Month: April 2026

Hello, Lord: A Sermon

I preached this sermon on Sunday, April 19, 2026, at St. Anne Episcopal Church, West Chester, OH. The lectionary text cited is Luke 24:13-35.

Many of you know that, after Easter, I took a few retreat days back down at the Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky. It’s the Trappist monastery where the monk and writer Thomas Merton lived, prayed, and authored some of the most important pieces of spiritual writing of the 20th century. I highly, highly recommend going there if you’re in need of the deep solace of silence in a beautiful place.

You may also recall that last year I went there and got violently ill! Thankfully this year I had a much more healthful experience.

But just up the road an hour or so from the Abbey, in a very different sort of place, right in downtown Louisville, is another Thomas Merton-related sight that’s also worth seeking out. It’s a state historical marker in his honor, right on the corner of 4th Street and Muhammad Ali Blvd, just a stone’s throw from the Roman Catholic cathedral. 

On one side of this marker it has the standard sort of language for a plaque: “Thomas Merton, 1915-1968. Trappist monk, poet, social critic, and spiritual writer,” etc. etc. 

But it’s the other side of this marker that really captures my interest. Because inscribed there, on this sign right amid the bustle of downtown Louisville, is what I’d wager to be the only state historical marker anywhere to commemorate a mystical vision. Really. Here’s what it says:

A Revelation.

Merton had a sudden insight at this corner, March 18, 1958, that led him to redefine his monastic identity with greater involvement in social justice issues. He was “suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all these people….” He found them “walking around shining like the sun.”

What a remarkable thing to read on a street sign. I’ve seen a lot of roadside markers in my travels, but I can’t think of any others that say, in effect, here, a man saw God in the faces of his neighbors. Here, a man glimpsed the beautiful truth that trembles beneath the surface of everything.

But that’s exactly what happened. Right there, next to the garbage cans and the bicycle racks and the people asking for spare change and the office workers and all the rest of our disjointed, everyday clamor, there Thomas Merton saw the love and the light that is God. Which suggests that God can be revealed anywhere, in anyone. And that, in fact, God might be everywhere, in everyone. If that is so, it changes everything. 

And, as Christians, we proclaim that it is so. 

We do this not just out of some vague sense of the generic blessedness of all things. No, it’s something far more unusual and amazing: we make the claim that God is, through Jesus, truly, materially present in creation: tangible and alive, beckoning us with winks and whispers and half-hidden angels. When you hear us speak about a “sacramental” world, that is the sort of thing we’re getting at. 

And our particular understanding of this tangible, sacramental presence is shaped especially by these strange, beautiful passages that we hear in Eastertide: Jesus in the garden outside the empty tomb and Jesus in the locked room and now, Jesus on the Emmaus Road. In all of them, there is the risen Lord appearing and and disappearing, hidden and visible all at once like a beam of light dancing momentarily upon the dust. 

Our whole faith is predicated on these stories and their central claim—the claim not just that “we like the Lord” or “we remember the Lord” or “we think the Lord was a really swell guy” but that “we have seen the Lord.” Though he was crucified and died, we have seen the Lord. We have seen the Lord, and still he lives, and still he waits to be seen again…and again…and again…for he is the beautiful truth trembling beneath the surface of everything, shining like the sun. 

And if we have seen the Lord still alive in this world, it changes everything.

Speaking of today’s story of Emmaus, Luke’s gospel actually offers this as the first appearance of Jesus after the resurrection. The other Gospels vary, but there is a similar pattern across all of them: Jesus is at first hard to recognize, and then suddenly plainly visible. We might wonder why this is so. 

Is Jesus just feeling sort of sneaky? Is he having a bit of fun with his resurrected body and just scaring the disciples, like Casper the friendly ghost? 

I think not. As strange as these passages are, it’d be a mistake to treat the resurrection accounts like ghost stories…to assume that the authors want to emphasize Jesus’ elusiveness or his otherworldliness. 

No, I think that they are actually meant to emphasize the exact opposite: that, far from being elusive and inaccessible, the resurrection means that Jesus is now part of everything. That he is right here in front of us. That he is everywhere, and in everyone. “I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”

So these are not ghost stories and maybe not even “mistaken identity” stories at all. Maybe we are meant to understand: Jesus is the stranger we meet on the road, and he is the one we invite to our table. He is the gardener and he is the one who prepares our breakfast and he is every other person who might cross our path when we look at them through the eyes of love. 

And so the invitation to his disciples—including us—is simply to look. To look for him always, always, so that at the close of each day and at the close of our lives, we might be able to say: I have seen the Lord. Everywhere, I have seen the Lord. 

Now, this sounds quite lovely in theory, that Jesus is everywhere we look, but it’s actually a rather challenging idea. Because if we love Jesus, and if Jesus is everywhere, in everyone and everything, then we might have to change our attitude a bit. 

Because Jesus, if I’m honest I don’t want to see you in a few folks I have in mind. Are you SURE you’re hiding in there? Are you sure you didn’t vacate a few of these premises? No? Lord, help me see you, then. Even in the ones I can’t stand. Even on the days I can’t stand myself. Help me to see you. Becasuse I know it will change everything.

And it does. As it says on that Thomas Merton sign, his vision in Louisville altered him. His monastery became not just one location but the whole wide world. He became passionate about social justice and antiwar movements and interfaith dialogue precisely because he saw that there was nowhere and no one beyond the scope of God’s presence.

And so I wonder, how would we live differently if we saw what Merton did that day? How would we relate to others if we actually saw the light of God, the face of God in all those other faces? It’s a question worth pursuing. 

So here’s my Eastertide challenge to you: imagine if you will (and try, if you dare) going about for one whole day and, every single person you see, say to yourself, “Hello, Lord.” (I do recommend saying it just to yourself so as not to freak people out.) But you get the idea:

The barista at the coffee shop—hello, Lord. The person in the car next to you on the road—hello, Lord. The person you recently argued with—hello, Lord. And yes, even the angry talking head on your TV screen—hello, Lord (help me to see you). 

Let it be like a quiet prayer you carry. And see what you begin to see. I wonder if our hearts might start burning within us.

Because I don’t think that the story of Emmaus was recorded by those first disciples simply because Jesus did some ghostly tricks. No, I think it lingered in their memory because glimpsing his face in the dying light brought them to life. It changed them. It changed everything. And from then on, wherever they went, on every lonely road and city street corner, at every full table and in every quiet place, and in the face of every stranger, and lover, and enemy, and friend, on some level they kept asking themselves: is it you, Lord? Is it you? 

Is it you, trembling beneath the surface of things, shining like the sun?

And the resurrection teaches us quite simply: the answer is always yes. 

Early Risers: A Sermon for Easter Day

I preached this sermon on Easter Day, April 5, 2026 at St. Anne Episcopal Church, West Chester, OH.

There are certain people who get up long before the rest us. They get up early, so early that it’s still dark outside, and not just because they want to, but because they need to. Because someone, somewhere needs them to. 

These people get up when the moon and the stars and the alarm clock are still the only lights, when the sun is still slumbering below the horizon. And these people stretch their backs and their tired limbs and climb out of bed and clamber down the hallway, maybe for a cup of coffee or a shower to get themselves going. And once they are ready, they pause and blow a kiss to their sleeping loved ones and they venture out to wherever they must go, to do whatever they must do.

I think these people who get up earlier than the rest of us are often motivated by something simple and necessary—some act of care or responsibility. They are the ones preparing the day for others as it begins. They are the pre-dawn saints who kindle the fire or salt the icy roads or chop the onions or sweep the floors or warm up the engines. They are the people whose quiet labors are the foundation upon which the rest of us stand. 

And that is a beautiful thing, though I am sorry to say that I am not one of these people, because if the stars are still visible, I’m sleeping, thank you very much. I am decidedly less centered and priest-like in the earliest hours of the day. 

Nonetheless, there is something precious, something good and holy, about the ones who get up before the rest of us in order to make sure that we will all be ok. That we will have what we need. If you are one of those people, God bless you. I’ll catch you sometime after 9AM. 

I suppose am thinking about such people because we meet two of them in the Easter story today, two pre-dawn saints trudging through the dew of a garden, their eyes wet with tears. It is Mary Magdalene and the other Mary, as Matthew tells it, though there might have been other women, too, depending on the Gospel you read.

And I can’t help but imagining them a little bit before this story begins, rising up while it was still dark, their bodies tense and shivering with grief, gathering up their supplies and venturing out under the glow of the moon. Nobody asked them to do so, but they just knew—they knew someone needed to get up and go, someone needed to care for the body of their beloved teacher, someone needed to bear witness, and so they would have to be the ones. 

Meanwhile the other disciples were likely splayed out in an uneasy, dreamless sleep, their hopes dashed, the future uncertain. As before, in the garden of Gethsemane, perhaps sorrow has made their eyes heavy. But the women…the women get up. 

And on this particular morning what they see, what they discover, is something better than any dream. And it is also something surprising, perhaps, especially for those who are used to getting up earlier than everyone else. 

Because what the women find is that Jesus…blessed Jesus; battered and beaten Jesus; lost to the world Jesus; asleep forever Jesus…Jesus has gotten up before anyone. He is risen, risen indeed, and he was up and out, only God knows when, but it must’ve been so very early, even before these faithful women. 

I don’t know if I’d ever really thought through this part of the story until recently—how early in the morning Jesus must’ve risen from the dead. So early that even these determined companions, coming in the pre-dawn darkness, did not arrive in time to see him rise.

“I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified,” the angel says. “He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay!”

Yes, come see the place! Come see the linens left behind, come see where he stretched his back and his tired limbs and knew it was time to get up and do what he must do for us. Come see the open doorway to the tomb where he paused, where he blew a kiss to you in the darkness, and then ventured out to do what he must do.

Come see, but know this: he’s already up. He’s already gone to work, gone to Galilee, gone to be the beginning of a new heaven and a new earth, because that is what the world so desperately needed him to be. 

And maybe for the first time in their lives, these women, the ones who got up before everyone else to care for others, knew what it felt like to have someone get up to care for them. 

Friends, Easter is about a miracle—the miracle of one empty tomb, one abandoned resting place. It is the miracle that renews and re-enchants everything that ever was and is and will be. 

We tend to call this miracle resurrection. We call it the destruction of death. We call it the victory of love over fear, or of truth over lies. We call it many things because, 2000 years later, we are still trying to wrap our minds around it. I think the women at the tomb could relate to our bewilderment. 

But if it’s all a bit hard to understand, if it feels strange and remote from the everyday life you know, then maybe just think of it this way: Jesus is the One who has risen before the rest of us He’s up early, kindling the fire of this new day. He up early, brewing up a cup of new life to place into your hands. He’s up early, sweeping clear the pathway to a new world. 

Because if love looks like the ones who get up long before the rest of us, then of course Jesus would be up first. For he has loved us most of all.

And I guess I am thinking about resurrection in this way, on this morning, friends, because the world can feel like a frantic and scary place sometimes: a place where nobody is there to catch us, where nobody has our back. Like those women, we trudge through the day with tears in our eyes, telling ourselves we’ve gotta get it all done, gotta go it alone, gotta save ourselves, save each other, save the world, be the best at everything all the time. It can feel exhausting and so very, very lonely when we sit at the edge of the bed in the glow of that alarm clock.

But on this day, this resurrection day, God wants to show you something else. God wants to show you that you are not, in fact alone. You are not, in fact, responsible for everything all by yourself.

You are held. You are held. You are held by all the love you can see, and all the love you cannot see. And if you are tempted to despair in the pre-dawn darkness, let this Easter morning be your reminder: God has not left you. God is not dead. God is not even asleep. Come, see the place where he lay. He is already up, he is already out there, already waiting for you, waiting to show you that the world is far more full of love than it is of anything else, no matter what others might try to tell you. 

And if you are still uncertain, if you need proof of that this is so….just think again of the ones who get up long before the rest of us. 

Because somewhere among the salted roads and the chopped onions, the swept floors and the warmed engines…between the women at the tomb with tears in their eyes and the God who rose early to wipe them away…some where amidst all of that…even if it’s still dark outside, I think we might just catch a glimpse of heaven.