Six Moments from the HDS 2026 Billings Preaching Finals
Annual competition celebrates Harvard Divinity School students who demonstrate outstanding preaching and pulpit presence.
During Noon Service on April 22, 2026, Harvard Divinity School’s (HDS) Office of Ministry Studies (OMS) hosted the annual Billings Preaching Prize Competition, a tradition dating back to 1904. While rooted in Christian preaching, the competition today reflects the multireligious nature of HDS, inviting a range of approaches—from sermons grounded in sacred texts to readings drawn from literature and other non-canonical sources.
Associate Dean for Ministry Studies Teddy Hickman-Maynard described the prize as an effort to “identify, lift up, highlight, and praise” students who demonstrate excellence in preaching and public delivery.
This year’s finalists were Master of Divinity (MDiv) students Caleb Brantley, Rachel Florman, and Eli Hardwig. Candice Mulinda, Master of Theological Studies (MTS) candidate, won the Massachusetts Bible Society Prize for Scriptural Reading, and MDiv candidates Audrey Zhou and Ethan Kober received OMS prizes for sacred reading. Eli Hardwig was named the 2026 winner for his sermon, “Shall We Dance?”
As a first-year Master of Theological Studies student who has spent the year attending HDS’s multireligious services, this event felt like a culmination—an opportunity to see preaching come alive across traditions. The speakers named experiences of grief, confusion, and hope, offering images of care, connection, and resilience in response. Though rooted in distinct traditions, their sermons seemed to reach toward a shared set of questions: how to live, how to grieve, how to love, and how to keep going.
In that spirit, here are six moments that stayed with me.
An Open Hand
“Let’s dance. Maybe we’ll move together, maybe we’ll move apart.”—Eli Hardwig, MDiv candidate
Near the end of his prize-winning sermon on the Parable of the Sower, Hardwig held out his hand. He described the Sower’s gesture as an invitation: “like someone starting a dance, ready to move and be moved.” “Remember this gesture,” he said, “the most important part of the story.” An open hand becomes a willingness to risk connection. To dance is to risk missteps, to lose the rhythm, or even to be left alone when the music changes. Yet love still asks for that openness. Where am I open enough to begin again?
Where Is God?
“You may be seated next to an angel right now and you don't even know it.”—Caleb Brantley, MDiv candidate
Brantley’s sermon filled me with a sense of gratitude and responsibility. His repetition of the phrase “when an angel shows up” felt like insistence: don’t miss it. God’s care often arrives in familiar faces and everyday encounters. Each example he named—parents, friends, professors, HDS staff—pulled angels from above and seated them beside me. “When an angel shows up, that's enough to give God some praise,” he said. The response to “Where is God?” might be as ordinary as a call, a knock, a shared meal, or a word of encouragement.
Living with Loss
“May his memory be a blessing.”—Rachel Florman, MDiv candidate
Florman reflected on Jewish practices of mourning, where loss is named and held in community. When someone dies, the letters Z”L—drawn from Proverbs 10:7, “The memory of the righteous is a blessing”—are added to their name. She contrasted this with the phrase “rest in peace,” which centers the deceased, while the Hebrew emphasizes the responsibility of the living. “We can choose to honor and abide by the life lessons we learn,” she said. Memory becomes an active practice—one that allows love to continue shaping us even in grief.
Acts of Faith
“Each of these people of faith died, not having in hand what was promised, but still believing.” —Hebrews 11 (The Message read by Candice Mulinda, MTS candidate)
Mulinda’s reading from a contemporary translation of Hebrews emphasized faith as action. The repeated phrase “by an act of faith” traced stories of trust without certainty—Noah building on dry land, others stepping forward without knowing the outcome. She described turning to this translation as an accessible entry point in moments of doubt. For many of us, coming to HDS—moving, leaving home, beginning again—can feel like such an act of faith, the decision to keep building without seeing the full picture.
A Cuckoo Song
“The willingness to show up even when it isn’t perfect.”—Ethan Kober, MDiv candidate
Kober played the banjo to an Appalachian fiddle tune, a form shaped by many hands over time. It was only his second time performing publicly. That vulnerability became part of the offering. “Part of what makes it sacred is the willingness to show up, even if it is imperfect,” he said. The music suggested that sacred expression is not fixed—it evolves, gathers voices, and invites participation.
Attention to Seasons
“I don't want to miss spring this year.”—Annie Dillard (reading by Audrey Zhou), MDiv candidate
Zhou’s reading from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek offered a meditation on attention. Dillard writes, “I want to stick a net into time and say ‘now.’” The passage lingers on the fragile threshold between winter and spring—the moment when something new begins. As a reading drawn from literature rather than scripture, it reflected the expansive range of texts that shape spiritual reflection at HDS. It felt like an invitation to notice more closely—to remain present for moments of change, both in the world and within ourselves.
Holding It All Together
Florman’s reflections on grief drew the room into stillness, while Brantley’s questions—“Where is God in the middle of my pain?”—echoed with urgency. Kober spoke candidly about wrestling with scripture, even as humor surfaced throughout his sermon.
Across these moments, the room held a wide range of emotion—loss and longing alongside laughter and insight. Taken together, the sermons reflected HDS at its best: a community willing to sit with complexity, to take grief seriously, and to make space for joy and curiosity alongside it.
All photos by Alex Bayer.
Teddy Hickman-Maynard welcomes Eli Hardwig to the podium.
Teddy Hickman-Maynard with student preaching finalists and scripture and sacred text reading winners.
Caleb Brantley delivers his sermon "Where is God?” in Williams Chapel.
Video Transcript
Full Transcript
[MUSIC PLAYING]
SPEAKER 1: Harvard Divinity School.
SPEAKER 2: Buildings Preaching Competition Finals, April 22, 2026.
RACHEL MALLET: Welcome to noon service. Thank you for being here today. My name is Rachael Mallett and I am a member of the Noon Service Steering Committee, which coordinates these gatherings. We strive to cultivate a restorative space for prayer, meditation, and spiritual connection across the boundaries of our many traditions. We welcome your feedback as we continue to center anti-racism in our work and reduce the harm of systemic oppression.
Each week, noon service is hosted by a different HDS community. We thank you for joining us today for the Billings Prize for Preaching Finals. Congratulations to the finalists and the winners of the Massachusetts Bible Society Prize for Scriptural Reading and the OMS Prize for Sacred Reading. You are invited to participate in as much or as little of the service as you feel called, choosing the former over the latter whenever possible. Afterward, please join us for food and conversation when we hope you will deepen the friendships and connections formed today.
This week, we'd also like to highlight afternoon service today. You are invited to make a blessing card to hang over the heads of this year's graduating class at the multi-religious commencement service. And I should also mention that this event will be video recorded and/or photographed. So if you do not wish to be included, please inform the photographer. You can find more details in today's order of service and in the weekly e-bulletins. We hope you'll join us for noon service next Wednesday when the HDS Garden Group will be our host. And now, I invite you to join me in saying the opening sentences.
Welcome to the Harvard Divinity School Noon Service. Each week, we aspire anew to be welcoming and vulnerable with ourselves and one another.
(ALL) In this hour, may we find ourselves a space of truth and openness.
As leaders, may we share our traditions and spirit of hospitality with those who do not understand what we do or why. Have we courage the truth in our missions with an open heart
As participants, may we be open and present with our peers in their own context. Maybe we'd be willing to experience the unknown. In this time and in this assembly, may we embrace each responsibility with earnestness and compassion for our companions. Though we may travel different paths, may we find solidarity, comfort, and hope in our common purpose as a community of seekers working towards collective liberation from white supremacy and other forms of oppression.
PERLEI TOOR: Friends, my name is Perliei, and I am also a member of the noon service steering committee. The prayers and meditations of our community come from this binder, which you'll find by the door as you enter. Everyone is invited to inscribe a prayer, longing, need, hope, or wish to be read here each week. As we continue to honor our relationship with the Massachusett people-- the original Indigenous inhabitants of this land-- we encourage you to consider the resources in your order of service, including information about the 1650 Charter. We offer these as an invitation to deeper reflection for our collective learning and conversion of heart.
Let us all open our minds, bodies and hearts to silently receive and hold these prayers and meditations.
Let us embody love, joy, and kindness. Do not expect, embody from within.
Clarity for our speakers and joyous discernment for our graduating companions. We could not have had this year of community without you.
For Louise, grieving her son. For families splitting up or trying to stay together-- may they center love and community. For abortion providers and health workers doing life-saving work. For Danny and kidney donors everywhere. Prayers for John-- may his doctors find the treatment his body needs.
Thank you for your offerings today. May, we, as individuals in a community of care, practice mindfulness in this moment, accepting feeling and acknowledging our shared responsibilities to one another and all living beings. It is my pleasure to invite Dean Teddy to begin today's service.
[APPLAUSE]
DEAN TEDDY HICKMAN-MAYNARD: Thank you to Rachael and Perlei for their wonderful hosting and on behalf of the Office of Ministry Studies, and really all of Harvard Divinity School, I want to welcome all of you to this noon service celebrating the Billings Competition, a celebration of excellence in proclamation. This is a 122 year tradition at Harvard Divinity School. We've been doing this for 122 years. [APPLAUSE]
Yeah, yeah.
So this fund, established in 1904, was established to identify and to lift up, to highlight and to praise the work of students who demonstrate excellence in preaching and pulpit delivery. Over the years, this competition has changed. It used to be just for MDiv students, now it's open to the entire HDS student community. We also, obviously over that time, have become an incredibly multi-religious institution. And so, the kinds of approaches to preaching that we see now in the competition are varied and quite interesting.
So the initial submissions are judged by a jury of six to seven persons, including HDS instructors in preaching as well as working preachers who are a part of our OMS family, meaning making instructors, denominational counselors, and so on.
And that preliminary jury watches all of the sermons and based on their vote, we come to this day where the three preaching finalists will deliver their sermons to all of you, and they will be judged by a jury of HDS alumni including steelhead supervisors and working clergy persons and working spiritual care providers who are a part of the HDS family. They have a digital ballot. So those of you who are judging, you know who you are. If you don't have a digital ballot, please go to the back and see Leslie or Jonathan. That'll be very important so that we can tally up your feedback.
Along with the preaching, however, we also recognize the elocutionary reading of sacred text. And that award initially started with the Massachusetts Bible society giving an award for the liturgical reading of scripture. Now we also recognize persons who utilize literature or scripture that is not recognized by a traditional religious institution as being canon, but which for them is being used as sacred text for their preaching. And so we have the OMS Prize for sacred reading, and we still have the MBS, Massachusetts Bible Society Prize for Scriptural Reading. But scripture now is beyond the Christian tradition. And so the winner of that award gets a sacred text of their choosing, and the winner of the OMS prize gets any book of their choosing.
The preaching finalists receive financial awards-- all three finalists receive an award, with the largest award going to the winner, obviously. And so before we get going, we're going to go right through with no other interruptions. So I want to acknowledge them all now. So would you please help me to welcome this year's MBS Prize for Scriptural Reading, Candace Malinda. Stand up please.
[APPLAUSE]
Stand up.
This year, the OMS Prize for Sacred Reading was a split decision. Please give it up for Audrey Zhao and Ethan Coburn.
[APPLAUSE]
And we also are getting ready to hear from our three finalists, but we want to recognize them right now-- Kayla Brantley, Rachael Florman, and Eli Hartwig. Give up [INAUDIBLE]
[APPLAUSE]
So without further ado, please enjoy.
CALEB BRANTLEY: Good afternoon.
CONGREGATION: Good afternoon.
CALEB BRANTLEY: I love a talk-back church. My name is Caleb Brantley. I'm a first year MDiv student here. First to the Billings Committee and to each competitor, it is an honor and a blessing to be here. It's one that I do not take for granted, so thank you for this opportunity. Very quickly, I just need to admit this-- I am a Black Baptist so I know, was given 10 minutes, but I cannot promise in my tradition that 10 minutes will suffice. So I will. I will try to be obedient with the schedule and the spirit at the same time.
Just for some added context, I will be reading from 1 Kings, Chapter 19, Verses 1 through 8. But just some background. Just before this passage, the prophet, Elijah, has experienced a dramatic victory on Mount Carmel, where God answers by fire and exposes the prophets of Baal as powerless. Despite this public moment of divine triumph, and in the end of a long drought, we see that Queen Jezebel vows to kill Elijah.
And what follows in 1 Kings, Chapter 19 is not a celebration, but a prophet who is in some trouble. The text reads, "now Ahab told Jezebel everything Elijah had done and how he had killed all the prophets with the sword. So Jezebel sent a messenger to Elijah to say, may the gods deal with me, be it ever so severely. If by this time tomorrow I do not make your life like that of one of them."
Elijah was afraid, and he ran for his life. And he came to Beersheba in Judah. And he left his servant there. And while he himself went a day's journey into the wilderness, he came to a broom bush, sat down under it, and prayed that he might die. "I have had enough, Lord," he said. Take my life, for I am no better than my ancestors. Then he lay down under the bush and fell asleep. All at once an angel touched him and said, get up and eat. He looked around, and there by his head was some bread baked over hot coals, and a jar of hot water.
He ate and drank, and then he lay down again. And then the angel of the Lord came back a second time and touched him, and said, get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you. So he got up and ate and drank again. And strengthened by that food, he traveled 40 days and 40 nights until he reached Horeb, the mountain of God. May the Lord have a blessing to the readers of this word for the edification of our souls.
Friends, for the next few moments, I invite us to sit with something that all of us too well-- this idea of exhaustion. Is there anybody in the room who's ever been tired in more ways than one? I'm talking about both a physical and existential exhaustion. This first one is a tire that settles into your body, the tire that shows up in your bones and in your sleep and in your breath. The kind of tired that can't be prayed away because all you really need is some rest.
But then there's a tire that a nap can't fix-- this is an existential exhaustion. It's the tire that settles in your soul. It's the tire that comes from working multiple jobs just to afford food and healthcare. It's the tire that 92% of Black women felt after standing in line for hours to vote, yet again, because they still believe in a promise that this country keeps delaying. It's the tired that comes from having to prove over and over again that you belong here, that your citizenship, your humanity and your worth are not up for debate.
It's the tired that shows up from having to serve and to sing and to teach and to lead when inside feel worn thin. It's the tire that I imagine our third year MDiv experience before finally completing their thesis. Congrats to y'all. And when we turn to this text, we see that Elijah is carrying both a physical and existential exhaustion. Elijah is facing a weariness that is draining his emotional and physical and spiritual energy all at once.
And when Elijah says, Lord, I have had enough, he is speaking for every soul in this room who has ever whispered, I'm doing all that I can, and it's still not enough. And if you haven't said that yet, the elders will put it to you like this-- just keep on living. Beloved, might I submit that as we look at this text, we are not looking at a prophet who saw victory on Mount Carmel. No, we are not looking at a prophet whose God gave him victory over the prophets of Baal. We are looking at a man whose limits are making him question his calling.
We see a man who is feeling the burden of an assignment weigh in on his life. We see a man worn down by systems that promise freedom, but deliver fear, by powers that preach peace but practice persecution. Does it sound familiar? And if you'll allow me to use my theological imagination for a moment, I see a brother who is caught in the middle of calling and collapse. I
Can almost see Elijah wondering, where is God, in The middle of my iniquity? Where is God, in the middle of my pain? Where is God, in, the middle of my exhaustion? And beloved, if we rush past this point too quickly, we will miss that this question, where is God? Is one that we all have wrestled with. Some have whispered it in hospital rooms, some have whispered it in the face of injustice. Some have whispered it in seasons of depression or loss. We have cried out like the psalmist, my God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
This physical and existential weariness that we feel presses in when hope feels uncertain. Because beloved, some of us in this room are pressing through assignments and jobs and wondering how we'll pay the bills to keep the lights on. Some of us who are professionals and theologians and scholars are tired of showing up when showing up isn't fulfilling or life giving.
Some of us in this room are facing an exhaustion that shows up in the form of mental health struggles. Some of us in this room are facing an exhaustion that is by constant pressure to justify our racial or gender, our sexual or religious, our status of able bodiedness identities because that systemic institutional change takes more than a couple of years, and a simple mission statement to overturn years of white supremacy and racism, sexism, and misogyny, homophobia and transphobia, ableism, and class politics that would seek to divide us. Some of us in this room are exhausted, and Elijah, we are sitting under our own broom tree asking God, why have you allowed me-- why have you allowed my exhaustion to get this far?
Elijah is there trying to make sense of his exhaustion and his loneliness. But here's the good news-- Elijah's cry reached heaven, and the Lord answered, not with thunder, but with provision. You see, the text says that Elijah lay down and slept. Now, beloved, what we need to understand is that God did not give Elijah rest, but rather God honored the rest that Elijah took. It means that God didn't interrupt Elijah's exhaustion with commands to try harder or for correction. God let Elijah's humanity breathe.
If I could illustrate it like this-- you see, some of us came from households where rest is criticized and it is seen as a form of laziness and idleness. At some point in your life may have heard that someone older may have told you you're too tired to be young. You're too young to be tired. Some of us grew up in households where rest, to borrow from author and Nap Bishop Tricia Hersey, is a form of resistance, where it is a fugitive act against the hustle and bustle of capitalism and a fast-paced economy.
But might I reveal a new revelation to you. Beloved, to honor rest is to acknowledge that weariness itself can be sacred that the body and mind need space to recover before your assignment can be given. I can't be the only one in this room to realize that sometimes divine love looks like giving yourself permission to stop. Am I talking to anybody. Just turn to your neighbor and say neighbor. It's OK to slow down.
CONGREGATION: Slow down.
CALEB BRANTLEY: And beloved, we see that while Elijah is sleeping, the text says that an angel of the Lord touched him and said unto him, arise and eat. And now for some of us in this room, this raises the question, why doesn't God come to Elijah directly? But scriptures reveal to us that this non-interaction is not unusual. Time and again, God chooses to speak through God's messengers. The word angel in Greek is angelos, which literally translates to messenger, and in the divine sense, this angel serves as a liminal agent that is bridging finite human perspective and divine reality.
But beloved, it doesn't take a priest, or a theologian or a scholar of religion to that an angel does not always show up in the heavenly and transcendent context that we think. What do I mean, preacher. It means that God may allow some people in your life to prophesy to when you least expect it. How do this. Because I have a grandma that prays for me every morning and every night. I have friends that when to call or when to text when my spirit is low. I have parents who have sacrificed their finances and their leisure so that they can so that I can experience life more abundantly. I have professors who encourage my mind and my intellect and my work and my testimony is yours, and you just missed your shout.
Because when an angel shows up in the form of Mom. When an angel shows up in the form of Dad. When an angel shows up in the form of a sibling, when an angel shows up in the form of a professor, when an angel shows up in the form of an HDS chaplain, when an angel shows up in the form of an [INAUDIBLE] Dorsey, when an angel shows up in the form of Zara Butler, when an angel shows up in the form of Michelle Millben, when an angel shows up in the form of an [INAUDIBLE]. When an angel shows up in the form of a Singleton, when an angel shows up in the form of Michael Washington, when an angel shows up in the form of a Doctor Kelly Brown Douglass.
When an angel shows up in the form of a Dean Teddy, when an angel shows up in the form of a Kerry Maloney, when an angel shows up in the form of a Katie Caponera, when an angel shows up in the form of a brother, David. when an angel shows up in the form of Melanie Lopez. When an angel shows up in the form of Brother Craig. When an angel shows up in the form of brother Dillon, sister Lily, sister Candace, and Maya may be sitting to an angel right now and you don't even it. You may be sitting next to an angel right now who is giving you a peace of mind.
When an angel shows up, that's enough to give God some praise. Yes, yes, yes. And when we look back in the text, we see that this simple encounter with an angel underscores yet another very important truth-- you are not yourself when you are hungry. Now, some of us may have heard this from a certain candy commercial, but I want to try to give you some biblical marketing. Not only does God care about your spiritual well-being, but God understands something that modern nutritional science would tell us today that physical and nutritional and nutritional adequacy are preconditions for an optimal and psychological functioning.
And so we see that when God feeds Elijah, it is because hunger can make despair sound like wisdom. Beloved, and this is a word for us, sometimes we'll miss that the meal is the miracle. Sometimes we'll miss that the reminder to drink some water is the revival. Sometimes we'll miss that biscuits and gravy can be the blessing. And this is true because some of us in this room have spent long hours in classes and studying, and I can only imagine that some of you had just hoped, just hoped that there was some food in the HDS community fridge.
What does this mean? Well, I'm glad you asked. It means that God can make a way when things if things seem out of the ordinary, God can work in the ordinary just as much as he does in the extraordinary. Once God replenishes Elijah's soul, he doesn't leave him in the cave, he prepares him for the journey ahead because, beloved, rest was never meant to be your final destination, it was preparation for your next assignment.
God honors Elijah's rest, but then he reminds him that his calling is not finished. The same God who lets you lay down is the same God who will lift you back up. While Elijah was wrestling with despair, God was arranging deliverance. While he was questioning his purpose, God was preparing provision while he was praying to die, God was sending an angel to help him live. May I suggest that it is something about a God who can make a way when things seem impossible.
When I'm exhausted, I can look up to him, for the Bible tells me he giveth power to the faint and to them that have no might he increaseth strength. Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall. But that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength. They mount up on wings as Eagles, they shall run and not be weary, and they shall walk and not be faint.
Beloved, here is the good news. This means that even at your lowest, even when you think that you are down and out for the count and ready to toss in the towel, just when you are ready. Just when you are about to give up. God will move in ways that will renew your strength and resurrect your soul. Because the same power that can resurrect your soul is the same power that resurrected Jesus from the grave.
So here's the message Saints. Exhaustion does not get the final say. God does. God will sustain you in seasons of weariness, and the Lord God is not finished with you yet.
[APPLAUSE]
CANDACE MULINDA: Awesome. Hello. Good afternoon.
CONGREGATION: Good afternoon.
CANDACE MULINDA: Or morning, I'm not sure. I don't have my phone. But thank you so much for that, Caleb. It is such a pleasure to be here with you all and to share the stage with such fantastic speakers. My scripture reading today comes from the Message Translation of Hebrews 11. Now, I love the Message Translation-- hot take-- because it's written for a modern audience. You'll notice that the language is not as formal as maybe the King James version because it's written to be understood by people of the 21st century, to be felt, to be embodied.
So I often turn to the Message Translation as an approachable opening whenever I'm struggling in my faith. So with that, Hebrews 11 from the Message Translation.
"The fundamental fact of existence is that this trust in God, this faith, is the firm foundation under everything that makes life worth living. It's our handle on what we can't see. The act of faith is what distinguished our ancestors, set them above the crowd. By faith we see the world called into existence by God's Word and what we see created by what we don't see.
By an act of faith, Abel brought a better sacrifice to God than Cain. It was what he believed, not what he brought that made the difference. That's what God noticed and approved as righteous. And after all of these centuries, that belief continues to catch our notice by an act of faith, Enoch skipped death completely. They looked all over and couldn't find him because God had taken him. We know, then, on the basis of reliable testimony, that because he was taken, he pleased God, and it's impossible to please God apart from faith. And why?
Because anyone who wants to approach God must believe both, that he exists, and that he cares enough to respond to those who seek him by faith. Noah built a ship in the middle of dry land. He was warned about something he couldn't see and acted on what he was told. The result? His family was saved. His act of faith drew a sharp line between the evil of the unbelieving world and the righteous of the believing world. And as a result, Noah became intimate with God. By an act of faith, Abraham said yes to God's call to travel to an unknown place that would become his home.
When he left, he had no idea where he was going by an act of faith, he lived in the country, promised him, lived as a stranger, camping in tents. Isaac and Jacob did the same, living under the same promise. Abraham did it by keeping his eye on an unseen city with real, eternal foundations. The city designed and built by God. By faith, barren Sarah was able to become pregnant old woman as she was at the time, because she believed that the one who made a promise would do what he said. That's how it happened. That from one man's dead and shriveled loins, there are now people numbering into the millions.
Each of these people of faith died, not having in hand what was promised, but still believing. How did they do it? They saw it way off in the distance, waved at their greeting, and accepted the fact that they were transients in this world. People who lived this way, make it plain that they are looking for their true home. If they were homesick for the old country, they could have gone back any time-- any time that they wanted. But they were after a far better country than that, heaven country.
So you can see then why God is so proud of them and has a city waiting just for them. This is the word of the Lord."
[APPLAUSE]
RACHEL FLORMAN: Good afternoon, everyone.
CONGREGATION: Good afternoon.
RACHEL FLORMAN: OK, we're going to start this sermon with a different kind of scripture. This is a reading from Violence Morning Politics by Judith Butler. Thank you. I love to have people who know me in the audience. "Whose lives count as lives? And finally, what makes for a grievable life? Despite our differences in location and history, my guess is that it is possible to appeal to a "we" for all of us, have some notion of what it is to have lost somebody. Loss has made a tenuous "we" of us all.
My childhood friend Greg died by suicide in the throes of a manic episode in late 2022. He had struggled with depression and substance abuse for years before his death, and somehow it wasn't a total surprise when I got the call from a mutual friend.
Greg and I met the first week of ninth grade. He had transferred from an all-boys middle school. I had been there since pre-K. He made a distinct impression as an endearing weirdo when he introduced himself in French class, I found him intriguing and cool and easy to laugh at and laugh with, and we became fast friends. Over the years, we did theater together and carpooled home from rehearsal. We distracted each other in math class. We made fun of the kids who thought they were cooler than us.
Greg started slipping away in 11th grade, first with weed and alcohol, and then with signs of manic depression. That made him lash out. But when he was among his friends, he was still the same sweet guy. It seemed a minor miracle that he graduated with our class, but we all went off to college and promised to keep in touch. Later on, when Greg died, my friends and I asked each other, why didn't we spend more time with him? Why didn't we do-- why didn't we check in more frequently? Do a better job of keeping up with each other? We hadn't spoken in months. Hadn't seen him or each other in the years leading up to his death.
But the tragedy oriented us towards deeper engagement with each other, the kind we feared we hadn't done enough of and knew we'd never be able to do again with Greg. My friends and I were remade into a "we" who couldn't bring Greg back, couldn't even prevent our sadness, but could mourn and attend to one another with care. Judith Butler defines mourning as accepting that by the loss one goes through one will be changed, possibly forever. According to Butler, mourning has to do with agreeing to undergo a transformation, the full results of which one cannot in advance.
Perhaps surprisingly to those of you who know me, I find a really impressive example of this definition in the Gospel of John. And perhaps less surprisingly, the more I learn about Christianity, the more confused I am about the person Jesus Christ. Jesus was a man who lived and died like every other man. Why should his crucifixion, one among many state murders in a period marked by state violence, become the catalyst for eternal life?
Why did he become in death, more so than in life, someone worth mourning? In my reading of the Gospel of John, it has more to do with Jesus's followers than with the man himself. Before his death, Jesus speaks directly to them. I give you a new commandment, he says that you love one another. He says that if they have love for one another, just as he has loved them, everyone will that they are his disciples.
Following Butler's definition, the disciples accepted their task of mourning. They loved Jesus, even while knowing they would lose him. And I think his instructions to them are what made this task more bearable. Although, they didn't what their lives would look like in his absence, they were still living through political and social upheaval under the ruling Roman Empire, they had a clear charge to uphold-- a roadmap through mourning set out by their teacher.
I'm not appealing to a Christian ethic here, but to the parts of us that wish we'd had a roadmap or instructions for the mystery we face in the aftermath of loss. In agreeing to love not just Jesus, but one another, the disciples agreed to transformation. Even if they didn't understand his final instructions, it was morally incumbent upon them to be open to the possibility of change, of hope, of love.
And here, sometimes I wonder, what would have happened to the disciples if Jesus hadn't been their teacher? I once watched a man die without anyone by his side. In the course of my work as a hospital chaplain intern, I had responded to a code blue in the medical ICU, rather than the usual routine of finding and sitting with family while the medical team worked on the patient, I was met only with doctors and anxious medical students simultaneously trying to reach his family and get his pulse back.
I remained nearby as they ran the code. Not so close as to interfere, but close enough to feel the stress radiating off of all the new residents and interns. They finally got his mother on the phone and but they were ultimately unable to revive him. The time of death was called shortly after.
Later that day, I spoke to the deceased man's mother on the phone. She was homebound, unable to visit him in the hospital. She had very few people with whom to share the news of her son's death. He had also lived a solitary life. She was unemployed, and she feared being unable to pay for his funeral. As her chaplain, a complete stranger and a transplant to the area, I could not offer much in terms of material resources. Neither could I bring her only son back to life.
I could only listen to her concerns, bear witness to her circumstances, and tell her I was sorry for her loss. So now imagine, if Jesus had been a stranger-- a loner who preached about love and was crucified by the state, would anyone have mourned Him? In Deuteronomy, God commands love the stranger, but perhaps it would be better framed as, encounter the stranger, as let yourself be transformed by the stranger before they're gone, or simply mourn the stranger.
Jewish mourning practices recognize the importance of acknowledging loss publicly in community. When someone dies, we write the letters ZL after their name, stands for [NON-ENGLISH] a phrase that comes from the Book of Proverbs, Chapter 10, Verse 7. In translation it reads, "the memory of the righteous is a blessing." Much like the English phrase, rest in peace, [NON-ENGLISH] signifies respect or admiration for the dead.
But I find it interesting that the Hebrew focuses on the memory, which concerns those of us still living. The English centers the rest of the deceased themselves. We have no way of knowing if one's rest is peaceful. We might not even believe that there is any rest to come. But we can choose to honor and abide by the life lessons we learned from the deceased.
We can make the memory of their lives respected, admired, dearly missed into blessings for our own. That man in the hospital, may his memory be a blessing, may it motivate us towards a world where no mother has to worry about the cost of her son's funeral. May it inspire my relationship with my mother and keep me from ever taking her for granted. And as for Greg, when he died, I was living through a period of deep depression. Reckoning with Greg's suicide and the counterpoint of my own constituted relationships, I began to see more clearly what was at stake in my friendships and in my depression.
I began to engage more intentionally with loved ones, to reach more eagerly for a version of myself who wanted to be in the world. I wished Greg's death hadn't been the catalyst for that, and yet, people are going to keep dying, and I don't think we can ask them to stop. We have to figure out how to live with it, changed, and without them. We have to mourn and we have to stay alive. [NON-ENGLISH] may his memory be a blessing. Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]
AUDREY SHOU: Hi, everyone. Good afternoon. Hello. My reading is from Annie Dillard's, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, a beautiful piece of narrative-nonfiction inspired by Dillard's year of living in solitude at Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountains. She writes, "so, I have been thinking about the change of seasons. I don't want to miss spring this year. I want to distinguish the last winter frost from the out of season one-- the frost of spring. I want to be there on the spot the moment the grass turns green. I always miss this radical revolution. I see it the next day from a window, the yard so suddenly green and lush, I could envy Nebuchadnezzar down on all fours, eating grass.
This year, I want to stick a net into time and say, now. As men plant flags on the ice and snow and say, here. Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]
ELI HARDWIG: Thank you all for being here. This is a reading from the Gospel of Luke. "A sower went out to sow his seed, and as he sowed, some of the seed fell along the footpath where it was trampled on, and the birds ate it up. Some fell on rock and after coming up, it withered for lack of moisture. Some fell among thistles, and the thistles grew up with it and choked it. And some of the seed fell into good soil and grew and yielded a hundredfold."
This is what the parable means. The seed is the word of God. The seed along the footpath stands for those who hear it and then the devil comes and carries off the word from their hearts for fear they should believe and be saved. The seed sown on rock stands for those who receive the word with joy when they hear it, but have no root. They are believers for a while, but in the time of testing they give up.
That which fell among thistles represents those who hear, but their growth is choked by cares and wealth and the pleasures of life, and they bring nothing to maturity. But the seed in good soil represents those who bring a good and honest heart to the hearing of the word. Hold it fast, and by their perseverance yield a harvest.
When I was 11, I thought I pretty much had things figured out. I mean, I had graduated from elementary school, top of my class like everyone else because I grew up in Asheville and we didn't believe in grades. But I had street smarts, too. I had learned the S word, the D word, and the F word. And any day now, I figured I'd get permission from my parents to actually use them. And I knew about love and loss, ever since I'd had my fourth grade Valentine returned by Hannah M.
And of course, I knew about religion. Or rather, I knew that the Baptist church down the street whose immaculate lawns my dad warned us never to cut across, it was a thing best avoided.
I haven't done great on that one, but it was a lesson I learned early and kept close. I remember one day when I was in sixth grade, and Asheville Middle School called an all school assembly to listen to a motivational speaker who ended his otherwise pretty conventional pitch to work hard and achieve by reciting the Parable of the Sower and by calling a few students up to the stage.
One kid, a straight-A student, he declared to be good soil, another slouched in her hoodie to be full of weeds, and the last a kid who'd been laughing and joking with his friends when he was called up to stage, he called stone, from which nothing would ever grow.
Now, I, as someone who didn't how to pronounce the word Bible until middle school, I hadn't even clocked the scripture, but I knew pretty well what it looked like when people were mocked and bullied. And ever since, I've hated this parable. I mean, it makes my skin crawl. It represents to me, rightly or wrongly, exactly that us versus them, in or out mentality in Christianity, that kept me away for so long.
So today, I want to see if I can redeem it to myself-- my 11-year-old self and the self who's standing here today.
Let's start by dispensing with three assumptions that I think can occlude this parable and turn it towards violent ends.
First, there's the assumption that our characters in this parable, those who receive the word with joy, those who hear but their growth is choked, that they are different, separable people. But none of us are so uncomplicated. We are all path and rock and thistle and soil, not only in succession, but at once. We are gardens with many byways, and which element most faces the sun changes by the hour, by the minute even.
And then there's the assumption that there's only one kind of good soil. But anyone who grew up near an agricultural studies program could tell you, that's not true. There are 250,000 different named soils in the US alone. You can look them up. The ground we're standing on right now is made up of a mix of Merrimack, Windsor, Sudbury, and Hinckley. A few streets over, you'd find yourself standing on Haven.
And different types of soil and different terrains are fit for different crops. Wine grapes, for instance, ought to be planted on rocky hillsides, not in loamy fields like wheat. And I refuse to believe that Jesus, immersed in the agricultural world of first century Palestine, wouldn't have known this. I think this is why he says, only seed, to leave open the possibility that there are many kinds of soil, many ways to hear the word of God. Not all of which are obvious on first glance.
And then there's the assumption that it would be best for all the seed to find soil and sprout. But Jesus's sower does not plant seeds carefully in plowed soil. He is a spendthrift. He scatters them widely. The theologian John Noland writes that there is an unusual generosity, almost a joyous abandon, about this sower's technique. And the parable emphasizes exactly this abandon. It's important that some seeds don't find the soil. If you trace the logic of the metaphor backwards, the seed might not be the word of God unless it falls sometimes on stone.
Take all of these points together, and it starts to seem a lot harder to use this parable to justify browbeating some 12-year-olds into faith or good grades. It starts to seem almost like the opposite, like a celebration of flux and mystery and difficulty. A reminder of the importance of encountering people who are different from us, who challenge us just like we do here every day. Because the Sower doesn't try to tell silt from loam or turn one into the other, he doesn't force the seed into the soil, he doesn't even plow the field. All he does is throw out his hand, less like a farmer than someone starting a dance ready to move and be moved in turn.
If you were wondering, we did eventually find out why this motivational speaker was allowed into our school. It turned out he worked for an evangelical organization that had offered in exchange for the chance to address the students free landscaping services. Happy Earth Day. I like to wonder how exactly they planted those flower beds, but I had to admit, the results were lovely-- mixed wildflowers. And it's a funny thing about those seeds, you can't what exactly they're going to turn into.
And I've been thinking about what I would say to that middle school if I found myself there preaching on that parable against all odds and laws of physics and constitutional protections. And I think it's something like this, which I'd like to say to you too-- I'd say to remember this, this gesture, the most important part of the story. Not a plow or a sword, but an open hand. And I'd say the hand means just this, let's dance. Maybe we'll move together, maybe we'll move apart, and either way, I can't wait to see what turn you'll make next.
[APPLAUSE]
ETHAN KOBER: A word before I begin this banjo here. Because I want to offer a brief way of thinking about this. This song is called Cuckoo Bird, and comes from the Appalachian fiddle tune genre, where it isn't fixed in form-- every hauler in Appalachia has its own form, the pass from person-to-person, place-to-place and they change as they go. There isn't one definitive version, there are many versions shaped by the people who carry them. That's part of why I've been thinking of this song as a sacred text. Not because it has a clear, authoritative meaning, but because it holds the life of a community, a community over time.
The lyrics might seem like they have nothing to do with one another, but that's actually the point. They leave room. Room for interpretation, room for many instruments, many voices for people to make the song their own. And in that spirit, it feels also very important to say, I am an amateur banjo player. I'm not offering this as a polished performance. This is indeed the second time this banjo has ever seen any audience. So give it some praise.
These songs also, in this tradition, it matters that they weren't meant to be perfected in isolation and then presented flawlessly. They were meant to be played together, learned together, and shaped in community. So what I'm offering is one small version turning into something much larger than I am, and maybe a part of what makes it sacred is exactly that, the willingness to show up, even to participate, and to let something be created together that no one person could make alone. This is Cuckoo Bird.
[BANJO PLAYING]
Well, she's pretty hot. She [INAUDIBLE]
She never promised until the day of my [INAUDIBLE]
I'm going to build a log cabin on a mountain so high
So I can see Willie as he goes past my mind
[VOCALIZING]
Well, [INAUDIBLE]
She never wants to tell [INAUDIBLE]
DEAN TEDDY HICKMAN-MAYNARD: Want to thank, once again, all of our preaching finalists and our reading prize award winners. And now, to announce this year's Billings Prize for Preaching Winner, Eli Hardwick.
[APPLAUSE]
Well done.
To all of our finalists and readers, we have flowers over here for you after we say goodbye. And then you're going to come and take a picture, so don't leave. But in the interest of time, we want to let our RSL team come and close us out.
- One moment. Wrong binder. I was swept up in it all. All right. Thank you to Billings Preaching Prize Finals for hosting today's service and to everyone here for joining us today. We encourage you to stay afterwards for some food and refreshments and continue our time together. And now, please join me in saying the words to leave and live by found in your order of service.
(ALL) Thank you for your authentic offerings today. May the power of what you've shared direct and sustain us from this time forth until we meet again.
Go in peace.
[APPLAUSE]
NARRATOR: Sponsored by Office of Religion and Spiritual Life at Harvard Divinity School.
NARRATOR: Copyright 2026. The President and Fellows of Harvard College.