"The Good News Is...Protection and Care for the Vulnerable" (March 15, 2026 Sermon)

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing

Protection and Care for the Vulnerable

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church
March 15, 2026
4th Sunday in Lent (Year A)

Scripture

Deuteronomy 24:17-22

“You shall not deprive a resident alien or an orphan of justice; you shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge. Remember that you were a slave in Egypt and the Lord your God redeemed you from there; therefore I command you to do this.

“When you reap your harvest in your field and forget a sheaf in the field, you shall not go back to get it; it shall be left for the alien, the orphan, and the widow, so that the Lord your God may bless you in all your undertakings. When you beat your olive trees, do not strip what is left; it shall be for the alien, the orphan, and the widow.

“When you gather the grapes of your vineyard, do not glean what is left; it shall be for the alien, the orphan, and the widow. Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt; therefore I am commanding you to do this.

Matthew 19:13-15

Then children were being brought to him in order that he might lay his hands on them and pray. The disciples spoke sternly to those who brought them, but Jesus said, “Let the children come to me, and do not stop them, for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs.” And he laid his hands on them and went on his way.

“You were a child once, too.”

You were a child once, too. That's what Mister Rogers said, that's what he wrote down, once upon a time, for the doctors. The doctors were ophthalmologists. An ophthalmologist is a doctor who takes care of the eyes. Sometimes, ophthalmologists have to take care of the eyes of children, and some children get very scared, because children know that their world disappears when their eyes close, and they can be afraid that the ophthalmologists will make their eyes close forever. The ophthalmologists did not want to scare children, so they asked Mister Rogers for help, and Mister Rogers agreed to write a chapter for a book the ophthalmologists were putting together—a chapter about what other ophthalmologists could do to calm the children who came to their offices. Because Mister Rogers is such a busy man, however, he could not write the chapter himself, and he asked a woman who worked for him to write it instead. She worked very hard at writing the chapter, until one day she showed what she had written to Mister Rogers, who read it and crossed it all out and wrote a sentence addressed directly to the doctors who would be reading it: "You were a child once, too.” And that's how the chapter began.^[1]

My friend Tom wrote those words about his friend Fred back in 1998 for Esquire Magazine. You see, Tom made a mistake, a mistake he would later regret. He wrote an article about a very famous person, and in that article, he insinuated something very hurtful, something that wasn’t his story to tell. And it got him into trouble. Tom had developed a reputation for being a ruthless journalist. Ruthlessness is something someone does when they care more about themselves than others.

And so, as he feared that his career had stalled because of his ruthlessness, his editor gave him a new assignment. He called him into his office and told him he wanted him to interview Fred Rogers. “You mean, Mister Rogers? The kid’s show guy?” Tom scoffed. “Yes,” his editor replied, “We’re doing an issue on heroes, and I want you to write a profile on him.” And so, the invulnerable journalist called up the cardigan-wearing Presbyterian minister. “Invulnerable” is a word that means you feel like nothing can touch you, challenge you, or change you. Magical things happen when the invulnerable meet a person like Fred Rogers.

I wonder if the disciples felt invulnerable. “Disciples” is a word for people who want to follow Jesus. If I were his disciple, I would be tempted to feel invulnerable. How does one not feel that way when your teacher is a man who feeds thousands with table scraps, or resists Satan’s seduction, or calms a tempest, or summons the very dead from their slumber? Hang around with stuff like that long enough, and it goes to your head. Which is why, of course, when the children came to Jesus, they shooed them away. “This is grown-up business,” they tell them with the sort of condescension little ones are all too familiar with. “Condescension” is a word for when grown-ups think they always know better.

But Jesus bristles. He bristles because the disciples haven’t been listening. Just a few days earlier, he had placed a child on his knee and reminded them that whoever welcomes such a child in his name welcomes him. Now they are telling children that this is “grown-up business.” This is, of course, a silly notion, because the Kingdom of Heaven is neither “for” grown-ups nor a business.

“The Kingdom of Heaven is, first and foremost, for the vulnerable.”

The Kingdom of Heaven is, first and foremost, for the vulnerable. The kingdom is open to all, of course, but again and again Jesus insists that it is the vulnerable, the overlooked, the little ones, who are nearest its center. And this is good news for kids, especially for those whom Jesus welcomed in today’s passage. Being a kid back then was no easy thing. According to Michael Joseph Brown in his book True to Our Native Land, “Fifty percent of children died before the age of five. They were the weakest members of society. They were fed last and received the smallest and least desirable portions of food. They were the first to suffer from famine, war, disease, and natural disasters. Many, some say more than 70 percent, would have lost one or more parents before reaching puberty. A minor had the same status as an enslaved person, and it was not until adulthood that they would be considered a free person.”^[2]

And being a child here and now, for many, is a similar kind of struggle. My work with A Simple Gesture has made me more aware of the scandal of child hunger right here in Guilford County. Close to one in four children here is food-insecure. In many parts of our county, families live in food deserts, far from a grocery store, dependent on public transportation just to buy food. And if you ride the bus in Greensboro, you are allowed only two bags. If you carry a purse, that counts as one. It should not be this hard to feed a child.

“Let the children come to me,” Jesus said. “You were a child once, too,” Fred Rogers said. Too often, our nation’s policies and priorities tell children and their families: your hunger is not urgent enough.

I began this sermon with an anecdote from Mr. Rogers for several reasons. First of all, this upcoming Friday would have been Mr. Rogers' 98th birthday, and as such, our denomination has designated that day in his honor, celebrating his memory and his message of neighborliness. Second, Fred Rogers was someone who had an innate gift for seeing the world through children’s eyes, to remember what it was like to be a little kid navigating a very big world. And that’s a spiritual gift that we all could do more with these days.

Last night, Tricia and I went to the Tanger Center to see The Sound of Music. It had been quite a while since I last saw the show, so I had forgotten several parts. One of those was how funny “Uncle Max” is. He is Captain von Trapp’s friend and a music agent and producer trying to get the von Trapp Family to perform at an upcoming festival. But beneath Uncle Max’s comic relief is a much more dangerous motive. Time and again, he tries to convince Captain von Trapp to adopt a stance of neutrality (at best) or tacit support (at worst) of the German annexation of Austria. “What’s going to happen is going to happen,” he tells Georg von Trapp at one point, “just make sure it doesn’t happen…to you.” In other words, he implies that von Trapp has the power and privilege to stay out of the mess and let the worst happen to others.

However, I trust you know how the story goes. His heart is hardened for good reason. He is devastated by the death of his wife, the children’s mother, and the sound of music has been verboten from his home. Maria and the children soften the Captain’s hardened heart. Together, they bring melody and joy back to his life, and he learns to see the world as his children do. And, indeed, see himself as his children see him. It is this softening that leads the “invulnerable” Captain to open his eyes to how the fascists are preying on the vulnerability of those around him. And he refuses to be complicit. With the help of the nuns, he defies Berlin’s “invitation” (i.e., command) to join the Navy of the Third Reich.

“Remember that you were once a slave in Egypt. Remember that you were once a child, too.”

“You were once a slave in Egypt, too,” God says to the Israelites. “You were once a child, too,” Fred Rogers says to each of us (not just the ophthalmologists).

You see, the gospel is asking us to remember:

Remember that you were once a slave in Egypt. Remember that you were once a child, too. Remember what fear feels like. Remember what hunger feels like. Remember what it is to need gentleness from a world that can be so hard.

And then let that remembering soften you:

Soften you enough to leave grain in the field. Soften you enough to make room for children. Soften you enough to resist every voice that says, “What’s going to happen is going to happen—just make sure it doesn’t happen to you.” No. Not for those who follow Jesus. For those who follow Jesus, the vulnerable are not interruptions. They are where the kingdom shows up first.

So let the children come. Let the stranger come. Let the hungry come. And may they find, in us, not a closed hand or a hardened heart, but the welcome of Christ himself.

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

Notes

[1] Junod, Tom. “Can You Say...Hero?” Esquire, November, 1998.

[2] True to Our Native Land: An African American New Testament Commentary, edited by Brian K. Blount, Gay L. Byron, and Emerson B. Powery, (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2024). 120.

www.stephenmfearing.com | www.guilfordpark.org

"The Good News Is...Great Love for God and Neighbor"

Some of the most powerful scenes in Luke’s Gospel involve little to no dialogue. It’s as if a recurring theme in his account of Jesus’ earthly life and ministry is that actions speak much louder than words. For example, Luke 5 describes a paralyzed man being lowered through a house’s roof by his friends. Without speaking a word, the man’s companions demonstrate a faithfulness that impresses Jesus. Time and again, Luke’s Gospel shows that those considered models of discipleship are often not the insiders but those on the margins. And more often than not, the outsiders show their faithfulness not through words but through prophetic actions that embody great love for God and neighbor.

Another similar scene happens two chapters later in Luke’s Gospel, when the story of the unnamed woman of ill repute unfolds as she quietly enters a house where Jesus is eating with some Pharisees. They were probably debating the subtle details of the law, which was their usual practice. They were gathered for a meal where status, purity, and propriety all matter—where you can feel the invisible rules in the room. I imagine that was the part of the conversation Jesus liked the least. And so, I think he was intrigued when a woman entered the scene.

There must have been quite an awkward silence. She approached Jesus with an alabaster jar and sat at his feet. She doesn’t argue her worthiness. She just comes—carrying what she has, carrying what she is—and risks being seen. The text simply states that she was “a sinner.” Luke could have been more specific, but he didn’t want us to focus on her sinfulness, only her faithfulness. So while Simon and his fellow Pharisees clutch their pearls, she lowers her gaze to his feet, bathes them in her tears, dries them with her hair, and anoints his feet with precious oil. Simon is doing ethical calculations in his head. He’s tallying purity and propriety while she’s pouring out gratitude. Notice that the text tells us his initial question was something he said to himself. But Jesus must have read his heart, because he tells Simon he has something to say to him.

He shares a simple parable. One person was forgiven for a missed $25 co-payment. Another received a letter from the billing department at Wesley Long Hospital informing them that their $40,000 surgery bill had been forgiven with no strings attached. Who, he mused, do you think will be more grateful? Simon knows the answer and, being no fool, must have realized that Jesus has him trapped in confession. “The one forgiven $40,000,” he says.“Right you are,” Jesus replies. Jesus then reminds Simon that this woman has shown him hospitality that Simon failed to offer—forms of hospitality that a host like Simon would have been socially expected to fulfill.

And so, without saying a single word, this woman delivers a homily of hospitality.  And it is far from the only one in Luke’s Gospel. In fact, her actions are echoed in another story that occurs just a few chapters after today’s reading. It’s a story I’m sure you know: the story of the Good Samaritan. Like the woman, the Good Samaritan doesn’t speak at all—at least not until the very end of the story. He says very little—almost all of the mercy happens before any words do. You know the story: he finds a man beaten and robbed, having already been abandoned by a priest and a Levite, both of whom were known for their sacred words and litanies. Yet, the Good Samaritan, much like the woman in Luke 7, understands intuitively that some moments don’t call for words; they call for action. And that’s exactly what he does. He cares for the man and, like the woman in today’s text, anoints him with oil—silently, lovingly, faithfully.

And so, friends, remember this: love for Jesus at the Table must become mercy for the neighbor in the ditch. That mercy shows up in calendars and casseroles, in who gets invited, and what we do with our money. The woman’s faithfulness becomes a continuous refrain, a song of mercy that calls the Samaritan to set aside words for a moment and pick up some oil to soothe the broken body and broken heart.

In Luke, the gospel goes beyond polite beliefs or correct talk; it becomes visible at tables, on roads, and in homes. The unnamed woman in Luke 7 demonstrates that true hospitality isn’t about social status but about humble love—drawing near to Jesus, honoring him, and receiving forgiveness that makes someone new. After showing us love poured out at Jesus’ feet, Luke sends us into the world where neighbor-love looks like oil and bandages, restitution and repair, gratitude and witness, and a community that refuses to exploit the vulnerable. The real question isn’t just about saying the right things about grace, but whether our bodies, budgets, tables, and time will live out that grace—until the forgiven become forgiving, the welcomed become welcoming, and love of neighbor becomes the church’s most credible confession.

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

"Jephthah's Daughter" (July 20, 2025 Sermon)

CONTENT WARNING: Domestic Violence

Judges 11:29-40

Then the spirit of the Lord came upon Jephthah, and he passed through Gilead and Manasseh. He passed on to Mizpah of Gilead, and from Mizpah of Gilead he passed on to the Ammonites. And Jephthah made a vow to the Lord and said, “If you will give the Ammonites into my hand, then whoever comes out of the doors of my house to meet me, when I return victorious from the Ammonites, shall be the Lord’s, to be offered up by me as a burnt offering.” So Jephthah crossed over to the Ammonites to fight against them, and the Lord gave them into his hand. He inflicted a massive defeat on them from Aroer to the neighborhood of Minnith, twenty towns, and as far as Abel-keramim. So the Ammonites were subdued before the Israelites.

Then Jephthah came to his home at Mizpah, and there was his daughter coming out to meet him with timbrels and with dancing. She was his only child; he had no son or daughter except her. When he saw her, he tore his clothes and said, “Alas, my daughter! You have brought me very low; you have become the cause of great trouble to me. For I have opened my mouth to the Lord, and I cannot take back my vow.” She said to him, “My father, if you have opened your mouth to the Lord, do to me according to what has gone out of your mouth, now that the Lord has given you vengeance against your enemies, the Ammonites.” And she said to her father, “Let this thing be done for me: grant me two months, so that I may go and wander on the mountains and bewail my virginity, my companions and I.” “Go,” he said, and he sent her away for two months. So she departed, she and her companions, and bewailed her virginity on the mountains. At the end of two months, she returned to her father, who did with her according to the vow he had made. She had never slept with a man. So there arose an Israelite custom that for four days every year the daughters of Israel would go out to lament the daughter of Jephthah the Gileadite.

There’s no avoiding it; this is one of the most disturbing and irredeemable stories in all of scripture. It’s one of those stories that leaves us feeling sick when we mutter “Holy Wisdom, Holy Word, Thanks be to God” after it ends. What wisdom? What word? What gratitude can possibly be offered? And which god would approve of such senseless violence? While it may be tempting to focus solely on scripture stories that uplift and comfort us, we have a moral duty to confront the entirety of scripture, including its most horrific parts, and trust that God continues to speak through it. I also believe it’s vital to acknowledge that saying “yes” to scripture isn’t always a faithful response. Sometimes, a faithful response to a difficult text like today’s is to simply say “no.” No, this was wrong. No, God does not endorse this. No, we will not excuse this violence. No, no, no! And so, trusting in God’s Spirit to guide us through the horror of this text, let us begin.

Jephthah was desperate for a win.  He was the bastard child of his father's affair with another woman, likely a prostitute.  And his half-brothers never let him forget it. In fact, they kicked him out of the family. Disowned, disinherited, and despised, Jephthah fled his family's wrath and settled in a distant land, where he became involved with a band of outlaws. However, some time later, his family started whistling a different tune when the Ammonites waged war against their tribe, and they needed all hands on deck.

Jephthah saw this as a chance to make a comeback. He agreed to return and lead the Israelites to victory, but only if his success would restore his status within the family and grant him political power upon his return. After his family accepted his terms, he headed toward the battlefront. On the way, he made a rash, impulsive decision. He vowed to God that if God granted him victory, he would sacrifice the first thing that greeted him when he returned home. It must be noted here that God did not ask Jephthah to make this vow.  Jephthah, and Jephthah alone, was the impetus of this horrific decision.  And here’s where things get even more complicated. Some biblical scholars suggest that the translation is unclear about whether Jephthah said he’d sacrifice “whoever” or “whatever” came to greet him. Supporters of “whatever” argue that he expected to see animals like a sheep or a goat. The original NRSV translated the vow as “whoever comes out of the doors,” but the updated NRSVUE translates it as “whatever comes out of the doors.” Either way, you have to ask yourself: Would you make that vow?  Advocates for exonerating Jephthah often overlook the fact that it was common for women and girls to greet their husbands and fathers with singing and dancing when they returned from battle.  Surely, they argue, Jephthah must have known that it was a possibility that the first thing he would see upon his return would be his daughter.

But the text, at least to me, seems clear: Jephthah’s political ambitions trumped his concern for his family’s welfare. He decided that the ritualistic sacrifice of his only child, his daughter, was a price he was willing to pay to succeed in battle and gain power over those he believed had wronged him. What makes his barbaric vow even more grotesque is that he made it after the text states the Spirit of the Lord came upon him. This raises the question: why didn’t Jephthah trust God to grant him victory without making such a horrific, unprompted promise? Jephthah’s vow was nothing more than theological manipulation to justify violence against women.

Jephthah wins the battle and returns home. As was tradition, the women of the household—or, in this case, the girl of the household since Jephthah’s mother isn’t mentioned—come to greet the men. Jephthah’s daughter, tragically and through no fault of her own, runs toward her father to greet him with love. What happens next is nothing less than victim blaming. “Alas, my daughter!” he exclaims, “You have brought me very low; you have become the cause of great trouble to me.” This is a common refrain for abusers in domestic violence situations. The abuser never takes responsibility or holds themselves accountable; instead, they manipulate the victim and gaslight them into believing that the violence is a punishment of their own making. A faithful reading of this text recognizes this gaslighting for what it is and clearly disavows it.

At this point in the sermon, we will give Jephthah’s daughter a name. Because, as womanist scholar Wilda Gafney points out, her namelessness in this story is, in itself, an act of violence. So, you and I will refer to Jephthah’s daughter as “Niqtelah.” Niqtelah is the name Gafney gives her because it means “she was killed” in Hebrew. After her father cruelly blames her for his actions, I wish she had responded differently. “No, father, this is not of God’s doing! This was your choice, and I refuse to be the collateral damage of your shameless pursuit of power and privilege.” We wish she had stood up for herself. That she would leave her abuser. But those who have experience in situations of domestic violence know that such decisions are much more complicated.

Instead, Niqtelah concedes. She asks for two months to mourn with her friends in the mountains before the thing is done. Then the thing is done.  Jephthah kills his daughter. The story ends with the note that, because of this senseless domestic violence, the daughters of Israel would observe four days each year to mourn Niqtelah’s murder as an act of protest against not only Jephthah’s heinous actions but also the violence inflicted on women and girls everywhere.

{Pause} {breathe} {sigh}

And so, neighbors, what do we do with this text of terror?  We certainly could bury it, pretend it never happened, and move on with our lives.  But burying these stories only perpetuates the very violence that repulses us in the first place.  No, the church must wrestle with this story because only by doing so can we, as practitioners of faith, interrupt cycles of violence.  Here are a few pastoral observations that I hope honor Niqtelah and the girls, women, and people like her who suffer gender-based acts of violence.

• First of all, just because a story is in the Bible does not mean that God endorses the actions of the characters within it. We must pay attention to the divine “No” that comes from God’s voice. I believe that God gave a divine “no” to Jephthah during the gap between making his vow and fulfilling it. I think Jephthah chose not to listen to God’s “no,” but instead listened to the voices in his head telling him that his political power was more important than his daughter’s life.

• Secondly, Lynn Japinga suggests that this text of terror results from the collision of bad religion, bad parenting, and bad judgment. But it’s the “bad religion” part of that equation I want to highlight today. Religion can be a beautiful thing—a shared identity and story that unites people and fosters healing and justice in the world. Many kinds of religions have the potential to bring out the best in us and help bend the moral arc of the universe toward justice. However, religion can also spoil and rot.  Jephthah chose to manipulate his religion— not God’s!— to gain power and privilege. Where do we see today, here and now, religion being weaponized not to serve neighbors but to dominate, intimidate, and oppress? Christian nationalism twists and distorts religion to shift from a theology of abundance to one of greed. Faith leaders quote scripture to victims of domestic violence to pressure them into staying in abusive relationships. Fundamentalism in many religions, including our own, subjugates the vulnerable among us in pursuit of rigid doctrines that rarely promote justice, love, kindness, or humility.  Together, we can use the language of this story to condemn such practices and work together to find a better way.

• A final question is this: where was everyone else when all this was happening? The text shows that Niqtelah spent two months with her friends mourning the violence that was about to be inflicted on her. Therefore, it’s fair to assume that the larger community knew what was coming. Where were they? Why didn’t someone pull Jephthah aside and say, “don’t do this!”? Why didn’t anyone come to rescue Niqtelah and take her away from danger? Where were her advocates? To be sure, Jephthah is to blame for the violence done to Niqtelah. But he isn’t the only one who shares the blame. All those who chose to keep silent share the blame as well. This is why we have child protection policies and sexual misconduct policies. This is why myself and every other elder in this church is a mandatory reporter in the state of North Carolina. This is why we must hold each other accountable so that we protect the vulnerable among us.

I’ll conclude with a brief story from yesterday, when I was struggling to complete this sermon. This was a difficult one to write, and I’m sure it’s a tough one to listen to. I was putting the finishing touches in my office upstairs when Winnie, our three-year-old daughter, came to visit me and curled up in my lap. Let me tell you, it’s a bizarre feeling writing a sermon on today’s text while your daughter is in your lap. But, in this case, it was perhaps divinely inspired. Because writing this was a heavy thing, and Winnie brought some much-needed playfulness and levity to my serious task. Winnie came into my office dressed in her ballet leotard, holding a bag of Pirate’s Booty as a snack. She graciously offered to share with me and asked to sit with me. As fate would have it, I was listening to Journey’s classic song “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” and the famous outro had just begun (“na, na, na, na, na, na” etc.). Winnie started singing the “na-na’s” with me, and we began swaying back and forth. She picked up the melody fairly quickly, and a big grin spread across her face. Then, her older sister, Hazel Grace, entered the room, watched us, and started dancing too. As the song ended, Hazel Grace clapped, and they both crawled into my lap.

I decided then and there to make a vow to God, a different kind of vow.  I vowed to God to never use my religion to bring harm to either one of my daughters or anyone else.  And I invite you to make that vow with me today.  Because that’s a vow I trust God wholeheartedly endorses.

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