Preaching the Scriptures

  The Rt. Rev. Jeremiah Williamson John 20:19-31   Wounds Trinity, Gouverneur   The disciples needed to see the wounds.   They knew the stone was displaced and the tomb was empty – but that didn’t prove anything.   Some of the disciples, men in that very locked room, had even seen the discarded linen wrappings, but they did not see any life.   They had heard, and rejected, Mary’s startling testimony; she, they decided, was obviously sick with grief.   They could not deny that fantastical rumors were buzzing, but rumors are not evidence.   Impossible tales, unlikely explanations, were pestering their weary heads and their tender hearts – making things worse.   Their pain was fresh; their fear was real; they were trying to survive without Jesus – trying to get used to this sad, new normal.   They would not get their hopes up because high hopes crash hard.   And so, they decided to play it safe: they simply would not believ...

  The Rt. Rev. Jeremiah Williamson Luke 24:1-12   Followers Cathedral of All Saints   Unlike most preachers, Mary Magdalene was not worried about her Easter Sunday sermon.   Maybe she should have been, because, according to the Gospel, it was a flop.   But she wasn’t.   She had something else on her mind when she left the house early on Easter morning.   It had been a terrible weekend, the worst of her life.   And that is why she was dragging her listless body, her broken heart, and her satchel of spices down the barren road of a barren cemetery.   It was Easter Sunday and Mary wasn’t thinking about a sermon; she was thinking about death.   It was all she could think about.   Because what she saw on that Friday, she could never unsee.   That nightmare was burnt into her soul.   The immensity of the violence was overwhelming, of course, but the worst thing was that it was so personal.   Jesus was he...

  The Rt. Rev. Jeremiah Williamson Mark 10:35-45   Human   As I came to, I realized I was being cradled like a baby by Miss Deanna.   Deanna was a was a robust and refined black woman, probably 40 years my senior.   I noticed, supported by her gentle arms, that her round face looked concerned, and her cheeks glistened with tears.   It was a confusing moment.   Because I was not a baby; I was a thirty-five-year-old man being cradled like a baby and we were in the chancel of the chapel.   Why was she sweetly and tenderly holding me?   Why was she crying?   I shifted my gaze, still trying to make sense of the situation.   The small eight o’clock congregation looked a bit panicked.   Someone in the back was on the phone, calling the paramedics.   Lying in Miss Deanna’s lap, on the floor of the chapel, I started to piece things together.   The last thing I could remember was the Prayers of the People. ...