New Creation

Grace and peace to you from Christ, the Risen One.

I confess that the Easter season has become something of a confusing time for me.

That is because, as many of you have heard me say, my faith is constantly evolving.

My faith in God is never diminished but I am always taking in new information and assimilating that into my faith.

Some would find that unsettling.

They find the constancy of their faith to be comforting.

But, for me, lifelong learning is a core value.

So constantly examining my beliefs serves only to strengthen them.

I don’t claim that my journey of faith is better.

To each, as they say, their own.

At one point, I read that we often fail to fully experience Holy Week because we are in a rush to get to Easter.

And that made sense to me.

No one wants to think about death and crucifixion.

Frankly, the events of Good Friday are disturbing—if not downright traumatizing.

But I could see the point that the joy of Easter could be magnified by the sorrow of Good Friday.

So, I have tried to focus on the events of Holy Week—to truly pay attention to what was happening.

And to use that experience to provide context to Easter.

And then recently, I read that we too often look at Maundy Thursday through the lens of Good Friday.

That we miss the fact that the Last Supper was likely a Passover—or near Passover—meal.

And Passover is a festival—a celebration.

Passover meals are joyous—often raucous—affairs.

I think we tend to think of The Last Supper as a somber event, rather than a rowdy party amongst friends.

Jesus had been dropping hints—some would say not-so-subtle hints—that he was going to die.

But the disciples appeared unwilling or unable to comprehend that their friend—their rabbi—was going to leave them.

And, even if they were slowly starting to realize that his preaching and teaching was not going to end well for Jesus, there’s no reason to believe that they understood it was all going to end the very next day.

In addition to the fact that the Last Supper was a celebration—and likely not the least bit somber—there is the fact that it is equally possible to look at the Last Supper not as an end but as a beginning.

When Jesus instituted Holy Communion, he was indicating that everything was changing.

Our absolution no longer relied on what priests did in the temple.

Our redemption relied solely on God—what God has done, is doing, and will do out of God’s abundant love for us.

The events of Maundy Thursday are not an end—or, perhaps more accurately—not just an end.

The events of Maundy Thursday—and thus, of Good Friday as well—also mark a beginning.

The beginning of the new creation made possible by the death and resurrection of Jesus.

So, I’ve been struggling with how to incorporate this new understanding of Holy Week into my understanding of Easter.

It still makes sense to me that we should not rush through Holy Week in our anxiousness to get to Easter.

And it makes sense to me that we shouldn’t look at Maundy Thursday through the lens of Good Friday.

And perhaps we should even look at Good Friday through the lens of Maundy Thursday.

But what then is the impact on Easter?

How does the celebration of Passover and this idea of new beginnings give context to Easter?

In today’s gospel, the angels said, “Why do you search for the Living One among the dead? Jesus is not here; Christ has risen. Remember what Jesus said to you while still in Galilee—that the Chosen One must be delivered into the hands of sinners and be crucified, and on the third day would rise again.”

They had forgotten.

They had been unable to absorb what Jesus had told them.

They couldn’t see past the crucifixion.

It’s understandable.

They had witnessed a traumatizing horror.

Their master—their teacher—their friend—had been tortured and brutally murdered.

They approached the tomb looking through the lens of Good Friday.

They had forgotten the celebration of Maundy Thursday.

They had forgotten how Jesus had shared himself with them.

How Jesus had begun something new.

We have the benefit of seeing the whole picture.

We weren’t living it one day at a time like Jesus’ followers were.

We already know what came next.

We understand the new beginning Jesus put in motion.

We live in the new creation that was made possible by Jesus’ death and resurrection.

The new creation where death no longer has power over us.

The new creation where we are God’s people and God is fully present among us.

The new creation where God wipes away all our tears.

The new creation where death and mourning are no more.

The new creation where the old order has fallen.

That is what we celebrate today.

We celebrate the new creation.

We celebrate that the old order of things has fallen.

That is the joy of Easter.

In Bible Study, we recently finished reading “Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time”.

One of the fundamental ideas of the book is that there are two Jesuses—the pre-Easter Jesus and the post-Easter Jesus.

The pre-Easter Jesus is the historical Jesus—the human who lived and died in first-century Galilee.

The post-Easter Jesus is what Jesus became after his death and resurrection.

Without the post-Easter Jesus, the pre-Easter Jesus would have no meaning.

We may never even have known his name.

But because people continued to experience the risen Christ after his death—because we STILL experience Jesus today—that makes Jesus extraordinary.

That gives weight to his words and his actions.

That makes Jesus timeless.

That makes Jesus more than human.

We continue to experience the risen Christ.

Some—like Paul—experience Jesus as a vision.

But many hear “vision” and dismiss it as “not real”.

But Marcus Borg points out you can only be dismissive of a vision if you’ve never had one.

Because visions are life-changing experiences.

A vision is not a hallucination.

A vision is a spiritual encounter—and it is very real—as anyone who has had one would be willing to tell you.

Even in the absence of a vision, we still experience the risen Christ.

We experience Jesus at the Communion table.

We experience Jesus in the many ways that he heals us.

Our faith in Jesus comforts us in the most difficult times of our lives.

Our call to follow Jesus transforms us from self-centered beings into the Body of Christ—a community that loves and cares for one another.

We feel the presence of Jesus in so many real, tangible ways.

We shouldn’t “pooh, pooh” an experience of Jesus because it is not physical or not bodily.

Remember Jesus’ words to his disciple Thomas, “You’ve become a believer because you saw me. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”

I think Jesus could just as easily have said, “Blessed are those who have experienced me—even without seeing my physical presence—and, as a result of that experience, have believed.”

But arguably the most important meaning that we can ascribe to people continuing to experience Jesus is that it makes Jesus a living reality in the present.

As a prelude to the sharing of the peace, I will say, “Christ is among us!”

And you will respond, “He is and always will be!”

Because we believe that the spirit of Christ is with us.

We believe that the essence of Jesus is alive in us.

Jesus’ love for God is alive in us.

Jesus’ love for neighbor—his deep commitment to community—is alive in us.

Jesus’ presence in us is what makes us the Body of Christ.

Jesus is still present, my friends.

We continue to experience him in many real and tangible ways.

That is what makes Easter joyous—a celebration of monumental proportions.

Happy Easter!

Christ is risen!

He is risen and he lives among us!

Hallelujah!

May this meditation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus. Amen.

Seven Last Words of Christ

Reflection 1 – When Jesus says, “Abba forgive them”, he is not just talking about those who are crucifying him.

Because it is such a horrific act of cruelty, we tend to get tunnel vision on the crucifixion.

But Jesus’ prayer for God to forgive is not just an invitation to absolution for individuals.

It is a once-and-for-all, change in the order of things.

Jesus does not simply forgive his executioners.

He forgives all of us.

He forgives the disciples for not understanding his mission.

He forgives James and John for asking to be on his left and right hands.

He forgives Peter for denying him.

He forgives our greed.

Our pettiness.

The myriad ways that we fail to love God and love our neighbor.

And we receive forgiveness from God.

Not because we deserve it.

Not because we won’t need forgiveness again in the future.

But because we are beloved of God.

We are recipients of God’s abundant grace.

Over and over again.

Not because of anything we say or do.

But because of who God is.

Reflection 2 – Our God is a God of creation.

Crucifixion and death are the antithesis of creation.

Crucifixion and death are destruction.

By saying “today you’ll be with me in paradise!”, Jesus is saying no to death and destruction.

Jesus is saying that he has power over death.

Not in the future—but today.

Paradise is the new creation that is realized through Jesus’ resurrection.

The new creation where all people are fed—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

The new creation where all are included—where everyone is welcome and no one is outcast.

The new creation where all are forgiven—without exception.

The new creation where all are transformed—transformed to the fully authentic selves God created us to be.

The new creation where all are healed—healed of every physical, emotional, and spiritual injury.

Reflection 3 – Watching a loved one die from disease or lose themselves to dementia is difficult.

Watching a loved one die by the horrific violence of crucifixion—well, we can only imagine how heartbreaking and traumatic that would be.

But that was what was happening to Mary and John.

They were watched their beloved Jesus die.

Die an excruciating death.

The man they knew to be the Messiah was being humiliated.

Jesus was stripped and beaten.

He was mocked with a robe, a crown of thorns, and a sign that said, “King of the Jews”.

Jesus was tortured and he was dying.

But his thoughts were not on himself.

His thoughts were on his mother and his beloved disciple.

How could he relieve their pain?

How could he heal their trauma?

By doing what Jesus had always done.

He loved them.

When Jesus said, “Here is your son” to Mary and, “Here is your mother” to John, he was not creating a new family—at least not in the traditional sense.

He was welcoming them into community—into his Kin-dom.

There are some who believe that John and Mary were the first church—the first members of the Body of Christ.

I love that image.

Reflection 4 – There is debate amongst theologians about when Jesus knew he was the Son of God.

Some claim that he knew from childhood.

Others, when he was resurrected.

Still others at various points in between.

“My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” seems to speak of uncertainty.

I find that compelling.

A Jesus that goes to the cross not knowing what was on the other side is a powerful image for me.

A Jesus that is willing to proclaim the Kin-dom at the risk of his own life and without the safety net of knowing that you’re God—THAT is a leader that I would drop everything for and follow.

There is a powerful scene in the movie The Shack when God talks about Jesus’ feeling of being abandoned.

God says, “Don't ever think that what my Son chose to do didn't cost us dearly. Love always leaves a significant mark," showing God’s own nail wounds.

God continues, "We were there together. I never left him. When all you can see is pain, perhaps then you lose sight of me."

God is always with us—especially in our most vulnerable moments.

When we feel forsaken, it is our own limitation.

It is not God breaking God’s covenant to love us and always be with us.

Reflection 5 – Jesus was human.

He experienced thirst and hunger and pain.

God stepped into human form to be close to us.

To experience our mortality.

When Jesus said, “I am thirsty”, he was making it clear that he was experiencing the crucifixion in all its excruciating dimensions—thirst, hunger, exhaustion, and pain.

His divinity did not exempt him from those extreme sensations.

God stepped into human for to understand us better.

It’s one thing for God to say, “love your neighbor”.

When you’re a perfect spiritual being, it just makes sense.

When you’re fully human, you understand that some people are easy to love—and some people are not.

You understand that people will disappoint you.

Others will tick you off.

And still others will be so diametrically opposite to your values that loving them seems all but impossible.

“I am thirsty” says, “I am human too. I get it—I know what I am asking.”

And still Jesus’ commands remain: love God and love your neighbor.

Reflection 6 – Jesus said, “Abba, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

He put his trust entirely in God—he placed himself in his Abba’s hands.

He was saying he trusted in God’s justice.

Not Pilate’s justice—not the justice of empire.

Not the chief priests’ justice—not the letter of the law justice.

Jesus was trusting in the justice that can only be achieved by adhering to the spirit of the law.

Jesus did not just happen to find himself on the wrong side of Pilate’s court.

It wasn’t an act of chance that he found himself accused before the Sanhedrin.

In Gethsemane, Jesus prayed, “yet not my will but yours be done.”

He set his sights on Jerusalem.

He sought out the confrontation.

Because he knew he was preaching and teaching truth.

And he knew God was at his side.

That knowledge gave him the absolute confidence that he needed to place his physical wellbeing in jeopardy by proclaiming the Kin-dom.

And, when the time came, he was able to surrender his spiritual wellbeing as well.

Reflection 7 – Jesus said, “It is finished.”

Not “I am finished.”

It is finished meant his mission was complete.

The old world was obsolete.

Jesus’ death and resurrection mark the beginning of the new creation.

In Revelation 21, we read, “Then I saw new heavens and a new earth. God will live with them; they will be God’s people, and God will be fully present among them. The Most High will wipe away every tear from their eyes. And death, mourning, crying and pain will be no more, for the old order has fallen.”

Jesus’ mission was to abolish death.

By suffering death, his last human experience, Jesus has transformed death forever.

It no longer has any power over us.

Death remains part of our journey.

But it is a journey that we know Jesus travels with us.

When we pass through that veil of death, we can be confident that it is not the end—and that Jesus will be on the other side waiting for us.

Thanks be to God!

Humility & Hospitality

The story of Jesus washing the disciples’ feet is a familiar one.

But it is one that is difficult for us to completely understand because there is no modern cultural equivalent to foot washing.

In first-century Judea, the standard for footwear was sandals and roads were unpaved.

So, during the course of a normal day—especially the day of a teacher and his students wandering the countryside, teaching and healing—during those long days of walking, feet became quite dirty.

So, having a place where you could remove your sandals and clean your feet—that was an act of hospitality.

Having the host wash your feet was an act of extravagant hospitality.

Many churches incorporate foot washing into their Maundy Thursday service.

Even the pope washes feet on this day.

Foot washing can be a very powerful spiritual experience.

But, because we lack that first century cultural context, it can become entirely about humility.

Now, to be clear, humility is very important.

Humility is gift of the Spirit.

It is a sign that we have been transformed by faith—that we have evolved beyond our egocentric self-perception.

It is important to be humble.

It is important for us to humbly remember that all we have is a generous gift from God.

It is important for us to humbly remember to whom we belong—who calls us by name and claims us as their own.

It is important for us to humbly remember that we NEED God.

Jesus is a shining example of humility—of surrendering oneself to God.

We raise Jesus up as a model of servant leadership.

If you’re not familiar with the term, servant leadership is a management style that prioritizes the needs of the employee—or, in Jesus’ case, the disciple—over the needs of the leader.

If it helps, you can think of it as teambuilding on steroids.

The role of the leader becomes facilitator—making sure everyone on the team has what they need to succeed—and cheerleader.

The success of the leader becomes reliant on the success of their team.

In the twentieth chapter of Matthew, we read, “Anyone among you who aspires to greatness must serve the rest. And anyone among you who wishes to be first must serve the needs of all, as if enslaved—just as the Chosen One came not to be served but to serve, and to die in ransom for many.”

So, clearly, humility is a characteristic we ought to aspire to.

We should be willing to serve others.

We should recognize that nothing is “beneath us”.

But when foot washing becomes all about humility, it becomes one-dimensional.

It loses the equally important context of extravagant hospitality.

Emanuel is a loving congregation that prides itself on being welcoming.

Of being a place of hospitality.

Unfortunately, we find ourselves living in times when the outside world is not welcoming.

For so many people, our country has become downright inhospitable.

Immigrants—and no longer only undocumented immigrants—are being detained and deported without due process.

Political dissidents—people exercising their first amendment rights—are being persecuted.

Transgender individuals’ very existence is being denied.

Transgender children are being prevented from accessing gender-affirming care—and their parents are being accused of child abuse and threatened with prosecution.

Make no mistake—this kind of marginalization and oppression are tools of empire.

Marginalization and oppression demonstrate neither humility nor hospitality.

So, what does it mean for us, as a congregation, to be an island of welcome in a sea of inhospitality?

The fundamental ideas behind Jesus’ washing his disciples’ feet are more important than ever.

We must be humble—and extend extravagant hospitality.

We must humbly admit our own privileges—whether they be privilege of race, class, gender, or sexuality.

We must humbly admit that we cannot understand other people’s life experience—and we must acknowledge that those life experiences matter.

When Jesus healed the hemorrhaging woman, he knew her experience of isolation.

And how that isolation made her desperate.

When he healed her, he did not question her desperation.

He showed her compassion.

He healed her.

And he restored her to community and cured her from her isolation.

If you fail to see the parallels between the people Jesus healed and the current scapegoats of our government, you’re not paying close enough attention.

We must humbly admit that we cannot change the course that our country is currently on without God.

But so must we also realize that we have a role to play.

In the words attributed to St. Augustine, “Without God, we cannot. Without us, God will not”.

There’s a paradox in there that can sometimes be hard to see past.

When we say we need God to straighten out this mess that we’re in, it doesn’t mean we sit back and wait for divine intervention.

It means that we look to the words and the actions of Jesus to guide us.

It means that we look for the Spirit to work in our hearts and our minds.

And, grounded in our Christian faith, we look for the examples of Jesus and the work of the Spirit to inspire us to action.

And, please understand—that action will be different for each of us.

How we react in these times will depend on our gifts and our callings.

For some of us, it will be direct action—organizing activities that counter events that we believe are contrary to our Christian faith.

Protests.

Demonstrations.

Letter writing campaigns.

Voter registration drives.

For others, their actions will be confined to their immediate community.

Supporting the people they know and love.

Educating their friends and families about important issues.

And for still others, it will be about simply adopting a welcoming posture.

Being open to all people—including those who are different than them.

Listening.

Reveling in the diversity of God’s creation.

Reflecting God’s unconditional love—that we receive in abundance—back out into the world.

And through all of it, being guided by Jesus’ example of washing his disciples’ feet.

And God’s other gesture of extravagant hospitality.

God’s welcoming us to God’s table of forgiveness.

Rich or poor.

Black, white, red, brown, or yellow.

Whatever our gender.

Whatever our expression of sexuality.

Whatever language we speak.

Whatever our country of origin.

However we perceive that we are different from each other.

We all possess the divine image of God.

God sees each of us with the same eyes—the eyes of a loving parent.

That loving parent that always includes us—always welcomes us.

All are welcome to commune at God’s table.

In today’s second lesson, Paul writes, “For every time we eat this bread and drink this cup, we proclaim Jesus’ death until Christ comes.”

We proclaim Jesus’ message that the Kin-dom is near.

That God’s justice is coming.

In proclaiming Jesus’ death until Christ comes:

May we accept the call to be humble—just as Jesus was humble when he knelt at his disciples’ feet.

May we accept the call to extend extravagant hospitality—just as Jesus washed and dried his disciples’ feet.

And may we accept the call “go and do likewise”—by loving and caring for our neighbors.

May this meditation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus. Amen.

Two Processions

That was a lot of Scripture to digest so I’m going to keep my comments brief.

On this Palm Sunday, I believe that it is important to point out that there were two processions entering Jerusalem on that day two millennia ago.

The processions were a study in contrasts—one, a peasant procession and the other, an imperial one.

From the east, Jesus rode a colt.

He was cheered by his followers, mostly peasants who were enthralled by his message about the Kin-dom of God—where God’s justice ruled, rather than the oppressive rule of Rome.

From the west came Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor.

He entered, no doubt, on a warhorse at the head of a column of the empire’s soldiers.

Pilate’s entrance was intended to instill fear.

He was arriving from Caesaria Maritima for the express purpose of warning the multitude gathering for the Passover holiday—warning them that there had better not be any disturbance to the peace.

At the east gate, the only thing that could be heard were shouts of “Hosanna! Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!”

At the west gate, there was a hushed silence among the people but there was undoubtedly the thunder of horses’ hooves and rhythmic beating of war drums.

At the east gate—a humble procession of Jesus on a donkey.

At the west gate—a column of soldiers in leather armor and scarlet capes interspersed with golden eagles atop standards.

The assembled crowd at the east gate welcomed Jesus by laying their cloaks on the ground in front of him.

The people at the west gate experienced mixed feelings of awe and fear at the display of Roman power.

This juxtaposition of the two processions was not simply about Roman earthly power.

Pilate was also projecting the divinity of Caesar.

One of the defining characteristics of Luke’s gospel is that it portrays Jesus as the anti-Caesar.

Luke calls Jesus the Son of God.

Augustus claimed to be the son of Apollo, a Roman god.

Both were called Savior.

Both were called Ruler.

Both were called Healer.

Jesus was considered the Prince of Peace.

Augustus was the bringer of the Pax Romana.

But what really distinguishes Jesus from Augustus—and why acknowledging the contrast between the two processions is so critical—is that Jesus represents love and Augustus represents violence.

The Kin-dom of God that Jesus spoke of so often could only be achieved through love—love of God and love of neighbor.

The Pax Romana, on the other hand, was achieved through military might.

The Roman peace was maintained through public spectacles of horrific violence.

Crucifixion was a warning—intended to instill fear in anyone who would oppose Rome.

Sadly, we still see examples of public displays that are meant to inspire fear.

Our own Secretary of Homeland Security—wearing makeup and perfectly coiffed hair—standing in front of an overcrowded cell in a notoriously brutal prison, saying, “this is one of the weapons in our toolbox”.

Dozens—if not hundreds—of people being “disappeared”.

Whisked away by unidentified government agents to secret locations without due process.

The Kin-dom, on the other hand, can only be maintained through love.

The difference between the Kin-dom and empire could not be starker.

Unfortunately, we are living in Palm Sunday times, my friends.

There are still two processions—one that represents empire and one that represents the Kin-dom.

The powers of empire claim they will provide peace and prosperity.

But at what cost?

Justice?

Freedom?

Our integrity?

The principles we stand for?

Our morality?

I would argue what is at stake is our very souls, not only as individuals but also as a nation.

As this season of Lent is coming to a close, we ought to continue our spiritual practice of reflection and self-examination.

We should be asking ourselves which procession we are in.

The procession of Jesus?

The procession that proclaims love of God and love of neighbor.

Or the procession of empire?

We have a choice.

Remember, my friends, on Palm Sunday, Jesus came to his people.

Despite knowing the danger he was in and the horrors that awaited him.

He didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t wait for people to come to him.

He came to them.

Humbly—riding on a colt.

A living, breathing contrast to those who represented empire, violence, and oppression.

In closing, I call your attention to today’s second lesson.

The passage is actually a hymn from the early Jesus movement.

It is usually called the Christ Hymn.

The Christ Hymn is a guide for the choices we face.

The Christ Hymn says that our attitudes must be the same as that of Jesus.

Our attitudes must be ones that promote justice.

Humility.

Service.

And—above all else—love.

The love that God has for us.

The love that became incarnate in Jesus.

The unconditional love that we receive in abundance.

May we always be grateful for that love.

And may we always reflect that love back out into the world.

May this meditation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus. Amen.

Extravagant Hospitality

The story in today’s gospel has the distinction of appearing in all four gospels.

Not many stories have versions in all four gospels.

The feeding of the 5,000 is one.

Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday and the events of Holy Week—Jesus’ passion, death, and resurrection—are another.

And then there is this odd little story about the woman anointing Jesus.

There are disagreements between the gospel accounts about whose house the anointing took place at, which woman did the actual anointing, and who objected to the use of expensive perfume.

But in every gospel account, a woman anoints Jesus, there is criticism, and Jesus dismisses the criticism.

When a story appears in all four gospels, I believe that’s an indication to us that the story is important—and perhaps there’s something very unique about it that distinguishes it from other stories.

There are two primary functions of anointing in first century Judea.

One is to honor a king—or Messiah.

The other is to prepare a body for burial.

We can’t say whether the woman in all the gospel accounts was doing one or the other—or both.

But certainly, both functions were applicable.

Jesus was the Messiah—the Anointed One.

Anointing him after all that had transpired—his baptism, the transfiguration, and all his signs and wonders—anointing him after all that may have been redundant.

But it was an honor that no one else had thought to offer Jesus.

In fact, to hammer home that point Jesus tells a parable in Luke’s account of the story.

Jesus said, “Two people owed money to a creditor.

One owed the creditor the equivalent of two years’ wages; the other, two months’ wages.

Both were unable to pay, so the creditor wrote off both debts.

Which of them was more grateful to the moneylender?”

Simon answered, “I suppose the one who owed more.”

Jesus said, “You are right.”

Turning to the woman, he said to Simon, “See this woman? I came into your house and you gave me no water to wash my feet, but she has washed them with her tears and dried them with her hair.

You gave me no kiss of greeting, but she covered my feet with kisses.

You didn’t anoint my head with oil, but she anointed my feet with oil.

For this reason, I tell you, her sins, which are many, have been forgiven—see how much she loves!

But the one who is forgiven little, loves little.”

So, certainly, Jesus appears to have appreciated the gesture.

Luke goes so far as to incorporate repentance and forgiveness into the woman’s action.

That dimension is absent from today’s lesson from John.

But Jesus raises up the woman who has fallen at his feet.

That is the essence of the Kin-dom of God.

The lowly are raised to high places.

The mighty are deposed from their thrones.

The hungry are filled with good things.

And the rich are sent away empty.

Jesus raises up the woman who anoints him as an example of extravagant hospitality.

She cleans his feet and anoints him.

And she does this as an act of love.

We talk a lot about Jesus’ practice of radical inclusion.

What I think we sometimes miss is the need for extravagant hospitality.

Extravagant hospitality is how we take our words of welcome and translate them into actions.

In the church’s journey to LGBTQ+ acceptance, Anthony Venn-Brown, an Australian evangelist, says that churches go through four stages.

The first stage is anti-LGBTQ+, where the church condemns queer folks as sinful.

In the second stage, the church welcomes queer folks but prays for God to change them.

In the third stage, the church accepts queer folks but doesn’t understand them and just leaves the issue up to God’s grace.

In the final stage, the church affirms queer folks and proclaims the rich diversity of God’s Kin-dom.

I would argue that, while we may display hospitality in stages two and three, that hospitality doesn’t become extravagant until stage four.

So, what does extravagant hospitality look like?

In today’s gospel, it looks like washing someone’s feet, drying those feet with our hair, and then anointing those feet with perfume.

We don’t really have a cultural equivalent to foot washing.

In Jesus’ time, where roads were unpaved and sandals were the norm for footwear, foot washing was a common ritual.

But, because of this story of Mary washing Jesus’ feet and then Jesus repeating the ritual with his disciples, foot washing has become a tradition on Maundy Thursday.

However, because it is a ritual with no modern equivalent, the focus for many of us becomes entirely about humility.

To be sure, humility is an important dimension to the ritual.

But it is not the only dimension.

 In today’s lesson from Isaiah, we hear God say, “Look, I am doing something new!”

In fact, Jesus is indeed doing new things.

Throughout his ministry, he has been proclaiming the Kin-dom of God—a kingdom unlike any other.

A kingdom where power means nothing and love means everything.

In two of the four accounts, Jesus had just performed a resurrection.

In Luke, he has just raised the son of the widow of Nain.

In John, he has just raised Lazarus.

He is on his way to Jerusalem—a journey from which Jesus knows there is no turning back.

And the anointing is also part of this “new thing”—his suffering and his death.

The anointing prepares his body for his eventual burial.

So, Jesus is indeed doing new things.

Paul writes, “I’m running the race in order to grab hold of the prize if possible, since Christ Jesus has grabbed hold of me.

Siblings, I don’t think of myself as having reached the finish line.

I give no thought to what lies behind, but I push on to what is ahead.

My entire attention is on the finish line as I run toward the prize—the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.”

Paul’s life was changed on the road to Damascus.

Through Christ, he is doing a new thing.

The prize—the finish line—is the Kin-dom of God.

And, as Paul is rightly pointing out, this enterprise of the Kin-dom is a journey.

He likens it to running a race—a race, mind you, where he may never reach the finish line.

This enterprise of the Kin-dom is about co-creating a community with God.

A just community where all God’s children have enough.

Where no one is hungry.

No one is homeless.

No one is marginalized or oppressed.

And one of the earmarks of the Kin-dom is extravagant hospitality.

So, perhaps God is inviting us to consider how we show extravagant hospitality.

Me, I’m a hugger.

But that can sometimes be challenging in these times of social distancing and respecting personal space.

But I confess that, up to this point, I haven’t thought of hugging people in terms of hospitality.

For me, it’s more of an expression of joy at seeing someone from my community—my family.

But I think I may, as a new spiritual practice, use it as an opportunity to remember Mary washing Jesus’ feet—and Jesus washing the disciples’ feet.

Much the same way as I now try to remember my baptism when I dip my fingers in the font.

I think it’s a worthwhile exercise for each of us to ask ourselves how we show extravagant hospitality.

And I think it’s a good spiritual practice to pause and reflect for a moment on Mary—and Jesus—and their actions of extravagant hospitality.

Because extravagant hospitality changes relationships—and communities.

In closing, and perhaps in preparation for Holy Week, I’d like to point out that, in both Luke and John, the woman anoints Jesus’ feet.

Typically, it is a king’s head that is anointed—and that is precisely what happens in Matthew and Mark.

I would argue that the significance is that Jesus is a different kind of king.

Not a king of pomp and circumstance.

But a king of humility.

A king of liberation.

A king that restores people from exile and welcomes them home.

A king who enters triumphantly on a colt, not a warhorse.

A king with anointed feet, not an anointed head.

A servant king.

One who would gladly wash our feet—or just hug us—to say, “You are welcome here.

I am overjoyed that you are here.”

Let us heed Jesus’ command to “go and do likewise”, offering extravagant welcome to all who enter this community.

May this meditation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus. Amen.

Lost & Found

It’s interesting to me that the story in today’s gospel lesson is called the Parable of the Prodigal Son.

The son is not called prodigal anywhere in the story.

The story became known as the Parable of the Prodigal Son quite late—after the bible had been translated to English.

Prodigal—strictly speaking—refers to wasteful spending.

And it focuses the reader on the younger son.

But what do we already know about parables?

Well, first, they had meaning beyond the obvious.

And, second, they are meant to be twisted and turned—looked at from different angles—to uncover hidden meaning.

So, let’s do that.

The obvious meaning is that it is never too late to repent.

The younger son, recognizing the error of his ways, repents of squandering his inheritance and returns home.

He acknowledges that he is a sinner.

His father—ecstatic that he has returned—welcomes him home.

The message—which plays right into our Lutheran understanding of grace—is that we are never beyond redeeming.

If you remember, I told you once before that this is the interpretation I thought would resonate with my dad.

Although my dad was never a regular churchgoer, by the time he died, he identified as a Lutheran.

Even though he had been raised Catholic, there were things about the Catholic church that bothered him.

What had the greatest impact on him was our Lutheran practice of an open Communion table.

You see, a God that welcomed everyone—that was a God that resonated with my dad.

And, although we never discussed Scripture, I’ll bet the parable of the prodigal son would have been a favorite story of my dad’s.

Because a father that loved unconditionally—a father that would welcome a son who ran away and came back—that’s a story that I believe my dad would get.

Maybe he wouldn’t have seen the connection to his own faith story of drifting away from God and finding his way back to a faithful life.

And maybe he wouldn’t have seen the connection to the open table.

But unconditional love of your sons—my dad would’ve been all in.

One way of twisting a parable is to look at it from the perspective of different characters in the story.

What if we looked at the parable from the perspective of the older son?

Some would argue that he is the Lost Son—at least, metaphorically speaking.

Because he is bitter.

He can’t bring himself to forgive his brother.

In fact, he can’t even acknowledge that he has a brother, referring to him only as “this son of yours.”

He is so wrapped up in his perception of what is fair— “I’ve done every single thing you asked me to do … But then this son of yours comes home after going through your money with prostitutes, and you kill the fatted calf for him!”—that he is incapable of feeling the joy that his father does.

We see examples of this all around us.

People complaining about student loan forgiveness because no one helped them pay off their student loans.

Or people complaining about reparations for people of color.

Instead of gratitude for the gifts that God has blessed them with.

Instead of gratitude for the good job that they have.

Instead of gratitude for the help—or the inheritance—they received from their family.

Maybe the message we are supposed to take away from this parable is that we should focus less on coveting what other people have or what other people get and more on what we have and the blessings that we’ve received.

In Judaism, there is a concept called tzedak, which is justice and charity combined.

In our culture, there is no equivalent—justice and charity are very different things.

If I give someone $100 because I owe it to them, that is justice.

If I give someone $100, not because I owe it to them but because I think they need it, that is charity.

In our culture, an act can be justice or charity, but it cannot be both.

I believe that the problem we need to wrestle with is that this idea of tzedak—a concept that Jesus was undoubtedly familiar with—is necessary for the Kin-dom.

In the parable, both sons are acting out of a sense of entitlement.

The younger son believes he is entitled to his inheritance.

The older son believes he is entitled to his anger—and some reward for his righteous behavior.

Had their starting point been that their family’s wealth is a gift from God that had been entrusted to them to steward, I’m pretty confident that the outcome would have been very different.

Something else that’s interesting to consider about this particular parable is that we don’t know what comes after.

Does the older son ever forgive his father? His brother?

The path to reconciliation is complicated.

The older son feels his resentment is justified.

Maybe he will come around—or maybe he won’t.

The lesson for us is to forgive as God forgives.

To focus more on the grace that we receive abundantly from God and worry less about perceived injustices.

I also wonder if the younger son’s repentance permanent—or does he revert to his way of loose living?

Maimondes, a 12th-century rabbi and biblical scholar, wrote that the final—and many would argue the most important—step in repentance is, when faced with the same situation, do you make a different choice?

The lesson for us to learn from our mistakes—to not repeat them.

Maybe the purpose of this parable is for us to speculate about what comes after.

What should each of the characters in the story—father, older son, and younger son—do to exemplify a righteous life?

How should they treat each other to permanently reconcile?

Maybe the question we need to ask ourselves is are there relationships in our own lives where reconciliation is incomplete?

So, I imagine some of you are sitting there saying to yourself, “If there’s a message in there, I’m not getting it.”

“I’m hearing possibilities but no answers”.

And you’re absolutely right.

But that is the nature of parable storytelling.

There are no single answers.

They are meant to be twisted and turned.

They are meant to be looked at from different perspectives.

My hope is that I am helping you to do that.

My hope is that you’ll have your own interpretation of this parable.

One that is relevant to you and your life.

That’s what makes parable storytelling so powerful.

That’s what makes it timeless.

In closing, I’ll share one more thought with you.

The parable from today’s gospel is actually the third in a trilogy of parables: The Lost Coin, The Lost Sheep, and The Lost Son.

If we step back and look at the entire trilogy, then I think we might focus less on today’s lesson being about sin and repentance.

Because in the context of the trilogy, think about it—coins and sheep don’t have the capacity to “sin”.

I think, when taken together, the three lost parables could simply be stories about the joy of being found.

In a few minutes, we will sing “Amazing Grace” as our Communion hymn.

“Amazing grace!

How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me!

I once was lost, but now am found”.

There is joy in being found.

We worship a God that always seeks us out—no matter how lost we are.

Even if we are dead, God brings us back to life.

No matter how lost we are—God always finds us.

We know God’s voice.

And God calls us by name.

And God that says, “You are mine”.

Know that every time God finds you, God rejoices.

May we also rejoice at being found.

Thanks be to God!

May this meditation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus. Amen.

Seek out the Fig Tree

This morning, I thought we’d focus on the parable of the fig tree.

Remember that parables are supposed to give you pause.

They are not supposed to be obvious—or at least to have meaning beyond the obvious.

Because the meaning of parables is meant to be wrestled with and discerned, they are supposed to withstand the test of time.

A parable is meant to be twisted and turned and looked at from different angles.

So, for the sake of twisting and turning this parable, I’d like to propose a play in three acts.

In all three acts, the part of the vineyard owner will be played by The Accuser.

You can decide for yourself who The Accuser is.

For some, it will be Satan—or at least an agent of Satan.

For others, it will be the voice of insecurity we hear in our own heads.

For still others, it will be some other villain of the story.

The part of the vine dresser will be played by Jesus—or the Jesus that resides in each of us as members of the Body of Christ.

Act One: the fig tree is an African American female pastor.

The vineyard that our fig tree finds herself in is overwhelmingly white and dominated by men.

She hears comments like, “St. Paul says that women shouldn’t speak in church.”

“Are you going to get pregnant and leave us without a pastor again?”

“You only got into seminary because they had a DEI quota”.

And “we only called you because we didn’t have any other options”.

Our fig tree is understandably angry, and her anger comes out in her preaching.

Because she isn’t accepted, she fails to develop relationships with her congregants.

She is talented, has a great love of God, and a strong sense of call but, because she is a fig tree in a vineyard, she fails to flourish.

The Accuser tells her she is an imposter and doesn’t belong there..

But the vine dresser knows better.

The vine dresser knows of her talent and her love of God.

Jesus rebukes the Accuser and tells our fig tree, “Child of God, I love you.

I have called you by name.

You are mine.”

The fig tree hears these words and the healing begins.

So, that pastor and her congregation flourish.

Act Two: the fig tree is an undocumented immigrant.

The vineyard that our fig tree finds themself in doesn’t speak their language and is unfamiliar with their culture.

They hear comments like, “You’re in American now, speak English!”

“You’re here to steal jobs from Americans.”

“You just want the benefits of being an American without having to work for it”.

And “you’re just here to have an anchor baby so you can stay here”.

Our fig tree is understandably disillusioned.

They only came here to make a better life for themselves and their family.

Because they aren’t accepted, they withdraw into their immigrant community and fail to learn English and assimilate into the larger community.

They are hard-working, proud, and family-oriented—all characteristics that American culture prizes—but, because they are a fig tree in a vineyard, they fail to flourish.

The Accuser tells them they don’t belong—they will never belong.

But the vine dresser knows better.

The vine dresser knows their value.

Jesus rebukes the Accuser and tells our fig tree, “Child of God, I love you.

I have called you by name.

You are mine.”

The fig tree hears these words and the healing begins.

So, the undocumented immigrant flourishes and the community begins to recognize their value.

Act Three: the fig tree is a transgender boy.

The vineyard that our fig tree finds himself in is overwhelmingly cisgender and heterosexual.

He hears comments like, “You are not a boy and will never be a boy.”

“You are the sex you were at birth—it’s basic biology.”

“You have been corrupted by a woke ideology and the gay agenda”.

And “you are a freak”.

Our fig tree is understandably scared and depressed.

Because he isn’t accepted, he looks desperately for community—for family.

He is amazingly strong and passionate but, because he is a fig tree in a vineyard, he fears what the future holds and wonders if he will ever feel safe.

The Accuser tells him he will never fit in—that being transgender is an affront to God.

But the vine dresser knows better.

The vine dresser knows that he is just living into the amazing fullness of his authentic self.

Jesus rebukes the Accuser and tells our fig tree, “Child of God, I love you.

I have called you by name.

You are mine.”

The fig tree hears these words and the healing begins.

So, the transgender boy comes to know the power of God’s love and the world benefits from the awesomeness of his authentic self.

It’s important for you to realize that these stories could have had a very different outcomes if they hadn’t clearly heard God for themselves—or if there hadn’t been a vine dresser to share the love of God with them.

You see words have power—the power to fertilize and power to wither.

We must be vigilant—always—about whether we are speaking with the voice of the Accuser or the voice of Jesus.

You may have meant to say, “I don’t understand what it is like to grow up black in America”, but if it comes out as “I don’t see color—all people are equal to me”, you are denying that person‘s life experience.

And, as a result, the intergenerational trauma of prejudice continues.

You may have meant to say, “I want to communicate with you, but I don’t understand your language”, but if it comes out as “you’re an American now, please speak English”, you wind up burning bridges instead of building them.

You may have meant to say, “I don’t understand gender dysphoria”, but if it comes out as “you are the sex, you are assigned at birth”, you are no closer to understanding the nuances of gender and you’ve hurt the child of God in front of you.

My point in sharing these little vignettes—all of which are based on people or composites of people that I actually know—is that we have a choice.

We can be the vineyard owner—the Accuser—saying and doing things that prohibit people from flourishing.

Or we can be the vine dresser—Jesus to those we encounter—being kind and helping people to ensure that they live up to their fullest potential.

One way leads to the Kin-dom—the other does not.

One way emulates Jesus—the other does not.

One way shares the love of God that we so generously receive—the other does not.

The transgender boy from Act 3 once told me that the negative voices—the Accusers of the world—don’t hesitate to spew their venom.

He challenged us, as faith leaders, to love louder.

I’ve always loved that—love louder.

Whether you consider yourself a faithful follower of Jesus, an ally of the oppressed, or just wish there was a little more kindness in the world, I think that boy’s challenge is a good one—love louder.

So, as we go from this place—when we are out in the world:

Seek out the fig tree in the vineyard—the people who feel lonely and isolated.

Say to yourself, “I am a child of God—loved unconditionally.

This fig tree before me is also a child of God—and maybe they not feeling that unconditional love.

So, I will be Jesus for this fig tree—I will love them unconditionally—not only through my words but also through my actions.

I will do whatever I can to help this fig tree flourish and bear fruit.”

Amen, amen, may it be so!

May this meditation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus. Amen.

Blessings & Woes

Everyone knows Matthew’s account of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount.

In fact, much of progressive Christianity is rooted in the Sermon on the Mount and Jesus’ call to lift up the poor and the marginalized.

Luke’s account, which is today’s gospel lesson, is similar but not identical.

In Luke, Jesus gives his sermon on a plain instead of a mountain.

The number of “blessed are’s” is shorter.

And Luke includes a list of “woe to’s”.

The “woe to’s” are actually directly contrasting to the “blessed are’s”.

I’m going to read them again but this time, coupled together.

“You who are poor are blessed, for the reign of God is yours.

But woe to you rich, for you are now receiving your comfort in full.

You who hunger now are blessed, for you’ll be filled.

Woe to you who are full, for you’ll go hungry.

You who weep now are blessed, for you’ll laugh.

Woe to you who laugh now, for you’ll weep in your grief.”

It’s Matthew who’s usually fond of talking about “weeping and gnashing of teeth”.

Why does Luke feel the need to juxtapose woes to blessings?

Being rich is not a sin.

Being rich and not sharing your blessings with those in need—THAT’S a sin.

Having a full belly is not a sin.

Having a full belly and deriding people who receive TANF, SNAP, or WIC assistance—THAT’S a sin.

Laughing and having a good time is not a sin.

Laughing and having a good time and doing nothing to oppose the violence that claims the lives of young black men—THAT’S a sin.

The sin, and its corresponding woe, comes when put ourselves first.

It’s not entirely our fault.

The fault primarily lies with our cultural conditioning.

The frontier spirit that we are so proud of emphasizes the individual over the community.

It’s the foundation of the “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” mentality.

It’s why we instill in ourselves and our children the value that we are supposed to make the lives of our children and grandchildren easier, rather that ensuring that the basic needs of our neighbor are met.

It need not be either/or.

It can be both/and—in balance.

But have no doubt, when we put ourselves first—before God and what God commanded us to do, which is care for our neighbor—it is sinful.

Blessings go to people living in poverty, to people who are hungry, and to people who are grieving because they look to God.

They don’t trust in human ways.

They don’t rely on things of the flesh.

They put their trust in God.

And they look to God for their hope.

Woes go to people who trust in human ways.

Woes go to people who rely on things of the flesh.

Woes go to the ungrateful and the greedy—the ones who forget that they have what they have by the grace of God.

Woes go to the people who put themselves first.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s not wrong to satisfy the basic needs of ourselves and our families before we assist others.

But maybe before we indulge in luxuries, we should make sure the basic needs of our neighbors are met.

That’s a hard message for many of us to hear.

We’ve worked hard for what we have.

We’ve worked hard and deserve to treat ourselves to those dinners out, to that nice car, to that expensive vacation.

Yes—yes, you do.

And yet, our neighbors also deserve to survive.

I’d even go so far as to say they deserve, not only to survive, but to thrive.

So, I think we need to ask ourselves—are we doing enough?

When we get a raise or a windfall, do we keep it all for ourselves?

Do we advocate for that tax break—knowing full well that it comes at the expense of cuts to social services?

When the impact of the money we give to the church and to charity gets whittled away by inflation, do we increase our giving?

The wealth gap in this country is widening.

Under the current administration, the widening will accelerate.

That is not a partisan comment.

That is a stated position of the administration.

They say we need to provide more tax breaks to corporations and the wealthiest Americans because the benefits will trickle down to the lower and middle class.

We have been hearing that rhetoric for over 40 years now and the wealth gap continues to widen.

Woe to those for whom more is never enough.

I keep hearing shouts of America First.

That mindset has so distorted the gospel that I don’t even know where to begin.

America First has come to mean that we value the lives of brown immigrants less than the lives of powerful white men in Washington.

Never mind that we are a nation of immigrants—founded on the principle that the great melting pot of this country is our strength.

Never mind that the influx of people fleeing their homes in Central America is because our CIA destabilized their governments in the mid-20th century, which allowed corrupt politicians and organized crime to gain footholds there.

Never mind that many American businesses, particularly in the agricultural sector, rely on paying subminimum wage to undocumented immigrants.

To be clear—I do not hate this country.

But nor do I ignore its shortcomings.

We are the wealthiest country in the world, but we are not the happiest. That distinction belongs to Finland.

We don’t have the highest life expectancy—in fact, we rank 33rd out of 38 developed countries in infant mortality.

Neither are we the best educated.

With this country’s great wealth comes great power.

And with that great power comes great responsibility—global responsibility.

Woe to those who shout America First.

I confess that this has been a tough week.

The confirmation of Robert F Kennedy as Health & Human Services Secretary nearly broke me.

I will say again that I am not being partisan.

Because we now have someone responsible for 13 health-related agencies that includes the Food & Drug Administration, the Centers for Disease Control, the National Institutes for Health, the National Cancer Institute, Medicare, and Medicaid who ignores science.

Maybe that’s why I found his confirmation so offensive.

I am a scientist.

I’ve loved science since I was a child.

I studied chemistry as an undergrad and chemical engineering as a graduate student.

I spent nearly 30 years in the chemical industry and related technologies.

So dejected doesn’t quite cover my emotions this week.

Because we now have a man responsible for the health and wellbeing of this country who is an antivaxxer despite peer-reviewed medical evidence that vaccines have saved 154 million lives in the 50 years from 1974-2024.

A man who believes that fluoride should be removed from drinking water despite documented improvements in oral health since the practice was started.

A man who opposed measures to control the Covid-19 pandemic and, at one point, claiming the virus was genetically engineered.

A man who believes gender-affirming care should be denied to minors despite being supported by most medical professional organizations.

Mr. Kennedy says that he wants to decrease focus on disease and increase focus on health.

Ignoring for the moment “why can’t we do both?”, the problem is that he wants to shift focus from the health of the community, which requires disease prevention, to the health of the individual.

It tracks with the rest of the administration priorities—always me first.

We have withdrawn from the World Health Organization—the organization that is supposed to coordinate the global response to pandemics.

I don’t want to increase anyone’s anxiety BUT—bird flu is raging in the US.

Monkey pox is exploding in Africa.

Medical experts are predicting a resurgence in HIV infections due to our disbanding USAID.

Woe to those who prioritize health of self over health of community.

I have several friends who are transgender or gender-nonconforming and several acquaintances who have transgender children.

They are living in a state of constant anxiety—their minds awash in doubts and concerns.

Will I be able to access gender-affirming care?

Will my health insurance continue to cover my hormone treatments?

Will I still be able to get my child’s puberty blockers? If not, what will it mean for my child’s health and wellbeing? Will they be bullied at school? Worse, will they end up dying by suicide?

Woe to you who make decisions without complete information and who govern without compassion.

So, where do we go from here?

It’s been a rough week, and the immediate future looks like it’s going to continue to be challenging.

But we can’t just surrender to the negativity and resign ourselves to the woes.

We are blessed to be a blessing.

We are blessed by God’s love and God’s grace.

And we are called to be a blessing.

You who reflect God’s love out into the world are blessed.

You who model Jesus’ compassion are blessed.

You who shelter the homeless, feed the hungry, and give warm clothes to those who are cold—you are blessed.

You who are grateful for your blessings and give generously are blessed.

You who realize that we are all in this together are blessed.

May God’s abundant grace remind us how blessed we are and keep us true to the Way of Jesus in the challenging days ahead.

May this mediation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds focused on Christ Jesus. Amen.

What are you prepared to do?

I have struggled with today’s sermon more than I normally do—in fact, I was rewriting portions of it this morning.

It is easy to see a correlation between today’s gospel to the kerfuffle between President Trump and Bishop Budde.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about because you’re avoiding the news and social media to preserve your mental health, I get it—I’m tempted myself.

But—very briefly—during a prayer service at the National Cathedral, Bishop Budde delivered a sermon where she called for unity.

She said that sustainable unity must have three foundational elements—respect for the dignity of all children of God, the commitment to speak honestly to each other, and the humility to listen to one another.

Then, she calmly and respectfully asked President Trump to be merciful to those who are afraid—specifically LGBT children and immigrant families.

President Trump called her a “radical left Trump hater”.

He belittled her office, her capability, and her message.

For those who are aware of the controversy, I suspect there is a spectrum of opinions on what you were hoping I would say this morning.

Indeed, that is why I struggled with this morning’s message.

First, I will say that I do not believe that Bishop Budde was disrespectful.

I do not believe that she was blurring the line between church and state.

I believe she was entirely within her rights as a minister of Word & Sacrament to deliver the sermon she did.

I also believe that she accurately portrayed the gospel and what Jesus calls us to do.

But did it help?

I honestly don’t know.

To be clear, what Bishop Budde did and said was important.

But the media has reduced her sermon to a soundbite.

She spoke for 15 minutes and to ignore the buildup to her message to President Trump is disingenuous at best.

It also ignores all the work that Bishop Budde did before her sermon and that she undoubtedly does and will do to live into her words.

So, let’s dive a little deeper than watching a video clip allows.

First, Bishop Budde was truthful.

People are afraid.

Transgender children are afraid they will be unable to access gender-affirming medical care.

Same-sex couples are afraid that their marriages may be annulled.

The children of immigrants are afraid to go to school—afraid that their parents won’t be there when they get home.

People of color are afraid they will be swept up in ICE raids—despite being citizens—just because of the color of their skin.

Bishop Budde was also prophetic.

She spoke truth to power.

She told the President Trump—arguably the most powerful person in the world—that people were afraid.

And that he had the power to be compassionate—to acknowledge that fear.

And to act mercifully.

I confess that I agree with everything that Bishop Budde said.

A part of me celebrated her words.

A part of me shouted, amen, sister, amen.

But another part me—the pragmatic part—has to acknowledge that her words, although truthful and prophetic, did nothing to change President Trump’s mind—or his heart.

If anything, he is more resolute than ever.

I suspect many of those who elected him were not moved.

They thought President Trump was disrespected and treated unfairly.

I suspect the Christians who support President Trump still see him as a champion of Christianity.

They do not see his agenda as contrary to the gospel.

So, how do we call out injustice—how do we proclaim the gospel—and still leave the door open for reconciliation?

Unfortunately, I don’t know the answer—but I do have some ideas—ideas that come from Jesus’ example.

I know that we must continue to call out injustice when we see it.

There can be no middle ground—and there can be no compromise.

We cannot sell out immigrants for wins for the LGBTQ+ community.

We cannot shirk our responsibility as stewards of creation for a cheaper gallon of gas.

But—and this is very important—we cannot withdraw into camps of like-minded individuals, ignoring those who voted for President Trump and his agenda.

Because, if we can’t find ways to open a dialog—if we cannot find ways to help them see things differently—we cannot expect anything to change.

I am reminded of a scene from “The Untouchables”.

Sean Connery, who plays a Chicago beat cop, is advising Kevin Costner, who plays Elliot Ness, on how to arrest Al Capone, the most notorious gangster in Chicago.

Connery says, “What are you prepared to do?’

Costner says, “Everything within the law.”

To which Connery replies, “And then what are you prepared to do? You want to get Capone? Here’s how you get him. He pulls a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue. That’s the Chicago way.”

This is the part that the media leaves out.

They want to rile everyone up.

They want you to think that Bishop Budde lit a fuse and then smugly walked away.

But we know that’s not the case, don’t we?

Saying the words is only part of preaching the gospel.

There’s also work to be done—that’s the Christian way.

So how do we get from where we are to “your Kin-dom come”?

Dear God, I wish I had the answer.

Unfortunately, I have more questions than answers.

I believe that today’s lessons have a part of the answer.

The Apostle Paul tells us we are all part of One Body.

Well, that’s a helluva a good start.

We are all beloved children of God.

We were baptized into one body.

We have been given to drink of the one Spirit.

We each have a purpose.

We are all indispensable.

We each need to remember that.

As Christians, we are called to acknowledge the dignity of all our siblings—one of Bishop Budde’s foundations of unity.

But how do we proclaim that we all—every child of God—possess the divine image of God?

I think visibility helps.

We are hosting New Brunswick’s Rotating Men’s Shelter for the next two weeks.

There are opportunities for you to volunteer as an overnight host or to prepare a meal.

That’s important work but what’s even more important is putting a face on homelessness—hearing the stories of someone with lived experience of housing insecurity.

Lesbian and gay characters on TV were not part a “gay agenda”.

But they were instrumental in helping people see LGBTQ+ folks as regular people—doctors and lawyers, mothers and fathers, friends and neighbors.

Like Bishop Budde, we need to call out injustice when we see it.

But then what?

What are we prepared to do?

In today’s gospel, Jesus says, “God has sent me to proclaim liberty to those held captive, recovery of sight to those who are blind, and release to those in prison— to proclaim the year of our God’s favor.”

It is within our power to proclaim the year of God’s favor.

We absolutely need to call out injustice when we see it.

But—at the same time—we need to continue in fellowship and continue in conversation with those with whom we disagree.

We need to continue to reach out to those who are marginalized—to be a beacon of God’s love to them.

And we need to be bridge-builders between those two groups—the oppressors and the oppressed.

We need to continue to provide opportunities to put a face on the stranger—the trans girl who wants to play field hockey with her friends, the immigrant woman who waits tables in your favorite diner, and the migrant man who picks the fruits and vegetables that grace your table.

Then perhaps, together, we will realize that there is no stranger.

There are only our siblings.

And, only when we acknowledge that every person is a beloved child of God, only then will we truly give glory to God.

May this mediation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds focused on Christ Jesus. Amen.