St. John’s Episcopal Church
Tallahassee, FL
Luke 10:25-37
This sermon was preached during the summer of 2025, when worship at St. John’s was held in the parish hall, Alfriend Hall, while the sanctuary ceiling was being cleaned.
Good morning, St. John’s,
and welcome once again to our sacred summer
here in Alfriend Hall,
where the chairs are padded,
the altar is movable,
and the Spirit of God keeps showing up.
All summer long,
we are asking one question:
What does it mean
to find the sacred in the ordinary?
Not just in stained glass or soaring hymns,
but in the things we touch every day.
The objects we barely notice.
The systems we take for granted.
The mundane places
where mercy still has room to breathe.
Each week I bring something small—
something real—
as a doorway into grace.
Today, it is this:
my wallet.
And inside it,
this: a credit card.
A credit card is nothing flashy.
Just a rectangle of plastic.
Swipe, tap, forget.
But make no mistake:
it is not neutral.
It is a promise.
It says:
“Take what you need.
We will deal with the cost later.”
That may sound generous,
but it is not grace.
It is leverage.
Because in the world we live in—
the real world of ledgers and loans,
debt ceilings and credit scores—
the promise is always followed by a reckoning.
Swipe now.
Pay later.
Borrow today.
Answer for it tomorrow.
We live in a transactional world.
And whether we realize it or not,
that world teaches us who has value,
who deserves help,
and who is simply too costly to carry.
* * *
That is why the parable Jesus tells today
is not just nice.
It is nuclear.
A man is robbed, beaten, left for dead.
Two religious men pass by—
decent, devout, respected—
but they do not stop.
And then comes the Samaritan.
The outsider.
The one who has every reason to keep walking.
But he doesn’t.
He stops.
He stoops.
He binds the wounds.
He lifts the weight.
He walks beside the broken.
And then . . .
he pulls out his credit card
and tells the innkeeper:
“Whatever it costs . . . charge it to me.”
That is not sentiment.
That is spiritual defiance.
It is grace slipped into the back door
of the world’s economy.
It is holiness breaking into the very system
that runs on risk and reward.
Because here’s the thing:
Jesus is not just giving us an example to admire.
He is describing how salvation works.
* * *
You want to know who you are in the story?
You are not the Samaritan.
You are the one in the ditch.
You are the one who got jumped by life,
who carries wounds no one sees,
who cannot get up on your own.
And Jesus?
Jesus is the one who sees you,
stops for you,
kneels beside you,
and pays what you could never afford.
When heaven asked,
“Who will make them whole?”
Jesus reached for the cross
and said,
“Whatever it costs… charge it to me.”
That
is the Gospel.
Not that you earned it.
Not that you paid it back.
But that love bore the cost,
and mercy picked up the bill.
* * *
So what does it mean
to find the sacred in the ordinary?
It means this:
Your wallet—
the one you carry every day—
is a theological document.
Every time you spend,
every time you give,
every time you decide
who is “worth it” and who is not,
you are making a spiritual claim.
In fact, I once knew a priest
who often said,
“Sure, we clergy all tell folks
that ten percent—the tithe—
is the standard of giving for God’s work,
but I think God is actually
way more interested in what you do
with the other ninety percent.
Whatever and wherever you spend,
the question is:
Whose economy are you living in?
The world says:
Measure it.
Tally it.
Keep score.
Cut losses.
But the Kingdom says:
Open your wallet.
Open your life.
Absorb the cost of love.
And when you see someone
whose story is messy,
whose wounds are deep,
whose need will not be
quick
or clean
or convenient,
you may hear the voice of God say to you:
“This one belongs to me.
Whatever it costs…
charge it to grace.”
* * *
So go now.
Not as those who tally,
but as those who trust.
Not as those who pass by,
but as those who stop.
Not as those who count the cost,
but as those whose lives
have already been paid for
in full.
Because the sacred is not waiting
in some distant, dazzling temple.
It is here.
In your wallet.
In your world.
In your willingness
to carry love
where it is least expected
and most needed.
Amen.