Following is the sermon preached by the Rev. Canon Robin Newman on April 15 at Missio 2026 in St. Gregory of Nyssa Church in San Francisco. A deacon in the Diocese of New York, Robin is a member of the diocese’s Global Mission Commission, chair of its Tanzania Task Force, honorary canon in the Diocese of Central Tanganyika, and a member of GEMN’s Board of Directors.
“Rooted and Moving”
John 15:1–11
Let us pray.
Christ who meets us in stillness and in movement,
root us deeply in you.
Loosen what is held too tightly,
steady what is uncertain,
and guide our steps into your joy—
that our lives may become part of your song.
Amen
You hear it before you see it.
A low hum—voices gathering.
A drumbeat—steady, like a heartbeat—
you feel it in your bones.
Many hands clap as one.
A song begins—
some voices high and bright,
some deep and worn with life.
The sound doesn’t just fill the air—
it rises up from the ground itself.
You look around—
bodies sway,
feet begin to move.
No one is sitting still.
Even the elders—
bent with age and life—
their bodies remembering something
older than words.
And you realize—
this is worship
that is not observed…
but entered into.
And how fortunate we are to be here at St. Gregory’s,
where we’re not far from that kind of worship.
In this place—
where the saints dance across the walls,
where song rises easily,
where bodies are not strangers to prayer—
we are reminded
that faith has always been meant
to move.
During one of my early visits to Tanzania…
I was in a village, far out in the bush—
surrounded by song and dance and drums.
And soon, my body started moving with the rhythm—
my feet seemed to have a mind of their own—
tap… tap… tap.
I felt the urge to jump in.
To join in.
But I hesitated—
wondering if it would be “okay.”
And before I could decide—
someone took my hand…
and pulled me into the circle.
And as we moved—together—
I heard a phrase sung and spoken:
“Tuko pamoja katika Kristo.”
“We are together in Christ.”
Not watching.
Not outside.
But together—
in Christ.
That moment stayed with me—
because it wasn’t performance.
It wasn’t something we were watching.
It was something we were being drawn into.
A shared current—
alive, rooted, moving—
drawing each person into a life
already flowing.
And it made me think of Jesus’ words:
“I am the vine.
You are the branches.”
“Abide in me.”
“Abide” can sound like such a passive word!
Almost like standing still.
And yet we live in a world
that prizes movement—
“progress”, productivity, profit, measurable impact—
even in mission.
We’ve been programmed, conditioned to ask:
What are we building?
What are we changing?
What are we accomplishing?
But Jesus says—
Not: Go produce fruit.
But: Abide.
Stay connected.
Receive life.
If you’ve ever seen a living vine—
you know it is anything but still.
It twists.
It reaches.
It clings.
It grows toward the light.
To abide is not to be frozen in place.
It is to stay connected
while everything is alive and moving.
And the fruit?
It’s not something we manufacture.
It’s something that grows.
I was visiting a remote village in Tanzania, where there was a woman
who came to church every week—
balancing a large container of water on her head.
As she walked, she sang.
She prayed.
And I wondered
why she brought that heavy container inside the church.
Someone saw me looking and said,
“She carries the water here
because it is her life.”
Water wasn’t separate from her faith.
Her body wasn’t separate from her worship.
She didn’t leave her life at the door
to come and meet God.
She brought her life to the church, to God.
And in the singing,
and in the rhythm,
and in the shared breath of the community—
it became something more.
Not lighter.
But held.
That is abiding.
Not escaping our life—
but being so connected to Christ
that our whole life
becomes part of the song.
Jesus says,
“Those who abide in me bear much fruit.”
Not perform.
Not impress.
Not strive.
But bear—
like a branch simply does
when it stays connected to the vine.
And in Tanzania, I saw it—
fruit that looked like joy in hard places,
like generosity in the midst of scarcity,
like dancing that says,
“We are here. God is with us.”
My dear sister and brothers, what if abiding in Christ
is less like sitting still—
and more like learning the rhythm?
What if being rooted
does not mean being immovable—
but being so grounded
that we are free to move?
Free to sing when the song rises.
Free to step forward when the Spirit nudges.
Free to let our faith be seen—
not as performance,
but as participation.
Maybe the question is not:
“Are we doing enough?”
Maybe the question is:
“Are we still connected?”
Because when we are—
the movement comes.
The fruit comes.
The joy comes.
Not forced.
But flowing.
I keep thinking about that moment—
being pulled into the circle.
No explanation.
No instruction.
Just a hand—
and a rhythm—
and a place made for me
before I even knew how to move.
That is what Christ does with us.
“I am the vine,” he says.
Stay with me.
Stay connected.
And before long—
you will find
your feet are moving too.
Living Christ,
you are the life that holds us, the Lord of the dance,
the root that connects us.
Make us one in you—
one body, one song, one joy—
wherever we are sent.
Amen.