"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.

"Vashti: the Woman Who Said No" (August 17, 2025 Sermon)

Text: Esther 1

Today, we conclude our Women of the Old Testament sermon series. I hope you’ve learned something new about the amazing women and girls in the Old Testament. For our final stop, I’ve chosen one of my favorite stories in the Bible—though it’s certainly not the most typical. This story, which is often overlooked in vacation Bible school or Sunday school, carries great importance. Each year, our Jewish friends read this book during a celebration called Purim, which usually falls in March or April. Today, we’ll explore the lessons from Queen Vashti, whom my preaching professor, Anna Carter Florence, aptly called "the woman who said no."

Let’s start with a story that highlights the absurdity and depth of our main narrative. Imagine the year 1942: America was caught up in the Second World War. While many focused on the external threats from the Nazis, another dangerous threat was lurking at home—the Ku Klux Klan (KKK). This group, which had resurged in the 1920s, violently oppressed people of color, homosexuals, Catholics, and anyone who didn’t fit their narrow idea of what it meant to be a "true American."

Enter Stetson Kennedy, a journalist, author, and civil rights advocate. In a bold move, he decided to infiltrate the KKK. From 1942 to 1946, he posed as a Klansman, documenting their rituals and gathering evidence to expose their heinous activities. After years of tireless work, he approached the authorities with his findings. However, he was met with resistance. Some police officers were Klan members themselves, while others feared the repercussions of crossing such a powerful group. With nowhere to turn, Kennedy faced a daunting challenge.

Around the same time, a cultural phenomenon was taking over the nation: Superman. In the mid-1940s, children would huddle around radios to listen to Superman’s adventures. However, the creators needed a new villain after the Nazis had been defeated. Stetson Kennedy took this chance and portrayed the KKK as the perfect villain. For several years, Superman battled the Klan on the radio, exposing their secrets and weakening their influence. As a result, KKK membership started to decline, and their official charter was revoked in Georgia, thanks to Kennedy’s efforts.

Why share this story? Because it shows how absurdity and humor can undermine oppressive systems. The first chapter of Esther acts as a masterclass in absurdity, demonstrating how to mock those who hold power but lack real authority.

Let’s focus on King Ahasuerus, also known as Xerxes, who ruled a vast Persian empire. You might think someone with such responsibilities would prioritize governance, but Ahasuerus opted to host an extravagant six-month celebration instead. Imagine this: 180 days of nonstop drinking and debauchery, where he flaunted his wealth and power.

After this wild celebration, he decided it was time to show off his wife, Queen Vashti, not as a partner, but as an object for his drunken friends to stare at. He commanded her to appear before them wearing only her royal crown, a request that some see as dehumanizing.

To the surprise of Ahasuerus and his entourage, Queen Vashti stood her ground. She refused to be objectified, declaring, “No, I will not be a piece of meat for you and your friends.” Instead of recognizing the inappropriateness of his request, Ahasuerus reacted with anger and humiliation, fearing that Vashti’s defiance would inspire other women to assert their own autonomy. In a fit of rage, he banished her, forever silencing her voice in the narrative.

Though Vashti disappears from the story after this, her spirit lingers, setting the stage for Esther’s eventual rise. Ahasuerus, perhaps nursing a hangover, later reflects on his actions, and the ghost of Queen Vashti subtly empowers Esther as she confronts the king and saves her people from oppression.

This story resonates with me because it shows the power of saying “no.” It’s a reminder that our voices matter, and sometimes the greatest impact comes from standing up against injustice. I want my daughters, Hazel Grace and Winnie, to know this story. I want them to understand that when they face uncomfortable situations, they have the right to say no. They should never feel pressured to compromise their dignity or self-worth.

As we finish this sermon series, let's remember Queen Vashti, the woman who said no. May we all find the courage to stand up for what we believe in, knowing that our voices can make waves of change in the world.

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

"The Woman of Substance" (August 10, 2025 Sermon)

Text: Proverbs 31:10-31

Each Sunday this summer, we have explored the story of at least one woman in the Old Testament. Today’s woman is named Wisdom because she comes from the Book of Proverbs, and the concept of “wisdom” is expressed in the feminine in Hebrew. So, from the start, it’s best not to see “The Woman of Substance,” as she is often called, as a literal person, but rather as a metaphor for the fruits of wisdom that we all should embrace, regardless of our gender.

This text is a liturgical landmine of sorts, mainly because of how it has been interpreted over the years in ways that impose unreasonable expectations on women. When viewed this way, we call her Superwoman! She wakes up every morning at 4:30 to meditate, do yoga, pay the bills, and prepare the kids’ lunches for school. She drops off her kids at school just in time to head to her office, where she acts as the mayor of her city. She spends her days negotiating business deals and settling disputes. She takes a 30-minute lunch break every day, during which she multitasks to schedule her social media posts for her Instagram feed, showcasing her perfectly immaculate home with every shot carefully arranged to hide any mess or clutter. In the afternoon, she picks up the kids and takes them home, helping them with their homework while running a Zoom meeting for the non-profit where she’s Chair of the Board. She then cooks dinner and puts the kids to bed before heading to her church to lead a weekly Bible study. She swings by her parents’ house to check that they’ve taken their medicine and paid their bills. Finally, she makes it home in time to pay her own bills and prepare food for the rest of the week. She goes to bed around midnight, only to wake up at 4:30 the next day to do it all over again!

This text is especially troubling when many of us compare ourselves to idealized and manipulated images of life promoted by social media influencers. Proverbs 31 is ultimately a blessing that has often been misused as a burden. Instead of using it to praise the women in our lives for all they do to lead, support, create, and nurture, it has been passive-aggressively wielded to remind women of why they’re not “enough." Perhaps it’s healthier for us to think of “the Woman of Substance” not as a single woman, but as a symbol of the best qualities found in all the women around us! Expecting one person to embody such perfection in every aspect of their life is cruel. However, viewing this poem as a love letter to all the women in our lives seems, in my opinion, a more realistic and gracious approach.

In some Jewish traditions, the intended audience of this passage isn’t for women but for men! A Hasidic practice involves men singing this song to their wives every Sabbath dinner on Friday evenings as a way of praising their spouses and thanking them for everything they do for their families. In this context, Proverbs isn’t a weapon but a way to honor the dedicated work of women. I find this practice much less problematic than the traditional practice in many Christian churches of only reading this text either on Mother’s Day or at women’s funerals.

I wonder if there’s a way we can read this text without adding to the guilt the women in our lives already feel for not living up to patriarchal expectations. I wonder if, instead, I can one day read this to my two daughters to remind them of all they’re capable of. “Hazel Grace and Winnie,” I might say, “you are capable of all these things. You can be a supportive spouse, a successful business owner, an advocate for justice, a pillar of wisdom, and keep the trains runnin’ on time. But those things are not a measure of your self-worth. You are beloved by me and by God whether you do some, all, or none of those things!” What a message that might send to the women and girls among us?

I also wonder what benefits we might gain from promoting these qualities as ideals for everyone to develop, regardless of gender. After all, none of the traits described in Proverbs 31 have to be limited to any one gender. In my marriage, for example, Tricia handles most of the finances and runs her own business, while I do most of the cooking and cleaning. Our two daughters will grow up seeing their father in the kitchen more often than their mother, and that’s okay! Interestingly, although Proverbs 31 has often been used in somewhat patriarchal ways, the text itself challenges our current gender politics. The Woman of Substance in Proverbs 31 is not a submissive wife. Instead, she is portrayed as an active agent practicing self-determination and independence. Just listen to some of the verbs she uses: she seeks, works, brings, rises, provides, considers, girds, makes, perceives, opens, reaches, supplies, laughs, and looks. These are the actions of a well-rounded person who is generous, kind, thoughtful, and perceptive.

As I was prepping for this sermon, my wife Tricia shared with me these words from the late, great Rachel Held Evans, who had a Jewish friend named Ahava who taught her the following of this passage:

“Ahava repeated a finding I’d discovered in my research, that the first line of the Proverbs 31 poem—“a virtuous woman who can find?”—is best translated, “a woman of valor who can find?” (The Hebrew is eshet chayil, “woman of valor”; the male equivalent is gibor chayil, “man of valor.”)  To make this fact even more fun, Ahava explained to me that she and her friends cheer one another on with the blessing, celebrating everything from promotions, to pregnancies, to acts of mercy and justice, to battles with cancer with a hearty “eshet chayil”! (Think of it as something like the Jewish “you go girl.”)”

“This discovery led me to declare “woman of valor!” when a good friend finished seminary, when my mom beat breast cancer, when my sister ran a half marathon. According to Ahava, valor isn’t about what you do, but how you do it. If you are a stay-at-home mom, be a stay-at-home mom of valor. If you are a nurse, be a nurse of valor. If you are a CEO, a pastor, or a barista at Starbucks, if you are rich or poor, single or married—do it all with valor. That’s what makes you a Proverbs 31 Woman, not creating a life worthy of a Pinterest board.”

So, friends, let us consider the wisdom of this passage and be reminded that God doesn’t call us to perfection but to faithfulness. Hear the wisdom of this passage and give yourself a break. Hear the wisdom of the passage and give your spouse a break. Because we all carry so much, and the last thing we need is to beat ourselves up for not being the Proverbs 31 woman 100% of the time. If I’m honest with myself, I consider myself successful if I demonstrate 25% of the qualities mentioned in this passage on any given day.

And I’m also planning to give myself a homework assignment this week. Once every day for the next seven days, I’ll call Tricia and the girls ‘women of valor!’ I’ll practice saying “eshet chayil” to them whenever I feel grateful for them. When Tricia helps a client with their mental health, I’ll say to her, “eshet chayil!’ When Hazel Grace feels anxious about trying something new but pushes through and does it anyway, I’ll say to her, “eshet chayil!’ When Winnie helps pick up her toys and puts her dish in the sink, I’ll say to her, “eshet chayil!’ I will do this not to suggest they need to do these things for me to love them. Instead, I want to remind them of what they already are: women and girls of valor! I also believe that doing this will help me become a better husband and father in the process.

So, if you’re so inclined, take some time this week to declare an important woman or girl in your life to be an “eshet chayil.”  And may we never cease to give thanks to God for the women and girls of valor in our life.

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

"The Medium of Endor" (August 3, 2025 Sermon)

Text: 1 Samuel 28:3-25

Have you ever experienced a time in your life when you felt like nothing you do is right? You put in effort. You try to make wise decisions. You do your best to do the right thing, but with no success. No matter how hard you try, everything seems to go wrong. You feel helpless. You feel despondent. You feel despair. You might even feel that God has forsaken you and that the whole world has turned against you. Mister Rogers expressed this feeling in his famous song “What do you do with the mad that you feel?”

What do you do with the mad that you feel?
When you feel so mad you could bite?
When the whole wide world seems oh, so wrong..
and nothing you do seems very right?

King Saul finds himself at his lowest point. Everything he attempts fails, while everyone praises David for his victory over Goliath. As David’s star is rising, Saul’s is falling. As Saul slips further into madness and paranoia, he loses confidence as he prepares for an upcoming battle with the Philistines. He anxiously seeks wisdom to break his losing streak. Saul is struggling with a familiar feeling to many of us: missing someone who once offered valuable advice. That person was Samuel. Although their relationship was imperfect, Saul views Samuel as a divine messenger—a source of guidance for his reign and for the Israelites he led. Now that Samuel has died, Saul needs his counsel more than ever.

And so, Saul decides to seek the advice of a woman known for her ability to lift the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead. Some people would call these women witches—a term used throughout history to unfairly marginalize women we do not understand or choose not to understand. For many of us, Arthur Miller’s play The Crucible was required reading in high school literature classes. It serves as a reminder of the damage caused when communities fall into mass hysteria, paranoia, and the abuse of power, irrationally targeting scapegoats. King Saul, however, chooses to seek out this woman, this ghost-master, as the Hebrew text literally reads, in order to summon Samuel from the grave to ask for his advice for the upcoming battle.

There was only one problem: King Saul had banned necromancy from the land because he feared such power would lead the Israelites to idolatry. But Saul doesn’t care. He knows he’s a hypocrite because he wears a disguise to hide his identity. He reaches out for the wisdom and power of a woman whose kind he has forbidden. For Saul is willing to break the very law he himself enacted if it gives him a solution to his political problems.

And so, he finds the woman, whose name is omitted in the text. To be clear, women like her were not possessed by ghosts; rather, they had dominion over them. No mention of demons or Satan appears anywhere in the text. There is nothing, at least on the surface, that is “evil” or “demonic” about her work. The text simply states that she had the ability to lift the veil between the realm of the living and the dead.

The woman is rightly suspicious when this hooded stranger enters her home and asks for her services; she knows they’ve been outlawed, and this could very well be a trap. But Saul, still hidden by his disguise, convinces her to proceed anyway, and she raises Samuel from his heavenly slumber. Samuel is grumpy (you’d be too if you were suddenly snatched from whatever bliss you were enjoying in the afterlife!). Samuel doesn’t rebuke the woman; instead, he rebukes Saul and chastises him for setting up this whole affair.  He does, however, share with Saul God’s verdict, and it isn’t good.  Saul and his sons will die in battle the very next day.  God has turned God’s face from Saul and his house, and there’s no going back.  It’s time for David to ascend to the throne, and Saul isn't going to be given the benefit of a restful retirement.

At this point in the story, two things happen simultaneously. First, the woman clearly realizes that she has been deceived; the very politician who banned her means of earning a living is now in her house, and she has done something that could easily get her stoned in the streets. Second, at that moment, Saul collapses on the floor in despair, just as any of us would likely do if we learned that God had forsaken us and that the next day’s sunrise would be our last.

I’m compelled by what the woman didn’t do in this moment.  She doesn’t express anger or fear, both of which would be understandable in her situation.  Anger that she had been tricked into doing something that was verboten and fear that that deception might cost her her life.  She also doesn’t decide to take advantage of Saul in his moment of vulnerability.  She could have run off to the tabloids and sold the story for a handsome sum of money.  She could have otherwise tried to manipulate the situation to her advantage with the knowledge that Saul was a condemned man who wouldn’t be a threat to her in a short 24 hours.

But she does none of this. Instead, the text makes it clear: she shows Saul hospitality. Before her was a grieving man, coming to terms with the fact that he and his sons would die the next day. She took pity on him and prepared his last supper. She offered her bed for him to rest. She killed the fatted calf. She baked bread for him. And she provided this gracious meal to Saul and his men on what would be their last day in the land of the living. The next day, Samuel’s prophecy comes true. Saul’s sons die in the battle against the Philistines, and he himself is wounded and chooses to die by his own sword rather than be taken captive. As for the woman who gave him his last meal, we never hear from her again.

I wonder if we might look at this woman as someone more than “just a witch” (as she has long been portrayed in most Biblical commentaries.  Just as my sermon on Rahab a few weeks ago wasn’t an endorsement of prostitution, neither is this sermon an endorsement of necromancy, witchcraft, or wizardry.  But I wonder what we might learn from this woman who showed hospitality to the very person who outlawed her very existence.

I had a Zoom meeting a few days ago with a colleague who is a Disciples of Christ minister in a Los Angeles suburb. Her name is Pastor Tanya Lopez, and about half of her congregation are immigrants. About a month and a half ago, she was working in her church office when her husband, who also works at the church, alerted her that a man was being taken into custody in their church parking lot. She rushed outside the building to find a group of unmarked vehicles and unidentified men in street clothes with generic vests that said “police.” Later that day, she called the LAPD, and they confirmed that the men were not Los Angeles police officers. They had no badge numbers and refused to identify themselves or their agency. Each was masked, so she couldn’t see their faces. They didn’t show a warrant or respect that this was private church property, such as the very property you and I occupy right now.

The man who was being abducted looked visibly upset, and she said to him in Spanish, “What is your name? Tell me your date of birth. Who can I call? Who do you need me to call?” One of the masked men pointed his weapon at Pastor Lopez, and she simply said, “I have the right to be here. I do not have to listen to you. This is the property of the church - Downey Memorial Christian Church - and we are not okay with you being on our property.” One of the men just looked at her and cavalierly said, “The whole country is our property.” Pastor Lopez then said to the man she assumed was an immigrant, as the masked men put him in a vehicle, “Don’t sign anything. Don’t tell them anything. Don’t sign anything.” And then they disappeared with the terrified man.

After Pastor Lopez recalled her harrowing experience with me, I thanked her for advocating for this man. She and I will never know the fate of the man who was disappeared that day. But I do know this: when this man was in such a vulnerable position with no one else around to advocate for him and his rights, the church showed up. For Jesus says, as we have done to the least of these, so too have we done unto him. Pastor Lopez advocated for this man who, like many others, has been treated so cruelly and callously because they are immigrants.

I couldn’t get this story out of my head as I wrote the words of this sermon. Because in the unnamed woman in today’s scripture who, though criminalized and considered persona non grata, showed kindness to the very man who marginalized her, I see the man whose name we’ll never know who was abducted at a place that’s supposed to be a sanctuary for everyone. You see, the Medium at Endor, by showing hospitality to King Saul, joins a long list of people in the Bible who exemplify God’s grace from the margins. The Good Samaritan, who showed mercy unlike the priest and the Levite. The Woman at the Well in John’s Gospel, who was the first person Jesus chose to reveal himself to, and who went and told all she knew of his wonders. Rahab, the woman who gave refuge to the Israelite spies in the city of Jericho and saved her family. Zacchaeus, the despised tax collector who repented of his extortion practices and gave back the money he took multiple times over.

You see, when we marginalize another human being—whether that person is a “witch,” a tax collector, a woman at a well, a prostitute, a Samaritan, or an immigrant—we diminish the image of God. And that’s not the work we’re called to do! You and I are stewards of the image of God in our neighbor. You and I are midwives of the image of God in our neighbor. We must honor and protect the image of God in everyone we meet, regardless of their cultural status or stigma. In today’s story, the woman honored the image of God in her enemy, and that makes her a heroine in my eyes. So may we, like her, honor the image of God in all who cross our path.

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

"Abigail" (July 27, 2025 Sermon)

1 Samuel 25

Now Samuel died, and all Israel assembled and mourned for him. They buried him at his home in Ramah.

Then David got up and went down to the wilderness of Paran.

There was a man in Maon whose property was in Carmel. The man was very rich; he had three thousand sheep and a thousand goats. He was shearing his sheep in Carmel. Now the name of the man was Nabal, and the name of his wife was Abigail. The woman was clever and beautiful, but the man was surly and mean; he was a Calebite. David heard in the wilderness that Nabal was shearing his sheep. So David sent ten young men, and David said to the young men, “Go up to Carmel, and go to Nabal, and greet him in my name. Thus you shall salute him, ‘Peace be to you, and peace be to your house, and peace be to all that you have. I hear that you have shearers; now your shepherds have been with us, and we did them no harm, and they missed nothing all the time they were in Carmel. Ask your young men, and they will tell you. Therefore let my young men find favor in your sight, for we have come on a feast day. Please give whatever you have at hand to your servants and to your son David.’ ”

When David’s young men came, they said all this to Nabal in the name of David, and then they waited. But Nabal answered David’s servants, “Who is David? Who is the son of Jesse? There are many servants today who are breaking away from their masters. Shall I take my bread and my water and the meat that I have butchered for my shearers and give it to men who come from I do not know where?” So David’s young men turned away and came back and told him all this. David said to his men, “Every man strap on his sword!” And every one of them strapped on his sword; David also strapped on his sword, and about four hundred men went up after David, while two hundred remained with the baggage.

But one of the young men told Abigail, Nabal’s wife, “David sent messengers out of the wilderness to salute our master, and he shouted insults at them. Yet the men were very good to us, and we suffered no harm, and we never missed anything when we were in the fields as long as we were with them; they were a wall to us both by night and by day, all the while we were with them keeping the sheep. Now, therefore, know this and consider what you should do, for evil has been decided against our master and against all his house; he is so ill-natured that no one can speak to him.”

Then Abigail hurried and took two hundred loaves, two skins of wine, five sheep ready dressed, five measures of parched grain, one hundred clusters of raisins, and two hundred cakes of figs. She loaded them on donkeys and said to her young men, “Go on ahead of me; I am coming after you.” But she did not tell her husband Nabal. As she rode on the donkey and came down under cover of the mountain, David and his men came down toward her, and she met them. Now David had said, “Surely it was in vain that I protected all that this fellow has in the wilderness, so that nothing was missed of all that belonged to him, but he has returned me evil for good. God do so to David and more also if by morning I leave so much as one male of all who belong to him.”

When Abigail saw David, she hurried and dismounted from the donkey and fell before David on her face, bowing to the ground. She fell at his feet and said, “Upon me alone, my lord, be the guilt; please let your servant speak in your ears and hear the words of your servant. My lord, do not take seriously this ill-natured fellow, Nabal, for as his name is, so is he; Nabal is his name, and folly is with him, but I, your servant, did not see the young men of my lord, whom you sent.

“Now then, my lord, as the Lord lives and as you yourself live, since the Lord has restrained you from bloodguilt and from taking vengeance with your own hand, now let your enemies and those who seek to do evil to my lord be like Nabal. And now let this present that your servant has brought to my lord be given to the young men who follow my lord. Please forgive the trespass of your servant, for the Lord will certainly make my lord a sure house, because my lord is fighting the battles of the Lord, and evil shall not be found in you so long as you live. If anyone should rise up to pursue you and to seek your life, the life of my lord shall be bound in the bundle of the living under the care of the Lord your God, but the lives of your enemies he shall sling out as from the hollow of a sling. When the Lord has done to my lord according to all the good that he has spoken concerning you and has appointed you prince over Israel, my lord shall have no cause of grief or pangs of conscience for having shed blood without cause or for having saved himself. And when the Lord has dealt well with my lord, then remember your servant.”

David said to Abigail, “Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel, who sent you to meet me today! Blessed be your good sense, and blessed be you, who kept me today from bloodguilt and from avenging myself by my own hand! For as surely as the Lord the God of Israel lives, who has restrained me from hurting you, unless you had hurried and come to meet me, truly by morning there would not have been left to Nabal so much as one male.” Then David received from her hand what she had brought him; he said to her, “Go up to your house in peace; see, I have heeded your voice, and I have granted your petition.”

There’s a memorable scene in the 2004 satirical film Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy where all the different news teams in San Diego gather for an old-fashioned street gang fight (like West Side Story or Gangs of New York). The evening news team begins to taunt the morning news team, pulling out various homemade weapons. Then Channel 2 news arrives to join the chaos. Eventually, the NPR news crew takes a break from their annual pledge drive to join the fight, shouting: “No commercials; no mercy!” Finally, the Spanish-language news crew shows up, and soon, all five “gangs” prepare for battle. After all parties agree to the rules of the field, such as no touching of the hair or face, the battle begins in all its glorious absurdity. Fists, brass knuckles, and knives appear, but then more bizarre weapons emerge out of nowhere, such as a flamethrower, a trident, and Steve Carell’s character running around with a grenade in his hands.  After the battle concludes, the next scene immediately cuts to Ron Burgundy and his fellow news team in his office nursing their wounds while Ron sips a Miller High Life and debriefs the day’s events.  “Boy,” he says, “that escalated quickly!  I mean, that really got out of hand fast!”

Whenever I read this story from the 25th chapter of 1 Samuel, I can’t help but hear Ron Burgundy’s line in my head. It’s because today’s story involves men quarreling over trivial matters and quickly escalating: what started as a minor insult risked turning into a civil war that could have claimed hundreds of lives. Luckily, that was prevented thanks to a woman named Abigail.

She had a fool of a husband. Literally. His name was “Nabal,” which means “foolish” in Hebrew. Despite his foolish name and demeanor, Nabal was a wealthy man. The text begins by stating that he was wealthy and had thousands of livestock to show for it. However, his privilege and wealth did not protect him from the wrath of David, a man who was gaining prominence at the time.

By this point in 1 Samuel, Saul, the first king of Israel, is gradually descending into madness and downfall. Originally anointed by the prophet Samuel despite God’s warnings that kings could cause more harm than good, Saul's reign was largely successful until he made critical errors during the battle against the Amalekites. These mistakes led to his disfavor with Samuel and God. Consequently, Samuel discovers a young shepherd named David, anoints him, and prepares him to eventually succeed Saul as king. David's rise is rapid, while Saul’s decline accelerates. After defeating Goliath, David begins to feel invincible and, admittedly, a bit self-important. Although he is not yet king in chapter 25, David has gained a formidable reputation. He and his men travel the countryside, defending Israelites like Nabal from marauders known for stealing sheep. Due to their service, David believes he is entitled to receive food and supplies in return for his protection.

Nabal, however, disagreed. When David’s men asked for food, he basically gave them the middle finger and told them to buzz off. When the men inform David of Nabal’s rejection, David’s reaction is disproportionate—he orders, “Everybody, get your swords,” and declares, “we’re going to war!” (Imagine Ron Burgundy saying, “Boy, that escalated quickly!”). David then mobilizes four hundred armed men and heads toward Nabal’s estate.

Fortunately for Nabal, his wife Abigail intervenes. A servant, likely aware of Nabal’s rudeness, reports the chaos to her before the bloodshed begins. She decides to act on her own and handles the situation diplomatically. She collects two hundred loaves of bread, two skins of wine, five sheep, five measures of grain, one hundred clusters of raisins, and two hundred cakes of figs (plus a partridge in a pear tree!) and heads to meet David and his men. Friends, this was no task for the faint of heart!  She must have known that David was hot-headed and hell-bent on vengeance, and it takes considerable courage, especially for a woman in those days, to stand up to any man, let alone a future king.

Abigail’s flattery and diplomacy pay off.  She says to David, “My husband is an idiot.  Please accept these gifts as a token of our gratitude for your protection.”  But then, if we read the text closely, we note that Abigail cleverly pivots to appeal to David’s political ambitions.  “You know,” Abigail says, “petty vengeance isn’t a good look for a man who’s trying to win the love of the people he hopes to one day govern.  If you forgive my husband’s mistake, that’ll be a story that your PR people will love!”  And, to David’s credit, he listens to her and takes her advice.  He could have dug in his heels.  He could have taken the gifts and continued to battle.  But he listens to reason and commends Abigail for her “good sense.”  The story ends, and everyone lives happily ever after, except for Nabal, who gets his comeuppance a few days later when he abruptly dies of a heart attack!  After Nabal’s timely demise, Abigail marries David and becomes one of the eight women we know of who were among his wives.

On a surface level, this story is a somewhat humorous tale about two men who get into a petty, public feud and a sensible woman who steps in to de-escalate the situation. It challenges the common sexist argument that women aren’t qualified to lead because they are "too emotional.” In fact, this story suggests otherwise. If anything, it’s the men involved who allow their emotions to undermine their judgment.  It is this preacher’s opinion that there’s a little bit of subversive humor at play in this story that reads almost like a reality TV show.  After all, who doesn’t enjoy watching a good train wreck?

But this story also prompts a deeper discussion about the collateral damage caused by such petty disputes. It is important to remember that Abigail literally saved human lives. This squabble between Nabal and David could have led to a great deal of bloodshed. However, Abigail successfully negotiates a peaceful solution. Who are the “Abigails” among us who broker peace in a culture that encourages and rewards petty conflict?

You know, we might be tempted to think that money is the most powerful currency in our culture. But it’s not. The most powerful currency in our modern society is attention. If you can capture attention, then money (and power) will follow. You and I surrender the currency of our attention in various ways: every time we follow and subscribe, every cable news show we watch, or TikTok video we promote, or post we share on Facebook.  I’m convinced that one of the reasons our political system is broken is that we treat it more like the soap opera of the Nabal-David dispute, rather than approaching politics with the wisdom and reason of Abigail, a person who successfully brokered peace, saved lives, and sought the well-being of everyone.

What would happen if we chose to give our attention to the peacemakers among us?  The bridge builders?  The diplomats?  The artists and poets who tease our imaginations towards justice and love, equity and compassion?

And so, I hope you, like me, have a good chuckle at this story of a savvy woman who prevented a civil war between two men with fragile egos.  But I also hope that we remember that God calls us to be peacemakers in a world where such work is often openly mocked and discouraged.  It is not easy work.  As I mentioned, it took no small amount of courage for Abigail to intervene in such a bold manner.  It is hard work.  But as author Glennon Doyle so often says, “We can do hard things.”  And we know we can do hard things because Jesus calls peacemakers like Abigail “blessed.”

In a world full of noise and conflict, where attention often shifts toward discord instead of harmony, we are reminded that true strength lies not in escalating disputes, but in the wisdom to pursue understanding and reconciliation. Abigail demonstrates that even when confronted with foolishness and aggression, a calm and compassionate voice can alter the course of events, saving lives and fostering unity. As we navigate our own lives, let us strive to be like Abigail in our neighborhood—those who dare to stand up, speak out, and advocate for peace. May we choose to elevate the voices of peacemakers, bridge-builders, and visionaries, ensuring our actions reflect the love and grace Jesus calls us to embody. Together, let us commit to the challenging but vital work of becoming agents of peace in a world that desperately needs it.

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.