Easter 5, Year B

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 28, 2024 (Easter 5, Year B)

A couple weeks ago, as I was walking with a few parishioners, we passed a banyan tree. Still being fairly new to Florida, I’ve been rather mesmerized by these magnificent arboreal masterpieces. They’re hard to miss with their sprawling canopies and aerial prop roots that reach down to the earth like thick pieces of interconnected rope. There’s an aura of mystery that surrounds each one, as their intricate exterior root system creates tiny tunnels and alcoves ripe for exploration. Each banyan tree is like a unique, one-of-a-kind sculpture. 

I hadn’t thought much about the horticultural complexity of the banyan tree. Frankly, I’ve never thought about the horticultural complexity of anything. But one of my companions pointed out to me that these roots grow down from the branches, adding strength and allowing the tree to grow ever wider over time. And as I stared at the banyan tree that spurred this conversation, I said out loud, “I can’t wait to use this illustration the next time we get that passage about Jesus being the true vine.” (I’m always desperate for material)

Well, two weeks later, here we are! And I swear, I was shocked to see this reading pop up so soon after our conversation — it only shows up in our lectionary once every three years. Shocked, but delighted. Because now whenever I hear Jesus say, “I am the vine, you are the branches,” all I can see in my mind’s eye is a spectacular banyan tree. I guess this whole Florida thing really is starting to take root. So to speak.

But this particular passage includes one of what are known as Jesus’ “I am” statements. You’re familiar with these: I am the Good Shepherd (we heard that one last week), I am the bread of life, I am the light of the world, I am the way and the truth and the life. These are all metaphorical images through which Jesus invites us to better understand our relationship with him. 

There are actually seven ‘I am’ statements in John’s Gospel and this is the very last one of them: “I am the true vine.” But this one’s unique among all the others because it’s the only one that adds a ‘you’ to the mix. “I am the vine, you are the branches.” So this particular image stands out because it highlights our interconnectivity with Jesus and one another. It is a bold statement of relationship. “I am the vine, you are the branches.”

And we’re reminded that we simply cannot be separated from Jesus. We are intimately connected to him. We are part of him. We belong to him. He is the vine and we are the branches. In other words, we are like the branches of the banyan tree, connected to the vine that is Jesus Christ. We draw strength and life directly from him. We exist only because of our connection to the true vine. Without it, we are nothing. But through it, we live and move and have our being under the great canopy of God’s eternal care.

“I am the vine, you are the branches.” That is exceedingly good news! Because as branches of the true vine, we are ever-connected to the risen Christ. And while we could all use a bit of pruning every now and then — to cut away that which doesn’t serve us or God, and to spur new growth — we are alive in Jesus Christ our savior. We are branches of the the true vine! We’re not cut flowers, but living branches. Now, don’t worry Flower Guild. I’m not throwing cut flowers under the bus. I love seeing the artistry of how they are magically arranged at the altar every Sunday. I love giving Bryna flowers — which, in fairness, is probably news to her. Since I don’t do that nearly enough. 

But as lovely and colorful as flowers may be, as much water as you give them, as many of those little food packets I dump into the vase, they’re going to wither. They’re going to get thrown into a garbage bag and taken away to the town dump. Or wherever the trash goes around here. That doesn’t make them any less special — maybe that’s why they are so special. We know they won’t last and so we enjoy and appreciate them even more. 

But when it comes to our relationship with God, we’re not cut flowers. We’re branches. Forever connected to Jesus, the source of all life and growth, joy and meaning. And that is an amazing thing.

When I was first ordained, I served under a wise rector at Old St. Paul’s in downtown Baltimore. The day after my ordination he sat me down and told me that being a priest, being able to celebrate the eucharist, was like having a superpower that could only be activated in the company of other people. I can’t celebrate the eucharist by myself — I need all of you. Or at the very least, one of you. So there’s a holy interconnectedness to the sacramental life. We need one another in order to fully live out our faith in the world.

And in a similar way, while Jesus is the true vine, he does need us as branches — not for himself, but for us. He invites us to be branches out in the world, to love one another, to tend to one another, to care for one another. As followers of Jesus, as branches of the true vine, we are Jesus’ hands and feet and heart in the world around us. Our role, our responsibility, our commandment is to love one another as he loves us. To show compassion, to manifest mercy, to offer forgiveness, to grant grace. To look for opportunities, like Philip in our lesson from Acts, to share the good news of Jesus’ message of love with a world in desperate need of hope and healing. We are the branches. And that is a high calling indeed. 

“I am the vine, you are the branches.” I really do think Jesus could have said, “I am the banyan tree, you are the aerial prop roots.” But that doesn’t really roll off the tongue. 

Still, the next time you pass a banyan tree, — and they really are all over the place around here — I encourage you to think about Jesus as the true vine. To reflect on the interconnectedness of our lives. To marvel in the mystery and the majesty of God. And to remember that we are Christ’s branches in the world. Which is a good and holy and life-transforming thing.

Easter 3, Year B

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 14, 2024 (Easter 3, Year B)

One of the most inspiring people I have ever had the privilege of knowing was the late Bishop Barbara Harris. Bishop Harris was a fierce, prophetic, chain-smoking, Chardonnay-swilling, occasionally foul-mouthed warrior for social and racial justice, who just happened to be the first female bishop consecrated in the entire Anglican Communion. I got to know her when she was a retired bishop in Massachusetts, and every time this tiny gray-haired black woman walked into the room, everything just stopped. She had a saintly aura that drew people to her, and you just knew that if you hung around long enough, she’d soon be dropping some deep wisdom and hard truths. In her uniquely colorful way.

At her consecration in 1989 — and it’s crazy to think there were no female bishops until 35 years ago — despite pleas from security officials and police concerned with a whole host of death threats against her, she refused to wear a bullet proof vest. She was fearless in her faith and fearless in her ministry.

But the one quote of hers that I always come back to, again and again, is her description of what it means to live out the Christian faith: “We are an Easter people,” she would say, “living in a Good Friday world.” In other words, we are people of hope, even when things feel hopeless; we are people of joy, even when things appear to be falling apart all around us. Living a life informed by the power of Christ’s resurrection is at the very heart of our faith.

And this is an important reminder as we continue our Easter celebration at Bethesda-by-the-Sea. We can hold onto the deep joy of knowing that we are loved and forgiven, even if things are actually not okay in our personal lives. And we can hold onto the knowledge that God is present, even as things seemingly spiral out of control in the world around us. It is precisely because “we are an Easter people living in a Good Friday world,” that we never give up hope even in the darkest of days.

And if we truly are an Easter people — even when things don’t go according to plan, even when heartbreak disrupts our lives — then we’re reminded, once again, that the resurrection can’t be reduced to a single event. Easter is not just a single day, but a way of life. As Easter people, we live in the warm glow of resurrection glory every moment of our lives.

So what does resurrection mean for us today? How can we embody what it means to be an Easter people? Well, I think we’re offered some clues this morning as we hear the story of one of Jesus’ post-resurrection appearances. We get a number of these in the Sundays after Easter, as the resurrected Jesus appears to the disciples. 

In this one, Jesus eats some branzino. Or flounder. Or something. “Broiled fish” is what Luke tells us. Maybe it was a filet-o-fish. I don’t know. But the point is less about the fish, or Jesus eating a heart-healthy meal, than proving to the disciples that he is not a ghost. That he was bodily resurrected in their presence. But he begins with four of the most encouraging words in all of scripture: “Peace be with you.” He actually says this three times to the disciples in the days immediately following his resurrection. We heard these very same words last week, when he heard the story of Thomas. So he must really want these words to sink in. “Peace be with you.”

And I think that’s the place to begin when we talk about what it means to live a resurrected life, what it means to be an Easter people. “Peace be with you.” 

The resurrected life means living a peaceful life. Not a life without conflict. Jesus isn’t offering us a conflict avoidant life. But a life where despite whatever else is going on, our faith leads to a deep and abiding peace at the very depths of our souls. Jesus offers us a resting place, an oasis. A place where we can revel in his presence, and simply receive the deep, unconditional love he has for each one of us. That’s the peace that passes all understanding. The peace that Jesus so desperately wants you to experience in your life. That’s what it means to be an Easter people.

The resurrected life also means living with the promise of eternal life. We throw that term around a lot, but that is one of the bedrock promises of our faith. That through Christ’s resurrection, he has gone ahead to prepare a place for you in God’s eternal care. And when you truly hear that, when you truly believe that, doesn’t that take away so much of our built-in anxiety? We will one day join Jesus, not just for a day trip, but we are marked as Christ’s own forever. So our lives have purpose and meaning that transcends both the minor annoyances and major headaches we encounter as part of the human condition. That’s what it means to be an Easter people.

Finally, the resurrected life means living always in the presence of the risen Lord. Jesus promises to be present with us right in the midst of our very real, very imperfect lives. That’s an amazing thing, right?! That Jesus walks right alongside of you in times of joy and in times of sorrow, when things are going well and when things have completely fallen apart. That’s what it means to be an Easter people.

Before she died, Bishop Harris published a memoir titled Hallelujah, Anyhow. The title comes from an old Baptist hymn that gets to the heart of what we’ve been talking about this morning, about being “Easter people in a Good Friday world.” Here’s the verse; “Never let your troubles get you down. When your troubles come your way, hold your hands up high and say, Hallelujah anyhow!” Of course, it’s a bit more compelling to hear these words sung by a full-throated gospel choir. 

But it’s that “Hallelujah, anyhow” spirit that comes shining through when we take seriously our call to be an Easter people. To live lives of resurrection. To embody Jesus’ promises for peace, for eternal life, and for his abiding presence. That’s what happens when we refuse to leave Easter at a fancy brunch, or at a backyard egg hunt, or when the sugar high wears off, or when the flowers inevitably wither. 

We are an Easter people. Never forget that! For it is what lifts us up and sustains us even when troubles get us down, even when troubles come our way. And we can say, right alongside Bishop Harris and all those who walk with us along the path of this resurrected life, Hallelujah, anyhow.

Easter Day 2024

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 31, 2024 (Easter Day)

When my wife Bryna and I were newly married and our first Easter came around, she decided to take on a long-standing family tradition and make a lamb cake. Her very Polish and very Catholic grandmother made a very large number of these every year for her very large family. The traditional lamb cake involves a metal mold that you pour batter into and once it comes out of the oven, it’s bathed in vanilla frosting and coconut flakes to create the fleece as white as snow, and then adorned with jelly beans for the eyes and mouth. It’s as tasty as it sounds, but it’s hard to get it just right. 

Now, please don’t tell her I said this, but the early years were a hot mess. Despite frantic calls to her grandmother in Western Massachusetts, the batter was never right and the poor lamb just wouldn’t stand up straight. Or at all. Whenever it would be gingerly brought to the table, propped up by God knows what, it would inevitably do a face plant. Right into the dyed green coconut grass. Bryna never actually threw the entire thing across the dining room — but there was always a lot of kitchen drama, a few tears, and my comments of “it doesn’t actually look too bad” and “I bet it still tastes good” were not well received.

As her grandmother slipped into dementia and eventually left this mortal life, Bryna continued the tradition and, truth be told, perfected it. Her lamb cakes are now masterpieces, and they have long been an important Easter tradition in our home. Easter just isn’t Easter without Bryna’s lamb cake.

We all have Easter traditions, some sacred and some secular. But there is always a bit of the mundane to go along with the miraculous. Our gospel account of that first Easter Day, begins with a rather mundane task. Or if not mundane, exactly, certainly practical. The women brought spices to the tomb to anoint Jesus’ body. This burial task often fell to women, and they were simply doing their duty by following the appointed customs of a Jewish burial. Amid their profound grief, they were leaning into the muscle memory of routine. 

But they also had another very practical concern. Along their journey they kept saying to one another, “Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?” And that’s a fair question. They needed the large stone rolled away so they could be about their business of preparing Jesus’ body. 

But as they arrive, they look up to see that the thorny issue of the stone had been resolved. It had already been rolled away. And what they encountered as they entered the tomb that morning was a portal that transported them from the mundane to the miraculous. 

The angel they encounter who announces the resurrection, lifts their gaze and shifts their perspective. He beckons them away from the mundane and towards the miraculous. Their routine, if loving, task of caring for a decomposing body is derailed, and the very trajectory of their lives is forever altered. That’s the power of Christ’s resurrection. Our lives are indelibly changed by the news that the tomb is empty, that our Lord lives. 

And we start to realize that the stone wasn’t rolled away on that first Easter morning to let Jesus out. Nothing could have stopped that. But it was to let us in. To let us in to the miracle of Christ’s resurrection; to let us in to a vision of humanity where peace, joy, and love abide; to let us in to a life where death is not the end; to let us in to a new worldview that drives out fear and ushers in hope. 

And that, my friends, is the miracle of Easter. That we are led from the mundane to the miraculous. That we share in the miracle of Christ’s resurrection. And through it, everything changes. Because the deep joy of Easter is rooted in God’s love not only for all of humanity, but specifically for you. Jesus loves you not in theory or in the abstract. Jesus loves you. Not part of you or only the parts you’re proud of, or only the parts you’re willing to let the world see. Jesus loves all of you. Despite what you’ve done, despite what you’ve left undone. Jesus loves you for who you are, for what you are. And who and what you are is a beloved child of God. Forgiven, redeemed, and loved with abundant and reckless abandon. 

At the end of the day, when you take off the fancy Easter clothes, and somehow find room in your closet for that big hat; when you’ve found that last Easter egg, when the sugar high has worn off, when you finish that last piece of lamb cake, when you’ve finished washing the last dish, when you’ve done all the mundane things that need to be done, you can still revel in the miracle of Christ’s resurrection. Because it changes everything. 

May this Easter Day fill you with the joy of the risen Christ. May it open up for you an ever-deepening relationship with the God who banishes death and despair and offers us new life and hope. And may Christ’s victory over the grave transport you always from the mundane to the miraculous. Alleluia and amen.

Good Friday 2024

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 29, 2024 (Good Friday)

Three crosses. You see them on hillsides, sticking up in farmlands along desolate stretches of highway, on bad religious clipart. You’ve seen the symbol of the three crosses, but maybe haven’t given them much real thought.

The middle one we know. The one that stands a bit taller than the ones on either side. The cross of Christ. The implement of torture that killed our savior. The Roman Empire’s preferred form of execution. A painful and humiliating death reserved for those to be made an example of. Like a man claiming to be a king. A prophet who upset the political status quo. A teacher who exposed the hypocrisy of the religious authorities. Jesus was all of these things. And he was strung up on the hard wood of the cross.

Jesus was put to death because he held up a mirror to the world, and the powers and principalities of the world didn’t like what he reflected back to them. That God’s way is not about power and control, but love and service. As we hear in the prologue to John’s gospel, “He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not. He came unto his own, and his own received him not.” 

When you preach love in a world bent on hate, you end up on a cross. When you teach compassion in a world bent on cruelty, you end up on a cross. When you encourage love of neighbor in a world bent on love of self, you end up on a cross. 

But Jesus also chooses death. Because toning down God’s message, compromising on God’s message of love, was never an option. Jesus can only love wholly and without exception. He simply cannot love with conditions. And he knew that in the end, divine love would overcome death. And so he enters Jerusalem, knowing full well how this would all go down. Knowing full well that he would drink the bitter cup of crucifixion. To prove to us, to demonstrate through his broken body, that love is indeed stronger than death.

But Scripture tells us that Jesus didn’t die alone. In Matthew, Mark, and Luke, we hear that there were two other crosses, that two criminals were crucified, one on either side of him. Hence the image of the three crosses. In Luke’s gospel we hear about the interaction between Jesus and these two men, as life slowly and painfully drains out of their bodies. And the difference between how they approach death is striking. One of them continues to mock Jesus. “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” There’s no remorse for the crimes he committed. With his dying breath, he spews hate and derision. He is literally next to the Messiah, but his heart is hardened. His eyes cannot see, his ears cannot hear, the message of love and peace radiating from Jesus’ very being, even as his breath becomes labored and pain sears his body.

But the other criminal has noticed Jesus. Perhaps he saw something in his eyes. A sense of peace. Perhaps he saw him looking with compassion upon those who mocked him and spat at him. Perhaps he saw the forgiveness he reserved for the soldiers tasked with nailing his hands and feet to the wood of the cross. Perhaps he heard the love in his voice as Jesus quietly prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

And suddenly this man who has lived a life of immorality and crime, feeding off of and exploiting the weakness of others, is transformed. He doesn’t join in the insults of the other criminal. He, who would have nothing to do with Jesus or his teachings as he bullied his way through life, looks over at his fellow criminal and asks, “Do you not fear God? We have been condemned justly, but this man has done nothing wrong.” As the life begins to drain from his body, he defends Jesus. He testifies to his innocence. Despite living a life worthy of condemnation, he turns to Jesus at the very end. He believes in him. He puts his soul into his hands. 

In the end, this man is the only one who speaks up for Jesus. The disciples have fled. Peter, the rock upon whom Christ has built his church, has denied him three times. Fear has overtaken his closest friends. Their silence is deafening. But one man speaks up. One man testifies to the truth. One man, the last person anyone would expect, stands up for Jesus. He is known to us as the penitent thief, by tradition he died to the cross at Jesus’ right side. His last words are, “Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom.”

We have two choices when it comes to to our response to the cross. Like the first criminal we can deride it or minimize it or trivialize it. We can ignore its power, its triumph, its pain, and its glory. We can live our lives never experiencing the true peace and joy that only comes from knowing at the very core of our being that we are loved and forgiven.

Or we can make it the defining statement of our lives. We can experience Jesus’ death as an act of love. One that banishes the fear of death that so often defines our interactions with ourselves and others. We can allow our souls to be filled with the peace of God that passes all understanding. That’s what Jesus wants for you. That’s why Jesus was willing to be betrayed into the hands of sinners and put to death on a cross. Because he desperately and irrepressibly loves you and longs for you.

“Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom.” May that be our prayer this day and at the hour of our death. When Jesus will lovingly gaze upon you, as he did to the penitent thief, and reply, “Truly I tell you, this day you will be with me in Paradise.”

Palm Sunday 2024

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 24, 2024 (Palm Sunday)

There’s an old blues standard written by the late great T-Bone Walker called Stormy Monday. If you’re a fan of the blues, as I am, you surely know it. It’s been covered by everyone from B.B. King to the Allman Brothers, Etta James to Muddy Waters. Stormy Monday’s been ringing in my ears this week as we begin our journey into Holy Week, and prepare to walk the way of the cross.  Because dark storm clouds are forming on the horizon. As we hear and participate in the story of our Lord’s Passion, a sense of foreboding has arisen in the midst of our Palm Sunday celebration. The events of the coming week have been set in motion. 

One of the hallmarks of the blues, and certainly Stormy Monday, is the concept of the blue note. Musically speaking, it’s a note that goes lower than what you might expect based on the standard scale. So it stands out. In the hands of an old blues master the blue note is arresting, sounding a note of melancholy even in the midst of an upbeat melody.

On Palm Sunday, the Passion gospel provides a liturgical blue note, as the entire tone of our worship shifts from the euphoria of “Hosanna!” to the agony of “Crucify!” One moment we’re waving our palms and participating in a parade, and the next we’re confronting our complicity in the death of our Lord. 

The thing is, the Christian faith is not ultimately about pomp and circumstance, and public displays. It’s not about big crowds cheering on the arrival of a celebrity. It’s about the transformation of lives. It’s about God’s love moving hearts and changing the world. Faith is not merely performative; it’s personal. And the story of the crucifixion embedded within our worship serves as a stark reminder of this.

The blue note has sounded, storm clouds have gathered, an element of foreboding has been introduced. And we can’t go back. We can’t pretend we didn’t hear it. Because beneath the exuberance and jubilation of the Palm Sunday procession, lies an undercurrent of sorrow and sacrifice, of suffering and sadness. Joy and sorrow coexist on this day, as they so often do in our own lives.

And this blue note sets the tone for all that follows in the week ahead. The emotion, the intensity, the opportunity to walk with Jesus through his last days. Things have shifted. And the events that lead to the redemption of the world will rapidly unfold, both here at Bethesda and throughout the world. 

In music, the blue note also evokes a sense of yearning, a longing to once again be made whole. And for us, Christ’s passion isn’t merely something to push past on the way to our Easter celebration. Hope is embedded within the agony of the cross. For it is through the cross of Jesus that we emerge a people forgiven and loved. Not for anything we’ve done or achieved, but simply because we have been marvelously made in God’s image. 

I encourage you to embrace the fullness of the Christian story this week. Come to the liturgies of Holy Week — especially if you’ve never participated in them before. Allow yourself to be transported and transformed by your relationship with Jesus Christ. We can’t live parade to parade, Palm Sunday to Easter Day, without acknowledging the blue note of our Lord’s passion. And recognizing that only by walking through it, rather than around it, can we fully embrace the meaning of the resurrection celebration that is to come. 

Fourth Sunday in Lent, Year B

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 10, 2024 (Fourth Sunday in Lent)

You may know the story of the Christian missionary who traveled to India to meet Mahatma Gandhi. He asked him this question, “Mr. Gandhi, though you quote the words of Christ often, why is it that you appear to so adamantly reject becoming his follower?” Gandhi replied, “Oh, I don’t reject your Christ. I love your Christ. It is just that so many of you Christians are so unlike your Christ.”

And it’s true. Every single day we fail to live up to his words. We fail to love our neighbors as ourselves. We turn a blind eye to those in need. We don’t forgive others as we have been forgiven. The list goes on and on. I could go on and on. But I think you get the point. We are fallen creatures, “miserable offenders” as the old Prayer Book put it. And, yes, I do miss the old Prayer Book.

Precisely because of our humanity we will always be “unlike Christ.” The point of being a Christian, of following Jesus, is that we are forever striving to put our lives into greater harmony with the life and teachings of Jesus Christ. We seek to love one another as God loves us. We aim to break down the human barriers that divide us one from another. And we always stumble, we inevitably fail. 

Of course, the goal is not to become Christ — that’s not in the realm of possibility. Rather, it is to continually seek to become more Christ-like. And until we draw our last mortal breath, that’s the thrust, that’s the trajectory, that’s the hope: to become more Christ-like in our interactions with one another, and in the ways we daily live out our lives. That’s what keeps those of us who follow Jesus reading Scripture and coming to church and saying our prayers. We are all, every single one of us, a spiritual work in progress. And that’s okay. That’s what we do. That’s who we are. 

The good news, as we heard Jesus say in the gospel reading from John appointed for this morning is that, “God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world.” That’s an amazing thing, right? Because if there was ever a group worthy of condemnation, it’s us. We have heard Jesus’ message of love and grace, but have failed to fully enact it in our lives. We have failed to honor the divine spark that is so deeply embedded in our very souls.

And yet. “God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world.” But if “God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world,” why did God send the Son into the world? Well, that famous John 3:16 verse tells us: “God so loved the world that he gave his only son to the end that all that believe in him should have everlasting life.” 

I actually memorized that verse as a kid — which was not something that happened a whole lot growing up in the Episcopal Church. But I was so enamored with the guy in the rainbow-colored wig who always seemed to sit right behind home plate at World Series games and at the 50 yard line at the Super Bowl holding up that John 3:16 sign. You remember that guy? I could never understand how he always had the best seats to the best games. 

And so one day, when I was with my family on vacation somewhere and there was a big game on TV, and I spotted the guy with the rainbow wig holding up his sign, I went back to our hotel room, picked up the obligatory Gideon’s Bible, and looked up John 3:16. Which is why I can only recite the King James Version: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only-begotten Son that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” I’m pretty sure I thought that if I only memorized that verse, my beloved Baltimore Orioles would win the World Series that year. It didn’t work.

But rainbow wigs aside, I’m struck by the contrast between hearing that God sent Jesus not to condemn, but to love. And this isn’t just an abstract or theoretical concept. Jesus does not condemn us, but so often we, consciously or not, do a pretty good job at self-condemnation. We condemn ourselves for our moral failings, for things we have done and things we have left undone. We condemn ourselves because we don’t actually believe that we are worthy of God’s love. We condemn ourselves because we don’t actually believe that God could love us unconditionally. We condemn ourselves because we don’t actually believe Jesus when he says that we don’t need to live our lives gripped by fear. And so we condemn ourselves for not being good enough or smart enough or attractive enough. And that self-condemnation leads to a cycle of shame and guilt that is not of God; the God who sent his son into the world not to condemn us, but to love us fully and wholly and without exception.

The season of Lent is a time to reflect upon our shortcomings, to “acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness.” But I think we sometimes fail to remember that this process of self-examination and repentance is rooted in God’s love for us, not condemnation. Lent is a season of freedom and grace, not shame and guilt. Which is why being honest with ourselves about the ways we fail to be more Christ-like is so important.

The writer and Christian apologist C.S. Lewis once wrote that, “Those who do not think about their own sins make up for it by thinking incessantly about the sins of others.” And boy is that the truth. So it’s a healthy thing to think about our own sinfulness this Lent. And not only healthy but, in the long run, helpful. Because when we do, we start to see that there is light and forgiveness in Jesus Christ. Again, God so loved the world, that he sent his son to love the world. To love you. 

And while I won’t be donning a rainbow wig this morning to share the message of God’s abiding grace, mostly because I don’t have one, I hope you can hear this message and allow it to infuse your very soul. Don’t condemn yourself because of your shortcomings and failures — God doesn’t. God simply wants you to get to know Jesus Christ in ever-deepening ways, to worship him, to follow him, to meditate on God’s holy Word, and to strive always to be more Christ-like as you make your way in the world.

First Sunday in Lent, Year B

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on January 18, 2024 (First Sunday in Lent, Year B)

Wilderness. The word alone evokes so many images and feelings; positive and negative, awe-inspiring and frightening. You can get lost in the wilderness, yet it can also be a place of stunning beauty. At its root is the word “wild,” so “wilderness” derives from the notion of “wildness.” Which really means that which cannot be controlled by humans.

For those of us of a certain generation, it’s impossible to think about wild things without conjuring images of Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are. Those vividly colorful illustrations of Max’s bedroom being transformed into a wild jungle. A place where “the wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws.” 

But while we’ve been drawn into such places through storybooks or movies, and while we’ve all spent time out in nature, most of us haven’t ever experienced a true wilderness. A place where we are physically isolated with even odds that we’ll ever make it out alive. For a lot of us the concept of wilderness may mean little more than spotty cell phone coverage. Or it might mean we’re on vacation surrounded by mountains or beautiful natural scenery — a sort of genteel wilderness with a rustic lodge waiting for us when we tire of all that nature. 

Frankly, a true wilderness is tough to find here on the east coast of Florida. The developers have made sure of that. And while the Everglades looms large over this region, most of us don’t pass it on the way to Publix. 

So at one level it’s tough to relate to Jesus being cast out into the wilderness for 40 days and 40 nights. It’s hard to imagine the hunger, the thirst, the fear, the isolation. The very human physical and mental response to such deprivation and uncertainty. 

But at an emotional or metaphorical level, we all know exactly what it’s like to have a wilderness experience. There are times in our lives when we’ve felt alone or emotionally isolated or cut off from those we love. There are times when we’ve known the depths of despair. Times when we have been gripped by such a deep and visceral grief that we question whether we’ll ever be able to climb out of it. Some of you may even be in such a state this morning, doing your best to hide it from the world.

Life itself can feel like a series of forays into the wilderness. But the thing about the wilderness is it can also be a place of clarity. Perhaps not when you’re deep in the thick of it, but often in retrospect. Think about the difficult moments in your life. You probably grew from them or learned something about yourself. You may have grown closer to God through the experience.

This doesn’t make being in the wilderness easy. It’s not. It can be hard and heartless, suffocating and scary. It can make you question everything you believe in. But it can also serve as preparation for what is to come; to a new phase of life, a new venture, a new calling. 

Every year on the first Sunday in Lent we hear the story of Jesus being tempted by satan out in that wilderness. In Matthew and Luke we hear the familiar repartee between Jesus and the devil: “If you are the son of God, turn these stones into bread” with the reply “Man does not live by bread alone.” Back and forth they go with Jesus being tempted by the allure of wealth and power, yet not giving in to the wiles of the evil one.

But in Mark’s gospel, we get the trimmed down version. I’ve always thought of Mark as the Ernest Hemingway of the four evangelists. He’s brief, to the point, and in a hurry. There’s an immediacy in his words, the oldest and shortest account of Jesus’ life. When it comes to this story upon which the season of Lent is based, all we hear is that Jesus was “driven out” into the wilderness for 40 days, was tempted, and then the angels waited on him following the ordeal.

In a similar way, every year we are thrust into Lent. And it can be a bit jarring. You look around the church and the amazing flower displays are gone. There’s a starkness to the liturgy. On the first Sunday in Lent we begin with the Great Litany. Which in itself feels a bit like being in the wilderness — it can leave you wondering whether you’ll actually ever emerge from it. 

But entering the wilderness of Lent should feel like a holy disruption. We are thrust into a season that forces us to consider the very state of our spiritual lives. And for many of us, if we’re honest, there’s been some drift. We’ve strayed off the path. We’ve spent time following too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and we have done those things which we ought not to have done. 

And so this season offers us an opportunity to recalibrate and renew, to refresh and recommit to our walk with Jesus Christ. It’s not about guilt or shame, but an invitation to be reminded of just how much Jesus desires to walk alongside you. To comfort you, to care for you, to challenge you, to love you.

So I invite you to embrace the wilderness of Lent. To see it as a season of possibility and renewal. Not necessarily by giving up chocolate — Lent must be more than some sort of diet plan. But by seeking out time to spend with Jesus through prayer and silence, through worship and learning. 

At Bethesda, we have so many opportunities to deepen our individual and collective faith over the next five weeks. I encourage you to choose even just one. It may be joining me for Morning Prayer or attending the Wednesday eucharist, it may be signing up for our Lenten retreat or joining our Wednesday evening book study. Or it may be simply spending some intentional time with Scripture or in prayer. There’s not a one-size fits all approach to experiencing the wilderness of Lent. But there’s has to be some approach. And I invite you to try a spiritual discipline that you’ll hopefully find rewarding and that will draw you ever closer to the heart of God.

At the end of Where the Wild Things Are, Max leaves the wilderness of the Wild Things and returns to the place where he is loved and comforted. He goes home, replenished and renewed. The Lenten wilderness may be challenging, even disconcerting at times. But mirroring Jesus’ 40 days and 40 nights, we will come out the other side hopefully with some spiritual clarity. Because when we embrace the wilderness of Lent, we leave it transformed and ready to step into the warm glow of resurrection glory. So today our Lenten journey begins. Or, as Max might say, “Let the wild Lenten rumpus start.”

Ash Wednesday 2024

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on January 11, 2024 (Ash Wednesday)

Well, this is romantic. Spending Valentine’s Day together; talking about death. And of course, you can’t spell Valentine without “lent.” 

This Ash Wednesday/Valentine’s Day mashup is a pretty rare occurrence. The last time it happened was in 2018, the day of the Parkland school shooting. Which I know hit close to home for many of you. I’ll never forget that heartbreaking image of a mother with a cross of ashes on her forehead crying out in agony; an image that was beamed all over the world. Painfully poignant on a day we repent of our propensity for violence, our indifference to suffering, our blindness to injustice and cruelty.

And the time before that was in 1945, a year when the destruction of World War II was still fresh, even as the euphoria of victory celebrations would soon spill out into the streets. And here we are  again gathered on a day stereotypically set aside to both receive chocolate and to give up chocolate. Which is all rather confusing.

But, regardless of the date upon which it falls, Ash Wednesday has always been a day of paradox. We hear Jesus warn us about practicing our piety before others, and then we put ashes on our foreheads and practice our piety before others. We confess our sinfulness and the utter depravity of the human condition, and then we are assured of divine forgiveness. We proclaim our own mortality by being reminded that we are dust and to dust we shall return, and then we proclaim our share in Christ’s immortality through the Eucharist.

This is a day of paradox, a day that points to a paradoxical faith. A faith where out of despair there is hope, out of grief there is joy, out of death there is life. A faith where we can be, as Paul writes, sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything; as dying and yet alive.

Today we begin our journey into the depths of this paradox as we enter the wilderness of Lent. A journey that will take us to the cross, and the depths of despair; a journey that will culminate in the empty tomb, and the heights of exultation.

And into this paradox we hear Jesus speak about the interplay between exterior actions and interior motivations. This is the gospel passage we hear every year on Ash Wednesday and it helps frame our own entrance into the season of Lent, this time of reflection and repentance.

Jesus holds up three pillars of the spiritual life — alms giving, prayer, and fasting. In Jesus’ day, these were the primary external ways you could tell someone was religious. They gave money to the poor, they prayed regularly, and they fasted at the appointed times. These are all things you could do quietly and without notice, but they are also things that could be done with a bit of fanfare. You could prove your great religiosity and bring honor upon yourself if you approached the alms basin when you knew people were looking; you could pray in public places where people would see you and comment upon your great piety; you could try to look as miserable as possible when you fasted so everyone knew just how devoted you were to your spiritual disciplines. Public alms giving, praying, and fasting were the ancient version of keeping up with the Joneses.

Now I know this seems a little out-of-synch with our own context. Most of us aren’t going to stand up in the middle of Renato’s on Worth Avenue and make a great show of saying grace before dinner to impress family, friend, and stranger. But maybe we like having a fancy car and pulling up in front of the restaurant. Maybe we like whipping out our platinum card when the bill comes, making a great gesture of our generosity. We make shows of ourselves in different ways but the principle is the same.

And, just as on Valentine’s Day, it all gets back to the heart. For Jesus, it’s not about the heart-shaped box of chocolates but the interior work of the heart. It’s about the motivations that drive us. Do our actions honor God or do they draw attention to ourselves? Are they humble manifestations of service or are they intended to puff us up?

When there is integration between our actions and our motivations, our faith is in harmony. When there is a disconnect between what we do and what we feel, well, Jesus has a word for that: hypocrisy.

Now, we’re all hypocrites to some degree. To be human is to have mixed motives. But Jesus is warning us against the temptation of seeking validation from others. Of measuring our self-worth by what others think. None of that matters when we are being true to God. And Lent is a time to examine our motivations and the motives of our hearts. It is an opportunity to recalibrate and rethink and retool our inner most heart’s desires. It is a chance to open our hearts and renew our faith. It is a season to bring our actions and motivations into greater harmony.

And this is where Lent’s invitation to self-examination and repentance can bring our lives into greater harmony and bring us even closer in our relationship with God. You don’t need to prove your self-worth to God. You already have God’s approval. You are already affirmed and validated and deemed worthy. God sees your hypocrisy and still loves you. God sees your strivings and still encourages you. Lent is a season to allow God into your heart and in turn, to give your heart over to God.

The ashes you will soon receive are not outward marks of piety but inward signs of your own mortality. They are a reminder of what matters. That life is short and that our primary calling is to love God and love neighbor with all our heart and all our mind and all our soul. That God has marked you for both death and eternal life. That you are dust and to dust you shall return, and that you are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own forever.

This is a day of paradox; but ultimately, whether or not it falls on Valentine’s Day, this is a day of love. Of deep, abiding, and unabashed divine love. I bid you welcome into this holy season.

Last Sunday after the Epiphany (Year B)

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on January 11, 2024 (Last Epiphany, Year B)

I’m not a big awards show watcher. Oscars, Emmys, Tonys, Grammys. The percentage of nominated movies, TV shows, plays, and music that I’ve seen, watched, or listened to tends to be rather miniscule. But I happened to tune in to the Grammy Awards last Sunday night. At least the beginning of it — by the time Taylor Swift won her fourth Album of the Year Grammy, I was fast asleep. But in between the apparently famous artists I’d never heard of, there was one performance that really stood out to me. 

One of the most popular hits last year was country music star Luke Combs covering Tracy Chapman’s 1988 song Fast Car. Perhaps you know the iconic original tune, or you’ve heard the newer version — I was at a minor hockey game on Friday night and they even played it there. 

I’ve always followed Tracy Chapman, partly because her songs are powerful both musically and lyrically, but also because she graduated from my alma mater Tufts University, the year before I arrived for my freshman year. Before she was “discovered,” she used to play to a handful of people in the Campus Center, or she’d take her guitar to Harvard Square and sit outside strumming and singing to passers-by. It was a humble start to a critically acclaimed career.

Now, on the surface of things, you wouldn’t think that Combs, a large bearded country singer from rural North Carolina, with a ubiquitous southern twang, would choose to sing a 35-year-old song written by a gay black woman from Cleveland. In our hopelessly divided world, the barriers of shared experience would seem insurmountable. But Luke Combs says that Fast Car was his first favorite song, one that he played over and over again, learning that memorable guitar part, and he’s always considered Tracy Chapman to be one of his idols.

And that performance at the Grammys, this duet sung between Luke Combs and Tracy Chapman, was a transcendent experience. Combs was clearly in awe of Chapman, visibly moved to share the stage with this trailblazer of an artist, as they sang this soulful, heart-achingly beautiful song together. 

The other reason this particular moment was so powerful is the song itself. Fast Car is an evocative and expressive lament, one that touches on broken dreams and the inability to escape one’s financial and emotional circumstances. It resonated in the late 1980s, especially for poor and marginalized communities, and it certainly resonates today for a large segment of society as the wealth gap continues to drive a wedge into the social order. 

And so this musical moment, this harmony across difference broke open the false narrative of culture wars and the ensuing divisions they sow, and pointed to the universality of the human condition. It allowed us to see that the fear and hopelessness felt by so many Americans crosses barriers of race and gender, generation and geography. It allowed us to see that when we peel back these layers of fear and the ensuing hate, there is a seed of hope. And that is a message we could all stand to hear. 

In real time, this felt like a mountaintop moment. A moment where time stood still, a moment where earth and heaven touched one another. I was moved. I was inspired. It literally gave me chills. And while I know that talking about a mountaintop experience is much less compelling than actually experiencing one, we need more such moments in our lives. The world needs more such moments. 

As we hear the story of Jesus’ transfiguration up on that mountaintop, it’s hard not to want to experience the same thing. To experience a moment of utter transcendence and transformation. Peter, James, and John were privileged, if rather confused and terrified, to experience this outward display of the divinity of Jesus. They were literally standing in the warm glow of divine love as they heard the words coming out of the cloud, “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!” 

We desperately crave so-called mountaintop experiences, moments when we feel especially connected to God or spiritually plugged in. They’re always more elusive than we hope and when you have one you just want to press the pause button and revel in it before inevitably heading back down the mountain. I think that’s the motivation for Peter’s rather awkward and impetuous suggestion to “make three dwellings.” He wanted to mark and preserve this moment. 

But the thing is, you can’t will yourself into having some profoundly moving divine encounter. You can’t spend your life climbing up mountains trying to conjure God’s presence. You can’t manufacture spirituality. The life of faith isn’t a widget made by human hands, but a mystery into which God invites us. So it’s not dependent upon us doing the right things or reciting the right prayers or checking the right boxes or making proverbial dwellings. Rather, it’s about being drawn into a living relationship of grace and love. 

That’s what the resurrected Christ offers us. And the transfiguration offers the disciples a foretaste of the glory that is to come. Jesus’ divinity comes shining forth as he is transfigured before their eyes. It’s as fleeting as it is dazzling. And they’ll need to hold onto this glimpse of glory as they head back down the mountain, back down to reality, back down to face the crucifixion that is to come.  

In the coming days, as we move into the season of Lent, we will journey from today’s mountaintop to tomorrow’s wilderness. From the grand vista of the risen Christ in all his glory, to our Lord’s temptation and ultimately to the agony of the cross. We will get back to the mountaintop, but not before first traveling the way of the cross. 

The good news is, you don’t need an actual mountain to have a mountaintop experience. All you need is an open heart and a willingness to encounter Jesus Christ. Which is why you can have one even while sitting on the couch after a long day and tuning into an awards show.

Perhaps this moment of harmony and healing that took place at the Grammys will prove as fleeting as Jesus’ transfiguration. But just as Peter, James, and John were able to hold onto that mountaintop moment through the deep valleys that would soon follow, I hope we can hold on to this mountaintop moment even as we all scurry back into the safety of our political tribes in the days and months ahead. We will need all the unity we can muster.

But I also hope that as we continually seek to listen to God’s beloved Son, we remember that we are all one in Christ. It is only in him that, transcending all human barriers, we find our unity, our purpose, and our faith. Thanks be to the God who always lifts us up, and never leaves us to go it alone.

Rector’s Annual Report for 2023

The Rector’s Annual Report

Bethesda Sunday: January 28, 2024

When I was a young cleric, the first parish I served as rector was a small, beautiful stone church in Briarcliff Manor, New York, about 20 miles up the Hudson from New York City. It was called All Saints’ Church, and I took great pleasure in this. I love saints and I love All Saints’ Day, and so we always had a big blowout celebration on All Saints’ Sunday. Frankly, I also enjoyed telling my clergy friends that, while it was nice that they served a St. Mark’s Church or a St. Mary’s Church or whatever, the church I served was All Saints’. Every single one of them. So, obviously my church was better than theirs.

Well, we all know that pride goeth before a fall, so this came crashing down on me when I was next called to serve a church called St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts. I was demoted back down to just one saint. But still, every year we always celebrated our patronal festival and made a big deal about St. John the Evangelist. 

And then I came to Bethesda-by-the-Sea. And as you well know, there is no such thing as St. Bethesda. In the span of 20 years, I’ve gone from all of the saints to none of them! And not only that, there’s no saint’s day or feast day to celebrate our community. Until now. Because I have from henceforth, with the bishop’s permission of course, declared the last Sunday of January as Bethesda Sunday. Every year on the day we hold our Annual Meeting, we will celebrate our faith, our community, and our ministry together. We will hear the story from John’s gospel about the Pool of Bethesda, which literally means “place of healing,” and we will pray the Bethesda Prayer, which I wrote for this occasion. And then we will gather for our annual meeting and have a parish picnic after the 11 o’clock service. So welcome to the very first Bethesda Sunday.

One of the things I love about preparing for the annual meeting is the opportunity to pause and take stock of where we are as a parish. It’s a chance for all of us to look back at the year that has passed and peer into the future.

And I have to say that my first full year among you has been an exciting, fun, full, faithful, spirit-filled time at Bethesda-by-the-Sea. The Holy Spirit is absolutely moving in this place. I certainly feel it. And I hope you do too.

The Spirit blowing around Bethesda is leading us to try some new things, to take some chances, to dream big, to act boldly. Even as we hold onto and celebrate all the cherished traditions that make Bethesda such a special place. And it is this balance between tradition and innovation that is such a joy to behold and to be a part of.

So how do I see the Holy Spirit manifesting itself among us? As I’ve reflected on our common life together, I see what I’d call the five “spirits.” They transcend finances and attendance figures, all of which are highlighted in our annual report, and are absolutely trending upwards. For example, we had 400 more people at our Christmas services this year and pledging was up 25%. But what I’m seeing and feeling is bigger than this.

At Bethesda-by-the-Sea, I see and feel a spirit of invitation. A spirit of connection. A spirit of generosity. A spirit of vitality. A spirit of innovation. So, let’s take a look at these. 

First, there’s a spirit of invitation. Whether they first encounter an usher, a Bethesda Ambassador, a member of the staff, or any one of us, it makes a big difference when people are genuinely and authentically welcomed here. Not because they look or act a certain way, or because we want to hand them a pledge card, but simply because Scripture bids us to welcome the stranger. And because we know how much our own lives have been touched and transformed through our encounter with Jesus Christ in this place, we want to share that with others. 

I’ve witnessed a number of you inviting friends to join us on our journey, both people new to Bethesda and those who may have drifted apart from this community. Some say yes, some say no. But the doors are always open, the invitation is always extended. No matter who you are, where you’re from, who you love, or what you believe, the message we communicate to the world is that there is always a place for you at Bethesda-by-the-Sea.

And when we view our entire campus as a spiritual oasis, we want others to come and see and experience God’s presence in the church or on our grounds. Does our community change when others are welcomed into the congregation? Absolutely! And it’s not just because someone may have the audacity to sit in “your” pew. It’s because they bring their gifts and talents and beliefs and their very souls to bear on the community. Growth is always a dynamic and sometimes scary force. But we’re here to share the good news, not keep it to ourselves. And I think we alway need that reminder. We have a wonderful welcoming ministry in our Bethesda Ambassadors. But we can never forget that we are all — every single one of us — ambassadors of hospitality and welcome. So there’s a spirit of invitation.

There’s a spirit of connection. As a community of faith we are rooted in the greatest commandment. Jesus tells us to love God and love neighbor. And that’s where connection happens, when we are connected to God and connected to one another. We connect to God through the unparalleled liturgy, music, and worship that happens within our walls — and I don’t ever want you to take for granted what happens here on Sunday mornings. It is extraordinary, it is inspired, it is holy. And it brings us all closer to God. 

Being connected to one another is also such an important part of what we do here. For anyone who’s ever participated in Boar’s Head or served on a committee or worked with the Flower Guild; for anyone who’s ever been an acolyte or attended Bible study or volunteered at the Church Mouse, or countless other opportunities, you know how we grow when we connect to others in this place. It’s said that you get out of a faith community what you put into it. I can’t encourage you enough to engage here, because connecting with others broadens our understanding of the wideness of God’s love. So there’s a spirit of connection.

There’s a spirit of generosity. This often manifests itself in financial giving. And I’ve seen this play out through our annual campaign, but also through special gifts for projects like the choir room renovation, our remodeled first floor nursery, a matching grant to help us pay for a Family Ministry Coordinator, our tower lighting project, funding for our Alpha program, among others. People want to see Bethesda thrive, and I am incredibly grateful that those in a financial position to make a difference are doing just that.

Cultivating a spirit of generosity and encouraging people to give according to their means — whatever the amount — is an important mark of a thriving community of faith. It’s also a spiritual discipline that demands conversation rather than avoidance. Which is why I’ve promised to always be open and transparent with you when it comes to the financial needs of this parish.

But this is also about a generosity of time. We don’t punch the clock when we do ministry around here, but a lot of you have pretty full time sheets. And I want you to know just how much you inspire me as I look around this place. I know you aren’t serving God through Bethesda to be noticed but still, I notice, and I give thanks to you every single day for the ways you serve God through this parish. It matters, and it makes a difference. So there’s a spirit of generosity. 

There’s a spirit of vitality. Now, the life of faith isn’t about having a really long to-do list. That’s not the point, surely. But when you show up at church on Sundays or during the week, there’s a lot happening around here. People are meeting and studying and cooking and folding and hauling and arranging. But it’s not just the hive of activity I notice, it’s the joy. People are happy to be here, excited to be here, energized to be here.

I’m fully aware that salvation doesn’t come through church committees, but one of the reasons we’ve started some new ones like our reenergized Outreach Committee and our incredibly talented Communications Committee, is that there is such incredible giftedness that resides in this community, and my goal is to simply unlock the gifts you all have and encourage you to share them with this community. It’s nice to have some clergy around, but lay ministry will always be the foundation of a thriving parish. And we will continue to nurture it and encourage you to use your creativity and talents in the service of our Lord. So there’s a spirit of vitality.

Finally, there’s a spirit of innovation. I hope to continue to create space for failure. That may sound like an odd statement. But when we aren’t afraid to fail, it gives us the freedom to try new things, to be creative in ministry. I’m all for throwing some things against the wall and seeing what sticks. God will always make it pretty clear what will fly and what won’t. 

But it is in this spirit that we have created the Bethesda Center for Spirituality; that we have brought the Alpha program to Bethesda; that we are reimagining the Bethesda Bookshop as a hospitality hub in the middle of our campus; that we are thinking boldly about how we can make the greatest impact with our outreach efforts, in a way that blends financial generosity with hands-on opportunities for service; that we are seeking creative ways to share our worship and ministry with the wider world; that we are building a staffing plan that supports our vision for the future. Bethesda should be a leader when it comes to revitalization efforts in the wider church, and when we embrace this responsibility our impact only deepens. So there’s a spirit of innovation.

These five spirits are all shared within the context of our vision which, as a reminder, is built on two pillars: Seeing Bethesda as a Spiritual Oasis, a place where parishioners and visitors are drawn on Sundays and throughout the week for inspiration and transformation. And seeing Bethesda as a Beacon of Hope, offering grace and compassion to a broken, hurting, and divided world. Everything we’re hoping to do and be is rooted in these two pillars, along with our commitment to “Love and Serve” the Lord. 

In the end, I encourage you not just to go to church, but to be the church. To nurture your relationship with the living Christ through our many spiritual offerings; to live your life as an active follower of Jesus, not a passive recipient of the faith; to invite others to come and see what’s happening at Bethesda; to get involved and share your gifts with this community; to open your hearts and minds to the possibility that God is doing something new and amazing both in your own life, and here at Bethesda-by-the-Sea. 

In the King James Version of our passage from John’s gospel about Jesus’ healing of the man in the pool of Bethesda, we hear that an angel would occasionally go down and “trouble the water.” I love that phrase. This stirring up, this troubling of the water is what led people to seek it out as a place of healing. God is absolutely troubling the water at Bethesda-by-the-Sea. I encourage you to boldly step in, and prepare to be transformed by the one who loves us, forgives us, strengthens us, heals us, and sustains us.

May God bless us all in the year ahead.