Category Archives: scripture

scripture, Sermons

Sermon, March 15

One joy of ministry at St. Dunstan’s is the presence among us of people new to Christianity, to the Bible, to all of it. There’s a question such folks sometimes have: how do you, Miranda, find meaning in such a patriarchal text and tradition? Fair question!

The Bible definitely reflects several different patriarchal – male-dominated – cultures and times. And over the past 2000 years the Church has been a good bit more patriarchal than the Bible itself. So the women (and other marginalized people) who ARE in the Bible, aren’t as known and honored as they should be. 

To my eyes (including those years studying anthropology before my life turned towards church), given its origins, it’s pretty amazing how many women we DO encounter in the Bible – Old Testament, Apocrypha and New Testament. 

Today’s Gospel introduces one of them: the “woman at the well,” or “the Samaritan woman.” Like the Man Born Blind, she’s not given a name in the text, but I’m not going to keep calling her “the woman,” so let’s call her Samara. 

This scene follows closely on the conversation between Jesus and Nicodemus, and I’m confident that John means us to notice the similarities and differences. Nicodemus meets Jesus by night; Samara at noon. Nicodemus is a man, important, named; Samara is a woman; unimportant, perhaps stigmatized; unnamed in the text. Nicodemus shares religious and ethnic identity with Jesus; the Samaritan woman is an ethnic and religious “other.” Both have big questions for Jesus about God and faith and what it all means. 

What do we know about Samara? Well, to begin with, she’s a Samaritan. John’s Gospel is the only Gospel in which Jesus visits Jerusalem several times, instead of only at the end of his story. Here he and his disciples have left the great city, headed back to Galilee, his home region, by way of Samaria, a region west of the Jordan River and north of Judea. Jennifer Garcia Bashaw writes, “For centuries, Samaritans and Jews occupied neighboring lands and practiced similar religions while actively expressing feelings of animosity toward one another… The Jewish-Samaritan enmity [peaked] in 128 BCE [about 150 years before this scene] when [the] high priest and ruler of the Jews… razed the Samaritan temple on Mount Gerazim to the ground. It is not surprising, then, that these groups [were] bitter enemies.” https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/third-sunday-in-lent/commentary-on-john-45-42-6

It’s not just that Jews and Samaritans had different beliefs; it’s that the Samaritans felt like they were all worshiping the same God and the Jews were being really uptight about doing it their way, and the Jews felt like the Samaritans were practicing some filthy, degraded, misguided version of their ancestral faith. So that’s all in the background of this conversation about worship! 

So, we know that Samara was a Samaritan. And we know something about her marital history: she has had five husbands, and the man she has now is not her husband. There’s a lot to unpack here! 

How does somebody rack up five husbands? Well: divorce, or death. In first-century Judaism, divorce was something men did to women – women could not initiate divorce – but we know a lot less about Samaritan religion and culture at the time, and what was possible. People died a lot, and it’s certainly possible that a few of the five had died and left her behind, in need of a new husband to provide for her.

Over the millennia, people have been quick to assume that this woman is lusty, unfaithful, morally dissolute, and so on. There’s plenty of sexism and misogyny behind such readings. 

On the other hand, I read a bunch of preaching commentaries this week that swing too far the other way, in my opinion – suggesting this poor woman has been five times abandoned or widowed, and entirely skipping over the one she has now who’s not her husband. It’s unclear from the English syntax whether the current dude is just not married to her, or whether he’s married to someone else. Either way, the arrangement is socially out of bounds. Many readers have wondered about the fact that she’s coming to the well to get water at noon – physically demanding work, when the sun is highest and hottest. Does that suggest that she was not welcome with the group of women and girls who likely went to get water together in the morning or evening? 

One commentator suggests that the fact that the other people of her village listen to her, when she comes to tell them about Jesus, suggests she could not have been socially ostracized. I’m not convinced. If someone who’s seen as a problem in the village suddenly ran into the town square shouting, “Come see this man who told me everything I’ve ever done!!” – I think everybody would run and see. It also seems to me that that phrasing – “everything I’ve ever done” – hints at a sense of having been an agent in her own complicated story, at least to some extent. There’s room for interpretation, certainly! But I find that I am inclined to read her not simply a victim of happenstance but as someone whose life has been shaped by some seeking, some destabilizing need, as well as – undoubtedly – by sexism and other miseries beyond her control. Still, as another commentator, Meda Stamper notes, Jesus says nothing of sin or sinfulness, and doesn’t exhort her to change her life. He seems to know all about her at a glance – perhaps even stopped at that well especially to talk with her – and isn’t the slightest bit put off or unwilling to engage. 

A word about the well! The well is where potential marriage partners meet. It happens twice in Genesis and once in Exodus – enough to suggest it was probably a thing. It makes a certain sense – it was a place where a young woman, or several young women, might be off by themselves, away from their family, and available for flirtation. Kind of like the mall. 

This is a scandalous conversation. Samara gestures to that scandal by immediately asking Jesus why he’s talking to her. Likewise the disciples, when they return, have to restrain themselves from asking Jesus, “Why are you talking with this woman!?!?” 

Which brings me to the third thing we know about Samara: her personality. She says what she thinks, and asks what she wants to know. There’s a recurring theme in the Gospel of John: Jesus uses metaphorical language to talk about holy realities, and people are confused. Here in chapter 4, Jesus offers “living water,” which could also mean running water – as in, water from a spring, stream or river – generally seen as cleaner and more refreshing than water from a well or cistern. But Jesus doesn’t mean literal water. In chapter 7, Jesus will circle back to the theme of living water, telling a crowd, “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who believes in me drink.  As the scripture has said, ‘Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.’” The text then notes that Jesus means the Holy Spirit (John 7:37-39). Jesus seems to be trying to say that those who choose to follow him will be able to tap into something that will nurture them deeply, and slake their inner thirst. As a follower of Jesus I can’t say that I have always found this to be true, but I have sometimes found it to be true. And it’s also certainly true that I often try to satisfy my soul-hungers and thirsts with things that are not especially satisfying or life-giving – and that’s on me, and late capitalism. 

Anyway: The confusion over living water is just one example of this theme that runs throughout the Gospel of John. In chapter 2 Jesus talks about destroying the temple and raising it in three days; people think he’s talking about the Great Temple, which took decades to build, but he’s talking about his body. In chapter 3, Nicodemus is perplexed about being born a second time. Later in chapter 4, Jesus’ disciples are trying to get him to eat, and he says, “I have food you don’t know about;” they wonder, did somebody bring him food?, and he says, My food is to do the will of the one who sent me. In chapter 6, Jesus promises his disciples bread from heaven; they say, “Sir, give us this bread” (does that sound familiar?). He says, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.” There are several more examples when Jesus is speaking about death – his own death, when he says things like,  I’m going where you can’t come with me, and the death of Lazarus, whom we’ll hear about next week. And then there’s the play around literal and metaphorical blindness in chapter 9. 

Sometimes these misunderstandings are brief; sometimes Jesus goes on to say more about the larger realities at stake, as in the conversation with Nicodemus that we heard last week. Rarely does somebody engage him, ask questions, seek clarification. Just a chapter earlier, Nicodemus says, “What do these things mean!?!,”, and then falls silent, confounded. 

And then there’s Samara. She asks Jesus, Why are you talking to me? She asks him, Where exactly do you plan to get this living water, Mr No Bucket? She says, Give me some of that special water, so I don’t have keep coming out here every day! She says, I have no husband. She says, Sir, I see that you are a prophet, so tell me: Who’s right, the Samaritans or the Jews? She wonders out loud about the Messiah – and whether Jesus could possibly be the guy. She’s bold, and curious, and I love her. I think Jesus thinks she’s pretty great, too. 

Because she is bold, and curious, and ready to proclaim good news even when the people around her think she’s out of line or embarrassing, the woman we’re calling Samara becomes a disciple – one who meets Jesus and is transformed by that meeting – and an evangelist, one who invites others to come and meet Jesus. We only meet her here – but even this brief story should make her honored by the church, not disparaged. 

And – as I preached about another of the women of John’s Gospel, Mary of Bethany, about year ago – dwelling with Samara doesn’t just warm my heart towards her; it warms my heart towards Jesus. Back in the 1930s, Dorothy Sayers, one of my favorite writers of both mystery novels and theology, wrote about how Jesus refused to be squicked out by women and women stuff: “Perhaps it is no wonder that the women [in the Gospels] were first at the Cradle and last at the Cross. They had never known a man like this Man [Jesus] – and there never has been such another. A prophet and teacher who never nagged at them, never flattered or coaxed or patronised; who never made arch jokes about them, never treated them either as ‘The women, God help us!’ or ‘The ladies, God bless them!’; who rebuked without querulousness and praised without condescension; who took their questions and arguments seriously; …. who never mapped out their sphere for them, never urged them to be feminine or jeered at them for being female; who had no axe to grind and no uneasy male dignity to defend…. Nobody could possibly guess from the words and deeds of Jesus that there was anything ‘funny’ about women’s nature.”

(The disciples’ reluctance to ask Jesus, “Why are you talking to this strange woman?”, makes me think that they’ve asked questions like that before and been told to mind their business.) 

Two thousand years later, it still doesn’t go without saying that a person who identifies as a woman has just as much right to be in the world, freely and joyfully, as anybody else. Perhaps less so now than a few years ago. 

The God we know through Jesus Christ and his earthly life is a God who takes women seriously – among others whose autonomy and worth are questioned or graded as second-rate by others. The God we know through Jesus Christ isn’t interested in shaming, or shooing back into the kitchen. The God we know in Jesus Christ sees as as we are and meets us where we are, no matter what we’ve done or what’s happened to us, and offers us a place – each of us, all of us – in the great holy work of redemption, woven through time. 

That’s a Savior who earns my loyalty, and my love. 

Current Events, scripture, Sermons

Homily, March 1

We read the story of the Man Born Blind today! 

What do these animals have in common with each other, and with YOU?…  We’re all a kind of animal called primates.

One of the things all primates have in common is binocular vision. Binocular vision means that what we can see with each eye, overlaps a lot – so when we look forward, most of what we can see we are seeing with both eyes.

That’s really good for depth perception, which means, telling exactly how far away something is. 

It’s good for animals that hunt, like canines and felines. 

And it’s good for animals that climb around in trees – like primates! It helps our primate cousins, and our primate ancestors, jump from branch to branch safely. 

The point of this little science lesson is that human beings are a kind of animal that is very dependent on vision – on sight. 

What do you think are the most important senses for your dog or cat?… (maybe smell, hearing)

What about for humans? …

You could argue that sight is our primary and strongest sense. It takes up the most space in our brains, by far!

Sight and seeing are so important to us that we use them as a metaphor a lot.

A metaphor is when we make a connection between two things, as a way to say more about one of those things. 

Here’s an example: what if you’re busy with homework or chores or a project, and somebody tells you, You’re a busy bee!

Do they really think you look like a bee?…

Why do they say that? … 

Here are some other metaphors you might hear: 

He’s a bull in a china shop. 

She was a deer in headlights. 

I felt like a fish out of water. 

Those are kind of obvious metaphors, because that person isn’t really a deer or a bee or a fish. 

But we also use metaphors we might not even know we’re using.

What if you’re trying and trying to figure out a math problem, and finally somebody explains it, and you say, Oh, I see!!! You’ve been looking at that math problem for an hour; you didn’t just see it. When you say I see!!, you’re using seeing as a metaphor for understanding. 

We use “seeing” as a metaphor for knowing, too, or for perceiving something that doesn’t actually use vision. 

Here are some more examples of when people say see but aren’t really talking about vision, seeing things with our eyes:

I just don’t see the point. 

I don’t know what she sees in him. 

I see an opportunity here. 

I’m trying to see your point of view. 

… You might notice or think of others. 

What does it mean to be blind? 

It means your eyes don’t work very well, right? Maybe you can see a little bit, maybe you can’t see at all. But your eyes don’t work well enough for you to be able to use vision to do daily tasks and move around the world, the way most people do.

Just like we use “see” as a metaphor to mean, know or understand, sometimes people use blind as a metaphor for ignorant or stubborn or closed-minded. Unfortunately, there are a couple of examples of this in prayers in our prayer book!

One prayer asks God to give us those things which “for our blindness we cannot ask.” It’s trying to say that sometimes we don’t even know what we need God to do for us, and that’s certainly true. But what does that have to do with being blind?

We fixed it in our version, but in the prayer book, the litany we use in Lent says, “Accept our repentance, Lord, for our blindness to human need and suffering.” What it’s trying to say is that sometimes we’d rather not know about people who are suffering, so we just choose not to learn about it or think about it. But what does that have to do with being blind??

We work on not using blindness as a metaphor in these ways because it’s not respectful of blind folks to talk about blindness as if it means willful ignorance or some kind of spiritual failure. 

Being blind doesn’t stop somebody from having a job, going to parks and concerts and restaurants, having a family or hobbies, and doing most of the the things sighted people do. And often blind people’s other senses get stronger, which is really cool – like a kind of superpower! 

But we do make it hard for people who are blind, like people with other disabilities and differences, to participate in our common life. Because of some laws and rules, there are things we do – on city streets, at jobs and restaurants and parks – that make it so that blind people can be there easily and safely. But there’s a lot more we could do if we really wanted to, together. 

And back in Jesus’ time, it might have been even harder for blind people to live normal lives. They didn’t have those laws and rules. And a lot of people thought that being blind meant that God was mad at you, or maybe at your parents! 

In this story, we have this man who was born blind. The fact that his parents show up in the story making me think he was still young, maybe eighteen or twenty. And Jesus heals him – makes his eyes work, so he can see! Sometimes in stories where Jesus heals somebody, we see that person ask Jesus to heal them. That doesn’t happen in this story. But he does seem happy about having been given his sight! His life is going to be easier now. 

But Jesus, or maybe John, our Gospel writer, or maybe both of them, want us to think about literal sight, seeing with our eyes, and metaphorical sight – being willing to accept something new that surprises us or goes against the ideas we already have. 

Who are some of the people in the story who are having a hard time accepting something new, that doesn’t fit their ideas?… 

  • The neighbors! Arguing over whether it’s really him. 
  • Maybe the parents: We know this is our son, we know he was born blind, that’s it. They’re too scared to “see” anything else. 
  • The Pharisees, who argue about it: Someone who is righteous would be resting on the sabbath, not healing somebody; but how could someone who is unrighteous have the holy power to restore somebody’s sight? 
  • And the religious leaders! They have some things they know: We know this man, Jesus, is a sinner. We know that God doesn’t listen to sinners. They know those things so hard that they can’t accept the idea that maybe Jesus is the real thing, even when the young man tells them the obvious facts: I was blind, and now I can see!!!! In fact, they get so mad about it that they kick him out of the synagogue, the house of worship. 

Right at the end of the story, Jesus says something about how he came into the world so that people who are blind will be able to see – like the young man he healed – and so that people who think they can see will “become blind.” He’s using metaphor to talk about people who think they have everything figured out, but refuse to believe something that’s right in front of them.

About eighty years ago, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a German pastor and theologian who opposed the Nazis, wrote a letter to some friends about Hitler and his followers. Part of that letter seems to me like it connects with this Gospel story. 

Bonhoeffer wrote about the problem of “Dummheit.” That word is often translated from German into English as stupidity, but I’ll stick with the German word so we don’t mix it up with what we already think stupid means. By dummheit, he means that people give up using their own judgment and thinking for themselves. They put someone else in charge of what they think – specifically, their great leader, Adolf Hitler. And if something comes along that doesn’t fit their ideas – HIS ideas – then they just shut it out. 

It’s not that people afflicted by dummheit are lacking in intellectual capacity. Many are very smart! Dummheit is a moral and social and political thing, not a brain thing. He writes, “The process at work here is not that particular human capacities, for instance, the intellect, suddenly… fail. Instead, it seems that under the overwhelming impact of rising power, humans are deprived of their inner independence, and, more or less consciously, give up establishing an autonomous position toward the emerging circumstances…. In conversation with [someone afflicted by Dummheit], one virtually feels that one is dealing not at all with a person, but with slogans, catchwords and the like, that have taken possession of him. He is under a spell.” 

And someone under that spell, Bonhoeffer writes, “will… be capable of any evil and at the same time incapable of seeing that it is evil.” As Bonhoeffer sees it, Dummheit is more dangerous than people who are trying to do bad things. 

Bonhoeffer says you can’t reason with people who are under Dummheit. If you tell them facts that go against their ideas, they just won’t believe you, or will say that those facts don’t matter.

But he cares about those people. They’re his fellow citizens. And he believes that the Dummheit isn’t a permanent or intrinsic part of who they are. He believes they still have their own inner insight and independence, buried in there somewhere, and that they need liberation – they need to be set free. 

All of that seems important to me. And it also seems important to me to stay aware of my own potential for Dummheit. We all have biases that make us more likely to believe some things than others, or that make us assume about other people that might not be true. We might have leaders or commentators or influencers whose ideas we rely on, or even substitute for our own ideas and opinions. 

Some people think that to be Christian is a kind of Dummheit. That we’ve taken on a whole mindset that we refuse to question, that we keep our beliefs over here and reality over here, and never the twain shall meet. But the Bible is full of people having their ideas and the way they think about the world challenged and stretched and transformed by Jesus and by what God is doing. Our great theologian Richard Hooker, back in the 16th century, looked at the rise of scientific research and said, God gave us brains, and the ability to wonder and to reason. So it could never be against God’s will to use our brains and seek out new knowledge and new understandings. 

As followers of Jesus, we are called to keep our literal and metaphorical eyes open. To seek and wonder, to observe and reflect, to listen and learn. To look for spaces of sharing and wondering, instead of spaces of unaninimity and conformity. To always try to better understand ourselves, each other, and the world. And to look for the surprising truths and hopeful possibilities that may be hiding in plain sight. Amen. 

 

 

Bonhoeffer on Dummheit:

https://www.onthewing.org/user/Bonhoeffer%20-%20Theory%20of%20Stupidity.pdf

scripture, Sermons

Sermon, Feb. 15

A few minutes ago we heard our lector say, “A reading from Paul’s first letter to the church in Corinth.” As if we all knew who Paul was. So: who was Paul? 

We know about Paul from his letters, preserved by the first Christians until they became part of the New Testament – but be careful; Paul was so important that other people wrote letters in his name, saying things they wished he had said, and some of those made it into the Bible too. In addition to his letters, we know about Paul from the Book of the Acts of the Apostles, a short history of the first decades of Christianity written by the same person as the Gospel of Luke. The details don’t always line up, but enough matches that scholars think we can take Acts as telling us more about Paul’s life and work.  

Paul was probably born a few years after Jesus, in the city of Tarsus, in Turkey. His family were observant Jews. Paul is also Roman citizen, through his parents, which suggests that at some point his family had been favored by a Roman emperor and granted citizenship, conferring some degree of status. 

I learned in Sunday school that Paul changed his name from Saul to Paul when he became a Christian, but scholars think it’s more likely that Saul was his Jewish name and Paul or Paulus was his Roman name – which he started using more regularly when he became an itinerant Christian missionary. His first language was probably Aramaic, a linguistic cousin of Hebrew that Jesus and his disciples also spoke; but Paul was also fluent in Koine Greek, the language used across the Roman Empire at the time. 

Paul was educated; as a young man he was sent to Jerusalem to study with Gamaliel, a great teacher of Jewish law. He also seems to have been familiar with the Greek school of thought known as Stoicism, which he draws on in some of his teaching, especially in trying to explain Christianity to non-Jewish audiences. 

But despite his education Paul doesn’t seem to wanted to become a rabbi or scholar of the Torah. There are hints that he may have joined the family trade as a leather-worker and tent-maker…. until the spread of the Christian movement, after Jesus’ death and resurrection around the year 33 AD, changed everything. 

Paul never met Jesus during his earthly life. He wasn’t a disciple, one of the group that followed Jesus around and listened to his teachings. In fact, Paul and his family were Pharisees – members of a reform movement within Judaism that wanted to call Jews back to more faithfully following the teachings of the Torah.

As we see in the Gospels, the Pharisees were interested in Jesus; there was some overlap in their hopes and concerns. But they didn’t like how cavalier Jesus could be about following the commandments. And once Jesus was crucified, and then his followers started telling everybody he had risen from the dead and saying that he was God – well, that was a big issue for Pharisees. Judaism holds a deep, fundamental commitment to the one-ness of God; you don’t just add on bonus extra gods willy-nilly, and the idea that the One God could somehow show up in some guy was not acceptable to many. 

That brings us to the year 35 or 36. Paul – Saul – is a zealous Pharisee, maybe 30 years old. Christianity is spreading fast, and Jewish leaders in Jerusalem are troubled. A young preacher named Stephen is arrested and brought before the Council. He accuses them of opposing God and misunderstanding their own scriptures. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he is condemned to death for heresy – speaking falsely about God. The punishment is stoning: a mob all throws rocks at him until he’s dead. But first, some people take off their outer robes, so they won’t get bloody, and lay them at the feet of this nice young man Saul to look after. Acts 8 tells us, with chilling simplicity: Saul approved of their killing him. In fact, Saul approves of it so much that he gets permission from the High Priest to go to another city, Damascus, and round up Christians there. Acts describes Saul as “breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord.” But it’s on that fateful journey, on the road to Damascus, that everything changes. Acts 9 tells us, “Suddenly a light from heaven flashed around him. He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” He asked, “Who are you, Lord?” The reply came, “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting.””

There’s more to the story; but what matters is that Saul, very suddenly and very completely, becomes a follower of Jesus. And not just a follower – but a leader: he begins to travel and teach, and soon is founding new Christian communities himself. Now, when I say, “founding churches,” you might picture someone laying a cornerstone. But for the first decades of Christianity, churches were groups of people who met in somebody’s home. Christian architecture, per se, doesn’t come along for a while yet. So: Paul is gathering new believers in various places, to become a local body that worships and learns and serves together. 

Within a couple of years of his conversion, Paul goes to meet with the leaders of the early church, Peter and James, in Jerusalem, and gets permission from them to preach Christ among Gentiles – non-Jews – a new frontier. He founds the church in Corinth sometime in the mid to late 40s.

Corinth was – and is – a Greek city, west of Athens. Fun fact: Corinth is also built on an isthmus! In Ancient Corinth, they used to have Isthmian Games every other year, and the winner would be honored with a crown of celery! 

So: In this letter, Paul is writing to a church he founded, that is struggling and conflicted. He probably wrote this letter in the mid-50s, possibly while staying in Ephesus. This wasn’t really his first letter to the Corinthians, it’s just the first one we still have. Scholars think he’d written to them about some of these issues already, and there was pretty clearly another letter – a very angry letter – sent between the letters we know as First and Second Corinthians. 

We’ve heard the first two chapters on previous Sundays, but I squeezed them into the Sunday Supplement today too. Let’s look briefly at what’s going on here. 

Paul begins – as he usually does – with warm greetings, gratitude, and praise. He reminds them that they’re called, blessed, and beloved. And then… he gets to the first issue he wants to raise. He’s heard that there’s some infighting among them – seems like his friend Chloe may have sent him a letter about it. Folks in the church in Corinth are splitting into factions, based on loyalty to Paul or to Apollos. We don’t know a lot about Apollos; this letter is one of the main sources. Like Paul, he seems to have been someone who became a Christian early on, and started traveling around to preach and teach. Paul and Apollos were probably not exactly chummy, but they seem to have had a cordial relationship; at the very end of this letter, Paul says that he urged Apollos to visit Corinth, but that Apollos was unwilling to go. Maybe Apollos felt that visiting Corinth just then would only reawaken the factionalism; maybe Apollos just didn’t care to take orders from Paul. But I do think Paul’s issue is more with the Corinthians’ behavior than with Apollos himself. 

In chapter 1 it sounds briefly like there are not two, but four factions: Paul writes, “Each of you says, ‘I belong to Paul,’ or ‘I belong to Apollos,’ or ‘I belong to Cephas,’ or ‘I belong to Christ.’

But some scholars suggest that this is just a kind of escalation: Paul was operating under the authority of Cephas/Peter, head of the church, so what we’re really hearing is: “I belong to Paul!” “I belong to Apollos!” “Well, PAUL was appointed by CEPHAS!” “Well, Apollos was appointed by CHRIST!” It’s pretty clear elsewhere that two groups, loyal to Paul and Apollos respectively, are the presenting issue here. 

What does Paul have to say about it? Well, first, that he doesn’t want disciples. He doesn’t want anybody claiming primary loyalty to him. That’s the context for the wonderful bit where he’s trying to remember how many Corinthians he baptized! But his point is that his teaching and ministry point towards Christ, not himself. 

Second, he has a lot to say in chapters 1 and 2 about wisdom and foolishness. To some extent, that was just a core preaching point for early Christians – and perhaps still today. It’s pretty wild to preach a Messiah, a Savior, who was executed by the state; so at some level you just have to lean into foolishness. 

In this letter, Paul’s emphasis on this theme may also have been a response to Greek traditions of rhetoric, philosophy, and public argumentation that may have been part of the ambient culture in Corinth – perhaps why Paul mentions debaters and scholars. Paul is saying: Look, our teaching is not going to meet the Greek rhetorical standard, but that’s not because we’re stupid or wrong; it’s because something different, something paradoxical and impossible and holy, is at stake here. 

I think the foolishness and wisdom theme here is also Paul’s slightly grumpy response to unfavorable comparisons between himself and Apollos. Paul is, at times, a powerfully eloquent writer, but by his own testimony he was not an especially powerful speaker. Here we see him trying to make that a virtue. 

He says that he doesn’t proclaim the Gospel with “eloquent wisdom” – so that the cross of Christ may not be emptied of its power! A few verses later, he says, “My speech and my proclamation were made not with persuasive words of wisdom but with a demonstration of the Spirit and of power, so that your faith might rest not on human wisdom but on the power of God.”

There’s a definitely a hint here that Apollos is a more compelling preacher than Paul, and that that’s part of why some folks in Corinth want to be on Apollos’ team. Paul has little patience with it. In today’s text, Paul offers them a couple of metaphors: Look, you’re like a field or a garden. I planted the seeds, Apollos is watering you, but we’re just servants; it’s God who’s helping you grow. Or think of a building: I laid the foundation, and Apollos is building on it. Paul may be casting a little shade here when he says that the other people building on his foundation may be building with “gold, silver, costly stones, wood, hay or straw”… it doesn’t really matter, because ultimately God will test the quality of each one’s work. The point is – Paul tries to wrap up this portion of the letter – that you shouldn’t be so focused on human leaders! All things are yours, whether Paul or Apollos or Cephas or the world or life or death or the present or the future—all belong to you, and you belong to Christ, and Christ belongs to God.

First Corinthians is long. We read bits of it in Epiphany every year, which… is not the easiest way to take in its overall message? If you sit down to read the whole letter – it’s not that long – you’ll find that Paul is really just warming up, in these first three chapters. 

There’s sexual immorality, and legal wrangling, court, and misbehaving at Eucharistic meals, and it’s all a total mess. The factionalism is the tip of the iceberg, to be honest. 

All right. So what? This would be great preaching material for a congregation split by rivalries. We’re not that congregation. So what is there here to carry away?

I’ll tell you what I carry away. First, Paul is a person. That may seem obvious, but it really staggers me how much we can get to know him, his voice, his opinions, his insecurities and struggles, his faith, when we read his letters. That bit in chapter 1 where he can’t remember who he’s baptized is very funny, but it’s also so real; I’ve been the pastor wracking my brains to try to remember who to thank after a big event, or something! Paul was real. His work, his struggles, his love: Real, and real to us, when we spend time in his presence by reading the letters he wrote with so much care and so much urgency. A sibling in faith, across  2000 years.

Second: Paul’s faith undergirds my faith. Sometimes we have a vague sense that the church’s ideas about Jesus got more grandiose and elaborate through time. That if we went back to the very beginning, we’d find a simple man preaching kindness, and that it wasn’t until later that people with their own motives started saying he was God and forming a religion around him. 

Paul’s letters are some of the earliest texts in the Bible. The Gospels draw on earlier sources, but Mark’s Gospel was probably written down in the mid-60s, and the other three were written in the 70s, 80s, and 90s. First Thessalonians, probably the earliest of Paul’s letters preserved in the Bible, was likely written around the year 49 – only 15 or 16 years after Jesus’ death and resurrection. Christianity as a movement was just getting its learner’s permit. 

And what Paul shows us (among other sources!) is that from more or less the very start, Christians felt that in Jesus they had encountered God in a new way, a way that changed their lives and imaginations and also, somehow, changed the very fabric of reality. The church’s theological language doesn’t evolve later as a justification for hierarchy and power, but as an effort to describe what people experienced in Jesus, right from the start. 

Paul’s faith shines through his letters – a profound, costly faith in Jesus Christ and him crucified, at a time when it was not at all clear that this whole Christianity thing was going to go anywhere. The stakes were so much higher for him than they’ve ever been for me. And he’s all in, heart, soul, life. A faith like that is a bold and hopeful influence on my own faith. 

Third: God can use us even when we’re really messing up. 

Things in the church in Corinth were bad, and got worse. A few decades later there’s a letter from Clement, the fourth Bishop of Rome, rebuking the Corinthians for having fired some bishops; apparently it continued to be a church in conflict! I’ve had friends pastor churches like this, where suspicion and anger and division just seem to be in the DNA of the place. It’s sad and awful. 

It’s not that it doesn’t matter that this church couldn’t get its act together. I’m sure people were wounded and pushed away; I’m sure opportunities to preach grace were lost. I’m sure, too, because grace is resilient, that lives were changed for the better, even amidst the bitter brokenness of the church in Corinth. 

And: sometimes in struggle and conflict, we get clearer about what we stand for. We can also 100% get overly focused on the details, and that’s frustrating and exhausting. But sometimes, too, we manage to dig down and articulate what’s important. What feels like it’s at stake, and why it matters to us so much. 

Because Chloe’s people wrote to Paul, and then Paul wrote to the church in Corinth, and somebody in the church kept this letter, some amazing things have been passed down to us. 

Because the Corinthians were confused about who they belong to, we have Paul telling them that everything belongs to you, and you belong to Christ, and Christ belongs to God. Because the Corinthians were messing up their practice of shared holy meals, we have the earliest description of the Eucharist, in chapter 11 – “For I received from the Lord what I also passed on to you: The Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.” And so on. A text that tells us that Christians have been doing what we do every Sunday for 2000 years. 

Because the Corinthians were doing a lousy job loving each other, we have one of the most famous and beloved passages in Scripture: “If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal…. Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude… it does not rejoice in wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.” First Corinthians chapter 13.  

The apostle Paul, in all his humanity, and from the depths of his utter faith in Christ crucified, speaks across twenty centuries to remind us who we are, and whose we are, and how to try to treat one another. Thanks be to God. Amen. 

Church Seasons & Holy Days, Kid-friendly, scripture

Christmas Eve sermon, 2025

On Christmas Eve we always hear a beautiful reading from the prophet Isaiah: The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light! A prophet is someone who comes so close to God that they know what’s real and true and important. Sometimes God gives them words to speak to God’s people. 

The prophet Isaiah lived a long time before Jesus, but the joy and hope in this reading fit the way Christians feel about Christmas, when we share the holy story of God being born as a human baby, to live among human beings and share our lives and tell us how much God loves us. 

There’s a part of that Isaiah reading that’s a little strange, though: when it talks about the boots of the tramping warriors, and the bloody clothes, and about breaking people free from their oppressors, “as on the day of Midian.” It sounds like it’s talking about a war, or a battle. But what is the day of Midian?

The story of the battle of Midian comes from the book of Judges, from the early part of the Bible, a long time before Jesus and even a long time before Isaiah. The people who were becoming God’s people were living in towns and villages and farms, raising their crops and their sheep and their children. They wanted peace and enough to eat, like anybody else. But another nation who lived nearby – the nation of Midian – decided they wanted that land. They started to attack the the farms and towns and villages, stealing the animals and burning the fields, and killing people too. 

Slowly these people, the Midianites, started to take over and camp out on the land. God’s people had to struggle and fight and run and hide. People didn’t have any food. They had to abandon their villages, and go live in caves in the mountains. It was really terrible! The people cried out to God for help. Save us, God; we’re hungry, cold, and afraid, and our enemies are too strong for us! 

One day a young man named Gideon is preparing some wheat from his father’s farm; he’s kind of hiding so the Midianites don’t spot him. Suddenly, an angel appears! The angel says, Gideon! God is with you!

And Gideon says, I don’t know about that! If God is with us, why are things so terrible right now for my family and my people?… 

The angel tells Gideon that God has chosen Gideon to drive out the Midianites and free his people. But Gideon is not so sure. He’s not a mighty warrior or a powerful leader. He’s just some guy. He’s probably not even fully a grownup yet – maybe he’s eighteen or twenty, still working for his dad. So he think it’s pretty strange that God has chosen HIM to lead an army. He tests the angel to make sure they really speak for God. 

But eventually Gideon is convinced – and then he convinces other people to join him! The word goes out that God has called a leader to throw out the Midianites, and people start to gather to Gideon. Now, these aren’t soldiers – they’re just ordinary people. They bring whatever they can as weapons: maybe a kitchen knife, or a shovel, or the bow and arrow they use to hunt. And they bring jugs of water, because that’s always a good idea, and they bring a torch for traveling at night, and they bring some musical instruments, because you never know when you might want to have a little jam session.

Gideon looks around and he sees that now he has 32,000 people ready to fight. Does that sound like a lot? … 

But that angel is still hanging around, and the angel says, Gideon, you have too many fighters. Your army is too big.

Gideon says, what do you mean?? We are still outnumbered! The Midianites have 40,000 trained soldiers with real weapons!

The angel says: God says there are too many. If you go to fight Midian with this many people, you might think it’s your own strength that has saved you, instead of God. Tell your fighters: If you’re afraid of the battle, go home. 

Gideon doesn’t like that very much. But he does what the angel told him. He says: If you’re scared of fighting the Midianites, go home to your family! And twenty-two thousand of his fighters go home. How many does that leave?… 

Now Gideon looks at his ten thousand fighters and starts to think about how they’ll attack the Midianite army… but then the angel taps him on the shoulder and says, You still have too many. 

What noise do you think Gideon makes when he hears that?…

This time the angel says: See that pond over there? Send your fighters down to the pond to get a drink. Now, it’s not a good idea to drink water straight out of a pond or a river, but that’s how things were back then. If you were going to get a drink from a pond, how would you do it? Show me with your body?…

The angel tells Gideon: Watch how your fighters drink. All the ones who do THIS, who cup water in their hands – send them home. And all the ones who get down on their hands and knees and lap up the water like a dog – KEEP those ones. 

Out of ten thousand fighters, THREE HUNDRED of them lap up the water like a dog. That’s about three times as many people as there are in this room right now. It’s not very many!

But the angel says: Good. Now you have the right sized army! Go drive out the Midianites, in the name of God! 

I like what happens next because the angel doesn’t tell Gideon how to do it. It’s like God has given Gideon a puzzle to solve: How can I drive out an army of forty thousand, with an army of three hundred? Gideon looks at what his fighters have. They have various tools and weapons, and they have water jugs, and torches, and musical instruments – especially some trumpets. 

And he says: Here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll wait till it’s nighttime, and use the darkness. We’ll drink all our water so the jugs are empty. We’ll put the jugs over the torches to hide the light, while we sneak up to the Midianites’ camp. Then all at once, on my signal, we’ll BREAK the jugs, and BLOW our trumpets, so that suddenly there’s a lot of light and noise. And then… we’ll see what happens. 

So that’s what they do. They sneak up close to the enemy camp. Then Gideon gives the signal. They shout, For God and for Gideon! They break the jugs so their torches shine out in the dark. They blow their trumpets loud and long. 

And the Midianite soldiers wake up in a panic! They don’t know what’s happening. They think they’re being attacked. They start fighting with each other in the dark; they don’t know who’s an enemy and who’s a friend. They’re shouting in terror and running away. Soon other fighters come to help Gideon’s tiny army, and they drive the Midianites all the way back to their own land. And for forty years, nobody else attacked God’s people, and they were able to live in peace. 

I don’t know why the prophet Isaiah mentions the battle of Midian, in the reading we hear tonight. It was about five hundred years ago, for Isaiah. And there are lots of stories of battles and surprising victories that Isaiah could have mentioned. But he mentions this one. He reminds his people about the time when they went up against a powerful enemy with almost nothing, and somehow – with God’s help – got free. 

Versions of this story happen over and over and over again in the Old Testament, the part of the Bible from before the time of Jesus. There’s a person, or a group, or a person who’s part of a group, who’s on the downside of things – vulnerable or unimportant, pushed to the edges, too old or too young or too sick or too poor or too weird, younger sons and women and people with dodgy reputations and people from somewhere else, folks living in wartime or under oppressive rule. 

And with God’s help, somebody unexpected is able to survive and grab hold of a little hope and possibility, not only for themselves but for other people like them. Sometimes they even manage to change things, for a while. 

It’s the story of Joseph, of Moses, of David, of Jeremiah and Tobias. It’s the story of Tamar, and Hagar, and Judith, and Ruth and Esther. So many versions of this story, over and over and over again: surviving, and seizing hope, against the odds. 

And when we arrive at the New Testament, at the Christmas story, the Christian story, it’s another version of that story. Jesus lived in a nation weak enough to be part of somebody else’s empire. A hostile and fearful local government, and armed occupation by the Roman Empire, were constant threats to ordinary folks. Jesus’ family was poor, and maybe had to move around some to find work. It seems like they didn’t have much family support; maybe people didn’t like it that Mary got pregnant under strange circumstances. 

But this is the family and the world that God chooses to come into, as a newborn baby. Who’s seen a newborn baby? Does it seem like they can help or save anybody, including themselves?… 

Wouldn’t it have all been much simpler if God had just decided to be born as the oldest son of the emperor? Or to skip the whole baby part and just show up as a mighty warrior-king? 

But this is what God does: God comes to earth as a human baby, poor and ordinary. God makes our lives, our world, holy, by living a life so much like ours. In the story of Jesus’ birth, God tells us, again, to look for grace and hope and possibility among people who are unimportant and powerless and pushed to the edges. 

The story that God is telling the world, the story God keeps telling in the world, is a story about people who aren’t rich and powerful and famous and influential. It’s a story about how those people really matter. They matter to God and they matter to the world. And God’s going to keep telling that story in the world, and through the world, until we build a world where everybody matters.

Now, people like to give presents at Christmas, and I always like to give a little present to the kids (and anyone else, while supplies last) at this service. When I decided to tell you about Gideon tonight, I had this BRILLIANT idea to give everybody little plastic trumpets! I did not ask myself what would happen if I gave everybody a little plastic trumpet in the middle of church. So I’m not going give everybody a little plastic trumpet in the middle of church. I’m going give everybody a little plastic trumpet at the end of church. Parents: I’m so sorry. 

But this trumpet isn’t just to make noise and make everybody sorry that they came to church on Christmas. This trumpet is to remind us that that music and noise and joy and even obnoxiousness can be a kind of power. We can be noisy to celebrate good things, and noisy to protest bad things. We can be noisy to let each other know we’re not alone, and we can be noisy to get attention when something is wrong. And like the day of Midian, sometimes enough noise and light can change the situation. 

So let’s keep telling God’s story about the strength and belovedness of ordinary people. Let’s shine some light, play some music, make some noise, and help people get free. Amen.

Big Questions, scripture, Sermons

Sermon, Nov. 16

I’ll get to our readings in a moment. But I want to start today with our collect, because it might be my favorite. Collect is a funny word. We pronounce it differently from the more familiar word collect but it is essentially the same word. A collect – at the beginning of the Eucharistic liturgy, towards the end of Morning or Evening Prayer – collects or gathers the prayers and intentions and concerns and perhaps the wandering thoughts of the assembly, into the prayer of the church. Our prayer book contains one for every Sunday of the year, and there are others elsewhere. This collect is always used on the second to last Sunday of the church year – two Sundays before Advent, when a new year starts for the church – and it might be my favorite. Would ____ read it again for us? … 

This collect – like some of the wonderful Advent collects that we’ll read in coming weeks – goes all the way back to the origins of our way of faith, to Thomas Cranmer’s work creating the first English prayerbook, published in 1549. Reading Scripture was important to Cranmer and to the English Reformation. Before the Reformation, only certain parts of the Bible were read aloud in church, and generally in Latin, which most people did not understand. In the preface for that 1549 prayer book, Cranmer wrote about his hope that in this new pattern of worship, clergy will read “the whole Bible (or the greatest part thereof)” every year and thereby “be stirred up to godliness and.. more able to exhort others by wholesome doctrine,” and also that the people, “by daily hearing of holy Scripture read in the church,” should “continually profit more and more in the knowledge of God, and be the more inflamed with the love of true religion.”

I love the four verbs Cranmer offers us here: read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest. They map out a process for receiving Scripture that works just as well 500 years later. Read is straightforward enough. That’s usually the first step. Just read your passage of Scripture, maybe a couple of times – or listen to it read. But that’s just the beginning. 

Then we get mark. This is an archaic way to use the word, but it’s related to things we still say – like Mark my words! Or, Remarkable! It means something like notice or pay attention to. When we study a text together here in Zoom Compline or elsewhere, we often start by just listening for a word or phrase that catches your attention. I think that’s close to what mark means, here. What seizes you about this passage? What makes you pause and wonder? What do you want to underline, or write a star next to… or maybe a question mark? 

Then we get to learn! I’m not sure exactly what Cranmer had in mind here, but for me this is a great shorthand for doing a little study, a little research. Maybe it’s reading the footnotes in your study Bible, or looking at what comes before and after your passage, for context. I often glance at good old Wikipedia to remind me of what I learned in seminary about that particular book of the Bible, its major themes, when and where it might have been written, what scholars think about it. There are lots of other websites that offer simple study and commentary tools. I literally just learned this week that the Episcopal Church, our denomination, has a simple Bible study online for the readings for every Sunday of the church year. Doing a little study like this can help us understand a Scriptural text better, and sometimes that helps us receive what the text has for us. But I like that it comes third, here, after our own unfiltered experience of reading, noticing, and beginning to reflect on the text. 

Finally, inwardly digest. It’s a funny phrase, but also a meaningful one. When we digest food, in the literal sense, our digestive system takes what it can use and builds it into our body and our functioning. Digesting Scripture is much the same – we take in things that become part of us, who we are, how we operate. We encounter things that shape our worldview and how we think and live. Usually that is cumulative, over months and years, but now and then a text hits you just so and really gets in there right away!

We’ve been talking in both our Confirmation class and our New Members class about how Episcopalians read the Bible, so let me say a tiny bit about that here too. We encourage both personal and shared reading and study of the Bible, and look for meaning together, especially with people whose experiences differ from our own. We are interested in the complexity of the Bible, rather than pretending that it’s simple. We are interested in the humanness of the Bible – seeking to understand the people, times and cultures behind these texts – both as a tool for understanding Scripture itself, and as a way of coming closer to those faith-ancestors and their walks with God. We are interested, too, in the God-ness of the Bible. Where, in this very human text, we can catch glimpses of something more than human? Where does it read against the grain of what people tend to do, left to ourselves? What are the big, overarching themes and core values that feel challenging and compelling? 

Early on in the formation of the Church of England, our mother church, leaders developed a document called the Thirty-Nine Articles, a summary of the teachings of the church. (They’re in the back of the prayer book – as is Cranmer’s preface to the first English prayer book – if you want to take a look sometime.) Article VI begins, “Holy Scripture containeth all things necessary to salvation.” But the great foundational theologian of Anglicanism, Richard Hooker, writing just a few years later, seems to have found this wanting; he writes that the Bible “contains everything needed for salvation that is not apparent to reason.” For Hooker, our capacity to observe, reflect, question and analyze is a holy gift that God intends us to use. We read Scripture with active minds, wondering and seeking. And we don’t expect the Bible to speak to everything, or to settle everything. Hooker was clear that the Bible didn’t cover all the matters on which a Christian might seek guidance, and that even some things it does cover – like matters of worship and church structure – might rightly change with the times. All of that is woven into how Episcopalians engage with Scripture. 

With that: let’s look – briefly! – at today’s texts from late in the book of the prophet Isaiah, and the Gospel of Luke. You’ve heard them once; you may want to pull out your supplement and take another look. We have read them; what might we mark, on a second reading? In the Isaiah text, you might mark the vision of human flourishing – every baby healthy, every elder living to 100, stability and peace and plenty – a vision that three thousand years of human “progress” has still not brought to fulfillment. You might notice the zoologically surprising images: the lion eating straw like a cow; the wolf and the lamb sharing a meal, instead of the wolf making the lamb into a meal. In the Gospel text, I wouldn’t be surprised if what caught your attention was the list of disasters – plagues, wars, persecutions – that might make you wonder if Jesus was reading the news in 2025. 

What about learn? There’s plenty we might study and explore about each text. With the Isaiah passage, you might find out that the (very long!) book of Isaiah was likely written by the original prophet Isaiah and then one or two later prophets, building on his words and reinterpreting them in new contexts and seasons, a generation or two later. Maybe you think, Weren’t there more animals?, and you dig around and discover that this passage – Isaiah 65 – is quoting Isaiah chapter 11, the more complete “Peaceable Kingdom” passage, which we’ll hear in a few weeks. With the text from the Gospel of Luke, maybe you’ll learn that Jesus’ scary words here came to fruition in the decades after his death, when a revolt led the Roman army to destroy the Great Temple, in an attempt to subdue those rowdy Judeans – and that many of Jesus’ followers were arrested, jailed, tried and executed for their faith. Maybe you’ll visit the excellent website Working Preacher, and read pastor and scholar Kendra Mohn’s words about this passage: “The text is not meant to be predictive as much as meaning-making, for those who experienced [those events] and for those who come after… There is really no such thing as getting through unscathed. The question is how people of faith are to respond, and where we find our refuge.” 

With either or both texts, you might stumble on the wonderful, difficult word eschatology. Meaning, literally: Reflection on last things. Christians have spent two thousand years wondering about the teaching that Jesus Christ will return to establish God’s kingdom of righteousness and mercy on earth. Some pre-Christian texts also point towards ultimate renewal. In these late chapters of Isaiah, we move beyond the promise of return from exile and rebuilding Jerusalem to a more cosmic restoration: not just how things were before conquest, but how things were meant to be in the beginning, the fulfillment of God’s dream for creation. It’s a sharp turn from that vision to this Gospel passage. But destruction, loss, renewal and hope, are all bound up in eschatology, in our thinking and wondering about… where it’s all going, and how it all ends. In Advent, which begins two weeks from today, our readings often point towards last things as well, inviting us to prepare to celebrate Jesus’ coming as the babe in Bethlehem, AND Jesus coming again in great glory to judge both the living and the dead. 

How do we inwardly digest this beautiful, complicated tension between witnessing and anticipating the destruction of much that we have trusted in and held dear, and imagining a future of extravagant peace, wellbeing and joy? For me that tension, that paradox, feels strangely familiar; it resonates with the way the world feels right now – the dynamics of loss and restoration, terror and hope, grief and possibility, in a time that truly feels epochal, a pivot point in human history. 

Looking for a short reading for the beginning of 10AM worship today, I remembered a quotation from the very strange but oddly insightful podcast Welcome to Night Vale: “Beware the unraveling of all things, and support your local farmer.” Then – Googling “quotations about the end of the world,” as one does – I found this line from the great Protestant reformer Martin Luther: “Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.” 

Maybe we bridge the tension between dread and hope in choosing to plant the apple tree – metaphorically or literally; we did in fact plant a couple of baby apple trees on our grounds this summer! Even in the face of the unraveling of all things, the world going to pieces, we prepare for better futures. We support our local farmers. We build community, grow food, share skills, work and rest and laugh together. We develop the root structure, the mycelial web, that may help us endure hard times, and be ready to grow fast and strong and fruitful when the season for flourishing arrives. 

Read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest. Cranmer’s version of the collect was a little longer; he wrote, “that by patience and comfort of thy holy word, we may embrace and ever hold fast…” and so on. By patience and comfort of thy holy word. Cranmer’s prayer was that Scripture, inwardly digested, might give us patience with the seasons of our lives and our world, and comfort in difficult and frightening times. May it be so. Amen. 

Rev. Bosco Peters offers some background on this collect:

https://liturgy.co.nz/reflections/ordinary33

Kendra Mohn on WorkingPreacher: 

https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-33-3/commentary-on-luke-215-19-6

Big Questions, scripture, Sermons

Sermon, Nov. 9

This Gospel takes a lot of explaining. First, who were the Sadducees? Our Gospel readings have taken a little hop; Jesus is suddenly in Jerusalem, during his last week, with tensions building and enemies plotting. The Sadducees seem to have been a religious group within Judaism who tended to be wealthy and influential. They were closely associated with the Great Temple in Jerusalem, which is why this meeting happens now. The Sadducees as a group didn’t last long after the destruction of the Great Temple in the year 70 CE, so we don’t know a lot about them except stuff that outsiders wrote. But notably for this little encounter, they did not believe in any kind of life after death. They’ve heard that Jesus – like the Pharisees – does teach that there’s life beyond this world, so they bring him a riddle to try to prove that the whole idea is stupid. 

I’ll come back to the riddle, but first: What’s this about Moses and a bush? There’s so much story here; go read the first few chapters of the Book of Exodus if it’s new to you! Moses was a great leader of God’s people in their early years, who led them out of slavery in Egypt. The bush story is before all that. As a young man Moses got into trouble and ran off into the desert. He got married and settled into a life of tending his father-in-law’s goats. One day he’s out with the flock and sees something burning. It’s a bush, on fire, but somehow not burning up. Then the bush calls out to him: “Moses! Moses!” Moses has been raised in the faith of his people, but this is his first direct encounter with the Living God – who speaks through the burning bush to say, “I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob,” and then to command Moses to go back to Egypt and tell Pharaoh, the King, to let God’s people go. 

Jesus quotes this story to the Sadducees – who deeply respected the traditions of Moses – to argue that God’s syntax hints that Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, great patriarchs of God’s people long-dead in this world, are alive with God somehow. 

Okay. Third piece of background. What is with this weird question the Sadducees ask!?! Whenever levirate marriage comes around, I get to put on my anthropologist hat for a minute. Within Jewish law and tradition, levirate marriage is laid out in the 25th chapter of the Book of Deuteronomy: “If brothers are living together and one of them dies without a son, his widow must not marry outside the family. Her husband’s brother shall take her and marry her and fulfill the duty of a brother-in-law to her. The first son she bears shall carry on the name of the dead brother so that his name will not be blotted out from Israel.” (Sidebar: Look up Deuteronomy chapter 25, verses 7-10 later, to see what happens if the brother doesn’t want to marry the widow.) 

This practice is best known to us from the Bible – it’s a key plot point in the Book of Ruth – but it’s not unique to ancient Judaism. It makes anthropological sense in strongly patriarchal cultures in which it’s important for every man to leave a son to carry on his lineage. It also provides some protection for widowed women, who otherwise may have no property or security. This is marriage in its most functional form: as a safeguard for property and inheritance rights. Love, or even companionable cohabitation, is beside the point. Which isn’t to say that love didn’t matter – there are romance stories in the Bible! – but that the laws around marriage and inheritance were not very interested in feelings. 

The practice of levirate marriage was falling into disfavor in most Jewish communities by the 3rd century or earlier, and likely was never common – Jewish law allowed both parties to refuse. But it was indisputably part of the law of Moses. So the Sadducees bring this riddle to Jesus, with the intention of arguing that the idea of life after death is clearly ridiculous. 

Okay. Now that we more or less know what’s going on, there are a couple of things I’d like note in Jesus’ response. Because there’s interesting stuff here beyond a clever reply. 

For one thing, we get a glimpse here of Feminist Jesus. Levirate marriage was the law, but there’s evidence in Scripture itself that people did not like it. Men didn’t want to have to take on the responsibility of housing and feeding some random woman, possibly older, possibly with daughters to marry off, which was expensive. They didn’t want to take on the obligation of trying to have a son with this woman, to honor their dead brother’s memory. We don’t really have Biblical hints of how women felt about it, but I’m pretty sure it was weird and unpleasant at best, frightening and degrading at worst. 

The woman in the Sadducees’ riddle is fully hypothetical. But you can still imagine her getting more and more dismayed as she’s passed from brother to brother to brother, as each one dies. Then Jesus says, That’s not how any of this works, and the hypothetical woman says, Oh, thank God!

Jesus says, In the resurrection, people neither marry nor are given in marriage. For people for whom such things are a struggle, a burden, a constraint, this was and is good news. In whatever comes next, they can be simply their selves, whole and free, without cultural roles and expectations. Let me be clear: for us today, getting and staying married is usually a relatively free choice, and congruent with our feelings and desires. In the ancient world, marriage probably housed some degree of mutual affection much of the time, but it was also a matter of familial, social, and economic necessity to a degree that’s hard for most of us to comprehend. 

So: You may be happily married and quite like the idea of getting to hang around with your spouse in whatever life comes after this. What I hear Jesus saying is that in resurrection life, people will no longer be bound. Free to play divine shuffleboard or attend angelic choir practice with whatever fellow children of the resurrection they vibe with. 

It’s just a small step from what Jesus says here about life beyond death, to thinking about our fundamental being-ness in God’s eyes. If people aren’t married in the resurrection, presumably they’re also not enslaved, or closeted, or closed in by any of the many other things that can define and limit us. And if people are their full and free selves before God in the resurrection, that suggests that that’s how God sees us, and loves us, in the here and now. What good and gracious news for everyone who may struggle to have room to have a self, to be a person, amidst all that binds and burdens them. And of course this isn’t just Feminist Jesus but pro-human Jesus; folks who identify as men are also often bound by roles and expectations. 

The second thing I’d like to pull out from today’s Gospel has to do with life after death. The Rite I funeral liturgy in our prayer book refers to belief in the resurrection of the dead as a reasonable and holy hope, a wonderful 18th century phrase. A reasonable and holy hope… but you could just as easily say that it’s an unreasonable hope. That our loved ones have some kind of continued life after they die is something that people can very much want to believe… and can really struggle to believe, sometimes at the same time.

I suspect that that’s always been true. Sometimes we assume folks in olden days were more naive and credulous than our modern selves. But death was not more mysterious to people in Jesus’ time than it is to us. The sick and aged would die at home, among family, and bodies would be tended by loved ones. Infant mortality and death in childbirth were common. 

People knew what death looked like, felt like, smelled like, much more than most of us do. Jesus’ insistence that death was somehow not the end would not have been easier for folks to believe back then than it is for us now, with death largely handled by various discreet professionals. 

The Sadducees here are trying to make Jesus look ridiculous, but he points out the ridiculousness of their premise: that life beyond this world is just an extension of life in this world, more of the same. A few weeks back we heard Jesus’ story about the rich man and Lazarus, from Luke chapter 16. When Lazarus, the poor man, dies, he is carried by angels to the bosom of Abraham, while the rich man who ignored his need is sent to Hades to burn in torment. I said then, and I’ll say again now, that this is not Jesus telling people what happens after you die. This is Jesus telling a story to make a point. But there are places in the Gospels where it seems like Jesus is trying to say something about the life beyond this life, and this is one of them. And I get the impression that it’s kind of hard to explain. 

Notice that Jesus doesn’t use the word Heaven, here, though it’s so easy for us to read that in, complete with fluffy clouds and the aforementioned heavenly choirs. Instead he talks about the life beyond this life as an age, an aeon in the New Testament Greek; and simply as the resurrection, the English word used to translate the wonderful Greek word anastasis, meaning to rise up or come back to life. 

In the age of resurrection, we will be like angels and children of God. Like the other places where Jesus gestures towards life beyond this world, this feels frustratingly elusive. Tell me more, Jesus. Will there be shuffleboard? Will there be karaoke? How about chocolate? 

And… will the person I miss so much be there to greet me?   

The way Jesus talks about life after death raises big questions about both life and death. In next week’s Gospel we’ll hear Jesus say something a little perplexing, as he warns his followers about future persecution: “They will put some of you to death… But not a hair of your head will perish.” Wait – I’m going to be put to death, but “not a hair of my head will perish” – a hyperbole that suggests perfect safety? Here, and elsewhere, it seems that there are different kinds of death. Dying in this world – dying to this world – isn’t dying in some ultimate and final sense.

Likewise, life in this world is not the fulness of life. Theologian Arthur McGill writes,  “The ‘eternal life’ that Jesus brings… [is] not just another form of ordinary life, which is somehow freed from death and made interminable. Rather, eternal life is a new and unique order of life, an elevation and transfiguration of the ordinary, a share in the divine life.” 

As the apostle Paul writes in the first letter to the Corinthians, “Listen, I will tell you a mystery! We will not all die, but we will all be changed… For this perishable body must put on imperishability, and this mortal body must put on immortality.” Our funeral liturgy expresses this mystery beautifully in the Eucharistic preface: “For to your faithful people, O Lord, life is changed, not ended.”

With two thousand years of theology and science at my back, I don’t feel that I can really do any better than Paul at putting words to strange and elusive hope of the resurrection of the dead.  The belief that those who have left this life and this world are living some new kind of life, in the nearer presence of God, can’t be proved or explained. It’s one of the things we try to take on faith, no more and no less than those who first heard Jesus speak. 

I often try to say a little of this when I speak at funerals – about the frustrating yet hopeful mystery of Jesus’ promise of life beyond the grave. It’s good to talk about it now, too, while our saint altar stands before us, with images of great saints of the church and with the names and photos of those we remember with love, those we ache to hold once more. 

In the age of resurrection, we will be like angels and children of God. We don’t know what that means – or even if it’s true – and we won’t know, until it’s our turn. 

But in this season of spooky skeletons and remembrance altars, 

In this season when the veil between worlds feels thin, 

In this season when deepening dark and falling leaves make us think of losses and endings, 

In this season when so many are holding their beloved dead close – or struggling with how distant they seem… 

I pray that we may feel a breath of comfort of consolation.

Of reasonable and holy hope, 

That for God’s beloved children life is indeed changed, not ended.

That there is an After, a Beyond, a More, among the saints in light. Amen. 

 

 

Arthur C. McGill (1926-1980), ‘Suffering: A Test of Theological Method’

Baptism, Faith, scripture, Sermons, Uncategorized

Sermon, October 5

When I knew we would be having baptisms today, and I looked ahead at the readings appointed by the calendar of Scriptures that we follow, I thought: This might just be the worst possible Gospel reading for a baptism. 

Welcome to following Jesus – a life of thankless drudgery! 

So over the past week and a half I’ve been thinking about this text, trying to pry some grace out of it. I’ll let you decide if I succeeded. 

I don’t think that the immediate context for this passage helps us make any sense of it. As I see it, at this particular point in Luke’s Gospel, he’s basically trying to cram in the rest of the sayings and teachings of Jesus that he knows about, before turning to the triumphal entry to Jerusalem and the culmination of the story. I don’t think this passage is particularly related to what comes just before or just after it. 

But! That doesn’t mean it stands alone. In fact it has a couple of sibling passages elsewhere in Luke’s Gospel. I think they’re siblings to this passage because they also talk about servants or slaves at the dinner table. I put them in the Sunday Supplement. Would somebody read Luke 12, verses 35 to 38? 

Luke 12:35-38

Jesus said, “Be dressed for service and keep your lamps lit. Be like people waiting for their master to come home from a wedding celebration, who can immediately open the door for him when he arrives and knocks on the door. Happy are those servants whom the master finds waiting up when he arrives. I assure you that, when he arrives, he will dress himself to serve, seat them at the table as honored guests, and wait on them. Happy are those whom the master finds alert, even if he comes at midnight or just before dawn.”

That complicates things, doesn’t it? It almost seems like the opposite of today’s text – like if the servants do a really great job, then the master WILL say, Sit down, let me bring you dinner!…  

By the way: If you read some of these passages in different translations, you might notice that some use the word servant and some use the word slave. The Greek word is doulos, and it can mean either servant – someone working for pay – or slave – someone owned by a master – or possibly a debt-slave, somewhere in between, somebody bound to work in order to pay off money that they owe. It’s a little confusing and frustrating that the Biblical text doesn’t distinguish these things. We know a fair bit about slavery in the Roman Empire, but it’s not entirely clear what practices would have been among Judeans in Jesus’ time. But it’s safe to say you’d rather be the master than the doulos, generally speaking.  

Okay, now let’s hear Luke 22, verses 24 to 27. This happens around the table at the Last Supper… 

Luke 22:24-27

An argument broke out among the disciples over which one of them should be regarded as the greatest. But Jesus said to them, “The kings of the Gentiles rule over their subjects, and those in authority over them are called benefactors. But that’s not the way it will be with you. Instead, the greatest among you must become like a person of lower status and the leader like a servant. So which one is greater, the one who is seated at the table or the one who serves at the table? Isn’t it the one who is seated at the table? But I am among you as one who serves.”

(In the same story in Mark’s Gospel, Jesus says, “For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve.”) 

Now, in this one, it seems like Jesus is kind of arguing with the whole idea that the most important person is the master who’s sitting down to his meal. Instead he’s saying that the real greatness is in the servant or slave who’s helping at the table, bringing in the serving platters and clearing away the dirty plates.

Who’s been to a Maundy Thursday service? … Do you remember something special and a little strange that we do at that service? …  

We do that because in John’s Gospel, at his final meal with his friends, Jesus wraps a towel around himself and gets a basin of water and washes his friends’ feet. That would usually be something that a pretty low-ranking servant or slave would do, because it could be kind of gross. It makes the disciples uncomfortable to let Jesus do this for them! 

And when he’s done, he tells them, “You call me Teacher and Lord – and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you should do as I have done to you.” Now, that’s in a different Gospel – but it’s at least a cousin to these passages from Luke, right?

After I preached about Jesus’ parable of the dishonest manager, a couple of weeks ago, the one who reduced everybody’s debts before he got fired, I got a wonderful email from one of you with some further wonderings about that complicated story. One thing she wondered was whether it’s possible to read the manager’s actions as pointing towards a world without mastery, without bondage. Towards the end of systems of power and exploitation. To use 20th century Black theological Howard Thurman’s terms, a world not divided into the heirs and the disinherited. 

We don’t need new oppressors; we need a new world. 

It’s not hard to find that, in the other two passages from Luke that we just read. In the one from chapter 12, the master is so happy to find the servants waiting up for him that he does something really surprising – he flips the script; he ties on an apron and serves them at table as honored guests. And in the one from chapter 22, Jesus breaks open this whole idea that the person being served is more important, has more authority and status, than the person who’s bringing them their meal or filling their water. He says, In the way I’m showing you, the path of greatness is the path of service. Of showing care to others instead of lifting yourself up or bossing anybody around. 

But can we find that theme of taking apart the idea of mastery, of status and authority, in this passage? At first glance it doesn’t seem like it. But I think it’s there – and reading its sibling passages helps us find it. 

Notice that Jesus is asking his followers a question: What would you do? What would you do if your servant came in after a day working in the fields? Would you say, Good to see you; have a seat, it’s dinner time! Or would you say, Finally, you’re here; I’m starving; put on your apron and make me dinner! 

Jesus is drawing out their assumptions, based on their familiarity with how things work, maybe their experience in their own households. Jesus’ first followers were mostly not wealthy, but in economies of extreme poverty, even people who don’t have very much often have household servants of some sort, people who have even less and have to work just to have food and a roof over their head. 

Jesus’ question assumes a sort of lower middle class farmstead, not a house of wealth – because there’s only one servant who does everything, instead of field hands and household helpers. 

So, Jesus is asking the disciples to think about a familiar situation: How do things work in the house you grew up in, or you friends’ houses? The script is not graciously flipped. The servant or slave stays in their role and has to keep working, fulfilling orders and expectations. Because we’re dealing here with the real world, not with God’s way of doing things. 

When Jesus says, “In the same way,” he gets to the point he wants to make. He pivots from the disciples’ experiences and assumptions, to what it really means to follow him, to be part of what God is doing and showing through Jesus. And in that moment, the master disappears. 

There’s just a servant saying, I’m only doing my duty. That passage from chapter 22 should help us share Jesus’ vision here: all servants, no master, and Jesus among them. He’s telling the disciples: This movement you’ve joined doesn’t have a hierarchy, a ladder to climb. You don’t work your way up to the top where you get to boss everybody else around. This is a whole different mindset, a whole different heart-set, where the driving question isn’t, How can I get ahead?, but, How can I serve? How can I help? Where can I be part of goodness? 

I think that’s what the mustard seed part is about, too! When the disciples ask Jesus to increase their faith, they’re thinking of the whole business as some kind of Faith Olympics. It often frustrates me in the Gospels that we don’t know how Jesus said things. I think his response here is wry but playful: “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.” Imagine trees whizzing around in the air because the disciples are just SO FAITHFUL! 

The theme that connects the two chunks of today’s Gospel is that discipleship, following Jesus’ ways, isn’t about greatness, accomplishment, recognition. 

It’s about finding and doing your part in God’s holy work. 

This is never going to be my favorite Scripture passage. But after wrestling with it enough, I discovered that it actually kind of echoes some of the things that God has taught me, over the years. Things that I need to be reminded about enough that they have a place in my rule of life, the set of intentions for myself that I read through day by day. Like reminding myself to resist the mindset of productivity; that I haven’t had to earn a gold star in decades. Like a quotation from Bishop Craig Loya of Minnesota that I think about a lot: “Lean into what you believe is the genuine life of your community, and don’t worry too much about outcomes.” 

One corollary of all that is that I get to rest sometimes. Because the survival and thriving of this church isn’t dependent on my accomplishments, my diligence, my skill. I do my part – and I try to do my best. But it doesn’t all depend on me. I’m a servant, not the boss. I’m not in charge; I don’ know the big picture. I’m somewhere on the lower rungs of middle management, at best. 

I have the incredible privilege of getting to live a life focused on cultivating a faith community and tending the people who come through these doors (physical or virtual). Maybe that makes it easier for me to think about my daily work through the lens of servanthood. But I bet lots of us have had moments when somebody thanked you or praised you for something, and it made you a little uncomfortable or even mad. 

Because whatever they were thanking you or praising you for, wasn’t something you did to be thanked or praised. Maybe it’s the thing that talent or skill or experience or love drives you to do. Maybe it’s something that just felt like the normal, decent human thing to do. In German there’s a saying, “Nicht zu danken”; it means, Not to thank. It’s something you can say when somebody thanks you for something that you just kind of don’t want to be thanked for – because that’s just what you do, or because you’d like whatever small act of decency you just committed to be normal and unremarkable. Maybe Nicht zu danken is a way to say, “We have only done what we were supposed to do.” 

What do we baptize people into? Not thankless drudgery. But being servants, together, of something bigger than any of us. Into doing what’s ours to do with grace and in hope, knowing we work side by side with Jesus, who came among us as one who serves. 

Current Events, scripture, Sermons

Sermon, September 7

“For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and estimate the cost, to see whether he has enough to complete it?” 

This is one of those Gospel passages that might make people reconsider whether they really want to be Christians! Jesus often uses hyperbole to get people’s attention. For example, in another famous passage, I don’t think he actually wants most people to gouge out their eyes. 

It is true that Jesus is not very interested in possessions or wealth, and has a keen eye for the way possessions and wealth can distort people’s lives and hearts. So when he recommends here and elsewhere that people should consider just giving everything away, he might mean it – in a “I really think you’d be better off if you did” kind of way.

But that’s not the main point of this little passage. This is a passage about counting the cost. 

About assessing what a project, an endeavor, a commitment, is likely to demand from you, before you begin. 

About choosing to try to follow Jesus with eyes open about where it may lead you. Because it’s not going to be all rainbows and puppy dogs and s’mores around the campfire. 

Jesus is not recommending hating your family as a way of life. But he wants his followers to be prepared for the possibility that committing to him and his way may impact even their most intimate and stable relationships. I know some of you are living that, bravely trying to talk with loved ones about how you understand the teachings and call of Jesus.

Following Jesus may lead you to take stands that make you and others uncomfortable – including, sometimes, people close to you. People whose feelings or opinions matter to you. That’s the situation faced by the apostle Paul, in the letter to Philemon. 

Philemon wasn’t part of Paul’s family. But it was a relationship that was important to Paul. Philemon was a local leader who hosted and oversaw one of the churches in his city, Colossae. He was probably a Roman Gentile Christian, rather than a Jewish convert. He was evidently a person of wealth and standing – a useful guy to know. 

Paul’s life work was traveling the ancient Near East, founding, teaching, encouraging, and sometimes correcting the new Christian communities of the region. His relationships with local leaders were crucial. Paul didn’t want his friendship with Philemon to break down, for a whole host of reasons. 

But Paul finds himself in an awkward situation. Philemon owns slaves, which was common for wealthy Romans. It seems that during one of Paul’s visits to Philemon’s church, one of his slaves, a young man named Onesimus, met Paul. Sometime after that, it seems, Onesimus stole some money from Philemon and ran away. The details are vague, but that seems like the simplest way to read between the lines of what Paul says here. 

Onesimus visits Paul in prison – which is pretty interesting! At this point Paul is in prison in Rome, awaiting trial and execution for his faith. I googled, how far is it from Rome to Colossae?, thinking, it’s probably closer than I think. Friends: it’s 1300 miles! Whether by land or by sea, it’s not close. It makes sense that Onesimus wanted to get far away from Colossae, and Rome was the capital of the world; but it took some effort to get there. 

Seeking out Paul in prison suggests more than a casual acquaintanceship. I wonder if Paul and Onesimus had talked, before; if Paul had, in fact, given Onesimus reason to start thinking that maybe his life had more meaning and value before God than his current enslavement. 

So. Onesimus visits Paul, and their relationship deepens, to the point where Paul refers to him as his son. And Onesimus becomes a Christian. But: Paul needs to smooth things over with Philemon, somehow – without sacrificing Onesimus. 

Not all the letters in the New Testament that are written in Paul’s name, were really written by Paul. But some of them were, including this one. And if you read them, you get such a sense of Paul as a human being, as a personality.

I love talking about this letter. I’m going to keep it brief and invite you to do your own close reading. The full text is here; it’s not long! Read it again, later, and notice how hard Paul is working to thread the needle. He wants to soothe Philemon’s indignation and get him to accept Onesimus back as a free member of his household and church. It is a big ask, and to be honest Paul is not particularly subtle about how he plays it. He lays on the praise: “When I remember you in my prayers, I always thank my God because I hear of your love for all the saints and your faith toward the Lord Jesus…” And: “Confident of your obedience, I am writing to you, knowing that you will do even more than I say.” He plays for pity: “I, Paul, do this as an old man, and now also as a prisoner of Christ Jesus…” He reminds Philemon of his debt to Paul as his teacher: “I say nothing about your owing me even your own self.” Well – except you did say it, didn’t you, Paul? And he hints that if he survives this ordeal and gets out of prison, he might swing through Colossae and stay for a visit – a great opportunity to see how his son Onesimus is getting on. 

Paul lays it on thick – and it works. I feel pretty confident of that, because we have the letter. That means it was read and saved and shared. The alternative is that Philemon reads it, says some choice words, and tosses it into the fire immediately. 

I have written letters and emails like this. Not often, but often enough to recognize the kind of work Paul is doing here. 

He’s trying to do so much in one letter, a few precious paragraphs: to mend and maintain a relationship, to fundamentally change someone’s perspective, to bring someone along, even though it means some loss or sacrifice. I wonder how many drafts Paul wrote, before this final version? 

Following Jesus can mean being Paul, pulling out all the stops, using every ounce of your famous eloquence, to try to persuade someone to do the right thing. Effort, vulnerability, and risk. 

Following Jesus can mean being Philemon, being asked to do something you REALLY don’t want to do, something inconvenient or costly or annoying, because it’s what Jesus wants from you. 

Our first reading today from the book of the prophet Jeremiah offers us the vision of God shaping God’s people like a potter at the wheel. If the pot becomes misshapen, or just isn’t taking the form God wants, God can take it off the wheel, squeeze it together again into a ball of clay, and start over. God is speaking through Jeremiah to remind God’s people that God’s covenant relationship with them does not mean they can do whatever they want. Indeed, it means they are supposed to show forth in their manner of life, individually and together, what kind of God they serve – a God of justice, mercy, peace, and human and ecological flourishing. When that’s not what’s happening, God might just squash the pot and start over. 

This reading resonates with me right now because I recently joined a pottery studio. About every decade, since high school, I suddenly want to do pottery for a little while. And that hit me recently. So I joined this studio; but it’s been nine years since I last worked with clay. I had a lot of re-learning to do. I have worked on the wheel, like Jeremiah’s potter, but I’m more of a hand-builder. A few weeks back when I first started trying to put something together, the clay was just so floppy. It wouldn’t stand up or hold its shape. 

I had to read up and remember that with clay, you really have to manage how wet it is. Roll out your slab with the slab roller, and then let it sit for a little while, so it loses some moisture to the air and the absorbent table top. THEN you can cut your pieces and they’ll actually hold a shape. BUT that’s not all, because the other thing I had to re-learn is that I really need to be able to go to the studio two days in a row. Because you make your piece, and then you cover it very loosely with cling wrap, so it starts to dry out but not too fast. That second day is when you clean it up, because it’s harder now, but still soft enough to work with it. This stage is called “leather hard,” and in this stage you can carve it, or punch a hole through it, or use a damp sponge to smooth out rough edges. Once you’ve done that, you let it dry out all the way before firing it. That’s called greenware – and greenware is really fragile. You can’t work greenware; it’ll fall apart in your hands. 

So. I’m definitely extending Jeremiah’s metaphor here. But I’ve been thinking about all this as a kind of hands-on analogy for what kind of clay I want to be, for God. Not too flexible and floppy, but also not rigid and brittle. Right in that middle zone, workable, able to hold a shape, but also to be smoothed and given nuance and detail. Like Philemon – already formed as a Christian, mature in his faith in some ways, but not a completed piece yet, not ready for the kiln. With some important shaping and finishing still ahead, through Paul’s teaching and urging. 

Counting the cost could mean assessing what a new path or a new endeavor could mean in terms of resources, relationships, or status. But sometimes just being willing to change can feel like a huge step, a huge sacrifice. Letting God the potter continue to form us, smooth our rough edges, strengthen our connections, make us more beautiful and more useful.

Sit down first and consider. It’s the kind of advice we give to young people. Don’t rush into things. Think about the risks, the stakes. Read the fine print. Know what you’re getting into. 

It’s good advice. But there’s also something fundamentally unrealistic – something un-human – about it. If we could see, before we began, what our chosen career path would demand from us, in effort and stress and cost, we might never begin. If we could see, before we began, the cumulative costs of entering into any human relationship, we might choose to spend our lives alone. The best case scenarios involve loss and grief. 

The trouble with counting the cost is that there are so many unknowns – like love, and joy, and doing good for others even when it’s costly. Next week we’ll hear Jesus tell stories about God’s reckless love, defying human commonsense to seek out and welcome the lost. Is it a paradox to say that the Jesus of today’s Gospel is asking us to undertake a sober, measured consideration of our own willingness and capacity to become people of extravagant, foolhardy love? 

Last week, Bishop Craig Loya of the Episcopal Diocese of Minnesota shared a letter of comfort and encouragement to his clergy, reeling in the wake of the tragedy in Minneapolis. It’s a good word for Paul, for Philemon, for us. Bishop Craig invoked the Biblical image of Rachel weeping over her lost children, then wrote, “Now is the time for us to show up looking, sounding, and acting like the real Jesus in the world. Now is the time for us to remember that the stakes of the gospel are high, and that following Jesus asks something big of each of us. Now is the time to remember that [our] Eucharistic communities… are not nice gatherings offering maudlin spiritual comfort, but are in the business of subverting the world’s violence with God’s irresistible love. When we [stand] with clarity and courage, not everyone will be happy about it, and not everyone will want to come along. The inclusive gospel of Jesus… draws clear lines about what God does and does not tolerate. It is our job to keep pointing clearly and unambiguously to what God promises, and to what God asks of us. It’s our job to put up signs on the road that point to God’s promised reign of peace, so that our whole church becomes sign posters, ushering the whole world into a future where Rachel weeps no more.”

Amen. May it be so. 

Intergenerational Church, Kid-friendly, scripture, Scripture Drama

The Story of Balaam – Script

This script is to go with the video of our summer 2025 Drama Camp performance! It was prepared by the Rev. Miranda Hassett. 

The Story of Balaam (Numbers 22 – 24)

DONKEY This story happened a long time ago, in the early days of God’s people. They had escaped from Egypt, where things were terrible for them. Now they needed a new place to live, somewhere safe to make a new home. They camped near the Jordan River, across from a place called Moab. 

ANGEL The Moabites didn’t like that much. They didn’t say, “Maybe there’s room for everybody.” Instead, they got really upset. 

OFFICIALS peer out at audience. 

OFFICIAL 1 Look at those new people! There are so many of them!

OFFICIAL 2 They look so fierce! They will eat us up, like an ox eats up grass! 

KING BALAK comes to center. 

DONKEY The officials told King Balak of Moab about the newcomers.

KING BALAK These people have come from Egypt and spread out over the whole countryside. They’re taking over! They’ll eat us up like a fox eats up a rabbit! 

OFFICIAL 1 What will we do? Who can help us?

OFFICIAL 2 What about that prophet guy, Balaam? 

KING BALAK Oh, good idea! I’ll ask Balaam. He is a powerful prophet. Everything he says comes true. 

ANGEL Now Balaam was not one of God’s people. But he was a true prophet. He listened to the words of the one God, and said only what God told him to say. 

DONKEY So King Balak sent officials to Balaam, who lived far away, near the great river Euphrates. They brought money, and a message. 

OFFICIALS go up to BALAAM. 

OFFICIAL 1 This is a message from King Balak of Moab. Some people have moved in next to my kingdom. I’m afraid that they will eat us up, like a wolf eats up a lamb! 

OFFICIAL 2 Whoever you curse is cursed, and whoever you bless is blessed. Come curse these people for me! Then I can drive them away. 

OFFICIAL 1 Will you do what the King asks? 

BALAAM Hmm. I don’t know. Stay here tonight, and I’ll let you know the answer when I receive word from God. 

OFFICIALS and BALAAM pretend to sleep. 

ANGEL That night, God spoke to Balaam. 

GOD wakes up BALAAM. 

GOD Who are these men and what do they want?

BALAAM King Balak of Moab has sent me a message: “A people has come out of Egypt and spread over the land next to my kingdom. Come and curse this people for me, so I can get rid of them!”

GOD Don’t go with them, and don’t curse the people. They are blessed in my eyes. 

GOD leaves. OFFICIALS and BALAAM wake up. 

DONKEY So in the morning Balaam told the officials what God had said. 

BALAAM Go home. God won’t let me go with you.

OFFICIALS react, then go to KING BALAK. 

OFFICIAL 1 Balaam refuses to come with us.

OFFICIAL 2 SO rude. 

KING BALAK What?!? This is unacceptable. You just didn’t ask him right! 

BALAK turns away.  OFFICIALS approach BALAAM again. 

ANGEL So Balak sent more important officials to talk to Balaam, with more money! 

OFFICIAL 1 Thus says King Balak: Please come, and I will do you great honor, and reward you richly. 

OFFICIAL 2 Thus says King Balak: Come, curse this people for me, and hurry!! 

BALAAM Even if Balak were to give me his whole house full of silver and gold, I can’t do anything if God says no. But spend the night, and maybe I will receive a new word from God. 

OFFICIALS and BALAAM pretend to sleep. GOD wakes up BALAAM. 

ANGEL That night, God spoke to Balaam again.

GOD Get up and go with them. But only do and say what I tell you!

DONKEY In the morning, Balaam told the officials that he would come to Moab. 

OFFICIAL 1 Thank goodness! Finally!

OFFICIAL 2 The King will be so happy! 

OFFICIALS and KING stand aside. BALAAM pick up stick donkey.

DONKEY Balaam saddled his donkey – that’s me! – and set out for Moab, as the officials went on ahead. I was excited about going on a trip! Hee-haw! 

But God was angry about being treated like a weapon. So God sent the Angel of the Lord to stop Balaam. Balaam and I were making our way down the road… 

BALAAM start across stage with stick donkey… 

BALAAM It’s a long journey to Moab….

ANGEL come to center stage, with sword, facing BALAAM.

DONKEY Suddenly the angel of the Lord was standing before us, holding a drawn sword! 

ANGEL YOU SHALL NOT PASS.

DONKEY Balaam didn’t see it – but I sure did! I was terrified! Hee-haw!!!! So I turned off the road, onto the grass!

BALAAM Hey! What are you doing? We’re going THIS way! 

DONKEY He was really angry. In fact – he HIT me!

BALAAM hits the toy donkey. EVERYONE gasps. 

DONKEY You can imagine how I felt about that! But we’d passed the angel… so I got back on the road, like he wanted. We kept going towards Moab… 

BALAAM This whole business is a pain in my tuckus! 

DONKEY We were walking past a stone wall… when suddenly there was the Angel again!

ANGEL YOU SHALL NOT PASS!

DONKEY Balaam still couldn’t see it, but I could, and I was even more scared! I tried to creep around it… and scraped Balaam’s foot against stone wall. 

BALAAM Ouch! What are you doing!?!

DONKEY Guess what? He hit me AGAIN. 

BALAAM hits the toy donkey. WHOLE CAST gasps. 

DONKEY But we were past that scary angel and their sword, so we kept going. Until we came to a narrow place in the road, with no room to turn off to right or left… and there was the Angel again!

ANGEL YOU SHALL NOT PASS!!!

DONKEY Hee-haw!!! What could I do? There was no room to squeeze past! So I STOPPED! In fact, I lay down on the ground!!

BALAAM drop stick donkey, make a show of falling over.

DONKEY This time Balaam was so angry, he hit me with his stick. 

DONKEY come on stage and join the scene. BALAAM pretends to hit the donkey. 

BALAAM Why, I oughta!!!!

DONKEY [hurt and mad] Hee-haw!!!

ANGEL Then God had mercy on the donkey, and made it able to talk. 

DONKEY What have I done to you, that you have hit me three times?!?

BALAAM You’ve made me look stupid! If I had a sword in my hand, I’d kill you right now!

ANGEL hides sword behind themself. 

DONKEY Aren’t I your faithful donkey, which you have ridden your whole life? 

BALAAM Yes…

DONKEY Do I usually go off the road, or scrape you against a wall for no reason? 

BALAAM No…..

ANGEL (Holding sword up again) Then God opened Balaam’s eyes, and he saw me standing in the road, holding a drawn sword. 

BALAAM (terrified) AAAAAH! 

ANGEL Stop hitting your donkey!!! I came to stop you because God will not be used as a weapon. Three times your donkey saw me; three times your donkey has saved you from my sword. If your donkey hadn’t helped you, you’d be dead by now! 

DONKEY … And I’d be a free donkey!

BALAAM I didn’t know!! If God doesn’t want me to do this, I’ll turn around and go home.

ANGEL. [SIGHS]   Go ahead, go on to Moab. But only say what God tells you to say! And apologize to your donkey!

BALAAM Sorry. 

DONKEY It’s okay, I guess. But trust me next time!! 

ANGEL AND DONKEY back to NARRATOR positions. STICK DONKEY offstage.

ANGEL So Balaam came to Moab. King Barak met him at the border of his territory.

BALAK and OFFICIALS come to meet BALAAM, center stage. 

BALAAM I’m here. But I warn you, I can only say what God allows me to say. You may not get what you’re hoping for. 

BALAK Oh, but it’s very simple – I just need you to curse those people you can see out there, so we can defeat them and drive them away! You can seem them pretty well from here; will that do? 

BALAAM Build me seven altars here, and prepare seven rams for sacrifice. 

OFFICIAL 1 Yes, sir, of course. 

OFFICIALS rush to set up box and fire, and pretend to sacrifice goats. 

ANGEL So seven altars were built, and seven rams were sacrificed. 

CAST make unhappy goat noises. 

BALAAM Let me see what God tells me to say… 

BALAK and OFFICIALS huddle together. 

GOD whispers in BALAAM’s ear, then steps aside. 

BALAAM (to the congregation) God has spoken! How can I curse what God has not cursed? I see this people in the distance and I know that God loves them and wants them to find safety! 

KING BALAK What are you doing?!? You’re supposed to CURSE my enemies, not bless them!!

BALAAM I told you – I can only say the words God puts in my mouth!!

KING BALAK Hmmm… maybe we’re in the wrong place. Maybe over HERE?…. 

BALAK leads BALAAM over to one side. 

OFFICIALS quickly bring and reset the altars and goats. 

DONKEY So they went to another high place, and built ANOTHER seven altars, and sacrificed ANOTHER seven rams. 

CAST make unhappy goat noises. 

BALAAM  Okay, I’ll see what God gives me to say here… 

BALAK and OFFICIALS watch expectantly. 

GOD enters and whispers in BALAAM’s ear, then leaves. 

KING BALAK What has God said this time?

BALAAM (Shaking his head) God says: Listen to me, Balak of Moab! I’m not a human being who changes their mind. I brought these people out of danger, and I want them to find new homes. 

KING BALAK SHHHH!!! Please stop!!

BALAAM I’m sorry! God has blessed these people, and I can’t take back the blessing, no matter how mad it makes you! 

KING BALAK Let’s try one more place… maybe you can curse them from over HERE? 

They all go to the far side of the stage. OFFICIALS quickly reset altars and rams. 

OFFICIAL 1 This is getting old. 

OFFICIAL 2 We’re running low on rams… 

ANGEL Balaam looked down at the newcomers’ camp by the river, and the spirit of God came upon him. 

GOD come on stage and stand right beside BALAAM. 

BALAAM AND GOD Listen to God’s words: My people, I am the one who brought you out of slavery and danger in Egypt! Blessed be everyone who blesses you, and cursed be everyone who curses you! 

KING BALAK [HUGE TANTRUM!!!!] I summoned you to CURSE my enemies but instead you have BLESSED them! GO HOME! And FORGET about any REWARD!

BALAAM I TOLD you I could only say what God told me to say, no matter how much you pay me!!

OFFICIAL 1 It’s true. He did. 

OFFICIAL 2 I heard him say it myself.

BALAAM I’m going home – and gladly. But listen, King Balak: You can’t change God’s mind. These people are your neighbors now, and God loves them, so maybe you should learn to love them too, and figure out how to share the land with them. Looks to me like there’s plenty to go around! Come on, Donkey… let’s go. 

 

 

Big Questions, Current Events, scripture, Sermons

Sermon, July 20

So what’s your favorite summer fruit?…

I don’t know what was in the basket in Amos’ vision, but for me one hallmark of summer fruit is that you’ve got to use it fast. We got some peaches this week from the folks who drive a truck up from the south, and Phil and I had to chat about how many to buy, knowing that even when they’re perfectly ripe, we can only eat them so fast. And if those peaches, or plums, or berries, sit around a little too long… you get bruises and fruit flies and puddles of goop. Summer fruit is a glorious thing while it lasts. But within days, or hours, it becomes a disgusting mess, no good to anybody. Eat it, freeze it, can it, but do something fast. 

Our text from the prophet Amos doesn’t really explain the meaning of the fruit. Old Testament scholar Tyler Mayfield says it’s based in part on wordplay: the word for “summer fruit” sounds very similar to the word for “end.” Just as ripe fruit can spoil quickly, the kingdom of Israel is approaching an end. 

Just one chapter earlier, Amos had another vision. God showed him a plumb line. Raise your hand if you know what a plumb line is?… Sometimes called a plumb bob. It’s a very ancient tool that’s still used by builders and surveyors today. You have a weight, usually lead, on the end of a string. And you let it hang. And once it stops swinging, gravity means you’ll have a straight up and down line that you can use to make sure your wall isn’t leaning. 

God tells Amos, I am setting a plumb line in the middle of my people Israel. As with the fruit, the image in the vision isn’t really explained, but we understand that something is askew, crooked, bent. The foundations are bad, or the build is shoddy. The structure cannot stand. Summer fruit and plumb line both point to the same deep truth about God’s people in Amos’ time: Something was deeply wrong –  rotten, askew – with terrible consequences in the near future. 

The book of Amos is part of the Old Testament; it’s one of the prophetic books, books that record the words of the prophets who spoke to God’s people on God’s behalf. The most famous passage of Amos comes from chapter 5: “Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream!” That famous line follows God’s frustration at a people who make offerings and hold festivals but don’t honor God by how they order society: “I reject your festivals; I won’t even look at your offerings of fatted animals; take away the noise of your songs!” It’s part of God’s call to stop making a show of faithfulness while wallowing in injustice. Amos, speaking for God, says, “Doom to you who turn justice into poison, and throw righteousness to the ground!… Seek good and not evil, that you may live; hate evil, love good, and establish justice at the city gate!…”

Amos was a shepherd and arborist who felt called by God to leave his home in the southern region of Tekoa to go speak God’s words to the leaders and people of Israel in the mid-eighth century before the time of Jesus. David’s united kingdom had split some time earlier, into a southern kingdom, Judah or Judea, with Jerusalem as its capital, and the northern kingdom, called Israel. Israel was enjoying a brief period of peace and prosperity… and apparently the wealthy and powerful used this moment to accumulate wealth and cheat the poor. We hear God’s accusation through Amos in today’s reading: “Hear this, you that trample on the needy, and bring to ruin the poor of the land!” God accuses the wealthy of being impatient with keeping holy times of rest, eager to get back to cheating the poor with false weights and poor-quality products, “buying the poor for silver and the needy for a pair of sandals.” 

Amos declares, “The Lord has sworn by the pride of Jacob: Surely I will never forget any of their deeds. Shall not the land tremble on this account, and everyone mourn who lives in it?…”

Prophets are called by God to speak God’s word in times when things are rotten or askew. God appoints a prophet to call the leaders and the people to repent, restore, repair, renew, to avoid the consequences of their current actions and their current path. Being a prophet is not an easy vocation! Right after the plumb line passage, someone tattles on Amos to the king, telling him that Amos is being a real downer and possibly committing treason. Amos is advised to run away and go prophesy in his home territory, for his words are not welcome in Israel. Other Biblical prophets are persecuted, exiled, or even killed. 

There are also beautifully comforting passages in the prophetic books, that offer assurance of God’s continued care and promise a future beyond suffering. The peaceable kingdom from Isaiah – the lion snuggling with the lamb – is one famous and glorious example. There’s a line we learn in seminary that’s often quoted in sermons: Prophets are called to comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable. But, you know, it’s not uncommon for the prophets of the Bible to afflict the afflicted, too – by saying, You had this coming. You brought this on yourselves. And that brings me to something I want to explore here: the concept of judgment. 

God’s judgment, divine judgment, is an important theme in Amos and elsewhere in the prophetic literature. And it’s an idea that I suspect a lot of us are pretty ambivalent about. On the one hand, I bet some of you prayed today’s Psalm pretty hard. The idea that God is watching, that cruel and evil deeds are noted, and that eventually, there will be consequences for leaders whom we see as evil and dangerous, has an understandable appeal. But we’ve also heard God’s judgment thrown around as a weapon and a threat against people we love. 

What are we talking about when we talk about God’s judgment? 

I think there are several axes that this concept moves along; we need at least a three-dimensional model! First, there’s individual versus collective judgment. Does judgment, and the suffering that may follow, result more from our individual choices and sins, or from the way we organize our common life, the injustice and suffering that we tolerate together? And does it land on people individually, or on the community or nation as a whole? 

Second, there’s the question of judgment in this world or the next. Do our bad actions (or failures to act), whether individual or collective, bring down punishment or consequences in the short to medium term? Or does the reckoning happen after we die? There are many jokes and cartoons that hinge on someone coming face to face with St. Peter at the pearly gates to Heaven, and discovering exactly what is written about them in the Book of Life. But that’s not a particularly Biblical idea. 

Third, and importantly, when divine judgment is not in our favor, there’s the question of whether the suffering that follows is a punishment, per se – something extra sent by God, the proverbial lighting bolt – or simply the consequences of our bad actions. The summer fruit rots; the crooked wall falls. 

We hear a lot from evangelical Christianity about individual punishment in the afterlife, in the form of damnation to hell. That’s actually a long way from the dominant concept of judgment in the prophetic literature. The prophets are much more concerned with collective judgment, though they’re also very aware of the role of leaders in creating or tolerating an unjust or rotten society. 

The prophets are not at all concerned with an afterlife; that simply wasn’t a very important idea in pre-Christian Judaism. They anticipate consequences in this world – though sometimes those consequences may take a generation or two to mature. 

The second book of Kings tells us about King Hezekiah: the prophet Isaiah tells him that his kingdom will be conquered, and his people, even his own children, taken into exile – but none of this will happen during Hezekiah’s lifetime. Hezekiah literally tells himself, There will be peace and security during MY life… so who cares? I think of that so often with respect to the climate crisis. 

So the prophetic concept of divine judgment is collective or corporate, and happens in this world, this life, though the timing can be mysterious. As for punishment versus consequences: that’s interesting. In the Old Testament, texts about judgment are often retrospective, trying to make sense of why bad things happened. How did we get here? Where did we go wrong? How did we bring this down on ourselves? Why is God angry with us? 

Often, the Old Testament names terrible events as God’s punishment for the people’s wrongdoing. As something God has brought upon them to discipline and correct them, to get them to recommit to living the way God has called God’s people to live. 

But often, it’s easy to see that suffering as a natural consequence rather than a punishment per se. For example, there’s the situation Amos rails against: leaders who are much more interested in enriching themselves than in building and tending a nation that manifests God’s purposes – justice, mercy, nobody hungry or desperate or excluded, dignity and safety for everybody. When leaders abandon that work, the foundations weaken; the nation becomes rotten, askew, vulnerable to disaster, attack, collapse. Which happened to the kingdom of Israel. 

What’s our relationship with the biblical concept of judgment? Thinking about that question this week, it’s really hard not to think about the floods in Texas, and the lives lost there. 

In the immediate aftermath of the disaster, a couple of notably bad takes emerged. Some people were quick to say that if people in Texas don’t like climate disasters, they should have voted differently in the last presidential election. Those voices weren’t invoking divine judgment, but it’s buried somewhere in that “eff around and find out” perspective. On the other hand, there were the usual voices saying that it’s inappropriate to talk about what went wrong, insisting that we limit ourselves to thoughts and prayers. The Biblical prophets also encountered leaders reluctant to heed warnings or change their ways. 

No person of good conscience thinks the children who died at Camp Mystic, or anyone else who lost their lives that terrible night, deserved what happened to them.The idea of divine judgment as individual punishment is clearly not helpful here. Not just because it’s awful, but also because it shrugs off any shared accountability. If I’m still standing, I must be OK! 

In many ways this is exactly the kind of event that we see Biblical prophets interpreting through the lens of divine judgment. It’s collective rather than individual, affecting a whole region – and implicating a whole state, a whole nation. It’s this-worldly, not an afterlife situation. And it’s pretty easy to see it as the consequence of intensifying weather due to human-caused climate change, and the choices and actions of leaders from the federal down to the very local level. Many layers of failure helped turn this natural disaster into a human tragedy. To point to just one: The guy at the regional National Weather Service office whose job was to coordinate local warnings in that area took Elon Musk’s early retirement offer a few months earlier. The NWS did their job that night; the right alerts went out. But the guy with couple decades’ experience working with local officials, the guy who knew how to tell folks, This could be a biggie, send out the cavalry, was gone, because of DOGE’s purge of federal employees. 

Would his presence have made a difference? There’s no way to know. That’s just one of so many ways that night could have gone differently. It didn’t have to be this way. 

This isn’t just an intellectual exercise in whether we can map a Biblical concept onto current events. Is divine judgment a useful framework for us? Does it help us make sense of calamity? 

I think it might. First, because there were (and are) prophets. We don’t serve a God who just spots a sinner and squashes them like a bug, end of story. In the Bible, when things were going badly wrong among God’s people, when things were dangerously rotten or askew, God sent prophets to try to tell leaders and people that the path they’re on leads towards struggle and suffering. Amos says, “Seek good and not evil, that you may live; hate evil, love good, and establish justice at the city gate!” Chapter four of Amos rehearses all the bad things that have already happened to God’s people, and their refusal to learn from them, with God’s frustrated, anguished refrain: “Seek me and live!” The Bible is full of texts like that, God speaking through prophets and saints to call God’s people back to better paths. 

The prophetic books are also full of texts describing in detail exactly where leaders and people are going wrong. Buying the needy for a pair of sandals is the tip of the iceberg. Judgment goes hand in hand with a reckoning: what happened, and why? Peeling back layers of responsibility, things done and left undone. Afflicting the afflicted by naming names and calling for accountability, with the goal of understanding and amending. Whether the calamity has already happened or can yet be prevented: there are things to learn, here, and things to repair. There’s a better path. Always. 

God sent the prophets; God sends voices in our time – investigative reporters, scientists, whistleblowers, community leaders, poets, occasionally even pastors. God gives us those people, those voices, so that we can heed, and learn, and change, and live. Because God wants better for us, and from us. 

And that points towards something else really important about divine judgment: it’s nested within the much bigger truth of divine love, divine mercy. The author of the letter to the Colossians talks about Jesus as this embodiment of God’s desire to reconcile and make peace with all people and all things in heaven and earth. 

Scripture and the experience of the holy ones through the ages bear testimony to that deep desire of God’s heart – to call us out of the harmful patterns we create for ourselves and each other, to reconcile and restore, to heal, welcome and celebrate. As we hear other prophetic texts in the coming weeks, I invite you to notice the recurring theme of God’s yearning, frustrated love. 

Judgment isn’t a lightning bolt. It’s more like someone who really knows you and really loves you, sitting you down at the kitchen table with a mug of tea and saying, Hey. I’m worried about you. Some of the stuff you’re doing is not good for you. I’m afraid you’re not safe. Except the you is all of us, and the stuff is big and complex and systemic and hard to change. We live in difficult, complicated times – as did our faith ancestors. 

Judgment is a hard, heavy word. It sounds like a door slamming; but in the Biblical context, it’s more like a door opening. The Biblical concept of judgment insists on interpretability: there’s something to understand here, something to learn, even in what may seem senseless and overwhelming. It insists on agency and possibility: if we can understand and learn, we can change course towards a better future. And it insists on relationship: even in calamity and disaster, we are held and loved by a Mercy larger than the universe.