Following is a transcript of a sermon delivered by the Rt. Rev. Ann Ritonia, bishop suffragan of Armed Forces and Federal Ministries, during a Veterans Day service at The Episcopal Church Center’s Chapel of Christ the Lord in New York City on Nov. 11, 2025.
In the name of the one who loves us, the one who saves us, and the one who spurs us ever on, amen. Please be seated.
Well, what an honor and privilege it is to be with you today as we recognize those who have served in our nation’s military and those who continue to serve with courage and conviction.
For my family, and I imagine for many of yours, Veterans Day is not just a day off, a long weekend, or a chance to catch a sale at the mall. It’s personal. It’s sacred.
My grandfather served in World War I. He was awarded a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star for his actions in the trenches of France. And I remember sitting with him in the evenings. He lived with us while I was growing up. And he was a big man, and so he couldn’t get his socks off. And so I would help him take off his socks in the evening. And when I did that, it would reveal the deep scars that ran the length of his shins, shrapnel wounds from battle.
My father and his two brothers served during the Korean War. My cousin served in Vietnam. And like many veterans, they didn’t speak much about their experiences unless they were with others who had worn the uniform.
They did their duty. They cared for their families, and like so many, quietly carried on.
Veterans Day draws us close to their stories—and not the ones that are etched in monuments or on medal citations, but the ones that are whispered around kitchen tables. Not as distant heroes on pedestals, but as real people, neighbors, parents, siblings, parishioners, people who carried burdens most of us will never fully see.
In today’s Gospel, we need someone who might feel familiar to them. In the Gospel of Luke, we encounter a Roman centurion, a man of command and authority, yes, but also of compassion. A soldier who knows what it means to lead, to carry out orders, and perhaps, most surprisingly, to kneel.
Now I don’t know about you, but when I hear the words “Roman centurion,” I think of gladiator. And I don’t expect humility or tenderness. I think armor, orders, maybe a sword or two or a spear.
But this Roman centurion surprises us. He doesn’t come to Jesus demanding a miracle, which given his position, he certainly could. Instead, he sends others, humbly saying, “Lord, I am not worthy to have you come under my roof, but only speak the word and my servant will be healed.”
This isn’t bravado. This is vulnerability, and it’s holy. And from my experience, veterans know this posture. They’ve stood tall in uniform, yes. But many have also knelt beside wounded friends. They’ve experienced camaraderie like no other, being part of something larger than themselves.
And they’ve had to write or deliver letters home they hoped would never be read. And they’ve carried not just backpacks of gear, but they’ve carried grief.
And some of their stories make headlines for their bravery. Like Frank Cius, a Marine from Buffalo, New York, who survived the Hanoi Hilton alongside Senator John McCain and Admiral James Stockdale.
Or Julia Parsons, who died at the age of 104 in April this year. She was a navy cryptanalyst during World War II, and she decoded German U-boat messages as part of a secret all-women team of code breakers. And she kept her service secret for decades because that’s what duty looked like.
It wasn’t until 1997 that she shared what she did during the war with her family. And she did it that year because she went to a museum at Fort Meade with a friend when she discovered that her role was actually declassified in 1970. And she kept that secret for 50 years. Nobody told her.
But other acts of service are quieter. A chaplain who sits with a soldier through a panic attack. A veteran who volunteers at a food pantry because it feels like serving again. A nurse who prays with a dying patient in a VA hospital, whispering, “You’re not alone.”
A Roman soldier who cares deeply for a servant in his home.
And these are not just stories of service and sacrifice. They’re stories of faith. And I imagine each one of you here and those joining online know people in your own communities who have served and continue to serve in ways both large and small, many carrying wounds of their own.
So I think the question for us becomes, how do we, as communities of faith, serve those who have served?
Well, I think Luke’s Gospel gives us a clue. Notice that Jesus doesn’t enter the centurion’s house. He doesn’t lay hands on the servant. He simply speaks and healing follows.
And the centurion? He doesn’t act alone. He sends elders. He asks for help. He trusts the community to carry his plea.
And friends, that’s our cue. We, The Episcopal Church, are called to be that community for veterans. To carry the prayers of those who can’t speak them aloud. To offer spaces where veterans can lay down their armor both literal and emotional. To be a sanctuary where healing is not a reward for strength but rather a response to faith.
Now I know some of you might be thinking, “I’ve never served in the military. What can I do?”
Let me offer this. While thanking a veteran for their service is never wrong, consider going deeper. Ask, “What was meaningful for you with your service?” Or better yet, “How can I walk with you now?”
And if you’re a veteran who’s never told your story, know this. We, The Episcopal Church, are listening. And you don’t need a medal to matter. You don’t have to be broken to be blessed. There is a place for you here in The Episcopal Church.
The centurion believed that healing could come with just a word, and Jesus marveled at his faith.
So today, let us speak words of healing.
To the veteran who feels forgotten: We see you.
To the one still carrying invisible wounds: You are not alone.
To the church: Rise up. Be the community that heals.
And to Christ, the one who heals with a word: Speak again. Speak now. Speak through us.
Before I finish, I want to say a personal word of thanks to my husband, my sister, my niece, fellow Marines everywhere, our Episcopal chaplains, and all chaplains active and retired. Thank you. Thank you for your example, your willingness to give of yourselves, and your steadfast support of the freedoms we now enjoy.
Your ministry has shaped lives, comforted the weary, and brought Christ’s presence into places few others could go.
I say thank you, and I say it with all my heart.
