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The Empire Did Not Win

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We have been walking this road together since Ash Wednesday. We have stood at the well in Samaria, knelt at the grave of Lazarus, followed Jesus into Jerusalem knowing what was waiting for him there. Now we arrive at the three days that hold the whole story together.

The Sacred Triduum is not three separate observances. It is one continuous liturgy moving from a table to a cross to an empty tomb. This year, in this moment in the life of our nation, it reads like a document written for us.

Holy Thursday

Exodus 12:1-8, 11-14   |   Psalm 116   |   1 Corinthians 11:23-26   |   John 13:1-15

The Triduum begins not with a sermon but with a meal and a basin of water. The readings take us to the first Passover, when a people held in bondage ate their meal, ready to move. Paul hands on what he received at the Lord’s table. And then Jesus, the night before he dies, gets down on his knees and washes feet.

This is where empires always miscalculate. They assume power flows downward through force. Jesus demonstrates it flows downward through service. The one at the bottom of the table is the one being honored. The basin and the towel are not symbols of weakness. They are the shape of the kingdom.

In a season when certain people are told they are too foreign, too poor, too other to belong at the table of this nation, Holy Thursday answers plainly: at this table, those are exactly the people Jesus moves toward.

Good Friday

Isaiah 52:13-53:12   |   Psalm 31   |   Hebrews 4:14-16, 5:7-9   |   John 18:1-19:42

Good Friday carries the final Servant Song alongside John’s full Passion account. A man arrested at night. Tried in secret. Handed to a political authority who found no guilt in him and condemned him anyway because it was expedient. The Suffering Servant of Isaiah bore the suffering of others and was despised for it.

He was despised and the most abject of men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with infirmity; and his look was, as it were, hidden and despised. Whereupon we esteemed him not. — Isaiah 53:3 (CPDV)

We do not have to strain for the contemporary resonance. We are living in a time when innocence is not a reliable protection. When legal process has become, for many people, a performance rather than a guarantee. When those who are foreign or inconvenient to the powerful face consequences that bear no proportion to any offense they have committed.

The Church stands at the cross on Good Friday and refuses to look away. That refusal is itself a political act. To insist on witnessing the suffering of those the powerful would rather make invisible is one of the most subversive things a community of faith can do.

Holy Saturday / Easter Vigil

Genesis 1   |   Genesis 22   |   Exodus 14   |   Isaiah 54, 55   |   Baruch 3

Romans 6:3-11   |   Matthew 28:1-10

The Vigil is the oldest and most layered liturgy in the Christian calendar. It begins in darkness, a new fire is struck, and the Church tells the whole story from the first day of creation to the empty tomb. Every liberation in human history is gathered into this night.

The crossing of the Red Sea is read at the Vigil every year because Exodus is never just a past event. Every generation of the oppressed has read itself into that water. A people with no legal standing, no rights, and no power over their own fate, pursued to the edge of an uncrossable sea. And then the water opens. Paul in Romans names what baptism means: we have been buried with Christ into death and raised into newness of life. The old order does not have the final claim on us.

Empire says, “There is no way through.” The Vigil says, “We have seen the water open before.”

Easter Sunday

Acts 10:34a, 37-43   |   Psalm 118   |   Colossians 3:1-4   |   John 20:1-9

Peter’s Easter sermon begins with words that have rung as a challenge to every sorting system in every age: God shows no partiality. Not by citizenship. Not by country of origin. Not by language, documentation, or the wealth of the nation someone happened to be born into.

In truth, I have concluded that God is not a respecter of persons.—Acts 10:34 (CPDV)

The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone. Psalm 118 has been an Easter text since the Church’s earliest days, and its central image is permanently subversive: the one deemed unfit and thrown outside the wall is the one on whom everything now rests. Mary Magdalene goes to the tomb before dawn and finds the stone moved, and in the middle of all the motion and confusion and astonishment, something is quietly, permanently true. Death did not win. The empire did not win. The tomb could not hold him.

A Word to Close This Series

We began this Lenten series asking what it means to stand with immigrants and to name fascism for what it is as an act of faith rather than partisan politics. Six weeks of scripture asked the same questions the Gospel has always asked: Who do you see? Who do you stay with? Whose suffering do you allow yourself to witness? Whose dignity do you defend when it costs you something?

The resurrection does not make those questions easier. It makes them more urgent. Easter faith is not a retreat into private spiritual comfort. The risen Christ does not tell the disciples to gather safely and wait for better circumstances. He sends them out.

We are sent out too. Into Augusta. Into immigrant communities living in fear in our neighborhoods. Into a political moment that is testing whether the Church has anything to say that is more than performance.

We believe we do. We believe the empty tomb means the most powerful systems in the world do not get the final word over human life and human dignity. We believe that God shows no partiality. We believe that the servant who sets their face like flint is not abandoned. We believe that the one who came to wash feet and share bread is still moving toward the people everyone else is moving away from.

That is the faith we carry out of this Holy Week. That is the faith of Saint Francis Parish and Outreach.

Pax et Bonum,

Bishop Greer

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

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

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

Standing Firm in the Fire: Faith, Justice, and Courage at Saint Francis Parish

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Hello, friends and family of Saint Francis Parish and Outreach in Augusta, Georgia! I hope this week finds you well and hopeful, even as the world seems stormy and uncertain. Our scripture readings for this Sunday are timely reminders of what it means to live as people of faith in a world that is often unjust, unpredictable, and in need of healing. We’re diving into passages from Malachi, Paul’s letter to the Thessalonians, and the Gospel of Luke. All three challenge us to think deeply about justice, courage, and our role in standing up for those who have been pushed to the margins.

As we reflect together, let’s open our hearts to the ways God is calling us, not only to comfort, but also to action. These texts urge us to stand firm against the forces of greed, oppression, and tyranny, to walk alongside the vulnerable, and to never shrink back in the face of injustice.

Malachi’s Vision: Hope and Righteousness for the Oppressed

Malachi 4:1-2a (ESV) paints a vivid scene: “For behold, the day is coming, burning like an oven, when all the arrogant and all evildoers will be stubble. The day that is coming shall set them ablaze, says the Lord of hosts, so that it will leave them neither root nor branch. But for you who fear my name, the sun of righteousness shall rise with healing in its wings.”

Think about that image for a moment. The prophet Malachi is not just talking about punishment for the wicked. He’s promising healing and hope for those who honor God, those who hold fast to justice even when it’s unpopular or risky. The “sun of righteousness” brings warmth, restoration, and new beginnings to people who’ve been battered by the harsh winds of oppression.

We live in a time when it’s easy for the powerful to trample the weak, when those with wealth and influence often seem untouched by the suffering around them. But Malachi’s words remind us that God sees every act of arrogance, every injustice. In the end, it’s not the oligarchs or the oppressors who have the last word, but God, who lifts up those who fear His name and brings healing to those who need it most.

For us at Saint Francis Parish, this is a call to stand with the marginalized, to be agents of healing in Augusta and beyond. We’re not here to chase after comfort or side with the status quo. We’re called to let the sun of righteousness rise in our own lives, bringing hope to everyone we meet.

Paul’s Call: Integrity, Diligence, and Community

Moving to 2 Thessalonians 3:7-12 (ESV), Paul writes, “For you yourselves know how you ought to imitate us, because we were not idle when we were with you, nor did we eat anyone’s bread without paying for it, but with toil and labor we worked night and day, that we might not be a burden to any of you. It was not because we do not have that right, but to give you in ourselves an example to imitate. For even when we were with you, we would give you this command: If anyone is not willing to work, let him not eat. For we hear that some among you walk in idleness, not busy at work, but busybodies. Now such persons we command and encourage in the Lord Jesus Christ to do their work quietly and to earn their own living.”

Paul is getting real with his readers: faith isn’t just a set of beliefs or private prayers. It’s lived out in community, through hard work, generosity, and solidarity. Too often, society tries to divide us, making us competitors instead of companions, focusing on individual success while the vulnerable suffer in silence. But Paul’s words insist that we are responsible for one another. We labor, not only for ourselves, but so that the whole community can flourish.

There’s a deeper lesson here about standing against systems that favor the rich, the powerful, and the privileged. When oligarchs and corporations monopolize resources and exploit the labor of others, Paul’s teaching becomes all the more relevant. We’re not called to be idle, nor are we supposed to let injustice slide. We must work, yes, but we must also work for justice.

At Saint Francis, we’re building a community where everyone’s gifts are valued, where all have a place at the table, and where no one is left behind. If we see injustice, we speak out. If we encounter need, we respond. That’s the kind of faith Paul modeled, and it’s the faith we must embody today.

Jesus: Courage in the Face of Opposition

Luke 21:15-19 (ESV) offers some of the most challenging words from Jesus: “For I will give you a mouth and wisdom, which none of your adversaries will be able to withstand or contradict. You will be delivered up even by parents and brothers and relatives and friends, and some of you they will put to death. You will be hated by all for my name’s sake. But not a hair of your head will perish. By your endurance you will gain your lives.”

There’s no sugarcoating it. Jesus tells us that following him and standing up for what’s right will cost us, sometimes dearly. We might face opposition from friends, family, and even our broader community. We may be hated or misunderstood for refusing to bow to fascism, for challenging the rule of oligarchs, or for advocating for those at the edges of society.

But what a beautiful promise: when we take risks for justice, God gives us the wisdom and words we need. We are never abandoned, even in the darkest moments. Endurance isn’t just surviving; it’s holding on to our deepest convictions when it would be easier to give in or walk away.

Saint Francis Parish, this is our moment to stand with the oppressed, to be a beacon of hope and truth in Augusta. Whether we’re organizing outreach, speaking out against unjust laws, or simply showing compassion to someone the world has forgotten, we are living out the Gospel itself.

Living the Gospel: A Community of Resistance and Love

Let’s be honest: the road ahead isn’t easy. Standing against fascism, against the greed of oligarchs, and for those who have been marginalized can be exhausting. The world would often prefer us to stay quiet, to mind our own business, to not rock the boat. But as followers of Jesus, we cannot remain silent.

Every time we resist hate, every time we welcome the stranger, every time we choose compassion over comfort, we become part of God’s work of justice and healing. It’s not about having all the answers, or never feeling afraid. It’s about showing up, speaking out, and trusting that God goes before us.

So let’s keep building this community of love and resistance. Let’s encourage each other, support each other, and hold each other accountable. Let’s make Saint Francis Parish and Outreach a place where the sun of righteousness rises every day, a place where hope has a home, and where everyone, no matter their story, finds dignity and belonging.

May We Walk This Road Together

As we move through this week, may these scriptures inspire us to action. May we see the faces of the oppressed and marginalized as our siblings in Christ. May we have the courage to challenge injustice, to stand up to the powers that be, and to pour out healing on a weary world.

The sun of righteousness is rising, friends. Let’s walk together in its light. See you this Sunday!

Pax et Bonum,

Bishop Greer

Standing Up Together: Faith in Action Against Injustice

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Greetings, beloved community of Saint Francis Parish and Outreach in Augusta, Georgia! As we gather this week, our lectionary readings call us to deeply reflect on what it means to stand up—not just in faith, but in action against injustice, racism, and hatred in our world.

Keeping Faith When the Battle Is Hard

In Exodus 17:8–13, we encounter Moses on the mountaintop, arms raised high as the Israelites fight for their lives. When his hands grow weary, Aaron and Hur literally hold him up. Victory comes not just through Moses’ leadership, but through the community standing by his side. This story reminds us that confronting injustice isn’t a solo act; we need each other. When the fight grows long and our spirits tire, who are your Aarons and Hurs? Who do you lift up in their battles? Our faith calls us to support one another, especially when standing up against the evils of racism, exclusion, and hatred.

Rooted in Scripture, Ready for Action

2 Timothy 3:14–4:2 urges us to “continue in what you have learned and firmly believed.” Paul tells Timothy to be persistent: whether the time is favorable or not, proclaim the message, correct, rebuke, and encourage. Our spiritual roots fuel our courage to speak out when we see harm being done. Today, that might mean calling out racist jokes, advocating for fair treatment in our workplaces, or supporting those whose voices are overlooked. The gospel isn’t just words—it’s a call to action.

The Power of Persistent Prayer and Justice

Luke 18:1–8 gives us the parable of the persistent widow, who refuses to give up in her quest for justice. Jesus tells us this story “so that we might not lose heart.” The widow’s determination is a model for how we can confront injustice in our own time—not with violence or hate, but with unwavering resolve. Let’s be honest: sometimes it feels like nothing will change, like our efforts are too small. But Jesus assures us that God hears the cries for justice, and we are called to echo those cries until all God’s children are treated with dignity and love.

Standing Up to Injustice—Here and Now

In Augusta and beyond, racism and hatred still rear their ugly heads. As followers of Christ, we are called to do more than shake our heads. Whether we’re attending rallies, having tough conversations, volunteering at outreach programs, or just choosing to love our neighbors a little deeper, we become the hands and feet of Christ. It’s not always easy, and sometimes we’ll get tired. But just like Moses had Aaron and Hur, we have each other, and we have God’s promise that justice will be done.

Let’s Walk This Path Together

Let’s be honest, standing up to injustice can feel overwhelming. But take heart! We are a community grounded in hope, faith, and love. Let’s encourage one another to persist, to pray, and to act. May Saint Francis Parish continue to be a beacon of hope and a force for justice here in Augusta. Let’s hold each other up and keep marching forward, one step, one prayer, one act of love at a time.

Pax et Bonum,

Bishop Greer

Faithfulness, Perseverance, and the Gentle Love of Saint Francis

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October marks the Feast of Saint Francis of Assisi, beloved for his compassion toward all creatures and his embodiment of humble faith. This week’s lectionary readings, Habakkuk 1:2–3; 2:2–4, 2 Timothy 1:6–8, 13–14, and Luke 17:5–10, shine a light on the perseverance, faith, and service that Saint Francis modeled, inviting us to find inspiration in his gentle love, especially for our pets and all living beings.

The Cry for Justice: Habakkuk’s Lament

Habakkuk begins with a heartfelt plea: “O Lord, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not listen?” (Habakkuk 1:2). The prophet questions God about enduring injustice, echoing the cries of all who suffer and long for a world put right. Yet, God’s answer is not immediate; instead, Habakkuk is told to “write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so that a runner may read it” (Habakkuk 2:2). God’s timing often feels slow, but faith means trusting that justice will come, and “the righteous will live by their faith” (Habakkuk 2:4).

Saint Francis faced his own struggles and doubts, especially as he gave up wealth and comfort to live among the poor and marginalized. Like Habakkuk, he persisted in faith, believing God’s vision for a world marked by peace and compassion.

Kindling the Gift Within: Paul’s Encouragement to Timothy

Paul’s letter to Timothy urges us to “rekindle the gift of God that is within you” (2 Timothy 1:6). Timothy is reminded that God gives “a spirit not of fear, but of power and love and self-discipline” (2 Timothy 1:7). Paul encourages his young protégé to hold fast “to the sound teaching…in the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus” (2 Timothy 1:13).

Saint Francis burned with the gift of love, a love that extended not only to people but to birds, wolves, and all creatures. His spirit of courage and humility teaches us that caring for the vulnerable, including our pets, is part of living out God’s calling.

Faith Measured in Service: Jesus and the Mustard Seed

In Luke 17:5–10, the disciples plead, “Increase our faith!” Jesus replies that even faith as small as a mustard seed can uproot trees and move mountains. He then tells a parable about a servant doing his duty without expecting special praise, emphasizing that true faith expresses itself in humble, consistent service.

Saint Francis exemplified this: tending to lepers, rebuilding churches, and feeding animals were all acts of quiet service. For those who care for pets, this passage is a reminder that even small acts, feeding, walking, or comforting a frightened animal, can be holy when done in the spirit of love.

Saint Francis and the Blessing of Pets

Saint Francis’ feast day is often marked by the Blessing of the Animals in churches around the world. This tradition celebrates the sacred bond between humans and their companion animals. Francis saw all creation as family, calling animals his “brothers and sisters.” His example encourages us to treat our pets not just as possessions, but as fellow creatures deserving respect and kindness.

Whether your pet is a loyal dog, a curious cat, a singing bird, or a gentle rabbit, caring for them can be a spiritual practice, a daily opportunity to embody God’s love and stewardship. In honoring our pets, we participate in the vision Habakkuk wrote, the faith Paul encouraged, the humility Jesus taught, and the compassion Francis lived.

Join us Sunday at 3:00 PM for the Blessing of Pets at our parish!

Living the Vision

This week’s scriptures and Saint Francis’s legacy invite us to persevere in faith, practice humble service, and extend love to all creatures. In uncertain times, may we hold fast to the vision of hope, kindle the gifts within us, and let our everyday acts, especially those toward our pets, be small seeds of faith that grow into a more compassionate world.

Pax et Bonum,

Bishop Greer

Our Bonhoeffer Moment: A Christian Reflection on Resistance to Fascism

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Facing the Challenge of Our Time

Recent national headlines have raised troubling questions for Christians and communities of faith. The President’s designation of anti-fascists as terrorists brings to the fore deep concerns about justice, resistance, and our moral calling as followers of Jesus. For us at Saint Francis Parish and Outreach in Augusta, Georgia, this issue is not simply political, it is profoundly spiritual. How do we respond faithfully when resistance to oppressive power is labeled dangerous? What can we learn from our tradition, from Scripture, and from the legacy of Rev. Dietrich Bonhoeffer?

Historical Perspective: Churches and the Shadow of Fascism

History offers sobering lessons. In the 20th century, many Christian churches, especially in Germany, failed to resist the rise of fascism. Some even lent their support, whether out of fear, complicity, or a mistaken sense of loyalty to the state. Rev. Dietrich Bonhoeffer stands out as a prophetic voice who chose costly resistance over comfortable silence. He recognized that following Christ meant opposing systems that dehumanize, oppress, and foster violence.

Bonhoeffer’s actions were not just political; they were deeply theological. He believed that the church must stand with the vulnerable, even when doing so puts us at odds with prevailing powers. His resistance cost him his life, but his witness continues to challenge us: “Silence in the face of evil is itself evil.”

Biblical Reflections: Amos, Timothy, and Luke

Our lectionary readings this week illuminate the spiritual urgency of this moment.

  • Amos 6:1a, 4–7 warns against complacency and self-indulgence. “Woe to those who are at ease in Zion… who lie on beds of ivory… but are not grieved over the ruin of Joseph!” The prophet condemns a society that ignores suffering and injustice, calling us to awaken from comfort and act with compassion.
  • 1 Timothy 6:11–16 exhorts believers to “pursue righteousness, godliness, faith, love, endurance, gentleness.” The Christian life is marked by a struggle for what is good and true, even when it involves “fighting the good fight of faith.” We are called to bear witness to Christ’s kingdom, a kingdom that stands against all forms of oppression.
  • Luke 16:19–31 tells the story of the rich man and Lazarus. The rich man’s indifference to Lazarus’s suffering leads to judgment. Jesus challenges us: will we see the pain of those at our gates, or will we turn away? The parable is a stark reminder that faith without compassion is hollow.

Christian Response: Ethics, Theology, and the Call to Resist

These scriptures, alongside Bonhoeffer’s legacy, invite us to reflect on our own position. When anti-fascists are labeled as terrorists, we must ask: What is our Christian responsibility? The gospel calls us to resist systems that harm the vulnerable, to speak truth even when it is costly, and to love our neighbors, especially those who are marginalized.

Our response must be rooted in love, justice, and humility. It is not about partisanship or political slogans, but about embodying Christ’s compassion in a world that often prefers comfort over courage. We must resist the temptation to be silent or complicit. Instead, let us pursue the difficult path of solidarity, advocacy, and faithful witness.

Our Bonhoeffer Moment: What It Means for Today’s Church

Many theologians speak of “our Bonhoeffer moment”, a time when the church must decide whether to stand with the powerless or align with power. For Saint Francis Parish and Outreach, this means asking hard questions: Are we willing to risk misunderstanding, discomfort, or even opposition in order to defend those who face injustice? Will we be a community that comforts the afflicted and afflicts the comfortable?

We are called to be “repairers of the breach,” voices for justice, and hands of mercy. This is not easy work, and it may come with misunderstanding or resistance. Yet, as Bonhoeffer reminds us, “Christianity stands or falls with its revolutionary protest against violence, arbitrariness, and pride of power.”

Encouragement for Faithful Resistance

As we reflect on these challenging times, let us remember that faithful resistance is part of our Christian heritage. Our hope is not in worldly power but in the transformative love of Christ. May we, as a parish and as individuals, be courageous, compassionate, and vigilant. May we listen to the prophets, learn from history, and follow the example of Bonhoeffer, standing alongside those who are oppressed, even when it is unpopular or risky.

Let us pray for wisdom, strength, and love, trusting that God is with us as we “fight the good fight” for justice, peace, and the dignity of all people.

Pax et Bonum,

Bishop Greer

The Exaltation of the Holy Cross: A Call to Healing, Justice, and Love

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Sunday, as we celebrate the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, we will gather at the intersection of suffering and salvation, of brokenness and redemption. The Cross, a symbol once synonymous with shame and brutality, has become, through Christ, the supreme sign of healing, hope, and reconciliation. In the context of our current world, marked by political violence, social divisions, and the tragic deaths that punctuate our headlines, the Cross speaks with renewed urgency.

The Serpent Lifted Up: Healing in the Wilderness

Numbers 21:4b-9 recounts the Israelites’ anguish in the desert, beset by poisonous serpents as a result of their impatience and complaints against God. When Moses, at God’s instruction, lifts up a bronze serpent upon a pole, those who gaze upon it are healed. The symbol of death is transformed into a source of life, prefiguring the Cross, where suffering is not the end but the door to healing.

Today, our world is wounded: by hatred, by violence, by the venom of prejudice and the sting of division. We see it in acts of political violence, in the pain that follows the death of public figures. Each life lost is a reminder of our shared fragility. As we pray for all who have died, including Charlie Kirk, whatever our differences, we recognize that each person is precious in the sight of God. The Cross invites us to look up, not in despair, but in hope for healing.

The Humility of Christ: Emptying for Others

Philippians 2:6-11 offers a hymn of Christ’s humility. “He did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself…” Christ chose the path of solidarity, descending into the depths of human suffering so that all might be raised. His humility is not weakness, but the power to transform hearts and systems.

In our fractured society, where homophobia, transphobia, bigotry, racism, and misogyny persist, we are called to the same kenosis, the self-emptying love that moves us beyond ourselves. To “have the mind of Christ” is to reject every ideology of hatred or violence and to make space for the dignity of every person, especially those who are marginalized or oppressed.

The Cross: God’s Embrace of a Wounded Humanity

In John 3:13-17, Jesus proclaims, “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.” On the Cross, God enters our suffering and redeems it. “For God so loved the world,” not just a nation, a people, or a tribe, but the whole world in all its diversity and complexity.

This radical love compels us to action. If we truly exalt the Holy Cross, we must work and pray for the end of all forms of violence: political violence that tears communities apart, the silent cruelties of homophobia and transphobia, the corrosive effects of racism and misogyny, and every ideology that denies the image of God in another. The Cross is not a banner for division or exclusion, but a bridge to reconciliation and justice.

Carrying the Cross Together: Our Response

To exalt the Cross is not merely to venerate a symbol, but to embrace a way of life, a vocation to healing, justice, and love. We are called to be healers in the wilderness, to lift one another up, to speak and act against hatred in all its forms. We must lament with those who mourn, work for the safety of those who are threatened, and stand in solidarity with those who suffer violence or exclusion.

  • Advocate for peace and nonviolence in our communities
  • Challenge and speak out against homophobia, transphobia, racism, misogyny, and bigotry wherever we encounter them
  • Support those who are marginalized and create spaces where everyone feels safe and respected
  • Listen to people’s stories, fostering empathy and understanding
  • Promote education about justice, equality, and human dignity
  • Engage in civic life, voting and encouraging policies that protect the vulnerable
  • Practice forgiveness and reconciliation in our personal relationships
  • Serve our neighbors through acts of kindness and generosity
  • Pray for healing, transformation, and the strength to persevere in the work of justice
  • Model humility and love, following Christ’s example of self-giving

Let us pray for the grace to be transformed by the Cross, so that our words and actions may bless and heal. May we build communities where no one fears for their life or dignity, where love casts out fear and justice blooms.

Conclusion: Hope Born of the Cross

As we contemplate the mystery of the Holy Cross, let us remember: God’s love is wider than our divisions, deeper than our wounds, and stronger than death. May the power of the Cross inspire us to seek peace, justice, and the beloved community where all are welcome, cherished, and free.

Pax et Bonum,

Bishop Greer

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