Looking for beloved relationship 
Rev. Jennifer Masada - St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church - Kapa’au, Hawai'i
January 18 - Second Sunday after the Epiphany - Year A
Isaiah 49:1-7; 1 Corinthians 1:1-9; John 1:29-42; Psalm 40:1-12​

Ever-present Creator, open our hearts to be in relationship with you. Open our ears to hear you ask, “What are you looking for?” Help us as we ponder this loving question. As we seek you, help us find your love in our own hearts, that we might build the beloved community here on earth. Amen.

Last week, we stood at the waters of baptism.

We listened for a voice that names Jesus—and names us—as beloved. We learned that we are unconditionally beloved. What an incredible revelation! There’s nothing we have to do to earn this; there’s nothing we need to prove. No documents, status, or achievements are necessary. We are God’s beloved simply because we are. 

Think about this with me: in God’s realm, we are always beloved just as we are. 
This truth is not something we rush past. It is something we are invited to linger with—to let settle into our bodies, into our breath, into the hidden places where fear and striving often live. God’s call is about our experience of that love!

This week’s Gospel reading from John invites us to step more deeply into our experience of God’s love by getting to know Jesus. We have heard the stories about how the first disciples are called in the synoptic gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, where Jesus calls them to follow. Jesus says, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men. And they drop their fishing nets to go. 

In today’s reading, there is no dramatic moment of instant clarity, not yet. This story describes what happened during an earlier meeting at which John the Baptist introduces his cousin, proclaiming him “the Lamb of God.” People would have understood his reference: in Jewish tradition, the Passover lamb was a sacrifice of innocence and purity to protect the people. 

Out of curiosity, the disciples ask Jesus where he is staying. Surely someone this important would be an honored guest of the elite! But Jesus does not need to prove his status. Nor does he give them directions or instructions. He does not outline expectations or make demands. He simply says, “Come and see.” 

It is a gentle invitation—one that honors how human relationships actually grow, gradually unfolding through questions, conversations, and shared time.
In the Gospel of John, faith and discipleship do not begin with certainty or commitment. They begin with curiosity. With a willingness to show up. With openness to encounter. With a willingness to allow relationships to form. 

What especially stays with me in this passage is the first question Jesus asks: “What are you looking for?”

He could have asked "What do you believe?" He could have asked "What are you prepared to sacrifice?" But instead, he asks a question that goes deeper—one that speaks to longing, to desire, to the quiet ache beneath the surface. What are you seeking?

Each of us answers that question differently, depending on where we are in life.
Some of us are looking for meaning. Some are looking for healing. Some are longing for reassurance that love is still possible in a world that feels divided and uncertain. And some are simply searching for comfort—especially in times of suffering, when it is hard to feel God’s presence, or to believe we are still beloved.

I’ve been holding that question this week through the story of a friend who is living with deep uncertainty. She has been forced to live apart from her husband, who is overseas in a country affected by government travel restrictions. The separation is painful. There is no clear path toward resolution. The strain touches every part of daily life for my friend and their small children.

And yet, during a recent conversation, she said something that surprised me. She said, “I don’t want to dwell on how hard this is. Tell me the positives.”

She is not denying the pain. She is not pretending this is easy. But she is choosing not to let suffering narrow her vision. She is trusting that a wider story is still unfolding—even though she cannot yet see how it will come together.

To me, that feels like a living example of what Jesus means when he says, “Come and see.” Not come and understand everything. Not come and fix it. But come and stay open. Come and trust that love is still at work here.

This is what Epiphany invites us into. Epiphany is the season of widening light—of discovering that God’s presence is larger, closer, and more generous than we imagined. Jesus’ invitation to “come and see” is not a test of faith. It is not a demand. It is an opening—into relationship, into deeper awareness, into a love that does not rush us but patiently meets us where we are.

Only after spending time with Jesus do the disciples begin to understand what it might mean to follow. Only after relationship comes clarity. Only after belovedness takes root does action begin to make sense. 

And the same is true for us. We are not called to act in haste. We are not called to live from fear or scarcity. We are called to live from the deep knowing that we are already held in love.

When belovedness takes root, compassion naturally widens. Our view expands. Our hearts soften. Our capacity to love grows.

So once again, Jesus’ question comes to us gently: What are you looking for?
And perhaps, if we are willing to stay with that question—without rushing to answer—we may find ourselves hearing the invitation that follows: Come and see.

Amen.

We are already beloved 
Rev. Jennifer Masada - St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church - Kapa’au, Hawai'i
January 11 - First Sunday after the Epiphany - The Baptism of Jesus - Year A
Isaiah 42:1-9; Acts 10:34-43; Matthew 3:13-17; Psalm 29

Ever-present Creator, open our hearts to hear again the truth spoken over us: that we are already beloved. Help us listen and respond to our highest call to be the beloved community. Amen.

Welcome to the season of Epiphany! Sneaking in after the busy holidays, Epiphany is sometimes overlooked. Still, I do love that our church year starts with Advent and Christmas. We get to watch the calendar year roll in with the renewal of the Christmas season already in full swing! 

During Advent and Christmas, we prepared for and welcomed the light of Christ into the world. And now Epiphany invites us to notice how that light moves, where it appears, and what it asks of us.

Through the readings we’ll hear during Epiphany, we discover that this is an exciting time of unveiling — of revealing what’s already here. This light gives us a glimpse of what things are and what they are not. During these next six weeks, we'll focus on our capacity to listen and respond to the light of Christ in us all. 

Today’s gospel story brings us to the water. Every Sunday, we pour the water, which flows from mauka to makai, nourishing us. This water connects us with Ke Akua, with the ‘āina, with one another and all creation. Through this water, we see our own baptisms. We remember Jesus entering the river Jordan in human form to be baptized by his cousin. We are unified with all who have ever touched water when we do this - when we touch the water - and anoint one another with such tenderness. 

In the light of Epiphany, we see what this water is and what it is not. This is not water to be used for cleansing after failure. It’s not the water of repentance after wrongdoing. And it’s not water that proves us worthy.

This water is a threshold, a doorway, a portal. Jesus steps into the river before he has healed anyone, before he has spoken to a crowd, before he has challenged any authority or performed any miracle. This timing matters!

Jesus does not enter the water because he has something to prove. He enters the water to listen. And what happens next reshapes everything. The heavens open. Spirit descends—not with force, but gentle as a dove’s feather. And a voice speaks—not to instruct, not to correct, not to command—but to bless. “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

Nothing has been accomplished yet. No résumé has been built. No ministry has begun. Jesus is named and loved before he heals, teaches, preaches, or proves anything at all. That means we do not have to earn our worth, prove our goodness, or justify our existence before God. This is the first revelation of Epiphany: Before anything is asked of us, something is spoken over us. It comes quietly, alighting on us, telling us we are beloved.

We hear echoes of this truth in today’s reading from Isaiah. We hear God speak in the same quiet and loving voice, saying, “Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights.” Notice the tone. Not domination. Not pressure. Not urgency.

God describes Isaiah’s quiet authority: “He will not cry or lift up his voice, or make it heard in the street; a bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice.”

Listen to this voice: our Creator speaks gently. God calls us to tend what is fragile, to protect a light that is barely glowing, and to trust slow movement toward justice.
Epiphany reminds us that Divine power is not loud. It is faithful. It listens. It blesses before it sends.

Which brings us to baptism. When we listen as we touch the waters of baptism, we are not remembering a moment when we signed up for God. We are remembering a truth about who we already are. Baptism is not a spiritual merit badge. It is an orientation of the heart. To live as one who is baptized is to live from a place of already belonging.

If we, like Jesus, enter the water of baptism to listen, our hearts open. And from that place, promises naturally emerge—not as rules to follow, but as ways of being shaped by love. Of all our baptismal promises, I heard one most clearly this week:
To love and serve all people, regardless of difference.

This is what Becca Good believes. She spoke to reporters after her wife, Renée Good, was shot and killed by an ICE agent in Minneapolis. 

“We were raising our son to believe that no matter where you come from or what you look like, all of us deserve compassion and kindness,” Good said. “Renée lived this belief every day. She is pure love. She is pure joy. Renée was a Christian who knew that all religions teach the same essential truth: we are here to love each other, care for each other, and keep each other safe and whole.” 

We are hearing stories that people like Renée Good and people who are immigrants don’t deserve love, care, or safety.

But the voice at the river interrupts these stories. “You are my beloved.” Not if. Not when. Already. We are ALL already beloved without having to prove it. This is a basic truth. Through today's gospel story, we hear this truth. We recognize that entering the water teaches us to listen while fully immersed in life. We respond to the world with loving compassion as we learn that God claims Jesus—and all of humanity—as beloved.

As we move through this season of light, may we remember our baptism not as a past event, but as a present orientation. Each day, we stand again at the water’s edge. Each day, the Spirit still descends gently. Each day, the voice speaks—often quietly, often beneath the noise of the world. “You are my beloved.”

And from that truth, our lives unfold.

E pule kakōu.
May we live as your beloved; may we treat all people as ones worthy of love and care. Guide us to be the beloved community that flows like water. And may the light revealed in Epiphany continue to widen our vision, soften our hearts, and guide our steps. Amen.

Light Enough for the Journey
Rev. Jennifer Masada - St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church - Kapa’au, Hawai'i
January 4 - Second Sunday of Christmas, Year A
Jeremiah 31:7-14; Ephesians 1:3-6,15-19a; Psalm 84 or 84:1-8; Matthew 2:1-12

Every year, our lovely scene here in front of the altar changes the Sunday before the Epiphany. Did you notice? The wise one arrive!

In the time of King Herod, and even today, the wise ones come searching. They travel so long and so far. I wonder how their journey compares with ours? Sometimes we look for certainty, but there is no roadmap. Sometimes we travel on faith, but sometimes we doubt. The wise ones are not guided by certainty, or maps, or political authority, but by a star—by light—and by a deep inner knowing that something holy has entered the world. 

Our gospel story tells us about two very different responses to the Christ child’s arrival. Herod hears the news and is afraid. And all Jerusalem with him is afraid because fear spreads quickly. It is contagious. Herod’s fear escalates beyond personal anxiety; he fears losing control. He is afraid of being displaced. Herod holds fear of a world that might change in ways he cannot manage, and his fear infects everyone around him.

This is one of the enduring dangers of the world we live in: fear that multiplies, fear that hardens hearts, fear that distorts perception. We recognize this dynamic around us today. Fear shapes decisions, masquerades as wisdom, and convinces us we must protect what we have at all costs.

And yet, into this fearful landscape, God does not send force or certainty. Our Creator sends light. A child. A quiet, vulnerable presence.

The wise ones see this, and they respond differently than Herod. This doesn't mean they are naïve, and they are not immune to danger or fear. But they are not ruled by fear. They move with faith. They observe. They listen. They pay attention and trust what is stirring within them. They follow the light available to them. A glimmer in the sky that some might not even notice brings them hope. That light, small as it may seem, is enough to prompt them to make a long and difficult journey.  That is some profound hope!

I’ve been thinking about how much of our daily language is shaped by hope.
“I hope you are well.” “I hope you had a good Christmas.” “I hope you travel safely.”
We carry hopes for ourselves and hopes for others. We share them in emails and conversations and text messages. Hope is part of how we remain connected as human beings.

Our hopes are based on what we think has a reasonable chance of happening. We wouldn't say, "I hope you win $10 million." Okay, maybe we would say that, but we wouldn't plan our lives around it. We base our true hopes on what we’ve observed, what seems possible, what has worked before. That kind of hope matters. We need it. Hope binds us together.

But hope on its own can grow thin. Hope without faith can waver quickly when circumstances change. Hope without faith can turn into wishful thinking or quiet despair.

There’s a certain magic, a kind of alchemy that happens when we add faith to our hope. Faith is the deep trust that even when the path is unclear, we are not alone.
Hope fueled by faith has a different quality. It has substance. It has direction. It has the power to guide us toward the path our soul would choose.

The wise ones hope—but they also trust that faith will guide them. They pay attention to the signs given to them. They are guided by stars and by dreams! They listen when it is time to pause, when it is time to move, and when it is time to change course.

In our Eucharistic prayer, we name this sacred guidance when we proclaim God’s presence through "sun and moon and stars, earth and winds and waters, and every living thing." The same Creator who set the stars in motion continues to speak through creation, through our lives, through the quiet wisdom that grows within us. 

On this last Sunday of Christmas, what do you hope for? Peace? Well being for our families? Health? Stability? The wise ones teach us to ask “what do you hope for,” and then to ask, “What is shaping your hope?” What light are you orienting your life toward? What voices are guiding your decisions—fearful ones, or faithful ones? Where are you being invited to trust, even without clarity?

In our gospel story, the wise ones arrive and are overwhelmed with joy. They kneel. They offer what they have. They do not rush away from the mystery. They linger in its presence. And then, having encountered this child—having come close to pure love made flesh—they leave by another road that takes them away from Herod. In doing so, they are no safer; their fear does not disappear. They do not leave with clear answers about the child they found. But something within them has shifted.

That is what Christmas does. Christmas does not resolve all danger or answer every question. It plants light within us. It teaches us how to live differently in the midst of uncertainty. It forms us quietly, from the inside out.

In these lingering days of Christmas, we are invited to pause without rushing toward answers, but staying close to the light we have been given. To let faith give substance to our hope. And to trust that even now, the Creator is guiding us—step by step—into love. Amen.

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

Christmas is alive in us!
​Rev. Jennifer Masada - St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church - Kapa’au, Hawai'i
December 24 & 25, 2025 - Christmas Eve & Christmas Day, Year A
Isaiah 9:2-7; Titus 2:11-14; Psalm 96; Luke 2:1-14(15-20)

​Ever-present God, you are always coming to us as light of love. Open our hearts to receive the love being born in us this holy night. Amen.

Tonight, we began our service by asking for wisdom. We chanted E Ho Mai—give forth knowledge from above—to clear our minds and open our hearts to the Divine wisdom that comes from all of creation.

With our hearts open, we realize Christmas is more than a story we tell once a year. Tonight’s story tells us something essential about our Creator: God chooses human flesh, human hearts, human lives. Christmas is a story that is alive, and we are invited to enter it. 

As we enter the story, we see Mary carrying the light of the Christ Child in her body. We see Joseph choosing love over fear. And we see God entrusting the healing of the world to ordinary people like us who are willing to say “yes” to being the light of love.

In church language, this is what we mean when we talk about incarnation: WE are the light of love. Divine Light is seeded in human flesh. Love is written into our DNA. Christ doesn’t merely hover above us, Christ consciousness dwells within us—waiting to be expressed. “I am in you, and you are in me,” Christ says.

Tonight, in this sacred place, we see such symbolism all around us, woven into what we experience here. The candles of our Advent wreath remind us that we are made to carry “the light that holds all hope, peace, joy, and love—the Holy Light of the Christ Child.”

When we share the bread and the cup during communion, we will sing Ho’omanao I Au, remembering Christ’s words: “I am in you and you are in me.” “I am Love and I am Peace.” We are invited to carry that truth with us into the world. And the beautiful truth is that each of us shares Divine Love in a different way, making love more diverse and stronger in its expression! 

This is how the light grows - through us. It begins inside us—in our thoughts, our feelings, our intentions. And then it radiates outward in how we speak, how we listen, how we respond to those around us, and how we care for a world that longs for healing.

In tonight's story, the shepherds did not bring power or certainty to the manger. They brought their presence. The angels did not give instructions for control. They sang of peace. And the child in the manger did not arrive to demand anything. He arrived to invite us into love. This is how God comes into the world. Not with force, but with vulnerability, humility, and love. A child is born, not in a palace, but in a stable. Not to dominate the world, but to dwell in it through us.

A friend recently told me about a moment of wisdom offered by one of her young daughter’s friends. He said, simply, “Every time you love, you are creating NEW love that never existed before.” That single sentence captures the heart of Christmas.

“Every time you love, you are creating NEW love that never existed before.”

Love does not run out. The light of love is never used up. Think of it: there is more love in the universe today than there was yesterday! Each act of kindness, each moment of patience, each choice to stay tender in a hard world creates more love in the fabric of creation. That is what “God’s infinite love” means!

That is why, later tonight, we will share the light. One candle to another. One heart to another. The flame of love is not fragile or limited; it multiplies as we share it. 
So tonight, rest in the Christmas wisdom of love working inside you. You do not need to have everything figured out. You only need openness. Openness to the possibility that something holy and magical is being born in you—right now.

The light has come. God’s infinite love has taken flesh. And every time you love, you create new love that has never existed before.

Let us stand to sing about this love in our hymn, “Love came down at Christmas!”

The wonder of love
​Rev. Jennifer Masada - St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church - Kapa’au, Hawai'i
December 21, 2025 - Fourth Sunday of Advent, Year A
Isaiah 7:10-16; Romans 1:1-7; Matthew 1:18-25; Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18

Ever-present God, you are always coming to us as the light of love. Help us find the compassion to love in a world where trust seems broken. Ignite our faith in the Holy Spirit’s invisible work. Spark our sense of renewed wonder as our lives are rewired by your arrival in our hearts.  Amen.

When I was growing up, I remember feeling such joy, anticipation, and wonder during Advent. I was lucky to have few cares in the world. This is in stark contrast to the ways in which my parents grew up. They both experienced poverty and hardship. Both knew the sharp edge of hunger. Both experienced rejection and ostracization. 

Maybe that's why they worked so hard to make sure my life and that of my brother and sister were so easy. 

That's the gift of wonder the very youngest among us hold. Their wonder is filled with trust and love for the world. I thought about this as we lit the candle of love this morning. Today, we are asked to revisit trust and love, not as naïve children, but as wiser, more experienced adults capable of choosing to trust and love. Our loving Creator teaches us – and is equipping us – to be compassionate in a harsh and uncertain world. 

I realize that even during my childhood, life was uncertain. I just didn't know it. Uncertainty has always been part of the human story. Even in seasons we remember as simple or joyful, there were undercurrents we didn’t yet know how to name. Our parents knew them. Our grandparents certainly did. And in today’s gospel, Joseph knows them too.

Matthew tells us that Joseph is a righteous man. That word doesn’t mean perfect or unafraid. It means he is attentive—to the law, to his conscience, to the well-being of others. When he learns that Mary is pregnant, his world turns upside down. The future he imagined dissolves. He stands at the edge of heartbreak, confusion, and risk. And so he chooses the quietest, least harmful path he can see. He plans to step away.

What’s striking is that Joseph’s righteousness does not spare him from fear. It is fear that meets him in the night. But in the dream space between sleeping and waking, love speaks to him. Do not be afraid, the angel says. Do not be afraid to trust what you cannot fully understand. Do not be afraid to stay. Do not be afraid to love beyond certainty.

Joseph wakes up and does something so simple and yet so extraordinary. He aligns his life with love. That’s not because he suddenly knows everything. He does not receive guarantees. He simply chooses to walk alongside Mary—to accompany her, to protect her, to name the child growing within her. This is not naïve wonder. It is courageous wonder. This is the kind of wonder that chooses tenderness in a world that could easily harden the heart.

Perhaps that is what Advent is inviting us back into—not the untested wonder of childhood, but a deeper wonder shaped by compassion. A wonder that remembers how much unseen struggle lives in every human being.

This week, I was moved by a reflection from Krista Tippett, who recalled an ancient wisdom passed down through centuries: Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle. To her, this is not a silly sentimental phrase. She calls it a form of “quiet intelligence”— with the power to reshape how we move through a violent, anxious, and fractured world. 

When we take this wisdom seriously, it changes how we absorb the news. It changes how we hold our grief, how we respond to those who confuse or frighten us. It reminds us that every person we encounter carries depths we cannot see. She says, “We and they are more than the sum of our struggles, and we are all capable of surprising ourselves, and of healing and changing, our whole lives long. Tenderness on the part of beloveds and strangers goes a long way to help.”

Moved by his faith, Joseph understands this. He looks at Mary not as a problem to be solved, but as a person to be protected. He chooses kindness over condemnation. Presence over withdrawal. Love over fear. And in doing so, he becomes part of the story through which Emmanuel enters the world. Emmanuel--God with us.

I admit that in the chaos of these past weeks, I have longed for that childlike wonder I once knew. I have wept over the news of illness and death, unrest and overwhelm in places far away as well as here in Kohala. I have cried out to God asking, “When did I lose my wonder? How can I get it back?”

I am so grateful for today’s story about Joseph – how he is called back from fear and despair by the Holy Spirit. The power of the story calls me back, calls us back from our despair. Rather than lamenting the wonder we’ve lost, we get to ask a different, more faith-filled question:  What kind of wonder is being born in us now? Can we reclaim a wonder that makes room for complexity? Can we reclaim a love that sees the hidden battles inside others and responds with gentleness? Can we rediscover a trust that does not deny fear, but walks through it, hand in hand with compassion?

When we began this morning, we sang E ho mai, asking for God’s knowledge and wisdom. And then we lit the candle of love. Let’s sit with that for a moment. 

This is the love we light today. It is not fragile or fleeting. 
When we ask for God’s wisdom, we invite this love. It fills this room. 
This love ignites our faith in the invisible work of the Holy Spirit. 
This love sparks our sense of renewed wonder! O light of love, stay with us while we wait. Even if we don’t know it yet, our lives are rewired by your arrival, here, in our hearts. Amen.

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

The courageousness of Advent joy
​Rev. Jennifer Masada - St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church - Kapa’au, Hawai'i
December 14, 2025 - Third Sunday of Advent, Year A
Isaiah 35:1-10; Canticle 15; James 5:7-10; Matthew 11:2-11

Ever-present Spirit, you invite us to participate in your dream of joy on earth. Break through our human doubts, fears, and cynicism. In dark times, turn our hearts toward you that we might magnify your light. Amen.

This week, we hear from the prophet Isaiah once again. But this is not the Isaiah whose words sting with warning or lament. I have joked with one of our lectors about how we often get “grumpy Isaiah.” But this Sunday, we meet Isaiah the dreamer, Isaiah the poet of hope, Isaiah who dares to proclaim joy in a world that has forgotten what joy feels like.

His vision is breathtaking: deserts bursting into bloom, weak knees strengthened, fearful hearts encouraged, exiles walking the long road home with songs instead of sighs. 

What I find so heartening about listening to Isaiah the dreamer is not that he sugar-coats everything. Isaiah dreams without forgetting the difficult realities of the world we live in. With clear-eyed compassion, Isaiah speaks honestly about the things that cause us worry or fear: the dry places in our lives, trembling hands, faltering spirits, the uncertainties that make our steps unsteady. And yet, into all of this, he pours the audacity of joy.

We are stepping deeper into Advent. This third Sunday of Advent is called Gaudete Sunday. Gaudete is a Latin word meaning "Rejoice!" This Sunday offers an invitation to take a joyful pause in Advent's introspection as Christmas comes closer. This week, we are invited to examine our lives through the lens of joy. This is not a surface-level joy that ignores pain or papers over fear. This is a deep joy that rises from God’s presence already moving within us. 

Once again, Isaiah says, “Come, let us walk in the light.” What I hear him saying is “Look for the light especially when life feels dim.” Sometimes the darkness makes it easier see the faintest flicker, just enough light to remind us that hope is still alive. Joy is still possible, and God’s future is already glowing inside the present moment. When we notice even the tiniest light, we can place it in our hearts and magnify it through our attitudes, our choices, our small acts of compassion and courage.

Mary's wondrous story of carrying the light of the Christ child embodies this kind of joy. She says, “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit rejoices in God my Savior; for he has looked with favor on his lowly servant.” 

It’s a marvelous song of joy, especially when we think of her situation. Mary has every reason to live in fear and dread. She is an unmarried young woman living in a rigid society that confines women to the household, denies them education, denies them legal standing, and deems them ritually unclean. Mary faces judgment, danger, and an unknown future. And yet, her song shines like a lantern in the night.

Her words through the Song of Mary (the Magnificat) beam to us from across the ages. What amazes me is the way she describes God’s power: God of mercy… God who lifts up the lowly… God who fills the hungry with good things. These are different images of power than those of our society. Mary sings of God's power not as domination but as restoration and rebalancing. In her vision, God is turning the world toward compassion. Mary names a God whose strength is found in mercy, whose justice is tenderness, whose might is revealed in feeding and lifting and healing.

As we reflect on our lives and the state of the world, we might envy Mary’s unburdened joy. My soul is aching as I think about the shootings yesterday at the Hanukkah gathering at Bondi Beach in Australia and at Brown University. Kirk and I were on campus during a similar shooting at the University of Iowa on November 1, 1991. I will never forget the fear and sorrow that gripped the campus. We knew people who died that day and we knew one who was critically injured. 

Where was God’s tenderness and lifting and healing that day? Where was the certainty of God’s love and joy?

I thought about this as we heard the story of John the Baptist last week. This fiery prophet pointed with such fierce certainty toward Jesus, proclaiming Jesus as the Promised One, a savior who would bring love and joy and peace. 

We heard more of John’s story this morning, learning that even John finds himself in a dark place, held in the confines of a prison cell, held in the grip of doubt. He sends word to Jesus, asking,  “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” 

Even John wonders. Even John waits for the light to break in. 

Jesus answers with his hopeful vision of life transformed: the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the poor receive good news. In other words: the light is already shining, even in the darkest hours. We can see it if we look where life is sprouting and blooming: in the hands holding candles at the vigil; in the tenderness of hugs; in tears that finally flow; in the slow healing that comes even though we still remember the wound.

Perhaps true joy comes when we’ve been shaken to the core. Upon hearing from John in prison, Jesus makes it clear to the crowd just how difficult John’s path has been and how great a disciple he is. 

John’s discipleship is not defined by worldly measures like certainty, wealth, talent, success, or influence. A true disciple is not the one who knows everything, or does everything right, never experiences hardship, or never has to ponder hard questions. A true disciple is the one who remains open. Open to the questions; open to continual learning. Open to the vast mystery of God that unfolds forever. Open to self-examination, to being reshaped, to being redirected toward love. 

As we gaze at this soft light of this pink candle, what I hear above all is this: Advent joy is not naïve. It is courageous. It is born in deserts, prisons, uncertain futures, and trembling hands. Our glimpses of joy show us that God is near, that creation is still unfolding, that the Holy One is still turning the world toward mercy and healing. 
On this Gaudete Sunday, we remember to look for joy in dark places. This holy light of joy is our Creator's gift. May we receive it with open hearts. With hearts filled, may we magnify it through our thoughts and prayers and actions. May the world may find its way home by the light we share. Amen.

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

Peace that sprouts from the roots
​Rev. Jennifer Masada - St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church - Kapa’au, Hawai'i
December 7, 2025 - Second Sunday of Advent, Year A
Isaiah 11:1-10; Romans 15:4-13; Matthew 3:1-12; Psalm 72:1-7, 18-19

E pule kākou,
Ever-present God who arrives on earth through us, open us to your peace. Light the way to help us confront our own inner reactions to the world that we might work with you to create the lasting peace of the future. Amen.

Last week, we began our Advent journey with the same words Isaiah offered thousands of years ago: Come, let us walk in the light. The light we long for is already rising within us, reshaping our minds, and guiding our steps. The hope of Advent calls us to see that God is already here, flowing through our ordinary daily actions of kindness, inclusion, compassion, and love. 

Lighting our second candle this morning, we widen the Advent circle to include peace. At the surface level, we sometimes think of “peace” as a state of being, like a feeling of inner quietness. The state of the world also comes to mind, where peace is the absence of conflict or war. 

This season of Advent calls us to a peace more profound than temporary calm. The peace we hear about in today’s readings is a peace that goes all the way down to the roots. 

Speaking to the people of Jerusalem in a time of corruption and upheaval, Isaiah delivered a message of hope for the people’s restored relationship with God and a future golden age of peace.

He says, “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse,
and a branch shall grow out of his roots.” Isaiah is referring to the weakened family line of Jesse, which appears to have all but died out. But there is hope, he says! The family line will grow, and peace will be restored!

This is not shiny, instant peace. This is peace that grows out of places that have been damaged. A stump is what’s left after something has fallen—after loss, after collapse, after all our plans have been disrupted. And right there, in the middle of despair, Isaiah tells us there is still life hidden in the roots. Peace is not pretending the tree never fell. Peace is discovering that even in the stump something green is pushing its way toward the light. 

Isaiah’s vision goes on to describe a world where the wolf lives with the lamb, the leopard lies down with the kid, and “they will not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain.” It’s such a beloved image that sometimes we treat it like a children’s picture book—sweet and unrealistic. But Isaiah is naming something very real: the deep transformation of hostility, fear, and violence. The old instincts—prey and predator, strong and weak, oppressor and oppressed—are being rewired. Spirit is inviting us to do a root-level renovation, to change what we think is “just the way things are.”

To begin to imagine that kind of peace, we can step beyond the stories we’ve been told and the stories we tell ourselves. Stories like: “Nothing ever really changes.” Or, “That’s just who I am.” Or, “That’s just how they are.” Or, “This is just how the world works.” Those stories can become so familiar that they feel like truth. But Advent invites us to ask: What if God is already growing a new story out of old roots?
Advent invites us to pause long enough to ask:

• Which stories have I inherited without ever questioning them?
• Which stories have shaped my understanding of who I am, or who others must be?
• Are these stories rooted in God’s vision of love? Or do they hold me back from peace?

We are not powerless in the face of the world’s challenges or systems that seem immovable. Spirit stirs compassion, courage, and imagination within us. This is not meant to burden us, but to move us toward the small acts that shape the world we inhabit.

And then we meet John the Baptist, standing in the wilderness with his wild clarity. His words are sharp, but his message is ultimately a loving invitation to dig deep and do the real root work. In the story, religious leaders publicly accuse John of power moves against their spiritual authority. But privately, these same leaders listen to his sermons and come to be baptized by him. John calls them out on their hypocrisy. Speaking truth to power, he calls them a "brood of vipers" and says, "Bear fruit worthy of repentance." He urges these leaders to do good work in the world rather than resting on the good work of generations past.

John is not giving us permission to condemn others. He’s asking us to examine our own lives. Without this inner clarity, our attempts to “speak truth” can easily slide into hurtful judgment. We all know how quickly a frustrated word or a snap decision can cause harm to relationships that matter to us. Advent peace begins with pausing, listening, and letting God help us understand what is truly going on beneath the surface.

Advent says: Pay attention to what is rising in you. Not every impulse is holy, of course. We still have to discern. But some of those quiet stirrings—our longings for more justice, more honesty, more courage, more compassion—may be the new green shoots out of the old stump.

At the same time, we’re living in a world where conflict and battle energies are very loud. We see it globally. We feel it in our communities, our families, and in our own nervous systems. That, too, shows up in today’s readings. John faces religious leaders who are wrapped up in systems that are not future-proof for God’s realm. Later in the story, Herod will embody the violent fear that tries to crush anything new that threatens the old order. What Isaiah and John agree on is this: What cannot serve God’s future cannot stay in charge forever. Systems that devour the poor are not future-proof. Habits that choke our compassion are not future-proof. Stories that keep us trapped in shame or superiority are not future-proof.

So how do we participate in this work without collapsing in despair or burning out in anger? This is where I want to bring it down to something very simple and very human. Let’s try, a few times a day, to pause just for a minute or two. Take a slow breath. Ask quietly: How am I, really? What’s moving in me right now—fear, anger, hope, tenderness? Is this reaction I’m feeling rooted in love or in old hurt?
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Advent is the season when the Holy Spirit lovingly exposes these things—not to condemn us, but to free us. Spirit meets us where we are to say, “This pattern can’t go where I’m taking you. Let’s do some root work. Let’s make room for peace.”
This Advent, may we stay awake to the green shoots God is growing in our lives. May we cultivate clarity. May we protect our relationships. And may we discover that peace is already growing—slowly, steadily, and beautifully—from the roots.

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Come, let us walk in the light!
​Rev. Jennifer Masada - St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church - Kapa’au, Hawai'i
November 30, 2025 - First Sunday of Advent, Year A
Isaiah 2:1-5; Romans 13:11-14; Matthew 24:36-44; Psalm 122

E pule kākou.
Ever-present God, open us to your hope. Wake us up and help us listen for the needs of the hour. Help us address those needs in small actions that spread like an invisible wave. Give us vision to see your future inside our hearts. And give us the wisdom of faith in your continual arrival here on earth. Amen.

This year, Advent begins with a deep longing as we read Isaiah’s dream of swords becoming plough blades and spears becoming pruning hooks. Warriors become peaceful farmers.

This is an improbable vision by the world’s standards, but it is a hope we hold at a soul level. Isaiah invites us to imagine a world where tools of harm become tools of nourishment. In this hopeful vision, the ways of war and division are transformed into ways of connection with the 'āina to nurture the soil and to nurture love.

Isaiah’s vision may feel distant and murky, but his words also include some very practical advice. Bringing his message home, Isaiah says, “Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord.” These words soothe and calm us, providing Advent hope. They invite us to remember that we don't have to wait for the light. We can choose it, trust it, and walk in it now. We can live as though this hopeful vision is already breaking into the world through us.

We recognize this vision in the small, ordinary moments of life — when we see small children solve an argument all by themselves. Or when kind words ease a bad day. Or when Kohala comes together to help victims of a house fire. When tears of gratitude flow from families who come to St. Augustine’s to receive food from Kohala Cares, Vibrant Hawai‘i, or our friends at Gospel of Salvation. These are glimpses of the light breaking in. We don’t have to wait for the light; it’s already coming.

As we lit the candle of hope for in our Advent wreath this morning, we saw the light of Advent ushering in the new church year. In this season, we enter a time of quiet and reflection, keeping both clock time and soul time as we wait with anticipation. 
As Paul says, something new is already stirring. It's time to “put on the Lord Jesus Christ,” he says. What does this mean, “put on the Lord Jesus Christ?” To me, this means “wearing” or “embodying” Christ as best we can, with the hope that wearing Christ becomes the garment of a new humanity, a flowing robe of light. How about that for a fashion statement? 

To put on the light of Christ means we must also put aside the shadowed weight we’ve been carrying. And many of us carry so much as we work multiple jobs, care for family, and watch as political chaos feeds fear and erodes basic human rights. We see dear friends crumble under the burden of health issues or the horror of losing a child. And we see horrible injustices heaped inequitably upon those who can least afford to carry it.

It’s no wonder we hide under a thick shell, develop a cynical or crusty attitude, and turn a blind eye. That makes it very hard to see Isaiah’s hopeful vision. It is difficult to shed hardened shells in order to put on the soft cloak of Christ’s loving light. 
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This week, Jesus offers a teaching that sounds like an apocalyptic warning but is actually an invitation to embrace hope. He tells us that no one knows when the Son of Man will come, so be ready NOW. Champion justice NOW by paying attention to what's happening in the world and acting on it in daily life. There’s no need for a crystal ball, just look for the needs of this hour. 

Jesus urges us to live each moment as though God has arrived in our midst. Advent calls us to the kind of wakefulness that helps us see that God is already here, flowing through our ordinary daily actions of kindness, inclusion, compassion, and love.
Naturally, we feel uneasy about the unpredictability of life. Fears about the future are part of being human, and, at various points in our planet’s history, uncertainty has reached a volatile boiling point. 

I think this is Jesus’ loving way of pointing out that living with the unknown is part of being alive, so why not embrace it by being ready? What does is mean to be ready? I appreciate what writer John Burgess says about readiness. “The readiness to which Jesus calls us is shaped not by fear of the future, but rather by gratitude for life in the kingdom that Christ already offers us.” 

I love this quote from Dag Hammarskjöld, secretary general of the United Nations in the 1950s. He wrote in his journal, “For all that has been—Thanks! To all that will be—Yes.” That is such a great example of “putting on Jesus,” a fully fashioned robe of Christ light! Feeling gratitude for all that has been means tilling the soil of our past to find the gifts and opportunities in everything, even the challenges and hardships. Practicing this kind of gratitude helps us approach the future with grace instead of fear. 

On this first Sunday in Advent, I wonder: what are the swords in our lives that God is inviting us to lay down? What are the ploughshares we are being asked to take up? Where are we being invited to move from fear to trust, from guardedness to generosity, from sleepwalking through life to living fully awake?

As we take time to ponder these questions, as we think about what God is calling us to, we can find great hope in knowing that none of this has to happen with 100% completeness or perfection. Just for today, we can notice the needs of the hour and look for small ways to help. Hour by hour and day by day, we begin to turn toward hope. Once we choose to walk in the light, we’ll see the light everywhere, even in the dark corners. With each small act of love, our defensive shells melt in the light, replaced by the flowing robe of Christ consciousness. 

Observing a holy Advent season entails more than just counting down to Christmas. It is the beginning of the turning, the process of new life emerging through Christ's coming birth. This is a season of inner reflection during which we are invited to embrace our kuleana: to become the peace Christ has gifted to us and to return it to the world. 

In the turning, we become awake and ready. We see that the light we long for is already rising within us, reshaping our minds, and guiding our steps. We begin our Advent journey with the same words Isaiah offered thousands of years ago: Come, let us walk in the light.
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