Margaret Doleman

March 7, 2021

In the story of Jesus cleansing the temple, which appears in all 4 gospels, Jesus is angry. I saw a video about 15 or 16 years ago, based on the gospel of Matthew. In it, Jesus was a pleasant, friendly, laid back sort of teacher. So, this scene, which is near the end of Matthew, really stood out. He’s turning over tables, and yelling. The sight of those merchants and money changers on the temple grounds made him lose his cool. In John’s version, although it’s a little different from the others, he seems just as angry.

What I’ve been thinking about is, what does Jesus want us to do about money? Spoiler alert: no answers here. But I think the questions are important. And as Barbara said last week, it would be nice if this could be a discussion.

As we are often reminded (usually around November), Jesus talked about money a lot. The sayings that jump out at me, besides this one, where Jesus condemns the use of temple property for conducting business, are:
You cannot serve God and wealth

Store up your treasure in Heaven
It is easier for a camel to get through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of Heaven

It’s easy to see where Christians got the idea that they shouldn’t really have anything to do with money, especially if you add in that saying of Paul, money is the root of all evil. But wait, he actually said, the LOVE of money is the root of all evil. Why do people so often leave out those two words? It seems like a pretty important distinction.

Money is necessary in any culture that’s too big, and too complicated to function on bartering. So, isn’t Jesus really saying that the problem is when money becomes an end in itself? Or is he?

It’s complicated, money. And I’m pretty sure it’s a lot more complicated now than it was two thousand years ago. As I understand it, in Jesus’s time, there were people with more money than they needed, and people with less than they needed. There still are. But, if I’m not mistaken, nowadays there are a lot more of us in the middle. Most of us have credit cards, which can fool us into thinking we can afford more than we should spend. Many of us have investments of some sort, either personal or through some sort of retirement plan. Do we know what the people who are managing our money are doing with it?

If we’re lucky enough to have enough to give some away, there are a thousand charities and nonprofit organizations fighting for whatever we can give them. They’re all very good at convincing us that their cause is worthy, urgent, and likely to fail without our contributions. It’s pretty clear that none of us can give to all of them, and there are ways, like Charity Navigator, to check if these organizations are legitimate and financially responsible, but each of us still has to decide which ones are most important to us, and how much we can give. That’s the hardest question for me.

Because, if I have enough to give away, it also means I have enough to buy things that I don’t really need. And boy, does our world offer us things! And experiences! All shown to us in beautiful photographs, described by reassuring voices, telling us that if we buy this stuff, we’ll be healthier – happier – better looking; our lives will be easier! I know it’s pretty much all a lie, but, like a vaccination, that knowledge is not 100% effective against the constant exposure to advertising. I know I don’t need any more stuff, but there are always things out there that it seems like it would be nice to have. So, where’s the line between charity and self-indulgence? I tell myself that I’m not extravagant, and I try to be generous with gifts and donations, so I’m OK, right? Or am I?

Even decisions about what we buy to meet our basic needs can be fraught with ethical considerations. How are the companies who make this product treating their workers? What about the environment? What are they doing with their profits? And on and on….

I think about all these things, and try to make the best decisions. But I know I don’t always get it right, and I wonder if anyone does. There are so many reasons for not making the “perfect choice.” Maybe it’s beyond your budget. Or it doesn’t meet your needs. Or maybe there is no perfect choice, because the company that’s doing excellent work in the humanitarian area is shipping their products in a ton of plastic. A scene in a recent TV series has a character saying that no one has been admitted to Heaven in the last 500 years, because the world has become so complex that everyone is complicit in evil.

I could almost believe that. But I don’t, not the part about no one getting into Heaven. I’m not sure exactly what Heaven means, except being with God. I believe that God loves us, and if God loves us, why would God punish us, or cast us away, for not doing things perfectly? Surely God knows, after all these millennia, that humans aren’t very good at perfection. But surely, God must want us to keep trying. Isn’t that the pattern of human progress? Try. Fail. Learn. Try again and do a little better this time. And it never hurts to ask God for some guidance.



2/28/21 Barbara Metcalf

As Paul tells us, Abraham is our model for the “steadfast faith” our collect prays for. But the three other people we encounter in today’s readings model faith for us as well. All four become new people in faith and it’s not subtle. Each one has gotten a new name to make the point.

First Abraham. Deb Jesch and others will remember Carole Richardson acting out Abraham and Sarah’s journey to the Land of Canaan on a big sand board for Godly Play. Captivating us and the children about what it meant to traverse a desert, and to leave a world where people believed in many gods, entering into the promise of God, the one God, God who will be with you wherever you go — and for Abram and Sarai, the promise that God will grant offspring. It’s a wonderful story.

Thanks to hearing Larry DiCostanzo read all of Genesis out loud to several of us recently, I can tell you that there’s a lot to Abram/Abraham’s story that we don’t tell the children, and much of it is tough. In part it’s tough because Abram encounters grim challenges.
In part it is tough because there is a cultural gap that makes his decisions hard to understand. By the time we get to our text today there has been famine. Abram has retreated to Egypt and has given Sarai, his own wife, to Pharoah out of fear that Pharaoh will otherwise kill him in order to take her. Then there are all the complexities of having brought along his nephew Lot and his family. They compete over land. Abram has to rescue him militarily. Lot’s disobedient wife turns into a pillar of salt. Lot’s daughters make Lot drunk so he will sleep with them to sire children. And then there is Hagar, the slave woman whose body is used for procreation when the wife is barren.

Sarai, to focus for a minute on our second renamed model, endures it all. She is the one given to Pharoah. She is the one who is long childless in a society where to be barren is to risk everything — respect, support in old age, a husband’s favor. She is the one who resorts to having her husband father a child on her slave. She is the one who comes to resent the slave and the slave’s child. A tough story.

I think it’s the toughness of their story, the crooked path, the uncertainties that make Abraham and Sarah so foundational to our story. Their covenant — God’s promise of protection through material and moral crises on every side that they face, must face faithfully — that covenant persists.

As our epistle reminds us, God’s faithfulness is not earned by righteous deeds by Abraham or by anyone else but faith alone. Think of the promise of offspring as the symbol of that grace. That the aged Abram and Sarai of themselves could conceive a child is so implausible as to be laughable. They laugh. It is to them to be faithful, and that faith will to be tested again and again in the chapters that follow today’s reading. Abandoning Hagar and Ismael is a test of faith. The near sacrifice of Isaac speaks for itself.

Abraham and Sarah face these tests as new people. In this second covenant Abraham and Sarah are reborn, renewed. We know that because they have new names, names that evoke God’s promise of offspring. Names matter. We see this often so movingly in name choices that define or elide gender. Imagine one young person I know (who uses the pronouns


they, their). They are of Nepali birth, adopted into a New England Anglo family. (Their sister is my godchild.) For them, neither gender or community has felt fixed and they have moved among a Hindi girl’s name; an American female name; and the Buddha’s name – this last a claim on ethnicity, values, and gender at once. Chosen, or given, a new name can help us become who we are. It is with his new name that Abraham faces his hardest tests.

Paul teaches us in words; but his life itself is a model. I think his messages to us are so moving precisely because of his own rebirth and renaming, Saul turned Paul, his own experience of grace, his new life of faithfulness to death. He knows whereof he speaks:

not just Abraham but Paul is our model of someone who doesn’t earn, cannot earn, but faithfully receives God’s gracious gifts and promises. You are protected, you are God’s beloved child, and it is not of your doing.


Here is a final thought about Abraham’s tumultuous life. How does he know what a faithful life requires? Abraham knows because he and God are best friends. They talk all the time. Abraham’s story is filled with dreams, visions, strangers who turn out to be angels, covenants, conversations that are detailed negotiations. Muslims, in fact, call Ibrahīm Khalīlu’llāh, God’s friend (a minor epithet in the Bible too).

How do you talk to God, hear God? There is an anthropologist at Stanford called Tanya Luhrmann who participated in an evangelical church over a two-year period. The members learn to hear God’s voice. They don’t hear it at the beginning, Luhrmann explains, but over time they learn to recognize some of the voices in their head – as we all have in our head – as God speaking. They hear him, they tell her, as clearly as you are hearing me.

There are many ways to hear God’s voice, to read signs, to recognize his voice. The lessons we hear week after week, the liturgies of our worship, they all teach us. Our hymns teach us. I remember Beth Beller saying something like she learned her faith in hymns. I thought of that comment this week because words of hymns kept jumping into my mind as I pondered our lesson for today. From “God is working his purpose out” to “Lord speak to me that I may speak” to the childhood hymn of “What a friend we have in Jesus.” Friendship is a reminder of Abraham and of the way Lurhmann’s evangelicals speak of their conversations with God, sometimes staged by pouring a second cup of coffee or meeting in the park. It may seem alien to imagine hearing God as a human voice, but not, I think, to imagine God always primed for conversation. The conversation of prayer, explicit speech or not, are nurtured by scripture, the liturgy, the hymns – and “the clouds of witnesses” who have gone before, and the saints and angels with us now.


But how do we know that a voice is God’s and not Satan’s? Some of the insurgents at the capitol on January 6 said they were there “because the President told me to be.” Some, chillingly, said they were there because God had told them to be.

It is far easier to see Satan, as he surely is, destroying the lives, and all they touch, of the Proud Boys and their ilk than to recognize our own misguided voice within.

We make mistakes, and perhaps Peter, our fourth reborn and renamed person, is a model for not giving up when we do. The message of Lent: misdirection and return. Turning to our Gospel lesson, Jesus knows his Father’s will; he has recognized the right path, the hard


path. But Peter, Peter, who is the rock, is once again off track. The stories of his failures are one of his great gifts to the rest of us in our failures, another sign of God’s grace.

The mid-Victorian woman who wrote the hymn “Lord speak to me that I may speak in living echoes of your tone” spoke of her conversion to a life of faith in memorable words. “Earth and heaven seemed brighter from that moment.” May we find, as the collect prays, that “steadfast faith” and know that joy. Amen.

First Lent

First Sunday in Lent

St. Alban’s Episcopal Church ● Albany, California

Stephen Hitchcock ● February 21, 2021

Genesis 9:8-17

Psalm 25:1-9

1 Peter 3:18-22

MARK 1:9-15

It’s been almost exactly one year since I preached my last sermon in the sanctuary of St. Alban’s Church.  You may recall that our deacon, Dani, and I agreed that we’d each preach once a month until we had a new priest. Well, the pandemic certainly changed those plans.

Now we’re saying farewell to Dani, wishing them blessings and best wishes as they begin a new ministry.  Our sadness at Dani’s departure – we will miss Dani’s spirited leadership and those surprising sermons – is offset by gratitude and memories of all their ministry has accomplished: creating Messy Vespers, pitching in to provide pastoral care, organizing Operation Sandwich, leading anti-racism training, and much more.  Thank you, Dani.

Unfortunately, we’re not yet saying farewell to the pandemic and all the isolation and disruption caused by this deadly disease.  So, it is perhaps appropriate that today is the first Sunday in Lent.  The Gospel for this Sunday is an especially useful resource for these difficult days.

The Gospels were written – and we read them today – not just because they are interesting stories about Jesus and his disciples.  They are indeed interesting, and I’m grateful for your patience with my enthusiasm for the literary and historical treasures in these Gospels.

No, the Gospels are meant to be stories about us – stories about our following Jesus today and our life together as present-day disciples.

Thrown Out into the Wilderness

Thus, it makes sense that today we find ourselves with Jesus in the wilderness, a place of desolation and danger.  For those who first heard Jesus, the wilderness was where Moses and the Israelites wandered – and withered – for 40 years after their exodus from Egypt.  Moses himself fasted 40 days at Mount Sinai, and later Elijah fasted 40 days in the wilderness near Mount Horeb.

Today, as then, the wilderness was a place of testing.  “Tempted” is a misleading translation here.  We’re not being tempted to give in to some minor sins.  As with the Israelites in the wilderness, we’re being tested on the Big Sin: will we trust that God hasn’t abandoned us and that God cares deeply for us?

On that front, we certainly have been tried and tested.  Not just by this deadly virus that has kept us isolated and separated from friends and loved one.  But, also by the divisions and disparities that wrack our nation.  And by climate change that threatens the survival of the planet.  And some of us wander in the wilderness of aging brains and bodies, illness and infirmity.

Even though we – like Adam and Eve – have been thrown out of Eden into the dessert, Mark’s Gospel doesn’t leave us there.  Today’s reading invites us – no, insists that we confront three challenges.

The Cosmic Battle with Satan

First is a recuring theme in Mark’s Gospel.  Our wilderness experience isn’t a temporary inconvenience or a chronic problem we can overcome with positive thinking and willpower.  What tested Jesus – and tests us – is Satan, the one who embodies and wields all the forces of evil, including sickness and death.

Mark’s Gospel is the story of the cosmic battle between Jesus and Satan, between life and death.  In the chapters to come, we will see Satan’s demons at work, as Christine reminded us in her reflection.  In Mark 6, Satan’s power makes the seas rage and threatens to drown the disciples.

This demonic force is its most threatening – and personal – right at the center or pivot point in chapter 8.  Jesus has told the disciples for first time that he is going to Jerusalem to be put to death.  When Peter objects, Jesus responds with “Get behind me, Satan.”

Conquering Death by Dying

That brings up the second challenge in today’s reading.  Already in these very early verses, Jesus’ fate is made clear.  In verse 14, John the Baptist is arrested, which should be read “handed over” – the same verb is used to describe what happens to Jesus.  Earlier in our reading, after Jesus is baptized, the heavens are torn open – just as the temple curtain is torn at the time of Jesus’ crucifixion.

And we are privy – we’re the audience here because, at this point in Mark’s Gospel, there are no crowds around– to the voice that proclaims, “This my beloved son.”

Remember when we heard that voice and those words?  A week ago Sunday, we celebrated the transfiguration.  In Mark’s Gospel, that mountain top experience, follows right after Jesus’ first predictions about his death.  There, with Moses and Elijah present, the voice from heaven announces, “This my Son, the Beloved.”

In Mark’s Gospel, that confession of Jesus as God’s son is made by a human voice – a Centurion and a Gentile – only after Jesus has died on the cross.

So, mystery of mystery – what the Apostle Paul calls a scandal — Satan is overcome and death is conquered when Jesus loses that cosmic battle, when Jesus is pulled under the waves, when he suffers death.  Jesus gives his life as a ransom so that Satan no longer owns us, evil does not enthrall us.

Raised to New Life

The third challenge we’re given today is trust that our story doesn’t end with the story of Jesus’ death.  That Jesus’ shares our humanity and suffers our fate may be comforting, but it is not GOOD NEWS.

And that is what Jesus proclaims – good news – after he returns from the wilderness and begins his ministry. announcement in the very first sentence of the Gospel, “This is the Good News of the Son of God.”

For Jesus to announce “This is the Good News of the Son of God” was both audacious dangerous. This good news was in sharp contrast and clear conflict with other news. In Jesus’ day and when Mark’s Gospel was written, official heralds were proclaiming the “real” good news that the Roman Emperor – whose kingdom was the entire world he had conquered – was the Son of God.

Today, we are invited to trust that Jesus – who was executed by representatives of that emperor – promises us life in a new kingdom.  One in which demons are cast out, the sick are healed, people are fed in the wilderness, and all people of all persuasions and backgrounds are welcomed.

Living in Resurrection Time – Now

And that kingdom – that way of living – is now.  Jesus says, “The time fulfilled.”  The word for “time” is Kairos, not chronological time, but resurrection time.

It’s resurrection time because Jesus was raised from the dead.  The account of Jesus’ baptism says that Jesus “comes up” out the water.  Throughout Mark’s Gospel, as Jesus reaches out and heals, this rising and lifting up is a repeated refrain.

We, too, rise up – are raised up – out the water of our baptism to new life.  At morning prayers on Thursday, we celebrated the birthday of Martin Luther.  For Luther, at the beginning of each day was resurrection – as we rise up out of sleep, make the baptismal sign of the cross, and begin another day of new life.

That new life is the Spirit that appears at Jesus’ baptism.  The Spirit of the Risen Christ is here today as we gather for worship, as we listen to scriptures, and as we pray together.  And when we are able to gather in person, the Risen Christ will be present as we partake that wilderness mana in the Eucharist.

Surrounded and sustained by this Spirit of new life, we can’t help but care for each other, for God’s creation and creatures, and for all those in need.  Jesus’ story is truly our story, and that’s the good news we are announcing to each other and to the world.  Amen.

Last Epiphany

Last Epiphany

Deacon Dani Gabriel


February 14th, 2020

St. Alban’s Albany

Readings: https://lectionarypage.net/YearB_RCL/Epiphany/BEpiLast_RCL.html

Sometimes something has to be transfigured before we can see it as it truly is. Sometimes, we need an announcement and a heavenly voice. Sometimes this happens, unexpectedly, when you’re not prepared. Peter and James and John were clearly not prepared, as Peter bumbles with his suggestions. I was not prepared, either, as I approached St. Alban’s.

I approached St. Alban’s in the middle of the pandemic and the building was the same. Same church it has always been, with beautiful windows and the labyrinth I’ve traced many times. But I saw it clearly in the sunshine for what it really is: a building. Not the church at all. I’ve always said, I’m going up to THE church, or I was at THE church, as though the church could be held in the building.

But the pandemic has made this as dazzlingly obvious as Jesus’ garments: the church has nothing to do with the building. Our buildings offer solace and a place to worship, mourn, and celebrate. They are sanctuaries where we find rest and renewal. Yet they are not the church.

In this past 11 months I have seen church overflowing the buildings. I have seen church on Zoom and on Facebook and in the streets. Church cannot be contained. It’s alive. It’s where we are. It’s where Jesus is: everywhere.

And I was more than startled. I had not actually experienced the truth of this, at least not so deeply, so viscerally, until now. Like the disciples, maybe, up the mountain. The St. Alban’s buildings are not THE church as I called them, anymore than any other buildings. You are the church, every day, reaching out to one another, praying for one another, loving your neighbors, serving those who are struggling. And that is cause, even in this challenging time, for great joy.

Now we have to decide what that means in the future. How will we use our buildings? How will we remember what we have learned on this mountain? I’ve been writing about these ideas for a while, and this poem, which I shared with you in my first sermon as deacon at St. Alban’s has new meaning now as I share it now in my last sermon at St. Alban’s:


jesus christ
is depending on two dollars
and a bummed cigarette.
he’s sunburnt, skin cracked open,
oily hair and a bleached t shirt.
he’s not bothering to smile anymore,
he’s ditched his sign by the lamp post.
the lord has nothing to say.
there is a direct line to heaven today
for the first person
who pulls over, opens the window,
and passes him a twenty.
or a bottle, or a joint, or hell
just a hand.
in the coal red afternoon
cars streak hot breath on my cheek
as i say
hey, how’s it going?
and he nods.
the world reorients itself
i hadn’t noticed it but
god is all over the city today,
she’s tracking up and down the BART train
asking for change,
she’s crying in the bathroom, waiting
for someone to notice she’s not ok,
he’s up against the side of the building
in pajamas and handcuffs.
the kingdom of god
is a dirty sidewalk full of needles
and the drug sick angels
lurching at the entrance of the bar
are his messengers.
my god was sleeping in front of the spired church
on that manicured corner
and now he’s smoking weed in the courtyard
while the faithful prepare bulletins
and light candles.
careful friends
he’s coming in.

Friends, it’s easy to mistake the buildings for the church. There will be a lot of choices to make as the buildings reopen and church begins to look more like what it used to be. Don’t forget who you truly are.

Epiphany 5

Epiphany 5

Christine Staples

Feb. 8, 2020


Mark 1:29-39

After Jesus and his disciples left the synagogue, they entered the house of Simon and Andrew, with James and John. Now Simon’s mother-in-law was in bed with a fever, and they told him about her at once. He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them.

That evening, at sundown, they brought to him all who were sick or possessed with demons. And the whole city was gathered around the door. And he cured many who were sick with various diseases, and cast out many demons; and he would not permit the demons to speak, because they knew him. In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed. And Simon and his companions hunted for him. When they found him, they said to him, “Everyone is searching for you.” He answered, “Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do.” And he went throughout Galilee, proclaiming the message in their synagogues and casting out demons.

I’d like to offer thanks to Steve Hitchcock for inviting me to offer a reflection on scripture to share with all of you, my beloved faith community, and for his suggestions for judicious prunings. I have so enjoyed hearing the reflections from each of you who have shared so far; one of the things I’ve appreciated is the little description of the journey each of you took as you reflected on the scripture. Therefore, I’d like to lead with a brief overview of the different pathways I could have taken today: this piece of scripture is brief, but it contains multitudes!

Firstly: I’m picturing Jesus and James and John, after a long day at the synagogue, going to Simon and Andrew’s house. They are probably expecting a nice meal and a comfortable rest – but Simon’s mother-in-law is sick in bed – Jesus has to heal her. And she gets right up out of bed to make them some supper. Well, there’s an interesting pathway….

Then, there’s the matter of miracles. I’m willing to venture a guess that each of us has experienced many miracles, small and large in our lifetimes. I can immediately think of a few in my life: a large one – giving birth to our amazing daughter at the age of 39 and 11/12ths. And small: our dear, late kitty, Bean; a tiny cream tabby kitten, walking out of an empty welding shop parking lot in the dark and cold of a January night, coming right up to us and introducing herself, just at the exact moment I was expressing my profound need of a cat of our own.

There’s also Jesus’ relationship to performing miracles: he’s performing them all day, every day. He’s so exhausted from performing miracles that he leaves Simon and Andrew’s home in the middle of the night, and heads out alone into a deserted place to pray, and still his followers track him down and say “hey, man, everyone has been looking for you!” How exhausting this must be.

Any of these aspects of the reading could absolutely yield an interesting reflection. But the thing which really stood out for me, which really caught my attention was this: Demons. All day, every day, mixed in with the healings, Jesus is casting out demons. And most strikingly for me: when he casts them out, he silences them, because they know him.

The first question I have to ask is: what, or who, is a demon? The classic depiction we have of demons is of a fanged, clawed, snarling, monster. But I don’t think this is the type of demon we’re talking about here. And of course, there’s the vision we have of “possession” from films like “The Exorcist.” That doesn’t seem to fit, either. For one thing, Mark tells this story with such a simple narrative style; it’s like reading an ancestor’s diary you find in the attic: “Cold today. I made bread. John went into town to sell some hay.” Only in this case, it’s “Jesus spent the day healing people and casting out demons. Then we walked to the next town, and he did it again.” I think even Mark would have mentioned it if the demon was really interesting looking or behaving. There are also what we call “personal” demons; which include anything from being endlessly haunted by something unkind or unwise we did fifty years ago, to trauma from our past, to addiction. And there’s psychosis. But again, none of these things really fit.

…“he would not permit the demons to speak, because they knew him” – What type of demon is so common that Jesus is casting them out day and night, and that KNOW THE LORD? And why does Jesus seek to silence them?

Last week in church we received a clue in another reading from Mark; the reading immediately precedes this week’s verses: Jesus and his disciples are in Capernaum; they go to the synagogue on the Sabbath, where Jesus proceeds to teach. And there is a man in the temple who is said to have an “unclean spirit”. The man cries out: “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are, the Holy One of God.” And Jesus rebukes him, and says “Be silent and come out of him!” And the unclean spirit, convulsing him and crying with a loud voice, came out of him.”

How interesting! Once again, the “unclean spirit” knows Jesus – it REALLY knows Jesus –  it calls him the “Holy One of God”. Even the disciples don’t “know” him in this way until after his death! This demon knows for sure who Jesus is – and it is afraid that in his role as the Holy One of God that He has come to destroy them.

Truth to tell, it didn’t take long for the demons to reveal themselves to me; I just started thinking about current events: people attempting to violently overthrow our government, murder our leaders, and assault police officers using flags emblazoned with Jesus’ name as weapons. Church leaders vilifying anyone who upheld the election results. Fundraisers for Kyle Rittenhouse on a so-called “Christian” online fundraising platform. Politicians deliberately separating immigrant families at the border and imprisoning them.

My fellow travelers, this is what I think: if a demon is someone who knows who Christ is, knows what Christ’s message is, and must be silenced from speaking His name, I think that it’s because the demon is using Jesus’ name for profane reasons,  to pervert others. The demon is afraid that its old ways, its old powers are about to be destroyed: white supremacy, homophobia and misogyny are “old powers” which spring to mind right away.

How do we know a demon when we see one?

Those of you who have been worshipping with me for the last couple of years will probably not be too surprised to hear that I often think in musical terms. I’d like to sing you a verse from a hymn I learned in my youth at my home church; it was written in the 60’s by a Catholic priest, and it’s based on the Book of John – I imagine many of you know it, even though it is, sadly, not in our hymnal:

We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord

We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord

And we pray that all unity will one day be restored

And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love

Yes, they’ll know we are Christians by our love

If someone is talking about having a mandate from God or Jesus, or carrying a flag or sporting a t-shirt, hat, or bumper sticker with God or Jesus on it, but the content of their speech, or their behavior is not loving – if it’s not inclusive, if it’s hateful, if it promotes racism, homophobia, misogyny or prejudice – there’s a demon talking.

Of course, if we call out a demon, the demon isn’t going to go “ha, ha! You got me!” and slink away. No, the demon will likely turn straight around and try to gaslight you – these demons are wily! A common tactic would be a raging accusation that YOU are actually the demon! When the Christian activist network Faithful America called out Franklin Graham recently for his un-Christian behavior, their inboxes were flooded with messages like “your whole organization, every person involved is an evil anti-Christ deceiving lying forked tongue devilish mockery to God.”

Another response might seem calm and almost reasonable, but not feel quite right: demands that people who were almost murdered should just “get over it” and move on. Or victim-blaming: that people who peacefully call out wrong-doing are actually to blame for inciting violence against themselves. The insistence that victims should forgive unrepentant evil-doers. Or people telling us that it’s just not Christian to seek accountability. Here’s an example; my cousin’s husband Rick is a retired UCC minister. A couple of weeks ago, he posted on Facebook that Donald Trump should be impeached, that there would be no unity without accountability. One of Rick’s former congregants responded “let us keep in mind, pastor, God is love. It’s upon religious leaders to bring us together, worship one god, believe in salvation, forgive and, above all, pray. Just saying.”

Does “loving our neighbor” mean we shouldn’t call out evil?

Okay, here’s my next hymn, based on the Book of Deuteronomy – this one is sung as a round; maybe we can sing this one together in person someday:

What does the Lord require of you, what does the Lord require of you?

To seek justice, and love kindness, and walk humbly with your God

Justice, Kindness, walk humbly with your God.

As we travel through our days, let us seek justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with our God. Amen.

January 24th, 2021

The Rev. Dani Gabriel

January 24th, 2021

St. Alban’s, Albany

Readings: https://lectionarypage.net/YearB_RCL/Epiphany/BEpi3_RCL.html

“As Jesus passed along the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the sea—for they were fishermen. And Jesus said to them, “Follow me and I will make you fish for people.” And immediately they left their nets and followed him.”

When I read this story, I imagine myself as Simon or Andrew. I imagine dramatically dropping my nets and following Jesus and becoming a fisher of people, spreading the good news far and wide. This is always how I put myself into the story. I think this is true of a lot of us: we imagine ourselves the protagonists. We’d always be loyal disciples, never Judas. We’d be the ones listening and bravely acting. We’d learn the lessons well and carry the message far and wide. And yet this is not how it happened to me.

I had just about given up. On the church, on the future, on Jesus, on everything. We were deep into the pandemic. Gone were the early days of baking and art projects with the kids, gone were the days of intensely planning our first online services. There was no more adrenaline rush, just the daily trudge through Zoom calls and occasional outings with a mask and hand sanitizer. I wasn’t feeling the spirit. Not in the almost vacant church on Sunday, and not in the rest of my life either. I was feeling empty and tired. I was going through the motions of prayer and piety because I had made a commitment, and am very stubborn. But inspiration was long gone, gone the way of dinner parties and in person school.

One day I was out with a couple of members of All Souls delivering sandwiches from All Souls’ and St. Alban’s Project Sandwich to a local encampment of unhoused folks. This group of people was living mostly in run down RVs, with no running water or cooking facilities. The street was desolate, mostly empty warehouses. They were extremely isolated, and extremely grateful. I asked “How else can we support you?” and was stunned by the emphatic answer: Prayer. Here we were on the side of the road, and I felt very much that I was in church. More than I had in a long time. I was not expecting his answer and it broke through the numbness I’d been feeling. We could be in solidarity with our friends through prayer, we could be activists through prayer. I had, in fact, been forgetting to pray very much. The reminder helped me return to the core of my faith and reframe my work. I started to see evidence of the Spirit, moving at the edges of things, still there.

I’ve been thinking and praying a lot since that day. I was not out there fishing for people, spreading the good news, as I have always imagined. No. I was the one who was caught. I was totally unsuspecting that day, as I wandered into the net. I imagined I knew what I was doing and where I was going. As usual I thought I had something to give when really I had something to learn.

I think a lot about my friend in the camp and how he appreciated the sandwich but really wanted the prayer. I think a lot about what it really means to follow Jesus, and how sometimes the road doesn’t lead where we think it’s going. We are in these gospel stories, for sure, but we’re not always the characters we imagine ourselves to be. Sometimes we’re caught, unsuspecting, on the side of the road.


EPIPHANY 2 Reflection

EPIPHANY 2 Reflection

Margaret Doleman

John 1:43-51
“Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit.”

When I first looked at this story, my first thought was, what is going on here? Truthfully, that’s often my first thought when I look at a passage of scripture. In this case, I got a little sidetracked, wondering about the significance of the fig tree. But I soon realized that for me, that didn’t really matter. It was probably a clue for John’s contemporaries, but I – we – already know enough about Jesus to know that when he says he sees someone, he really does see them. Sees them as God sees them – us. In all our beauty and uniqueness and potential, as well as all our flaws and failures, and all the things that hold us back from becoming all that we could be. Our history, our wounds, our prejudices.

So, Jesus must also know about Nathaneal’s feelings about Nazareth. After all, just before Jesus walked up to him, Nathaneal said to Philip, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” As the story is told, we might even imagine that Jesus overheard that. But he does not say, here is truly an Israelite in whom there is a lot of prejudice! Or, in whom there is no deceit, but a lot of prejudice. Or even, you have a lot of potential, Nathaneal, but you really need to work on your preconceived ideas of who’s worthy. He wants Nathaneal to join him, to do great things, so why bring up his weaknesses? Nathaneal is so impressed that he seems to forget his prejudice against Nazareth immediately. But we’ve seen this little glimpse of weakness in Nathanael.

We see it in all the disciples. They have to have everything spelled out for them, they argue about who is going to sit at Jesus’s right hand, they doubt his promises. And don’t even let me get started on Simon Peter.

But Jesus calls them, and he keeps them. With all their faults, they’re good enough for Jesus. And so are we. I know this isn’t an original thought, but , at least for me, it’s something of which I need to remind myself, frequently. God loves us, even knowing all the things about us that we don’t want anyone to know.

So, let’s talk about calling – or, if you prefer, inspiration. That’s what I see going on in this passage. One of my favorite Christmas movies is The Bishop’s Wife. It’s an old one (1947), about a bishop who prays for guidance, and suddenly, an angel named Dudley (played by Cary Grant) appears in his study. Everywhere Dudley goes, good things happen. Disasters are averted, people suddenly feel better, chores are accomplished with incredible speed. But the only person in the story who knows that Dudley is an angel is the bishop, who is also the only one who isn’t especially charmed by him. Anyway, there’s a scene in which Dudley and the bishop’s wife pay a visit to an elderly professor, who’s been telling everyone for years that he’s writing a new history of ancient Rome. But the professor confesses to Dudley that he hasn’t actually been able to write a word, because he really doesn’t believe he has anything new to say. Dudley makes a few suggestions, and assures the professor that he’ll have enough time left to finish his book. The next time the professor sees the bishop, he says he’s making amazing progress on the book. And in the end, even the bishop, in spite of his skepticism, gets the guidance he needs.

Unfortunately, I don’t think that Cary Grant is going to appear in my kitchen, offering encouragement. Nor do I think that Jesus is going to walk up to me on Solano Avenue and tell me who I am, or who I could be. Unfortunately, because the angel in the fantasy story, and Jesus, in all the gospel stories, has such charisma, such authority, that people instinctively believe what they say. Whereas, sometimes we don’t trust the encouragement of ordinary people. We think, you’re just saying that to make me feel better. But I do think that we do get the message, sometimes. An inner voice responds to an opportunity, saying, you can do this.
A loved one, a friend, a teacher, a supervisor asks us to do something that’s outside our comfort zone, and that person’s belief in us inspires us. When I think of the times I’ve surprised myself (in a good way), it usually started with something like that.

17 or 18 years ago, at an annual parish meeting, Virginia Schroeder said that the altar guild at St. Alban’s needed more members Now, ironing, polishing, and setting things up precisely have never been my best skills. The very mention of Martha Stewart makes me want to be somewhere else. But I heard a call that day, for whatever reason, and I’ve never regretted it. I’ve made plenty of mistakes, including a couple of really embarrassing ones, but nothing burned down, and now I have compelling evidence for new recruits that they don’t have to be perfect.

And I, and probably many of you, can remember moments in our children’s lives when a teacher or coach brought something out of them that we, as parents, couldn’t have imagined was possible.

When have you felt inspired to do something different? What was it like? Did someone else encourage you, or did you “just know”? How did it work out?

What might any of us be called to right now? How can we listen for that inspiration? Have we ever been that voice for someone else? Might we still be?

The story ends with a promise from Jesus: “Very truly, I tell you, you will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.” Answer the call, act on the inspiration, and who knows what might happen?




January 3, 2021

Katherine Kasameyer


Merry Christmas.

It’s been a long time since I was in a Christmas pageant. But growing up, at Trinity Episcopal, I was in many Christmas pageants. First as a sheep, as an angel, as the Angel Gabriel, as a reader of Luke’s Gospel, and, once, in high school, as the Virgin Mary.  In the story we told on Christmas Eve, everything was great-

the holy family found a place at the Inn,

the baby Jesus was born in the manager,

there was this big star,

the shepherds came,

the wise men came,

the baby was quiet,

it was all other-worldly and shiny bright.

I never thought much about the flight to Egypt. The flight to Egypt was always that weird post script, that lurking darkness.

But a few years have passed since then.  I’ve gone from playing a mother in the Christmas pageant to being a parent, first of an infant of course, and now of a nine year old.  When my son was a baby, I used to have to keep track of everything he ate and wore. Now, he can make his own lunch and put on his own clothes. If I prod him enough, that is.

The flight to Egypt looks different to me now.  It strikes me that Jesus is a baby, or a toddler, in this story, and is totally helpless.  He can’t feed himself, let alone save himself from a governor intent on killing him.  Of course, God gives his parents enough information to keep Him safe, but they have to act.

When I look at this story now, I think, “what is the function of God revealing Jesus to us as the Messiah when Jesus is still an infant?” What are we supposed to learn from the holy infant?

One of the names we use to describe Jesus is king of kings.  Why didn’t God wait until Jesus was a young boy to reveal him as a future king, like David, or wait until he was a man, like Saul?  I imagine that books have been written on this, but to me it seems like one reason is that Jesus isn’t a normal sort of king.  As an adult Jesus tells us that his kingdom is ‘not of this world.’

And yet as an infant, Jesus is very much of this world.  As we all know, little children live in the eternal present. Their first language is touch. They don’t understand logic or abstract thought.  It seems that there must be something about the divine that we are supposed to see in this infant stage of Jesus.

So, what do I know about young children?  Young children don’t respond to logic, but they do respond to gentleness and cuddles and consistency and attention.  They will return our affection snuggles, but only if we have been gentle and consistent with them.

But that is the thing — we have to be gentle and consistent and present with little children to build that relationship. As anyone who has tried to visit with a little niece or nephew knows, you can’t just show up in the house of a little child and expect her to come over and be all huggy and affectionate at first. Little children are slow to warm up.

Little children don’t really care that you visited last year. They only remember last week.

So, for me, what I take from the flight to Egypt is that I should tend to my faith like I would tend to a young child. To be more consistent about my prayers, to try to “visit” more often, to listen more closely for that small voice.  And overall, to be more gentle with myself and others.

Merry Christmas.

Reflection for Christmas 1

Reflection for Christmas 1, December 27, 2020

Lawrence DiCostanzo

Isaiah 61:10 – 62:3

Galatians 3:23-25 and 4:5-7

John 1:1-18


Before we consider today’s readings, I would like to mention that tomorrow, December 28, is the Feast of the Holy Innocents.  You will recall these young victims of King Herod’s fear.  There were probably not many of them.  But lately the news has reminded me that Holy Innocents are still with us.  I am speaking in particular of sex trafficking in children and their slavery.  There are apparently many of them.  We don’t hear about them much because I think that a lot of films that support the trafficking appear on the so-called dark web.  I am not quite sure what that is, but the papers have also been talking about the posting of pornographic videos of minors on at least one site that is on the open web. I’m not sure if that’s true or is media hype.  As far as I know, the facts are not all in.  Nonetheless, please keep these kids in your prayers tomorrow and beyond.

And now for today’s Gospel passage.

Well, I have been on a really complicated journey to find a way to describe how uncomplicated the introduction to John’s Gospel is.  And I find that I keep circling back to my father.

My father’s name was John.  He was born in the United States in 1911.  But he was raised in Italy from infancy.  At age 14, he was sent back to the United States alone.  I really don’t know why.  What I do know is that despite the lack of education, despite the Great Depression, despite living between two cultures, my father modeled for me every virtue that God gave to Adam.  If God created us in his image, to live in peace and to tend the Garden of Eden, my father was the exemplar.

He worked hard and he loved my mother.  He was a great cook who loved to make large meals for large groups.  He made wine.  He painted the house every five years in the summer while drinking watered down Budweiser.  He created and cared for an enormous garden with lawns, an English border, trees, and, of course, a large vegetable garden filled with tomato plants, basil and parsley.

He could look at a pile of junk or an old oil barrel and conjure up something like a sturdy  three-legged table which we used for  years.  Or a huge barbeque which my mother demanded he hide behind the hickory saplings in the corner of the yard.

From his youthful forays into an amateur Italian theater society, he possessed a large store of Italian songs and stage routines.  And when he recited to the family, he’d make people choke with laughter or wipe some tears.  So, he had respect for the power of language.

I am “flesh of his flesh.”  Flesh of his flesh.  This is a figure of speech that signifies the unspeakable closeness between persons who are parents and children and grandchildren.  It is one of those combinations of thinking and language that I classify under the heading “metaphor.”  In today’s Gospel, John does not use that expression.  He uses the term Word to explain or describe what is almost the same thing.  He creates in our minds an image that describes an intimate connection or an identity between God and the earthly Jesus who walked among us – something that John desperately wanted to do.

In John’s mind, “Word” is the correct, respectful and powerful image.  He uses it to describe in a more exalted way what we feel when we say “flesh of my flesh.”

Why did John use Word as his figure of speech?  A word, like our thoughts, belongs to us like nothing else.  Our words come out of our mouths through the combination of thought and breath and tongue and lips.  In John’s age, when even philosophers didn’t know the particulars of sound waves, a word would have been a thing in itself that was totally connected to me and then was launched into the world where it would take effect when it struck another person’s ears.  It also has a kind of identity of its own.

In today’s Gospel, John harks back to the Creation story in the book of Genesis where God spoke a Word or a few words and light came to be.  “And God said, Let there be light.”  John is saying that God’s speech describes how he creates.  But what he is really saying is that the person who became Jesus is part of God like the breath is part of me.

So, why does John write this passage with a figure of speech or a metaphor or the inexact exactitude of poetry?  Why can’t he be direct?  I think John is trying out four things.

First, it’s the only way he has to describe his intuitive sense of who or what Jesus is.  Saying that Jesus is the Word not only puts Jesus at the moment of Creation when God spoke words Let there be Light.  It puts Jesus in God’s own mouth, makes him part of God’s own breath.  This is a really excellent description of the Trinity.

Second, John really wants to exalt the man Jesus.  He wants to make a connection between  a man who was crucified and the very God whom Isaiah saw in his vision of the Holy of Holies from which, by the way, we derive the Sanctus acclamation “Holy, Holy, Holy” which we sing at the Communion service.

Third, he really, really wants to show the magnitude of God’s love.  If John the Evangelist is also the author of the first letter of John in the NT, he is the man who wrote “In this is love, not that we loved God but that he loved us.”  That is a remarkable and wonderful statement.  And the proof of God’s love is that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.  In today’s second reading, Paul picks up on this and makes its consequences more explicit.  “God sent his Son, born of a woman, so that we might receive adoption as children. And because you are children, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, Abba! Father!”  It seems we come back to the idea of Flesh of my flesh.

Fourth. John wants us to get down to the “doing” part.  John writes about love all the time.  He encourages us to love each other.  And, today, as never before, we can actually see so many of these “others” — on the internet, on TV, in newspapers, on Zoom, FaceTime, and WhatsApp, through email, chat, and all those modern things that keep us together in these times of separation.

And Loving is EASY.  We love ourselves and want to improve, including our facing the complicated feelings that we are not loved or are not worthy of love.  We love our families.  We love our family members who have died.  We love creation.  We give to environmental groups.  We can even join Gleaners who pick up backyard fruit and unharvested food and so forth to give away directly or to food banks.  You can check this  out on Google.  We study and discuss our faith in Sacred Ground to see how we can be better children of God along with others.  We make sandwiches.  We volunteer for Ashby Village.  We do the shopping for the house bound. There are a million different ways.

And we are not being asked to change the world.  As Bishop Marc said to us at Saint Alban’s two weeks ago when he visited: changing the world is God’s work.  We are only being asked to love.

Fourth Sunday of Advent

Reflection – 12/20/20[i]

Barbara Metcalf


We come to the last Sunday of Advent and we welcome the Annunciation as our gospel lesson, the precious words that Mary hears from the angel, and to which, perplexed as she is, she assents. We cherish Mary’s words at the Annunciation. She is our model in obedient behavior,

“Here I am, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

By that assent, she will become our model in being, not just in obedient behavior, because she will physically embody the Christ, the Incarnation, the radiant symbol of who we are, who all humanity is.

Part of the pleasure of this season is the familiarity of words like these – of all our holiday traditions, and, for many of us, the very words of our lessons in this season, heard over and over.

In just a few days, it should be close to midnight and we are all assembled, the tree put up by Chuck and lights arranged by Susan, the glowing candles clamped in place after Sean’s repairs, the creche before the altar filled with mis-sized animals by the children at 4, and Richard playing the organ as we reach the last verse of Phillips Brooks’s beloved carol:

“O Holy Child of Bethlehem….be born in us today.”

This is a special time. But this year is a time when even time, as so many people have commented, seems suspended — or maybe moves too quickly — unmarked by familiar routines. This is Covid-Time. And the seasons are off.  Camellia bushes are already blooming in our neighborhood. Covid-Time and Global-Warming Time. But disjointed as time is, limited above all in the gatherings of friends and church and family — since we of course won’t be singing together close to midnight on Thursday — we gratefully embrace the prayers and readings of the Advent cycle. Their very repetition is an anchor in reality.

So, what to my wandering eyes should appear but today’s Old Testament lesson, which I have no memory of ever seeing before. Where did that come from? Why not more verses from Isaiah, so familiar that we hear Handel’s music playing in our head?? Why are we reading about the Ark? But reading to the end of the passage, we find our anchor:  God’s promise to David that he will preserve his lineage forever. That certainly puts us back on familiar Christmas ground: the resonant phrase, “of the house and lineage of David.” And that is familiar ground because it means that the Israelites will have, as the passage says, “their own place, and be disturbed no more; and evildoers shall afflict them no more.” This is the promise we have circled back to again and again in Advent.

We have that promise in the Magnificat that we have repeated every week and again just now:

the promise of God’s faithfulness, that however dark the challenges of the moment, the

humble will be lifted up, the lowly exalted — and all will be restored. As Bishop Marc told us last week: We trust a God who loves us and will do the work of restoration, as of a garden that will grow and flower and yield fruit.

But what about all the rest of the Old Testament passage, all that about the Ark and the tent?

I’ve never thought much about the Ark of the Covenant except in a general way. That it contained the stone tablets of the ten commandments and was a potent presence, carried as the Israelites journeyed and as they went into battle.

But though I was initially puzzled by it, I actually think the discussion of the Ark is perfectly on target for today.

Last year when I went to Ethiopia, I was fascinated by the extent to which Orthodox traditions make the symbols of the Hebrew scriptures central in a way that I had never encountered them before. And of those symbols, none matters more than the Ark. Ethiopians believe themselves to be the possessors of the actual Ark, brought back to Ethiopia by the son of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, preserved at the high altar of the Church of St Mary of Zion in the ancient city of Axum. And it’s not just that Ark. In Ethiopia, a church cannot be a church unless it contains a replica of the Ark, there too kept in the seclusion of the high altar. Every church, large or small. The Eucharist and the Ark together at the high altar.

But there’s more. In Ethiopia, Epiphany is celebrated as Christ’s baptism. We of course also link the baptism to the Christmas cycle, for us on the first Sunday after Epiphany. But in Ethiopia the conjuncture brings an extraordinary two-day celebration. The celebration entails not only exuberant immersions but processions of all those precious rarely-seen Arks from each parish’s church.

The Ark, which seems to hold God’s power, and the Epiphany Baptism, the public revelation of Jesus’ divinity, are each a powerful sign of the intersection of a transcendent God with the mundane – with us. Once we have encountered the combination, it makes sense. Each enriches the other.

As for the tent, the passage in Isaiah tells us something very important, which could not be more timely. David is troubled that “the ark of God stays in [something as flimsy as] a tent.” He says this is not right; the Ark needs a permanent place.  The prophet Nathan seems to concur. But God tells Nathan that he must stop David. God says in so many words, “I have been moving all over the place, in a tent.  I never asked David, or any of the other leaders of Israel, to build me a house of cedar. Forget it.” And this is another way of telling us that God is not limited to one place. God does not want David to build a house; God instead will give David peace where his lineage will last forever. It is that promise that is sung out in the glorious, exuberant words of today’s Psalm in praise of God’s faithfulness, God’s righteousness and justice, God’s steadfast love, and the promise of David’s eternal lineage.

To be sure, in due course, Solomon, David’s son, will build a temple. To be sure, we have our church buildings. But, as we know this year, as we have perhaps never known before, we don’t need them to know God to be present. It is uncanny to be reminded of this on what is usually a day when the building matters, when in a normal year in a few minutes we would be joyously “greening” (to use the old-fashioned word) the church for Christmas, planning for the luminarias to light the path in.

The novelist Marilynne Robinson apparently likes to quote her brother that “God is a sphere whose center is everywhere but whose circumference is nowhere.” Maybe God put off David’s wish to build a temple because of his shady past. But maybe God put him off to make clear that God had no circumference, that God was not tied down to one place more than any other.

The Bridegroom is not tied down. We need to stay awake, we were reminded a few weeks back, to be ready when the Bridegroom comes. But we also need to be awake because the Bridegroom appears in unexpected places. That too we’ve been reminded of this season – the Bridegroom is the one who is hungry and needs to be fed, or sick and needs to be tended, or unhoused and needs sandwiches and kindness – and shelter – or cruelly imprisoned and needs to be visited, even freed. And the Bridegroom is far too easy to miss.

We, like Mary, need to hear the angels who are all around us, not least when we meet like this and read scripture and sing with YouTube and pray for each other and the needs of the world. We need to aspire to Mary’s answer to the angel that all be “according to your word.”  The Bridegroom is always there, and we know his presence when we give and when we receive love and generosity, the human communion that is Divine.

Whether in our familiar, beloved, “greened” Christmas Eve setting or not: That is what we pray for in this season:

“Oh Holy Child of Bethlehem…be born in us today.”


[i] Thank you to Stephen Hitchcock for his good thoughts as I drafted these comments.