Esther 4:9-16 Ordination to the priesthood
Psalm 131 Feast of St. Lucy
Revelation 19:5-8 13 December 2025
John 1:9-14 Cathedral of St. Paul, Boston
I have been to a fair number of ordinations over the past thirty years. Our ordination rite is replete with traditions that tie us to our Anglican forebears and to the apostles who first laid hands on those who were called to particular ministries within the Body of Christ. Such traditions include solemn vows of fidelity, an ancient hymn to the Holy Spirit, the laying on of hands, and the vesting of the newly ordained in the symbols of their order of ministry.
A lesser-known tradition is the sermon which reminds ordinands of how useless their theological education has been in preparing them for the rough and ready demands of ministry in the “real” world,” and how their seminary really should have taught them how to fix toilets.This is not going to be one of those sermons.
Having spent the past two decades in theological education, I am here to tell you in no uncertain terms: theology matters. Not just for people who are going to be ordained, but for all of us in the Body of Christ. Our historic creeds matter. Our patterns of prayer, built on scripture and the ancient faith of the Church, guided by the Holy Spirit, matter.
You are being ordained today not as a social worker, or plumber, or financial strategist. There are folks in the world, and probably within your own congregations, who have those skills. You are being ordained as a priest in Christ’s one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church. You have been called to be stewards of a tradition that has been alive and growing for thousands of years – not just stewards, but interpreters. And for that work you need to steep yourselves in sacred texts, sacred rites, sacred forms of community.
You need theology.
Cherish that tradition. Nowhere is the importance of our particular theological tradition made more vibrant than in the gospel for today, for St. Lucy’s day. “And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.” That, my friends, is theology – and it matters. It is your call to unpack that earthshaking truth with all that your heart and your mind can muster, so that those with whom you minister can see how much of a difference it makes. How much a difference it makes that God has made us for Godself. So that they can take it into a hurting world. Whatever you do, do not abandon that sacred calling.
Do not forsake the unique and irreplaceable beauty of the message of the gospel, which is that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. Not because it makes us as the Church any better than Jews or Muslims or Hindus or Buddhists or anyone else, but because it is the uniqueness of each of the world’s religious traditions that is our most precious gift to each other and to the world. Jews offer their devotion to the deep stability and justice of Torah; Muslims their fidelity to an utterly transcendent divine power that cannot be contained or limited. Hindus revel in the dizzying array of explosions of God in the world; Buddhists call us all to pierce the illusions of so-called reality and let go of everything. And the Church – we are bearers of a God who chooses to endure every manner of suffering alongside us, even unto death, thereby breaking its hold.
Do not despise this gift, even as you revere and honor the gifts brought by other faiths. For our fates are bound up with each other’s. God’s people need each other, no matter what path we follow. All human futures are intertwined, part of a single web.
Nowhere is this more true than in our own communities, in the lives of parishes and those who are ordained to lead them. Mordecai’s words to Esther are sobering, but they are also the source of our strength: He warns her, “Do not think that in the king’s palace you will escape any more than all the other[s].” We are bound together. What our people face, we face.
Although ordination recognizes and consecrates a particular, distinct role within the Body, it does not separate ordained from lay. This is not just an ideal; it is a fact, sanctified by the Holy Spirit in our baptism. What Christ has done to each of us in baptism makes us eternally one; that, and not our particular order, is what binds us together. A priest cannot be a priest without the gathered Body of Christ. A priest alone at an altar is nonsensical, a contradiction in terms. Your words of consecration at the Eucharist are incomplete without the people’s great “Amen.”
As Esther prepares to intercede for her people before the king, she bids the people fast with her and her maids. They shoulder the sacred work together. Only Esther can cross the threshold of the king’s chamber, but she cannot do it without her people.
Priests are called to handle holy things, not on their own behalf, but so that the community can begin to envision and shape the holy wherever they go.[1] This is the pattern in our liturgy because it reveals the deep pattern in all of our life together. Do not imagine that you are the only one who is able to or called to enter the fray – all of the people of God are called to do the hard things together. They need you, and you need them.
The Church needs you, obviously, or you wouldn’t be here. We wouldn’t be here. We are all needed.
But.
Do not be deceived; it is God who does this work, God and none other. Mordecai’s words to Esther speak also to all of us: “[I]f you keep silent at this time, relief and deliverance will rise…from another place.” God will not be defeated, whether we are brave like Esther or not.
This is not an excuse for passivity so much as a call to humility. “O Lord, I am not proud,” the psalmist prays, “I have no haughty looks. I do not occupy myself with great matters, or with things that are too hard for me.” If our fates are indeed bound up with each other’s, that means that none of us is sufficient unto ourselves. This is a hard word to hear, especially in the midst of so much alarm about the future of the Church. Some will expect you to be the answer, to save the Church from decline. This is a responsibility none of us is able to bear. And it would be idolatry to try to bear it alone.
There is warning in this, but even more importantly, I think it is an invitation to something more radical, more essential to our life together as Church. We are not God; we are broken creatures; we cannot save ourselves or the world. This is true, but in and of itself, this truth leaves us isolated, enervated, uncertain, lost. The world equates humility with a lack of self-esteem, with imposter syndrome; but I see something different here.
What if humility, rather than beating us down and closing us off, actually is an invitation to lift and open ourselves up? The psalmist’s realistic assessment of self leads to an astonishing and transformative posture – “I still my soul and make it quiet, like a child upon its mother’s breast; my soul is quieted within me.”
Humility is a gift: it sends us running into the arms of the only One who can still our soul and make it quiet, not just when we are at our wit’s end, but constantly. We need more prayer, not less. Give yourselves to the prayer of the Church, and teach others how to love it too. Rest upon the breast of God, who will give us what we need.
So, Church – this is for all of us. Know that theology matters; cherish the ancient and ever-renewing faith. Remember that we are in this together. And in your weakness, dare to receive the blessings of God and the love and support of those with whom you minister.
Who knows? Perhaps like Esther, we have come to royal dignity – that is, the royal priesthood of all the baptized – for such a time as this.
[1] For an extensive and insightful treatment of the nature of ordained and lay priesthood and their relationship, see L. William Countryman’s book, Living on the Border of the Holy – Renewing the Priesthood of All. Morehouse Publishing, 1999.