Grant Me the Grace of Seeing

Posted on December 4, 2025 by harasprice

Homily for Advent 1, Year A
St. Mark’s Episcopal Church
November 30, 2025

Lectionary Texts:

An opening prayer from J. Philip Newell:

I watch this day
For the light that the darkness has not overcome.
I watch for the fire that was in the beginning
and that burns still in the brilliance of the rising sun.
I watch for the glow of life that gleams in the growing earth
and glistens in sea and sky.
I watch for your light, O God,
in the eyes of every living creature
and in the ever-living flame of my own soul.
If the grace of seeing were mine this day
I would glimpse you in all that lives.
Grant me the grace of seeing this day.
Grant me the grace of seeing.

There are some times and places in this life where I get so caught up in the frenetic pace of life that if I am not careful, I can completely forget that I might experience the grace of encountering our Holy and Living God. A few weeks ago, that place was the Fredericksburg Amtrak station.

I had just spent three days at our diocesan annual convention where…as Mickie, Karen, Ryn and Benjamin can attest…I did NOT do a lot of sitting! I was heading from convention to spend a few days in New York City with the seminary students that I teach, who were gathered for their quarterly in-person learning opportunity. The plan was simple: finish convention, have a colleague drop me off at the train station, find a quiet corner to sit for a few minutes until my train arrived. It was a great plan until the latter two parts. My colleague did kindly drop me off at the station after convention; but I quickly learned that there is no “station” at this particular station: it is simply a drop off point with stairs to the platform and tracks. And soon after I arrived, my phone gave a “ping” to tell me that my train was running about an hour late.

So there I was, wandering aimlessly below the platform tracks with my roller bag and backpack, dressed too nicely to just sit down on the ground and too tired to go looking for a coffee shop.

It wasn’t too long before a prophet of the railway wilderness found me. He was also walking to and fro among the handful of us aimlessly waiting. His story was also about the battle between good and evil, the coming of the Lord that was near. This prophet might have been a modern vision of John the Baptist: he was gaunt, wearing worn out blue jeans and a ballcap that showed the military insignia that let us know his former life. He was preaching to all who would listen. He offered me a message, after unsuccessfully seeking if I had a cigarette. “You never know when you’ll be called up…wait for it!” was his message to me. That’s how I know he was a prophet!

My app “pinged” at that point and gave me two pieces of good news: my train was now only 20 minutes away, and I had been upgraded to business class and assigned a seat.

As I climbed the platform to board my train, I was thinking about sitting down and tuning out. I found my newly assigned seat, which was next to an older woman traveling by herself. I was immediately greeted by her kind and welcoming smile and a warm “hello,” something that does not always happen when someone takes up the empty seat beside you.

“It feels good to finally sit down,” I said, making light conversation. “I’ve been working on my feet a lot these past few days.”

“Ah” she said, “so now you are able to go home and rest!”

I shrugged. “Not quite yet” I said, “I’m headed to New York, for some other work.” I suddenly realized that my vagueness made me sound decidedly like a traveling salesperson.

“My dear!” she said, in what I was realizing to be a beautifully accented voice, “but it’s a Saturday!”

I smiled in response to her absolutely genuine kindness and concern for me, a total stranger. I felt my heart soften and I shifted to look at her, feeling an urge to share more authentically.

“I’m a clergy person who also teaches at a seminary, so I get rest, but not always on the weekends. I’m traveling between a church meeting and a seminary gathering right now.”

“Delightful!” she exclaimed, “My new seat-mate is a woman who is also a clergy person…and can I ask, what denomination?”

“I’m an Episcopal priest” I said, never knowing quite how that will land, but in this case, I watched her eyes light up and her smile grow wider.

“Well, I am Lutheran so I think we have many things in common!” she offered up.

And she was absolutely correct.

As we passed through scenic stretches and by other train stations en route, I heard all about the new ELCA presiding bishop Yehiel Curry (she coached me on the pronunciation) and invited me to listen to his inspiring installation sermon, telling me I would find in him a delightfully similar personality to our former Episcopal presiding bishop Michael Curry. I learned about her active participation in her progressive parish in North Carolina, about her ministry engagement in outreach and hospitality, about the ways that as she grew older in years she had grown even deeper in faith and recognition of the Reign of Christ in our midst. We shared with each other stories about moments of profound recognition of Christ’s presence in serving those marginalized by this world, in sharing hospitality with strangers, in the acts of being Christ’s hands and feet in the world and in doing so, recognizing we were encountering Christ himself.

There was a timelessness about our conversational sharing, and each story one of us would tell seemed to inspire the other. I want to visit her church, and she wants to visit St. Mark’s! And rather miraculously as we spoke, I was no longer thinking about my hurting feet and no longer craving my usual introvert cocooning. I found myself filled and refreshed in body and spirit.

The whole conversation was delightful, but some of our final thoughts and exchanges with each other are lingering with me profoundly this Advent.

I realized pretty far into our conversation that I hadn’t actually given her my name. I apologized for the oversight as I dug in my purse for a business card and said, “I just realized that I forgot to share that my name is Sarah.”

“Oh Sarah,” she said, “of course that would be your name. That was supposed to be my name!” She went on to tell me in more hushed tones about her early life. She had been born in Nazi Germany under Hitler’s rule to Christian sympathizers active in the underground, who were part of the escape route for Jewish people oppressed under the Nazi regime. Her parents helped many people escape while she was too young to fully understand that risk. They changed her name to “May” for her own safety, something that did not sound Jewish. Her family fled to the United States as asylum-seekers after their identity was compromised by neighbors.

“I had the privilege of survival,” May said, “and I’ve had more opportunities in this life than many. So, I may be an old woman but I have made myself a promise.” She looked at me with deep conviction and said: “I was born under a dictator, and I will not die under one.”

May was traveling by train, meeting up with friends to engage in direct action, ministering to protestors and providing free medical and legal services to immigrants and children detained under ICE. Her conviction of spirit framed her whole life now: it was her vocation, her call.

I asked if I could pray with her and give her a blessing as she was preparing to depart. She had tears in her eyes and said, “I know you were sent to sit by me; I was praying for God’s blessing all the way here.” So we both got up and stood there in the middle aisle of an Amtrak business car and invoked God’s blessing on her ministry, striving to bring the vision of God’s realm as we read in the prophet Isiah to this earth, as it is in heaven. Both of us were weeping with joy, knowing that the serendipity of our encounter on that train was no coincidence, no accident but the clear intervention of the Holy Spirit. Even via an Amtrak app.

There are times like these…unexpected, ordinary and yet so profound…when it is clear to me that God is speaking, acting and working among all of God’s people, through prophets in train stations and saints across the lifespan.

It isn’t just a nice thing we say when we promise to seek and serve Christ in all people and to love our neighbors as ourselves. When we live into those baptismal promises, truly, we open ourselves to the possibility that we will be led to the places we need to be, even if we know nothing about it. When we follow the call to put on the whole armor of light, we cannot go anywhere or encounter anyone without being reminded that we are living in the presence of God who is, God who loves, God who joined with us in our humanity so that we, too, can participate in God’s realm on earth, as it is in heaven.

Indeed, salvation is nearer to us now than when we became believers.

Friends, we don’t know the hour or the time when we will be called up to serve. We don’t know where and with whom we will come to know Christ’s presence with us; and we can’t even imagine all the times, all the places, all the ways we will be invited to participate in the living out of God’s realm on this earth, as it is in heaven. Today’s Gospel is not a threat, it is a promise! So often, we read this Gospel with shaky fear; we’ve been made to think that we must stand and tremble in fear that God might find us. But I’m here to tell you this is Good News: God finds us! The presence of Christ is being made known in the places and spaces where God needs to be, at the moments needed. I experienced Christ’s presence through my encounter with May, sitting alone on a train and praying for a blessing and in turn, blessing me with true refreshment of body and spirit. It fills me with awe imagining how the presence of Christ was made known through May as she lived into her call of defiant compassion with other immigrants and children of immigrants, asylum seekers just as she was once who were experiencing oppression at the hands of the rulers of this world. God was with her, filling her with the light of love and grace which no doubt overflowed to everyone she encountered.

This is the Good News of Advent, friends. Jesus Christ, who was and who is and who is to come is creating our new world as we walk together in the light of the Lord. We watch, and wait and are reminded that we will be called up when we are ready.

I watch this day
For the light that the darkness has not overcome.
I watch for the fire that was in the beginning
and that burns still in the brilliance of the rising sun.
I watch for the glow of life that gleams in the growing earth
and glistens in sea and sky.
I watch for your light, O God,
in the eyes of every living creature
and in the ever-living flame of my own soul.
If the grace of seeing were mine this day
I would glimpse you in all that lives.
Grant me the grace of seeing this day.
Grant me the grace of seeing.

Trees in Zuccotti Park, New York City [where I raised my prayer of thanks for this encounter!]

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New Treasures in Familiar Places

Posted on October 20, 2025 by harasprice

Homily for Proper 24 Year C
October 19, 2025
St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, Richmond VA

Lessons appointed:

Jeremiah 31:27-34
Psalm 119:97-104
2 Timothy 3:14-4:5
Luke 18:1-8

I’ve been traveling this past week, up to Buffalo to visit my Mom for some leaf peeping and catching up during our favorite time of year.  Like anyone who travels to one destination often enough, I have a preferred route and that involves connecting in Detroit, which is a gem of an airport and just a quick hop over Lake Erie, as the birds fly.  This time, that involved an early morning flight followed by a three hour layover, perfect for several cups of coffee and sit-down breakfast.  I also indulged a favorite travel treat, which is visiting one of the airport bookstores and picking out a book I never heard of before to read just for fun.

I picked up a book with a cute cat on the cover that was called, What You are Looking For is in the Library written by Michiko Aoyama.  I won’t give any spoilers, but just to say that this book is written by and reflective of Japanese culture, with five stories about people who are directed to a library where they are greeted by the ordinary, extraordinary “magic” of finding exactly what they need with the help of a wise librarian who has an uncanny ability to hear their deeper question-behind-the-question of what they are looking for. It’s a hope filled book, well worth a read.  

While I was reading the first short story of a young women seeking some computer-savvy knowledge books to take her beyond her retail career, I chuckled when not only were there self-help books but a “bonus” book recommendation from the librarian, a Japanese children’s book about two field mice and their adventures.  The young woman remembers the book from her childhood and checks it out for nostalgic reasons. But as she reads it, she realizes that she remembered it differently than she did as a child and sees new lessons in it.  She sweetly re-enters the wonder and curiosity of her childhood to find different ways to look at the current challenges of her life. As she’s talking about this with some friends, she finds that each of them also remember the book but they remembered it differently as well…and each of the things they remembered add even more so to her now more adult understanding.  At one point, she says “How could I have forgotten the story when I’d read it so many times before?  Or misremembered, more like…my heart sings as I think I may have just hit on some truth!”

And that my friends, reminded me of this week’s scripture lessons, another book which I had also been reading through in the days leading up to my travel.  We read in the Epistle lesson:

As for you, continue in what you have learned and firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it, and how from childhood you have known the sacred writings that are able to instruct you for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus. All scripture is inspired by God and is useful for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, so that everyone who belongs to God may be proficient, equipped for every good work.

I also remembered those verses from my childhood.  They were sometimes used for scolding, and often for backing up a literalist interpretation of the Holy Scriptures, as if the inspiration of  God could only be spoken directly in the King James Version of English (but I digress). Sometimes this Epistle is quoted as a justification for “reproof” and “correction” than I believe it was intended.  Or, in keeping with the rest of the passage, perhaps there are itchy ears who like the idea of control more than the actual Good News of righteousness, goodness, grace and love also contained in our holy scriptures to be written on our hearts.  

Inspired by my airport reading, I want to suggest a different intention possible also on the heart and mind of our Epistle-writer, inspired by God. Like the re-reading of the familiar stories of our childhood, we often think we know what the story all about.  But when we are directed there by a person, a set of Sunday scriptures, a chance encounter even…what if we went back and revisited those seemingly familiar words and stories anew and discovered truths we had never seen before.

I believe there are always treasures awaiting us in the Good News of Jesus Christ.  If I were to ask each of you to tell me a story from scripture that has meaning to you, we probably wouldn’t all have the same story come to mind.  And, even if we did have similarities amongst our favorite…the way we remember and recall the story as we retold it would not be exactly the same.  This is why Sunday after Sunday, I can prepare a homily and it won’t be just like any other preacher’s…or perhaps even like my own from a previous lectionary cycle! I can listen to other preachers using the same texts and hear things that hadn’t come into my mind as I am preparing.  This is evidence of God’s inspiration, the way in which the Holy Spirit works through the holy words of the scriptures and of all the members of the Body of Christ to continually bring us back to the stories, the people, the lessons, the poetry, the laments, the hopes of places and ages past that still resonate for us in particular ways and help us to know and confidently move forward in the ways that reveal God’s covenant of love to the whole world.  

Our Epistle lesson reminds us that the whole of the Holy Scriptures are for us, for the beloved of God.  In them are the stories, the parables, the characters, the instruction that will help us and help us help one another.  The meaning of these stories does not only come alive for us only in the quiet corners of our own minds, but through conversation with God and with one another.

If we take that same frame of reference and read the parable of today’s Gospel, we hear the story of how even a faithless, disrespecting leader eventually gives in to someone pleading their cause for justice.  In the times in which we live, it may seem impossible to us that hard hearts might open to justice; the illustration probably seemed impossible to the people of Jesus’ time under occupation by the Roman Emperor as well.  We are reminded that even with the recalcitrant and heart-hearted there is a path through.  How much more so with God?  

In today’s Gospel we are reminded that our loving God who has so much more goodwill, love and respect for God’s beloved creation than any ruler on this earth is hearing our cries for justice.  That doesn’t mean that we get exactly what we want, or that justice suddenly appears overnight.  But as we sang in our sequence hymn, consider the possibility that we are all called to be like the woman who bravely demands justice. In taking up our pleas to God and joining with one another in those pleas for justice in this world, our voices come together and we begin to participate together in the unfolding of God’s justice in this world.  

And if there’s anyone I’d like to join with to participate in the cause of God’s justice, it is the good people of St. Mark’s who have been living out that justice on earth, as it is in heaven, for so very many years.

In this season where we reflect on God’s stewardship of our lives, and our stewardship of the gifts with which God has entrusted us, we are reminded that sharing the stories of our faith with one another is at the core of who we are.  Love is our tradition, because God who is Love unites us, connects us, empowers us, enlivens us.  Love flows through Zoom streams and children’s programs.  Love flows from the Mountain at Shrinemont where some of us are worshipping today here to those of us on Arthur Ashe Boulevard keeping the faith at home.  I know that love flows uphill, too, from this parish near the James River and all the way up to Orkney Springs to those on the parish retreat.  And you know what?  It flows through all of the parishes, towns, highways and backroads between those places, too.  I feel that love on the Sunday mornings where I’m traveling around the Diocese, and I’m wrapping in back to you, too. That love connects us in a way that allows a vision of justice to keep growing stronger, no matter how many challenges it may face.  And that love and justice comes to us through our study, our conversation, our lives of sharing.  It keeps growing as we talk, as we study, as we worship and learn together.

So, I’ll offer you a little challenge, St. Mark’s.  Don’t just take my word for it.  Whether it’s today at coffee hour or sometime during this season of stewardship and renewal, share your favorite story from scripture with a friend at St. Mark’s and ask someone to share theirs.  Share your favorite story of God’s working in your life, and ask someone to share theirs. Our lives of faith are demonstrations of God’s love and that doesn’t stop at the doors of this parish.  The love we experience here overflows to the world that needs it, our cries for justice received by God who cares deeply for us, and for all of God’s creation. 

Share that Good News today.

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Hidden Fruit

Posted on September 22, 2025 by harasprice

On this Autumn Equinox afternoon, my spouse walked in from our wildly overgrown backyard garden with a stalk of Chinese lanterns and a surprising added bonus invitation, “come look, you’ve got tomatoes!”

Now, it’s important to note that I didn’t plant tomatoes.  I haven’t planted tomatoes in well over 15 years, having given up that pursuit which only led to my anger at the backyard squirrels who otherwise bring me great joy.  This year, the squirrels have been particularly busy in their pursuits and had already managed to propagate several stalks of corn, which have sporadically popping up in the midst of my coneflowers.  I enjoyed watching them grow talk with the summer sun, the unintended crop of the spoils from raiding the neighbor’s bird feeder.  But as many times as I had been out there, I had never seen a tomato.

But today, it was unmistakable…a vine that had traveled far from wherever its original roots were planted and now bearing clusters of fruit, some bright red, some ripening, still others green bunches awaiting a bit longer to ripen in the last of the summer sun.  I dug into the bushes and picked a small dish of deliciousness, enjoying the smell of tomato vine that took me back to the gardens behind the house where I grew up, popping sun ripe spheres into my mouth while I was meant to be weeding.

I seem to have more tolerance for weeds now than I have in years past.  Some weeks I leave because they are native plants that attract pollinators, and some are present only because the pace of my life means that removing them hasn’t been a priority.  But today, on this Equinox, I was struck by how it was all in balance: the squirrels, the weeds, the tomatoes and me.  We are a tiny ecosystem, working perhaps oblivious to one another until an afternoon like this comes along and we notice, with gratitude, what has been growing and forming all along. 

On this Autumn Equinox, I am grateful for the gifts of nature, for surprises, for noticing the fruit and flora that have been growing together along with the tall weeds, unnoticed until the time was perfectly ripe for harvest.  I savored them with delight, like a sacramental gift of God’s providence even when it seems like the weeds had won.  More is always taking form, with God’s help.

Gracious God, open my eyes and help me continually see the gifts that your creation has provided for this journey.

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Love Changes Us

Posted on April 17, 2025 by harasprice

Maundy Thursday 2025, St. Mark’s Episcopal Church

Here we are, siblings in Christ, embarking together on the journey of Christ’s passion, through the suffering and love which is Holy Week. And it unfolds for us tonight in the midst of a love feast. 

In the narrative of Jesus’ passion as unfolded in the Gospel according to John, the story begins to unfold six days before the passover. Jesus and his disciples returned from a time hiding in the wilderness out of the fear and uprising that followed Jesus’ raising of his friend Lazurus from death back to life. After some time apart, Jesus came back to Bethany to be with his friends Mary, Martha and Lazarus.  The return was dangerous for Jesus and it was dangerous for them, too…but they are all together again in this story, because of love. 

In the midst of a dinner party thrown for her teacher and friend, Mary left and returned with a jar of perfume…not a little vial…imagine a full pound of pure, essential oil. Breaking open this lavish offering, she anointed Jesus’ feet and wiped them with her own hair, the prophetic and bitter-sweet aromatic of spikenard sinking into his flesh and being absorbed by her own hair as she washed and anointed his feet. And, as recounted for generations to come in a sensory memory that has never left us: the scent of the perfume filled the whole room. 

That night was lavish…scandalous according to Judas…and heartbreaking if we consider the foreshadowing. In my view, the holy nature of Mary’s discernment of serving at the feet of Jesus with that abundant outpouring of love was a gift even sweeter than the scent of the perfume.

Mary’s love for Jesus included her willingness to see that moment for what it was, even when that vulnerability opened her to harsh critique, judgement, loss, and grief. Mary of Bethany knew what she was doing: she had sat at Jesus’ feet, learned Jesus’ teaching, loved Jesus enough to give him an earful a short time earlier when he arrived at their home too late, after Lazurus had died. Mary saw Jesus’ vulnerability and grief over Lazarus, she witnessed his divine gift of returning her brother’s life and she understood the cost of that outpouring of Jesus’ own love. That love changed her, empowered her, emboldened her.  She gave up her safety and all regard for conventional propriety once again to invite and care for Jesus in her home. And I believe she discerned all along, with every preparation for that meal, what she needed to do.  

Just as Jesus knew all along what he needed to do, for the love of the whole world.

Love changes us.  Love empowers us.  Love emboldens us.

I am going to make my own potentially scandalous suggestion that it was Mary’s outpouring of love at that meal that changed, empowered and emboldened Jesus, too.

And that, my friends, is where I invite us to enter this Gospel lesson tonight.  

We encounter Jesus now in Jerusalem, and we know he didn’t sneak in quietly. Palms and branches were waved, cheers and shouts and noises ensued even beyond what we recreated here in the basement of Sunday. The people of Jerusalem were preparing to celebrate Passover, the Jewish festival recounting the historical liberation of God’s chosen people from their Egyptian captors. The people of Jerusalem, which was also occupied under Roman rule at that time, wanted liberation.  They wanted a savior, a messiah, a grand figure who would right the wrongs, let the oppressed go free and usher in a new day for the people chosen of God. Jerusalem was a giant street festival at that time; even gentiles…like the Greeks…had come into Jerusalem for the festivities and were seeking out and asking for Jesus, hoping he might just be the person to set their liberation into motion.  Hosanna in the highest.  

That was Sunday.  

And now, it is Thursday.  The days were streaming by and Jesus, human and divine, knew that his days were numbered. 

But in those passing days in Jerusalem, Jesus could not have forgotten Mary’s anointing. Mary’s anointing almost certain broke his heart open with a vulnerability that only love can give us. It is that heartbreak that helps us understand the passion…the interconnection of love and suffering.  Jesus, wholly human and wholly divine, understood the magnitude and meaning of Mary’s anointing.  He might even still have smelled the perfume on his own feet as he entered the room and sat at the table with his friends for what we have come to know as the Last Supper. Jesus, who had preached throughout his ministry that the last would be first, that the one who is truly the greatest is the one who serves, now stood at what he knew was the precipice of love, of passion and compassion, the great gift of love and suffering that he would take on not only for a few of his beloved friends, but for all.  

And having loved his own while he was in this world, he loved them to the end.

Holding all of these things in his own loving heart, in the midst of supper Jesus got up, wrapped a towel around his waste and picked up a bowl and pitcher.  Then…imagine this…going person by person among his disciples who were seated around him at that festival table, he knelt down on the floor and began to wash their feet. Every one of them, even Peter who at first pulled back from the ridiculous vulnerability of the idea. Then in true character when encountering the loving push-back of his teacher when his reaction kept him from seeing the deeper lesson…Peter offered his whole, full self.  Jesus keeps going…this is taking a long time, I have no doubt…and reaches even the feet of Judas who would soon betray him.  Jesus, their teacher and friend and savior, washed his feet.  He washed everyone’s feet: their dirty, smelly, road-worn feet.

If you feel the discomfort of that, you’re exactly where you need to be.  Don’t shy away from it.

Our Gospel lesson and our Epistle lesson converge at this point, as Jesus returns to the table with his friends and we hear the words spoken at this love feast that forms our sacramental lives in each celebration of the Holy Eucharist.  Jesus who is the host and the guest; Jesus who is the teacher and the servant; Jesus who is God incarnate and fleshy, mortal human, heart full and breaking open to reveal in that space the overflowing and abundant love that like the aroma of Mary’s perfume filling the house would outpour from him to fill the whole world.  

Love changes us.  Love empowers us.  Love emboldens us.

Friends, we are invited to this table and to this feast with Jesus.  We are invited with our doubts, with our incredulity, with our profound discomfort, with our desire to step away or to say, “no Jesus, let me wash your feet instead of you washing me.” Throughout this night and in the solemnity of Good Friday and the emptiness of Holy Saturday, we will keep feeling caught in the middle of this dialogue between the profound suffering and profound love of holy week.  We will fight the urge to move away.  And yet we are invited to remain on this journey with Jesus.  And we, too, will be changed. Because love changes us.

Where will we, hearts broken open by love, find ourselves kneeling at the feet of another, serving with a love that has permeated us?

Where will we, empowered to become vessels of Christ’s love in the world, find ourselves breaking open to serve the least, the lost, the grieving, the lonely?

Where will we, emboldened by the radical nature of Christ’s love, bravely speak the Good News of Jesus Christ that centers love, that breaks down the barriers of oppression and ushers forth the realm of Christ on earth, as it is in heaven?

Love changes us.  Love empowers us.  Love emboldens us.

Tonight, Jesus turns over the tables of our lives just like he overturned the money-changers in the temple.  Except this time, the catalyst and agent of change is the profound love of God for the world, a love so profound that God pours forth God’s incarnate self to be betrayed, handed over to suffering and death, to become the love-offering for the whole world.  

It’s lavish.  It’s scandalous.  It’s life-altering.

And it’s a gift freely given to us, not out of our own deserving or even our ability to ask.  Simply out of a love we cannot humanly imagine or understand.

But our host, Jesus, does.  

And having been broken open by love, he extends a new commandment to his friends: love one another. 

Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.

So here we are friends, sibling disciples and followers of Christ. In a world where love and empathy are being sidelined, we have the counter-cultural ability and command to center it.

It is Jesus who invites us to share together in tonight’s love feast.  It is Jesus who outpours love that breaks us open.  It is Jesus who gives us a new commandment to love one another.

So come, exactly as you are.  Come, even in your discomfort.  Come and join the love feast of Christ’s passion not as spectator or a guest, but as a disciple.

Love will change us.  Love will empower us.  Love will embolden us.

And the Love of Christ through us can…and will…change the world.

Sieger Köder The Washing of Feet
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The Realm of Christ is like…

Posted on November 25, 2024 by harasprice

Homily preached at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church

The Last Sunday after Pentecost, Year B

Christ the King

The year was 1925. In the aftermath of World War I, the people of Italy were struggling with economic deprivation, street violence between rival gangs and rampant right wing nationalism fueled by fear of a communist revolution.  In January, Benito Mussolini, the newly appointed Prime Minister, stood up to deliver a speech to the Italian parliament.  Without mincing words, he asserted his right to supreme power and effectively secured singular, unilateral power in Italy ushering in decades of fascist dictatorship.  

In February, an epidemic of diphtheria was spreading across Alaska, and a dog-sled brigade was deployed to allay the spread by bringing anti-toxin immunizations across that territory to its most rural reaches, a public health victory after over half of the population of Alaska had fallen victim to the Influenza epidemic of 1918. In March, the deadliest tornado ever recorded crossed a tri-state area of the mid-west United States, killing almost 700 people and wounding 2,000 others while across the world, days after a 7.0 Earthquake struck the Yunnan province in China, killing 5,000 people.  In April, a communist assault on St. Nedelya Church claimed roughly 150 lives in Sofia, Bulgaria.  Later that spring, F. Scott Fitzgerald would publish The Great Gatsby and later that summer, the United States would be in the international spotlight during the infamous Scopes Monkey Trial, pitting religious fundamentalism and scientific modernism against each other in shows of public mockery.  

That was all happening immediately before Adolf Hitler published the first volume of Mein Kampf in Germany in July, and the Klu Klux Klan sent 35,000 marchers to a public parade through Washington, DC in August.  And then, amid Lakota territory in the Black Hills of South Dakota, Gutzon Borglum who was an avowed member of that same Klan who had also been instrumental in designing the “Shrine of the Confederacy” in Georgia was commissioned to start on a budding new sculptural project which would be underway until 1941, carving the faces of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt into the ancient stone of the mountain formerly known as the Seven Grandfathers of the Black Hills. Indigenous communities objected to the overall plan from the very beginning, describing it as a desecration of their sacred lands. They were overruled.

In the year just prior to these secular displays of power, a Roman Catholic Cardinal who was the former director of the Vatican Library and a historian of political and religious movements was selected by his peers to serve as Pope, following the death of Pope Benedict XV.  The new Pope assumed the name Pius at his consecration. His chosen motto was: “The peace of Christ in the reign of Christ.”  

Just before Advent in 1925, the new Pope Pius XI issued a message to the Church known as the Papal Encyclical Quas Primas (“In the First”) which decried these rampant waves of secularism, atheism and nationalistic power that placed ideology and partisan politics over the love and peace of Jesus Christ.  And he asked that a new holy day be added to the church calendar to re-center the Church’s attention to the only true and lasting source of peace: Jesus Christ.  In his directive, he instructed that a Mass was to be celebrated annually: the Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe, or as often shortened, Christ the King.  And for those of us for whom “Kingship” still conjures up way too many patriarchal images of power, I might invite you to the alternate description of this Sunday in the spirit of Pope Pius’ own motto: The Reign of Christ.

In our Episcopal calendar, this day is concurrent with the last Sunday of Pentecost, just before the beginning of Advent. It brings what we call Ordinary Time into its completion.  In keeping with our Anglican identity, we bring this liturgical history from our catholicity while also holding to our protestant leanings: it isn’t a designated feast and there are no required celebrations, but the readings for this Sunday of the Reign of Christ are appointed in the Revised Common Lectionary so that we are singing in harmony with our Roman Catholic, Lutheran and other denominational siblings.  

Required or not, I happen to believe that it is a feast worth celebrating and a history that, once fully known, is vital to understanding how the Church can live into our calling to be a force for counter-cultural good, pushing back against the tides of Empire as we have done since the earliest days. The first followers of the Way of Christ gathered at tables and built loving communities outsidr of the sight of the Roman Empire as well as the religious authorities and temple police. It is in our DNA as followers of Christ to see that the powers of this world are of no match for the reconciling love and grace of Jesus Christ who reigns with unabashed love, who dines with sinners, who feeds the hungry, who calls the most unlikely to teach and lead, who will rescue the lost sheep and regard the widow’s mite as more mighty than the almighty dollar.  Every. Single. Time.  

The Reign of Christ is counter-cultural; I’m completely unapologetic about that and I invite you to be, too.  The Reign of Christ would be rejected by economists, pundits, politicians, business leaders and social entrepreneurs today.  And the way I see it, that’s another reason to cling to it.  The Reign of Christ comes to unsettle us, to knock us out of our secular complacency or obsessions, to tell us to stop allowing our politics and ideology to become idolatrous and to re-center our vision on divine love and grace, preparing for the coming of the One whose whole property is to have mercy.

Not vindication.  Not military might.  Not outspending wealth.  Not political prowess.

Mercy.

In today’s short but mighty Gospel lesson, Jesus is stripped of everything: clothing, dignity, power, friends, institutional support.  He stands before Pilate who has all of these things in spades: royal garments, political and institutional authority, armed guards, absolute power.  And Jesus asserts when asked, “My kingdom is not of this world…you say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”

What do we hear when we listen to the voice of Jesus?

Perhaps we hear the beatitudes: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven; Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted; Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth; Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled;‘Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy; ‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God;‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”

Perhaps we hear the words spoken about Mary, sitting at Jesus’ feet and taking in his teaching: “You have chosen the better part.”

Perhaps we hear the parables which instruct us metaphorically about the Kingdom of God, the Reign of Christ: a mustard seed of great faith; the pearl of wisdom that is greater than any price; the tiny amount of leaven that rises the whole loaf; the abundant love and grace that can welcome back the Prodigal Son, the compassion with which the wounded man on the side of the road is carried to shelter and safety by the Good Samaritan, the upside-down economy that gives to the last one chosen as much as the first, or perhaps even more.

Perhaps we hear the words of thanks-giving for the healing grace given freely to those cast out by society, “Your faith has made you well” or perhaps we hear the words Jesus speaks to bless, break and share the simple gifts offered that were enough to feed the multitudes with seven baskets left over. Or perhaps we hear those same words of blessing, breaking and sharing with his friends on the night of his last supper with them, before he was betrayed and crucified.

Perhaps we hear the words spoken from the cross to the repentant criminal, “Today, you will be with me in paradise.”

Perhaps we hear with loving gentleness what it means to be known and recognized by the risen Christ as Mary did that Easter morning when Jesus spoke her name.

Whatever you hear, hold those words in your heart.  They are the holy and life-giving message that Jesus speaks to you.

The Reign of Christ is not of this world.  It was not in the Year of our Lord 33, it was not in 1925, it is not in 2024 and it will not be no matter which rulers rise and fall, no matter what forces of injustice and oppression seek to usurp power and abuse the marginalized.  The Reign of Christ doesn’t depend on our temporal circumstances, but in the eternal words, the life, the ministry of Jesus Christ who was, and is and is to come.

And we are invited to be full participants in that Divine love, mercy and grace.

In Christ’s Reign we are invited to share with each other in love, enfolded in the confidence that whatever this world may throw at us we have a greater authority who has given us…who keeps giving us…everything that we need.  

My kingdom is not of this world, says Jesus.

And yet, the Reign of Christ is persistent.  The Reign of Christ continues to break through into this world: in the sacraments we celebrate, in the love that we share, in the abundance of grace through which we impart to those in this world who need it most, in the ways in which we are Church with one another no matter what this world can throw at us.  The Reign of Christ looks like the smile of the person sitting next to you; the connections that we make as we share in communion and in fellowship; the gentleness that we show to the world as the love of Christ flows through us; the radical love that casts our fear.  The Reign of Christ is both the now and the not yet; it has been and continues to be revealed until that time when we experience the realm of God on earth, as it is in heaven.

We pray that it is so, and we work together to make it so.

Take heart, no matter what the world throws at you.

The realm of Christ the King is not of this world.  

And there is nothing in this world that can stand in the way of Christ’s transforming love for us, and for the whole world.

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Give us this Bread, always

Posted on August 4, 2024 by harasprice

Homily for Proper 13 Year B
St. Mark’s Episcopal Church

Lectionary Texts/Scripture References:

Ephesians 4:1-16
John 6:24-35

If you take a look at the website for the Episcopal Diocese of Virginia, you will see a photo collage of ordained women of the diocese…including a few familiar faces…all surrounding a black and white historical image of three women…Allison Cheek, Carter Heywood and Jeannette Pickard…three women of different ages and backgrounds, standing together with arms outstretched holding up broken loaves of Eucharistic bread. This picture was taken during the first public celebration of Holy Eucharist presided over by newly ordained priests…who were women…at Riverside Church in New York City. This first celebration was an intentionally ecumenical service; it was neither safe nor allowable for them to celebrate Holy Eucharist in the Episcopal Church in spite of their ordination. These three trailblazing women were among the group we have come to know as The Philadelphia Eleven, women who were ordained to the Priesthood on July 29, 1974 by three courageous, retired Episcopal Bishops. The Bishops who ordained them were sanctioned; the women were prohibited from celebrating the sacraments, including Holy Eucharist and the rectors of the parishes that eventually allowed them to do so were given Godly Admonitions by their Bishops and removed from their positions. After atrocious, unholy backlash for several years, The Episcopal Church eventually passed legislation to canonize the ordination of women at the following General Convention in 1976.

I think about these women a lot, and not just because of this recent big anniversary that we are celebrating. It was the strength of their convictions and the perseverance of their ministry and the ministry of other groups of women who came after them which created the momentum for changes that would span several decades, paving the way for people like me. That change is now written into the institutional canon of The Episcopal Church: the language to guarantee that Ordination is and will be open to all people, first applying that to mean both men and women and later barring discrimination based on gender and sexual orientation altogether. The road was challenging and the journey was long. And in many ways, we still hold that tension both locally and across the Global Anglican Communion. Critics might say this action split the church apart, but I would quote the late Bishop Barbara Harris and say: the church was already split apart, and that is why these courageous women needed to do this.

In these recent months leading up to this 50th Anniversary of that first ordination, I’ve had the opportunity to watch The Philadelphia Eleven documentary several times and to lead discussions with those in formation preparing to become deacons and priests about the history leading up to, during and following that event. And every time I step further into that history…every single time…I come away with an ever deeper awareness and appreciation for how these women were sustained and nurtured not by their own merits or based on their own egos, but through a strength and conviction of faith that could only have come from God.

I have been thinking this week especially about the nature and strength of the call to which this group of women responded and the courage that it took them to be the first, amid threats and violence and discrimination within the same institutional framework that they were making a vow to uphold. Historically, yes…it has been fifty years since that first ordination…but unless we remember the fierceness of their struggle and focus our attention on the holiness of their convictions in spite of all the oppressive backlash of that time, we’re only telling part of the story. The Ordination of the Philadelphia Eleven was and is one of those moments in history where acting in good faith also meant risking everything…not only in their own personal lives, but also in challenging the very structures upon which they were supported. And in that photo, I see three priests who believed in the strength of Jesus Christ and the transforming power of the sacrament of Holy Eucharist to change the structures of the Church and the whole world.

This week, as I pull up that picture of those three women celebrating Holy Eucharist, it feels like a visual personification of the words in our Gospel lesson: “Give us this bread, always.”

To understand the magnitude of the Philadelphia Eleven’s gift to the church, I think it helps to put oneself in the position of the 5,000 people who had just been fed during Jesus’ teaching ministry. Those gathered on the hillside had just had an experience of Jesus’ ministry demonstrating the abundance of God’s care for all of God’s people even in the midst of seeming scarcity of resources. They moved from being hungry to being fed, from being individual seekers to a community nourished together in body, mind and spirit. They went looking for Jesus and found him, and the exchange that unfolds begins a discourse that we will continue over the next several Sundays where Jesus holds up this image of being the Bread of Life, “Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”

Imagine that crowd of 5,000 as the church…all of us…moving together with our need for healing, our desire to learn and grow and our growing awareness of each other all being seen and our needs met by the One who took the communal offering of loaves and fishes, gave thanks, broke it and shared it so that holy abundance could be experienced and shared by all. It was glorious; it was a miracle; they were satisfied and filled. But the next day they were empty again and couldn’t find Jesus or the disciples. So they set sail to find them and upon doing so, this exchange happens. It’s as if Jesus is holding up a mirror, asking them to see their own intentions first and then, after that, to see Jesus as so much more than a purveyor of holy picnics. Jesus was and is the Bread of Life, nourishing us far beyond our basic needs.

And so it is with us, the Church. We have caught glimpses of Jesus’ transforming love over the ages. We are fed, we give thanks…but then we go forth into a broken world empty of that love and we can get in our own way of seeing the fullness of Jesus’ transforming love not only in the meal with which we are fed, but in ourselves as living members of the Body of Christ, the Bread of the world. The Church and the world both struggle with power, privilege, assumptions of worth and resistance to our readiness to do that which is truly right, good and holy especially when it means embracing change that is counter-cultural to the way things always have been. Maintaining the status quo is the easy way…but it doesn’t always give us life. Believing in Jesus’ power to nourish, transform and fuel us to do the loving, life-giving work of change is the hard, holy and life-giving work that Church is given to do, first by being fed, nourished and transformed here and then going forth into the world.

I hope that when presented with that work of transformation, we will also be ready to say: “Give me this bread, always.”

What might that work look like? I think Paul’s letter to the Ephesians gives us the framework we need to understand the fullness of our lives in Christ that has been set out for us:

“…lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.

“…each of us was given grace according to the measure of Christ’s gift…some would be apostles, some prophets, some evangelists, some pastors and teachers, to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ, until all of us come to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to maturity, to the measure of the full stature of Christ.”

We, the Church, are one Body and one Spirit in God’s call to us. That is how God sees us, even if we see our differences. We are invited into unity and not into division; challenged to set aside the power plays and the privilege games. We are asked to discern our gifts and then use them for our common ministry, for building up the body of Christ. God equips us, each of us uniquely, to engage that work of ministry. And it all starts here, as we are fed, nourished and transformed.

I give thanks today that 50 years ago, eleven women chose to align their lives into the calling to which they had been called, whether the church was ready for them or not. Their lives bore witness to love that doesn’t always go along with the status quo, but demonstrates steadfastness even in the midst of hate. Their witness helped the Church glimpse a unity that surpassed the divisions humanly defined. Their perseverance built up the body of Christ even as it took a toll on some of their individual lives. They were and are seen, and loved, and to be commended for living into the work of ministry to which they had been called.

Apostles, prophets, evangelists, pastors, teachers…all are necessary to equip us for the work of ministry. Thanks be to God for those who proclaimed the Good News, taught and cared for God’s people, gave prophetic voice to a future unity that had not yet been realized and held in their hands the Bread of Life, broken for the world so that all might come to know the fullness of His mercy, love and grace.

And for all of us whose lives have been inspired by them, the question is now ours: as we prepare to receive the blessed Bread of Life through the sacrament of Jesus’ mercy, love and grace, how are we being equipped to do the works of ministry to which we have been called, bringing us ever closer to living in the fullness of the Body of Christ?

I invite you to hold this image, this story and this prayer in your heart today: Give us this bread, always.

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Jars of Clay

Posted on July 13, 2024 by harasprice

A homily given at the July 13, 2024 Ordination of Deacons (transitional) in the Episcopal Diocese of Virginia hosted at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church, Burke VA. Dedicated to Becki Casey, Reggie Hayes and Caroline Mitchell, with whom I have been honored to walk through their vocational journey.

Ordination Readings:

Ecclesiasticus (Sirach) 39:1-8; Psalm 119:33-40

2 Corinthians 4:1-12; Luke 22:24-27

Almighty and eternal God, so draw our hearts to you, so guide our minds, so fill our imaginations, so control our wills, that we may be wholly yours, utterly dedicated unto you; and then use us, we pray, as you will, and always to your glory and the welfare of your people; through our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

Step into my office with me for a moment as those in vocations process sometimes do.  Against the wall there is a very large filing cabinet; over the cabinet I’ve spread a colorful scarf…you know, trying to tone down the bureaucracy a touch.  On top of the scarf, there is an icon of Jesus Christ, Pantocrator…Jesus, the Teacher.  It was painted by the hand of the teacher from whom I am beginning to learn the holy art of iconography; it reminds me that the face of the holy emerges with prayer, patience, love and grace.  Next to the icon, there is a hand-made paten and chalice given to me on the occasion of my ordination by a mentor and made by a member of her community; it reminds me that every day I learn more about what it means to live out my vows of word and sacrament, and community is essential to that learning.  Next to the paten and chalice there is a small, hand-made jar made of clay.  And tucked inside the clay jar there is a handwritten note reminding me of its origin: Mattaponi river clay pottery handmade by June Redwing Langston.  The jar was a gift from a former social work student upon defense of her doctoral dissertation, which she completed with and among the tribal elders of the Mattaponi people. The lessons held within that jar are richer than anything the filing cabinet could hold; it reminds me that every day, I am learning more fully what it means to be a human being made in the image and likeness of God: all of us, jars of clay formed from the dust of the earth by the loving hands of our Creator.

The icons I am learning to paint, the vows I am learning to live, the mind, body and soul of this person that I am are all composite layers, formed and forged from learning, and mistakes, and grace.  So much grace.  And in that, I take heart, knowing that God is still at work in me.  

Ordinations are an outward and visible sign of that same grace.  And in that, we take heart, knowing that God is still at work in the Church and in the souls that are called into this ministry.

Therefore, since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart.

The Church in Corinth had begun to lose heart. They had a lot of clay jars in their midst, not the least of whom was the Apostle Paul. As far as church planters go, it seems Paul didn’t get the “set yourself up for success” memo. His enthusiasm for spreading the Gospel of Jesus Christ overwhelmed his logic and of course, that gave rise to situations filled with both human shortcomings and divine grace: both of which proliferate throughout the stories and letters conveyed in our holy scriptures. 

Some of us here today might appreciate that Paul’s initial travel to Corinth was a bit of a multi-vocational venture: he was staying with friends Priscilla and Aquila with whom he was engaged in a common trade: tent-making. His intention was to make tents and preach in the synagogue but when his message didn’t go over well with the temple authorities, God drew his attention instead to all the other people surrounding him…the outsiders, the gentiles.  These were the people in Corinth Paul didn’t think of himself as called to serve but, as God reminded him, they had already begun to follow the Way of Jesus and they were all God’s children. Just like Paul, the people of Corinth were clay pots filled with the treasure of the divine spark of love and grace. With this new light breaking through, Paul acquiesced and expanded his circle of ministry. The Church in Corinth began to grow and eventually Paul was able to pass the torch and continue on his missionary journeys in the direction of Rome.

But planting churches amid a very cosmopolitan port city not exactly known for its piety led to a whole host of challenges. Paul draws attention to these issues in his pastoral letters, epistles written in subsequent years during Paul’s travels and carried back to the churches. Paul’s letters to the Church in Corinth were filled with exhortations about piety, conflict, relationships, human sexuality, core doctrine, identity and arguments over death and the nature of the resurrection. That isn’t because those were the most important topics. It is because these issues and challenges consumed the attention of the church and pulled them away from seeing Christ fully in each other. In the section of the second letter written to the Church in Corinth which we read today, Paul seizes a pastoral moment amid his exhortations.  Perhaps one might say he pulls his listeners into his own proverbial office. And in this pastoral conversation, we see through the cracks of Paul’s own experience of grace and learn how he, too, has come to see light in the midst of darkness:

For we do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord and ourselves as your slaves for Jesus’s sake.  For it is the God who said, “Light will shine out of darkness,” who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ.

I might argue that Paul’s word choices here are not hyperbole and should not be made more gentle for our modern ears.  For Paul, his call to minister in places he would rather not go, do things he would rather not do, and serve people he once considered to be outcasts spoke to his forfeiture of personal freedom for the sake of the Gospel. 

The word we translate in English as slave, the Greek term doulos refers to a person either by choice or force becoming the property of another. The church in Corinth would know that term, because they encountered people every day in that particular social circumstance, for a whole host of reasons.  The state of being doulos in ancient Greece was about agency, not worth or essential humanness: one’s actions were lived out in total deference to another for a period of time or even a lifetime.  Perhaps it was to pay a debt, to settle a score, to right a wrong. In Paul’s reference, his enslavement to ministry is for the sake of Jesus and the proliferation of the Gospel. The state of doulos offers insight into how he views the clay jar of his own humanity, fired by blinding light on the road to damascus.  Paul still fights with his ego…we definitely see that…but we also see someone whose zeal has been transformed from persecutor to disciple, coming back around time and again to re-experience the grace and abundant love which is the Good News of Jesus Christ and allowing that message to filter through him and enlighten those he encountered. 

But we’ve come here today in the 21st Century Church, in the Episcopal Branch of the Jesus Movement as our Presiding Bishop Michael Curry might say, to ordain three human beings as deacons…diakonos…on their path to the ordained ministry as priests in the church.  In our Episcopal tradition all priests…and bishops…are first ordained and serve as deacons.  And while diakonia is also about one’s willingness to step into the role of servanthood, it’s not the same thing.  Doulos and Diakonos were different states of being in the biblical narrative.  The ministry of a deacon…of the diakonos…was and is one of ministry and service performed voluntarily, often as an outgrowth of devotion and love. 

And we see the ultimate expression of the diakonos in the life and ministry of Jesus.

I need to set the stage a little bit here to from our Gospel passage from Luke. Jesus and his disciples were in Jerusalem. It was Passover; they had just dined together and Jesus had shared the bread and wine with them in what we now call the Institution of the Lord’s Supper.  It’s a profoundly holy scene, filled with devotion and love.  And then, a dispute broke out among them about who was the greatest.  

Talk about a giant crack forming in the clay jar of humanity.

The Light of the World, Jesus, doesn’t try to patch up that crack but instead breaks through to his disciples with divine light and speaks to them of God’s vision of greatness and love, describing in both word and active example the diakonia of holy servanthood. And Luke’s Gospel points to Jesus, himself, coming into the world as diakonos, the one who serves.  

Jesus the Light of the World.  Jesus the teacher and messiah.  Jesus the deacon.

The gift of deacons in the church is to have visible and present icons of Jesus’ own servanthood.  As deacons in the church, as it is said in the vows you are about to take, “At all times, your life and teaching are to show Christ’s people that in serving the helpless they are serving Christ himself.”  Every deacon holds within their ministry the servanthood of diakonia lived out in the life and ministry of Jesus. And every priest and bishop also holds within their ministry the icon of Jesus’ own diakonia of service.

Becki, Reggie, Caroline: In this time in your ministry that you will serve in Christ’s own diakonia of ministry and in all the years of your ministry that will follow, you will undoubtedly encounter surprises and situations you had not expected. But I know the three of you pretty well at this point, so I know you are up for the adventure. 

At times, the clay jars of your humanity might start to feel pretty fragile. You may even begin to crack. While holding the light of Christ’s servanthood is a treasure, I want to remind you that light isn’t actually meant to be contained.  I’ve come to think that holding that treasure of Christ’s profound love and grace in the fragile clay jars of our humanity is actually how it was always intended to be. When we feel ourselves cracking open during times when the needs and hopes and concerns of the world begin to seem overwhelming, it is then that the light of Christ’s own diakonia of servanthood can come pouring out of us.  

The world needs to see that those needs, hopes and concerns can and will crack us open but we don’t fall apart, or give up, or lose heart.  We allow Christ’s light to pour forth from the cracks in the clay jar of our humanity. These cracks are the cost of loving and caring deeply for God’s creation, and they are also the conduits that allow the outpouring of God’s love and grace.

With great respect to Leonard Cohen, there isn’t only a crack in everything for the light to get in; there are cracks in the clay jars of our humanity so that Christ’s love and light can come pouring out.

…we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us. We are afflicted in every way but not crushed, perplexed but not driven to despair, persecuted but not forsaken, struck down but not destroyed, always carrying around in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be made visible in our bodies.”

To our three soon-to-be deacons: my prayer for you is that the diakonia of your ministry allows you to be cracked open for the Light of Christ to show forth in the world: in the students that you mentor and teach, the people and parishes with whom you will be called to minister, with the communities and first responders where you offer calm and solace in the midst of disaster; to your children, spouses, families and friends; on pickle-ball courts, in the halls of Bishop Walker School and the fields and campsites of Wild Goose; in music and song, liturgy and incense, coffee and conversation.  The paths that each of you travel are as diverse as the beautiful jars of clay that God formed you to be. Everyone in this place and watching this livestream are going to be waiting to see the amazing, unexpected, wild and beautiful ways that the Holy Spirit will be moving in your lives and ministries as you serve as Deacons in God’s church.  

And you can walk into my office and share your stories with me any time you like.

The Light of Christ is the treasure that we all hold in these clay jars of our humanity.  These three soon to be deacons are about to receive the gift of the Holy Spirit and the blessing of the Church to empower them for ministry.  That gift will not only break them open, but through them all of us will be broken open, too.  May the diakonia of Jesus and the light of His love spread forth from you to fill the world with love and grace, on this day and in all the days to come.

Jesus Christ, Pantocrator (icon written by Olga Shalamova); Paten and Chalice and Mattaponi river clay jar

Caroline, Reggie and Becky with me just before their Ordination

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Social Media Update

Posted on June 19, 2024 by harasprice

Friends and followers:  I have made a long time practice of keeping my social media (for me, primarily Facebook) full of love and light.  For some inexplicable reason, today Facebook disabled and deactivated my account.  I’ve tried unsuccessfully to address this today and I’m not optimistic that I’ll be able to retrieve it.  I’m feeling some loss about suddenly losing 14 years of communication with those I love.  Although I’m giving it some time to see if it can be rectified, I am also reconsidering how I want to interact with that social media platform in the future. 

I will be more active on my blog here going forward and encourage you to follow me here for updates.  Please spread the word to our mutual friends and family that they can find me here!

Much love to you all.  Here are a few photos from my recent trip to California to add some cheer to your day. ♥️

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Known

Posted on June 2, 2024 by harasprice

Homily for Proper 4, Year B

St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, Richmond VA

Texts:

1 Samuel 3:1-10(11-20)

Psalm 139:1-5, 12-17

2 Corinthians 4:5-12

Mark 2:23-3:6

Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening

The last time that I stood in this pulpit and offered up a reflection, it was Easter season and I was speaking about the holy nature of rest.  Some of you have wondered if I preached that sermon just for you. I’m never one to second guess the message that the Holy Spirit inspires, but as the saying goes among clergy: we always preach the sermons that we ourselves need to hear.  Even when I was standing here delivering that message, I knew in body, mind and spirit that I also needed holy rest: to rest quietly in the presence of God. 

Being a little like the restless young Samuel, I have had a few false attempts to create a space for holy rest. Case in point: during the one “sabbatical” I had as a social work professor, I traveled to a seminary to teach classes as a visiting professor!  I honestly find a lot of joy in my work, but that isn’t the point.  The prodding of God has been there, and the wisdom of spiritual mentors in my own life confirmed and validated the need to be still and listen. Being who I am, I needed to do more than go to my mat…I needed to drive several hundred miles and up a mountain to a monastery without cell service in order to do it.  But this recent time of silence, prayer and holy rest has been exactly what I needed, in ways I could never have imagined.

In a more rested state, God’s voice becomes more clear.  

Today’s story of Samuel and Eli is one I’ve heard often, and maybe you have too.  But in my more rested state, I find myself hearing something playing out in this story that it was easy for me to overlook in the busy state of doing in which I often find myself. I tend to hear this story from the standpoint of Samuel receiving the direction he needed to do what he needed to do.  But there is a deeper point in this story: God knows Samuel.  God isn’t inviting Samuel to do something new.  God is calling to Samuel to be Samuel. God already knew who Samuel was, even in his youth: Samuel the listener.  Samuel the messenger.  Samuel the prophet.

God, not Samuel, is the actor in this story of prophetic witness. God knows the boy Samuel, in ways that Samuel does not even know himself.  God calls Samuel’s name to get his attention.  Young Samuel, through the wise discernment and counsel of Eli, learns to open his ears and his heart to hear God.

God had searched out and known Samuel.  And God searches out and knows us, too.

You have searched me out and known me; you know my sitting down and my rising up; you discern my thoughts from afar.

The words of our psalm today are a prayer of gratitude to the God who knows us, who already knows what we are capable of and where our thoughts dwell. But we are a people and a culture of independence and self-direction, prizing our free thinking and our free speaking.  Hearing that God knows us so fully and anticipates our needs can sound childish, naive and maybe even terrifying. So, I wonder into the possibility that this story of Samuel is conveyed in our Holy Scriptures precisely because it invites us to see God’s knowledge of us and action on our lives through divine-human relationship, embodying like Samuel the same spirit of child-like trust.

This isn’t always what we think we want from God.  We want to see our enemies vanquished and the desires of our hearts fulfilled.  We want neon signs and big, repeating announcements from God that tell us with certainty where to go and what to do.  We chide ourselves for not doing enough, not working hard enough, not living up to some mysterious potential others seem to have for us or letting ourselves down from attaining what we’ve come to believe are the ultimate achievements of our goal-driven lives.  

And all the while, God who already knows us and loves us exactly as we are and understands who we are waits for us to lie down on our mat and invite the Holy One into that very present moment with us: Speak Lord, your servant is listening.

When he listened, Samuel understood that God was asking him speak God’s words to someone who was his caregiver.  He was frightened, but he understood.  Eli understood, too.  He received the message Samuel delivered, knowing and acknowledging his words were from God.  The story that we hear today is one part of a larger narrative; Eli’s sons are described earlier in this text of our first lesson from the Hebrew Scriptures as wicked scoundrels; Eli knew that their actions were betraying the holiest of places, stealing offerings that were appointed for God and violating the covenant of trust God had made with their ancestors and subsequent generations designated to serve as priests and keepers of the temples and holy places of Israel. 

They knew who they were and who God had appointed them to be, but they did their own thing.  And it was a greedy, evil thing that harmed many people.

Samuel not only opened his ears and heart to listen to God but through the nature of who he was, he responded by doing the hard thing, even as a young child, speaking with his voice the words that God had shared with him.  Samuel was a prophet; not because he learned or earned the right but because that was who he was. Eli knew Samuel, who had been entrusted to his keeping. And Eli knew the truth of the message from God. In that moment, hard as it was, we are given a glimpse of how God was present with all the people in this story: the faithful but failed minister, the wicked scoundrels, the hurt and hurting people, the unlikely prophet. 

We also see the relationships these people have with God: Eli followed some of the rules but ultimately was ruled by fear of his sons; he ignored the evil perpetrated by his family and he eventually emptied into the consequences that had been set in motion. The wicked sons of Eli meet their end in the next chapter of the story during a battle in which the most holy object, the ark of the Covenant, is also taken from Israel.  In contrast we are told, “As Samuel grew up, the Lord was with him and let none of his words fall to the ground.”  The times in which Samuel would go on to live and minister were hard times. But Samuel rested in the presence of God.

The story of Samuel reveals the trust into which God invites us. Call is rooted in relationship. Being who we are, in the company of God’s presence, means fundamentally that we value and prioritize our relationship with God over all else.  We see it for the gift of love that it is.

And that outpouring of divine love is what the holy rest of sabbath is all about.

The sabbath was made for humankind, and not humankind for the sabbath; so the Son of Man is lord even of the sabbath.

When we pause to hear and take in this story of the Hebrew scriptures, we better understand the story and the nature of Jesus’ response in the Gospel text, too. This isn’t a story of Jesus breaking the rules.  This is a story of Jesus realigning our human understanding of Sabbath with God’s intended purpose.

God’s desire for God’s people is relationship.  God’s desire for us is relationship. Relationship with God allows us to rest fully and wholly, with vulnerability and trust, in the presence of the Holy One who knows us, and loves us for exactly who we are. Our Gospel lesson reminds us that Jesus, the very essence of God-made-human, is fully engaging in relationship with God when doing exactly what he came among us to be and to do: to nourish and nurture, to teach and heal, to embody resurrection and life. 

To follow our call is to rest in God.  To rest in God is to embody the gift of knowing that God sees us, knows us, loves us and carries us step by step into the holy, loving and lifegiving work we are made to do. Exactly as we are. Loved, beloved people who are known by God and essential to God’s work in this world. In this, we are asked to trust and invited to rest.

That’s true even when we don’t yet have the words to describe what that work is.  Samuel didn’t have the words, but he had the openness of heart. When we open to hearing God’s voice and responding like Samuel, “speak Lord, your servant is listening” then we will be carried and supported step by step: through the hard days of speaking truth to power; through the hungry days when in feeding others, we ourselves are fed; through the broken days when we yearn for the healing of ourselves, one another and the world and find the source of that not through our own merits, but through the grace of God. 

This is the essence of discipleship, of our invitation to be part of God’s vision for the world that is being revealed to us step by step, with God’s help.  So trust…and rest…in that loving vision.

Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.

You are known and loved exactly as you are: Blessings for Pride Month from the Episcopal Diocese of Virginia!
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Holy Resting

Posted on April 21, 2024 by harasprice

Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Easter, Year B

St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, Richmond VA

Lectionary Texts:

O God of peace, who has taught us that in returning and rest we shall be saved, in quietness and confidence shall be our strength: By the might of your Spirit lift us, we pray, to your presence, where we may be still and know that you are God; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

At our diocesan camp and conference center Shrine Mont there is a very old sign, nailed to a very old tree just above a very, very old stone seat built out of the same huge stones used in constructing the Cathedral Shrine of the Transfiguration.  It reads, in a script as old as its language, “Come ye apart and rest awhile.” 

The irony is that while I have sat in that stone chair in my own efforts to rest a while, more often I see it taken over by kiddos in various stages of climbing and adventure, creating the kind of imaginative and exploratory play that happens away from the schedule of home and the screens of technology, frolicking with friends. Their joy-filled spirits are active and at the same time, they at rest in the delight of God’s presence.

Both of these visions speak to me of the holy and life-giving nature of rest.

Now, you may be wondering why it is that someone who holds two jobs and several volunteer roles simultaneously would choose to preach a sermon about rest.  And that would be a fair question!  I offer to you that it is precisely because I am a person who left solely to her own human nature might actually work herself into a frenzied whirlwind that I’ve learned that I must reflect on what rest truly means…and why some of us may resist it. As I’ve come to see and experience holy rest in a new way, my desire has become to deepen into the practice of resting joyfully under the watchful care of  Jesus, our Good Shepherd. And I’m drawn to sharing my reflections on rest with you all today because I sense that a few of us here likely share this challenge in common.

Our lectionary readings today include Psalm 23, one of the most familiar verses of scripture and one that has been central to my re-aligned understanding of “rest.” Like that very old sign nailed to a very old tree, these familiar words can begin to become so much part of the landscape of our lives that we fail to notice them beyond the pastoral nostalgia they invoke. Not to mention, even perpetually busy people tend to like to take vacations, so images of quiet pastures and cool waters appeal to us as a sort of reward that we receive at the end of our labors…the carrot at the end of the proverbial stick that keeps us motivated and productive. We can easily start thinking about rest only on these terms: as an earned reward for our own good behavior.  Of this, I am guilty.

But that isn’t at all what this Psalm suggests.

Rest, we hear in the words of the psalmist, is the first and great gift to all of us who are cared for by the Good Shepherd.  Holy rest, enfolded in the care of a loving God, is the source of energy and inspiration for our common lives together.  Rest is Sabbath; rest is fuel; rest is replenishment; rest is resistance to the temptation to prioritize productivity over people.  And our Psalm opens by reminding us that our Good Shepherd makes us lie down to rest, not at the end of our journey but from the very beginning.

I’m reminded that sometimes I’m like an over-stimulated toddler avoiding my nap.

Rest in the care of God’s love and grace is what provides us…all of us…both the individual and collective strength that we need to traverse the journey that the Good Shepherd intends for us to make together.  And, when we rest, we take time to notice and care not only for our own well-being but all of those together with us in this flock.

We are very good at talking about all the many active things that Jesus does: healing, teaching, preaching, guiding his disciples. It’s rare that our attention is drawn to the other thing that Jesus does with regularity: rest. It’s a pattern in Jesus’ ministry, actually. He deliberately pulls away and finds quiet and solitary places to rest and pray not out of exhaustion but as the foundation for his ministry. This is why we find Jesus in deserts, gardens, mountains and the far side of lakes, as well as in the cities and towns where people learn to anticipate his arrival.  Jesus, our Good Shepherd, models for us the holy nature of rest as giving us what we need for the ministry we are called to do.

When rested we are strong.  When rested, we are responsive, rather than reactive.  When rested, we can see and hear and sense with all our being what the Good Shepherd intends for us.  When rested we are less prone to wandering off into precarious places where the Good Shepherd needs to rescue us and bring us back into the fold.  When rested, we can care for those with whom we travel.  When rested, we come to know with assurance the Good Shepherd’s presence with us at all times and everywhere.

Cole Arthur Riley has been instrumental for me in reconceptualizing rest.  In her book, This Here Flesh, Cole talks about the radically different view of rest that God has for us. She reminds us that rest is a gift not to be taken for granted: rest was denied to enslaved people to deprive them of their humanity and rest continues to be withheld at the hands of human power to make others subservient. We withhold rest from ourselves as products of a culture that values profit over people and reduces our worth to our productivity. She reminds us how counter-cultural and frankly, revolutionary it is that in response to traversing even the valley of the shadow of death we are invited by our Good Shepherd to rest beside still waters, restoring our souls to their fullness with God. 

My understanding of rest began to shift as I read and listened to Cole, a Black woman with physical health challenges, poignantly detail the intersecting stigmas of race, gender and disability that she experiences, including the presumption that our individual ability to do or to achieve on our own merit earns social respectability while others who cannot or are not afforded opportunity to do or achieve in the same ways are minimized and marginalized. In scarcity, self-protection and fear of not being seen as capable do-ers,  we avoid rest.  Resting in God, our wholeness is restored. 

“Rest” says Cole “is not the reward of our liberation, nor something we lay hold of once we are free.  It is the path that delivers us there.”  (p. 151)

This fundamental shift applies not only to our individual lives, but to who we are called to be as Church: a community that through resting in the care of our Good Shepherd and in relationship with God and each other can liberate God’s love to the whole world.  Thus, we welcome these times to come together as community: being present, listening, praying, partaking of holy food and community, sharing this time together with God and each other not out of busy-ness or obligation but as a time to collectively come apart, to rest and to pray. And to be joyful and imaginative in each other’s company.

In a few minutes, we are going to officially welcome a new member of the flock into this joyful community of love and grace through the sacrament of Holy Baptism.  Jenn, we’ve been traveling together for a while and our prayer for you is that through this holy sacrament and the waters of baptism you will experience the deep joy of joining with God’s Church; being enfolded in the care of a community that is being led by the Good Shepherd to engage the work of transformative love, justice and compassion in the world with God’s help. And all of us are going to reaffirm our baptismal covenant with you, too.  These words that we will speak together are not do-gooder promises on which we will be judged for our meritorious completion.  These are words of a Covenant which we enter into at Baptism and reaffirm periodically so that we can acknowledge the magnitude of God’s love for all of God’s children…the sheep we know, as well as the other sheep who may belong to other folds and are also beloved of God.  The gifts we offer in this sacrament are our lives: our willingness to engage in these ways of centering God and caring for one another with God’s help.  And God is promising to help us, care for us, be with us, always.  And I’m here to posit to you today that by our affirmation of “I will with God’s help” we are affirming our willingness to rest fully in the presence of God so that we can know God’s plan and intention for us, and to ensure that each and every beloved person we encounter in this world has that same opportunity for holy rest in God’s loving presence.  Because together, that rest is our path of liberation.

That means that with God’s help we will secure resting places for those who wander without a place to call “home” and that we will prevail against powers that would seek to diminish, marginalize or negate the inherent worth of any other child of God with God’s help.  It means we will have the strength through our rest to confront fear and violence refreshed with a vision of God’s mercy and justice.  And it means that our collective care will make us less likely to go off on our own or believe that our individual merit, money, power or strength will save us.  And if we do find ourselves exhausted from journeying alone or in a ravine in need of rescue, our Good Shepherd will find us there with arms of love and bring us back to the flock, our beloved community of love and grace where we can be made to rest and invited with renewed compassion to care for one another as God cares for us.

Like green pastures beside still waters, rest calms our weary souls.  And like the children frolicking on the rock chair, resting in the company of beloved community is also joy.  It is not complacency or boredom; it is not selfish escapism or willful ignorance of our responsibility to care for one another.  Holy rest is not to be withheld from ourselves or from anyone else.  Rest is resistance to human abuses of power through a collective embrace of God’s abundance of love and grace that carries us, and nurtures us and makes us into a Church emboldened to go wherever the Good Shepherd leads us.

Jesus, our Good Shepherd: Grant us rest to hear your voice so we may know you who calls us each by name and follow where you lead.

Mosaic from St. Mark’s, Berkeley CA

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