This Wide Welcome--December 1, 2025

This Wide Welcome--December 1, 2025

The word that Isaiah son of Amoz saw concerning Judah and Jerusalem.
  In days to come
  the mountain of the Lord’s house
 shall be established as the highest of the mountains
  and shall be raised above the hills;
 all the nations shall stream to it.
  Many peoples shall come and say,
 “Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord,
  to the house of the God of Jacob,
 that he may teach us his ways
  and that we may walk in his paths.” (Isaiah 2:1-3a)

It's scandalous--isn't it?--and yet it's completely right.  

It would have been shocking to the first ears to hear these words, and yet somehow they are also exactly what we are aching for.

This passage, which many of us heard this past Sunday in worship, would have been simultaneously mind-blowing and soul-comforting when the prophet Isaiah first spoke these words.  Isaiah envisions God gathering peoples from every land and nation, crossing boundaries and borders, all to be welcomed into the very heart of Judah.  There are no quotas, no check-points, and no turning people away because they come from a poor country or a nation that is in distress.  And God draws them into an unlikely cohort to learn the ways of God's justice, mercy, and goodness.

It would have been startling enough for Isaiah's listeners in Judah to hear that there was coming a day when people from all the surrounding nations would come into their own land, not as a threatening invasion of foreign armies, but as welcome immigrants and eager students who are seeking to learn God's ways.  But Isaiah goes further than that.  He insists that all these people will come streaming in to the very center of Judah, in its capital, and beyond that, to the very Temple of God, to "the house of the God of Jacob."  That was revolutionary!  The Temple was supposed to be holiest place among the holy people of God!  In the inner courts of the Temple were chambers that only the high priest could enter, and only on certain days of the year, at that!  For many in ancient Israel and Judah, the exclusivity of the Temple was part of that holiness--it was the space where no impurities, no corruption, and no foreign gods were allowed.  By extension, many assumed that also meant no foreign people were allowed in, because they would come with their pagan cultures and heathen ways and would infect the "good" and "godly" Respectable Religious people of Israel and Judah.  

For many in Isaiah's time, the default setting for their piety was fear of outsiders--that the pure and holy things and people needed to be kept away from "the other," so as to avoid "contaminating" the good people and the sacred objects.  But Isaiah flips the script and imagines God deliberately gathering those "outsiders" precisely for the purpose of welcoming them into the very holiest place to be taught by none other than The Holy One of Israel.  The picture of God's promised future, in other words, is not of God whittling away the less desirable or the unacceptable ones until a pure group of spiritually elite people are left, like when you are cutting an onion and throw away the outer layer. Rather, the image is of God bringing people inward, gathering outsiders into a new kind of community whose worthiness doesn't depend on where they came from, and whose acceptability is authorized because God says they are accepted. When Isaiah envisions countless crowds of people coming from across every border on student visas to learn the ways of God, he isn't afraid or threatened--he is hopeful. If there are limits, caps, or criteria of worthiness for who can come in, the prophet Isaiah doesn't know about them.  This wide welcome is God's doing, he says.

I find myself grateful this year that Advent begins with this kind of an image, because even if it sounded outrageous to the first ears who heard Isaiah's words, this is really our deepest hope.  We long for this world that is fragmented and divided to be put back together again.  We wait for the fault lines between groups, nations, cultures, and peoples to be repaired.  We hope for this fractured humanity, which is all we've ever known, to be healed and reconciled.  And for us who have been outsiders--we who come from Gentile background ourselves--our reason for belonging is that God has chosen to do exactly what Isaiah announced.  God has brought us into the new community of God's people, regardless of where we had come from or what our stories had been, and God has declared that we belong in Christ.  That belonging was never on the basis of our goodness or our sameness to other people. It has always been because it is God's good pleasure to create a people from every background, language, and culture.  It has always been God's design to make of us a found family--defined not by DNA and shared biology, but by God's mercy.

I'm reminded of the insight of theologian David N. Field, who wrote, with our own day in mind, "Migrants remind the church that it is the eschatological people of God which transcends, critiques, and subverts the dominant values of society by including the strangers, the excluded, the exploited, and the oppressed. The church should be a community whose identity is defined by its preferential option for strangers, migrants, and all whom the dominant society excludes, scapegoats, oppresses, and exploits--racism, white supremacy, and Christian nationalism are incompatible with this community."  I think he and the prophet Isaiah are on the same wavelength, even though they are separated by some twenty-seven centuries.  Both Field and the biblical prophet are saying that God is creating a deliberately different kind of community, one which brings in people from every place and language, especially those who are looked down on or pushed aside, and that our calling as the people of God is not to be ashamed of that surprising mix of people, but to call attention to it.  The diversity of peoples who have come to belong in Christ is how you know this isn't just another human club or society of the likeminded!  The differences in where we have come from are part of how you can tell something divine is going on here!

Isaiah is teaching us what to hope for in this ancient vision of his--and it's not for a future in which "our group" is kept hermetically sealed off from "those people." Isaiah is teaching us to hope for a day when doors and gates are flung wide open so that all people can be welcomed into the presence of God.  He is teaching us that God will really accomplish what, deep down, we have truly been aching for: a place for all of us to belong, no matter our backgrounds, stories, or differences.  Isaiah's message is scandalous at first blush, because it flies in the face of our gut impulse to fear "the other" and turn them away in the name of godliness and good order. But it is also exactly what we need to hear, because it reminds us that God will indeed heal the divisions that artificially separate us and gather us into God's own presence at the last.  And if that's where human history is headed, it is worth being oriented toward that kind of future now.

Lord God, draw us along with all peoples into your presence, and teach us your ways.

Within Jesus' Reach--November 28, 2025

Within Jesus' Reach--November 28, 2025

One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding [Jesus] and saying, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” But the other rebuked him, saying, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.” Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come in your kingdom.” He replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.” (Luke 23:39-43)

He has nothing to offer or bargain with.  He has no status, influence, or leverage.  And while he freely admits he has committed some crime that has led to his death sentence, there's no actual evidence of him saying he is sorry, showing "repentance," or turning over a new leaf.  He doesn't pray the "sinner's prayer" or recite the Creed to establish he has adequately orthodox faith.  We don't even know his name. He is simply a desperate man, praying for an impossible hope: "Jesus, remember me when you come in your kingdom."  And Jesus promises him everything.

How about that.

For this final devotion in our year spent with "Life on the Edge," that's a good place to land.  The beginning and the end of our faith is our confidence in a God who not only choose to meet us in the pain and suffering of death with us, but who promises life beyond the grip of the grave as a free gift with no conditions, strings, or prerequisite accomplishments to earn it.  This is how Jesus reigns; this is the sort of king he is.

History has been marked with plenty of powerbrokers, presidents, and potentates who were willing to grant favors for those who promised a little something in return, or who weaponized the machinery of government against those who wouldn't fall in line.  But Jesus' kingship is different. He promises Paradise to the random stranger crucified beside him without requiring proof of life-change, a show of proper remorse, or devotion in return.  It's all grace. It always has been.

On the days when it feels like we have nothing but empty hands... on the days when our best attempts have crumbled to ash... on the days when we can't outrun the memories of our mess-ups, failures, and worst moments, we are still within Jesus' reach. Jesus' outstretched arms are open for us as well, the same as they were for this unnamed and condemned criminal, bleeding to death beside Jesus on crosses outside Jerusalem on another Friday long ago. There has never been anything we had to do, say, or know to earn our acceptance into his mercy; it has always been the reach of his grace that has mattered.  And if he can promise Paradise to the criminal on the cross with nothing more than a pleading, "Remember me," then he can give us the same assurance with whatever baggage we bring to this day.

Wherever you are right now in your life, whatever troubles are weighing you down, and whatever heartaches are pulling at you, you... and I, and the thief at Jesus' side, and a whole world full of us, too... are still within Jesus' reach.  His promise is for you, as a free gift. And there is no amount of messing it up, getting it wrong, or letting him down that will negate or nullify Jesus' promise.  The most we can do is trust the promise has been made to us.  

Today, as our wider culture gorges on "Black Friday" consumption with sales and purchases and the relentless need for "more," we have enough--exactly, perfectly, and completely enough.  We have been given the promise of life beyond the grip of death, even when all we bring to Jesus are empty hands.  He will remember us--not only that, he will walk through this day with us and promises to bring us to be with him in resurrection life. That promise is enough to get us through whatever else this day brings... and whatever tomorrows we get until we see him face to face.

Lord Jesus, remember us in your kingdom according to your powerful grace.

No Bulletproof Glass--November 27, 2025

No Bulletproof Glass--November 27, 2025

When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. Then Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” And they cast lots to divide his clothing. And the people stood by watching, but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, “He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!” The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine and saying, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” There was also an inscription over him, “This is the King of the Jews.” (Luke 23:33-38)

We have been taught to look for important people behind bulletproof glass or bodyguards. Conventional wisdom says they need to be protected, not only to a greater degree than other people's lives, but even with other people's lives.  Jesus, once again, turns the tables on conventional wisdom from the cross.

We heard these words, many of us, back this past Sunday in worship as part of the blessedly counterintuitive Gospel reading for "Christ the King" Sunday.  That's actually one of the things I love about the way the Revised Common Lectionary frames this final Sunday of the church's year.  On a day when we might expect "ra-ra" triumphalism or picture Jesus as some Celestial Conqueror zapping his enemies, because he's, you know, "king," we are brought instead to the story of Jesus' crucifixion at the hands of the powers of the day, who have decided to execute this itinerant rabbi because they deem him an enemy of the state and a threat to their power.  That by itself turns the usual ways we think of "important people" on its head.  Jesus has no bulletproof glass or security bunker to stay out of danger.

This is the scandal of the Gospel, which is also what makes it Good News: when the powers of the day call for Jesus' execution for seditious words and actions (talking about an alternative "kingdom" that is coming will always sound like a threat to the current regime), Jesus responds to them not with his own calls for violent retribution or revenge, but a request for mercy.  Even though the Empire thinks is in control, Jesus in fact is the one who remains calm and collected, praying, "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing." 

That turns our usual expectations upside-down, doesn't it? While we are used saying that the kings, the emperors, the presidents, and the prime ministers should be kept safe and out of harm's way, even to the point of Secret Service agents who would take a bullet for the "important person, Jesus turns the tables on that mindset.  He not only goes into trouble--all the way to death--but even there on a cross, seeks to protect others, including those who are responsible for putting him to death. While we are used to a culture in which powerful figures publicly wish for harm and defeat for their opponents, Jesus actively prays for forgiveness for those who are in the act of killing him.  It is a completely different understanding of power from what we are used to--and that's what makes Jesus so compelling.

When Christians say that Christ is "king," it is not in the sense of just replacing one self-absorbed tyrant with another one who happens to have a halo.  We mean that Jesus' way of being king completely undermines those old understandings of power.  Jesus never says, "I'm king, so my life is more important than yours," but rather, even to his dying breath says, "I'm king, so I will lay down my life for the sake of yours," even to people who have made themselves his enemies. That kind of servant-leadership will always upset the established empires of the day, because they cannot understand a use of power that doesn't seek its own interest.  Jesus' way will always seem subversive--and, yes, the powers of the day might even think it is seditious--precisely because it calls into question every king, kingdom, and regime that operates by "Me and My Group's Interests First" thinking.  This is the One to whom we pledge our allegiance--because he has even sought forgiveness for us when we were the ones with the hammer in our hands, complicit in Jesus' death.

There are a lot of things to be thankful for this Thanksgiving, to be sure, no matter what else you have going on in your life or what else is going on in the world.  But today is a day to remember, too, alongside the abundance of food and the gift of shelter from the cold, the way Jesus, our King, turns kingship upside-down.  Even at our worst, Jesus is at his best.  And even when we would expect the one in power to be shielded from danger, Jesus keeps putting himself in harm's way for our sake and uses his authority to seek our forgiveness.

Lord Jesus, we give you thanks for your different way of being king.  Let your surprising reign transform all of our lives.

Nothing Held Back--November 26, 2025

Nothing Held Back--November 26, 2025

"[Christ] is the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, so that he might come to have first place in everything. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross." [Colossians 1:18-20]

It was God who went to a cross, got buried in a borrowed grave, broke open the powers of hell, and came out the other side alive. It is none other and no less than God who wears the nail-scars like trophies of triumph now.

This is a pretty big deal, if you think about it. And it's why the early church fought very hard and wrestled for a very long time to make sure they were clear on what they believed about Jesus, the one in whom "all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell," as we heard from this passage this past Sunday in worship.  And the conclusion of all that debating, arguing, writing, sweating, and praying, was the conclusion that in Christ Jesus, we don't simply have a divine press secretary, a heavenly placeholder, or a celestial vice-president of human affairs: we have none other than "the fullness of God" embodied in the particular human body of a homeless rabbi from the backwater of the empire.

Other splinter groups, both in the early centuries and still today, got squirmy with the idea of a God who comes that close. They would be willing to say that Jesus is God's first and best creation, or that Jesus is empowered to speak for God, or that Jesus is the earthly messiah who had been promised by the prophets--but passages like this one insisted that wasn't enough. It's not enough to say that God wanted to reconcile with humanity and so sent a very, very good diplomat to broker a peace treaty or negotiate a deal on God's behalf. It's not enough to say that God appointed Jesus to be the divine representative, law-giver, religious teacher, spiritual coach, or heavenly proxy. The scandalous thing about the New Testament is its insistence, over and over again, that you lose something vital to the Christian faith if we don't recognize God's own face in the crucified Christ, and see God having taken on death in the risen body of Jesus.

And the difference is in the lengths God to which will go in order to rescue us. If you need to be picked up at the airport, and I tell you I'm too busy, but I'll ask another mutual acquaintance to go meet you, I'm kind of telling you that I think my other business is more important than you are. Maybe it's the hassle, or the need to have to go out of my way all the way to the airport, or maybe the roads are dangerous (if it's wintertime) and I just don't want to risk it myself. But whatever the reason, I'm sending the message that I'd rather do my other work, or keep myself safe, rather than go to the trouble of picking you up at the airport. But if you need a ride and, despite everything else on my to-do list, I come myself to get you, well then, it's clear, there are no lengths I won't go to. It's clear that you must be pretty important to me.

Well, if the Christian story is simply that God appointed the assistant to the regional manager to come rescue humanity while God minded the store, that tells you what God really values most. But if Jesus really is the fullness of God in a human life, well, that means that God doesn't hold any chips back, but goes all in for you and for me. It says that God wasn't more afraid of death than God was in love with you. It says that God was willing to be permanently scarred for our sake, rather than to be without us--and, to hear Colossians tell it, that "us" includes all things in creation--in the risen body of Jesus of Nazareth.

I have to tell you, in all honesty--that's why I keep on in this faith of ours, instead of giving up or looking for another religion. That's why I dare to believe it is good news that Jesus is risen: not simply the idea of someone coming back to life after death (which happens in the stories of a lot of other religions, too), but that the One who went through death and hell and resurrection is none other than the fullness of God in the flesh. The Greeks and Romans and Vikings all had plenty of mythological gods and goddesses and demigods and heroes who had brushes with death and then came to life. The ancient near East was full of them, too, from Mithras to Persephone to a long list of dying and rising sun gods. Resurrection stories were a dime a dozen in the ancient world. And to be honest there are lots of things that are frustrations and heartaches about the institution we call Church today, too--we get fussy over things Jesus didn't seem to care about, and we overlook the things Jesus said were essential; we get cranky when we don't get our way or feel inconvenienced; and we can end up divided over the things that were meant to unify us. There are lots of reasons one could cite for giving up on the ungainly hippopotamus that is the church (as T.S. Eliot called it once), and still find another religious story that involved an afterlife.

The thing that keeps pulling me back to this story, this Gospel, and to this messy and frustrating community called Church, is the news that none other than God entered into the mess all the way down to death--a real, human death--and raises that scarred, tortured body into life again, forever marking God's own being with the wounds. If the Christian message were just that God sent Jesus to fix things, but that God in God's own being didn't go through that death and resurrection, I wouldn't be able to be a Christian. It just isn't worth it if God says at some point, "I love you, but there's a length I won't go to for you, and in those instances, I send a substitute." But if the one we call Christ really is the "image of the invisible God," then there are no lengths God will not go to, and there are no boundaries or limits to the reach of God's love. And that, of course, is why the writer of Colossians can say that in the risen Christ, God has reconciled with "all things." No limits. Nothing held back. God goes all in.

Look, I don't mean to disrespect the sects and spin-off groups (I don't think I need to name names here) that talk about Jesus but can't bring themselves to confess with Colossians here that in Christ we have the fullness of God in a human life, but as I look at the mess of this world, the only hope I can see is if God really says there are no limits to how far God will go, how deep into our pain God will dive, or how much God will endure to reconcile with all things. If there are limits we are all doomed, because we are sure to push the boundaries and cross them one day or another.

But if we can dare to trust the vision of Colossians, then God really has put all the chips on the table, as it were, and has risked it all... for all of us. And that is news that will let me work up the nerve to put my feet on the floor another day. That is hope enough, even on days when the shadow of death is lurking painfully close.

Lord God, let us dare to believe it is true, that you have completely taken on our life and our death in Christ, and that there are no limits to the power or reach of your love.

The Music Is Still Playing--November 25, 2025

 

The Music Is Still Playing--November 25, 2025

"[Christ] is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation, for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers—all things have been created through him and for him. He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together." (Colossians 1:15-17)

If you want to make music, you need more than notes on a page.  Even great composers, once they have finished the written score of their great symphonies or operas, don't really have music--not until you, or somebody else, or an orchestra of somebodies, start pulling bows across strings, playing keys on a piano, or blowing air into trumpets, flutes, and clarinets.  And all of those actions take sustained effort.  They require the continued labor of exertion, breath, and motion.  Without those, the music stops, even if the whole score is printed on the page.  In other words, if you want to have music--at least live music, you need more than just a creative mind who first comes up with the melodies and harmonies in the beginning.  You need the ongoing commitment of actual musicians who make the music happen in real time. So long as the band keeps playing, the music continues; when they stop for intermission, the music does, too.

I mention this because I've found it a helpful reminder about our own existence and our ongoing dependence on God--in particular the God we have come to know in Christ Jesus.  We depend on God for our existence, not simply in the sense that God created the universe a long, long time ago and we are a part of that universe, but in the sense that God continues to sustain the universe's existence at every moment.  That is to say, our lives are like music--they need not only the original creative act of writing the notes on paper, but the ongoing action of producing the sounds.  God continues to keep the universe going, at every point of our existence, like a flute player choosing to continue to blow air over the mouthpiece, like a cellist committing to pulling the bow across the string to make a sound, or like a pianist hammering out chords and arpeggios, which would all go silent if the fingers stopped moving.  The letter to the Colossians says the same thing about the entire cosmos, as many of us heard this past Sunday when these verses were read.  In Christ, the writer says, "all things hold together."  That is to say, it is an ongoing action and choice on God's part that the world keeps existing.  If God no longer committed to keeping the world going, it would cease to exist just as surely as the aria ceases when the soprano closes her mouth and stops singing.

We Christians don't only believe that God "invented" the universe in the sense of coming up with the idea or first writing a melody down.  We believe that this God in Christ keeps the music going, so to speak, by continuing to sustain the universe at every moment.  Unlike, say, a painting by Van Gogh or a sculpture by Rodin, which are still very much on display long after their creating artists have shuffled off this mortal coil, the universe is like live music: it continues to exist only insofar as God the Musician continues to pluck, breathe, and play the notes.  At every instant of our lives--both our best and most holy moments as well as our cruelest and crudest--God has graciously continued to keep the universe in existence and keep our lives going.

Now, if the letter to the Colossians is right about this (and I would insist it is), consider what that means about you, about me, about every other person who has ever lived or will ever live, as well as about every rock, tree, sea slug, stinkbug, squirrel, and giant squid. God has brought all of it into existence and has continued to sustain all of it.  God has continued to keep you and me in existence even at our worst moments and even when we have been turned completely away from God in utter rejection and rebellion.  God has continued to keep this whole world continuing, all the way down to you and me, even in the times we most ferociously turn our backs on God and actively break God's heart. A lesser deity would snap us out of existence for the sake of sheer spite (or relief).  A lesser god would decide to stop playing the music if there were sour notes.  If you or I were in God's place, I suspect we would have given up on the whole world long ago.  But God chooses at every moment--or perhaps we should say, from outside of the concept of linear time, God has forever chosen--to keep the universe going and to sustain our existence, apart from whether we have deserved it, whether we have prayed piously enough, whether we have followed the rules adequately, or whether we have believed the correct facts about God.  God's love in Christ holds all things together, even when we are actively trying to splinter things apart or rebel against that love.

That really does change the way we view our lives, or the world at large, doesn't it?  It can be tempting to assume that there are some people God doesn't really love, some places that are godforsaken, or some creatures that don't have any value or purpose.  But their sheer existence is evidence, Colossians says, that they are beloved of God--beloved enough for God to keep holding in being like a trumpet player sustaining a long note.  The existence of the world, even when we don't like some of the parts or people within the world, is itself the evidence that God loves the lot of us.  In other words, we can't say, "Well, God doesn't really care about So-and-So, but they already exist and God just doesn't interfere with the world anymore now that it's going on its own." Rather, even the people we think are least lovable, even the ones who we might think contribute the least to the value of the world, and even the people who are turned completely away from God are still beloved by God such that God actively wills to sustain them and the world in which they live.  The fact that the music is still playing is evidence that God continues to love this melody enough to keep breathing out the notes.  And there is no one--not a one--whom you will ever meet, who is not so beloved.

Let that truth sink in and change the way you see the world today... and let's see what happens.

Lord God, allow us to see our own existence--and that of the whole world--as signs of your faithful and sustaining love.

What Sort of King?--November 24, 2025

What Sort of King?--November 24, 2025

"May you be made strong with all the strength that comes from his glorious power, so that you may have all endurance and patience, joyfully giving thanks to the Father, who has enabled you to share in the inheritance of the saints in the light. He has rescued us from the power of darkness and transferred us into the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins." (Colossians 1:11-14)

The right question to ask is, "What sort of king reigns in the kingdom where I belong?"  Different kinds of rulers have different ways of ruling, after all.  So, to what sort of king, and what sort of kingdom, do we give our allegiance?

There's this moment of levity in one of the Marvel Avengers movies where a group of the heroes seek the help of T'Challa, also known as the hero Black Panther, who is king of the fictional Afro-futurist nation of Wakanda.  And as the visiting Avengers get off of their jet to meet him, Bruce Banner (the Hulk) turns and asks a fellow hero (Rhodey), "Are we supposed to bow?" Rhodey implies the answer is yes, because, after all, T'Challa is a king.  So Banner bows, only to have the king himself stop him and say, simply, "We don't do that here." In other words, this isn't that sort of kingdom, and I am not that sort of king. And with that, off the heroes go to plan their defense of the world from a hostile alien threat.

It is a sort of throwaway moment as a joke, but the theology of it is poking at me. It's a moment that reminds me how often we import baggage from our assumptions about how rulers, kingdoms, and power works--and those may have very little to do with the way God actually reigns, or the kind of king Jesus actually turns out to be.  We are used to stories of self-absorbed kings surrounded in gaudy gold-plated opulence who boast about their own greatness, and we might assume that Jesus is just one more insecure narcissist with a crown like them.  But the New Testament says differently: Jesus is a different kind of king, and "We don't do that here" in Jesus' kingdom.  Jesus reigns with the basin and the towel for washing feet, with the bread and fish for feeding the hungry, and with the thorns and cross of self-giving love.  The kind of king we have means we belong to a different kind of kingdom.

That's important to remember as we reflect on these words from Colossians, which many of us heard this past Sunday in worship for Christ the King Sunday.  The writer of Colossians says that God "has rescued us from the power of darkness and transferred us into the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins."  There is the sense that Jesus' kind of kingdom works differently from the ways of the world's kingdoms, powers, and empires.  There is the sense, in other words, that in response to a great many of the assumptions we bring, Jesus will say to us, graciously but firmly, "We don't do that here."

For one, the writer to the Colossians says that we have forgiveness of sins.  In the reign of Jesus, we don't endlessly keep track of who has wronged us and how we intend to get back at them; neither do we have to worry that God is still keeping tally of our mess-ups and failures until some future date when we'll get zapped.  We don't do that here.  For another thing, in the reign of Jesus, greatness isn't measured by putting yourself above other people or lording your position over them, but rather in serving.  In the reign of Jesus, we commit to showing love even to our enemies, because that is how God has loved us first--even while we were enemies of God.  In the reign of Jesus, we don't need to hoard our stuff, because we trust that God will provide for our needs, and so we can share so that others can have their daily bread as well.  We don't need to bully, belittle, or intimidate other people, because that's not how Jesus does things in his kingdom.  We have already been transferred from whatever other protocols and systems we had been stuck in, and we are now free to live under Jesus' gracious and gentle rule where justice and mercy are at home.

All of this puts an end the old insistence that we have to act the way everybody else does because "It's just how the world works." Others will insist that getting even is just the nature of things, or that you've got to step on other people in order to get ahead, because that's just "how things get done." But we can respond differently--we don't have to be obligated to do things the way "everybody else does it," because we have been transferred into a different kingdom.  And in Jesus' community, simply, "We don't do that here."  We don't have to go elsewhere, like up to heaven, or inside your local church sanctuary, or to go find a "Christian nation" (because that's not how Jesus operates).  Rather, right here, right where we are, we can begin already to live following Jesus' way, seeing the world from Jesus' perspective.  We can live right now, in this place and this time, from the vantage point of God--from the edge of eternity.

How might your day or your week change when you start to see things from the perspective of Jesus?  What old habits can we be done with?  What new possibilities might be opened up?   How will we interact with other people given the way Jesus treats them?  Let's see where those questions take us today.

Lord Jesus, free us from the baggage of the old powers and orders we have lived under, so that we can live fully and freely in your reign.

We Are Not the Only Ones Singing--November 21, 2025

We Are Not the Only Ones Singing--November 21, 2025

"Let the sea roar, and all that fills it,
  the world and those who dwell therein.
 Let the rivers clap their hands,
  and let the hills ring out with joy before the Lord, who comes to judge the earth.
 The Lord will judge the world with righteousness
  and the peoples with equity." (Psalm 98:7-9)

There really is a different feel to watching a game in person compared to watching it on a screen from the comfort and relative quiet of your living room.  The energy is almost electric when you are at a ballpark, stadium, or arena and you get to watch your team play.  Sitting at home to watch is certainly convenient (and you don't have to pay for parking), but it doesn't feel the same, right? There is something both humbling and exhilarating about cheering alongside hundreds, thousands, or even tens of thousands of other people, rooting for the same players you care about, roaring at an impressive play, or celebrating a victory. It changes your perspective, doesn't it? Being there in person reminds you that you are a part of something bigger than yourself... and also that there are others who are just as excited as you are when the home team wins. 

I get that same feeling from these verses at the end of Psalm 98, which many would have heard, read, or sung in worship this past Sunday.  It's a reminder that we humans are not the only ones in awe over the goodness of God. Even if we don't realize it most of the time, all of creation--including seas, rivers, and hills--rejoices in God.  In particular, this passage from the psalms even suggests that the whole world, from the soil and rock of the mountains to the waters of the ocean, celebrates the justice, equity, and righteousness of God.  All of creation is cheering for God, celebrating in God's victory, and singing in praise to God.

The psalmist is great at imagining that with his faithful imagination: the sound of the rushing river is like the clapping of hands in thunderous applause or rhythmic percussion; the seas are roaring, too.  The hills are not merely inanimate, here in the poetic view--they are joyful about God, glad to see God setting things right.  It's like the change of perspective that happens when you walk into the stadium or the ballpark and see that you are not the only one who has been cheering for your team--you are surrounded by so many more who are all as jubilant as you are.  To read (or sing) Psalm 98 is to see that we are not alone in being swept up in praise, thanks, and awe toward God.  We have a place in the crowd, but we are not the only ones.  The trees and the flowers, the rain and the sun, the fish and the birds, all of them are part of the cheering congregation of the universe, praising God by being what God has called us each to be. It's like that beautiful line of Nikos Kazantzakis, "I said to the almond tree, 'Sister, speak to me of God.' And the almond tree blossomed."  All of creation, all living things, as well as, apparently, things we usually think of as inanimate, like rivers, seas, and hills, all of it is overjoyed at the goodness of God.  We humans have a particular perspective, since we can see and know and appreciate things with our unique senses, intellect, and capacities.  But we are not the only ones singing.  

For a very long time in what we have often dubbed "advanced" Western society, conventional wisdom has treated the world as merely a pile of raw materials to be consumed and exploited.  We have forgotten what the Scriptures keep saying: all of creation is in relationship with God and rejoices over God's goodness.  We are not separate from that chorus, or "above" it; we are a part of it.  Taking that seriously will change not only the way we relate to God (maybe a little humbler, maybe a little more appreciation of our connectedness), but it will also change the way we treat the world in which we live.  If you are in a choir, you don't start eyeing the tenor section to pilfer its music or plotting to take over the seats of the sopranos--they are a part of the same ensemble to which you belong, and you share a common calling to sing together.  Similarly, if you are at a stadium cheering for your team, you know it doesn't help the team at all to take the big foam finger of the fans sitting next to you so you can use it to cheer.  You are both on the same "side" wanting your team to win, after all.  Maybe listening to the psalmist here will help us to see the rest of creation as our fellow singers, and we will learn to listen to their voices alongside our own.

O God, with all creation and the whole cosmos we praise you--not just for your greatness, but for your goodness.

Why We Need New Songs--November 20, 2025

Why We Need New Songs--November 20, 2025

" Sing a new song to the Lord, who has done marvelous things,
  whose right hand and holy arm have won the victory.
  O Lord, you have made known your victory,
  you have revealed your righteousness in the sight of the nations.
  You remember your steadfast love and faithfulness to the house of Israel;
  all the ends of the earth have seen the victory of our God." (Psalm 98:1-3)

If you hang around a church for very long, at some point, you will hear someone grousing about the music--especially if involves change. "Why are they printing new hymnals? What was wrong with the old ones?"  "Do they really expect us to shell out the money for buying more song books for our pews?"  "What if they get rid of my favorite hymn?"  "Why should we have to learn new songs if God is still the same as always?"  And that's before we even get to the knock-down drag-out fights that erupt over style and instrumentation: guitars or organs, screens or the printed page, "contemporary" or "traditional," praise-chorus or four-verse hymns in four-part harmony? We church folk can be an ornery bunch when it comes to having to learn a new song.

So, let's dare to ask it: why should we have to learn new songs--especially if God is the same as always? Can't we just stick with the songs we already know? Can't we just listen to the psalms that are already in our Bibles?

Well, that's just it.  Sometimes the psalms that are already in the Bible are the very voices telling us, quite literally, to "sing a new song."  These words from Psalm 98, which many would have heard or sung in worship this past Sunday, are a case in point.  Here we have a song from the Bible telling us, "Don't let these be the last words to be sung!  Keep coming up with new songs!  Keep bringing new praises!  Keep writing lyrics--sing a new song to the Lord!"

Why would we need a new song? Or beyond that, why will we keep needing new songs for the rest of our lives and into eternity?  To hear the words of Psalm 98 tell it, there's a two-fold reason: for one, God keeps doing marvelous things, which are just begging to be sung about for their sheer awesomeness... and for a second, so that more and more people will come to know both the greatness and the goodness of God.  We sing new songs, in other words, because God keeps doing things that need to sung about, and because the world keeps needing to hear about who God is.  So it's not that God changes and we have to keep reworking our lyrics to keep up with the latest version of the divine, like installing software updates for your phone or laptop.  It's that God's constant, faithful, steadfast love keeps acting through history, and we want the world to know, hear, and see it.  The whole idea, the psalmist says, is that God's righteousness--God's fundamental goodness--will be revealed among "the nations."  That is to say, the Gentiles.  Yeah--THOSE people.

I can't help but hear that as a boundary-pushing sort of welcome and invitation to outsiders.  That's a big deal.  The psalmist doesn't say, "We have to keep our God a secret because God is our private personal possession and nobody else can find out about God's steadfast love or those foreigners will want some, too, and there won't be enough to go around!" Rather, the poet says, "We had better keep writing and singing new songs about God's faithfulness, so that everyone will want to hear about it--especially all the nations beyond our borders!"  The Scriptures themselves--here in the words of this psalm--are directing our attention beyond the bounds of these set words keep looking outward at the new things God keeps doing in the world and the people we haven't met yet who are waiting to hear about the goodness of God!  The Bible itself keeps pointing us beyond its own pages to see the God to whom it witnesses and offers psalms of praise, acting and moving in marvelous and new ways.  That's why we are called to "sing a new song"--the Bible itself is calling us to do just that.

But, just to be clear here, if we do keep writing and singing new songs to God, it will change us.  Our perspective will shift, such that we will start to keep our eyes open to recognize how God is moving in the world.  We will no longer picture God as a relic of the past--the hero of past legends who has since retired and hung up the ol' divine spurs--but rather we will see God still doing marvelous things and wonders we had not expected.  And when that happens to our vision, we might just find that we are spurred to be a part of what God is up to as well, rather than just sitting on our hands telling stories wistfully about the "good old days." That might change our lives in ways we cannot even fathom yet.

So, I suppose, take this as a word of warning: if we dare to follow the Scriptures' lead and "sing a new song" of God's wondrous love and marvelous goodness, we will not only be pointed outward to reach out to people we had never thought about before, but we will likely be pulled to join in the work God is doing in the world around us.

Where will the next new song lead us?

Lord God, we praise you for your new movements in the world and your marvelous love--strengthen our voices to join in the new song of your goodness.

Even in the Fire--November 19, 2025

Even in the Fire--November 19, 2025

"See, the day is coming, burning like an oven, when all the arrogant and all evildoers will be stubble; the day that comes shall burn them up, says the Lord of hosts, so that it will leave them neither root nor branch. But for you who revere my name the sun of righteousness shall rise, with healing in its wings." (Malachi 4:1-2a)

I know these words can sound scary and threatening, at least the first half of them.  But these very same words--even the ominous imagery of a fire that consumes the stubble--are also good news, too.  We would do well to sit with them for a bit and let them speak hope to us, rather than rushing off to the more pleasant poetry about the sun rising "with healing in its wings."  Even in the fire, there is good news.

So bear with me for a moment as we muster up our courage to jump back into these harsh-sounding words from the last book in our Old Testament, which many of us heard in worship back on Sunday.  

The first thing I think we need to get clear on in this passage is how to make sense of this fire and oven business.  We are used to hearing fire used as an image of punishment, like in the scenes of Dante's Inferno from the Divine Comedy, where sinners are tormented in flames out of some notion that God needs to inflict a certain amount of pain on people in order for justice to be done.  And yeah, if that's what the prophet Malachi were envisioning, I'd be tempted to close up my Bible and go home.  But that's a matter of us projecting our own baggage onto the Bible.  The way Malachi uses the image of a fire in an oven isn't about punishing or inflicting pain. It's about saying that evil and rottenness will not get the last word.

In Malachi's day, that was a needed word of hope.  For people whose parents had lived through the exile in Babylon, it sure seemed like the empires of the day always won.  They knew the stories of how their mothers' and fathers' generation had seen the arrogant Babylonians mock the people of Judah, destroy their Temple, and kill their neighbors.  Then, when the Babylonians were replaced by the Medes and the Persians, they saw more of the same: arrogance, cruelty, and crookedness from the new conquerors.  Malachi might not have known it, but there were more of the same on the horizon, too--the Greeks and the Romans would follow, and they would also have their own peculiar violence and domination.  And as Malachi watched the returned exiles try to start their lives over back in Judea and find some version of a "new normal," he is troubled at the signs that the same patterns of greed, crookedness, and corruption will spread to his own neighbors.  And in times like that, it can feel like the crooks and the bullies will always win.  It looks like nothing will ever thwart them, and that evil will win the day.  Honestly, if all you, your parents, and your grandparents had ever seen was one round after another of villainy and brutality, it would be terribly easy to give up hope of things ever getting better. And it would be very tempting to give up on doing good yourself.

But Malachi is given this assurance from God--no, even though it looks like the tyrants and the terrors will last forever, they won't.  They think they are immovable and eternal, but their empires will crumble in time, and they will end up in the dustbin of history  It's in this context that Malachi warns that "all the arrogant and evildoers will be stubble." It's not about God needing to torture people in flames as though God is a celestial sadist; it's about God saying that the "Big Deals" and bullies will not get the last word, and all the empires of history who think they are the be-all-end-all will be reduced to ash.  It's a shocking and countercultural word of hope, especially for people who feel like, as Evey says in V for Vendetta, "Every time I've seen the world change, it has been for the worse."  Malachi says in response, "No.  That's now how it will always be."  There will come a point when things are put right, and those who have been stepping on others for so long will be like the chaff used for kindling in the oven.  The prophet knows that from the perspective of the present moment, it looks like the meanest, the loudest, and the most arrogant will never be thwarted.  But from the vantage point of heaven--from the edge of the eternal, so to speak--cruelty, greed, and pride eventually consume themselves like the proverbial snake eating its own tail.  God insists that there will be relief for those who are suffering, and the bullies will at last be put in their place.

In many ways, these words from Malachi are an appropriate prelude for the song of Mary we'll be hearing in just a few weeks, who sings in what we call the Magnificat about God accomplishing exactly what Malachi was talking about.  Mary says that God "has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts" and "brought down the powerful from their thrones," while having "lifted up the lowly" and "filled the hungry with good things" (see Luke 1:46-55).  Mary dares to say that her baby, still growing in the womb, is the means by which God will at last stop the bullies in their tracks and put the world right again.  But in a way, her song only makes sense as the answer to the promise that Malachi raises here.  For people who have lived all their lives seeing schemers get away with their scams and pompous blowhards never being taken down a few pegs, Malachi speaks the promise, "It won't always be this way.  Evil doesn't always get the last word.  God is still committed to restoring everything that is broken, and to thwarting those who cause harm."  

If you have ever ached for suffering to be stopped and for those who are hurting others to be restrained, then you can hear Malachi's message as good news.  It will not always be this way.  The rottenness of the present moment will not last forever.  Some days, that's the most we get to keep us going--but that's enough.  Sometimes, all we can cling to is the hope that God is not asleep, aloof, or indifferent to the pain of the world, and that God will not let evil get the last word.  We still have to make it through the trouble of the present moment, but we do it from a different perspective.   We face it with the confidence that we are not alone in this struggle, and God is longing for things to be put right, too.  We may not get to see in our lifetimes how accomplishes that restoration--even Malachi didn't get to see the coming of Jesus, whom we Christians are convinced is the key to God's kind of victory against evil. But we do face this day without despair, even in the fire, because we believe that God is not giving up on making the broken whole again.

Maybe that's all we can pray today, but that will have to be enough.

O God, heal what hurts in the world; hold back all those forces that cause harm; and give us the strength to keep going through the troubles of this present moment.

What If It Costs Us?--November 18, 2025

What If It Costs Us?--November 18, 2025

[Jesus said:] "You will be betrayed even by parents and siblings, by relatives and friends, and they will put some of you to death. You will be hated by all because of my name. But not a hair of your head will perish. By your endurance you will gain your souls.” (Luke 21:16-19)

These words of Jesus were never merely hypothetical.  And the risks of following Jesus didn't end with the Roman Empire.  The question put to us by this passage from Luke's Gospel, which many of us heard read in worship this past Sunday, is the same question Jesus asks of us today: Will you still share in my way of life if it costs you everything?

And in all honesty, I'm not sure many of us have really wrestled with that question as though it were a real possibility.  In the United States, at least, a good many folks tend to equate Christianity with being a model citizen--you could never be looked down on, hated, or disowned for being a Respectable Religious, person, right?  We tend to assume that physical injury, imprisonment, or even death were only dangers of the era of the Roman Coliseum, when they fed Christians to lions for sport or the Emperor blamed Christians for the fire that burned parts of Rome.  Or we make persecution seem far off and exotic--something that only happens in distant countries with official policies of atheism or communism.

But that's not the way Jesus talks here.  You don't get the impression that there's an expiration date for his warning, or fine print with an asterisk that says, "Danger only lasts until the end of 1st century AD" or "Residents of North America exempt from risk."  Jesus seems to be preparing any of us, and potentially all of us, to meet with the hostility of the world because we are committed not only to naming the name of Jesus but walking the way of Jesus.  We should at least be honest, too, that over the centuries, Christians have been jailed, tortured, or put to death not only for confessing the name of Jesus, but for taking the kind of stands that came with such a confession.

In the book of Acts, for example, when the Christian community was just beginning, the trouble we often got into came with charges like "disturbing the peace" or "inciting riots" even when we were not being violent, but rather absorbing the blows of others in the crowds who were being violent.  Or sometimes we were accused of threatening the local economy--there's a curious scene in Acts where Christians get into trouble because their teaching threatens the business of local silversmiths who make idols of the goddess Artemis.  At other times, we were accused of being subversive and treasonous because we wouldn't burn incense in honor of the Emperor or confess "Caesar is Lord." Nobody charged those first disciples with "being Christian"--rather, they found other charges to bring against us that grew out of our commitment to Christ.

Or, in a much more recent century, you likely know the words of Pastor Martin Niemoller, who was a Lutheran pastor in German in the 1920s and 1930s, and eventually (but too late, he would admit) resisted the rise of the Third Reich.  His most famous words begin, "First they came for the communists, and I did not speak up because I was not a communist. Then they came for the socialists; and I did not speak up because I was not a socialist...." and then continue on about his hesitancy to speak up for the trade unionists or the Jews, because he was neither of those.  Finally, he writes, "Then they came for me, and there was no one left to speak for me."  Niemoller regrets that he should have spoken up for others who were being mistreated, arrested, and made to disappear, and he sees in hindsight that he should have done so precisely because of his faith in Christ.  That is to say, his lament is not, "They came for me eventually because I am a Christian," but rather, "Because I am a Christian, I should have been speaking out for the well-being of others, even those who do not share my faith as a Christian."  The way of Jesus--the eternal perspective that Jesus gives to our vision--should have prompted him to speak up.  But he did not. 

Part of the horror of Martin Niemoller's witness is that he lived in a nation that proudly claimed to be "Christian," and maybe that is part of what made it so difficult even for pastors like him to realize that his own Christian faith should have led him to care for those who were being grabbed off the street and loaded into vehicles, never to be seen again. It is hard to come to the conclusion that just because you live in a society that publicly names the name of Jesus, it does not mean that such a society is in tune with the character of way of Jesus.  It is sadly quite possible that a community or a country can talk the right religious talk but negate its words by actions that run counter to the character of Christ. Looking back, Neimoller had become aware that his faith in Jesus should have led him to advocate for others, but he did not make that connection until it was too late.  Of course, the hope of his well-known quotation is that we might learn from his example and not wait until it is too late.  We who have memorized the "First they came for..." poem are meant to let those words challenge us not to miss the times when our faith in Jesus leads us to speak up, to show up, or to act up for the sake of others who are being harmed, harassed, or dehumanized. These are not hypotheticals. These are questions for this day.

Maybe even the era of 1930s Germany seems too far and remote for us.  Maybe even that era seems too much "a long time ago in a land far, far away." But then we are hit with the witness, just last week, of seven or more pastors and other faith leaders who were thrown to the ground, zip-tied, and arrested in Chicago for praying and speaking up against the mistreatment of those who have been detained recently in immigration raids in their area.  These pastors, from a range of denominations including Lutherans, Presbyterians, and Baptists, as well as other people of other faiths, went to pray, to speak, and to witness, just last Friday--and they still have the bruises on their bodies from being there.  They were trying, as well as they knew how, to take seriously both the words of Martin Niemoller, and the challenge of Jesus in these words from Luke's Gospel.  They were trying their best not to make the same mistake Niemoller came to regret--of failing to speak up until it was too late.  And like the stories of the first Christians in the book of Acts, they knew that the charges against them would make them sound like they were dangerous subversives or violent criminals; they would be accused of being "violent rioters" or "disturbing the peace," just like in the first century church.  All of this is to say that the question of following Jesus even when it costs us our reputations, our families, or our physical safety is not a moot point in the 21st century.  There are fellow disciples of Jesus whose faith is leading them to pay those prices right now.  It is worth us taking time on our own to ask what we will do if we are led to speak up in similar ways for those who are most in danger right now.  It is worth our asking what counsel Pastor Niemoller would give you and me in our place and time today.

If our faith in Jesus is more than a brand-name we wear for status, we will have to take seriously Jesus' warning that following him will cost us--perhaps the support of our family, maybe our reputations as upstanding respectable citizens, and possibly even our bodies. The news of the last week reminds us it is still true, not far from where we live. Will we let that faith lead us to speak up and show up for others who are suffering, or will we find ourselves looking back too late, wishing that we had only been brave enough earlier?  Or maybe, beneath those questions is a deeper one: do we dare to believe, as Jesus promises here in today's verses, that even when we suffer because of following Jesus, that he will preserve our lives and help us to endure?

May God give us the courage and strength to dare such a witness, and not find ourselves one day looking back wishing we had been brave.

Lord Jesus, give us the confidence to go where you lead us, to speak what you give us to speak, and to risk our well-being in ways that flow from your character and love for all.

Before You Give Up--November 17, 2025

Before You Give Up--November 17, 2025

[Jesus said:] "...they will arrest you and persecute you; they will hand you over to synagogues and prisons, and you will be brought before kings and governors because of my name. This will give you an opportunity to testify. So make up your mind not to prepare your defense in advance; for I will give you words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to contradict." (Luke 21:12-15)

I am tired of the constant deluge of meanness around. No, not just tired--I am wearied by it. I am wearied, some days almost to the point of exhaustion, just of the dissonant chorus of voices that runs, non-stop, like a grating hum in the background all the time, selling a vision of a way of life that runs counter to the way of Jesus.

It is a constant angry babbling, and it is punctuated by bursts of hatred, of self-centeredness, of endless avarice, and of arrogant bragging.

It is the noise of the unending news cycle, reminding me how to keep track of the days by where the latest mass shooting was in our own country, how long wars have been grinding on in far-away places, and how many people have been unable to feed their families.

It is the din of pundits and politicians on the radio and TV, tying themselves up in knots as they bend over backwards to say the opposite of the thing they said yesterday, and telling us to forget that we ever heard anything different.

It is the dull roar of angry voices demonizing whatever group of people they see as "the other," and casting "those people" as the enemy.

It is the unnerving shouting of TV preachers and Respectable Religious folks posturing for attention and clamoring for positions of prestige and influence, but sounding less and less like the message of Jesus of Nazareth the more they talk.

I don't know about you, but that constant racket of noise in the background of life sometimes feels overwhelming, and I am just about exhausted by it. I am no longer surprised by it, but it still wearies me. And sometimes it is just so tempting to turn it all off and look away--to ignore the news reports of body counts, or to just give caring about the shouting-matches between the talking heads with a nihilistic shrug to say, "It doesn't matter who wins today's argument anyway, because they'll be back at it again tomorrow." It is tempting, too, to feel like our only options in response to all that noise are either to shout even more loudly and angrily, or to give into apathy and say nothing.

Sometimes, we can even feel like the question forming on our lips is a defeated, "In the face of all this, what's the point of even trying?" And maybe we struggle to come up with a solid answer to that unspoken question.

And yet, over against that daily babel sound, there is this whisper of a voice that says to us--to you and to me--"You are my witnesses in the midst of this. I will give you words. I am here with you now." It is the voice of Jesus, who has promised to give us wisdom to share when it feels like the world around us has lost its mind, and an authentic word to speak when it feels like the world around us has sold its soul.

I am reminded by these words of Jesus from late in the Gospel of Luke, words many of us heard this past Sunday in worship, that Jesus' promise to be among us now is not merely a sentimental thing, or a warm and fuzzy feeling. Jesus promises to be with us right here and now because he knows we'll need it. We'll need it to keep our sanity in times that feel deeply troubled, and we'll need it to speak a different message--what the book of Hebrews calls "a better word"--than the angry and anxious and fearful cacophony around us. Jesus' promises to be with us to give us words, because he has appointed us to be witnesses to another way--his way.

Jesus reminds his followers, even in the late days of his earthly ministry, that he is commissioning us to be a sort of counter-cultural witness. We will be the minority report that can both tell the emperor when he is wearing no clothes and also can speak of the amazing grace of God that clothes us in the righteousness of Christ. We will be the voices who say a firm but loving "No!" to the transactional thinking of the world's powerful, in which everything is reducible to "I do X for you, and you do Y for me in return," and who speak instead about God's economy of grace. We will be ones who risk being rejected, who risk being called "losers," who risk getting lumped in and thrown to the ground with whatever group is being cast as "the other." This is what Jesus calls his followers to do and to be--in other words, we are called to be an alternative to the endless noise in the background from all those other sources.

And to do that, Jesus has promised to be with us--in order that he can whisper to us a different message than the yelling and posturing on our screens and speakers. Honestly, we need nothing less than his presence, because without him, we will just fall back into the same fearful and selfish shouting of everybody else. We are good at that by nature. But Jesus enables us to be an alternative.

Today, we are given a calling--we do not have permission simply to stick our heads in the sand, nor do we have authorization to answer immature and petty yelling with more of the same. We are called to speak the good news that there is an alternative to the wearying flood of the world's messages, and we are called to listen for Jesus (rather than our own inventions of what we would like Jesus to have said) to know what the alternative is.

Before you give up, just pause. Just hold on for a moment. Don't throw the radio or tv or your smart phone against a wall when the voices that drive you crazy are at it again. Listen, but over their noise, listen for the whisper of Jesus who, like the Creator in the beginning, speaks a word that makes new worlds come into existence. Listen for Jesus, who will give us a wisdom to answer the noise of this moment.

And dare trust that he will speak.

Speak, Lord Jesus, your wisdom to answer the nonsense of the day and times in which we live, and give us the grace to be your witnesses and your counter-cultural option for the world which you yet love. Touch our ears to hear you whisper.

A God Who Doesn't Need Defending--November 14, 2025

A God Who Doesn't Need Defending--November 14, 2025

"I call upon you, O God, for you will answer me;
    incline your ear to me; hear my words.
 Wondrously show your steadfast love,

    O savior of those who seek refuge

    from their adversaries at your right hand.

 Guard me as the apple of the eye;

     hide me in the shadow of your wings,

 from the wicked who despoil me,

    my deadly enemies who surround me." (Psalm 17:6-9)

God never needs our protection; we are the ones who constantly need God's.

Maybe that seems obvious--I would hope so, honestly.  But truth be told, sometimes we Respectable Religious Folks get the orientation of our faith all backwards and convince ourselves it's up to us to "defend" or "protect" or "fight" for God somehow, when in actuality that suggests a pretty weak deity. A god who has to be defended by devotees isn't worth worshiping, and a religion that needs people in positions of power in order to "save" it in some sort of culture war is hardly worth giving your life to.  The living God turns the tables on that perspective, by instead always being our refuge and never needing to hide behind us for shelter.

Again, I would hope that this much is already pretty clear, just from a cursory surface-level reading of the Scriptures.  That old cliche is right on the money: you defend God like you defend a lion--you just get out of the way.  And that certainly seems to be the picture here in these verses from Psalm 17, which many would have heard read this past Sunday from the Revised Common Lectionary.  The invitation throughout the Scriptures, and especially in prayers like this one from the psalms, is always for us to find shelter in the strength of God, and for us to rest in God as our refuge.  It is never the case that God needs our firepower, fury, or ferocity to keep God safe from outside threats.

And yet, I've got to admit, for just about as long as I can remember, and I expect for longer before that, too, there's always been a chorus out there somewhere of religious voices, tv and radio preachers, and parachurch pundits, who always seem to be afraid of God being defeated by enemies or of Christianity being overwhelmed by external boogeymen.  In my lifetime alone, we have lived through the fears (which they have often helped to stoke) of "-isms" like Communism and Marxism, of quasi-spiritual movements like "New Age" or whatever the latest trend was, and of academic entities like universities, modern science, and philosophy. I've heard accusations aimed at institutions like the United Nations, public schools, and local libraries. We have lived through sermons that were both fiery and fearful labeling everyone from foreign nations, opposition political parties, or even other branches of the Christian faith all as dangerous enemies of God.  And over and over again, I know I at least have heard lots of loud and anxious voices trying to rile up church folks to "save Christianity," to "fight for God," or to "defend the Gospel," quite often by prodding us to push for more political power, elect a particular party or candidate, or leverage our influence in order to fend off whatever the Threat Du Jour happened to be.  I suspect you have heard them too. 

And what hits my ears, every time I hear one of those voices talking about how Christianity needs help from people in power in order for it to be "saved" or how we need people to "fight for God," is how weak and empty those sentiments make God out to be.  I am left with the impression of a god that is a needy pet or a fragile piece of porcelain--in other words, an idol.  The real and living God does not need our help in fighting off enemies--after all, ours is the God who simultaneously protects us in the face of those we feel are enemies while also calling us to love those same enemies.  But at no point is God dependent on our help or our power.

When we are clear on that, we can pray with the poet here in the psalm: we can truly and confidently ask for shelter in the "shadow of God's wings" like we are baby chicks held within Mama Hen's downy presence.   We can ask--and believe that we can rely on God when we do--for God to be our refuge, as well as for God to be the refuge of all who have been forced to flee from their former homes and places of safety.  We can count on God to guard us like the ramparts of a fortress that absorb the incoming fire of the enemy's arrows.  After all, that is exactly what the cross is all about, isn't it?  There at the cross, God in Christ chooses to absorb every last attack, to take the hit for us, to bear the blows and beatings, all the way to death, in order to provide refuge for a world full of people desperate for protection?  The Crucified Christ doesn't call out for his followers to rally together to protect him or to defend him from the hostile forces of the Romans or the angry mob. He doesn't summon his disciples to form an army to keep him safe. Just the opposite--in the Passion stories, Jesus is the One putting his own body between the danger and his disciples.  He is the One telling the soldiers and temple police, "I am the one you are looking for, so let these men go." Jesus is the One who offers protection for his beloved; he does not need them to keep him out of danger or pain.  That's the One in whom we put our trust.

All of that gives us to reasons to breathe out in relief and peace: for one, it means it's not up to us to have to defend Christianity, protect God, or some other such culture war nonsense.  And second, it means we really can rely on this God--who doesn't need defending--to be our guard, our refuge, and our shelter, because the living God never needs our protection in the first place.

O God, be our shelter, and free us from the illusion of thinking we ever had to defend you.