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.

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.

Fourth Sunday in Lent (Year A)

A Sermon from the Church of  

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

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 19, 2023 (Lent 4A)

So, if you’re a real student of the eucharistic lectionary — that three-year cycle of Sunday morning readings — and I’m sure that you are, you would know that last Sunday, this Sunday, and next Sunday give us the three longest gospel passages of the entire lexicon. (Well, besides the Passion Gospel on Palm Sunday, but you get to sit through most of that). Last Sunday it was the woman at the well, today it’s the man born blind, and next week it’s the raising of Lazarus. All from John’s gospel. And all very, very long. Like, longer than the typical sermon long.

And these long passages in the last weeks before Palm Sunday and Holy Week signal that something is different. We’re preparing for something big and bold, something miraculous and holy. But in the meantime, we’re going long. 

But sometimes compelling stories just take a while to tell. It’s why the Cliffs Notes versions of books are never as satisfying as the real thing. Much is sacrificed on the altar of brevity. Unless you’re in middle school and you just don’t care enough to actually read through the entirety of Wuthering Heights. That’s totally hypothetical, by the way.

But this story about the man born blind is an engaging tale with a number of characters playing prominent roles. There’s the man himself and Jesus, of course, along with his disciples. But along the way we also meet his parents and a group of Pharisees. The story takes time to unfold and there are many layers to it.

And this particular very-long-passage involves a miracle story. Now, miracles are funny things. The danger is that we spend either too much time trying to explain the mechanics of them, while ignoring their overall significance. Or we spend too much time on metaphorical interpretations, while minimizing the truly miraculous. We can’t explain how this particular miracle of sight took place any more than we can explain how water turned into wine or how five loaves and two fish fed 5,000 people. That’s the thing about miracles: they defy human logic and explanation. And so rational, thinking Christians tend not to dwell upon them. ‘They’re fine for Sunday School lessons,’ we think, ‘but let’s just move on to something a bit more…tangible.’ This, of course, doesn’t do justice to the ministry of Jesus; nor does it leave open the possibility for the miraculous to touch our own lives. Our lack of faith, in other words, limits the power of God. Or at least attempts to.

What sets this story apart from other miraculous healings is that Jesus does something physical — he uses something other than his voice. And it even happens in two parts. The application of mud and spittle are followed by a wash in the pool of Siloam. So Jesus isn’t even present when the man’s sight is restored. His other healings take effect immediately with a simple word, a look, a touch, or a command: “Take up your mat and walk,” “Be opened,” “Go, your faith has made you well.” But the end result is the same. Someone is healed; a life is transformed.

But we also can’t ignore the metaphorical implications of this story. They are so prominent and such an integral part of this passage. Jesus has come into the world to give sight to the blind — quite literally in this story. But he has also come into the world to make God known to humanity. To open our eyes to see the hand of God at work in the world, and to offer salvation to those who have eyes to see. Our response is to either accept that which is set before us by Jesus, or close our eyes tightly like the Pharisees in this story and remain blinded by our own sinfulness.

And, of course, physical blindness, the inability to see with one’s eyes, has nothing to do with the blindness referred to by John. The Pharisees may have had 20/20 vision but they remain blind to the saving power of Jesus Christ. They turn a blind eye to Jesus. An action even more dramatically emphasized by the driving away of this formerly blind man. Out of sight, out of mind. 

So, blindness is not determined by physical sight but by the revelation of the works of God through the ministry of Jesus. And this point is made at the very beginning of this story. As the disciples come upon this blind beggar they ask Jesus whether this man or his parents sinned because he was born blind. Jesus tells them neither, that he was born blind “so that God’s works might be revealed in him.” The man is transformed from physical blindness into a person who can see, but the critical point for Jesus is his movement to spiritual sight. He now knows through personal experience, the saving power of Jesus Christ.

But it’s also worth pausing to examine the Pharisees’ initial question. Because there was an assumption in the ancient world that physical limitations or disabilities were the cause of sin. Who sinned, this man or his parents that he was born blind? Our theology, thanks to Jesus, has moved beyond this limited perspective. But there’s still a nagging sense that someone who doesn’t meet the physical ideals of perfection is somehow weak or less than whole.

In my own case, you can’t help but notice that I have some palsy on the right side of my face. I don’t have a traditional “winning smile.” I recently heard speculation that it was the result of my time in the Army — that an unspecified accident was involved. And as much as I’d love a glamorous backstory, the reality is that I was simply born with some nerve damage on that side of my face. I rarely think about it, these days. And, frankly, when I was growing up, more people made fun of my last name than my mouth. 

When I was in my early 20s, a doctor told me that they could probably minimize the appearance through surgery. And I thought a lot about whether to pursue that. But in the end, I just thought this is part of who I am and how God created me, and decided not to do anything about it. Has it impacted me? Sure. It’s probably contributed to my rather dry sense of humor. But more importantly, I think it’s given me compassion for those who are different — physically or emotionally — than what’s held up as the Madison Avenue vision of perfection. The reality is that we are all flawed by virtue of our humanity, whether on the inside or the outside. And Jesus loves us anyway; Jesus loves you anyway. Thanks be to God.

The truth is that we all spend a lot of time in blindness. We’re blind to the suffering that surrounds us in our world and in our communities. We’re blind to the miraculous in our midst. We’re blind to the love of Jesus that pervades our lives. And blindness, like ignorance, can be bliss. It’s much easier to remain isolated and stay within our own carefully constructed worlds than it is to open our eyes to the pain and sin that surrounds us. 

Yet Jesus invites us to do just that. He invites us to open our eyes to the miracle of his presence in our everyday lives. To open our eyes to the opportunities to serve others in his name. And sometimes it takes a rather long story to help us see and experience the full power of his love.

Second Sunday in Lent (Year A)

A Sermon from the Church of  

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

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 5, 2023 (Lent 2A)

There was a big trend a number of years ago — starting in about the mid-1980s — towards so-called seeker services. The premise was that there were large groups of people who were curious about the Christian faith, but not fully committed to it. Perhaps they used to go to church but just didn’t feel like it was relevant to their lives, or maybe they hadn’t grown up with any religious tradition, but were seeking some sort of a connection with God.

Seeker services tried all sorts of different ways to draw people in. The thought being that the traditional liturgy and music of the church either didn’t resonate or was just too old-fashioned and boring to be relevant to today. No one could ever really agree about what would entice these seekers to come to church and get them to stay. But many of these services were full of contemporary music or praise bands, the clergy didn’t wear vestments or clerical collars, there were no vested choirs, the sermons — or talks, really — were informal and relied heavily on multimedia presentations. Now if this all sounds amazing to you, you might just be in the wrong place this morning.

But the prevailing wisdom was that unchurched people were turned off by tradition and formality, and so churches tried to create alternative worship experiences, with an emphasis on popular culture, coffee bars, and comfortable seats. Now, that part doesn’t sound bad.

But I think these efforts minimized the fact that, at heart, we are all seekers. Whether this is our first Sunday at church in many years, or we’ve been faithfully coming every Sunday for generations, not a single one of us has it all figured out; we are all seeking answers to life’s deepest questions. Jesus says, “Seek and ye shall find.” And that is a large part of our job as Christians. To keep seeking answers, to keep seeking Jesus. And I trust that that’s part of what draws us to this place. To stand at the intersection of ancient tradition and cultural relevance. And   together, to seek out the one who calls us each by name and and loves us unconditionally and with reckless abandon. 

This morning we encounter Nicodemus. Now, Nicodemus was quite clearly a seeker. He was intrigued by what he’d heard about Jesus and wanted to learn more. He was a seeker of the truth, a seeker of the meaning of life, a seeker of a deeper spiritual connection to God.

He also, very significantly, came to Jesus at night, by cover of darkness. As a leader in the Jewish community, Nicodemus wielded both religious and political power. He was a member of the establishment, a Pharisee, and it would have been rather scandalous for him to be seen with Jesus, this man who was upsetting the status quo and turning tradition on its head. People in Nicodemus’ circle were certainly talking about Jesus, and the talk was not positive. He was a threat to their authority, a loose cannon, someone who often broke religious norms in order to make God more readily known. All of that healing on the sabbath and eating with the wrong people — and not only that, he was popular! Crowds were drawn to him, people were listening to him, which undermined the Pharisees’ grip on religious authority and made people question the long-standing traditions of the religious elite. 

So, at one level it would have been easy for Nicodemus to just stay in his own world, certainly safer. He was a big shot, after all, with a lot to lose. But something was sparked deep in his soul when he first heard about Jesus. And he wanted to learn more. He didn’t want to necessarily risk his standing in his own community, but still, he was drawn to this new teacher. A new truth was emerging, and Nicodemus was seeking after it.

I think we can all relate to Nicodemus in the sense that we’re sometimes hesitant to fully commit, to fully give our lives over to Jesus Christ. Because we know if we do, it will lead to sacrifices. To fully be a disciple of Jesus, we need to give some things up — control, for one. “Thy will, not mine, be done.” Comfort, for another. Jesus so often calls us out of our respective comfort zones, out of our insular and safe worlds. He challenges our assumptions about the world and the people around us. But also the way we live and order our lives. Because to follow Jesus is to constantly be examining the priorities of our lives; it forces us to think about the ways in which we interact with other people. 

And, here’s the really hard part, we can’t make life all about us; rather it must be all about God. And that runs counter to so many of our instincts. So, while we crave control and comfort and continuity, Jesus calls us out of all that. To a place of deep connection with the divine, to a place of hope and meaning and love. And ultimately, that’s what we all, like Nicodemus, seek. That yearning is what makes us seekers. Seekers of Jesus. People who seek to follow Jesus. People who often stumble along the way or make a mess of things. But then the one who calls us each by name, invites us to keep seeking after him. Day after day, month after month, year after year.

You know, while we may not have a praise band or a giant video screen, I still like to think of what we do here as a seeker service of sorts. Not because we’re trying to use market research or consumer trends to figure out what people are looking for in a worship experience, but because we all remain seekers of a deeper relationship with Jesus Christ. And this place, through architecture and music and liturgy, through the relationships we have with one another, this place helps orient us towards God. It captures the mystery of the divine presence in our lives, which is something that can never be contained or quantified. 

When I was a dashing young curate at Old St. Paul’s in downtown Baltimore — the ‘dashing’ part was a joke — we did start what was basically a seeker service. But in light of what was happening in mega churches around the country, we thought of it as something of an anti-seeker service. It was a short 30-minute service of ancient chant led by a small schola of singers, with candlelight, and just a hint of incense. There was very intentionally no sermon or collection.We called it Vespers and it basically followed the structure of a sung service of compline, the  church’s night prayers. We held it on Sunday evenings and advertised it in the local paper with the tagline “God’s Not Just a Morning Person.” I’m not sure if they’re still doing it, but it really resonated, especially with younger folks — students and people living downtown. I’m not sure what that might look like in this context, or if it makes any sense to try something like that, but Nicodemus at least got me wondering and pondering. So, who knows?

In the end, of course, Nicodemus leaves the cover of darkness to follow Jesus. He walks boldly into the light as he very publicly removes Jesus’ body from the cross and lays it in the tomb. He is no longer a secret follower of Jesus, but a true disciple. He remains a seeker, as we all do. He keeps seeking after Jesus, as we all do.

Ash Wednesday 2023

A Sermon from the Church of  

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

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on February 22, 2023 (Ash Wednesday)

I’m not a big fan of makeup mirrors. The only time I ever see myself in one is when I accidentally, and horrifyingly, glance over at one in a hotel bathroom. Now, I realize some of you are used to this view, but I’m not. And so it’s always rather jarring when I look up and come face-to-face with that magnified, hyper close-up image staring back at me. It’s shocking to see all of those blemishes in high definition, and I quickly avert my eyes.

In a sense, Ash Wednesday is a makeup mirror kind of day. Our entrance into the season of Lent compels us to take stock of our lives and gaze deeply into the intentions of our hearts. We can’t just take a superficial glance in the mirror, as we might check our hair in the hall mirror on our way out the door. Today requires a deeper look. 

And the reality is that it’s not always a pleasant view. We are sinful beings in need of repentance. That doesn’t necessarily make us bad people, it’s just a reality of the human condition. 

But one way we authentically look into the mirror, as the ash Wednesday liturgy starkly highlights, is by confessing our sins. We do this every Sunday, of course, as part of the General Confession. We look in the mirror and acknowledge those things we have done, and those things we have left undone. We say we’re sorry, we promise to do better, and we are absolved of our sins in the name of Jesus. And this cycle of confession, repentance, and the assurance of forgiveness should be, must be, a regular part of our spiritual lives. It both holds us accountable and reminds us of God’s loving mercy; of God’s joy for the one who repents and returns to the Lord. 

But today is a makeup mirror kind of day. And so we can’t just say the words and move on with the service which, if we’re honest, sometimes happens on Sunday mornings. As we prayed at the start of this service, we gather today to “lament our sins” and “acknowledge our wretchedness.” That’s hard language. But it does shake us out of the complacency of confession that often marks our words on Sunday morning. It helps to both pierce and open our hearts.

On Sundays one of the priests says, “Let us confess our sins against God and our neighbor.” We usually leave at least a few moments of silence before launching into the confession. “Most merciful God…” But if you’re really struggling with something you’ve done or left undone, those few moments aren’t really enough space in which to fully reflect and repent. Before you know it, we’ve confessed, been absolved, moved on the Peace, and suddenly someone’s trying to shake your hand while you’re still trying to acknowledge your wretchedness.

Ash Wednesday spreads this out. In many ways it’s an extended version of that brief silence between the bidding of the confession and the confession itself. And I encourage you to embrace it. To spend the time to lament and acknowledge that which stands between you and God. That’s what sin is, after all. It’s that which separates you from the love of God.

And God wants to remove any barriers, anything that keeps you at a distance. God wants you within reach, not at arm’s length. Which is why confessing our sins, removing those obstacles, brings us into deeper relationship with the risen Christ. And it’s precisely why I don’t think you can talk about sin without talking about love. 

That may sound counterintuitive. But Lent in general, and Ash Wednesday in particular, isn’t merely a time set aside to feel bad about ourselves. We may all be “miserable offenders” with “no health in us” as the old confession from the 1928 Prayer Book put it. But that’s not our full identity. We are beloved children of God who, out of shame or fear, fall away and turn away and run away from God’s deep and abiding love for us. In a word, we are human. And God loves us anyway. Deeply and unconditionally.

In a few moments, you will be invited, in the name of the Church, into the observance of a “holy Lent.” And I think it’s helpful to reflect upon what this means. And to remember that, popular misconceptions aside, we are not invited to keep a miserable Lent or a guilt-ridden Lent or a gloomy Lent or even a wretched Lent, but a holy Lent. And holy simply means “set apart for God.” You, in all your imperfections, have been set apart for God. Because God loves you. And in the same way, we are invited to set apart some time for God. Through prayer, worship, reading, whatever your particular Lenten devotion may be. Whatever allows you to set apart some time to spend with God.

As you enter into this holy season, I invite you to acknowledge not just your sinfulness, but God’s loving grace. These ashes aren’t just a reminder of your own mortality, but a sign of God’s abundant and abiding love for you. Remember that you are dust, yes, but remember also that you are God’s beloved child. That Jesus rejoices at your presence this day; forgives you when you humbly repent of your sinfulness; and seeks after you in goodness and mercy all the days of your life. 

I look forward to walking into the wilderness of Lent with all of you this year. May we emerge emboldened in our faith, and be drawn ever nearer to the heart of Jesus.

Rector’s Annual Address

A Sermon from the Church of  

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

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on January 29, 2023 (Rector’s Annual Address)

Welcome to Annual Meeting Sunday. Frankly, sharing my Annual Report as I like to do in the context of the sermon, is a little bit awkward since I was only here for 12% of 2022. But I love the Annual Meeting, because it allows us to take stock of the year that is past, celebrate all the many and varied ministries that take place here, and look towards the future. And I have to say, the future at Bethesda is bright, it’s exciting, and along with all of you, I am so glad to be a part of it.

I have spent much of my first few months among you asking questions and listening and learning and building relationships. You can’t chart a course for the future without first getting to know ministries and people, without experiencing the traditions of a place, and discovering what draws people here and what keeps them here.

And let me first say and openly declare that I love Bethesda. This is a place teeming with faithful and passionate parishioners, a place with a talented and dedicated staff, a place where worship stands at the very heart of what we do, a place where Jesus is praised and followed, a place where apparently the rector skips.

So much of a rector’s role is simply setting a tone and helping to create a culture. What I hope to do in the coming years is to be part of a joyful community, one where people care about one another — even when they disagree, where people are committed to growing in their relationship with Jesus, where people want to both serve the church and serve those in need, a place where generosity is cultivated, a place where people are welcomed and loved. And I want to do this together, with each one of you.

But, since I’ve only been here for a short time, let me offer a few initial observations about life at this very special place, along with a few hopes. 

The first is that this is a place where Jesus is encountered. Through liturgy and music, through prayer and Bible study, through sacred space and holy grounds, through service to others, Jesus’ presence is revealed in so many ways around here. And my hope is that collectively we will go even deeper in the coming years. That our faith will broaden and deepen, that we will see and know and serve Jesus in new and creative ways. That we will embrace the values of the Beatitudes we heard this morning as people who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

This is also a place where people are welcomed. I’ve been so impressed by the Ambassador program and by the intentionality of making all who enter these doors feel and know that they are loved by God, not for what they do or who they are or what they’re worth, but simply because they are children of God. That is a rare thing indeed. But the warm welcome can’t be the end goal. We must all continually strive to draw people deeper into their faith. And so connecting people to ministries that create even more committed disciples of Jesus is a major part of our work together.

Related to this, I would love to see some areas of church life that incorporate more lay involvement and leadership. From communications to outreach to finance to education, there are so many gifted parishioners around here and more people should be drawn into the creative and life-giving ministries of this parish. This not only allows people to share their gifts in meaningful ways, it also deepens our connections to God and one another. So my hope is that we will find a healthy balance between staff and volunteer leadership, one that lifts up and empowers lay ministry and recognizes that all ministry is rooted in our baptismal covenant.

This is a place with deeply held and beloved traditions. I love the traditions at Bethesda. Take Boar’s Head. Yes, the spectacle of it all was amazing to behold — the music, the costumes, the plum pudding. But what really inspired me was the sheer number of people who participated in the show over what was a very full weekend. I loved the intergenerational community building and the sheer joy in pulling this all off. 

One of my mantras is “Never let the clergy get in the way of ministry.” And what I mean by that is I don’t have to be, nor should I be, nor could I possibly be, in the middle of everything that takes place here. I love it when people take up the mantle of ministry and simply make things happen. And that’s something else I loved about Boar’s Head — it could have been done without any clergy involvement at all. In reality, my only role was to not trip.

So, my hope is that we will lean into the strong traditions at Bethesda, while being open to creating new ones. Traditions that point firmly to God are worth holding onto and cherishing. The key is not allowing traditions to become idols in and of themselves, and that takes continued attention and discernment. 

This is a place of great generosity. People are generous with both their financial and spiritual gifts. And that is because they care deeply about this community. When people feel connected, they contribute. Our overall giving goal for 2023 is $2.5 million. In order to fully fund the ministry that takes place here and the staffing we need to add to support it, this should really be at $3 or 3.5 million. We’ll talk more about this next month, but as you discern your 2023 pledge, I encourage your continued generosity and commitment to Bethesda.

This is a place with an incredible asset in The Church Mouse. Beyond the over $500,000 it raises for our outreach ministries, it stands as an outpost of Bethesda in the community and offers meaningful volunteer opportunities for our parishioners. I would like to see this bond between parish and Mouse strengthened even more, so that everyone beyond our walls will know that it is a ministry of this church. To this end, we are pulling together an advisory committee to support staff and improve communications to the wider community.

This is a place that takes seriously its commitment to those in need. Through our outreach grants and several hands-on ministries, we are following the way of Jesus in serving the least of us. My hope is to put together a robust outreach committee to help lead us towards a more focused approach to serving others, and to provide even more opportunities to roll up our sleeves and do god works. As a parish we have a huge opportunity to make a significant difference in our wider community — the needs are great. And I wonder if we might channel some of our resources into a signature outreach effort, one that people will identify with Bethesda. But that will take some true discernment. 

My whole approach to ministry has always been about keeping one foot within the four walls of the church, and one foot beyond its walls. And so we have programs and educational opportunities that will deepen our faith as disciples of Jesus; we look to worship as the primary way that we gather; we maintain our buildings and grounds as sacred spaces that offer solace and inspiration. 

And then we move outward to live out our faith in the world. We serve others through outreach programs, we invite people to come and see and experience the ways we meet Jesus at Bethesda, and we hold up Bethesda’s mission of love, inclusion, and grace as a beacon of hope that our broken and divided world so desperately needs. Through technology, Bethesda has an opportunity and, I’d say, a responsibility, to make a significant impact upon our local community, but also the wider church and the nation, bringing the message of God’s love well beyond our walls. And that excites me.

When I was in middle school, my family moved from Baltimore to New York. We left a beautiful  church which we loved and, although it was hard to say goodbye, we looked forward to trying out some new parishes and finding a church home. We went to some of the biggest, most famous churches in the city — including the massive Cathedral of St. John the Divine. One Sunday we decided to at least try the tiny, nondescript Episcopal church in our neighborhood, with its red linoleum floors and electronic organ. 

But there was something about the young, new rector that brought us back the following week. And then we got to know the people. And suddenly my parents made up 2/6 of the choir and I started acolyting every week. What I learned through this experience is that a church, is not the building. No matter how grand or how humble, a church is not the physical brick and mortar, but the living, breathing, flawed, forgiven people who consider it their spiritual home. 

And ultimately, that’s what makes Bethesda so special. You make Bethesda so special. And it is a privilege to join each and every one of you on this journey of life and faith. I’m energized and inspired by what God is doing in this place, and I can’t wait to see what the Spirit has in store for us in the years ahead.

Third Sunday in Lent (Year C)

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 

St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 20, 2022 (3 Lent, Year C)

Route 31 in Kentucky connects the city of Louisville to Fort Knox. I traveled this road on a regular basis when I was in the Army and Route 31 was nothing if not nondescript. I mostly remember open spaces and fast food joints and used car dealers. But one establishment in particular caught my attention. It was a liquor store placed just outside the county line between dry Bullit County, where the sale of alcohol was prohibited, and wet Hardin County, where alcohol sales were legal. Driving down Route 31 through the dry county and approaching the wet one, the liquor store’s giant neon sign read “Bennie’s First Chance.” But when you traveled the opposite way on Route 31, through the wet county approaching the dry one, the giant neon sign read “Bennie’s Last Chance.” A clever marketing ploy that probably served Bennie well over the years. 

So how does a liquor store in Kentucky relate to a burning bush and a fig tree? A valid question. But the two stories we heard this morning are also about first chances and last chances. When Moses stumbles upon the oddity of a burning bush that is not consumed with fire, he does a double take. In fact, he rubbernecks. He diverts the flock he’s tending, stops, and stares at this unusual sight. Of course the rest is history. God calls to Moses out of the burning bush, Moses hesitates but responds, and then he spends the rest of his life following God and leading God’s people to the promised land. But it was in that very moment up on the mountain that Moses received a first chance to serve God. 

We, too, are continually offered first chances to serve God. We may not have such astounding encounters with God on a daily basis, but they are all equally dramatic in their own ways. Any encounter with the living God is always dramatic. If we open our eyes to God’s presence in the world and in our lives, we see first chances to serve God all day long. Each day brings fresh opportunities to serve God anew. If we allow it to be, the buzzing of our alarm clock acts as a signal calling us to God’s service in the world. Each day brings opportunity and hope to live in God’s presence, to praise God, to love one another in God’s name. And Lent in particular is an entire season dedicated to the first chances of spiritual renewal.

Then there’s the fig tree. This isn’t one of Jesus’ most easily understood parables so a bit of explanation might be helpful. In the story there are three “characters:” the owner of the vineyard, the gardener, and the fig tree. The basic point is that the owner had a fig tree planted three years ago and he hasn’t seen a single fig. Not a great return on his investment. So, he tells his gardener to cut it down. Soil is a precious commodity, it’s being wasted by this useless fig tree, so get rid of it. 

This makes a lot of sense except that the gardener seems to have some sort of sentimental attachment to the tree and asks that the tree be given a year’s reprieve. He’ll pay more attention to it, throw on some fertilizer, and if it still hasn’t produced any figs, then he’ll cut it down. The fig tree has been given a last chance, a stay of execution. 

So what’s Jesus talking about here? I don’t think he’s merely passing on gardening tips, as useful as they might be. Many see this parable in the following light: the owner of the vineyard is God, who has the authority to plant and to uproot lives as God sees fit. The gardener is Jesus, who intercedes on behalf of the fig tree. And the fig tree is seen as God’s people in the world. So, through the intercession of Jesus, God has mercy upon us, and offers us a last chance. Despite our sinfulness and our turning away from God and one another, we are offered one last chance to make amends. This doesn’t minimize the fact that we will all ultimately be judged by our actions, but it does highlight the merciful nature of God as revealed to us through Jesus Christ.

So, what would it mean to live life as if it was your last chance? Take a moment to see yourself as the fig tree in Jesus’ story. What changes would you make to insure that you would bear fruit in the coming year? How would you make the most of this last chance? 

But before you answer this, please recognize that you mustn’t do all the work alone. Jesus will fertilize you, nurture you, water you, and feed you. You have help in bearing your fruit; you don’t have to do it alone. Even though you’re down to your last chance, even though the pressure’s on to produce or be cut down, you don’t have to do all the work by yourself. After all, no tree can bear fruit all by itself. A tree needs sunlight, rain, and good soil. Only with some outside intervention can a tree bear fruit and thrive. 

And rest assured that God has given us all the ability to bear fruit. It’s part of what it means to be created in the image of God. Sure, we need some pruning every now and then – Lent gives us a great opportunity to think about this. We just have to trust that the gardener, who is Jesus, knows what he’s doing. And that with his help, we will indeed bear fruit. With his help, there is no way we won’t bear fruit. For it is Jesus himself who fertilizes us, nurtures us, waters us, and feeds us.

So, even though we’ve been given one last chance through the mercy of God, we’ve also simultaneously been given myriad first chances. Because God offers us a burning bush, an opportunity to serve the Lord, at every turn. We are given countless first chances even in the midst of our last chance. Paradoxical? Maybe. But as we enter more deeply into this season of Lent, we must come face-to-face with the merciful and loving judgment of God that offers us continued first chances, even while acknowledging the gravity of the last chance. 

I don’t usually offer up a liquor store in Kentucky as a metaphor for God. But Bennie does offer his customers both a first chance and a last chance. God continually offers us first chances in the midst of one last chance. Jesus intercedes for us and helps us to open our eyes to the opportunities to serve God and each other that surround us in our daily lives. Through the mercy of God, we will meet our judgment with Christ at our side, fertilizing us, nurturing us, watering us, and feeding us. And Jesus Christ, who is the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, will be with us through it all.

First Sunday in Lent (Year C)

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 

St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 6, 2022 (1 Lent, Year C)

When I was a kid I would sometimes tag along with my father to orchestra rehearsals. Some of you know he was a conductor with the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra in the 1970s and so when a babysitter got sick or my mother was working, I’d accompany my dad to the old Lyric Theater downtown. When I wasn’t hanging out in the dressing room with the poker-playing horn players or wandering around backstage among the huge double bass cases and assorted tympanis, I’d be out exploring the red velvet-lined boxes in the balcony.

You could say that one of the soundtracks of my childhood was the tuning of the orchestra. If you’ve ever been to a classical music concert you know that they all start with the same ritual tuning. After a nod from the concertmaster, the principal oboe player gives them an A and then the rest of the orchestra tunes their instruments off of the oboe which, of all the instruments, provides the truest pitch. It just takes a few moments, but they would always tune up at the beginning of the rehearsal and then periodically throughout their time together if my father heard something that didn’t sound quite right.

Over time instruments naturally get out of tune if left alone. Strings, in particular, are very sensitive to cold or humidity. A violin string might stretch out, causing it to go flat; or constrict, causing it to go sharp. And so a violinist must do a bit of fine-tuning with the pegs to get the instrument back in playing condition. 

In a sense, the season of Lent is the church’s tuning peg. As our priorities become slightly off key, Lent brings us back into tune; allowing us to again live in harmony with God.  It’s easy to let our spiritual lives get away from us. We get busy; we get self-absorbed; we get bogged down by endless activities. We let the minutia of life drive our priorities and suddenly we find ourselves out of tune with the Spirit. It might be subtle to the point that we hardly notice that our spiritual life has gone a bit flat. Or it might be strident, atonal disharmony. A pandemic that has thrown our worship habits out of whack certainly doesn’t help. But either way, if we allow it, Lent holds the potential to bring our spiritual lives back into tune. It encourages self-reflection and a return to the basics of our faith.

And this season specifically set aside as a time of spiritual renewal, is rooted in the 40 days and 40 nights Jesus spent in the wilderness following his baptism; the place where he was tempted by the devil, as we hear this morning. Jesus is tempted with bodily cravings, wealth, and power. The devil says, ‘You’re hungry? Turn this stone into a loaf of bread.’ ‘You want glory? Worship me and I’ll give you all the kingdoms of the world.’ ‘You say you’re the Son of God? Prove it by throwing yourself off this cliff.’

In effect, the devil is holding out those words we say at the end of the Lord’s Prayer: “For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory.” That’s what he’s offering — kingdom, power, and glory; that’s what he’s using as a lure to tempt Jesus. You can have it all, he tells Jesus, if only you fall down and worship me. And if Jesus wasn’t Jesus, he might have gone for all this. Because the devil is holding out all the markers of worldly success: renown and riches and rule. What else even is there?

But Jesus is not about kingly treasure and worldly possessions and human glory. For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory. Yes, that’s true. But not in the way the devil understands such things. For Jesus, it is the kingdom of God, the power of God, and the glory of God. 

Following his baptism, Jesus was driven out into the wilderness by the Spirit of God. Jesus’ power derives exclusively from his position as the Son of God. God alone is the source of the kingdom, and the power, and the glory — not the world, not ourselves, not any institution or human being, certainly not the diabolical forces of wickedness personified by the devil.

And the devil simply couldn’t understand this. The devil can’t even relate to someone who is not driven by earthly passions and desires. So the true depth of this whole interaction takes place well beyond the surface of what we see and hear. This temptation exists on a cosmic level that highlights the choice about which kingdom Jesus represents: will he side with the powers and principalities of this world, or will he side with the reign of God and the world that is to come? 

The answer is clear to us now, but Jesus had to endure the temptation in the wilderness in order to show us what really matters in this life. And, despite the impressive Biblical repartee, that back and forth between the devil and Jesus, I don’t believe this was all just a show for our benefit. We hear that Jesus was famished and weak, and thus particularly vulnerable. He was actually tempted and part of him, the very human part, must have at least considered the devil’s offer. Who wouldn’t have?

But this scene also forces us, 2,000 years later, to decide what matters to us the most: our own needs and desires and perspective, or God’s. Whose kingdom, whose power, whose glory will we follow? That’s the choice held out to us as we enter into the season of Lent, as we seek to re-tune our spiritual lives.

Now, it’s true that these days our entire world feels out of tune. Our hearts ache for the people of the Ukraine as we watch oppression roll in and refugees roll out, literally before our eyes. Injustice and violence fester throughout the world in places both near and far. Even amid some real signs of hope, this ongoing global pandemic continues to take a toll upon our physical and mental well-being, and on that of our loved ones. In so many ways, disharmony reigns. 

And so I encourage you to use this season of Lent to re-tune your spiritual life. We can’t fix everything in the world. But we can attend to the stirrings of our souls. And by doing so, we can be bearers of God’s grace in uncertain moments. We can drive out fear with hope. We can offer love in the face of oppression. This is what will change the world: being in tune with God and walking in harmony with one another. And we begin by choosing God’s kingdom and God’s power and God’s glory.