regret – By Another Road

What the Palms Say: A Sermon

I preached this sermon on Palm Sunday, March 29, 2026 at St. Anne Episcopal Church, West Chester, OH.

It is Palm Sunday. It is Palm Sunday, and I find myself thinking about the palms.

Do you ever think deeply about the palms on Palm Sunday? Do you ever wonder about their perspective on all of this? The day is named for them after all. These broken fronds, these green tongues are unfurling some silent word that nobody seems to hear.

It’s such strange day, a strange liturgy, full of abrupt changes. We bless the palms and we take them up like swords, or prayers, or both, and we process and cry Hosanna, and then the story takes a sharp turn–sharp as nails–and the palms lie forgotten in our hands, on our seats, in our hearts. They are consigned to the dust upon the streets of Jerusalem as the crowd, the whole human crowd across time and space, converts its longing into loathing.

Frightening, that—how longing can so quickly turn to loathing in the human heart. Frightening and true.

And meanwhile, the palms lie trampled, forgotten, like most innocent things do in the wake of the warfare we seemingly cannot help but wage upon each other.

So it’s Palm Sunday, and I am thinking about the palms, because Jesus told me that the marginal things are the blessed things, and in this human & divine drama so poignantly told, the palms, just like the body of our Lord, are the refuse and the reminder of our many failed dreams. The dreams of an uncomplicated savior who would conquer with strength and certainty. The dreams of a life that would be simple and straightforward and easy to understand. The dreams of a world that would somehow let us off the hook if we just shouted louder than our enemies.

Those dreams, all bound up in the palms waved by the desperate crowds….those dreams were crucified along with Jesus. Jesus, who could not or would not be what we demanded.

And so perhaps it is no wonder that we don’t think about the palms too much—perhaps they are too painful to think about. Maybe that’s why we tuck them away to dry up like old love letters we are embarrassed we ever wrote. Maybe that’s why we burn them in the fire, because we regret the false optimism they represent and somehow we want to be liberated from our naivety.

I don’t know. But regardless, I am thinking about the palms on Palm Sunday, because the story of Jesus’ passion and death demands that I look at the things I would rather tuck away, the things I would rather forget.

And so, in the shadow of the Cross, I look down, and I see the palms lying there in the dirt: forgotten, strange, awkward, like a glimpse of myself in a mirror that I wasn’t ready to look into.

And what I see, when I look at the palms, is that part of myself that would still, even now, be willing to trample over the vulnerable if it would guarantee my personal peace. The part of myself that would still turn on whatever is good and pure if it threatened my success or even just my comfortable assumptions.

The palms bear witness to the war within myself, the war that erupts in that thin space between longing and loathing, when I don’t get what I want and I hate whatever is given instead. The palms say: how easily you waved me and shouted with desperate joy. How easily you threw me down and shouted with desperate fury. And those are both YOU.

Those are both us.

I think that we have to think about the palms on Palm Sunday and what they have to say, crumpled and forgotten in the dust, or crunched up in our clenched fists, or tucked away between the pages of forgetfulness, or twisted into crosses to make it all pretty somehow, as we try and sanctify our rage. I think we have to look at them and learn from them if this Palm Sunday service is to have any purpose at all.

Because the world is still at war with itself. Deep within itself, the world is still living one perpetual Palm Sunday. Still, still we are both longing and loathing almost in the same breath—our political enemies, the objects of our desire, the many things and people we both envy and disdain and crave and hate for craving; the ways in which we both try and fail and still never seem to learn. We cannot find any peace, and so we crucify the peaceful. We cannot bear vulnerability so we crucify the vulnerable on whatever altar is handy: nationalism, tribalism, racism, sexism, classism, our multifaceted phobias, or our simple, idle neglect to be kind to the people in front of us.

But try as we might, crucifixion never brings peace. The eradication of the other never helps us find ourselves.

And the palms, they see it all, up from the dust where they lie. They see it all, in the way that marginal things often do. They catch the tears that fall to the ground, they catch the blood that spatters, they see the downcast gaze of a people who have either forgotten or decided not to look upward anymore.

And yet, I think, despite all of this, I think they love us anyway, these palms. I think that they, the refuse, they, the cast off, they, the lowest of the low, I think they can see us in ways we cannot see ourselves. And I think, in their green and simple honesty, they take pity on us. I think the palms on Palm Sunday say:

My sister, I know what it is to be broken.

My brother, I know what it is to have your life cut short.

My friend, I know what it is not to fulfill the purpose you originally dreamt of.

My beloved, I know what it is to be loved and then cast aside.

So I see you, they say. I see all of you. I see that, despite your rage and your tragic disappointment, I see that a part of you still remembers how to hope. I see it and I know it because I was there when you clutched me in your hands, like an eager child. I was there when your pulse beat faster and faster with delirious, hungry joy as God rode by in his humble majesty. I was there when, for one split second, you dared to dream that another world had arrived, that love was actually true.

And so even now, on the other side of your regret, say the palms, on the other side of your fickleness and your fury, still, I see all of you. And I, the palm, remember all of you. And lying here in the dust, I forgive you, you who are also dust. I forgive you as God forgives you, for God abides in the lowly places and in the voices you forgot to listen to.

The Cross may tell one story of who we are and what we can do, but the palm still holds the memory of our other story. The story with which we began this day, this life, this creation, together. The story of green palms and gardens and life and love and tenderness and voices lifted up in praise rather than hatred.

That story, that part of us…it is still true, too. And the palms are here to help us remember it, if we’re willing. If we will just look down at the fragments of beauty underfoot and try to remember.

And so I am thinking about the palms, friends, perhaps because I cannot bear to forget them anymore.

I cannot bear a world that continues to look more like Golgotha, more like the Cross than it does like the Kingdom. So today I am looking away from the pageantry of death and empire and I am down on my hands and knees looking for love wherever I can, even among the bits and scraps we tend to forget and throw away.

And what else can we do, really? After all, our Lord has been crucified before us. He is dead, again, and we said nothing to stop it.

Do you ever notice that? Year after year, on this day, the story unfolds, and we never say anything to stop it. We continue to reenact our own despair.

So perhaps, since our prayers and our nice words and our best intentions have failed us, perhaps the least we can do on this holy day, and in this holy week, is to bend down low, very low, and look for whatever remains of his procession through our lives. Whatever remains of the best parts of ourselves. The palms are there, and they will show us, they will remind us, if we let them. All marginal things and voices will, if we let them.

Blessed are the ones who let them.

So yes, friends, it’s Palm Sunday, and I am thinking about the palms.

My prayer is that you will, too.

God Comes to Us in the Dark: A Meditation

I offered this meditation at a service for The Longest Night at St. Anne Episcopal Church in West Chester, OH on December 20, 2023. It is a time of prayer, music, and stillness for those who are struggling in the holiday season.

God comes to us in the dark. This has always been true.

In the beginning, when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep. So says Genesis. So say our ancestors in faith, grasping back through time, back through the shadowy recesses of human memory, back to an original stillness, an original peace, an original fullness, back to when God, alone, was—and it was dark, and it was already good.

And all that follows—let there be light, and let there be all of this, and let there be you and me—all of it emanated from the darkness of love, where God dreamed and saw visions, where God composed the constellations, where God traced out the edges of the universe and imagined all that could be if there were such a thing as being. In the dark, God already knew both the price and the promise of being—what it would require—of God, and of us—and so God made a promise, from the very start, when our being came to be:

And that promise is: I am here. I am here. And again and again, when you lose sight of me, I will come to you. In every season, in every hour. When the light is bright, I am here. When it fades, I am here. And when it is night—on the face of the earth, or in the depths of your soul—then I am still here. You will not lose me in the dark. No, in the dark you will encounter me as I was from before the beginning: hidden but present, dreaming but awake, tracing, now, the edges of your face, your flesh now holding a universe of meaning. I am here, gazing at the constellations in your eyes, reminding you that being, simply being, here and now, together, is enough. It is all I ever wanted. It always has been. Even in the dark. Especially in the dark

For God comes to us in the dark. And this has always been true.

…

Despite this truth, we have a complicated history with the darkness, for reasons both pragmatic and imaginative. Job calls down the darkness as a curse; the Psalmist yearns for light like the watchmen waiting for morning. We understand this in our bones.

Because, until recently, the night was, for most people, an inevitable and somewhat threatening feature of daily life. Before electric lights and heaters, it was a cold and dim and dangerous time when one had to gather in close to others for safety and warmth. For our siblings who have no home to go to on this night, for those who are alone, this is still true—the night is not always our friend.

And yet there are other reasons we fear the dark, ways we have been formed to fear it in our mind’s eye. We have been taught, too often, that night metaphors are literal—that the light itself is somehow truer, purer, stronger, more moral, and that the darkness is a time of indolence, of deceit, of confusion and waywardness. And so when we find ourselves in a seemingly dark place—a place in our lives where we cannot see the path ahead, where we cannot understand what has happened to us and why—we might assume that we have been forsaken, that we have been forgotten, that we are at fault, or that God has left us to fend for ourselves.

We call this the dark night of the soul and think that we are talking about God’s absence. But we are wrong.

For we must remember, again: God comes to us in the dark.

Not just in the beginning, but always. The darkness is when God chooses to appear.

Consider how the Passover and the Exodus and God’s liberating work all began at night.

Consider God speaking to Moses on a mountain covered in thick, dark cloud, amid thunder and lightning.

Consider Jacob wrestling with an angel all through the night, claiming a blessing upon his wounded body before sunrise.

Consider the promise spoken by the prophet Isaiah: I will give you the treasures of darkness and riches hidden in secret places.

Consider the child, soon to be born in Bethlehem, in the silent, holy, starlit night.

Consider the Risen Christ, emerging from the darkness of the tomb into the predawn shadows of a garden.

And consider how the Lord promises his return when “the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light,” how he will reveal himself, in the end, as he was in the beginning, emanating from that deep original mystery, that unseen, unspoken, ageless night of dreaming, older than the stars.

Yes, God always comes to us in the dark.

And if we consider this, then perhaps we will begin to realize that, indeed, darkness and light to God are both alike, because God’s presence and power and mercy are not dependent upon whether we walk confidently, whether we understand, whether we see clearly, whether we know exactly what to do next or how. God arrives in the night because God is at peace with hiddenness, with the unfolding mystery that God is to us, with the unfolding mystery that we are to God, and so we are invited, also, to make peace with that which is hidden—the reasons and the justifications and the certainties that elude us, and the ways that love endures regardless of what we know or do not know.

And God arrives in the night because, in truth, the darkness has its own particular knowing—its own intimacies and surrenders and quietude that come precisely when we cannot see everything, when we let go, when we cannot strive or plan or rely on ourselves as much as we do in the light of day.

The night engenders a deeper trust, if we will let it. If we will rest in it.

So whatever you carry with you on this night—a weariness, a fear, a grief, a bitterness, a question, a regret, a secret dream—what you must know is that God is still present to you in this place, God sees you and knows you, even if you cannot see God’s face, even if you don’t recognize who you have become.

Like a mother cradling her child, or like a lover in the darkness, God sees you, God gazes upon you tenderly, whispering gentle reminders of promises made and kept and renewed, of a covenant, of a bond deeper than eternity—one that will not break, even when we do. And we do sometimes.

But God comes to us in the dark, saying: do not be afraid, and saying, blessed are you who mourn, for I will make my home in the cracks of your shattered heart, and saying your pain will turn into joy—not because pain is holy but because I AM, and I am the one who offers you a joy that is deeper than fear — the joy that is my own self, that same self from before the beginning, a divine darkness bathed in the stillness of eternity and traveling, traveling, across the constellations and the cosmos to be here, right here, to hold you when your eyes are blurred with tears and shadows on this long, long, longest night.

And to tell you that even when it’s not ok, even when you are not ok, you are loved.

…

In a few days, we will celebrate a birth, and we will speak of the Light of the World, and on that day we will be talking, of course, about God. But remember, as we do, and as you go from this place tonight, that the Light of the World is not all that can be said of God. For before the light, God was.

And here, in the night of the earth and, perhaps, in the night of your soul, God has not left you. God is still doing what God always has been doing, in that original, timeless, holy darkness: dreaming, creating, forming, loving. Remembering all the prices you have paid. Remembering the promises God has made. And reminding us of the one thing that is always true, the one thing God will never stop telling us, even in the dark:

I am here. I am here. I am here.

No Regrets: A Sermon

I preached this sermon on Sunday, March 6, 2022, the First Sunday in Lent. The lectionary text cited is Luke 4:1-13, Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness.

We inhabit an unsettled moment. That statement is true on many different levels, but in this instance I am referring to something deeper and more elemental than the news headlines. I am thinking instead about the changing of the seasons that accompanies our entry into Lent in the northern hemisphere. Amid the turbulent moods of early spring, when we are caught up in the vacillating space between ice and dewdrops, between dirt and blossom, between the cradle and the Cross, there is a keener sense perhaps, of the fertile mix of decay and growth that characterizes our lives on this earth. On Ash Wednesday, the cold mud of winter was imprinted on our brows, and eventually on Easter Day we will convulse with joy among the fields of lilies, but for now we are held in the tension of the time-being, suspended in the middle of frost and flower, mortality and miracle.

Lent is the pungent season when life and death speak to one another. Too often we keep these two realities isolated in separate corners of our minds, so it is good for us to listen to their conversation over the next several weeks, to notice how life and death layer upon and fertilize the other, both in the Liturgy and in the world around us. Lent is when this life—the delicate, earthy existence we have been given—is brought into clarity and focus by accepting its brevity and, indeed, sometimes its cruelty and brokenness. But it is also a season for celebrating that life, for rediscovering the urgency of living deeply and well while we have the chance, before it is too late, and we go down to the dust once more.

There was an article that became popular online several years ago, written by a hospice nurse. In it, she reflected on the conversations she’d had with the countless people she’d cared for in the final weeks and days of their lives, and she shared the top five regrets that people expressed as they prepared to die. They were as follows:

1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.

2. I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.

3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.

4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.

5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.

And while these five regrets might not be true for every person in every time and place, I think they are striking, because they point to the heart of the things that matter when everything else falls away, when there are no illusions left to hide behind, when the wind blows cold across the bare fields and we remember the trace of that muddy cross on our brow. We might say they are the insights of a Lenten spirit, from the passage between life and death, the unadorned space between the seasons of the soul.

And they reveal that when we die, the thing we might grieve the most is simply that we never allowed ourselves to truly live. That we didn’t connect with others. That we didn’t connect with our deepest selves. And that, having been tempted by other distractions, we might face the great mystery of eternity without having deeply savored the great mystery of now.

God knows this is our struggle. God has always known this. And that is why, I suspect, we see the same struggle woven through God’s own life among us in Jesus. Consider today’s gospel passage from Luke, when Jesus is compelled by the Holy Spirit to enter the wilderness and submit to the temptations that humanity has always faced—the temptation to control our own destiny rather than trust in God’s providence, to adorn ourselves with the false security of power and prestige and material comfort; to laud safety and strength rather than vulnerability and humility.

These were the same temptations that Israel faced in the wilderness and again when they reached the Promised Land. They are the same temptations that each of us must contend with in our own particular way. And if and when we succumb to them, the result is the same—disconnection, distrust, inauthenticity, the cultivation of a brittle and strident spirit, and then, at the end, a litany of sorrows that might sound something like:

I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself. I wish I hadn’t worked so hard. I wish I’d expressed my feelings. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends. I wish that I had let myself be happier.

But Lent is an opportunity to pull back from this trajectory in our own lives. And Jesus, in a Lenten moment of his own in this Gospel, shows us how to do so. He faces the temptations of the devil—those temptations to pattern his life in self-serving ways, to become something that he is not, and he chooses, instead, to be exactly who he is, exactly who his Father wills him to be. Which is to say, he chooses relationship, he chooses simplicity, he chooses depth, he chooses trust, he chooses love. And the words he speaks are a ray of light burning away the frost, a budding promise to us, even now, as we wait for the spring:

One does not live by bread alone.

Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.

Do not put the Lord your God to the test.

Simple, ancient words, drawn from the Hebrew Scriptures. True words. Words that are almost like a death, in that they remind us of the fleeting nature of most of the things we fixate upon and obsess over, and instead call us back to what is eternal. These are the words that allowed Jesus to stay focused on who he was, and they can do the same for us whatever our journey looks like. They are the words that invite us to a life—and a death—that is the opposite of regret.

How do we get there? How do we live as Jesus chose to live? How do we die as Jesus chose to die?

1. Have the courage to be yourself. Abide deeply in the love that is inside of you, the love that God gave you to share with others.

2. Don’t work so hard, at least not for the things we usually give away our lives for. Work for God’s kingdom, and rest in knowing that you don’t have to do it all by yourself. You were created for wonder and praise more than you were for achievement.

3. Express your feelings. Jesus certainly did. Don’t be afraid to be vulnerable, to be wrong, to show your weaknesses, because they are part of what will save you. We worship a God who was crucified before he was glorified.

4. Stay in touch with your friends, and with all of the important people in your life. They are the most likely place where you will experience the love of God firsthand, and are thus the true treasures of this world.

5. Let yourself be happy. Let yourself love this imperfect world, whether it’s deep winter or glorious spring or the messy middle with all of its unanswered questions. Let yourself be dazzled by the mystery of existence, by the mystery of God’s love, embrace it while you live, and then you will regret nothing, because you will experience everything.

This is the life Jesus chose in the wilderness. This is the life he invites to choose. And this is the strange, holy, in-between season where we must make our choice. This is Lent.

And so here we stand, with a trace of mud on our brow, leaning into the light; children of the broken earth, children of God. Tempted, yes. Stumbling, sometimes. Seeking, always.

But loved, always loved, in death and in life, in winter, and in spring, and in the glorious mystery that is beneath and beyond all seasons.

And with a love that powerful, that eternal, that true, there is nothing to regret.