A sermon for the Sunday after the 2024 election, the Sunday after our 208th Diocesan Convention, the Sunday after I told our parish that I will be leaving as their Rector after we celebrate Epiphany together in January 2025 …

I am fairly sure that I have trodden the grounds where Jesus sat and watched the people coming in and out of the treasury courtyard. If I quiet my heart enough, in my mind’s eye I can see the rich robes swishing and the poor widow behind them with the offering of all that she had to live on.

Every time I see her, she is different. She is young, old, shuffling, striding. She is destitute because she has thrown her money away. She is depleted by her own generosity, because she has given it all away. She was deceived by those who devour the houses of widows, and left with nothing. She had nothing to begin with. Any of those could be true; maybe more than one.

But when she was down to her last penny, her last nerve, her last hope, her last laugh, she brought it to the treasury, deposited it along with all of the others, and Jesus saw her. Jesus saw her, and recognized her, and knew her situation. No need to wonder how; he just knew.

I feel as though the widow knew the situation, too, within the treasury walls. She knew about the scribes in the long robes with the long speeches that masqueraded as prayers. She knew about the shortcuts that funded their bonuses. She felt in her own bones the corruption that built empires – personal and political – on the backs of the poor. And yet she let go of that little offering, all that she had left to live on, because she knew, too, that somewhere deep inside that place lies the Holy of Holies. Because she trusted God. Because she believed that, despite her grief and her widowhood and the corruption and the peeling paint on the temple walls, God is still true, and she will cling to that hope as though it were all that she has to live on.

May we have such enduring, generous, forgiving faith.

My friends, this has been a tumultuous week. Since we gathered here last, we have completed an election that has shocked many in this room and around the world, and delighted others. With such polar opposite reactions, we may wonder how we can ever bridge our divisions. We wonder whether the poor and the immigrant and the queer and the oppressed and the other can ever be safe. We wonder whether we are safe with one another, to tell our true opinions, without being cast into the outer darkness. 

Bring it to Jesus. Bring it to God. All that we live on – our fears, our hopes, our anger, our love – bring it all. 

This weekend, members of our diocesan family gathered to talk about the work that we have to do together, to make the love of God for all people known in this divided and too-unloving world. We talked about how to proclaim the good news of God in word and deed, respecting the dignity of everyone we encounter. How to share what we know to be true: that God is not far from us, but is all that we have to live on.

And while we were doing all of that, I shared with you the news (and here is where I really hope you got the email or the letter or the homing pigeon message; I tried at least to share with you the news) that after twelve Spirit-filled, remarkable years – because you are a remarkable church – it is time for us to work toward something new. 

In the new year I will be moving full-time into the work of supporting all of our churches and faith communities and friends in becoming beloved community. We can talk more about what that means as we go on. But that also means that you, church of the Epiphany, will be moving toward a new relationship of your own, with the beautiful and strong lay leadership that you already have, and with the support of the diocesan transition team, who have already visited the Wardens and are already active in their care for this parish, moving toward a new pastoral relationship. 

It is difficult to let go. It can feel dangerous, it can feel like a bereavement; it can also feel hopeful to trust in the Holy Spirit to lead us into a new thing, and to let go of what has been, and believe that God sees us, recognizes us, knows us, and loves us. That God will love us into whatever comes after this little bit of tumult.

I am not going to begin my goodbyes today. There is time enough for that, and we have more than enough to do before we get to that day. We have more than enough to do, to share the love of Jesus and to keep faith with the hope that has been set before us with a world that is sorely in need of some good news. 

The world is sorely in need of good news, and I encourage you, not only this week, but in the weeks and months and years to come to continue to check in with and hang out with and care for those who feel as though they have given all that they had to live on, and have no hope left. For those who feel as though they have given all that they had to live on, and have been devoured by the systems of this world. 

Because we have more than enough to live on. We have the hope that is in Jesus, the comfort of Emmanuel, knowing that God is with us whether we are on top of the world or lying wrapped up in the tomb. We have mercy, and we have one another. We have all that we need for today, and tomorrow will bring hopes and fears of its own; and we will rejoice in it, one more day that God has made. Let it be enough.

Amen.