St. John's Episcopal Church Montclair

So maybe Abraham’s faith needed a little testing after all. But… here’s the thing. I can’t help but wonder if God’s test is of a different sort. Because this week I noticed something I never noticed before. God tells Abraham, “take your son, your only son, Isaac.” Except Isaac isn’t Abraham’s only son.

Some people, like Hagar, seem to live at the edges of the story. And yet, through her, we learn something essential about God: that God sees those the world overlooks and hears those the world would rather ignore.

When is the last time you heard an idea so good it made you laugh? The kind of idea that seems too good to be true, but there’s a part of you that hopes it’s not. Scripture is full of promises that seem so impossible they’re laughable. Take the promise that Sarah will have a child at 90 years old. Or the promise that God can build a beloved community from people who are diametrically opposed. And yet, as Matthew tells us, the twelve disciples were not a unified bunch.

Most of us want clarity before we begin. We want to know how we’ll measure up; if it’s even worth trying; how others found success and how long it took them to do so. But the disciples didn’t take a spiritual gifts survey and wait for certainty. They didn’t sign up for classes and practice in private. They discovered their new gift for languages by speaking. They jumped right in. As scary as it is, this has been my experience and perhaps it has been yours too. The Spirit can and does give clarity, but only after we take the leap of faith.

Jesus is asking the disciples to tell people about God’s radical love, talk to people they might not otherwise encounter, to welcome people into the family of God, and to teach them about Jesus’ way of life. Biblical commentator Matt Skinner describes it as “adding collaborators and accomplices to a movement that places mercy and compassion at its core.” I think that’s something we can all get behind.

In our gospel story Jesus had some interruptions too. He was sitting down at dinner with some new friends, but people kept barging in on the dinner party. Some of these people needed his attention right away. They were green light interruptions, where God was saying “Go, someone needs love” and some were red light interruptions, where God was saying “Stop, don’t get distracted from loving the person in front of you.”

Bishop Hughes Visits St. John's May 17, 2026

This week I was reading John Green’s Everything is Tuberculosis, and a line jumped out at me so much I had to read it a couple of times. John reflects: “I am prone to despair, and so I know its powerful voice; it just doesn’t happen to be true.” Despair is loud, but loud and true are not the same thing.

Jesus tells us that the Father’s house has many dwelling places. I used to hear that as a promise about what is waiting for us, rooms already built, already assigned, already ours. But I think it means something more active than that. When we genuinely welcome each other, when we enter the work of loving someone as they actually are, we discover more of the house. Welcome is not the management of existing space — it’s how the house grows.

One Sunday, early in my priesthood, a particularly bad variant of COVID was making the rounds. Many people were quarantining at home that morning, including my fellow priest and most of our Altar Guild and ushers. Everything was going smoothly, until it got to communion. I realized I had forgotten to count how many people were in the congregation, so I didn’t know how much bread to consecrate....

The beloved slogan of St. John’s is “many paths, one journey.” And one of those paths is the road to Emmaus. Even though scholars cannot agree where exactly Emmaus was, we’ve all walked that road. It’s that journey between the grief and fear of Good Friday and the joyful surprise of Easter Sunday. It’s the road we walk after one door closes and before the next one opens. The road between a diagnosis and any clear sense of what comes next.

The Irish tell the story of a man who arrives at the gates of heaven and asks to be let in. St. Peter says, “Of course, just show us your scars.” The man responds, “I have no scars.” To which St. Peter says, “What a pity. Was there nothing worth fighting for?”

This is what Easter is all about. Knowing that there is no place we can go that Jesus has not already been. Jesus goes ahead of us in life and in death. But there is something else important too: Jesus doesn’t just go ahead of us - he also makes sure we are not alone on the way.

Outside the Lorraine Motel, where the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr was assassinated, there is a verse from Genesis engraved on a plaque. It comes from the story of Joseph, and it reads “they said to one another, behold, here cometh the dreamer, let us slay him and we shall see what will become of his dreams.” This is how the world responds to dreamers - to Joseph, Martin, Jesus, and so many others.

The Greek word used most often for sin in scripture is “hamartia.” It means, “missing the mark.” Which could make it sound as though sin is failing God’s test, not measuring up to the perfection asked of us. But it takes on a different meaning when we know that the word “hamartia” was originally used to describe missing the mark in archery or spear-throwing - moments when a miss does not simply fall short, but strikes something it was never meant to hit.

Before I could really understand why this night mattered - before I had fancy theological words to put around it - I understood that this night was different, because it invited every part of me to participate.

In whom do we put our trust? The gospel of Matthew begins with magi journeying to find the newborn king of the Jews, and as we heard today, it ends with the epitaph “King of the Jews” hanging on the cross. From beginning to end, Matthew is asking us: what kind of king will we trust—and to what kind of kingdom will we belong?

There’s one moment in the gospels when these words are spoken in grief. This time, the words “come and see” are uttered by those who doubt rather than those who believe. Their invitation is to see the place where Lazarus has died. To witness death, despair, and decay. To see the ending of a story - or so we think.

What if…what if I told you the story we just heard is about restoring the sight of the community, and not the man born blind? That the greater miracle is the one that we do not get to see fulfilled in the text, because it requires us to take part in it. Now don’t get me wrong—Jesus spitting into the dirt, making mud, rubbing it on the man’s eyes, and sending him to wash so he can see for the first time in his life is an impressive miracle. But it only takes 2 verses, and we just read 40. So clearly there is more to this story.

For as long as I can remember, I have been entranced by the story of the woman at the well. Despite its familiarity to us now, no part of the story goes as ancient audiences would have expected. You see, throughout scripture when a man and a woman meet at a well it’s usually a meet-cute, the start of their relationship. It’s how Isaac and Rebekah, Jacob and Rachel, and Moses and Zipporah all meet. Generally speaking, the man is thirsty, a surprising woman helps quench his thirst, and suddenly marriage is being arranged. But in this story, Jesus is the one quenches the woman’s thirst. And spoiler alert: Jesus and the Samaritan woman do not make their way down the aisle. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t a love story.

The church register records those moments in the church when we step away from what we know and step into something new in our life of faith. Baptism is when we are welcomed into God’s family. Confirmation is when we say yes to the promise God has given us for ourselves. Marriage is when we begin a new life with a partner. And funerals are when our life on earth ends but our life in heaven begins. These are the days we keep records of in the church, but there are many moments in our lives when we can be born again; when we can say yes to an adventure with God.

In many ways, Lent feels like a season of spiritual cleaning. We incorporate more silence in our worship, begin our services with confession, we fast from the things that get in the way of us trusting God. But Lent is not six-weeks of austere will-power and beating ourselves up for the ways we have fallen short. It is more about wiping away the things that obscure our ability to remember who and whose we are. Silencing the voices that tell us we are anything other than God’s beloved children.

This Ash Wednesday, I am wondering if we as the Church have emphasized Jesus’ description of fasting because the prophet Isaiah’s call for fasting is too difficult. In our reading from the Hebrew scriptures today we see God’s people asking God why their fast is not enough. Why God does not seem to notice their acts of piety. The prophet explains that their fasting is self-serving. Their fast does not change their hearts, at least not if they are still oppressing their workers. Their fast does not last long enough to calm their anger and prevent violence toward one another. And so, instead of fasting from food, God asks the people to fast from injustice.

God is not silent. But sometimes we need to be in order to hear God speak. Because there is so much noise. Noise from outside, and noise from within. And yet, we are called to listen. In fact, that’s what the voice from the cloud says when it stops Peter in his future-planning tracks. “This is my Son - listen to him.”

St. John’s, being here with you this past year has seasoned my faith and my life in more ways than I could possibly name in a sermon or an annual report. It has been nothing short of a blessing. A blessing that I know so many of our neighbors could use right now. This community - this world - needs your presence and your gifts. Because without who God made you to be, as individuals and as a community? Life dwindles, wounds fester, goodness stays hidden, and nothing lasts. Your witness to the lifegiving love of Christ is essential, now more than ever.

Dr. King explains that the Church is called to be a thermostat. Not to reflect the temperature of what’s happening in the world, but to change it, to make it more Christ-life. So when the world feels cold and distant, we’re called to turn up the heat and provide warmth. And when the world feels hot and fiery, we’re called to help cool it down. So whatever is happening in the world, the Church is called to adapt to meet its needs. To be the relief the world needs when things get extreme.

Epiphany | January 11, 2026

While the gospels of Matthew and Luke give us a sense of God coming to earth in human history, the gospel of John gives us a sense of God coming to earth in God’s history. Because the mysterious truth is that God didn’t wait until the incarnation to dwell with us

This year, I am fascinated by how big of a risk the magi took, leaving their country and defying the orders of a powerful earthly king all because they noticed something different in the night sky. God knew they would pay attention to that sky, so God spoke to them in a language God knew they’d understand. And it makes me wonder what God may be using to speak to us.

It must have taken great courage to accept and receive these imperfect gifts of love. To trust first time parents in a time of high maternal and infant mortality. To trust strangers in an unfamiliar place, in a land under occupation. Yet, God chose to risk it all and receive human love, as imperfect as it can be. God experienced human vulnerability and made it holy.

If I were to ask you, what is the greatest gift you’ve ever received, what would you say? Usually, when I ask a group of students this question I hear about the bike they got for Christmas, or a special doll that looks just like them, or the video game they’d had their eyes on for months. But one year, at vacation bible school, I asked a group of elementary school students “what is the greatest gift you’ve ever received?” and one little boy with confidence shot his hand up in the air to say “my life.”

This genealogy is chock full of both scandal and righteousness. Just like us. This is the miracle of incarnation. That God chose to save the world through a family such as this is a reminder that God enters into our mess and stays with us. If God could work through them, there can be no doubt that God can and does work through us too.

I can’t help but wonder if John the Baptist had to put his dreams in a drawer for Jesus. In our gospel this morning we hear him ask “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” Debie Thomas, theologian and essayist identifies John’s question beneath the question: “Lord, I’ve staked my entire life on you. Has it all been for nothing?”

John tells the people to metanoia, to repent, to turn around in preparation for God coming to earth. Have you ever noticed that there is a moment in the service when we turn around?

This Advent season, I can’t help but wonder if the invitation to stay awake and be ready is an invitation into mindfulness. John Kabat-Zinn defines mindfulness as “paying attention on purpose.” So for our purposes, a mindful Advent would be one spent paying attention to spiritual things. And truth be told, it is a fabulous place to start. Evelyn Underhill, a British mystic from the early 20th century, identified the first stage of the spiritual journey as “awakening,” or the soul becoming conscious to the reality of the divine.

Christ the King Sunday invites us to proclaim that God is still in control - even in exile, even on the cross, even in our messy and uncertain world. Thanks for Giving Sunday invites us to live out that proclamation by offering our wealth, wisdom, and works. Not out of fear or obligation, but from our confidence in God’s type of power. The type of power that transforms the world through the love of good shepherds, surprised fathers, and humble teachers. A power that gathers, frees, strengthens, and forgives.

I think of my closed fists, holding onto what is mine, and letting it trickle out, bit by bit. I open up, let go, and find that my hands and my heart are open to receive more than I could ever give. I pray that I continue to grow in faith and stewardship with all of you. May our prayers as a faith community be unceasing, as we participate in God's unseen works. May they manifest, and may we welcome many to the feast.

Unlike every elementary school teacher I ever had, I believe that there are some stupid questions. Okay…maybe the questions aren’t stupid, but I do believe there are questions that get us farther from the truth rather than closer to it, and this morning’s gospel gives us an example of one of them.

Jesus loved people up close, and the promises we make and renew at baptism call us to do the same. To pay attention to what is happening in the world - especially to the people who are the most vulnerable - and do something about it.

As Christians we still mourn. We long for those we love but see no longer. We feel their loss in deep and profound ways. Even Jesus, God incarnate, wept at the tomb of his friend. But as Christians we do not need to fear death. We can mourn with the hope that we will see one another again. We mourn with a peace that passes understanding, because we may not know exactly what heaven looks like, but we trust that our loved ones are with God; that they are taken care of and no longer in pain. We mourn with confidence that Jesus destroyed death to get to us; to prepare a way for us. As our Book of Common Prayer reminds us in the burial liturgy, life is changed, not ended.

God doesn’t call us to do the impossible, but God does call us to move the dial on what we perceive to be possible. This is a powerful theology of stewardship. In the church we talk about stewardship as our responsibility to carefully and responsibly manage the gifts God has given us. Stewardship is an expression of gratitude: giving thanks for the time, talent, and treasure God has gifted us by using them well. But stewardship is also a leap of faith toward a God who is trustworthy. Stewardship is an invitation to trust that together we can do more with what God has given us than we can do alone.

This week I’ve been reflecting on how just a little bit of faith is a powerful thing. In our gospel reading this morning, Jesus talks about having faith the size of a mustard seed. And I found these mustard seeds in my cabinet. They are very small! But the mustard plant is what we call invasive, which just means that from one very small seed the mustard plant will grow, spread, and fill a whole garden. So what Jesus is saying is that with even just this small little bit of faith, it can spread and fill all of creation.

Sermon by Jeffery Blanford, Youth Coordinator

This past week's rummage sale was both fundraiser and community outreach. Both a means for us to support our music ministry and a means to offer support to our neighbors by offering clothing and home goods at discounted prices. Had we only tried to get the highest price for each item we could, not only would we not have made as much, we would have failed in our mission to help our neighbors get access to items they may not have been able to afford otherwise. It’s a small example, but a powerful one. When we put our love of money above our love for God and neighbor everyone loses out.

Perhaps all it takes to shift from “Is there no balm in Gilead” to proclaiming that there is a balm is recognizing that we have a part to play in healing the world. That we have a part to play in bringing about peace. Not because God is absent and disinterested, but because God is alive and working in and through us.

Sometimes getting lost isn’t our fault. And sometimes - perhaps most of the time - we can’t get ourselves unlost. At least not alone. That’s where God steps in. We worship a God whose love is so all-encompassing that God goes looking for us, even if - perhaps especially when - we don’t move a muscle.

How many of you have started work or school in the last two weeks? What did you do to get ready for this new year? Probably a lot of planning and preparation. Do you think everything will go exactly as you planned this year?

Like Jeremiah, we know it doesn’t have to be this way. That we do not need to live in a nation where the news of a school or house of worship shooting is so commonplace that it disappears from front page news in two days, without any hint of actionable response. So this morning, let us lean into lament a bit. Because as the old adage goes, we can only heal what we allow ourselves to feel.

Healing is not just the absence of the “identified problem;” it is a restoration of those things we long for but have been lost, or were previously unattainable. Jesus doesn’t just cure, he heals.

Baptisms are a celebration, but the earliest baptismal liturgies looked and sounded very similar to a funeral service. That is because they represented death to the ways of the world and rebirth into a life guided by Christ. The words and symbols we use speak to this tenuous connection between life and death.