I preached this sermon on Sunday, September 27, 2026 at St. Anne Episcopal Church, West Chester, OH. The lectionary text cited is Matthew 21:23-32.
When Matt and I were on our honeymoon in Curaçao this past June, we took one day to drive up the coast, stopping at various beautiful beaches along the way. They were all slightly different from each other, but all of them were backed by these rugged cliffs, hugging small crescents of sand and deep blue coves of water.
At one of our first stops, we observed what is, I think, a popular pastime in Curaçao: cliff jumping into the ocean. High above the beach, a group of people had clambered up the rocky slope and stood at the edge peering down into the shimmering water. And then, sometimes hesitantly, sometimes confidently, one by one they would leap, and fly through the air, and disappear beneath the still surface of the sea, only to emerge a moment later, laughing and (I imagined) trembling with adrenaline and joy.
Now, mind you, I observed all of this from the safe distance of my beach chair with my novel and my sun hat and my layers and layers of sunscreen. I was not about to jump off a cliff! What were those people thinking?! Why hurl yourself through the air and potentially break a limb when you can just relax in the shade?
But then something occurred to me. Not a thought, but an image, a memory. A different tall rock cliff, long ago, perched above a turbid river, with thick autumn foliage and the air cool and wet and luminous. And, in this memory, there I was, standing on the edge of that cliff some 30 feet above the river, looking down, and then closing my eyes, and leaping, and flying through the air, and plunging into the water below.
And so I remembered something long forgotten: once, I was a cliff jumper, too. When I was 18, I had jumped off that cliff into the Gauley River in West Virginia on a whitewater rafting trip in college. And I, too, had come up from the deep, trembling with adrenaline and joy. As I remembered all of this, for just a moment I wondered: where had he gone, that young man who was willing to step off the edge, step out into the open air, and fly?
I tell you this story on this particular morning because I think, as the birthdays accumulate, I have some empathy for the chief priests and the elders in today’s Gospel reading. I know they are Jesus’ enemies in the story, so I’m probably not supposed to feel much empathy for them, but I do.
Because in them, in their stubborn resistance to Jesus’ wild and fearless relationship with the God of Israel, in the priests and elders’ fearful cautiousness which has atrophied into bitterness, I see the toll that life can take upon any of us. How we go from cliff jumping to throwing stones without even realizing it.
When the priests and the elders demand to know by whose authority Jesus is teaching and healing and feeding and flipping tables, I know they are trying to trap him, to get him to say something incriminating so that they can get rid of him.
But I also suspect that deep down they are envious of him—envious of the way he emerges into each day, blazing with fire, glistening with living water, making people tremble with adrenaline and joy at the thought of a God who loves them like a parent. I suspect the priests and elders long for the freedom and the boldness Jesus carries within himself, even as they sneer at it.
Because I know that the priests and the elders surely felt free and bold once, too—maybe when they were younger, and the world felt bigger and kinder. Back before they had been hardened by time and grief and political maneuvering and the many small compromises each of us makes to endure another year.
Jesus criticizes them for rejecting the baptism of John, but I suspect there was a time, long ago, when they would have stripped off all their heavy garments and leapt into the River Jordan, wailing and laughing like a child. But somewhere along the way, as can happen to people, they’d lost that sense of daring intimacy with God.
They’d forgotten what it feels like to jump, to fall into another’s waiting arms. They had only dim, ghostly memories of what it is to be held, to rest and to trust.
And rather than remember, rather than daring, in this moment, to begin again, they dig in to what is familiar. They will not make the leap into the new life that Jesus offers.
But friends, Christian life is, indeed, a leap. It is an exuberant cliff jump into the sea. If, like me, you are accustomed to safety and sunscreen and sensible goals, that may be startling news.
But I am reminded, time and again, that there is nothing sensible about following Jesus. The values he espouses and the transformation he asks of us—loving all people indiscriminately; practicing radical humility and hospitality; surrendering our will to the will of God; refusing to look away from the death-dealing forces of this world; and resolving, despite those forces, to stay gentle and trusting and simple—these are not get-ahead strategies.
This is not a carefully constructed self-improvement plan. It is not a social development platform. Those sorts of things are fine, but following Jesus is not that. Following Jesus is a great leap into the mysteries of life and love and loss.
And I suspect you are worshipping in a church like ours because, deep down, you know this. I hear it in the deep questions asked at Bible study, and in the deep wrestling with God you express in one-to-one conversations. I observe it in your desire to stand up against that which harms our neighbors in this day and age. I sense it in your curiosity about something more than the faith you inherited.
In all of this, I see you at the cliff’s edge, staring down into the deep blue sea, and I hear in you the longing to leap and to fly. And so I would remind you, as your priest and pastor, that if you do, every time you do embrace and embody the wild, tender fearlessness of Jesus, you will be caught by the waiting arms of the kingdom of God. So do it.
Your task is simply to decide what that leap looks like in your own life. It varies for each of us. It’s not always an obviously daring act like cliff jumping. For some, it will be diving into prayer on a retreat. For some it will be working on a broken relationship, or finding the courage to leave one that is harmful. For others, it will be marching in the streets, and for others it will be the vulnerability of sitting in silence to listen to God.
For you, the leap is likely that thing God has put in your heart that scares you just a little bit. Listen to that. And if you need help figuring out what that thing might be, I’ve got good news for you—this parish and the people in it provide endless opportunities to help you to figure it out.
But eventually you have to leap. In your heart of hearts, you have to do what the priests and the elders could not do that day, and reclaim something of the freshness that the world has taken from your soul. You have to stop lying there in the shade wondering what happened to your life. You have to follow Jesus and remember what it feels like to tremble with adrenaline and joy. God, help us to remember what that feels like.
Because what Jesus wanted for the priests and the elders and the tax collectors and the prostitutes and for you and for me and for everyone on the face of this good earth is not a careful faith, a careful life, but a life that is full of faithfulness and caring. Ridiculously, daringly, jump-off-the-cliff full of it.
In God’s good kingdom, Jesus wants all of us to come out from hiding, to jump into the water, to go down deep, and to come up into the light, wailing and laughing like a child. He will not cease from seeking us until we get there, together, all of us.
And maybe you’re wondering—did I, in Curaçao, have a flash of inspiration and get up and jump off the cliff and reclaim my lost courage? No. No I did not.
But that’s ok, because nonetheless I’m wondering: what is it now that will make me tremble with adrenaline and joy? What is it now that will wash away the accumulation of the years? What is it now that will let Jesus back into my heart of hearts?
What is it for you?
Whatever it is, beloved friends, whatever it is for each of us, the deep waters of God shimmer and wait.
Let’s join hands, and look down, and close our eyes, and leap.
