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.

What God Wants Done--July 17, 2026

What God Wants Done--July 17, 2026

 "For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven
  and do not return there until they have watered the earth,
 making it bring forth and sprout,
  giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater,
 so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;
  it shall not return to me empty,
 but it shall accomplish that which I purpose
  and succeed in the thing for which I sent it.
 For you shall go out in joy
  and be led back in peace;
 the mountains and the hills before you
  shall burst into song,
  and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.
 Instead of the thorn shall come up the cypress;
  instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle,
 and it shall be to the LORD for a memorial,
  for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off." (Isaiah 55:10-13)

The bottom line here, I guess, is that God is going to get done what God intends to get done--even if God's way of doing things seems inefficient or indirect to our eyes.

These words that come from the latter chapters of what we call the book of Isaiah may still be ringing in your ears from hearing them this past Sunday in worship. They seem to be speaking to people who are waiting on God to act, or for God's promises to come true.  Quite possibly, the prophet is speaking to people who have been nervously biding their time in exile, shifting uncomfortably in their seats and waiting for their long-hoped-for homecoming.  They had grown up on stories of God's glorious acts of deliverance--the parting of the Sea, the provision in the wilderness, and the tales of God's wonder-working power.  And they had heard more recently from prophets like Isaiah that this same God would do it all again and bring them home from exile--not through the Sea as in the Exodus out of Egypt, but with a road in the wilderness that would guide the people who had been born away from home in Babylon back to the land of their ancestors.  So, after hearing all that great talk about God's powerful word and God's reliable promises, you can imagine them becoming a bit impatient as they waited for all these great things to happen.

You can imagine the questions forming on their lips, or at least on their minds:  "How do we know God can follow through on all this big talk?"  "Can we rely on God's promise, especially when the Babylonian Empire seems so strong and unwilling to let us go home?"  "If God has said that we will come home, then why are we still here under foreign occupation?"  All fair questions, even if they are pretty pointed.  If someone is suffering, after all, it's not terribly comforting if the only thing anybody ever says is, "Don't think about it, and just hold tight." So what is God supposed to say during the remainder of the waiting time until the people can go back home?  What will God do to assure them that the promises will be kept, and that they are worth holding onto in the mean time?

Here is how the 55th chapter of Isaiah puts it:  "Just like the rain and snow come down and don't go back up to the clouds again until they have made their way through the whole water cycle, watering the crops so that humans can eat and thrive, flowing to the river and then the ocean, and then evaporating back up into the sky again, my word will accomplish what I intend for it to do."  It's a powerful image, at one level simply assuring the prophet's listeners that God has not forgotten about them and God's word will still be effective.  After all, people could picture exactly what the prophet was describing: even in a pre-scientific age, people could see the flow of water from the rainfall to their fields and back up to the sky to repeat the cycle all over again.  If the rains could be trusted to flow out into the world and fulfill their purpose of helping plants to grow (and thereby to help humans to grow), then in a similar way, God's word could be counted on as well.  So far, so good, in terms of speaking words of assurance to nervous hearts.  The prophet was basically saying, "What God wants to get God, God is going to get done--mark my words."

But there's another layer to the image that I think is really helpful to keep in mind.  The path of the water cycle might seem like a pretty circuitous and roundabout route to get from the starting point to the destination, but that's not a failure or a flaw on God's part.  It is actually by design.  You might look at the meandering path that a droplet of water takes, from rainfall to landing on a leaf or into the soil, to the river, to the sea or lake, and then to evaporate back up into the sky, and think that seems like a waste of energy or lack of direction--but it is accomplishing a number of things all along the way.  It is exactly because the rain takes its sweet old time being soaked up by plants, or flowing into groundwater, or entering the river, or returning to the sea, that life can thrive on this planet.  It is precisely because the snow doesn't directly empty into the ocean that plants can grow, animals can feed, and human beings can flourish.  The prophet here in Isaiah 55 is well aware of that, pointing out that the rain's winding path is what allows it to "water the earth" and "making it bring forth and sprout" so that there can be both "seed to the sower and bread to the eater."  In other words, God seems to have deliberately chosen what looks like an indirect or inefficient way of doing things--which surely takes longer than a direct Point-A-to-Point-B straight line would--in order to make life thrive.

And that seems to be part of the point here: not only can we count on God to get done what God wants done, but it turns out that what God wants done is for the world to flourish.  It may happen in surprising ways that take a long time to unfold, but this is how God's purpose works, much as rainwater wends its way with twists and turns on its journey from the clouds to the fields to the rivers.  The very thing that makes it take a long time to reach the destination is also what makes it life-giving at every point along the way.  So it makes perfect sense, then, that the prophet then imagines "the trees of the field shall clap their hands" and the ground bringing up myrtle and cypress instead of briers and thorns.  

For the people living in exile and waiting for God's big dramatic shows of power, then, all of this might have been a way of saying, "I need you to trust me: God is still going to get done what God wants to get done. But it might be that there is more flourishing that can happen if God does it in the longer-term, seemingly indirect way that looks more like the water cycle than a non-stop flight as the crow flies."  It might still be hard to wait and hope that God was working in the world, but at least it pointed to the possibility that what seemed like a design-flaw might actually be a purposeful strategy.  God's ways might take a long time to come to fruition, not because God isn't proficient at getting things done, but because God's strategy is always bigger, wider, and more life-giving than we realized.  God isn't just interested in transporting water from the sky to sea-level; God is interested in bringing forth life all along the way.  For that to happen, you need stops in the farmer's field and the growing wheat, rather than a single straight line.  Maybe God actually knows what God is doing, the prophet seems to be saying, but we have to see our own situations within the larger context of all the ways God is seeking to bring life in the world.

Sometimes our own anxieties make us see the world with the same narrow focus and short-sightedness.  We can only see our own personal problems or difficulties, and we pray and pray for God's intervention, only to feel let down and disappointed when God's answers don't materialize on our terms or timelines.  I wonder if the same prophet who spoke here in these ancient words might remind us as well that God indeed is going to get God what God wants to get done... and at the same time, that God's way of doing things may look indirect or inefficient, but are part of a bigger and more beautiful design intended to bring the world more fully to life. That doesn't mean our worries or needs are unimportant, but it does mean that our stories are part of something even larger and grander than we may have realized--and that God intends to enable all of it to flourish.

Like Julian of Norwich said it so long ago in her own meandering and beautifully inefficient way of putting it, "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be made well." The rain falls from the sky to the field to the stream to the sea, and life breaks out everywhere along the way.  That's how God operates in the world.  Thank God.

Lord God, accomplish your good purposes among us, in us, and through us.  And enable us to trust in the midst of it all that you are at work.

The Subject of the Sentence--July 16, 2026

The Subject of the Sentence--July 16, 2026

"For God has done what the law, weakened by the flesh, could not do: by sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh and to deal with sin, he condemned sin in the flesh, so that the just requirement of the law might be fulfilled in us, who walk not according to the flesh but according to the Spirit." (Romans 8:3-4)

This very point is the difference between hearing the Gospel as Good News and hearing it as a self-help sales pitch.  If the Christian message boils down to, "Here is a list of what you have to do," it is neither good nor new.  But if, as Paul insists here, the Gospel's claim is, "God has already done what we could not do on our own," well, then, everything is different.

These verses from Romans 8, which many of us heard this past Sunday in worship, put it just that plainly.  "For God has done what the law, weakened by the flesh, could not do." You will note, of course, that God is the subject of the sentence.  In other words, the Actor is God, doing what we cannot--doing even what the Law, which God had first given, could not do.  God does the saving. God deals with sin.  God enters into our humanity.  God enables us to live by the Spirit instead of being ruled by the whims of our worst impulses.  All of it is accomplished by God through Christ Jesus the Son.  In the Christian story, God is the doer, the hero, the Subject.  Saving the world--and all of us as well--is God's action.

Now, for as clear as Paul is here, it's funny how often we Respectable Religious folks have gotten it all backward over the centuries.  Sometimes we can't seem to accept that God has already done the heavy lifting, or that our being saved isn't something we have achieved by our own cleverness, talent, or morality.  Maybe it sounds too good to be true, or maybe we are upset by the idea that God saves and rescues people who haven't earned it.  Or maybe it's about control: if I am the subject of the sentence when it comes to salvation, then it's up to me and my effort to do good enough... and I can also look down on the other people I don't think have done a "good enough" job.  But if God is the One doing the saving because I cannot on my own, then I don't have control over who else God rescues, saves, and redeems.

And maybe that's our persistent hang-up: we would rather keep control (or pretend to keep it) over who is "in" and who is "out" than allow God to scandalous and extravagantly save people who are not on our approved list. If we tell ourselves that being saved is a matter of my individual performance or piety, then there's a gate to be kept and a bar to be met. But if God really is the One doing the saving in the big scheme of things, we have to admit we don't have control over who's in.  God is free to rescue, redeem, and resurrect outsiders, sinners, mess-ups, and stinkers.  Of course, that's exactly how we find our belonging, too--not by our innate goodness, but by God's.  Because God is the One who claims us, we belong even when we are weak, sinful, stingy, and hard-hearted.  There's the trade-off, too: once I can admit that I don't have control over who made the cut, I can also rest in the relief of knowing my belonging doesn't depend on my performance, either.  It is because of what God has done in Christ that we have hope, not what I think I can do on my own.  It is because of God's choice to take on all the burden of human sin in Christ than I am freed from that weight--not because I have done a good enough job following rules and earning gold stars.

Accepting Paul's point is humbling, because it forces each of us to admit we are not nearly as in control of things as we imagined.  But it is also what makes the Gospel genuinely good news in the first place.

I think that's a trade I'm willing to make--how about you?

Perhaps today is a day for grammatical clarity: that is, today is a day to recognize that God has always been the subject of the sentence that is the Gospel's good news.

Lord God, enable us to admit that you are the primary actor in the universe's great redemption story, and to surrender the illusion of control we never really had.

All Our Chips on Grace--July 15, 2026

All Our Chips on Grace--July 15, 2026

"Therefore there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has set you free from the law of sin and of death." (Romans 8:1-2)

Paul keeps passing up chances to add red tape.

This is actually one of the things I find most blessedly startling about the apostle's way of thinking. Just when I could imagine him pulling back, adding some conditions, or unspooling some fine print to limit the good news of God's grace, he just plows forward without hedging or adding exceptions.  And I kind of think that Paul knows exactly what he is doing and relishes it. The sheer audacity of the Gospel's unconditional extravagance brings him joy... as well it should.

Take, for example, these verses many of us heard this past Sunday in worship from the opening of what we call the eighth chapter of Romans.  Having just finished Chapter Seven admitting how often he fails to do what he wants and how often sin keeps digging its claws into him even on his best days and with his best intentions, Paul makes a blanket declaration out of nowhere: "Therefore there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus."  No asterisks.  No expiration date.  No tedious legalese in fine print.  He just comes out and says, "For all who belong in the found family of Jesus, there is no condemnation." He does not add as a prerequisite, "Only those who have mastered their struggle against sin will avoid judgment." Neither does he say afterward, "Of course, this assumes that those who are in Christ Jesus have all been good little boys and girls."  He seems to be saying that even for people who are still living through the struggle with sin and who keep making boneheaded and selfish choices (which, Paul has just said includes him), there is no reason to fear.  No zapping looms on the horizon. No lightning bolts of smiting are locked and loaded, ready to be hurled from the sky at us.  No nagging anxiety that at any moment the mouth of hell could open up beneath our feet to gobble us up whole because we've been coveting our neighbor's car or skipped church last Sunday.  There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus--God has gone ahead and told us ahead of time that there will be no death sentence, and all is forgiven already.

Over the course of Christian history, taking Paul seriously on this point has been difficult for many Respectable Religious people.  It just sounds too easy.  It sounds too "cheap" (a free gift always runs that risk, I suppose).  It sounds like God is letting everybody off the hook and welcoming in all the undesirables with open arms.  And there's a good reason for that--that is precisely what Paul says God is doing.  Because we are joined to Christ, who has taken all the world's sin and nailed it to his own cross, it's not there to be held against us anymore.  Because we belong to Jesus, there is no one else who gets a vote on whether we are damned or saved.  Because God has justified us from God's side as a free gift, we don't have to fear that our mess-ups and mistakes will be weaponized against us if God should wake up grumpy one morning. If Paul the former persecutor who had blood on his hands could be pulled by grace into the community of Christ and wholly forgiven, then we don't have to fear being judged for our most terrible choices, either. Paul was pulled into God's embrace even when he was an enemy of Christ, so clearly there is no one "too far gone" or "beyond the reach of mercy." Not even you or me on our worst day. No condemnation means no condemnation--not now, not ever, not for any of us who have been loved into the family of God through Christ.

And just to clarify here, this isn't just some crazy idea Paul cooked up on his own. Even though Paul the apostle had never been one of the original twelve disciples of Jesus, what Paul says here sure does echo the way Jesus tells stories about God's blanket pardon and limitless grace. It's the stories he tells where impossibly large debts are forgiven completely with a wave of a hand. It's the tale of the long-lost son who has lost the family fortune but is met by his father running out to meet him with an embrace and a welcome.  It's the way Jesus healed people without charging, the way he crossed borders to include outsiders, and the way he raised the dead who couldn't even ask for his help.  And on top of that it's the way Jesus taught his disciples to love their enemies because it was the same way God loves us--even when we are "wicked and ungrateful" (Luke 6:35-36).  In other words, Paul and Jesus both refuse the opportunity to add conditions, fine print, or exceptions, and instead they both put all their chips on grace.

Could we dare to see the world through that same lens?  Could we believe that God really has promised there will be no condemnation for us--that our darkest chapters and worst actions do not have to be held against us, and that it is possible to begin again?  Could we really be freed from having to live those old scripts based on our guilt and the rotten habits in which we had been stuck?  And could we see everyone else we meet as also being a long-lost prodigal wrapped up in loving arms and welcomed home? What would we finally be free to do with our lives if we realized we didn't have to waste our time, worry, or energy on whether there was a divine lightning bolt headed our way at any given moment? 

What might happen if we, following the lead of Jesus and Paul before us, put all our chips on grace, too?

Lord Jesus, your good news seems too good to be true. Speak it to us again so that we will believe we really are freed from condemnation as we are, and let that news set us free.

Yes, Seriously--July 14, 2026

Yes, Seriously--July 14, 2026

[Jesus said:]“Hear, then, the parable of the sower. When anyone hears the word of the kingdom and does not understand it, the evil one comes and snatches away what is sown in the heart; this is what was sown on the path. As for what was sown on rocky ground, this is the one who hears the word and immediately receives it with joy, yet such a person has no root but endures only for a while, and when trouble or persecution arises on account of the word, that person immediately falls away. As for what was sown among thorns, this is the one who hears the word, but the cares of this age and the lure of wealth choke the word, and it yields nothing. But as for what was sown on good soil, this is the one who hears the word and understands it, who indeed bears fruit and yields in one case a hundredfold, in another sixty, and in another thirty.” (Matthew 13:18-23)

Seriously? This is how God's kingdom comes? This is how God's reign unfolds in the world?

Jesus' story about a farmer scattering seed might be familiar to our ears (after all, many of us heard it in worship this past Sunday), but it really is pretty bizarre if you give it a bit of thought.  Jesus really does seem to be comparing the Reign of God--or the Yahweh Administration, if you like; the way God runs the universe--to a farm worker with a handful of seed that gets scattered recklessly, extravagantly, and (seemingly) wastefully over all sorts of terrain, risking that a great deal of that seed will not produce a harvest, but doing it anyway.

And I have to think that for the folks who first heard Jesus tell this tale, it sounded preposterous.  What sort of a kingdom is this?  What self-respecting king would let his regime be compared to something that seems so scattershot and risky?  And of course, those question are not wrong: whatever Jesus is describing here, it surely does operate quite differently from the "kingdoms" of history.

Jesus' listeners have seen what those sorts of kingdoms and empires look like.  They lived in the grip of the Roman Empire, which ruled with a ruthless efficiency and the brutal expediency of coercion.  The empire accomplished its goals by conquering, by destroying, and by dominating.  They marched their armies to your city's gates and invaded.   They occupied your territory, put down revolts before they got out of hand, and extracted the wealth of your community in taxes, tribute, and plunder, all to finance more legions of their troops in your streets and more obnoxious triumphal arches and statues of their leaders to remind you who was in charge. And the Romans hadn't invented all of those tactics, even if they improved or even perfected them; the Romans' playbook was the same strategy behind the Greek Empire under Alexander the Great, the Medes and the Persians before that, the Babylonians and Assyrians before them, and even further back to Pharaoh's Egypt.  In other words, everybody who lived in Jesus' time and place knew what to expect from the world's kingdoms--intimidation, domination, and violence.  You got what you wanted from the world by taking it through force.  Everybody knew that.

And yet, that is precisely not how things look in the kind of story Jesus tells, about the surprising way that "the word of the kingdom" goes to work in God's way.  Of all the images and all the metaphors in all the world that Jesus could have picked to describe the advance and spread of God's kingdom, Jesus picks perhaps the least empire-like one there is: a farmer seemingly wasting time and effort scattering seeds in every direction, who has to know that a good bit of his labor is going to be literally fruitless. A sower cannot coerce the ground to accept the seed. You cannot threaten the grains of wheat to make them sprout, and you cannot intimidate the soil into producing a harvest.  All you can do, if you are the one scattering the seeds, is to let the soil be what it is going to be, and to let the seed be what the seed is going to be.  You cannot force, shoot, stab, or dominate your way into a harvest. You can only scatter seed and allow life to take hold where it will.  That is a decidedly un-empire-like approach.

And that is precisely the point, I am convinced.  Jesus isn't announcing the "empire" of God as though God is just one more two-bit tyrant like Caesar and his fawning successors.  God doesn't rule the world like Rome does, by fiat and force and coercing compliance, but more like a farmer who plants... and waits... and risks that some of the effort will appear to have been wasted. And that is exactly why the "word of the kingdom" is Good News and not just some repackaged imperial propaganda.

When our message as Christians sounds more like the Empire's edicts--and when we try to legislate that all have to fall in line with our wishes--we have lost the very thing that makes the Gospel good and news.  When we make the Reign of God sound like another decree of Caesar, we have left the actual message of Jesus behind and fallen for a counterfeit.  So these days, when I hear folks clamoring for displays of Christian power and influence through legislation--whether putting up monuments of the Ten Commandments at courthouse complexes or mandating that public schools read the Bible or whatever other culture-war foolishness we get carried away with--I am concerned that we have missed the point Jesus has been trying to make.  That's not how God accomplishes divine purposes, as Jesus tells it.  God doesn't use force or coercion, but coaxes and cultivates. The right picture is not of invading legions of a divine empire, but seed scattered by a sower who knows full well that some of what is offered to the earth will be rejected, will wither, or will be eaten up by the birds.  It may startle us to realize that this is how God runs the universe, but this is the way Jesus talks about God's Reign.

So to come back to the questions I posed at the start of today's devotion, yes.  Yes, this is how God's kingdom comes. Yes, seriously, this is how God's reign unfolds "on earth as it is in heaven."

Lord God, let your reign spring up among us and in us like seeds breaking open into stalks of wheat.

More Important Than Productivity--July 13, 2026

More Important Than Productivity--July 13, 2026

"Jesus told them many things in parables, saying: 'Listen! A sower went out to sow. And as he sowed, some seeds fell on the path, and the birds came and ate them up. Other seeds fell on rocky ground, where they did not have much soil, and they sprang up quickly, since they had no depth of soil. But when the sun rose, they were scorched; and since they had not root, they withered away. Other sees feel among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked them. Other seeds fell on good soil and brought forth grain, some a hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty. Let anyone with ears listen!" [Matthew 13:3-9]

For whatever else this story is about, it means that God is more interested in growing something good than in maximizing profits and efficiency. Or to put it the other way around, God is willing to put up with looking ineffective for the sake of increasing life in the world. God's commitment to nurturing seeds that will grow somewhere is stronger than God's need to "maximize productivity."

This parable, which many of us heard in worship this past Sunday, presents us with a farm worker who has to know that his approach of scattering grain seeds everywhere is going to look wasteful. He has to know that the seeds that land on the path are likely to get snatched up by the birds, that the thorns and thistles will starve out any seeds that land among them, and that the stony ground won't produce a good crop, either. And yet, he's more interested in getting something to grow than he is with maximizing his labor-to-profit ratio. He's willing to go to the length of broadcasting seed everywhere, even if that means knowing some will not provide a return on the investment. Those with more miserly business sensibilities might say, "You're losing money there," or "You're not getting as much final profit as you could if you only planted seeds where you know there's good soil." But the farm worker seems to know full well what he's doing... and is willing to take that risk.

Now, I'm not really in a position to know whether this technique for planting a field was standard in Jesus' culture and time, or whether it is supposed to be striking and unusual. What I do think is clear is that Jesus chose this kind of image to describe how God's "kingdom" operates--that is, how God runs the universe. And Jesus insists that God is willing to bear with the reality that some of God's effort in the world will be met with rejection or disappointment... and yet God goes through with giving abundantly (even recklessly) in all directions, anyway. God is willing to deal with the inefficiency. God is willing to accept the apparent waste of effort. God is willing to put up with the lackluster response we humans sometimes (often!) give back in response to God's gracious word to us. And that is all because God loves.

If we want to embody God's kind of love in the world, it's going to mean that kind of willingness to risk that our efforts won't turn out, don't yield the response we want, or might not produce the results we want. It means the willingness to put good into the world, anyway, even if others don't receive it. And it means the deliberate choice to plant seeds with the full, open-eyed awareness that we do not have control over what will come from our attempt. We can make the effort, but we can't guarantee others will see or appreciate it. We can scatter God's good word around to everyone, but we can't compel every listener to take it to heart. And yet we do it anyway, because that vulnerability itself is a piece of what makes love love.  There are some things, after all, that are more important than productivity.

In the end, this story isn't so much about how to avoid being a bad kind of soil or how to make yourself into a good kind of soil--it's about the lengths God is willing to go to, even in the face of rejection and disappointment, to keep on bringing life among us. If we are going to live this story, then maybe today is a day to make the additional effort or take the risk of giving a second try to something that seemed fruitless. Maybe today's a day to love people without worrying about whether they will return the favor or repay you. Maybe today's a day to let go of the need to look "successful" in anybody else's eyes, and instead to risk putting good into the world regardless of how anybody else judges it or responds to it. Maybe today's a day to reflect the character of our blessedly inefficient God.

What could that look like today?

Lord Jesus, spur us on to take the risks of giving your good word everywhere.

Divinely Disarmed--July 10, 2026

Divinely Disarmed--July 10, 2026

"Rejoice greatly, O daughter Zion!

Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem!

Lo, your king comes to you;

triumphant and victorious is he,

humble and riding on a donkey,

on a colt, the foal of a donkey.

He will cut of the chariot from Ephraim

and the war-horse from Jerusalem;

and the battle blow shall be cut off,

and he shall command peace to the nations;

his dominion shall be from sea to sea,

and from the River to the ends of the earth." [Zechariah 9:9-10]

Here's a confession from a preacher.

As I heard these words being read this past Sunday in worship, I was reminded of something in them I have usually overlooked in the past... and it has been rattling around in my brain ever since. It's funny how often something like this happens, because these are words I have surely heard lots of times in my life. The first part of this passage is usually read in connection with the story of Jesus' triumphal entry into Jerusalem--the day that we church-folk have come to call Palm Sunday--when Jesus launched a sort of protest march that paraded into the city of Jerusalem in a deliberate parody of the Empire's annual show of force marching soldiers in full battle dress into the city to flex some Roman muscle and quiet any yearning for freedom from the empire's grip. So I've heard the imagery of a king who humbly rides in on a donkey instead of an ominous war-horse now more than forty times in my life.

I've heard these words from the second-last book in our Old Testament, spoken by a pretty obscure minor prophet plenty of times before... but most of the time I haven't paid attention to the move God makes to bring peace: God disarms us.

Wait... what?

Yeah, there it is: right there in the text. This promised king, this one who rides a donkey humbly instead of projecting "greatness" by riding a white horse or a chariot, this one that Christians have for two thousand years identified as Jesus of Nazareth himself... he disarms, not his enemies, but his own people! Look how the prophet says it: this king "will cut off the chariot from Ephraim, and the war-horse from Jerusalem," and along with those weapons, bows and arrows and whatever other arsenals they've got. But notice whose weapons these are that the prophet says God is abolishing--they are his own people's! The weapons of Israel and Judah (here identified by other place-names, Ephraim and Jerusalem) are the ones that the prophet says are "cut off." Zechariah envisions peace for all peoples, from sea to shining sea, and so God insists that they won't need their weapons any longer. God disarms the very people of God, rather than leaving them a back-up plan "just in case."

This is radical! This is upside-down! This is scandalous! And it certainly runs counter to the thinking we are immersed in all around us. The conventional wisdom says, "Try to be nice to everyone... but you'd better be ready with your war-horse if someone else starts a fight." The conventional wisdom says the way to guarantee peace is to have a bigger stick to threaten your potential enemies with, so they'll be too afraid to go to war with you (this was basically why the Romans had their little military dress-up parade marching into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, by the way--it was to intimidate any troublemaking Zealots or freedom-fighters by showing off the size of their armies). The conventional wisdom says, "You have to keep your hand on the trigger to make sure you'll be left standing if trouble breaks out." That was absolutely the thinking in the air in the late days of the Cold War as I grew up--where we all were taught that nobody wanted nuclear war, but that the way to prevent nuclear war was to have an ever-increasing arsenal of nuclear weapons to make sure everybody else was too afraid to use them. It was the idea that you kept the peace by threatening everyone with "mutual assured destruction." So much of our view of the world is soaked in the assumption that you have to be ready to destroy somebody else to make sure that your own little group can come out on top. And so much of what we assume is just "the way things are" depends on having my bow, my chariot, and my war-horse ready to kill my enemies if I feel threatened. We have just been taught to accept that this is how the world has to be.

And yet, God offers a disarming (literally) alternative. Here--in words I have been reading and hearing all my life--there is this outrageous and upside-down picture that turns all that reasonable-sounding conventional wisdom on its head. God's way is to create peace, and then, not just to disarm "the bad guys" but also to disarm the ones who imagine themselves as "good guys," too. It's not just Israel's enemies who have their sticks and swords and spears taken from them--it's Israel itself, too! It's not just the opposing armies outside of Jerusalem that has their bows snapped over the divine knee--it's the weaponry of the capital city itself, too. God's way here is not to leave "our side" ready with back-up weapons in case this whole peace thing doesn't work out. No, God's way, promised long before Jesus was ever laid in a manger, is to rule from a position that looks like weakness (donkey, rather than war-horse), and to disarm not only "those people" out there, but also "us right here."

I know it is tempting to say something like, "Well, that's all well and good for when Christ comes again, but now we have to live in the real world, where we lock our doors and have to deal with real evil all around us." And I don't mean to suggest living naively with the thought that we can all just get along when there is certainly so much evil and wickedness in the world. But I do think it is pretty significant that a great many of us probably don't even notice that these words were here... when we are already so familiar with other parts of this passage. I do think it's more than curious that I can recite the bit about the king on the donkey, but never realized that when the donkey-riding ruler comes, his way of bringing peace isn't just to smash the enemies while reloading his people's ammunition, but rather to cut off the weapons from everybody all around. And I think that for so long I never saw it, because like all of us, I have been steeped in a culture that assumed you have to keep your advantage over your enemy and you have to be ready to destroy somebody else in order to preserve your own interests. And now I am drawn up short, because, well, because God envisions another way. God creates a kind of life that isn't dependent on threatening somebody else with death.

So much of the tension I think we are all feeling these days is that we have accepted the idea that we have to have someone to hate... someone to cast as the villain... someone who must be the "bad guy," and when we can't find one, we invent one. And once we've accepted that there has to be a villain, we very quickly will justify anything to get rid of "them" and to assert "our" domination of them. But maybe that assumption just isn't true. Maybe there has been an alternative all along. Maybe the thing we're hoping for is not a world where I keep the peace by pointing a weapon at somebody else, but where we all decide we will honor the image of God in one another enough that we don't have to threaten each other. And maybe in the course of my day, I don't have to see every interaction as an "us versus them, good-versus-evil" competition. Maybe instead, I can see that, like Solzhenitsyn wrote, the line between good and evil runs through each human heart, and that there is rottenness in me that I need to address, as well as goodness in "the enemy" that I cannot honestly ignore.

And then maybe I can change the attitude I engage others with, even people I have a really hard time getting along with. Maybe I no longer have to look for some advantage to defeat them, but I can risk the vulnerability of letting down my defenses toward them, and offering suffering love rather than harsh attacks. Maybe I can risk learning something from the people I am sure are wrong... and maybe I can offer what I have to say in ways that aren't just trying to score points, or make them dig their heels in and get defensive.

Maybe the greatest gift of all we can be given in this life is to have God disarm us.

Maybe it's worth trying facing the world today with open hands and finding out.

Lord God, bring your kind of peace to us, even when it overturns our expectations and assumptions.

More Than A Metaphor--July 9, 2026

More Than A  Metaphor--July 9, 2026

[Jesus said:] "Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light." (Matthew 11:28-30)

I would like to make a proposal, a hypothesis of sorts, about these well-known words of Jesus. And I'll ask your bearing with me to hear me out here. I would suggest--and here's me, going out on a limb with this--that when Jesus spoke these words of invitation and of calling, he actually meant something by them.

Yes, I'd like to consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Jesus seriously intended to call people--of the first century, of the twenty-first century, and of every other time as well--into a particular way of life. I dare say Jesus actually meant something by these words.

That is, Jesus wasn't just waxing poetic or rambling with an extended metaphor. He wasn't just riffing on a half-formed image or analogy about yokes and burdens--he was calling anyone who would listen to share in a way of seeing the world, seeing God, and seeing oneself. I want to suggest that when Jesus said he would give us rest in these words many of us heard this past Sunday in worship, he wasn't just sentimental and saccharin. He actually intended to be offering us a different way of living that would change the way we carried the burdens of life.

I feel this is an important point to make because to be honest, I think that religious professionals (preachers like me) have often so romanticized and sentimentalized passages like this as to make them empty schmaltz. Unless Jesus is actually giving us a viable alternative to the ways we have been living our lives, all this talk of "Jesus carrying our burdens" will be meaningless. And I say that as someone who has had to listen to other preachers and heard my share of messages that go something like this: "When life is tough and we are weary from anxiety, grief, sadness, or discouragement, you just need to trust Jesus more and it will all get better."

Just wave the name of Jesus over your troubles, and watch them vanish! Just mutter the two syllables of the Savior's name while you are thinking about the friend who has cancer and you'll be able to make it through the day with a smile on your face. Just believe harder in Jesus, and you won't feel so bad about the crippling debts you don't want to deal with. Honestly, it was like hearing that Jesus was an all-curing elixir like snake-oil that would fix just about anything, if only you would just stop what you were doing and "just trust Jesus more."

And to be clear, I'm all for trusting Jesus....

But I am of the conviction that trusting a person usually involves some concrete, specific action or direction. Like the old story about the tightrope walker with the wheelbarrow, it's easy to stand on solid ground from a distance and say, "I believe YOU can cross the tightrope while pushing this across," but it doesn't really mean anything until you are willing to get into the wheelbarrow yourself, and let him carry you across the highwire. Just saying "I trust Jesus more" doesn't make my car payment go away, and it doesn't make a heavenly beam of light illuminate a nook in the couch cushions to find a long-lost roll of hundred dollar bills to pay it, either. Jesus hasn't come to get us to recite a mantra about him, or treat his name like a magic incantation that gives us the power to sail past the troubles of daily life. 

No, I am convinced, as I say, that when Jesus called people to come and take his yoke upon them, he was calling us to a particular way of life, a set of priorities, a way of being in the world. When Jesus calls us to take his yoke, he is summoning us to abandon our old loves and wish-lists and to take his loves, his priorities, and his way of engaging the world as our own--because Jesus is convinced that his set of priorities and loves make us more alive, rather than less.

There's a line from the classic Alan Moore graphic novel (and later movie) V for Vendetta, in which the main character says that "fairness, justice, and freedom are more than words--they are perspectives." That's an important reminder. Just muttering that you care about fairness or justice or freedom doesn't make it so--these words represent ideas and a particular set of values. And in a similar way, Jesus offers his yoke as a change of perspective--from our old ones to his. Being a follower of Jesus isn't simply learning how to speak in Christian jargon or how to parrot religious sounding words. It is a matter of actually going where Jesus goes, doing what Jesus does, and learning to carry what Jesus carries--nothing more and nothing less.

Unless we hear that in Jesus' words here, we will only ever hear this passage as saying, "Just trust more!" without it ever telling us what that would mean or look like. But once we realize that Jesus is actually saying something of substance, then things start to make sense. Jesus is calling us to take up his way of seeing the world, his way of living in the world, and his choices of what matters, and what doesn't. Some sources believe that rabbis of the first century referred to their teaching--their interpretation of the Torah, the Law--as their "yoke," and that therefore Jesus is making the invitation to people to live by his understanding of the Torah, rather than the burdensome interpretations of, say, the Pharisees, or the Temple-centered takes of the Sadd. Others think that this "yoke" language is more generally a shorthand for living by God's commandments rather than the demands of the world or the decrees of the Romans. But either way, the force of Jesus' choice of words is about the same: he is calling people, not simply to say his name like a lucky charm, but to set down an old way of life in the world and to take up a new one that he sets forth. And once we are clear that this is the invitation, his words here have a certain force to them. Jesus really is convinced that the life of loving enemies, of generosity without tooting your own horn, welcoming the stranger, the life of practicing forgiveness, the life of trust in a God who provides daily bread, that this whole kind of life is freeing and more joyful than a life lived by the conventional wisdom of the day--the life marked by attacking enemies, closing oneself off from "the other," hating the stranger, proud bragging about your greatness and giving, and holding grudges. Jesus is actually calling us to something, a way of life that can be practiced and grown into. Jesus' "yoke" is a perspective, not just a sentimental analogy.  He is offering something more than a metaphor or a tired cliche.

As long as I am still trying to play the world's games--to get ahead with more stuff and bigger piles of money, to win people's approval and get them to notice and applaud me, to make myself look tough by lashing out at my enemies and bitterly nursing hatred for the people I don't like or think have wronged me--I will always feel like I am carrying an extra hundred pounds of dead weight behind me wherever I go. Even if you, for a brief moment, actually succeed on the world's terms and get a big pile of possessions or have lashed out at all the people you think have wronged you, you still will feel burdened and worn out, Jesus says. It's inevitable--because the problem isn't that it's hard to win at the games the world teaches us to play. The problem is that even when you look like you are "winning" at them, you are still left carrying the baggage and the weight of the world's way of doing things, and you are still left feeling empty inside.

Jesus calls us away from the losing game that is the conventional wisdom about how to live life, and into his way of living in the world. And when that happens, the dead weight can be left behind, and we find our muscles can carry the load Jesus gives. There is no choice to carry nothing--you can't not have a pattern for living in this life. The question, though, is whether we will kill ourselves from exhaustion trying to carry all the garbage the world and the powers of the day want to pile on us, or whether we will dare to trust that Jesus' way of living and seeing the world can lighten the load.

Jesus is actually calling us into something... and out of something old. He is calling us to abandon the old way of ordering our lives, and to let his way become ours. And he is convinced it is worth it.

Dare we let go of our old perspectives, no matter how popular they are or what other loud obnoxious voices in our culture espouse them, and trust Jesus to give us a new perspective?

Let's try it... and let's be clear as we do just what we are getting ourselves into.

Lord Jesus, Rabbi, help pull us out of our old habits and practices and perspectives, and suit us up in your way of living in the world.