The Eyes of God

PROPERS:          4 LENT, YEAR A 

TEXT:                1 SAMUEL 16:1-13

PREACHED AT ST. PAUL’S, MOBILE, ON SUNDAY, MARCH 15, 2026.

 

ONE SENTENCE:        We do not see the world as God sees it.        

 

            A speculative parable of Samuel choosing a king for Israel:

 

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            The prophet Samuel was on his way to Bethlehem, only a short distance from Jerusalem. Samuel was a genuine kingmaker. He had anointed Saul as Israel’s first king and now he was tasked to select the second.

 

            A voice within him had called to visit the home of Jesse, father of eight sons.  One of them would be chosen as king to succeed Saul, the flawed incumbent who sat upon the throne.

 

            This was not an easy time for Israel.  They were surrounded by enemy nations; their existence was always in peril.  What’s more, there was a strain in Jewish society that sought to set clear boundaries of who was Jewish and who was not. Who could immigrate, and who could not. They had brutally conquered the tribes which had inhabited Canaan before them.

 

            The purity of people was vitally important.

 

            So, Samuel arrived in Bethlehem. The citizens there were anxious at the presence of this respected man. They wondered if this meant trouble. But he set their minds at ease and asked to see Jesse and his sons.

 

            They gathered at Jesse’s house, Samuel, Jesse, and seven of the eight sons.  Each son would pass before Samuel to be considered for anointing.

 

            Eliab, the eldest, was first. Tall, handsome – much like Saul the current king.  But Samuel had heard:  Eliab was hot tempered and prideful. He would be quick to take the people to war. He was known for his loose morals and many illicit relationships. He had used many people and shuffled them off to the side.

 

            Eliab had heard that Jesse was coming.  He manipulated the process so he would have to win. He stirred up his supporters.  

 

            But Samuel was wise. He heard a voice deep within: Not this one.

 

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            Next came Abinidab.  He stood before Samuel. Samuel knew about Abinidab. He was fiercely Jewish – perhaps too much so.  He believed in the philosophy, Make Israel Great Again. That was fine, Samuel thought, but perhaps he would wall off the grace of God from the surrounding people, and even some in their midst. 

 

            Abinidab, too, knew that Samuel was on his way.  He stoked his followers’ fears that all would be lost to the incoming hordes.

 

            Again, Samuel was wise to the game. He passed on Abinidab.

 

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            Then came son number three, Shammah.  He was the opposite of the other two.  He didn’t believe in any borders for Israel or restrictions on who could be included in the nation. 

 

            He believed Israel could feed and care for everyone. Shammah had already allowed some neighbors to plunder his father’s fields.

 

            The popular perception was that he was so pliable, he would be like putty in the hands of other kings. 

 

            As nice as he was, he should not be king.  He would be a disaster. Samuel recognized that.

 

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            And so, they came, the remaining four who were present.  But each one had a significant flaw. One had serious character and behavior issues. Another could be classified as a socialist. Perish the thought. Still another was too lazy. The final one was living an alternate lifestyle. They certainly couldn’t have that in a king.

 

            Samuel was frustrated.  He had been sent to Bethlehem and to Jesse’s house, and not one of the seven sons he had seen were a good fit. So, Jesse asked: Are there other sons?

 

            Yes, Jesse said.  The youngest, David, who is tending the sheep. Go get him, directed Samuel.

 

            And David came. Samuel knew he had found the one.  Samuel was able to peer into the future. This boy would become the greatest king of Israel. A great warrior. A loyal heir. A musician. And a deeply flawed human being who would commit adultery and conspire to murder. But an icon.

 

            As the 12-year-old David stood before Samuel, Samuel heard these words echo in his spirit: “The Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.”

 

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            Each of us, in our limited vision, does not see as God sees. My message to you today, brothers and sisters, is that the ways of God, though sometimes confusing, will ultimately prevail.

 

            To paraphrase Robert Burns: “O what a powerful gift he’d give us, to see ourselves as God would see us.” 

Thirsting for Living Water

PROPERS:          3 LENT, YEAR A 

TEXT:                EXODUS 17:1-7; JOHN 4:5-42

PREACHED AT ST. PAUL’S, MOBILE, ON SUNDAY, MARCH 8, 2026. (At 5:00 p.m. only)

 

ONE SENTENCE:        Despite the fact our thirst for justification is quenched, and we have received more – the eternal grace of Baptism.

 

            Years ago, in the sweltering heat of East Central Mississippi, I embarked on my yearly journey to Boy Scout camp. The camp was incredibly rustic, deep in the piney woods, some 10 miles south of Meridian – off Causeyville Road.

 

            It was there that scores of adolescent boys would flock for a week. We were free to go without showers, to sleep in steamy tents, to utilize rustic latrines, and if we so dared, to adopt a snake to be our best friend.  The food was what you would expect. The highlight of the day was when the canteen opened.

 

            It was during the camp sessions that we would work to earn merit badges – to advance us to higher levels within scouting.

 

            One session, I sought the Hiking and Camping Merit Badges – two coveted badges on the way to becoming an Eagle Scout.

 

            To attain those badges, I embarked on hike through the woods with a fully loaded backpack. The journey was to the Outpost Camp, where we would set-up tents, roll out our sleeping bags, and eke out our frontier existence for one night.

 

            Keep in mind this was July in East Central Mississippi. It was stiflingly hot.  It is hard to describe how hot it was. I told myself that the hike must have been five miles in the woods – with a heavy backpack. It was more likely one mile.  The mind begins to wander and exaggerate in such conditions. I felt like I was on the Bataan Death March.

 

            I had never been so thirsty in my life.  My lips were parched. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. As a seventh-grade boy, I thought I was nearly delirious.

 

            After what seemed like hours, we arrived at the Outpost Camp. Our journey through the steamy woods was done.  And blessing of blessings! Near to the camp site was a gurgling spring – yielding cool, refreshing, sweet water, all for the drinking.

 

            To this day, I have never had any sweeter water.  It refreshed me – in mind, body, and spirit.

 

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            From that experience, on some level, I can identify with Hebrews, led by Moses, wandering in the desert wilderness.  Their thirst was deep and profound. They were afraid for their lives. They wondered if Moses had brought them out of Egypt to die of thirst in the desert wilderness.

 

            They did not die. Moses struck a rock and water issued forth.  They drank deeply. Their human craving as slaked. 

 

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            Some 1,200 years later, Jesus walked into Sychar – a Samaritan town, southwest of Galilee. He would be an odd visitor there – a Jew in a Samaritan town. It was not done; there was no mixing of the faiths. Nor would there be conversation between genders.

 

            Jesus was thirsty from his travels.  Remarkably, he asked a Samaritan woman for a drink from the well. She said, “Why are you, a Jew, asking me, a Samaritan for a drink?”

 

            Jesus answered her – and more. Jesus said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.” The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water.”

 

            Jesus was speaking of two waters – water to quench a parched throat, and water which would bring union with God. Water to quench a parched throat, and water which would bring union with God. 

 

            The wandering Hebrews had thirsted for the first, but they did not know to seek the second – the eternal water which would bring union with God.

 

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            Each of us here occasionally yearns for the water which quenches our thirst – after tennis, walking, golf, or just the daily routine.  That’s normal.  But we are also recipients of the second – the waters of baptism, which bring us into the household of God.

 

            The rubrics of the Prayer Book say that Baptism “is the full initiation by water and the Holy Spirit into Christ Body the Church. The bond established by God in Baptism is indissoluble.”

 

            That is an incredible gift of God’s grace – beyond generous. Each of us has been blessed. That thirst is satisfied.

 

            That grace is ours.  It is with us wherever life takes us – or wherever we choose to go. Through the metaphorical woods or deserts of life.

 

            Yet we come to this table – this altar and this rail – again and again for more.  To continue the journey… to ask for strength… for wisdom… for the ability to grow in that grace. 

Death is Nothing at All

PROPERS:          BURIAL OF THE DEAD                

PREACHED AT CHURCH OF THE RESURRECTION, STARKVILLE, ON FRIDAY, JANUARY 9, 2026 (Stuart Vance’s funeral)             

 

ONE SENTENCE:        Death is not an eternal loss; our friends are very close.

 

            We have all sustained a loss – a meaningful loss.

 

            Perhaps. Death may deceive.

 

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            I first came to know Stuart 33 years ago.

 

            He was a member of the early church crowd – a devoted group of early Sunday service worshippers here at Church of the Resurrection.

 

            As the new rector, I was invited into their fellowship.  After the early service on Sunday, we would regather at the old McDonald’s on Highway 12.  We called our gathering “McWorship”.

 

            It was a remarkable group. Stuart and Mike Vance. Sam and Jane Polk. Walt and Bettye Hillen. Bill and Sherley Richter. Vera and Fred Wiles. Ernie and Allison Russell. Tommy and Jeanne Wakeman. We would even see Jerry Clower there on some Sundays.

 

            Today we remember Stuart’s energy, vision, leadership, passion, and vitality.

 

            With the loss of Stuart, only Jeanne Wakeman survives. All were remarkable saints.

 

            Where have they gone?

 

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            A couple of years ago, I had the chance to speak by telephone with my friend and former Mississippi priest Tim Jones, who now serves a diocese overseas – in Wales.

 

            Tim had made some interesting comments on Facebook about life after death.  It is a subject each of us has speculated about – the specifics of a remarkable aspect of the Christian faith. I suspect that those of us who cling to Christianity have important images of the life beyond in mind.

 

            Tim had an interesting perspective.  His point of view is that we have misdefined death, and likewise, we have constricted our understanding of life. His point was this: death is not clinical death – such as lack of brain activity, cessation of heartbeat and respiration. Life – in some dimension beyond our ability to grasp – can continue beyond that state.

 

            One-hundred-fifty years ago there was a theologian at Christ College in Oxford, England – a position not easily attained. His name was Henry Scott-Holland. He was a profound thinker, steeped in the Christian faith. He, too, wrestled with the mystical life beyond this veil of tears.

 

            His reflections reached their fruition in a poem Death is Nothing at All.

 

            I encourage you to think of our friend Stuart – and all our other departed saints – as I read this poem:

 

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Death is nothing at all. 

It does not count.

 
I have only slipped away into the next room. 

Nothing has happened. 

Everything remains exactly as it was. 

I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. 

Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. 

Call me by the old familiar name. 

Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. 

Put no difference into your tone. 

Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. 

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. 

 

Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. 

Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. 

Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. 

It is the same as it ever was. 

There is absolute and unbroken continuity. 

What is this death but a negligible accident 

Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight 

I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. 

All is well. 

Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. 

One brief moment and all will be as it was before. 

How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

 

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            Until later, my friend.