Rev. Jennifer Masada - St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church - Kapa’au, Hawai'i
July 13, 2025 - Fifth  Sunday after Pentecost, Year C
Amos 7:7-17, Psalm 82, Colossians 1:1-14, Luke 10:25-37

Becoming prophets of inner truth
Opening Prayer: Spirit of Truth: you call us to see what we would rather ignore. You stir us to speak when we would rather keep silent. You invite us into deeper love for ourselves, for others, and for truth itself. Help us listen with courage. Help us change with grace.

There are times when the call to follow Christ feels less like a gentle invitation and more like a jolt — a plumb line dropped in the middle of our hearts, a mirror raised to our inner lives.

This week, we meet two such moments. In Amos, a prophet is sent to deliver words that the people in power would rather not hear. In Luke, Jesus tells a story that confronts not only the lawyer who asks, “Who is my neighbor?” but also challenges each of us to see any gaps between what we say we believe and how we actually live.
These scriptures are not comfort food. These stories are spiritual medicine — perhaps medicine that does not go down easily. But these stories are not meant to shame us— they wake us up. These stories crack us open and help us ask ourselves tough questions so we can heal, grow, deepen our faith, and move toward our calling on this spiritual journey we call life. 

This is what Amos does: he answers God’s call to be a prophet. Amos is not a career prophet. He is a herdsman and a dresser of sycamore trees. A “dresser of sycamore trees” refers to the job of tending to the fruit of that tree. These are not the sycamore trees we know. Those that Amos tended are a type of fig native to Israel. They bear fruit that grows directly off the trunk. To ripen properly, each fruit must be punctured and harvested three days later, while more figs grow beneath. 

Just as Amos tended his trees with careful, sometimes painful precision, so does the prophetic word pierce what is unripe in human hearts. The call to prophesy is not about power or prestige—it’s about cultivating growth, even when it stings.
Yet when God urges him to see the injustices around him and speak out, he can’t look away, and he cannot remain silent. Amos sees a nation that worships success and “winning” while impeding justice. He sees leaders more concerned with preserving their privilege and power than protecting the vulnerable.

When Amos told the truth, they told him to stop. “Go away,” Amaziah says. “You’re not welcome here with your warnings.” William Willimon notes that Amaziah represents a long line of court preachers—those who cozy up to power by saying what leaders want to hear. It’s a comfortable arrangement, soothing the consciences of the powerful—until the Spirit disrupts it. God calls Amos, a farmer, to speak an unsettling truth, and suddenly the old system must face what it has long ignored.
Perhaps that’s the spiritual job description of a prophet—to disrupt the systems, internal and external, that keep us stuck. To poke holes in what looks complete but is still unripe.

Remember last week's discussion about sharing our peace and love even if we are not welcomed? Amos doesn’t speak because he is welcomed to do so—he speaks because it’s necessary. His words are the puncture that allows the fruit of the people to ripen. This disruption isn’t punishment—it’s preparation for sweetness to come. The same Spirit that called Amos also calls us. Not all of us are public prophets. But every one of us is called to be a prophet to ourselves.

Most of the time, the hardest power to confront isn’t out there—it’s in here. It’s our own fear. Our resistance to change. Our quiet complicity. Our tendency to avoid discomfort by telling ourselves it’s not our job, someone else will do it, or things will get better if we ignore our inner wounds or external problems.

But as my mentor often says: “Do the work.” This inner work—the call to honesty, to holy disruption, to truth—is mirrored in Jesus’ story of the Good Samaritan. 
In this parable, the priest and Levite pass by the wounded man. They may have feared getting involved. They may have told themselves they didn’t have the right tools, or that someone else would come along.

They knew the law—“Love your neighbor as yourself.” But they didn’t act on it. And the one who did—the Samaritan—was the one most likely to be discounted or despised.

Jesus tells this story not to shame us, but to reveal something important: love is not an idea. Love is action. Love is interruption. Love is inconvenient. Love is risk. Love is what we do when fear urges safety and sameness. Love is what we do even when we’d rather leave our inner lives untouched, unexamined, unripe. Today’s stories prompt us to ask:

• Where are we being called to speak truth to ourselves?
• What expectations or fears need to be released?
• What would it look like to stop waiting for the world to get better and tend to our inner work?
• What injustices have we turned away from, not out of cruelty but out of overwhelm?

For me, anxious thoughts from the shockwaves of what’s going on in the world can cause my mind to spin into overdrive. When this happens, I remind myself to listen to my nervous system. It’s imperative to care for ourselves while we do this work. Breathe. Move. Cook something. Draw, sew, paint, write. Play music. Get together with friends. Do things that help us ground and find inner clarity when surrounded by polarizing news about politics and world events.

We are each called to be our own prophets, but we cannot do this alone. To find our way, we need the loving help of family, friends, and community. Sometimes we need a compassionate listener; sometimes we need the sycamore tree dresser - the one who loves us enough to poke a hole that allows us to grow, mature, and ripen into our best selves.

We need God’s loving guidance and judgment. God’s judgment isn’t condemnation—it’s loving discernment. It is a divine invitation to see where growth is possible. But it is up to us to look, to be open to seeing the Spirit’s truth about where we are on our journey. 

In another tumultuous time in this country, on August 28, 1963, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. quoted the Book of Amos in his “I Have a Dream” speech at the March on Washington. “Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.” He wasn’t just invoking scripture. He was describing a spiritual force, always flowing beneath the surface, ready to rise. It flows through us. Not just through institutions. Not just through history books. Through human hearts. Through prophetic love.

The same waters that fed the prophets flow in us. Let them move us. Let them cleanse us. Let them soothe the painful puncture of Spirit’s truth. Let these waters carry us beyond our comfort zone and into the kind of love that changes the world.

​​If you would like to use any text in this or any sermon posted on this web site, please ensure proper attribution to the author.

On being a good houseguest of the S​pirit
Rev. Jennifer Masada - St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church - Kapa’au, Hawai'i
July 6, 2025 - Fourth  Sunday after Pentecost, Year C
2 Kings 5:1-14, Psalm 30, Galatians 6:1-16, Luke 10:1-11, 16-20

​Opening Prayer: O Holy One, we are guests in a complicated world, where we are both the lamb and the wolf. Calm our inner conflict. Flow through us like living water. Cleanse our hearts and quiet our minds with your peace. 

Last week, we reflected on the courage it takes to let go—of fear, and of the things outside our control. We named the invitation to release whatever blocks love, and to trust that in letting go, we make space for the Spirit to move. Letting go is how love begins to flow.

This week, we stay with the flow. We are guests in a complicated, ever-changing world, and my mother’s advice echoes in my head: when you’re in someone else’s home, be a good houseguest. In today’s scriptures, we meet two Spirit-led communities learning to be peaceful guests in a world of lambs and wolves.

Jesus sends out seventy disciples with simple, sacred instructions: “Whatever house you enter, first say, ‘Peace to this house.’” He sends them not as conquerors or judges, but as gracious guests. Receive what is given. Eat what is offered. Don’t bounce from house to house, looking for better treatment. Jesus teaches spiritual humility. He calls us to be grounded, to be content, to meet people where they are. We’re invited to remain open even when we’re not received. To travel light, even when burdens come. To carry peace—wherever we go.

If we are not welcomed, that’s okay. Some hearts are not ready for peace. Jesus says don’t retaliate, don’t argue. Just shake the dust off your feet and move on. But we struggle to shake the dust. We hold tightly to how we think things are supposed to go—at home, at work, in our relationships. When plans fall apart or when people push back, we feel rejected. We feel rejected even when we make mistakes. We focus on the hurt. We stomp off toward something better, hoping others will finally play by our rules.

What would our lives look like if we stopped clinging to self-righteous rejection? What if we released resentment like dust falling from our soles? What if we trusted that the Spirit keeps flowing, even when we are treated like lambs in a wolves’ world? And even when we act as wolves?

When we flow with the Spirit, life can take us to unexpected places with unknown events that teach us more about the peace we seek than we could ever imagine. 

In times like these, when division threatens peace, Paul’s letter to the Galatians meets us with a message of healing. He writes to a community struggling with division over law and identity, saying: “If anyone is caught in a transgression, you who have received the Spirit should restore such a one in a spirit of gentleness.”

A spirit of gentleness – surprising words from Paul, whose writing often cuts to the quick. Here, his words land softly as he encourages us to forgive and have compassion for others and for ourselves. 

Like the Galatians, we become entangled in debates about law, losing sight of Divine unity—the Oneness of all creation. In Christ, everything is connected, and we are in this together. We are invited to participate in unity through active intention. We are invited to move in rhythm with the Spirit, letting gentleness lead, refusing to return harshness with harshness. Paul’s message galvanizes us to work for justice and peace with compassion. He continues: “Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” The law of Christ is love. It is relational. It moves through compassion and mercy.

Both of these stories remind us that our role as guests in this world is not to dominate, demand, or control, but to carry peace, to listen deeply, and to let grace flow through us. 

So how do we stay open-hearted in a closed-hearted world? Scripture's wisdom guides us to tend our own hearts — to clear out fear, resentment, ego, and judgment. Let the Spirit flow through the inner rooms of our being. Let our hearts be places of peace so that when we show up in someone else’s life, we bring peace with us.

There’s a temptation in our world today—to react, to harden, to defend. We see it in politics, in the news, among friends, even in our families. But our discipleship isn’t about controlling outcomes. It’s about allowing the Spirit to move through us—cleansing, refreshing, healing. Preparing us to be guests of grace and peace in a troubled world.

I remember instructing our boys before they went to a sleepover: “Be a good guest. Be respectful. Say please and thank you. Clean up after yourself. Ask if you can help with anything.” Solid advice, passed from my parents to my children.

It's a good reminder for me, as I navigate life today. We are guests in this place. As I look at the kāhili that graces our sanctuary, I am mindful that this church is a guest in the homeland of kanaka maoli.

We are not only guests in others’ homes—we are guests in the home of the Spirit. These God-gifted temples we call our bodies and minds are sacred dwellings where the Spirit lives, and we are invited to dwell with reverence. How often do we act like careless houseguests—tracking in the dust of distraction, cluttering the space with worry or judgment, forgetting that we’ve been welcomed into something holy?

We wouldn’t walk into someone’s home, complain about the clutter, and then add to the mess ourselves. But spiritually, we do this all the time. We rush into prayer with jumbled thoughts. We clumsily toss scraps of care. We think about love without feeling it, without moving with it. And all the while, we forget to pause, to notice, to honor the space we’ve entered—the inner sanctuary where the Spirit is already flowing.

To be good houseguests of the Spirit, we need regular cleansing. Spiritual cleansing doesn't mean perfection; it is a daily process that facilitates flow. Allow Spirit to move through, clearing what clogs us up, so we can flow with grace, wisdom, and love.

There's something deeply moving about the current of Christ energy we are made of and the powerful "muscle memory" of surrender that comes with letting go into that flow! So let us flow as the Spirit flows. Not rigid. Not reactive. Not clinging to the past or obsessed with results. Be present. Gentle. Open. Let the Spirit keep your heart soft. Let love keep you moving. 

And when you are not received or accepted as you are, when others are not received or accepted as they are, when peace is not welcomed—shake off the dust, but not your love. Keep flowing.
​
Because love never ends. And the Spirit never stops moving.

If you would like to use any text in this or any sermon posted on this web site, please ensure proper attribution to the author.

Living with love, not fear
Rev. Jennifer Masada - St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church - Kapa’au, Hawai'i
June 29, 2025 - Third Sunday after Pentecost, Year C
2 Kings 2:1-2, 6-14, Psalm 77:1-2, 11-20, Galatians 5:1,13-25, Luke 9:51-62

​Opening Prayer: O Holy One, You flow through us like living water. Help us live in our hearts and quiet our minds. Open our grip on what no longer serves. Show us how to live with love, and for love. 

In a conversation this week, a friend was lamenting the state of the world. “I think I was born at the wrong time,” she said. “What makes you say that?” I asked. “Fear,” she answered.
This past week, as events have continued to unfold across our nation and the world, the Executive Council of the Episcopal Church met in Maryland. In her opening remarks, House of Deputies President Julia Ayala Harris commented on fear. “We meet in a time of profound disruption,” she said, “in our neighborhoods, in our nation, in the world, globally, nationally, and institutionally…
“...This is not a moment of chaos. It is a moment of consequence. The tactics we are witnessing are not random. They are strategic: deliberate efforts to co-opt public institutions, erode the rule of law, and blur the boundaries between faith and state... These are hallmarks of what scholars call theocratic and state capture—the systematic merger of religious and political authority reshaping how power operates in our world.”
We don’t have the answers. But as Bishop Wesley Frensdorff once said, we do know how to ask good questions. I wonder: what is ours to do in such a time as this? This feels like an important question. And, of course, we want to get it right! But we often measure ourselves—and others—by standards we rarely question: productivity. Success. Control. The “right” way to follow Jesus.
Amid the current climate of fear, we turn to scripture to ground us in something deeper. Today, we have heard about Jesus setting his face toward Jerusalem, knowing the cost of love, yet moving forward with unwavering commitment. He invites his followers—then and now—to do the same: to let go of what gets in the way of love, and to trust the deeper current of the Spirit. People said him, “I will follow you! But first I need to do this other thing.” Jesus invited them—sternly, even uncomfortably—to let go of the distractions, to let go of whatever came before love.
This story invites a question worth sitting with: What do we need to release to live more fully for love—not fear?
Sometimes the greatest obstacles to Divine love aren’t external forces, but what we grip inside: expectations, assumptions, our need to be right, our judgment of others, our fear of getting it wrong, our fear of others’ opinions of us, our clinging to what once made us feel safe. This is not easy. Letting go is not passive or automatic. It’s not apathy. It’s not erasing our past or ignoring the future. Letting go is the sacred work of surrender— of loosening our vice-like grip on things that get in love’s way.
In the Second Book of Kings, we witness Elisha clinging to Elijah. Several times he says, “I will not leave you.” And Elijah lets him come. But eventually, a chariot of fire separates them. Even devotion must give way. Even mentors must be released. Elisha tears his clothes in grief. And then—only then—does he take up Elijah’s mantle. Not before. Not while still clinging. Only after the letting go.
As Paul reminds the Galatians: “The fruit of the Spirit is love; it is joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control… If we live by the Spirit, let us also be guided by the Spirit.” In other words, Spirit calls us to let go—not into apathy, but into active, intentional love. 
The psalmist cries out in despair, wanting to be heard by God, but then remembers that God laid a path through the sea, through the storm clouds and mighty waters. Not around it. Not over it. Through it. Letting go does not bypass grief or difficulty. Letting go moves us through, like water carving a way forward.
Over the past few weeks, we’ve been reflecting on the image of the Water of Life—the water of our baptism that connects, nourishes, and teaches us how to live in the flow of grace. Like water, love flows in the present moment. It doesn’t cling to the past or force the future. It meets the moment fully, offering itself without fear. It carries the memory of what it has touched in the nutrients and the debris it sweeps in its current. 
Water (and love) finds its way into every crack and corner. It offers itself freely, without judgment or withholding. This is what we are called to do: To live for love. Not for certainty. Not for control. Not for applause or achievement or power. But for love.
And sometimes the things that stand in our way—our losses, our failures, our pain— become the very currents that shape the riverbed of our soul. Think of someone near the end of life. They don’t cling to their résumé or their possessions. They hold their people. They remember love. They grieve the moments they missed it—the times they withheld love or turned away. But they rarely regret the struggles that led them deeper into it.
Perhaps, like my friend, we might be mourning the state of the world. And we ask: what is ours to do in such a time as this? Our ears hear scripture leading us to “set our face” toward love, even when the path is hard.  To live like water: freely, fiercely, for love.
May we be people who let go, so we can flow with love, and follow Jesus—not back to where we were— but forward, like living water, flowing freely, fiercely toward love. May we ask ourselves honestly: What needs to be released in me today so I can live with love, not fear?

E pule kākou - Let us pray
Spirit of Love, teach us how to loosen our grip on what holds us back. Help us flow with grace, like water, carrying what nourishes, carrying the debris without burden, offering our love to the world without fear. In your holy name we pray. Amen.

If you would like to use any text in this or any sermon posted on this web site, please ensure proper attribution to the author.

​From Legion to Light: Pathways to Unity
Rev. Jennifer Masada - St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church - Kapa’au, Hawai'i
June 22, 2025 - Second  Sunday after Pentecost, Year C
1 Kings 19:1-4, 8-15a, Psalm 42 and 43, Galatians 3:23-29, Luke 8:26-39
​
Opening Prayer: O Holy One, meet us where we are as we clear away all that is not love. Help us know our oneness with you, with one another, and with all creation. 

There is a deep thirst inside each of us. A longing that stirs when life overwhelms, when we lament the state of the world or the state of our lives. The psalmist names it clearly: “As the deer longs for the waterbrooks, so longs my soul for you, O God.”

Such longing is our soul’s compass pointing the way. On a day like today, many of us are thinking about our country at war. Especially in times like these, our thoughts turn outward to the world. Like the psalmist, we feel the heaviness and deep lament because we cannot change what’s happening. Instead, perhaps we can turn our attention to our thirst for inner peace and unity. 

The psalmist invites us to listen inward, to attend to our soul’s thirst because we can’t help in the world until we help ourselves. We have much work to do to heal, reconcile, and clear away the demons that lurk from our own past troubles and future worries. 

The psalmist doesn't mask the pain—they let it rise: "My tears have been my food day and night." And still, in the midst of the pain, they say: “Put your trust in God; for I will yet give thanks to him, who is the help of my countenance, and my God.”
The journey toward unity begins here—in honesty. Not with perfection, but with awareness. With allowing our inner waters to be stirred. As the psalmist suggests, listening to our thirst brings us to the waters of life, to God, to our heart center. 

Today’s gospel reminds us what happens when we lose our heart center. Through the wild tale in Luke 8 about a man possessed, we are shown that we can be inhabited by a legion of voices. In our increasingly chaotic world, systems of politics, money, and social status wield power and distract us from our soul's identity and purpose. Today, just as in Jesus' time, loud and relentless voices try to name us, shape us, and scatter our sense of self. 

When Jesus asks the man’s name, he replies, “Legion—for we are many.” So many voices fill this man – he no longer knows who he is. And yet, Jesus sees him. Not as a threat, not as broken beyond repair, but as beloved. Jesus speaks peace to the storm within.

This is what Christ does. He doesn’t demand we get ourselves together before showing up. He walks into our confusion, our sorrow, our chaos. He sees through the noise, willing to guide us one step at a time back to our heart center, back to our soul selves.

We all carry our own versions of Legion—overwhelming powers that pull our attention outward and keep us so busy, anxious, and reactive that we forget the sacred work of tending to our own soul. Voices that say, “You're not enough.” Wounds that fester quietly. Defenses we built long ago that now divide us from others. Layers of fear, pride, comparison, and grief that cloud our light.
And yet, beneath all of that, your soul is clear. Your soul radiates with Divine light. It is not something you must earn. It is something you already are. 

But for that light to shine freely, we must attend to the inner clearing. We must be willing to name what’s in the way, willing to let Christ touch the places we keep hidden, willing to let Spirit guide us to the healing waters of life.

As we were reminded last week (John 16:12), we’re not ready for it all at once. The deer’s journey to the flowing brook happens a step at a time! We can start small by simply returning to our heart center. My mentor Kate teaches a simple way:

• Take a deep breath in, and breathe out. 
• Imagine holding a bowl in front of your heart. Imagine the bowl IS your heart, ready to receive all that worries you: all the pain, all the voices that crowd your mind, and all the emotions that arise. Allow yourself to stop and spend some time with this. 
• Now imagine everything in your brain – all those thoughts and feelings – flowing like mercury, cascading from your head into the bowl. Let the bowl hold it all. 
• Notice that your hands are surrounded by the presence of Christ, the love of God, and the light of Spirit. Everything in the bowl turns into love — transformed by your heart, flooded with Divine light. 

You can return to your heart center any time, and it just takes a minute or two! This is just one of countless ways, including these suggestions:

• Take a break from the stream of headlines and commentary. Not because we don't care, but because we do, and care needs space to breathe.
• Begin the day with stillness rather than reaction. Even one deep breath, one moment of quiet, can return us to ourselves.
• Pay attention to the voices that live inside: Are they kind? Are they true? Are they yours?
• Allow tears to come when they need to. In Scripture, we see that longing and weeping are not weakness—they are sacred prayers that help us see the chaos inside ourselves and release it with compassion and love.
• Remember you are not required to save the world on your own. You are not Legion. You are not the noise of the world. You are one soul surrounded by people ready to do the inner work alongside you. You carry God's love and you are carried by it. Call on the Christ consciousness that lives in you and all creation.

When we allow the inner clearing to happen, we become what Paul describes in his letter to the Galatians: “In Christ, there is no longer Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female—for all of you are one…”  In Christ, we become clear vessels. Beings of light. Carriers of peace.

Like the man filled with "Legion," we can recognize the voices that distort our true selves. Like the psalmist, we can name our soul’s deepest longing and begin our journey toward it. These stories speak to us still—calling us to clear the clutter, to name our longing, and to be met by the One who sees us clearly and calls us beloved.

Especially in times like these, our thoughts may turn outward to the world. In the midst of division, hatred, and war, may we listen to our souls. May our longings lead us back to our hearts. May we become the vessels of light we were created to be.
​
E pule kakou - 
O Holy One, meet us where we are as we clear away all that is not love. Help us know our oneness with you, with one another, and with all creation. Amen.

If you would like to use any text in this or any sermon posted on this web site, please ensure proper attribution to the author.

Rev. Jennifer Masada - St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church - Kapa’au, Hawai'i
June 15, 2025 - Trinity Sunday, Year C
Proverbs 8:1-4, 22-31, Romans 5:1-5, John 16:12-15, Canticle 13

Opening Prayer: Holy Trinity – God of creation, God made flesh, and God of Spirit – help us move the world with harmony, unity, and balance.

Today we honor the mystery of the Holy Trinity—Creator, Christ, and Spirit. This is a unity so complete that it goes beyond our human understanding. And yet, it shows up all around us if we know how to listen.

Some say the Trinity is complicated, but I wonder if it’s also beautifully simple. We encounter God as our Creator, as Christ, and as the Holy Spirit AND we sense all three as ONE love woven together. It’s tricky to grasp, because most of us have never truly experienced that kind of unity. We live in a competitive world dominated by separation and judgment. We are taught to reject the square peg and round hole. Difference is to be hunted down and eliminated. We are not trained to recognize or cultivate harmony.

And yet, if we look, we might find evidence of divine unity all around us — traces of the Trinity that show up like the fingerprints of our Creator. For example:
In nature, plants often grow in clusters of three. We have three primary colors – red, blue, and yellow – from which all other colors emerge. Water is a trinity, a molecule made of three atoms - two hydrogen and one oxygen.

The number 3 held significance in ancient cultures around the world, including Egypt, China, the Mayans of Mesoamerica, where 3 was revered as an important part of sacred geometry and philosophy. These cultures influenced later mathematicians like Pythagoras, who called the number three the triad—a number of harmony, balance, and completeness.

Triads are the building blocks of the music we sing in church – a system that developed in monasteries, churches, and royal courts over many centuries. 
It is said that the 3-ply rope is the oldest model of rope making because of its strength, durability, and efficiency.

Everywhere we turn, creation is whispering: three different parts coming together as one is beautiful and strong. Oneness in diversity is holy.

But even with all this beauty and strength, we look around and see a broken world. War. Injustice. Climate collapse. Systems of cruelty and separation. And we wonder: where is the truth? Where is God in all of this?

Jesus says to his disciples, “I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now.” You cannot bear them now. This rings true, doesn’t it? Because there are truths too heavy for us to carry all at once — truths about suffering and injustice, about the deep wounds we’ve inflicted on one another and on creation. Truths about love that stretch our understanding. Truths about transformation that require us to let old parts of ourselves die so something new can live.

The world is, in many ways, a mess. We cry out to the Holy Trinity—God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer—calling on Divine omniscience, omnipresence, and omnipotence to just fix it. We ask God to speak louder, to blanket the planet with Divine truth and make things right.

But Jesus doesn’t say, “You’ll get the whole truth all at once.” He says, “The Spirit of truth will guide you into all the truth.”

To me, that means God is not silent. The truth is emerging in us. Not all at once, and certainly not through human judgment. Spirit is guiding us toward the truth of Christ Consciousness day by day, as we become ready to bear it.

That’s what the Holy Spirit does. Spirit doesn’t drop the full weight of Divine truth on us like a stone. Spirit breathes it into our lives, moment by moment, breath by breath. A whisper here, a nudge there, patiently guiding us as the truth unfolds—not just around us, but in us.

Even now, in a world aching for healing, Spirit is still speaking, inviting us to listen. Spirit asks us to stretch our imaginations, to grow, slowly but surely, into the fullness of love.

We are not passive observers—we are co-creators of a new world, one where Christ is made visible in us. Even when the weight of the world feels heavy, we are held by the wonders of Creation. The planet itself sings of harmony—built in triune rhythm by God who reminds us: You don’t have to carry everything. Just carry what you’re ready to bear. Together. With love.

This week, as I scanned the headlines, I thought to myself, “I wish we could all be ready NOW.” Aren’t we ready for Christ Consciousness to be fully manifested in the world? I know I'm not ready. Not yet. But I feel such impatience! I wonder whether I can bear the weight of humanity's slow progress.
 + + +
I want to share a story about our son Alexander. I was a working mom when he was in first grade, so he went to school and then attended an after-school program for an hour. One afternoon, I got off work early and decided to surprise him with a trip to Dairy Queen. His class was lined up, and I caught him in the hallway on the way to after-school. He was surprised—but then he surprised me right back when he said, “No, I don’t think so, Mommy. I’m supposed to go to after-school right now.”
I smiled and explained, and then took him to the car. He wasn’t thrilled. We got ice cream, but it wasn’t the joyful time I had imagined. Later, I realized I hadn’t really listened. I had followed my plan, not his rhythm.

So the next time I picked him up early, and he said, “No, I want to go to after-school,” I said, “Okay!” We stayed. We played. I got to watch him and his friends in their happy, unhurried world. I didn’t pull him away from it—I entered into it. We built a little Lego village together with the other kids, each of us adding our own piece.

And after a while, he looked up at me and said, “Can we go get ice cream now?”
That was the moment. That was the oneness. Not rushing. Not forcing. Not directing. Just being. Listening. Collaborating.

That is the pattern of the Trinity—each part moving in relationship, flowing like living water, making room for the other, co-creating joy and balance and harmony.
To be ready to bear the truth of Christ Consciousness, to be ready to hear all that God has to say, we can tune into the divine rhythm of the Trinity. To move in relationship, to make room for the other takes practice. It takes patience and openness.

Let’s practice: 

• Being open. Let go of expectations. Let imagination guide.
• Being present. Don’t dwell in the past or project into the future. Flow like water.
• Being grateful. Even when things are hard, look for what is good.
• Being expressive. Let love radiate. Say thank you. Say “I love you.” Share what’s inside.
• And finally, let’s practice collaborating. Don’t go it alone. Find the helpers. Look within and look around. Allow the fiber of your being to combine with others. Create strong, durable, and diverse connections.

At St. Augustine’s, we are the body of Christ—many members, one spirit. Every team that gathers here—each of you, every volunteer, every voice, every organizer, every helper—is a reflection of that divine teamwork.

Together, we make sacred space. Together, we reflect the essence of Trinity.
May we continue to listen for the whisper of the Spirit, for the wisdom of Christ, and for the love of the Creator flowing through it all.
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We don’t need to bear everything at once. We just need to be willing to listen, to carry what we can, and to carry it together.

If you would like to use any text in this or any sermon posted on this web site, please ensure proper attribution to the author.​

Rev. Jennifer Masada - St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church - Kapa’au, Hawai'i
June 8, 2025 - Pentecost Sunday, Year C
Genesis 11:1-9, Acts 2:1-21, John 14:8-17, Psalm 104:25-35, 37

Opening Prayer: O Holy Spirit, open our ears and hearts. Speak to us. Speak through us to unite the whole earth in understanding, compassion, and love.

Today we celebrate the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. The Breath of God opens our ears to hear, our hearts to feel, and our lives to love more deeply. Spirit is always speaking—sometimes as a whisper within, sometimes through the words and presence of others. When we truly listen, we discover a deeper unity of shared understanding, compassion, and love that transcends difference.

Spirit flows like water: soft but strong, shaping even the hardest places in us. Like the gulches of Kohala, formed over thousands of years by water. Spirit radiates like fire: igniting wisdom and warming us into connection. On this island, fiery magma literally gives birth to the ‘āina. The process inspires awe; it’s dangerous, powerful, and frightening. But when we move with this Spirit-flow, we move beyond fear. We become part of something larger—a sacred current drawing us toward creativity, healing, and wholeness.

Jesus promises us this gift. He says, “The Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you. Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.”
These are words we return to again and again: Do not be afraid. But how do we hold that peace in a world so full of uncertainty, complexity, and contradiction?

Poet Joy Harjo offers a window into this mystery: “There are many different realities. I think about all of these different realities … I’ll be in a car or a bus or whatever, looking at the houses and the windows and all the storefronts and thinking about all the different realms, all the different story realms. Every place, every window, every doorway is an opening to a life, a whole different life, a whole series of stories, and it’s multiplied hundreds and thousands of times. Some don’t overlap at all, some are in their very private universes. Other universes are more expansive.”

The Holy Spirit reminds us that in the midst of all these overlapping, diverging, and deeply personal realities, God is still present. Spirit reminds us that peace isn’t the absence of complexity. It’s the presence of love within it. Peace is the courage to be fully present in our own life and to honor the lives we pass by, each a universe of its own. The Holy Spirit, with its water-flow and fire-radiance, reminds us to move through the world with reverence for the unseen stories around us and in us.
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Today, we are celebrating four of our youth who are continuing their education. Jazelle, Jayline, Kiona, and Yvanka: in every doorway and window there are thousands of stories that change the world. Which ones will change you? How will you listen for the inspiration of Spirit?

You may find that you don’t need advice on this, because you need more than mere answers. What can help is a community that listens, challenges, encourages, and inspires. You need people moved by the Holy Spirit. These are the water people, the fire people. You’ll know who they are! They’ll wash away your tough exterior, your hiding places; they’ll shine light on your soul’s purpose. They’ll see your intuition and raise you one. They won’t give you the answers. Instead, these are the people who invite you to:

• Ask questions — to dig beneath the dust, to grow.
• Embrace wonder — to remember that mystery is holy.
• Be an observer — to stay curious and pay attention to the Spirit’s subtle (and not-so-subtle) nudges.
• Expand your heart — to make room for new wisdom, new connections, new ways to share Divine love.

With the water and fire people – people of various ages, cultures, and experiences – you will create a new reality. And this will happen again and again. Tomorrow will end yesterday’s reality, but don’t let that throw you. Trust that endings open the way to discovery! Sometimes, flowing with the Spirit means allowing something to end—even when we don’t yet know what’s beginning. Spirit asks us to imagine!

Poet and activist adrienne maree brown asks us to examine “the idea that imagination has real-world consequences. Do you believe that? Trace its reality in the lives of people you admire and in your own.”

This, too, is the work of the Spirit, expanding our awareness and transforming imagination into action. The Spirit invites us to imagine new possibilities—not just in theory, but in how we live each day.
Imagine healing in the places we’ve only known pain.
Imagine justice in the face of struggle.
Imagine wholeness in a fragmented world.
Imagine connection where others expect division.
Imagine the peace Jesus gives us, peace that is already here.
Imagine a world where hearts are not afraid.

Trust that these holy imaginings are not illusions, but sacred seeds planted within us—growing into the reality we are called to co-create. Your life—your joys, your struggles, your moments of stillness—is not just something to endure or solve. It is a sacred classroom. Your experience is not an obstacle to learning. It is the way you learn. It is how you live.

E pule kākou - Let us pray:
Come, Holy Spirit. Teach us to flow in unity. Breath of God, inspire us to imagine and create. May we flow with curiosity, courage, wonder, and compassion. May we become people of the Holy Spirit, the water people and the fire people—gentle, strong, illuminating, and ever-transforming.
Amen.

​If you would like to use any text in this or any sermon posted on this web site, please ensure proper attribution to the author.