In Peter's (Wet) Sandals--August 10, 2026

In Peter's (Wet) Sandals--August 10, 2026

"Immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, 'Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid." Peter answered him, 'Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.' He said, 'Come.' So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came toward Jesus." [Matthew 14:27-29]

The more I think about this story, the more it hits me as one of the most practical, relevant, and immediately useful passages in the Bible.

I'll admit: I didn't always think that way.

This well-known story from Matthew's gospel, which many of us heard in worship this past Sunday, always used to hit me as completely untethered from my real-life existence and daily routines. I've just never imagined myself in a position where I would ask Jesus to put me in a more dangerous situation like Peter does here. I mean, asking Jesus to order you to walk out onto the water, defying all the laws of physics and everything your whole life (and job as a fisherman!) had taught you about the danger of the open water? Who does that?

And not to pile onto Peter, but this is a completely unnecessary miracle that's being asked for here, isn't it? I mean, when a father pleads with Jesus for help to heal his dying daughter, we all see the merits of the request. When Jesus interrupts a funeral procession to raise a mother's only son back to life and restore a grieving family, we can say, "Yes, this was a good use of Jesus' time and energy." Even when Jesus (goaded into helping by his mother) turns water into wine at a wedding after the wine had run out, you can see the rationale of sparing a newly married couple shame and embarrassment on their wedding day. All of those feel like valid, compassionate, and worthy occasions for a miracle. And then there's Pete here, basically provoking Jesus like a kid on the playground, "Do you DARE me to go out on the water? Jesus, do you DARE me? Huh? Huh?" Somehow it just seems frivolous, even childish.

At least that's how my thinking has often gone with this story. And so every time I've read and reflected on this scene, I've found myself thinking this little episode has nothing to do with our actual lives. None of us are going to be out on the Sea of Galilee with Jesus, after all, right? At no point in your Monday will you be cruising through your to-do list and stop your errands to pray, "Hey, God, just to prove you're real, would you dare me to jump off a cliff and then give the ability to fly so I don't plummet to my death?" No, all of that sounds more like the temptation the devil puts to Jesus in the wilderness: "Why don't you fling yourself from the pinnacle of the Temple, because you know that God will send angels to keep you from even stubbing your toe?" None of that feels AT ALL like the real situations and real problems we face in our daily lives, right?

Except... that maybe we really are put in Peter's situation every day. At its core, Peter's call to Jesus on the water, "If it's really you, Jesus, call me out onto the water with you," is about whether Peter will dare to trust what Jesus says. It's about whether or not Peter will take Jesus' view of the universe more seriously than all the other reasonable voices telling him it's insane. And, from Peter's perspective, it's a matter of saying, "Jesus, if you say I can walk on water, I believe I can, even if everyone else thinks it's lunacy." In other words, the question is whether Peter will take Jesus' word more definitive on his life than what anybody else says about him or "how the world works."

And in that sense, that's exactly what each of us has to ask and answer every morning when we put our feet on the floor to face the day. Will I dare to believe what Jesus says about me, even if the world around tells me differently? Will I dare to do what Jesus directs me to do, even if it runs against the grain of conventional wisdom? Sure, that's less likely to be Jesus literally commanding you to go and step out of a boat and onto some choppy seas. But Jesus does as a matter of fact call us to believe and live in some pretty countercultural ways that sound like nonsense to the rest of the world. "Blessed are the poor?" Yeah, right. "Happy are those who are excluded and left out because they care about justice?" Sounds preposterous. "Love your enemies, and do good to those who would do violence to you?" Sounds as sensible as trying to step out of the boat and walk on water.

And that's just it: maybe we don't realize it because it's happening in our ordinary everyday lives, but we are constantly being dared to take Jesus' claims about us more seriously than what the world thinks is "the way things are." Walking on water is perhaps no more outlandish to the world than loving your enemies, not returning evil for evil, and sharing our possessions with others--all of which Jesus calls us to do, just as clearly as he calls to Peter on the sea. To a world bent on revenge and domination, we are called to answer evil with good and serve all people. To a culture obsessed with getting profits and cutting deals to maximize your own advantage, Jesus calls us to do good precisely to the ones who can never pay us back. To a society that wants to define our worth in terms of our cash value or tax bracket, followers of Christ are dared to believe we are beloved as we are, apart from our money, power, or status. Each of those really is as bold a leap of faith as it was for Peter to step out onto the waves--it's just that we are called to make those steps daily in the course of our ordinary lives.

So maybe we really are in Peter's wet sandals and situation more often that we would like to admit. We're always facing the question of whose voice we will take more seriously--the conventional wisdom that tells us one way of seeing the world, and the voice of Jesus whose vision seems altogether upside-down. It's a leap of faith, but it's a daily leap for us. Maybe Peter's call out to Jesus, "If it's really you..." isn't frivolous after all--maybe it's the vital question we need to ask on this day, too.

Lord Jesus, call to us and remind us who we are as your beloved, so that we will find the courage to live out of step with the world around us.

The God Who Feeds--August 7, 2026

The God Who Feeds--August 7, 2026

 "The LORD is gracious and merciful,
  slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.
 The LORD is good to all,
  and his compassion is over all that he has made.
 The eyes of all look to you,
  and you give them their food in due season.
 You open your hand,
  satisfying the desire of every living thing.
 The LORD is just in all his ways
  and kind in all his doings." (Psalm 145:8-9, 14-17)

In the ancient world, most gods and goddesses were thought of a lot like Marvel superheroes these days.  

Typically, whether it was the Roman and Greek pantheon, the deities of ancient Egypt, or the gods of Canaan, Assyria, and Babylon, each divine being had a particular set of powers, traits, and spheres of influence. In our popular culture, we tell stories about Spider-Man and his arachnid-themed abilities, along with Doctor Strange and his magical expertise, Iron Man in his high-tech armor, and Hulk with his brute strength.  In the ancient world, Zeus/Jupiter had the powers of lightning and his famous thunderbolt, Hermes/Mercury had super-speed, Poseidon/Neptune had authority over the sea, and Ra had the sun while Osiris was in charge of death, fertility, and agriculture (quite a portfolio, right?).  It's no wonder the Norse god Thor (god of thunder) fits right in among the Avengers in the comics and movies--both the ancient thinking about gods and the Marvel Cinematic Universe have a similar perspective.

The ancient Israelites, however, had a different take.  The Hebrew Scriptures (what we sometimes also call the Old Testament) don't picture Israel's God Yahweh as limited to a particular theme, domain, or subset of powers.  Israel's God (sometimes rendered as "The LORD" in English translations) wasn't relegated to just the skies or the seas, and didn't have power only over, say, the storms or the fields.  God's jurisdiction did not run out at the crossing of a border from one land to another, or even into the realm of the dead.  The LORD was understood to be the God, not just of "the sea" or "the storm" or "the fields," but of everything.

All of that hearkens back to the ancient story in which God's unique name, "Yahweh," is revealed to Moses.  When God commissions Moses to go back to Pharaoh and demand that the enslaved Hebrews be set free, Moses knows that the king of Egypt will be thinking in terms of the powers-and-themes style pantheon of their gods.  He asks, "Which god should I say has sent me?  What is your name?"  The gist is asking, "Are you the god of sun, or moon, or river, or storm, or agriculture? What specific powers are you going to be leveraging against Pharaoh?"  And God's answer is simply, "I AM WHO I AM. Go tell Pharaoh that I AM has sent you."  The name "Yahweh," of course, turns out to be related to the Hebrew verb "to be," such that God's own name isn't limited to one area of creation or one subset of powers, but is rooted in being itself.  Or rather, all of existence is actually rooted in God.  The God of Israel isn't the God of any one thing, or Lord of any single lone region or sphere of influence.  The claim of the Hebrew Scriptures is that YHWH is "the LORD" of all things.

And yet, here is the wonder: this One God who is Creator and Lord over all things, is particularly concerned with making sure everybody gets enough to eat and generously providing good things to all of creation.  When the poets and song-writers of ancient Israel sat down to describe what God is actually like, they started with the grace, mercy, and steadfast love of God, which takes the tangible, concrete form of daily bread for all.  

And when I say "all," I mean ALL.  These words from the 145th Psalm, which was the appointed psalm for many of us this past Sunday in the Revised Common Lectionary, describe God as feeding not only human beings (and all human beings at that!) but all living things in general.  Fish, birds, cattle, snakes, insects, and even light-eating plants--they all are fed and cared for as the ancient poets saw it.  The God who is Lord over the entire universe is not above being the server waiting at table for every creature in all the world. The God of everything chooses in particular to be the God who feeds us.

So what?  

Well, I would suggest that the gods and goddesses of the Greek and Roman pantheons are typically associated with some particular power or skill set in order to make them seem more impressive.  A god who is associated with the raw energy of lightning, for example, seems more dangerous to cross than one who also has petunias and puppies to oversee.  A goddess who controls the moon will be thought to wield more power than one who also has fireflies and frogs in her portfolio.  But a God who is Lord of everything can't just pose for the photo op with the "important-looking" parts of creation.  The God whose name is "I AM" claims responsibility not only for great white sharks and giant sequoias but also dandelions and baby deer.  And yet the God who is Lord of all doesn't have any need to impress, any ego that needs puffing up, or any insecurities to deal with.  If Yahweh really is indeed the God of all things, then such a God doesn't need to worry about coming across as "tough" or "big" or "intimidating." Such a God is utterly free to feed sparrows, tend to sheep, and lift up the lowly and the weak.

It is deeply good news, then, that the God of the Scriptures is described as Lord of all things--because this is precisely what makes God able to tend to each one of us, no matter how small and insignificant in the world's eyes.  Ours is the God who doesn't need to bully us into obedience, but opens a generous hand to give us all daily bread, simply because God is gracious all the way down.

This is the God on whom we call, today and everyday.  This is the God who is in charge of the entire universe: the God who feeds.

Lord God, give us today our daily bread, along with all the hungry creatures you have made, large and small.

An Ongoing Miracle--August 6, 2026

An Ongoing Miracle--August 6, 2026

"And all ate and were filled, and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full. And those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children." (Matthew 14:20-21)

Those fragments of fish and broken loaves are not an afterthought: they are a calling card.  The baskets of leftovers at the end of the story we call "The Feeding of the Five Thousand" are not an extraneous detail or a bit of embarrassing evidence that Jesus couldn't properly estimate how much additional food to multiply.  The more I read this story, which we've been exploring throughout this week since hearing it in worship this past Sunday, the more I am convinced that the extra food is part of the point of the whole thing.  The baskets full of leftover pieces are a sign of the way God provides--with such overflowing abundance that no one needs to be left out, and everyone's belly can be filled.

The evidence in the gospels would seem to suggest that Jesus has great precision in directing divine power, and he doesn't miss.  He heals people, like the centurion's servant or the Canaanite woman's daughter, without even meeting them or being in the same building with them, which suggests that Jesus is capable of focusing the healing power of God in exactly the right place for exactly the right person even without seeing them.  When Peter asks Jesus about getting the money to pay the temple tax and Jesus tells him to go catch a fish that will have coins in its mouth, the wondrous fish has exactly the change needed for the tax. Apparently Jesus does not go around producing a fortune in coins on a regular basis--he just does this the one time, with no extra money to spare.  Sounds like he does precisely what he intends to do without excess or shortage.

Now, if that train of thought is correct and Jesus isn't getting sloppy with this miracle of loaves and fishes, then it tells me the abundance that produces twelve baskets of leftovers here in this story is not an accident or a fluke, but a choice on Jesus' part.  He intends to provide such a feast that not only is everyone there on the hillside satisfied, but there is more to be shared and passed around beyond that.  The sharing of good things will continue, and even people who didn't come out to find Jesus that day will be given daily bread, too. The gifts Jesus provides will not be limited just to Jesus and his circle of disciples, or even just to the thousands who came out that day to seek Jesus.  The blessings will overflow wider, further, and bigger... because that is the character of our God.

And in a sense, of course, that is precisely how we find ourselves in this story, too.  This is our entry point into the overflowing goodness of God, since none of us were there on that grassy spot in Galilee twenty centuries ago.  We are recipients of the good gifts Jesus keeps giving, because in a sense, the bread never ran out.  From five loaves and two fish (small enough to fit in your own two hands, probably) to satisfying thousands, and then from twelve baskets of leftover fragments to the ongoing table fellowship of Jesus' followers ever since, we discover that there is a place for us at the table because Jesus keeps providing the food that sustains us.  We are welcome at Jesus' banquet because the meal didn't really end, even after all the leftovers had been gathered up and put in the ancient equivalent of Tupperware take-home containers. 

The same is true for others, too, who have been waiting for their gift of daily bread as well.  There is enough to share with everyone who is still waiting to be invited, waiting to discover a place is set for them, waiting to hear, "Take, eat: this is for you."  And so our calling is not just to be an end-point ourselves, but to pass along what is first given to us. If we take seriously that Jesus could have produced only exactly enough for every person in the crowd and not a bite more, but apparently chose to provide abundantly more so that there were baskets full of leftovers, then we have to believe that Jesus intends for divine abundance to keep radiating outward.  We can't help but conclude that God's way of reigning in the world looks like everybody getting enough to eat rather than someone stockpiling their resources to maximize profits when they sell.  We will see that God's vision for the world is for all to have enough, rather than me constantly defining my success or failure by how I compare to the person next to me.  And where I have more than I need, I will share what has been placed in my hands, since all that I have has originally come from God in the first place.

If the abundance in this story is not an accident but the mark of God's fingerprints, then we will view all the good gifts in our lives as divinely-given signs of abundance, which are not meant to be hoarded but shared.  And we will see the world less as an engine run on scarcity and more as an ongoing miracle powered by a generous God.

How will you and I see the world today?

Lord God, open our eyes to the signs of your abundant and overflowing generosity which are all around us.

Shared Like Broken Loaves--August 5, 2026

Shared Like Broken Loaves--August 5, 2026

"Then [Jesus] ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven and blessed and broke the loaves and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds."  (Matthew 14:19)

Maybe all we ever do is just to pass along what has first been given to us.

As I keep thinking about this story which many of us heard in worship this past Sunday, I am finding that it forces me to rethink my relationship with all the things I usually call "mine."  Maybe none of them are really mine permanently, but rather maybe everything I think of as a "possession" is something Jesus has entrusted to me for the sake of sharing. In other words, what if everything in my life--the money I make from my job, the resources I have at my disposal, the hours of life I get every day, and my particular talents and skills--is like broken and blessed bread that is meant to be shared so all can be filled?

Well, that certainly would change how I think of my stuff, my bank account, my time, and my abilities, wouldn't it? Instead of imagining that all of these are purely "mine" to hoard, to hold onto, and to leverage for maximum profits and my own enjoyment, I would see all of these things as gifts first given by God.  And if all of them have come from God with the purpose that they be shared, then I don't have permission to bottleneck them in my tightly clenched fists.

I mean, imagine for a moment what would have happened there on that hillside in Galilee if one of Jesus' disciples started taking the broken pieces of bread that Jesus was handing out to be passed around and just shoved it all in his pockets or the folds of his robe.  What would have happened if the disciples had said, "Well, he gave this stuff all to US--it must be meant for us to KEEP"?  How would Jesus have reacted if his inner circle of followers would have said, "There's barely enough bread and fish for one person, so I had better just keep this for myself" rather than doing as Jesus had instructed?

I bet you can picture it: Jesus would have asked them, "What are you doing?  I told you that was to be given out to the people!  This isn't just for YOU alone--this is for everyone!"  And pretty soon it would have been clear, I hope, that Jesus was doing something amazing there--providing bread and fish for all the thousands who were there, not just his own little circle of twelve.  When Jesus had the crowds sit down and passed out broken loaves to the disciples, it was clear he meant for them to share them with all the hungry mouths gathered on the hillside.  It would have been obvious that the abundance was meant to be shared, since it was clearly all coming from Jesus' miraculous provision.  And when Jesus puts a gift in your hands that is intended to be passed along so that all can receive its benefits, then you pass it along.  That's clearly what Jesus intends.

So, let me ask this question: why do we think our "stuff" is any different?  Is there anything in this life that didn't first come from God?  Is there any resource--our time, our treasure, our talents, our energy, anything--that isn't first a gift of grace?  Do we miss that truth because we take so much of our lives for granted, or think we are entitled to them?  Did we fool ourselves into thinking that our skills, our ability, our money, our muscles, or our minds were simply our own achievements, rather than having been given to us by God?  And if we can indeed recognize them as gifts of God, then why do we have a hard time considering the possibility that all of our lives are meant to be shared with others, and that their gifts, abilities, time, love, and resources are meant to be shared with us?  

What a beautiful vision of life this story gives us when you think about it this way!  All of our lives are meant to be lived like we are both the crowds being fed and the disciples passing out broken loaves: we are constantly receiving the good gifts that God sends us through other people, and we are constantly meant to give ourselves away for the sake of hungry neighbors around us, too.  In that sense, the feeding of the five thousand is not a holy fluke or a random one-off of divine power--it is the pattern and flow of every day of our lives.

Today, how might you and I do both: to let ourselves receive the good gifts that God intends to bless us with that come through the ability, love, and time of others, and to share with the people around us the gifts that God has placed in our hands?   What if all of our lives are meant to be passed and shared like broken loaves?

Lord Jesus, open our eyes to see all of our lives as gifts from you that are meant to be shared, and open our hands to receive what you have sent others to share with us.

You Give Them Something--August 4, 2026

You Give Them Something--August 4, 2026

When it was evening, the disciples came to him and said, “This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves.” Jesus said to them, “They need not go away; you give them something to eat.” They replied, “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” And he said, “Bring them here to me.” (Matthew 14:15-18)

Jesus' disciples don't mean to be rude--they think they are being realistic.

As this scene unfolds from the passage many of us heard in worship this past Sunday, it's clear that Jesus' disciples simply think there's nothing else to be done but to dismiss the crowds who have been listening to Jesus so they can get home and get their own suppers.  This is not a matter of hospitality to them, but of crowd control. Jesus had gone off by himself first, you will recall, and it was the crowds that came out to him seeking his help.  So this was not a matter of Jesus having invited a big gathering for an all-day teaching workshop and then not having thought through how to provide a meal for the attendees. This was more like Jesus had tried to go on personal retreat, was hounded by people who wanted his help, and then decided he would not only cure their sicknesses but also would feed them.  The disciples aren't trying to be rude or bad hosts: they just realize that they are not in a position to do anything to solve the problem of feeding a crowd of thousands.

And in fairness to the disciples, too, the dinner question is not a matter of life and death.  Sure, people get cranky when they are hungry or if their blood sugar drops too low, but delaying an evening meal by having to walk all the way home to eat still seems pretty manageable for most people.  As far as the disciples are concerned, the most compassionate thing Jesus can do right now is just to send the people away so they can all fend for themselves.  After all, he didn't promise a free supper, so no harm, no foul.  The disciples are just trying to be as politely practical as possible when they advise Jesus to dismiss everybody for the night.

Jesus' response to these level-headed disciples is what changes everything.  "You give them something to eat," he says, almost as if he believes it is the most obvious thing in the world.  But the disciples cannot reasonably be expected to have planned for something like this, can they?  When they got up that morning, not a one of them had even an inkling that Jesus would wander off into the middle of nowhere, be tracked down by thousands of people who would then want to hang around with Jesus until sundown.  And certainly none of them imagined that such a large crowd would come unprepared for bringing their own suppers.  But Jesus just looks at them and says, "You feed them." Not because the disciples "owe" it to anybody, but because that is the nature of the Reign of God.  

That's it, I believe.  Jesus' first impulse in view of the hungry crowds is that he and his followers should feed them all, not because there is some rule of social expectation that says they must, or because they have some transactional requirement, but because that is what God is like.  In the kingdom of God, everybody gets to eat.  Throughout the Bible, God's character, from the manna in the wilderness to the story of Elijah and the jar of meal that provided the widow with food through the famine, to the prophets' repeated calls for the people to share their bread with the hungry poor, has always been oriented toward making sure everybody gets enough to eat.  Jesus has come to embody the God of the Scriptures--to show us in his words, actions, and presence, what it is like where God reigns.  So it makes perfect sense that Jesus directs his disciples to feed the multitudes, because they are meant to be learning how to participate in God's reign, too.  They are being formed to act, speak, and think in ways that reflect God's character, by being in Jesus' presence.  When Jesus says to the disciples, "You give them something to eat," it is his way of bringing them into the work that God is doing in Jesus.

Now, as those of us who have heard this story before already know, Jesus will bring something to the situation that is beyond the power of his disciples on their own. By Jesus' power, at the breaking and blessing and sharing of the loaves, there will be enough not only to feed the thousands there, but twelve baskets full of leftovers, as well.  But the disciples are a part of this moment, too. Jesus invites them to share in this moment and to be agents through whom God feeds hungry people, just because that is the sort of thing on God's heart.  This isn't a "You have to do this if you want to get full credit for taking my class" sort of moment; it is, rather, "You are being pulled into God's action in the world, and I want you to get to share in it."  It's not a "have to" sort of thing, so much as a "get to" kind of experience.

This is what Jesus is constantly doing with his disciples as he empowers them to share in his work, which is always the work of revealing God's Kingdom (or, if you like, the work of unveiling the policy priorities of the Yahweh Administration). Jesus heals people, yes, and he also sends his disciples out to heal others.  Jesus welcomes outcasts to his table, and then dares his disciples to extend their tables as well.  Jesus lifts up the lowly, and he trains his disciples to do the same. And he does all of those things, not as a prerequisite for achieving or earning a spot on his team, but because the whole point for them has been to experience God's Reign more fully.  Jesus didn't call disciples merely to be a traveling audience to watch him perform amazing stunts; he called them to share in the work that flows from the character of God.  Disciples learn to feed people because Jesus is about the business of feeding people--and Jesus cares about feeding people because that is the very heart of God.  Jesus is not only teaching us "This is what God's Reign is like," but shaping us to participate in what God's Reign is like ourselves.  That's what we're here for.

So when I hear folks wonder why it is worth it for a congregation out in the comfortable and well-fed suburbs to support and volunteer at a weekly meal hosted by fellow disciples in a particularly impoverished neighborhood of the city, I think of Jesus' response to his disciples. When I hear church folks in the United States ask why we bother to raise money or send supplies to folks rebuilding after disasters or wars in far-flung places all over the world, I think of Jesus' invitation to his followers. Helping to make sure everybody gets to eat isn't just "someone else's job", but rather it is part of God's work in the world, because it is God's own priority in the Kingdom that everybody gets to eat.  Jesus turns to us still, like he did to Peter, James, John and the rest of the group frozen with that deer-in-the-headlights look on their eyes, and he says once again to us, "You give them something to eat," precisely because that is what God cares about.  Giving people daily bread, just because they exist, is one of the top policy priorities of the Yahweh Administration--Jesus is just trying to let us be a part of what God is already doing in the world, rather than us missing out.

Will we take up the invitation Jesus has given to us?  Will we let ourselves be pulled into the work God is already committed to in the world?  And will we allow ourselves to be more fully alive knowing that we got to be a part of the revealing of God's Reign as we help to pass out the broken bread Jesus puts into our hands so that we might share it with the next person... until everybody gets to eat?  That sounds like a day... or a life... well-spent.

Lord Jesus, place daily bread in our hands that we might share it with the neighbors around us who are hungry, too.

How To Resist Evil (Without Resorting to Evil)--August 3, 2026

How To Resist Evil (Without Resorting to Evil)--August 3, 2026

"Now when Jesus heard [about the beheading of John the Baptizer,] he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd, and he had compassion for them and cured their sick." (Matthew 14:13-14)

As many times as I have heard this passage and read this story (as we did this past Sunday in worship), I don't think it ever registered with me that the miracle we call the Feeding of the Five Thousand begins, at least in Matthew's telling, with the looming shadow of state violence against Jesus' forerunner, John.  What a set up for a story of miraculous abundance!  What a dark and foreboding introduction to the scene, you know?

The way these verses frame the story is important. They remind us that the Powers of the Day are always looking to snuff out any spark of criticism and to stomp out any resistance to their rule.  John the Baptizer had landed himself into trouble with the Roman puppet-king Herod for criticizing the fact that Herod took his brother's wife for himself. That prophetic stance speaking truth to power cost John his head, and when news of John's violent demise reached Jesus, he was of course distraught. Of course, part of the heaviness of the moment was pure grief: even though Matthew's version of the story only has John and Jesus interact a handful of times, Luke tells us that they are cousins, and presumably they would have grown up knowing one another.  So taking that into consideration, part of Jesus' need to withdraw is surely just his own personal mourning over a relative.

But there's more to it than that, as well.  John didn't just pass away quietly and peacefully from a long illness after a full and well-lived life, after all.  He was murdered by a jealous ruler who wanted him silenced--his death is a travesty of justice, and at least at the present moment, it looks like Herod is going to get away with it.  Like so many despotic governments in history, the Herod dynasty (going back to Herod "the Great") has no trouble at all with disappearing people who speak up against their rule, and that is a terrible truth to have to bear.  Jesus isn't only grieving for his cousin, friend, and fellow prophet--he is surely also grieving what it says about their society that Herod and his ilk can act with impunity like that.

And of course, Jesus also knows that what happens to John is surely a foretaste of what is in store for him.  Jesus, after all, will take up the very same message that John had announced in his ministry: "The Reign of God has come near!  Turn around and be a part of it!" If John was truly a prophet sent by God and he was not spared such a gruesome fate, then Jesus cannot expect to be spared the same, or similar, fate.  If it were not clear already for Jesus, this certainly removes any doubt that there is a cross in store for him.  And so it is certainly understandable that Jesus would need to step back, regroup, and respond to what has happened to John.

Surely some of his friends and disciples would have advised him to just lay low for a while, maybe to hide out away from the public until the heat was off.  Others might have told him, "Maybe if John just wouldn't have gotten so political, things would have been different." Maybe some in Jesus' circles would have just advised him to give up on being a public figure at all and to go back to working with his hands like Joseph had.  Jesus has to take a beat here to consider what is the right way to respond to the situation.  There were certainly several options: retreat and stop speaking up against the likes of Herod? Raise up a militia to launch a coup and try to kill Herod out of vengeance and then crown himself king in his place?  Hide forever? React in outrage and violence? Run away somewhere safe on the one hand, or incite a riot in protest on the other?  How do you resist the powers of evil when they are clearly willing to employ cruel and brutal tactics like beheading John?

And maybe even more importantly, how do you resist those powers without giving into their tactics and resorting to evil yourself?

That's the hardest part of this situation, I'm sure.  It would be easy if we were in Jesus' sandals to justify lashing back out in violence against Herod and his cronies--to kill one of Herod's soldiers, or to launch an assault on someone in the royal family.  It would have been tempting to think, "Why not try to get rid of Herod himself and replace him? I am a the TRUE King of the Jews, after all--I could just move things along a little faster and take the crown for myself now!"  It would certainly have been easy to let raw emotion provoke a reaction without any forethought or consideration of consequences and to mount a violent attack to try and get revenge.  Or, had Jesus been in a more cynical mood, he could have just given up all together and decided there was no use in resisting evil at all, and just to let Herod's violence and cruelty go unaddressed.  Maybe he could have even tried to join the ranks of Herod's loyal subjects--after all, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, right?

Jesus, of course, does no such thing.  He neither gives in to the despairing thought that evil cannot be resisted, nor does he surrender to the impulse to answer violence and cruelty with some of his own.  Jesus takes a moment to grieve, and then he responds to Herod's evil... with good.  The crowds, who are also harassed and troubled by Herod, come to seek Jesus out--and instead of withdrawing further, Jesus has compassion on them.  He heals their sicknesses, and he gives them his time. He answers the brutality of Herod with gentleness and help for those who are suffering.  He doesn't merely curse the darkness; Jesus offers light in the midst of it.

This is the calling Jesus gives to all who are a part of his movement, too: we are called to answer the rottenness so often on display in the world with decency, to respond to evil with good, and to meet cruelty with compassion.  For every act of intimidation and domination the Herods attempt, Jesus and his followers will respond with fearless love and public mercy. Every time they try to disappear someone as they did to John, Jesus' community will be a witness and will pick up the baton. We will resist evil without playing evil's game by its rules, by showing up in the world with compassion and healing.  We will, as Paul the apostle would put it to the Romans, "overcome evil with good."

Jesus was showing us how to do just that all along--it is his own way in the world, and it always has been.

Lord Jesus, prepare us to face the rottenness in the world with your kind of life-giving goodness.

Tasked with Net Work--July 31, 2026

Tasked with Net Work--July 31, 2026

[Jesus said:] “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a net that was thrown into the sea and caught fish of every kind; when it was full, they drew it ashore, sat down, and put the good into baskets but threw out the bad. So it will be at the end of the age. The angels will come out and separate the evil from the righteous and throw them into the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth." (Matthew 13:47-50)

All right, let's face it: this is a pretty harsh-sounding story on the lips of Jesus, and we might not actually want to explore it any further, because it seems so violent, hopeless, and literally damning.  Many of us heard this parable as part of a longer passage this past Sunday in worship, and I'll bet a good many of us put it out of our minds immediately after, just because it is so troubling.  

And maybe in particular, this passage just seems so different from the other kinds of stories Jesus tells--ones which are more open-ended, hopeful, and redemptive.  How does an illustration that concludes with bad fish being thrown out and "the evil" being thrown into "the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth" come from the same storyteller who dared us to imagine a long-lost son being welcomed home despite all his failures and disrespect for his family, or the lender who cancels astronomical debts at the drop of a hat?  How can the same Jesus who boldly declares that God "is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked" in the Sermon on the Mount also depict people being thrown like rotten fish into the fire or the trash heap? It's understandable, then, why we might want to put these verses out of our minds and only focus on the stories that don't make us so uncomfortable.

So, fair warning: if you keep reading, we'll be resisting that urge and digging deeper into this story of Jesus rather than ignoring it or pretending it isn't there. And like a wise Bible teacher has said (I think it was Renita Weems), we will attempt to wrestle with this text like Jacob and not let go until it blesses us.  This is your last chance to close the tab, swipe to another post, or move on with your day. Here we go.

Still here? 

Ok, well, I think there are two things about this parable that need to be said, while admitting that the imagery of comparing anybody to a rotten fish makes us squirm.  The first is that this story is ultimately about the triumph of good over evil.  Does rottenness get the last word at the end of the day?  No--not at all, Jesus insists. For folks in Jesus' audience, who saw daily evidence of the cruelty and corruption of the Roman Empire, or the crookedness and cheating of tax collectors from among their own people, or the frequent hypocrisy of the Respectable Religious Leaders, it sometimes had to look like wickedness was invincible and inevitable.  If all your life, you've seen crooks get away with their schemes and brutal tyrants go unpunished and unthwarted, it is actually a word of hope to have Jesus say, "When all is said and done, their violence and cruelty will not get the last word.  And their rottenness will not ultimately corrupt or contaminate what is good and beautiful and worthy."  Despots and dictators like to imagine that they will reign forever and their legacies will be eternally enshrined in marble statues, triumphal arches, and engraved stone monuments--and here Jesus dismisses all of them like bad fish.  If you have been suffering under the bootheel of some wicked empire, it is deeply good news to hear Jesus say they will not rule forever.  They do not have God's endorsement or approval, no matter what they say, and God will not let them get the last laugh.  In a time like ours, too, despots and autocrats around the world often seek to break the spirits of their critics and subjects so they will give up on hoping that things could be different or better. And over against those efforts, Jesus' story insists that in the end, justice will be done, wrongs will be put right, and rottenness will not ruin goodness forever.  When we feel ourselves tempted to give up into despairing cynicism about the world, Jesus' story says, "Every cruel Caesar, every dictator, and every tyrant who thinks he's the Big Fish will eventually be tossed into the dustbin of history, don't you worry. They will not hold power or threaten you forever."  And on the days when we are at our most jaded, we need that assurance.

The second thing I think we need to see in this parable is that despite Jesus' insistence that evil will not triumph in the end, he is equally clear that is it not our job to weed out or destroy the bad fish ourselves.  Sorting out who are "the righteous" and who are "the unrighteous" is not our prerogative, much less dispatching the wicked and segregating out the good.  That is decidedly God's role, and God will use God's own heavenly host ("the angels") to do the work of sifting and separating when that is to be done.  It is not ours to resort to cruelty in order to get rid of the cruel, or to employ brutal violence in order to rid the world of the brutal and the violent.  It is up to God, both to identify evil and to dispose of it, which takes those tasks entirely out of our hands.  

And at least a part of what this means is that God is willing to live with the world as it is, in the mixture of goodness and badness together, for the present time, rather than to wipe out the whole thing in the name of throwing out the "bad fish" right now.  If you are the fisherman casting your nets into the open water, the first priority is catching whatever you can. While you are out at sea, the thing to do is just haul in as many fish as possible.  You want to get as many good fish as possible, not spend your time tossing bad ones back right away.  You can wait until you are back at the docks to worry about that.  And in Jesus' telling, if God is like the fisherman, then the immediate moment is just a time for pulling in as many people as possible--now is not the moment for zapping people, smiting people, or even labeling people as "unacceptable" or "unworthy." At the present time, the priority is reaching as many people as possible.

In this regard, the parable of the good and bad fish is much like Jesus' parable about the wheat and the weeds growing together in the same field.  Yes, Jesus assures us, there will come a time when the weeds will be pulled up and sifted out so they don't get mixed up with the good wheat.  But in the meantime, God is willing to live with wheat and weeds, "good" and "bad" together, in the world, for the sake of keeping the good.  And in that story, too, Jesus emphasizes that when the time for sifting and sorting comes, it is not our job, but God's to do.

That point is critically important: Jesus never gives his disciples authority to decide who's "in" and who's "out," or to label who is "worthy" and who is "unworthy" of God's care.  After all, the person I am certain is a hopelessly unrepentant sinner might turn out to become a dedicated witness of the gospel (ask Saul of Tarsus, aka the Apostle Paul about that).  And on the flipside, the folks who present themselves as the models of public piety might really be the religious fakers and hypocrites Jesus was constantly warning us about.  God isn't fooled, and when the time comes around for putting fish in the right bins or cutting down the harvest and sifting out the weeds, God is perfectly capable of handling that job, thank you very much.  Jesus knows full well that we (especially we Respectable Religious Folks) have a way of deputizing ourselves to rid the world of those we deem irredeemably evil, and he puts a stop to it with this parable.  Jesus has not given us permission to wipe out  indiscriminately the people we think are wicked or terrible, nor has he authorized us to label people into piles of "righteous ones" and "evil ones."  That's important to say, because history is tragically full of episodes of people using their power to kill, remove, or harm others that they have labeled "wicked" or "evil" and done so by telling themselves they have God's endorsement to do so in the name of "righteousness."  From the Crusades to the Inquisition to the Doctrine of Discovery that led to the colonization, dehumanization, and extermination of peoples in North and South America, to the Holocaust, to wars today fought in the name of "getting rid of those evildoers" we have been telling ourselves we had God's support to vanquish our opponents because THEY were wicked and WE were good--because THEY were the bad fish and WE were the ones (we told ourselves) authorized to sort through the catch in the nets.  We were wrong.  Jesus does not give us this authority; it is God's and God's alone.

In that light, this story is actually meant to put a check and a hold our impulse to do violence to others in the name of religion or righteousness.  As Blaise Pascal put it, "People never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from religious conviction." But if we actually listen to Jesus, precisely in this story, it becomes clear that God does not authorize us to destroy our enemies or wipe out those we have labeled as "wicked" or "pagan" or "unrighteous" out of some sense of being authorized to rid the world of evil. God is still committed to putting the universe right at the last, and God will indeed deal with evil in God's own way and time--but God has not authorized the followers of Jesus to launch violent crusades to wipe out the ones we think are "unrighteous." God reserves the right to turn even the staunchest opponent into a disciple, after all, and God gets to be the One who decides how to deal with human beings at our worst.  Taking this story of Jesus seriously will actually pull us back from committing monstrosities in the name of fighting monsters, and from doing evil ourselves in the name of fighting supposed evil.  We are entrusted at most with net work, not with fish sorting.

That may not make this parable a warm and fuzzy one for us, but it does tell us two things we deeply need to know for this moment in history.  God is still committed to the triumph of good and that evil will not get the last word, but that is entirely God's call for how to accomplish it, not ours.  We have hope in God's promised victory and a world put right, and we are humbled by Jesus' story to learn that we are not the ones deputized to sort out who is "good" and who is "bad." God has chosen to love us, after all, even at our worst.  Knowing that will always put a story like this in a different light.

We step out into the day now equipped with assurance that God will put things right at the last, and with the humility that God has not delegated it to us to throw anybody away like bad fish.  At this point of the voyage, at most we are just called to help pull in the nets.

Lord God, work out your victory over evil in whatever ways you see fit, and enable us to trust in your ways.