They Have Done This Before

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Palm Sunday is the day the liturgical calendar asks us to hold two things at once. We begin with the procession, the hosannas, the crowds waving branches and laying cloaks in the road. A king is coming. The people are ready to receive him. For one brief, bright moment, it feels like the world is about to be set right.

And then the Passion reading begins, and by the time it ends, the king is dead, and almost everyone who shouted hosanna has either fled, denied him, or stood by in silence.

If that arc feels familiar in 2026, it should.

We have seen this pattern before in human history, and we are watching it again. A moment of popular energy. A figure who speaks to people’s hunger for change. And then the machinery of empire reasserts itself: the trials with predetermined verdicts, the use of crowds to ratify what those in power have already decided, the scapegoating of the vulnerable, the silencing of the dissenting voice. The soldiers mock. The officials wash their hands. And the body is left to be claimed by those few who still had the courage to stay.

This Sunday, the Church does not let us skip to Easter. We are asked to stay in this story all the way to the tomb. And we are asked to recognize what kind of story it is.

Isaiah 50:4-7: The Tongue of Those Who Are Taught

The Lord God has given me the tongue of those who are taught, that I may know how to sustain with a word him who is weary. Morning by morning he awakens; he awakens my ear to hear as those who are taught. The Lord God has opened my ear, and I was not rebellious; I turned not backward.  —Isaiah 50:4-5 (ESV)

This is the third of the four Servant Songs in Isaiah, and on Palm Sunday it is read as a portrait of Jesus moving toward the cross. But it is worth sitting with it on its own terms first, because what it describes is a very particular kind of vocation.

The servant’s primary gift is not power. It is not wealth, or eloquence, or strategic brilliance. It is a taught tongue and a listening ear. Morning by morning, the servant’s ear is opened. The servant is formed by sustained attention to the voice of God, and out of that formation grows the capacity to sustain those who are weary with a word.

This is the vocation of prophetic ministry, and it runs directly counter to the logic of every authoritarian system. Authoritarianism requires a closed ear. It requires that the official story be accepted without question, that inconvenient voices be silenced, that those who name what is actually happening be discredited or destroyed. The servant in Isaiah is dangerous precisely because the servant is listening to a different source of authority than the empire recognizes.

We see this dynamic playing out in the United States right now with particular clarity. Journalists, lawyers, judges, immigration advocates, chaplains, and ordinary people who name what they see are being targeted. The mechanisms vary: professional retaliation, legal harassment, public vilification, deportation. What they share is the underlying message: stop speaking. Stop sustaining the weary with words of truth. Fall in line.

The servant’s response in Isaiah is simply to continue. I was not rebellious; I turned not backward. I gave my back to those who strike. The servant does not claim to be unafraid. The servant claims something better: the Lord God helps me; therefore I have not been disgraced.

That is the foundation from which this parish speaks. Not immunity from cost, but confidence in the one who calls us to speak.

The Face Set Like Flint

But the Lord God helps me; therefore I have not been disgraced; therefore I have set my face like a flint, and I know that I shall not be put to shame.  —Isaiah 50:7 (ESV)

I have set my face like a flint. That phrase describes a posture of deliberate, costly commitment. Flint is a hard stone, unyielding. To set your face like flint toward something is to commit to going there regardless of what meets you on the road.

The immigrant family who crossed a desert to reach safety has set their face like flint. The asylum seeker who appears before a court knowing the odds are stacked against them has set their face like flint. The undocumented worker who shows up to Mass and receives communion and kneels before God in a country that has told them they do not belong has set their face like flint.

The Church does not always recognize courage when it is wearing work clothes and speaking a language other than English. But the scripture does. The face set like flint in the Servant Song is the face of every person who presses forward through suffering toward the mercy of God, trusting that the Lord God helps me.

As a parish rooted in Franciscan values and the call to stand with the poor and the displaced, we are called to set our own faces like flint alongside theirs. Not ahead of them. Alongside.

Philippians 2:6-11: He Emptied Himself

Though he was in the form of God, [he] did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.  —Philippians 2:6-8 (ESV)

The ancient hymn Paul quotes in his letter to the Philippians is the theological center of the entire Holy Week. It answers the question of why Jesus did not simply call down legions of angels when Pilate threatened him. It answers the question of why the one who spoke creation into existence submitted to a Roman execution.

He did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped. The Greek word there is harpagmon, something to be exploited, something to be seized and held for personal advantage. Jesus, who had every claim to power and glory, refused to weaponize it. He moved in the opposite direction: downward, into flesh, into poverty, into the form of a servant, into the vulnerability of a human body in a Roman province, all the way down to a criminal’s death on a cross.

This hymn is a direct rebuke to every theology that aligns the cross with domination. Crosses have been planted on conquered land. The cross has been used to justify slavery, colonialism, and the silencing of the poor. But the cross in Philippians is not a symbol of power asserting itself. It is the symbol of power refusing to assert itself, choosing vulnerability instead, choosing solidarity with those at the bottom instead of identification with those at the top.

Fascism, at its core, is a theology of grasping. It says that certain people are entitled to power, to land, to security, to belonging, and others are not. It enforces that hierarchy through fear, through spectacle, through the deliberate humiliation of those designated as lesser. The Philippians hymn names that as the precise opposite of the mind of Christ.

The call of this text is not merely to admire what Jesus did. It is to have this mind among yourselves, as Paul says in the verse just before this passage. We are called to empty ourselves of grasping, to move toward the servant form, to resist the constant temptation to secure our own comfort and safety by accepting the vulnerability of those around us as an acceptable cost.

Matthew 26-27: The Mechanics of Empire

Pilate said to them, ‘Then what shall I do with Jesus who is called Christ?’ They all said, ‘Let him be crucified!’ And he said, ‘Why? What evil has he done?’ But they shouted all the more, ‘Let him be crucified!’  —Matthew 27:22-23 (ESV)

Matthew’s Passion narrative is long, and it rewards slow reading. But for the purposes of this reflection, I want to draw attention to something that is easy to miss when we know how the story ends: the extraordinary ordinariness of what happens.

Jesus is betrayed by an insider for money. He is arrested with a show of force in the middle of the night. He is subjected to a trial before a religious tribunal that has already decided the verdict. He is handed to a political authority who knows he is innocent but is more concerned with managing the crowd than doing what is right. The crowd, manipulated by those with a stake in the outcome, is moved to demand a death they would not have demanded on their own. A convicted insurrectionist goes free. The innocent one is condemned. The soldiers mock him, dress him up, beat him, and march him to an execution that is also a spectacle, a public demonstration of what happens to those who challenge the order.

None of this is extraordinary. It is the ordinary machinery of empire and of every authoritarian system that has come since. The overnight arrest. The show trial. The compliant official who privately knows better but chooses his career over his conscience. The crowd worked into a frenzy. The scapegoat. The spectacle of violence as a warning to others.

We are watching versions of this machinery operate in the United States right now. People are being detained without adequate legal process. Immigration courts are processing cases at a pace that makes genuine due process impossible. Officials who know that what is happening is wrong are, too often, choosing their positions over their principles. And the public is being offered a steady stream of chosen enemies, people designated as threats, to absorb collective fear and anger and justify the expansion of power.

Matthew does not let us watch this as neutral observers. He gives us a cast of characters, and each of them demands a question of us. The disciples who fled: where do we flee when following costs too much? Judas, who handed over an innocent person for thirty pieces of silver: what are we willing to hand over, and for what price? Pilate, who washed his hands: in what ways are we washing our hands of responsibility right now? The women who stayed at the cross: who among us has the courage to stay?

The Women Who Stayed

There were also many women there, looking on from a distance, who had followed Jesus from Galilee, ministering to him, among whom were Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of James and Joseph and the mother of the sons of Zebedee.  —Matthew 27:55-56 (ESV)

At the end of the Passion narrative, almost everyone is gone. The disciples have fled. Peter has denied him three times. Judas is dead. The crowds have dispersed. And in the distance, watching, are the women.

They are not named until this moment, but Matthew tells us they had been there all along, following from Galilee, ministering to Jesus throughout his public life. They are there at the cross. They will be at the tomb. They will be the first witnesses of the resurrection. The ones who stayed at the end are the ones who will carry the beginning of the new thing.

In the present moment of crisis for immigrant communities in this country, it is worth asking: who is staying? Who is standing at the place of suffering, not from a distance, but close enough to witness? Who is accompanying the families being torn apart, the communities living in fear, the people who have been told by every lever of power that they do not belong?

At Saint Francis Parish and Outreach, we have said clearly that we will not look away. Our commitment to standing with immigrants is not a political position. It is a Gospel position. It is the position of the women at the cross. We are called to be present at the place of suffering and to carry what we see there into whatever comes next.

A Word About Fascism and the Faith

I want to say something directly, because Palm Sunday invites directness.

Fascism is incompatible with Christian faith. Not because Christians are required to hold any particular political affiliation, but because fascism, as a movement and as a governing philosophy, is built on the opposite of everything the Philippians hymn names as the mind of Christ. It grasps. It dominates. It scapegoats. It silences. It humiliates. It makes spectacle of suffering. It demands loyalty oaths to persons rather than principles. It tells the powerful that their power is deserved and tells the vulnerable that their suffering is their own fault.

Jesus was executed by a version of that system. The early Church was persecuted by it. The saints and martyrs of every century have resisted it. And the Church, when it has been faithful to its own Gospel, has always known that the cross stands against the logic of empire, not alongside it.

When we stand with immigrants, when we name cruelty as cruelty, when we refuse to be silent about what is happening to vulnerable people in this country, we are not departing from the faith. We are practicing it. We are standing at the cross. We are among the women who stayed.

We enter Holy Week carrying all of this with us. The suffering of our neighbors is real. The machinery grinding against vulnerable people is real. And the God who raised Jesus from the dead is also real. We do not rush past the death to get to the resurrection. We stay in it, all the way through, because the people we stand with do not have the option of looking away. Neither do we.

Pax et Bonum,

Bishop Greer

Come Out.

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We are one week from Holy Week, and the readings this Sunday are not subtle about where we are. Three of the four texts are steeped in death. Ezekiel speaks to graves. The psalmist cries from the depths. Mary and Martha are in mourning. Lazarus has been in the tomb for four days. The whole liturgy this Sunday smells like grief.

And yet. Into every one of these scenes, God speaks a word that reorders everything.

The Fifth Sunday of Lent is sometimes called Passion Sunday in older traditions, and it carries a weight that the earlier weeks do not. We are deep enough into Lent that the cross is no longer a far-off theological concept. It is close now. The world that killed Lazarus is the same world that will, within days, kill Jesus. And the readings invite us to ask: what does resurrection mean for us when the dying is real, the grief is real, and the tomb has been sealed for days?

That is not an abstract question in the United States in the spring of 2026.

Ezekiel 37:12-14: I Will Open Your Graves

Thus says the Lord God: Behold, I will open your graves and raise you from your graves, O my people. And I will bring you into the land of Israel. And you shall know that I am the Lord, when I open your graves, and raise you from your graves, O my people.  —Ezekiel 37:12-13 (ESV)

Ezekiel’s vision of the valley of dry bones is one of the most striking images in all of scripture. The prophet stands in a field of death and is asked: can these bones live? The honest, human answer is: I do not know. Only you know, Lord. And then the breath comes.

The context matters enormously. These are not strangers in the valley. These are the people of Israel in exile, a community that has been dispersed, defeated, separated from everything that gave them identity and belonging. They have begun to believe the lie that their situation is permanent. We are cut off, they say. Our bones are dried up. Our hope is lost.

The lie of permanence is one of the most effective tools of systems that want to maintain control. When communities are beaten down long enough, they begin to internalize the message that this is simply how things are. That resistance is futile. That hope is for people who have not yet learned better.

We are watching this play out in our own country. Immigrant communities that have lived here for decades are being told, systematically, that they do not belong here and never did. Poor communities that have been underserved for generations are being told that cuts to healthcare, housing, and education are inevitable and necessary. LGBTQIA+ people are watching rights that were hard-won over decades be stripped back, state by state. Marginalized communities are being told, in a hundred ways, to stop hoping.

Into that very message, God speaks through Ezekiel. I will open your graves. Not maybe. Not if you deserve it. Not eventually, when circumstances allow. I will. The verb is declarative and divine. The God who raised dry bones in a field of death is not done speaking resurrection into places where hope has been declared dead.

Psalm 130: Out of the Depths

Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord! O Lord, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my pleas for mercy!  —Psalm 130:1-2 (ESV)

Psalm 130 is one of the great De Profundis psalms, a cry from the very bottom. The psalmist does not pretend to be anywhere other than where they are. There is no spiritual bypass here, no reassurance that things are not really that bad. The depths are real. The cry is raw. And it is directed fully, completely, without filter, at God.

One of the gifts of the Psalms is that they model for us what honest prayer looks like. We live in a moment when there is enormous pressure, even inside the Church, to perform a kind of relentless optimism. To always lead with gratitude. To not linger in lament because it might seem like a lack of faith.

But lament is faith. Crying out from the depths is an act of trust that there is someone to hear you. The psalmist does not cry into an empty sky; they cry to the Lord who is attentive, who leans in, who listens for the voice of our pleas for mercy.

If you are carrying depths right now, this psalm is your permission to name them to God without dressing them up first. If you are ministering to others who are in the depths, this psalm is your reminder that accompanying someone in lament is not a failure of pastoral care. It is itself a form of resurrection work.

There is a waiting in this psalm too. The psalmist waits for the Lord more than the watchman waits for the morning. Anyone who has sat with a dying loved one, or held vigil through a long night of uncertainty, or waited for a phone call that would change everything, knows what that watching feels like. The Church is called to keep that vigil with people. To stay in the depth with those who cannot yet climb out.

Romans 8:8-11: The Spirit That Raised Jesus Dwells in You

If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through his Spirit who dwells in you.  —Romans 8:11 (ESV)

Paul’s letter to the Romans is doing something theologically bold here. He is not talking about resurrection as a future event that will happen to us after we die. He is saying that the same Spirit that raised Jesus is already living in you. Right now. In your mortal body. In the body that gets tired and sick and afraid.

That is a radical claim with radical implications. It means the resurrection power of God is not located somewhere else, held in reserve for another time. It is present. It is here. It is at work in the lives of ordinary people who have been filled with the Spirit of the living God.

In the face of everything that is bearing down on vulnerable communities in this country, that word is either delusional or it is the most important thing we can say. We do not choose to believe it because everything looks fine. We choose to believe it precisely because things do not look fine, and yet we have staked our lives on the claim that death does not get the final word.

That faith is not passive. The Spirit that dwells in us is not a quiet interior feeling. It is the same Spirit that animated the prophets, that drove Jesus to table fellowship with the excluded, that emboldened the early Church to share everything they had. When Paul says that Spirit lives in you, he is also saying: then live accordingly. Move accordingly. Speak accordingly. Love accordingly.

John 11: Lazarus, Come Out

When he had said these things, he cried out with a loud voice, ‘Lazarus, come out.’ The man who had died came out, his hands and feet bound with linen strips, and his face wrapped with a cloth. Jesus said to them, ‘Unbind him, and let him go.’  —John 11:43-44 (ESV)

The story of Lazarus is so familiar to many of us that we can skim past how strange and disorienting it actually is. Mary and Martha sent word to Jesus that their brother was dying. Jesus waited. By the time he arrived, Lazarus had been dead for four days. Martha meets him on the road and says, plainly, Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. That is not a gentle greeting. That is grief with an edge of accusation.

Jesus does not rebuke her for it. He does not explain himself. He asks to be taken to the tomb, and when he sees Mary weeping and the community weeping with her, the text says something remarkable: Jesus wept. The shortest verse in the Bible is also one of the most theologically dense. The one who is about to undo death stops and cries. He does not rush past the grief to get to the miracle. He stands in it. He honors it. He weeps with those who weep.

Then he calls Lazarus out.

Notice the command carefully. Jesus does not say come back or return or be restored. He says come out. There is a directional quality to this word, a calling forward from death into something new, not a return to what was before. Lazarus emerges from the tomb still wrapped in burial cloths, still bound, and Jesus says to the community around him: unbind him, and let him go.

This detail is worth sitting with. The miracle of resurrection is not the end of the work. The community still has a role. Lazarus is alive, but he is still bound. The work of unbinding is given to the people standing there. That is not incidental. It is a direct commission.

We are a people who have been commissioned to unbind. We encounter people all around us who are alive, who have survived things that should have killed them, who are here and breathing and present, but who are still wrapped in the grave clothes of what has been done to them. The trauma of detention and deportation. The weight of poverty and housing insecurity. The binding of shame that the Church itself has placed on LGBTQIA+ people. The burial cloths of systemic racism and the lies we have told each other about who deserves to flourish.

Resurrection is not complete when someone survives. Resurrection is complete when the community does the work of unbinding.

A Pastoral Word for This Week

We stand one week before Holy Week begins. The path from here goes through betrayal and trial and execution before it reaches the empty tomb. Do not let anyone tell you that faith means skipping that part. The death is real. The grief is real. The weeping at the graveside is real.

And the voice that calls us out is real.

For those among us who are sitting with your own graves right now, your own dried bones, your own depths from which you are crying out: you are not beyond the reach of the God who raised Lazarus. Your hope is not foolish. Your waiting is not wasted.

For those among us who are standing near someone else’s tomb, who are in the position of Mary and Martha, watching someone we love wrapped in what feels like a permanent ending: Jesus asks to be brought to the place of grief. He does not wait at a comfortable distance. Bring him there. Stay there. Weep.

And then, when the voice comes that calls the bound and the buried into new life, let us be ready to do what the community at Bethany was told to do.

Unbind them. And let them go.

Pax et Bonum,

Bishop Greer

Who Are We Refusing to See?

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Something is happening in this country that the Church cannot ignore, and this Sunday’s readings will not let us look away. The Fourth Sunday of Lent confronts us with one of the most penetrating questions in all of scripture: who, exactly, is the one who cannot see?

In John 9, a man who has been blind from birth is healed by Jesus. You would expect that to be cause for celebration all around. Instead, what follows is a long, painful scene of interrogation, denial, and ultimately expulsion. The man who now sees is cast out. And the religious leaders who witness the miracle dig in deeper and deeper into their refusal to accept what is right in front of them. By the end of the chapter, Jesus says something that cuts to the bone: those who claim to see are the ones who remain in their blindness.

That is not ancient history. That is a mirror held up to us right now.

Laetare Sunday: Joy in the Middle of the Journey

Before we get into the hard word this text has for our current moment, it is worth pausing on something beautiful. The Fourth Sunday of Lent is traditionally called Laetare Sunday, from the Latin word for “rejoice.” We are halfway through our Lenten journey, and the Church offers us a breath of relief and hope. Some traditions even allow rose-colored vestments instead of purple, a small burst of light in the penitential season.

Laetare Sunday does not mean we set the hard things aside. It means we face them from a place of hope rather than despair. The joy of Laetare is not the shallow joy of pretending everything is fine. It is the deeper joy of people who trust that light will ultimately overcome darkness, even when the darkness feels very thick right now.

And the darkness does feel thick.

1 Samuel 16: God Looks at the Heart

For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.  —1 Samuel 16:7 (ESV)

Samuel arrives at the house of Jesse to anoint the next king of Israel. One by one, the tall, strong, impressive sons pass before him. One by one, God says no. The son who will be chosen is the one nobody thought to bring in from the field. He is the youngest, the smallest in stature, and the overlooked one. He is David.

In the United States in 2026, we are living through a season when a great deal of political and cultural energy is devoted to sorting people by outward markers. Citizenship papers. Country of origin. How someone speaks. Where they worship. Who they love. These surface-level criteria are being used to determine who belongs, who has value, and who deserves to be seen and heard.

The Word of God cuts against every one of those calculations. God looks at the heart. That standard does not bend for nationalism or political convenience. The undocumented farmworker laboring in the fields of Georgia has a heart. The asylum seeker detained at a border facility has a heart. The unhoused veteran sleeping under a bridge here in Augusta has a heart. The God who passed over Jesse’s impressive sons to find the shepherd boy in the field is still looking past our metrics and seeing people we have trained ourselves not to see.

Psalm 23: The Shepherd Who Does Not Abandon

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.  —Psalm 23:4 (ESV)

Psalm 23 is one of the most beloved passages in all of scripture, and on this Laetare Sunday it lands with particular weight. This is a psalm for people who are in the valley. Not people who have escaped it or who are safely on the other side, but people who are walking through it right now.

There are valleys all across this country. There are families in the valley of fear, uncertain whether a knock at the door will separate them from their children. There are communities in the valley of grief, mourning neighbors who have been taken away. There are people in the valley of hunger, of illness without care, and of loneliness and rejection.

The Psalm does not promise an escape from the valley. It promises a presence in it. The Lord walks with those who are walking through the darkest places. That is not a passive comfort. For us as the Church, it is a call. If the Lord is present with those in the valley, then so should we be.

Ephesians 5:8-14: Wake Up and Walk in the Light

For at one time you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light (for the fruit of light is found in all that is good and right and true). —Ephesians 5:8-9 (ESV)

Paul’s letter to the Ephesians doesn’t mince words. Once we were darkness. Not just in the dark, but darkness itself. And by the grace of God, that has been transformed. We are now called to be light. And light, Paul says, has a very specific kind of fruit: goodness, righteousness, and truth.

Those three words are a direct challenge to the cultural moment we are in. Goodness pushes back against cruelty. Righteousness pushes back against the corruption of power. Truth pushes back against the steady erosion of facts that we have been watching unfold in public life.

Paul also says something remarkable at the end of this passage: everything exposed by the light becomes visible. There is a purifying, revealing quality to living in the light. One of the most important things the Church can do right now is refuse to look away. Refuse to normalize what is not normal. Refuse to stay comfortable while others suffer. The light is not meant to stay in the sanctuary. It is meant to shine on everything.

John 9: The Man Born Blind, and the People Who Refused to See

Jesus heard that they had cast him out, and having found him, he said, ‘…Do you believe in the Son of Man?…’ He said, ‘Lord, I believe,’ and he worshiped him. —John 9:35, 38 (ESV)

This is the longest healing story in the Gospel of John, and the healing itself is almost a footnote. The real drama is about perception, denial, and the cost of telling the truth.

A man blind from birth receives his sight. His neighbors are confused. The Pharisees are troubled because the healing happened on the Sabbath. They interrogate the man, then interrogate his parents, who are afraid and deflect. The man himself is brought back for a second round of questioning, and when he refuses to deny what happened to him, when he names the obvious truth plainly, he is thrown out.

Notice what is happening here. A person who was always on the margins, who had been cast as a symbol of sin and misfortune, encounters the mercy of God and is made whole. And the institutional response is to protect its own authority rather than celebrate the miracle. The leaders are not neutral observers who simply got things wrong. They are actively invested in a narrative that Jesus cannot be from God, and they will discard a real human being in order to protect that narrative.

Look around. We can see this pattern clearly. People whose humanity is inconvenient to a preferred story are dismissed, dehumanized, or disappeared. Immigrants who have lived and worked and raised families here for decades are cast out. LGBTQIA+ young people are told by their own families and communities that they do not belong. People experiencing homelessness are criminalized for the act of existing in public. In every case, a real human being is made into a problem to be managed rather than a person to be loved.

Jesus does not let the man stay cast out. He goes and finds him. That small detail is one of the most important things in this entire story. The one who was expelled, interrogated, and abandoned is the one Jesus deliberately seeks out. There is a pastoral model here that Saint Francis Parish and Outreach takes seriously. We do not wait for the expelled and the cast-out to find us. We go and find them.

A Word Directly for Our Parish

Saint Francis of Assisi is our patron for a reason. Francis was himself a man who learned to see differently. Once he saw only wealth and status; then he encountered a leper on the road and could not look away. That encounter changed everything. The ministry of this parish carries that same DNA.

Lent is a season for honest reckoning. So let us ask ourselves plainly: who are we not seeing? Who sits in the margins of our community, waiting to be noticed? Who has been cast out by another church, another family, another institution, and is watching from a distance to see whether we are safe?

And let us ask something harder: are there ways in which we ourselves have been the ones who refuse to see? Are there comforts we are clinging to that require us not to look too closely at the suffering around us? Are there stories we have accepted uncritically because accepting a harder truth would cost us something?

The Fourth Sunday of Lent does not let us stay comfortable. But it holds out this Laetare joy: transformation is real. The man born blind received his sight. Samuel found the shepherd boy in the field. The Lord walks with us through the darkest valleys. And the light, Paul promises, is fruitful.

May we walk as children of light this week, in all that is good and right and true.

Pax et Bonum,

Bishop Greer

Living Water, Hard Hearts, and the Courage to Resist Fascism

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The Roman Catholic Lectionary readings for the Third Sunday of Lent place us at a well at noon, in the wilderness with no water, and in the heart of God’s love poured out for the weak. They are not “safe” readings. They confront a question that keeps repeating in Scripture and in public life: When people are thirsty, afraid, and pressured, will we harden our hearts, or will we turn toward God and toward one another?

Water from the rock, and the temptation to cynicism

In Exodus, the people have a real need. “There was no water for the people to drink” (Exodus 17:1, ESV). Their thirst becomes accusation, then rage, then a dangerous question: “Is the LORD among us or not?” (Exodus 17:7, ESV). That question is not only ancient. It is modern. When a country is anxious, when systems fail, and when leaders want an easy target, the crowd is often invited to turn on the vulnerable rather than confront the truth. That is how scapegoating works, and it is one of the oldest political tricks in the world. Christians should recognize it instantly because Exodus names it with painful honesty.

We are living through a season in the United States where public life is saturated with grievance, suspicion, and an appetite for someone to blame. Immigrants are often treated as a useful “problem” to perform outrage against, rather than as human beings with dignity and stories. Exodus reminds us that fear can make people cruel, but it also shows God’s response: God provides water, and God stays present even when the people are faithless. That does not excuse sin, but it does expose the lie that cruelty is necessary for survival.

“Give me a drink” and the politics of contempt

The Gospel is John 4, Jesus and the Samaritan woman. Jesus begins with a request, not a demand: “Give me a drink” (John 4:7, ESV). He crosses a boundary that His disciples would rather avoid. He speaks to a person his society has trained him to dismiss. He treats her as fully human, spiritually serious, and capable of receiving God. Then He offers what no empire can offer: “living water” that becomes “a spring of water welling up to eternal life” (John 4:10, 14, ESV).

This matters for our current moment because authoritarian movements always rely on contempt. They rely on dividing the world into “us” and “them,” and then slowly shrinking who counts as “us.” Jesus does the opposite. He widens the circle. He tells the truth about the woman’s life without humiliating her. He refuses to treat her as a stereotype. He reveals Himself to her with stunning directness: “I who speak to you am he” (John 4:26, ESV). A church that follows this Jesus cannot join the dehumanization of immigrants, refugees, or any group a society labels “inconvenient.”

John’s Gospel also shows the social effect of dignity. The woman becomes a witness. She tells the truth about her encounter, and her whole town begins to move toward Christ. “Many Samaritans from that town believed in him because of the woman’s testimony” (John 4:39, ESV). That is what happens when people are treated as neighbors rather than threats. Fear loses its grip. Hope spreads.

“God shows his love” and what Christians owe the vulnerable

Romans 5 grounds everything in grace. “While we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly” (Romans 5:6, ESV). This is not a sentimental slogan. It is a moral foundation. If God loved us while we were weak, we do not get to despise weakness in others. If God moved toward us when we did not deserve it, we do not get to build a society that only values people who are “useful.” “God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8, ESV).

When immigration becomes a political weapon, the Christian response cannot be apathy or performative neutrality. The Roman Catholic USCCB teaching resource on immigration explicitly grounds the Church’s concern in Scripture and in human dignity, and it argues that basic human rights do not disappear because of legal status. It also warns against inhumane treatment and calls for policy shaped by justice, mercy, and the common good. Whether or not we share Roman Catholic jurisdiction, those moral claims match the heart of the biblical witness.

Standing against fascism as a Christian discipline

Lent is training, not theater. One of the disciplines Lent trains in us is moral clarity. Fascism, in practice, is not only a label. It is a pattern: scapegoating, propaganda, coercion, contempt for truth, and the use of state power to punish or exclude targeted groups. Christians resist this not by becoming partisan machines, but by refusing the spiritual logic underneath it. We refuse contempt. We refuse lies. We refuse to surrender the dignity of the vulnerable for the comfort of the majority.

It is worth remembering that the Roman Catholic USCCB’s First Freedom Blog explicitly notes the Church’s historical wounds from state authoritarianism “ranging from Communism to fascism,” and it describes how the machinery of the state has been used brutally against minorities. The point is not nostalgia. The point is vigilance and the courage to say “no” when coercion is normalized.

A parish response for this week

This week, the Scriptures invite a specific kind of repentance. Ask where you are tempted to harden, to reduce people to categories, or to join contempt because it feels safe.

  • Pray with Exodus 17 and name your own wilderness question honestly before God.
  • Pray with John 4 and ask Christ to show you the person you have been trained not to see.
  • Pray with Romans 5 and ask God to make your love sturdier than your fear.

Then take one concrete step. Learn an immigrant family’s story. Support a ministry that provides legal, food, housing, or medical assistance. Refuse to repeat dehumanizing speech, even when it is popular. Be the kind of Christian who offers living water in a thirsty time.

May the Holy Spirit soften what has become hard in us, and may our parish become a well in the desert for those who are tired, targeted, and afraid.

Pax et Bonum,

Bishop Greer

Seeing Clearly, Walking Faithfully, Standing with the Vulnerable

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Lent is not only a season of self-examination; it is a season of reorientation. God calls us again to see what is real, to choose what is righteous, and to walk forward even when the path is uncertain. The Second Sunday of Lent in Year A gives us four readings that belong together like a single spiritual map: God calls Abram to go; God’s word is upright and faithful; the Gospel calls us to suffer for truth without shame; and on the mountain, the Father commands us to listen to His Son.

1) “Go… to the land that I will show you” — Faith that moves

God’s call to Abram is not a request for agreement; it is a command to move. “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you” (Genesis 12:1, ESV). Abram is asked to step into vulnerability, leaving what is familiar, trusting that God’s promise is sturdier than his fear. That is the core spiritual posture of Lent: letting God lead us out of the small, defended life and into the life of faith.

Read that again slowly: to the land that I will show you. Abram does not get the whole plan. He gets the next obedient step. For many in our nation right now, especially immigrants, refugees, and families living under instability, life feels exactly like that: forced movement, uncertainty, exposure, and the ache of not knowing what is next. The Church cannot read Genesis 12 honestly while treating modern displaced people as a nuisance or a threat. This is sacred territory. God meets people on the move.

2) “He loves righteousness and justice” — The character of God

Psalm 33 tells us something essential about who God is: “He loves righteousness and justice; the earth is full of the steadfast love of the LORD” (Psalm 33:5, ESV). This is not sentimental love; it is steadfast love, love that holds, protects, and persists. And it is paired with righteousness and justice. In other words, God’s love is not indifferent to what crushes human dignity.

This matters for how we interpret what is happening in our country today. When public life becomes saturated with contempt, scapegoating, and the casual dehumanization of whole groups of people, Christians cannot shrug and call it “just politics.” We are accountable to a God who loves righteousness and justice. A society can normalize cruelty, but the Gospel never will.

3) “Share in suffering for the gospel” — Courage without shame

St. Paul tells us plainly: “Do not be ashamed of the testimony about our Lord… but share in suffering for the gospel by the power of God” (2 Timothy 1:8, ESV). Lent is not a season for quiet moral compromise; it is a season for brave fidelity. Faithful Christians do not go looking for conflict, but neither do we purchase peace by surrendering the vulnerable.

There are moments when “not being ashamed” means refusing to join the laughter when someone is degraded; refusing to repeat lies that harm neighbors; refusing to treat immigrants as disposable; refusing to baptize cruelty as “strength.” Sometimes it also means accepting that following Christ will cost us social comfort, because the Gospel will never fully harmonize with a culture addicted to domination.

4) “This is my beloved Son… listen to him” — The mountain that sends us back down

In the Gospel of the Transfiguration, the disciples see Christ in glory, and then they are told what to do with that vision: listen. “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased; listen to him” (Matthew 17:5, ESV). The point of the mountain is not escape. The point of the mountain is clarity, so we can go back down and live differently.

When our country is noisy, when propaganda and outrage cycles train hearts to fear and hate, the Church must become a community that practices listening: listening to Christ, and listening to the real stories of real people. If we listen to Jesus, we will be unable to reconcile Christian discipleship with contempt for the stranger. We will also be unable to reconcile discipleship with any political impulse that treats people as enemies to be eliminated rather than neighbors to be loved.

Immigration: Christian conviction, not a hobby

The Roman Catholic USCCB teaching resource on immigration grounds its position in Scripture and human dignity, and it explicitly argues that basic human rights do not disappear because of legal status. It warns against inhumane treatment and insists that policy must be governed by mercy, justice, and the common good, not self-interest.

So when immigration becomes a tool for fear-based politics, when people are described as less than human, when whole communities live under threat, when the vulnerable are used as a public example, Christians are not permitted to look away. Lent calls us to repent not only of private sins, but also of public apathy.

Standing against fascism: resisting the spiritual logic of domination

To be clear: the Church is not a political party. But the Church does have a moral duty to recognize and resist the sins that corrupt public life, especially when governments or movements drift toward authoritarian control, scapegoating, and the suppression of human dignity.

The Roman Catholic USCCB’s First Freedom Blog reflects on the Church’s historical experience under “State authoritarianism ranging from Communism to fascism,” describing how the machinery of the state has been used brutally against minorities. The point is not to win an argument; it is to remember that Christians have a moral obligation to resist coercion, dehumanization, and the misuse of state power.

Standing against fascism is not about slogans. It is about refusing the spiritual logic that always feeds it: the worship of power, the love of cruelty, the exaltation of one group’s dignity at the expense of another’s humanity, and the claim that some people can be pushed outside the circle of moral concern. Lent exposes those temptations for what they are: forms of idolatry.

What this parish is choosing this Lent

At Saint Francis Parish & Outreach, we are choosing to stand with immigrants and the downtrodden not as a fashionable cause, but as a concrete act of Christian discipleship. This week, consider one faithful step that matches the readings:

  • Read Genesis 12 and ask God where you need courage to “go.”
  • Read the Roman Catholic USCCB resource on immigration and discuss it with your household.
  • Practice “listening to Him” by fasting from contempt: no dehumanizing language, no sharing misinformation, no entertainment built on humiliation.
  • Choose one action of mercy: give, volunteer, or advocate locally, especially for families and newcomers who are vulnerable.

May the God who calls us out of fear and into promise transfigure our parish into a community that sees clearly, speaks truthfully, and loves courageously, until the glory we glimpse on the mountain becomes mercy we practice in the valley.

Pax et Bonum,

Bishop Greer

When the Devil Offers You the World

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The First Sunday of Lent always begins in the wilderness. That is not an accident. Before Jesus begins His public ministry, before He heals anyone or preaches a single Beatitude, He goes into the desert—alone, hungry, and vulnerable—and He faces the oldest temptation in the human story: the temptation to use power without love, to grasp what belongs to God, and to worship something other than the God who made us.

The readings this Sunday carry that thread from beginning to end. Genesis 2:7–9; 3:1–7 gives us the primal scene: a man and a woman, a garden, a serpent, and a choice. The serpent does not come with threats—it comes with a reasonable-sounding argument. “Did God really say…?” It introduces doubt, then desire, then a grasping at something that was never theirs to take. And in that grasping, something is lost—not just innocence, but relationship. The intimacy of the garden fractures. They hide.

Paul’s letter to the Romans (Romans 5:12–19) names what that fracture cost: “Through one man sin entered the world, and through sin, death.” But Paul does not stop there—and neither does the Gospel. Because what Adam lost, Christ restored. “Through the obedience of the one, the many will be made righteous.” The whole arc of Lent moves from that first disobedience toward the obedience of the Cross: the One who did not grasp at equality with God, but emptied Himself—and in emptying Himself, filled the world with grace.

And then the Gospel (Matthew 4:1–11). Jesus, driven by the Spirit into the desert, is tempted three times—and three times He refuses. Turn stones into bread (use Your power for Yourself). Throw Yourself from the temple (test God for spectacle). Accept all the kingdoms of the world (worship me and I will give you dominion). Every one of these temptations is a version of the same offer: skip the Cross, take the shortcut, grasp the power. Jesus answers every single one with Scripture, with truth, and with a refusal to worship anything other than the living God.

Why These Readings Speak Directly to This Moment

I want to be honest with you this Lent—as honest as I know how to be. We are living in a moment when the temptations Jesus faced in the desert are not abstract theology. They are being acted out, at scale, in the public life of our nation.

We are watching the temptation to turn power into bread for some and stones for everyone else—to use the levers of government not for the common good, but to reward the powerful and punish the vulnerable.

We are watching the temptation to spectacle: governance by performance, cruelty as entertainment, the degradation of persons staged for applause.

And we are watching the temptation to empire: “All these kingdoms I will give you, if you bow down and worship me.” What does it mean when a nation begins to organize itself around the logic of domination—around the humiliation of the poor, the expulsion of the stranger, the silencing of dissent, and the concentration of power in fewer and fewer hands? The Church has a word for that. History has a word for that. And that word is fascism.

I do not use that word lightly, and I do not use it as a slogan. I use it precisely because the Catholic tradition demands that we name what we see clearly—and that we resist it courageously. Roman Catholic Cardinal Joseph Tobin, Archbishop of Newark, quoted a 1936 Italian novel about resisting fascism just days ago, reminding us that the Church has been here before and that the saints who stood against authoritarian cruelty paid a real price for doing so. The Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Chicago’s Archbishop recently wrote: “As pastors entrusted with the teaching of our people, we cannot stand by while dehumanizing policies are carried out in our name.”

That is the voice of the Church at its best. That is the voice of Lent.

Standing with Immigrants: This Is Not Political. It Is Baptismal.

Our Lenten theme this year is Standing with Immigrants—and I want you to understand why that theme is not a political position. It is a baptismal one.

The Roman Catholic USCCB’s pastoral statement Welcoming the Stranger Among Us is unambiguous: “Every person has basic human rights and is entitled to have basic human needs met—food, shelter, clothing, education, and health care. Before God we cannot excuse inhumane treatment of certain persons by claiming that their lack of legal status deprives them of rights given by the Creator.”

Leviticus commands Israel—from their own experience of displacement—to treat the alien “no differently than the natives born among you.” Matthew’s Gospel begins with the Holy Family as refugees fleeing a paranoid king. Jesus Himself says: “I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” The Apostle Paul declares that before God “there is neither Jew nor Greek… for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28). This is not the progressive wing of Christianity. This is the constant, ancient, universal teaching of the Church.

When families are separated at the border, when people are ripped from their communities and placed in detention, when immigrants live in fear of being swept up in raids—that is not a policy disagreement. That is an assault on human dignity. And when the Church is silent, it becomes complicit. Saint Francis Parish and Outreach will not be silent.

What Lent Asks of Us This Year

Lent is not a spiritual retreat from the world. It is a training ground for loving the world more faithfully. The three ancient disciplines of Lent—prayer, fasting, and almsgiving—are not private exercises; they are the practices of people who are being formed to resist the temptations Jesus refused in the desert.

When we pray, we reorient our allegiance. We remember that our ultimate loyalty is not to any political party, any nation-state, or any ideology—but to the God who made every human being in His image and likeness. Prayer is an act of resistance against the idolatry of power.

When we fast, we practice the freedom that comes from not needing what the world offers. We loosen the grip of comfort, consumption, and fear. We make room in ourselves for the hunger of others—and we are less easily manipulated by those who would exploit our anxiety.

When we give, we embody the truth that the goods of the earth belong to all people, not only to those with legal status, property, or power. We stand with the poor not as a charitable gesture but as a statement of solidarity: your life matters, your dignity is non-negotiable, and we are with you.

A Word to the Parish

I love this community. I love who we are becoming together—a parish that takes worship seriously and takes the world seriously, a community that prays on Sunday and shows up on Monday. This Lent, I am asking you to do three things:

Pray. Use the prayers from this Lenten series. Bring the names of immigrants, refugees, and the downtrodden into your daily prayer. Do not let them be abstractions. They are your neighbors, your coworkers, your fellow image-bearers of God.

Learn. Read the USCCB’s teaching on immigration. Read the saints who resisted authoritarianism. Read Pope Leo XIV’s statement that peace is built on respect and that only good can combat evil. Equip yourself with the tradition so that when you speak, you speak from the deep wells of the faith rather than the shallow pools of social media.

Act. Find one way—one concrete, particular, local way—to stand with someone who is vulnerable. Volunteer with an immigrant family. Write to your elected officials. Donate to an organization that serves refugees. Show up when the Church gathers to pray in solidarity. Do not wait for a perfect opportunity. Begin now, in the desert, with Jesus.

The wilderness is not the end of the story. It is the beginning. Jesus comes out of the desert into Galilee and begins to announce: “The Kingdom of God is at hand. Repent and believe the Good News.” That is our invitation too—to repent of the ways we have been silent, comfortable, or complicit, and to believe that the Kingdom Jesus proclaimed is worth standing for, even when it costs us something.

May this Lent make us people of the wilderness—hungry enough to hear God, honest enough to resist what is false, and courageous enough to stand beside those the world has pushed to the margins.

Pax et Bonum,

Bishop Greer

The Heart of the Matter: Faith That Becomes Integrity

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This Sunday’s Gospel begins with a clear statement from Jesus: He has not come to abolish the Law and the Prophets, but to fulfill them. And then He does something that can feel bracing: He moves the conversation from outward compliance to inward conversion—into anger, contempt, reconciliation, lust, fidelity, and honesty. The call is not merely “avoid the worst,” but “let God remake the heart so the whole life becomes truthful and loving.”

“You have heard it said… but I say to you…”

Jesus names the commandment against killing and then goes deeper: anger that hardens, words that wound, and contempt that treats someone as less than human. He speaks about fidelity and purity, and again He goes deeper than behavior alone—toward the inner life that slowly forms what we become. And when He reaches truthfulness, He gives one of the simplest, most demanding lines of all: “Let your ‘Yes’ mean ‘Yes’ and your ‘No’ mean ‘No.’” Christ is forming disciples whose lives don’t require spin, whose speech doesn’t manipulate, and whose relationships don’t survive on avoidance.

A pastoral reality: reconciliation is worship

One of the most striking instructions Jesus gives is this: if you come to the altar and remember a rupture with your brother or sister, go first and seek reconciliation, then return. He is not lowering the value of worship—He is protecting it from becoming a substitute for love. This matters for parish life because it means our faith is meant to show up in the way we repair, the way we apologize, and the way we refuse to let resentment become our identity. Reconciliation is not always quick, and it isn’t always safe to restore closeness immediately after harm. But the Gospel still calls us to begin where we can: prayer for the one we resist, refusal to rehearse contempt, and a first step toward peace when it is possible and prudent.

A current events examination of conscience

This Gospel is painfully relevant in a moment when outrage is rewarded, contempt spreads quickly online, and people are reduced to labels. Jesus’ teaching invites a sober question: what is forming my heart each day—news cycles, arguments, sarcasm, and doom-scrolling, or prayer, Scripture, and a deliberate practice of charity? If Christ is right that anger and contempt already distort the soul, then our discipleship must include how we speak about others, how we interpret motives, and how we treat people we disagree with—especially in public spaces where cruelty is normalized.

One simple practice for this week

Choose one concrete act of conversion that matches this Gospel’s direction—not someday, but this week:

  • Reach out to one person where there is tension (even with a small message: “Can we talk?”).
  • Make one honest apology without defending yourself.
  • Fast from contempt: no insults, no “dunking,” no degrading humor.
  • Practice clean truth: say what you mean, mean what you say, and let your yes be yes.

None of this is about moral perfection. It’s about letting Jesus do what He says He came to do: fulfill the Law by filling it with love, and make our lives coherent with the Kingdom.

Pax et Bonum,

Bishop Greer

Be Salt. Be Light. Be Human First.

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Some Sundays the lectionary feels like a theme. This Sunday it feels like a map.

Isaiah doesn’t start with lofty ideas. He starts with lunch. “Share your bread with the hungry… shelter the oppressed and the homeless… then your light shall break forth like the dawn.” (Isaiah 58:7–10) Jesus doesn’t soften it either: “You are the salt of the earth… You are the light of the world… your light must shine before others.” (Matthew 5:13–16)

So here’s the question the readings quietly hand us:
What does “light” look like in Augusta this week?

It looks like the reality behind the headlines: neighbors navigating tightened safety nets and rising costs. Local reporting has highlighted how changes to SNAP work requirements are creating fresh obstacles for vulnerable people, including those experiencing homelessness and veterans, while community organizations face growing demand and declining donations. The story names what many families already feel: housing costs, food costs, mental health barriers, and limited access don’t arrive one at a time; they stack.

And then the weather reminds us how quickly “policy” becomes “survival.” During a recent extreme cold snap, local nonprofits and community partners worked to get people into warming centers and hotel rooms when shelters were full or unsafe. One unhoused person was found dead outdoors. That detail is a bell you can’t unhear. When Jesus says a lamp isn’t lit to be hidden, he’s talking about moments exactly like this, when being seen, being safe, and being warm are not guaranteed.

This is where Psalm 112 feels like spiritual grounding instead of a nice poem: the just person is steady, generous, and not undone by bad news, not because they’re detached, but because they’re rooted. “Salt” is rarely dramatic. It’s faithful. It’s the small things that make life more livable. “Light” is often quiet. It’s a presence that says, You matter, you’re not invisible, and you’re not alone.

And if you’re reading all of this and thinking, “I want to help, but I don’t know what to say,” St. Paul steps in with relief: “I did not come with sublimity of words… I came in weakness and fear… so that your faith might rest not on human wisdom but on the power of God.” (1 Corinthians 2:1–5) The readings give us permission to stop waiting until we feel impressive. You can do mercy without a script. You can love people without a speech.

That’s one reason our parish’s Human First Outreach matters so much right now. This ministry focuses on providing food and toiletries to our homeless neighbors in Augusta, along with feminine hygiene supplies and pet food, and it explicitly calls volunteers into compassionate presence: engage people in a loving way, refrain from proselytizing, and listen deeply. That is “salt and light” with skin on.

And because “light” is also about clarity, especially when Christianity is used to harm, our Reclaiming the Cross Outreach exists to help “set the record straight on what the Bible says” about issues facing society today. Light isn’t weaponized. Light heals, reveals, and guides.

Even our longer recovery stories belong in these readings. Augusta continues to detail the ongoing cost and complexity of Hurricane Helene recovery, projects submitted for FEMA review, reimbursements still pending, infrastructure still being restored. This is what steady “Psalm 112” goodness looks like at a civic scale: persistence, remembrance, and rebuilding that lasts longer than the news cycle.

And at the one-year mark, the city held a remembrance of those lost while naming tangible progress and what remains under repair. Light doesn’t rush grief. Light keeps faith with it.

So the invitation this week is simple, but not small:

Let Isaiah’s “share your bread” become something you can hold in your hands.
Let Paul’s “not with persuasive words” free you from needing to be perfect.
Let Jesus’ “salt and light” become specific enough that someone’s day gets easier.

If you want a one-line practice for the week, try this:
Be the kind of light someone can feel before they can explain it.

Pax et Bonum,

Bishop Greer

Light in the Darkness, Courage in the Streets

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This Sunday’s readings move with a clear rhythm: God brings light where people are burdened, Christ calls us into a united community, and Jesus begins his public ministry by announcing a kingdom that touches real life. Isaiah declares that God breaks “the yoke… the bar… the rod of their oppressor” (Isaiah 9:1b–4). Paul pleads that the Church stop tearing itself into factions and be “knit together in the same mind and the same purpose” (1 Corinthians 1:10–13, 17). And Matthew shows Jesus stepping forward after John’s arrest, moving into Galilee, proclaiming repentance, calling disciples, teaching, and healing (Matthew 4:12–23). 

The Light that Breaks the Rod (Isaiah 9:1b–4)

Isaiah is not offering a vague spiritual comfort. He names concrete burdens and concrete powers: yokes, bars, rods. Then he announces God’s action: the oppressor’s tools are broken. This is what the “great light” looks like in Scripture. It is liberation. It is God’s refusal to accept domination as normal life. 

That promise is not just history. It is vocation. If we follow a God who breaks the rod of the oppressor, then our faith cannot stay politely silent when our neighbors’ dignity is threatened. Speaking truth to power is not about being loud. It is about being faithful. It is about telling the truth when lies are convenient for those in charge.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. put it with clarity that still convicts: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” (Letter from Birmingham Jail, April 16, 1963). 

Unity is not Uniformity, it is Christ (1 Corinthians 1:10–13, 17)

Paul’s warning to the Corinthians is painfully current. When a community starts saying “I belong to Paul,” “I belong to Apollos,” “I belong to Cephas,” it has replaced the Gospel with camps and brands. Paul’s question cuts through it: “Has Christ been divided?”

A church that speaks truth to power must also practice truth and love inside its own life. Unity does not mean avoiding hard conversations. Unity means we refuse to dehumanize each other. Unity means we do not let outrage become our identity. Unity means we center Christ, especially “the cross of Christ,” which Paul insists must not be emptied of its power (1 Corinthians 1:17).

Jesus begins where power does not look (Matthew 4:12–23)

Matthew is deliberate: Jesus begins preaching after John is arrested. Truth-telling has consequences. Then Jesus moves into Galilee, fulfilling Isaiah’s promise that people in darkness will see a great light. And what does that light do? Jesus calls ordinary workers into discipleship, proclaims good news, and heals bodies and communities. The kingdom is not an idea. It is a new social reality.

When Jesus says “Follow me,” he is not inviting us into comfort. He is inviting us into courage. Into public discipleship. Into a way of living that protects the vulnerable and challenges what crushes human beings.

Our calling in Augusta: speak truth to power and stand up for others

At Saint Francis Parish & Outreach, we are Old Catholic and Franciscan. That means we love the sacraments, the liturgy, and the deep roots of the Church. It also means we take seriously the Gospel’s demand for justice, mercy, and solidarity.

Speaking truth to power can look like telling the truth about systems that harm the poor. It can look like advocating for those targeted because of race, immigration status, disability, gender, or who they love. It can look like refusing to laugh along with cruelty. It can look like showing up at public meetings, writing letters, making calls, voting, accompanying neighbors to appointments, sharing resources, and creating safe community where people can breathe.

It also means we stand up for the rights of others even when it costs us socially, financially, or politically, because the Gospel is not about protecting our comfort. It is about protecting God’s beloved.

A Franciscan way to begin

St. Francis did not change the world by winning arguments. He changed the world by living the Gospel with his whole life. The Franciscan witness is persistent, concrete, and close to the ground: feed someone, visit someone, speak up, tell the truth, refuse violence, care for creation, practice joy, keep praying, keep showing up.

If you feel overwhelmed by the world’s darkness, Isaiah offers a promise and Jesus offers a path. The light has dawned. Now we walk in it.

Pax et Bonum,

Bishop Greer

Behold the Lamb of God: Our Call to Be Light in Troubled Times

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As an Old Catholic community rooted in the apostolic tradition yet responsive to the signs of our times, we gather this Second Sunday in Ordinary Time with hearts open to the Spirit’s movement in our world. The words of our Responsorial Psalm echo through our liturgy: “Here am I, Lord; I come to do your will.” These are words that honor both sacred tradition and prophetic courage.

In today’s Gospel, John the Baptist stands at the Jordan River and proclaims: “Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!” (John 1:29). This declaration transcends denominational boundaries and speaks to the universal human longing for redemption. In our Old Catholic tradition, we recognize that Christ’s saving work extends to all people, not limited by institutional walls or hierarchical decree.

This recognition—this beholding—calls us to engagement with the world as it is, not as we wish it were.

The World We See: January 2026

Brothers and sisters, faithful to the Old Catholic commitment to read the signs of the times with both theological depth and pastoral compassion, we observe our world with clear eyes:

Political authoritarianism and the abuse of power continue to threaten human dignity across the globe—from ongoing crises in Venezuela to questions of governance that subordinate human rights to political expediency. Our Old Catholic heritage, born from resistance to papal infallibility and centralized authority, sensitizes us to these dangers.

Violence against the marginalized persists in forms both dramatic and subtle. Recent incidents of state violence against immigrants, systemic racism, and economic exploitation remind us that institutional structures can become instruments of oppression rather than service.

Economic injustice widens the chasm between wealthy and poor, contradicting the biblical vision of jubilee and the patristic understanding of wealth as held in common stewardship.

Ecological devastation threatens the very fabric of creation, calling us back to the ancient Christian understanding of humanity’s priestly role in caring for God’s handiwork.

These realities demand more than pious platitudes. They require what the Declaration of Utrecht (1889) called for: a church that maintains “the ancient Catholic faith” while rejecting “every addition to the Creed.”

A Light to the Nations: The Old Catholic Witness

God speaks through Isaiah: “It is too light a thing that you should be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob and to restore the preserved of Israel; I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth” (Isaiah 49:6).

This universal vision resonates deeply with Old Catholic ecclesiology. We reject any notion that salvation is mediated exclusively through one institution or that God’s grace flows only through approved channels. The light of Christ illuminates all people of goodwill.

As Saint Francis Parish—an Old Catholic community in communion with the broader Catholic tradition yet independent in governance—we embody a particular witness:

We affirm episcopal authority rooted in collegiality, not monarchy
We celebrate the priesthood of all believers alongside ordained ministry
We welcome all to Christ’s table who seek Him in good faith
We honor tradition while embracing necessary reform
We recognize that conscience, properly formed, must be respected

The Old Catholic and Franciscan Response: Justice Grounded in Tradition

Our dual identity as Old Catholic and Franciscan gives us unique resources for responding to today’s crises:

1. Radical Inclusivity: The Table is Set for All

The Old Catholic movement emerged partly as a protest against exclusionary practices and centralized control. We believe Christ’s welcome extends beyond institutional boundaries:

  • Open communion reflects our conviction that Christ, not human gatekeepers, invites guests to His table
  • Full inclusion of women in ordained ministry recognizes the Spirit’s gifts distributed without regard to gender
  • Welcoming LGBTQ+ persons as beloved children of God, made in the divine image
  • Embracing divorced and remarried Catholics who seek full participation in sacramental life
  • Building genuine ecumenical relationships that respect theological differences while celebrating shared faith

This isn’t “watering down” the faith—it’s recovering the radical hospitality of the early church and the inclusive table fellowship of Jesus himself.

2. Synodal Governance and Lay Empowerment

Old Catholic polity rejects the monarchical episcopate in favor of synodal governance, with meaningful lay participation in decision-making. This model speaks prophetically to our moment:

  • Shared governance models an alternative to authoritarian political structures
  • Transparency and accountability demonstrate that power need not corrupt
  • Women’s leadership in all levels of church life challenges patriarchal systems
  • Parish autonomy balanced with communion shows unity-in-diversity is possible
  • Consultative processes honor the sensus fidelium—the sense of the faithful

When we practice collaborative leadership in our parish, we witness to a better way of organizing human community.

3. Franciscan Simplicity and Social Justice

Francis of Assisi’s radical commitment to poverty and peace complements Old Catholic social teaching:

Solidarity with the Poor:

  • Direct service through our outreach ministries, recognizing Christ in the distressing disguise of the poor
  • Advocacy for just wages and workers’ rights, continuing the legacy of Old Catholic support for labor movements
  • Housing justice in Augusta, addressing homelessness as a moral crisis
  • Immigration solidarity, offering sanctuary and advocacy for our undocumented neighbors

Peacemaking and Reconciliation:

  • Interfaith dialogue that builds genuine friendships across religious boundaries—continuing Francis’s example with the Sultan
  • Restorative justice rather than punitive responses to harm
  • Conflict transformation training for our community members
  • Active nonviolence as a spiritual discipline and political strategy

Care for Creation:

  • Ecological consciousness rooted in sacramental theology—all creation reveals the Creator
  • Environmental justice recognizing that the poor suffer first and most from ecological damage
  • Sustainable parish practices from energy use to purchasing decisions
  • Advocacy for climate action at local and national levels

4. Theological Depth and Intellectual Honesty

Old Catholicism values serious theological engagement, refusing false choices between faith and reason:

  • Critical biblical scholarship that honors Scripture’s authority while acknowledging its human dimensions
  • Historical consciousness about how doctrine develops in dialogue with culture
  • Ethical reasoning that engages philosophy, science, and human experience
  • Honest wrestling with difficult questions rather than authoritarian pronouncements
  • Academic freedom for theologians to explore and question

We don’t fear difficult questions because we trust that truth—including theological truth—emerges through honest inquiry, not coercive uniformity.

Called to Be Saints: The Universal Vocation

Saint Paul addresses the Corinthians as “called to be saints” (1 Corinthians 1:2)—not because of their moral perfection but because of their baptismal identity. This democratization of holiness is central to both Old Catholic and Franciscan spirituality.

You don’t need a hierarchy’s permission to be holy.
You don’t need institutional validation to live the Gospel.
You don’t need to wait for official approval to work for justice.

The Holy Spirit moves where She wills, empowering laypeople, women, and those on the margins to be instruments of transformation. Our Old Catholic ecclesiology affirms what experience confirms: God’s grace flows freely, constrained neither by canon law nor clerical control.

Practical Steps: Living the Old Catholic Vision

What does our Old Catholic and Franciscan identity mean practically?

  • Pray the Liturgy of the Hours in English, recovering this ancient practice for laypeople
  • Read Scripture with critical and devotional eyes—both historical context and personal application matter
  • Practice inclusive language for God and humanity in your prayers
  • Reach out to someone excluded by mainstream religious communities
  • Examine one way you participate in unjust systems
  • Attend our Parish Council meeting—your voice matters in governance
  • Join a Scripture study that uses both traditional and contemporary scholarship
  • Participate in interfaith dialogue or service project
  • Support a justice initiative—immigration, housing, environment, or racial justice
  • Learn about Old Catholic history and our theological distinctives
  • Deepen your understanding of Catholic social teaching and Old Catholic ecclesiology
  • Develop a consistent practice of contemplative prayer and social action
  • Build relationships across denominational, racial, and political lines
  • Engage in sustained advocacy for systemic change on one issue
  • Consider a vocation to ordained or lay ministry in our community

Our Parish Commitments:

  • Open theological discussions where questions are welcomed
  • Ecumenical and interfaith partnerships for community transformation
  • Transparent financial practices with lay oversight
  • Full inclusion of all people in sacramental and ministerial life

The Declaration of Utrecht Lived Today

A defining document of Old Catholicism, the Declaration of Utrecht (1889), committed Old Catholics to maintaining ancient faith while rejecting “every addition which is not contained in the revelation made in the Scriptures and the tradition of the first centuries.” This isn’t merely historical nostalgia—it’s a living principle.

When we reject papal infallibility, we affirm that truth emerges through communal discernment, not individual decree—a vital principle for our democratic moment.

When we reject mandatory clerical celibacy, we honor the goodness of human sexuality and family life—challenging toxic purity culture.

When we embrace episcopal collegiality, we model collaborative leadership as an alternative to authoritarianism.

When we welcome all to communion, we proclaim that God’s grace cannot be controlled or rationed by human institutions.

These aren’t peripheral matters—they’re prophetic stances that speak to our world’s deepest needs.

Here Am I, Lord: The Response of a Free People

The Psalm response—“Here am I, Lord; I come to do your will”—is the prayer of free people responding to divine invitation, not coerced subjects submitting to institutional demands.

Our Old Catholic tradition affirms that conscience must be respected, that authority exists for service rather than domination, and that the Spirit speaks through the whole people of God, not just the ordained hierarchy.

This freedom is not license but liberation—freedom for loving service, for prophetic witness, for costly discipleship.

A Blessing for the Week Ahead

May you walk in the ancient paths that lead to justice.

May you question with courage and believe with humility.

May you recognize Christ’s authority while rejecting human tyranny.

May you celebrate tradition while embracing necessary reform.

May you welcome the stranger, feed the hungry, and challenge the powerful.

May you be a light to the nations, carrying the ancient Catholic faith into our complex present—

Not bound by human additions to the Gospel,
But freed by Christ’s radical love to transform the world.

Here am I, Lord. We come to do your will.

Join Our Community

Sunday Eucharist: 3:00 PM Eastern Time – All are welcome at Christ’s table

We are a community that honors ancient tradition, celebrates the sacraments, welcomes all people, empowers lay leadership, and works for justice and peace. Come and see!

Pax et Bonum,

Bishop Greer

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