St. John’s Episcopal Church
Tallahassee, FL

Malachi 4:1-2a

Well, my friends, 
it seems that everyone
in all our readings 
are in a foul mood.

Malachi, Paul, and Jesus are all
declaring God’s judgment and wrath, 
railing against the manifold depravities 
of this sinful and ungodly age.

So I, too, shall take my cue from them.
I, too, shall add my voice to the mix.
I, too, shall speak against 
one of the great evils of our society . . .
something we all see and know . . .
something we experienced only a couple weeks ago . . . 
something we fee so powerless to change.

I am speaking, of course, 
about the changing of the clocks 
every fall and spring.

I know, I know. It’s old news. 
That was “so two weeks ago.”
By now our internal body clocks have adjusted,
and yet, I firmly and unequivocally believe
that all time changes
are garbage.

Spring forward?
Terrible.

Fall back?
Oh don’t try to ply me
with that extra hour of sleep,
for “fall back” is also an abomination
like unto black jellybeans and candy corn.
(There. I said it.)

For here we are, in these latter days,
plunged into darkness
by what feels like 3:30 every afternoon,
an attack on our very souls.

BUT . . .

we must find the good
in all things.

And I will admit that this year,
the fall time change has afforded me
at least one unexpected, lovely thing:

the gift . . .
of the sunrise.

Over the last few weeks,
whether on my daily drive to the church
or from my office window,
I’ve seen sunrise after dappled sunrise.

And there is something downright hopeful 
as I peer out my window down Tennessee Street 
and watch the light burst forward
over those gorgeous Tallahassee oak trees
and the iconic Tallahassee skyline
of Capital City Bank
and the Chevron station next to Leon High.

Shades of garnet give way to gold
as the warm light spills across 
the coffee and calendars on my desk
and down the Calhoun entrance hallway
as Fran preps the Café,
and our dedicated staff arrive,
and St. John’s Episcopal Church 
and all the whole wide world
rises to life to greet another day.

It is ordinary.
It is simple.
And as much as I deplore the time change,
I’ll admit, I’m glad I get witness 
this simple, everyday miracle.

* * *

So yes . . . 
Malachi, Paul, and Jesus 
all have much to say today 
about the judgment of God, 
wars and insurrections,
the depravity of governors and kings, 
people being whisked away 
and forced to give an account
they did not expect to make, 
and we honestly need to listen
and take heed.

But so, too, must we listen 
as Malachi closes his prophecy, 
for he promises God’s redemption,
likening it to what?

To the sunrise.

“But,” says God, “for you who revere my name,
the sun of righteousness shall rise
with healing in its wings.”

What a line.
What a promise.

That is not doom,
or destruction,
or dread.

That is Hope with a capital H . . .
proof that when Scripture speaks
of “the day of the Lord,”
it is not describing God arriving in anger.
It is describing God arriving in clarity.
God shining the light on what has been hidden.
God setting to right all that has gone wrong.

For us who love the living Lord, 
God’s coming movement in our lives 
is nothing to fear.

It is sunrise.
It is warmth.
It is healing.
It is the beginning of something new.

* * *

Here’s what I love about sunrises.

A sunrise never rushes.
A sunrise never panics.
It never wrings its hands
or wonders whether the world
is ready for it.

A sunrise simply rises.
That is how God is, too.

God sees and cares about the state of your life,
but God is not anxious.

God knows and cares about the state of the world,
but God is not shaken.

God rises—
steady,
faithful,
and true—
and there’s nothing you can do to stop him 
or the healing that he brings.

* * *

And if that is what God is like,
then perhaps the whole Christian life
is actually something
far gentler than we imagine.

For the other truth about the sunrise
is that you can’t speed it up.
You can’t rush it.
You can’t demand that it arrive
on your preferred schedule.

The light comes
in its own time
and in its own way.

Every single morning, 
even on the cloudiest days,
the sun still rises.
You don’t have to make it happen—
you couldn’t if you tried—
which means the Christian life
is not about straining or striving 
to hold everything together.

It’s about trusting
that God is already doing
what God said he would do.

* * *

There is a hymn we’ll sing
during Communion today—
hymn number 9—
that gathers all of this up 
in its first two verses:

“Not here for high and holy things
we render thanks to thee,
but for the common things of earth,
the purple pageantry
of dawning and of dying days,
the splendor of the sea.

The royal robes of autumn moors,
the golden gates of spring,
the velvet of soft summer nights,
the silver glistering
of all the million million stars,
the silent song they sing.”

In other words, God shows up
in the sunrise itself,
in the quiet splendor of ordinary time.

These dawning days
are not empty or accidental.
Every day is full of God.

* * *

So, my friends, here is the grace for you today.
Here is the gentle truth I hope you can carry into this week:

Whatever is going on in your life—

whether you are grappling with 
a new and unexpected diagnosis,

or carrying the weight
of a relationship that has changed,

or recently lost someone you love,

or buried by financial challenges, 

or are struggling with your faith, 

or are just generally so worn out by the news
and the changes and chances of this mortal life—

you, my friend, are not alone.
God has not forgotten you.
Whether you know it or not,
you are living on the edge of the sunrise.

Even if the sky still looks dark.
Even if your heart feels heavy.
You are living in the purple pageantry
of dawning days,
of autumn moors,
the golden gates of spring.
God has not left this story
to write itself.

God rises.
God heals.
God brings the dawn.

With the certainty of the sunrise itself,
God will break through
with healing in his wings.

And if you cannot see that sunrise yet—
if all around you looks much more like night—
God sees you anyway,
and God will rise for you all the same.

So lift your face toward the rising sun.

And however you’ve come here today—
in faith or in doubt,
with joy or with trembling,
in favor of seasonal time changes (like a psychopath)
or opposed to them (as any reasonable person should be)—
you belong.

There is room for you
in the golden light of God.

“For you who revere God’s name,
the sun of righteousness shall rise
with healing in its wings.”

Amen.