April 26, 2026

Greetings, friends from the great state of New Mexico. I’ve got Albuquerque in my background as I’m here in the foothills of the Sandia Mountains.

I want to take a moment to thank you all for your continued prayers for my travel. As I take this next week in retreat to prepare myself for my marathon and to spend some time in prayer, I’m mindful that New Mexico has always held a special place in my heart. This became even more so during my years in seminary, where I met the Reverend Canon Cornelia Eaton, Canon to the Ordinary for the Episcopal Church in Navajo Land and one of the two current candidates for bishop in that diocese.

I wish I could have had Canon Eaton preach for you all this morning, because she knows intimately what Jesus is talking about today. Canon Cornelia is not only a shepherd in a spiritual sense, but also in a material one. In addition to her church duties, she manages her family’s multigenerational sheep farm on Navajo Nation in Upper Fruitland, New Mexico.

There is something profoundly similar in both aspects of her vocation. Sheep were first brought to the Caribbean in 1493 with Christopher Columbus’s second voyage across the Atlantic. By the 1540s, they had reached Mexico and what is today the American Southwest. The U.S. sheep industry reached its height in the 1880s, when more than 50 million sheep were being shepherded. But with the advent of cheap beef and synthetic fibers, demand for lamb and wool collapsed. Today, there are only about 5 million sheep still tended in the U.S.

What Canon Eaton does is increasingly a lost art — a commitment to something that feels out of touch with the modern world. In a similar way, we find ourselves with a juxtaposition in our readings today.

Regardless of when St. Luke wrote his gospel and Acts, the narrative is set right after Jesus’s resurrection and ascension. There is joy and optimism: “Awe came upon everyone, many wonders and signs were being done by the apostles. They spent much time together, broke bread, and ate with glad and generous hearts.”

But by the time we reach St. Peter’s general epistle — written about 50 years later, in the mid to late 80s — the tone is very different. Peter writes: if you endure suffering for doing right, you have God’s approval. Christ suffered for you, setting an example that you should follow in his steps. We don’t know the exact circumstance, but persecution is close. There is foreboding and oppression, and the joy of the Acts community already feels like a thing of the past.

Still, like Canon Cornelia preserving her ways, St. Peter does not wallow in sorrow. He looks toward perseverance and steadfastness.

So much of what we confront today feels unprecedented, but Scripture reminds us this is not new. The faith of our forebearers shows we inherit both their struggles and their hope. What we face now often pales in comparison to their trials — and even to the dangers faced by modern Christians around the world.

But even beyond physical suffering, there’s another kind: that of feeling out of place. It can feel like sheep herding — a commitment to a way of life that seems outdated. When the flock is small, where is the shepherd? When the world feels dark, what is our guiding light?

Our friends on Navajo Nation offer a response. They have shown resilience through remembrance and faith, whether during their exile at Bosque Redondo in the 19th century or through their continuing efforts to preserve traditional ways like sheep herding. They have “kept on keeping on,” staying faithful to a way of life that endures even as the world changes.

For Navajo Episcopalians, this spirit is evident now as they call a new bishop. For decades, they have remained faithful to a church that did not always respect them equally. Yet they endured, kept the faith, and now see the national church recognizing the vitality of the Holy Spirit among them. They are becoming shepherds of their own people.

So today, friends, let us take heart in our own context — to encounter both the call to follow and the call to lead; to feel lightened in our burdens through the assurance of faithfulness; and to be recommitted to shepherding those entrusted to us.

What we do may feel strange or outdated, but may we remember who we are and whose we are — faithful sheep of the great Shepherd. Let us not lose hope but reclaim the joy and unity of spirit that our ancestors in faith knew.

Being free from sin, may we live for righteousness through the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

April 12, 2026

Doubt is such a funny thing. When I think about doubt, my mind inevitably goes back to the summer of 1992—the summer between my kindergarten and first-grade school years. It was a summer full of activity. Early that summer, I spent time with my maternal grandparents in Arkansas, where I caught that 18-inch catfish I’ve talked about before. I also spent time with my paternal grandparents in the Texas Panhandle, where I became fascinated by my grandmother’s cousin, who claimed to trace our Welsh ancestry all the way back to Jamestown and King Arthur’s Court. We ended the summer with the first of many trips to Washington, D.C., where my mother attended the annual American Public Health Association conference, and my grandparents and I did some sightseeing. Later that fall, during my parents’ conference with my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Hanks expressed concern about my “attachment to reality.” She said, “Jonathan shares these tall tales about catching fish, going to Washington, D.C., and being related to a knight of the Round Table—and he really seems to believe it.” My parents replied, “The thing is, those are true stories.” Sure, the Round Table part was far-fetched, but there really was a family member who made that claim. That threw Mrs. Hanks for a loop. In her world of elementary certainties, such truths didn’t compute. I do feel bad for her, but I love that story—especially for the way doubt and uncertainty play a role in it.

These themes of doubt and uncertainty appear in our readings today. In Acts, St. Peter addresses the crowd on Pentecost. When he began speaking, some doubted—dismissing him as a Galilean or accusing him of being drunk. This passage explains how Christ’s resurrection fits into salvation history, going back to the promises God made to David. In 1 Peter, we learn what that salvation means for our lives: “He has given us a new birth into a living hope through the resurrection.” Still, I wish today’s readings paired St. Thomas’s story with St. Paul’s teaching on doubt and resurrection in 1 Corinthians 15: “If Christ has not been raised, then our proclamation has been in vain and your faith has been in vain… If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.” Even in the earliest years of the Church, there were those who doubted the resurrection. St. Paul addresses that doubt and explains why believing in resurrection is central to spiritual health and vitality.

St. Thomas is often called “Doubting Thomas,” but in the end, he is the one who most fully believes. When he proclaims, “My Lord and my God,” it’s the first time in John’s Gospel that anyone acknowledges Jesus as God. Tradition holds that Thomas became the great evangelist to the East, carrying the gospel of resurrection and new life to India and beyond. His doubt ultimately strengthened his faith—it led him to a deeper truth.

Doubt and uncertainty are natural human emotions we often undervalue. We all struggle with them in different ways. Sometimes it’s internal: Am I strong enough to carry on one more day? Am I capable of being who I want or need to be? Sometimes it’s external: Is any of this real? Is any of this ultimately good? This past week—even during Easter week—we heard words from leaders in our government that reflected a gross cynicism rooted not in resurrection and redemption, but in violence and annihilation. If that’s what represents us as a nation or as Christians, it’s no wonder people doubt and distrust what we claim to stand for.

Here’s the thing about doubt: it can be life-giving or life-destroying. When it’s life-destroying, we must, as St. Paul says, “die daily” to it. But when it’s life-giving, it helps us see through the fog and find a better way forward. Like St. Thomas, it can strengthen our faith instead of diminishing it. Even though the world feels heavy right now—even though some twist our faith into grotesque caricatures—Jesus is still risen. The power of that resurrection strengthens us as we proclaim, “My Lord and my God.”

Sometimes when we struggle, the simplest affirmations can get us through. In the words of theologian Stanley Hauerwas: “Jesus Christ is Lord, and everything else is BS.” There’s a lot of nonsense in the world that makes us doubt, but Jesus Christ is still risen. He is still Lord. He is still God. Like St. Thomas, may our doubts lead to life. And in the spirit of St. Peter’s epistle, may we prepare our minds for action, discipline our hearts, and set all our hope on the grace that Jesus Christ reveals. Amen.