Occasional thoughts of an Anglican Episcopal priest

Category: Matthew (Page 1 of 30)

The Gospel Is Off Center: Sermon for the 22nd Sunday after Pentecost 2026 (RCL Proper 25A)

Several weeks ago, I arrived here at Trinity too early for the late service, but too late for the education offering, so I sat down in the nave and watched the sacristans setting things up. I noticed that the Gospel Book for a while was not placed squarely on its stand, but was off to one side. Now, to be fair, it didn’t remain that way: it was soon picked up by the acolyte who carried it in the procession and, when she later replaced it on the stand, it was centered. Nonetheless, it reminded me of the director of the Altar Guild in the first church I served as a priest, a lady named Jackie.

Jackie was a stickler when it came to the set up of the altar. The candles’ bases had to be placed exactly two inches in from each end of the altar, exactly two inches back from the front edge; the linens had to be placed just so; the chalice had to be centered; the veil on the chalice had to be draped evenly; the orphrey band on the veil had to be centered and, if it had a directional design, that design had to be running the proper direction.

With Jackie, there was no other way. There was no easier or more relaxed way to do things. No middle ground. No compromises.

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A Dual-Nature Ordination Anniversary Meditation: June 21, 1996 (Pentecost 4, RCL Year A)

I am not preaching today, the 35th anniversary of my ordination to the priesthood. If I were, I might offer something like this, but then again I might not. These are simply my thoughts apropos of today’s gospel lesson (Matthew 10:24-39) in light of the day. Particularly Jesus disturbing statement, “Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword…. and one’s foes will be members of one’s own household.”[1] I would start the sermon with the story of a dog.

In November, 1941, a brick maker named Carlo Soriani found an injured puppy by the side of the road in the village of Luco di Mugello, which is a neighborhood in metropolitan Florence. He took the puppy home, nursed it back to health, and then he and his wife adopted the dog and named it “Fido” (pronouncedo “Fee-doh” in Italian), a name meaning “faithful.”

Mr. Soriani worked at a brick kiln some miles away from his home. Every morning he went to the bus stop at the Piazza Dante in the center of Luco di Mugello accompanied by Fido; he’d get on the bus and Fido would go back home. Every evening, Fido would go to the bus stop and wait for Carlo, and then they’d walk home together. Everybody in Luco di Mugello got to know Fido.

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Satan Is a Bully: Sermon for the First Sunday in Lent – 22 February 2026

I assume that everyone here has seen A Christmas Story?[1] It’s hard to live in the Cleveland area and not to know about the 1983 cult classic Christmas movie, and by now, with the Turner movie channel running it as a marathon every Christmas, to have seen it. Do you remember the character “Scut” Farkus? That was the bully who, accompanied by his toady Grover Dill, made Ralphie’s life miserable. Until, that is, Ralphie had simply had enough and exploded, knocked Scut down into the snow, and gave him a bloody nose. This morning, I’m going to try to convince you that that’s sort of what’s happening in today’s gospel lesson.

A rather standard way of preaching the Temptations of Christ is to say that Satan’s point is to raise doubts about whether Jesus is who he thinks he is by casting doubt on his relationship with God, and that Jesus’ rejections of the temptations “prove his identity as God’s divine and beloved son.”[2] I’m probably a heretic, but I don’t think that’s the point of this story at all; that’s not what this episode is about.

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Loneliness and Light: Sermon for 5 Epiphany – 8 February 2026

“You are the light of the world. … [L]et your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”[1]

Last week, I read this story on Facebook:

I own a small bakery. Business has been slow. Rent is up. I was thinking about closing. Last Friday, a teenager came in. He looked nervous. He counted out change for a cookie. He was short 50 cents. “It’s okay,” I said. “Take it.” He ate it at a table, looking at his math homework. I walked over. “Quadratic equations?” He nodded. “I don’t get it.” I sat down and helped him for 20 minutes. He got it. He left smiling. The next day, he came back with two friends. They bought cookies. The day after that, five kids came. Apparently, he told the school, “The lady at the bakery helps with homework.” Now, my bakery is the after-school hang-out spot. It’s loud. It’s messy. There are backpacks everywhere, Yesterday, I found a note in the tip jar. It was wrapped around a $20 bill. “Thanks for helping my son pass math. A Mom.” I’m not closing the bakery. I think I finally found my purpose. It’s not cookies. It’s community.

This baker is a light shining before others. I think that both Jesus and the prophet Isaiah would have approved of this baker.

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Not ORPman’s Prayer: Sermon for Pentecost VII, Proper 12C – 27 July 2025

Do you all know what a tort is? Tort … T-O-R-T … no E on the end; I’m not talking about those wonderful little German or Austrian pastries. A tort is a civil wrong that causes harm to another person, resulting in legal liability for the person who commits the wrong. You leave a puddle of milk on the floor of your grocery store knowing it’s there, then someone slips in it and injures themselves: you have committed a tort. You speed through a stop sign, collide with another car, and injure the driver: you’ve not only broken the law, you’ve committed a tort.

A million years ago when I was in law school studying the law of torts with Professor Bill Lynch of blessed memory, I was introduced to the superhero of Anglo-American civil jurisprudence: the ordinary, reasonably prudent person, often called “ORPman”. ORPman’s super power, as you can tell from his name, is ordinary, reasonable prudence. His conduct is the standard against which allegedly tortious behavior is judged. His conduct is always sensible, never outrageous, not too timid, nor too bold. He is not a coward, but neither is he an excessive risk-taker. His expectations are rational; he is not demanding, but neither is he a doormat.

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“Belief That” vs. “Belief In”: The Incredulity of Thomas (Sermon for the Second Sunday of Easter, 27 April 2025)

Let’s have a show of hands: everyone who believes that there is a Constitution of the United States raise your hand. OK, good. Now everyone who believes in the Constitution of the United States raise your hand. Some of you might be thinking, “Wait. Didn’t he just ask us to do that?” Well, no. There’s a difference between “belief that” and “belief in.”

“Belief in” is an attitude toward a person or an institution, a sentiment or posture of trust, while “belief that” is just an attitude with regard to a proposition, one’s intellectual assent to its validity. One may believe that there is a Constitution establishing the government of the United States while not actually believing in the institutions and processes of governance that it creates and enshrines. That may be, perhaps, the source of some of our current social and political problems, but that’s another discussion for another time. With regard to our Christian faith, however, the intersection of these two different kinds of belief – “belief that” versus “belief in” – is at the heart of today’s lesson from the Gospel according to John.

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Of Fisher Folk and Unity – Epiphany 5, RCL Year C

One of the things I try to do when I read the stories of Jesus in the Gospels, when he uses an odd or striking metaphor like “I will make you fishers of people”[1] or, as it is put in this Gospel, “from now on you will be catching people,”[2] is to figure out if he’s referring back to Law or the Prophets, and whether it might be the lectionary’s choice for a first lesson. Sometimes that helps me figure out whether there is a thematic link between the lessons and, if so, what it’s supposed tell us, but unfortunately that’s not the case today. Jesus doesn’t seem to have had Isaiah in mind when he summoned Peter and his business partners.

So for the past week or so, I’ve been pondering what might be the reason for putting the Isaiah reading –– which, although it comes in the sixth chapter, is the story of Isaiah’s initial call to be a prophet –– together with Luke’s version of Jesus recruiting Simon Peter and the sons of Zebedee, James and John, to be disciples. The simple answer, of course, is that they are both stories of calls to ministry, but they are so different!

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What Are We To Do Now? – Epiphany 3, Year C


“They read from the book, from the law of God, with interpretation. They gave the sense, so that the people understood the reading.”[1] Lord, may we also have grace to understand the readings from Scripture. Amen.

The People of Israel, on their return from exile in Babylon, faced a question which faces many of us today: “What are we to do now?” That is a question which plagues humankind, which we human beings have been asking since time immemorial. With each and every change in our individual and corporate lives we face the same question: What are we to do now?

This was the question which Nehemiah the governor and Ezra the priest sought to help the Jews answer in the event recorded in our reading from the Hebrew Scriptures this morning. (By the way, it wasn’t just those two: the verses left out of the lectionary selection name 26 other people who read from the Bible and “helped the people to understand the law.”[2])

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Of Wealth and Justice – Sermon for Proper 23, RCL Year B

I understand that St. Andrew’s Parish is, today, beginning its annual stewardship campaign, so I suppose it’s appropriate that we heard the story of Jesus being confronted by the wealthy man who wants to inherit eternal life in today’s Gospel reading from Mark. This tale must have been an important one to the earliest Christians, because we find it in all three of the Synoptic Gospels. Mark tells us only that the man is wealthy; Matthew adds that he is young; and Luke informs us that he is a ruler of some sort. But none of those details really changes the basic nature of the encounter: a potential disciple comes to Jesus seeking guidance and Jesus tells him that he must give up everything he possesses – “You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor….”[1] The obligations of discipleship, in other words, are total.

Preachers through the ages have sought to soften the demands of this story. Generally, they’ve taken one of four approaches to make the story seem less burdensome. The most popular for quite a while was to interpret Jesus’ comment – “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God”[2] – to mean something other than it seems to mean at first blush.

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Of Storytelling and Belief – Sermon for Proper 20, RCL Year B

“They’re eating the dogs, they’re eating the cats.”

That was the headline on the website of Raidió Teilifís Éireann, the national public broadcaster in the Republic of Ireland, on September 11. What the candidate in the U.S. presidential debate the night before had said in full was:

In Springfield, they’re eating the dogs, the people that came in, they’re eating the cats. They’re eating, they’re eating the pets of the people that live there.[1]

As I’m sure you know, in the twelve days since the debate, the people of Springfield, Ohio, have been through hell. They’ve been put under a media microscope; white supremacists have marched through the town; there are have been more than 30 bomb threats against schools and public buildings.

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