May 17, 2026 Blessing of the Vines

So I maybe ought not to tell this story, but I’m going to anyway. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.

There we were, sitting in our hotel room in Albuquerque after a long day of visiting cultural sites and doing some shopping. I happened to glance over, and Julie was taking some tags off something she bought, otherwise doing something with her hands. I looked over, and there she was, grasping a pair of full-size scissors.

Now, Julie had flown out to Albuquerque with just a carry-on. Somewhat startled, I said, “Where did those come from?” And she said, “Well, after I had gotten through TSA and was at my gate, I felt something weird poking me in the back. I opened my bag to find this pair of scissors from work.” She had made it all the way through security with them hanging out right there in her backpack.

Now, I had brought a checked bag with me, so we had a plan for action for going home. But I tell you this story because when we went back to the Albuquerque airport to leave at the end of our trip, we dutifully went through TSA, and this time my bag was pulled off to the side for further inspection.

And what was in it? Some holy dirt that I was bringing home from El Santuario de Chimayó, one of the most important Christian pilgrimage sites in the United States. I’ll tell you more about that site in a minute.

Julie and I had a good laugh when the TSA agent kind of knowingly looked my way and said, “Do you have some holy dirt with you?” Apparently, a full pair of scissors can make their way through the security apparatus at a Washington airport, but in the small Albuquerque airport in New Mexico, a container of dirt warrants a very fulsome inspection of my luggage. They had to wipe it down with swabs, run it through their machines, and even get approval from higher-ups before I could pack everything back in and move on.

But I think there’s something really profound in this, too—that there’s something really dangerous in the power of this dirt, and in the power of what we believe it to be.

The story starts in a small community in southern Guatemala called Esquipulas, where there is a very famous 500-year-old crucifix called the Black Christ of Esquipulas. The tradition is that this crucifix was found buried in the ground, and not only is it venerated, but the clay soil around it—the soil from which it was dug—is considered to have miraculous healing properties.

Two thousand miles north of there, in the early 1800s, Don Bernardo Abeyta, a pious landowner in what is today New Mexico, established a small chapel in Chimayó dedicated to this miraculous dirt of Esquipulas. There, too, over the centuries, a sense has developed of tierra santa—holy earth—that people come to for nourishment, renewal, and healing.

There is power in that place and in what people seek there.

And why is this all so dangerous? If we remember back to our Ash Wednesday traditions or our burial liturgies, we are reminded that we are dust ourselves. But we are also made in the image of God. We are holy dirt—part of a whole, holy creation.

What we do with this knowledge—what we do when we gather at these special times to sanctify the earth, to bless it, to pray for it—upends one of the most foundational beliefs of the powers and principalities of this world.

To get our hands dirty, to feel the power of the earth around us and on us and in us, is to discover our smallness, to see our interconnectedness with all of creation.

The powers of this world are fixated on control and domination. That is the great temptation—to impose our will and believe we can control everything. This is true whether we hold power or feel marginalized. In either case, we can become anxious, frustrated, and driven by a desire to take control ourselves.

Now, don’t misunderstand me—acting in the face of injustice is critically important. But what practices like this do is remind us where that action comes from. The true power of our faith is in recognizing that we are not the ones in control. It is not our will, but God’s will working in us.

This connects to another tension in this moment. On Thursday, we celebrated the Feast of the Ascension, when Christ departed from the earth. One might expect this to be a moment of sorrow, but in Luke’s Gospel, the disciples respond with joy. They return to Jerusalem with gladness, continuing in worship and prayer.

Even in a time of waiting—before the coming of the Spirit—they are not consumed by anxiety. Instead, they celebrate. They center themselves in worship. They find joy even in uncertainty.

We, too, live in a long season of waiting. Since the earliest days of the Church, there has been an understanding that Christ’s return is not immediate. We journey in a world that is not always hospitable, living as people of faith in a kind of exile.

And yet, again and again, we are reminded that even in this journey, we can have joy. We can laugh in the face of systems that seek control and domination. We can see more clearly our place as part of a greater whole.

Sometimes that grounding happens in physical places—like the temple for the disciples, or like this church, St. Anne’s, for us. These are places of devotion and gathering. But our faith is larger than any one building. It extends into the fullness of the world around us.

We have opportunities like today—to be outside, to experience the goodness of creation. In all of this, we see God at work—not with ourselves at the center, but as part of something larger and more profound.

So this week, and in the weeks and months ahead, I invite you—as individuals and as a community—to practice that awareness. To physically touch the earth. To be present in creation. To remember that we are part of something greater.

In doing so, we discover both the glory and the danger of that truth. Simply recognizing ourselves as part of a larger whole is a powerful antidote to a world obsessed with control and power—forces that are not only insignificant in the long run but often harmful.

Today, we take that larger perspective. We reorient ourselves. We recommit to the soil of this land—to the earth that we inhabit and that forms us. We remember its holiness and its wholeness as part of all creation.

And we honor God in that, praying that God will continue to bless us and draw us more deeply into all that God is doing, now and always.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

May 10, 2026

I began this morning by offering you all the warmest greetings from our brothers and sisters at Trinity on the Hill Episcopal Church in Los Alamos, New Mexico. My friend, Mother Mary Ann Hill, is the rector there, and I had the funniest thing happen on my Sunday visit two weeks ago.

I’m going to be honest with you all. To this day, I go to diocesan gatherings here in the Diocese of Washington—even gatherings with other clergy who you would think know something about the Diocese of Washington—and I introduce myself, and they say, “Now, where is Damascus again?” They give me a blank stare when I try to describe so-called upper Montgomery County.

But there, in the canyon lands of northern New Mexico, in little Los Alamos, population 13,000, I walked into coffee hour to a chorus of “Damascus! Of course—we love Jimmy Cone!”

Here’s the thing: Los Alamos, being Los Alamos, has a number of folks who have worked at DOE in Germantown, or NIST in Gaithersburg, or the Nuclear Regulatory Agency in Rockville. It’s a little Montgomery County enclave at 7,300 feet above sea level in the desert southwest. It’s a place where we, who sometimes may feel unseen, are very much seen.

And I think that’s a fitting connection to our lessons today.

In both Acts and the Gospel of John, we encounter the God of the unknown and the God of the unseen. This is explicitly said in Paul’s sermon to the Athenians: “What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you.” In the Gospel, Jesus more indirectly alludes to this truth in his farewell discourse: “In a little while the world will no longer see me, but you will see me.”

God is the God of the unknown and the unseen.

If there is one truth I want you to remember today, it is this—because it operates on so many levels in our lives.

I mentioned already our status as Saint Anne’s in Damascus—on the very periphery of the Diocese of Washington, often feeling removed from everything else going on. But as Christians, especially those committed to regular Sunday worship, there is also a sense of social and political misalignment. There is awkwardness in acknowledging our faith when it is often co-opted or corrupted. There is awkwardness in setting aside time for worship in a culture that does not prioritize it.

It can feel like we are not aligned with what is happening around us when we proclaim a gospel of truth, justice, compassion, and love.

There is a real sense that God is the God of our unseen-ness.

This is especially meaningful today, as we observe Mother’s Day.

Anna Jarvis, an early 20th-century suffragette, worked to establish Mother’s Day in honor of her mother and the role of women in society. Yet later, she became deeply dissatisfied with how the day was commercialized—turned into something about buying and selling rather than honoring.

In the 1980s, sociologist Arlene Kaplan Daniels named what she called “invisible labor”—the essential, often unnoticed work that keeps society functioning. This labor is frequently done by women and is underappreciated and unseen.

This is a moment to recognize the seen-ness of the unseen—to understand that God is present in that work, that God is especially the God of the unseen, the underappreciated, and the invisible.

In New Mexico, there is a deep cultural devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary. You see memorials and depictions of her everywhere—a commitment to remembering and honoring her.

Mary represents the fullness of motherhood, but also something broader: the work of mothering as compassion, support, and love. This is not limited to biological mothers, but includes all who take on that role in the world.

Today is a day to acknowledge that God is especially present with those who go unrecognized.

Mary proclaims this in the Magnificat: God lifts up the lowly, fills the hungry with good things, and brings down the powerful.

But this message is not just about recognizing that God is with the unseen. It is also about our responsibility.

Too often, the Church has treated invisibility as a virtue—that people should quietly do important work without recognition. But that is not the full message of the Gospel.

We are called to name what is unseen. To acknowledge the invisible labor that holds the world together. To proclaim the presence of God in those places.

We often sense that this work exists—we know, at some level, that things are held together by unseen efforts—but we do not name it.

We are called to name it.

We see this also in broader society. There is a growing focus on health, fitness, and self-improvement—CrossFit, gym culture, wellness movements. Even in psychotherapy, there is an emphasis on self-actualization and personal fulfillment.

None of these things are inherently bad. They contain glimpses of truth and of God’s presence. But they are not the fullness of God.

We are invited to help people see beyond these fragments—to recognize the deeper reality of God’s presence and fullness.

We are seen by God at all times and in all places. God is at work everywhere. But often, that presence is not fully understood. Sometimes it is even distorted or overshadowed by harmful expectations, including within the Church itself.

So today, I invite you into two reflections.

First: in those places where you feel invisible—especially for those who are mothers or engaged in the work of caregiving—know that God sees you. God recognizes your dedication, your sacrifice, and your worth.

Second: we, as Christians, have a responsibility to proclaim that seen-ness. Like Paul, we are called to name the unknown God—to point out God’s presence where it is overlooked.

We are called to help others recognize what they already sense but may not fully understand.

I saw this powerfully in New Mexico, particularly in time spent reconnecting with communities on Navajo Nation.

Navajo Nation is roughly the size of the state of Virginia, and there are only 13 grocery stores across the entire nation. Food insecurity is a major issue. Employment opportunities are limited. The challenges are profound.

And yet, in the midst of that, there is a deep and powerful proclamation of God’s presence—of hope, of transformation, of new life.

Julie and I spent time with my classmate Cornelia Eaton, who serves in leadership in the diocese there. Despite significant challenges in her life, her optimism and her witness to God’s goodness were deeply moving.

Her ability to proclaim the God of new life in the midst of struggle was transformative to witness.

I pray that we carry that strength with us—that we recognize that we are seen, and that in being seen, we are called to proclaim that truth.

To help the world understand more fully who God is, and how God is at work all around us.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.