A Sermon for Good Friday

Sacrifice is a troubling concept for many of us. And understandably so. Most of us aren’t used to the blood and guts involved in preparing the meat we eat. So animal sacrifice seems jarringly foreign—even primitive. And when we look at the violence of human sacrifice, our discomfort turns into (justifiable) disgust. How could Abraham even consider killing his son? How could God ask that of him? And today on Good Friday—where is the sense in Jesus’ bloody, gruesome sacrifice? How is that “good”? What kind of God demands a human life in order to forgive sins?

If that’s what this sacrifice stuff is about, then we want no part in it!

And that makes sense. It really does.

A Sermon for Maundy Thursday

“For I received from the Lord what I also passed on to you…” Every time I hear those words, a shiver runs down my spine. These four short verses that we just heard from Paul were what my childhood church used as a sort of eucharistic prayer on Communion Sundays. Paul’s account of the Last Supper—the first Eucharist—always evoked a sense of groundedness for me. I was fascinated as a kid with history and heritage and the idea of passing stories down through generations. And at some level, I knew intuitively that the Eucharist was part of a big story—bigger than any family history we rehearsed at home or national myth we learned in school. I wanted to share in this story more intimately; so as an 8 year old I looked forward with eager anticipation to my Easter baptism, when I would get to take Communion for the first time.

A Sermon for the Feast of St. Absalom Jones

On November 6, 1746, in a little town in Delaware, a remarkable baby boy was born and named Absalom. Born into slavery and separated from his family as a child, Absalom resolved early on not to let his masters control his fate. Even as a kid, Absalom saved his pennies to buy a Bible and a primer and learned to read. As an adult, he worked hard, saving money and fundraising, so he could free his wife from slavery. By the time he was 38, he’d managed to purchase his own freedom too.

A Sermon for Advent 3 (Year B)

My Indian grandmother is the one who taught me to love the Psalms. Every morning Ammachi would spend an hour, sitting in her chair by the bay window, just reading the Bible. Her English was excellent, but she always read it aloud—in a soft voice, barely audible above the sound of the chirping birds. It’s her voice I hear in my head as I read the psalms, especially today’s.