Trinity Sunday A 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

Trinity Sunday
May 31, 2026

• Genesis 1:1-2:4a
• 2 Corinthians 13:11-13
• Matthew 28:16-20
• Psalm 8

I'll be honest with you… Trinity Sunday can feel a bit intimidating for preachers. Especially in Churches where there are no curates or seminarians… No newly ordained folks who can give you the expanse of their freshly developed wares…

Trinity Sunday is the Sunday when preachers sometimes become amateur mathematicians trying to explain how God is three in one, and one in three… They try to do this without accidentally wandering into heresy. They do this, trying to explain the unexplainable.

Preachers often use images and try to be clever but end up being very wrong, back themselves in a corner, and make theologians wince. They try to explain the Trinity as water, as ice, as liquid, and as vapor; they use clover leaves; the sun with heat and light. Yet every analogy eventually breaks down, leading to one heresy or another…

Because the Trinity was never meant to be solved like a mathematical equation. The Trinity is not primarily a doctrine to explain. It's more of a relationship we are invited into.

Today's Gospel from Matthew does not show the disciples gathered in a classroom learning theological definitions. Instead, they are standing on a mountain in Galilee together with the risen Christ. Matthew tells us something startling about this encounter… "When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted."

Notice that... Resurrection has happened. The risen Christ stands before them. And still, some were uncertain… They waivered… they hesitated… they doubted. We've talked before about faith and doubt, that they often complement each other… How they co-exist, one making the other stronger. Faith and uncertainty often live together. We can see it in the fact that we can worship and still wrestle with the teaching. We can believe and still ask questions. We can follow Christ and still wonder. 

In the Gospel lesson, Jesus doesn't condemn the disciples for their doubt. Jesus doesn't say, "Come back when your faith is stronger." Instead, Jesus entrusts these imperfect disciples with the greatest mission imaginable… "Go therefore and make disciples of all nations… baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit…"

Not after their certain. Jesus sends them out, now, He sends us out, NOW… Go… Make Disciples and Baptize. In our weakness. In the midst of questions. In our brokenness and incompleteness. Because the Christian mission depends upon God's faithfulness… it never depends on flawless disciples. If it did, it would have ended years ago.

And Jesus sends them out to do this in the name (not names) of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. One name. One God. One divine life. The God we encounter is eternally relational Father loving Son, Son loving Father, Spirit proceeding in Love… All together as ONE in an endless communion of self-giving relationship. At the center of that reality is not isolation. It's not competition or domination… The center of the reality of the Godhead is Love. Pure undefinable, unifying, restoring, redeeming, and life-giving Love. 

That's a difficult concept to grasp in this day and age… Many people are beginning to wonder whether division is simply the way things are. And the way things are going to be from now on…We see very few examples of unity in our society… No ideas or images that we can point to and say that's what it's supposed to be… That's what harmony and redeeming love look like.

So we need the Trinity in our life… Because the Trinity proclaims the truth that relationship, not separation, is God's deepest reality. Communion is holy… Not alienation, or isolation. And Love, NOT fear, has the final word.

Perhaps that is why Paul ends his second letter to the Corinthians not with an argument, but with a benediction and blessing: "Put things in order, listen to my appeal," he says. "Agree with one another, live in peace…"

Like us today, the Corinthians were struggling with conflict, mistrust, and division within their own community. Sometimes folks look at scripture and don't realize that they're as messed up as we are. The world hasn't changed so much…Why? Because we fail to listen… We fail to act and love as Jesus taught us… We fail to Go, Make Disciples, Baptize, Teach, and Remember! 

Paul doesn't tell them merely to behave better. He has them strive for something deeper… Something rooted their reconciliation in God. "And the God of Love and peace will be with you... The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the Love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with all of you." Grace, Love, communion.

Notice how those are not abstract ideas. Grace is Christ coming toward us when we fail. Love is the Father holding all creation together, even when we wander. Communion is the Spirit binding us together despite our differences.

The Trinity must be experienced in relationship before we can even begin to understand it. We know God whenever grace meets guilt. We know God whenever Love overcomes fear. And we experience God whenever people who are opposed to one another choose peace. The Trinity becomes visible whenever communities carry one another through struggles & grief and whenever forgiveness disrupts anger.

I think churches understand the Trinity best through simple, ordinary acts… not complex creeds or doctrines. The examples I've seen this past week are… A meal shared with someone grieving. Prayers spoken beside a hospital bed. Hands assembling lunch bags for the homeless. A congregation singing while still carrying sorrow. A community welcoming the lonely regardless of their circumstances. That's Trinitarian life. That's divine life… A life where Love is received, Love is shared, and Love is multiplied.

Jesus ends Matthew's Gospel with words that many of us cling to… "And remember, I am with you always, even to the end of the age." And from there, we are expected to Go, Make Disciples, Baptize, Teach, and Remember. Do this and be a witness to the Good News in this weary world…

The weight of the world is heavy. The work of mercy is exhausting. Peacemaking is costly. And sometimes faithfulness feels lonely. Yet Christ does not say, "Go and figure it all out alone." He says, "I am with you, always." The Father's Love surrounds us, the Son walks beside us, and the Spirit breathes within us. So we are never sent out alone and unsupported. 

Perhaps Trinity Sunday bids us ask one burning question: What kind of people are we becoming if we worship a God whose very life is communion? If God is relationship, then faith cannot stay individually private and personal. If God is self-giving Love, then discipleship cannot remain proud and self-centered. If God is unity and communion, then our divisions cannot be what the world sees when it looks at the Church.

The Church is called to become what it proclaims! We are called to be a people of grace. A people of peace. People who carry Christ's presence into the world. People who embody the blessing Paul spoke long ago, "The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with all of you." 

Not simply with us. But through us, for the life of the whole world.

Pentecost A 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

Pentecost
May 24, 2026

• Acts 2:1-21
• 1 Corinthians 12:3b-13
• John 20:19-23
• Psalm 104:25-35, 37

In the book of Acts, Pentecost does not begin as a triumph. Similar to the account in John's Gospel, when Jesus breathed on his disciples… It begins in a closed room. The disciples were all there, gathered together, not because they were brave, not because they had everything figured out, but because they were uncertain...

The resurrection has happened. Jesus has ascended. And now they are waiting for the unknown paraclete… That advocate, comforter… The helper that Jesus promised them.

Waiting can be a holy experience, but it can also be frustrating and frightening. The disciples don't know yet what it will be like. Nor do they know what the ecclesia… the small gathered community, the church, will become. They don't know yet what their faithfulness will cost them. And they don't yet know how to live without Jesus standing physically beside them… patiently teaching and guiding them…

And then, without warning, the Holy Spirit comes. Not quietly… Not politely… Not safely. But with a sound like a violent rushing wind. Like tongues like fire… With their voices speaking in languages they never learned.

Pentecost is not a convenient, private, spiritual moment. It is a major disruption. The Spirit of God crashes through locked doors and pushes the frightened disciples out into the streets. And what happens next may be the most astonishing part of the story. People understood one another.

Parthians, Medes, Elamites, visitors from Rome, Egypt, Libya… people from every imaginable place. They all hear the Good News about the mighty power of God spoken in their own language. Not one language replacing another or being forced… But a mixture of diverse sounds and tenses, not uniformity. Not erasure. But honoring culture and communication…

The miracle of Pentecost is not that everyone suddenly becomes the same. The miracle is that God speaks through diversity and difference. And we need to understand this right now. In our day and age…

Because we continue to see brokenness and fragmentation all around us, brought about by some folks who see diversity as a threat. We are surrounded by division, suspicion, rage, tribalism, nationalism, and fear. People are constantly speaking over and past one another. We see nations fracture, churches splinter, and families dissolve.

Yet, Pentecost shows us that the Holy Spirit still speaks. Not to people who only look alike, vote alike, or worship alike. The Holy Spirit speaks across those boundaries. The boundaries that we create for ourselves out of fear. The Holy Spirit does not remain trapped inside the upper room. Faith is pushed outward into the chaos and noise… Into the complexity and the diversity of the world. 

And that is the challenging part… Because some of us would rather have a manageable Holy Spirit. A Spirit that comforts us privately and doesn't inconvenience us publicly. A Spirit that reassures us without transforming us.

But that's not how the Holy Spirit works…The Holy Spirit in Acts behaves less like a docile houseguest and more like wildfire burning out of control. The Spirit creates movement and fosters courage. The Holy Spirit creates community where community shouldn't naturally exist. And perhaps most importantly, the Spirit creates the ability to communicate and be understood.

People who were silent and uncertain begin proclaiming. People who were hiding begin publicly witnessing. People who assumed they had nothing to offer discovered that God can speak through them. 

And that's still true. Because Pentecost is not only about the apostles long ago. It is about us in the church now. It is about ordinary people through whom God still breathes. Sometimes we imagine that the church's strength depends upon strategy, numbers, budgets, or influence.

But the Pentecost story in Acts reminds us that the church was born powerless. It had no buildings, no institutional standing. No political leverage… Only the Holy Spirit. And that was enough.

Because the Gospel, the Good News of Jesus, has never depended on human strength. It depends upon the living breath of God. And that's the Good News that our weary churches need to hear. It's Good news for tired Christians. Good news for those wondering whether hope still exists in this cynical age.

My friends,  God has not abandoned the world. The Holy Spirit of God is still moving... Still moving and working among us. She moves in hospital rooms, in grieving families, in exhausted caregivers. She moves in acts of mercy that no one notices… in congregations that keep showing up week after week, and in prayers whispered through tears. The Holy Spirit moves in young people longing for relevance and meaning, and in older saints who continue loving faithfully.

The fire of Pentecost has not gone out. But the world, as it is, remains skeptical. It will still mock and ridicule what it doesn't understand… When the crowd hears the disciples speaking, some are amazed, but some folks mock them. "They are filled with new wine," they sneered, thinking they were drunk at 9 o'clock in the morning.

The Holy Spirit has always appeared foolish to a world that is organized around money, power, and control. To the world, forgiveness looks foolish. Generosity looks reckless. Loving your enemy looks irrational, and hope looks silly.

But the church was never called to look impressive. The church was called to bear witness to the Love of God and the Good News of Jesus Christ. 

And Peter stands right in the middle of that crowd and declares, "This is what was spoken through the prophet Joel. I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh." All flesh…Young and old... Women and men... Servants and free… Insiders and outsiders…

Pentecost tears down the assumption that God only belongs to a select few. The Holy Spirit can't be hoarded. She spills outward and overflows with God's great abundance.

And that means the church must continually ask itself, Where are we resisting the movement of the Spirit? Where have we mistaken comfort for faithfulness? Where have we closed the doors that God is trying to open?

Because Pentecost is not merely a celebration of some event that happened once, a long time ago… But, it's an invitation to us to become the kind of people through whom the Spirit still speaks. People of courage. People of compassion. People who listen before condemning. People who cross boundaries. People who carry hope with us into weary places. People who are willing to believe that God isn't finished with this world yet. That God isn't finished with us yet.

The same Spirit that hovered over creation, that filled the prophets, that raised Christ from the dead, that shook the house at Pentecost... that same Spirit continues to breathe new life into the world. She's still unsettling. Still healing. She is still sending.

So we are called to pray, with open hearts and open minds. Come, Holy Spirit. Come into our fears.  Come into our divisions. Come into our weariness. And come into your church again. Set our hearts on fire not for ourselves, but for the life of the world. Amen.

7 Easter A 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III

Greeneville, TN 

The Seventh Sunday of Easter 

May 17, 2026

• Acts 1:6-14
• 1 Peter 4:12-14; 5:6-11
• John 17:1-11
• Psalm 68:1-10, 33-36

Today, the Church is in a tween space. We are in that in-between place where the Feast of the Ascension has just passed (we celebrated on Thursday) and the Feast of Pentecost has not yet arrived. And so we find ourselves right where the disciples once stood... looking upward in wonder, somewhat bewildered, waiting in uncertainty… We're trying to figure out what faithfulness looks like when Jesus is no longer standing right in front of us.

In our Gospel lesson today, we go back in time a bit. Back to the time before Jesus' arrest and crucifixion… to the end of the farewell discourse when Jesus is preparing his disciples for his departure. 

In this passage, Jesus is praying for his disciples. He's not teaching a parable. He's not performing a miracle. And he's not debating the religious authorities. He is praying. And what he prays for is the interesting part.

He's not praying for success…or power. He's not even praying for safety. He is praying for UNITY that they may be one... Unfortunately, the Church has yet to figure out what that means.

Jesus' prayer for unity feels foreign to the reality we see around us. Because Christianity today is deeply fragmented. There are countless denominations, movements, opinions, and ideologies. Christians divide over theology, politics, worship styles, social issues, and even interpretations and translations of scripture. Sometimes it seems as though every little disagreement creates another separation.

And the fractures go way beyond the Church… the world itself feels fractured. Nations are at war. Communities are polarized. Families sit at tables where people don't know how to speak to one another. Many folks feel isolated, anxious, suspicious, and exhausted.

Into all of that noise… Into all of that stress and division, Jesus still prays, "That they may all be one." But what does that actually mean? What does it mean to be one in Christ Jesus? Surely Jesus is not praying that everyone become identical. That would be silly… He is not asking us to think the same thoughts, or vote the same way, or agree on every question.

Unity is not uniformity. God did not create human beings to be xerox copies of one another. I think that the greatest beauty of creation can be found in its diversity. Different voices… Different gifts… Different cultures... and Different stories. The Body of Christ has many members, so Christian unity cannot mean sameness.

Instead, the unity Jesus is talking about is about something much deeper. It's a unity, rooted in relationship, in belonging, and in love. It's the recognition that even when we disagree, we still belong to one another because, together, we belong to Christ.

And that is where the Feast of the Ascension, the Feast that the Church celebrated just this past Thursday, where Jesus was raised up into the heavens right in front of his disciples, becomes so important for us today.

Sometimes people hear the story of the Ascension and imagine it simply as Jesus leaving. I even heard a joke that started during the pandemic… saying the Ascension was when Jesus finally got to work from home… Some folks treat the Ascension as just another happening in the calendar… knowing it's there, but not really understanding it...

Maybe thinking something like, Easter is over, and the work is finished, and Jesus has left... He's gone somewhere far away. But the Ascension is not about Christ abandoning the world. It is about Christ filling all things. The risen Jesus does not disappear from creation; he draws creation (all life) into the life of God.

In the Ascension, humanity itself is lifted into the heart and life of God. Jesus carries our humanity… all of it… our wounds, our joys, our fears, our lives into the divine life of the Godhead. Which means that our life, our human life, matters eternally to God. It also means that Christ is no longer confined to one place, time, or people. Through the Ascension, Christ becomes present to us everywhere.

Present with the suffering. Present with those who are lonely. Present with the grossly fragmented Church scattered across the earth. Present with us now. The Ascension reminds us that Jesus is still Lord... not Caesar, not an empire, not fear, not violence, and not division.

That's important because we live in a world that is constantly trying to convince us that anger is strength, that domination is power, that division is inevitable... and that other people, the other, just because they're different, are supposed to be considered threats to be feared rather than neighbors to be loved.

But the ascended Christ reigns differently. His Body is still marked by scars that we caused. His authority still looks like self-giving love. And his glory is revealed through his mercy. It's from that place that Jesus continues praying for us. That we may be one. Not because unity is easy. Not because conflict disappears. But, because love is stronger than separation.

The disciples themselves struggled with this. They misunderstood one another. They argued with one another. And yet Jesus still gathered them together. He still called them his Body, and he still entrusted them with the Gospel. That's what gives me hope for the Church.

Because Christian unity has never depended on our perfection… It depends on Christ. And perhaps unity doesn't begin with big declarations, but in small acts of grace. I think it starts with listening before judging, choosing compassion over contempt, and refusing to dehumanize those we disagree with. Making room at the table for everyone... Being there for one another and bearing each other's burdens, and remaining in relationship even when it is difficult.

That kind of unity is hard work, it's Holy work. And it's work we will engage in all our lives. And the great part is, we don't do it alone. We do it with the help Jesus promised us.

This Sunday stands between Ascension and Pentecost for a reason. The Church stands waiting for the arrival of the comforter and guide that was promised to us… We are waiting for the Holy Spirit that will descend on the followers of Jesus at Pentecost. Because we cannot become the Body of Christ through our own strength alone. The Spirit must teach us and correct us... comfort us, form us, and transform us.

The Spirit is what makes unity possible without erasing our differences. 

And so today, we wait with the disciples... And we pray with the disciples in hope… trusting that the ascended Christ has not left us orphaned. Trusting that he continues to hold the world in love. Trusting that even now, amid all our divisions and failures, God is still drawing humanity toward communion, reconciliation, and peace.

Christ has gone ahead of us into the fullness of God so that the whole world might one day be drawn together in him. But until that day comes, the Church is called to live as a sign of that coming unity… a broken people being together, learning to love one another in the light of Christ.

May the ascended Lord continue to gather us, hold us, and make us one.

6 Easter A 2026

The Rev. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

The Sixth Sunday of Easter
May 10, 2026

• Acts 17:22-31
• 1 Peter 3:13-22
• John 14:15-21
• Psalm 66:7-18

“If you love me, you will keep my commandments,” Jesus says. And if we are not careful, we can fall into the trap, and think the words of Jesus today sound less like an invitation and more like a condition… as though Christ’s love must somehow be earned or proven.

But throughout John’s Gospel, Jesus never speaks of love as a transaction. We have spent the past few weeks in what is referred to as Jesus’ farewell discourse in the Gospel according to John. This particular passage comes right in the middle of the tenderness of his farewell discourse, as Jesus prepares his disciples for his departure, for the confusion and grief that will surely come after the cross. 

These are not the cold demands of some distant master. They are the words of one who loves his friends deeply and wants them to remain rooted in that love even when he is no longer physically beside them. So when Jesus says, “If you love me, keep my commandments,” he is not threatening to abandon them. He is describing the shape love takes in human life.

If we allow ourselves to love as Jesus loves, then love always moves us toward something. When we love someone deeply, we begin to care about what matters to them. Their joys begin to affect us and their burdens become our concerns. Over time, that kind of love changes how we live, not because we are forced to change, but because love itself reshapes our desires.

That is the kind of love Jesus is speaking about here. 

And perhaps this is where the wisdom of Julian of Norwich, whose feast day we celebrated on Friday, speaks so beautifully into the Gospel lesson today. Julian lived during a time of plague, political unrest, violence, and uncertainty. The world around her was fragile and frightening. And yet, in the midst of all of that instability, she experienced the overwhelming nearness of God’s love. Again and again, she returned to the conviction that God does not relate to humanity through fear, but through generous love and mercy.

You probably know her by her famous quote: “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” She wrote that not because suffering was unreal. Not because the world was easy. But because she knew that divine love was deeper still. And Julian understood something essential about the Christian life. She knew we’re not transformed through fear of punishment, but through remaining in the love of God long enough for that love, God’s love, to change us.

That is exactly the kind of love Jesus is inviting his disciples into.

And today, on this Rogation Sunday, the church invites us to notice something important. The church invites us to notice that love is never only inward or spiritual. Love always becomes embodied - incarnational. It touches the ground beneath our feet.

Traditionally, Rogation Days were times when Christians would walk the fields and pray over the land, asking God’s blessing upon crops and labor, and remember humanity’s dependence on God and God’s creation. People prayed for rain. They prayed for healthy soil. They prayed for protection from famine and disaster. And for the work of human hands.

But Rogation Sunday is about much more than agriculture. It’s about remembering that all of life belongs to God. The earth is not merely a resource to consume. It is a creation, gifted to us, entrusted to us, and sustained by God.

And perhaps we see a need for Rogation Sunday with a particular urgency now. Because we live in a world that feels strained and exhausted. We see wars devastating lives and families. We see refugees searching for safety. We see political divisions deepening. We see systems designed to silence and exclude. We see truth treated as flexible and disposable. And creation itself groans. Storms intensify. Seasons shift. Communities face drought, floods, fires, and uncertainty. Many wonder what kind of future lies ahead for their children and grandchildren. 

In a world like this, it becomes easy to surrender our hearts little by little. To give our loyalty to fear instead of hope. To give our attention to outrage instead of mercy. To give our energy to self-protection instead of compassion.

If you love me, keep my commandments…

And so, Jesus’ words become less of an accusation and more of a gentle question, “What is shaping your heart?” Because love isn’t ever merely a feeling. Love forms, informs, and transforms us. This is why when Jesus speaks of commandments, he’s not talking about a checklist for earning grace, but as practices that teach us how to live within the life of God. 

In John’s Gospel, the commandment Jesus gives us is ultimately simple and profound. We must love one another, Jesus says, "as I have loved you, you must love one another." That kind of love is not sentimental. It is costly, patient, and forgiving. It’s truthful and steady. It looks like choosing compassion when anger would be easier. It looks like telling the truth in a culture of misinformation and distortion. It looks like refusing to let cynicism harden our hearts. It looks like noticing the overlooked person that everyone else passes by.

And the difficult part is that none of this happens overnight. It’s a slow process of us loving and being loved into a relationship with Jesus. Being disciples or followers of Jesus is not about mastering the rules… but it’s about abiding in (or living in) a relationship. 

We are transformed slowly through communion with Christ... through prayer, Scripture, worship, acts of mercy, and life together in community. Love grows through practice. Obedience to Christ in John’s Gospel is never separated from a relationship with Jesus.

Jesus doesn’t ask us for blind compliance. He invites us to follow him into a way of life grounded in trust, intimacy, and love. That’s what we need to start living and teaching as a church... because many people hear the word religion and think of it as an obligation rather than a relationship.

Because Jesus isn’t saying, “Perform well enough, and perhaps I will love you.” He is saying, “You are loved already. Remain in that love. And live from that love.”

And even when we fail, and we will fail, that love doesn’t go away. There will be days for us when fear wins. There will be days when we lose our patience. Days when we realize we have allowed other voices to shape us more deeply than the voice of Christ. But our failure is never the end of the story.

Because in the very same farewell discourse, Jesus promises that we will not be left alone. We will not be orphaned because we will receive the Spirit of Truth. He promises us that the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, the abiding presence of God, will continue to guide us, comfort us, convict us, and restore us.

Because the Christian life isn’t sustained by our perfection. It is sustained by God’s presence in our lives… By the indwelling presence of Christ through the power of the Holy Spirit. And perhaps that is what we most need to hear right now.

Because the world certainly doesn’t need more cruelty. It doesn’t need more outrage, suspicion, or fear. And it especially doesn’t need any of that being spewed from the pulpit.

It needs a people… a good faithful people, whose lives have been shaped by the love of Christ. People who forgive. People who serve quietly. People who refuse to let hatred have the final word. People who embody hope in the middle of despair. 

So perhaps the question before us today is not simply, “Do we love Jesus?” Perhaps the deeper question is, “How is that love (our love of Jesus, and Jesus’ love for us) shaping the way we live?” How is it changing the way we speak to one another? How does it influence the way we use our time… Or how we respond to suffering? How is it changing the way we care for our neighbors? Or the way we show unity, restoration, and hope to a divided world?

Because when the love of God in Christ truly takes root in our lives, it always leads somewhere. Toward mercy. Toward courage. Toward generosity. Toward a deeper compassion. Toward lives that begin, however imperfectly, to resemble Christ himself. Jesus does not demand flawless disciples. But he does invite our whole hearts.

“If you love me…” he says… And then he trusts that love… That love nurtured by grace, and sustained by the Spirit… He trusts that love, which is renewed again and again in his mercy, will slowly begin to shape everything else in the world. So may we learn, day by day, to abide in Christ’s love, not only with what we say, but in how we live.

5 Easter A 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

The Fifth Sunday of Easter
May 3, 2026

• Acts 7:55-60
• 1 Peter 2:2-10
• John 14:1-14
• Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16

Most of you know that I managed companies that built houses for about ten years before becoming a priest. I was responsible for building over 700 houses, but I would like to think that I was really helping build 700 homes.

And that raises a question worth asking, "What makes a house… a home?" Is it the structure?... The wood and plaster, brick and mortar? Is it a roof that shelters us from the storm? Is it a place of safety and refuge, or is it something deeper? Is it the lives lived inside the walls? Is it the love shared? The tears shed? Or the laughter that lingers in the rooms?

When you hear the word “home,” what comes to mind? For some, it’s comfort. For others, belonging. For many, it’s the place where we are known and still welcomed. We carry this longing for home deep within us. When we are lonely, we long for home. When we are afraid, we long for home. When life feels uncertain or fractured, we long for a place where we can rest.

It was St. Augustine who once wrote, “Our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” Here is where Scripture begins to reshape what we think home really is. Because the Bible doesn’t just speak of homes as places built with wood and nails, it speaks of homes built with “stones.”

In the First Letter of Peter, we hear this: “Like living stones, let yourselves be built into a spiritual house.” Living stones. Not cold, lifeless rock, but a people. You. Me. All of us.

God is building something, not out of bricks and mortar, but out of human lives. A spiritual home. And yet, before we get to that beautiful image, we are confronted with another kind of stone in the Book of Acts. Stones used not to build, but to destroy.

In Acts, we meet Stephen... One of the first seven deacons chosen by the church... a man full of faith and the Holy Spirit. A man who spoke truth with courage. A man who saw the glory of God even when others could not.

And what did the people do? They picked up stones. They covered their ears. They rushed at him. And they stoned him. The same object we were talking about before, a stone, becomes a weapon of fear, anger, violence, and rejection. And Stephen stands there, not retaliating, not cursing, but praying, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” Even as stones are hurled at him, Stephen entrusts himself to God.

This is a devastating scene. But, it reveals something important to us… It shows us that stones can be used to tear down or to build up. And the difference is found in the human heart.

Peter reminds us that Christ himself is the cornerstone rejected by the world, yet chosen and precious in God’s sight. Rejected… like Stephen. Rejected… like so many even now. And yet, God takes what is rejected and builds something holy.

“You are living stones,” Peter says. “Being built into a spiritual house.” That means the home we are longing for now… the home that our restless hearts seek is not just somewhere we go someday. It is something God is building right now. In us. Through us. And between us.

Every act of love is a stone laid in that house. Every moment of forgiveness is part of its foundation. And every time we choose compassion over anger, we are building. 

But, in the same light, every time we harden our hearts… every time we use our words or actions like weapons… every time we let hate and fear rule our hearts… we are throwing stones instead. So the question becomes, What kind of stones are we holding?

Are they stones of judgment? Stones of resentment? Stones we throw to protect ourselves or to wound others?

Or… 

Are they living stones… offered to God, placed carefully into something larger than ourselves? Because the truth is, home isn’t just where we feel safe. Home is where God dwells. Home is where God chooses to dwell, not in buildings alone, but in people... among people… in communities shaped by love and grace.

This is why the church matters. Not that it’s a perfect structure, because it’s not. Not that the people are flawless, because we aren’t. But because the church is how God uses us to build something. Slowly. Patiently. Stone by stone. A place where the broken are welcomed. A place where the weary find rest. A place where, even in the midst of pain, we begin to get a glimpse of what it means to belong.

Even Stephen, in his final moments, was not homeless. He looked up and saw the heavens opened and Christ standing at the right hand of God. And that was his home. And nothing, not even the stones that were being hurled at him, could take that away.

So perhaps home is not what we thought after all… Our home with God is not just a place we long for someday, but a reality we are invited to live into here and now. Every time we love as Christ loved, every time we forgive, every time we choose to build rather than destroy… we are in the process of becoming the very home our hearts have been searching for.

“Lord, you have made us for yourself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” And perhaps that rest begins when we finally place our stones in God’s hands and allow God to build.

4 Easter A 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III

Greeneville, TN

The Fourth Sunday of Easter

April 26, 2026

• Acts 2:42-47
• 1 Peter 2:19-25
• John 10:1-10
• Psalm 23

Today, we take a moment and step away from the familiar rhythm of resurrection appearances… Those wonderful encounters where Jesus meets his disciples in locked rooms, on dusty roads, and around shared tables. 

We know those stories too well... How Jesus is recognized in the breaking of bread... how hearts burn as he opens the scriptures... how fear slowly gives way to wonder.

Today, our focus is on the words of Jesus in Chapter 10 of the Gospel according to John. A passage that is unexpected in the Easter Season. And, if we're honest, a bit more puzzling at first hearing.

Jesus is addressing a group of folks in Jerusalem that includes both his closest followers and those who are suspicious of him. He is standing within earshot of people who have just witnessed conflict over authority… Of who has the right to interpret God, and who belongs in God's community, and who does not.

That's the scene we're in…and Jesus paints a picture for us… A sheepfold enclosed by a wall or pen. A gate that provides the proper entrance. A shepherd who enters through that gate. And other figures who try to get in by climbing over the wall. The listeners gathered there would have recognized this scene immediately. 

Sheep were often gathered into communal pens at night for protection. A gatekeeper would allow the legitimate shepherds to enter in the morning, and each shepherd would call his own sheep out of the mixed flock using his voice, and the sheep would follow because they recognized the shepherd's voice.

Here, Jesus doesn't begin with shepherding as we expect. He starts with a sheepfold, a gate, and the difference between those who enter rightly and those who do not. "Anyone who does not enter the sheepfold by the gate but climbs in by another way is a thief and a bandit." It's a striking image. There is this place where the sheep are gathered… a place of belonging, of relative safety. 

And there is a gate, a proper way in. The one who enters through the gate is the shepherd. The others… those who sneak in, who bypass the gate… come with very different intentions. Jesus is naming, right from the start, that not every voice, not every leader, not every influence that reaches the sheep is trustworthy. 

And that lands close to home. Because we live in a world full of entrances... full of voices trying to get our attention, shaping our thinking, claiming our loyalty. Some come openly, honestly, with care. Others slip in quietly, subtly, promising life but bringing something else entirely.

Jesus doesn't soften the language. He calls those who sneak in "thieves and bandits"... those who come not to care for the flock, but to take from it.

Then he says something even more intimate. Speaking about the true shepherd…He says, "The sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out." This is where the image deepens. The shepherd does not drive the sheep. He calls them by name. And they respond—not because they are forced, but because they recognize his voice. And he leads them… 

This is not about control. It's about relationship. And that's important to understand in a time like ours, when so much leadership (religious, political, and cultural leadership) relies on fear, urgency, and pressure. So many voices try to push us, to drive us, to tell us we must act now…  think this way… fear that group… and secure ourselves at all costs.

But the voice of Christ is different. It is known. It is steady. It calls rather than coerces. And, as the passage tells us, the sheep follow "because they know his voice." Not because they are naïve, but because they are familiar with the one who leads them… leads them to good pasture and still water…

That raises a hard but necessary question for us… How do we recognize that voice? Can we distinguish it from all the others? Because Jesus also says, "They will not follow a stranger… because they do not know the voice of strangers."

Yet if we're honest, we sometimes do follow strangers. We get pulled in by voices that sound convincing... voices promising security, success, or certainty. Voices that tell us we don't need one another. Voices that encourage division, suspicion, even hostility.

We see it playing out all around us… communities fractured, public trust eroded, people increasingly isolated even while we are more "connected" than ever. The noise is constant, and it becomes harder to tell which voices lead toward life and which do not.

And it's into that confusion that Jesus speaks again, with one of the clearest declarations in the Gospel: "I am the gate." Not just the shepherd, but "the gate.

"I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture." This is a shift in the image, but it's an important one. Jesus is not only the one who leads; he is also the way to life itself. He is the place of safety... He is the point of passage between danger and nourishment, between scarcity and abundance.

To say that Christ is the gate is to say that life, true life, is found in and through him. Not through the competing promises of the world, not through fear-driven self-reliance, not through systems that divide and consume... but through relationship with the one who knows us and calls us by name.

And then comes that line in the text that echoes so powerfully in our day and age… "The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly."

There is no neutrality here. It's no secret that some voices... some paths... some ways of being in the world diminish life. They take. They erode. They isolate. They leave people more fearful, more guarded, and more alone.

But others, grounded in Christ, lead toward abundance. Not abundance as excess or accumulation of stuff, but as fullness - as enough… A life marked by connection, by purpose, by love, by a deep and steady trust that we are loved and we are held.

That kind of life is not always easy. It doesn't shield us from hardship or uncertainty. But it is real. It is sustaining. And it is shared.

Because the sheepfold is not a place for one sheep alone. It's a place where we are called together. In a moment when so many forces in our world encourage separation, drawing lines, building walls, defining who is "in" and who is "out," this passage reminds us that Christ gathers. Christ calls. Christ leads us not into isolation, but into a community shaped by his voice.

And that has implications for how we live. It means we should listen carefully... not just to what is loud or urgent, but to what is true. It means we test the voices we hear, asking whether they lead toward life or away from it. It means we resist the temptation to follow those who would exploit fear for their own purposes.

And it means we stay close to the shepherd's voice… through prayer, through scripture, through the shared life of the community… so that, over time, we learn to recognize it more clearly. Because the promise of this passage is not that we will never hear other voices. It is that we are not left to sort through them alone.

The shepherd calls. The gate stands open. Life, abundant life, is offered. And so the invitation today is both simple and demanding... To listen for the voice of Christ. To enter through the gate that leads to life. And to follow, not as isolated individuals, but as a people gathered, known, loved, and led.

For it is there, in that following, that we begin to discover what Jesus means when he says, "I came that they may have life, and have it more abundantly."

2 Easter 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

The Second Sunday of Easter
April 12, 2026

• Acts 2:14a,22-32
• 1 Peter 1:3-9
• John 20:19-31
• Psalm 16

The disciples are hiding. The doors are locked. The room is tense. Fear has settled in. They have seen too much. They have lost too much. And now they do not know what comes next.

They are afraid... afraid of what might happen to them because they followed Jesus, afraid of being cast out, rejected, or even worse. And in many ways, that fear is not just theirs. It reflects the experience of the early Christian community... a people trying to hold onto faith while navigating tension, uncertainty, and even exclusion.

And if we’re honest, it reflects something in us too. Moments in us when faith feels fragile. Moments around us when the world feels uncertain. Moments when we are not quite sure what comes next. 

And into that space... into the fear and uncertainty... Jesus comes. Not by opening the door. Not by removing the threat. But by standing among them and saying, “Peace be with you.”

Jesus appears in that upper room, not once, but twice. Peace... not as the absence of trouble, but as the presence of Christ there, in the middle of it. And then he shows them his hands and his side. The wounds, the marks of his crucifixion, are still there. Still there, because the resurrection doesn’t erase what happened and what he suffered. It transformed it.

And then Jesus speaks the words that change everything for them: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” The story is not over. Their fear is not the end. They are being called forward. The same God who sent Jesus into the world in love now sends them into the world with that same love. And they are not sent alone.

Jesus breathes on them and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” The Ruach, the very creating breath of God... the breath that gave life in the beginning, is given to them again. And there in that closed-off room, they are refreshed, renewed. Re-created. Given what they need for what lies ahead of them. And part of what lies ahead is this: They are to go out into the world and “forgive.” Jesus says, “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven…”

This is not about pretending that harm doesn’t exist. It’s not a cover-up of the cruelty… It is about participating in the life of God. A life rooted in mercy, compassion, and restoration. We forgive because we have been forgiven. We extend grace because grace has been extended to us. And that kind of life is not easy. But it is the way of Christ.

Then our story from John’s gospel turns to Thomas. Thomas, who was not there the first time. Thomas, who missed the great moment when Jesus appeared to the others. Thomas heard the others say,  “We have seen the Lord.” Thomas must have felt left out because he wasn’t able to share in their experience. And still, he stays with them.

This made me ask: where was Thomas when the others were cowering in the room, hiding from the religious authorities? Where was Thomas, the one who boldly said, "Let us go too, that we may die with him," speaking of Jesus deciding to return to Judea? Where was Thomas? The scripture doesn’t tell us, but we can assume that he was bold enough to go out when the others weren’t. That he was willing to take the risk rather than hold onto his fear.

Thomas has been told that the Lord appeared to them when he wasn’t there, and this caused him to be unsure… And even in his uncertainty, Thomas remains there with them. Connected to them as part of the community.

A week later, Jesus comes to them again. “Peace be with you.” And this time, Thomas is with them. Jesus turns to Thomas and says, “Put your finger here… See my hands… Do not be unbelieving, but believe.” There is no shame in these words. Only invitation. And then Thomas responds with a confession that echoes throughout the ages: “My Lord and my God.”

Jesus then speaks to everyone who would come after those who are gathered there in that closed room, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” This is where we are – this is where we live. We have not stood in that room. We have not seen the nail scars in his hands and feet. We have not touched those wounds. And yet—we are here. We believe.

Each week… We gather. We pray. We share a sacred meal. We return. Even after the great celebration of Easter has passed. Why, because we know something in this story has claimed us. Claimed us in ways that we can’t always explain. We have encountered the living Christ in scripture, in sacrament, and in one another.

The Gospel lesson today ends by telling us why all of this has been written, “So that you may come to believe… and that through believing you may have life.” Not just any life. Abundant life. A life shaped by love and forgiveness. A life grounded in truth. A life sustained by the presence of God. But this life is not passive. It calls us to act. It calls us to follow Jesus into places we may not wish to go. It calls us to live as Jesus lived. To love as Jesus loved. And to walk in his way.

So what does that mean for us here, now? It means, like the first apostles, we are sent. Like the earliest and closest followers of Jesus gathered there in their fear, it sends us into a world that is still fearful, still divided, still searching. It sends us, not with all the answers, but with the peace of Christ. We are sent to embody love. Sent to practice forgiveness. Sent to be signs of hope in the places where hope feels pretty thin.

And when we find ourselves like Thomas, being unsure, with questions, with hesitation, with a longing for clarity... we know that we are not outside the story. We are right in the middle of it. And Christ meets us there. Speaking peace. Giving us comfort. Offering us presence. And calling us forward.

So, this season and always let us live as those who are sent. Let us love as those who are forgiven. And let us trust the presence of Christ among us, here and now. And with our lives, and with our hearts, let us proclaim: “My Lord and my God.”

Easter 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

Easter: The Sunday of the Resurrection
April 5, 2026

• Acts 10:34-43
• Colossians 3:1-4
• John 20:1-18
• Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

This morning’s gospel story from John begins in the quiet of early dawn. Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb while it is still dark. She carries with her the weight of grief, confusion, and loss. She is not looking for resurrection. She is simply trying to make sense of what has happened. And when she finds the stone rolled away, her first thought is not hope, it’s fear. “They have taken away my Lord…”

As we gather this morning, we come with our own burdens. We do not arrive untouched by the world. We carry with us what we have seen, what we have felt, what has unsettled us.

The last several months have been a heavy time for most people. We have witnessed violence that shakes our sense of safety...  lives lost in places meant for learning and community. We have watched divisions deepen in our public life, where disagreement too often turns into cruelty. We have seen fear take hold... fear of those who are different, fear that leads to suspicion instead of understanding. And many of us are simply exhausted... weary from trying to keep up. Weary from trying to care.

Today, that is the place where Easter meets us... Not in a world that is neat and resolved, but in a world that is hurting. Mary stands outside the tomb, weeping. Even when she sees the angels, she doesn’t yet understand. Even when Jesus stands before her, she doesn’t recognize him.

Grief has a way of overcoming us and narrowing our vision. And then it happens… Jesus says one word: “Mary.” He calls her by name. And in that moment, everything changes.

This is the heart of the resurrection. Not just that the tomb is empty, but that the risen Christ meets us personally, tenderly, right there in the middle of all our confusion and fear. Right in the middle of our deepest sorrow. Jesus calls us by name. He sees us. He knows us. He does not abandon us.

The resurrection is the turning point of the Christian faith. It is not just simply something we celebrate once a year... but it is the lens through which we are invited to see everything. Because how we see the world shapes how we live in it.

Many ways of seeing are shaped by fear. Our fears tell us to withdraw, to protect ourselves at all costs, to treat others as threats rather than neighbors. That is a way that leads us to isolation,  division, and more pain.

But resurrection offers us another way. A way shaped by life and peace. A way that trusts that love is stronger than death. A way that invites us to see the image of God in every person. A way that calls us into courage, compassion, and hope.

In our baptismal vows, we make that choice. We renounce the forces that distort and destroy... And then we turn toward Jesus. We commit ourselves to seeking and serving Christ in all persons and striving for justice and peace. Those promises are not abstract. They are meant for a world like ours... right here, right now.

St. Paul reminds us that in baptism, we are united with Christ in his death and raised with him into newness of life. That means we are no longer defined by our fears. We are not bound by the darkness we see around us. We are free. Free to love boldly. Free to stand with those who are overlooked or pushed aside. Free to be people of light.

We have walked through the story of Holy Week. We have lingered at the foot of the cross. We have felt the weight of loss, and pain, and grief. But today, we stand in a different place. We stand at the empty tomb.

And the good news for us is: Death does not have the final word. fear does not have the final word. Hatred does not have the final word. Because Christ is risen.

And because of that… We are called to live as resurrection people... to embody hope in a world that often feels hopeless... to choose compassion when it would be easier to turn away. We live as if love truly is stronger than death, because we know that it is.

As followers of the Way of Jesus, we are an Easter people. We have followed Jesus all the way to the cross and beyond. We are people who listen for the voice of Christ calling out our name. We are people who carry the light of resurrection into our homes, into our communities, and into our world.

So, my friends, as we go from this place, we are to take Easter with us. Because we know that the resurrection of Jesus is not something we keep, it’s something we carry. We carry it with us into the places where people are afraid. We carry it into conversations that need grace. We carry it into moments when it would be easier to stay silent.

We are the ones who remind the world, by how we live, that love is stronger than fear... that mercy is stronger than judgment... and that life is stronger than death. Because the risen Christ is already at work out there, and he is calling us to join him.

Alleluia. Christ is risen.

The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.

Easter Vigil A 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III

Greeneville, TN

The Great Vigil of Easter 

April 4, 2026

• Genesis 1:1-2:4a [The Story of Creation]
• Exodus 14:10-31; 15:20-21 [Israel's deliverance at the Red Sea]
• Ezekiel 36:24-28 [A new heart and a new spirit]

        At The Eucharist

• Romans 6:3-11
• Psalm 114
• Matthew 28:1-10

Tonight, we began in darkness. We gathered in the quiet, in the stillness, and we listened to story after story of how God has been at work from the very beginning… creating, delivering, restoring, and saving. Again and again, we heard it... Heard about God making a way where there is no way. About God bringing life out of what looks like death. And about God refusing to abandon God's people. 

And then, somewhere along the way tonight, we realized something important. We realized that these are not just old stories. Like I've said before this past week… These are our stories... This is our story.

Because tonight, we don't just remember what God has done… we step into it and become part of it. We were placed... intentionally... into sacred time and space, so that our hearts and minds can be opened again to the saving work of God in Jesus Christ... In his life, in his death, and in his resurrection. And the resurrection of Jesus is everything. Resurrection isn't just one part of our faith; it's the center of it. It's the turning point... It's the lens through which we are called to see the world. 

But let's be honest tonight. Seeing the world through the lens of resurrection is not always an easy task. Because we live in a world that doesn't feel resurrected. We live in a world that still very much feels like a Good Friday.

We see violence that takes innocent lives. We see fear shaping decisions and policies. We see division where there should be compassion. We see people shouting past one another instead of listening. We see power used not to lift up, but to tear down.

And if we're not careful, that kind of world can have its effect on us... It can shape us. It can pull us into its fear. It can train us to always expect the worst. It tries to convince us that the darkness is stronger than light.

But tonight stands as a defiant contradiction to all of that. Tonight proclaims that death does not get the last word... Fear does not get the last word... Violence does not get the last word... God does. And God's last word is life. 

So tonight, we are faced with a choice. A real choice. We can look at the world through the lens of fear, where everything is about protecting ourselves, and we can live in a world where others are considered threats, and where scarcity and suspicion rule the day.

Or…

We can choose to view the world through the lens of resurrection. A lens that tells us that love is stronger than hate... Community is stronger than division... And hope is stronger than despair. A lens that allows us to see Christ, not just in this holy place, but in every person we meet.

And that's where our baptism comes in. Because tonight, we didn't just talk about resurrection, we renewed our participation in it. In those ancient baptismal vows, we renounced all the forces attempting to pull us away and separate us from God's love... The forces of evil, injustice, and all the brokenness that distort and corrupt God's creation.

And then we did something even more powerful. We turned... We turned again toward Christ. We turned toward hope. We reaffirmed that we belong to him and that we are marked as his own forever. We promised that our lives would be used to reflect his life.

Which means that resurrection is not just something we celebrate... It's something we live with. Every day! In the way we speak. And in every way we treat people. In the ways we respond to anger, fear, and pain. We are called to be people who respond to the cycles of the world's harm with acts of divine grace. We are people who choose compassion when it would be easier to choose indifference... People who seek justice, not as an abstract or feel-good idea, but as a lived expression of God's love for every human being.

Tonight, the light of Christ broke open the darkness, and it didn't stay small. It spread... Candle to candle. Person to person. Until the whole room was filled. That is not just an empty ritual. That is a calling... Because the broken world out there is still waiting for that light, and we are the ones who carry it.

So the question tonight for us is not simply, "Do you believe in the resurrection?" The deeper question is, "Will you live it? Will you walk out of this place and choose life in a world that often chooses death? Will you choose hope when despair feels easier? Will you choose love—real, sacrificial, Christ-like love— even when it costs you something?" Because that is what resurrection looks like. And that is what the world so desperately needs.

Tonight, we proclaim with joy, "Alleluia. Christ is risen!" But tomorrow and the day after that... and every day that follows, we are called to be that proclamation in the world... To live as resurrection people. To carry Easter with us into every corner of our lives.

So we go from this place tonight not just having heard the story, but knowing that we are part of it. Alleluia, Christ is risen... And because of that, so are we. Alleluia!

Good Friday A 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III

Greeneville, TN 

Good Friday

April 3, 2026

• Isaiah 52:13-53:12
• Hebrews 10:16-25
• John 18:1-19:42
• Psalm 22

The cross is where we are invited to linger today. Not to rush past it. Not to explain it away. Not to tidy it up with easy answers. But to stay. To stand still long enough for it to begin to speak to us.

Last night, on Maundy Thursday, we were left in the shadows of Gethsemane. In that quiet, heavy place where Jesus asked his friends to remain awake, to watch, to pray. A place where fear and love collided. Where uncertainty hung in the air. Where the weight of what was coming could already be felt.

And maybe, if we're honest with ourselves, we all know something about that place. That place where something feels like it's ending… or unraveling… and we don't yet know what comes next. But today, everything changes. The stillness of the garden gives way to movement... fast, relentless movement.

The story unfolds almost breathlessly. Judas steps forward. A kiss becomes betrayal. Peter follows, but only at a distance, and when the moment comes, he falters. Three times he says, "I do not know the man."

Pilate wrestles, hesitates, and questions, and then caves in to the pressures of the crowd. And we feel the crowd itself shifts and swells... The voices rising, and anger building, "Crucify Him – Crucify Him!"

And Jesus... Jesus is handed over, stripped, mocked, beaten, and led to the place of execution. It is a story we know so well. We know every turn. We recognize every character. We can almost recite the lines by heart. But, because we know it so well, there is a danger. The danger is not that we will forget it, but that we will stop feeling it. That it will become something so familiar, so contained and safe, that it becomes sterile... and begin to seem like a story that belongs to another time, another people, another world. 

But Good Friday refuses to stay there. This story will not remain at a distance. Because if we take it seriously... if we allow it to be more than memory, it begins to ask us uncomfortable questions. It asks us not just to observe, but to recognize. Because somewhere in this story, we are present.

We know what it is to betray. Maybe not with a kiss in the night, but in quieter ways. Maybe when we choose self-interest over love... when we compromise what we know is right... when we abandon what we once held sacred.

We know what it is to deny. Like Peter, we may not even intend to... but fear has a way of shaping our choices. Fear of standing out or being judged. Fear of speaking up. Fear of losing something we value. And so we step back. We grow silent. We say, in one way or another, "I do not know the man."

We know what it is to see injustice... to get that deep feeling stirring in us that something just isn't right, and yet feel unsure, unable, or unwilling to act.

We know what it is to feel like Pilate... caught between what is right and what is expedient. And we know what it is to be part of a crowd, swept up in the noise, in the peer pressure, caught up in the momentum of voices louder than our own.

This is not just their story. It is ours. And that is what makes this day so difficult. Because the cross doesn't simply show us what was done to Jesus, it reveals something about the human condition itself.

It shows us how easily love is rejected. How quickly truth is silenced. How often power is misused. And how frequently fear wins. And if we look at the world around us, we still see it.

We see it in our social and political divisions that run deep... fracturing communities & families, straining relationships and eroding trust. We see violence that leaves us heartbroken and weary... Horrible news stories that come so often they risk becoming background noise. We see injustice that persists... sometimes loudly, sometimes quietly, but always with real human cost.

And in the face of all of this coming at us, it is easy to feel overwhelmed. To feel small. To feel as though nothing we do could possibly matter. To feel the temptation to step back and disengage, to protect ourselves. To wash our hands and say, like Pilate, "This is out of my hands."

But the cross of Christ will not let us go there so easily. John's Gospel does something powerful. It does not just tell us what happened. It invites us to look. "Look on him whom they have pierced." Not quickly. Not casually. But deeply. To really see. To see the suffering, the physical pain, the humiliation, and the abandonment.

But John's Gospel also invites us to see something else. To see great love. Not a sentimental kind of love. Not a comfortable kind of love. But a love that remains. A love that does not turn away, even when abandoned. A love that does not retaliate, even when wronged. A love that does not give up, even when everything seems lost. A love that gives itself completely. This is what hangs before us today.

And it is almost too much to take in. Because it challenges everything we think we know about strength, about power, and about victory. Here, strength looks like vulnerability. Power looks like surrender. And victory looks like loss.

And yet… this is the place where God is most fully revealed. Not in avoiding suffering, but by entering into it. Not in standing above it, but in bearing it. Not in destroying enemies, but in loving them.

And that is why we cannot rush past this day. Because while we know that Easter is coming, we are not there yet. Today is not about resolution. It is about presence. It is about standing at the foot of the cross with the women, with the beloved disciple, and with all those who did not turn away. 

It is about allowing ourselves to feel the weight of what we see. To grieve what is broken... in the world, in others, in ourselves. And at the same time, to begin to see something else.

Because even here, especially here, there is hope. Not loud or triumphant. But quiet, persistent, and unyielding hope. The kind of hope that doesn't depend on circumstances, but is rooted in love.

And so we are, in a profound way, a privileged people. Because we know that this is not the end. We know that the story continues. But before we move toward Easter, we must first allow Good Friday to do its work in us. We must look. We must stay. We must let the reality of this love... this costly, self-giving, unwavering love, sink deep into our hearts. Because only then can it begin to change us. Only then can we begin to carry that love into a world that so desperately needs it. Only then are we ready to move toward resurrection.

So today… Stay at the cross. Stay with the questions. Stay with the discomfort. Stay with the grief. But above all, stay with the love that refuses to let go. And let it meet you here, in whatever place you find yourself. Because even now, even here, God is at work.

Maundy Thursday A 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

Maundy Thursday
April 2, 2026

• Exodus 12:1-4, (5-10), 11-14
• 1 Corinthians 11:23-26
• John 13:1-17, 31b-35
• Psalm 116:1, 10-17

Today is Maundy Thursday. The word “Maundy” is one of those funny churchy words. It comes from the word mandate... The command Jesus gives his disciples on this night... “Love one another as I have loved you.” This is the night we remember the last meal Jesus shared with his friends.

The night when Jesus took the bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to his closest followers, saying, “This is my body.” This is all of me… and I’m giving this to you, to nourish you for your journey. This way, I am part of you and go with you through your joys and hardships.

And then he took the cup, and said, “This is my blood.” This is my life force, understood by the ancients as the bridge between the human and divine... And I’m giving this to you so that you might have life. Life everlasting in the kingdom of God.

And he told them, "Whenever you gather… whenever you break the bread and share the cup… do this in remembrance of me." The ritual action of sharing the bread and cup is called an anamnesis… a calling forward of the time when Jesus and his friends were gathered around the table... when they shared the bread and cup. A calling forward into the present time…When Jesus is truly present with us, here today, as we break the bread and share the cup.

Not just to recall a memory in Jesus’ life for us, but to fully participate in his life. To remember his teaching. To remember his purpose. To remember his mission... to restore the people to a right relationship with God… and with one another.

And so we gather... We gather, as Christians have done for 2 millennia, around this table, to experience this anamnesis. And remember the one who came among us, and who still comes among us whenever we gather in his name.

We believe this is more than just a symbolic meal. We call it a sacrament because we recognize it as an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace... God’s presence in the person of Jesus and his outpouring of love and grace for the world... Done with regular items like simple bread and ordinary wine. 

And, by the grace of God, they become for us the Body and Blood of Christ. Not because of anything magical in the elements themselves, but because of what God does in and through a gathered people. Because when we come to this table, we are not just remembering Jesus, we are being drawn into him and he into us. We are made one body... One community... One people... As one bread is broken... And one cup is shared. And in them, One God... The Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer is made known to us.

And that matters, perhaps now more than ever. Because we are in a time & place of deep social stress. A time when our life outside of these doors feels strained... when divisions run deep... when trust is fragile, and when conversations turn quickly into arguments. We are carrying anxiety about the future… weariness from constant change… and, for many, a quiet loneliness even in the midst of busy lives. Some are burdened by economic uncertainty. Some are grieving losses that still linger. Some are simply tired... tired of all the noise, tired of the tension, tired of feeling disconnected from one another.

But in all of that, this table continues to call to us... this table still speaks to us. But this table tells a different story. It tells us that we do not belong to our divisions... We do not belong to our fears... And, we do not belong to the forces that pull us apart.

We belong to Christ. And in Christ, we belong to one another. At this table, there is no “us” and “them.” We are united together in a Holy Communion and fellowship, where there is only the body... Jesus... broken and given for the life of the world... And one cup... Jesus poured out so that we are forgiven.

And on this night, we remember something else, something remarkable that happened. Before the bread was broken… before the cup was shared… Jesus put a towel around his waist, he knelt down, and he washed his disciples’ feet.

He took the posture of a servant. He did what no one else in the room was willing to do. And then he said, “I have given you an example.” In doing this, he says, don’t just believe in me... Don’t just remember me, but follow me. Serve the world as I serve. Love the world as I love.

And I think that is where this night calls to us most clearly. In a world shaped by stress and division, love can feel costly. Listening can feel hard. And forgiveness can feel impossible. Serving others can often feel like putting one more burden on a load that is already very heavy. But Jesus doesn’t give us this mandate because it is easy. He gives it because it is necessary. Because love... real, self-giving, self-sacrificing Christ-shaped love is the only thing strong enough to heal what is broken in the world around us.

And so this night is not just about what happens at this table. This night is about what happens BECAUSE of this table. It is about who we become when we receive the abundance of God’s grace. We become a people who choose patience in a culture of impatience. People who choose kindness in a climate of harshness. We become people who choose connection when it would be easier just to withdraw and keep our heads down. People who are willing, like Jesus, to kneel… to serve… and to love.

Tonight, we gather as the Church. We gather with all our burdens, all our questions, all the weight of the world we carry. And Christ meets us here. In the breaking of the bread. In the sharing of the cup. In the washing of feet. In the quiet, faithful acts of love that push back against the stresses and strains of our world.

And in this gathering, we remember we are NOT alone. Because we are the Body of Christ. And Christ is at work among us. So we come to the table. We come to be in the moment. We come and remember. We come and are nourished. And we come to be made one.

And then, we go. We go out, united, into a weary and divided world... To love one another just as Jesus has loved us.