherd, they find themselves in this beautiful and serene environment filled with assurance and peace.

           I was thinking about that sense of awe as I reflected on the passage read from Acts. This passage comes to us after Jesus died, was resurrected, hung out with the disciples for a bit and then ascended into the clouds. So this is right around the beginning of that time when they are trying to figure out how to keep the Jesus movement going without the physical presence of Jesus. There is a lot of work to do to get this story about God incarnate rising from the dead from there to the ends of the earth and across thousands of years.

         The passage from Acts begins by saying, “They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers. Awe came upon everyone, because many wonders and signs were being done by the apostles.” It goes on to describe how they all lived together in harmony, everyone praising God, everyone sharing and all needs being met. It’s sort of this golden age of being a Jesus follower. They are still living in that awe of having experienced the risen Christ, witnessing his ascension and then having Pentecost. And like in the Psalm, there is this connection between awe and a lack of wanting. It says the disciples are all living in awe while also dividing everything equally and praising God and living in joy. There is no talk of what is lacking, who is messing up, or a wish list of items that would make their communal life easier. No want, just awe. Guided by the shepherd, their souls restored by the still waters.

          The image of Jesus as a Shepherd that we find in John really is about relinquishing our want and embracing trust. We hear the voice of Christ and we follow. We follow through the gate, we follow to the still waters, we follow through the shadow of death, wanting for nothing.

          The idea of letting go of want is countercultural. There are advertisements everywhere we look. We are bombarded with messages of what we lack- in our homes, in our closets, in our loved ones, in ourselves. And I wonder if all that want has taken away our sense of awe.

          In a September 2025 article in National Geographic called “The Life-Changing Power of Awe” various tests and studies were reported that showed the power of experiencing moments of awe. Findings showed things like: reduced inflammation, less self-focused brain activity, lower amygdala or “fight or flight” activity, less stress, fewer physical complaints, greater well-being, less impatience, more generosity and higher life satisfaction.

         Now, I feel like some kind of advertisement, trying to sell you on some wellness program or fitness regimen. All of this is not to add something to your wish list or to do list. Please do not take out your phone and add “experience awe” to your daily task list. In fact, I think awe may actually be the opposite of a task or a regimen or a wish list item or something to spend money on or even an exclusive opportunity. Awe is right here and all around us. It’s about taking a moment to acknowledge the presence of God in the voices united in singing a hymn, the way the light breaks through the stained glass, the soft tiny hands of a baby, the gentle hug of a loved one, a flock of birds in a perfect V formation, the unbelievable colors that are sprouting out from the ground right now, the way the planets rotate around the sun, the fact that the sun always sets and rises, or that we are here together in this moment sitting where people have worshiped together for so many years, singing praises to Jesus who died thousands of years ago and was resurrected. This is not a limited time offer, there is no credit card number required … it’s here and it’s there and it’s everywhere.

        But we do have to be willing to look for it, to listen for the voice of the shepherd and to put down our need to figure everything out, control everything and insist on our own way- to trust, let go and allow ourselves to be led to the still waters that restore our souls.

           Before I lived here, I lived in Colorado Springs and if you have ever been to Colorado Springs, you know that it has this great big majestic and beautiful backdrop called Pike’s Peak. It is the purple mountain majesty that is said to have inspired the song “America the Beautiful.” It is the frame behind every parking lot, grocery store and sunset when you live there. And in our living room we had a great big picture window that framed our view of it. When we first moved there I think I took pictures of it from just about every place I went. I marveled at the way the sun was reflecting from it that day, or the fresh coat of snow on top or the sunset colors behind it. During the days of pandemic lock downs I would stand and stare at it each day, my connection to the outside world. We lived right down the street from Palmer Park where we could do a quick rocky hike to a little cave and just sit there with a stunning view of the whole city shrunken under the big white peak. It was truly awe-inspiring.

 And then we moved here in January and when Spring came we marveled at every colorful thing that burst forth from every corner of our yard, so many colors and shapes against bright green grass. We commented on the birds and creatures that passed through our yard before our dog barked them away. And on every church visit we have done with my husband I constantly am telling the kids “look at that” as we drive by waterfalls, lakes and mountains. And every time I drive home from this church on I90, I look to my left as I cross over the Hudson river and look at the beautiful shapes of the downtown skyline, hugging the banks of the river.

         Of course all of this is when I am not complaining about the cold, or wishing I was on vacation or looking down at my phone or in a hurry to get from one place to another. But all I have to do is look up and there it is … awe. All around. A transcendent experience of restoring waters right here around us. The Holy Spirit on display for all to see and hear and feel- from the big white mountains to a colorful wrapped box under a sparkling tree … God calls us to see the beauty even in the chaos, the stillness even in the shadow of the valley of death … the voice of God calling for us to follow.