Under-the-Radar Signs--July 28, 2026

Under-the-Radar Signs--July 28, 2026

Jesus told them another parable: "The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened." (Matthew 13:33)

The smallness is not a defect. The quietness is not a liability. The ordinariness is not a sign of unimportance, but of just how vital a thing can be to the miracle that is life in this world. These are the things Jesus chooses to describe how God's Reign permeates all of the universe--like yeast hidden in the flour that will become this evening's bread... like a tiny seed planted in the soil... like the unassuming labor of a someone farming or baking.

We tend to assume the loudest, the largest, or the showiest things are the most important. And, to be sure, when it comes to making bread, of course, the flour is essential, too. But in this parable which many of us heard this past Sunday in worship, the yeast does something amazing precisely in its smallness. It gives itself up to make the rest of the bread (all the non-yeast ingredients, like, say, those three measures of flour) more like itself. The yeast's self-surrender makes the bread into bread. And its smallness allows it to do that. Reverse the proportions, say, with three cups of yeast to one pinch of flour, and you would have a disaster, not dinner.

It seems important that Jesus chooses images like yeast to give us glimpses of how God's Reign operates in world. He is never sloppy with his illustrations; he never blurts out an analogy only to have to re-think it later. So if he is intentional in his storytelling, that means the smallness and the quietness are not only purposeful choices in his parable, but that they are purposeful on God's part, too. It means that God chooses to reign in the world in quiet ways. It means that God's ego does not need to be the showiest, or the flashiest, or the loudest... it means that God is willing to work without getting credit for it--that the work itself is worth doing, regardless of whether we properly applaud God for the labor. A farmer, after all, keeps planting the crops even if the neighbors don't give a standing ovation--the work is worth doing, because the family and neighborhood need to be fed. The woman who heads the household bakes the family's bread even when she is taken for granted by the family and the kids just assume there will be food for their bellies, and she does it, without waiting for praise, because she loves them and wills what is good for them.

The smallness of the yeast, and the quietness of the mixing, these are the choices God makes as well in reigning over the universe. And maybe that even changes our assumptions about what it means to "reign." If we assume that leadership requires loud boasting or showy pageantry, we'll miss the point of what it means to talk about God's kind of reign or kingdom. But a farmer is clearly the "leader" who orders and directs things in the farm, and the Mama of the house is clearly charged with being the head of her household, and yet they do their work behind the scenes. Their leadership does not require saluting nor fanfare, but rather looks like self-giving love, love that is secure and confident enough in itself that it does not need constant approval from others.

And this is the key, Jesus says, to how God rules the universe. God is not at all like the arrogant Caesars whose images were carved all around the world during the days of Jesus. Nor does the Almighty need buildings built in God's honor, monuments erected for God's glory, or God's name chiseled in stone. God rules more like yeast quietly mixed into the flour in order to give itself away that all may be fed.  It turns out, according to Jesus, that God continues to provide for the life of all creation--like a farmer planting the food his family and friends will eat at harvest, or like a matriarch of the household baking quietly in the early morning--simply because of God's love and care for all the world. This is what God's reign looks like: not the flashy, brutal spectacle of the Roman Empire, but the way a mother heads up her household by making decisions and doing the work to feed her children. It is strong, without being coercive. It is leadership without arrogance. It is vital work without needing to be loud or noticeable.

This is how God runs the world. And if we will be people of this God, then, we are free from needing to make ourselves look tough or strong or powerful or to get fanfare for the good work to which we are called. We can simply do the good things we are made for, just because they are worth doing, and because we love the people for whom we do them. We can spend the time, the energy, and the attention today, just because the world God loves needs our labor... so that all may be fed.

You bear the under-the-radar signs of God's reign into the world today. Let your mere presence in the world be a reflection of God's goodness. And whether anybody knows to give you credit or praise for it, let your presence in the world make a difference for good today. That's what the Kingdom is all about.

O God, work for good in your world in us and through us today.

Birds in Our Branches--July 27, 2026

Birds in Our Branches--July 27, 2026

[Jesus] put before [the crowds] another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in his field; it is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches.” (Matthew 13:31-32)

There are plenty of mornings I'd rather stay in bed--all day if possible--rather than get up, get cleaned up, get dressed, and go to work. Sleep is comfortable that way.

And, yes, there are surely plenty of days when I can see something looming on my calendar--an uncomfortable conversation I'll have to have in a meeting, or a difficult visit, or a tedious task that I wish I could ignore--and I would rather look for an excuse not to go, not to meet, not to do the difficult thing. Procrastination is comfortable that way, too.

I will also gladly concede that I am lucky enough that my kind of employment doesn't pay me based on the hours I have punched in on a time-clock, so it would be all too easy to convince myself that bailing out on work, or playing hooky from time to time, would have no negative consequences on my paycheck. That temptation is all too comfortable as well.

But I am learning something from Jesus about shrubberies--like, say, a mustard bush--that is reinforcing for me why I don't blow off work. See, as Jesus tells it, maybe the mustard plant isn't just putting in its time growing and blossoming in a field somewhere for its own sake--maybe it's there for the sake of giving shelter to birds. And maybe I'm not just here on earth for my own entertainment or good times, and maybe my job is more than just a way of paying for dinners out and making car payments. Maybe my reason for showing up in life isn't all about me--maybe I'm here just as much for the sake of others whose lives are made better by what I bring to the world. And maybe that's what you're here for, too--maybe all of us are mustard bushes whose existence makes a home for birds looking for a nest in the shade.

I've got to be honest with you. For a lot of my life, I only heard this parable as a sort of lesson that "small starts can have big conclusions," since Jesus starts off his object lesson focusing on the small size of a mustard seed. But the more I think about it, the more I realize the importance of the the end of the scene: Jesus doesn't just say, "And the shrub grows large even though it started small. The End." After all, bigger isn't necessarily better in life (despite the insistence to the contrary of the Super-Size option at the drive through window). No, Jesus doesn't just assume that more is always better, or that larger things are inherently more successful than smaller ones. Rather, Jesus sees the growth of his imaginary mustard bush in the service of a wider purpose: the bush doesn't just grow larger for its own sake, but for the sake of giving shelter to birds.

In a similar way, oncologists will remind us that a glob of cells that just keeps growing larger and larger isn't necessarily a sign of health--it may be a tumor. The difference between cancer and regular human growth is that my body's cells grow and multiply for the purpose of serving the whole body, while a cancer only grows for its own sake while slowly killing the rest of me. That's not what impresses Jesus about the mustard plant--he sees that its existence is always about more than itself. When a mustard plant is doing its "job"--being a mustard plant--it is able to give itself away more fully for other parts of creation, like, say, some vulnerable birds looking for a place to safely lay their eggs.

And that, I am coming to see, is true in our work lives as well. It is really easy to see our jobs as just a means toward the end of having more money--money which is either necessary for paying our bills and keeping a roof over our head, or money that we treat as "disposable" for fun stuff, rock concerts, weekend getaways, technological toys, or home improvement projects. But I think that misses something essential about the purpose of our work, whether paid or volunteer, whether entry-level or top-tier manager, whether minimum-wage or six-figure salaries: we show up for the sake of the people whose lives can make a difference in, not simply for our own sake. Frederick Buechner once famously wrote that "the place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet," which is a way of saying that our labor isn't just about being well-paid or enjoying our jobs, but about doing something that the world around us needs to have done. If your job makes you a lot of money, but you are doing something that doesn't actually improve anybody's life or, metaphorically speaking, create nesting space for vulnerable birds, you're missing the point of life.

And then, for a moment assuming that you can see something meaningful in the work you do, the reason to keep showing up at that job, on the easy days and on the hard ones, too, is not just "because I might get caught or punished or fired if I play hooky," but "because what I do makes a difference in someone else's life." It's because other people count on us to do what we do--not just bosses or managers or HR reps, but the people we serve in whatever kind of work we do.

So on those days when the voice at the back of my head sounds particularly tempting as it says, "Skip out early today..." or "Just don't come in, and do something fun for yourself instead--no one will notice!" I get a new picture in my head, thanks to Jesus. I picture a big ol' shrubbery, doing what God has called it to do simply by continuing to thrive so that birds can make nests in its branches. And if even a humble weed of a plant like a mustard bush fulfills a role for the sake of other living things in God's creation, then my presence in the world can be a gift for the sake of others around me.

You matter. What you do--paid or unpaid, public and prestigious or humble and unseen--matters. You have the capacity to create a refuge for birds in your branches. You have the capacity to do what you do with the love of God for people whom God loves--even if you never learn their names and they never know yours. You have the calling to keep showing up in a culture that is constantly flaking out and letting us down, because there are people who are counting on your gifts, your ability, your presence, and your time to make their world brighter.

On the days when there's not much else persuasive enough to get me out of the insular comfort of staying in bed, that's what gets me to put my feet on the floor in the morning of a new day. That's what keeps me driving in to work rather than sneaking to the movie theater or skipping out early (or for that matter, getting drunk off the clock either, since the people who rely on me need me to be able to function when I show up, too). The question isn't "Could I get away with it?" or "How much would anybody really notice if I blew off work for today?" but rather, "Who are the birds that might need me to offer my branches for shelter--and does it matter to them if I show up today?"

Yeah--it does.

Go and be the blessing to others today, in whatever capacity given to you, right where God has planted you.

Lord Jesus, give us a deeper awareness of our purpose for the sake of others today, and let us see the beauty and dignity you give to our callings.

Everyday A Bow Tie Thursday--July 24, 2026

Everyday A Bow Tie Thursday--July 24, 2026

"For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope, for who hopes for what one already sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience." (Romans 8:24-25)

On Thursdays, I wear bow ties (well, except for when I'm on vacation).  My curious fashion schedule has come to be, for me, a regular, disciplined practice of hope. Let me tell you why.

A bit of backstory: years ago, when I was a seminary intern (this would be more than twenty years ago now), my supervising pastor would not only wear bow ties regularly, but also would occasionally recite the advice that had been given to him even further back in the past about the method of tying them.  This mentor of mine would say, echoing the one who had first said it to him, that to tie a bow tie, "You take the one end and bring it through a loop that doesn't exist yet, but which comes into existence in the act of pulling it through." And like an epiphany, there it was.  

That is exactly what it is like.  It took me some years after I was finished with my internship and had begun my own ministry in congregations before I dared to teach myself how to actually tie a bow tie on my own neck (much less wear one in public). But one day I found myself holding the flared fabric, staring into a mirror, folding the end, and doing exactly what my mentor and his previous fashion adviser had said long before: I was pulling the end through a loop that didn't exist yet, but which was coming into existence as I pulled it through.  The pulling of the end starts tightening the loose loop that becomes the center point of the bow, and what do you know, you end up with a nicely tied bow tie in the end.  Almost like magic.

But more than that, you end up with a pretty potent parable of the nature of hope--at least hope in the New Testament sense, which is always richer, stronger, and deeper than mere wishful thinking.  We are accustomed to using the word "hope" pretty loosely in everyday speech. "I hope it doesn't rain" is really a way of saying, "I'm afraid it will rain."  "I hope my team wins" isn't much of a statement of confidence but a helpless posture of watching something happen and knowing I am not contributing to victory or defeat from the stands.  But hope in the sense the apostle Paul uses it is something stronger, something active and daring.  It is a step into the future which does not exist, but which comes into existence as we are stepping into it.  It is Abraham and Sarah going to a land on which they have never stepped foot before, because they dare to believe a promise that this will be a home for their descendants) who are not yet born.  It is Jeremiah buying a plot of land while the Babylonians are banging on the gates in the shadow of exile because he is convinced God will keep the promise that there will one day be a homecoming from Babylon and one the deed will be worth something.  It is the long-time resident of a run-down neighborhood in the city who starts fixing up the front porch and planting flowers in the hope that it may be the catalyst that spurs a whole neighborhood revival.  It is the way parents offer the world to their children, as the poet Maggie Smith puts it in her poem, "Good Bones," "This place could be beautiful, right? You could make this place beautiful." To live in hope is to step forward into a future that does not yet exist--like a leap of faith--knowing that the stepping itself helps to bring the future into existence.  The loop that doesn't exist yet comes into existence as you pull the end through it.  The reality that hasn't come into being yet starts to become more than a wish or a hope when we start acting like it is indeed becoming a reality right now.

In this passage from Romans, which concludes the reading many of us heard last Sunday in worship, Paul is envisioning something bigger than a spruced-up neighborhood or a neatly tied bow tie.  He is envisioning a world made new.  He is envisioning God's promised "restoration of all things."  He is picturing creation redeemed and restored, including each of us, who have pinned our hopes on Christ to raise us to new life beyond death and to put all things right in a world of disorder.  And of course, because the world is not yet put right and there is still a great deal of crookedness, hatred, and rot all around us, Paul's vision is for a world we cannot yet see.  The world isn't like that... yet.  In Paul's day that was plenty obvious: a brutal empire ruled by a succession of egocentric and petty tyrants was conquering the entire known world.  There were dangers and disasters all around. And even apart from the Romans, there was a constant threat of violence and starvation.  That doesn't sound like a world made new.  That doesn't even sound like the "golden age" of eternal peace that Caesar kept bloviating about.  It sounded like a miserable, sad, and broken sort of world.

That is to say, things haven't changed much.  Sure, the names on the letterhead come and go, but the same dynamics of empires and emperors has continued for the past twenty centuries since Paul wrote.  Sure, we have cures for some diseases--but we also have a host of new ones.  Certainly, we have made some societal improvements from the slavery and conquest of the first-century Roman Empire... but we have also found new ways to build empires and reduce people to virtual slave labor in sweatshops, prisons, and labor camps.  In other words, to look around us today or read the day's headlines, it sure doesn't look like we are getting any closer to a world put right or a creation made new.  And it can feel like Paul's counsel to wait with hope can feel like just a religious spin on saying, "Wouldn't it be nice if things got better?"  But that doesn't actually do anything, nor does it guarantee that the world actually will get any better.

This is why we need the robust, fierce sort of hope that Paul has in mind.  Paul has in mind not a resignation to sit back and twiddle our thumbs wondering why the world doesn't fix itself, but a present-tense beginning to live in light of how things will be at the end of the story.  We live each day like it's Bow Tie Thursday: we take the end that is in our hands, and we bring it through a loop that doesn't exist yet, but which comes into existence as we pull it through.  So the question for us each day becomes, "How will the world be in God's new creation--and how can I begin to live in anticipation of that new reality?"  That's what Christian hope is really like: not vague wishing, but present action in light of a promised vision of the future.

For example, will I be driven primarily by fear, or by love, in the fullness of God's Kingdom--and what is to keep me from living that way now, ahead of time?  Will the hungry be fed in God's Reign--and if so, could my help to feed hungry people now point ahead to that reality, and maybe offer a glimpse right now of the banquet God is preparing?  Will the lowly be lifted up--and if so, how can I be a part now of raising up the folks who have been stepped on, and maybe look at the ways my own comfort and privilege have been a part of what held them down before?  In the promised future, will our peace come from the constant threat of mutually assured destruction, or from learning to lay down our weapons and bring our enemies to sit at the same table with us?  In God's new ordering of things, will there only be good things for "Me and My Group First," or will there be abundance enough to share all around--and if so, could I begin to live with that kind of open-handed generosity?

Each of those might be a small difference in the way you spend your day, but they are all about daring to living in the present in light of an envisioned future that begins to come into existence as we dare it.  It is a daily pulling of the end of the tie through the loop--the one that doesn't exist yet but which will come into existence as we pull it through.  It is beginning to practice what Dr. King called "the Beloved Community" even when the world is still full of meanness and hostility, because we know God's intention is to bring such a community into existence.  All of that is genuine hope--and it is never just a mental exercise or thought experiment. It is the daily choice to live now in light of God's promised future.

Today, practice such hope--and then we'll see what happens.

Lord Jesus, enable us to day to step forward into the future you are bringing about, regardless of how different it looks from the conditions of the world around us now.

A Bigger Hope--July 23, 2026

A Bigger Hope--July 23, 2026

"We know that the whole creation has been groaning together as it suffers together the pains of labor, and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies." (Romans 8:22-23)

It's not just about fire insurance for the afterlife.  It's not just about getting a ticket for the train to heaven.  The Christian hope is about God's promise to make all things new.  And that is so much bigger than the version of the story we are so accustomed to settling for.

These words from Romans 8, which continue a passage that many of us heard this past Sunday in worship, remind us that God intends to renew, restore, and redeem "the whole creation," and that in fact the entire universe is aware and "groaning together" in anticipation of that newness.  That way of talking about Christian hope is essential to Paul's way of seeing the world, but for a lot of us church folks, it can sound unusual and extraneous.  If our theology comes from the reductive slogans of religious billboards (and let's be honest, for many of us, that's the messaging we are accustomed to), we might be used to hearing the Gospel as sales-pitch: "Trust in Jesus so that you can get to heaven when you die," or "If you'll pray this prayer, you'll get on the list to avoid hellfire." Those kinds of messages make it sound like Christianity's message has nothing to do with this world and this life and only pertains to your status after death--and therefore, that it's like having an insurance policy.  You know: it's something you should take care of on paper so that you don't have to actually think about it at all in your daily life or everyday routines, but can pull out and dust off in case of emergency.  For a great many folks, this is the version of Christianity they've been sold: Speak these words, and believe these facts about God, and that's it until you get to heaven.  It's a version of the faith that removes everybody and everything else from the equation except Me-and-Jesus, and even Jesus really only shows up enough to tell us, "You're on the list for the afterlife," with a friendly wink, and then disappears.

Well, as I say, Paul would beg to differ. Paul sees these deep connections between our own hope for salvation and the whole world's restoration. In the apostle's mind, you can't have one without the other, because they are all part of the same grand sweeping motion of God to make all things new.  It's not that we don't have hope for life after death--it's that our hope is not about being plucked up "out" of the world to go to a different place, as though the geography were the problem.  Our hope for life even beyond the grip of death comes from the even wider promise of God to bring about a whole new creation.  My hope for life beyond death is possible because God intends to "make all things new" (see Revelation 21, among other places).  It's less about being taken "out" of the world and more about restoring and renewing the world itself as a whole.  That makes sense, too, since my life is inextricably connected to the systems, patterns, and relationships of the wider world: from the water cycle to the air we breathe to the chain between plants and soil and my sustenance.  Just plucking me up out of the world and taking me to another place called "heaven" would be a little like yanking a fish from the river because the river is dirty and putting me in a stark and empty fishbowl; yeah, I mean, I guess a fish can live in a big glass bowl, but it's really meant for the whole environment of other fish, of snails to clean the water, of plants growing at the riverbanks, and all the rest.  Our hope, Paul reminds us, has to be bigger than just that God will yank us out of the river and put us in a tank; it's got to be more like God cleaning up the river until it is a whole new creation, which can sustain all sorts of life. It's about me as an individual, but it's about more than just me, and more even than just "Me and My Group First."  God's intention is to redeem all of creation, to which I belong as well.  I am included, but it's not just about me.

Letting that sink in can change our perspective, if we will let it.  It will certainly change the way we share our faith with other people.  Instead of peddling the gospel as a "sign-on-the-dotted-line-to-get-into-heaven" sort of deal, we'll share the news that God promises to make all things news because God loves the whole world in all of its entirety.  Instead of thinking the promise of faith is that we will get to escape the world and therefore don't have to care about our use of the earth and its resources, we will care deeply now about the world and the way we treat it, because it is the world that God is intent on redeeming. That doesn't lessen our hope--it expands it.  We have settled for so long with a myopic vision of God's love that it can surprise us to hear the Scriptures stretch our field of view wider: God's intention is to renew "all things." It is a redemption that includes us, because we are a part of the "whole creation" that is longing to see a new heaven and new earth brought forth like a baby being born.  The promise is not an escape "out of" the world, but rather a restoration, even a resurrection, of the world. It is indeed a bigger hope than we had been accustomed to thinking about.

That also means that living out our faith will happen in more than just Sunday morning church services.  It will include things we have always done, like prayer and Bible study and song and ritual, but it will also include helping to fix a neighbor's broken front step, cleaning up trash-strewn city lots, feeding hungry neighbors, rebuilding homes destroyed by floods or fires, conserving energy, or raising money for people half a world away to drill a well for potable water.  All of these might be ways of exercising our hope muscles and taking our faith seriously, because all of them are expressions of the same deep confidence in God's wide-reaching redemption.

There will be countless ways of living our faith today, and a great many of them take place outside of church walls.  Where will it lead you today, this bigger hope we have been given?  Where will we practice our belief that God is making all things new?

Lord God, work through us even today in your wider action to renew all creation.

More Places at the Reunion--July 22, 2026

More Places at the Reunion--July 22, 2026

For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God, for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its enslavement to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. (Romans 8:19-21)

It turns out that God is not only interested in human beings, but in all of creation.  As in, the entire universe.  The whole shootin' match.  Every last quark and boson, field mouse and leaf-cutter ant, giant sequoia and phytoplankton--they are all God's handiwork. All of it matters to God, and we are inextricably connected to all of it, as well.

This much should be obvious from these verses in Romans, which many of us heard in worship this past Sunday.  Earlier in the passage, Paul had been talking about the fledgling Christian community, which at that time was still a pretty small subset of people within the whole human population. He was talking about all those who were "led by the Spirit" and counted as "heirs with Christ."  In other words, the apostle had just been talking about one particular group of humans--the Christian church.  But now, Paul turns a corner and starts talking about "the creation itself." And as Paul sees things, God's Big Picture goal is not just to pluck a handful of humans out of a miserable cesspool called "Earth" and sequester them in a postmortem country club called Heaven. No, to hear the apostle tell it, God's intention is for the whole universe to be "set free from its enslavement to decay."  The whole cosmos is going to be put right, despite all the ways it is aching and wounded, because God intends to restore it all.  If, at the end of the great story of redemption, there is a grand banquet for peoples from every time and place around God's table, Paul seems to insist that all of creation is a part of the celebration, too. And once you include the wolves and lambs lying down side by side and the cow and the bear grazing with one another, it seems there will indeed be a great many more places at the reunion needing to be set than we had first thought.

Now, I am convinced that Paul thinks this realization is very good news indeed.  But I'll be honest with you: sometimes in Christian history, Respectable Religious folks have wanted to focus only on "getting souls up to heaven" that they almost get offended if you dare to suggest, as Paul says plainly here, that the whole creation is actually going to be redeemed. Maybe they think that if all of the universe is important to God then somehow human beings are less special.  Maybe they think if restoration has to be shared with trees, soil, animals, and stars, then there's less to go around for us--as if we were talking about slices of pie.  Maybe they just don't like the idea that salvation isn't a prize awarded to the righteous and is more like a renewal of all things. Maybe it seems uncomfortable to imagine that my redemption isn't a privatized, individual affair, but is actually caught up in God's vast design to set all things right--what the book of Acts calls "the universal restoration" (Acts 3:21).  But for whatever reason, over much of the last two thousand years, a good many Respectable Religious Leaders have peddled Christianity as merely as "get out of this world free" card rather than the announcement that God intends to set the whole cosmos right.

But maybe that's exactly the hang-up: if we acknowledge that God is committed, as Daniel Erlander once put it, to "mend the entire universe," then we will have to admit that we have done damage to creation... and that we bear responsibility for our actions.  And that kind of talk can make enemies pretty quickly, because it means acknowledging how our actions have polluted air, damaged watersheds, killed animals, thrown ecosystems out of balance, and caused harm to beings that God loves and values.  And once we open that door, well, then, we might have to take up the difficult work of making amends: of halting the things we are doing that are actively hurting creation, and then repairing what we have harmed.  It will also mean admitting (and that means learning humility) that we don't always realize the implications of our actions or the consequences of our choices--and that sometimes we have damaged other living beings without intending to or realizing it.  But like the stray baseball through the neighbor's window, even if we didn't mean to break it, we still have responsibility for restoring it.  All of that is a lot more challenging than a religion that merely says, "When you have used up all of the good things in the world, you can throw the rest away like trash and God will just make a new one," or "This world doesn't really matter anyway, since God will be whisking us up to heaven soon enough."  But Paul doesn't let us settle for soul-escapism. He insists that God cares about the whole of creation, which doesn't diminish our importance or belovedness in the least, but which does remind us that we are inescapably a part of something larger than ourselves.

I suppose we are left with three choices, then: we can refuse to acknowledge what Paul pretty clearly says here in Romans about our connection to the whole of creation; we can mope about the truth that God does not only care about human beings; or, we can recognize it is deeply good news that God intends to renew and restore the whole universe.

Personally, I think the third option seems the wisest--and the most joyful.  After all, as with all decent parties, the rule is "the more, the merrier." I think it is a grand thing indeed that there will have to be more places set at the reunion than I had imagined.

Lord God, give us a wider vision for your redemption, and enable us to rejoice at your promise to mend the entire universe.

Promise Rather than Pedigree--July 21, 2026

Promise Rather than Pedigree--July 21, 2026

For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God. For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you received a spirit of adoption. When we cry, “Abba! Father!” it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs: heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ, if we in fact suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him. (Romans 8:14-17)

It turns out that family isn't so much about the curating of pedigrees as it is about the keeping of promises.

That will probably seem counterintuitive, since at one level, family is very much about the passing on of DNA, and over the centuries people have indeed made a very big deal out of the virtues of their bloodlines and the legacies of their ancestral virtues being handed down with each successive generation.  Everybody who has heard an family acquaintance say, "You have your mother's eyes," or "You have your father's nose," knows that at some level, family has to do with biology and lineage.

And yet, in a very real sense, before children come along who carry on the family line and characteristic traits of the parents and grandparents, there is first the keeping of a promise.  My wife and I share no DNA in common, but we are family because we have made and continue to keep promises to each other.  Usually we call them "marriage vows," and we might not give them much thought after the wedding reception is over, but really, the core of every marriage (and thus the children who proceed from those marriages) is the invisible, intangible force of words that are not just spoken, but meant, day in and day out, over a lifetime.  I start every morning, knowing that I belong unconditionally within my own household, not because I have the DNA to merit my place in the family, but because my wife has made promises to me and she keeps them.  Her promises are the grounds for my belonging.  And reciprocally, my promises to her are her grounds for belonging.  And of course, we are hardly unique--humans have been building families out of promises for countless generations.  Our words--and the continuing commitment to keep our word--turns out to be strong enough to build a household on.  And, to go one step further, if there are times I find myself worrying if I "fit in" or really "belong," I don't have to fret about biology, and whether or not I will pass along this or that trait to carry on the family legacy: I count on the promises of those whose love tells me I belong.  Every time my spouse tells me she loves me, or every time those words come out of my lips for her, we are each assured, in a sense, "Oh yes, that's right--our belonging in this family doesn't depend on our DNA or genetic connections, but on the promises of those who keep loving us."

It really is a wonder.  And it's a wonder, not just that families are ultimately based on words rather than biology, but that we are so used to this arrangement we usually don't even think about it.  But it's helpful to remember, especially when we consider our belonging in the family of God, like Paul the apostle does in this passage that many of us heard this past Sunday in worship.  Paul is talking about the way we know we belong in God's "found family" called church, and he is clear throughout this passage that our belonging is not a matter of our earning, accomplishing, achieving, or even our biology.  We have been adopted, Paul says, which is a belonging that comes by a promise rather than depending on genetics.  We belong in God's family as God's own children, not because we are inherently as holy as God or as perfect as Jesus, but because God has made a promise to love us--and God daily continues to keep that promise.  Like spouses who hold a family together as they live out their vows, even though they don't share any DNA themselves, we belong in the family of God because God has made promises to us and we dare to believe those promises are true.

The other thing that means for the family of God is that it includes, by God's choice, people from every nation, family, tribe, language, and culture.  Paul doesn't say, "You know you have a place because you are similar enough to all the other people in the club." He doesn't say, "You will be allowed on the list because you speak the same language, eat the same foods, and share the same ethnic heritage as everybody else."  Belonging in the Christian community isn't like that: our belonging doesn't come from DNA, cultural heritage, or family ancestry, but from God's calling us children. God declares we are citizens of the kingdom of heaven, so to speak, as a free gift of grace, not based on our national origins, cultural traditions, language, or genealogy.  

In fact, that is the crux of Paul's whole ministry, throughout his letters and over the course of his many travels.  Paul staked his life on the audacious notion that in Christ God was making a new kind of human community, which included people from Judean ancestry as well as Gentile lineage, regardless of those differences.  Whether or not you kept kosher, practiced circumcision, spoke Hebrew, or came from "insider" families, you could belong in the family God, because belonging was rooted in God's promise, not your DNA.  It was a radical notion, and to be sure, it took the church a bit of time to truly think through the implications of the gospel's inclusive claim. But ultimately, the New Testament witness was clear: in Christ "there is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male and female" (see Galatians 3:28).  We belong in this found family by virtue of the strength of God's promises, not our sameness in demographic or cultural categories.

That's important to remember, even today.  Sometimes (and these days, it seems to be increasingly) you'll hear people say that the only real way to build a community is on "same-ness." They'll say people can only really coexist if they have a common heritage of DNA, language, or ethnic background, and they'll get uncomfortable when people from different backgrounds or ancestries are brought together.  But for two thousand years now, the community of Jesus has existed on the basis of promises rather than pedigree: we belong not because we come from the same bloodlines but because we have been given the same assurance from the Spirit that we are children of God.  It is not only possible to build a community on words--we have actually been doing it for two millennia, from the very beginning of the Jesus movement.

Today is a day to remember that: our belonging, as well as those of the people sitting across from you in church, as well as those worshiping across borders, as well as those disciples who live half a world away across oceans, all of us belong in the family of God by the virtue of God's strong promises, rather than our sameness in biology--and that is enough.

Lord Jesus, speak your promise to us again to remind us our belonging comes from you.

Love That Looks Foolish--July 20, 2026

Love That Looks Foolish--July 20, 2026

[Jesus] put before [the crowds] another parable: “The kingdom of heaven may be compared to someone who sowed good seed in his field; but while everybody was asleep, an enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and then went away. So when the plants came up and bore grain, then the weeds appeared as well. And the slaves of the householder came and said to him, ‘Master, did you not sow good seed in your field? Where, then, did these weeds come from?’ He answered, ‘An enemy has done this.’ The slaves said to him, ‘Then do you want us to go and gather them?’ But he replied, ‘No; for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them...." [Matthew 13:24-29]

Love that isn't willing to look foolish for the sake of the beloved is just pretending. If it's real love, it's willing to put up with coming across as silly, weak, and feeble to anybody watching. That's part of how love bears.

And as Jesus makes it clear from this story many of us heard this Sunday in worship, that is how God loves. God is always more committed to preserving what is precious to God than managing the divine reputation. In other words, God is more deeply invested in saving you than in saving face, and God doesn't have some need to look "strong" or "tough" or "like a winner." You are more important to God than God's ego. Wow.

That really is what this story is about. The premise is simple enough: a farmer plants good seed on his field, and expects wheat to grow up. But when an enemy comes along and plants weeds (sometimes called "tares" or "bearded darnels," based on the word Matthew uses in the Greek) in the field too, just to be rotten, the farmer is left with his wheat harvest growing alongside these tares. Now there's a dilemma: what to do with a wheat field that is also full of a bumper crop of weeds? The farm hands all want to pull out the weeds, because, well, they're weeds, right? If they let the weeds stay in the field, the farmer (and his staff) will look ridiculous! It will send the message that the enemy has won! He'll be cackling off in his lair somewhere, gloating in the belief that he's bested this farmer. And meanwhile everyone else in town will be laughing themselves to tears over the farmer who (they think) is wasting water, time, and fertilizer on a mixed bag of good wheat and useless tares.

The farm hands are worried that their boss will be a laughingstock, and so their advice is to take the "tough guy" approach. They need to project strength. They need to make the boss look like a winner, and they certainly can't let that no-good enemy get away with thinking he's one-upped their employer. So they propose pulling out the weeds--that way the enemy will know he hasn't won--what the villain did in the dark of night, they'll undo in the daylight, just to show him that he's not victorious... right? Well, the trouble is, the farmer himself knows that the wheat and the tares are intertwined at the root--you can't pull one up with out risking damage to the other. And so, the real choice is whether the farmer wants to keep his ego intact at the risk of damaging his harvest, or keeping the crops safe even if it means looking like a loser. Will the farmer insist on burnishing his reputation or preserving what he considers precious? And is his ego so needy that he must look like a "winner" at all times, or can he play the waiting game for the sake of saving the wheat?

Well, you know the answer: in Jesus' story, the farmer is more committed to saving his wheat harvest than in sticking it to his enemy. He's willing to bear whatever mockery, whatever criticism, and whatever damage to his reputation might come with the choice not to uproot any of his wheat, even though that means leaving the weeds where they are for now, and worse still, letting the enemy think he's wont. The farmer is more interested in the welfare of the wheat than in what anybody else thinks of him, even the old enemy himself. That's what genuine love does--it bears with risk of looking foolish or weak, because it is more interested in the well-being of the beloved. That's true whether it's a lone individual, a field full of wheat, or a world full of people. God's love means God is willing to look like a loser in the eyes of the world for the sake of saving us. Ultimately that's what the cross means, too--that God chooses to redeem the world, not through conquering angel armies who could destroy all opposition and show glory and power, but through the weakness and foolishness that are the cross. God is willing to risk that the very world God loves is mocking the one nailed to a Roman death stake. God is willing to bear that the powers of evil will think they've won because God hasn't immediately uprooted their dastardly plans. God is willing to put up with all of that, because that's what love does.

My goodness, it is an amazing thought to realize that God loves you more than God's own ego. But it's true. And when you realize that, maybe you also find yourself starting to let go of the old egotistical need always to look "right" or "smart" or "tough" or like a "winner." Maybe we don't need to impress anybody else in all creation--after all, God is done with needing to impress, too.

Lord Jesus, thank you for the lengths you have gone to for the love of us. Let the truth of that love hit home.