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Why we want to keep listening to Jesus’ word (6th Sunday after Pentecost, 7/20/2025)

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Readings (Track 2)

In last Sunday’s Gospel we heard the lawyer ask “Who is my neighbor?” and Jesus’ reply, the parable of the Good Samaritan. Luke pairs that with today’s Gospel, Jesus in Martha’s home—with perhaps surprising results. Martha: “About that loving your neighbor command: please tell my sister…” But it doesn’t play out as Martha (or we?) expect. What’s going on?

We might notice how Luke describes Mary’s conduct: “who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying.” Culturally it’s somewhat unexpected: we’d expect men at Jesus’ feet—and we’ll come back to this. It’s Luke’s “listened to his word” that catches the ear, because it’s language we’ve already heard repeatedly: “I will show you what someone is like who comes to me, hears my words, and acts on them” (the parable about building on rock vs. sand [6:47]); “But as for that in the good soil, these are the ones who, when they hear the word, hold it fast in an honest and good heart” (the parable of the sower [8:15]). Mary’s on the right path.

What of Martha? “Martha, Martha, you are worried (μεριμνᾷς) and distracted by many things.” This sounds like Jesus’ description of the seed sown among the thorns: “they are choked by the cares (μεριμνῶν) and riches and pleasures of life” (8:14). Again, there are Martha’s words: “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.” Mary is listening to Jesus’ word; Martha assumes what Jesus’ word should be, and—at the moment—Jesus’ role is simply to confirm Martha’s assumptions. There’s more than a whiff of the lawyer’s “But wanting to justify himself” from last Sunday’s reading. Or we might hear Martha’s words as apostolic, in the tradition of “Master, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he does not follow with us” (9:49) or “Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?” (9:54) Jesus may be Lord, but apparently still needs guidance on how things should be organized.

“Lord.” Throughout the short story it’s “the Lord:” “who sat at the Lord’s feet,” “Lord, do you not care,” “But the Lord answered her.” This is the Lord in the living room for whom five loaves and two fish are more than enough for 5,000 people, and Martha’s letting herself get distracted by “many tasks” in the kitchen?

What’s going on here? It’s not simply that the paired stories (the encounter with the lawyer, Martha’s hospitality) illustrate the importance of loving the neighbor (the Samaritan) and loving God (Mary). It’s that without a continual listening to Jesus’ word even love of neighbor can morph into something disconnected from Jesus’ vision. Hence the chilling warning in Matthew: “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father in heaven. On that day many will say to me, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and cast out demons in your name, and do many deeds of power in your name?’ Then I will declare to them, ‘I never knew you; go away from me, you evildoers’” (Matt. 7:21-23).

At the risk of belaboring the obvious, our vision and Jesus’ vision of what love of neighbor means, how it’s best expressed, are not the same. We assume, for instance, that the more power we have the better we’ll be able to love our neighbor. But here’s Jesus two Sundays ago: “Go on your way. See, I am sending you out like lambs into the midst of wolves. 4 Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals…”

Multiple reasons for continually listening to Jesus’ word. I’ll notice another from our Epistle, another from the Gospels, and then wrap up.

Judging by both Galatians and Colossians it looks like popular religion in Asia Minor assumed the more initiations the better, something like the credit cards in our wallets. The Colossians had been baptized. Great. Now, what was the next initiation they needed to further progress, to better navigate this world filled with gods, goddesses, “things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers”? So we hear Paul trying to explain that it doesn’t work like that. Let’s listen again: “in [Jesus] all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers– all things have been created through [Jesus] and for [Jesus].… in [Jesus] all things hold together. [Jesus] is … the firstborn from the dead, so that he might come to have first place in everything. For in [Jesus] all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell.” Any other initiations? Superfluous! Any other cards in the wallet? Superfluous. As the heavenly voice at the Transfiguration put it, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” (Lk. 9:35)

But back to the Gospels. There, Jesus has this uncanny ability to come at things differently, to not get trapped by the assumed alternatives.

“’Is it lawful for us to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?’… ‘Show me a denarius. Whose head and whose title does it bear?’ They said, ‘The emperor’s.’ He said to them, ‘Then give to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s’” (Lk. 20:22-25).

“Why do your disciples break the tradition of the elders? For they do not wash their hands before they eat.”… “it is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person, but it is what comes out of the mouth that defiles” (Matt. 15:2-11).

Einstein nailed it when he said something like “We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them.” But too often “the same thinking” is the order of the day, and we’re told that it’s either this or that. Then along comes Jesus, who regularly come at problems diagonally:

We Christians in this country—and probably others as well—really need to learn how to do that more often. Too often we end up just parroting the talking points from the left or the right—and then appeal to Jesus for support. “Tell [Mary] then to help me.”

What of the ending? “Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” On the one hand, it continues one of Luke’s major themes: “the better part,” hear and obey the word. Elsewhere in Luke: “My mother and my brothers are those who hear the word of God and do it” (8:21). On the other hand, it’s a landmine. It’s Mary’s choice, not her parents’ or Martha’s or anyone else’s. And proclamations that start “A woman’s place is…”—they shouldn’t look to Jesus for support.

Yes, let us keep learning, keep listening to Jesus.

When Mercy meets “Us & Them” (5th Sunday after Pentecost, 7/13/2025)

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Readings (Track 1)

This morning let’s focus on three elements in today’s Gospel. First, the lawyer’s answer to Jesus’ first question: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” Second, the lawyer’s second question: “And who is my neighbor?” Third, the final interchange: “Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” “The one who showed him mercy.” “Go and do likewise.”

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.”

In Matthew and Mark this is Jesus’ answer to the question of which commandment is the most important (Matt 22:36ff; Mk 12:28ff). Perhaps the lawyer had been listening to Jesus! What of Jesus’ reply: “do this, and you will live”? Not because life is some sort of external prize tacked onto this commandment, but because love is at the heart of God’s life. In the first letter of John: “God is love” (4:8). If we want to live with the grain of the universe, it doesn’t get more basic than that. We might view the other two elements that we’ll be dealing with as fleshing out this theme.

“But wanting to justify himself, [the lawyer] asked Jesus, ‘And who is my neighbor?’” “Wanting to justify himself,” for the lawyer, like the rest of us, assumes that there’s “us” and “them” (that’s built into our language), and that “neighbor” is “us” or some subset of “us.”

“Us” and “them.” Mostly this works automatically, starting with language. Word choice, accent: after a few words we’ve slotted the speaker as one of us or them. Clothing, personal space, zip code: so many ways of slotting people into us or them.

Speaking of “us” and “them,” what do we make of the argument reflected in this morning’s psalm? The treatment of the weak, the orphan, the humble, the needy, the poor: is it really unjust? Aren’t these “the takers” (in Mitt Romney’s memorable phrasing in 2012) in contrast to “the makers,” who do deserve to be shown favor? As a nation we’re still in the middle of that argument. The weak, the orphan, the humble, the needy, the poor: how do these map onto our “us” and “them”?

“Who is my neighbor?” So Jesus tells a parable in which “neighbor” cuts across our “us/them” boxes. First, the cast of characters: Priest, Levite, Samaritan. As you recall, the Samaritan was the classic “Other;” “Be a good boy / Eat your vegetables or a Samaritan will…” Second, Jesus’ closing: “Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?”

As Jesus reads the Torah, “neighbor” relativizes our “us/them” boxes.

Now, if we pull back the camera, there’s an obvious question. A few weeks back we heard Paul say “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.” Haven’t we just replaced these us/them contrasts with “Christian and non-Christian” so that we’re back where we started?

A response to that question requires two hands. On the one hand, the NT is clear: saying “yes” to Jesus is fundamental. Last week we heard Paul saying “So then, whenever we have an opportunity, let us work for the good of all, and especially for those of the family of faith” (Gal. 6:10). On the other hand, if that “yes” motivates anything other than love, it’s no longer Jesus to whom I’m saying yes.

Consider the limit case, love of enemies. Jesus’ “love your enemies” isn’t simply one element in his teaching; it captures his Father’s modus operandi throughout the Bible.

His Father’s modus operandi: we meet this in today’s first reading from Amos and repeatedly in the coming weeks with the Old Testament lessons from the 8th & 7th century prophets. The Northern Kingdom (Israel) and Southern Kingdom (Judah) are turning their backs on God, trampling on the vulnerable (Psalm 82 again). Those two actions are two sides of the same coin: I turn my back on God and—surprise—I’m no longer in solidarity with all those who bear God’s image, but only with those who bear my image: same skin color, dialect, etc. Anyhow, Israel and Judah: they have made themselves God’s enemies. So for God all the good and easy options are off the table, and God struggles to find a way to stop the madness and to begin laying the foundation for a better future.

And it captures Jesus’ modus operandi. Two weeks ago we heard James and John offering to call down fire on a Samaritan village that—they thought—had not given Jesus a sufficiently enthusiastic reception. So Jesus finds himself for neither the first nor the last time among his enemies.

Any two-bit god can surround themselves with friends; Jesus’ God is constantly seeking out her enemies.

Our Eucharistic Prayer reminds us of this weekly. For example, Prayer A: “to reconcile us to you, the God and Father of all” or, again, “Sanctify us…and serve you in unity, constancy, and peace.”

To stay with our liturgy for a moment, every week there’s the Confession and Absolution. So the divide between Christians and non-Christians isn’t between friends and enemies of God. On our good days we Christians are allowing God to continue the life-long work of transforming us from enemies into friends.

In sum, that’s one thing the parable is doing. “Neighbor” messes with our notions of “us” and “them.”

“Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” “The one who showed him mercy.” “Go and do likewise.”

Mercy, compassion. In God’s self-description to Moses in the aftermath of the Golden Calf incident, we hear “The LORD, the LORD, a God merciful and gracious, (  יְהוָ֣ה׀ יְהוָ֔ה אֵ֥ל רַח֖וּם וְחַנּ֑וּן) (Exod. 34:6). It’s worth noticing that that Hebrew word for ‘merciful’ (raḥûm) comes from the word for ‘womb’ (reḥem). And one of the (Greek) verbs for “have compassion” is used in the Gospels exclusively for Jesus and in a couple of Jesus’ parables—like this one, the Samaritan “moved with compassion.”

Compassion, the Gospel writers tell us, is fundamental to how Jesus navigates this world. Like Father, like Son. And this, in turn, shapes the Gospels’ understanding of how we follow Jesus. So, in the parable compassion is the turning point in the story. And if we read the parable as an image of the divine-human history, it is the turning point in that history: this Samaritan God finding us and caring for us on the Jericho road. We hear that turning point in our Eucharistic Prayers. What is the start of Eucharistic Prayer A if not an extended description of compassion?

“Holy and gracious Father: In your infinite love you made us for yourself; and, when we had fallen into sin and become subject to evil and death, you, in your mercy, sent Jesus Christ, your only and eternal Son, to share our human nature, to live and die as one of us, to reconcile us to you, the God and Father of all.”

The lawyer’s answer rightly focuses on ‘compassion’ (using a different Greek word), and Jesus serves it back to him—and us: “Go and do likewise.” We might recall Jesus’ words earlier in the same Gospel: “Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful” (Lk. 6:36). Be merciful: a big part of The Dummy’s Guide to Going with the Grain of the Universe.

What this sermon boils down to: an invitation to use Jesus’ parable as a lens through which to view the world we’ll encounter in the coming week. Us and them. Notice how often this gets encouraged, the subtle ways it can distort our identity. Compassion. Notice all that deadens it. Look for opportunities, however small, to practice it, inside and outside the “family of faith.” Recall former Archbishop of Canterbury William Temple’s observation: “The church is the only institution that exists primarily for the benefit of those who are not its members.”

Trust that makes a difference (3rd Sunday after Pentecost, 6/29/2025)

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Readings (Track 2)

Today’s psalm is a gift, and the focus of this sermon. “Protect me, O God, for I take refuge in you.” That sounds like our world. The danger isn’t specified, but the psalmist’s language shows that it’s serious: “For you will not abandon me to the grave, / nor let your holy one see the Pit.” Nevertheless, to say “You are my Lord, / my good above all other” is to choose trust and hope, not simply for survival, but for flourishing: “You will show me the path of life; / in your presence there is fullness of joy, / and in your right hand are pleasures for evermore.” Does this come easily? Of course not. If it came easily the psalm wouldn’t be necessary. But it’s where the psalmist wants to end up.

As you may recall, Peter cites this psalm in his Pentecost sermon, using it to interpret Jesus’ resurrection. And we often hear it as celebrating our hope for resurrection. That’s not wrong, but it’s not what the psalmist was talking about in their context: “For you will not abandon me to the grave, / nor let your holy one see the Pit. / You will show me the path of life” in this life. This psalm is like Psalm 23 (“The Lord is my shepherd / I shall not be in want”), but with the danger more clearly in the foreground.

If we wonder how to make the psalmist’s trust and hope our own, our New Testament readings offer two different perspectives. Let’s look at them briefly.

Paul focuses on freedom, an important word in his time and ours. In our time, as the German theologian Moltmann argues, freedom tends to mean lordship. “Everyone should be his or her own ruler, his or her own lord, his or her own slaveowner.…Each one sees the other as a competitor in the battle for power and ownership.” The alternative, Moltmann argues, is to see freedom as community. “I am free and feel myself to be free when I am recognized and accepted by others and when I, for my part, recognize and accept others.…Then the other person is no longer a limitation of my freedom but the completion of it.”[1] I’m still chewing on this, but I think he’s on to something, and it aligns with Paul’s argument.

The Galatians to whom Paul writes affirm trust and hope, but are still in competition with each other. And that, Paul argues, is to opt for the flesh, not the Spirit. So Paul gives us those well-known lists, the works of the flesh and the fruit of the Spirit, both lists about how we live together. Put in the psalmist’s terms, “O Lord, you are my portion and my cup; / it is you who uphold my lot” should be freeing me for more patience, kindness, generosity, etc. Notice again the movement in the first two verses: “I have said to the Lord, ‘You are my Lord, / my good above all other.’ / All my delight is upon the godly that are in the land.” Freedom as community, centered and grounded in the Holy Trinity, the original community.

“Live by the Spirit, I say, and do not gratify the desires of the flesh.” Paul is, of course, speaking to the churches in Galatia. But the Spirit/Flesh alternatives are equally present in our cities, our nation, our world. So Paul’s words give us another way of praying for these: may the Spirit that brooded over the chaotic waters at creation breath Jesus’ life into ours at every level.

In short, after hearing Paul’s words, we can hear the psalmist’s words (“I have said to the Lord, “You are my Lord, / my good above all other.”) also as rippling out to the psalmist’s neighbors: flesh or Spirit, freedom as lordship or community.

Luke places today’s text shortly after the Transfiguration, Jesus transfigured, talking with Moses and Elijah, and the voice from the cloud “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” And today’s text is about putting that into practice. It’s not that Moses, Elijah, and Jesus are equal authorities, so that we decide in any given situation which to hear, but listening to Jesus we hear Moses and Elijah properly. When that Samaritan village refuses to receive them, Elijah’s fire is not an option. When it comes to Jesus’ call to discipleship the obligations to parents mandated by Moses take second place. (That’s what’s in play in Jesus’ response to “Lord, first let me go and bury my father.”)

In terms of today’s psalm, “You are my Lord, / my good above all other” plays out differently before and after Jesus taking on our flesh. This is not because we’re in any way better than the original hearers, the Gentiles more virtuous than the Jews, but that Jesus changes the landscape. There are new possibilities. “I will bless the Lord who gives me counsel; / my heart teaches me, night after night” goes on steroids. For too many cultures, past and present, Paul’s first list (“enmities, strife, jealousy, anger,” etc.) is as good as it gets. But with Jesus’ Spirit counseling, teaching, oh, the possibilities: “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.” It is still a dangerous world; the danger does not have to define who we are.

Jesus said to the disciples “You are the salt of the earth… You are the light of the world” (Matt 5:13, 14). Today’s readings give that some focus, send us back to Psalm 16 with fresh eyes, and set us up to respond in trust, hope, and joy to the sending at the end of the Mass: “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

[1] Humanity in God pp. 63-64.

Jesus or the pigs? (2nd Sunday after Pentecost, 6/22/2025)

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Readings

We’re at a major milestone in the Church Year: green, not white, and we’ll be in green for about half a year. Think about it: half a year to celebrate the divine acts that underwrite the new covenant: Christmas, Epiphany, Holy Week, Pentecost. Half a year to…? Our Godly Play curriculum calls it “the Great Green Growing Season,” time for these divine acts to do their work in our bodies and souls.

It turns out that today’s readings aren’t bad ushers into this season.

The Gospel. When we meet the man who meets Jesus, he’s possessed by a legion of demons, naked, maybe remnants of chains hanging from his arms and legs, totally bedraggled. Soon he’s “clothed and in his right mind.” Hallelujah. But, if that were all that salvation involved we’d hardly need six months for the Great Green Growing Season! So it’s worth noticing that this isn’t the end of that man’s story. He wants to go with Jesus, but Jesus: “Return to your home, and declare how much God has done for you.” Home: that would include the folk who had held him down while others put on the chains and shackles and who were not obviously celebrating his recovery. Yes, we might say that his story has just gotten more interesting. But that’s for the future. In the moment, Jesus’ heart is glad.

Staying in the country of the Gerasenes for the moment, notice that Luke is equally interested in its other inhabitants. At the beginning of the story the demons are in the man; at the end of the story—well, they disappeared with the herd of swine that went over the cliff. And, Luke tells us, “all the people of the surrounding country of the Gerasenes asked Jesus to”…stay? No: leave. Their preference was clear: better the demons in the man than in an eminently marketable herd of pigs.

Now, notice that in our Gospel the story’s already politically charged: the demons are collectively called “Legion.” And it would have been quite impossible for the disciples not to have relished this story—for a time at least—as a sort of down payment on what Jesus would do about the Roman legions.

But let’s come at its politics in a different way. The demons in the man or in the pigs? In our world that’s the sort of choice we regularly meet. No matter what the economic system, power typically gets used so that the powerful receive the benefits and the costs are paid by others. Often this works because we’re happy to see low prices and don’t ask too many questions about why the prices are low. Or again, our group is virtuous; they are vicious. The demons stay safely among them and our pigs continue fattening up nicely. And then Jesus comes and upsets everything. Jesus did that through his Body the Church in South Africa to overturn apartheid and in Poland and the rest of Eastern Europe to overturn the Communist regimes. Welcoming Jesus can mean losing the pigs.

So one of the things that may happen in the Great Growing Season is Jesus attempting to direct our attention to our pigs. And if we pay attention we’re a little freer, there’s a bit more green, and Jesus’ heart is glad.

Let’s head north to the churches in Galatia, a Roman province in the center of what is now Turkey, the recipients of Paul’s letter. Teachers had come into the congregations telling Gentiles that they needed to keep all the Law of Moses, including the ritual parts. Bacon & scallops: out! Sharing meals with Christians who don’t observe these standards: out! Paul: the ritual part was provisional until Christ. In Christ there is a new humanity: “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female.”

Hallelujah. But wait a minute. So much of our identity is wrapped up in our ethnicity, in our social status, in our sexuality. And Paul’s warning us that none of that can be automatically carried over. None of that can be the foundation of what “I” means; of what “we” means. When Nicodemus asked “How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?” (Jn 3:4 [NRSV]), while he misunderstood Jesus’ words, he did understand the magnitude of the challenge.

Jesus’ image shows up in our liturgy for Holy Baptism: through the water of Baptism “we are reborn by the Holy Spirit” (p.306). Glorious. But it should leave us wondering: is there anything we don’t need to relearn? Pretty much the whole of the New Testament is an invitation to echo Dorothy’s famous line: “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Not surprisingly, it’s easier to see in others what happens when we neglect Paul’s words. When in Rwanda Christian Hutus were killing Christian Tutsis and vice versa, we knew that something was wrong. I’m an American Christian. Christians in other parts of the world may wonder: is “Christian” determining what my being American means, or vice versa?

So one of the things that may happen in the Great Growing Season is Jesus attempting to further shape how we negotiate our identities. And when we cooperate we gain a bit more freedom, there’s more green, and Jesus’ heart is glad.

Our reading from Isaiah is downright frightening. It’s from the words directed to those who returned from exile in Babylon. It’s frightening because some in Israel are still following the same practices that brought on the exile in the first place: sacrificing to other gods, ignoring the Mosaic Law, exploiting the poor. It’s sort of a limit case of what Paul’s worried about in our second reading: this crowd has no interest in the Lord shaping their identity. They’ve just added the Lord to their collection of deities, and continued with business as usual. They’re not asking, they’re not seeking; they’re stuck.

Mercifully, one of the things that may happen in the Great Growing Season is that Jesus attempts to get us unstuck. Last Sunday’s reading gave us a lovely series of images of that, God’s Wisdom continually calling out to us, “rejoicing in his inhabited world, / and delighting in the human race” (Prov. 8:31). God’s Wisdom—we could equally say God’s Holy Spirit—is constantly at that, through the words of a lover, a friend, a passer-by, an enemy, through the natural world, through the words of Holy Scripture—and that’s just the beginning of the list. And when we cooperate we’re a little freer, there’s a bit more green, and Jesus’ heart is glad.

So, welcome to the Great Green Growing Season. Who knows where our Elder Brother Jesus will meddle, whether noticing this or that particular herd of pigs, wondering how our baptism might further transform our identities, employing various versions of WD-40 to get us unstuck. Such meddling is usually not initially welcome, but as we cooperate we gain some freedom, there’s more green for our neighbors and us, and Jesus’ heart is very glad.

Renewing–not erasing–the face of the earth (Pentecost, 6/8/2025)

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Readings (Genesis 11, Acts 2, John 14)

As a setup for a story of epic proportions it’s hard to beat that brief interchange between Jesus and his disciples at the beginning of the Book of Acts:

So when they had come together, they asked him, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?” He replied, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority. But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” (Acts 1:6-8)

There’s some quiet humor in it. The apostles are ready to kick back, assuming that the ball’s in Jesus’ court. Jesus parries the question, talks about what they’re going to do: receive power, be Jesus’ witnesses “to the ends of the earth.”

Does anyone else think that sounds like a remarkably bad idea? Recall the stories Luke’s told about these apostles:

On their way they entered a village of the Samaritans to make ready for him; but they did not receive him, because his face was set toward Jerusalem. When his disciples James and John saw it, they said, “Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?” (Lk. 9:52b-54)

John [again] “Master, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he does not follow with us.” (Lk. 9:49)

People were bringing even infants to him that he might touch them; and when the disciples saw it, they sternly ordered them not to do it. (Lk. 18:15)

Give this group more power? How’s that going to work?

What’s at stake is captured by that verse in today’s psalm: “You send forth your Spirit, and they are created; / and so you renew the face of the earth.” Renew: how do you renew without erasing? Folk who work at restoring art constantly face this challenge, trying to remove the effects of smoke, dirt, etc. without losing the original creation.

The Day of Pentecost provides one model, in which the Spirit keeps a pretty tight reign on the apostles. “Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language?” How indeed? Perhaps the languages of the Parthians, Medes, Elamites, etc. came out of the mouths of the apostles. Perhaps—more likely—the Spirit provided simultaneous translation so that the Parthians etc. heard in their own native language. And even if it’s the former, it’s a one-off event.

“My witnesses… to the ends of the earth.” That’s a vision of frequently crossing cultures, of frequently learning. Recall the crash course the Spirit put Peter through so that he could share the Good News at the gentile Cornelius’ home. First that strange repeated vision of the sheet containing clean and unclean animals. “Get up, Peter; kill and eat.” Then, when Gentile messengers show up at the door the Spirit says“Look, three men are searching for you. Now get up, go down, and go with them without hesitation; for I have sent them.” Later, “While Peter was still speaking, the Holy Spirit fell upon all who heard the word,” and there they are, “speaking in tongues and extolling God.” It’s the conversion of Cornelius and Peter.

Regularly crossing cultures, regularly learning. No passport required, as anyone who’s parented knows: we’re almost constantly learning new languages.

So it’s perhaps no surprise that when Jesus talks about the role of the Spirit in today’s Gospel, the focus is on the Spirit as Teacher: “But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you.” And from elsewhere in the same discourse: “When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth” (Jn. 16:13).

Heard in isolation “guide you into all the truth” can sound abstract, even esoteric. Heard alongside the rest of the New Testament, it’s about renewing without erasing. Jesus, not the many Roman gods, is Lord. OK: so in the cities in which the meat markets are temples to these other gods, how do the Christians relate to these markets? Paul, writing to the Corinthians, spends a couple chapters on that question.

How do we renew without erasing? Some years ago a cartoon captured this nicely. All the characters are pigs, and they’re in a hospital waiting room. The doctor comes out smiling, saying to the anxious spouse “Your husband is cured.” Unfortunately, he’s carrying the sort of 10 pound shrink-wrapped package you’d find in the meat department.

How do we renew without erasing? Current arguments about how we steward the environment, how we respond to different experiences of sexuality, how we order our economic life suggest that “guide you into all the truth” still belongs on the front burner. And that—God having a stubborn regard for our freedom—the promise isn’t “coerce you into all the truth.”

So how does the Spirit guide? Three suggestions; perhaps they’ll echo your experience.

From one of my favorite theologians, Mark Twain: “Good decisions come from experience. Experience comes from making bad decisions.” Our Acts reading focused on language, so let’s stay with that. I learn a language by making mistakes. If I try to avoid making mistakes I learn much more slowly. I also learn more slowly—or not at all—if I insist that I’m not making mistakes. Feel free to transpose that to other areas of life.

From one of my favorite crime novelists, Louise Penny: her protagonist Inspector Gamache says this: “There are four things that lead to wisdom.… They are four sentences we learn to say, and mean.…  I don’t know. I need help. I’m sorry. I was wrong.” Four things that lead to wisdom; four things that makes it easier for the Spirit to guide.

Finally, this concern to renew, not erase. It’s at bottom an expression of love, loving the other enough to recognize the difference between renewing and erasing, loving the other enough to do the hard work of getting to know the other enough to begin to have some sense of what renewal might mean, loving the other enough that Gamache’s four sentences work their way into the core of our vocabulary.

God, so the Gospel tells us, “so loved the world.” The Spirit’s guiding us into all the truth is about being infected by that love. And so, in our best moments, we welcome the Day of Pentecost. Come, Holy Spirit.

Why The Revelation thinks we need courage (5th Sunday of Easter, 5/18/2025)

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Readings (The Revelation reading is extended to include vv.7-8: “Those who conquer will inherit these things, and I will be their God and they will be my children. But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the polluted, the murderers, the fornicators, the sorcerers, the idolaters, and all liars, their place will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death.”)

At Baptism there’s a prayer for the newly baptized, part of which runs “Sustain them, O Lord, in your Holy Spirit. Give them an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works” (BCP 308). Today’s readings, with the baptism of the Gentile Cornelius with his family and friends in the background, can help us hear this prayer more clearly, particularly that ‘courage’ bit. Let’s dive in.

Our Revelation reading gives us John’s vision of a new heaven and a new earth. But in what sense ‘new’? Here—as in most of the book—John is playing off particular Old Testament texts, specifically the announcement of a new heaven and earth toward the end of Isaiah. Here’s a bit of it: “They shall build houses and inhabit them; they shall plant vineyards and eat their fruit. They shall not build and another inhabit; they shall not plant and another eat; for like the days of a tree shall the days of my people be, and my chosen shall long enjoy the work of their hands” (Isa. 65:21-22). That may sound underwhelming until we remember that for Isaiah’s audience, as for most people in most times and places, it’s revolutionary. The normal in most times and places is that you have your house or vineyard only until someone more powerful decides they want it. So the new heaven and new earth is this heaven and earth—with justice. And already we get a sense of why ‘courage’ might be relevant, because the powerful tend to be happy with things as they are.

Well, how do we get from here to there (pretty much the question that drives the whole Book of Revelation)? Revelation answers by rereading the Old Testament, thereby challenging popular misreadings. Last Sunday we noticed two of John’s rereadings: he hears “the Lion of the tribe of Judah” but sees “a Lamb standing as if it had been slaughtered.” He hears of 144,000 Israelites being sealed (probably for violent battle) but sees “a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages.” The slaughtered Lamb wins the new heaven and new earth; that great multitude follows His lead.

So, in today’s text, “See, I am making all things new.” But lest we assume that we’re just passive beneficiaries, there are the last two verses that focus on our responses, conquering or not.

“Those who conquer will inherit these things, and I will be their God and they will be my children.” “Those who conquer” echoes the promises that end each of the messages to the seven churches in chapters 2 and 3. The first: “To everyone who conquers, I will give permission to eat from the tree of life that is in the paradise of God” (2:7). The last: “To the one who conquers I will give a place with me on my throne, just as I myself conquered and sat down with my Father on his throne” (3:21). “Those who conquer” is another one of John’s reinterpretations. It’s the language of holy war, but interpreted by the slaughtered Lamb: to conquer is to give faithful witness—as did the Lamb—despite the dangers. In a world too often enslaved by lies, witnessing to the truth can be liberating—and dangerous.

So “those who conquer” theme highlights the virtue of courage, “the cowardly” head John’s list of those excluded. That, of course, is a deeply troubling list, troubling enough that the Revised Common Lectionary ends the reading two verses earlier. But John’s been arguing throughout the book that our choices now matter, whether we accept God’s generosity matters, whether there are witnesses to the truth in the midst of lies matters, whether we’re finally about “Your will be done” or “My will be done” matters. As for that “lake that burns with fire and sulfur,” it’s an image within a vision; it would be pointless to look for it using Google Maps. Nor is Scripture sure that anyone actually ends up there. God, as Paul writes to Timothy “desires everyone to be saved” (1 Tim. 2:4). But John doesn’t want us to forget that our choices matter.

How do we get from here to there? There’s another dimension to that question that sets us up for our other readings. “See—John hears—the home of God is among mortals.” But since it’s the New Jerusalem that’s coming down, why isn’t it “the home of God is among the Jews?” Back toward the start of the story God had promised Abraham “You shall be the ancestor of a multitude of nations” (Gen. 17:4). But how that was going to work was never clear. Notice how today’s psalm ends: “He has raised up strength for his people / and praise for all his loyal servants, / the children of Israel, / a people who are near him. / Hallelujah!” It was easy to assume that the distinction between the children of Israel and everyone else was baked into creation itself, so that the only way to become part of God’s people is to become Jews. Which is why Peter got an earful in our first reading.

Peter had had a disquieting vision. Before he could digest it the messengers from the gentile centurion Cornelius showed up looking for him, and the Spirit said “Go!” Peter preached to Cornelius and his family and friends, and the Holy Spirit descended. These gentiles spoke in tongues, praised God; Peter had them baptized.

And, as our text tells us, the “circumcised believers” criticized him. Why? Well, following their reading of texts like Psalm 148, Peter should have first circumcised them, then discussed baptism. But the Spirit decided otherwise. Cornelius’ house is where the question of how Abraham becomes “the ancestor of a multitude of nations” got decided.

As you may recall, those favoring an exclusivist reading of texts like Psalm 148 did not give up easily. So Peter’s hearers’ conclusion “Then God has given even to the Gentiles the repentance that leads to life” is deeply problematic in what it doesn’t acknowledge. First, God gave both Peter and the Gentiles repentance. “By no means, Lord; for nothing profane or unclean has ever entered my mouth.” Had Peter stayed stuck there, no story. Second, God gave to the Gentiles repentance as Gentiles: they didn’t need to become Jews first.

It’s hard to overestimate the importance of this story. Bishop Lesslie Newbigin uses this story to capture the difference between evangelism and proselytism: in proselytism only the hearers are supposed to change. Here it’s a Jewish problem, but it quickly becomes a Gentile problem, with the Gentile Christians saying to the Jewish Christians “If you don’t eat pork you’re not a real Christian.” And any group with a bit of power can play this game: “You’re not a real Christian until you’re like us. We decide what your repentance needs to look like.”

In terms of John’s vision, Peter is one who conquers, not by demanding that Cornelius with his family and friends become like him, but by courageously following the lead of the Spirit, despite the flak he knows he’s going to get from Jerusalem. He conquers because he understands that repentance is an ongoing project. Our brother Martin Luther nailed it in the first of his 95 theses: “When our Lord and Master Jesus Christ said, “Repent” (Mt 4:17), he willed the entire life of believers to be one of repentance.” (And recall that in the Episcopal tradition the core of repentance is not simply feeling sorry about what one’s done, but changing one’s behavior.)

Our Gospel text’s “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another” takes John’s “Those who conquer” in a related direction. We don’t need that commandment when we’re in agreement; it’s when we disagree seriously that “love one another” needs to kick in. “Those who conquer” are not those who’ve brought everyone else around to their way of thinking, but those whose love keeps the circle unbroken. Like the apostles did during Easter week. They were all “Alleluia” and Thomas “I really would like to see some, you know, evidence,” and they’re still together when Jesus appears again. That’s love, courageous love. That’s conquering.

So, picking up the baptismal prayer, “Sustain us, O Lord, in your Holy Spirit. Give us an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works.”

About that “valley of the shadow of death” (4th of Easter, 5/11/2025)

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Readings

“Listen to what the Spirit is saying to the churches.” Today’s texts keep us on our toes, zooming in on the individual, zooming out to capture the whole course of our history with God. Of the texts, Psalm 23 is the best known, so we’ll start there.

Formally, it’s an extended, an exuberant, affirmation of trust. It’s often set to soothing music. That’s not bad, but it doesn’t help us notice the drama. That line, “guides me along right pathways.” And we always follow the guidance we’re given?  So, toward the end: “Surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me…” That’s a head-scratcher of a translation; normally we’d translate the verb ‘pursue.’ There are times when I’ve blown off the guidance and God’s goodness and mercy need to pursue me. In other words, that one sheep that goes astray in Jesus’ parable: that would be most of us from time to time.

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, / I shall fear no evil; / for you are with me.” Just what is the psalmist trusting? That things will always be placid? This year our Great Vigil again included Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fiery furnace: “for you are with me” indeed!

And here we’re at the border between the individual and the global perspectiver, because there’s that popular response to the psalmist’s words: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, / I shall fear no evil; / for I’m the baddest *** in the valley.” What does it mean to live smart, in full awareness of the world as it is?

Which brings us to our text from the Revelation, whose central question is—arguably—how God conquers evil. The Revelation answers that question by transforming popular religious symbols in the light of Christ. It contrasts what John hears and what John sees. We heard part of one of those contrasts last Sunday. John hears “the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered.” And we expect that John will see a mighty warrior. But no: “Then I saw… a Lamb standing as if it had been slaughtered.” God conquering evil doesn’t play out as we expect.

Today’s reading gives us another contrast. Just before the verses we heard John hears the command to mark out twelve thousand from each of the twelve tribes, the “one hundred forty four thousand,” implying preparation for a holy war. What John sees (today’s reading): “a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages.”

Who are they? John’s told: “These are they who have come out of the great ordeal; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” The description suggests martyrdom, and that would make sense, because the Revelation is warning its hearers that the psalmist’s “right pathways” could result in martyrdom (recall Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego). But if martyrs, martyrs because they are first witnesses. In that, they follow Jesus, for ‘witness,’ as we heard two Sundays ago, is the first thing the Revelation needs to say about Jesus: “the faithful witness.”

How does God conquer evil? The Revelation’s answer: “a Lamb standing as if it had been slaughtered.” And we’re the witnesses, we who—in the words of the Great Vigil—“once renounced Satan and all his works, and promised to serve God faithfully in his holy Catholic Church” (BCP 292). Perfect witnesses? No, hence the pursuing goodness and mercy.

And in all this the Revelation slips in another transformation. Who does the shepherding? The Lamb. The Lamb is the Shepherd, and it is with that glad affirmation that we continue to use and put our weight on Psalm 23.

A couple comments on the other readings and I’ll close. The reading from John chapter 10 continues the theme of Jesus as the Good Shepherd, introduced at the beginning of that chapter. Verse 26 might awaken some Calvinistic anxiety: “but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep.” So there are Jesus’ sheep and not Jesus’ sheep, forever divided? That would make nonsense of John’s Gospel, written, as we heard two Sundays ago, “so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.” So we might better hear v.26 as “but you do not believe, because you do not [yet] belong to my sheep.”

Tabitha’s story in Acts does a number of things. First, it reminds us that the psalmist’s “right pathways” do not always lead to an interview with Nebuchadnezzar, Pilate, etc. Witness, whether borne by Jesus, that great multitude, or Tabitha, is life-giving, thus all the widows “weeping and showing tunics and other clothing that Dorcas had made while she was with them.” Her resurrection (that’s the verb behind the NRSV’s “get up”) witnesses that the psalmist’s trust was well-founded: “and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

And, perhaps most importantly, this shepherding role is not confined to Jesus. Tabitha, with her “good works and acts of charity” shepherded. “My sheep hear my voice…and they follow me” said Jesus. After stories like Tabitha’s we might paraphrase: “My sheep hear my voice, they follow me, they shepherd.” And so her story gives us one enfleshment of the Revelation’s vision: How does God conquer evil? One tunic at a time.

Be prepared for him who knows how to ask questions (3rd Sunday of Easter, 5/4/2025)

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Readings

Our second lesson picks up in the middle of one of John’s visions: a scroll in God’s hand, sealed with seven seals, and the question “Who is worthy to open the scroll and break its seals?” And whether in heaven or on earth or under the earth—the classic way of dividing up creation—no one was able, and John begins to weep bitterly.

So what’s in the scroll? John doesn’t tell us. Not, I think, because he doesn’t know, but because the scroll as a symbol can do more if it shimmers a little, if it points to a number of possibilities. That scroll might remind us of the collection of scrolls that was Holy Scripture. Who can open that, offer a trustworthy and authoritative interpretation? All the divergent voices, all the dead ends: what does it come to in the end? Or, to worry about more than the Jews, the scroll might remind us of our problem of getting our head around human history. History: “one damn thing after another”? Or, closer to home, that well-sealed scroll might remind us of the challenge of understanding our own selves, our own histories. Take it in any or all of those ways, and we don’t have much difficulty joining John as he weeps.

And then one of the elders says to John, “Do not weep. See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered, so that he can open the scroll and its seven seals.” Those two titles, ‘Lion of the tribe of Judah’, and ‘Root of David’ had been used in the centuries leading up to Jesus’ birth for the Messiah, and both promised strength, victory, conquest. With that sort of introduction, what we expect John to see is something or someone like Schwarzenegger. But what John sees is “a Lamb standing as if it had been slaughtered.”

The elder announces a Lion; what John sees is a Lamb. So what’s going on? A divine bait & switch? That’s perhaps what the crowd who cried “Crucify him!” thought. Or perhaps the most profound statement of what God’s power looks like: Jesus of Nazareth, the one who had every right to demand service, but who came to serve and to give his life—this is the slain Lamb part—a ransom for many.

And it is this Lion/Lamb who is worthy to take, open, and read that scroll in all the possible senses we noticed. Jesus, the one whose life and work is the fulfillment of that strange assortment of loose ends that we now call the Old Testament. Jesus, the one who has entered our history, and so given us the hope that it may end with something more than a bang or a whimper. As followers of the slaughtered Lamb, we live from the hope that God will bring good also out of the evils we encounter. Jesus, the one who can open the scroll that is my own life.

Jesus, the slaughtered Lamb, opening the scroll that is my life. Our other two readings give us some help imagining what this looks like, and in both cases it’s by asking questions. Jesus, of course, does more than ask questions. He gives commands (“love one another”, “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations”), describes our world, tells very odd stories, weeps, laughs. But Jesus does ask questions, and that’s maybe when Jesus is most… dangerous.

Let me digress. My favorite poems are a collection of choruses T. S. Eliot wrote for a pageant play called “The Rock.” Friends in Berkeley introduced me to them; I found them in one of Berkeley’s many used bookstores in 1971. A few lines for the sheer joy of it:

We build in vain unless the Lord build with us.
Can you keep the City that the Lord keeps not with you?
A thousand policemen directing the traffic
Cannot tell you why you come or where you go.
A colony of cavies or a horde of active marmots
Build better than they that build without the Lord….
When the Stranger says: “What is the meaning of this city?
Do you huddle close together because you love each other?”
What will you answer? “We all dwell together
To make money from each other”? or “This is a community”?
And the Stranger will depart and return to the desert.
O my soul, be prepared for the coming of the Stranger,
Be prepared for him who knows how to ask questions.
Be prepared for him who knows how to ask questions.

So Saul, en route to Damascus, encounters a very bright light and a voice: “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” And that question is the beginning of the transformation of his world.

And maybe only a couple of years earlier at the Sea of Galilee, the disciples after a fruitless night of fishing hear the voice of a stranger on the shore: “Children, you have no fish, have you?” They follow his instructions and end up with a net too full to bring into the boat.

Later, after breakfast:
—Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?
—Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.
—Feed my lambs.
—Simon son of John, do you love me?
—Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.
—Tend my sheep.
—Simon son of John, do you love me?
—Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.
—Feed my sheep.

Readers have long noticed that these three questions correspond to Peter’s three denials the night of Jesus’ arrest; the denials were in public, so too these affirmations. But there’s also something very intimate going on here. Peter’s responses matter to Jesus. Jesus loves Peter, and so Peter’s responses matter on a personal level. As do your responses, as do your responses, as do mine. That’s the sort of vulnerability that love brings, even and particularly to this slaughtered Lamb.

So, what questions is Jesus asking me? What questions is Jesus asking you? “Well, I don’t hear Jesus asking any questions!” Nor does someone who’s got the sound system cranked all the way up hear the call to dinner. Some noise we can’t control; some we can, and only after we’ve minimized the noise we can control are we in a position to complain “Well, I don’t hear Jesus asking any questions!”

The Lion of the tribe of Judah, the slaughtered Lamb, asking me, asking us, the questions that will open and render intelligible our lives, our world.

“Worthy is the Lamb that was slaughtered to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing!”

The Good Lord’s Decision (The 2nd Sunday of Easter, 4/27/2025)

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Readings

After a very full Holy Week in which it’s easy for the brain to go on overload, this Sunday, a.k.a. “Low Sunday,” is a welcome opportunity to catch our breath and ask what all that was about. That pretty much sets the agenda for this sermon.

In our first reading we heard Peter address the Jewish leadership in Jerusalem: “The God of our ancestors raised up Jesus… God exalted him at his right hand as Leader and Savior that he might give repentance to Israel and forgiveness of sins.” That’s the core of Easter: the divine decision to raise Jesus, to vindicate Jesus.

At Jesus’ baptism Luke recounts: “And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’” Some time later, as some of Jesus’ disciples watched him talk with Moses and Elijah, that same heavenly voice: “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” Wistful thinking? A trick of the wind? God’s raising Jesus from the dead: the exclamation point!

But why raise Jesus after three days rather than waiting to sort everything out at the Last Judgment? Because there’s work to be done on earth now, and it’s not only Jesus’ work. The poorneed good news now; the Pilates, Herods, Caiaphases of this world are—shall we say—underperforming. Recall Peter’s words: “that he might give repentance to Israel and forgiveness of sins.” It doesn’t take much unpacking of those words to see that they include the disciples, Peter’s audience, and us. That’s seconded by our second reading from Revelation: “To him who loves us and freed us from our sins by his blood, and made us to be a kingdom, priests serving his God and Father…”

Recall what we heard on Maundy Thursday: [Jesus:] “Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.” “This is my body that is for you… This cup is the new covenant in my blood.” Without Easter we wouldn’t be recalling those words, or at best recalling them as another example of crazy hopes cancelled by a Roman cross. With Easter: even that cross is part of their fulfillment (“and freed us from our sins by his blood”).

In other words, Easter is God’s decision regarding Jesus and God’s decision regarding us. Rather than fire and brimstone, going full momma bear, the offer of repentance and forgiveness. The Easter Vigil—one of the jewels of the 1979 prayer book revision—makes this clear in including the renewal of our baptismal vows “by which [as the BCP puts it] we once renounced Satan and all his works, and promised to serve God faithfully in his holy Catholic Church” (p.292). God raises Jesus and then turns to us: whose side are you on?

Back to our reading from Revelation: “To him who loves us and freed us from our sins by his blood, and made us to be a kingdom, priests serving his God and Father, to him be glory and dominion forever and ever.” That’s what the baptismal vows are about, not one more card among many (driver’s license, Social Security card, MasterCard, etc.) but as the guide for how we use all the rest.

Peter: “And we are witnesses to these things.” Witnesses. Not the judge, not the jury, not even the bailiff. Witnesses, who by definition are not expected to know anything beyond their own experience, and not even expected to understand that. “God raised Jesus from the dead, and this is what Jesus has been doing among us:” that’s more than enough to keep us focused.

Witness, of course, often happens as much by action as by word, and two examples from today’s readings are worth noticing.

Recall again Peter before the Council. He doesn’t mince words: “Jesus, whom you had killed.” But God exalted Jesus as Leader and Savior not for payback, but for repentance and forgiveness—precisely what Peter offers to the Council members. Bless him, Peter’d learned something from Jesus.

Then today’s Gospel reading. There are two surprises in that second encounter between Jesus and the disciples. The first is that Jesus shows up again. The second is that the other disciples were still willing to be in the same room as Thomas. For a whole week they’d been all “Alleluia!” and Thomas “I need some evidence.” The disciples witnessed to Jesus’ resurrection also by not writing Thomas off. Bless them, they’d learned something from Jesus. Given the Church’s history of splitting over much smaller issues, if we’re looking for a way of witnessing to Jesus’ resurrection this isn’t a bad place to start.

In these two examples Easter is an invitation to dial back our fear, whether of external enemies (Acts) or of potential internal enemies (the Gospel). It’s Jesus whom God has exalted as Leader and Savior, not whoever is currently claiming those titles. Even the State looks a little different when the Crucified doesn’t stay dead.

Easter: The Lord God’s decision: Jesus got it right. Jesus’ project is just getting started, and Jesus has no interest in doing it alone. “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest.” We celebrated that at the Easter Vigil; as we hear the stories from Acts and approach Pentecost we have the opportunity to wonder afresh what else it might mean. Joyous Easter!

Bread, Wine, Feet (Maundy Thursday, 4/17/2025)

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Readings

Passover. Our first reading marks its beginning. It celebrates the Lord’s power to save, to make a way where there is no way. It celebrates this God as champion of liberty, enemy of slavery. And here we are tonight, remembering how Jesus observed Passover that night.

Jesus did at least two things. He reinterpreted two of Passover’s symbols, the bread and the wine, to point to his coming death. Liberty, passing from slavery into freedom, demands more than defeating the current human Pharaoh. The underlying problem: our ancestral rebellion and distrust of God, and Jesus’ death deals with that. So, at every Eucharist, “Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us.”

That, it turns out, is the easy part. The harder part: changing our behavior so that we stop acting like little Pharaohs at every opportunity. So Jesus starts washing their feet and caps it with “If I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.”

“This is my body that is for you.… This cup is the new covenant in my blood.” “You also ought to wash one another’s feet.” Two sides of the same coin.

What’s going on here? Toward the end of the Gospel reading we heard “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” Washing each other’s feet, leaving behind the endless competition for status: that’s finally about love. As is, for that matter, “This is my Body; this is my Blood.” As the Gospel of John says elsewhere “God so loved the world…”

Toward the end of the Song of Songs we hear “Set me as a seal upon your heart, / as a seal upon your arm; / for love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave” (8:6a). Pharaoh’s kingdom is powered by death; only love will defeat it.