Free to Forgive

In today’s gospel, Peter asks, “When a sister or brother wrongs me, how many times must I forgive? Seven times?”

Peter probably thinks he is being generous.

Seven is a biblical number.

It is a number of completeness.

After all, creation took place in seven days—including a day of rest!

Seven times must have sounded like a lot of forgiveness to Peter’s ears.

He probably thought Jesus would say, “Yes, Peter. Seven is plenty.

Seven times would fulfill your duty to forgive.”

But instead, Jesus says, “No, not seven times; I tell you seventy times seven.”

490 times.

I imagine that set Peter back on his heels.

He thought he was being generous by saying seven times and Jesus comes back with this ludicrous response.

But it wasn’t ludicrous.

It was Jesus’ way of saying that forgiveness is not about keeping score.

We are to forgive as we have been forgiven—over and over again.

But all this forgiveness can come at a cost.

If we aren't careful, Jesus' command to forgive can become a burden.

Forgiving an abuser can feel like a terrible burden for the person who has been abused.

Forgiving a betrayal can seem like more than a person can bear.

But the point is holding a grudge, being angry, or hating a person—those are the real burdens.

In telling us to forgive, Jesus isn’t giving us a burden.

He is telling us how to give up a burden—how to release the grudge or the anger or the hatred.

That is the good news at the center of this parable.

Forgiveness is a gift that frees us from carrying a burden we were never meant to carry.

I had an uncle who I was very close to growing up.

He was a hard worker, a church goer, and a family man.

I had a very idealized view of who he was.

I kind of thought of him as Mike Brady, the father of the Brady Bunch.

Then, at a family party, I heard him say that he believed that AIDS was a punishment sent from God for gay people.

As a young gay man who was all too aware of the devastation to the community around me, I was taken aback.

I was not in a position to challenge him.

And it changed our relationship forever.

The man who I looked at like Mike Brady became judgmental and hateful in my eyes.

Of course, I was not mature enough to realize that I was being just as judgmental as he was.

I didn’t realize that the disdain he bore for gay people was a burden—a burden that limited his ability to love.

And a burden that limited his ability to share the love a God—a characteristic that I had admired in him so greatly up to that point.

By the time I reached the level of maturity that would have allowed me to share what I am sharing with you now, it was too late.

He had passed away and the opportunity for forgiveness had passed.

So, I still carry that burden—that missed opportunity to forgive.

In The Inclusive Bible translation that we use, it says a royal official owed the king tens of millions of dollars.

In other translations, it says a servant owed ten thousand talents.

Of course, I have heard this parable many times, as I’m sure you have.

But it wasn’t until I was researching this discrepancy that I really grasped the meaning of the parable.

You see, ten thousand talents is a ridiculous amount of money—$6 billion in current value, by some estimates.

It is not a realistic debt.

It is not the kind of debt you could pay back if you just worked harder.

It is not something that could be offset by giving up your daily latte on the way to work.

Or the avocado toast.

Or your premium cable channels.

It is an impossible debt.

But the official still says, “I beg you, your highness, be patient with me and I will pay you back in full!”

But he can’t—there’s no possible way.

And then comes the first twist of the parable.

The king has pity on the official.

And he forgives the debt.

No payment plan.

No “I'll forgive half if you promise to work harder.”

No conditions.

The debt is simply canceled.

The official is simply free.

That is how grace works.

We know we can’t simply try harder and make ourselves worthy of God.

We can’t do enough good deeds, say enough prayers, attend enough church, donate enough money, or become sufficiently righteous people, to finally clear the red ink from the ledger.

But we want to believe that we can be our own saviors.

We want to prove that we are good enough.

But you and I both know, the harder we try, the more we discover that we cannot.

We cannot save ourselves.

We cannot make ourselves right before God.

God doesn't say:

“Work harder.”

God says:

“The debt is canceled.”

That is grace.

God forgives us—not because of anything we have done but because of who God is.

It is not about what we do for God.

It is about what God has already done for us.

The parable continues: the official walks out of the king's presence and he meets a colleague who owes him money.

A much smaller amount.

The official seizes and throttles his colleague.

He demands payment.

The official has just been released from an impossible debt.

But instead of acting like someone who has received a great gift, he is hard-hearted.

The man begs for patience, using the same words the first official used.

But the first official refuses.

He throws him into debtor’s prison.

And here is the second twist.

The man had received grace.

The king forgave his debt.

But he didn’t know how to live as someone who has received grace.

He had been released from the burden of debt.

But he immediately transfers that burden to someone else.

And isn't that sometimes what we do?

We receive grace from God and we forget.

We create our own little systems of debt.

We keep score.

“He hurt me.”

“She owes me an apology.”

“They owe me an explanation.”

To be clear, sometimes people really do owe us something.

Forgiveness does not require historical amnesia.

We must remember slavery.

We must remember Indigenous genocide.

We must remember the suffering of immigrants and refugees.

Remembering is not the enemy of forgiveness.

Sometimes justice requires accountability.

Sometimes a wrong needs to be called out.

Sometimes restitution needs to happen.

Sometimes boundaries need to be established.

Forgiveness does not mean pretending that evil isn't evil.

It does not mean saying that abuse wasn't abuse.

It does not mean allowing someone to keep harming us.

It does not mean that reconciliation is always possible.

Because forgiveness is not the same thing as reconciliation.

Reconciliation requires two people.

Forgiveness can begin with one.

We can forgive someone who never apologizes.

We can forgive someone who never changes.

We can forgive someone we will never see again.

Because forgiveness is not necessarily about restoring the relationship.

Forgiveness is about restoring us.

And that is the important takeaway for us today.

Resentment can become a burden.

Anger can become a burden.

Hatred can become a burden.

The desire for payback can become a burden.

We are culturally conditioned to think that giving up our anger is weakness.

We are culturally conditioned to believe that our anger gives us power over the person who hurt us.

But the opposite is often the truth.

That person may not remember what they did.

They may even have moved on.

But we carry it.

We replay the conversation.

We imagine what we should have said.

The person who hurt us doesn't carry the burden.

We do.

Forgiveness does not make what happened okay.

Forgiveness says: “I refuse to allow what you did to become the thing that controls the rest of my life.”

That frees us.

Peter asks, “how many times must I forgive?”

He wants a limit.

Instead, Jesus invites him to a different way of living.

Because grace is not transactional.

It is not: “I forgive you seven times, and then I'm done.”

Grace is an attitude we assume because we are forgiven.

We don't forgive because people have earned it.

We forgive because we know what it feels like to receive something we did not earn.

Every week we pray, “Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us.”

The order is important.

“Forgive us” comes first.

And then, “as we forgive.”

Our forgiveness of others flows from God's forgiveness of us.

It’s not a negotiation.

We are not saying, “God, if I forgive enough people, then maybe you'll forgive me.”

No.

God has already forgiven us.

And because we are forgiven people, we can be forgiving people.

We don't forgive in order to earn grace.

We forgive because grace has already found us.

Peter asks, “how many times must I forgive?”

Jesus says, “Stop counting.”

Stop keeping the ledger.

Stop imagining that grace is something you can earn and that forgiveness is something you have to ration.

Instead, remember you had a debt you could never pay and God erased it.

You were bound and God set you free.

We are a beloved child of God.

Called by name.

And claimed as God’s own.

And because we are people who have been forgiven, we can begin to become people who forgive.

Not perfectly.

But faithfully.

Until we finally realize that forgiveness is not about what we give to others.

It is about what God gives to us.

And what God gives us is freedom.

The freedom to stop carrying the burdens of the past.

The freedom to stop living by the ledger.

The freedom to stop allowing someone else's sin to determine our future.

The freedom to live as beloved children of God.

You are free, my friends.

Free to remember.

Free to seek justice.

Free to set boundaries.

Free to tell the truth.

And, by the grace of God, free to forgive.

Because you have first been forgiven.

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

Love & Community

Current political discourse seems to be all about making us afraid.

One side asks us to be afraid of the stranger.

Afraid of people whose language sounds different from ours, whose skin is a different color, whose names we cannot pronounce, whose stories we do not know.

The other side asks us to be afraid of government overreach and fascism.

Afraid of people whose political views differ from our own and whose stories we also do not know.

The danger in this atmosphere of fear is that it becomes easier and easier to withdraw into small groups of like-minded individuals.

And those groups become insular echo chambers that make judgments about who belongs and who does not.

Who is worthy and who isn’t.

Who is a true American or a true Christian and who is not.

Who is our neighbor and who is our enemy.

We are living in a time when immigrants are increasingly seen as threats—people who deserve to be afraid to go about their ordinary lives.

People who should be detained, deported, and separated from their families.

At the same time, there are people celebrating that cruel, inhumane treatment of our neighbors.

It is easy to vilify those people—to point out their behavior as contrary to the gospel.

That’s not wrong.

What is happening to our immigrant neighbors is decidedly unchristian.

We should absolutely call out that abhorrent behavior.

But judgment of those people—that should be left to God.

Remember: Jesus said, “love your enemies.

Do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, and pray for those who mistreat you.”

“Be compassionate, as your loving God is compassionate.

Don’t judge, and you won’t be judged.

Don’t condemn, and you won’t be condemned.

Pardon, and you’ll be pardoned.”

And this is where things get really complicated.

Because what does it mean to love our enemies?

It has way deeper meaning than just being nice to people.

It begins with grace.

Today’s Psalm begins with “how pleasant it is for God’s people to live together as one!”

It’s a beautiful image.

It says nothing about everyone being the same.

Because biblical unity is not sameness.

It doesn’t say everyone speaks the same language, looks the same, worships the same way, or shares the same political opinions.

It simply says that God’s people are gathered together in community.

That is precisely what this congregation is.

We do not come together because we have everything in common.

We come together because we are beloved children of God.

Called by name.

And claimed as God’s own.

God asks nothing of us at baptism.

God simply says, "You are my beloved child."

That is grace.

Nos reunimos porque somos amados hijos de Dios.

Llamados por nuestro nombre.

Y adoptado por Dios como suyo propio.

Dios no nos pide nada en el bautismo.

Dios simplemente dice: «Eres mi hijo amado».

Eso es gracia.

And perhaps the hardest thing about grace is that we can’t claim that we deserve God's love any more than anyone else does.

The undocumented immigrant does not have to earn God's love.

Neither does the citizen.

The poor person does not have to earn God's love.

Neither does the billionaire.

The trans person does not have to earn God’s love.

Neither does the bigot.

We are all beggars seeking God’s mercy.

And one of the most important things we can do in this culture that is obsessed with judgment and deciding who is worthy:

We can proclaim the Truth.

No one earns their dignity before God.

It is given—by God and God alone.

Nadie se gana su dignidad ante Dios.

Se nos concede por Dios y solo por Dios.

In today’s second lesson, Peter writes, "Above all, let your love for one another be constant."

Above all.

Not occasionally.

Not when it is convenient.

Not only when people agree with us.

Constant love.

Peter continues, “Be mutually hospitable without complaining.”

Hospitality is not simply being polite.

Remember, Jesus calls us to radical hospitality.

Jesus says, “Come to the table.”

Not because you are worthy.

But because God is gracious.

God does not wait for us to become worthy.

God makes us worthy by grace.

And what that means for us is that we cannot spend our time deciding who is worthy to belong.

Because the truth is none of us are worthy—except by the grace of God.

There is room for everyone at the Table.

Pues la realidad es que ninguno es digno, a menos que sea por la gracia de Dios.

Hay sitio para todos en la Mesa.

In today’s gospel, Jesus says, “As my Abba has loved me, so have I loved you.

Live on in my love."

Jesus does not say, “Love one another so that I will love you."

He says, "I have loved you."

Then, "Live on in my love."

And then, "Love one another as I have loved you."

The gift comes first: “I have loved you.”

Then comes the command: “Love one another.”

That is our theology.

Grace comes first—always.

God acts first—always.

Our response—loving one another—is not the cause of God's love.

It is the result of God's love.

We love because Jesus first loved us.

Esa es nuestra teología.

La gracia va primero, siempre.

Dios actúa primero, siempre.

Nuestra respuesta, amarnos los unos a los otros, no es la causa del amor de Dios.

Es el resultado del amor de Dios.

Amamos porque Jesús nos amó primero.

And then Jesus says, “Instead I call you friends.”

Friends.

Not subordinates.

Not students.

Friends.

This is an important lesson for us because Jesus created a community where people who were once strangers became friends.

People who were once students became friends.

Relationship changes everything.

The good news of the gospel is that change is possible.

We can evolve from student to friend.

From stranger to neighbor.

And from neighbor to friend.

And friendship has a way of destroying fear.

It is easy to fear an immigrant.

It is harder to fear Diego.

It is easy to fear a Christian nationalist.

It is harder to fear Brad.

We do not have to pretend that injustice is not real.

Communities ARE being targeted.

Human beings ARE being reduced to their immigration status.

Our neighbors ARE being abducted and disappeared.

Families ARE being separated.

People ARE afraid to go out.

The church absolutely must not be silent about that.

But neither should we imagine that our anger is the gospel.

Our anger may be justified.

Our lament may be necessary.

Our resistance may be faithful.

But underneath all of it must be the deeper reality: Jesus was crystal clear when he said, “love one another as I have loved you.”

That is what keeps our resistance from becoming hatred.

That is what keeps our justice-seeking rooted in grace.

That is what keeps us from becoming what we oppose.

Nuestra ira puede estar justificada.

Nuestro lamento puede ser necesario.

Nuestra resistencia puede ser fiel.

Pero debajo de todo ello debe estar la realidad más profunda: Jesús fue muy claro cuando dijo: «Ámense los unos a los otros como yo los he amado».

Eso es lo que evita que nuestra resistencia se convierta en odio.

Eso es lo que mantiene nuestra búsqueda de justicia arraigada en la gracia.

Eso es lo que nos impide convertirnos en aquello a lo que nos oponemos.

God calls us into many vocations—parent, teacher, pastor, and congregation member, to name a few.

And in every vocation, God gives us opportunities to love and serve our neighbor.

God has placed our neighbors in our lives so we can care for them.

Jesus has already saved them—that’s not our job.

Our job is to refuse to let fear determine how we treat them.

To welcome everyone into our congregation.

To help them find resources.

To learn another language so we might welcome them more effectively.

To listen to their stories so we might understand them better.

To say, “You are not alone. You are welcome here.”

None of these things earns salvation.

They are simply the acts of people who have been forgiven and are grateful for it.

And that brings us back to this congregation.

We are not called to be people who agree with one another about everything.

We are a community created by God.

We gather around water and the Word.

We gather around bread and wine.

And at the Table and at the Font, something extraordinary happens.

Despite having different backgrounds.

Despite being different races.

Despite speaking different languages.

Despite having different political opinions.

Despite having different levels of income and resources.

We are united in God’s love for us.

And our love for God.

And our love for one another.

We are united in the waters of baptism.

We are united at the table.

Same water.

Same bread.

Same wine.

Same grace.

Every way that this broken world tries to divide us loses its power at the font and at the table.

Nos une el amor de Dios por nosotros.

Y nuestro amor a Dios.

Y nuestro amor mutuo.

Nos unen las aguas del bautismo.

Nos une la misma mesa.

Misma agua.

Mismo pan.

Mismo vino.

Misma gracia.

Cualquier forma en que este mundo roto intente dividirnos pierde su poder en la pila y en la mesa.

Because our deepest identity is not our nationality.

Our race.

Our citizenship status.

Our political affiliation.

Our sexuality.

Or our gender.

Our deepest identity is beloved child of God.

Called by name.

And claimed as God’s own.

Porque nuestra identidad más profunda no es nuestra nacionalidad.

Ni nuestra raza.

Ni nuestra condición de ciudadanía.

Ni nuestra afiliación política.

Ni nuestra sexualidad.

Ni nuestro género.

Nuestra identidad más profunda es la de ser hijos amados de Dios.

Llamados por nuestro nombre.

Y adoptado por Dios como suyo propio.

But that does not mean that our differences disappear.

So, what does all this mean for us in this immigration dystopia we find ourselves in?

I believe it means we are called to become a community that practices a different reality.

A community where fear does not get the final word.

A community where the stranger becomes our neighbor.

And the neighbor becomes our friend.

And the friend becomes our family.

A community where children do not have to live in fear, wondering if their parents will come home.

A community where people can go to work or the grocery store without being afraid of being abducted.

A community where the language of grace is stronger than the language of fear and hatred.

A community where the table is longer and there is always room for one more.

And we do this not because we are especially good people.

We do it because God has been especially good to us.

That is the heart of our theology.

We are saved by grace.

And therefore, we are free to love.

Ese es el centro de nuestra teología.

Somos salvos por gracia.

Y por eso, somos libres de amar.

So let Psalm 133 become our vision: "How pleasant it is for God’s people to live together as one!”

Let Peter become our practice: "Above all, let your love for one another be constant."

And let Jesus become our foundation: "Love one another as I have loved you."

We cannot control every politician.

We cannot make every law just

We cannot make every headline unbiased.

But we can decide what kind of congregation we want to be.

We can decide that this church will be a place where grace is stronger than fear.

Where hospitality is stronger than exclusion.

Where friendship is stronger than suspicion.

Where love is stronger than hate.

Where no one is reduced to a label.

Where no one feels alone.

And where the font and the table proclaim:

You are a beloved child of God.

Called by name.

And claimed as God’s own.

You belong here.

Eres un hijo amado de Dios.

Llamado por tu nombre.

Y adoptado por Dios como suyo propio.

Aquí perteneces.

Jesus commanded us to love one another.

Not so that God will love us.

But because, by grace, God already does.

Jesús nos mandó que nos amemos los unos a los otros.

No para que Dios nos ame, sino porque, por gracia, Dios ya lo hace.

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

We Are One Body

I usually focus on the gospel.

Some preachers are adept at weaving ideas from the other lessons into their sermon on the gospel.

I tend to take a more simplistic approach.

I try to stick to just the gospel and relate it to our context.

But today, I thought we would focus on the second lesson because I believe it has something to tell us about the times we are living in.

 On the surface, Paul’s words are pretty simple.

“Offer your bodies as a living sacrifice.”

“Don’t conform yourselves to this age.”

“Be transformed by the renewal of your minds.”

“All of us, in union with Christ, form one body.”

 Then, he shifts and talks about gifts: prophecy, ministry, teaching, preaching, charity, leadership, and helping.

It sounds like Paul is giving us a little spiritual direction—telling us how we can be a better Christian.

How to find our spiritual gifts.

And a reminder to use those gifts.

 It’s helpful, at this point, to take a step back and talk a little about Paul.

There are thirteen books of the Bible that are attributed to the Apostle Paul.

There is almost universal agreement amongst theologians and biblical scholars that they weren’t all written by one man.

In Bible Study, we read a book called “The First Paul”.

In it, the authors describe that there are three versions of Paul, which they describe as the “radical” Paul, the “reactionary” Paul, and the “conservative” Paul.

The “radical” Paul is the authentic Paul—the guy who persecuted Jesus followers as a Pharisee but, after experiencing the risen Christ on the road to Damascus, he became an Apostle and traveled extensively preaching and starting Christian communities.

Seven of the thirteen books attributed to Paul are considered “undisputed” letters of Paul.

The others were likely written by students or followers of Paul.

Romans, the book that today’s second lesson comes from, is undisputed, written by the Apostle Paul—the “radical” Paul.

 What Paul is expressing in today’s lesson is something radical by the standards of his time.

In first-century Judea, communities were insular.

Religious and ethnic groups kept to themselves.

But Paul talks about what it means for a community of people—people who are different from one another, people who do not share the same background or social position—to become the body of Christ.

And that changes the way we are supposed to think about issues of justice.

Because being the Body of Christ removes boundaries and celebrates the differences that used to divide people.

 Being a Christian is about becoming a different kind of community.

Paul said, “Don’t conform yourselves to this age.”

He didn’t say, “Isolate yourselves from the world.”

He says, “Do not be conformed.”

In other words: don’t let the world change you to reflect its image—its values.

That’s important to us because we live in a world that tells us some people are better than others.

We live in a world where being white and male is an advantage.

We live in a world where people are separated into citizens and foreigners, insiders and outsiders, people who belong and people who don’t.

A world that tells trans people that their identities are false.

A world that tells us that only certain people are worthy of our care.

A world that separates our neighbors into “one of us” or “one of them.”

 Paul said, “Don’t conform yourselves to this age.”

“Be transformed by the renewal of your minds.”

That means learning to see differently.

Instead of seeing an immigrant as an undocumented person, we are called to see a neighbor.

Instead of seeing a refugee as a problem, we are called to see a human being seeking safety.

Instead of seeing a Muslim as a threat, we are called to see a beloved child of God.

Instead of seeing a transgender person as an aberration, we are called to see a person created in the divine image of God.

The renewal of our minds means that we stop allowing the categories of this age to determine whose humanity we recognize.

 Justice begins with seeing.

Before we can change systems that oppress people, we have to learn to see our siblings as the miracles of creation that they are.

We have to see their faces.

We have to hear their stories.

We have to learn their names.

And we have to recognize the divine image of God in them.

 Paul goes on to say, “All of us, in union with Christ, form one body.”

He doesn’t say we are all alike.

Paul does not imagine Christian unity as sameness.

We are different races, genders, and sexualities.

We honor different cultures and traditions.

We speak different languages.

This body has many members, held together by love—that unconditional agape-kind of love that is only possible through God.

 The Body of Christ cannot be healthy when any part of it is seen as expendable.

The Body of Christ cannot thrive is any part of it lives in fear.

We cannot claim to be whole if any one of us is denied dignity, safety, opportunity, or belonging.

Because, if any part of the body suffers, the whole does as well.

The Body of Christ is not simply a metaphor; it is our theology.

When racism harms Black and Brown communities, the body of Christ suffers.

When immigrants live in fear of separation from their families, the body of Christ suffers.

When LGBTQ+ people are targeted, excluded, or told that they are somehow less loved by God, the body of Christ suffers.

 Justice is not charity.

It is not those with power deciding to share a few crumbs with those who do not.

Justice means recognizing that the marginalized and oppressed are indispensable members of the body.

That means we have to stop seeing people of color as someone we must advocate for and start seeing them as someone who can contribute to our understanding of prejudice and equity.

We have to stop seeing the immigrant as someone that we are supposed to help and start seeing them as someone who has something to teach us.

We have to stop seeing our trans siblings as someone we simply need to welcome and start seeing them for the many gifts they bring.

 Paul starts out by saying, “Offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God.”

We are called to embody this community that we call the Body of Christ.

Our actions have meaning.

So does our inaction.

In the confession, we ask forgiveness for “what we have done and what we have left undone”.

Whether we challenge racism when it appears in our institutions matters.

Whether we defend immigrant families when they are threatened matters.

Whether we create safe spaces where trans people can live openly and safely matters.

 We cannot offer up our bodies in worship on Sunday and then surrender them to the injustices of a broken world the rest of the week.

Our life as Christians is supposed to be embodied.

We worship with our bodies.

We serve with our bodies.

We sit beside people who are afraid.

We share our tables.

We use our voices.

We vote.

We organize.

We challenge systems that treat some people as more worthy than others.

All of that can be our living sacrifice to God—our worship of the Light of the World, who appeared to Paul on the road to Damascus.

 Worship doesn’t end after the postlude.

If we do it right, our worship continues all week long.

Worship happens when we refuse to accept structural racism.

Worship happens when we stand with our immigrant neighbors.

Worship happens when we tell our trans siblings, “You are loved.

You belong here.

You are a magnificent creation of God.”

Worship happens whenever we choose our Christian values over the worldly values of domination, exclusion, fear, and hatred.

 If we carry nothing else away from today’s lessons, I pray that you will remember this:

Paul tells us is that the Body of Christ is not unified by eliminating its differences.

It becomes one by learning to love and appreciate its diversity.

This congregation has done tremendous work to be welcoming and affirming to all people.

But there is always more work to do.

Remember that the Kin-dom, although near, is not yet.

So let us continue to do the work to become the one body with many members that Paul describes.

A church where black and brown lives are not only defended but also celebrated.

A church where immigrants are not only welcomed but also recognized as possessing gifts.

A church where trans people are not only tolerated but also fully embraced as beloved children of God.

A church where nobody has to wonder whether they belong—because everyone does.

A church where we see our diversity as a blessing from the magnificent creativity of God.

 We are one body, my friends.

When the world tells us to exclude, I pray that we remember that.

We are one body.

When the world tells us that this group belongs but that one doesn’t, I pray that we remember—we are one body.

When the world tells us that our differences should divide us, may the Holy Spirit transform us through the renewal of our minds—all of us, in union with Christ, form one body.

Many members.

Many identities.

Many stories.

Many gifts.

One beloved family.

 So let us refuse to conform ourselves to this age.

An age that condones racism, classism, sexism, xenophobia, homophobia, and transphobia.

An age that encourages fear and hatred.

Open yourself to the work of the Holy Spirit so that she may transform us through a renewal of our minds.

Recognize the gifts in each member of this body.

And together, let us become a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God.

Let us be people who shout from the rooftops that every human being is created in the divine image of God.

That every neighbor is worthy of respect and dignity.

And that each of us is a recipient of God’s unconditional love.

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

We’re All Part of the Same Story

I’ve said before that sometimes there are lessons in the lectionary that just make you want to say, “Ugh!”

This is one of those weeks.

Jesus calling a woman and her daughter dogs just doesn’t fit with my vision of Jesus.

My vision of Jesus is the unconditional lover of humankind.

The includer.

The one who went to people on the margins—tax collectors, prostitutes, lepers, and foreigners—and not only ministered to them but also sat down and ate meals with them.

So, the idea that he could dismiss another foreigner as a dog, that just never felt right to me.

We could just skip the text.

We could make excuses.

He was tired and not himself.

He was just testing her.

That’s not really what he said or what he meant.

We could talk about the historical conflict between Israelites and Canaanites.

But I think it’s important that we accept that Jesus said something that was distasteful, if not downright awful.

And it’s not just the name calling.

The woman comes to Jesus because her daughter is suffering.

She is desperate.

She knows Jesus has the power to heal her daughter.

But he refuses—at least initially.

The disciples appearing to have no compassion: “Please get rid of her! She keeps calling after us.”

And, instead of rebuking his students, Jesus rebukes her saying, “My mission is only to the lost sheep of the House of Israel.”

But she is undeterred.

She prostrates herself before him and pleads, “Help me, Rabbi!”

To which he replies, “But it isn’t right to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

I don’t know about you, but I found it shocking.

It’s one of the few times that Jesus seems to act out of character.

I went to Amy-Jill Levine, the Jewish New Testament scholar, to see if she had any insight on this disturbing exchange.

Dr. Levine reminds us that Jesus is operating within the boundaries of his own mission, his own people, his own religious and ethnic world.

The woman is an outsider.

She is a Canaanite—a people with whom Israel had a long and complex history of conflict.

Yet, she refuses to accept that boundary.

She challenges Jesus by saying, “True, Rabbi, but even the dogs get to eat the scraps that fall from the table.”

Her persistence penetrates Jesus’ defenses and he finally relents, “Woman, you have great faith! Your wish will come to pass.”

And at that very moment, her daughter was healed.

Now here I’m going to do something that I don’t normally do.

What I normally do—or at least I think I normal do—is lift the gospel out of Scripture and see how it applies to our world.

We’ll get to that.

But first, I want to stay in Matthew's gospel and connect a few dots.

If you’ve read Matthew’s gospel, you know it opens with Jesus’ genealogy.

And the interesting thing is the genealogy that Matthew recounts includes women: Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, “the wife of Uriah”, and finally, Mary.

This was counter-cultural.

Women were not included in ancient genealogies.

Furthermore, the women he lists were outsiders and had complicated histories.

Tamar was a Canaanite who struggled for justice.

Rahab was a Canaanite woman from Jericho.

Ruth was a Moabite.

“The wife of Uriah” was Bathsheba, who married a Hittite.

Dr. Levine points out that the common characteristics that these women share is a “higher righteousness.”

They are people without conventional power who act decisively when the people with power fail to do what is right.

The thing that this disturbing story calls us to pay attention to is that Matthew begins the story of Jesus by telling us Jesus comes from a family in which outsiders belong.

Jesus comes from a family in which foreigners are not an embarrassment to be hidden, but ancestors to be revered.

Jesus comes from a family in which women who lived on the margins of respectable society became agents of God's will.

Then comes this week’s gospel.

If we remembered Matthew’s genealogy, we’d be prepared for Jesus’ encounter with the Canaanite woman.

Before Jesus can say, “My mission is only to the lost sheep of the House of Israel”, Matthew has already told us that Jesus' own family contained outsiders—including Canaanites.

Before Jesus meets this foreign woman, Matthew has already told us there are foreign women in his family tree.

So, the Canaanite woman is not being overconfident.

She’s thinking, “you know who I am.

You know where I come from.

You know people exactly like me are already part of your story.”

She refuses to let Jesus—or anyone else—cast her aside.

And this is the point where we look at this gospel and see how it applies to our world—our current context.

Because we are living in a country where the question of who belongs gets asked every day.

Who has a right to be here?

Who gets to cross the border?

Who gets to stay and who has to leave?

Who is our neighbor and who is a threat?

In our country, those questions are increasingly answered by governmental power.

The current administration is pursuing the most inhumane and un-Christian immigration enforcement agenda in history.

More than 175,000 visas have been revoked.

Temporary Protected Status has been terminated for almost a million people.

Tens of thousands of asylum seekers are threatened with deportation.

These are people seeking safety from gang violence or an escape from persecution because of their religion, sexuality, or gender identity.

These are some of the very same people our RIC status has committed us to welcome—and protect.

All of them are real human beings: adults and children, men and women.

Somewhere in our very own state, there is a person sitting in an immigration courtroom without a lawyer, trying to understand what is happening in a language they don’t understand.

And here is something that many people don’t understand.

The immigration justice system operates differently than the criminal justice system.

In the immigration system, there is no presumption of innocence.

There is also no guarantee of representation.

So, about half of the people in deportation proceedings do not have a lawyer, even though it is a critical success factor in having a successful asylum outcome.

I will concede that we need just laws that govern immigration.

There are legitimate questions about borders, national security, and how to control immigration.

But, as Christians, we are called to look at this as more than a control issue.

We are asked to see the children of God in front of us.

We must ask ourselves, “What is happening to this sibling standing in front of us?”

Because today’s gospel reminds us that the Canaanite woman before Jesus is not just a demographic.

She is a mother under duress.

And the disciples want to send her away—not unlike our current administration’s desire to do the same with all black and brown immigrants.

Send them away.

They don't belong here.

They should have come legally.

They are dangerous.

But notice what the Canaanite woman does.

She does not accept the rejection.

She says, “Even people like me belong at God's table.”

Christian Nationalists would have you believe that Christianity is fundamentally about protecting our group.

Our nation.

Our culture.

Our race.

Our religion.

Our people.

But today’s gospel rejects that.

The gospels remind us that Israel's story was always larger than our human boundaries.

God didn’t just bless Abraham.

God went on to say, “all the people on the face of the earth will be blessed through you.”

And that brings us back to our theology of abundance.

That theology doesn’t allow boundaries around God's blessing.

It is about allowing God's goodness to overflow.

The Canaanite woman understands that.

She understands abundance.

She understands that God's mercy is an unlimited resource.

There is enough bread.

There is enough healing.

There is enough grace.

There is enough room at the table.

God's abundance is greater than our scarcity.

And that is the message that our country desperately needs to hear.

Because immigration debates are always about scarcity.

There aren't enough jobs.

There isn't enough housing.

There aren't enough resources.

There isn't enough security.

There isn't enough room.

The Canaanite woman refuses to believe in scarcity.

And Jesus ultimately affirms her.

He says, “Woman, you have great faith!”

Jesus ultimately rejects the disciples’ call to turn her away and praises the outsider.

I believe the lesson for us is that we need to become more careful about who we call “other.”

Because maybe that immigrant at the border has something to teach us about faith.

Surely the asylum seeker has something to teach us courage.

There’s no doubt that the undocumented worker has something to teach us about perseverance—and hope.

The mother separated from her child certainly has something to teach us about lament—and prayer.

Maybe the people we’ve been told to fear are just other human beings saying the same thing the Canaanite woman said: “Help me!”

And, God help us, our Christian response cannot be: “Please get rid of them!”

Because Matthew’s gospel has already told us that the Canaanite woman is family—like Tamar and Rahab and Ruth and Bathsheba.

The Canaanite woman is family.

The immigrant is family.

The stranger is family.

We cannot claim to understand Jesus and his message without understanding that God's family is always been bigger than of the categories we’ve constructed for ourselves.

There is one final point.

The Canaanite woman changes Jesus.

Jesus' encounter with her expands the boundaries of his ministry.

In the story, the woman becomes the teacher.

The outsider is the one who reveals something about God's abundance.

And what that means for us is that we are not simply called to minister to immigrants.

We are not called to simply welcome strangers into our congregation.

We are called to listen to them.

We are called to allow them to change us.

To recognize their faith.

To recognize their wisdom.

To recognize their gifts.

The Bible tells us over and over again that God shows up in unexpected people.

God often chooses the outsider.

Time and again, we see God cross a boundary that we thought was sacred.

The term “outsider” is a construct of our own imagination.

No human being is outside of God’s love.

So, the lesson for today is, when we are tempted to say, “Please get rid of them!”

Perhaps we should say, “Come in.”

When we look at someone and think, “they don’t belong”.

We need to remember, “they are already part of God’s story”.

When scarcity tells us, “there isn’t enough”.

We need to stay grounded in our theology of abundance and say, “there is enough grace for all of us”.

And rather that reject the stranger, our faith demands that we say, “child of God, you are welcome here”.

We are all part of the same story, my friends.

All of us.

We share one table.

We are fed by one grace.

We are held by one mercy.

And we belong to a God whose abundance is always greater than our fear.

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

Faith vs. Chaos

When I was a vicar at Holy Communion Church in Berlin, I did a little exercise with the youth group there.

It turns out, if you make a solution of 2 parts cornstarch in 1 part water, you can walk on it.

You see, cornstarch and water forms what is known as a non-Newtonian fluid.

When you put a non-Newtonian fluid under force—like by stepping on it—it acts like a solid.

As you might imagine, this totally appealed to me as a science nerd.

So, we filled a kiddie pool with the cornstarch solution and told the kids they could walk on water.

The thing is, you can run across it and it will act as if you are walking on a solid.

But, if you just stand on it, you sink as if it were quicksand.

Needless to say, the kids had a ball doing this.

Now, to be clear, I didn’t tell that story to offer some quasi-scientific explanation for how Jesus and Peter walked on water.

My point was two-fold.

First, it was to share a moment of joy.

I hope you were able to imagine children taking their shoes and socks off—much to the horror of their parents—to see if they could really walk across water.

I can assure you: it was loud and it was messy and there was plenty of laughter.

It was truly a joy.

Second, I think there is a message in there about stepping out in faith versus hesitancy.

If you ran across the water, it supported you.

If you hesitated, you sank.

I believe that life is also like that.

When we step out in faith, God provides.

When we hesitate, that’s when things go wrong.

Traditionally, sermons on today’s gospel focus on Peter.

How the power of Peter’s faith allowed him to walk on water.

And how his doubt caused him to fall.

You’ve heard all that before.

Today, I’d like to focus on Jesus.

Take a moment to imagine the scenario.

There were fierce winds and the boat was being tossed about by waves.

Now, think in terms of first-century knowledge.

There was no understanding of global wind patterns or thermal inversions or clashes between hot and cold fronts.

Wind was a destructive power.

It was supernatural—sometimes governed by God, other times by demons.

The sea represented the unknown—dark depths hiding untold monsters.

Together, they were chaos.

Jesus walks on the water and quiets the wind.

What the disciples observed was their rabbi exercising control over chaos.

I say this, not to reduce the miracle of Jesus walking on water to a simple allegory.

I say it to add color and depth to how that miracle would have been seen by the disciples.

It has echoes of the creation story when God brought order out of chaos.

It’s no wonder it inspired the disciples to declare Jesus “God’s Own”.

As many of you know, Teresa has been continuing to run a day camp for community children after our week of Vacation Bible School ended.

She has assembled a group of women from the community, including her sister Maria, as staff.

For those of you that were involved or have been involved in pulling off a week of VBS—the staffing, the activities, the meals, and the snacks—you know what is involved.

It’s a lot.

To organize all that for 9 weeks is nothing short of amazing.

Teresa is a force to be reckoned with.

If you haven’t gotten to know her yet, I encourage you to do so.

I bring up our community day camp because I spent some time with the older kids this week and it struck me that there is a parallel to this week’s gospel in my experience.

When the children in our community look out at the world, they see chaos.

Family members and neighbors abducted and detained.

Stories in the news about people killed by ICE or dying from neglect in detention.

If you think I’m being dramatic, you aren’t paying attention.

We are a community in crisis.

It would be a good and noble thing to provide a safe place for children to go for a few hours every day.

A quiet place where they are fed, do some arts and crafts, and just be kids.

And that is exactly what we provide for the younger children.

But, for the older children, we are providing something more.

We are acknowledging the chaos.

And we are saying that is not what God intends for you.

You have power—power to shed light into the darkness.

Power to take steps to restore order.

In addition to being fed and doing some arts and crafts, the older kids are learning about civics.

How the bills that discriminate against their community become law.

How politicians who harm their community come to power.

How democracy works and how they can influence legislation and elections.

I cannot begin to tell you how proud I am that Emanuel is part of this.

Our country is adrift in turmoil.

Injustice, particularly for our immigrant and transgender neighbors, is rampant.

We could sit back and say this too shall pass.

We could say that the current winds buffeting the country will die down.

That the storm will eventually quiet.

But that’s not what Jesus did.

And I will remind you what St. Augustine once said, “Without God, we cannot; without us, God will not".

Now is the time for us to step out in faith.

We need to get out of the safe space of our privilege and walk on the stormy waters, knowing full well that God is with us.

The young people at our day camp are going to be canvassing in New Brunswick leading up to the midterm elections.

We need adults to accompany them.

I know that this is not something everyone can do.

But I’m hopeful that some of you will.

I am.

If canvassing sounds like too much, perhaps you could phone bank.

Or write to your legislators to tell them that social justice issues matter to you.

Maybe you could pen a letter to the editor.

If you can do nothing else, I at least implore you to vote.

This is a moment for us to show our faith.

To say that we worship a God who rejects chaos.

A God who shines light into darkness.

A God who loves us—ALL of us—and calls us to act justly.

Love mercy.

And walk humbly on the turbulent waters with God at our side.

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

Abundance, Gratitude, & Humility

We all know the “Feeding of the 5,000”.

As children, we heard it as a miracle of God—pure and simple.

How, when we trust in God, our needs are taken care of.

As we matured, the story evolved.

We learned that the 5,000 were just men and how a more honest reckoning of the miracle was feeding 15 to 20 thousand people.

For some, the story evolved even further, into a story that was not so much a miracle of God but about how the miracle of God’s love inspired people to share what little they had until it was enough for everyone.

I have mixed feelings about that.

I like the idea that God inspires us to do better—to share, to love, to create miracles of our own.

But I also think that we need miracles.

Our belief in miracles inspires hope.

Sometimes, that belief is the only thing that lifts us out of despair.

But that is a sermon for another day.

I guess it won’t surprise any of you that we’re going to continue our exploration of the theology of abundance.

In fact, the Feeding of the 5,000 is a one of the foundations of the theology of abundance.

The story itself is a study in the contrast between scarcity and abundance.

The passage begins with Jesus’ learning about the execution of John the Baptizer.

Jesus is grieving.

He withdrew to a deserted place to be alone.

And yet he had compassion.

He could have said his spiritual stores were empty.

He could have said that he had nothing left to give.

Those would have been the responses from a mindset of scarcity.

But our God is a God of abundance.

Jesus looked out at a sea of folks and said, “I have more to give” and he healed them.

Then, the disciples say, “This is a deserted place, and it is already late.”

They say they have nothing to feed the crowd.

That is the language of scarcity.

There’s nothing around.

There’s not enough time.

We don’t even have enough to feed ourselves.

I imagine that there are some amongst you who are questioning why reality has to be called “scarcity”.

They WERE in the middle of nowhere.

It WAS getting late.

And, as far as they knew, they DIDN’T have enough to even feed themselves.

The simple answer is this: scarcity focuses on what we don’t have.

Abundance focuses on what we do have.

Abundance places our trust in God.

Now, I’m not here to blame anyone for thinking in terms of scarcity.

As you’ve heard me say several times, we are culturally conditioned to think in those terms.

And Jesus’ own disciples—people who had seen him performs miracles with their own eyes—couldn’t help themselves but focus on scarcity.

I imagine Jesus was exasperated when he said, “There is no need for them to disperse.”

He was probably thinking, “Have you forgotten that I turned water into wine at the wedding banquet in Cana?

Have you forgotten all my acts of healing—the leper, the Centurion’s servant, the paralyzed man?

I’ve healed dozens in this crowd; do you think I would let them starve?”

He tries to redirect them.

He says, “Give them something to eat yourselves.”

But they can’t see beyond scarcity.

The disciples were faithful Jews, and they forgot they worshipped a God of abundance.

A God who provided manna and quail in the wilderness.

A God who sent ravens to feed Elijah.

A God who made sure a widow’s oil and flour never ran out.

And yet, still, they could only focus on the 5 barley loaves and 2 fish, which they knew wouldn’t even feed themselves.

But Jesus shook his head and said, “You know that?

You know 5 loaves and 2 fish won’t be enough?

Bring them to me!”

And the first thing Jesus did—the thing that shows he was coming from a mindset of abundance—was he looked to heaven and thanked God for the gift of that bread and fish.

That is the other indicator of abundance—gratitude.

Scarcity—because it focuses on what we don’t have—makes gratitude difficult, if not impossible.

Abundance and gratitude always go hand in hand.

A layer of this story that is often missed is there is an unsung hero in it.

He doesn’t even appear in Matthew’s version of the story.

But in John’s gospel, the 5 loaves and 2 fish were supplied by a boy.

A boy who didn’t see scarcity in what he had.

A boy who was quick to offer what little he had.

A boy who wasn’t looking for recognition or gratitude.

In fact, he is forgotten in 3 of the 4 gospels.

But that boy understood the abundance of God.

He trusted in God’s promise to provide for his people.

The other thing that’s important for us to notice in this story is where the focus lies.

The focus is not on the boy who supplied the loaves and fish.

Nor is it on the disciples who distributed them.

The focus is on the abundance of God and the 5,000 who were fed.

There is a lesson in that for us.

Because having an abundance mindset comes with a sense of both gratitude and humility.

Gratitude for the individual success that comes from God’s grace.

And the humility to understand that, although we may work hard for what we have, we are still only stewards of God’s gifts.

Gratitude for extra resources that are a tool for us to share God’s love with our siblings.

And the humility to understand that the situations between us and our neighbors could easily be reversed.

Gratitude for abundance—the confidence that there is always enough and always room for one more.

And the humility to know all that we do should not be for self-aggrandizement, but for the glory of God.

Pastors have a phrase that they use when they see or hear something that illustrates the gospel.

We say, “that’ll preach.”

Hearing stories about Alberta and Sal over the last few weeks since Alberta passed, I kept thinking “that’ll preach”.

I kept thinking about how they exemplified abundance.

And how they were unsung heroes who embodied humility.

People who knew them related how they were not as focused on amassing wealth as much as how those gifts allowed them to help others.

And how they never took the opportunity to brag about their generosity.

They just did the work of the Kin-dom, sharing God’s gifts with those who needed help.

Like the boy who offered up 5 loaves and 2 fish, they were unsung heroes.

So, as we go forth from this place, I give you a challenge.

Let’s stop providing cover for a scarcity mindset but saying, “I’m just being a realist.”

We are called to a different way of thinking.

We are called to remember that our faith is relentlessly a story of abundance.

When Abraham thought there was nothing to sacrifice, God provided a ram.

When the Israelites thought they would starve, God provided manna and quail.

A widow thought she was down to her last meal, but her flour and oil didn't run out.

Five loaves and two fish became enough for thousands—with baskets left over.

The tomb was empty because even death didn't get the last word.

The story of Scripture is never that there wasn't enough.

It's that God always provided in ways nobody expected.

So, I encourage you:

Trust God.

Be grateful.

Share generously.

Practice humility.

Live abundantly.

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

While preparing for this sermon, I found this Powerful Abundance Prayer by Keir Alexa.

I think it is beautiful and can help us to shed our conditioning to focus on scarcity and refocus us on abundance.

From The Light of God that I Am.

From The Love of God that I Am.

From The Power of God that I Am.

From The Heart of God that I Am.

I Decree-

I dwell in the midst of Infinite Abundance.

The Abundance of God is my Infinite Source.

The River of Life never stops flowing.

It flows through me into a lavish expression.

Good comes to me through unexpected avenues and God works in a myriad of ways to bless me.

I now open my mind to receive my good.

Nothing is too good to be true.

Nothing is too wonderful to have happened.

With God as my Source, nothing amazes me.

I am not burdened by thoughts of the past or future.

One is gone.

The other is yet to come.

By the power of my belief, coupled with my purposeful fearless actions and my deep rapport with God, my future is created and my abundance is made manifest.

I ask and accept that I am lifted in this and every moment into Higher Truth.

My mind is quiet.

From this day forward I give freely and fearlessly into life and Life gives back to me with magnificent increase.

Blessings come in expected and unexpected ways.

God provides for me in wondrous ways.

I am indeed grateful.

And so it is. Amen.

Abundance

Today, we continue working our way through Jesus’ parables in the book of Matthew.

Parables were a common teaching tool in first-century Judaism.

Storytellers took commonplace things or situations and used them to inspire deep thought.

As you have heard me say before, the danger we face when interpreting a parable is to oversimplify.

Parables are meant to be twisted and turned and looked at from different perspectives.

One of those perspectives is how first-century listeners would have heard them.

Those of you that regularly attend Bible Study with me know that one of the biblical scholars that I respect and will frequently use to shed light on Scripture is Amy-Jill Levine.

Dr. Levine is a Jewish New Testament scholar at Vanderbilt Divinity School.

Her gift is that she provides Jewish context to Jesus’ stories.

Christians have a long history of reducing Jesus’ parables to simple metaphors conveying a single lesson.

In contrast, Dr. Levine maintains that parables are not tidy, moral lessons but rather provocative stories that are meant to unsettle our assumptions.

Jesus’ parables do not answer our questions.

Instead, they inspire new ones.

They invite us into the surprising, often uncomfortable, imagination of God’s Kin-dom.

Today’s Gospel is a collection of five short parables.

A mustard seed.

Yeast.

Treasure in a field.

A pearl of great value.

A fishing net.

On the surface, they all seem disconnected, but each asks the same question:

What does the Kin-dom look like when it arrives?

The answer Jesus gives is astonishingly simple:

It looks like abundance.

Not scarcity.

Not fear.

Not “there’s not enough to go around.”

Abundance.

Yet abundance is perhaps the hardest thing for us to believe.

We are culturally conditioned to think in terms of scarcity.

We live in a world that teaches scarcity from the day we are born.

There aren’t enough jobs.

We don’t have enough money.

People aren’t showing enough love.

Our borders aren’t secure enough.

We don’t have enough time to do everything that needs doing.

The problem is that a scarcity mindset fosters greed and competition.

Competition, in turn, breeds fear.

And fear breeds conflict and exclusion.

But Jesus’ parables illustrate a different possibility.

Jesus tells parables about the Kin-dom to challenge us and to expand the way that we think.

Take the mustard seed.

Pastors have sanitized the parable and made it about faith and how a tiny seed of faith can become something great.

While there is truth in that, it is a superficial reading.

Dr. Levine reminds us that mustard wasn’t exactly a prized ornamental plant.

It was closer to an invasive shrub—a plant that spread where gardeners didn’t want it.

Once mustard takes root, it’s almost impossible to control.

For the gardeners amongst you, think bamboo or mint.

In the Parable of the Mustard Seed, Jesus isn’t comparing the Kin-dom to a carefully landscaped garden.

The Kin-dom is wild.

It doesn’t respect boundaries.

It doesn’t stay within sanctuaries.

It grows where no one planned for it to grow.

And then the birds come.

Not one bird—a flock.

And there is enough room for all of them to nest—abundance.

There are a few pastors who now refer to the parable as the Parable of the Nest.

I like that—it resonates with me.

Then comes the yeast.

A baker mixes yeast into three measures of flour.

Three measures—that doesn’t sound like much until we find out that three measures are nearly sixty pounds of flour.

That would make enough bread to feed more than a hundred people!

The point was never about baking.

The point is extravagance.

Scarcity does not exist in the Kin-dom.

There is never “just enough”.

The Kin-dom overflows.

Peace, love, and justice are in abundance.

Grace isn’t rationed.

God dispenses it freely.

Mercy isn’t measured in cups.

God’s mercy is never ending.

When we are expecting a snack, God prepares a banquet.

Then, Jesus speaks of buried treasure found in a field.

And a merchant who finds one pearl so special that he sells everything to buy it.

The parables are often interpreted to be about sacrifice—what we’re willing to sacrifice for God.

But what if the point is not about the cost but about the joy of discovery?

The ones who discovered the treasure rejoiced at what they found.

The merchant doesn’t regret selling everything; he found something he didn’t even know he was looking for.

Scarcity focuses on what we surrender.

Abundance focuses on what we’ve found.

Our lives become so much richer when we shift our focus from our perceptions of loss to the reality of God’s gifts.

The last parable is about the net that collects all kinds of fish.

First, the net gathers fish.

Then comes the sorting.

The order is important.

The separation comes later.

Too often, we sort before we gather.

We decide who belongs before we even throw our nets into the metaphorical sea.

Jesus’ parable points us in another direction.

Our work is gathering.

It is God’s work to sort.

Dr. Levine repeatedly reminds us that the parables warn us against assuming the role of God.

We need to leave God’s work to God.

We are called to welcome.

To serve.

To love.

God dispenses justice.

There would be a lot more peace in the world if we just stayed in our lane.

It is important for us to remember: Jesus was an observant Jew.

He never rejected his faith.

He lived within it.

He argued inside it.

He loved it enough to challenge it.

In the Kin-dom, we don’t discard the old.

Nor do we cling to tradition simply because it is old and familiar.

The Kin-dom values both old and new.

Ancient wisdom and fresh insight.

Inherited faith and surprising revelation.

That is abundance.

Not choosing between old and new but receiving both as gifts.

That is the thread that runs through today’s parables—abundance.

The seed grows into a shrub so big that birds perch in its branches.

The yeast provides lift to a huge amount of flour¬—enough to feed many.

The treasure and the pearl are found.

The net is full.

Everything is overflowing.

And maybe that’s exactly how these parables are supposed to unsettle us today.

We have been blinded by scarcity.

It has made us argue about who belongs.

Who deserves rights.

Who deserves safety.

Who deserves housing and food and healthcare.

Who deserves love.

Scarcity is always zero-sum: if someone else wins, I must lose.

The Gospel tells us there is a different reality.

God’s grace is unlimited.

God’s mercy is inexhaustible.

Forgiveness multiplies; it doesn’t reduce.

Welcoming is never at the expense of our own belonging.

That is the lesson of the Table.

Bread—broken and shared.

And, miraculously, everyone is fed.

Because God’s generosity is transformative.

The miracle is abundance.

Not abundance measured in money or power.

But abundance measured in hope.

In grace.

In mercy.

In welcome.

In justice.

In love.

And in joy.

Despite what Christian Nationalists would have you believe, the Kin-dom is not a gated community.

It is not a kingdom of scarcity where we must greedily protect what we have.

The Kin-dom is a kingdom of abundance.

It is a wildly growing bush where birds find places to nest.

It is bread enough for the community.

It is treasure that fills us with joy.

It is a net cast wide enough to include everyone.

That is the message I hope you will carry away with you.

God’s grace is abundant.

God’s love is unconditional.

God’s mercy is never ending.

So, we need to stop thinking that someone else’s blessing somehow takes away from our own.

Because God always provides enough—in fact, more than enough.

So, plant wildly.

Bake extravagantly.

Seek joyfully.

Welcome generously.

And share freely.

Because, in the Kin-dom, there is always room for one more.

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

Joy & Lament

So, I’m going to start out this morning by saying something that may be a bit controversial.

It is unlikely that Jesus turned around and explained his parables.

That’s simply not the way that that type of story-telling—which was a common tool for teaching in first-century Judaism—was used.

The majority consensus amongst biblical scholars is that the explanation of the parable is editorializing by students and followers of Matthew when the oral history was written down.

Now, if it’s important for you to believe that Scripture is the inerrant word of God or even that all of this was written down by Matthew, a disciple of Jesus who was there, I’m not asking you to abandon that.

However, if you are troubled by the disconnect between a loving God who dispenses unconditional grace and fiery furnaces where sinners weep and gnash their teeth, this explanation may help clear up a few things.

So, today’s Parable of the Weeds is a follow-up to last week’s Parable of the Sower.

Some would say there is a disconnect between the picture I painted last week of a God sowing seeds with graceful abandon and this week’s story of that garden being infiltrated by evil.

Perhaps.

But I think the important point to focus on is Jesus saying, “No, if you pull up the weeds, you might take the wheat along with them.”

And I’ll tell you why I think that’s important.

Because we’re not always so good at distinguishing the weeds from the wheat as we would like to think.

We are living in highly polarized times.

Some in our country are celebrating political victories that they believe are just and provide them with hope for the future.

Others, me included, are grieving losses that we are convinced will bring hate, fear, suffering, and exclusion—all of which jeopardize our hope for the coming of the Kin-dom.

Even within this congregation, we sometimes find ourselves sitting beside people whose worldview is entirely different from our own.

Some arrived here this morning carrying nothing but joy.

Others arrived carrying only lament.

Many, including me, carry both.

And that, I think is the message that we need to carry away from today’s gospel.

We Lutherans are a both/and people.

It’s baked into our theology.

We are both sinner and saint.

Jesus is both human and divine.

At the table, there is both bread and body, both wine and blood.

In troubling times like these, we are inclined to focus on only one emotion.

We are encouraged to feel joy because God is good and we are supposed to see evidence of it in the world around us.

But sometimes it feels impossible to see goodness because the injustice and the suffering is just so damn overwhelming.

This week, Joan Sebastian Guerrero was shot and killed by ICE.

He was authorized to work in this country.

He had a social security number.

There was no warrant for his arrest or detention.

He was on his way to work, and his young life was snuffed out.

By a man whose own family has come forward to say he has a history of mental illness and violent behavior.

You may choose to join me or not, but I beg for God’s mercy because this crime has been committed by MY government, supported by MY tax dollars.

Lord, have mercy.

Christ, have mercy.

In another time, we might be able to shrug this off as a one-off—a one-time occurrence that doesn’t reflect our national character.

Unfortunately, this does reflect our national character.

And I hope that really ticks off each and every one of you.

It will tick some of you off because you think I’m being unfair—that we live in a world of laws and, if people would just comply, these tragedies would not happen.

My black and brown siblings would tell you that’s delusional.

They would tell you that “driving while black” is a real thing.

And that having “the talk” with their sons is not about the birds and the bees—it’s about surviving an interaction with law enforcement.

Others of you will be offended because you’re thinking I shouldn’t call it our national character because it doesn’t reflect YOUR character.

Congratulations—it doesn’t reflect mine either.

But your discomfort with my assertion doesn’t make it any less true.

People outside our country looking in see what is happening.

They see people detained under inhumane conditions.

They see people—both immigrants AND citizens—gunned down in the street by our government.

They see foreign governments calling for investigations into the deaths of their citizens.

They see human rights organizations—including the UN—accusing the United States of human rights violations.

The irony should not be lost on you that the United States, a founding member of the United Nations and a country that has never hesitated to point out human rights violations—except perhaps when they are perpetrated by Israel—is now accused of the very crimes we used to love to stand on a soapbox and rail against.

Again, you may choose to join me or not, but I beg for God’s mercy because those acts have been committed by MY government, supported by MY tax dollars.

Lord, have mercy.

Christ, have mercy.

My point here is I want you to be angry.

Because frankly, I don’t think we have been angry enough.

Sometimes, we just want to get lost in grieving the cruelty we see.

Sometimes, it is hard—if not impossible—to feel hope.

But without hope—without trust in God—all is lost.

So it is my hope that, just as it did for the prophets, anger will give rise to hope.

Hope that we can make a difference.

Hope that change is possible.

Hope that justice is possible.

Hope that there is no force more powerful than love—the love of God and the love shared between the children of God.

The parable teaches us that as followers of Jesus, we understand that we live in an unfinished world.

It is not harvest time yet.

The Kin-dom of God is near but not yet.

There will continue to be both good and evil in the world.

Both beauty and ugliness.

Both justice and cruelty.

Remember, we are both sinner and saint, my friends.

The weeds of sin grow alongside the wheat of good works in our hearts.

So, don’t be so quick to judge those you perceive as weeds.

We are the farm workers, not the farmer.

The farmer will dictate the harvest.

Our hope is in that harvest— when the Kin-dom comes.

Hope does not deny the weeds—the existence of evil.

Hope trusts the farmer.

We know that, in the Kin-dom, justice will be complete.

“God will wipe away every tear from our eyes.

And death, mourning, crying and pain will be no more…”

Until then, we live in the field.

We tend to the wheat—in spite of the weeds that may grow alongside it.

We love our neighbors as God loves us—unconditionally.

And we pray for our enemies—because they too are children of God.

Jesus’ story doesn’t end with the weeds.

It ends with the harvest.

And being in that in-between place between the planting and the harvest frees us to be people who can carry both joy and lament.

People who can weep at the sight of a 3-year-old girl in Bluey pajamas with a pink backpack who will never see her papa again.

And yet still rejoice with 11 children singing “I Just Wanna Be a Sheep”.

People who can shake their fists in anger at families separated at the border and in detention.

And yet still revel in the beauty of birdsong in the woods.

May God continue to help us hold the both/and.

And may this place be somewhere where the farm workers trust the farmer’s timing, despite our impatience.

May it be a place where we courageously seek justice for all our siblings.

And may it be a place where we remain full of the hope that the Kin-dom is near and God will have the final word.

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

We Are All Sowers

Today’s gospel is the Parable of the Sower.

You all know that I like to twist parables and look at them from different angles.

I do that, not to force them into a meaning that I want.

I do that, because that is the way we are supposed to look at parables.

To look at alternate meanings and different perspectives.

We’ll get to that a little later, but I’d like to start by reminding us that we are all sowers.

We sow seeds of faith.

We sow seeds of faith when we show up to church to hear the word of God proclaimed.

The sowing comes, not from just showing up, but from being truly present.

Our presence sows seeds of faith in ourselves and in the Body of Christ around us.

We sow seeds of faith when we engage in honest reflection and discussion about what Jesus has called us to do.

The sowing comes from sharing, not only our convictions, but also our doubts.

We sow seeds of faith when we show up in the community as the hands and feet of God.

The sowing doesn’t come from being someone who has that shares with the “have nots”.

The sowing comes from being a disciple of Jesus that demonstrates God’s love through our actions.

St. Oscar Romero said, “We plant the seeds that one day will grow.

We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise.”

We sow seeds of friendship and community.

We sow seeds of friendship and community by living into our Welcome Statement, which says:

“We welcome all because it is fundamental to our belief that we are all children of God, regardless of race, culture, country of origin, or the language that you speak—regardless of sexual or romantic orientation—regardless of gender, gender identity, or gender expression—regardless of relationship status.

We welcome all without regard to addictions, physical or mental health, imprisonment, socio-economic circumstances, or any of the categories that too often divide us.

We welcome all without regard to where you are on your personal faith journey—whether you are a life-long Lutheran, you come from another faith tradition, you are doubting, or whether you have no faith practice at all.”

We sow seeds of friendship and community by being, not only welcoming, but also affirming, understanding that each of our human siblings is a beloved child of God that reflects God’s beauty, divinity, and diversity.

We sow seeds of friendship and community because we have done the work to ensure that we are a safe space for people of every sexual, gender, race, and cultural identity.

And we are committed to continuing that work to make ourselves better and remain a safe space.

We sow seeds of friendship and community when we provide safe space for children to learn and grow and have fun so, for a few hours, they can forget the fear that their parents will be abducted by the government.

“We plant the seeds that one day will grow.

We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise.”

And we sow seeds of hope.

We sow seeds of hope when we stand with our siblings against injustice, whether it is at a No Kings protest or at a prayer vigil at Delaney Hall.

We sow seeds of hope when we proclaim the gospel: “to bring Good News to those who are poor, 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.”

We sow seeds of hope when we provide shelter from the elements and showers to our siblings without homes.

We sow seeds of hope when we share food with our siblings who are hungry.

We sow seeds of hope when we care for one another—whether it is by sharing a kind word, visiting someone who is lonely, or consoling someone who is grieving.

“We plant the seeds that one day will grow.

We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise.”

We are each sowers, my friends.

And we sow as Jesus sowed.

And here comes the twist.

When reading the parable, we typically focus on the soil¬—what constitutes good soil and bad.

The problem with that perspective is that it puts us in a position of judgment.

And it’s not soil we’re judging, it’s people.

We’re judging whether those people are worthy of our effort—whether we do it consciously or subconsciously.

But let’s flip the parable and look at it from the perspective of the sower.

The sower sows seed EVERYWHERE—regardless of where it may fall.

If we are being judgmental, that seems wasteful.

Why sow seeds that may not grow?

But the sower sows everywhere.

Because that is grace.

God’s grace is available to everyone, whether they chose to live into that gift or not.

God’s grace is unconditional—whether the soil of our hearts is the hard ground of a well-worn path, rocky ground, or overrun with thorny weeds.

God still sows the seeds of grace.

And that is the message I hope that you will carry away from here today.

As followers of Jesus, we sow as Jesus sows—with wild abandon.

We sow seeds everywhere—without judgment.

We sows seeds from a position of abundance—trusting that God will provide.

A friend of mine shared the following.

I shared it with the Council because I thought it was important, but I share it with you all now.

Because it is important for us to have an abundance mindset because the opposite—scarcity—is self defeating.

Scarcity quietly teaches you that there is never enough.

Not enough money.

Not enough volunteers.

Not enough young families.

Not enough time.

Not enough hope.

Not enough future.

And before long, fear becomes the driving force behind every decision.

We stop asking, "Where is God calling us?" and we start asking, "What can we afford?"

We stop asking, "Who needs to hear the Gospel?" and we start asking, "How do we keep the lights on?"

We stop dreaming and we start just surviving.

But here is the problem with thinking that way.

The Bible is relentlessly, almost offensively, a story of abundance.

Abraham thinks there is no sacrifice and God provides a ram.

Israel thinks they will starve and God provides manna.

A widow thinks she's down to her last meal and her flour and oil don't run out.

Five loaves and two fish become enough for thousands—with baskets left over.

The tomb is empty because even death doesn't get the final word.

The story of Scripture is never that there wasn't enough.

It's that God kept providing in ways nobody expected.

Now, to be clear, abundance isn't pretending budgets don't matter or ignoring reality.

Abundance is the conviction that God's future is always bigger than our fear.

Scarcity says, "Protect what you have."

The Gospel says, "Take. Eat. There is enough."

Scarcity says, "Close the doors."

Jesus says, "Welcome the stranger."

Scarcity says, "We can't."

The resurrection says, "Watch what God can do."

I wonder how many churches are dying—not because they're poor, or small, or aging—but because they've spent so long listening to scarcity that they've forgotten the language of resurrection.

Maybe the greatest miracle our churches need isn't more people.

Maybe it's the courage to believe that God's abundance is still real.

Because we don't worship the God of barely enough.

We worship the God who keeps feeding hungry people until there are baskets left over."

We worship a God who sows seeds EVERYWHERE—on all kinds of soil.

Because our God is a God of abundance.

Our God is a God of grace.

And, as followers of that God, we plant the seeds that one day will grow.

And we water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise.

So keep sowing, my friends.

Keep watering.

And keep nurturing those seeds of faith and community and hope.

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

Loving our LGBTQ+ Neighbors is Following Jesus

Today is Pride Sunday.

I am overjoyed to be here, in this church, amongst you fine people, sharing the good news of Jesus with you.

Even ten short years ago, I would not have thought this was possible.

Now, some of you may be thinking, “that’s your overjoyed look?”

Despite my outward appearance, which my internship supervisor Sara called “earnest”, I am truly both grateful and joyful to be here.

If you’ve ever seen the movie “The Birdcage”, think of the scene where Robin Williams tells one of the performers he’s directing, “You do an eclectic celebration of the dance! You do Fosse, Fosse, Fosse! You do Martha Graham, Martha Graham, Martha Graham! Or Twyla, Twyla, Twyla! Or Michael Kidd, Michael Kidd, Michael Kidd! Or Madonna, Madonna, Madonna! ...but you keep it all inside.”

I’m a keep it all inside kind of guy.

I came out in 1982.

I was 21 years old.

It was the beginning of the AIDS crisis.

I was at a small liberal arts college in rural upstate New York.

Gay bashing was a real and present danger so the vetting process to connect with other queer students was protracted.

First, you had to call a hotline.

If you passed that test, you met in person with a trained peer counselor.

And only then would you be approved to go to the few lesbian and gay activities on campus.

I say lesbian and gay because we hadn’t yet added the BTQIA2S+ to our collective.

Even the marginalized sometimes have something to learn about inclusion.

My point is, at that time, coming out was a big deal.

It had consequences and it could be dangerous.

And all those hoops we had to jump through just to meet other people like us were just too daunting for many.

So, our group was very small.

Fortunately, I’m not a “dip your toe in the water” kind of guy.

Once I decide to do something, I’m all in—with both feet.

But it was a different world then.

None of us would have believed that marriage equality was a possibility in our lifetime.

None of us—even those of us who were members of the community—understood all the nuances of gender and sexuality.

Our reality centered around two things.

One was coming out to the few people in our lives who were trusted enough, or who were important enough, to warrant taking that risk.

The other was protecting our secret from those who could harm us—physically, emotionally, or professionally.

My, how things have changed!

In New Jersey, there are laws in place to protect our employment and our housing.

There is federal hate crime legislation—thanks to Matthew Shepard, who was brutally murdered in 1998.

Marriage equality is the law of the land—thanks to the Obergfell decision in 2015.

LGBTQ+ parents can adopt.

And HIV infection is no longer a death sentence.

Yet, many things have not changed.

In many states, a person can still be fired or evicted because of their sexuality or gender identity.

Every year, hundreds of transgender people, mostly women, are murdered for who they are.

Legal cases are wending their way through the courts to challenge marriage equality—and many states have laws queued up to make gay marriage illegal if the Supreme Court reverses its decision.

The rights of transgender youth to access gender-affirming care is being challenged across the country by the federal government.

And cuts to social safety nets—as well as detention—are preventing HIV-positive people from getting the medication they need to stay alive.

I am generally a very positive person.

I used to say I was hopelessly optimistic.

Now, I realize that what I used to call optimism is intimately entwined with my faith.

It has its roots in my trust in God.

This weekend, I watched a 5-part series called “Tip Toe”.

It is a UK production, set in Manchester.

The series starts out with the lynching of a gay man.

Normally, that would have been enough for me to stop watching.

I’m a happy ending kind of guy.

But I was watching with a friend and a bit intrigued, so I hung with it.

The rest of the series was about the events leading up to the lynching.

Throughout the series, you can see the white male anger simmering that would lead up to the violent end.

That anger stems from the cultural conditioning that tells white men that we are supposed to live privileged lives¬.

We are supposed to have the best jobs.

We are supposed to be in positions of power.

Our lives are supposed to be golden.

And, when they are not, we look for someone to blame.

And that blame usually falls to one marginalized group or another—the scapegoats.

In this particular series, it was the LGBTQ+ community.

It could just have easily been Jews or Muslims or people of color or immigrants.

The point is that, despite all our progress, the fight for civil rights is not over.

It will never be over until the Kin-dom comes.

Emma Lazarus, the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Fannie Lou Hamer, and Maya Angelou all said some variation on “No one is free until we all are free”.

Amen, brothers and sisters, amen.

As I prepared for this sermon and thought about coming out and the challenges facing LGBTQ+ folks, I couldn’t help but think of the disciples in today’s gospel.

Jesus said, “follow me.”

Have you ever thought about what that really means?

It meant leaving family and friends.

It meant leaving their homes and their livelihoods.

It meant stepping out of their comfort zone and into the unknown.

It meant becoming who God intended them to be.

I think coming out is a bit like that.

We grow up in a cis-gender, heterocentric world.

Where gender reveal parties are still a thing—like something as complex as gender identity can be determined by the presence or absence of a shadow on a sonogram.

Where blue is often still for boys and pink is often still for girls.

Where dolls and tea sets are mostly still for girls and trucks and guns are mostly still for boys.

Where we jump to conclusions about gender identity, based solely on appearance.

Where men are routinely asked about wives or girlfriends and women are asked about husbands or boyfriends.

We are culturally conditioned to think in terms of a gender binary.

And to believe that straight is the default.

That is the comfort zone that is imposed upon us.

And because that “comfort zone” is the cultural norm, for those of that don’t conform, coming out is a continuous process.

It never ends.

Because every time we meet new people or enter a new environment, we have to do it all over again.

And, I have to be honest, sometimes it is just plain exhausting.

But the interesting thing about this comfort zone that society has constructed for us it that isn’t real—it is a fabrication.

Sexuality and gender identity are infinitely more complex than that.

So, those of us who don’t fit the tidy, binary, heterosexual mold are called out of that comfort zone.

We are called to be our authentic selves—to become who God intended us to be.

There are endless arguments about what makes people who they are—nature or nurture.

Personally, I believe it is a combination of the two.

Genetics certainly has a role.

But, unless a person has a supportive environment, the emotional strength, or the faith to sustain them, they may never become their authentic self.

I have no doubt that I am exactly who God intended me to be.

And it is my sincerest hope that my example—as an out and proud child of God—was good news to a few people who were struggling with discovering their own authenticity.

And to be clear, to borrow a phrase from Michelle Obama, I am still becoming.

I continue to grow and evolve—in my faith, in my knowledge, and in my ability to love and be loved.

We—all of us—are beloved children of God.

Our walk with God is a path of self-discovery.

Sometimes, we discover new talents.

Sometimes, we discover new layers of who we are.

Sometimes, we discover new capacities to love.

If we do it right, that journey of discovering one’s authentic self brings us ever closer to God.

And isn’t that all just AMAZING?

Today, we also celebrate 30 years of being a Reconciling in Christ congregation—of extending extravagant, unconditional welcome to all people.

Like Simon Peter and Andrew in today’s gospel, this congregation stepped away from the comfort of tradition—and even the safety of Synod leadership.

It stepped out in faith, not knowing what the impact would be and which beloved siblings would leave as a result.

It ignored the naysayers who said, “we don’t want to be known as the ‘gay’ church”.

Jesus said, “follow me” and Emanuel followed.

You heard the call to see the image of God in one another and you followed.

You heard the call to extend unconditional welcome to people who society told you were “less than” and you followed.

You heard God call you by name and you shouted to your neighbors, “God has called you too.”

In your bones, you felt our loving God claim you as God’s own and you proclaimed, “Siblings, you are also beloved children of God and God claims each and every one of you as God’s own.”

May we continue to live into the commitment that was made 30 years ago.

May we continue to grow in faith and in our capacity to love.

And may the world always know we are followers of Jesus by the way that we love one another.

Let us pray: Good and gracious God, Creator of us all,

thank You for the beauty of diversity and for forming us to be exactly who we were meant to be.

As we celebrate Pride and our Reconciling in Christ anniversary, let Your love, peace, and protection follow us wherever we go.

Remind us that we are fearfully and wonderfully made, and may our hearts remain open to joy, courage, and true connection.

All this, we ask in the blessed name of Jesus, the one who walked among us and who still meets us at the table.

Amen.

Do Not Be Afraid: The Courage to Love

A sermon by Rich Novak

Grace and peace to you from God our Creator and from Jesus the Christ.

One phrase echoes through all three readings today: “Do not be afraid.”

The psalmist is afraid. He is mocked, rejected, ridiculed, and abandoned by members of his own family. He cries out, “Rescue me from the quicksand—don’t let me sink.” The disciples are afraid. Jesus is preparing them for the reality that following him will not always be easy.

And Jesus does not sugarcoat any of it.

Instead, he says: “Do not let people intimidate you.” “Do not be afraid.” “You are worth more than many sparrows.”

I have come to believe that one of the most important truths in the Christian life is this: the opposite of Christian discipleship is not doubt. It is fear.

Doubt can coexist with faith. But fear causes us to withdraw from God’s mission. Fear causes us to build walls instead of tables. Fear causes us to see threats where God sees neighbors.

We live in a world saturated with fear. We are constantly told whom to fear and what to we fear. Christians should always be suspicious when fear becomes the primary tool used to motivate people.

Because fear is not the primary language of Jesus.

Love is.

That brings us to one of the most difficult passages in the Gospel: “Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.”

Jesus is not talking about violence. He is talking about disruption.

The sword is the dividing line that appears whenever people must choose between fear and love, exclusion and belonging, self-interest and compassion.

The Gospel challenges every system—religious, political, economic, and social—that 1 decides some people matter more than others.

And whenever those assumptions are challenged, conflict follows.

Not because Christians seek conflict.

But because love itself can be disruptive.

Jesus touched people others avoided. He ate with people others condemned. He welcomed people others excluded. He crossed boundaries that society insisted should remain in place.

And every time he did, someone became angry.

We often assume conflict is evidence that something has gone wrong.

Jesus suggests that sometimes conflict is evidence that love has gone somewhere it was never expected to go.

The conflict was not caused by hatred.

The conflict was caused by radical love.

That is the sword Jesus is describing.

This week our nation observed Juneteenth, the celebration of the final enforcement of emancipation in Texas in 1865. Those who advocated for abolition, equality, and human dignity often faced ridicule, opposition, and hostility. Yet many persisted because they believed that God's truth was greater than public opinion. Juneteenth reminds us that freedom is not merely a historical achievement. Freedom is a spiritual calling. Every generation must decide whether it will organize itself around fear or around human dignity; whether it will expand the circle of justice or defend the boundaries of privilege.

People of faith helped lead that struggle because the Gospel demanded it. The struggle for human dignity is never fully finished.

Courage is not the absence of fear.

Courage is deciding that something else matters more than fear.

For the disciples, proclaiming the Gospel mattered more than fear. For abolitionists, freedom mattered more than fear. For civil rights leaders, justice mattered more than fear.

And for us today, love must matter more than fear.

This is where Paul’s words about baptism become so important.

Too often we think of baptism as a private spiritual event. Paul sees something much bigger.

In baptism, an old identity dies and a new one is born.

The fearful self dies.

The self obsessed with status dies.

The self that seeks safety above all else dies.

The self that draws circles around “us” and “them” dies.

And a new self emerges—rooted not in fear but in God’s grace.

When we emerge from the waters of baptism, we are claiming a new allegiance. Our primary identity is no longer political, economic, or tribal. Our primary identity is that we belong to Christ.

Baptism is not an escape from the world.

It is a commissioning for service within the world.

That is where this Gospel becomes deeply relevant to Emanuel Lutheran Church.

The psalmist speaks as an outsider. Many people in our city know exactly what that feels like: the unhoused neighbor, the hungry family, the immigrant searching for belonging, the person who has been told they do not matter.

And yet these are precisely the people toward whom Jesus continually moves.

Every week this congregation makes a choice.

We can see hunger as someone else’s problem, or we can prepare another meal.

We can see homelessness as an unfortunate reality, or we can learn names, build relationships, and recognize Christ in those we encounter.

We can retreat into comfort, or we can open our doors wider.

Week after week, Emanuel chooses the harder path: presence, hospitality, and accompaniment.

That ministry is not simply social service.

It is discipleship.

Every meal served declares that no one is forgotten by God.

Every conversation with an unhoused neighbor declares that dignity does not depend on housing status.

Every act of welcome declares that human worth is not determined by wealth, achievement, citizenship, language, or social standing.

That is why I am grateful for the growing participation of our Latino neighbors.

Their presence is not changing who Emanuel is. Their presence is helping Emanuel become more fully who God is calling us to be.

The Kindom of God has always spoken many languages. The Kindom of God has always crossed borders. The Kindom of God has always been larger than the boundaries human beings create.

They are not guests here.

They are part of us.

And that is not charity.

That is the Gospel.

Because the Gospel is about creating communities that look more like God’s kindom right now—communities where every person is valued, every sparrow matters, and every child of God belongs.

This weekend also follows Father’s Day. Many of us have been blessed by fathers, grandfathers, mentors, teachers, and elders who modeled everyday courage—the courage to keep showing up, to choose integrity over convenience, and to do what is right when it is not easy.

At the same time, we recognize that Father's Day can be painful for some. Not everyone experienced a father or father figure as a source of love, safety, or encouragement. For some, these relationships were marked by absence, disappointment, neglect, or even harm. We honor that reality today as well. God's love is not limited by the failures of human relationships. Where others have wounded us, God seeks to heal us. Where others have failed us, God remains faithful. And where there is pain, God's grace continues its work of restoration and hope.

Comfort and discipleship are not always the same thing.

Comfort says, “Keep things the way they are.”

Love says, “Open the door wider.”

Comfort says, “Protect what is mine.”

Love says, “Share what God has given.”

Comfort avoids conflict.

Love sometimes accepts conflict because people matter more than convenience.

So perhaps the question before us today is not whether we are afraid.

Of course we are.

The question is whether fear will be our guide.

Will fear determine who belongs?

Will fear determine who matters?

Will fear determine how we live?

Or will love?

The world tells us that fear keeps us safe.

Jesus tells us that love sets us free.

The world tells us to build higher walls.

Jesus tells us to build longer tables.

The world tells us to protect ourselves.

Jesus tells us to welcome one another.

The world tells us to be afraid.

Jesus tells us: “Do not be afraid. You are worth more than many sparrows.”

And because we are loved that deeply, we are free to love that boldly—free to welcome the stranger, free to stand beside the forgotten, free to tell the truth, free to love our neighbors, and free to follow Jesus, even when it costs us something.

Because the God who knows every sparrow knows every one of us.

And the God who raised Christ from the dead is still raising courageous disciples today.

Thanks be to God.

Amen.

Ubuntu

We spend a lot of time talking about community.

About how this congregation is a community.

About the importance of engaging the community around us.

I chose today’s gathering song with a purpose.

It was certainly beautiful all on it own and beautiful music has a way of uplifting us—of opening our hearts and minds to the presence of God and one another.

But the Zulu philosophy of Ubuntu is yet another way for us to look at community.

Ubuntu says, “I am because we are”.

We cannot live in isolation—that was not God’s intent for us.

God intends for us to live in community.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus tours towns and villages, proclaiming the Good News and curing all kinds of diseases and sicknesses.

Jesus travels with the community of his followers to other communities throughout Galilee.

And Matthew says, “At the sight of the crowds, Jesus’ heart was moved with pity because they were distressed and dejected, like sheep without a shepherd.”

Jesus wasn’t above the crowd.

He wasn’t emotionally detached from the suffering he saw.

He was moved by it.

The verse doesn’t say that he blamed them for their troubles.

It said he was “moved with pity”.

He felt compassion for them.

He suffered with them in their pain.

Another layer of Ubuntu is the greeting “Sawubona”, which means “I see you”.

But it is more than a simple greeting.

Sawubona is intimate.

It doesn’t just mean I observe your presence.

It means I see you in your entirety.

I acknowledge your circumstances—your lived experience.

I recognize your dignity.

I accept our interconnectedness.

How beautiful is that?

I also frequently talk about our cultural conditioning—attitudes we have without even realizing it.

Think about how we greet people—"Hey, how ya doin?”

Maybe a head nod thrown in for good measure.

It’s something automatic.

We’re taught it’s polite.

But, unless it is a family member or close friend, it’s unlikely that we’re making a serious effort to connect.

We don’t necessarily expect to hear an honest response to how they are doing.

We’re unlikely to notice if they look tired or have bloodshot eyes from crying or lack of sleep.

We’re certainly not thinking about our interconnectedness.

Now, to be fair, I don’t think we do this maliciously—or because we don’t care.

We do it because we’re always busy.

We’re always focused on the next thing we’re supposed to be doing.

We do it because we are culturally conditioned to think about ourselves and our families first—not the wider community.

But that is the lesson of Ubuntu.

Ubuntu teaches that we are interrelated.

Looking through our Christian lens, we are bound together as children of God.

Ubuntu says I become myself precisely through my relationship with the community.

And that is the Good News of the gospel: there is no justice for me unless there is justice for everyone.

Either we all thrive or no one does.

Our success is not individual because my flourishing cannot be separated from yours.

That is a tough lesson for us to hear.

Because our culture tells us to focus on individual success.

“Get the promotion!”

“Buyer beware!”

“Pick yourself up by your bootstraps!”

But that is not the way of Jesus.

Jesus looks at the crowd and sees suffering.

It’s not a superficial survey.

It’s intimate—because he is Emanuel, God With Us.

Because our God is the God who sees.

And how does Jesus respond?

He gathers his community of followers together.

He gathers his followers—a ragtag group of people who had little in common until they became students of Jesus.

There were fishermen—working class people on the lower economic rungs of society.

There was a tax collector—a group universally reviled as traitors to their people and Roman collaborators.

There was a Zealot—a political fanatic outside of mainstream Judaism.

And there were women—so overlooked in first-century Judea that they aren’t even counted.

But Jesus made them a community.

And Jesus doesn’t complain and say there aren’t enough of them to do the work that needs doing.

He doesn’t say they aren’t smart enough or strong enough or capable enough.

He empowers them.

And he sends them out.

To other communities—communities where there is need.

A need for healing—healing of bodies, minds, and spirits.

Because what we often fail to realize is that, particularly in first-century Judea, illness isolated people.

Healing not only restored bodies, minds, and spirits—it restored relationships and brought outcasts back into community.

When others ignore or reject community, Jesus restores it.

In today’s gospel, Jesus also says, “The harvest is bountiful but the laborers are few.

Beg the overseer of the harvest to send laborers out to bring in the crops.”

I am not a farmer.

But I don’t have to be a farmer to know that harvesting is communal work.

It takes a community to bring in a crop.

Whether you see Jesus’ talk of harvesting as a metaphor for evangelism or healing or service, it’s clear that he sees it as communal work.

The work of serving our neighbors is communal work.

It is our work to do.

It is our calling—whether we heed that call or not.

Ubuntu says, “My humanity is tied to yours.”

Jesus says: “You received freely—now freely give.”

The two are closely related.

Both reject the idea that we can live in isolation.

We receive unconditional love from God.

Jesus says, “Now freely give”.

See one another.

Don’t be blind to suffering.

Be compassionate.

Be a healing force in the world.

Restore people in body, mind, and spirit.

Restore relationships and gather in the outcasts and the marginalized.

Today, we also commemorate the Emanuel 9.

They were a community and also part of a larger community.

They were diverse—like Jesus’ disciples.

There were pastors, a politician, a librarian, and a recent college graduate.

They practiced Ubuntu.

When a stranger came in to join their Bible Study, they said, “We see you.

We acknowledge you as a fellow child of God.

We are because you are.”

Unfortunately, Dylann Roof did not practice Ubuntu.

He did not see the humanity of his hosts.

Despite being raised as a Lutheran, he did not acknowledge them as siblings in Christ.

He believed that white people could live in isolation.

He rejected the Kin-dom of God.

My friends, we live in a complicated world.

One that encourages independence, rather than interdependence.

One that relies on self-sufficiency, rather than the common good.

One that focuses on scarcity, rather than abundance.

Jesus and Ubuntu offer an alternative:

We are intended to be in community.

We are supposed to understand that we cannot thrive as a species unless we ALL thrive—including people experiencing poverty, hunger, and homelessness.

None of us have justice unless ALL of us have justice—including people of all races, cultures, genders, and sexualities.

We ARE the body of Christ.

In 1 Corinthians, we read, “The body is one, even though it has many parts; all the parts—many though they are—comprise a single body.

And so it is with Christ.

It was by one Spirit that all of us, whether we are Jews or Greeks, slaves or citizens, were baptized into one body.

All of us have been given to drink of the one Spirit.

And that Body is not one part; it is many.”

That is the crux of Ubuntu AND the gospel.

I am because we are.

We are because Christ is.

Give freely as we have received.

See one another—not superficially but in our entirety.

Stop being blind to the suffering of our siblings.

For the sake of all that is good and holy, stop killing one another.

Love one another as God first loved us.

Because when we love one another, that is how we build the community that God intended for us.

That is how we co-create the Kin-dom.

My friends—my siblings in Christ—let it be so.

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

Remember Your Baptism

In today’s second lesson, the Apostle Paul recounts the story of Sarah and Abraham.

God made promises to them that seemed impossible.

Both of them were old.

Sarah was well beyond her childbearing years.

It would seem that their bodies were incapable of creating new life.

Yet Abraham trusted that, through God, all things were possible.

He believed in God’s faithfulness.

Today’s Gospel tells the story of two miracles interwoven with each other.

In one, a “synagogue official” comes to Jesus because his daughter had died.

The official asks Jesus to lay his hands on his daughter so she will live again.

In the second story, a woman who had suffered from hemorrhages for twelve years touches the hem of Jesus’ cloak, knowing she would be healed.

Like Abraham, both the synagogue official and the bleeding woman trusted in God’s faithfulness.

They believed that, through God, all things were possible—even miracles of healing and resurrection.

Trust in God’s faithfulness is integrally tied to baptism.

The sacrament of Baptism is a covenant with God.

We make promises to God and God makes promises to us.

Many Christian denominations practice adult—or believer’s— baptism.

Their rationale is that the person being baptized must understand the promises being made.

Lutherans, like Catholics, practice infant baptism.

In our practice, the sponsors—or godparents—make those promises on the infant’s behalf.

That’s a pretty weighty responsibility.

That’s why being a godparent is not just an honor.

It’s also an obligation.

For our part, we promise, amongst other things, to proclaim the Good News of Jesus and to be fellow workers in the Kin-dom of God.

God promises us forgiveness—unconditional grace.

God promises us belonging—the community that comes from being a child of God.

God promises us “that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, neither heights nor depths—nor anything else in all creation—will be able to separate us from the love of God that comes to us in Christ Jesus, our Savior.”

And therein lies the foundation of baptism.

God promises to love us forever—unconditionally.

Now, to be clear, God already loves little CJ.

Whether we go through this ritual of words and water, CJ is a beloved child of God.

The sacrament is not for God.

The sacrament is for us—to remind us.

To remind us that we are beloved children of God.

Who God calls by name.

Who God claims as God’s own.

Because we need to be reminded.

We need to be reminded because we get wrapped up in the minutiae of life.

We get so busy with careers and to do lists and the noise of everyday life that we sometimes forget what’s important.

We need to be reminded because of the inner voice that tells us we’re not worthy.

Truth be told: we aren’t worthy.

But baptism reminds us God’s love isn’t about worthiness.

God’s love is unconditional.

In today’s gospel, Jesus also says, “People who are in good health don’t need a doctor; sick people do.

Go and learn the meaning of the words, ‘I desire compassion, not sacrifices.’

I have come to call not the righteous but sinners.”

We are imperfect people.

Jesus acknowledges that and says he doesn’t care.

He is there for us anyway.

He is faithful to us—whether we are faithful to him, or not.

We have no confirmands this year.

But I confirmed three young men last year.

I think we have done ourselves a disservice by calling that milestone confirmation.

Because actually—what those young men were doing—they were affirming their baptism.

They were saying that they were now mature enough to understand the promises that were made on their behalf when they were infants.

And they were assuming the responsibility for those promises themselves.

Of course, it’s important for them to acknowledge their responsibility to proclaim the Good News of Jesus and be fellow workers in the Kin-dom.

But what I told those young men is, if they remember nothing else from confirmation class, remember that God loves them and nothing they do can make God not love them.

Because we need to be reminded.

We are beloved children of God.

Who God calls by name.

Who God claims as God’s own.

On Friday, I presided at my first quinceañera.

I knew it was an important milestone in a young woman’s life.

What I learned is that it is also an affirmation of baptism.

So, I chose first John chapter four as the second lesson.

It’s the passage that starts, “Beloved, let us love one another because love is of God; everyone who loves is begotten of God and has knowledge of God.

Those who do not love have known nothing of God, for God is love.”

John goes on to say, “God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God in them.”

I thought that passage was perfect for an affirmation of baptism.

Because, in addition to remembering all the promises made on her behalf at her baptism and acknowledging that she was now responsible for living up to those promises, she needed to be reminded.

Because it’s tough to be a young adult these days.

They are immersed in social media.

They are pressured to wear the right clothes, listen to the right music, and be in with the right crowd.

So they need to be reminded.

Reminded that they are beloved children of God.

Who God calls by name.

And who God claims as God’s own.

So rejoice with me.

Rejoice with me because baptism is a cause for celebration.

Rejoice with me because God is faithful.

Rejoice with me because, through God, all things are possible.

Rejoice with me because God’s love is unconditional.

Rejoice with me because, today, in CJ, we welcome another sibling to the Body of Christ.

My hope for each of us as we go forward from this place is that we remember our own baptism from time-to-time.

I try to never pass a font without dipping my fingers in, crossing myself, and remembering my baptism.

Maybe you could make a practice of remembering your own baptism when you take a shower, or wash the dishes, or take a dip in the pool.

It doesn’t even have to be about water.

You could remember your baptism while you have your cup of tea or coffee in the morning.

Or while you take that walk in the splendor of God’s creation.

But I encourage you to pause and remember—through water and the Word, we are made new.

Through baptism, God reminds us.

“You are my beloved child.

I have called you by name.

And I have claimed you as my own.”

Thanks be to God!

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

What the Trinity Can Teach Us About Community

I almost decided to skip Holy Trinity Sunday and just call this the First Sunday after Pentecost.

Part of it is simple logistics.

For the First Sunday after Pentecost, we are back in Ordinary Time with green paraments, which stay green until Advent.

For Holy Trinity Sunday, we are supposed to have white paraments—for one week.

The other reason is that the concept of “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit” is deeply entrenched in Holy Trinity Sunday and that is challenging for a congregation like Emanuel that strives to use inclusive liturgy.

But never one to shrink from a challenge, I figured, “what the heck?”

Let me start out by saying, if Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are integral to your faith, that’s OK.

I would never tell you that you need to give it up.

What I will say is that the concept of a Holy Trinity is not biblical.

The first mention of the word “Trinity” was not until the late second century and it was not codified as church doctrine until the Council of Nicaea in 325.

Now, if I were you, my first question would be, “well, then what about today’s gospel: ‘Baptize them in the name of Abba God, and of the Only Begotten, and of the Holy Spirit.’

It is widely believed by theologians, that the text in Matthew was more a reflection of first-century Christian practice than actual words of Jesus.

Their rationale is that way baptizing and teaching are worded, it sounds very much like the creation of a new religion and, as you have heard me say many times before, Jesus was a faithful Jew and he sought to reform Judaism, not break from it.

That may be disturbing to some and I reiterate, if you chose to believe that Jesus said those words, it’s perfectly fine.

I’m not here to challenge your faith.

I only present opportunities to expand it.

I will ask you to remember that God is a spirit and, as a spirit, gender is irrelevant.

So, calling God “mother” or “parent” has as much meaning as “father”.

They are all constructs to help our finite minds grasp the idea that our Creator loves and cares for us—as a father, mother, or guardian would.

Jesus was human, so he had a gender and, at least as we understand it, he was male.

So, calling him the Son of God makes some sense.

But remember, in Luke 13:34, Jesus says, “How often have I wanted to gather your children together as a mother bird collects her babies under her wings”.

So, Jesus is comparing himself to a mother hen—no toxic masculinity there.

And our church doctrine says Jesus is 100% human and 100% divine.

Well, the divine part is spirit and, there again, gender has no meaning.

No one seems to care too much about the gender of the Holy Spirit.

Many use feminine pronouns to describe the Spirit, presumably to try and balance out the Trinity.

But traditionally, the Spirit has also been linked to Sophia—Wisdom—who is female.

All of which is to say that our ideas about God are just that—ideas.

God is an infinite being.

As finite beings, we are incapable of completely understanding the mysteries of God.

The best we can do is to use concepts with which are familiar—male and female, father and son, king, judge, savior, and wisdom—all these help us understand that which is beyond our grasp.

For the sake of this morning’s sermon, I’d like to propose another metaphor to help us in our understanding of the Trinity—the Trinity as community.

God is not solitary.

God is an eternal, loving community of three distinct entities.

Community is a concept that we will come back to again and again.

Because our faith practice as followers of Jesus was meant to be observed in community.

Community is about belonging.

One way of thinking about the first person of the Trinity is to think about them as the source of belonging.

The Creator is our beginning in whose image we were formed.

Our identity as children of God gives us belonging.

Community is also about relationships.

One way to think about Jesus is to think about him as the source of relationship with God.

God became incarnate in Jesus to be in relationship with us.

Jesus modeled empathy, compassion, and service—to show us how God intended us to be.

When we emulate that same empathy, compassion, and service, it is a bridge to God.

And, as a bridge, it flows in both directions.

The incarnation not only helps God relate to us, but also for us to relate to God.

Community is also about unity—it’s right in the word!

One way to think about the Spirit is to think about her as the source of our unity.

The Spirit flows through us, binding us.

She breaks down our barriers and inspires us.

She opens our hearts and our minds so that we can experience unbridled joy, extend unqualified welcome, and share unconditional love.

So, if you’ll indulge my metaphor: the Trinity is a community—a community with entities who are the source of belonging, the source of relationship, and the source of unity.

And perhaps, when we realize that Jesus’ followers were a community AND we think about the Trinity as a community, it will help us to recognize the importance of this community as well as the community that surrounds us.

Because our future as a congregation hinges on our embracing community—not just that which is comfortable and familiar but community in our most expansive imagination.

I had no idea that we would have 13 people join our congregation last week until a few days before.

For me, Pentecost last week was a Spirit-filled, joyous event.

But perhaps it was not so for everyone.

For some, change is difficult.

For some, their faith is an anchor in a world that is simply changing too fast.

I think of my faith more like a boat than an anchor—something that holds me up and carries me through the torrents of change.

My faith is constantly evolving.

I have moments of doubt that lead to soul searching.

I learn new things and have encounters that make me experience God in new ways.

I’m not saying that faith like a boat is better than faith like an anchor—it’s only different.

But I will say that, if you resist change, your faith will be static.

If you embrace change, your faith has an opportunity to grow in ways you may not expect.

As the saying goes: if you do what you always did, you’ll get what you always got.

I am reminded of a quote from Rachel Held Evans, one of my favorite authors.

She wrote, “…church isn’t static. It’s not a building, or a denomination, or a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization.

Church is a moment in time when the kingdom of God draws near, when a meal, a story, a song, an apology, and even a failure is made holy by the presence of Jesus among us and within us.

Church was alive and well long before we came up with the words relevant and missional, and church will go on long after the grass grows through our cathedral floors.

The holy Trinity doesn’t need our permission to carry on in their endlessly resourceful work of making all things new.

That we are invited to catch even a glimpse of the splendor is grace.

All of it, every breath and every second, is grace.”

The church of Christ is alive—and it always will be.

It is a dynamic organism that is driven by the Trinity of belonging and relationship and unity.

This congregation can choose to embrace change or be static, wither, and die.

I say that, not to be harsh or unkind, but only to be a truthteller.

Rachel also said, “I often wonder if the role of the clergy in this age is not to dispense information or guard the prestige of their authority, but rather to go first, to volunteer the truth about their sins, their dreams, their failures, and their fears in order to free others to do the same.

Such an approach may repel the masses looking for easy answers from flawless leaders, but I think it might make more disciples of Jesus, and I think it might make healthier, happier pastors.

There is a difference, after all, between preaching success and preaching resurrection.

Our path is the muddier one.”

I love that.

I’m sure that doesn’t surprise most of you.

The guy that says he loves change and isn’t bothered by chaos wants to lead you down the muddier path.

All I can say is, “I’m up for an adventure!”

How about you?

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

We Are Chosen Family Somos familia eligida

Two short weeks ago, we talked a little about the Spirit.

How the Spirit opens our hearts and our minds.

How the Spirit expands our boundaries—so we can experience unbridled joy, extend unqualified welcome, and share unconditional love.

How the Spirit is often “holy chaos”—really challenging those of us that like control and order.

Hace solo dos semanas, hablamos un poco sobre el Espíritu.

Sobre cómo el Espíritu abre nuestros corazones y nuestras mentes.

Sobre cómo el Espíritu expande nuestros límites, para que podamos experimentar una alegría sin límites, dar una bienvenida total y compartir un amor incondicional.

Sobre cómo el Espíritu es, a menudo, un «santo caos», desafiando de verdad a aquellos de nosotros a quienes nos gusta el control y el orden.

I chose Pentecost to welcome new members to our congregation.

My reasoning was that Pentecost has a significant relevance to extending boundaries and radical inclusion.

In the reading from Acts, Paul quotes the prophet Joel, saying, “I will pour out my Spirit on all humankind. Your daughters and sons will prophesy.”

Now, you may not realize the significance at first because we use inclusive language at Emanuel and our lessons come from The Inclusive Bible.

But even in the King James version, it says, “I will pour out of my Spirit upon all flesh: and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy.”

That is unusual wording because in the patriarchal culture of the first century, it would have been more common to say, “I will pour out of my Spirit upon all mankind: and your sons shall prophesy.”

The inclusion of women would have been subversive at the time—inclusive in the way we would expect Jesus to be.

Elegí Pentecostés para dar la bienvenida a los nuevos miembros de nuestra congregación.

Mi razonamiento fue que Pentecostés tiene una relevancia significativa para la expansión de fronteras y la inclusión radical.

En la lectura de Hechos, Pablo cita al profeta Joel, diciendo: «Derramaré mi Espíritu sobre toda la humanidad; nuestros hijos e hijas profetizarán».

Quizás no comprendan la importancia al principio, ya que en Emanuel usamos un lenguaje inclusivo y nuestras lecciones se basan en La Biblia Inclusiva.

Pero incluso en la versión Reina Valera, dice: «Derramaré de mi Espíritu sobre toda carne; y nuestros hijos e hijas profetizarán».

Esta es una formulación inusual, ya que en la cultura patriarcal del primer siglo, habría sido más común decir: «Derramaré de mi Espíritu sobre toda la humanidad; y nuestros hijos profetizarán».

La inclusión de las mujeres habría sido subversiva en aquella época, una inclusión en el sentido que esperaríamos de Jesús.

You may ask yourself why that is important.

Inclusion was a foundation of Jesus’ ministry.

He didn’t just preach to pious Jews.

He preached to sinners and Gentiles.

His followers included women—which was at least countercultural and perhaps even contrary to Jewish law.

One of his disciples was a tax collector—a reviled person in first-century Judea because they were viewed as Roman collaborators and traitors to their people.

He traveled with, taught, and healed a diverse group of people that included the marginalized of Jewish society.

He even ate with them.

The result was that Jesus’ followers were not just his students.

He formed a community—a community that we try to emulate in our congregations.

Quizás te preguntes por qué esto es importante.

La inclusión fue un pilar fundamental del ministerio de Jesús.

No solo predicó a judíos piadosos.

Predicó a pecadores y gentiles.

Entre sus seguidores había mujeres, lo cual era, como mínimo, contracultural y quizás incluso contrario a la ley judía.

Uno de sus discípulos era recaudador de impuestos, una persona despreciada en la Judea del primer siglo, pues se les consideraba colaboradores romanos y traidores a su pueblo.

Viajaba con un grupo diverso de personas, entre las que se encontraban los marginados de la sociedad judía, les enseñaba y los sanaba.

Incluso comía con ellos.

Como resultado, los seguidores de Jesús no eran solo sus alumnos.

Formó una comunidad, una comunidad que intentamos emular en nuestras congregaciones.

This idea of a radically-inclusive community is an idea that resonated strongly with the women liberation theologians of Latin America.

The idea that the Holy Spirit would descend upon a diverse group of people: “Parthians, Medes and Elamites, people from Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya around Cyrene, as well as visitors from Rome—all Jews, or converts to Judaism—Cretans and Arabs” and allow them to hear the gospel in their own language was inspirational.

What was particularly revolutionary was that the Spirit did this, not by assimilation or making everyone the same, but by creating a new community.

Each person had their own lived reality—just as the marginalized women of Central and South America had their own lived reality.

Whether they were marginalized because they were indigenous, poor, LGBTQ+, or politically oppressed, they found meaning in the story of Pentecost.

It helped them to realize that they had power.

And they derived that power through community and organizing.

Esta idea de una comunidad radicalmente inclusiva es un concepto que resonó con gran fuerza entre las teólogas de la liberación de América Latina.

La idea de que el Espíritu Santo descendiera sobre un grupo diverso de personas: «partos, medos y elamitas; habitantes de Mesopotamia, Judea y Capadocia, del Ponto y de Asia, de Frigia y Panfilia, de Egipto y de las regiones de Libia cercanas a Cirene, así como visitantes de Roma—todos ellos judíos o conversos al judaísmo— cretenses y árabes» y les permitiera escuchar el Evangelio en su propia lengua resultó sumamente inspiradora.

Lo verdaderamente revolucionario fue que el Espíritu obró de este modo no mediante la asimilación ni haciendo que todos fueran idénticos, sino creando una comunidad nueva.

Cada persona poseía su propia realidad vivida, tal como las mujeres marginadas de Centroamérica y Sudamérica tenían la suya propia.

Ya fuera que sufrieran marginación por ser indígenas, pobres, miembros del colectivo LGBTQ+ o por padecer opresión política, todas ellas hallaron un profundo sentido en el relato de Pentecostés.

Este les ayudó a tomar conciencia de que poseían poder.

Y ese poder lo extrajeron de la comunidad y de la organización colectiva.

You may notice that I try to always use the phrase “Kin-dom” of God, rather than “Kingdom” of God.

That phrase has its origin in that feminist liberation theology—also known as mujerista theology—that evolved in the unrest in Central and South American countries.

Kin-dom of God combines the divine concept of a radically inclusive, just community with the importance of family in latiné culture.

But sometimes family dynamics can be at odds with inclusion and justice.

Although not unique to LGBTQ+ folx, the concept of chosen family is fundamentally important to our community.

If you are not familiar with the term, chosen family are the people you claim as your family because they love and support you as your authentic self.

That is in contrast to biological family which, for too many LGBTQ+ siblings, may not fully accept or even reject us.

So, when I use the term Kin-dom, I am thinking of family in the broadest, chosen family terms.

Quizás noten que siempre intento usar la frase «Familia de Dios» en lugar de «Reino» de Dios.

Esta frase tiene su origen en la teología de la liberación feminista—también conocida como teología mujerista—que surgió durante la agitación social en países de Centroamérica y Sudamérica.

La Familia de Dios combina el concepto divino de una comunidad radicalmente inclusiva y justa con la importancia de la familia en la cultura latina.

Pero a veces la dinámica familiar puede entrar en conflicto con la inclusión y la justicia.

Aunque no es exclusivo de las personas LGBTQ+, el concepto de familia elegida es fundamental para nuestra comunidad.

Si no están familiarizados con el término, la familia elegida son las personas que consideramos nuestra familia porque nos aman y nos apoyan tal como somos.

Esto contrasta con la familia biológica que, para muchos hermanos y hermanas LGBTQ+, puede no aceptarnos plenamente o incluso rechazarnos.

Así que, cuando uso el término Familia de Dios, me refiero a la familia en su sentido más amplio: la familia elegida.

Which brings me back to the connection between Pentecost and new members.

As we welcome new people into this congregation, we are welcoming them into our family—our chosen family.

And, in every family, there is drama.

This one will be no different.

When I think about the people I am called to serve—whether you have been here for 50 years or today is your first day with us—I am reminded of a reality that I have never heard expressed better than by Nadia Bolz-Weber.

She writes, “This community will disappoint them.

It’s a matter of when, not if.

We will let them down or I’ll say something stupid and hurt their feelings.

I then invite them on this side of their inevitable disappointment to decide if they’ll stick around after it happens.

If they choose to leave when we don’t meet their expectations, they won’t get to see how the grace of God can come in and fill the holes left by our community’s failure, and that’s just too beautiful and too real to miss.”

Lo cual me remite a la conexión entre Pentecostés y los nuevos miembros.

Al dar la bienvenida a nuevas personas en esta congregación, las estamos acogiendo en nuestra familia: nuestra familia elegida.

Y, en toda familia, hay drama.

Esta no será diferente.

Cuando pienso en las personas a las que estoy llamado a servir—ya sea que lleven aquí cincuenta años o que hoy sea su primer día con nosotros—recuerdo una realidad que nunca he escuchado expresar mejor que por Nadia Bolz-Weber.

Ella escribe: «Esta comunidad los decepcionará.

Es cuestión de *cuándo*, no de *si*.

Los defraudaremos, o yo diré alguna estupidez y heriré sus sentimientos.

Por ello, los invito—desde este lado de su inevitable decepción—a decidir si se quedarán una vez que eso suceda.

Si eligen marcharse cuando no cumplamos sus expectativas, no llegarán a ver cómo la gracia de Dios puede intervenir y llenar los vacíos dejados por el fracaso de nuestra comunidad; y eso es, sencillamente, demasiado hermoso y demasiado real como para perdérselo».

My prayer for us on this day is this:

May the Spirit open wide our hearts and minds.

May she expand our boundaries so we can extend unconditional welcome to all and warmly embrace those who chose us as family.

When we make errors, may the grace of God heal any harm done.

And, when others make errors, may we forgive as God first forgave us.

In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.

Mi oración por nosotros en este día es la siguiente:

Que el Espíritu abra de par en par nuestros corazones y nuestras mentes.

Que ella expanda nuestros límites para que podamos brindar una bienvenida incondicional a todos y abrazar con calidez a aquellos que nos han elegido como familia.

Cuando cometamos errores, que la gracia de Dios sane cualquier daño causado.

Y, cuando otros cometan errores, que perdonemos tal como Dios nos perdonó primero a nosotros.

En el nombre de Jesús oramos. Amén.

Holy Chaos

I do not preach about Mother’s Day because, although we honor those who fill a maternal role, Mother’s Day is problematic or even painful for some.

So, I stick to the lectionary and the lessons for the day.

This could be my own bias, but I don’t think we talk about the Holy Spirit enough.

So, let’s take some time this morning to talk about the Spirit.

I may regret stealing my own thunder when Pentecost rolls around but I think I’ll risk it.

Today’s gospel begins with a reminder for Jesus’ disciples—and those of us who claim to be his followers:

“If you love me and obey the command I give you, I will ask the One who sent me to give you another Paraclete, another Helper to be with you always …”

The first thing to note is that Jesus says that, if we love him, we will follow the command he gave us.

It is not an if/then statement.

It is an if/and statement.

And what is that command?

Love God and love our neighbor.

These are not arbitrary rules for us to follow.

They are invitations to participate in God’s mission.

And Jesus promised to send us a helper in fulfilling that mission.

That helper is the Spirit—our Paraclete.

“Paraclete” is a Greek word that can be translated as Advocate, Comforter, or Helper.

Each of those meanings captures a facet of the Spirit’s role.

The Spirit’s primary function is to deepen our understanding of Jesus’ message.

As we incorporate that message into very being, we see that we are instruments of God’s love and we fulfill that role through service to our neighbors.

The Spirit also sustains us through adversity.

She enables us to persevere when faced with doubt.

She strengthens us to overcome challenges.

But, despite that explanation, I suspect the Spirit still remains something of a mystery.

We have heard the Spirit described as breath, as wind, and as fire.

The work of the Spirit often sounds a lot like inspiration.

A “Spirit-filled” event is one where ideas and emotions flow freely.

Similarly, one of my favorite euphemisms for the Spirit is “holy chaos”.

Some of you may have heard me say that I love chaos because there is joy in it.

To be clear, there is not always joy in chaos.

Disorder isn’t inherently joyful.

However, if order becomes our primary concern, we become repressed.

And joy requires us to be open—to let our guard down.

Joy requires us to embrace the moment.

Even if what’s happening is not the way that we would do it.

Even if it tests our boundaries.

That is what makes Pride parades a beacon of joy for a marginalized community.

I remember the first Pride parade I went to.

It was New York City in the early 1980’s and I was between my junior and senior year in college.

Because it was the early days of the AIDS crisis, the Pride parade was a big deal, and it was HUGE.

But there were three groups I remember very clearly.

The first was a snake charmer and kazoo band.

They were exactly what they sounded like—a group of men, most of them people of color, many of them with pet snakes around their necks, all of them playing kazoos as they marched.

The second were the dykes on bikes.

They were lesbians on motorcycles, most of them Harleys.

The third were teachers.

They marched with bags over their heads because, at the time, they could’ve lost their jobs for being identified as queer.

As a kid from the suburbs who had led a very sheltered life, each one of those groups challenged my perception of the world.

They tested my boundaries.

I knew my world growing up had been very small.

But my education had tested beliefs I took for granted.

It helped to clarify my core values.

I gave me knowledge and tools that allowed me to take in new information and experience new things without dismissing them as foreign or abnormal.

There are those who would call my education indoctrination.

That would say being open to new experiences and withholding judgment is harmful and a threat to society.

I couldn’t disagree more.

That ability to open myself to some holy chaos allowed me to feel joy at that first Pride parade.

And not only joy but also pride.

The variety of people who marched that day—lesbians on motorcycles, black men in leather, drag queens, parents and grandparents marching to support their loved ones, people of faith marching to let queer people know that God loves them¬—all those people taught me something about joy.

Joy—like God—has no limits.

You can’t put it in a box.

And, if you try to, it only diminishes it.

I think there are a lot of things in life that are like that.

Like welcome.

Welcome is all or none proposition.

You can’t welcome someone a little bit.

You can’t say, “I welcome you but” because “but” negates the welcome.

In the same way, you can’t love someone a little bit.

That’s the problem when people say, “hate the sin and love the sinner”.

Once you say, “I love you but”, your message of love is lost.

The Spirit can help us to eliminate the “but”.

The Spirit opens our hearts and our minds.

The Spirit expands our boundaries—so we can experience unbridled joy, extend unqualified welcome, and share unconditional love.

The Spirit can do this because she is holy chaos.

The Spirit blows where it will.

She cannot be confined.

We read in 1 John chapter 4 that we are given the Spirit so God’s love can be brought to perfection in us.

Divine love is brought to perfection in us.

It binds us to God and each other.

And when we share it, it spreads.

Divine love is contagious.

I think it’s safe to say that there’s a little bit of holy chaos in the way that love spreads.

It spreads, not so much in grand gestures but in small acts of kindness.

It spreads, not so much through familiar faces but through strangers whose lives we touch.

It spreads, not so much through the things we always do, as through the times we extend ourselves a bit beyond our comfort zone.

So, open yourself up to some holy chaos.

Do something out of the ordinary.

Challenge yourself to expand your boundaries a bit.

And let the Spirit do her thing to help you welcome without limits, love unconditionally, and experience joy that might just be a little overwhelming.

Let us pray.

Come, Spirit who is the light that dispels the shadows within.

Warm and transform our hearts.

Reveal what we do not know.

Come, Comforter who makes a home in us.

Fill our emptiness.

Heal the wounded. Soothe the anxious.

Be consolation for all who grieve and ache.

Come, Helper who opens our hearts to divine love.

Accompany us on our journey.

Fill us with enthusiasm for your vision.

Magnify our desire for truth.

Bless our quest for justice.

Come, Spirit, joy of our souls.

Inspire us to dance, not only during life’s ups but also during its downs.

Embrace us with the delights of your holy chaos.

Amen.

The Way of Jesus

People tend to zero in on verse 6 of today’s gospel: “Jesus told him, ‘I myself am the Way—I am Truth, and I am Life. No one comes to Abba God but through me.’”

They focus on that one verse and misinterpret it to make salvation all about their perception about belief.

Removed from its context, they think it is a repudiation of all belief systems other than their version of Christianity.

Further, they think that being a follower of Jesus is simply about belief.

I suppose, on a certain level, it is.

But, if we believe that Jesus is the Way, Truth, and Life and are not simultaneously transformed by it—then I’ve got some bad news for you.

Belief is not enough.

If we believe in Jesus but do not follow him—do his work—then our faith is only a shadow.

It has no substance.

Now, before any of you misunderstand what I’m saying, I am not talking about works righteousness.

If that term is unfamiliar, works righteousness is the belief that our actions can help us to earn salvation.

But it is fundamental to our Lutheran faith practice that there is nothing we can do to earn God’s favor.

Grace is free and is the product of God’s unconditional love for us.

Grace is about the nature of God and has nothing to do with anything we do or say or believe.

What I mean when I say, “belief is not enough” and that we need to do Jesus’ work is that belief—true belief—is transformative.

If you truly believe, then actions follow—because you have been transformed.

If you don’t do the work of Jesus, it is a symptom that your faith is not real or not complete or hasn’t taken root within you.

That is why the Apostle James says, “So it is with faith. If good deeds don’t go with it, faith is dead.”

Jesus earliest followers called their faith practice the Way.

In Matthew 22, Jesus summarizes it this way: “’You must love the Most High God with all your heart, with all your soul and with all your mind.’ That is the greatest and first commandment. The second is like it: ‘You must love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments the whole Law is based—and the Prophets as well.”

Jesus had a lot to say about loving our neighbor.

In Luke 10, he tells the parable of the Good Samaritan.

And in Matthew 25, he says, “Come, you blessed of my Abba God! Inherit the Kin-dom prepared for you from the creation of the world! For I was hungry and you fed me; I was thirsty and you gave me drink. I was a stranger and you welcomed me; naked and you clothed me. I was ill and you comforted me; in prison and you came to visit me.”

That is what “I am the Way, Truth, and Life” means in context.

I worry that I sound like a broken record.

Love God.

Love your neighbor.

You are a beloved child of God, called by name, and claimed as God’s own.

I repeat those messages because they’re important.

It’s important for us to hear them.

It’s important for us to internalize them—to believe them.

To live them out.

I sometimes worry that I say them too much.

But I also worry that some people take them for granted.

They think, “I’m a good person.

I go to church every week.

I’m a follower of Jesus.

I walk the Way as best I can.”

I feel all of that.

I also love God.

I also love my neighbor.

I try to be the good Samaritan when presented with the opportunity.

I feed people who are hungry.

I give drink to people who are thirsty.

I welcome strangers.

I donate clothing to give to people who need it.

I pray for people who are sick in body, mind, or spirit—and visit them when I can.

I say this, not to toot my own horn.

I’m not holding myself up as an example.

In reality, I feel like I’m hardly scratching the surface of all that needs to be done.

In Washington state this week, an evangelical couple won the right to proceed with a lawsuit against the state.

The lawsuit alleges that Washington’s policy that requires foster parents to respect a child’s sexual orientation and gender identity is an infringement on the foster parents’ freedoms of religion and speech.

LGBTQ+ children are already overrepresented in the foster care system because of biological families’ disowning them.

Now, a court has ruled that foster parents, “Christian” foster parents, can inflict mental pain and anguish upon children who are already traumatized—now get this: as part of their faith practice.

The case is still wending its way through the courts, but this is an example of how “I am the Way, and Truth, and Life” can be twisted.

Christ, have mercy.

This week, I had to make copies of powers of attorney for children so, if their parents get detained or deported, they are placed in the care of relatives.

It used to be that we only had to worry about whether a child had enough to eat.

That they had the opportunity to go to school.

Now, we have to worry about children being detained and deported.

Children—not the “worst of the worst”—children.

No criminal record.

Children, who not so long ago, only had to worry about reading, writing, and arithmetic.

And even the ones not being detained or deported have to worry about being placed in foster care because their parents were abducted.

Christ, have mercy.

And this week, the Supreme Court has ruled that racism is over.

We no longer have to protect people’s right to vote because the structural racism that necessitated the passage of the Voting Rights Act in 1965 is a thing of the past.

The state of Louisiana has been given a green light to gerrymander to their heart’s content.

Praise God!

Silly me! I thought we still had work to do.

Of course, I’m being sarcastic.

If you feel a tremor in the earth, it is the heroes of the civil rights movement collectively spinning in their graves.

Christ, have mercy.

I bring all these things up, not to depress you—although, to be perfectly honest, it’s been a battle for me this week.

I bring it up because it’s important that we know what is happening.

Sometimes we avoid the news to protect our mental health.

But it’s important that we know we have work to do.

In today’s gospel, Jesus says, “The truth of the matter is, anyone who has faith in me will do the works I do—and greater works besides.”

As followers of Jesus, we have work to do.

We cannot afford to be handcuffed by grief.

We cannot afford to be a deer in the headlights because we are overwhelmed by the atrocities and the cruelty.

Because, as I’ve said before, that is precisely the point.

They are using shock and awe to overwhelm us.

Well, excuse my French but, screw that!

We know the Way—Jesus has shown it to us.

The Way is not about a destination.

The Way is about how we are supposed to BE.

And the Way is where Jesus IS.

And, in addition to being aware of the pain and injustice around us, it is also important to be attentive to the joy.

Finding joy in the midst of all this injustice is critical to our wellbeing.

So, we find joy in doing the work of Jesus—and feeling his presence beside us as we do it.

We find joy in family and friends.

We find joy in baptism.

We find joy in the bread and the wine—and in sharing that meal with our siblings in Christ.

We find joy in the knowledge that God always has the last word.

The Kin-dom is near, my friends.

It may be not yet but there is plenty we can do—as individuals and as a community—to bring it nearer still

Damn the torpedoes and to God be the glory!

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

Listen for the voice of the Good Shepherd

The lectionary cut off today’s gospel at verse 10.

I changed the gospel to include verses 11 through 18.

Verse 11 starts with, “I am the good shepherd”.

Some weeks, the readings in the lectionary make it hard to know where to go in a sermon.

Sometimes, I change the lessons.

But usually, I will wrestle with it because I figure wrestling with difficult texts can be the point.

But trying to craft a sermon about a sheep gate without the good shepherd seemed just too tall a task.

As I was preparing for this sermon, I read an interesting commentary that said, metaphorically speaking, gates determine who is an insider and who is an outsider.

That was particularly relevant to me because part of my week was spent preparing for a synod event called Faith, Hope, & Love.

Faith, Hope, & Love started as an annual event to help congregations become more welcoming to LGBTQ+ youth.

It was held for a few years and then Covid happened.

Yesterday was the first event in several years and it was billed as Faith, Hope, & Love 2.0.

2.0 because the scope expanded beyond LGBTQ+ issues to now include immigration and racial justice.

Within each of those three tracks—immigration, LGBTQ+, and racial justice—there were speakers on how faith, hope, and love touch on those issues of justice.

I was the coordinator of the immigration track and spoke about what our faith tells us about immigration justice.

I shared my remarks at Adult Forum this morning.

I also posted the text on our website so, if you are interested, you can read them there.

Teresa Vivar, who you all know, spoke about what her hopes were when she came to this country and how they differed from reality.

The day was Spirit-filled and deeply meaningful.

Adding the dimensions of immigration and racial justice strengthened the program and I look forward to many more years of exploring justice issues with congregations throughout our synod.

The reason I bring up Faith, Hope, & Love is that what became clear to me yesterday is that, where Jesus is involved, we are all insiders.

Jesus saying he is the sheep gate means no one is left outside.

Regardless of our immigration status, our sexual or gender identity, or our race, we are all part of his flock.

We are his beloveds.

We recognize his voice.

He calls us by name and claims us as his own.

We do not need to fear the thieves, robbers, and wolves.

Because our shepherd has promised to protect us.

He has promised to lay down his life for us.

Because there is no limit to his love for us.

But Jesus warns us that there are those who would deceive us—lure us into a false sense of security.

Pretenders who would try to trick us into believing that they are the shepherd.

People who would lead us to believe that servants of God are “radical left, hard line Trump haters—who are nasty, boring, and uninspiring”.

That is a voice that we don’t recognize—it is a voice we should not follow.

The voice that says, “Have mercy upon the people in our country who are scared now. There are gay, lesbian and transgender children in Democratic, Republican, and independent families, some who fear for their lives. The people who pick our crops and clean our office buildings; who labor in poultry farms and meat packing plants; who wash the dishes after we eat in restaurants and work the night shifts in hospitals, they may not be citizens or have the proper documentation. But the vast majority of immigrants are not criminals. They pay taxes and are good neighbors.”—that is the voice that echoes the gospel.

That is the voice of the good shepherd that we should recognize and follow.

The voice that offers prayers asking God to “make the enemy’s land a desolation,” to “break the teeth of the ungodly,” and to give American forces “unbreakable unity, and overwhelming violence against our enemies who deserve no mercy.”—that is a voice that has no resemblance to the Way of Jesus.

It is a voice we don’t recognize and should not follow.

The voice that says, “Brothers and sisters, this is our God: Jesus, King of Peace, who rejects war, whom no one can use to justify war. He does not listen to the prayers of those who wage war, but rejects them” because the prophet Isaiah says, “Even though you make many prayers, I will not listen: your hands are full of blood.”—that is the voice that echoes Scripture.

That is the voice of the good shepherd that we should recognize and follow.

The voice that excuses sacrilegious behavior and criminal conduct by saying "I think his enemies are always foaming at the mouth at any possible opportunity to make him look bad"—that is not a voice that reflects the ethics of our faith.

It is a voice we don’t recognize and should not follow.

The voice that sees an AI-generated meme of the president as a Jesus-like figure and says clearly and unapologetically that it is “heresy, idolatry, and a war on divinity that was not in line with the Gospel.”—that is a voice that reflects Christian morality.

It is a voice that we recognize and we should follow.

Some of you may know where those quotes come from and who they are attributed to.

I have intentionally left that out.

Because I think it important to focus on the words and the intent, not on who said it and whether we like them or not.

Listen to the words in a vacuum.

Don’t think about who said them or the circumstances in which they were said.

And looking just at the words, ask yourself: do I recognize the voice?

Are the words consistent with the One who defines my faith practice?

Are they the words of the Shepherd, beckoning me to follow?

I have struggled mightily with the question of how we turn back from the divisive environment we find ourselves in.

I have wondered whether it is best to spend our energy on winning people from one side to the other or if we should just find somewhere in the middle where no one is happy but at least, we are living together in some kind of détente.

And just saying, “where no one is happy”, makes me realize how unsatisfactory the latter would be.

As I wrestled with issues about migration and immigration during my trip to Mexico and issues about social justice while I prepared for Faith, Hope, & Love, something began to clarify for me.

The issue is not which human being is right.

It’s not about whether one political party has a better alignment with Christian values.

The issue is what does the voice of the good shepherd say?

You know the voice.

You recognize it.

Because you have heard it say, “you are my beloved”.

You have heard it call you by name and claim you as God’s own.

And if you remember nothing else about this sermon, then please remember this:

Every one of your human siblings hears the same voice.

The voice of the good shepherd says, “you are my beloved”.

The voice of the good shepherd calls them by name—in the language they understand and by the pronouns with which they identify.

And that same voice says, “I have laid down my life for you—and for all humankind.

You are safe and you are loved.

Follow me.”

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

What does our faith say about Immigration Justice? (A reflection from Faith, Hope, & Love 2026)

Grace and peace to you from God our Creator, Christ our companion on the journey, and the Holy Spirit who crosses every boundary. Amen.

The Immigrant’s Creed

by Rev. Jose Luis Casal, General Presbyter of the Tres Rios Presbytery – PCUSA

I believe in Almighty God, who guided the people in exile and in exodus, the God of Joseph in Egypt and Daniel in Babylon, the god of foreigners and immigrants.

I believe in Jesus Christ, a displaced Galilean, who was born away from his people and his home, who fled his country with his parents when his life was in danger, and returning to his own country suffered the oppression of the tyrant Pontius Pilate, the servant of a foreign power, who then was persecuted, beaten, and finally tortured, accused and condemned to death unjustly. But on the third day, this scorned Jesus rose from the dead, not as a foreigner but to offer us citizenship in heaven.

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the eternal immigrant from God's kingdom among us, who speaks all languages, lives in all countries, and reunites all races.

I believe that the church is the secure home for the foreigner and for all believers who constitute it, who speak the same language and have the same purpose.

I believe that the Communion of the Saints begins when we accept the diversity of the saints. I believe in the forgiveness, which makes us all equal, and in the reconciliation, which identifies us more than does race, language or nationality.

I believe that in the Resurrection God will unite us as one people in which all are distinct and all are alike at the same time. Beyond this world, I believe in Life Eternal in which no one will be an immigrant but all will be citizens of God's kingdom, which will never end. Amen.

After reading that together, I would like to pose a question to y’all: what if migration is not at the edges of our faith? What is it at its very core?

Over the course of today, we are going to dive into the issues of immigration, LGBTQIA+, and racial justice.

We often treat immigration, race, and questions of gender and sexual identity as separate issues.

But the truth of the matter is that these issues very often intersect—we all have multiple identities.

The Immigrant’s Creed reminds us that issues of justice are not side conversations but something deeper.

They are places where God is already at work.

In the creed, we read, “I believe in Almighty God, who guided the people in exile and in exodus, the God of Joseph in Egypt and Daniel in Babylon, the god of foreigners and immigrants.”

From the very beginning, God’s people have been on the move.

Abraham leaves his home.

Israel wanders for 40 years in the wilderness.

The Holy Family flees Herod’s violence and goes to Egypt.

Over and over again, God shows up when life is unsettled, when God’s children are uncertain.

And it’s particularly important for us to remember that—because many people today are living with that same anxiety.

Some cross borders looking for safety from violence or oppression; others are looking for economic opportunity.

Some are navigating systems that treat them as invisible, less than, or worse: disposable.

Some carry racial, cultural, or sexual identities that put them on the margins of society.

Their stories are different, but their experience is very similar: they are struggling to find a place where that can feel fully at home.

And the creed says: that is exactly where God is.

Not just in sanctuary.

But in movement. In vulnerability. In all the in-between spaces.

In the creed, we read, “I believe in Jesus Christ, a displaced Galilean, who was born away from his people and his home, who fled his country with his parents when his life was in danger, and returning to his own country suffered the oppression of the tyrant Pontius Pilate, the servant of a foreign power…”

Jesus is not a distant figure—he is Emanuel, God with us.

He is born away from home.

As a child, he becomes a refugee, fleeing violence with his parents.

He grows up in a place far from family and friends—a place where he is a stranger.

Jesus knows what it is to be labeled as a stranger.

He knows what it is like to be dismissed as a foreigner.

He knows what it is like to be an outsider and misunderstood.

And when we begin to see that clearly, something shifts.

Because the people our world pushes aside—immigrants, LGBTQIA+ folx, and racial minorities—are not strangers to Jesus’ story.

They understand it because they live it.

Not because their experiences are identical.

But because they share something fundamental: the experience of being told, “you are an outsider—you don’t belong.”

And the gospel speaks directly to that.

Nowhere in the gospel does it say, “you must earn your belonging.”

Nowhere does it say, “you must conform to be accepted.”

The gospel says: you are a beloved child of God.

Called by name.

And claimed as God’s own.

The creed continues, “I believe in the Holy Spirit, the eternal immigrant from God's kingdom among us, who speaks all languages, lives in all countries, and reunites all races.”

At Pentecost, the Spirit didn’t erase difference.

People didn’t suddenly speak one language.

No, the Spirit met each person where they were—and created understanding across differences.

That is God’s vision of community.

Not uniformity.

Not sameness.

But connection.

And that matters for us, because we live in a world that often responds to differences with fear.

Fear of the immigrant.

Fear of different cultures and languages.

Fear of those whose identities challenge our assumptions.

But fear builds walls and creates boundaries.

In contrast, the Spirit builds relationships.

The Spirit encourages us to think differently—to think more broadly.

The Spirit says: God is not confined to one language, one nation, one race, one identity.

Our God is a God of motion.

Our God moves freely.

Our God is not confined to a box.

The categories we assign to ourselves do not apply to God.

That realization frees us to expand our vision—to see the image of God in each and every one of our human siblings.

And, with that clarity, we can finally understand that we all belong.

The creed says, “I believe that the church is the secure home for the foreigner and for all believers who constitute it, who speak the same language and have the same purpose.”

What a beautiful encapsulation of our theology of welcoming the stranger.

But it is also a challenging one.

Because it requires us to take a hard look at ourselves.

Is the church truly a home for all?

Or is it only for a home for those who are like us—who feel familiar?

We must ask ourselves who feels fully seen, heard, and appreciated here?

Who might feel like they have to hide part of themselves in order to belong?

These are not easy questions—but they are faithful ones.

Because the church does not create belonging—God does.

And we, as God’s church, are called to reflect God’s unconditional love and create that sense of belonging.

And when we fall short, when we fail to adequately reflect that love and create that welcome, we return again to grace.

The creed says, “I believe in the forgiveness, which makes us all equal, and in the reconciliation, which identifies us more than does race, language or nationality”

Our worth is not determined by our immigration status.

Our worth is not determined by our race.

Our worth is not determined by our sexual orientation or gender identity.

Our worth is wrapped up in God’s grace.

A grace that we cannot earn.

A grace that has nothing to do with who we are, what we do, or even what we believe.

That grace has everything to do with God.

We receive grace because that is the nature of God.

And the miracle of that grace is that it transforms us.

The creed closes with “I believe that, in the Resurrection, God will unite us as one people in which all are distinct and all are alike at the same time. Beyond this world, I believe in Life Eternal in which no one will be an immigrant but all will be citizens of God's kingdom, which will never end.”

Resurrection is not just something that happens at the end of time.

Resurrection is new creation—it is something God is always doing.

Bringing life out of loss.

Hope out of hardship.

Community out of division.

For immigrants, resurrection can look like building a new life in a new place.

For those who have been marginalized because of race or identity, it can look like reclaiming dignity and voice.

For the church, it can look like becoming more fully what God has called it to be.

A place of welcome.

A place of justice.

A place of love.

So what does this mean for us?

It means that faith is not about standing still.

It is about moving with God.

Moving toward those who are pushed aside.

Moving beyond the boundaries that divide us.

Moving into relationships that reflect God’s unconditional love.

Because our God is a God in motion.

Therefore, our call as the people God is to also be in motion—to journey with our siblings on the margins.

To be people who trust that, wherever there is struggle, God is present.

Wherever there are differences that divide, there is an opportunity for the Spirit to do her work.

And wherever there is a longing to belong, Jesus is already there, waiting for us to recognize his presence.

In the stranger.

In the neighbor.

In one another.

Amen.

Openness is the Way of Jesus

I’m going to try to continue the discussion that Tiina started last week and weave in elements from today’s gospel as well as my trip to Mexico last week.

You’re going to see some slides from my trip that I hope will illustrate my points, but we’ll have to see how that works.

Last week’s gospel dealt with how the Jesus’ followers were feeling after his crucifixion.

They were anxious, uncertain, and confused.

Anxious because they feared that the religious authorities would be coming for them next.

Uncertain because they had a vision about what the coming of the messiah meant and his death called their assumptions into doubt.

And confused because their friend and their teacher promised them the Kin-dom of God was near, yet all they could see around them was Empire.

Today’s gospel continues that theme.

Luke writes that the two disciples walking to Emmaus said, “We were hoping that he was the One who would set Israel free.”

They had hopes—hopes that they were afraid were no longer possible.

And Jesus reminds them that God’s plans don’t always align with our plans.

God’s timing is often different from our expectation.

There is an episode of The Chosen when Jesus talks to Simon Peter about the word “soon”.

Jesus says, “Ah, there’s that word! Soon. It’s the most imprecise thing in the world. What is “soon”? A few hours? A few days? Years? A hundred years? A thousand years? Ask my father in heaven how long a thousand years is. Then talk to me about soon.”

I think there is a lesson in there for us.

We must be careful that we don’t get too wrapped up in our own hopes and dreams.

I’ve no doubt that Emanuel has a future—that we will be continue to be a pillar of this community.

But there are those who believe that our future must involve an Education Building bustling with Sunday school classes.

Or that our future must revolve around our current sanctuary filled with Sunday morning worshippers.

Or that we can survive as a small, majority white, middle class congregation—if only we can find the right renters for all our spaces.

I have my own ideas about what the future holds for Emanuel.

I don’t know if my ideas are right.

I haven’t heard the voice of God, and I haven’t been visited by an angel with a divine message.

My point is that we can’t be too married to a single idea of what the future ought to be.

We must be able to separate nostalgia from reality.

The church has not been constant over the last two millennia.

The church has evolved.

Jesus’ followers throughout the ages have taken the capital-T truth of the gospel and adapted to new knowledge and new cultural realities.

That’s what it means to be open to the will of God—and the work of the Spirit.

In today’s gospel, two disciples walk with Jesus without recognizing him.

I believe that there is an important parallel in there for us.

Just as the disciples fail to recognize their friend and master, there are times when we fail to recognize the image of God in our neighbors.

For most of us, it’s not a malicious thing.

We don’t do it consciously.

We are culturally conditioned to categorize people—by class, by race, by gender, by sexuality, by culture, by the language they speak, and by the clothes that they wear.

Once we put someone in a box that differs from the box where we put ourselves, we risk denying that they are a child of God—equal to us in every way that matters.

Nadia Bolz-Weber says, “Every time we draw a line between us and others, Jesus is always on the other side of it.”

We cannot deny that there is diversity in our human siblings.

It is one of the glorious gifts from our creator.

But we are infinitely more alike than we are different.

We are all beloved of God—called by name and claimed as God’s own.

This is my mission group.

What a diverse group of siblings it was!

There were men and women as well as old and young folks.

There were gay, straight, & bi folks.

There were American-born citizens, naturalized immigrant citizens, and citizens of other countries.

There were ordained folks and lay people.

Each of us came from a different background.

Each of us came with different needs and expectations.

But we all came with a desire to learn—to learn more about AMEXTRA, a small nonprofit that is making an impact in underserved Mexican communities—and to learn more about Mexican culture.

We also came with the hope that we could take what we learned back to our own contexts and make a difference in the communities that we serve.

This was our day at one of AMEXTRA’s transformative education centers in San Isidro.

There were several things about AMEXTRA that I found impressive.

First, they have been around for over 40 years, which is a long time for a small nonprofit.

Second, the children of the founders are involved in the work.

It isn’t a case of nepotism.

The people who work there could make more money in the private, for-profit world.

It is a belief in the work that they do and the impact that they have.

Third, they own their mistakes.

They talk freely about them and they learn from them.

When they first got into microlending, they would start businesses in economically depressed areas and hire local people to manage them.

All the businesses failed because the managers had no stake in the success of the business.

When they changed the model, so people approached them with ideas as owners, the businesses thrived.

One early microloan recipient who runs a chicken egg incubation business went from poverty to having over $30,000 in her savings account.

One of the highlights of the trip was this day with the children.

I am always amazed at how both different and alike children across the world are.

I bonded with a boy named Sebastian immediately.

There was just something very endearing about him.

He only spoke a little English, so I did my best to communicate with him in Spanish.

At one point, I stopped being able to understand him.

I asked him to repeat what he said more slowly but I still had no idea what he was saying.

Then, I called over one of our hosts and asked him to help me understand.

He didn’t understand either.

Then, one of Sebastian’s teachers came over and explained that he was speaking an indigenous language.

The mischievous smirk on Sebastian’s face said it all.

He had played a joke on me—just like one of my nieces or nephews might do.

Kids are kids—no matter where they live or what language they speak.

AMEXTRA’s approach to transformative education is community-focused.

They are currently operating in four locations.

They never go into a community without being invited.

They always work with community leaders and parents to understand what the needs are.

Nutrition and violence prevention are always part of their programming.

Violence prevention is something I was very interested in.

In the past year, two children in our New Brunswick community were lost to gun violence.

Fernando Buezo Diaz was shot and killed in Recreation Park in a dispute over a girl.

Jazzy Del Toro was shot and killed by her boyfriend.

We walked to the sites of their deaths on Good Friday to remember them and offer prayers.

Both lives were cut short because our young people don’t know how to cope with anger.

Both lives were cut short because our young people don’t see the image of God in one another.

Which brings me back to today’s gospel.

What do we have to do to consistently recognize that our neighbors—ALL our neighbors—are our siblings?

What do we have to do to remember that, as children of God, we are loved equally by our creator?

Walking together and listening to one another is a start.

Breaking bread together is a wonderful way for us to cement the bonds of community.

There is a beautiful diversity in this community.

We can learn so much from each other.

In today’s gospel, the two disciples are learning from a stranger they encountered on the road to Emmaus.

They didn’t know that it was Jesus, their rabbi.

The only thing they know is that their hearts burned with passion as he talked.

All pastors are required to do Clinical Pastoral Education as part of their seminary education.

The most important lesson we learn is that there is only one savior and we ain’t it.

We are not supposed to be fixers.

That is God’s job.

We are meant to accompany people on their journeys.

I’m going to say the same thing to you, people of Emanuel.

Our job is not to fix the community that surrounds us.

Our job is to accompany our neighbors—to journey with them.

And they, in turn, will accompany us on our journey—wherever it may lead.

There is much we can learn from each other.

We have a lot we can learn about what it means to be marginalized and oppressed—from our immigrant neighbors, from our LGBTQ+ neighbors, and from our poor and low-income neighbors.

But to do that we have to listen.

We must recognize our own privilege and how that privilege gives us blind spots.

Privilege doesn’t necessarily mean our lives were easy.

But it does mean we had advantages that others did not.

We also need to be open.

Open to new things, new ideas, and new ways of doing things.

Open to mission trips to unfamiliar places.

Open to a version of Jesus’ Prayer that was inspired by Māori spirituality and written by New Zealand Anglicans.

Open to a creed that was written by a Presbyterian minister who immigrated from Cuba.

Open to a creation prayer inspired by Lakota spirituality.

Openness to new things—while it may be uncomfortable—does not detract from our faith.

Openness helps us to grow in faith.

The last slide I’ll show from my trip are pictures from the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

I knew the story before I went.

Very briefly, a young peasant named Juan Diego saw an apparition of the Virgin Mary on a hill in Mexico City.

She appeared as an Aztec princess, speaking Juan Diego’s indigenous language.

She asked that a church be erected on that spot.

Juan Diego went to the local archbishop, who didn’t believe the story and rebuffed him.

Later the same day, the Virgin appeared to Juan Diego again and instructed him to try again.

He went back to the archbishop, who told him to go back and ask for a sign to prove that the apparition was the Virgin Mary.

Juan Diego asked the Virgin for a sign, and she said she would provide one the following day.

In the interim, Juan Diego’s uncle fell ill.

Juan Diego took care of his uncle and, when his condition deteriorated, Juan Diego went to get a priest to administer last rites.

He intentionally avoided the hill where he had seen the virgin three times before because he didn’t want to be delayed.

But she appeared to him anyway and chastised him for avoiding her saying, “¿No estoy yo aquí que soy tu madre?” which means “Am I not here, I who am your mother?”

She told Juan Diego that his uncle had recovered and that he should go to the top of the hill where he first saw her and gather the roses that had bloomed there as the sign for the archbishop.

The Virgin arranged the roses on Juan Diego’s cape and told him to return to the archbishop.

When he did, the roses fell, and an image of the Virgin was on the cape.

I suspect some of you were uncomfortable when the statue appeared in the sanctuary.

Lutherans have a long history of downplaying the importance of Mary, even though Luther himself was devoted to her.

We have called appearances of the Virgin superstition.

We have confused veneration of the Virgin Mary with idol worship.

My advice, my friends, is to let it go.

Let go of your preconceived notions about the “deification” of Mary.

Let us learn from the strangers who walk this road of faith with us.

The truth of the matter is that Mary was chosen by God to give birth to God’s son.

The Greek call her Theotokos or “God bearer”.

Why shouldn’t our hearts burn with passion for the mother of God?

My apologies for rambling on.

I hope I didn’t bore you too much and I hope you get the point.

Regardless of whether we are strangers to one another, we are all children of God—called by name and claimed as God’s own.

In today’s second lesson, we read, “By obedience to the truth you have purified yourselves for a genuine love of your siblings. Therefore love one another constantly, from the heart. Your rebirth has come not from a perishable seed but from an imperishable one—the living and enduring word of God.”

We are called to love one another constantly, from the heart.

And there is always something we can learn from one another—just as the two disciples on the road to Emmaus learned from the stranger that they didn’t realize was Jesus.

Being open to loving and learning is the Way of Jesus.

May our journey in this life always be along that road.

Let us pray: Welcoming and affirming God,

Open the eyes of our hearts to see as you see.

Remove the barriers of suspicion and fear.

Replace them with the openness of curiosity and compassion.

When we encounter strangers, immigrants, and those we find challenging, help us to look past superficial differences and see your holy image within them.

Remove our arrogance, our prejudices, and our narrow-mindedness all the things that restrict our ability to love.

Give us the compassion to honor the dignity of every person, recognizing them as your beloved children.

Remind us that we may unknowingly entertain angels and that you may send wisdom, kindness, and lessons through strangers.

Give us the humility to listen to their stories, the grace to learn from their perspectives, and the courage to serve them.

May every passing encounter be an opportunity to broaden our understanding of your boundless love and the diversity of your creation.

And let us always live into Jesus’ mandate that everyone will know that we are his followers because we truly love one another.

Amen.