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.

2nd Sunday after Epiphany (Year B – Stewardship)

A Sermon from the Church of  

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

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on January 14, 2024 (Epiphany 2, Year B)

Preconceived notions. We all have them. We all form opinions about certain people or places based not on evidence or experience, but on reputation or image. Palm Beach, for example, is certainly a place that comes with a freight train’s worth of reputational baggage. Some of it’s positive — beautiful beaches, gorgeous architecture, a rich history. But some of it is not. If you played a word association game with friends who’ve never ventured to Palm Beach, I guarantee you’d hear words like snobby, materialistic, Botox. A lot of people have some serious preconceived notions about this island. Not all of which is wrong, but none of which tells the full story. 

You know who else had some pretty deeply held preconceived notions? Nathanael in this morning’s gospel passage. And they nearly prevent him from meeting Jesus and having his life utterly transformed by the relationship. The backdrop is one of the earliest call stories in John’s gospel. Jesus had recently shown up in Galilee, finds a man named Philip, gazes into his eyes, and then says those two powerful words that set everything in motion: “Follow me.” 

Well, Philip does indeed follow Jesus, becoming one of the 12 apostles. And the first thing he does is share with his friend Nathanael the incredible news that the long-anticipated Messiah has arrived. He races to find him, and excitedly tells him, “We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote, Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth.” 

And Nathanael is…less than impressed. “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” he sarcastically asks. I kind of love that, actually. But his preconceived notions get the best of him. Partly because he considered Nazareth to be a bit of a backwater. And partly because he, along with the vast majority of his peers, assumed the messiah would come from the grand city of Jerusalem. This would be the equivalent of hearing that the messiah didn’t actually come from Manhattan, but from Bayonne, New Jersey. 

The point is, there’s a bit of a gap between Nathanael’s preconceived notions and God’s reality. He clung to his own expectations about what a messiah would look like and where a messiah would come from, and couldn’t believe it could be any other way. “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” 

God is full of surprises. Remember, this is a messiah who was born not in a palace, but in a lowly stable. One who was first acknowledged not by princes and the high born, but by poor shepherds watching their flocks by night. Jesus always surprises us. Jesus always turns our preconceived notions upside down.

One of the things I most love about Bethesda-by-the-Sea is how welcoming a community this is. And I love it because when someone is warmly welcomed here, it shatters all the preconceived notions about how visitors think they may be treated when they enter our doors. Think about it. If you take all the preconceived notions about Palm Beach, and then layer on top of them an imposing stone church with giant palm trees out front, formal liturgy that’s many things but “happy clappy” is not one of them, ushers in uniform, people generally dressed up; add in the fact that one of the hardest things in life to do is to walk into an unfamiliar church where everybody seems to know what to do — especially an Episcopal church with all the liturgical calisthenics — stand, sit, kneel — actually being welcomed stands in stark relief to all the preconceived notions. And it makes a big difference.

Of course, one of the other preconceived notions about a church in Palm Beach is that we talk about money all the time. We don’t. Except for today. Because, and I know I’ve kind of slowly eased into it, but today is Stewardship Sunday. Which means I get to talk about money. And not just any money, but specifically your money. And how the church needs some of it; not all of it mind you, but some of it. Isn’t that exciting? I love talking about money. And to demonstrate my love, I’ve ordered our uniformed ushers to bolt the doors shut. There is no escape.

Now, I’ve always promised to be transparent with you about the financial needs of our church. But first, I want to highlight a few misconceptions, or preconceived notions if you will, that I know are floating around out there.

The first is that Bethesda is a rich church that doesn’t really need your money. Yes, we’re a well-resourced parish. We have a lot of parishioners, we do a lot of good in the world, we offer unparalleled music and worship, we have a moderate-sized endowment from which we draw a prudent 4% annually, and we have some folks who are incredibly generous.

However, it’s important to note that nearly 70% of our annual operating budget comes through annual pledges and donations. 70%! That means that your generosity matters immensely. That we literally couldn’t do the incredible ministry and offer the stunning worship that takes place here without you. You can’t just farm out the generosity to a few rich people who, in the end, will take care of everything. First of all, that’s not how a church works — we’re all in this together. And second of all, generosity is a spiritual discipline that we’re all seeking to cultivate in one another. The church has a need for money, yes, but we all have a spiritual need to give. I do, you do, we all do.

So when you pledge to Bethesda — and I would like to see everyone make a financial commitment for 2024 no matter the amount, especially if you’ve never done so before — but when you make your pledge, I do ask you to think about what this place means to you, what your faith means to you, in the context of your life. How does your giving to Bethesda compare to what you spend on vacations? How does it compare to what you spend on your property taxes? How does it compare to your other charitable giving? There are so many good causes out there. This town offers untold opportunities to give to institutions and good works — and attend fancy charity balls. But I will always argue that your spiritual home should take the biggest part of your heart. And so I ask you to prayerfully reflect on that.

So what’s our need? The bottom line is that we need to add 15% to our annual budget in order to support the exciting vision we’ve cast for 2024 and beyond. That’s a big ask. That means adding $500,000 in pledges. 

Practically speaking, our costs continue to rise — insurance costs alone have increased by 18%, there are more people at church, we’re implementing a staffing plan to support our vision, we’re catching up with a lot of deferred maintenance. Even as we are simultaneously reducing excess spending and finding ways to save money, as a parish, we stand at a crossroads. We need to reach that 15% threshold. 

But beyond the practical, an investment in ministry will lead to future growth in the areas of spirituality, children and youth, evangelism, and engagement. Which is what our community is all about, and which is why I am so excited about the year ahead.

15% is a lot. But I know we can do this, because I know just how much this place means to you. I see it in the energy and enthusiasm pulsing through Bethesda these days. I see it in the many ministries that are thriving. I see it in the ways that we are collectively following Jesus both within our walls and beyond them. I often refer to money as rocket fuel for ministry — and we could use just a bit more juice to help us reach our fullest potential, to help us continue to do the work that God has called us to do.

So, thank you for laying aside your preconceived notions when it comes to financial generosity at Bethesda. When we do so, we heed Philip’s follow up response to his friend Nathanael: “Come and see.” Let’s stop placing our own expectations about who Jesus is over and against the reality of Emmanuel, of God-with-us. And let’s move boldly into the future serving our messiah in ways that are more than we can ask for or even imagine.

Christmas Day 2023

A Sermon from the Church of  

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

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on December 25, 2023 (Christmas Day)

There’s a TV show called Intervention, that you may have encountered over the years. 24 seasons have aired, so it’s not exactly new. Though it’s kind of buried on one of the more obscure cable networks. It’s a documentary series, and each episode follows one or two people who struggle with addiction. All of which leads, as the title would suggest, to an intervention. It’s an emotional show, full of stories of both hope and heartbreak.

I’m not a huge fan, because it all feels rather voyeuristic, along with just a hint of exploitation. And if you’ve ever participated in an actual intervention, you know it’s a gut-wrenching experience for all involved, with no guarantees that things will change. But the stories are compelling, and the show wouldn’t have lasted so long if a lot of people weren’t tuning in. 

I thought about this Intervention show as I was reflecting on what I’d talk about on Christmas Day. And I know some of you are thinking, ‘Why’s he talking about interventions? On Christmas?’ But the Christmas miracle, so familiar as told by St. Luke, and so poetically portrayed in the prologue to John’s gospel, is that God intervenes in our lives. The entire Christmas story is the story of a divine intervention.

When the angel of the Lord announces Jesus’ birth to the terrified shepherds watching their flocks by night — that’s an intervention. When we hear that “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us” — that’s an intervention. 

God sent Jesus Christ, his own flesh and blood, into the world to be born of Mary and laid in a manger, because we had lost our way. Because we had turned away. Humanity needed an intervention, and God intervened. Lovingly, intentionally, tenderly. And so Jesus was sent to be born for us, to walk among us as a companion, to teach us to love God and one another, and to lead us into a place of hope and salvation. That’s the good news of Christmas; that’s why we sing our carols, and decorate our trees, and roast our roasts.

And the truth is, we still so desperately need a divine intervention. Both in our lives, and in our world. From a personal perspective, I invite you to reflect upon the places where you need Jesus to intervene in your life. You may be carrying a particular burden or grief. You may be seeking relief from emotional or physical pain. You may need to be forgiven or you may to forgive another. I bid you to be open to God’s loving intervention this Christmas.

And from a global perspective, all you have to do is cast your gaze upon Bethlehem and Nazareth and the entire Middle East, to know that this world sorely needs an intervention of peace and healing. Sure, we could just ignore this fact and drown it out with more Christmas carols and sugar cookies. But the Holy Land is hurting. It is rife with violence and terror, fear and death. 

And so even amid the celebration of our Lord’s birth, we pause to pray for the peace of Jerusalem, for that little town of Bethlehem, for those in Gaza; for people of all faiths throughout the region. There is a hole in our collective heart this Christmas, and we can’t help but acknowledge this.

But there is also hope. Because God does intervene in our lives again and again. Because that light does shine in the darkness, and Jesus does live and dwell among us.

You know, at the end of this service, we’ll stand up and belt out Joy to the World. That’s not a great news flash — Christians have been singing that hymn on Christmas for generations. But in the first verse we’ll sing, “Let every heart prepare him room.” I love this line because, in the end, it’s all about leaving space for God to intervene in our lives. Preparing room in our hearts to receive Jesus anew this Christmas. As with any intervention, we need to participate in the process; and we can do that by inviting God to intervene in our lives. 

Now, preparing him room isn’t without cost in our lives. Like the innkeeper in the nativity story, it’s much easier to turn Jesus away; to ignore the demands of loving God and loving neighbor, to hang out the No Vacancy sign. Preparing room means making sacrifices. It means looking beyond ourselves and our own self-interest. It means opening our hearts to those in need. It means prioritizing the life of faith even when it’s inconvenient, even when it takes us out of our comfort zones. By preparing room in your heart, you make room for the stranger, you make room for the least and the lonely and the lost among us. And you make room for God.

Preparing room, that’s where life’s treasure resides. It’s what brings joy — not the fleeting happiness of opening the next present, but the deep, abiding joy of living life in harmony with God. It’s what offers hope in the midst of even the darkest situations. It’s what offers peace amid the unsettling busyness of our lives. Preparing room in our hearts, allowing Jesus in — that’s what Christmas is all about. 

And so, during this season of great joy, I invite you to leave some space in your heart. Prepare room for the Christ-child. Allow God to intervene in your life. It may not always be easy, but your life will be transformed. You will be transformed. And, I assure you, it will make for a very Merry Christmas.

Christmas Eve 2023

A Sermon from the Church of  

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

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on December 24, 2023 (Christmas Eve)

I live in a deeply divided household. My wife Bryna loves Hallmark Christmas movies. While I happen to think they’re sappy and predictable. She loves the warm and cozy vibes they give off. I find them fake and silly. She loves the happy endings. I tire of the saccharine sentimentality.

One of our running jokes is whenever I walk in and see her lounging on the sofa after work, accompanied by the dogs and big mug of tea, watching yet another formulaic Christmas movie, I announce, “You know, they’re going to end up together.” And she yells at me to “Stop ruining it!”

But that’s the whole premise of the Hallmark Christmas industrial complex: two seemingly very different, but always equally attractive, people meet unexpectedly in a town called Mistletoe or Christmas Creek or whatever. They couldn’t possibly end up together because a) she’s already dating another attractive man who just happens to have no redeeming qualities, and b) she runs a small bakery that specializes in Christmas cookies and her business is being threatened by a soulless corporate entity that her boyfriend, unbeknownst to her, is doing business with. 

The good news is that this cute-as-a-button baker inevitably has a similarly good looking (and single!) male best friend. Despite the obvious chemistry, which is constantly pointed out to her by her also very attractive best friend, she just doesn’t see it (“He’s just a friend!”), until with two minutes left in the movie, they kiss with snow gently falling on the steps of the village green and, presumably, live happily ever after. 

The happy ending was never in doubt, of course. And just as we gather to celebrate our Lord’s birth on this magical evening in Palm Beach, we all know the ending to the Christmas story. Every year, there is no room at the inn. Every year, Mary and Joseph are ushered into a stable. Every year Mary gives birth and the babe is wrapped in swaddling clothes. Every year, shepherds quake, angels sing on high, and wise men follow the star. We come to church knowing exactly how this story will turn out.

But the nativity story is more than just predictable escapism with a happy ending. Because Jesus enters a world that is not the stylized version of a movie set. He enters a world that is broken and in need of healing. He enters a world where people yearn for hope and meaning. He enters a world that cries out for justice and dignity for every human being. Jesus enters our world, not a contrived world of shiny happy people.

A stark reminder of this is that the whole area that Christians throughout the world are focused on this night, is at war. Sure, we could just ignore this fact. Tune it out and crank up another verse of Joy to the World. But the Holy Land is hurting. It is rife with violence and terror, fear and death. And so even amid the celebration of our Lord’s birth, we pause to pray for the peace of Jerusalem, for that little town of Bethlehem, for those in Gaza; for Jews, Muslims, and Christians throughout the region. There is a hole in our collective heart tonight, and we can’t help but acknowledge this. 

And yet, it is into the very reality of the human condition, that we welcome Jesus. And that’s the great miracle: that love came down at Christmas. That into this broken and sinful world, into the mud and muck of the stable, God sent his only begotten Son. That God loves his creation so much that God sent his own flesh and blood to live and die among us. To show us a better way. To be the light upon our path. 

To remind us that God loves us not just in the abstract or in theory, but that God loves you. Whoever you are, wherever you live, whatever you believe, whatever you have done or left undone, God knows you to the very core of your being, and God loves you. 

Maybe you’re here tonight because you needed that reminder. Maybe you’re here tonight because in your search for hope and meaning, you’ve realized the exterior trappings of life are ultimately unfulfilling. Maybe you’re here tonight to renew your relationship with Jesus Christ.

But something drew you to this place on this night. Like the wise men following the star, you were drawn to the manger to encounter the Christ child. And that is a remarkable thing. A holy thing. A beautiful thing. And whether you’re sitting in a pew, viewing the simulcast in the parish hall, or joining us online from the comfort of your home, I am delighted you’re here in body or in spirit.

Because in a world that feels torn apart, our faith says that there’s a way. In a country that feels hopelessly divided, our faith says that there’s a way. Jesus is the way, and the life, and the truth. And it all begins in Bethlehem. 

Soon enough, the decorations will come down, the live trees will be hauled out to the street, the fake ones folded up, the Hallmark movies will go on hiatus (thanks be to God). But I encourage you to hold on to the Christmas spirit throughout the coming year. Not the artificial or manufactured joy that gets mass produced. But the deep, abiding joy that comes through the knowledge that you are God’s beloved child. That’s what I want you to hold onto.

And so, may you experience and embrace the joy and wonder of this night. May you receive the Christ child with open arms and open hearts. And may you all have a very Merry Christmas. 

Third Sunday of Advent (Year B)

A Sermon from the Church of  

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

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on December 17, 2023 (Advent 3B)

If John the Baptist was born a couple millennia later, we all know what he’d do when the long-anticipated Messiah finally showed up along the banks of the River Jordan: he’d take a selfie with Jesus and post it on Facebook. #theonewhoistocome 

The image is absurd, of course, precisely because John continues to be such a counter-cultural figure. Yes, he cuts through all the external trimmings and trappings of the countdown to Christmas, and gets right to the heart of the season. But in this age of selfies and self-promotion, of influencers and product endorsement, John the Baptist again does the unthinkable — he points not to himself, but to another. He draws the attention away from himself and places it firmly on the one who is to come: the Messiah, the Anointed One, the Christ.

And that stands out for most of us since we humans are, by nature, a rather self-centered lot. Technology doesn’t help — and in full disclosure I did recently take a selfie in front of the Worth Avenue Christmas tree and put it on Facebook. But the selfie culture simply highlights and makes visible our own unflattering tendencies. I mean, be honest, how many of you, since arriving in your pew this morning, have thought about things you need to get done later today or this week or before Christmas? That’s not a terrible thing — we’re all striving to be productive and we have stuff to do. But even when we intentionally set aside time to reflect on life beyond the visible world — as we do when we enter through these doors — we often have trouble being fully present.

Or how many of you have checked your phones since entering this sacred space? I haven’t, mostly because it would be embarrassing if I got caught. Which is why I never bring my phone  into worship — lead us not into temptation and all that.

And I imagine it would have been tempting for John to get caught up in the moment here. His presence and actions had attracted a large crowd, and a lesser person couldn’t help but say to himself, “Look at all these people who have come all the way out into the wilderness to hear me.” 

This must have been heady stuff for an itinerant preacher who’d been plying his trade in relative anonymity. And then suddenly a big crowd gathers — granted with a mix of motivations. Some came with open hearts and minds, some came out of curiosity to gawk at the spectacle of the latest popular preacher, and some like the ones in this encounter have come to look for heresy in order to condemn and discredit.

But John doesn’t want to talk about himself; he wants to talk about Jesus. You know when you go to a dinner party and get seated next to someone who only wants to talk about him or herself? Someone who not once asks anything about your life, but continues on in a mind-numbing monologue? We’ve all sat next to that person. But John the Baptist is the opposite of that dinner guest. Because it’s not all about John, it’s all about Jesus. 

The point is, we could all stand to point away from ourselves more often than we do. It’s not all about us. Ever. Even though we so often act as if it is — in our self-centeredness, our inward focus, our insecurity and fear of looking foolish. Ultimately, it is all about Jesus Christ. So John brings that ever important gift of perspective. He models for us a way of thinking beyond ourselves. And he does this simply by living into his calling as the one who prepares the way for the one who is to come.

There’s a word for what John is showing us here: humility. I think our culture sometimes views genuine humility as a sign of weakness. To be humble is seen as subjugating the fullness of your unique personality or allowing someone to run roughshod over you. Yet John offers us a model of faithful humility that isn’t weak or groveling. There was certainly nothing timid or faint-hearted about John the Baptist. 

But this single-minded devotion to his task as the preparer of the way, didn’t depend on how many or how few people came out to listen to him. Even if he was literally a “voice of one crying in the wilderness,” he would have gone about his calling with passion and conviction. Yes, you can fully be yourself, in all your unique glory, even as you point to Jesus as the source of all life.

But still, those who gathered to witness him preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, were certainly confused about his identity. And they start peppering him with questions, the upshot of which is ‘Who are you?’ Followed by ‘Who do you think you are?’

The indignant ones questioning John’s credentials were part of the religious establishment and they were none too pleased about this extra-curricular activity happening out in the boonies. Yes, there was general hope that the messiah would show up, but surely the ones wearing the fancy robes would be the first to hear of it. Not some locust-eating crazy guy in the wilderness. But then God rarely does things by the book (well, besides the Bible).

So who was this man we know as the Forerunner of the messiah? In John’s gospel we hear a lot about who he was not. In these few verses we hear that John is not the light, not the messiah, not Elijah, not Moses. It’s almost a comical exchange as John keeps saying “no” over and over again. But then a picture begins to emerge. John is a witness. John is a testifier. John is a voice. In some ways he’s like a giant neon arrow pointing to Jesus; a spiritual road sign pointing the way.

And we do well to follow John’s direction. Because when we do, two things happen. We’re reminded that we’re not actually the center of the universe. And we begin to move our inward focus out to other people. This is what makes following Jesus possible. And when we do so, we can’t help but have compassion for those in need. For the poor and downtrodden, the hungry and oppressed, the homeless and voiceless.

John reminds us to see things from above, not just from our own limited perspective. He reminds us to turn our lenses outward, to move beyond ourselves, to view the world with compassion, to see everyone around us as a fellow child of God. Which is hard to do when we’re taking literal or metaphorical selfies all the time.

As the light continues to build on the Advent wreath, I encourage you to tune in to John’s voice crying out in the wilderness, let it reorient you, and I promise you will be drawn ever closer to the messiah.

Second Sunday of Advent (Year B)

A Sermon from the Church of  

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

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on December 10, 2023 (Advent 2B)

I don’t love this phrase, but I’m going to ask you this question anyway: what is your “happy place?” What’s that place or activity that never fails to bring you joy? Somewhere or something that transports you to a mindset without stress, a comfortable place where you can fully be yourself and get lost in simply existing? For some it may be the beach, or a particular comfy chair; it might be baking or kayaking; it might be a favorite vacation spot or being with a particular group of people. 

For me, it’s probably sitting in a hipster coffee shop, drinking a beautiful, balanced cup of single origin coffee, preferably from Ethiopia, listening to the din of conversation and the distinctive sounds of the coffee grinder and the whir of the espresso machine. And since she’s in a pew this morning, I’d hasten to add that I would, of course, have Bryna sitting right across from me.

But we all have places or experiences that immediately come to mind when we think about finding a place of comfort and rest and renewal. From a spiritual perspective, hopefully this church serves as such a place in your life. I know it does in mine.

There is a difference, however, between being “happy place” comfortable and the deep, radical, divine comfort to which God calls us. “Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God,” the prophet Isaiah proclaims in our first reading. And I know for some of you, you can’t hear this passage without Handel’s Messiah ringing in your ears.

The prophetic call of divine “comfort” is not a comfort of ease or denial or escapism. It’s not a call to lower the shades, settle into your Laz-y-Boy recliner, and turn on Netflix. “Comfort, comfort ye my people” is God’s call inviting us into the great reversal of salvation. From the bondage of sin into the freedom of forgiveness. From the captivity of complacency to the joy of spiritual clarity. From the destruction of death to new life in God’s loving care and mercy.

For the Israelites who first heard Isaiah’s message, this promise of divine comfort was not merely metaphorical or hypothetical. This was a promise to those who had suffered captivity and exile, those who had endured immeasurable grief and loss — loss of their homeland, loss of their loved ones, loss of their freedom — a promise that God would lead them from anguish to comfort. From uncertainty and despair to peace and security in the wideness of God’s mercy and loving kindness. So this call to comfort isn’t about creature comforts, but the comfort of God’s creatures.

And while we may not have been physically displaced like the Israelites who suffered through the Babylonian exile 600 years before the birth of Jesus, we have all endured isolation in our own lives. Spiritually exiled by feelings of doubt and a lack of faith. Emotionally exiled by grief at the loss of a loved one. Physically exiled by health challenges. And it’s painful, these wounds that make up the human condition.

But it is into this dis-comfort and dis-ease that God in his great mercy and compassion sends his only Son into the world. That’s the good news we await and prepare for this Advent. That’s the context for the deep joy that pervades this season. Which doesn’t mean that everything in our lives must be “merry and bright” this time of year. Even as tree lights twinkle and Christmas carols play and holiday parties rage, you may have a hard day. You may be grieving. You may be in pain.

But that doesn’t diminish the true joy of the season. Because the joy of the Lord is not about superficial happiness, it’s about the comfort of God’s presence even in the midst of turmoil, even when personal or global anguish is made so starkly manifest. God’s comfort encompasses and continues in the midst of the realities of our lives. The joy, the sorrow, the grief, the uncertainty. All of it. 

What I’m trying to say is that divine comfort abides, while human comfort always falls short. Divine comfort is what sustains us, while human comfort always ultimately disappoints us. It’s why all the money and material things in the world can’t fill the spiritual void that is at the heart of the human experience. Only God can do that. Only God can provide the comfort needed to sustain us and make our lives full and rich and meaningful. All the rest, as Isaiah reminds us a few verses later is fleeting, like grass or flowers. “The grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God will stand for ever.”

Which is why I’m so glad you are here this morning. Truly. Coming to church during this short season of Advent helps us cut through all the sugarcoated and superficial joy that bombards us this time of year. Now, don’t worry, I’m not grinching on secular holiday celebrations. And, yes, I did just use “grinch” as a verb. I love the lights and the parties and the presents as much as anyone. And I really do need to get some shopping done. 

But Advent shakes us out of our spiritual complacency, out of our comfort zones, and into the urgent reality that the way we live our lives actually matters. That God cares deeply about how we treat other people and how we interact with the world around us. That God wants us to both be comforted and to comfort others

So, allow yourself to be comforted this Advent. Allow God to welcome you home; allow God to enfold you in the warm embrace of divine love; allow God to bind up and heal your deepest hurts and wounds. The Savior is already here, and will soon enter our hearts anew. Our faith tells us that both of these things can be true. 

And one particular way to fully live into this season is to make spending time with God your happy place. Or at least one of your happy places, along with the beach or eating at your favorite restaurant or whatever. That’s what prayer is, after all: spending time with God. Whether that’s here worshiping alongside others, or taking a quiet walk on the Lake Trail, or reading a book of devotions before bed. There are many ways to spend time with God, many ways to transform the comfort of relationship with Jesus Christ into our happy place. But it starts with making space for divine comfort in our lives. Nothing could be more important and nothing, certainly not any trappings of this world, can gladden our hearts in such profound ways. 

So make space for Jesus, prepare him room. And encounter the happy place to which the human heart is both drawn to and so desperately yearns. In it, I promise, you will find rest for your souls.

Christ the King 2023

A Sermon from the Church of  

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

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on November 26, 2023 (Christ the King)

Human beings love to putting people into categories. And we do this all the time. We put people into tax brackets and zip codes, we sort people by education level, political party, and religious affiliation. When you fill out a new patient form at a doctor’s office — something I’ve done a lot over the last year — you check boxes indicating your race and gender.

Even in church we sort people: bishops and priests and lay people, tenors and sopranos, bride’s side and groom’s side. Not to mention the most controversial sorting of them all: high church and low church.

I think this type of sorting is a basic human desire for categorical clarity. If we label someone, we can put them into a well-established box that sets our minds at ease. We can seemingly bring order to chaos, by telling ourselves we know precisely who and what they are.

The danger is that such categories can be used to make snap judgments about other people, they can be used to exclude certain people that don’t check the right boxes, and they often oversimplify the complexities of the human condition. And the potential spiritual risk is even greater. Because we’re left with the temptation to stop truly seeing people as fellow children of God. And instead viewing them as haves and have nots, as insiders and outsiders, as worthy and unworthy. 

And so it’s rather jarring to hear this passage from Matthew’s gospel where Jesus himself seemingly sorts people into two categories: sheep and goats, the righteous and the unrighteous.

In the kingdom of heaven, we hear, the sheep hold the honored place. They are the ones who have been “blessed by my Father,” as Jesus says. They are the righteous ones. And you can hear echoes of the Beatitudes in how they have lived their lives: “Blessed are the merciful and the peacemakers and the pure in heart and those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.” The familiar words of the Beatitudes, which we heard just a few weeks ago, are the road map to righteousness.

It is those likened to sheep that have not just worshiped Jesus with their lips, but have followed him in their lives They are the ones who fed the hungry, gave drink to the thirsty, welcomed the stranger, clothed the naked, took care of the sick, and visited those in prison. The sheep are the ones at Jesus’ right hand.

And then there are the goats. The ones who may have even worshipped Jesus, but didn’t follow him with their actions. The ones who didn’t feed the hungry, or give drink to the thirsty, or welcome the stranger, or clothe the naked, or take care of the sick, or visit those in prison. Those are the ones who don’t occupy the place of honor.

This may be a good time to mention that such apocalyptic literature is not meant to be taken literally. Jesus will not literally separate the sheep from the goats — we’re not farm animals. Which isn’t to diminish the harsh language of judgment and salvation here, but to remind us that such language is meant to challenge and reveal, as we wrestle with themes of sin, injustice, and the ultimate sovereignty of God. And it forces us to examine the actions of our own lives as we prepare for that day when Christ the King will return in great glory to sit on the throne of righteousness.

Unfortunately, in the wrong hands, such passages are absolutely used to condemn rather than to show compassion. Which surely isn’t Jesus’ point. We are not the ones charged with judging the hearts of our fellow pilgrims on this journey of life. That is seriously above our pay grade. But that doesn’t prevent an awful lot of religious folks from standing in for Jesus and gleefully separating the sheep from the goats. From deciding who is righteous and who is unrighteous; from determining who is worthy and who is unworthy; from declaring who is virtuous and who is a sinner.

And it’s a funny thing. Because whenever preachers do this, the sheep sure look an awful lot like the preacher. The sheep seem to believe everything that the preacher believes. And the sheep tend to interpret Scripture the same way that the preacher interprets it. While those condemned as goats tend to have a different take than the preacher, and interpret Scripture differently, and are less wrapped up in the condemnation of others.

Divine judgment is a merciful judgment, a judgment of compassion and love. Our judgment of one another is often much less forgiving. And so many people have been deeply wounded by the institutional church over the years. Shamed for being the person God created them to be, spiritually abused by human agendas, cast out rather than welcomed home. Which is why when I say to visitors or those seeking a church home that there is always a place for you here. I mean exactly that. We may not always agree on everything, you may not love every sermon I preach. But you will always be welcomed here, because God loves you. And in the end, that’s what we seek to convey in this place.

Plus, all this sorting and condemning of one another distracts from the real issue at hand. That Jesus calls us to feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, welcome the stranger, clothe the naked, take care of the sick, and visit those in prison. That we are called above all else to love and serve. 

One of the fascinating realizations in this story of the sheep and goats is that everyone involved, both the righteous and the unrighteous, remain blinded to who it is they’re serving or neglecting to serve. Jesus says to the sheep who unknowingly ministered to him, “Just as you did it to one of least of these, who are members of my family, you did it to me.” And he says to the goats who unknowingly ignored him, “Just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.”

And so the point is that we should treat everyone we encounter, not as a person to pigeonhole into a particular category, but as if that person were Jesus himself. If you treat everyone with the respect and dignity that our baptismal covenant calls us to, you will serve Jesus. If you show love to everyone you meet, you will love Jesus. 

That’s amazing, right? Although we can neglect Jesus every single day, we also have the opportunity to love and serve him every single day of our lives. And that is an incredible gift that is literally staring us in the face from the moment we get out of bed.

So why, then, this whole sorting business? On this Christ the King Sunday, as we celebrate the King of kings and Lord of lords, it’s the Kingdom of Heaven that rises from the ashes of humanity. And this kingdom looks nothing like an earthly kingdom. It’s a kingdom built on love and compassion, not power and wealth. It’s a kingdom that transcends the whole notion of putting people into categories, and instead places them into a single category as beloved children of God. 

The reality is, there’s a bit of sheep and goat in all of us. Not a single one of us has fleece as white as snow. And Jesus doesn’t expect this of us. He’s not looking for perfection. After all, if that were possible, we’d have no need for a Savior. Yet we all do. 

And so he sets out for us a vision of what the kingdom of heaven may look like here on earth. Drawing us ever deeper into a life of compassion and grace. Offering salvation and hope to a broken and hurting world. The reign of Christ is what we so desperately need in this moment. May we also come to share in his heavenly kingdom.

24th Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 27A)

A Sermon from the Church of  

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

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on November 12, 2023 (Proper 27A)

I had to laugh when I saw that the gospel reading appointed for this morning was the one known as the Parable of the Wise and Foolish Bridesmaids. Because last weekend I officiated at a wedding with the largest number of bridesmaids I have ever seen.

There were 16 of them! Along with the corresponding number of groomsmen. It was quite the procession down this long and gracious aisle. And a wonderful day at Bethesda.

Of course, this parable isn’t actually about the bridesmaids themselves. We’re in this pre-Advent time when our readings begin to hint at themes of preparation and watchfulness. “Keep awake, therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour,” Jesus says.

But, still, this parable assumes a delay. The bridesmaids take their lamps out to enthusiastically meet the groom, but he’s late. Maybe he got caught up in traffic on the middle bridge? Who knows? But he finally arrives at midnight and as the bridesmaids rush out to meet him, only half of them, the wise ones who brought extra oil, are able to light their lamps to welcome him. But the foolish ones who didn’t plan for a possible delay and had no oil beyond what was already in their lamps, weren’t prepared. 

Now I admit that, on several levels, this is a rather odd story. First of all, where’s the bride in all of this? Why don’t the wise bridesmaids share some of their extra oil? That would seem to be the kind thing to do. The foolish bridesmaids then do exactly what the wise ones counsel them to do — they go out looking to purchase more oil for their lamps — and they still get left out, unable to gain entry to the wedding feast. “Keep awake,” we hear, and yet all 10 of the bridesmaids, both the wise and the foolish, fall asleep before the groom arrives.

So there are some glaringly loose ends here that leave us wondering. But the broader point is that we do not know and cannot know when Christ will return in great glory to judge the earth. That’s the promise — that he will one day return. But despite all the doomsday cults that like to predict the exact moment — and then move the goalposts when nothing happens — we’re still waiting. We’re still watching. As Christians, we live our lives in hopeful anticipation of the glory that is to come. But in the meantime, there is a delay. So we wait. And we prepare.

One historical note is that this whole idea of not knowing the timing of Christ’s return was an especially important issue for Jesus’ followers in the period after the crucifixion, certainly for those who were the initial audience of Matthew’s gospel. As days, months, and years went by, it became clear that Christ’s Second Coming may not be imminent after all. And while there may have been initial disappointment and even disillusionment for people who expected the end of the world to come at any moment, for the community to survive and thrive it had to come to terms with living in this tension. Of existing between the First Coming and the Second. 

And we, too, live in this in-between time. God in human form has walked and lived among us; and in God’s own time, Christ will return. Every week during the Eucharistic Prayer we proclaim, “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.” Christ’s return is a fundamental belief of the Christian faith, even if we rarely think about it, or dwell on it. Frankly, it’s easy to lose sight of this in the midst of our daily lives and routines. When the alarm clock goes off on yet another weekday morning, our first thought is probably not “I wonder if today’s the day Jesus will finally show up?” But until that moment, we continue to live in this in-between time, trying to keep awake and remain watchful, while living out our lives to the fullest each day. 

So how do we do that? How do we live our lives in this in-between time? How do we keep awake? How do we remain spiritually prepared? Well, being prepared for Jesus to come again doesn’t mean we have to pull all-nighters. Again, even the wise bridesmaids fell asleep. 

Usually when we think about being prepared, what we really mean is that we want to have all sorts of things on hand in case we need them. I always think of that old military mantra: “It’s better to have and not need, than need and not have.” Which is all well and good, but leaves you toting around a lot of extra baggage.

But spiritual preparation is different. It’s not about lugging around a bunch of things. It’s about letting them go, and focusing on what really matters in life. We prepare spiritually by being kind and compassionate, loving and merciful, faithful and generous. It’s about opening our hearts to allow others in. It’s about standing up and speaking up for those on the margins of society. It’s about reaching out to the least, the lost, and the lonely among us. 

That’s what Jesus asks of us. That’s what Jesus hopes to see in us. That his teachings will take root in our hearts and in our minds and in our souls. And that we will live out our faith not just with our lips, but in our lives.

And I see so many examples of this at Bethesda. This month, in preparation for Port Ministry Sunday, we’re collecting toiletries for seafarers from all over the world who come through the Port of Palm Beach. We feed the hungry through Empty Bowls and several local food pantries. We support initiatives to provide shelter and educational opportunities. And so many of you volunteer your time and share your resources to help others both through the ministry of this church and through outside organizations that make a difference in this community. This is all God’s work in the world, and it is all spiritual preparation.

The reality is that our earthly pilgrimage is short. In addition to living in that time between Jesus coming to us in a manger and Jesus returning in great glory, we all have that narrow window that exists between our birth and our death. Jesus encourages us to make the most of it by trying to make a difference in the world. Through compassion and love and generosity, in ways both great and small.

And when it all feels overwhelming, when we feel so small and inconsequential amid a world that often feels out of control, I encourage you to focus on that one square yard around you. That’s the place to start, that’s what you can control. You can directly impact what’s right in front of you and behind you and beside you. That’s where it starts, with ourselves, with that one square yard. And then we can expand that one square yard to begin to positively impact those around us. And then collectively, as a community of faith, we can make a big, bold difference in the world. That’s how we prepare.

And so together we prepare, we dream, we encourage one another on this journey of life and faith. Following Jesus step by step. Year by year. As we proclaim again and again, “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.”

All Saints’ Sunday 2023

A Sermon from the Church of  

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

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on November 5, 2023 (All Saints’ Sunday)

We have a stained glass window problem in the church. Oh, they’re fine, physically. This isn’t some sort of fundraising appeal for window restoration. And they’re certainly beautiful. There’s an ethereal quality to the light that glimmers and dances into this sacred space through the ancient art of stained glass. And here at Bethesda, we have some particularly gorgeous windows that only enhance the sense of holiness that pervades this place. Our windows tell wonderful sacred stories, many of which revolve around the theme of water, as is fitting of a place called Bethesda-by-the-Sea. Besides the Te Deum window which evokes the deep blues of the ocean, we have images of Jonah and the Whale, of Jesus walking on water, of the disciples casting their nets into the Sea of Galilee. 

The stained glass problem I’m referring to has to do with how we envision the great saints of the church. Again, they’re depicted in magnificent ways here. On the south wall of the nave, we have the twelve apostles — well, not Judas. Nobody wants a window of Judas. But these windows remind us that we are surrounded and uplifted and encouraged by the great saints who have come before us in the faith.

But the problem with putting saints in stained glass is that we sometimes forget that they were real people. Flawed individuals like you and me who simply followed Jesus amid difficult or unusual or heroic circumstances. They had blood flowing through their veins, a fact we can lose sight of when we only see them in stained glass or statuary or oil paintings; when we literally put them on a pedestal and are told to look, but don’t touch. Despite their halos, the saints of the church weren’t perfect — they were all forgiven sinners, just like you and me. But I find that recognizing the humanity of the saints makes them even more approachable, even more authentic, and even more inspiring.

And so I invite you to shatter the stained glass that immortalizes, yes, but also immobilizes the saints who have come before us in the faith. Not literally, please. Because then this will turn into a fundraising appeal. But in a way that allows you to be broken open and inspired anew by their lives of discipleship, by the ways that they followed Jesus in their own day.

One of the ways we can walk the path of these holy women and men is to look at the saintly qualities listed in the Beatitudes. Because when it comes to saintly living, to following the example of the saints, we do well to look at those characteristics that Jesus called blessed: Who does he called “blessed?” The powerful, the self-assured, the vengeful, the privileged? No!

Jesus says, blessed are the meek and the peacemakers and the pure in heart and those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. Those are the saintly qualities Jesus highlights. Those are the qualities that Jesus encourages us to possess. Not all the time, not in every moment — not even the saints we celebrate could live up to that. But to the very best of our abilities. As the old hymn, ‘I sing a song of the saints of God’ puts it, “And I mean to be one too.” That’s what we should all be striving for in our earthly pilgrimage, to embody these words from the Sermon on the Mount. Of course the song also says, “And one was a soldier and one was a priest and one was slain by a fierce wild beast.” You know that line. And whenever I hear it I think to myself, well, I was a soldier and I am a priest, but I’d sure like to avoid option number three.

But as followers of Jesus Christ, the qualities embodied in the words of the Beatitudes is the life into which we have been baptized. It is the life into which those being baptized this very day, are invited into. And, frankly, these values, these qualities are quite counter-cultural. To follow Jesus is to allow that might doesn’t make right, that winning isn’t everything, that it’s not all about you. And, frankly, those are the values to which our society so often subscribes. Vanity is rewarded, success is applauded, and power and prestige are celebrated. And yet…Jesus says blessed are the meek and the peacemakers and the pure in heart and those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. These are the values of God’s kingdom; this is the way of Jesus, this is the way of love.

And so the question held out for all of us as we walk past the statues of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John on our way inside this beautiful building, or as we pass by the saints depicted all around us in stained glass, is how are we embodying the saintly qualities that mark us as Christ’s own forever? How are we being peacemakers? In what ways are we hungering and thirsting for righteousness? How are we acting with pure intentions in our hearts? I know I could do a better job at this, and I doubt I’m alone.

Because it’s not enough to listen to the familiar words of the Beatitudes and think that they only really apply to the great saints of the church. That because we don’t have halos, Jesus isn’t actually speaking to us. But here’s the thing, Jesus is speaking these words to you! He wants you to strive always for the kingdom of God, he wants you to be a peacemaker, he wants you to hunger and thirst for righteousness. And he wants you to know that by always striving to embody these saintly qualities, even when you fall short, that you too are blessed.

On All Saints’ Sunday, as we celebrate the real life people who the church recognizes as saints, as we create new saints through the sacrament of baptism, and as we remember those saints that we have known and loved and lost in our own lives, we do well to reflect upon the fact that what makes a saint isn’t perfection, but faithfulness. That’s the path set out for us, that’s the way, that’s the life of faith. And when we take those steps, however haltingly, we can all honestly and authentically say, “And I mean to be one too.”

20th Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 23A)

A Sermon from the Church of  

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

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on October 15, 2023 (Proper 23A)

It’s been a rough week for humanity. The brutal images out of Israel and the Gaza Strip. The horror of violence and war, murder and destruction. Innocent Jews and Palestinians caught in the crossfire of conflict. All amid a backdrop of ongoing global strife and political unrest. 

Earlier this week, Rabbi Michael Resnick, whom many of you know as the spiritual leader of Temple Emanu-El just up the street, shared a picture of a radiantly beautiful purple lily on his Facebook page. It may well have been the one from our koi pond that always draws my eye whenever I stroll through the gates of the Cluett Memorial Garden. You probably know the one I’m talking about. 

And beneath this bright lily he shared another image of the same picture. But for the second image, he’d manipulated it using a photo editing software that enables you to desaturate a photograph. A desaturated picture isn’t black and white, it’s not completely devoid of color. But by moving a slider, you can take a brightly colored picture and slowly remove all of its vibrancy. The more you move the slider, the less vivid it becomes and eventually the color just fades away. And that’s how Rabbi Resnick was feeling following the news of Hamas’ savagery.

Earlier in the week, I had called the rabbi just to check in and let him know that we at Bethesda-by-the-Sea were praying for him and his community in the immediate aftermath of the Hamas terrorist attacks. It was a good conversation — faith-filled, heartbreaking, honest, cathartic. But the Jewish community is hurting right now, and deeply wounded by what’s taking place in the Middle East. 

And they’re not alone. For all of us, life itself has felt desaturated of late. There’s just been so much to endure — emotionally and spiritually. The reality is that evil exists, atrocities are perpetrated, sin is real, injustice reigns, oppression takes root, humanity is broken. Hope abides, but sometimes it’s just so hard to see.

As people who worship a first-century Jew who lived in ancient Palestine, we do well to walk alongside our siblings in faith, especially at moments when they are walking through what surely feels like the valley of the shadow of death. 

Somehow it feels appropriate that Psalm 23 shows up in our lectionary texts this morning. The 23rd Psalm is, of course, the most familiar psalm, the most beloved psalm of the whole 150-strong lot of psalms. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.” Ancient words that have rung out for thousands of years in moments of desperation and isolation, in moments of gratitude and joy, in moments of fear and uncertainty. There’s a reason these words are so often read at funerals: they speak powerfully to those in the midst of raw grief – to those walking through the valley of the shadow of death.

But the 23rd Psalm isn’t just something to make us feel all warm and fuzzy inside. It is a radical statement of God’s abiding presence — not only when times are easy, but when life is at it’s hardest and most heartbreaking. And it’s a bold affirmation that, in the end, the only thing that we can hold onto when life is swirling beyond our control, is God’s presence. 

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.” God will never forsake us, God will never abandon us and God is all that we need. That’s what abides, when all else fades away. When the color is drained from our hearts and from the very depths of our souls. When the world recoils in horror at the specter of terror in our midst.

You know, the initial attack on Israeli citizens last week took place on the Jewish holiday of Simchat Torah. It’s a day that marks the conclusion of the annual cycle of Torah readings. And so it is a day when the last verses of Deuteronomy are read, followed by the first verses of Genesis. Each time the Torah scrolls are opened, worshippers dance and sing, and it is traditionally a time of joyful celebration. 

This year’s celebration was obviously different, a mix of joy and sorrow. But this is often the life of faith. It is not an oxymoron to be, as St. Paul puts it, “sorrowful, yet always rejoicing.” Again, it’s what’s so deeply embedded in Psalm 23: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me.”

Those opening lines read from Scripture on Simchat Torah, include the story of Creation. And what’s the first thing that God says? Literally the first divine utterance in all of Scripture: “Let there be light.” The world starts with light. Light is what God brings to the world. Light is God’s mission statement. We see that in Genesis. And all of God’s people, Jews, Christians, and Muslims alike look to Genesis as our origin story. We all look to a world that begins with light. We are all created and made in the image of God. And so, while we can and must condemn evil, we cannot condemn one another. For to do so is to diminish the light within us.

Now, I’m not a public policy analyst. And while I certainly have opinions, I will never stand up in a pulpit and pretend that I have all the answers to the thorny questions that vex our nation and our world. But as a preacher, I am committed to helping us all look at life through the lens of faith. In the present conflict, I wish things were as black and white as many on both sides are portraying. But there are shades of moral gray, that often get subsumed by tribal passion. This isn’t moral equivalency, it’s moral clarity. 

But to be clear, the demonization of other human beings is not of God. The murder of children is not of God. Taking hostages is not of God. Torture is not of God. It’s critical that we name evil when it arises, and do all in our power to counteract its forces by shining light into the dark recesses of humanity’s brokenness. 

And so it’s possible to condemn the savagery of a terrorist organization, without condemning an entire race or religion. You can support the right of a nation to defend itself, while also expressing concern about innocent people being caught in the buzzsaw of war. Compassion and human decency do not take sides. 

St. John writes in the prologue to his gospel, “The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness did not overcome it.” In difficult moments, in hard moments, in unthinkable moments — both in the world and in our own lives — the light shines in the darkness. Hope does abide. For Christians, hope is embedded in the Light of Christ. It shines brightly, casting out darkness, reminding us that even at the foot of the cross, even when all worldly hope has been abandoned, the light still shines. 

And so I bid you not to give up, or toss up your hands in despair, or retreat to a safe bubble of denial. Reach out to friends in the communities impacted by what’s happening in the Middle East. Weep with those who weep, mourn with those who mourn. Pray for peace, never abandon hope, and keep seeking glimmers of light in the midst of the darkness. As people of faith, we have no other path.