Easter 2A - Acts 2:14a,22-32, 1 Peter 1:3-9, John 20:19-31

I have been wondering why the Risen One bore the wounds of a crucifixion. Why didn’t the Easter power of God produce a glorious, entirely healed body?

I don’t know.

I do know that not all wounds are easy to spot. They can be hidden behind a smile, a good job or a “Fine, thanks.” They can be disguised as fear, irritability or anger — “the vocabulary of the deeply wounded whose burdens are more than they can bear.”1

The Risen One bore the deadly wounds of the crucifixion. Not unlike the deadly wounds inflicted by racism, domestic violence, homelessness, war-lust and greed. Resurrection was God’s response. Like Thomas, we desperately need to see it.

So, like Thomas, we need to look for it.

Scripture says that for Jesus, resurrection took three days. That feels fast to me. I think most resurrections take longer. For most of us hope is grasped, help materializes and things change more slowly. But it happens.

All of which is to say that what I learn from this Sunday’s gospel is that when I meet someone who may be bearing terrible wounds, I want to look for some sign of the Risen One. I believe a resurrection may be underway.

Easter Peace.

Easter Sunday - Acts 10:34-43, Colossians 3:1-4, John 20:1-18

Resurrection is about bodies. When the power of God gets involved with our bodies, it is no small thing. The unimaginable can happen, along with the complaints of a body trying to live into something new.

In the last week, I have been drawn to a photograph of the new Archbishop of Canterbury, Dame Sarah Mullally. It speaks to me of the resurrection of the body.

It is a glorious vision of old and new. In the exuberant copes, mitres and throne it is the old Church Triumphant: powerful, proud, self-assured. But in the people — their bodies — there is something new. Women and men with dark brown skin wearing the symbols of authority, a woman sitting on the throne who lives with dyslexia, who started as a nurse for cancer patients and was not priested until the advanced age of 40.

Mullally says that her vocation was shaped by the washing of feet when she was a nurse. I imagine she washed feet often. Quietly. Not because she was ordered to. Because she saw what was needed. With no one caring or noticing other than the hurting body of the patient she was caring for.

Resurrection does not obliterate what is old. It transforms it. It is the power of God breaking into and transforming bodies, minds and hearts. Even that old body which is the Church.

In our lives, as in the Church, Resurrection is a process. There is always more light and love, more ache and loss to come because it’s no small thing when the power of God gets involved with our bodies. The unimaginable can happen. And anytime we feel like we’re seeing the light or feeling the love, it’s time to celebrate.

Happy Easter.

Palm Sunday A1 - Zechariah 9:9-10, Philippians 2:5-11, Matthew 21:1-11

Roman citizens were generally not crucified because crucifixion was considered barbaric. Under Roman law, other people mattered less and for them, crucifixion was okay. In provinces like Judea, Romans often crucified non-citizens, slaves and troublemakers.2 Without trials.

Jesus was not a Roman citizen. I doubt that he got a trial.

Each gospel tells a trial story. Each account is a little different. Each is crafted to show the difference between Jesus’ vision and the understanding of those who were in power. The trial stories are dramas which make the point that the people in power didn’t get it.3

For Pilate, power was about how many soldiers he commanded. Jesus had no soldiers, so Pilate saw weakness. Pilate didn’t get it.

Thousands in Minnesota stood in bitter cold for weeks to protect neighbors who were being hunted, arrested, imprisoned or deported.4 ICE agents killed two protestors. The bloodshed might have continued: ICE had plenty of firepower.

Why didn’t ICE agents keep shooting? Perhaps because of the strength which protestors found in the truth that their neighbors mattered. ICE didn’t understand that truth, but they saw the strength it gave rise to. We need ICE agents to get it — to get the truth that our neighbors and their neighbors matter.

Jesus did not enter Jerusalem to become a victim, but to stand with those deemed not to matter. In the Holy Week story there is fear, cruelty and tragedy. But there is also love, faithfulness and the strength of standing in the truth.

The believers who wrote the trial narratives knew that the story would not end with the trial or even with the crucifixion. What Pilate saw as weakness would become the place where God’s power was experienced in a new way. The next chapter in the story was resurrection. We are part of that story, and it is not over yet.

Peace.

Lent 5A - Ezekiel 37:1-14, Romans 8:6-11, John 11:1-45

Richard had AIDS in the awful days before there was treatment. He was dying. When he asked me if I believed in the resurrection, I knew he was asking for an honest answer.

He and I had both grown up in church. We both knew the gospel stories and the Hallmark-card versions of Easter. After we shared which stories were our favorites, even though they didn’t feel believable, I told him what I really believed: That nothing is lost. Changed maybe. But not lost.

When scripture talks about resurrection it may be a little about the afterlife, but mostly it is about the lives we live here and now. It means that even in our heartbreakingly mortal bodies, we can actually know something essential about what is eternal and stronger than death.

In Romans, Paul says that the Spirit of God dwells in us — in our mortal bodies. It is a sign of that indwelling when we love and care for one another without counting the cost. When we experience the miracle of being loved. When we hope despite reasons not to. And when we become willing to bring into the embrace of our care and concern that which is unwelcome, unwanted or feared.

I doubt that Paul knew any more about the afterlife than we do. Years after Richard and I talked, I still find the Hallmark version of resurrection unbelievable. But I understand the gospel a little better. Its message is that what matters is love, here and now. As for what comes later, I still believe that nothing is lost. Nothing.

Peace.

RCL 1 Samuel 16:1-13, Ephesians 5:8-14, John 9:1-41

The Replacement Theory says that white people are being replaced by non-white people through migration, demographic growth and a drop in the white birth rate. The theory is unscientific and racist but some people believe it. It motivated the protesters in Charlottesville, a number of mass murderers,1 and it is a favored talking point of conservative media personalities.

The Church has its own version. Replacement Theology or supersessionism is the belief that Christianity has superseded Judaism. It says Christians, not Jews, have become God’s covenanted people. Over the centuries, Replacement Theology has motivated persecutions, pogroms and genocide.2

In Ephesians, Paul argued against Replacement Theology. He said that non-Jewish (Gentile) believers share in the covenant and “live in God’s favor . . . [by] standing on the shoulders of Israel.”3

In his Letter to the Romans Paul had hoped that there would be enough “peace” between the city’s believing communities (Gentile & Jew, rich & poor) for them to at least work together.4 In Ephesians, he wanted more. He wanted Gentile and Jewish believers to live in genuine unity and newness of life. “Once you were darkness, but now in the Lord you are light.” (Ephesians 5:8)

Like most of Paul’s letters, Ephesians includes specific behavioral advice. Some of it is timeless. (“Do not let the sun go down on your anger.” Ephesians 4:25.) Some of it is culture-bound and liable to do more harm than good. (“Wives, be subject to your husbands.” Ephesians 5:22.) One of the timeless bits is this:

“Let no evil talk come out of your mouths, but only what is useful for building up…” (Ephesians 4:29)

Whether it is the anti-Jewish language which, especially in Holy Week, endangers Jews and diminishes Christian liturgy and scripture,5 or the racist lies which endanger people of color and immigrants and diminishes our national life, we know that words matter. With a prayer to the Holy Spirit, may we choose words which befit our calling to be light.6

Peace.

Lent 3A - Exodus 17:1-7, Romans 5:1-11, John 4:5-42

Early in my sobriety, I was in church on a Sunday when the second reading was from 2 Corinthians. The reading ended with, “when I am powerless, it is then that I am strong.1” I thought, “that makes no sense. What kind of ‘strength’ would that be?”

I didn’t know. But I was sure it was important, so I cut out the passage from the bulletin and pasted into a book I read from every day. Those days, I also paid attention to the people in my 12 step group: how they talked to newcomers and how they were present to angry or frightened people. How they smiled. How they talked about themselves and then listened. How they were honest. How they helped. By watching people who like me, knew they were powerless, I slowly started to see what strength was.

Sometimes Paul’s letters are difficult to understand especially when he uses paradoxes. A paradox is a statement whose terms are logically contradictory, but which somehow, is surprisingly true. Like “less is more.” Or in the second reading, the paradox of boasting about being “ungodly” but being extravagantly loved. Or the paradox of boasting about God’s glory when the world saw that glory as a failure, on a cross. Or the paradox of strength in weakness. Paradoxes don’t explain. They exclaim a truth we’re sure of even though we can’t explain it.

Paul didn’t always write in paradoxes. He also taught and gave practical advice. He was a Pharisee, after all. But after the road to Damascus, he was learning how to live and teach something new for himself and for people from different cultures.

Perhaps Paul himself learned how to live this new life by “taking refuge” (as a Buddhist would say2) in the body of Christ — the community of believers which came to exist in Rome, Corinth and Galatia and dozens of other places. In the community of believers, now as then, while we are helping others, we are also helping, encouraging and teaching one another. Those in the body. Helping them, for instance, to see what strength in weakness is. Because we are all still learning what those extraordinary paradoxes mean, and how life is changed because of them.

Paul hoped the Christ-following communities in Rome would learn to get along better with one another. They didn’t need to surrender their identities as Jews or gentiles, slave or free, male or female, rich or poor. They just needed to stop boasting that those identities made them more special than the other believers. Their old identities didn’t make them special. It was God’s love, presence and help that lifted them up. Inexplicably. Paradoxically. We never stop learning how life is changed because of that.

Peace.

Lent 2A - Genesis 12:1-4a, Romans 4:1-5, 13-17, John 3:1-17

When you travel with someone you know, even someone you know really really well, you get to know them even better on the trip. Travel takes us out of our comfort zone. New circumstances give rise to different feelings and needs. There are surprises. Some worrisome, some welcome. One way or another, on the journey we will get to know our companion better.

This Sunday’s reading from Romans is about “faith” — a word with many different shades of meaning.1 Paul said Abraham was an example of faith. The first words Abraham heard from God were: “Leave your home and travel to a place you don’t know.”2

It’s hard to believe that Abraham had faith or trusted God right away. God was an unknown. If Abraham was trusting anything in the beginning, maybe it was his luck, or his ability to manage if this new god turned out to be a bust.

We know more about God than Abraham did at first. We have scripture and tradition. They can remind us of where to look for God and what to listen for. And we have our own experience: especially the times when help or love or forgiveness found us even though we were sure we didn’t deserve those things.

All of that helps us to know how and where God has been before. And where God might be now. Or next.

Life, like travel, inevitably takes us out of our comfort zone. We can trust the One we journey with, as Abraham eventually did. And even then, the One we have come to trust, whom we know really really well, may still surprise us.

Peace.

Lent 1A - Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7, Romans 5:12-19, Matthew 4:1-11

It’s hard to imagine a world in which “self-esteem” doesn’t matter. In our culture, it is a sign of mental health or even wisdom to value only our own opinion of ourselves. “Who cares what they think?”

But to someone from an “honor-shame” culture, what they think is all that matters.1 One’s value as a person, “even in his or her own eyes depends ultimately on recognition from significant others in society.”2

First-century Rome was an “honor-shame” culture. Honor came with wealth, privilege or the right lineage. The emperor, somewhat divine, mediated and dispensed those things. It was honorable to be loyal to the source of one’s privilege, wealth and power. It was shameful not to be.

The background of Paul’s letter to the Romans is that Christ-following communities in the city were at odds with one another. Some communities enjoyed status, privilege and honor. They looked down on those without honor — on Christ-followers who survived at the bottom of Rome’s social structure, the poor or powerless or enslaved.3

We don’t live in an “honor-shame” culture, but we can still be tempted to put our trust in or direct our loyalty toward any number of things that promise to confer honor or privilege. Things that seem to make us different, better or more secure: skin color, gender, wealth, nationality.

Paul wrote to all of the Christ-followers in Rome. He did not side with those who enjoyed honor, or with those who were poor. He did not side with Jew or Gentile. He said that all had fallen and become subject to sin and the powers of death. All.

As members of “all” we are not as different from one another as we might want to think. Or as much as we might fear. Becoming members of “all” opens to us the possibility of a life more meaningful and abundant in the things that are of God, surpassing any honor that an emperor, or our skin color, gender or wealth might confer.

Peace.

Last Sunday in Epiphany RCL - A: Exodus 24:12-18, 2 Peter 1:16-21, Matthew 17:1-9

On yet another mountain, Jesus is in a conversation with Moses and Elijah. In the Transfiguration story-icon, Moses and Elijah represent the Law and the Prophets, which Jesus said he came not to abolish, but to fulfill.1

Jesus’ presence and whole-hearted participation in a holy conversation with the Law and the Prophets2 is an invitation. To us. We are invited into that conversation.

Micah said that the Lord requires “justice” and “mercy.”3 But what exactly is “justice?” What does “mercy” look like, here and now? And what do those things require of us? Faithful and sincere people have different answers. Sometimes, faithful and sincere people cannot bear to even think about it. Perhaps because they see how much is at stake.

The Holy Conversation in which we seek the answers to those questions calls for prayer, reflection and action – undertaken alone and in community, with humility and a good dose of compassion for those who pray, reflect and act with us, and those who do not.

If the whole enterprise begins to feel overwhelming, we can look back to the Transfiguration story-icon. The disciples were afraid too. “But Jesus came and touched them, saying, ‘Get up and do not be afraid.’”

Wherever Holy Conversations may lead us, we will not go alone.

Peace.

4th Sunday after Epiphany RCL-A. Micah 6:1-8, 1 Cor. 1:18-31, Matthew 5:1-12

“How many times have I told you?” . . . the parental cri de coeur. It is full of alarm, heartache, exasperation and self-reproach. The first reading from Micah is God’s version.

Some may recognize language in “The Reproaches,” a liturgical text which, in Catholic and some Protestant churches, was chanted on Good Friday.1 The liturgical reproaches took some verses from Micah and made-up others so that it sounded like Jesus blamed the Jewish people for the crucifixion. He didn’t. Nor should anyone else. The liturgical reproaches were a lie.

In Micah, God cries out to all of God’s people: “I have given you everything you needed and told you what is good. Why haven’t you listened?”

Those words came from love. Sometimes love weeps, grieves with heartache, exasperation and the anger of not knowing what else to do. We feel those things as we grieve the murders of Renee Good and Alex Pretti and rage at the lies being told about them.2

As we grieve, rage and prepare ourselves for the day ICE comes to our neighborhood, we might also consider that the way forward will only appear when we acknowledge that these things have happened, in part, because for way too long, we were not listening.

That is cause for repentance, but not for despair.

After the cri de coeur, a parent will try again to help the child listen and understand, because the cry of the heart is grounded in love.

There is a lot about God’s love that I don’t understand, but I believe it is even stronger than a parent’s, always ready to forgive and mercifully, inexhaustible.

Peace.

2

Civil rights lawyer, professor and activist Sherrilyn Ifill reminds us that lies have been told about victims for a long time — especially black victims. “Amadou Diallo had a gun (it was his wallet). Terence Crutcher was a “bad dude.” Walter Scott “grabbed my taser” (he didn’t). Laquan McDonald was coming toward us with a knife (he was walking away from the officers). Samuel DuBose was dragging the officer with his car (he wasn't). The 12-year-old child Tamir Rice – and the 10-year-old child Clifford Glover, forty years earlier – “had a gun” (neither did).” From Ifill’s substack post, ICE Force Meets an Immovable Object and Shoots to Kill, January 26, 2026. She could have written a much longer list.

---

I have an opportunity to preach next week so I will miss a week of SermonStarts. The next post will be Friday, 2/13 for the Last Sunday in Epiphany. Stay warm and safe!

Anytime you feel moved to let your Senator and Representatives know your feelings, the 5 Calls app makes it easy to do.

3rd Sunday after Epiphany RCL-A Isaiah 9:1-4, 1 Corinthians 1:10-18, Mtt. 4:12-23

Jesus was about to start ushering in the Realm of God with preaching and teaching, so why not get some religiously-trained disciples? Why call fishermen?

Actually, I can think of a few good reasons. The fishermen undoubtedly knew how to whip up a good fish supper. And they had boats.1 They could manage on the water. They could help Jesus make a quick get away from crowds or Herod Antipas if he needed to.2

Fishing was a big industry around Capernaum. The fishermen may have been business-people: literate, even multi-lingual as you would expect of a business-person who lived in a multicultural corridor like Capernaum—Bethsaida.

If they were in the fishing business, they would have been part of a crew that knew how to work together and look out for each other. (Fishing could be dangerous: nets, knives, storms.) Or, maybe Jesus was just thinking about how often he wanted to be in a boat on the lake. Being quiet. Feeling the peace.

But why not call someone who had a boat and who was religiously-trained?

I’d bet that Jesus had tried to work with religiously-trained people: like the pharisees, the scribes or the rich young man. They seemed to have trouble seeing what mattered most to him.3

I’m pretty sure that what mattered to Jesus were the people who had never had religious training. Who had come to believe that their needs, their troubles and their hopes didn’t matter. Who had learned that even if they said, “I can’t breathe” it wouldn’t matter.4

Maybe Jesus wanted to make sure that he was always talking to those people about things that mattered to them. His new fishermen-disciples might or might not understand that, yet. But they would.5 In the meantime, they helped him do other needful things and their supper-time conversations must have been interesting.

One religiously-trained person eventually did receive a call to discipleship. That call was not a gentle one. To get that guy’s attention the Lord had to knock him off his horse.

And thanks to him, thanks to Paul, we hear this Sunday that it is in what the world dismisses as folly, futility and foolishness that the power of God is found.

Peace and be Good.

Second Sunday after Epiphany RCL-A Isaiah 49:1-7, 1 Corinthians 1:1-9, John 1:29-42

In Sunday’s gospel, it’s hard to miss the exuberance of John the Baptist and his disciples on seeing Jesus. They called him the Lamb of God, the Son of God and the Messiah.

None of those three titles meant one single thing. All three were susceptible of multiple meanings. Being “anointed” meant that a person, place or thing was set apart for a special purpose. There wasn’t only one “Son of God,” the title wasn’t even always singular1 and it did not necessarily imply deification.2 What did John mean by “Lamb of God?” Good question.3

The titles were not definitions or honorifics. They were an attempt to put into words the feeling — the intuition — that Jesus would lead them towards the Realm of God.

Seventy years ago, some black ministers in Montgomery, Alabama had a feeling like that about a colleague. There had been a one-day bus boycott to protest the harassment and abuse of black passengers on city buses and the arrest of Mrs. Parks. But no one was sure whether the boycott could go longer. A decision had to be made. A rally was scheduled for Monday night, and the ministers’ association did not yet have a leader for a boycott.

Without asking him before hand, the ministers nominated the 26 year old pastor of Dexter Avenue Baptist Church. He had spoken at the local NAACP meeting four months earlier and made a good impression. He had a solid educational resume and he was new in town, so he had a clean slate. But mostly, the people who had worked with him had a feeling — an intuition — that he could provide the leadership they needed.

Despite efforts by the city, the bus company and private actors to shut it down, the boycott lasted 381 days. It was not the work of Dr. King alone. It is estimated that 40,000 people walked, biked or carpooled to work and to stores in every kind of weather rather than ride the buses.4 Taxi drivers reduced their fares to what the bus fare would have been.5 Over 200 people volunteered their cars for a car pool system which had 100 pickup stations in the city.6

There is faith, vision and bravery all around us. We might find it in a friend or a colleague. We might find it in our own souls. If we get the feeling that we have found it or that it has found us, and if it is of God, we will surely hear the invitation to “Come and see.” Because we will not be doing the work alone, and the fullness of the Realm of God is not realized until we all find our place in it.

Peace, and be Good.

1st Sunday after Epiphany (Baptism of the Lord) Year A - Isaiah 42:1-9, Acts 10:34-43, Matthew 3:13-17

When I came out, I discovered that I was one of the last to know. Most of the people I told already knew or suspected. One person had even tried to tell me about me years earlier, and I told them that they were wrong. I was not ready to understand who I was.

I’ve been wondering if Jesus knew who he was when he went to John for baptism. He knew some things. He probably knew that John’s message would also be his,1 but did he fully know who he was, or what role he would play in the emergence of the Realm of God?

How could he know? According to the prophets, the Realm of God was going to be different from anything that had come before. The prophet Isaiah said it would be ushered in by someone who walked gently and spoke softly.2 What would it be like to speak softly or walk gently in a world held captive — then as now — by those who shout lies and wield murderous violence?

John suspected that he knew who Jesus was, but he wasn’t sure. He would ask Jesus later, sending word from prison. (Mtt. 11:2) By then, Jesus had become clear about who he was, what God’s power was about and how he would live that. But in this Sunday’s reading, at his baptism, did Jesus know all of that? Maybe not. Maybe that’s why it’s only Jesus who sees the heavens open and the Spirit of God descending. Those signs were for him. And what they told him was enough for him to take what seemed to be the next right steps.3

In this life, we do not know all we would like to about who we are in God’s eyes. But we can hope for a growing awareness of who we are and what role we play in the emergence of God’s Realm. Whether we see the heavens opening over our heads or hear something in a friend’s voice, as long as we are willing to take what seems to be a next right step, we will find ourselves in a place that gives us a new perspective, a different awareness, and an opportunity to know ourselves, one another and God, just a little bit better.

Peace.

Handel’s Messiah is my favorite music in Advent and Christmas time. This year, listening to the chorus based on Isaiah 9:6, I heard it differently. I heard the word “us.”

I remembered friends of mine when they were parents-to-be. Early in their pregnancy, they started child-proofing their home. Everything needed to be vetted for safety. Everything: crib, pacifiers, toys, cords, outlets, furniture, car seats . . . Anything unsafe was removed or changed.

They made their home safe. They made the car safe. For that child, we wanted the world to be safe. Safe crib. Safe food. Safe shelter. Safe medicine. Safe gun laws. Safe schools. Love.

Unto us.

What if we understood that every child is born to us, and that we need to make the world safe for them. What would we do first? How would it make the world different?

I have been reading about the ways Jesus’ contemporaries probably thought about the messianic age or “the Restoration.” For a first century Jew, the Restoration would be when all of God’s people were returned from exile, righteousness filled the world and the Temple was restored so that God could again dwell with Her people.

In Jesus’ day, some of those things had happened, but not all of them. Or not completely. Not all Judeans had returned from the Exile. There was a Temple but some felt it had been desecrated by Greek or Roman interference. And as in our day, there was some righteousness and justice, but not enough. Because of everything which was not yet right, Jesus’ contemporaries understood themselves to be living in an ongoing state of exile1 and they hoped for the Restoration of which the prophets had spoken.2

What might the Restoration look like to us? The world we imagine need not be limited to what the prophets or a first century Jew might have imagined.

I am wondering what the world would look like if we made it safe for the children. All of them. Every one of them, wherever they were born. All of the children in whom God is pleased to dwell.3

Christmas peace.

Advent 3A - Isaiah 35:1-10, (Canticle 15 - Luke 1:46-55), James 5:7-10, Matthew 11:2-11

The ad hominem attack, logically speaking, is a weak attack. It distracts attention from the merits of an argument and is of little use in a debate competition. But in real life, ad hominem attacks are frightening. They obscure and distract from the truth. They discredit and demonize good people.

Jesus seems to be worried about an ad hominem attack. I’m not sure why. Some say it was because no one could say for sure who his father was.1 Maybe. It’s hard to believe that someone who has given sight to the blind, cleansed lepers and raised the dead could be discredited because of questionable paternity. But that’s the power of ad hominem. It tricks us into not believing what we ourselves have seen and heard.

We may hear the Magnificat this Sunday — Mary’s song of praise upon learning that she would bear a child. Surely she knew that given the circumstances, there would be ad hominem attacks coming at her. Nonetheless, she sang a song of praise, putting together verses from Hebrew Scripture, mostly the psalms. I imagine that every verse had a story behind it, a story of her own or one she had learned from family or friends.

Sharon Salzberg writes: “Faith is not a commodity we either have or don’t have – it is an inner quality that unfolds as we learn to trust our own deepest experience.”2

We learn to trust our experience – especially the deepest ones – when we hear someone else speak of something similar in their own life. That helps us know what’s real, what is reliable and that we are not alone. Where there is that kind of connection, community and faith — where we trust that we can know what’s real and true, ad hominem attacks don’t stand a chance. As the grand jury that refused to indict Leticia James on Thursday showed us.

When we have challenges to face, and there can be lots of challenges in Advent, Mary’s Magnificat is a good thing to hear — a centering thing. The song of what we ourselves know and trust — our Magnificat — is a wonderful thing to share anytime.

Peace.

Advent 2A - Isaiah 11:1-10, Romans 15:4-13, Matthew 3:1-12.

Hate speech – dehumanizing and inflammatory -- encourages and incites violence. Trump calling people from Somalia “garbage” is hate speech. John the Baptist and Jesus (later in Matthew) calling Sadducees and Pharisees “you brood of vipers” is hate speech.1

It helps me to be pretty sure that the vicious name-calling ascribed to John and Jesus by the author of the gospel of Matthew was an editorial fiction and not an historical memory.2

We don’t know much about John the Baptist, but we know enough about Jesus to doubt he would have called other Jewish leaders, even those with whom he disagreed, “a brood of vipers.” Jesus knew that people would misunderstand his message and mission. He prepared his disciples to deal with that kind of misunderstanding. Before he sent them out on their own, he told them that if they were not welcomed, they should “shake off the dust” and move on. (Mk. 6:11) And to his disciples with a crowd listening in he said “love your enemies” and “bless those who curse you.” (Lk.6:27, Mtt.5:44.)

Writing 30+ years after the life and death of Jesus, the author of the gospel of Matthew had issues with those like the Sadducees, scribes and Pharisees who were part of the hierarchical religious leadership. In Matthew’s view, the faithful should not have to answer to them.3

“It is likely that the scribes and Pharisees in Matthew… represent[ed] the leaders of Jewish communities with whom (other Jews like Matthew) and his fellow leaders competed for power and influence. [Unfortunately,] it is certain that, over the centuries, Christian readers and (hearers) of these passages connected its scribes and Pharisees with the Jews of their own times and cultures.”4

IOW, Matthew had an issue with hierarchical religious leaders. Matthew’s hate speech became enshrined in our scripture. Later generations hearing those words outside of their historical context, understood them to be a denunciation of Jews spoken by Jesus which had centuries of catastrophic consequences.

It’s hard to hear hate speech anywhere. It’s doubly hard to hear it in scripture, especially when it seems to have been said by John the Baptist or Jesus. Words matter – the words we listen to and the words we say. Maybe it’s time for the people who translate scripture and design the lectionary to renounce and excise the words: “you brood of vipers.” Matthew’s issues with religious leadership will survive without them. The gospels of Mark and John – and all but one verse of Luke -- work fine without them.

The truth is, no scripture which is written for our instruction and encouragement, needs those awful, dangerous words.

Peace.

Isaiah had a vision — call it an expectation — of what God’s help was going to look like. God would settle disputes between the nations. There would be no more need for war, and people from all over the world would come to a Holy City which welcomed everyone.

The people of Jesus’ day also had expectations of what God’s help — the messiah1 — would look like. There was not one agreed-upon expectation. What would it look like when someone had been anointed by God? What would such a messiah say or do? Jesus met some people’s expectations, but not others’.

Maybe “the messiah” is a work in progress. In the second reading, Paul says, “Put on Christ.”2 It is an invitation to “be in our own unique way what Christ was . . . the presence and love of God in the world.”3 Putting on Christ doesn’t mean being Jesus. It means being the presence and love of God in our lives, as who we are. In that way we contribute to the fullness of the Messiah – God’s help – in our world and time.

The Incarnation began in Jesus, but it did not end in him. It continues in us, in others and in others we do not expect. Neighbors and strangers. Christians and not. People from other nations who will, one day, with us, stream towards a Holy City in which all will be welcome.

I am told that the Sanskrit word, Namaste means “I bow to you.” A longer version is this: “I honor the light, love, truth, beauty and peace within you because it is also within me. In sharing these things we are united, we are the same, we are one.”

In Advent, may we find ourselves moved to offer someone such a greeting.

Peace.

Proper 28C (Track 1) Isaiah 65:17-25, 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13, Luke 21:5-19

When Judean exiles returned from the Babylonian exile, about 500 years before Jesus, they started to rebuild the Temple.1 They probably started with a modest structure which was expanded and improved over time.2 Later, about twenty years before Jesus, Herod the Great3 undertook a massive renovation and expansion. It was that Temple — the Temple that Herod built — that Jesus predicted would be reduced to rubble in this Sunday’s gospel.

Lots of things that we have held sacred and glorious have been reduced to rubble. It’s a heartbreaking sight. But destroying an organization or a building — even a Temple — doesn’t destroy the underlying vision. As long as we have a vision, we can build again.

What we build next has to be better. What we had before was both good and deeply flawed. Trump is the tragic but logical consequence of the flaws.

To build something better, we need a better vision. Scripture suggests the values which should be at the heart of that better vision: justice and mercy, truthfulness, generosity, a welcome for the outcast and the stranger and a concern for the well-being of the entire community and eco-system.

Building something animated by those values will not be fast or easy. It may not always be popular. It will require endurance and a fair amount of courage. There is no magic transport to the world described in Isaiah’s vision. There is only people who can embrace the vision, trust the God who inspires it, and then be willing to look for a way to make it reality.

The Sunday after next is called “Christ the King.” I have never liked that name. I like “Christ Our Morning Star.” The morning star rises while all is still darkness and night and glows steady and bright.4 It’s a sight that helps me remember to hold on to the vision. Whatever light we may need is on its way.

Peace.

Sermon Starts is taking a week off and will be back on Friday, 11/28 for Advent 1. Happy Thanksgiving!

Pr27C Track 1 - Haggai 1:15b-2:9, 2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 13-17, Luke 20:27-38

“Electricity” gets its name from the Greek word for “amber” (“elektron.”) The early Greeks noticed that when a piece of amber rubbed up against something like fur, static electricity happened. Actually, amber is just a non-conductive material. It has nothing to do with electricity.

Today, we see electricity at work everywhere. Electricity has always been with us. We didn’t recognize it or know how to interact with it until about a hundred years ago. And then it changed our lives.

In the First Reading, the prophet Haggai was trying to convince people to start rebuilding the Temple. Apparently, people were in no hurry. Maybe they had some doubts about God. God had said “I am with you” but seventy years earlier everything they cared about had been destroyed: their city, their homes, the Temple. Did God let that happen?

God did not let that happen. God as puppet master is a misnomer, like “amber” when it comes to the phenomenon of electricity. Then as now, people make wars, often after other people have made wars.

Maybe God is a little bit like electricity. It has always been with us, even though we didn’t always see it. Thinking we understand it (“amber!”) may get in the way of our knowing it better. When we learn how to cooperate with it – even though we still don’t fully understand it -- it changes our lives.

In Sunday’s gospel, the Sadducees did not share the commonly held belief in the resurrection. They said that the Law as they knew it would not work in the world-to-come. Jesus agreed. It would be unnecessary in the world-to-come. The world-to-come, like God, is beyond what we think we know. And we don’t need to fully understand it before it can change our lives.

Peace.

In a youth group meeting one astute teen quickly raised her hand when I asked what being a saint was about. She said, “You have to be dead.”

She had noticed that when we talk about saints, we often do talk about people who are dead. But being a saint is not about being dead or being perfect.1 It is about being someone who lives with faith. That’s what we’re doing. Here and now, we are the saints.

We are not always sure we have enough faith. When we want more, we can give it away. That always works.

Giving it away is passing on whatever got us through a challenging time with our heart and humanity intact.2 It probably wasn’t a creed or a doctrine. Sometimes I talk about 12 Steps, or particular people or places or things. Sometimes I talk about church.

What faith looks and sounds like in church is kind of predictable. That’s a good thing. Out in world, it’s harder to predict where God or faith will show up. That’s a good thing. That’s the Jesus story — that out in the world, we find God and God finds us in surprising, confounding and saving ways.

Wherever we have found what we needed, “increasing our faith” happens when we pass it on to the next person who needs it.

It’s even simpler when we are passing it on — giving it away — to the next generation. That’s helping children listen to stories and look at life with “an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love (God), and the gift of joy and wonder in all (God’s) works.”3 We know how to do that.

We are the saints. In challenging times, someone, somewhere helped us find the faith we needed to get through. Anytime we’re wanting more, all we need to do is give it away.

Peace.