Despite what you might have been brought up believing, the bible doesn’t begin with Adam or Eve. Nor with sin, shame, or a set of rules to follow. It simply begins with God saying, “Let there be...” And it was.
God speaks the word light. And there is light. Not just any light, but God’s own radiance breaking into the formless void. Before there’s breath or bugs or beaches, there’s illumination. All the glory of God bursting onto the scene with a big bang! Last week we looked at John’s prolog that echoes this passage: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God… In him was life, and that life was the light of all humankind.” John connects this to Jesus who says, “I am the light of the world.” And Jesus connects it to us saying, “You are the light of the world.” Look carefully, Jesus doesn’t say you can be or that one day you will be. He says you already are the light. And this Divine-soaked light, the first light that saturated all of creation, God declared “Good.” One could argue the first incarnation wasn’t Jesus, it was this moment that happened long before any star shone over Bethlehem. The moment God said, “Let there be light,” a divine signature was scrawled across galaxies and hearts alike. This image embedded itself in everything. Which tells me that God’s light is not separate from us. It’s in us, around us, breaking through the cracks we so often try to hide. It shouldn’t surprise that we rely on light to guide us—whether it’s the sun by day or a flashlight at night. As Glen notes, “While light is given to us as a gift, walking in that light requires action on our part. In the natural world, we don’t just observe light—we follow it to navigate, to make choices, and to find our way.” (1) On a more spiritual level, it’s not that different. We not only recognize the light, but we embrace its warmth, and walk in its glow—reflecting God’s truth, justice, and love to the world around us. This is what it means to follow Jesus who embodies God’s light; no matter the cost. Jesus says: “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.” Following his way is more than just walking with him. It’s a call to be like him. To see what he does then go and do that. Jesus calls us the light. Which is more than just an identity. It’s our purpose. It’s a choice we must make to walk with his vision and mission, until we become that guiding light for one another. The mystic Mechthild of Magdeburg wrote, “Of all the things God has shown me, the one thing I never saw was a single person who was not lit from within.” (2) God’s light was spoken into creation, which includes me and you. And God declares it good. When we forget or stop believing that God’s light lives in us and around us—we can easily slip into despair. But when we remember that we are divinely made—and made good—we are able to forgive quicker, bless faster, heal sooner. We begin to see the ground beneath our feet ablaze with glory. And the faces of our neighbors shining brighter. The poet Rumi writes, “Don’t you know yet? It is your Light that lights the worlds.”(3) To walk as children of light means embracing who we are in Christ, and letting that identity shape our thoughts, actions, and relationships. Even if you can’t feel it right now—even if life feels heavy, dark, or hopeless—your light is still there. And no matter how deep that darkness feels, this first sacred rhythm of illumination has already been set in motion. It cannot be extinguished. God’s light shines through everything and everyone—even through you—whether you know it or not. Which means you can stop searching for God “out there” somewhere far away… and start looking within and all around you…right here: In the ordinary. In the overlooked. In that tired face looking back at you in the mirror. You are the light. And that light is good. You can go on with this knowledge and live a wonderful life. But Jesus reminds us that what we do with our light can have a great impact on the healing and redemption of the world. Jesus tells us plainly—this light isn’t meant to be hidden. It’s meant to shine. Through kindness. Through courage. Through compassion and mercy. Through love, love, love. When we live as children of light, we become glimpses of God’s kingdom breaking through, in the biggest and tiniest ways. This is our call as the church—to be a community that shines together, lighting the way for others to find hope, healing, and home in God’s love. How great would it be if Anamesa were known as that place that radiates God’s love and grace? A holy and safe space where people walk in and, even if they can’t explain it, leave feeling just a little brighter. As we build our community of love together in the space between, we build upon that first light spoken into creation. In the many ways we love God, love others, and serve both we step into God’s sacred rhythm—bearing the fruits of God’s Spirit. Paul writes, “For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light (for the fruit of the light consists in all goodness, righteousness, and truth).” (Eph. 5:8-9) Through Christ, we are no longer stuck in the dark. He pulls the baskets off us, and frees our light so we can grow the fruit that feeds a world starving for goodness, integrity, and truth. Growing this fruit isn’t as hard as you might think. You can start small:
Always keep your light in play mode and let it run wild:
Wherever you are—at work, online, walking your dog, or sitting in traffic—Jesus says, “Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to God in heaven” (Matt. 5:16). Jesus isn’t telling us to produce the light, just let the light in you shine out of you. After all, it’s not my light or your light, it’s God’s light given to us in Christ. Think of a car’s headlight: Christ is the bulb and we’re the reflective backing—spreading and directing his glorious light outward. That’s our invitation this week: to reflect God’s goodness and grace wherever we are. Go and be like a porch light—welcoming others in, not shutting them out. Go and shine in ways that remind others they belong, that they are family, not strangers. Don’t be a harsh spotlight that shames; be a campfire that draws people close to warm their hearts and hands. This is how we build a community of love—in the space between us. A sacred, holy space lit by the same love that was spoken into creation and still echoes through us. We don’t do this alone. We do it together. When a candle lights another, it doesn’t lose its flame. One spark becomes many, and the whole room glows even brighter. Let’s go together, into Anamesa, passing the flame from heart to heart until every corner of darkness is filled with hope, and every soul radiates love. Because the same light that spoke the world into being is still speaking. Still shining. Still whispering: “Let there be…” Let there be light. Let there be courage. Let there be tenderness. Let there be hope. Let there be peace. Let there be love. And let it begin with us. Inspired by the work of Glen McWherter and his 8Moves program for spiritual development at 8moves.com 1. McWherter, Glen. Devo 1.1 Walk In The Light. (May 2, 2025), 8Moves.com. 2. Mechthild of Magdeburg, The Flowing Light of the Godhead, trans. Frank Tobin (New York: Paulist Press, 1998), 40. 3. Rumi, The Essential Rumi, trans. Coleman Barks (San Francisco: HarperOne, 2004), 106.
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Of course, family reunions aren’t always picture-perfect. It’s hard to watch my parents age. And each time we come back to visit, more relatives have left this place and taken the train to a heavenly home further down the road.
They are the ones who have carried us and our stories from Scotland to here. And now, that torch is slowly being passed. Now it’s our turn to carry the history, and the hope, forward. That responsibility can feel heavy. But it’s also sacred. And isn’t that what church is too? An imperfect, holy family where we carry the story together. This is where we gather around tables and tears and celebration and song. Where we pass the peace and pass the faith. Where we welcome each other—not for who we should be, but for who we are. It’s here, in this sacred space, this community of love in the space between, that everyone is made to feel like they belong. Where the weary, the joyful, the curious, and the hungry all hear the same thing, over and over again: “Welcome home.”
Which brings me to what I want to talk about today: fleshiness. Not the lumpy, pinch-an-inch kind. I’m talking about the tangible, visible substance of faith. The kind that shows up when love takes on skin and bones and walks into a room. And maybe, just maybe, reacquainting ourselves with this deeper kind of fleshiness can help us make better and more faithful choices as we seek to shape our spiritual body—individually and as a community. Our reading today comes from: John 1:1–18
I love John’s prologue. Not only because it speaks to the humanity and divinity of Jesus, but because—well—it reminds me of tacos. Yes. Tacos. Stay with me.
You probably didn’t catch tacos in the text, but you may have noticed that John skips the usual birth story. No baby, no manger. No shepherds or wisemen. No angelic choir. What we get instead is a poetic, cosmic overture—about Incarnation. The Word becoming flesh. God showing up with meat on his bones and dust on his sandals. And here’s where tacos come in. The root word for incarnation is “carne”—which, in Spanish, means “meat” or “flesh.” Any taqueria worth its salt will serve up carne asada—grilled steak tacos. Who doesn’t love a good steak taco? Growing up in church, I was taught the Bible was the Word of God. And in many ways, it is. It’s sacred, shaped by divine breath. But John is pointing to something deeper. When he says “the Word became flesh,” what does that mean? Is John saying Jesus is the Bible? Or something more profound? John uses the Greek word logos—which means more than simply “word.” It also speech, reasoning, message, and communication. It’s where we get English words like “logic” and “dialogue.” Perhaps it’s better for us to understand that John is telling us Jesus is the divine logic of God—God’s mind, God’s messaging and meaning wrapped in flesh. In logos, we find the content of God’s thoughts made visible in the actions of Christ. We see this first in Genesis: God speaks, and creation happens. “Let there be light,” and—boom—there’s light. God’s Word does more than just describe reality; it creates it. One day, God speaks—not with a sentence, but with a person: Jesus. It’s like God looked at the empty tortilla of the world and said, “Let’s fill it with something good.” And we get a God taco. Jesus, packed full of grace and truth, radiating love, healing hearts, and telling the kind of stories that rearranged people’s souls. When I think of Jesus—God with meat—I think of tacos. Because tacos warm my heart and feeds soul like Jesus does. This God-taco moved into the neighborhood and knocked on our doors. He laughed with us, wept with us, touched our lepers, hugged our kids, and even healed our wounds. But most importantly, Jesus came and made sure everyone had a place at the table, especially the ones whom religion pushed away. One could argue Jesus was the originator of DEI by embodying diversity, demanding equality, and welcoming everyone. This is why he is the Good News. The logos—the logic, the message, the movement of God who conveys divine intention through action. He doesn’t just tell us who God is. He shows us. John tells us, “To all who received him… he gave the power to become children of God.” And that’s where we come in. You see, Jesus needs you and me—in all our ordinary fleshiness—to carry his mission forward. He has left it up to us to reveal God’s love to a hurting world. Now, let’s imagine the church is a taco. Jesus, obviously, is the meat. But we’re the onions, cilantro, guac, and salsa. Each of us brings a little flavor, a little salt, a little spice to the party. Together, we become the full-bodied taste of Christ. Now, I get it. I’m sure it sounds just as silly to think of yourself as a taco as it does Jesus being one. John says anyone who sees Jesus and trusts what he says has been given the power to be God’s child. Born from the Spirit of God, we each carry a word inside us—a slice of the logos. Some of us carry justice. Others, compassion. Some speak mercy, tenderness, courage, hope. Whatever your word is, don’t just say it—flesh it out. Jesus didn’t come to be worshipped. He came to be followed. And following him means putting meat on your word. Being a holy and sacred taco. As we build a community of love in the space between, we’re building upon what God has already spoken into us: life. Full and abundant. This is more than just saying I believe in Jesus. It’s about taking on his flesh and bones and being the good news ourselves. You see, faith isn’t just some theory. It’s something that sweats and struggles with us. It shows up at the hospital at 3am. It feeds someone without asking why they’re hungry. It forgives when you’d rather hold a grudge. It’s about loving God and others with your hands and feet. Serving both with your whole heart. Paul tells us we are one body with many parts. Each of us adds to the substance of Christ. If we are his body, then we must move like he moved. I can tell you to love God, love others, and serve both—but unless we actually do it, these words are just meatless bones. A few years ago, Corey Booker said: “Don’t tell me about your religion. Show me how you treat people. Don’t preach your faith to me. Teach it through your compassion. In the end, I’m less interested in what you have to sell and more interested in how you choose to give.” Sounds a lot like Jesus to me. John says he is the Word of God made flesh. And His entire message, his divine logic and message, can all be boiled down to one word and one action: Love. Every time we show love, the Word becomes flesh again. That’s because, the Incarnation wasn’t a one-time event. It’s an ongoing invitation. It’s a call to embody Christ—not just admire him. It’s a call to carry the weight of divine love into a hurting, hungry world. So instead of counting calories and measuring our waistlines, let’s count the ways we can become little Christ’s in the flesh. Let’s measure our lives not by what we consume, but by how we nourish. Let’s do the work of Christ—feeding the world with the savory goodness of God’s love. People are hungry out there. Hungry for justice, hungry for kindness, hungry to know they matter. And you—you, with all your flavor and heart—you get to feed them. With your compassion. With your presence. With your willingness to show up in the space between hurt and healing to meet them in God’s glory. You are not just a child of God. You are a holy and sacred part of Christ’s body. You are his hands. His heart. His seasoning. Your tenderness is the salt. Your mercy is the lime. Your welcome is the warmth of the tortilla. Your courage is the spice. When we work together, we make a feast. Not for ourselves, but for a world starved for grace. So, who will take on the weight of the Word? Who will bring their flavor, their gift, their yes? Who will wrap their little slice of the divine in grace and serve it to someone who’s starving for hope? The Word still longs to become flesh. Not just once in Bethlehem—but again and again, in places like Prince Edward Island, Sherman Oaks, and right here, right now, in you. So go. Be tender-hearted. Be tacos. Be the Word made flesh—full of grace and truth. Work Cited: Adapted from an original sermon entitled Fleshiness on July 18, 2021.
Most anyone who has spent some time in church can probably recite the Lord’s Prayer by memory. But when was the last time you really sat with it? And heard it the way Jesus’ first followers might have? As an intimate prayer that invites us near, and inspires our imagination. There are two versions of this prayer in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke respectively. But we're going to look at Matthews because, well, it's the first one.
Jesus doesn’t play that game of who’s in and who’s out. He invites everyone into the conversation. He says, “When you pray, say this…”
This invitation begins with just two simple words: Our Father. Not my Father. Not the Father. But Our Father. It’s not a solo prayer—but a communal conversation. Before we’ve said another word, Jesus reminds us of our kinship. We are all God’s beloved children. God is, our “Father.” Here, Jesus uses the word Abba—that Aramaic word we talked about last week. Often translated as Daddy, Abba is less of a word and more of sound anyone, in any language, could make. Ahhh-baaa. It’s an intimate sound of trust a baby makes reaching for their parent’s hand. Jesus is inviting everyone to reimagine their relationship with God! Not as some cold, distant parent who hurts or abandons you. But as the one who waits up in the middle of the night to make sure you get home safely. And no matter where you were, or what you did, still embraces you and loves you … no questions asked. Now I have a great relationship with my own father. But it took half my life to get there. When I was 30 and found myself in a dark place, it was my Dad who showed up. Even though he had no experience in what I was going through, he flew across the country just to say, “I’m here with you.” That changed everything. Now, as a father, I see how presence is the most powerful form of love I can offer my kids. This prayer offers us that. An intimate relationship with God who is always present. An Abba Father we can count on. A love that runs after us and claims us and names us: beloved. Jesus emphasizes this point when he adds, “in heaven” to the prayer. To some, this might sound like God is far off, unreachable. But in the Hebrew imagination, “heaven” wasn’t a hard-to-find address in a galaxy far, far away. Heaven was understood as the place where the fullness of God was present. Where God’s love is complete. Jesus’ audience might have heard it more like, “Our Father, who fills the space between us with love.” As scripture teaches, wherever God shows up for us, that space is made holy. So, when Jesus adds, “Hallowed be your name” he’s not flattering God. He’s teaching us to recognize and realign ourselves with God. To make every space we enter…holy and sacred … all because God’s presence is within us. In preparing for this message, I learned the early mystics often prayed this prayer more like a desire than a statement. I read one prayer that began like this: “Our father, here with us, may my life actions carry the fragrance of your holiness.” Again, Jesus is giving us an invitation to participate in heaven, here on earth. He’s awakening our imagination that leads to transformation. In a divided and angry world full of shouting and shaming, we honor God’s name by choosing to reflect God’s holiness—in the ways we love God, love others, and serve both. That vision we’ve set for the church is the best summary of this entire sermon on the mount. When our prayers and lives become the same thing, God’s kingdom comes; God’s will is done; on earth as it is in heaven. Jesus isn’t asking us to escape the world—he’s inviting us to participate in it, to transform it. To walk in the presence of God, seeking justice and equality, doing good to one another, caring for those who cannot care for themselves. This is where things get a little messy. Some of those folks who showed up to hear Jesus speak wanted a political revolution. They were looking for someone to liberate them from Rome. But Jesus is a different kind of king. Armed with compassion and mercy. His kingdom is incarnation. One where the fullness of God becomes fully alive in human form. This prayer silently asks us: What if Anamesa became the place where heaven touched earth? What if we became people who feed the hungry? Comfort the grieving? Bless the poor? Isn’t this God’s will for us? And why we pray that it may be done? Jesus believes it can be. And so, the prayer switches to a tender request: Give us our daily bread. The original Greek is more accurately translated as “give us today’s bread for today.” This request is packed full of all sorts of goodness. But without getting into too much, note this is both literal and metaphorical bread. In short, it asks God to give us what we need right now, in this moment, to do what we’re being asked to do. Notice Jesus doesn’t say my bread—he says our bread. Again, it’s communal. Which means if someone around us is still hungry, the prayer isn’t finished. What we ask God to provide for us, Jesus is asking the same from us. This kingdom comes alive when we trust God not just for what we need, but when we trust enough to give what we have, and love one another without counting the cost. If we can love like that, we can forgive like that too. In this prayer, Jesus makes us both the forgiven and the forgiver. He’s essentially saying, if you ask for mercy, live mercifully. And if you receive grace, pass it on. This sounds simple enough. But again, it’s revolutionary because it means giving up our rights to get even. Jesus is offering us a way to break the vicious cycles of hurt that leads to more hurt. He speaks against eye-for-an-eye thinking. And calls us to a way of a life that turns the other cheek, that refuses to judge, condemn, or retaliate. I think this is what it means to live a way that doesn’t lead to temptation. And a way that delivers us from doing evil stuff to one another. So when someone hurts you deeply and you want them to hurt them back, Jesus says, “Pray like this.” Because when hate is loud and hope feels small, this prayer can guide us out of the cycles that keep us from building a community of love. We would be wise not to rush through this prayer. But to devour and savor every delicious word Jesus serves us. When you’re angry with God, or fed up with religion, lost or doubt your faith, or simply don’t have the words, Jesus says, “Pray like this.” He’s given us a language to speak to God honestly— with deep trust and faith. Whenever I can’t sleep, I sit with these words—slowly letting each line become a sacred space I fill with names, needs, and hopes. When I say, “Give us our daily bread”—I pause and pray for those I know who are hungry: physically, emotionally, spiritually. This allows the words to settle in my heart, connecting me to God and to those I’m holding in love. Even when the words don’t come easily, this prayer stirs my imagination. And grounds me to my divine belonging as a beloved child of our holy Daddy. I invite you to make this prayer more than words on your lips. Make it the breath in your lungs, the rhythm in your walk, the fire in your heart. Make it be the very thing that awakens the love of God in you. And in the world. Where "thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, now and forevermore."
Tucked inside this epic masterpiece is an unassuming moment where the Holy Spirit shows up to do her thing. To surprise us. And draw us into something just as powerful, just as holy. Just as she did in that first house church in Jerusalem. For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God. For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you received a spirit of adoption. When we cry, “Abba! Father!” it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs: heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ, if we in fact suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him. Romans 8:14-17 I've called this lesson “Adopted” because, at its core, that's what Pentecost is. A great act of divine adoption. The day the Spirit says: I got you. You’re mine.
October 28th is Cali’s “gotcha day.” Meaning, it was the day we adopted her and she joined our family. The day she got not just a new name. But a new life. That’s Pentecost. Where those who are led by the Spirit of God become a beloved child of God. Today is the day that your wealth or poverty, your social status or family name, your birthplace or political affiliation no longer define who you are, or where you belong. God has claimed you. And God has named you: beloved. Another reason I wanted to focus on this adoption metaphor, it turns out that caring for the widows and orphans is pretty important to God. In fact, it’s one the clearest ethical through-lines in Scripture. There are over 40 passages where God calls us to care for those left without family or support. In Isaiah, God says, “Learn to do good; seek justice. Rescue the oppressed. Defend the orphan; plead for the widow” (Is.1:17). And in the gospel of Luke, Jesus raises a widow’s son who has died, not just to show compassion for the grieving mother, but to restore her social and economic security in the community (Luke 7:11-17). Back then, adoption wasn’t a backup plan for people who couldn’t have children. It was a holy act of saving grace. It kept kids off the streets where they often sold themselves to survive. When children were adopted, their family debts were erased. Their future secured - with full rights and full access to the inheritance. Adoptees got a new name, a new future, a new place at the table. Pentecost isn’t just about a Spirit who showed up like a holy hurricane, twisting tongues and lighting the sky on fire. She continues to show up, day-after-day; roaring in and gathering us all together while God boldly declares, “Gotcha. You are mine.” It doesn’t matter what we do, what we have, or what others think of us. We are God’s beloved now, fellow heirs with Christ. Which makes Paul’s declaration both bold and shocking good news. He’s telling us, the same Spirit given to Jesus, the very one that breathed life into the lungs of those first believers, is the same Spirit given to us by God to whom we cry, “Abba, Father.” Which leads us to another thing I love about this passage. There’s a certain tenderness in Paul’s use of the word “Abba.” It’s the word Jesus used to describe his relationship with God. The same word he spoke from the cross at this death. In Aramaic it means, “Dada” or “Daddy.” But really, it’s less of a word. And more of a sound, like one an infant makes. Think: Ah-bah Abba is marked with trust and belonging. When my kids were small and couldn’t speak full words they’d reach up with their sticky little hands and babble, “abba.” To me, it sounded like they were saying “up.” But what they were really saying was, “Hold me.” Pentecost is the Spirit lifting us into the arms of God. Not because we’re worthy, but because this is where we belong. When family and friends knock you down, your Abba is there to lift you up. When the world crucifies you, Abba cradles you through death into everlasting life. This is what Divine Love does. It clings to us and never lets us go. There’s a heartwarming story about a young girl who had spent pretty much her entire life in foster care. The only constant in her life was the case worker assigned to her when she started high school. As she bounced from house-to-house, this case worker never gave up on her. At her graduation, she showed up and handed the girl an envelope. But instead of a letter releasing her from the system, the young graduate found an official document—signed by a judge—that said she’d been adopted by the one person who had walked through hell with her all those years. Pentecost is like God handing us a document saying, “You’re not on probation. You’re not being evaluated. You’re not temporary. You are mine forever.” Today, we celebrate the certification of our belonging to God’s family. A family Jesus describes like this when he’s told his mom and brothers are outside waiting for him. He looks at the crowd in the room and asks, “Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?” Then, pointing to the group, he says, you are. “Whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my family” (Mt. 12:50). It might seem like Jesus is dismissing his biological family. But really, he’s expanding it. He’s blowing open the windows and walls of familiar bonds so the Spirit can to do her thing. Pentecost reminds us that we are to work together with the Spirit, welcoming others into God’s family. This is the work of the church. The work of God’s Spirit moving through the world. Like St. Irenaeus, one of the early Church Fathers, said, “Where the Spirit of God is, there is the Church, and every kind of grace.” Because here’s the thing I’ve learned, as the Spirit move in us, grace flows through us. Like a child muttering “abba,” this flow is something anyone can do because everyone belongs to it. Now, one last thing worth pointing out is that in both the Greek and Hebrew the word used for Spirit is the same word used for breath. A reminder for us all, that when we breathe in God’s Spirit, we also breathe it out into Anamesa. It’s probably the most basic and most natural way to participate with the Spirit or Breath of God here in the kingdom of heaven. Unfortunately, not everyone sees themself in this divine partnership. Some of us have what’s called the “orphan spirit.” A gnawing sense that they don’t belong anywhere. You might think you’re not good enough, or faithful enough to be on God’s team. You might think there’s something you did, or didn’t do, that makes you unworthy of such a position. Maybe you think you doubt too much, or pray too little, or say the wrong things, or never get it right. But Pentecost says otherwise. God’s Spirit is your social worker who never gives up or abandons you. She adopts you, just as you are. The faithful and faithless alike. Because the Spirit doesn’t exclude anyone from the guest list. In fact, she expands it until everyone is seated at God’s table. Henri Nouwen reminds us, “The Spirit of God is gentle. She does not push or force. She invites and waits…She opens us up to a new world, of community, and of love.” This is the kind of church Pentecost gives birth to. The community of love that lives into our adoption—loving God, loving others, and serving both. Like I said at the beginning, I believe the world is aching for this kind of Church. A true sanctuary where all are welcome. A sacred space where our diversity makes us better and kinder, not more fearful and meaner. We are not gatekeepers of God’s grace, but greeters of God’s love. We are not holy bouncers who determine who’s in and who’s out. We are the red carpet that welcomes everyone in. Perhaps that’s why the liturgical color for Pentecost is red. It represents the fire that God’s Spirit has ignited within us. The kind that warms and invites. And lights up the way for others to find their divine inheritance. Pentecost wasn’t a one and done holy act. God’s Spirit continues to breathe wildly and mysteriously all around us. With this sacred breath, the same breath that filled the lungs of creation, she’s constantly building something beautiful within us and all around us: A community of love in the space between inhaling and exhaling. This is the space where God finds us and whispers, “Gotcha.” We are God’s beloved. We are Christ’s body. And we are filled with holy breath of love that says, “You belong.” And “You belong.” And so do you. “For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God.” Always, and forever.
So, if I were to give any advice, it would be simply this…keep your eye on the one who leads you. Which takes us to our reading today. An ancient poem, whispered across centuries, that offers us hope and courage, for every stage of life.
There’s an old Hasidic story that says God is like a flame hidden in coal… that’s waiting for our breath to burn bright. When the road ahead feels uncertain, don’t panic. Just breathe. And remember who’s leading you. A Good Shepherd who “leads you to still waters; restores your soul.”
Let’s not skip past that too quickly. The world will always demand a lot from us: move faster, work harder, prove your worth. It even offers ladders that don’t always lead somewhere. We need rest. Deep rest. Not as a reward for our effort, but as a necessity for our souls. These green pastures and still waters are how your soul breathes. How your heart remains present. How you stay grounded and human in a world that keeps asking us to be machines. Jesus often steps away from the crowds to rest, to pray, to simply be. He invites us to do the same. He says, “Come to me, all who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest.” Or as my dad likes to say, “At my age, happy hour is a nap.” This is sacred time spent, not being lazy but being restored and refreshed by God. We what Anamesa to be a sanctuary for the weary. A holy, in-between space where God meets us, tends to us, and restores us. I call that salvation. Whether you’re a student or sojourner or something in between, always seek places and people that offer refreshment for your spirit. And restoration for your soul.It could be the woods or a beach. A class outside your major or interest. It could be just catching up with a friend you like being around. These are your green pastures. Return to them often. Because when your soul is at rest, your light burns brighter. You might recall in John’s gospel Christ is called “the light of the world.” Jesus says the same to us. He says, “You are the light of the world.” Rest is recharging your spiritual battery so you can do what Jesus needs you to do: Be the light who guides others home to God’s heart. The desert fathers left us with this advice: “Do not follow someone who points the way but does not walk it.” Jesus, the one John calls “the Good Shepherd” doesn’t just show us the way to live. He is the way that “leads us in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.” Out in the world you will see there are many paths to take. Eventually you will come to a fork and will have to figure out which way to go. The popular path crowded with people and distractions. Or the quieter, less traveled path filled with depth and meaning. We are free to walk down either one. But when we follow Jesus, we know the path we’re on will always lead to goodness, grace, and God’s own glory. This is the narrow way, Jesus talks about. A way of humility, kindness, and mercy. A way that isn’t about perfection but presence. Take my advice and follow the Shepherd, whose rod and staff will guide you safely to where you’re needed. It might not always be the place you want to go, but with him leading the way we can “walk through the darkest valley,” fearlessly. And trust me, there will be dark valleys. Days when plans unravel, when friends ghost you, when your heart aches in places no one else can see. But take it from me… these dark valleys don’t destroy you, they deepen you. St. John of the Cross calls these moments “the dark night of the soul” An invitation to find your true self, deepen your faith, and ignite that light of God flickering within you. So when you find yourself in these dark places, don’t try to fake your way through it. Don’t numb the ache or pretend you’re fine, when clearly you’re not. Just keep walking. Keep breathing. Keep trusting. If you feel lost along the way, remember that Jesus said the Shepherd will leave the ninety-nine to find the one. And when you’re found, a party is thrown in your honor! The Shepherd preparing a table “in the presence of my enemies.” Talk about radical hospitality. That’s the way of Jesus. The way the kingdom of heaven comes to life right before our eyes. And this table God prepares for you isn’t some exclusive dinner where you gloat while others watch from afar. God isn’t that petty. Or small. Everyone is invited: friends, strangers, even those who judged or excluded you. More than a table, this is a joyful feast of mercy and grace—where even those you once feared or resented are seated beside you. This table, God’s table, is where bread is broken, feet are washed, heads anointed with oil, and cups overflow. This is where everyone belongs. And no one is left empty. So, just as God has made room for you, make sure you make room for others—friend and foe alike. And pay special attention to those the world has pushed aside or kicked to the curb. Because Jesus tells these are the one’s who will be served first. We are all invaluable to God. And not because of what you do. Your value comes from who you are. Henri Nouwen said it plainly: “You are the Beloved. That’s the truth, whether you believe it or not.” When we live into our belovedness, life begins to overflow—not with stuff, but with joy. With gratitude. With an awareness that even in an imperfect world, we are being held by a perfect, deeply personal, divine love. Wherever you are on this journey—be it miles down the road or just stepping off the curb—the Shepherd walks with you. You don’t need luck, because God knows you. God has you. God loves you just as you are. And out of this great love, “goodness and mercy shall follow you all the days of your life…” So go, rejoice, and rejoice often. This is how to celebrate life and honor God. This is how “we dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” You will get a lot of advice and opinions on how to find this house. But here’s what I hope you will remember after you leave here today. You’ll know this house, God’s house, by its welcome and embrace. By its generous grace and tender forgiveness. By its light and by its love. Somewhere I once read, “The house of the Lord is wherever love has the final word.” (Someone should put that on a shirt.) Love always has the final word. Not judgement, not shame or guilt, just love. The kind that builds a community together in the space between loving God and others, as we serve both. This isn’t something we just say, or have printed on the back of our church t-shirts. It’s something we must live, even when it’s hard to do at times. Love is who Jesus is. And the very soul of who we are. Let us take this invitation to be who God made us to be - holy and beloved. And follow the Shepherd who believes in us more than we believe in ourselves. As we take the next step forward, let us walk together with forgiveness and grace, to build God’s house together with love. And let us live together in such a way that goodness and mercy will overflow all the days long.
We might fail along the way but that’s okay. One of the sweetest fruits of love is grace. The kind of gentle mercy and forgiveness that starts and ends with the One who created all this beauty for us. So as we bring this series to a close, we return to the center of it all. Ending where it all beings: with Love. If I give away all my possessions and if I hand over my body so that I may boast but do not have love, I gain nothing. Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable; it keeps no record of wrongs; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. Theologian Adolf Harnack described this chapter as, “the greatest, strongest, deepest thing Paul ever wrote.” And G. Campbell Morgan, wrote “If one examined this chapter, it would be like dissecting a flower to understand it. In the process, one would tear the flower apart and lose its beauty.” My goal here isn’t to dissect Paul’s perfectly penned words, but to find our place—and God’s power—within them. To the person who said all I talk about it love, this chapter is for you. But let me just say it’s not about the kind of love I have for donuts, or even the deep affection I hold for my family and friends. Paul uses a very particular word here: agape. A rarely used Greek term for a kind of love that’s altruistic, undeserved, and entirely unearned. The ancient Greeks believed agape was divine because it was too pure, too selfless for humans to pull off. Maybe that’s why Paul chose to use it. Remember, the young church in Corinth was cracking under the weight of ego and comparison. Some folks were using their spiritual gifts to climb higher on the holiness ladder. As Paul taught us, love isn’t about puffing yourself up. It’s about building each other up—together—as one body. Paul says the way to do this is Agape. It sounds simple, but we now, it ain’t easy. Agape requires letting go of the things that stop us from truly embracing and embodying a deep and divine way of life. As scripture tells us, this life and love begins with God. The Apostle John wrote, those who live in love, live in God. And God in them. This love, like Paul writes, never ends. It’s woven and connected to everything. To see this, just replace the word love, with God: For example, God is patient and kind. God is never jealous or envious, boastful or proud. God is not selfish or rude. God rejoices in the truth. God never fails. It’s a stunning portrait of who God is—unshakable, steady, and always leaning toward love of the other, and not self. And yet, if you’re anything like me, you might hear this and think, “How could I ever live up to that?” How could anyone? Like Paul reminded us at the beginning of this poetic letter, that’s the beautiful, upside-down nature of God’s love. It’s full of grace. And this grace isn’t something we earn. It’s given to us freely so we can stop worrying about perfecting things and be more present reflecting this image of God in the space between. God doesn’t love us because we’re good. God loves us because God is good. Like Richard Rohr always like to say, “God cannot not love what God has made.” That’s our assurance—our sacred anchor—that no matter how far we wander, we are never beyond the reach of God’s love. A love that comes to us in the flesh and blood of Jesus. While the primacy of agape comes from God, the character of agape is Jesus… who shows us how to set God’s love in motion. And again, the best way to illustrate this is by replacing the word love with Jesus: Jesus is patient. Jesus is kind. Jesus isn’t selfish or rude. He doesn’t keep score. He never gives up. The greatest of these is Jesus. If we want to know how to embody agape, we don’t have to look any further than him. The gospels give us story after story of how Jesus reveals God’s love in every day life. He touches the untouchables, eats with the uninvited, forgives the unforgivable. He stands up against injustice, and practices equality. He goes to margins and brings those society has pushed away back into the center, back in to community. This is what agape does. Like Jesus shows us, wherever such love is practiced, God is present. While love like Eros, or Philia is more of a feeling or emotional thing, agape is love in action …more of a verb than anything else. It comes alive through our connection and presence with others. Which is why it’s always needed - today as it was back when Paul wrote this letter. Today, the body of Christ seems so fractured and divided - over politics, dogma, and the like. We seemed to have exchanged agape for things like pettiness, power, and greed. We keep making it about us, demanding to be right, instead of welcoming the other, and the gifts that they offer. Gifts that reveal God to us. This is especially true about the one’s Jesus calls the least of these. Love is “not a feeling we fall into—it’s a practice we rise into.” When we give ourselves freely to others, not only do we continue the mission of Jesus, but we give the world a glimpse into God’s heart. While the character of agape is Jesus, the enduring presence of agape is us. Here’s the thing. Not only are we loved,… but we’re called to love. To quote Thomas Merton, “Love is our true destiny.” Agape is more than just saying, “I love you.” It’s a relational wholeness, grounded in presence. It’s a reflection of God moving through us. The other night my wife and I were enjoying a glass of wine. Out of the blue, she said, “I love you.” I looked at her lovingly and asked, “Is that you or the wine talking?” She said, “It’s me. But I was talking to the wine.” I fear that we throw the L word around so much that it has lost its depth and beauty. Which is why I want to end this sermon series with this chapter. We need to really embody these words, and make them apart of who we are. Both as a community and as people. I learned a great way to do this, when I read a post from a mother whose daughter had a habit of falling hard and fast for every new boyfriend. When her daughter was getting involved with someone she wasn’t sure about, she handed her a copy of this reading. And wherever love was written, she wrote the boy’s name. Jason is patient. Jason is kind. And so on…She told her daughter, “If he can live up to this, he’s worthy of your heart.” Long story short, Jason didn’t pass. Imagine reading your name in the passage. How might it change the way you view yourself, or how you show up for others? Jesus didn’t say worship me. He says, “follow me.” His is an invitation to participate in heaven right here, right now. He invites us to be the living, breathing embodiment of God’s love in the flesh. Jesus made love the first and last commandment. The kind of love that kneels to wash the feet of others. The kind of love that stays when betrayal’s in the air. That bleeds sacrificially, not symbolically. Love defines who we are. And reveals who God is. To practice love, even when it’s hard, even if we suck at it, is one of the greatest acts of worship we could offer God. John of the Cross wrote, “Where there is no love, put love—and you will draw love out.” This is our call. It’s who we are to be in a world where such love seems foolish. It’s in this holy space - between us and them - where Jesus walks, and love never fails. It’s a sacred invitation to put your name in this scripture. Embody it. Live it. Be patient. Be kind. Be agape. Because God is love. Jesus is love. Together, we can build a community where love endures, now and forever. Amen. Let us pray: Work cited: Bartlett, David L. and Barbara Brown Taylor, eds. Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 1. (Westminster John Knox: 2009) pp. 302-306. Garish, Jim. Word of God Today. http://www.wordofgodtoday.com/1-corinthians-13 (accessed Oct. 23, 2019) God Vine. My Daughter’s Boyfriend Test. https://www.godvine.com/read/love-verse-insert-boyfriend-name-test-relationship-951.html (accessed Oct. 23, 2019).
Along with a criminal past, Robert carried shame like a backpack full of bricks. But, to his credit, he stayed in the back until the end of service. So, I invited him to join us for coffee hour. And again, he stood away from everyone trying not to be seen. I’m not sure what triggered it, but every Sunday Robert just kept showing up. Slowly moving forward, row by row, week by week. Pretty soon, he was pouring coffee, passing out cookies, and laughing with the same folks he once tried to avoid. And not once did lightning ever strike. Robert is a wonderful example of what Paul means when he talks about the body of Christ — how every part matters, especially the ones who think they don’t. For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ. For in the one Spirit we were all baptized into one body—Jews or Greeks, slaves or free—and we were all made to drink of one Spirit. Indeed, the body does not consist of one member but of many. If the foot would say, “Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body,” that would not make it any less a part of the body. . . . . If the whole body were an eye, where would the hearing be? If the whole body were hearing, where would the sense of smell be? . . . . As it is, there are many members yet one body. The eye cannot say to the hand, “I have no need of you,” nor again the head to the feet, “I have no need of you.” On the contrary, the members of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable . . . . But God has so arranged the body, giving the greater honor to the inferior member, that there may be no dissension within the body, but the members may have the same care for one another. If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it. 1 Corinthians 12:12-26 Paul could’ve chosen a thousand metaphors. A team. A temple. A family. But he goes with a body to describe the church. Something that’s “made up of many parts” but is one thing. He imagines this holy body not just as a physical unit, but as an interconnected machine. One that is so perfectly in sync that if the head hurts, the whole thing aches.
Now, the human body has 206 bones, 639 muscles, and around 6 pounds of skin. Of course, there’s also tendons, ligaments, blood vessels, nerves, organs, and tissue. In fact, your foot alone has 26 bones, 33 joints and more than 100 other parts all working together with precision and grace. Every step we take, is a mechanical feat (no pun intended). This is how the church is supposed to work. Together, in unity, with no one part being better than the other. The toenail is just as important as the brain. Yet, somewhere along the way we created a hierarchy, elevating some over others. This seems to contradict exactly what this letter is all about. Paul asks, “If we were all the eye, how would we hear? Or if we were all ears, how would we smell anything?” The way I see it, God has given us each a unique roll and purpose in this sacred body. If the foot feels cut off, it doesn’t matter what the hand says. Like the human body, this holy body works best when the different parts bring their different gifts, their quirks and callings, their scars and stories; trusting that even the ones who stand in the back believe they belong. This is what made the early Christian church stand out above the other religions. Jews and Greeks, free and slave, male and female, many people making one body where the greatest honor is given to least likely member. In a world that honors the greatest (often at the expense of the least) this was a radical and completely subversive approach. But such is the way of Jesus. You might feel like a foot in a hand-shaped world because you have doubts, or an unflattering past. But Jesus shows us this doesn’t stop God from loving you. So why then does it stop us? When Jesus says, “love one another, just as God has love you,” he’s not just teaching spiritual humility. He is calling us to practice radical hospitality. Paul understands this to mean the lowliest are the ones who get priority. Jesus, the very incarnation of God’s love in the flesh, shows us what this way of life looks like every time he goes to the margins and brings those the world has tossed aside, back into the community. Back into the center of God’s heart. This is what divine healing and redemption looks like. Jesus even pushes this notion further, telling his disciple, and us, that whatever we do to the least of these, we do also to him. To welcome the ex-con standing nervously out of place, we’re welcoming Jesus who offers the best seats at the table to tax collectors and street workers. Whenever we treat a trans teen with honor, or see the undocumented as a neighbor, we see Jesus in the flesh. And understand what his sacred body is all about. Remember, Paul is writing to a young church, located in a multicultural, highly competitive city where status is currency. So, the Body of Christ must be a safe and welcoming space for all - especially for those the world wants to hurt. This is true today as well. Because when something as petty as politics stops us from loving our enemy, we’re no longer the Body of Christ. But a social club with decent coffee. Our goal is to take all our unique parts and build a better body together. A community of love in the space between those on the inside and those on the outside. This is where real love is worked out in real time. And this body, like the human body, has a face. One that looks like you and me. One that smiles with ease—because we now know it takes twice as many muscles and effort to frown. Likewise, the body has to work harder to hold onto anger and a grudge than letting go of it. This body also has a heart. One that faithfully beats over 100,000 times a day. Each time we show up; send a text checking on someone; stay up late caring for a broken soul; offer an invitation to church; or share this message with a hurting friend, the heartbeat of this community pulses in perfect rhythm with God’s love. Again, we each play a unique and vital role in Anamesa. We need eyes to help us see, but without ears, we miss the gentle voice asking, “How can I pray for you?” We need hands that wave and serve. And feet to move our mission forward. Working together, in unison, we love God, love others, and serve both. Paul picked the perfect metaphor for the church because in God’s kingdom everything is interconnected - you and me, heaven and earth, Christ and Jesus and this community of love we call Anamesa. Every part belongs because every part is important to the greater mission at hand (again, no pun intended). When one of us rejoices, we all rejoice. When one hurts, we hold that pain together. As amazing as the human body is, we must not forget it’s also very vulnerable. The pandemic reminded us how quickly something from the outside can disrupt everything within. I know someone who’s dealing with an autoimmune disease. Her own body has begun to mistake healthy parts as threats—and is turning against itself. The same is happening in the Body of Christ. We are attacking ourselves by allowing fear, judgment, and division in. Some believe their theology, rituals and rites are better in the church across the street. When we label people, communities, or identities as “not holy enough” or “not one of us,” we’re attacking the Body of Christ. Jesus says, “Every kingdom divided against itself will be ruined, and every city or household divided against itself will not stand” (Matthew 12:25). When the disciples wanted to stop someone from casting out demons because he wasn’t one of them, Jesus tells the Twelve to back off, “whoever isn’t against us is with us” (Mark 9:38). Just as a misaligned spine can cause pain throughout the entire body when we’re not aligned with the heart of Christ—when his love is no longer the center of everything we do, then it all gets thrown out of whack. Jesus says, “I am the vine, you are the branches. Dwell in me… apart from me you can do nothing” (John 15:5). Like he showed us with his own life, the body only moves well when it’s rooted in the source of love. And not just any love, but God’s divine, steadfast love. Where grace, mercy and forgiveness are the antidote to the pain we inflict on this sacred body. Jesus embodies God’s love perfectly. He uses it to welcome, heal, and redeem the world. Not some of it, but all of it. The good, the bad, the faithful and faithless alike. When the body of Christ is aligned in God’s love, and honors every part like Jesus did, then something beautiful is created: a holy community where the least are at the center. A space where folks like Robert are elevated and blessed. And love is the skin that not only holds us all tightly together, but it helps others identify who we are: God’s beloved. Jesus didn’t ask us to build a community that looks like the world. He sends us into the world to build a body that looks and acts and loves like him. We are his sacred body. His living, breathing, resurrected love. Where every scar is honored, every soul is held, and the least among us are seen not as strangers, but as Christ himself, whose love and presence here is so radiant, heaven can’t help but break through. May we all be like him - rejoicing and radiating together as one, Now and forever, amen. Let us pray:
I arrived for a mid-day prayer service where it was just me and the officiant priest that day. He was kind, soft-spoken, and deeply hospitable. As he led me through the ritual, I was struck by the familiar smell of incense, the cadence of his chant, and the careful offerings made at the altar. When the service ended, he invited me to try the food that had been blessed and offered in worship. As he handed me the plate, I found myself at an uncomfortable crossroad. Would eating this food dishonor my Christian faith—or would it be an expression of it? I had the theological knowledge. I knew my identity in Christ wouldn’t unravel by a meal. But still, I felt the weight of the moment. I could hear voices from my past telling me I’ll burn in hell for even being there in the first place. Today’s reading invites us into that same kind of tension about freedom, food, idols, and what love looks like in a complicated, pluralistic world. Now concerning food sacrificed to idols: we know that “all of us possess knowledge.” Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up. Anyone who claims to know something does not yet have the necessary knowledge, but anyone who loves God is known by him. Hence, as to the eating of food offered to idols, we know that “no idol in the world really exists” and that “there is no God but one.” . . . . It is not everyone, however, who has this knowledge. Since some have become so accustomed to idols until now, they still think of the food they eat as food offered to an idol, and their conscience, being weak, is defiled. .. . . But take care that this liberty of yours does not somehow become a stumbling block to the weak. Therefore, if food is a cause of their falling, I will never again eat meat, so that I may not cause one of them to fall. 1 Corinthians 8:1-13 In all my years of preaching, I’ve never attempted to preach on this passage. It always seemed kind of niche. I mean, eating meat sacrificed to idols doesn’t exactly scream “urgent spiritual crisis.” But when I reread this letter, I realized it’s about so much more than one’s diet.
Remember, this church was deeply divided—by politics, class, and status. Folks with a more educated and mature faith looked down on those who were newer to the church. Those who were less “in the know.” Think about how some people roll their eyes at those who have “less informed” political views. This is what’s happening in Corinth. And Paul isn’t having it. He reminds them—and us—that being right is not the same thing as being loving. “Knowledge puffs up,” he writes. “But love builds up.” This is important for us to pay attention to because it was the way they loved that set this young church apart from the other religions. Christianity, believe it or not, was founded on radical, extreme inclusion. Everyone was welcomed, because everyone was loved. It’s worth noting Corinth was destroyed and the do rebuilt by Rome. It became an important multinational pluralistic city. Worshipping idols was part of the cultural DNA. Temples to Aphrodite, Apollo, Isis, and even the emperor himself lined the streets. In those temples, animal sacrifice was common. And the meat from those sacrifices was sold in marketplaces. And that meat that was being sold in the marketplace was being served at the dinner parties hosted by the wealthy. Some who just so happen to be the Christians Paul is writing to. To some in the church it was only meat. Like Paul, they knew there was only one real God so buying meat offered to an illegitimate deity was like buying steak at Whole Foods. But to those newer to faith, that meat was seen as tainted, even dangerous. To eat it felt like a betrayal to their newfound faith; a slippery slope to the life they left behind. Whichever side you’re on in this debate, Paul essentially says, “You’re right. But what good is your knowledge if it isn’t building each other up in love?” Being “right” means very little if it causes someone to stumble in their faith. Now, just before America invaded Iraq, my knowledge had me convinced there were no weapons of mass destruction there. But my dad, not so much. He towed the party line. The harder I pushed back, the deeper he would dig in. Our arguments started to drive us apart. I had to ask myself—was being right worth losing my dad? Guess what? It wasn’t. Knowledge puffs up. But love builds up. And I chose to take the difficult path of love because that’s what Jesus taught me to do. Surrounded by the smartest religious minds of his day, Jesus often challenged their interpretation of the scriptures they were quoting but not necessarily abiding by. He says, “Whoa to you,” for being like whitewashed tombs looking good on the outside but full of darkness and death on the inside. When they question his follower’s cleanliness, Jesus says it’s not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person but what comes out of it. Jesus wasn’t looking to win arguments. His goal was to reveal the heart of scripture: love, mercy, and justice. Jesus calls out “those in the know” for treating Scripture as a textbook instead of living out the words as a testimony to God's love. Being right isn’t the goal. The goal is being the presence of God’s love in the space between heaven and earth. Paul said he wouldn’t eat meat again if it meant hurting someone in the body of Christ. This begs the hard question: What am I willing to give up so others can experience God’s love through me? We know what Jesus was willing to give. He always prioritizes people over principles and traditions. When a bleeding woman pushes through a crowd of men to be healed, Jesus doesn’t rebuke her for breaking purity laws, he calls her “daughter” and heals her immediately. The same with the blind, the weak, the poor, the ones pushed aside and forgotten. Jesus doesn’t just make room for them, he re-centers the entire community around them so everyone is welcomed and loved. St. Teresa of Ávila taught “It is love alone that gives worth to all things.” And this begs another question: What good is our faith if we’re not showing up: loving, healing, forgiving? What good is knowing, or following, or worshiping the one who gave his life to make room for us if we won’t give up our seat or make room for someone else at God’s table? This is what Paul calls freedom. Let’s not confuse this with the lack of oversight or laws, but to letting go of oneself and embracing cruciform love. Jesus didn’t use the power of his freedom to protect himself. He used it to serve. To lift up those around him. But are we willing to do the same? Today, the church is divided over issues like same sex marriage, or using inclusive language for God. Whatever side of the arguments you’re on, I’m sure you’re convinced that your team is right. Again, the goal isn’t to win. It’s about loving God, loving others, and serving both. This doesn’t mean truth doesn’t matter. It does. But people matter more. The nosey neighbors, the offensive co-worker, the drag queens who read books to children, the angry protestors and the politically ignorant, all matter more to God than our theological correctness or denominational divisions. What good is our faith, our worship, our Scripture, if we don’t embody the very love and grace of the God these things reveal? Paul calls us the body of Christ to remind us that like Christ, we must lay down our lives – our pride and ego – so others can rise. This is how we build a community of love together in the space that separates us. I’d like to close with a story about our old neighbor Tom Wolfe, who was a carpenter and built his own house, doing most of the work himself. But someone poured the foundation. Another ran the pipes. And a few of his friends helped frame the roof. Did they voted the same way or rooted for the same team? It didn’t matter. They worked together to create something bigger than themselves. A literal house of love. That’s what Paul’s getting at. We’re all builders raising each other up on the foundation of God’s love in Christ. This is what it’s all about. Love is what holds this body up. Not opinions. Not arguments. Not knowledge. Just Love. “Without love,” writes Paul, “I am nothing.” And Jesus tells us, “They will know you belong to me by the way you love one another.” You can know how to frame a wall or shingle a roof. But if you don’t show up to build—what good is that knowledge? So, let’s rise up for each other in love. If you are strong, be the first to kneel. If you are wise, be the first to listen. If you are free, let that freedom be someone else’s healing. “For whatever you do to the least of these, your brothers and sisters,” says Jesus, “You do also to me.” Now that you know, go and live that. For love is the greatest form of worship done in his name.
For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. For it is written, “I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and the discernment of the discerning I will thwart.” Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scholar? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, God decided, through the foolishness of the proclamation, to save those who believe. For Jews ask for signs and Greeks desire wisdom, but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to gentiles, but to those who are the called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength. (1 Corinthians 1:18-25) Before we get into this, I want to share a true story about a guy named Carl who thought he was clever and wise. Thought he could pull a fast one, dating two women at the same time. He even created a foolproof system, so they’d never find out. Go to the same restaurant and order the same thing. See the same movie. Buy same concessions. He even bought the same cards and scribble the same sappy words into them so he wouldn’t slip up. Clever, right? Until it wasn’t. Because one of the women was actually wise. She eventually caught on. When she found the other woman, she didn’t get mad. She got clever. Together, the two hatched a plan to catch Carl red handed. They meet him at the airport as he returned home from a business trip. Each one holding up a sign that said, I love you, Carl. Right there, in terminal B, Gate 4, all of his wisdom was exposed for what it really was. Foolishness. Turns out, sometimes what looks wise can collapse under its own weight. But sometimes what feels foolish, can end up saving lives. Take vaccines as an example. Who would have thought it wise to inject themselves with a little bit of the very disease they’re trying to prevent catching? It sounds crazy but it works. It saves lives. Paul reminds us that it’s the same with the Cross of Christ. Who would have thought an instrument of death would be the very thing that saves you. But that’s the wisdom of God, whose “foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and whose weakness is stronger than human strength.” Only God could strip the cross of all its power. Only God could take Rome’s most brutal symbol of death and transform into the world’s greatest sign of hope. It sounds foolish to some, but to us being saved by it, it’s the power of God at work in our lives. We might be scratching our heads wondering where Paul came from with such logic. He got it from Jesus who turns the world upside down in the most right-side-up way possible. He said things like, “Whoever wants to save their life must lose it.” “The first will be last, and the last will be first.” “The greatest among you must be a servant.” Jesus never said, “Win at all costs.” Or “Get revenge.” He flips that script and says, “Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you.” That was pure foolishness to those in power. But to everyone suffering under poverty and oppression… the things Jesus said brought them hope. In fact, Jesus’ own life was, and still is, a holy paradox. A king born into poverty. A savior who doesn’t slay enemies but forgives them. A God who doesn’t demand sacrifice but becomes the sacrifice. This doesn’t make sense to the Romans, or to the religious leaders, or to the crowd shouting “crucify him.” It doesn’t always make sense to us, either. The cross still looks like weakness in a world obsessed with power. But to us who are being saved by it? It’s the very wisdom of God. And the way I see it…this wise foolishness is our proof of just how far God is willing to go to rescue, redeem, and love us. This love, God’s love, is stronger than death, wiser than empires, deeper than our logic. So, Paul tells us not to boast in our intelligence, brilliance, or strength. Instead, boast in the Lord. Boast in the cross. Boast in this beautiful, upside-down love that chooses mercy over might, forgiveness over revenge, and community over division. Love is the foolishness of God. Love the wisdom of the cross. And with this cruciform Love we can build a community of hope together in a world drowning in despair. Paul calls us to see the world according to God’s logic. Where our weakness is God’s strength. Where our confusion is God’s wisdom. Where in Anamesa, God’s love isn’t a joke…but the very heartbeat of all we are. And what we are called to proclaim. In God’s love, we build this community not with brilliance or bravado, but with foolish things. Kindness when someone is cruel. Forgiveness when it’s easier to stay mad. Showing up when we want to turn away. When we live in such foolishness, death actually loses its sting. Fear loses its grip. And God’s love rises up victorious. It shouldn’t surprise any of us then to know that the foolishness of love is the cross Jesus calls us to pick up. It’s how we are to follow him - loving God, loving others, and serving both. This is Christ crucified. The very good news we’re sent to proclaim. But how do we share this news if we don’t quite have the words formed? Let me share another true story that happened back in 2006, in Pennsylvania when an angry young man walked into a one-room Amish schoolhouse and executed five schoolgirls and wounded seven others before turning the gun on himself. Instead of responding to his violence and anger with more of the same, the grieving community chose to show the world the wise foolishness of cruciform love. While the blood of their children was still wet on the floor, members of that Amish community walked to the shooter’s home, holding their own grief in one hand and grace in the other. They went there not to retaliate, but to forgive and embrace his family who were also in shock, and suffering loss. And if that wasn’t enough, the entire community showed up at this man’s funeral. They even took up a collection to support his widow and children. Foolish, the world said. But to us being saved, it looked an awful lot like Jesus. Because what seems foolish, God makes wise. What seems weak, God makes strong. Through suffering and pain, God’s hope and glory is revealed and proclaimed. As we leave here today, may we all be wise enough to do such foolishness, in the name of the One who walked out of a tomb and into our lives, still bearing the wounds of love. And may we carry that love into every space we enter, and every soul we encounter. It might sound foolish to some. But to us who are being saved it’s the power of God’s love that comes alive, made manifest in us. With it, we have hope. As Paul will write later in this letter, “Faith, hope, and love abide; these three. And the greatest of these is love.” |
Ian MacdonaldAn ex-copywriter turned punk rock pastor and peacemaker who dedicates his life to making the world a better place for all humanity. "that they all might be one" ~John 17:21“Prius vita quam doctrina.”
~ St. Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274) * “Life is more important than doctrine.”
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