Pentecost 4C—Proper 9, July 6, 2025

The Episcopal Church of the Holy Spirit

in Greensboro, North Carolina

In the Spring of 1985, I completed my first year as a Seminarian for the Roman Catholic Diocese of Charlotte at St. Mary’s Seminary and University in Baltimore Maryland. For me, it was the first year of a five-year program. The intellectual formation program for the Roman Catholic Church was an intense one. For those who, like me, had earned a bachelor’s degree, there was the requirement of completing one year of philosophy before beginning the four-year study of theology.

Since I had, to this point, studied philosophy, and a few basic classes to give an overview of the faith, I had not yet benefited from any of the classes which would later be so useful to me—such as Scripture Classes, and homiletics or preaching classes.

The custom was for each Seminarian to be given a summer assignment. Since I had earned a B.A. in history, with minors in French and Spanish from Appalachian State University, the decision was made to put my Spanish to use.

And so, I found out that I was to serve that Summer as Director of the Greensboro Vicariate Migrant Ministry Program. I lived at Our Lady of Grace, here in Greensboro, but during the day, worked out of Holy Infant Church in Reidsville. I was to travel the back roads of Rockingham, Guilford, Davidson, and Randolf counties, with an occasional visit to Stokes County.

On one level, it was a completely different world. I had never known migrants or spent any time with them. And yet, they were engaged in various forms of farm work. That, I knew all too well, having been raised as a farm boy on Old Beech Mountain on the borders of Avery and Watauga counties—and on the border of Carter and Johnson counties in Tennessee.

I quickly came to understand that these migrants, and occasionally migrant families, did not have easy lives. They invited me to their homes and were quick to share with me whatever they had. I was shocked to see the living conditions—especially those of the single men—and to hear the stories of their meager pay and bad working conditions. I saw with my own eyes the places where they worked, and the run-down shacks they were given to live in.

 Oddly enough, they took all of this with the most amazing spirit. I almost never heard a complaint from any of them. Although they missed Mexico and the Central American Countries they were from—El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua, they were very happy to be in the Piedmont of North Carolina, working hour after hour under the scorching sun. They were working to send money home to their families, and to save for a better future for themselves.

Each Sunday, I worked with Priests, from across the Vicariate to organize a Spanish Mass in the afternoon—after all the English activities had concluded at Holy Infant. Usually, following the Eucharist, there would be a feast—provided by a different parish from the Vicariate. Normally, I contacted the Priest who was coming, and the parish preparing the food about a week in advance.

About the third week that I was there, I contacted the Priest who would be coming the following week. He was very kind and gracious. However, he quickly took me by surprise. He did not really speak Spanish, he told me, but was willing to celebrate the Eucharist to the best of his ability. But, he would not preach. That, he felt, was beyond his ability, and he just did not have the time or the energy, on top of everything else that he was doing in his own parish, to try to prepare a sermon in Spanish.

He would come, he told me, under one condition. And that condition was that I would preach! I nearly had a litter of kittens right there on the spot. I hastened to tell him that I had completed one year of philosophy. I had not studied Scripture, I had not had any preaching classes, I had not even studied church history, for goodness sake. I was young, inexperienced, and really quite clueless. I had never preached, and was not honestly sure how to even go about it!

He told me that he was well aware of all that, and that none of that mattered. It was not about me, he said, but about the migrants. They deserved to have someone speak to them in their own language, which they would be able to understand, and to hopefully give them some words of encouragement and hope.

It quickly became apparent that his mind was made up. If I wanted a Spanish Mass, that was the price to be paid for it. I told him that I would try, that was all I could promise. He hastened to assure me that would be more than enough.

I agonized, prayed, read the readings a dozen times, and, in the end, wrote up a page or so. I was a nervous wreck. I was not afraid of the migrants, and felt very comfortable with them, but I was afraid that, as a preacher, I would be a failure!

Now I had heard many sermons in my life. I had a childhood full of Southern Baptist ones, and numerous ones in the five years that I had been a member of the Roman Catholic Church. But, it had never been me who was trying to preach—and in Spanish, no less. Talk about feeling completely “in over my head.”

Finally, the day came, and there I stood in front of the congregation for my first sermon! Interestingly enough, the Gospel passage was the very one we just heard the Deacon proclaim to us, from the tenth chapter of the Holy Gospel according to Saint Luke—the account of the sending out of the seventy.

As I looked out at the attentive congregation before me, something completely unexpected happened. It was as my eyes were opened to a completely new and different reality! I suddenly realized that those words I had just heard:

See, I am sending you out like lambs into the midst of wolves. Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals; and greet no one on the road. Whatever house you enter, first say, `Peace to this house!’ And if anyone is there who shares in peace, your peace will rest on that person; but if not, it will return to you. Remain in the same house, eating and drinking whatever they provide, for the laborer deserves to be paid. Do not move about from house to house. Whenever you enter a town and its people welcome you, eat what is set before you; cure the sick who are there, and say to them, `The kingdom of God has come near to you.’”

Words that the people in front of me had taken literally! They left everything behind them to travel, with great difficulty, and some danger, to a new country, to a new culture, to a new place to work. They were honestly like lambs, and some knew firsthand what it was to work for wolves. They had to accept whatever conditions they found the cost of even finding work. I was overwhelmed by the realization that they were amazing people of faith. They somehow trusted that God would be with them, would help them, and would provide the essentials that they needed to survive. Wow! And I suddenly realized that I was not sure that I had that kind of faith or trust.

Rather than having powerful words to share with that congregation, they ministered to me. Their own witness inspired me, challenged me, and encouraged me to view solidarity with the poor, marginalized, oppressed, and exploited to be at the very core of what it means to be a follower of Jesus the Christ.

There was a single line from that Gospel passage that was like an arrow, piercing my heart, “El obrero merece su salario!” “The laborer deserves to be paid!” That line has stayed with me all these years. It was really, my first introduction to the concept of “liberation theology,” of “social justice,” and of the theology, later to be so powerfully articulated of a “just living wage,” by John Paul II.

That one line, “the worker deserves to be paid,” was like putting on a new pair of glasses and finally seeing something important which I had never really seen previously. It would be easy to focus on a theology centered on heaven, and the things to come. Jesus, though, challenges us to combat injustice and oppression in the here-and now.

Are there hungry persons among you, feed them. Are there naked persons among you, clothe them. Are there sick persons among you, care for them. Are there people in prisons, and nursing homes, and hospitals, visit and comfort them!

And, in that moment, I came to understand that I would never forget that first sermon, that I would never forget the faith of those brave migrants, and that somehow I really wanted to work with them, for them, and to help, in whatever small way I could, to make their lives better.

My dear friends, some have been reluctant to speak of the good news which the Gospels share with the poor, the oppressed, the exploited, and the marginalized. Some of those who benefit from the status quo are quick to accuse those who speak out of engaging in partisan politics. And yet the Gospel of Jesus Christ will not be bound or limited by politics.

It is no accident that among those who first became followers of Jesus were many who were poor, destitute, looked down on, and marginalized. Even in the watch in the courtyard during the trial of Jesus, those gathered to watch made fun of the accents of Peter and the other disciples. They were poor fishermen from the middle of nowhere. They were not wealthy, powerful, well-educated or cultured. They spoke like country bumpkins, had calloused hands, and may have smelled like hard workers. And yet, they were the very ones Jesus chose to proclaim the good news!

In these difficult days which we face as a state and as a nation, I pray that we will not forget the hungry, homeless, and the marginalized. I pray that we will stand up for those who live in fear of harassment, deportation, and of abuse. If we do, I know that in loving them, in caring for them, and in attempting to meet their basic needs, we will also minister to Jesus, who has sent them to be our guests.

Summary of the Sermon in English and Spanish

El primer sermón que prediqué se basó en este pasaje del Evangelio de Lucas. El sermón fue en español. En el verano de 1985, yo estaba sirviendo como Director del Programa del Ministerio Migrante de Greensboro, trabajando en la Parroquia Santo Nino en Reidsville. El sacerdote que vino a celebrar la Eucaristía en español me dijo que solo vendría a presidir si yo accedía a predicar. Fue una experiencia aterradora, y me sentí completamente desprevenida e inadecuada. Sin embargo, al final, no pude decirle que no a Dios, y estaba dispuesta a al menos intentarlo.

Fue una experiencia que transformó completamente mi comprensión del ministerio y de la fe. En las personas reunidas ante mí ese día, encontré una mayor fe y confianza en Dios de lo que jamás había visto. En lugar de tener palabras poderosas para compartir con esa congregación, me ministraron a mí. Su propio testimonio me inspiró, me desafió y me animó a considerar que la solidaridad con los pobres, marginados, oprimidos y explotados está en el centro mismo de lo que significa ser un seguidor de Jesús el Cristo.

Esa frase, “el trabajador merece su salario”, me ha acompañado todos estos años. Sería fácil enfocarse en una teología centrada en el cielo y en las cosas por venir. Jesús, sin embargo, nos desafía a preocuparnos por la injusticia y la opresión en el aquí y ahora. ¿Hay personas con hambre, dales de comer? Están allí desnudos, vístelos. ¿Hay enfermos, cuídalos? ¿Hay personas en prisiones, hogares de ancianos y hospitales, visítalas y consuélalas?

¡Esta es la buena noticia de Jesús para todos nosotros hoy!

The first sermon which I preached was based on this passage from the Gospel of Luke. The sermon was in Spanish. I was serving as the Director of the Greensboro Migrant Ministry Program in the summer of 1985, working out of Holy Infant Parish in Reidsville. The Priest who came to celebrate the Eucharist in Spanish told me that he would only come to preside if I agreed to preach. It was a frightening experience, and I felt completely unprepared and inadequate. However, in the end, I could not say no to God, and I was willing to at least try.

It was an experience which completely transformed my understanding of ministry, and of faith. In the persons gathered before me that day, I encountered greater faith in and trust in God that I had ever seen. Rather than having powerful words to share with that congregation, they ministered to me. Their own witness inspired me, challenged me, and encouraged me to view solidarity with the poor, marginalized, oppressed, and exploited to be at the very core of what it means to be a follower of Jesus the Christ.

That one line, “the worker deserves to be paid,” has stayed with me all these years. It would be easy to focus on a theology centered on heaven, and the things to come. Jesus, though challenges us to worry about injustice and oppression in the here-and now. Are there hungry, feed them. Are there naked, clothe them. Are there sick, care for them. Are there people in prisons, and nursing homes, and hospitals, visit and comfort them!

This is the good news of Jesus to all of us today!