​A few weeks ago I was talking with another Episcopal priest who had just gone through one of the toughest experiences of their ministry. A church member had become a little bit out of control and my priest friend finally had to remove them from positions of leadership in the church. The priest didn’t tell this person they couldn’t come to worship, and I understand they’ve continued to attend. They were welcome to worship, but for the health of the community they could no longer serve in a position of responsibility.

My priest friend wasn’t happy about this sad situation. But I thought, you know, that’s exactly the kind of painful state of affairs that Jesus is talking about in today’s Gospel reading from Matthew 18.

Now, in case you haven’t noticed, churches are made up of human beings, and yes, even their clergy are human beings. We disappoint one another. We misunderstand one another. We hurt one another. Sometimes we wound one another deeply. As I heard someone say when they were exhausted by various tensions with others, “Well, people gonna be people!”  The question isn’t whether conflict will come. The question is: What do followers of Jesus do when it does?

It’s like Jesus is giving us a set of instructions in this gospel story. I hope you don’t have to ever do this! But: “If another member of the church sins against you,” Jesus says, what? Don’t gossip about them. Don’t recruit allies to your side. Don’t discuss the problem with everyone except the person involved. Go and speak to that person privately.

“If the member listens to you, you have regained that one.” Notice Jesus’ goal. It isn’t to win an argument. It isn’t to prove who’s right. It isn’t punishment. It’s relationship. “If the member listens to you, you have regained that one.”

Some of you may remember the 1928 Book of Common Prayer, which outlined rules for a priest to refuse communion. One reason was “unreconciled malice.” David reminded me at our Bible study last Wednesday that such a person could not take communion until they made open repentance, and reconciled with the person they had wronged! For some reason that’s not in our current prayer book!

I do remember years ago at the church where I became an Episcopalian, one Sunday we read this gospel text. And rather than preach a sermon, the priest encouraged those of us sitting in the nave, if we had a problem with someone else in the congregation, or needed to forgive or be forgiven, to go and make things right, right now! And after an awkward silence, people actually did.

It was powerful, very moving, and frankly very scary! There were lots of tears and hugs. Rather than storing up resentment and anger, the priest said, we can ask for forgiveness. We can offer forgiveness. We can try to regain the relationship.

But Jesus says, if that doesn’t work, take one or two others with you—not to gang up on the person, but because perhaps a few trusted voices can help bring understanding and healing. Then, if that doesn’t work, involve the wider church community. Only after every effort at reconciliation has failed does Jesus acknowledge that the relationship may at least for now be broken. This is just how my priest friend handled it.

Frankly, I find all of this a little uncomfortable. But then Jesus says something even stranger: “Whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.” Now, two weeks ago, in Matthew 16, Jesus spoke those words to Peter. Here, he speaks them to the whole community of disciples. And it’s an enormous responsibility. But I think the key to understanding it comes from the verses surrounding today’s Gospel.

Just before this passage comes the parable of the lost sheep. The shepherd leaves 99 sheep to search for the one who has wandered away. Jesus concludes, “It is not the will of your Father in heaven that one of these little ones should be lost.”

Then comes today’s passage with Jesus’ instructions. And then immediately after it, Peter asks, “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” Jesus replies, “Not seven times, but seventy-seven times.”
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Do you see what the writer of Matthew’s gospel is doing? He has surrounded this difficult teaching with two great themes: seeking the lost and forgiving without limit.

That tells us how we’re meant to understand today’s Gospel. God’s heart is all about binding people together. God’s desire is that no one be lost. God’s first instinct is reconciliation. Even those difficult words at the end take on a different meaning when we remember who Jesus is. “If the offender refuses to listen even to the church,” Jesus says, “let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector.”

That sounds bad, doesn’t it. Gentiles and tax collectors were despised by good Jewish people. But let’s ask ourselves: how did Jesus treat Gentiles? How did he treat tax collectors? Oh! He ate with them. He welcomed them and hung out with them. He healed them and their children and beloved servants. He loved them.

So even when trust has been broken, even when someone can no longer serve in leadership, even when a relationship cannot be restored right now, that person never ceases to be someone Jesus loves. And neither should they cease to be someone we love.

Jesus closes with one of the most beloved promises in all of Scripture: “Where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.” We often quote those words when only a few people show up for Bible study. I quoted them a couple of weeks ago when Lala was in town and we only had 12 souls in church! But notice the context: Jesus is talking about a community doing the hard work of reconciliation.

He is saying that when we gather prayerfully, humbly, and honestly, seeking not our own victory but God’s will, Jesus himself is present among us.

Here in Hawaiʻi, we have a powerful example of what this difficult work can look like. After the overthrow of the Hawaiian Kingdom, Queen Liliʻuokalani was imprisoned in an upstairs room of ʻIolani Palace. She had been stripped of her throne. Her people had been denied their sovereignty. Some who supported her had taken part in an unsuccessful effort to restore the monarchy, and the new government threatened them with severe punishment. The Queen faced an agonizing choice.

She believed the lives of some of those supporters were in danger. So, while she was still a prisoner, she voluntarily surrendered her claim to the throne, hoping to secure pardons and protect the lives of those who had risen in her cause.

Think of the cost of that to her. She didn’t say the overthrow was right. She didn’t bless the injustice done to her or to the Hawaiian people. She continued for the rest of her life to tell the truth, to protest, and to advocate for her people. But neither did she allow bitterness to rule her.

During those months of imprisonment, among many other hymns and songs, she wrote the Queen’s Prayer, and we sing verse 1 at the end of every service, but another verse says: Behold not with malevolence/ the sins of man,/ but forgive and cleanse... and let peace be our portion/ now and forevermore.

So beautiful! And this isn’t cheap forgiveness. This isn’t pretending nothing happened. It’s forgiveness born in suffering—the kind of forgiveness that tells the truth about what has been broken while refusing to surrender the soul to hatred or bitterness.

Maybe that’s part of what Jesus means by binding and loosing. There are things we must bind ourselves to: truth, justice, mercy, the dignity of every human being, and the hard work of forgiveness and reconciliation.

And there are things we must ask God to loose from us: resentment, vengeance, the need to belittle another person, and the desire to answer wound with wound.

That is also the wisdom behind the Hawaiian concept of hoʻo ponopono: not sweeping conflict under the rug, but bringing what is broken into the light so that, through honesty, repentance, forgiveness, and reconciliation, things might be made right again.

In just a few minutes, we’ll come together to this table. None of us comes because we’ve never hurt anyone. None of us comes because we’ve gotten every relationship right.

We come because Jesus is still reconciling us—to God and to one another. Week after week. Person after person.

And if Jesus hasn’t given up on us, there’s no reason we should ever give up on one another.

Amen.

ALOHA! September always feels a little like a life reset. Keiki are back in school, summer travel is winding down, calendars are filling up again, and our schedules are supposedly “normalizing,” whatever that means! In the church, September has traditionally marked the beginning of a new program year, and here at St. Timothy’s it also will bring us into our stewardship season, which begins September 13. The beginning of September is a good time to take stock, settle back into our rhythms, and ask what God may be calling us to be and to do in the months ahead.

We’re also moving on from our Summer Sermon Road Trip series, which carried us through so many wonderful Old Testament stories. For the next several Sundays we’ll turn more intentionally toward the Gospel readings. This Sunday’s lesson, Matthew 18:15-20, begins with a subject every church, family, and community knows something about: what do we do when people hurt one another?

Jesus gives us a way forward that is more challenging, and more hopeful, than simply walking away from one another when we’re hurt. His words are about truth-telling, accountability, forgiveness, and the hard work of reconciliation. This Sunday’s message is called “Don’t Give Up on Each Other!” because that may be the heart of what Jesus is asking of us. We won’t always agree. We will sometimes disappoint or wound one another. But Christ keeps calling us back into relationship, back toward grace, and back toward one another. And he shows us how. Please join us this Sunday at 9 a.m. in the Chapel, or on Facebook Live!

LAST SUNDAY, in Exodus 3:1–15 we explored one of the greatest call stories in Scripture: Moses and the burning bush. Moses was tending sheep in the wilderness, living what may have seemed like a settled and ordinary life. But then God interrupted. A bush burned but was not consumed, and God calls his name: “Moses, Moses!” The sermon, “When God Calls Your Name,” invited us to consider how God still meets ordinary people like you and me in ordinary places, and calls us into extraordinary, holy work. Have you heard God call you this week?

DEAR SIBLINGS IN CHRIST, as we begin this new season together, I’m grateful for the many ways you share in the life and ministry of St. Timothy’s. Please continue to pray for our leaders and ministers, for me as your vicar, and for every member of our St. Timothy’s ʻohana. May God renew us for the work ahead, deepen our love for one another, and widen our hearts to receive and share the grace Christ so freely gives. And may we move into this new season with faith, generosity, and joy.
Aloha Ke Akua!

Rev. Pete+

When I was a kid, from grade school through high school, my United Methodist pastor dad would take the whole month of August off for his vacation every year. Our family of 6 plus an cantankerous Pekinese would pile into Dad’s massive Cadillac sedan and make the journey from Huntington, WV, all the way to the Tidewater area in Virginia, where Dad was from. We’d visit with family and spend most days on the James River at Sunken Meadow Beach cottages.

Oh, it was idyllic for a kid! But the trip seemed to take so long getting there. Nowadays, you can drive that route in 6 hours or so, but back then the interstate highways were still being built—and it took us two days! But the journey was well worth it. Memories that last a lifetime.

But you know, every vacation has that moment when you realize the vacation is almost over. Ugh—that long drive back home meant school would be starting soon, right after Labor Day back then!

​But there’s also something tender and sweet about the end of a journey. Because you look back over where you’ve been. You review the letters your friends mailed you while you were away. You remember what surprised you, what challenged you, what made you laugh, what made you tired, what you learned, what changed you a little along the way. And if it has been a good journey, as those were for me, you don’t come home exactly the same as when you left.

Today we reach the final Sunday of our Summer Sermon Road Trip: Following God in Real Life. We began back in June with Abraham hearing God say, “Go,” without being handed a map. Since then, we’ve traveled through stories of promise, wilderness, laughter, heartbreak, family mess, surprise, struggle, betrayal, forgiveness, and courage. And now, at the end of August, we arrive at one of the greatest call stories in Scripture: Moses and the burning bush.
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It’s worth noticing where Moses is when God calls him. He is not in a temple. He is not in a theological  discussion with religious leaders. He is not asking himself, “Lord, what bold new mission would you like me to undertake next?”

No, Moses is tending sheep. That’s it. He’s doing ordinary work in an ordinary place on what probably seemed like an ordinary day. In fact, Moses may have thought the most dramatic part of his life was behind him. After all, as we saw last week, he’d been born under Pharaoh’s threat—death to all Hebrew baby boys. He’d been rescued from the Nile by Pharaoh’s own daughter. He’d grown up in Pharaoh’s household. He’d killed an Egyptian who was beating a Hebrew slave. Then he fled for his life and settled in Midian.

By the time we meet him in today’s reading, Moses has built a different life. He’s married, has a family, a job, a routine. Whatever he once imagined for himself, whatever unresolved issues he carried about Egypt, his people, and his past, he is now just a simple shepherd in the wilderness.

And then God interrupts. Moses sees a bush that is burning but not consumed. He turns to look at it. Moses doesn’t yet know he is being called. He only knows something strange has caught his attention.

When he turns to the burning bush, God calls to him from within it: “Moses, Moses!” And Moses answers, “Here I am.” That may be one of the most important prayers in Scripture. Simple. Open. Vulnerable. Just “Here I am.” We’ve heard echoes of that answer all summer—from Abraham, from Rebekah, and in other places throughout Scripture. “Here I am” is the language of availability. But with Moses, we quickly discover that availability doesn’t always mean confidence. Hold on to that.

Then God tells Moses to remove his sandals, because the place where he is standing is holy ground. Holy ground! Not because Moses expected it. Not because the wilderness looked impressive. It was holy because God was present.

That theme has been with us all summer. Again and again, people discover God not where everything is clear and polished, but right in the middle of real life. On the road. In the tent. By a well. In the wilderness. In a dream. In a wrestling match. In a pit. In a basket among the reeds. And now, in a burning bush. God is present.

God tells Moses, “I have observed the misery of my people who are in Egypt. I have heard their cry. I know their sufferings. I have come down to deliver them.”

That is the heart of this story. Before Moses is given a task, he is given a revelation of God’s compassion. God sees. God hears. God knows. God comes down. The call of Moses begins not with human ambition, but with divine mercy.
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And then comes the part Moses was probably hoping to avoid: “So come, I will send you to Pharaoh to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt.” Moses, understandably, has questions.

“Uh, God, who am I that I should go to Pharaoh?” I’m not powerful enough. I’m not eloquent enough. I’m not brave enough. I have a complicated past. A wanted man. I have built another life. Surely there must be someone else who can do this thing.

I bet a lot of you understand that feeling. I do. God may not be calling us to confront Pharaoh, but God’s call still has a way of finding us in ordinary places and asking more of us than we expected.

A neighbor needs help. An outreach ministry needs a volunteer or two. A child needs to learn. A hurting person needs compassion. A community needs someone willing to stand with them for justice and mercy. A church needs people who will say, not necessarily with perfect confidence but with open hearts, “Here I am.”

And notice how God answers Moses’ question. Moses asks, “Who am I?” God answers, “I will be with you.” That is not exactly the answer Moses asked for. God does not say, “Moses, let me list your qualifications.” God doesn’t give him a résumé review. God doesn’t say, “You are more gifted than you realize.”

God says, “I will be with you.” In other words, the call does not depend on Moses being impressive. It depends on God being faithful. That has been the good news all summer long.

Abraham heard, “Go.” Sarah laughed. Hagar wept. Rebekah said yes. Jacob made a mess, then saw heaven in an unexpected place, and later wrestled through the night. Joseph was betrayed, then years later found grace enough to forgive. The Hebrew midwives quietly resisted Pharaoh’s cruelty. Moses heard his name called from a burning bush. Different stories. Same God.

The God who calls. The God who surprises. The God who hears. The God who provides. The God who wrestles with us through the night. The God who brings grace out of what once was only pain. The God who remembers when the world forgets. The God who says, again and again, “I will be with you.”

We began this journey in June with God’s call to the unknown. We arrive here at the end of August not with all the answers, but with something better: the quiet, steady trust that God has been with us this whole journey. And that presence will continue forever.

And maybe that’s the real destination of faith. Not certainty. Not a perfect map. Not a life without detours. But trust. Trust that the ground beneath our ordinary lives may be holier than we think.

Trust that God still hears the cries of those who suffer. Trust that God still calls ordinary people into holy work. Trust that when we ask, “Who am I?” God still answers, “I will be with you.”
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So as this Summer Sermon Road Trip comes to an end, perhaps the question is not simply, “Where have we been?” Perhaps the question is, “Where is God calling us next?” Not just Moses. Not just Abraham. Us.

Here at St. Timothy’s. In our homes. In our various ministries. In our relationships. In this anxious and hurting world God loves so deeply.

The end of one journey is often the beginning of another.

So when God calls our name, may we, like these ordinary people who we’ve encountered all summer long, may we have the courage, the humility, and the faith to answer: “Lord, here I am.”

Amen.

​ALOHA! As August comes to a close, we arrive at the final Sunday of our Summer
Sermon Road Trip Series: Following God in Real Life. What a journey this has been! We began back in June with Abraham hearing God’s call to “Go,” even though he didn’t yet know where the road would lead. Since then, we’ve traveled through some of the great stories of Genesis and Exodus—stories filled with promise, laughter, heartbreak, family conflict, unexpected grace, courage, and calling.

Along the way, we saw Abraham respond to God’s call, and Sarah laugh when God’s promise seemed impossible. We stood with Hagar in the wilderness and remembered that God sees and hears those who feel forgotten. We heard Rebekah say yes to a future she could not fully understand. We followed Jacob through family mess, disappointment, surprise, and a night of wrestling that left him both wounded and blessed. We looked into the pit with Joseph, then watched grace finally break through as he faced the brothers who had betrayed him. Last week, as we moved into Exodus, we remembered that even when God’s people forget God’s faithfulness, God never forgets God’s people.

THIS SUNDAY, we come to Exodus 3:1–15, one of the greatest call stories in Scripture: Moses and the burning bush. Moses is not looking for a mission; he is tending sheep in the wilderness, living what may have seemed like a settled and ordinary life. But then God interrupts. A bush burns but is not consumed, Moses turns aside to look, and God calls his name: “Moses, Moses!” The sermon, “When God Calls Your Name,” invites us to consider how God still meets ordinary people like you and me in ordinary places, and calls us into extraordinary, holy work.

We began in June with a call to the unknown. We arrive here at the end of August not with all the answers, but with something better: the quiet, steady trust that God has been with us this whole journey. And perhaps the final question is not only where Abraham, Jacob, Joseph, or Moses were called to go, but where God is calling us next… here at St. Timothy’s, in our homes, in our ministries, and in this anxious and hurting world God loves so deeply. Please join us this Sunday at 9 a.m. in the Chapel, or on Facebook Live as we conclude this summer journey together!

LAST SUNDAY, our reading, Exodus 1:8–2:10, focused on the time long after Joseph, when a new Pharaoh had arisen “who did not know Joseph.” Generations had passed, memories had faded, and fear began to shape the future. Yet even when people forgot God’s faithfulness, God did not forget God’s people. We were encouraged to remember that God’s story continues even through fear, hardship, courage, and unexpected grace. Have you been able to trust that this past week?

A VERY SINCERE THANK YOU to all who helped with our Annual Church Clean-Up last Sunday! Our volunteers enjoyed the return of the Ice Cream Truck and belated birthday cake from me to you. Mahalo to all who worked hard to help make our beautiful campus sparkle.

CLERGY CONFERENCE: This past Monday through Wednesday, I joined with other clergy of the Diocese for our annual summer conference, this time on Kaua‘i. We had a wonderful time with our speaker, the Rev. Rachel Taber-Hamilton, who presented on the theme “Tradition, Transition, and Transfiguration: Leading into a Time of Leadership Transition as a Communal and Spiritual Rite of Passage.” We enjoyed worship, fellowship, group discussions, meals and activities, free time, and opportunities to share our blessings with Bishop Bob as he prepares to retire.

DEAR SIBLINGS IN CHRIST, I am grateful for the many ways you share in the life and ministry of St. Timothy’s. Please continue to pray for our leaders and ministers, for me as your vicar, and for every member of our St. Timothy’s ʻohana. May God grant us faith for the journey, hope for the road ahead, and the assurance that God’s presence is always with us.

Aloha Ke Akua!
Rev. Pete+

Senior moments. Ever have any? Some of you are way too young! But I do. I’m constantly grabbing my phone to do something, get distracted by various notifications, and forget what I grabbed my phone for. All the time! Does that happen to you?

Every once in a while, I’ll walk into a room with a very clear purpose, and then immediately forget why I’m there. I choose to believe that this is one of the spiritual gifts that comes with maturity. I’ll stand there for a moment, looking around for clues. “Was I looking for my reading glasses? Did I come in here to get a pen? Or a snack? Why am I standing in front of this closet?”

Sometimes I retrace my steps, hoping that if I go back to where I started, the memory will return. And sometimes it does. Other times I just decide that whatever it was must not have been that important and move on with my life. Am I the only one who does this?

Forgetting can be funny when it’s something simple like reading glasses. But forgetting can also be dangerous.

Families can forget where they came from. Churches can forget why they exist. Nations can forget the values they claim to cherish. People can forget the stories that formed them, the mercy that sustained them, the grace that brought them this far. And when we forget the story, fear often rushes in to fill the empty space.

And that’s where we are this morning as our Summer Sermon Road Trip turns from Genesis into Exodus. Officially, the appointed reading has moved on. But before we leave Joseph behind, we need to remember how his story ended. As we saw last week, many years after his brothers threw him into a pit and sold him into slavery, after years of suffering and exile, Joseph was able to look back and say to them, “Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good.”

That sentence does not erase the pit. It does not excuse the betrayal. It does not pretend that their evil was actually good.

But it does testify to something deeper: God was able to bring grace out of what once was only pain and bitter feelings. That was Joseph’s great act of faith. He could see, at the end of the road, that God had not abandoned the story. Or him.

But then Genesis ends. Joseph dies. Generations pass. And Exodus begins with one of the saddest and most important lines in Scripture: “Now a new king arose over Egypt, who did not know Joseph.”

He did not know Joseph. That means more than he had never met him. Of course he’d never met him. Joseph lived generations earlier. It means the memory of what Joseph had accomplished had been lost. The story had faded. Pharaoh no longer remembered how Joseph had saved Egypt during famine. He no longer remembered the blessing that had come through these Hebrew people. He saw no history, no gratitude, no kinship, no gift. He saw only a problem. A threat.

The Israelite refugees had become so numerous, that Pharaoh became afraid of them. Fear turned to suspicion, which turned to oppression. And oppression turned to violence. Before long, Pharaoh was ordering the death of Hebrew babies.

That’s what can happen when people forget the larger story. Human beings become problems to be managed instead of neighbors to be loved. Certain communities become threats. Power protects itself. Fear begins writing the future. And yet, even there, God’s story is not over.
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That’s the good news in Exodus. Even when Pharaoh forgets Joseph, God does not forget God’s people. The road continues long after we lose sight of the last milestone. And notice where holy resistance begins. Not in a palace. Not with an army. Not with someone who appears powerful by the world’s standards. It begins with women.

Shiphrah and Puah, the Hebrew midwives, quietly refuse to obey Pharaoh’s illegal orders. They don’t make a speech. They don’t command crowds. They just won’t cooperate with evil. Pharaoh orders them to kill Hebrew boys at birth. But they fear God more than Pharaoh. When he questions them, they tell Pharaoh that the Hebrew women are vigorous and give birth before the midwives arrive, so they can’t kill those babies!

There’s a little holy mischief in that answer. And I confess, I love it. Pharaoh thinks he controls everything. But these women know something he does not know. The God of life is already at work beyond Pharaoh’s reach. Then another woman enters the story: Moses’ mother. She hides her child as long as she can. When she can’t hide him any longer, she places him in a basket among the reeds by the river. It’s an act of desperation. It’s also an act of hope.

Then Moses’ sister stands at a distance, watching to see what will happen. Pharaoh’s own daughter comes down to bathe, sees the basket, hears the baby crying and has compassion. Compassion rises in the very household of the one who had commanded murder. That is how surprising God’s story can be.

The child marked for death is drawn out of the water and raised in Pharaoh’s own house. The baby Pharaoh tried to destroy will become the one through whom God leads the people toward freedom. The story isn’t over yet.

That is the truth we may need to carry with us today. Because we live in anxious times. Many people feel as if the world is coming apart at the seams. We see division, cruelty, violence, distrust, and fear. We see people treated as threats rather than neighbors. We see old wisdom forgotten, history ignored, and compassion treated as weakness.

And sometimes we look at the world, or the church, or our own lives and wonder, “Is this where the story ends?”

Exodus says no. The story is not over when Joseph dies. The story is not over when Pharaoh forgets him, or when fear takes control. The story is not over when cruelty seems to have the upper hand.

God is still at work. Sometimes through courageous midwives. Sometimes through a mother’s desperate hope. Sometimes through a sister keeping watch. Sometimes through compassion in an unexpected place. Sometimes through a child floating in a basket, unseen by the powerful, but held in the mercy of God.

That doesn’t mean the road is easy. The Exodus will not be an easy journey. There will be plagues and wilderness, fear and complaining, hunger and thirst, long detours and many moments when the people wonder whether God has brought them this far only to abandon them.
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But God does not forget. We may forget, yes, we may have our senior moments. But God never does. God never forgets us. That is the promise. Even when we forget who we are, God remembers. Even when the world forgets mercy, God remembers. Even when the powerful forget history, God remembers. Even when we lose sight of the last milestone, God keeps leading the story forward.

And maybe that’s why we gather week after week as a church. We come here to remember. We remember the stories of Scripture, as we have been all summer through Genesis. We remember God’s faithfulness. We remember that we are not Pharaoh’s people, ruled by fear and scarcity. No, we are God’s people, called to mercy, courage, hospitality, and hope.

We remember that the child in the basket points us toward another child, born under another fearful ruler, another child whose life was threatened by power, and through whom God would bring deliverance to all.

The road keeps going. Grace keeps moving. God keeps remembering.

So when the world feels frightening, when the future feels uncertain, when the story seems stuck in a place of fear or grief or confusion or need, Exodus invites you to take heart.

Your story is not over yet. Don’t ever forget that! Amen.

ALOHA! Last Sunday was a day we won’t soon forget. As Hurricane Lala moved through the islands, twelve hardy souls gathered for a shortened Eucharist service in the midst of the storm, while scores of others participated on Facebook Life. I’m deeply grateful for those who stepped up and helped make worship possible: Jo and Judy handled STEAM, Gail set up the altar, and Nancy served as Eucharistic Minister and lector. And before the service, Marge and Dan stuffed bags in the pantry for Outreach. We welcomed one visitor who was seeking an church that was open. As far as I know, only two or three other Episcopal churches on O‘ahu held in-person services that morning, so I give thanks for the faithfulness, flexibility, and good spirits of our St. Timothy’s ʻohana!

THIS SUNDAY, we’ll continue our Summer Sermon Road Trip: Following God in Real Life series with a turning point in the biblical story. Our reading, Exodus 1:8–2:10, begins after the time of Joseph, when a new Pharaoh arises “who did not know Joseph.” Generations have passed, memories have faded, and fear begins to shape the future. Yet even when people forget God’s faithfulness, God does not forget God’s people. This week’s sermon, “When the Story Isn’t Over Yet,” invites us to remember that God’s story continues even through fear, hardship, courage, and unexpected grace.

Please join us this Sunday at 9 a.m. in the Chapel, or on Facebook Live as we continue this journey of faith together!

LAST SUNDAY, we continued Joseph’s story in Genesis 45:1–15 with the sermon “When Grace Finally Breaks Through.” (In the service I offered a shorter version, and the full sermon is available to read on our church website blog.) Years had passed since Joseph’s brothers had thrown him in the pit and sold him as a slave. Now they stood before him in Egypt, not realizing who he was, and Joseph responded with mercy. This story reminded us that forgiveness is not denial, and reconciliation is rarely simple. But sometimes, over time, God’s grace finally breaks through. Have you seen grace breaking through in your life this past week?
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PLEASE HELP THIS SUNDAY! Our Annual Church Clean-Up will start after worship, with the return of the Ice Cream Truck with treats for our volunteers! We’ll also have the birthday cake from me to you to celebrate my happy birthday last week. So please come to church in work clothes and plan to stay and help us make our beautiful campus sparkle.

DEAR SIBLINGS IN CHRIST, I am grateful for the many ways you share in the life and ministry of St. Timothy’s. Please continue to pray for our leaders and ministers, for me as your vicar, and for every member of our St. Timothy’s ʻohana. May God grant us faith for the journey, hope for the road ahead, and the assurance that God’s presence is always with us.

Aloha Ke Akua!
Rev. Pete+

Yesterday was my birthday. We’re going to celebrate after worship with a little cake from me thanking you for making this birthday so happy.

I am now 72 years old. How did that happen? Of course with our dear Jean Smith’s 104th birthday party last week, I feel very young!

Now, in the Episcopal Church, 72 is an interesting number, because that’s the mandatory retirement age for clergy. Which means I’ve officially reached the age when the church says, “Thank you very much, Father Pete. Please put down the chalice and step away from the altar.”

But, I’m not going anywhere just yet. Because there’s a loophole. Bishop Bob graciously extended my service here, and Bishop-elect Libby told me she’d be happy to keep doing the same next year. So, you’re stuck with me. And I’m stuck with you!

I say that with a chuckle, but also with gratitude. Birthdays, especially the ones with larger numbers attached, have a way of making us reflective. We look back over the road we’ve traveled: the decisions made, the surprises encountered, the losses endured, the blessings received, and the grace we didn’t always recognize at the time.

And sometimes, when looking back, we begin to see our story differently. Which is what happened to Joseph in today’s Old Testament reading.

We’ve come a long way on our Summer Sermon Road Trip through Genesis. Last week, we began the story of Joseph, whose brothers, driven by jealousy and resentment, threw him into a pit and sold him into slavery. Joseph was wounded by the very people who should have loved and cared for him.

But now years have passed. Joseph has ended up far from home. He has been enslaved, falsely accused, imprisoned, forgotten, and finally raised to authority in Egypt. And now his brothers stand before him, desperate for food in a time of famine, not realizing that the powerful Egyptian official in front of them is the brother they once sold away.

Joseph knows them. They don’t know him. And in this moment, Joseph has every advantage. He has power. Authority. He has the element of surprise. He has every reason to make them pay. Instead, Joseph weeps.

Genesis says he weeps so loudly that the Egyptians hear it. This is not a quiet, dignified tear slipping down the cheek. This is a full-bodied release of years of grief, love, anger, longing, and pain. Joseph’s heart breaks wide open. And then he says the words that change everything: “I am Joseph. Is my father still alive?”

Can you imagine that moment? His brothers are terrified, speechless. Why wouldn’t they be? The sordid past has come back, and it threatens them. The brother they betrayed is alive, and now their lives are in his hands. What would he do to them now?

But Joseph does something astonishing. He tells them to come closer. “Come closer to me.” That may be one of the most powerful lines in the story. Because the natural movement after betrayal is distance. We pull away. We protect ourselves and build walls. Sometimes that distance is necessary and wise. Forgiveness does not always mean restored trust, and reconciliation is not always possible or safe.

But in this moment, after years of suffering and years of God working in hidden ways, Joseph is able to move toward his brothers rather than away from them. Then he says, “I am your brother Joseph, whom you sold into Egypt. And now do not be distressed or angry with yourselves, because God sent me before you to preserve life.”

That’s a remarkable statement. But we need to be careful with it. Joseph does not say, “What you did to me was fine.” He doesn’t say, “It didn’t hurt.” He doesn’t say, “Let’s pretend none of this happened.” In fact, he names it plainly: “I am Joseph, whom you sold into Egypt.” That part of the story remains true. But it is no longer the only truth.

That may be what grace does. And we’ve seen this before in these Genesis stories: Grace doesn’t erase the past. Or deny the harm. Grace doesn’t turn betrayal into something harmless. But grace can sometimes open up a larger story than the one pain alone can tell.

Joseph suffered because of his brothers. That is true. Joseph was also used by God to preserve life. That is also true. And in this moment, grace breaks through—not because the past doesn’t matter, but because God’s mercy is larger, greater, than the past.

Psalm 133 gives us the dream: “How good and pleasant it is when brethren (and sistren!) live together in unity.” Genesis 45 shows us how costly and complicated that unity can be.

Unity does not come cheaply here. It doesn’t come by pretending there was no pit, no betrayal, no years of suffering. It comes through tears. It comes through truth. It comes through Joseph’s willingness, after a long and painful journey, to see more than the harm his brothers did.

That’s important because many people misunderstand forgiveness. We sometimes think forgiveness means pretending we weren’t hurt, excusing what happened, or allowing the same harm to continue. But biblical forgiveness is not denial. It’s not weakness, or amnesia.

Forgiveness is the costly freedom of refusing to let the wound have the final word. Sometimes that freedom leads to reconciliation. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes the other person is not safe, not honest, or not ready. But even then, God can begin loosening the grip of the past on our souls.

Joseph’s story shows reconciliation at its most beautiful. But it also reminds us that reconciliation takes time. Years, in this case. Joseph does not leap from the pit directly into forgiveness. There is a long road between Genesis 37 and Genesis 45. Grace often takes time. Healing takes time. Seeing the story differently takes time.

In the Gospel, Jesus encounters the Canaanite woman, a mother who refuses to be turned away as she pleads for her daughter’s healing. It’s a challenging story--Jesus called her what?!—but one of its gifts is this: grace crosses boundaries. Mercy reaches farther than expected. The table is wider than people may have imagined.

That’s also what happens in Joseph’s story. Grace crosses the boundary between the wounded brother and the brothers who wounded him. The family that fractured, slowly and imperfectly begins to be drawn back together. Not because anyone deserves it. But because grace finally, finally, breaks through.

And maybe that is one of the gifts of getting older, celebrating another birthday. At least, I hope it is. We begin to see that our lives are not only made of the things that happened to us. They are also made of what God has done with us, in us, and sometimes despite us.

At 72, I can look back and see some things I could not see at the time. Not everything makes sense. Some things never will. But I can see doors that opened through disappointment. I can see mercy that came through unexpected people. I can see moments when grace was at work long before I had the wisdom to recognize it.

Joseph’s brothers expected fierce judgment. They received mercy. Joseph looked at the people who hurt him and somehow saw more than the harm they had done. He saw hunger. He saw fear. He saw family. He saw, perhaps, the faint outline of God’s larger story of God’s people.

So wherever we are today—carrying old wounds, seeking reconciliation, trying to make peace with our own past, or simply looking back over the long and winding road of life—Joseph’s story offers this hope:

The past is real. The hurt is real. But they are not the whole story. Grace can still break through. Amen.

ALOHA! As August continues and we settle back into school and work routines, we continue our Summer Sermon Road Trip: Following God in Real Life. This month we’re moving through some of the most powerful stories in Scripture: Jacob wrestling through the night, Joseph facing the brothers who betrayed him, and soon Moses being drawn into God’s work of liberation.

THIS SUNDAY, we continue Joseph’s story in Genesis 45:1–15 with the sermon “When Grace Finally Breaks Through.” Last week, we met Joseph in the pit, wounded by the very people who should have cared for him. This week, years have passed. Joseph’s brothers stand before him in Egypt, not realizing who he is, and Joseph must decide what to do with the pain of the past. It’s a deeply emotional story of tears, truth, forgiveness, and grace. And it reminds us that forgiveness is not denial, and reconciliation is rarely simple. But sometimes, over time, God helps us see our story differently. Sometimes grace finally breaks through. Please join us this Sunday at 9 a.m. in the Chapel, or on Facebook Live as we continue this journey of faith together!

LAST SUNDAY in Genesis 37:1–4, 12–28, we saw that Joseph’s story began not with triumph, but with family conflict, jealousy, betrayal, and a pit. We considered the wounds people sometimes carry from those who should have loved them better… and the hope that even in painful places, God will not let go of us. I hope you’ve kept that in mind this past week, whatever came your way.

THIS SUNDAY after service we’ll gather for fellowship in Sumida Hall and a “thank you” cake from me to you!

DEAR SIBLINGS IN CHRIST, I am grateful for the many ways you share in the life and ministry of St. Timothy’s. Please continue to pray for our leaders and ministers, for me as your vicar, and for every member of our St. Timothy’s ʻohana. May God grant us faith for the journey, hope for the road ahead, and the assurance that God’s presence is always with us.

Aloha Ke Akua!
Rev. Pete+

This is one of those Sundays when we’ll probably want to take a few pictures. Today we celebrate Jean Smith’s 104th birthday, which is itself an amazing gift and blessing to us all. We also give thanks as we install new members of our St. Timothy’s chapter of the Daughters of the King, and as we launch our Junior Daughters of the King. So Dan and others will be taking photos during the service, and then, during fellowship, I’m sure there will be lots more photos as we celebrate Jean’s birthday with cake—because, of course, if there is a party, there should be photographic evidence.

And I love that, because photographs help us remember. They capture special moments in the life of a family, a church, a community. Years from now, someone may look back at the pictures from today and say, “Look how young they were,” or “Remember when we started Junior Daughters?” or maybe, “Who chose that outfit?”

Because, you know, every so often on Facebook or Instagram, someone will post their family photos from many years ago. A Christmas picture, a family reunion, or one of those formal portraits taken in a department store where everyone is posed in front of a fake background. And remember the old church directory photos?

Usually the first thing you notice in such photos is the clothes they’re wearing. The plaid pants. The wide collars. The leisure suits. And then there are the hairstyles: feathered, sprayed, curled, blown out, or otherwise engineered into shapes that seem physically improbable.

Of course, at the time, everyone thought they looked great. Stylish, even. Which is a humbling reminder that forty years from now, someone may look at pictures of us we post and say, “What were they thinking?”

Old family photographs are fascinating for another reason too. Everyone is posed, smiling, or at least trying. Everyone appears to belong. The picture shows who was there, but it never tells the whole story. It can’t show the argument that happened in the car on the way. It can’t show the sibling rivalry, the hurt someone carried home afterward.

Families can offer love, joy, and belonging. But they can also cause wounds that linger for years.

We’ve been on our Summer Sermon Road Trip through Genesis for a couple of months now. Now the story moves to the story of Joseph. Once again, Genesis tells the truth about families. Joseph is the beloved son of Israel (formerly known as Jacob). Rachel is his mother. Genesis says plainly that Israel loved Joseph more than any of his other children. And we’ve heard this pattern before. In the previous generation, Isaac loved Esau, and Rebekah loved Jacob. Favoritism in a family is never a small detail. It affects everything. (Of course, I was my mother’s favorite!)

Jacob gives Joseph a special cloak, a “long robe with sleeves,” this translation says, but it’s also translated “an ornamented robe” and “a coat of many colors.” They did a Broadway musical about this, remember? “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.” But whatever exactly the garment looked like, and scholars don’t agree, its meaning was clear. Joseph was special, the favorite. And his brothers hated him for it.

Genesis says they hated him so much they could not speak nicely to him. That’s scary. Before his brothers throw Joseph into a pit, before they sell him into slavery, the relationship is already broken. Violence begins long before hands are raised. It begins when resentment and envy harden, when people stop seeing one another as fully human.

Now, to be fair, Joseph doesn’t help matters. Just before today’s reading, he shares dreams in which his own family bows down to him. You might think Joseph had not yet developed the spiritual gift of tact. If your brothers already resent you, announcing that you dreamed they were all bowing down before you is probably not the wisest strategy.

But nothing Joseph does justifies what happens next. Jacob has sent Joseph to go check on his brothers herding sheep. They see him coming from a distance, and they conspire to kill him.

These aren’t outlaws, they’re his brothers. Instead of saying, “Here comes our brother,” they say, “Here comes that [expletive deleted] dreamer."

That’s what resentment does. It reduces a person to the one thing about them that bothers us. That dreamer.
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At first, they plan murder. Reuben talks them down to throwing him in a pit. And Judah eventually suggests selling him as a slave instead. So they strip Joseph of the robe, throw him into a pit, sit down to eat, and then sell him to passing traders. One detail seems especially hurtful: they sit down to eat. Their brother is in a pit, and they have lunch. Scripture is not subtle here. This is what human beings can do when the heart becomes hardened. We can normalize cruelty.

I could be wrong, but it seems this still happens today! People harm others and still just carry on with ordinary life. They convince themselves that their actions are justified because their resentment feels righteous.

Oh, this is a hard story. But it is an honest one. The Bible does not pretend that being part of God’s story protects people from being wounded. Joseph is part of the promise. Joseph will become an instrument of God’s future. But that does not spare him from betrayal.
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And while that’s tough to hear, it’s also comforting, in a way. Many people carry wounds inflicted not by enemies, but by those who should have loved them better. Family wounds. Church wounds. Childhood wounds. Wounds by friends. Wounds of being overlooked, judged unfairly, abandoned, betrayed, or harmed. Pick one, or more, that resonate with you. And, one of the worst things we can do as people of faith is to cover up those wounds.

We’re going to get to forgiveness and reconciliation later in Joseph’s story. We’re going to get to Joseph looking back and seeing that God was at work in ways he could not have understood at the time. But we’re not there yet. This week, Joseph is in the pit. And when someone is in the pit, the first faithful thing to do is not to explain the pit. It is not to say, “Don’t worry, God has a plan.” Or, “Someday you’ll understand.” Or, “Everything happens for a reason.”

No, the first faithful thing is to tell the truth: this should not have happened. What Joseph’s brothers did was wrong. Their jealousy was wrong. Their violence was wrong. Their willingness to sacrifice their brother for their own relief was wrong. Faith gives us courage to name harm honestly because we trust that God isn’t afraid of the truth.

Joseph’s brothers are responsible for what they did. Yet God is still able to work. Both are true. The story of God’s providence does not cancel the story of human pain.

In Matthew’s Gospel, the disciples are out on the sea in a storm. Jesus comes to them across the water, but they don’t recognize him. They’re afraid. But the storm does not mean Christ is absent. The chaos is real. The fear and danger are real. And still Jesus comes toward them.

Perhaps that’s the word we can hear alongside Joseph in the pit. The pit is real. The betrayal is real. The wound is real. But it’s not the whole story. Joseph can’t see the whole story yet. His brothers can’t see it. Father Israel can’t see it. Nobody standing at that pit can imagine Egypt, famine, reconciliation, mercy, and survival. At this point, all Joseph knows is that those who should have loved him have hurt him. And God does not ask him to pretend otherwise. But God also does not abandon him.

You know, those old family photographs—they may show people like us with awkward hair and questionable fashion choices, but they also remind us that every family picture has more outside the frame than inside it. The camera captures one moment, one angle, one arrangement of people. It doesn’t show the whole story.

Joseph in the pit is not the whole story. It is a terrible picture frame. But it is an honest frame. It must not be denied or softened. And yet God is still working beyond what anyone in that moment can see.
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And maybe that’s enough for today. Not to explain away the pit. Not to rush Joseph out of it. But to trust that even there, God has not let go of the story. Or of us. Amen.

ALOHA! As August moves steadily along, and school has begun again for our keiki, families across the island are settling back into familiar rhythms of classes, homework, activities, and busy weekday mornings. And here at St. Timothy’s, we continue our journey through Genesis in our series, Summer Sermon Road Trip: Following God in Real Life.

THIS SUNDAY we begin the story of Joseph in Genesis 37:1–4, 12–28, with a sermon titled “When Those Who Should Love You Hurt You.” Joseph’s story begins not with triumph, but with family conflict, jealousy, betrayal, and a pit. Together we’ll reflect on the wounds people sometimes carry from those who should have loved them better…and on the hope that even in painful places, God will not let go of us. Please join us this Sunday at 9 a.m. in the Chapel, or on Facebook Live as we continue this journey of faith together!

LAST SUNDAY, we were with Jacob in one of the most powerful and mysterious scenes in Genesis. In Genesis 32:22–31, Jacob spent the night wrestling with a strange figure by the river Jabbok. By morning, he was wounded, blessed, and given a new name. We considered those seasons of life when faith feels less like peaceful certainty and more like holding on through the night. Sometimes the struggle itself becomes the place where God meets us, blesses us, and changes us. Have you had moments to experience that reality this past week?

LAST SUNDAY our Confirming Faith Adult Sunday School class concluded. This Sunday during the Ministry Minute I’ll be sharing what’s coming up for adult education opportunities.

DEAR SIBLINGS IN CHRIST,  I am grateful for the many ways you share in the life and ministry of St. Timothy’s. Please continue to pray for our leaders and ministers, for me as your vicar, and for every member of our St. Timothy’s ʻohana. May God grant us faith for the journey, hope for the road ahead, and the assurance that God’s presence is always with us.
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Aloha Ke Akua!
Rev. Pete+