Sermons

Good morning; we are almost to the midway point of Lent, and pray you all are enjoying our journey of courageously walking forward in our faith, reviewing, renewing, and repenting on this walk with Christ as we prepare for the Easter season.

Today, we read the parable about the prodigal son. This story in Luke follows the parable of the Lost Sheep and then the Lost Coin. One could deduce that this is about being lost and found. Fun fact, when I started this journey with my calling to the priesthood, my father, a devout Jesuit Catholic, would answer the phone, saying “my prodigal daughter”. I felt like that was a step up from what he used to answer the phone, saying my favorite daughter. Spoiler alert, not only am I his only daughter, I’m also his only child.

But this morning, let’s focus our attention on the complicated and deep relationship between Father & child in the Gospel story. This farmer, or rancher, is blessed with two sons.  He is blessed with helpful hands for general operations of his farm. He knows that he can leave a legacy behind. This father is fortunate, yet one of his sons didn’t want any part of it. He demanded his inheritance, and he tried to walk away from everything he knew, go explore the world and find a new destiny.

The son ventures off to far off lands, searching high and low, for a new way of living, a new life.  He didn’t make wise investments and squandered his inheritance. During the end of this journey of searching for independence, he spent all the money and needed to find work to sustain himself.  He started working at a pig farm. As you may or may not know, pigs are considered unclean in some faith practices, our brothers & sisters that practice the Jewish and Muslim faith do not eat pork. This shows us that the son was at the end of his rope, the last place he’d be working was at a pig farm for Gentiles. He is probably humbled. He is humbled to the point he wants to go home, he realized that he has made a mistake.  This is not who he wanted to be, not who his father raised him to be, and he is eager to be back with his community. He wants to go back home. He realizes he made a bad judgment call, running from the place where he is welcomed and loved unconditionally, and asks for forgiveness and repentance.

It wasn’t until I was discerning on this sermon that I looked up the meaning of prodigal. I just assumed it meant to come back, which is one of the definitions. However, the Hebrew word for prodigal is bazbezan, meaning extravagance, spending extravagantly, eating extravagantly, consuming extravagantly, over the top, and so it’s wasteful, glutinous behaviors. This parable reminds & encourages us, take the opportunity to repent, to change their behavior, and come back to God’s good graces.

In these current times, has there been a time where we wanted to run from the fold, to act out, or maybe, can we reflect on when we might be overconsuming. Can we think how we are living extravagantly? Can we believe that we might be consuming too much?

I can relate! In my early 20s after college, granted I was always heart centered, but was trying to live this larger than life dream in Washington, DC. (Hence why my father called me his prodigal daughter). I left the church because I saw the church being weaponized. I saw the church being stretched to its limits, and I wanted to go out and discover and seek a new way of living. To find another community. 

This semester, I’m taking Anglican spirituality & ethos. One of my newfound teachers, was a woman who wrote a book on mysticism in the Victorian era. Her name is Evelyn Underhill, and she pursued a deep understanding of one’s personal relationship of faith. She might sound familiar as I realize that she is popular in Anglican tradition. I was surprised to find out that she wrote most of her books on this topic of mysticism when she was not attending church. She was out there in the world, searching for her deep connection with God outside of Church walls. She spent most of her life searching for the meaning of her spirituality in her connection with God, but she returned to the church in her 60s. She ultimately realized that after trial and error, after searching, high and low, the way that she was able to create a deep understanding of her faith and spirituality was in this community, was in the tradition of the Anglican Church. She found it in the liturgy, in the music, and in the rituals that we experience every Sunday. Yes, we can find God outside these four walls, but she cemented her understanding and faith when she came back into the fold, to practice these century old traditions in community. 

What does this have to do with the prodigal son? Today’s gospel, the son that left had to go and live and experience this world extravagantly, outside of his community. Ultimately, he realized that what he was searching for and wanting was the community he had at home as well as the extravagant love of his father, the extravagant unbridled unconditional love that we experience in our relationship with our creator that we also get to experience when we come together in community.

We celebrate just as the father celebrated his son when he came back. Every time we come together, we celebrate and honor our traditions and our creator. We get to honor Jesus Christ for the life he lived, for His salvation, death, and resurrection. We get to take Holy Communion as we commune together and come collectively together at one table. We get to experience this unbridled love, no matter how far we might stray, no matter what we do that might not be a reflection of Jesus Christ’s actions within our hearts and Souls

It might be easy to forget that we are all God‘s children during these times. It might be easy for her to forget that we belong here as one, which means collectively in God‘s house as one nation, as we were reminded throughout the Old Testament that God is a savior of all nations.

I know personally that I have had to double down on my prayer practices this season because, Lord have mercy, I sometimes wanna stray; I sometimes wanna go out there and turn my face away from the unbridled love. We, as Episcopalians, as Christians, as Gods children, we get to invite God’s unbridled love to our lives. 

Like the prodigal son, he tries to go out and find his own way, his own path. Like the son, we hopefully get to remember to follow The Way. As Jesus asked us to do, to follow him. Follow his way of love.

We are encouraged to turn towards the sunlight of the spirit, towards our relationship with God. Wandering outward to find that inner peace with God.

Like the prodigal son, not only have we come back to the fold, but we were never lost. Sometimes I do need a reminder, a daily reprieve to remember that God’s love is infinite. And not forget that God’s love is extravagant, that our creator has brought us together as one, as the creator of All Nations. Now it’s up to us, to go forth, and show the world what extravagant love looks like not only inside these walls, but also outside these walls.

Amen.

Christina Cernansky

The Rev. Joseph Farnes

All Saints, Boise

Lent 3C

            Our Gospel reading and our reading from 1 Corinthians sit uneasily next to each other. Paul writes in his letter to the Corinthians that we should be careful and faithful, lest we experience one of the catastrophes that happened to our ancestors. We should be careful lest we blaspheme and get bitten by snakes, build a golden calf to worship and be cut down. Paul is counseling us to be stay on the path, because the path is safe.

            And the words of Jesus today put a caveat on that. Terrible things happen to people, yes – but why focus on figuring out what their sins are? Are we trying to figure out what sinful thing they must have done to deserve their suffering? That’s a terrible thing to do. Were they worse than us – do we think we sit secure because, well, at least my sins aren’t that bad?

            You know how Jesus feels about judging others. When we judge others, we are focusing our attention on condemning them, not helping them. When we judge others, we leave an opening for our soul’s sense of justice to rot into vengeance and cruelty. Jesus counsels us repeatedly to be on the lookout for that temptation to judge.

            So, then, what do we do with what Paul says in 1st Corinthians?

            Maybe you struggle with how it seems like God is quick to strike down people for their misdeeds. I struggle with it, at least. Don’t do this, or you’ll get killed. Don’t do that, or God’ll get you for it. That sounds fearful and exhausting! I don’t want to end up a bad example for generations to come!

            Perhaps instead of focusing on an image of “God’ll get you for that!”, maybe we need to let ourselves think of the natural consequences for what we do; what happens as a result? When the Israelites start complaining and whining, they’re grumbling, murmuring: “This food’s terrible, I’m bored, Moses is a terrible leader, or maybe God dragged us into the desert to die.” St Benedict’s Rule points out that grumbling and murmuring are some of the most serious sins in the monastery. Grumbling and murmuring are in the top five sins that can be committed by a monk. Why is that?

            We should be grateful, sure. But Benedict’s worry isn’t that we should shut our mouths and be grateful for the pound of bread, the cooked vegetables, time daily to read, and the daily wine ration; no, Benedict worries far, far more about how the grumbling and murmuring tear at the community itself. It starts off as an annoyance at a thing, at someone’s behavior, and then it slowly escalates. Some gather together to share their grumbles, and more and more grumbling gets piled on top. Soon the grumblers decree that nothing is good, that everything is terrible, and that one person in the community is irredeemably annoying, irredeemably incompetent, irredeemably terrible. Instead of finding a solution, or finding a way to live with it, the grumbling just tears at the community’s life together.

            The message isn’t “be grateful or God’ll get ya!” but rather how grumbling and murmuring eat away at relationships.

            Paul wants us to be watchful, to be careful. “If you’re standing, make sure you don’t fall down. Everyone goes through this. Even as terrible things happen, God makes us stronger than we think, and God keeps working in us and through us.”

            But we should remember that this doesn’t mean that everything turns out all well and good in the short-term. We might not live to see it become better.

            Paul gets executed for proclaiming the faith – and still he trusted and hoped in God, and Christians throughout the ages have been fed by his preaching. He scattered seeds that took root and grew. Paul’s life was not easy – he knew grumbling and he knew persecution (both committing it and being victim to it). Paul kept moving forward in hope because God is good, and God is loving, and God can figure out something better than we can.

            So what seeds might we be scattering?

            Or, if we don’t think we scatter any seeds, perhaps because we’re not feeling particularly good about ourselves today, then maybe Jesus’ parable at the end of today’s reading is the image we need to take to heart. The gardener doesn’t scatter seeds around the tree – he scatters manure, and either it will make the tree healthier so it can grow fruit, or it’ll fertilize the soil for what comes next.

            God is faithful, God is good, and while we may not see the tree bear fruit, at least we are a blessing for the tree and a blessing for the soil. So whether we are good seeds or good …. Let us be good as God is good, and do what we can to be an example of blessing for ages to come. Amen.

The Rev. Joseph Farnes

All Saints, Boise

Lent 2C

            It wasn’t until a clergy meeting this past week that anyone had pointed out to me that Jesus calls Herod a fox, and then compares himself to a hen, and don’t foxes kill hens? Jesus is fully aware of the violence that will be inflicted upon him. He is not taken by surprise; the Pharisees who are trying to help Jesus are not telling him anything he doesn’t already know (though it is good to have examples in the Gospels of Pharisees being human and caring, instead of just being caricatured as “the bad guys”).

            My experience with hens is awfully limited, but from what I’ve seen, I don’t think a hen is just a passive, helpless creature. Hens can be affectionate – some even like being petted and held! – and they can be very protective of their chicks, too, and that protective energy can be awfully fierce. Chickens are not passive! In early medieval symbolism, chickens were symbols of military bravery because a chicken would fight against something bigger than itself. Chickens were not … chicken.

            If Jesus is comparing himself to a mother hen, what does that mean?

            Sometimes, I think, we imagine Jesus meek and mild and passive because we aren’t sure what to do with a ferocious mama hen Jesus. We aren’t sure what to do with the Jesus who can criticize Jerusalem and its leaders because what if he looks at *us* that way? What if mama hen Jesus turns to *us*, pulls down her mama hen glasses and says, “You need to knock that off and start acting right.” For some that would be intolerable. It would cause such distress that they would circle and cycle into all sorts of negative thoughts.

            If we grew up with a fear that love was conditional, then we might panic. We might start to think that Mama Hen Jesus pulling down those glasses was a sign that we were no longer loved, that we were being rejected. If we experienced deep betrayal, we might feel that suddenly the curtain was pulled back – that the love we thought we saw was a lie, and what was underneath was contempt for us.

            We bring our life experience into our relationship with God. From a psychological standpoint, our childhood view of our parents or parental figures can influence how we relate to God, and then our experiences since then can influence that, too. Do we feel secure in love – that even if we mess up, our parents, our spouse, our friends, and our Mama Hen Jesus can be mad at us and *also* still love us deeply? Or do we feel anxious, needing constant reassurance, hypervigilant for the first sign of anger? Or do feel avoidant, avoiding others because we’re not sure we’re lovable?

            And so when Mama Hen Jesus is calling out Jerusalem and the powers that be, or when Jesus is getting snippy, or when Jesus overturns tables and chases money changers and merchants out of the Temple with fiery zeal, do we find ourselves afraid? Do we start to feel distressed, panicky? We might rush to reassure ourselves, or seek reassurance from others that Jesus is only love, could never be angry, is only meek and mild and long-suffering and forgiving.

            We should pay attention to what makes us feel that inner distress, that inner panic. Maybe our inner sensors need to be recalibrated – maybe it’s time to learn that someone who loves us can also be mad at us, that mad is momentary and love is forever. Maybe it’s time to let ourselves feel complicated, even intense emotions without having to react right then – maybe it’s time to let the ripples on the surface of the pond rock the boat without us fearing that a tsunami will capsize the boat.

            It takes courage to do that. It takes courage to recognize that our inner sensors might need to be recalibrated because it means trusting that we’re going to be ok, and that our sensors will take time. It will take time to recalibrate because we can only work on that recalibration when stuff happens. It’s a moment of “oh, wait, I’m fine, I’ll pay attention to my breath.”

            We need to have that courage to be around Mama Hen Jesus’ fierce energy because we absolutely *need* Mama Hen Jesus. We need that fiery and fierce energy in our spiritual worldview.

            This past week some of you may know about the West Ada School District teacher who got in trouble for having an “Everyone is Welcome” sign in her classroom because somehow welcoming all children is “partisan” and “charged.” Well, it is sure charged – charged with Mama Hen Jesus energy! Mama Hen Jesus would 100% gather all children under those Mama Hen wings to welcome them, protect them, teach them.

            But then we need to think about that same Mama Hen Jesus energy looking at the folks who think that welcoming all children is an unacceptable message. That energy isn’t going to be felt as nice, sweet, meek and mild, now is it? That energy is going to feel very different. Those Mama Hen glasses are going to come down and it’s going to be a message of “You better knock that off and do right.”             We as Christians who read and cherish the Bible and the Gospel stories about Jesus know that the whole point of Mama Hen Jesus pulling down the glasses and speaking sternly is about getting a change of behavior. It’s not rejection, it’s not hatred, it’s not demonizing. That’s the way of the world, not the way of Jesus. No, Mama Hen Jesus wants all of us, every one of us, every one of them to knock that off and get gathered under those Mama Hen wings with all the rest of Mama Hen Jesus’ beloved little chickens.

The Rev. Joseph Farnes

All Saints, Boise

Lent 1C

          “Grant us wisdom, grant us courage, for the facing of this hour.”

          Over the past few weeks, this hymn of Harry Emerson Fosdick has been rolling around in my mind. It’s a rousing call to hope and action – in the midst of turmoil, we ask God to give us wisdom and courage to face what lies before us instead of asking God to pluck us out of it all and rescue us from temptation and the time of trial. This hymn reminds us that the work of Christianity, the Christian journey, is not a solo enterprise; it is more akin to a group project, with all the frustration and agony that inspires.

           Harry Emerson Fosdick was an American pastor in the early twentieth century. He rose to prominence for a sermon entitled “Shall the fundamentalists win?” in 1922 wherein he challenged mainline Christians to recognize the threat that fundamentalism posed to the Church. Fundamentalism in the 1920s had its sights set on taking over denominations to purge them of anything modern. Fundamentalists demanded that science must be rejected in favor of their interpretation of the Bible, and that only their narrow theology was “true” Christianity. Anything else had to go, and Fundamentalists believed that anyone who wasn’t of their theology could not be considered Christian. And so Harry Emerson Fosdick took to the pulpit for his explosive sermon. Explosive, but not so much in its content; he was not condescending or mocking in his tone; it was explosive because of how people responded. He pleaded for both liberal and conservative Christians to be united together for an expansive sense of Christianity – one that made room for many to ask questions as we try to follow Jesus, rather than joining the Fundamentalists in entombing the faith in unchangeable, dead stone.

          And following Jesus is a risky endeavor. Contrary to some of the preaching of some of our siblings in Christ, believing in Jesus does not make all of life’s problems disappear. Some of them preach a gospel of wealth, where God doles out blessings of wealth to people who follow him the right way. Some of them preach a gospel of power, wherein God wants Christians to seize power in order to impose their will on everyone to build a “godly” nation. Some of them preach a gospel that denies this world, where everything must be #blessed and the power of positive thinking. All of these false gospels, too, entomb the living faith – but, even worse, they have given birth to a false gospel wherein empathy is a sin, mercy is a heresy, and love is denied and derided.

Look at the temptations the Devil gives Jesus in our Gospel reading: You could have bread and anything you want, you could have power over all the nations, you could make everyone stare in awe as the angels rescue you. Interesting that those temptations seem to have ensnared so many throughout the centuries!

Believing in Jesus means trusting in God alone. Believing in Jesus means worshipping God alone. Believing in Jesus means keeping God at center stage instead of taking the spotlight for ourselves. Believing in Jesus means more than believing ideas about Jesus – that remains part of the flaw of Fundamentalism. Believing in Jesus, in this and every age, is about following Jesus wherever he goes – to the home of the leper, to the table of the tax collector, to the woman caught in adultery who is about to be stoned to death, and even to the cross! – and in today’s reading, that means following Jesus into the wilderness.

The wilderness is a scary place, full of temptations. But the temptations are there just as they are in the city. In the city, these temptations are “business as usual”, they don’t need to hide. No wonder that little piece at the end of the Gospel – the Devil departs until an opportune time. The Devil has temptations set aside for later.

But in the wilderness, we start to see these temptations more clearly. We see how these and all the temptations lurk in our hearts. These temptations have always been there, too. We go into the wilderness with Jesus not to be tempted but to notice temptation. Jesus isn’t leading us into temptation – we’re already tempted! – but we do ask him to save us from the time of trial – help us to do the right thing!

Because the temptations are already present. They bubble up. Self-righteousness. Cold-heartedness. An emotion of anger at a perceived snub. Simmering resentment that begins in passive-aggressiveness and ends with an explosion. A refusal to acknowledge our own failures and a hastiness to point out others mistakes.

They bubble up – just like all our thoughts, just like all our emotions. But what do we do with them?

Do we react – “I’m famished, I’m angry, I deserve it” – or do we respond – “One does not live by bread alone”. Do we react – “Gotta know the rules of the game to win, and even better if I can break the rules to make sure I win big!” – or do we respond – “Worship God alone – not wealth, not power”.

Jesus calls us into the wilderness to see more clearly our temptations, and it is not just for our sake. This isn’t an individualistic idea of wilderness. It’s not just about choosing correctly when tempted so I get the prize. It’s choosing to follow Jesus and bring others to follow him in their own temptations.

So many people are tempted by false gospels of wealth, power, world-denial, and hate. Why do they succumb to such temptations?

Are they afraid, like the Fundamentalists in the 1920s were? Are they afraid of losing what they thought was familiar, are they afraid of a faith that seeks understanding instead of certainty? Are they scared of their own feelings?

Are they addicted to contempt and anger? Does the rush of feeling superior to someone, of watching someone else suffer – does that rush feed a dopamine circuit in their brain, does it make them feel powerful?

Are they lonely? Are they so disconnected from their hearts, minds, and bodies that they cannot authentically connect to anyone else? Are they stuck in their own personal hell?

Because we too could have fallen into those temptations. Perhaps we did succumb to them once – maybe we fought hard to return to Jesus or maybe Jesus himself brought us to the wilderness to face our temptations without the distractions that kept us imprisoned.

It took courage to do so. It takes courage to look at our temptations square on. It takes courage to acknowledge that our gut reaction may not be what we are called to do. It takes courage to choose instead the way that draws us closer to Jesus. It takes courage to follow Jesus into the wilderness, or onto a storm-tossed boat, or to the cross. We’re always tempted to stay home, stay on the shore, or stay in safety. It’s human. But wherever we are called to go, we don’t go alone. We are following Jesus. And we’re joined by all those saints in heaven and on earth who follow Jesus, too. We can be afraid, we can be scared, but we can also be courageous. “Grant us wisdom, grant us courage, for the facing of this hour.” Amen.

The Rev. Joseph Farnes

All Saints, Boise

March 2, 2025

Last Sunday after the Epiphany, Year C

As we turn toward Lent, we are always brought to the mountaintop for the story of the Transfiguration. Jesus and a select few of the disciples go up the mountain. The disciples are struggling to keep their eyes open, but they witness Jesus talking with Moses and Elijah, and the whole scene takes on an otherworldly tone. Jesus’ clothes, dazzling white, as if they were made with light itself – and Peter in the earnestness that only he is capable of, says, “Hey Jesus, let’s make three dwelling places, one for you and one for Moses and one for Elijah!” Luke’s Gospel even adds that Peter did not know what he said. Speak first, think second… if at all. Peter, truly, is the apostle that most reflects the modern day.

And then the cloud appears and descends, a heavenly voice declares that Jesus is the Beloved… listen to him! Peter and James and John are shaken and suddenly the whole scene has disappeared. It’s back to “normal”. It’s Jesus – regular robes. It’s them atop a mountain – no Moses, no Elijah, no cloud.

They say nothing as they descend. They say nothing to the others. They say nothing.

At the foot of the mountain, the everyday life surges up like a wave, and washes away the mountaintop experience, it seems. A crowd gathers around Jesus. A boy needs healing; a spirit has taken hold of him, and the disciples who had not gone up on the mountain with Jesus could do nothing. An exasperated Jesus wonders how much longer he’ll have to do what the disciples cannot. One can scarcely imagine what Jesus would say about modern day disciples who can do what is right, but refuse to.

The Transfiguration is both a mystical experience – a glimpse of divine glory – and also a challenge, a decision-making-moment. The Transfiguration brings us face-to-face with the divine, and then it challenges us to decide; what will we do now, now that we have seen behind the veil and seen the God of glory?

We might want to see behind the veil – but seeing behind the veil, seeing God means that we see the world differently – and we ourselves are changed. We see behind the veil and we see that what we proclaim in our faith – that God is Love, that God is justice, that God is grace and holiness and life and light – and we are shaken to our core.

We are little bitty humans, and God is God. God, who created the vast expanses of the heavens and the structures and laws and principles that guide physics, chemistry, biology. God who sustains all of it, holding all of it in love. God who has watched billions of years of geological development unfold – the Appalachian Mountains that are older than trees, the forward march and the retreat of glaciers – and then this same God watches over our daily lives with infinite loving care.

We are suddenly aware that our small little world is one drop submerged in an unknowable ocean – and closer to us than we are to ourselves is the One who made and sustains all of it. And what will we do, once the veil has been set aside and we catch even a momentary glimpse of such glory?

In the reading from Exodus, Moses comes down from the mountain, and his face is changed. Something – something has changed about him. His face shines, changed by the divine presence. And the crowds are afraid. Who is this, what is this? Even Aaron, the priest, the one who should understand the holy, draws back. Moses calls them and they timidly step forward – and from that day onward, Moses puts on a veil when talking with them, hiding from them a second-hand glimpse of the holy.

And St Paul points out how we keep putting the veil onto the holy. We don’t want to see the whole thing. We don’t want to see the fullness of God’s glory. We want boundaries. We want to know enough – but not enough to be changed. We saw how Moses was changed, and we refuse it. Even as Jesus Christ draws us deeper into God, we resist. The veil is completely set aside in Christ – the one who is fully human, fully God – and yet we still resist.

We want to see the holy, but get to keep what we already want to believe.

We want to see the holy, but keep doing what we already do.

We want to see the holy, but keep judging others and judging ourselves.

We want to see the holy, but keep clinging to paralyzing fear and to keep rejecting the gift of courage.

We want to see the holy, and we see it in Jesus Christ.

We want to see the holy, so we must follow Jesus Christ.

We walk the way of Lent not to be self-hating and sad. We walk the way of Lent to follow Jesus to the cross. We follow during his deepest pain – we who did not get to spend hours and hours talking to him face to face like his disciples who did not understand and who fled from him in his hour of need.

We walk the way of Lent because we’ve seen the glory of Jesus Christ on the mountain, and we want to see the glory of Jesus Christ on the cross as he pours out his love through his blood and life – a love greater than the endless ocean of creation.

We walk the way of Lent to be transformed, transfigured ourselves. To be like Moses talking face-to-face with God, and never put on a veil again. To learn how to sit with God in such glory and abide in love.

We walk the way of Lent to be changed – to be like Jesus himself, to have the strength and courage to do his work with gladness and singleness of heart.

Let us be changed, let us be transformed, let us be transfigured. Amen.