"In the Time of Herod, We Long for God to Break In" (November 30, 2025 Sermon)

Text: Luke 1:5-13

“Fear is a friend that’s misunderstood.” John Mayer sang this in his 2006 song, “The Heart of Life.”  Fifty years earlier, Martin Luther King, Jr. put it this way: “Normal fear protects us; abnormal fear paralyzes us. Normal fear is a friend that motivates us to improve our individual and collective welfare; abnormal fear is an enemy that constantly poisons and distorts our inner lives. So our problem is not to get rid of fear but to harness and master it.” Most of us, I suppose, consider fear not friend but foe.  We all try in our own ways to escape our fears.  Many of you will recall a sermon series we did on the Enneagram a year or two ago, which gives us, among other things, a helpful framework for exploring how we all, in different ways, try to cope with our fears.

• Type 1’s fear of being wrong leads them to overcompensate by constantly striving for perfection.

• Type 2’s fear of rejection causes them to seek validation through helping others.

• Type 3’s fear of failure drives them to pursue success and recognition.

• Type 4’s fear of insignificance pushes them to escape into creativity and emotional depth.

• Type 5’s fear of incompetence makes them seek knowledge as a form of security.

• Type 6’s fear of uncertainty and abandonment leads them to seek stability through relationships and systems.

• Type 7’s fear of pain causes them to escape into a world of possibilities, plans, and distractions.

• Type 8’s fear of vulnerability prompts them to assert control and take charge of everything.

• Type 9’s fear of conflict makes them engage in social gymnastics to avoid confrontation.

Understanding our fears and how they motivate us is a vital spiritual practice. Without acknowledging our relationship with fear, growth becomes impossible—whether as disciples, parents, lovers, or friends. Ignoring our fears only results in denial and the slow burn of repressed anxiety and stress, which will eventually surface in other ways, often causing no small amount of collateral damage along the way. But the good news is that if you’re looking for a powerful remedy to fear, there is one: curiosity. This is the foundation of this sermon series. As we bring to God “the hopes and fears of all the years,” we look forward to Christ’s birth dab-smack in the middle of a fearful world.

If you appreciate meticulous details, then Luke's gospel is perfect for you. Luke based his account of Jesus’ life on the gospel of Mark but, like many of us, he was likely frustrated with Mark’s lack of detail in describing Jesus’ earthly ministry. As a result, he adds many details that Mark didn’t consider important. Today’s passage from Luke features an often-overlooked but crucial detail in its opening words: “In the days of King Herod of Judea.”

King Herod was a controversial figure; some people loved him, while others hated him. He was the Roman-appointed king of Judea, and his only job was to funnel as much money and power as possible to the Empire. That money and power came at a steep price, in the form of heavy taxes and brutal oppression of those who suffered the most to feed the Empire's greed. Herod branded himself as a master builder. He had many costly vanity projects, such as the hippodrome, which Herod built in honor of Emperor Augustus about 10 years before Jesus was born. These projects boosted Herod’s ego and, of course, pleased the Romans, but they came at a cost. Economic disparity was increasing, and many hoped that Herod would spend less time on vanity projects and more on serving his constituents.

Historians differ on Herod’s reputation as a brutal tyrant. Although the Bible states that Herod had all infants murdered in an attempt to kill baby Jesus, some historians dispute this fact. However, it is widely accepted that Herod executed one of his wives and at least three of his own children. Some believe that Herod may have started as a somewhat well-meaning ruler, but as the saying goes, “absolute power corrupts absolutely.” At some point, Herod’s slide into tyranny became undeniable, and the people of Judah lived in constant fear of where his lust for power would lead them.

Amid this climate of societal unrest was a man named Zechariah. Zechariah was a priest who, like all of us, faced both macro and micro fears. Macro fears involved the socio-political and economic situations we’ve just discussed. But he also experienced micro fears, which were more personal to him and his wife, Elizabeth. Like some undoubtedly among us, they longed for a child who had so far eluded them. Luke’s mention of their righteousness adds to the fears surrounding their situation, mainly because of the common belief that infertility was a sign of divine disapproval. Zechariah and Elizabeth must have been affected by the socio-political unrest of their society, but their fears were also deeply personal because they lacked children:

• Fear of social ostracism in a world where women were valued only to the extent that they could bear children.

• Fear of losing the legacy of their family name in a world where lineage was an important marker of social status.

• Fear of growing old in a world where children were the primary caregivers of elderly parents.

And so, like each of us, Zechariah and Elizabeth were hungry for God to “break in” and disrupt the painful reality of their fears, both macro and micro.

Where do you long for God to “break in?”  What fears do you have that call out for God’s intervention?  Maybe you know the acute pain of longing for a child.  Maybe you know the ache of some other unfilled dream? Maybe like Zechariah, you know what it’s like to sit in the house of God, giving thanks in one breath and voicing lament in the next. In that messy, fearful space, God breaks in.

Zechariah is alone with his thoughts.  The people are outside praying. In this quiet moment, the angel appears. Zechariah’s response is familiar to those of us who know the stories of scripture.  Never in the Bible does someone greet an angel casually, like, “Hey, dude. What’s up?” Instead, the response is predictable—probably including a four-letter curse word that a scribe at some point in history thought it best to scratch out. The text says Zechariah is terrified and overwhelmed by fear. The Greek word here is tarassó. This isn’t just a temporary jump scare where he clutches his heart and laughs it off. No, tarassó means disturbed, agitated, unsettled. Rev. Dr. Boyung Lee describes the word: “This is no fleeting startle. It evokes deep inner shaking, a disruption of body and spirit. Tarassó is the soul’s recoil from the unexpected, the mind’s clamor in the face of uncertainty, the body’s trembling at the threshold of something it cannot control.”

She goes on to say the following: “Like Zechariah, we may grow so used to disappointment that when hope finally arrives, it startles us. When God interrupts, we flinch.”

But the good news of this passage is that fear doesn’t have to be the final word; in fact, it never is (though our anxiety tells us otherwise). Fear sees itself as a brick wall, but sometimes it’s a doorway to new possibilities if we respond with curiosity.  And so, the angel opens the door and beckons Zechariah to take a stroll on a path God has meticulously curated for him and Elizabeth.  “The dead end you’ve decided for yourself is your narrative and not mine,” God says to Zechariah through this divine messenger.

And here, I want us to remember that Elizabeth and Zechariah’s lack of a child is a symbol for a larger story of scarcity that Advent challenges with its message of hope. The child to come, whose name will be John, will point to another, whose name will be Jesus. This child, this Messiah, presents an existential threat to the Herods of the world, whose brands are built on selfishness, greed, and an insatiable appetite for domination. God’s promise to the unsettled priest speaks to both his “macro” and his “micro” fears.  And we, too, are recipients of that message.  But what will you and I do with it?

We can choose to let our fears drive us inward. If we do, our echo chambers will only grow louder.  The Herods of history, past and present, delight when that happens!  Because when the people below Herod focus more on using their fears as weapons against each other instead of working together to hold leaders like him accountable, he gets an endlessly renewable get-out-of-jail-free pass.  It’s one of the best-kept secrets in the handbook of oppression.

But we can choose a different response to our fear. We can let it push us outward. That’s what curiosity does; it opens doors that the Herods of the world claim are forever closed. Every Advent, we walk through the door opened by Zechariah and Elizabeth’s angel. Each new liturgical year, we pass through the door that the Herods among us, driven by paranoia, have locked and bolted multiple times to keep us from breaking through. But, friends, God specializes in smashing the doors we build to keep us apart. And the one who does this chaotic good is named Jesus. And there’s a reason Herod wanted him dead.

So, friends, as we begin Advent, rest in this good news: God’s beloved thief is breaking in. And this thief we need not fear unless, of course, your name is Herod. The rest of us should welcome him. “Come,” we will sing to him, “thou long-expected Jesus, born to set thy people free, from our fears and sins release us, let us find our rest in thee.”  Friends, our fears may have a firm grip, but they’re no match for God’s embrace.  There is a rest to be found in the one who is “born a child and yet a king.”

And so, friends, let us see fear as a misunderstood friend. As we continue this sermon series, we will open ourselves to God's curiosity, who sits with us in our fear and guides us toward new possibilities. Yes, fear can be paralyzing if we allow it. But fear is also an important biological response that signals when something significant is at stake. This means that God’s beloved thief arrives when his message of hope is most needed.  And so, with our fears in one hand and our curiosity in the other, let us sing to the One who is born to set us, his people, free. Together, let us end this sermon by song.

[sing “Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus”]

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"Disciples Don't Judge" (October 26, 2025 Sermon)

Text: Luke 18:9-14

I used to be a lifeguard. During college and graduate school, I spent several summers working as a camp counselor at my Presbytery’s summer camp on Lake Allatoona in Northwest Georgia. For a poor college student, earning an extra $1,000 each summer was too good to pass up, so I got certified as a lifeguard and completed the necessary training. If you’ve never been a lifeguard, you might think that the first response to someone in water distress—arms flailing, struggling to stay afloat, yelling for help—is to jump in immediately, grab them, and bring them to safety. But that’s actually the last thing you should do if you know what you’re doing. The reason is that someone in distress in the water can be extremely dangerous. In fact, a lifeguard should try every other option before physically entering the water themselves. The common phrase taught to lifeguards is “Reach and Throw. Don’t go!” When someone is in trouble, you first call for help, look for hazards, throw a flotation device, or reach out with a rescue pole. You try all alternatives before jumping in because, as a lifeguard, you should not become a second victim. When someone is drowning, they will pull you under with them.

Brené Brown uses this as the perfect metaphor to explain what happens when we judge one another and why we do it. When we judge each other, we pull each other down, and we all drown together! It’s a harmful cycle that Jesus expects his disciples to break. And I get it, y’all, it’s hard. Like, really hard. The Apostle Paul expresses this frustrating reality when he writes in the letter to the Romans: “I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.” Indeed, we too often fail to do what we want, but we end up doing the very things we hate (or say we hate). I don’t think many of us wake up every morning thinking gleefully, “I can’t wait to judge people today.” Indeed, it’s dangerously instinctual. But I do believe we can understand why we do it. It’s quite simple: we are only as hard on others as we are on ourselves.

Brené Brown emphasizes this point in her book “Daring Greatly,” which I recommend to all of you. She argues that when we judge others, we are actually acting from a deep sense of shame and insecurity about ourselves. She states: “What's ironic (or perhaps natural) is that research tells us that we judge people in areas where we're vulnerable to shame, especially picking folks who are doing worse than we're doing. If I feel good about my parenting, I have no interest in judging other people's choices. If I feel good about my body, I don't go around making fun of other people's weight or appearance. We're hard on each other because we're using each other as a launching pad out of our own perceived shaming deficiency.”

When we’re drowning in the waters of our own self-judgment, we try to judge others to find safer ground. But it doesn’t work. It might give us a quick moment of self-righteousness or a fleeting feeling of superiority, but when it’s over, our insecurities are still there. Judging others by projecting our shame onto them only fuels disconnection.

And here’s the thing, friends: judging others fuels disconnection because it lowers our ability to regulate emotions on a neurological level, which directly impacts our capacity to treat ourselves and those around us with the kindness, generosity, and respect I hope we all strive for. I’ll use myself as an example to illustrate this. When I sat down with some of you last Tuesday to discuss this passage, I asked what situations most often make you tempted to judge others. One of the most common answers, of course, was when we’re driving. One of my favorite places to judge people is at the godforsaken intersection not far from where most of us are at the moment: where Lawndale, Battleground, Cornwallis, and Westover Terrace intersect (collide?). It is a place of lawlessness, reckless abandon, and deep, deep depravity. No one uses their turn signals. People run red lights all the time. Drivers block the intersection despite clear signage that says NOT to block it. And I love judging people for doing all those things. It makes me feel good…for a moment. Then I start heading east on Wendover, and I judge the people who do U-turns where it’s clearly forbidden. Then I turn south on US-29, and I judge the idiots who drive 10 miles under the speed limit in the left lane. And then I take the exit to Martin Luther King and turn on Liberty Road to go to my house, judging the person in front of me who either doesn’t use their turn signal or, worse, turns it on only after they’ve already slowed down and are turning! All these things make me feel good…for a moment.

But then I get home and feel my adrenaline rush. My self-righteous judgment has increased my cortisol, the stress hormone that makes us feel anxious, short-tempered, and “on edge." I’ve spent the last 15-20 minutes judging other people’s driving habits while cleverly neglecting to take responsibility for my own bad driving habits, and suddenly I’m a grouchy you-know-what. I yell at my kids. I’m short with my spouse. I’m so focused on my own stress that I struggle to be present with my family, whom I haven’t seen all day. In those precious few hours I get with them before the kids go to bed and we start the rat race again the next day, I feel like a terrible father, a grumpy spouse, and certainly not the Fred Rogers-esque pastor I try to be.

Now, listen up, church: none of us can be Mr. Rogers all the time. Heck, even Fred Rogers wasn’t “Mr. Rogers’ nonstop. It’s okay to get angry. It’s okay to mess up. It’s okay to be human. We can’t prevent ourselves from sinking into shame if we swim in the waters of unreasonable expectations. Eleanor Roosevelt once said that “comparison is the thief of joy.” No, friends, it’s okay to be human. I believe Jesus expects us to have honest talks about, and a healthy respect for, the fact that unchecked judgment is the root of all kinds of hypocrisy, cruelty, and suffering.

To illustrate this point, he shares a story everyone can relate to. The scene would be familiar to many in Jesus’ audience. The setting was the Court of the Gentiles in the Temple, an open-air space where anyone could gather to pray. In this Court, we see two characters with two very different kinds of prayers. The first is the Pharisee, who is praying a form of Jewish prayer called the berakah, which comes from the Hebrew word for “praise,” “blessing,” or “thanksgiving.” It is, above all, a prayer of gratitude, often spoken before eating a meal or making a sacrifice. It’s important to note that this is not the first berakah prayer in Luke’s gospel. Notably, two berakah prayers appear early in Luke’s gospel. First, Zechariah, the husband of Elizabeth and soon-to-be father of John the Baptist, prays a berakah prayer thanking God for raising up a Savior who will save us. Similarly, Mary offers her own berakah prayer, thanking God for blessing her by “looking with favor on the lowliness of his servant.”

Next, after about 17 chapters, this Pharisee’s prayer of blessing appears. However, his prayer contrasts with Zechariah’s and Mary’s because his expression of thanks is for what—or rather, who—he is not. “Thank you, God,” he says, “that I am not like those people.” I won’t ask who among us has prayed that prayer before, so I’ll raise my hand and admit that I have, and I suspect I’m not the only one. The Pharisee begins with a clear posture of self-righteousness. Notice, too, his physical stance: he is standing and praying “up.” It’s also worth mentioning that not all of what he prays is, in itself, problematic; rather, it’s how he delivers it. For example, he thanks God for two spiritual practices he embodies: fasting and tithing.  Friends, there’s nothing wrong with expressing gratitude for God giving you the ability to do things that strengthen your faith and bring you closer to God and neighbor.  I frequently ask God to soften my heart to those I judge and I also express gratitude when I’m able to do just that (with a healthy dose of help from the Holy Spirit!). Fasting and tithing can be wonderful ways to practice the generosity that God has first given to us.  In turn, they can be powerful ways to remind us of our need for God's mercy and our mandate to share that same mercy with others.

Where the Pharisee gets tripped up, of course, is how he frames his gratitude. His gratitude isn’t really directed to God; it’s directed to himself. Sure, he aims his gratitude at God, but you and I know better, as did the first hearers of this parable.

We understand better because Jesus immediately directs our attention to one of the very people the Pharisee is glad he’s not: the tax collector. In contrast to the Pharisee’s “upward” prayer, the tax collector can’t even bring himself to look up to the heavens. Instead, he bows his head in shame, beats his chest, and simply asks for mercy. Nothing more, and nothing less.

Now, I have a theory about who this tax collector was. And I’ll openly admit that there is absolutely no proof that my theory is correct, but my sanctified imagination begs it to be true. Earlier in Luke’s Gospel, John the Baptist is preaching to anyone who will listen, and three different groups ask him specific questions for guidance in their spiritual lives. The “crowds” ask what they should do, and he tells them that anyone with two coats should share with someone who has none, and those with food should do the same. The soldiers then ask what they should do, and he advises them not to extort money from anyone through threats or false accusations, and to be content with their wages. Finally, a group of tax collectors ask what they should do, and he tells them to collect no more than what is prescribed for them.

My theory, friends, is that the very tax collector in today’s parable was part of that crowd back in the third chapter of Luke’s gospel. No, I can’t prove it. But it would make sense. It seems likely that this man heard that edict from John the Baptist and is now struggling with what it means for him as he tries to stay faithful. We talked a bit about “wrestling” last week with the story of Jacob in Genesis 32. This tax collector is in his own wrestling match; he’s limping before God because he recognizes his need for forgiveness and, like Jacob, he understands his need for God’s blessing.

Now, to return to Brené Brown's drowning metaphor, in this parable the Pharisee is drowning (though he would never admit it), but he thinks he can rescue himself.  By contrast, the tax collector knows full well that he's drowning, and he recognizes that he needs a flotation device.  The tax collector knew all too well what we are reminded of on this Reformation Sunday, that we are saved by grace through faith.  We are not saved by ourselves.

Now, a couple of things to remember as we interpret this passage.

First, it’s important to remember that withholding judgment does not mean avoiding accountability. Withholding judgment does not imply ignoring the harm caused when someone hurts another person, whether through personal wrongdoing or systemic injustice. Jesus is not saying, “live and let live” or “just worry about yourself.” Those are overly simplified interpretations that, if left unchecked, can justify any kind of evil behavior. No, we can withhold judgment and protest injustice. We can withhold judgment and stand up for what is right. We can withhold judgment and hold one another accountable in our collective journey to embody God’s kingdom of righteousness and peace. None of these things are mutually exclusive.

Secondly, judging not only harms the person it targets, but also harms the person doing the judging. I mentioned earlier that judging others raises our cortisol levels, which, in the short term, increases our anxiety and, over the long term, can raise the risk of heart disease, depression, obesity, and various other health problems. I also want to frame this “self-harm” within a theological perspective. When we judge others, we diminish our own humanity. If we are to be fully human as God initially created us to be, part of that humanity involves recognizing our complete dependence on God’s mercies and living our lives as a grateful response to that mercy, which is freely given. Therefore, I don’t think the tax collector is the only character in this story we should feel pity for. Yes, he is lost in his own sinfulness, but the Pharisee is no less lost in his own self-righteousness.

And finally, I don’t believe the point of this parable is that God finds joy or satisfaction when we beat ourselves up like the tax collector. Let me be clear: beating ourselves up mercilessly to prove to God that we’re worthy of mercy is just trading one form of works righteousness for another. Yes, God calls us to repent, but that doesn’t mean we turn our hatred inward. Instead, God calls us to direct our love outward. That’s what repentance is all about.  I think that’s an important distinction to make.

So, if you want to join me in training ourselves not to drown each other in harmful cycles of judgment and shame, I suggest a simple spiritual practice I’ve been trying lately. I find that when I try to give up a bad habit or at least cut back on it, it’s helpful to replace it with something else. Tricia is trying to cut down on her social media use, so she has taken up cross-stitching. I’m also working on reducing my social media time, so I’ve started spending more time on the DuoLingo app to improve my Spanish, especially since our five-year-old is learning the language rapidly in her Spanish immersion kindergarten at Jones Elementary. And so, this week I thought, “how can I apply that to my desire to judge people less?”  And so, this week I’m trying something new.  Whenever I catch myself in the posture of the Pharisee, hurling judgment at someone else, I’m going to do three things in rapid succession.

• Unlike the Pharisee, I'm going to acknowledge my judgment.

• Unlike the Tax Collector, I’m not going to beat myself up over it.

• Finally, I’m going to redirect my judgment to gratitude. 
  

And I’ll give you an example of how I did that. Yesterday, I was driving back from a wedding in Pinehurst, and I witnessed not just one but two people in front of me who blatantly ran a red light. My self-righteousness boiled up. I could feel the tension in my arms as my cortisol level increased. I white-knuckled the steering wheel and thought a rather uncharitable thing about those drivers. Then I chuckled to myself. I had one of those preacher moments when you have to laugh at yourself and remind yourself that you're literally preaching on this very thing in less than 24 hours! Afterward, I prayed a prayer of gratitude to God. No, I didn’t pray a berakah prayer thanking God that I wasn't like those drivers, tempting though that prayer might have been. Instead, I prayed a simple and brief prayer thanking God that I had a car I could use to safely get around, visit family, and do my job. Then I went about the rest of my day.

Did that make a difference?  I don’t know yet, but I’m gonna keep on trying.  And I think, ultimately, that’s exactly what Jesus is asking his disciples to do.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"Disciples Resist Greed" (September 21, 2025 Sermon)

Text: Luke 16:1-13

Last week, we looked at two simple parables. A lost coin was found, and there was a big celebration. A lost sheep was found, and everyone rejoiced. The message was clear: God rejoices abundantly and disproportionately when a fractured community is made whole.

And then there’s today’s parable. At first glance, it might make you wonder if Jesus has been out in the sun a little too long. It’s easy to picture Jesus’ disciples nervously eyeing each other while he shares this parable with the crowds. Maybe they thought like us: that Jesus should have stopped after those three nice parables about a lost sheep, a lost coin, and a lost son. But Jesus continues. That’s just how Jesus is. When we want him to “stay in his lane,” he surprises us. When we prefer he wouldn’t talk about tough topics like money and economic justice, he doesn’t offer us an easy way out.

A dishonest manager commended? Jesus telling us to make friends using dishonest wealth? Come again? When I read this with some of you last Tuesday, the group pointed out that the final verse of this passage seems simple enough: “You cannot serve God and wealth.”  Why can't a sermon just focus on that part without getting into the previous puzzling parable?

Well, I’ve found a stubbornly consistent truth about scripture in my decades of wrestling with it: stories that confuse us often have the most to say to us if we have the courage to dive deep and understand the context in which they were written. And the key to understanding this puzzling parable is understanding the economic landscape of that day.  I give much gratitude to Christian author and pastor Brian McLaren for a video I watched of him explaining this context, and I’ll include it in my worship recap email later this afternoon.

Remember, everything in Jesus’ culture was heavily influenced by the Roman occupation; it affected every aspect of life. The Empire funded itself by taxing the people of its colonies, and those who often bore the heaviest burden of these taxes were the farmers in the more rural areas of Jesus’ old stomping grounds, such as Galilee in the northern regions outside Jerusalem. And a tale as old as time is that when there’s a group of people struggling economically, there are always others who come making promises to ease that burden, but rarely with good intentions. You see, wealthy people from Jerusalem would offer to pay the Roman taxes for the farmers in exchange for taking ownership of their land, effectively making them indentured servants. In return for having their taxes paid, the farmers had to give a portion of their goods, with interest, to their landlord—essentially trading one form of economic oppression for another.

For obvious reasons, these wealthy landowners were not popular with their farmer tenants. Therefore, the “rich men,” like the one described in Jesus' parable, would send middle managers to collect what was owed on their behalf, who acted as a comfortable buffer between themselves and their rightfully disgruntled “customers.” We can, therefore, think of this system as similar to the economic reality in which you and I live—a pyramid with a very few wealthy people at the top and many poor people at the bottom, with a shrinking middle class in between.

And so today’s parable begins with Jesus saying that this manager was “squandering” his boss’s wealth. Now, that same word (“squander”) is used in just the previous chapter of Luke’s gospel to describe the careless way the Prodigal Son spent his inheritance. But in this parable, the same word is used in a very different context. I suggest that this difference is because the definition of “squandering money” can vary depending on which part of the economic pyramid one inhabits. Remember, the way rich landowners made their money was by instructing these middle managers to squeeze as much as possible from the tenant farmers. Therefore, it’s quite possible that this middle manager disobeyed his boss by not squeezing enough money from the tenants to satisfy his boss’s greed.  What one person at the top of the pyramid considers “squandering,” another person at the bottom of the pyramid might call “grace.”  The bottom line is that we don't know.  But I think Jesus deliberately left the definition vague to tease our imaginations.

And so, the manager learns that he’s about to get fired. He panics, realizing he doesn’t have any other marketable skills, and decides that he needs to make friends in “low places” so he has some support on the other side of things. And here is where the rich man makes a critical error. The number one rule when firing the bookkeeper is to make sure you have the books in your possession before you do it! But he doesn’t do that. And the manager shrewdly decides to make the best of it.

And so, the manager “cooks the books,” in a way. A bill for one hundred jugs of olive oil is reduced to fifty, and another for a hundred containers of wheat drops to eighty. He keeps doing this until he gains many new friends! More than one Biblical commentator I read this week suggested that perhaps he simply forgave the interest that had accumulated since the original debts were taken out. While we might be tempted to focus only on the “shrewdness” of the middle manager, we should remember that charging interest on loans was technically forbidden by Jewish law. Therefore, the subtext of this passage is that the rich man was breaking the law long before the middle manager decided to take matters into his own hands to ease the burden for those below him.

In the earlier video I mentioned, Brian McLaren indicates that in this story, the middle manager experiences an “a-ha” moment when he suddenly understands that he is just as replaceable in this flawed economic system as those who are “beneath” him.  And so he decides to switch sides.  He is essentially switching his allegiance from those above him in the pyramid to those who are beneath him.  And that’s the truly remarkable thing about this parable.  And if there’s any doubt in his listeners, Jesus drives the point home with the following uncompromising sentence: You cannot serve both God and wealth.

So what are the takeaways here?  What are we to do with this shrewd middle manager, this greedy landowner, and these relieved farmers?

You and I cannot help but exist in a fundamentally broken economic system where the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer. You and I cannot change that, at least not instantly and not as individuals. Most of us, I would guess, occupy a place in society similar to that of the manager in today’s parable, somewhere in the middle of the economic pyramid.  And in ways that we both realize and perhaps don’t, you and I have been taught that it’s a savage rat race where we fight over each other to get higher at the expense of those beneath us who are trying to do the same.

Jesus was no fool.  He was fully aware that the vast majority of his listeners had no choice but to navigate as best they could this fundamentally broken economic system.  But he didn't want his followers to think that that reality absolved them of any sense of responsibility or agency to work toward a kinder, more equitable arrangement.  It’s as if Jesus is telling his followers then - and us, his followers now - that most people have some sort of influence or power in whatever position in society they occupy.  And we can use those levers for good or for evil.

And it’s not like Jesus hasn’t suggested this elsewhere in Luke’s gospel. You may recall earlier in the gospel when the soldiers and tax collectors come to John the Baptist asking him, “And we, what should we do?” John replies to the tax collectors, “collect no more than the amount prescribed to you.” He also tells the soldiers, “Do not use your power to extort anyone.” In a similar way, Jesus is sharing this tough truth about the Kingdom of God: we can worship God or we can worship money, but we cannot do both.

Last Thursday, Kim Row and I attended a racial equity training with other colleagues in our Presbytery. One of the videos we watched spoke at length about the reality of the practice of “redlining” during the suburban boom after World War II. Coincidentally, our church building is located in a neighborhood that was developed during this period. Banks across the country in the 1950’s used color-coded maps to decide whether to give or deny home loans. The neighborhoods considered the “safest” investments were marked green. The next level was yellow, then orange. The neighborhoods labeled as the “least safe investment” (mostly Black neighborhoods) were marked red. This is where the term “redlining” comes from.  Investors would then prey upon the fears of white people to buy their homes as they sought to move to “safer” neighborhoods, perpetuating a terrible cycle of segregation, disenfranchisement, and disinvestment in black communities.

Two observations are important here.

First of all, this practice was 100% legal.  It was federal policy.  This reminds us that just because something is “legal” does not make it right or just.

Secondly, this unfair economic system didn’t just appear out of nowhere. No, it was made. It was built. It was put into place. And that requires a lot of time and many people. Throughout the process, there were countless chances for people like you and me to withhold support and say, “You know what? This is wrong. And I’m not going to be part of it.” And, of course, some people did. But not enough. So you and I are called to deconstruct the harmful patterns we’ve inherited.

And so, I’ll close with this question: what’s the good news in this next?

First of all, the good news is that you and I are not powerless.  Jesus was a divine agent of social change and, as such, knew that hopeless people do not challenge injustice.  Jesus is telling us that we do have the capacity to link arms in solidarity to build a better neighborhood where money serves relationships and not the other way around.  Most of us occupy some sort of space in society where we can use our privilege to make a difference for people like the burdened farmers in today’s parable.  Which invites another powerful questions that we might ask of our churches:  are our churches known to be friends to the poor or tools of the rich?

Secondly, the good news in this text is that joining together to oppose greed, as we disciples are called to do, should not—or at least, must not—be a partisan act. If we are honest, both sides of the political spectrum in this country are involved in supporting the ruthless economy we live in. Jesus told this parable long before you and I created the modern, US-centric labels of “liberal” and “conservative.” Therefore, we should not listen to this text’s subversive economic message as Democrats or Republicans, but as followers of Christ.

Thirdly, and finally, the good news in this text is that God has promised that oppressive economic pyramids will be upended.  Matthew, Mark, and Luke all include Jesus saying the same thing: the last will be first, and the first will be last. This story isn’t suggesting that all rich people are evil or that money itself is bad. Instead, it’s emphasizing that greed is bad and that God has promised that greed will not have the final say. You and I are called to get on board with that promise!

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"Disciples Listen" (September 14, 2025 Sermon)

Text: Luke 15:1-10

Jesus and his followers lived during a time of intense political violence. The culture they inhabited was filled with tension between competing visions for power. The Romans were the dominant force, occupying the land they called home. Among the Jewish community, different groups had varying ideas on how to deal with the violence of the Empire. The Pharisees, for example, believed that strict adherence to the Torah would bring the Messiah's presence and salvation. The Sadducees believed that collaborating with the Romans was the safest way to avoid the harsh consequences of opposition. The Zealots favored violent resistance, trusting in liberation through force. The Essenes, possibly including John the Baptist, believed in leading an ascetic lifestyle, withdrawing from society, while waiting for divine intervention.

When you consider it, it’s not that different from where we are today. This week, another act of political violence reminded us of one of the few things all Americans can agree on these days: that something is deeply broken in our country. Like Pharisees, Sadducees, Zealots, and Essenes debating the right response to the Roman occupation, it feels like we’ve all retreated into our own “camps.” The wagons are circled. The litmus tests are set. In this fractured landscape, we often find ourselves questioning not just the state of our society, but our own roles within it—are we meant to stand firm in our beliefs, work together for common ground, resist injustice, or withdraw in search of peace?

And in the midst of this turmoil, God gives us a word, and we pray that the Spirit might bless it to cut through the clamor and speak to our weary hearts. We have before us two parables that are probably familiar to many of us: a lost sheep and a lost coin. Though it wasn’t included in today’s reading, there's a third parable in this trio: the story of a lost son you and I know as “the Prodigal.”

The first is a story that would upset any practical person. Instead of calling this story the parable of the “lost sheep,” I sometimes jokingly call it the parable of the “idiot shepherd” because it offends our senses. What shepherd in their right mind would risk the safety of 99 to save the one? It reminds me of one of Mr. Spock’s many Vulcan proverbs shared throughout the Star Trek series: “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.” The “good shepherd” in Jesus’ parable clearly never received Mr. Spock’s memo.

A second parable perplexes us with an equally odd story. A woman loses a coin, searches feverishly for it in the dark of night, finds it, and then calls her friends over to celebrate finding the coin with a huge party that probably costs more than the coin she found!

Both of these parables, in different ways, communicate the same truth about God: God rejoices when a community is made whole. And that joy is disproportionate, almost offensively so. But then again, I think that’s all a matter of perspective. What may seem disproportionate to the 99 sheep or the 9 coins might be viewed differently by the one sheep or the one coin that goes missing. It has been said that these parables sound foolish and careless until we have experienced the feeling of being that lost sheep or that lost coin. The complexity of this passage is that in a world where we try to define ourselves and communities by who is in and who is out, these parables make the case that God doesn’t rest until everyone is “in,” until everyone is “safe,” until everyone is “found,” until all are fed. God rejoices when a community is made whole.

And if God rejoices when a community is made whole, then God weeps when it is fractured. Jesus knew his followers lived in a culture full of violence, discord, and division. That’s why he told these three stories of lost things—lost coins, lost sheep, and lost sons. The text tells us that two different groups of people were present as he told these parables. On one side, there are the tax collectors and the “sinners.” On the other side, there are the Pharisees and the scribes. Culturally, the tax collectors and the “sinners” were on the “outside,” looking in, while the Pharisees and the scribes were on the “inside,” looking out.

The passage presents two significantly different verbs. Both groups have gathered in Jesus’ presence, but Luke describes them in very different terms. The tax collectors and the “sinners,” we’re told, came near to Jesus “to listen to him.” Conversely, the Pharisees and the scribes are described with a different verb. They, we’re told, were “grumbling.” Listening and grumbling—those are two profoundly different postures.  And those two postures were on display during yet another violent week in the life of this fractured nation.

It should be no surprise to any of you that I oppose almost everything Charlie Kirk stood for. But he was a beloved child of God, just like me and just like you. And you and I cannot praise God and glorify violence in the same breath. I will say from this pulpit what I’ve said many times before: political violence is contrary to the Gospel of Jesus Christ, no matter how much we may disagree or even despise the people on the receiving end. As a progressive faith leader, I fully condemn all forms of political violence. Charlie Kirk, even though he publicly claimed that gun deaths were an acceptable price to pay for our Second Amendment rights, did not deserve what happened to him last week.

And so, you and I are left to hold two things in uncomfortable tension: on one hand, we affirm that the violence done to him was wrong; and, on the other hand, I believe that the nature of his death doesn’t erase the fact that much of what he did and said was itself an act of violence against women, persons of color, immigrants, our Muslim neighbors, and our LGBT neighbors. How do we hold these two things together? How do we honor our Christian values of inclusivity while loving our enemies and holding one another accountable? That’s a lot to juggle. But I do know that there are at least two ways we can approach this when trying to maintain a healthy balance: we can grumble or we can listen.

Like the Pharisees and scribes, we can grumble.  Grumbling comes in many forms:

• We can turn to social media and yell. Instead of seeing social media as a way to connect, we can view it as a place to vent frustrations, hide behind anonymity, and feed an algorithm that promotes extreme, provocative, and inflammatory content.

• Grumbling can also show up as pointing fingers instead of offering solutions. We’ve created a culture where we define ourselves by what (or who!) we oppose rather than what we support.

• Grumbling can also manifest as judgmental attitudes. We might cling to stereotypes or preconceived notions about certain groups without taking the time to learn their stories or struggles.

These forms of grumbling come easily to us. We don’t need to “train” ourselves to do them; they happen naturally, especially because we’re shaped by a culture that rewards conflict and discourages compromise. The harder choice, the road less traveled, is the one of listening.

• Listening can look like empathy and compassion. It can also involve embracing the theological truth that gentleness is not a sign of weakness. In fact, it’s one of the most powerful actions we can take in this callous culture.

• Listening means taking the time to educate yourself. TikTok is not a substitute for medical advice from your doctor regarding vaccines. Just because something is on Facebook doesn't make it true! Don’t be so quick to share that post until you’ve verified it with a reputable source. Sometimes, listening means resisting the urge to jump into the fray and contribute before doing the work to discern whether our voice is needed, helpful, or appropriate.

• Sometimes, listening means taking a chance and reaching across the divide. About this time last year, I began my research in full for my doctoral thesis. We also had a four-week sermon series on what it means to be neighborly toward one another during another especially bitter election season. My research focused on how collaborative congregational song can help reduce the division that has inevitably infiltrated all kinds of faith communities. Part of our work together included a congregational exercise in writing “hymn-ku’s,” simple short verses written in the same meter as a haiku, the Japanese poetry technique. After inviting folks to write their own verses, we sang some of those verses and printed the authors' names in the bulletin insert. Fast forward three or four months, and it was time for me to collect data through anonymous surveys, individual interviews, and a focus group here at the church. One of my favorite pieces of data was an anecdote from someone who was especially moved by the haiku exercise. You may remember that each person was invited to write a “hymnku,” a general prayer for our congregation or nation during this election season. This person told me that as we were singing the verses, they looked at the authors’ names and noticed that one was someone they knew who voted very differently than they did. But what struck them was what the other congregant wrote. They said, “[as we were singing the hymn, I noticed that] what they wanted for the world was so kind. [This inspired me to reach out to them] to have a meaningful conversation with them about their hopes and how they see the world, and why they see it that way.” Friends, that’s what listening looks like. I don’t know what the outcome of that conversation was, but I do know that without having more conversations like that and actively listening to each other, we’re not going to turn away from the violent path this country seems to be on.

This sermon was meant to focus on evangelism, a word that makes those of us on the more progressive end of Christianity deeply uncomfortable. Because of this week’s bloody events, the focus of this sermon changed. However, I do believe that modeling a kind of community that actively listens to one another is actually a very powerful way that you and I can evangelize. You and I can commit today, here and now, to doing our best to be like the sinners and the tax collectors and “listen” instead of “grumbling” like the Pharisees and the scribes.

And one way we can listen is by opening our holy curiosity to these two parables Jesus shares with his church today. One parable features a shepherd who throws caution into the wind to find the one lost sheep, and the other describes a woman who spends more on celebrating the discovery of a coin than the value of that very coin itself!

I mentioned earlier that Mr. Spock would have been puzzled by today’s parables. After all, they contradict his Vulcan logic, which holds that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. You see, that particular Vulcan proverb gains special significance at the end of the 1982 Star Trek film, “The Wrath of Khan.” Captain Kirk’s arch-nemesis Khan activates a deadly weapon whose impending explosion threatens the USS Enterprise. However, the ship’s warp drive is damaged, endangering their chance to escape the blast. Spock sacrifices himself on a suicide mission by entering the radiation-filled engine room to repair the warp drive just in time for the Enterprise to escape, saving its crew. As Spock dies, he tells his friend, Captain Kirk, that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.

But the next movie in the series provides a beautiful reversal to that Vulcan logic. The 1984 sequel to “The Wrath of Khan” was a film called “The Search for Spock.” Spoiler alert: Spock gets miraculously reincarnated but in danger, but the crew of the USS Enterprise, his closest friends, defiantly choose to disobey Starfleet’s orders to abort their mission to save him. Their decision to risk their lives to rescue him contrasts with his Vulcan sensibilities. According to his friends, sometimes caution must be thrown into the wind when one of their own is lost and needs to be found.  Sometimes, they counter, the needs of the few (or the one) outweigh the needs of the many.

Friends, God rejoices when a community is made whole. After weeks like this one, it might seem like we’re as far from that goal as a nation can be. But you and I can choose a different path. We can decide to live as a community of Christian disciples who understand that our work isn't finished until all are found. Jesus and his followers lived during a time of intense political violence; so do we. But we won't let that stop us from our calling to listen to one another and do the messy, hard, but beautiful work of seeing the image of God in every coin, every sheep, and every person.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s lost and found sheep, say: Amen.

"Disciples Take Faith Seriously" (September 7, 2025 Sermon)

Text: Luke 14:25-33

Allow me to start this sermon by naming the elephant in the room: this is no one’s favorite passage. When I sit down with a family to plan the funeral for their loved one and we discuss the deceased’s favorite scripture, this one never makes the cut. My family spent Labor Day weekend browsing the many shops in Black Mountain and Montreat, where you can find several stores that display inspirational scriptures on decorative pillows, blankets, shirts, and more… and this scripture is never one of them. Now that we’re back on the lectionary, a three-year cycle of readings, I looked back to see if I preached on this passage three or six years ago when it last appeared, and I conveniently chose to preach on another scripture. This is no one’s favorite passage.

Why? Because Jesus isn’t meant to be about hate! He’s about love, neighborliness, compassion, empathy, and discipleship. “Hate” simply isn’t a word we like to hear in such proximity to Jesus, especially not in the imperative tense, where Jesus seems to be commanding us to do it. It makes us uncomfortable. It makes us shift uneasily in our pews. It makes us squirm. This is no one’s favorite passage.  In fact, a Biblical commentator whose reflections I read this week said that he once attended a church where the reading of difficult texts like this was often concluded by the preacher saying, “If you can’t say ‘Amen,’ let me hear you say, ‘Ouch.’”  This text calls for an “ouch!”

Today we start a twelve-part sermon series called “What Disciples Do.” The longer I’m an imperfect practitioner of this thing called Christianity, the more I’m convinced that Jesus cares less about what we believe and far more about what we do. I believe Jesus can achieve more with a small group of heretics who do good in the world than with a large group of “believers” who only wish good for the world. A close reading of the Gospels reveals this significant detail of Christ’s earthly ministry: he reserved his harshest words not for those outside his Jewish faith, but for those within it.  Jesus was all about recruiting, equipping, and commissioning disciples.  Therefore, this sermon series will be a “back to the basics” sort of exploration about what Christian discipleship demands of us.

And so we gather, saying “ouch” as we try to understand what Jesus is saying to his Church with this humdinger of a passage. That same commentator I mentioned earlier raises a question we must consider: “How do we respond to these words in a world of profound violence and abuse—often against spouses, children, and the elderly? Is Jesus really saying hate is a mark of discipleship?” Let me start by sharing what I believe to be true about this passage that might put some of us more at ease: I do not, for a moment, believe that Jesus is calling us to literally hate our family. I believe this for two reasons. First, for Jesus to be literal in this sense would contradict almost everything else he said and did during his earthly ministry. Elsewhere in Luke’s Gospel, Jesus affirms the “schema,” which states that love of God and love of neighbor is the highest calling of any follower of God. Additionally, we know that at least one of his disciples (Peter) was married. Jesus himself had a cousin named John, a mother named Mary, an earthly father named Joseph, and several brothers and sisters. We have no evidence that Jesus himself “hated” any of his family, and it’s hard to imagine a world where he would expect his followers to do anything differently.

Secondly, I believe Jesus did not intend to promote hate in any form because the Greek term used here for “hate” can also be translated as “love less” or “have a relative disregard,” both of which are quite different from the emotional connotation of “hate” that you and I equate to emotional aggression.

Now, if Jesus isn’t calling his followers to literally hate their family, what is he saying? Well, I, for one, believe Jesus is being deliberately hyperbolic. It certainly wouldn’t be the only time in the Gospels that Jesus used hyperbole to get a message across loud and clear. Elsewhere in the gospels, Jesus talks about “camels leaping through needles,” “taking a log out of your eye before you criticize the speck in another’s eye,” and “salt losing its saltiness,” and “tearing your own eye out if it causes you to sin.” Yet, these hyperbolic phrases use exaggeration strategically to convey profound truths of the Kingdom of Heaven as it relates to sinfulness, judgment, grace, forgiveness, and faithfulness in a broken world. Jewish wisdom literature, as found elsewhere in the Bible, in places such as Proverbs, the Song of Solomon, and the Psalms, also employs hyperbole. Hence, it’s not as if Jesus’ use of hyperbole was without precedent in the context of his Jewish faith.

Now, admittedly, we must never use this as a “get out of jail free” card whenever Jesus tells us something that’s hard to accept. No, we may not be Biblical literalists here in the Presbyterian Church, but that doesn’t mean we don’t take the Bible seriously. On the contrary, Jesus has a very important message that must not be lost as we debate the semantic nuances of texts like this one; that message is this: following him is not something to be taken lightly. Christianity isn’t a hobby to be enjoyed, an ideology to be weaponized, or an opiate of the masses (as Karl Marx would say). No, Jesus is telling the crowds that following him is only for those who have thought it through and are prepared to prioritize their Christian faith when the ways of the world tempt us to exchange what is right for what is easy.

A lectionary podcast I listen to often calls this part of Luke’s gospel “Jesus' terrible marketing campaign.” Because Jesus would have made a poor member of a church membership committee. “Come, follow me,” he’d tell first-time visitors who just signed the attendance sheet, “but don’t come here for convenience. Don’t come here for political power or privilege. Don’t come here to have smoke blown up your you-know-what. Don’t come here looking to confirm what you already believe. If you want to follow me, you have to pick up your cross. If you want to follow me, you have to try something new. If you want to follow me, you have to give up control.”

As I was reading this text this week, I couldn’t help but view it through the lens of our summer mission project that we just finished. This summer, we provided shelter at our church for about a dozen women experiencing homelessness through a partnership with Greensboro Urban Ministry. For 90 days, we came together as a congregation to offer one of the most tangible forms of Christian hospitality. We provided shelter, clothing, bedding, breakfasts, and dinners every day for three months. And it was a lot of work! In the month or two before the Session approved this project, the Mission Committee carefully planned and strategized, embodying exactly the kind of preparation Jesus talks about in today’s passage as necessary for a life of discipleship: “For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and estimate the cost, to see whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it will begin to ridicule him, saying, ‘This fellow began to build and was not able to finish.’” Neighbors, that’s exactly what we did as a church family. No, we weren’t building a tower, but we were creating a home for a dozen neighbors who didn’t have one.

And I couldn’t be more proud of this congregation and grateful for what God did through us. We had to give up some things to serve our neighbors: the status quo, the free use of part of our building, and the free time of many volunteers who used their talents to shelter and feed our neighbors. It was a lot of work, and we learned many things together. In the next few months, as we go through this sermon series, I want us to use this space to share what we’ve learned about ourselves and the God who calls us together as we embarked on this mission project.

Discipleship is challenging work. It’s a difficult pill to swallow in a culture that prioritizes individual convenience and “freedom” over our Christian duty to love God by serving others. Discipleship doesn’t easily fit into an economy that worships the accumulation of wealth and encourages everyone to believe that anyone, with enough hard work, can succeed regardless of their circumstances. It also challenges political ideologies that see neighbors as objects to be defeated rather than persons to be loved. Discipleship is counter-cultural. It’s swimming against the current. It’s about as far from the path of least resistance as you can get.

And that’s why Jesus doesn’t have time for casual Christians. He isn't interested in building a following of lukewarm followers who only pick up the mantle of Christianity when it’s political perversion promises power and privilege.

But here’s the thing, y’all.  Yes, discipleship is a costly thing.  Yes, it requires us to redefine the very definition of things like family, success, justice, and power.  Like an architect planning a tower or a general planning a battle, we would do well to think well ahead before jumping into action.  Possessions must be surrendered.  Crosses must be carried.

But there is good news. Not despite these circumstances, but because of them. Because of the work God did through us this summer, a dozen women had a safe place to eat, sleep, rest, and relax while they searched for employment and affordable housing. Yes, it required us to surrender some control of our building. Yes, it demanded a lot of logistical planning during a time of year when most of us are traveling for summer. But you know what, people? We did it! Or, more accurately, God did it. Not a week went by without hearing a story of how someone’s life was changed for the better because of this church answering God’s call to shelter our neighbors. Not a week passed without seeing a smile or a hug between two people brought together by us saying “yes” to Christ’s invitation! Discipleship is a heavy thing, friends, but it is also liberating. Discipleship is not for the faint of heart, but it heals hearts, too! It requires us to rethink our priorities, but that reorientation opens up new possibilities for wholeness, justice, and compassion in a world that is often broken, unjust, and cruel. That’s the good news of discipleship, and that’s how we move beyond nominal Christianity.

Last night, Tricia and I finally got around to finishing the latest season of The Chosen, the hit television series about the lives of Jesus and his followers.  This last season ends right at the moment of Jesus’ arrest in the Garden of Gethsemane.  And shortly before his arrest, there’s a flashback to when Jesus first met Thaddeus.  He and “Thad” are working on a building project and Jesus invites him to follow him with this speech:

“What if I told you I have something else in mind for my life and yours? Something that will last. A kingdom not built by hands. A fortress stronger than stone. Would you join me in helping build that? A new Kingdom – with eternal value.

What is the pay, you may ask? There is no pay. At least, not in the earthly sense. I’m a Rabbi. And I am asking you to follow Me. You’ll be part of changing the world. Become part of a family – not of relatives, but of blood bonds, just the same. Spend your days with some of the most interesting, unfettered, funny, driven, brave, nurturing, smart, strong, passionate, fiery, loyal, loving, imperfect people to ever walk the earth.

You will see – and do – things you cannot imagine. You’ll be adored…hated…needed…lost…and found.

You will live everywhere….and nowhere.

You will lose friends….you will lose all your friends…and your own life.

You will go to the ends of the earth and yet be part of the beginning of the greatest movement on earth.

People will say you are a fool, and that I was a fool, and that it was all a lie.

They’ll call us heretics, and liars, and frauds. Others will celebrate and venerate your memory, and call you a saint. But none of that is the point.

The point is that you will have said “yes” to the world’s “no”. That you hoped against hope, and believed against belief.

That you surrendered everything, and held fast to the very end.

Will you follow me?”

I love this “elevator speech” of Jesus because it paints a beautifully complex picture of discipleship. Instead of presenting discipleship as some hyper-American success story driven by power, comfort, and tribalism, Jesus is perfectly realistic about the consequences of following him. We’ll be hated and needed. Lost and found. Living everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Losing friends and family, and even our own lives. We’ll be called heretics, liars, and frauds. But we will say “yes" to the world’s “no” and follow Christ in ways that continue to bless our neighbors.

So let us carry the spirit of our summer shelter project with us, where we provided not just a roof but a refuge for those in need. In saying “yes” to God’s call, we experienced the true meaning of discipleship—giving up our comforts to help our neighbors and embracing the transformative power of love in action. This summer taught us that discipleship is a journey full of challenges but also deep rewards. Just as we opened our doors to give shelter, let us keep opening our hearts to those around us, reminding ourselves that following Jesus means stepping into life's messiness, loving our neighbors fiercely, and shining as a beacon of hope in a world that often feels dark. Together, let us say “yes” to this higher calling, ready to build a community rooted in compassion and grace.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.