What's it Like to Preach at St. Paul's Cathedral?

Some folks have asked me about my experience preaching at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London on Remembrance Sunday, so I thought I’d share a few brief reflections. Frankly, I’m still processing it all.

But to start, I was extended this unique opportunity by the Cathedral’s Dean, the Very Rev. Andrew Tremlett. Andrew and his wife, the Rev. Dr. Maggi Dawn, came to Palm Beach last February, at the behest of the St. Paul's Cathedral Trust in America. These are folks from around the United States who have a connection to the Cathedral, are passionate about its mission, and support it through prayer and financial generosity. 

As part of this visit, I invited the Dean to preach at the Church of Bethesda-by-the-Sea, where I serve as Rector, and to lead our Sunday Forum, so our parishioners could learn more about the ministry of this iconic house of worship.

In between Sunday morning and a myriad of events (receptions, dinners, etc), Bryna and I just had a fantastic time getting to know Andrew and Maggi! They are thoughtful, wise, deeply faithful, and a lot of fun. Before he left, he asked if we’d like to come to London, stay at the Deanery, and preach at Choral Evensong on November 9th (Remembrance Sunday). Well, let’s just say I happened to be free that day.

As I mentioned in my sermon, there is actually a profound connection between our two

congregations. Above one of the entrances to our church is a piece of marble, a fragment from the altar that was bombed by Nazi pilots during World War II. A number of our parishioners contributed funds to help rebuild the damage, and the then-Dean sent the marble as a sign of friendship and gratitude, along with a plaque that reads, “From the reredos of St. Paul’s Cathedral, London — A gift from the Dean and Chapter.”

So it has been a great joy to renew the relationship between St. Paul’s and Bethesda-by-the-Sea, and I look forward to continuing this connection in the years to come. 

Of course, a number of the preachers I know have said, “yeah, yeah, but what was it LIKE to preach in that pulpit?!” And in many ways, it really was unlike any other preaching experience I’ve ever had. I mean, there’s the the gravitas and sheer size and height of the pulpit itself, positioned under the Cathedral’s massive dome. Simply being inside the Christopher Wren-designed masterpiece is inspiring.

And you can’t help but be aware of the figures who have preached God's Word from it — from Martin Luther King, Jr. to C.S. Lewis to Rowan Williams. Not to mention ecclesiastical heavyweights like John Donne and Lancelot Andrewes, who preached in a previous building of St. Paul's on the same site. 

So there was a lot to reflect upon as waited to mount the pulpit during evensong. Frankly, I was a little anxious as the liturgy unfolded (mostly about the sound system!), but only until the choir sang the haunting and hopeful anthem “The Souls of the Righteous” by Geraint Lewis, a few moments before the sermon. That did the trick.

Finally, as a hymn was sung, I was led by a verger to the bottom of the pulpit steps — all twelve of them. I climbed up, waited for the hymn to conclude, and then got to it. Practically speaking, the biggest challenge is that there is a 12-second echo. In other words, when the choir sings the last note of an anthem, it reverberates for a long time! And it is similar to what happens with the spoken word. 

This means that pacing is critical — it was what gave me the greatest pause (so to speak) — as I stood in front of the microphone. It does give the preacher a unique opportunity to emphasize certain words and phrases. But in the moment, I wasn’t entirely sure whether my pacing was right. I thought it was, but it’s also hard to gauge people’s reactions (there were 500-600 people there) from so far away. Fortunately, everyone said they caught every syllable and that the pace was spot on. Phew!

In the end, as a preacher, you simply preach the gospel. This was a sermon I would have preached in any pulpit, in any church, to any congregation. Perhaps not quite as slowly, but it is always a privilege to share God’s love and grace in any context. And I won’t soon forget this particular opportunity to let people know that nothing will separate us from the love of God in Jesus Christ (Romans 8).

A rather amusing side note: just prior to heading back to the Cathedral with the Dean for evensong, we had lunch with the Bishop of London at her residence across the street. Yes, Dame Sarah Mullally is still the Bishop of London, but will soon become the first woman Archbishop of Canterbury. Unfortunately, we had to leave before dessert, so as I excused myself and thanked her for her hospitality, I told her that at least I had a good excuse for leaving early since I had to “go tell a bunch of people that Jesus loves them.” To which she replied, “Well, you better get on then.”

And one final reflection that hit me the day after preaching at

St. Paul’s. My late father’s first-ever recording was made with the London Symphony Orchestra in 1988. He conducted several pieces including Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings and Barber’s Second Piano Concerto. This was my London Symphony Orchestra moment. And I could feel his presence in a very real and remarkable way. 

I remain ever grateful for this experience -- and will continue to ponder it in my heart in the days ahead. I'm not sure they've ever had an American preach on Remembrance Sunday at St. Paul's. And I was supremely blessed to do so.

Thanksgiving Over the Coffee

As I sit here drinking a big mug of coffee, following a very full Sunday that included a bunch of baptisms, I found it necessary to rewrite the baptismal Thanksgiving over the Water. With a nod to coffee. Enjoy! (or not, it's up to you)

We thank you, Almighty God, for the gift of Coffee. Over it the Holy Spirit of Caffeine moved in the beginning of the morning. Through it you led the children of exhaustion out of their bondage in bed into the land of the living. In it your Son Jesus received the baptism of Java and was anointed by the Holy Spirit as the Barista, the Coffee Pot, to lead us, through his death and resurrection, from the bondage of blah into everlasting joy.

We thank you, Father, for the wonder of coffee. Without it, we are buried with Christ in his death. With it, we share in his resurrection. Through it we are reborn by caffeine. Therefore in joyful obedience to your mug, we bring into his fellowship those who come to him with a giant carafe, baptizing them in the name of the Bean, and of the Grinder, and of the Filter.

Now sanctify this coffee, we pray you, by the power of your Holy Spirit, that those who here are cleansed from mediocrity and born again may continue for ever in the risen life of Coffee, our savior.

To him, to you, and to our caffeination, be all honor and glory, now and for ever. Amen

In Good Faith: Christmas Rising

 Merry Christmas! Here's a column I wrote for the local paper. 

Christmas Rising

One of the great things about living in South Florida in December is the ability to take morning

walks along the beach. I mean, technically I could have done this when I lived in New England, but it would have been a lot less pleasant. Jack Frost nipping at your nose, and all that. Frankly, I really don’t need to see my breath ever again.

But I love taking our dogs for walks on the beach every morning and watching the sunrise. Like snowflakes — which I also don’t miss — no two sunrises are alike. The interplay between light and clouds, horizon and sky leads to infinite possibilities and a kaleidoscope of ever-changing hues. If you ever wonder whether there is, in fact, a God, I highly recommend daily walks along the beach. And this has absolutely nothing to do with that whole “footprints in the sand” business. 

One of the things I can’t help but notice on these walks is the number of people holding up cell phones to capture the moment. At one level, I get it. When we experience stunning beauty, we want to capture it, or memorialize it by adding it to our phone’s camera roll. We want to relive special moments, or what I would consider glimpses of glory, over and over again.

Of course, there are two problems with this. First, despite all the advances in cell phone technology, our amateur images can’t possibly capture the wonder of creation. They can’t recreate what your eyes see and what your heart experiences when the sun breaks the plane on the horizon at the dawn of a new day. 

And second, I want to yell in my best grumpy old man voice, “Put down your phones! Look at the beauty that surrounds you!” I don’t do this, though. Mostly because it would scare the dogs. I simply wish people would delight in the natural beauty of the earth rather than trying to be the next great Instagram influencer. 

One of the great spiritual gifts is the joy of wonder. Not trying to capture an image of wonder, but simply the wonder itself. Christmas is a season of wonder. I don’t mean this in the “It’s the most wonderful time of the year” kind of way. Because that just makes me think of a car commercial. Nissan, I think. 

But to revel in the “wonders of his love,” as we sing in Joy to the World, is at the heart of the nativity story. The shepherds quake, the angels sing, and the world rejoices as God enters the world in human form. For Christians, the Son of Righteousness shines brighter than even the sun itself. And all we can do is gaze in wide wonder as the Christ child is born anew in our hearts and in our world.

However and wherever you celebrate Christmas this year, whether with us at Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach or at another spiritual home, please know that you yourself are a wonder of God’s love. The same God who created the heavens and the earth, the moon and sun and stars, also created you and loves you with deep and reckless abandon. 

Through the birth of God’s son, a light truly does shine in the darkness at Christmas. May the wonders of his love be with you and your loved ones this holy season.

Photo credit: Juergen Roth 

Unsolicited Christmas Sermon Advice

For clergy all over the world, ’tis the season to stress about what to say on Christmas Eve. The

criteria for preachers is simple. Your sermon should be: welcoming, insightful, funny, profound, moving, relatable, invitational, and short. No big deal, right?

Having preached over 20 Christmas Eve (and Christmas Day!) sermons over the years, I thought I’d share some unsolicited advice for preachers. I’ve surely violated some of these over the years, so please don’t take this as homiletical self-righteousness. Just a few tips I’ve picked up along the way. 

Most of these are probably obvious. But, having also listened to a number of Christmas sermons over the years, they may not be as obvious as one might expect. The thing is, Christmas Eve should be a night not just of tradition, but of transformation. And preachers have a unique opportunity to share the gospel with many who are yearning to hear a word of hope. 

1. Keep it short. This is not the time to try to say everything you ever learned about Christmas. That’s for the pre-Christmas dinner grace that you will be inevitably asked to say.

2. Let Scripture and music do the heavy lifting. Generally speaking, our preaching can’t hold a candle to how people will be moved by St. Luke’s account of the birth narrative, or the singing of the familiar carols. We all know that nobody leaves church humming the sermon.

3. Avoid words like homoousious. You may be really jazzed that Jesus is “of the same substance as the Father.” So am I! But this is not be the time for a Greek word study. Save that for your popular 18-week series on the Nicene Creed.

4. Don’t throw Santa under the bus at the pageant service. Actually at any service. You just never know who may be nestled in those pews at Midnight Mass.

5. Preach the gospel. In the end, that’s all that really matters. “Christ the Savior is born.” 

6. Connect through story. If you don’t have a personal story of how love came down at Christmas and changed your life, that’s fine. Just lean on the nativity story. That never fails (“greatest story ever told” and all that). 

7. Please don’t forget to tell people Jesus loves them. Because it’s true. And also because people — especially those who don’t attend church regularly — don’t hear this nearly enough.

Preachers, know that I am praying for you this holy season. When you speak faithfully from the heart, the people in your congregation will indeed see a great light. Wherever you serve, thank you for your ministry. It makes a difference. And it matters. 

Merry (almost) Christmas!

PS. The image above is of St. John's Church in Hingham, MA (a place I preached 14 of those Christmas sermons).

The Danger of Church Nostalgia

I’m increasingly convinced that ecclesiastical nostalgia is the greatest threat to church growth.

When we treat faith like a decorative Precious Moments figurine, rather than as a life-transforming force, we domesticate its power. And a tamed faith, is really no faith at all.

Now, there are different types of nostalgia that arise in churches. Take the classic question, “Why don’t we have a children’s choir anymore?” There’s nostalgia for a time before social media, before the over-scheduling of children, before the rise of helicopter parenting. 

But if you dig deep enough, every church has parishioners who want a return to the 1950s church model. Still! Even if they never experienced it themselves! A place where the sheer number of post-war births had every parish scrambling to build a new Sunday School wing. And for some reason put large stages in their parish halls. 

Of course, nostalgia also papers over reality. It’s selective memory, bathed in what we hope to remember and not necessarily that which actually happened. 

In the case of the church, things weren’t necessarily better “back then.” First of all, the church’s glory days may not actually have been as glorious as we imagine — check the attendance figures in the old parish registers. But beyond that, lots of people went to church not because they took seriously the teachings of Jesus Christ but because…everyone else was going. It’s just what you did. 

The truth is that this stubborn question, "Why don’t we have a children’s choir anymore?” can also be used as a not-so-subtle dig at current church leadership: “Why aren’t you bringing in more young families? Why aren’t the pews full every Sunday? Why aren’t the collection plates overflowing? You must be doing this wrong. And by the way, what ever happened to mite boxes?!” 

The rosy, if unrealistic, memories of how things used to be hold up a bar that present-day congregations can't possibly measure up to. And that's not good for anyone.

Which leads us to a more personal nostalgia in the form of childhood memories rooted in experiences at church, but not necessarily connected to faith. I get a lot of people who proudly tell me, "I was baptized at this church! This church means so much to me!" And I love that. But often when I ask about their faith or their ongoing spiritual life, I get blank stares or mumbled responses about how they should really start going again. 

Look, people exist on a wide continuum of faith. This isn't to judge anyone's spiritual journey. But I'm always sad when I meet someone whose faith never really left the realm of ecclesiastical nostalgia.

Again, this isn’t to denigrate anyone’s fond memories of going to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve with their late father and falling asleep in the back of the Chevy station wagon on the ride home. Sometimes sweet memories do lead one down the path of a vibrant and engaged faith. After all, with God all things are possible.

But here's the reality:

A nostalgic faith is a comfortable faith. It doesn’t challenge us or push us to change. 

A nostalgic faith is a contented faith. It doesn’t invite us to seek a deeper relationship with Jesus. 

A nostalgic faith is a conservative faith — not in the political sense — but in the sense that it conserves and turns the past into an idol.

I guess all of this is to invite the question, is nostalgia informing your faith in a way that crowds out the possibility of personal and ecclesiastical transformation? We all bring a degree of religious nostalgia to the eucharistic table. But are there layers we might shed to foster growth in our parishes and in ourselves?

Ready or not, God is leading us into the future. The good news is that it's a future brimming with hope and possibility.