June 14, 2026
+This past Thursday, I celebrated the 22nd anniversary of my ordination to the Priesthood.
It’s been an amazing journey, so far.
At supper on Wednesday night, after our Eucharist, Stephanie asked me if I had any regrets.
It’s always a good question.
I said, I have no regrets about being a priest, or about my calling.
But, I have many regrets about my relationships with others, especially those in authority over my career.
I joked that I often felt like Don Quixote, fighting windmills.
Also, on Wednesday night, we heard the Gospel reading for the feast of Barnabas.
That Gospel was the Gospel read at my ordination.
And it’s also the Gospel we just heard Deacon John read.
It’s a good ordination Gospel.
“Jesus went about all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and curing every disease and every sickness.”
Ministry, then we realize, begins with Jesus himself.
Before there are apostles, before there are priests or deacons or bishops, before there is even a Church, there is Jesus walking back roads, entering forgotten villages, seeking out the sick, the grieving, the lonely, the lost.
And Matthew tells us something striking.
Jesus looked upon the crowds and “had compassion for them.”
That also is ministry in a nutshell.
The Greek word used here for compassion suggests being moved in the depths of one’s being.
I hope I’m not being too graphic here, but it means to be moved in own’s bowels.
This is not pity from a distance.
It is not concern offered from a position of safety.
It is divine love aching to encounter human suffering.
Jesus sees people as they are.
Exhausted, frightened, confused, mourning, depressed, anxious, beaten down, burdened, vulnerable.
In other words, he sees us.
The older I get, the more convinced I become that much of the spiritual life begins simply with allowing ourselves to be actually seen by God.
We spend enormous amounts of energy trying to appear stronger than we are, more faithful than we are, more certain than we are.
Yet Jesus looks beneath all of that.
He sees our fears, our regrets, our griefs, and our hidden wounds.
And he loves us anyway.
The Gospel says that the people were “harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.”
That description could easily be written about us.
Right here.
Right now.
Let’s face it, we are constantly seeking information.
We are starving for some elusive wisdom.
We are connected to everyone and often known by no one.
We carry anxieties that previous generations could scarcely even imagine.
We worry about the future of our nation, our communities, our families, our Church, and sometimes even our own souls.
And still Jesus looks upon the crowds with compassion.
And still Jesus sends laborers into the harvest.
Notice that Jesus does not tell the disciples to solve every problem.
He doesn’t ask them to save the world.
He just asks them to go.
To go where people are hurting.
To go where hope has grown thin.
To go where the Kingdom of God needs to be announced once again and again.
And the disciples themselves are not exactly impressive by any sense fo the word.
What are they?
They’re fishermen.
They’re tax collectors.
They’re ordinary people with ordinary limitations.
One of them ius going to deny Jesus.
Three times.
One of them will actually betray him.
Most are going to flee when everything gets really hard.
Yet these are the people Jesus chooses.
That, more than anything, should encourage every single one of us.
God called a rebellious, oftentimes bitter poet to be a priest.
And here he is!
22 years later!
For better or for worse.
God’s work has never depended upon perfect people.
It’s always depended on willing people.
When I think back to my ordination, that perhaps is what stands out most clearly.
I knew when I was ordained I was not a perfect person.
I knew I had some inadequacies.
But the priesthood really drives home those inadequacies.
Every priest discovers sooner or later that they cannot heal every wound, answer every question, fix every broken thing.
But, then, that has never been the point.
What is the point?
The point is. . . faithfulness.
Real faithfulness.
The point is. . . .just showing up.
The point is being willing to stand where Jesus places us and to do what Jesus gives us to do.
And let’s be clear----
that calling belongs not only to priests or deacons or bishops.
Oh no.
The mission we hear Jesus give today in our Gospel reading belongs to all of us who follow Jesus.
Every baptized person is called to embody the compassion of Christ in this the world.
To be Christ to those who need Christ.
To embody Christ in very being.
How do we do that?
For some, it’s through preaching.
For others, it’s through teaching.
Others, it’s through caregiving.
Or chaplaincy.
Or just plain friendship.
For some, it’s through intercessory prayer.
For many, it’s through acts of quiet kindness and love that no one else ever notices.
The Kingdom happens not only through great achievements but through all those little acts of true faithfulness offered up and outward every day.
Jesus tells the disciples: “Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons. You received without payment; give without payment.”
In other words, share what you have been given.
That is the essence of what it means to follo0w Jesus, of being ministers of the Most High God.
We don’t have to manufacture some kind of grace.
We don’t have to create some kind of hope.
We don’t have to force forgiveness.
We simply pass on what God has first given to us.
We love because we have been loved.
We forgive because we have been forgiven.
We show mercy because mercy has been shown to us.
As I look back on these 22 years and think about our Gospel reading for today, I find myself truly gratitude.
Grateful for the people who have walked with me so far and helped shape my faith.
Grateful for the privilege of standing at altars and baptismal fonts, and hospital bedsides and gravesides.
Grateful for moments of great joy and truly deep sorrow shared with you---God’s loved people.
And above all, grateful for a God whose compassion never ends.
Let’s face it.
The harvest is still plentiful.
The world is still hungry for real hope.
People are still searching for meaning, for forgiveness, for belonging.
People are still searching and yearning for God.
And, for all of those people, Jesus is still sending us, his disciples, into the world.
Not because we’re perfect.
Not because we’re without flaws.
Not because we’re sufficient.
But because God’s mercy is.
Amen.
