St. John’s Episcopal Church
Tallahassee, FL

Exodus 32:7–14
1 Timothy 1:12–17
Luke 15:1–10

Over the years, 
the way I open my sermons 
has become predictable.
Y’all know my MO:

Start with a joke, 
tell a funny story,
whip you up with some encouragement.
It’s partially to get you settled in and feeling safe.
It has to do with my own insecurities, too. 
For better or worse, I like being “the funny guy.”

Sometimes, however, it has been too heavy a week for that.
Sometimes our world feels too fragile,
our nation too frayed,
our lives too burdened by grief and confusion. 

While I often appreciate our ability at St. John’s 
to rise above and lay hold to joy, 
sometimes we need a stronger medicine. 

This is one of those weeks. 

I should also tell you
my staff has asked me for weeks 
to speak this morning about our upcoming event, 
“Market under the Stars”: 

to explain it to you, 
to invite you to it, 
to get you excited about it.

And I will.
We need to.
But not yet.
Not before we name 
the realities of our world today.

Because you know what happened this week.
You saw the images,
you heard the voices.
A young, polarizing political figure
shot and killed on live television.
Then the endless debates on TV.
Then the relentless torrent of responses online.
All with the uncomfortable juxtaposition against 
all the other shootings and violence 
we just 
keep 
experiencing.

It shocked the nation, 
but the shock is not only about one man’s assassination.
It is the sense that violence keeps rising,
that our public life is reaching a fever pitch,
that we are inching closer to a precipice
that we do not want to name.

And the honest truth is that 
too many leaders and pundits 
now choose moments like these 
not to reassure and or to calm,
to but provoke, 
and inflame,
and ratchet up the anger.

Meanwhile, most of us are left in the middle,
not seeking power,
not seeking violence,
just sheep without a shepherd: 
simply wanting to live and let live
yet feeling harassed 
and helpless,
and even hopeless.

* * *

As your priest, 
what I’m not here to do today
is to lecture us on gun control or the second amendment. 
You already know the arguments.

I am not here 
to recount the statistics of our shared national violence. 
You already know the numbers.

I am not here to remind you
that those with whom you disagree
are also human beings. 
You already know that, too.

And I am not here to tell you who to vote for. 
You already know your own well-discerned politics, 
and besides, if anything, my job on that front—
in every election in every age—
is merely to remind you over and over and over
that we have no king but Jesus.

At some point, I came to firmly believe as a preacher
that my first calling is not to tell you what to do,
but to proclaim who God is,
to tell you what God has done,
and to remind you how God has not given up on us.
Basically, my job is to get you asking the hard question, 
“Where is God in all of this?” 

But, my friends, there are times
when we must ask an additional question. 
When we must speak of what we must do. 
When we must ask, “And where are we in all of this?”

While you will always hear me 
lean more into grace 
and the mighty proclamation 
of what God 
has done, 
can do, 
is doing, 
and will do 
for us, 
in us, 
with us 
and through us, 
we also have to talk about ourselves as well 
and what we 
have done, 
are doing, 
can do, 
and must do.

That has a name.
It is called ethics.

And just as faith without works is dead,
so grace—without ethics—is lifeless, too.
(If you don’t believe me, 
read nearly every letter that Paul wrote.) ^[*]

Because ethics is not about abstract rules.
Ethics is about how grace takes shape in us.
It is about how the mercy we have received
becomes the mercy we extend.
It is about how hope becomes more
than a wish or a dream . . . 
how it becomes a way of standing in the world,
a way of resisting despair,
a way of holding fast.

Our ethics, O Christians, 
are ethics of hope and mercy. 
When the world says “give up,”
hope says “hold fast.”
When the world says “answer violence with violence,”
mercy says “break the cycle.”
When the world says “hate,”
mercy says “love.”

Hope and mercy, you see, are resistance.

* * * 

Our readings today speak to this 
and are not naïve about who we are.
They name us as stiff-necked people,
quick to turn to false gods,
quick to wander,
quick to get lost.
Just look at the Gospel 
and the story of the shepherd 
who leaves the ninety-nine 
to go after the one.

On the surface,
that story sounds reckless.
It makes no sense.
Why leave ninety-nine sheep vulnerable in the wild
just to chase one wanderer?

But that is how God works.
God is not calculating risk and reward.
God is not doing the math.
God is love,
and love notices when even one goes missing.
Love cannot rest until every sheep is accounted for.

But here is the twist, y’all . . . 
the inconvenient truth of life in community: 
the ninety-nine are not so well-behaved either.

We like to imagine them as a perfect lambs,
all grazing in a happy little herd.
But sheep are sheep.
Even when they are together,
they wander,
they butt heads,
they bite, 
they get distracted,
they get lost in their own ways.

The point is not that the ninety-nine are fine
and only the one needs saving.
The point is that all of us—
the one and the ninety-nine—
are always in need of a shepherd.
The point is that mercy is for every single one.

That is why Jesus tells the story:
so that the Pharisees and scribes—
who thought they were the ninety-nine safe ones—
would see that they, too,
were in need of mercy.

That is why Paul says what he says:
that although he had been 
a blasphemer, a persecutor, a man of violence, 
God had mercy on him, 
and if God could have mercy on him, 
God can have mercy on anyone. 

Mercy is not softness.
Mercy is not sentiment.
Mercy is grace with a spine,
grace with ethics,
grace that changes both the giver and the receiver.

Mercy is what reshapes communities,
reorients nations,
and changes the way we speak and act in public life.

Because if God goes after the one—
if God refuses to abandon even the wandering sheep—
then our words, our decisions, our politics . . . 
all of it . . .
must also be shaped by that same mercy.

* * *

Truth is, given where we live 
in the capital of the great state of Florida, 
some of you live and work in politics,
in government,
and in the halls of power.
Some of you are 
lobbyists, 
aids, 
advisors, 
assistants, 
policy wonks, 
or speechwriters. 

In all these things, 
you help to shape the words that others speak,
and  the ideas that others carry into the world.
You influence public opinion
in ways the rest of us do not.

You my friends, hold in your hands something sacred:
the ability to shape the temperature of our public life.
When you choose your words,
you are not simply crafting strategy or spin.
You are forming hearts,
guiding minds,
setting the tone 
for how we live together as a people.

Friends, we love you.
We see you.
We know this week has been brutal
and we know the burdens you carry.
I know that for some of you, 
this week has been hell on earth. 

You may not know it, 
but the prayer book has a prayer for you. Yes, you! 
In the back of the Book of Common Prayer on p. 827
you’ll find a collect 
for those who influence public opinion.

Almighty God, 
you proclaim your truth in every age by many voices:
direct, in our time, we pray,
those who speak where many listen
and write what many read;
that they may do their part
in making the heart of this people wise,
its mind sound,
and its will righteous;
to the honor of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

So whoever you are, 
whatever you do, 
whatever ears in power listen to what you say, 
I ask you—I plead with you:
use your words to steady.
Use your influence to build bridges. 
Use your gifts to help our leaders lead.

Yours is a holy calling,
and I believe you to be capable of bearing it
with courage,
honesty,
and grace.

* * *

The rest of us, though, are not off the hook, 
for our call is no less important.
The ethics of mercy bears upon us, too. 
It is about how we live each day,
how we carry ourselves in public and online,
how we practice connection.

Because right now,
we are so isolated—
in our homes,
on our screens,
in our silos—
that even when the 99 are gathered,
we live as if each of us were alone.

We no longer see each other.
We no longer know each other.
And that disconnection—
more than we realize—
is what breeds fear,
fuels division,
and allows us to dismiss one another.

I’m sorry, folks, but in your everyday life, 
you’re going to have to work harder and harder 
than you ever have before 
to meet people where they are, 
to bind yourself to them—even if for a moment—
and to find something to be grateful for together.

* * *

So. With all that said (and because I have to), 
let me talk for a second 
about Market under the Stars, 
because—believe it or not—
it actually applies to all of this.

For those of you who don’t know, 
Market is a time-honored tradition at St. John’s 
that has gone on for generations: 
a fun, joyful fall bazaar 
that raises funds for the church 
and for countless worthy causes 
throughout the greater Tallahassee area. 

Given changing times and tastes, however, 
it is in need of a refresh, 
so this year we’re offering 
Market Under the Stars: 
a one-night joyful event of 
food, friendship, fellowship, fundraising 
with tons of holiday goodies to purchase—
just not the full “flea market” aspect 
we’ve had in recent years.

But to the larger point of this whole sermon: 
Market Under the Stars
is not just an event on the calendar.
It, too, is an act of hope, 
an act of mercy, 
an act of resistance.

Market has never been about
sorting through junk in a garage sale.
At its heart, Market has always been about community:
choosing to come together,
to know one another,
to laugh and celebrate.
That is hope.
That is resistance.

Market has also always been about mercy.
It raises funds so we can give them away:
half to church outreach,
half to grants outside of St. John’s.
Last year, $30,000.
This year, the same goal.

Yes, it will look different.
Not two events, just one.
Not little bargains on china,
but one night of food,
drink,
auction, 
goodies, 
and fun.

And yes, it costs money to put on—$40 per person—
because, after all, it is a fundraiser. 
But the point is not the food,
or the wine,
or the party.
The point is mercy.
The point is that your ticket,
your sponsorship,
your generosity 
becomes hope for those in need.

And if $40 is too much for you to swing, 
let Mtr. Leslie or me know. 
We will happily provide your way 
because we want everybody there. 

So buy a ticket.
Be a sponsor if you can.
Show up.
This is one case
where mercy isn’t even all that hard.

* * *

Friends, the world is heavy right now.
We are stiff-necked people.
We are lost sheep.
But God’s mercy has not run out.
God’s hope has not been extinguished.

And for that reason, 
we cannot give in to despair.
We dare not mirror the rage.
We will not surrender to fear.

The grace for us today is this:
that God has not given up on us.

And by God’s mercy,
neither will we 
give up 
on one another.

Amen.

---

^[*] Scholars describe this pattern in Paul’s letters as “indicative then imperative,” meaning he starts by saying what is true because of God’s grace (the indicative), and only then tells us how to live in response (the imperative). In other words: “Here’s what God has done; now here’s what you should do.”