Lord, teach us to pray. At the core of our identity as Christians, we are a people called to pray. Luke provides us with this teaching through explicit and implicit means throughout his gospel.

From Luke’s gospel alone, we don’t know much about Mary and Martha. He doesn’t give us much background, and the sisters don’t appear again in his writings.

The parable of the Good Samaritan is probably one of the most well-known of Jesus’ parables. Even those who have never stepped foot inside of a church can likely tell you the gist of it.

In our Gospel reading this morning, we hear about a second commissioning of Jesus’ disciples to go into the villages that Jesus intended to visit and prepare them for his arrival. Luke is the only gospel writer to give us this story.

Four chapters prior to our Gospel reading this morning, Jesus went to synagogue and read from the scroll of Isaiah: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to set free those who are oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

Today, we gather in the sacred convergence of Trinity Sunday and Juneteenth—a celebration of God’s relational nature and a remembrance of freedom long delayed. One is a mystery often confined to doctrine; the other, a cry for liberation too often confined to memory. But both, if we’re paying attention, are alive. They are dancing through our bones and histories. They are still unfolding in us.

Today is the final feast day in a liturgical journey that began with Christmas, when the Word that was with God in the beginning and was God, became flesh and dwelled among us. We followed the Word as we traveled from Bethlehem through Galilee and Judea to Jerusalem, listened to the good news proclaimed by Jesus and witnessed the coming of God’s reign in the signs and wonders that he performed.

On this seventh Sunday of Eastertide, we find ourselves in a liminal space, a space of “in-betweenness.” Last Thursday, the Church observed the Feast of the Ascension, a feast day dedicated to remembering Christ’s departure and ascension to the right hand of God…

“Do you want to be made well?”

It seems like such an easy question to answer – of course I want to be well, but to be made well implies that there is something deficient, lacking, or broken in me that needs fixing. And this is perhaps a little harder to really face. If I’m honest, I much prefer the question, “Do you want the world to be made well?”

I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.

There is something profoundly intimate about being called by name.

Not by title.
Not by role.
Not by reputation.

But by name —
The tender word spoken by the One who knows you fully and loves you still.

Five years ago, much of the world found itself confined behind closed doors. The COVID-19 pandemic had arrived, and life changed in a matter of weeks. Streets emptied. Homes became places of isolation. Communities were hushed. We locked our doors—not just for safety, but out of fear, uncertainty, and grief. Even now, that experience lingers in our bodies and memories

Why do you look for the living among the dead?

This is the question from our Gospel reading that I am stuck on today, as we celebrate the great Paschal Mystery when Jesus passes from death to life.

As we gather in the stillness and weight of this Good Friday, I begin with a question: What would you do if you knew you had only one week to live?

The church I went to – and even the one I grew up in – did not have a custom of washing one another’s feet. For years, this was simply a symbolic story to me. Something disconnected from my own reality and practice. Even now, it continues to feel foreign. Ritually, we only do this one time per year. And it’s not part of our cultural or social practice. We wear socks and shoes to protect our feet from the dirt and grit of the ground. It would be strange to offer to wash someone’s feet when they enter our home. I suspect, for many of us, it would feel inhospitable if a host insisted on washing our feet as we entered their house or sat down for a meal. And so, perhaps it takes a bit of imagination to understand the significance of Jesus’ act and what it implies about the meaning of love.