Day One

The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill preaches a sermon on Matthew 4:12–23 entitled “Day One”. The Marsh Chapel Choir performs “Arise, Shine” by Drew Collins and “The Lord is my Light ” arranged by Frances Allitsen.

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Sermon Text

Day One
Matthew 4
January 25, 2026
Marsh Chapel
Robert Allan Hill

Tbe desire of the moth for the star
Of the night for the morrow
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow
Peter and Andrew: Hope
Today we see Jesus walking the shore of his beloved Sea of Galilee. He sets out at dawn, as the fishermen begin, casting and mending. This stylized memory from the mind of Matthew kindles our own honesty and hope, too.
The beginning of a day carries a power unlike any other hour. The excitement of beginning. The promise of another start. The crisp, cold opening, say, of the year in January. Like the skier, mits and poles at the ready, we adjust our goggles, and we lean, and…
Here is Jesus, midway from Christmas to Easter, from manger to cross, from nativity to passion. Along the shoreline he strides, one foot in sea and one on shore.
And here are we. One foot in water and one in sand. One foot in honesty and one in hope. You in faith embody and live that two-fold faithfulness. You as a community of faith, Marsh Chapel, a vibrant church in this hour and time, the nighttime, of the waning of the church, you have born witness to honesty and hope, Sunday by Sunday, and here you are, right here, doing so again, hour by hour, day by day, and in the paramount, come Sunday, once every seven days. Once every seven days: walking from the dorm, or parking the car, or hustling up from the T. Once every seven days at 11am to receive the Gospel and its preachment, to hear the music and its beauty, to admire the architecture and its permanence, to greet a neighbor and learn a name, to pray for the courage of honesty and the inspiration of hope.
In all times and seasons, but especially now in January of 2026, five years after the Presidentially encouraged destruction of the nation’s Capitol and the wanton Presidential encouragement of the slaughter of policemen and others on January 6, 2021—a day that lives in infamy and that defines the current President for all time—his mendacity by daily lying, his repugnant enjoyment of daily predation upon those weaker and in the way, his daily cruelty—the signature of his life, pronounced more fully every day—for whom the Republican party now permanently has sold its soul to the devil. How to live by faith now? Our Scripture teaches us: With unflinching honesty and unyielding hope. Try we do to be mindful and careful, as Shakespeare warns us from the grave, and Holy Scripture as well: he who the sword of heaven would rear must be as holy as sever…the anger of man does not work the righteousness of God.. But. Speak and act we must.
Jesus today gives us both honesty and hope. We shall need both.
He meets two brothers at first light, and they meet him, on day One, the light that shines in the darkness. Notice how Simon, called Peter, and Andrew, his brother, are sketched. There is little to nothing of history here, but what there is says so much! There is no parental shadow lying on their fishing nets. One hears no maternal imperative, no paternal dictate. These boys are on their own. They have left home already, maybe leaving the city to the south to find a meager middle-class existence farther north, with their own means of production. They are small businessmen, boat owners, fishermen. Neither the amhaaretz nor the gentry, they. Not poor, not rich. Working folks. Young, young men. Simon already has a nick-name. A sign of joviality, of conviviality, of gregarious playful fun. Peter, the Rock. Is this for his steady faithfulness or his failure to float? On this rock…Sinks like a Rock…You sense that these brothers play in the surf a little, kick up the sand a little, flirt with the Palestinianas a little, take time to take life as it comes. Brown are their forearms, and burnished their brows. They love the lake and life, and have made already their entrance into adult life. For they have left home. One envies their youth and freedom. They have taken to the little inland sea, and with joy they meet each dawn, like this one, Day One.
You can feel the sand under their feet as they take a moment to play and laugh. You can feel the chill of the water as they swim, while breakfast cooks over the fire. You can feel their feeling of vitality and joy as they greet another day at first light. They give us hope.
I wonder whether we allow ourselves to drift a little too far from hope, from that Day One feeling. Those nearly pure dawn moments of almost rapturous illumination. Those moments of connection.
The day your BU acceptance letter came.
The first day of the second term, this weewk, when now you know where you are.
The afternoon of BU Commencement, four fast years later, 30,000 in attendance.
The evening you came out to your parents.
Your first child, tiny, red, crinkled, fists waving, crying and then asleep, literally in your hand.
Your daughter, or son, taking the vows of confirmed faith, in the church’s chancel. Yes, there was some part child and another part adult in what was said. But they were there, in tie and dress. They were there, in public and in church. They murmured, and they murmured piously. And how did that feel Dad?
Your day of matrimony. Down the aisle they come, or you come, father and daughter, as two did right here yesterday. Do you? Do you? I do. They do. And what was once a simpler world, now has further complexity and creative power. A new creation.
Your retirement party.
There must have been some moment, sometime, when you felt an intimacy with the universe, a closeness, a sense of purpose. A sense that this is Day One, a new day, that carries an inkling of vocation, not just career but calling.
A simple trust, like theirs who heard beside the Syrian sea.
Our malaise, our ennui, should we have such, our “acedia”—spiritual sloth or indifference, literally, our “not-caring”—so often is due to our turning away from the dawn, daybreak, that elemental experience of love, love, love that energizes everything else, the joy and excitement that is Day One, that is Sunday.
Peter and Andrew, of course, are casting, casting nets. They have no furrowed brows, no endless worries, no pessimism, no angst. They probably have left unattended some holes in their nets, these two happy brothers. They are willing to accept that their casting will be imperfect, as all evangelism is imperfect. But that imperfection will not keep them from enjoying the labor of casting. To miss the dawn, on Day One, is to miss the fun of faith!
So. Invite that neighbor, the one across the street whose porch light is always on, to come along to worship with you. Do you enjoy, benefit from, appreciate worship here, come Sunday? Then, of course, you will want to share that enjoyment, benefit and appreciation, by inviting someone to come too. Here at dawn…those first stirrings, first longings, first intimations of something new and good. Of hope. In your daily morning prayer, in your daily work, in your daily chosen act of kindness—at least one a day—hold onto that Day One seaside sense of hope. You, we, will need it.
James and John: Honesty
Meanwhile, back on the beach, Jesus heads south, cove by cove, with Andrew and Peter frolicking in tow. They had already left home. They are ready to take a flier on some new trek, not fully sure how it will work out. It is a miracle that they are remembered, perhaps with a little hagiography, as having responded “immediately”. Still, every little scrap of memory of these two brothers tends in the same direction—full of vim, vigor, vitality and pepperino. Full of hope. Yes, they will follow! Augustine: Hope has two beautiful daughters: anger and courage.
Down the shoreline a little, there rests another boat. A different story, a different set of brothers altogether. James and John. Known as the sons of Zebedee, the name that means thunder. Rain. Storm. Wind. Simon has already earned his own name and nick-name. But these two are known by their father’s name. They haven’t left home. They have not yet acquired that second identity. When you won’t leave, won’t move, you won’t find, you won’t grow. Here they are, as usual at dawn, stuck in the back of the boat. All these years they have watched the Peter and Andrew show. All these years they have envied the fun and frolic down the beach. The late night parties. The bonfires. The singing. The swimming. And here they sit strapped to the old boat of old Zebedee. They are covered with the ancient equivalents of chap stick and Coppertone. And they are trapped. Under the glaring gaze of Zebedee, whose thunderous voice has so filled their home that their own voices have not even emerged. Every day, in the back of the boat. And what are they doing? Why you could have guessed it, even if the text had not made it plain. Are they casting? No. Are they fishing? No. Are they sailing? No. They are mending. Mending. Knit one, pearl two. Their dad has got them into that conservation, protection, preservation mode. Mending. At dawn! Of course nets need mending, but the nets and the mending are meant in a greater service! The fun is in the fishing! The joy is in the casting. The happiness is in the evangelism. And there they sit, sober souls, mending.
Yet Jesus calls them. In fact, also and more so, he needs them. He needs their honesty, their realism, their devoted and stern endurance. And we shall keenly need this too, all this calendar year. He needs their rigor and discipline. I mean they may not be the life of the party, but they know how to build a bonfire, and they know where to find refreshment, and they know how to organize and they work at it. We love and need Peter and Andrew and their hope, and we love and need James and John and their honesty. We too shall need such, if we are going to have the endurance needed over this year, and over the next three years, all across this land.
Today we are mid-way between Christmas and Easter. This passage has a little passion and a little nativity. The two stories of Jesus, of his birth and of his death, are meant to complement and interpret each other.
Christmas and Easter
The early church told two stories about Jesus. The first about his death. The second about his life. The first, about the cross, is the older and more fundamental. The second, about the manger, is the key to the meaning of the first, the eyeglasses which open full sight, the code to decipher the first. Without Christmas you can’t see Easter right. Jesus died on a cross for our sin according to the Scripture. That is the first story. But who was Jesus? What life did his death complete? How does his word heal our hurt? And how does all this accord with Scripture? One leads to the other.
This second, second level story begins at Christmas, and continues in Epiphany, and is told among us to interpret the first. Christmas\Epiphany is meant to make sure that the divine love is not left only to the cross, or only to heaven. Epiphany is meant to open out a whole range of Jesus, as brother, teacher, healer, young man, all. Christmas is meant to provide the mid-course correction that might be needed if all we had was Holy Week. And the Christmas\Epiphany images are the worker bees in this theological hive. Easter may announce the power of peace, but Christmas names the place of peace. Jesus died the way he did because he lived the way he did. Jesus lived the way he did, and so died the way he did. That is, it is not only the Passion of Christ, but the Peace of Christ, too, which Christians like you affirm. What lovely news for us at the start of a new decade. Theologically, globally, politically, militarily, ecclesiastically —we have seen passion this year. Now comes dawn, Day One, the light, Epiphany, Christmas\Epiphany again to announce that there is more to Jesus than the passion. There is the matter of peace as well.
Passion and peace. Honesty and hope.
You know, I love Peter and Andrew and their invitation from Jesus. I love their hope. But the real miracle of this account lies in the second invitation to the second set of brothers. It is a miracle that Jesus stopped and invited them, so somber are they. I wonder if he took in the timbre of Zebedee’s voice, and saw them quaking in the back of the boat. Perhaps his heart went out to James and John. And perhaps he realized he needed their honesty, their discipline, their rigor. So, he invites.
That is the great thing about an invitation. All you can do is ask. Do ask. Ye have not because ye ask not. And for the first time in their lives, James and John are invited to live. Too many people live half asleep. Too often we don’t live life, life lives us. Like these two knitting in the back of the boat. Half asleep. Then dawn comes, and day breaks on Day One. And a voice like no other, so equanimous and so serene, casts its spell upon them. Maybe upon you, this morning. Watch. First one, then the other, stands and moves. Under the shadow of that paternal presence, under the sound of that maternal imperative of home. They rise. And they move toward forward. They are about to grow up. AND THEY LEAVE HOME! Wonderful! And what do they leave behind? You would have known even if the Scripture had not laid it right out. They leave behind the boat…and their father. We best honor the adults in our lives when we become adults ourselves. (repeat).
For you, my dear friends, in this bitter year and season of cruelty, predation and mendacity, the Gospel offers full measures of honesty and hope, of devotion and desire. So Shelley:
Tbe desire of the moth for the star
Of the night for the morrow
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow