Second Sunday after Pentecost: June 22, 2025

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Sermon Video

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Sermon Transcript

So, yesterday I did something different.

I went on one of those mud races—have you heard of them? You know, like Tough Mudder or the Muddy Dash. This one was called Muddy Dash. There are all sorts of franchises like it, but don’t judge me. I see you, Katie—yes, it was dumb. So dumb.

Okay, maybe it was a little dumb. But not completely! It wasn’t that dumb because we started at 8:00 in the morning, so it wasn’t too hot yet. And since we were getting muddy, the heat didn’t really get to us. I ran the race with my son and my daughter and a few friends of ours. It turned out to be a really interesting experience.

The race was out in Grain Valley, east of here, and when we showed up—it was packed. So many people, all kinds. If you go to a marathon, you might expect a certain type of person, maybe a few variations. But this was so much more diverse. Every body shape. Every age. Young and old. Kids, men, women—everyone.

People were dressed all kinds of ways. I saw folks in full fatigues—combat boots, long pants, long sleeves. I thought, What are you doing, man? Others were in sports bras. One guy wore no shirt at all, just a GoPro strapped to his chest like a body cam. It was wild.

We all had our race numbers, of course, those little cards you have to awkwardly safety-pin to your shirt. Mine was some four-digit number—maybe 4261, something like that. But I noticed others with numbers like 68,429. I thought, Wow, they must have barely squeaked in. I registered early, so I assumed there was some logic to the numbers.

Then we found our friends—the ones who had invited us—and my friend Jeff had number 14. Fourteen! Everyone immediately asked, “How did you get that number?” We spent 15 minutes talking about it, trying to figure it out. Did he register first? Was he a sponsor or something? Nope. Turns out, there was no rhyme or reason. Some got two digits, some five. Completely random.

We humans are meaning-makers, aren’t we? So we were trying to assign meaning to these numbers, giving some people more value than others. But the fact is that we all got our numbers the exact same way, and the size of those numbers just gave us an excuse to make assumptions.

So much about that experience defeated my assumptions. It showed us how, despite appearances, we really were all in the same boat.

And our Scriptures this morning send a very similar message. Especially where Paul writes to the Galations: “There is no longer Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”

Now, were there still Jews? Yes. Still Greeks? Yes. Still slaves? Yes—slavery didn’t end in 40 or 50 A.D. Obviously, there were still men and women.

This is not about erasing identity, it’s about unity. It’s about worth and belonging. And when the Church is confronted with this, we often hear a whisper that sounds an awful lot like the serpent in the garden:

“Did Paul really say…?”

“Did Paul really say there is no longer Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female?”

“Maybe not,” we reply. “Maybe we don’t have to take that too seriously.”

So, we keep on enslaving. And not just enslaving—we fight for it. We go on ordaining only men. We make leadership a “men’s club.” We look down on women as somehow second-class. We become anti-Semitic. We suppress, we exclude. And we say: Did Paul really mean it?

But here’s the thing: Paul had access to much of the same information about Jesus that we do—probably more. But we don’t even have to take Paul’s word for it. We can look at Jesus.

Take today’s Gospel: Jesus travels to the region of the Gerasenes—across the lake from Jewish Galilee. This is Gentile territory. That’s why the people are afraid of him. That’s why there are huge herds of pigs. You wouldn’t find pigs in Jewish towns. This is foreign land.

And I don’t think Jesus knew, from birth or even baptism, the full scope of his mission. I believe he always loved everyone—but I think he discovered his universal, multinational purpose gradually. This was one of those moments. And we see that mission culminate at the Temple.

You remember the story—he makes a whip and clears out the money changers. Most of us read that and say, “Jesus doesn’t like dishonesty” or “Jesus is anti-church gift shop.”

But the real reason for his anger? It’s revealed in his declaration, “My house shall be called a house of prayer for all nations.”

That outer court—where all the retail and animal-selling was taking place—was the only place Gentiles could worship. If someone came from Italy or Babylon or Egypt and wanted to worship the God of Abraham, they had nowhere to stand. The people had made it impossible.

And Jesus is furious—because they had deliberately excluded others from the presence of God.

So we read scenes like that. We read about demon exorcisms. We read Paul’s words. And we say, “Yeah… but does everyone really belong?”

Now, we’re an Episcopal church. We’ve said yes to a lot already. Yes, we ordain women. Yes, we welcome and affirm LGBTQ+ people. Yes, we say “all means all.” And we say it proudly. That’s not a bad thing.

But let’s be honest—deep down, we all carry exceptions. People we think don’t belong. People we still judge. People we’d rather avoid. People we don’t really want to call our equals. “Everyone… except that guy.”

Let me take you back to the Muddy Dash.

At the end of the race, there was a monkey bar obstacle suspended over a long, muddy pit. My kids were too short to reach the bars, so they just trudged through the mud. I decided to try it. I thought, Maybe I can be American Ninja Warrior today.

The bars were thick and dirty and far apart. I made it halfway across before realizing I was in trouble. But I powered through. Got to the last bar. Still had mud below me. I tried to swing myself across—but no chance. I went straight into the mud.

And as I looked around, I realized: it didn’t matter how you failed—early on, halfway through, or even after “succeeding”—we all ended up in the mud. Every one of us was a mess. And the only difference between that moment and the rest of life was that in that moment, it was obvious. The mess was visible. On our faces. On our clothes. In our shoes.

How many of us feel like a mess most of the time? But we look around and think, “Everyone else is fine. No one else is dealing with this.” It’s a lie.

If only we could see each other’s real mess—the one on the inside—maybe we’d have the courage to confront our own. Maybe we’d ask for help. Maybe we’d stop dividing ourselves into Greek and Jew, male and female, slave and free. Maybe we’d recognize that we all wear the same mud, even if we call it by different names.

Maybe we’d see that we all carry the same kind of heart. And that we all have the same Savior. A Savior who sees us exactly as we are—mess and all—and still sees something beautiful. A Savior who calls us to see each other that way, too.

Amen.

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Our apologies for the camera failure. We will be replacing our camera as soon as possible.

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