Most scholars call this an 'orphan' psalm, because it’s not attached to someone, like King David, or the choir master. But even without a name, it forces us to look at our allegiances and ask who or what are we worshiping? This was question the Jewish exiles were faced with every time they sang this song of praise to God. Like them, we have hold the difficult space between the precarious stability of nations and the unshakeable nature of God’s covenantal love. Amid the rising voice of Christian Nationalism, many followers of Jesus feel like exiles in our own land. But the truth is, it’s not our land. It’s never been anyone’s land, but God’s. The same is true for the Church Paul so aptly compares to a body made of different parts. Our border walls, our nationalities, and even our doctrinal differences are feckless to the One who created the entire cosmos. As I always try to remind us as much as possible, we are a part of God. And God is a part of us. All of us. Until we recognize the divine image in ourselves, and in all people, until we realize our identity is anchored in God’s love, we’ll always be tempted to seek security in our own strength. If our hope is tied to a nation’s stability, or a World Cup victory, or even a particular political outcome, then our faith will remain at the mercy of things we cannot control. But when God is our hope, when we see that our roots are grounded in the one true source of all life, I believe the entire world can share in a peace that can’t be shaken by breaking news or the shifting tides of geopolitical power. I love Psalm 33 because it reminds us that we’re made for something far more beautiful than a flag. It invites us to look past the many different patches of grass our teams defend, to see that the whole earth is "full of the steadfast love of the Lord." The Hebrew word here is “hesed,” the steadfast love God’s love. This isn’t a soft, romantic type feeling. Hesed is the fierce, steadfast, covenantal loyalty of a God who refuses to let go of us. Like a weary father who drives through the night to bail his son out of jail, or a mom who spends day after thankless day spoon-feeding her disabled child, hesed makes it impossible for God to have a favorite team or empire to root for. But it does make it easy for God to erase the lines we draw in the sand. Although the psalmist writes, “Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord,” we must not take this as a divine endorsement. We’ve seen how this verse has been weaponized for political power. Christian Nationalism, for example, interprets this to mean: God has chosen America, and therefore, our laws, our wars, and our interests are divinely sanctioned. I believe that’s a distortion of scripture, and negates the power of God's love and grace. So, I would like to say to those who subscribe to this idea: To have God as your Lord isn't a badge of privilege. It is a call to total submission and complete accountability before God. If you want to know what that means, look at Micah 6:8 that states, what does the Lord ask of you but to do mercy, love justice, and walk humbly with your God. And in Matthew 25, Jesus outlines the specifics of what that entails. To declare God as Lord holds us to a standard of radical justice that no human empire can ever fully achieve. This means our primary loyalty isn’t to a flag or political party; but to the One "watching from his throne on all the inhabitants of the earth." I believe this is part of what Jesus was referring to when he said, “The first will be last, and the last will be first.” Jesus, the embodiment of God’s hesed, didn’t come to secure our borders or win our wars. He came to return us back to God who refuses to let us go. To borrow from Simone Weil, the belief that our armies and borders can shield us from harm, only crush our capacity for love. The Psalmist writes, “A king is not saved by his great army; a warrior is not delivered by his great strength. The war horse is a vain hope for victory, and by its great might it cannot save.” Psalm 33 reminds us that empires and championship teams are transient; like grass that withers in the sun. History is a graveyard of "great powers" that believed they were the main character in God’s story. Jesus faced those powers, not with a sword but with the radical humility of the cross. Jesus showed us with his life, how the currency of God’s Kingdom runs on righteousness and justice, not military or economic dominance. Every World Cup team strives to be the best. But only one team will come out the victor. When we strive for what God wants, we all are risen up in glory. Competitive thinking is fine for sports, but fatal for the soul. We are not in competition for God’s love and grace. Hesed isn’t a trophy we earn, but a gift given to anyone who wants it. Faith isn’t a winner-takes-all contest. But it takes faith for us to realize that in God’s kingdom, we’re all on the same team. So when you see someone from another side, be it a country, political party, or religious group , remember they are not an enemy. They are the beloved, made in the image of the same God who calls you by name. Jesus essentially gives us one command to live by: to be bearers of God’s hesed, no matter what team we’re facing. Paul takes this further stating, “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Gal. 3:28). As I have been saying a lot lately, Christ is the great unifier. The universal presence of God, woven into all things. When we are able to recognize that Christ made us all holy and sacred beings, we can then turn our swords into plowshares. And our flags into faithfulness to the One who is faithful to us to a fault. This takes the constant work of daily repentance, of being mindful to those around us, and reframing our thinking to see the world as God sees it. Where justice and mercy are the outward expression of our inward worship. When we offer forgiveness, or sacrifice our want for another’s need, or serve the vulnerable and care for the cries of others, then we can honestly proclaim, “the God of justice is my Lord." But all this begins with the humble prayer of this orphan psalm: "Let your steadfast love, O Lord, be upon us, even as we hope in you." We are not waiting for our nation to win. Or for the right political party to take the helm. We wait for the Lord. And in that waiting, we work: Loving God, loving others, and serving both. When the final whistle blows and the flags are put away, the scandalous, unshakeable love of God remains. Because love is the goal that wins the game. So let’s us put down our flags, and pick up our crosses. Let’s continue the work of Jesus. Walking in his footsteps, building up God’s Kingdom with our radical, boundary-crossing, humble, and steadfast love. This is how we become a people who can boldly declare victory. “For blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord.”
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But we’ve discovered the screen isn't the problem. It’s our refusal to show up and be there for each other, even when we disagree. Anamesa might not be the kind of church you grew up in, but it is a holy and blessed community. A place where true friendships have formed organically with people who have never met in person. They’re calling and texting each other, sharing heartaches and bearing one another’s burdens, and praying together long after the livestream ends. This past Wednesday a group of women got together over zoom just to hang out and chat. And that’s the point of today’s message: If you want to get closer to God, get up close with one another. As we will see from our reading today, Jesus was notorious for this.
A fews years ago, to help me get out of a rut, I challenged myself to meet 30 people in 30 days. In order to accomplish this, I had to approach a lot of strangers. Of course, Jesus was the O.G. of this kind of radical outreach. He walks up to a stranger and says "Follow me." And just like that, they do. Including a tax-collector named Matthew. But he’s not alone. As the story goes many “tax collectors and sinners” are invited by Jesus to a special dinner party. We don’t know who threw it, or why, but not everyone is happy about it. Now dinner parties back then weren’t like they are today. People didn't sit at tables with high backed chairs and place settings. Instead, they reclined on the floor, propped up on pillows, eating from shared bowls with their hands. It was up-close and intimate. Your elbows and thighs touched. You leaned into one another. If your neighbor spilt his wine, you’d feel it. Of course, there were some similarities. Like so many wedding receptions today, the host would fret over the seating chart, because who you sat next to was important. This is where deals were made. For example, a brick maker would want to sit next to a home builder. A wine merchant would want to be next to a distributor who could expand his reach. Trust me when I say, no one would want to sit next to a tax collector, society’s ultimate pariah. Yet, here’s Jesus, reclining, eating, and laughing with them. When the Pharisees saw this, they were outraged. No Jew worth his salt would be caught dead in company like that. But had the Pharisees been able to see what Jesus was teaching, they would have seen how God is always within reach, as close to us as the person next to us, regardless of one’s social status or perceived sin. So, when his critics complain, Jesus reminds them of what their own scripture declares, that “God desires mercy, not sacrifice." In other words, kindness and hospitality are more important than rules and rituals. I think that has been foundational to the life of Anamesa. But as a community woven together in Love, we must remember that we’re not the one’s weaving the tapestry. God is. And God doesn’t discard any thread. Every strand is woven into the design, regardless of its color or quality. I think that’s why Jesus sits with the one’s no one else will. He sees their sacred worth and weaves their story into his. He gets up close to others just to be closer to God. While we may be separated by miles and time zones, we’ve actually found a way to get up close and personal. By being a community willing to show up and be present for each other. But this doesn’t mean we aren’t susceptible to problems. Although we have the technology to remain hyper-connected, it’s way too easy for us to retreat into our private silos. That’s one of the greatest problems the church, and our country, face today. We have algorithms to ensure we only hear what we already believe. We curate our lives to make sure we never have to encounter a worldview that challenges our own. But here’s the thing about silos: they don’t just keep others out, they also keep God’s presence from getting in. It’s easy to hate a faceless group on the nightly news. It is much harder to hate someone when you are sharing a meal or hearing the tremor in their voice as they talk about a problem their child is going through. When we get close enough to see our shared humanity, judgment fades, and we discover that our differences—skin color, nationality, social status, job title—are just surface-level stuff. Beneath it all, we’re crafted by from the same unconditional love, made in the same divine image. Each one of us carries the presence of God, which makes every encounter holy and sacred. Of course, our proximity to someone doesn’t require us to agree. But it does force us to acknowledge that the person standing in front of us (even the one who makes our blood boil)… is a vessel of God’s presence that needs to be honored. Jesus always gets up close and personal with others, always seeing and acknowledging those the world considers less than. If we follow his lead, meet one another with his vulnerability, the harder it will be for us to ignore one’s pain or the injustice causing it. This is why Jesus calls us out of our silos. And sends us to where God is needed the most, to bring healing and salvation to the person sitting right next to you. This is where bridges are built, and faith flourishes. Where real connection and deep transformation take shape. So next time you’re tempted to write someone off for one reason or another, remember who’s there with you. Move closer to that person and welcome God’s presence in them. It might be hard to find it in some, but that only means you have to try a little harder. They might be broken, or in your view, dead wrong. But they still possess a part of God within them. By rejecting someone, you’re not only rejecting God, but you’re also denying the one truth that holds us all together: that God’s love is boundless, limitless, steadfast, and truly unconditional. With this love, God knits us all together. A dinner party may not seem like a Pentecost moment. But there among the lamb, olives, bread and wine, the Holy Spirit does her quiet work, binding our fragmented lives together, and breathing life into a grace-filled existence. Like Pentecost, this story reminds us that God isn’t distant, somewhere out there. In Jesus, God moves right into the neighborhood to live with us. From this holy proximity, our community takes shape. We become people who don’t just talk about love, but actually practice it in real life. God’s love isn’t a solitary act. It’s communal. And is measured by the distance between you and person right beside you. The closer we get to one another, the closer we get to God. So, to welcome the stranger, to sit with societies outcasts, to be present for someone crying out, is to open the door for God’s love to enter Anamesa. Jesus teaches the Pharisees that the gospel isn’t a set of rules or rituals. It’s the living, breath of God that moves through our love, mercy, and compassion. Jesus says, “Follow me.” This is an invitation to see with his eyes, to serve with his hands, to love with the same reckless, boundless courage he showed us. It’s a call to look past the labels and stereotypes, and recognize the inherent worth of every person we meet. By the power of God, whose Spirit knows no distance, we are invited, like Matthew, to trade empty rituals for the radical, beautiful work of Christ. Your heart was never meant to be a fortress. It’s a gift meant to be shared. As we learn to give love away, we begin to see the handiwork of God’s glory, up close and personal, right here in the space between us. So let me say it one more time, if you want to get close to God there’s no better place to start than right here with one another. Work Cited
Adaptation of a sermon Get Up Close and Personal given on June 11, 2023. Bostock, Jazzy. Proximate. June 5, 2023 (accessed on June 9, 2023). Rohr, Richard. A Spring within Us: A Book of Daily Meditations (Albuquerque, NM: CAC Publishing, 2016). Stevenson, Bryan. Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption. (New York: Spiegel & Grau, 2014). Whitley, Katerina Katsarka. The Lectionary Today. June 8, 2008 (accessed on June 9, 2023).
For Jesus, sacrificial love is not just a moral ideal; it’s the very breath of God that moves our hearts, and empowers us to build up God’s kingdom. While we don’t always get the wild dramatic Pentecost like we read about in the book of Acts, there is always that soft, whispered breath like we get in our reading today from John’s gospel. On the evening of that first day of the week, when the disciples were together, with the doors locked for fear of the Jewish leaders, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you!” After he said this, he showed them his hands and side. The disciples were overjoyed when they saw the Lord. Again Jesus said, “Peace be with you! As the Father has sent me, I am sending you.” And with that he breathed on them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive anyone’s sins, their sins are forgiven; if you do not forgive them, they are not forgiven.” Three years ago, on Pentecost, I was giving my sermon from a hospital parking lot. My dad was intubated in the ICU after a series of massive seizures. The dark irony didn’t escape me. While he had tubes in his lungs to help him breathe, I was in his car talking about how the Holy Spirit “filled everyone to the gills with God’s breath.” (Taylor). I was just getting started when my feed cut out. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t get back online. It was like a holy nudge. As I frantically tried to log back on, my sister sent a text telling me dad was breathing on his own. Like Rev. Dawn used to say, Holly doesn’t do subtle very well. We’ve spent the last five weeks of Eastertide watching the Holy Spirit whip up the early church like a holy hurricane. But today, she sneaks in, in an ordinary, single breath that no one saw coming. As John’s story goes, it’s the day after Easter. The Apostles are locked away in a house, afraid of getting blamed for stealing their teacher’s body. Then, from out of no where, Jesus appears among them. And the first thing he says is, “Peace be with you.” I suppose that’s the right thing to say to folks who, just a few days ago, watched you die. After they poke and prod him to see if this is real, Jesus breathes on them. Not to prove he’s alive, but to fill their lungs with the very breath of God. From this subtle, ordinary action their lives will never be the same again. Richard Rohr writes, “To span the infinite gap between Divine and human, God plants a little bit of God—the Holy Spirit—right inside us.” John’s story shows us that Holy Spirit doesn't need a storm to transform a person’s life; she simply needs to be present to move through that space between the giver and receiver. So in those moments when you’re paralyzed by grief, or locked away with anxiety, or hiding from your past failures, remember how God is able to come in and give you a new life, a new kind of breath that will empower you to do anything. Think about it, the same life force that animated Jesus, the same divine breath he passed to his friends, is ours as well. So let’s all take a deep breath. Hold it in and let it rest in your soul. Hold it. Hold it. Here’s the thing about breath you can’t hold it in forever. Eventually, you have to let it out, blend it with everyone else’s. The Church was born the day it took what Jesus offered, and then turned and gave it to others. As Jesus commanded his followers, “Love one another as God first loved you.” That’s the mission. To offer the life-giving breath of the Spirit back into the world. Jesus makes this very clear. Once the Apostles receive the Spirit, Jesus commissions them: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” This is a massive invitation. I don’t know what’s more terrifying? Seeing a friend you watched die show up in your living room? Or being sent out, into the same world that killed him, to continue what he started? We know what the Apostles did. They went out and risked their lives to love God, love others, and serve both. That’s what Holly does. She drives us out. Sends us to places we may not want to go, simply because that’s where God’s love is needed. Just as she pushed Jesus from his baptismal waters to the noisy streets of Israel, she’s thrusting us into a world that is gasping for something far deeper than the hollow noise of politicians and pundits can offer. To follow Jesus literally means to follow his Way; to continue what he began. To inhale his life, and exhale it, over and over again. We all take our first breath when we enter this world. And we all give up our last when we leave it. But what will we do with all the other ones in the space between those two life markers? In John’s story, Jesus offers us a few clues. First, we must bring peace into the world. Just a few days earlier, Jesus told these guys, “My peace I give to you; not as the world gives but as I give to you.” The world gives noise; Jesus gives breath. With breath comes life. Thomas Merton once observed that everyone is trying to be something, “but very few are trying to be at peace.” The world is chaotic enough, why add more static? When you feel the urge to judge or react with hostility, pause. Take in the Spirit with a deep, intentional breath and remember: You cannot be a sanctuary for others until you let yourself be filled by God. Second, we must be the air the world inhales. We practice our faith by stepping into places where people are hurting, divisions are deep, and hearts remain locked in fear; go breathe God’s glory into it. Jesus said “You are the light of the world.” He wants us to shine brightly by showing up as he did, exhaling peace and extending our scarred hands for others to see and encounter God’s grace and mercy in the flesh. Fredrick Buechner famously said, "They may forget what you said—but they will never forget how you made them feel." So, let your presence be the sacred breath that quiets the storm of an anxious world. And lastly, we must live as a community woven together in love. We must use our breath to help one another get by. The mission of Anamesa has always been to make love as common as breathing. Because every breath an opportunity to bear the good fruits of God’s Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. I believe Paul puts love first, because "Nothing shows the presence of the Spirit in human life as well as love does." (Boff) You see, love is more than a sensation we feel if we’re lucky enough. Love is the divine presence that ignites the world and gets ordinary people to do extraordinary things. It is a sacred part of God given to us by the Spirit for the sole purpose of continuing the work of Christ in the space between. This can’t happen when it stays hidden and locked away inside us. Love must be given away, especially, as Jesus states, through acts of mercy and forgiveness. And the other things we’d rather not do: like crossing the street to help someone in need. But here’s the thing, as long as we have the Spirit of God filling our lungs, we have what we need to forgive those who hurt us. And to be kind to those who hate us. We can welcome the stranger, clothe the naked, feed the hungry, care for the sick. Jesus calls you out from behind your locked doors to be the giver of God’s love and peace. He sends you into the troubled, real-time messy beautiful lives of your neighbors where his light and love are needed the most. Tomorrow we will celebrate Memorial Day remembering those who sacrificed their lives for our freedom. But today, let us rejoin our hearts to Christ by breathing in his Spirit. And may we be remembered for all the ways we exhale his life-giving breath, the very peace and love of God, that this world is so desperately gasping for. WORK CITED:
Adapted from an original sermon Breath of Love (June 4, 2023). Boff, Leonardo. Come Holy Spirit: Inner Fire, Giver of Life, and Comforter of the Poor, trans. Margaret Wilde (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2015) Rohr, Richard. “Pentecost Sunday: The Divine Sparkplug,” homily, May 15, 2016. Rohr, Richard. Essential Teachings on Love, selected by Joelle Chase and Judy Traeger (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2018). Memorial Day always arrives carrying tension between gratitude and grief. On one hand, we’re grateful for those who gave everything for our country. On the other hand, we grieve what that sacrifice actually cost.
This Sunday we’re also celebrating Pentecost. And I think these two holy days have a lot to say to each other. As followers of Jesus, we know a little something about that kind of sacrificial love. Jesus didn’t walk onto a literal battlefield, but he showed us exactly what it means to pour your life out for other people. He did it by washing feet, by showing up for the outcasts, and by breathing love all the way to the cross. When we talk about Pentecost, we’re celebrating the gift of the Holy Spirit, who empowers and sends us out into the mission field. We’re grateful for the power the Spirit gives us to go out and do the work of Jesus, but we also have to admit it can be a little scary to realize what that work actually asks of us. To empty ourselves, just like he did. It’s pretty wild to think that the same breath that moved over the world at the very beginning is the same breath that moves through us today. A breath that finds us in our own messy, wounded lives and pushes us back out the door, not as soldiers but as healers and peacemakers. Although it’s rare these two holy days fall on the same weekend, I think it’s a perfect reminder that our freedom isn’t just a gift for us to keep. It’s an invitation to show up for each other to love our neighbors, welcome the strangers, and help lift people up when they’re struggling. Maybe the best way we can honor those who gave their lives is by giving our own lives away—not in some massive, movie-style sacrifice, but in the small, everyday ways we show mercy and kindness. “Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”” (John 20:21-23)
It’s not my best joke, but it reveals how we’re aways trying to shrink God to fit into our tiny little boxes. When we insist God is exclusively "ours," it makes me wonder if we’re worshipping competing team mascots instead of the Divine Creator. As we continue to look at how we can model Anamesa like the early church, we reconnect with Saul whom we briefly met last week during the stoning of Stephen. Saul is now Paul. He has gone from hunting Jesus freaks to becoming one. Today, we find him in Athens, trading stones for a sermon that will blow the roof off every narrow, tribal definition of God we’ve ever held.
Paul steps into the Areopagus for what feels like a high-stakes TED Talk. Surrounded by the city’s most powerful "movers and shakers," he’s invited to stand on the very ground where Socrates was executed for introducing “foreign gods.” Which seems crazy, considering Athens is absolutely filled with altars to various deities. Even though Paul’s is who he is, he doesn’t come out full of fire and brimstone. He doesn’t condemn people to hell, or critique their "pagan" ways. Instead, he finds a bridge. An altar to an “Unknown God.” And crosses it. Paul tells them, "I see that you're religious people. But it looks like you’re still seeking. You have an altar for the God you don’t know yet. And I’m here to tell you that One you’re reaching for is closer than you think.” This God, as Paul points out, can’t fit in a box, or be trapped in a statue, or contained in a temple. Because this God is the source of all life. A God whose fingerprint is on every thing ever created. In all his letters, Paul names this universal life source “Christ.” You might think Christ is Jesus’ last name. Like he’s from the Christ family of Nazareth. According to Paul, Christ is the divine, cosmic power. The universal heart beat of all life. Or as Richard Rohr describes, “Christ is another name for everything.” A part of God etched in every atom of existence. It’s why Paul can say things like, “It’s no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me” (Gal. 2:20). He’s not talking about a historical figure taking up residence in his brain. He’s talking about the divine light within us all that Jesus says darkness cannot overcome. The way I see it, Christ isn’t a person we can claim to own. Instead, it’s something that belongs to God, who claims us all. And if that is true, then Christ is the great unifier who levels the playing field, redeeming us and returning everyone to our true nature as God’s beloved. We are all in Christ. And Christ is in all of us. Which means we all share the same spark of divinity, so we can share our humanity together - in peace, in harmony, in Christ. So why then do we continue to divide our ourselves between “us” and “them”? That’s what "small g" gods do. They tear us apart because they thrive on polarization. When our vision of God requires us to pick a side we created a small, petty deity who needs “losers” to feel like a “winner.” That’s just the same old dualism that has plagued humanity since the ancient world. It’s the same poison currently tearing Christians apart. But here’s the thing Jesus reveals to us, God didn’t come in the flesh to draw more boundary lines, God came to erase them. Nadia Bolz-Weber reminds us, Jesus was constantly "violating boundaries of decency" just to get to the people on the other side. He didn’t see us as enemies to keep apart, because he knew we’re all part of the same sacred body. Thus, Paul declares the eye can’t look at the hand and say, “I don’t need you” (1 Cor. 12:21). Yet, that’s exactly what we do when we look at someone on the other side of a political line or border wall and say, “I have no need of you.” When we try to cut someone else out of our community, we’re just amputating a piece of ourselves. The church must stop dividing itself from one another. Following Jesus means embracing a worldview that is radically inclusive as well as relentlessly compassionate. To those on the inside and outside. Because the moment we draw a line to keep someone out, we inevitably look up and see Jesus standing on the opposite side. We made it our mission to love God, love others, and serve both. Nowhere does that say love only those who are worthy, or only serve those we agree with. Love, true Christlike love, doesn’t discriminate by race, gender, nationality, politics, or social status. To love God is to love all people. And to be caretakers of everything made in the image of God. Instead of drawing people out of the game, it’s time to draw them in. And the way to do that, as Jesus teaches, is by the way we welcome everyone in love. Six centuries ago, the mystic Julian of Norwich realized we all are inextricably linked because God is so deeply present in every soul. She wrote, “In God’s sight, all humanity is one person, and all people are a single humanity.” To welcome another is to invite God into the space to bless it. But when we push someone out, or keep our doors shut, we do the same to God. As Jesus said, “What you do to the least of these, you do also to me” (Matthew 25:40). Paul’s words to the Athenians is echoed in other letters. He wrote, "Your body, is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you" (1 Cor. 6:19). This is important to remember that you are a holy shrine that God dwells in. But here’s the thing, that’s true for everyone. Including those you disagree with, and those you despise the most. We are all living temples of Divine love. Which means, every Christian, Jew, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Agnostic, and Atheist is a holy place to meet God in the flesh. As we prepare to go out into the world, let us remember Christ has "broken down the wall, that is, the hostility between us" (Ephesians 2:14). If God has already torn down the walls, why do we work so hard to build them back up with our rhetoric and division? Why do spend so much energy forcing God to wear our team jersey, or fit into our small god boxes? In Christ, there is no "us and them." There’s only one holy body, redeemed and held together by a God who refuses to play favorites. Mother Teresa captured this truth perfectly when she said, “If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.” We must stop trying to win a turf war for a God who already owns the entire field. Instead, let us humble ourselves to welcome and serve one another in love. Jesus doesn’t send us out there to police who’s "in" and who’s "out." We’re sent to shine the light of Christ into the darkest places, offering God’s love as a bridge that brings us together as one. Love is how a “Big G” God becomes visible through us, erasing the lines that tether us to those “small g” deities who make love conditional. In Christ we are living temples where a weary world can meet God in the flesh, and find unconditional love. In Christ, let us welcome one another with the heart of Jesus, knowing every single person we meet is drinking from the same divine breath. May the Christ in you love the Christ in me, and everyone, everywhere. “For in Him, we live and move and have our being.” Work Cited
Adaptation of a sermon originally published on May 14, 2023. Bartlett, David L. and Barbara Brown Taylor, eds. Feasting on the Word Year A, Vol 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2010). Bolz-Weber, Nadia. Shameless: A Sexual Reformation (New York: Convergent Books, 2019), 26, 22, 26–27. Rohr, Richard. The Universal Christ: How a Forgotten Reality Can Change Everything We See, Hope For and Believe (New York: Crown Publishing Group, 2019) Rohr, Richard. Essential Teachings on Love, selected by Joelle Chase and Judy Traeger (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2018), 90–92.
Over the last few weeks, we’ve watched their shared life spark a revolution that didn't just change hearts—it challenged systems. It’s a path that led a young man named Stephen to a witness so bold, that it not only served as a wake-up call to those who were present, but also for anyone who hears these words today. His story is found in Act, chapter 7. “You stiff-necked people, uncircumcised in heart and ears, you are forever opposing the Holy Spirit, just as your ancestors used to do. Which of the prophets did your ancestors not persecute? They killed those who foretold the coming of the Righteous One, and now you have become his betrayers and murderers. You are the ones who received the law as ordained by angels, and yet you have not kept it..When they heard these things, they became enraged and ground their teeth at Stephen. But filled with the Holy Spirit, he gazed into heaven and saw the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God. “Look,” he said, “I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God!” But they covered their ears, and with a loud shout all rushed together against him. Then they dragged him out of the city and began to stone him, and the witnesses laid their coats at the feet of a young man named Saul. While they were stoning Stephen, he prayed, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” Then he knelt down and cried out in a loud voice, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” When he had said this, he died. Gregory Hansen writes, “If the second chapter of Acts portrays the best response ever given to someone’s first sermon, here Steven receives the worst response imaginable to what was definitely his last.” How did we get here so fast? One minute the community is filled with the Spirit and sharing everything in love; the next, stones are flying. A lot has happened in the space between.The authorities have already beaten and jailed Peter and the Apostles for preaching about Jesus. Yet despite the threats, thousands of lives were still being transformed by their testimony. Including Stephen, a man full of faith and Spirit. He was caring for the vulnerable at the local food bank when he’s cornered by an angry mob. When this triggers a fiery and passionate testimony, their response was swift. And deadly. This wasn’t a one off event. People reject the Gospel all the time, especially when it attacks their way of life. In Bryan, Ohio last year, city officials arrested a minister who kept the church doors opened around the clock to provide food and shelter to the homeless. They criminally charged him, essentially arguing that church was for Sunday worship, not daily survival. There are modern Stephens everywhere being arrested and fined for doing what Jesus calls us all to do: care for the poor, feed the hungry, challenge injustice and inequality, offer sanctuary to immigrants. It’s crazy that these practices still upset the status quo. So here’s the thing, if testifying to God’s love and mercy gets legal stones thrown at you, well, then maybe it’s time for all of us here to get stoned. Stephen might be remembered as the church’s first martyr. But he’s certainly not the last. In fact, it should be a moniker we all strive for. You see, in the Greek, martyr doesn’t mean “victim.” It means “witness.” More than just a tragedy, Stephen’s story is a testimony that teaches us how to follow the call of Christ Jesus who sends us out into the world, “like lambs into the midst of wolves,” to bear witness to the good news of God’s love, mercy, and grace. No matter the cost. There will always be people who’ll throw stones. Which means, there will always be a need for our witness. Stephen didn’t stop testifying as they pelted him with rocks. Instead, he prayed, “Lord, don’t hold this against them.” His words echoed another execution of another innocent man whose witness the world rejected. Both Jesus and Stephen’s stories teach us an important lesson. A love that refuses to return a stone is the only force that can break the heart of the one throwing it. The stones we face might not be literal anymore, but they’re just as real when they’re hurled through words, policies, silence, or indifference. Which leaves the church in a tough spot because it begs the question: Are we the one’s getting stoned, or are we the ones holding the rocks? Here’s why this still matters. People look at organized religion and see more hypocrisy than hope. They see power grabs instead of servitude. Certainty instead of humility. The Acts church shows us a different kind of community, one that pushed back against the “way things are always done.” A community that isn't obsessed with preserving its own institution, but is willing to pour itself out for others. It doesn't cozy up to the rich and powerful, but choses to stand with the poor and the powerless. Our goal isn’t to shout louder than the world, but to live in such a way that the world has to stop and ask why. Like Jesus, Stephen didn’t just preach the gospel. He became it; embodying the love of Christ, even as he faced death. What does this say about us? What does it look like to become the gospel right now? How do we bear witness in a world of "stones"? I think the answer is simple. We don't need grand theological statements; we just need a love that shows up where it’s least expected. In the fields, where Jesus fed the people. Along the side of the road, where Jesus touched the leper and healed the sick. We all know that Jesus could have commanded and claimed power for himself, but instead chose to humbled himself, even to the point of death on a cross. By his actions, Jesus taught us that love isn't just a private feeling we have in our hearts. It’s the public policy of God’s Kingdom. How we treat and love our neighbors is the politics of Jesus who insisted that the poor, not the powerful, belonged at the center of our lives. Today, when churches help abolish millions of dollars in medical debt for their neighbors, or choose to build tiny homes for the unhoused instead of bigger parking lots, they’re not just "doing charity"—they are practicing the politics of Jesus. And getting stoned for doing so. Though some have warned me not to talk about politics from the pulpit, it’s kind of hard not to if I am going to follow Jesus. Choosing compassion over control is a political act. Standing for human dignity isn't about being "woke"; it’s about being faithful. Jesus said, "Love one another as I have loved you." In plain English that means: Don’t just pity the hungry—feed them. Don’t just watch the sick suffer—care for them. Don’t curse your enemy as they throw stones, forgive them, pray for them, love them to the very end. I know how tempting it is to soften the gospel, to keep things safe and comfortable. But Stephen shows us that the Way of Jesus was anything but that. Jesus calls us to step out of our comfort zones, to be liberal and vulnerable with our love. Because love is the power that transforms the heart from the inside out. At the end of the day, if our faith doesn't cost us something, then it probably isn't changing anything. And if that’s the case, if we’re not being transformed by Jesus, then why bother following his Way? This is a serious question. Because there’s a "quiet revival" happening. One being led by a generation that isn’t, looking to be entertained. They’re hungry for something real. They’re searching for and gravitating towards communities where love is not just a word, but a way of life. There’s a reason why parks have more people in them on Sunday then churches do. Right now, there’s someone out there who want to know if this story we tell is actually true. They’re watching to see how we love God, love others, and serve both. They’re not looking for perfection; but honesty and authenticity. They want to know if we’re willing to get stoned for them. How will we answer? What will we say? How does our love testify to the God we worship? Or invite people to meet the Christ in the flesh? As we go out into the world, let us remember that we are Easter people, called to use our life as living testimonies of God’s glory. Every time we choose love over fear. Every time we forgive when we could retaliate. Every time we refuse to pick up stones, the gospel is preached. So, let’s stop just talking about a love that once happened a long time ago and start being a love that transforms life today. Because the world doesn’t need another church; it just needs a bigger heart to be held in.
Before we continue on in Acts, I want to take today to talk about a different church. One that’s been around for a long time. I do this every few years or so, to remind us of who we are and what our calling is at Anamesa. You see, like so many mainline churches today, this particular church struggled to find relevance in our new and changing world. But that’s not how their story began. Planted in the center of a growing town, this church, with its classic colonial design, quickly became a centerpiece in the community. As the city grew, so too did the church. And its presence. One year, one of its many wealthy members commissioned a well-know artist to create a sculpture that would best describe the church and her mission. And so, inspired by the calling Peter and Andrew, the artist created a beautiful statue of Jesus, looking fondly outward with his arms wide open, inviting all to come and follow. There was a kindness to the face, a certain gentleness in his smile. Though the statue was made of cold, lifeless marble, it was impossible to ignore the tender warmth that seemed to glow from Jesus’ eyes. Even his body language was gentle and inviting. The actual figure itself stood about six feet tall. But because it was elevated up above a long rectangular reflecting pool, Jesus came off as much larger than life. And if you stood in the right place, and looked at your reflection, it seemed as if Jesus was reaching out to embrace you. At Easter, volunteers adorned the edges of the reflecting pool with beautiful and fragrant Easter lilies. During the sunrise service, the congregation gathered around as the rising sun made the silhouette of Christ seem both blinding and alive. Needless to say it was a magnificent work of art that quickly became the church’s pride and joy. Whenever the secretary gave people directions to the church, she always said, “Be sure to look for Jesus welcoming you home.” But as the years went on, and the town began to grow into a larger, metropolitan city, the statue became less prominent, almost invisible. Same with the church. Yet, when people called the office, the secretary still said, “Be sure to look for Jesus welcoming you home.” Beautiful as it was, the statue could not stop the effects of time. Smog stains, tree sap, bird poop, the dirt and grim of modern life could only hide the cracks for so long. When the homeless claimed the pool as their own personal bath, the trustees voted to let the water evaporate until the grand reflecting pool was nothing more than a swallow box that collected trash, graffiti, and the occasional puddles of rainwater. Then one day – and sadly no ones exactly when – a terrible thing happened. Someone took a hammer to Jesus, smashing off both of his hands and part of his right arm. In the midst of the hustle and bustle of the city, this heartbroken community held a prayer vigil around that empty pool. They lit candles and sang hymns, mourning not just the vandalism but something deeper. But the only one who seemed to notice their tears was the humble face of Jesus looking down on them. They couldn’t see that grace still lingered in his smile. Tenderness radiated from his eyes. All they saw was his broken outstretched arms that gave Jesus the cold appearance of a homeless man seeking alms. And, although it was never spoken out loud, the congregation itself felt broken and defeated. They knew this church wasn’t the same. The large crowds had dwindled long ago. Those who still showed up, were aging. And the church was a empty shell of what it once was. Little did they know that the statue that had once defined the heart and soul of who they were, would soon redefine them. You see, someone in the congregation had the idea to hold a fundraiser to fix the statue. And everyone got on board. They were going to save Jesus, no matter the cost. For the next month or so, volunteers spent hours preparing for the event. They made flyers and posters; gathered donations from the local business for a silent auction. They even convinced a well-known caterer to donate her talents as a way to attract people from the community. A fiery spirit of church life began to return. There was joy and laughter in their souls, as a renewed sense of hope and purpose filled the air. And then something else happened. A week before the big event, their minister, who had been mostly silent on this issue, stood at the pulpit and told the congregation the fundraiser was off, and the necessary repairs would not be made. “Instead,” he said, “We will become the hands of Christ.” From that moment on, in each weekly message he reminded them that they are not defined by who they once were, but by who they are still called to be. The hands and heart of Christ. A new spirit was ignited that day. Just as it was in that first church in Jerusalem. This is my hope for us as well. To be the hands of Christ in the space between, where God meets us in the flesh. To be the incarnate, visible presence of God’s love, filling Anamesa with God’s tender mercy and grace. That’s our call. That’s our mission. That’s our purpose. The reason we are woven together in love. The church is not a building, any more than it is a statue. The church is the people. It’s you and me. Young. Old. Rich. Poor. We all have gifts and talents to bring. We are part of one holy body, the body of Christ. We all share the same holy heartbeat…that wild, fiery Spirit that God breathed into creation in the very beginning. What we do with each breath matters, not just to ourself but to those we love and serve. Because, if we want the world to notice us, then Jesus must be the centerpiece, the pride and joy of this community. Not as a cold, lifeless statue. But as a living, breathing, welcoming, loving presence, right here, right now.
Hardest thing to get used to, however, is not taking offense to those colleagues who don’t believe what we do every week on Sunday is a real church. Some have accused me of being a heretic for offering communion online. As we are about to discover, gathering in someone’s home to worship God wasn't heretical. It was necessary for survival. In the beginning, that first church was so dangerous to the way things were done that it had to meet in secret, in private homes. What made them so dangerous? The answer might surprise you. Picking up where we left off from last week, we take a front row seat as the infant church begins to take shape.
In this passage, we get the perfect portrait of community, as I believe Jesus intended. People sharing meals and holding space for one another. They’re reading and praying together, and actually doing the will of God. It kinda makes me wonder what happened? What was the thought behind replacing this model for what we have today: institutionalized religion. Walk into almost any church building, and I doubt you’ll find what Luke just described. Yes, there are similarities. But where’s the awe?Where are the people being blown away by what God is doing? Church has become more of a routine than a revolutionary movement. We come and go through the motions. But are we really being transformed? I’m not saying we’re doing it wrong. But asking, “can we do it better?” In the early days, people weren't in awe because of a polished sermon or praise band. They were in awe because of what they were seeing. You had slaves and free people, Jews and Gentiles, the wealthy and the broke, all sitting at the same table, sharing the same bread. There was no judgment or "cancel culture." Just Christ-like love where no one was without because everyone gave. Shane Claiborne writes, "The church was never meant to be a building you go to; it was always meant to be a movement you belong to. A living, breathing, risky, messy movement of people following Jesus." That’s what Rev. Dawn and I set out to do with Anamesa. We wanted to build the kind of community that leaves the world in awe despite our physical distance. We wanted to create a sacred ecosystem where the only rule is the rule of love. A space where we care for one another, welcome the stranger, and offer the kind of grace that keeps Jesus’ wisdom alive. I think we are slowly moving closer to realizing that vision. But we can’t settle if we want to be like this Acts 2 community. In this passage, Luke uses the Greek word ‘koinonia’ which is usually translated as "fellowship." Today, that sounds like drinking bad coffee in a basement hall after service. But it actually means, "participation in a shared life." That is, everyone showed up to share life, to love God, love each other, and serve both. They didn't just preach the gospel; they lived it out loud. They believed Jesus meant what he said, even though most had learned about him second hand. They didn’t need to see Jesus, or touch his scared hands to be sure. They knew him because they could recognize his Way, his love and compassion, in those they shared life with. As I’ve said before, which often gets me labeled a heretic, Jesus didn’t come to get us into heaven when we die. He came to get heaven into us, so we can live. He said “the Kingdom of Heaven is within you” (Luke 17:21). His disciples actually believed him, taking him at face value and living ‘Kingdom lives’ centered on what God wanted rather than what their egos wanted. They practiced the Way of Jesus so deeply that the Kingdom of God became a reality, and God added to their lives. This is not a matter of devotion, but a matter of practice. As I noted last week, the gospel isn’t a script to recite—it is a testimony of the heart carried out by our hands. Unless it moves from our lips to our lives, it isn't truly preached. Our call is to practice the Way of Jesus over and over again until people are left in awe of the way we live, not just the things we say. We are the Body of Christ. A living, breathing, thriving organism. Our call is to be the visible and tangible part of God’s love just as Jesus was. Think about his teachings. Jesus never used stagnant metaphors. He told us to be seeds that grow. Stones that build. Yeast that makes the whole loaf rise. Salt that brings out the flavor in others. Light that illuminates the world. This isn’t about being a religion or institution. This is about being little Christs building up God’s kingdom in every space we enter. At the end of the day, a church’s success isn't about how many people are sitting in the pews; it’s about how many people we’ve blow away with love. An authentic church is an ethic that loves the unlovable and forgive the unforgivable. It’s an economy feeds the hungry and heals the sick. It’s a culture that welcomes the stranger and stands with the marginalized. It’s not about pettiness, or politics, or positions of power. It’s about taking the name Christ seriously. To believe Jesus meant it when he said: "If you love me, love one another." Love is the math of God. Love begets more love. It never divides, it multiplies. So when everyone else is busy dividing, we have to be bridges that unite. When others are hoarding, we have to open up our hearts and share what we have. When the world is being rude and hateful, we have to be compassionate and respectful; lifting others up when they’ve been knocked down. As Rainn Wilson once pointed out, this first house church movement was the first time in human history where people from all different races, nations, classes, and genders all gathered together to share a common purpose: to worship God and remember the legacy of Jesus. To live this way is still dangerous, and to some, it seems heretical. But in our current, hyper-divided world, the church must stay revolutionary. We have to be a people who realize that if we can’t find Christ in the person struggling at our front door, then we aren't going to find him in our pews or pulpits. The first church changed the world because they opened their hearts to the people the rest of the world had left for dead. In doing so, they proved to us that it’s actually possible to live like Jesus, in accordance with the will of God, right here and now. So, the question is: Can we do that? Can we reclaim the spark that set the first church on fire and be revolutionary again? I think the answer is deceptively simple. First, we must remember that God is not a set of beliefs. God is the love that happens between us. Second, spread that love by creating joy, waging peace, and serving the poor. To be a people who don’t offer "answers," but sit in the uncomfortable silence with a neighbor who is grieving. Be the voice online that chooses grace instead outrage. Live with a heart so open that your life becomes a sanctuary for the ignored. In other words, just imitate Christ. Remember what Jesus did, and go and do that. Be the living, breathing incarnation of God’s love right where you are. Because when the Gospel moves from our lips into our lives, the world won’t just hear the message—they will stand in absolute awe of the One who first ignited this revolution. Work Cited
Originally published as From Resurrection to Proclamation Pt.2 on April 30, 2023.
It’s a classic cinematic "hook"—starting at the finish line and working backward to reveal the truth. The lectionary cycle for Eastertide does something similar with the Acts of the Apostles. Our readings start after Pentecost, when everyone is filled with the Holy Spirit. Each week we "rewind" the tape to discover exactly how the Christian Church was born on that fateful day. So let’s imagine our reading today is a film that opens on a busy marketplace in first-century Jerusalem. It’s loud, dusty, and chaotic. Tented stalls line the streets; merchants shout over one another, each barking for you attention. The camera follows a teenager weaving his way through the crowd before turning down a narrow, shadowy alley. As he runs, the camera follows him frantically. His heart races. His feet pounding on the cobblestones. And then, he bursts into a sun-drenched plaza, … and the screen is suddenly flooded with light. There, standing before a massive crowd, is a young, charismatic Peter. He isn’t the trembling fisherman who denied Jesus by a charcoal fire. Now he’s a man on fire himself. “Fellow Israelites, listen to what I have to say: Jesus of Nazareth, a man attested to you by God with deeds of power, wonders, and signs that God did through him among you, as you yourselves know--this man, handed over to you according to the definite plan and foreknowledge of God, you crucified and killed by the hands of those outside the law. But God raised him up, having released him from the agony of death, because it was impossible for him to be held in its power. ...“This Jesus God raised up, and of that all of us are witnesses. Being therefore exalted at the right hand of God and having received from the Father the promise of the Holy Spirit, he has poured out this that you see and hear. . . . . Therefore let the entire house of Israel know with certainty that God has made him both Lord and Messiah,this Jesus whom you crucified.” Now when they heard this, they were cut to the heart and said to Peter and to the other apostles, “Brothers, what should we do?” Peter said to them, “Repent and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ so that your sins may be forgiven, and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. For the promise is for you, for your children, and for all who are far away, everyone whom the Lord our God calls to him.” And he testified with many other arguments and exhorted them, saying, “Save yourselves from this corrupt generation.” So those who welcomed his message were baptized, and that day about three thousand persons were added. They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers. - Acts 2:22-42 This is "Pentecost Peter." He and 120 other believers have just been doused in the promised power of the Holy Spirit. And they cannot contain it at all. The atmosphere is a strange, beautiful cocktail of joy and utter confusion. People are speaking in a kaleidoscope of languages, yet every listener hears the message in their mother tongue. The cynics are there, too. They see the ecstasy and assume it’s just a morning bender. But Peter stands up, debunks the insult, and lays out the cornerstone of our Christian faith. He wasn't the first to tell the story, though. Last week, we watched the prequel. The story of Mary Magdalene at the tomb, where, in the final scene, Jesus tells her to go and let the others know what she has witnessed. And her testimony—“The one who was dead is now alive; where there was weeping, there is now joy”—would launch a great franchise. And set the foundation of the church for Peter and the others to build upon. In our "movie," the camera now pans across the faces in the crowd. It’s a sea of humanity. Men, women, young and old. All awe-struck. You have pilgrims from every corner of the Roman Empire. Some are hearing the name "Jesus of Nazareth" for the very first time. Others were there on Friday; they saw the cross, they heard the rumors of an empty tomb, but they haven't connected the dots. To all of them, Peter gives an Oscar-worthy monologue: "Listen! This Jesus—the one you crucified—is more than a teacher. He is the Messiah. He is the Holy One promised by the prophets." As he speaks, there is a mixture of emotions in the crowd. But filled with the Holy Spirit, Peter continues to profess: “We are witnesses to this truth that this Jesus we are talking about … God has raised up from the dead …everyone here today is now a witness to this truth.” Scripture says the Holy Spirit “pierced their hearts” with his words. Then from the crowd, a voice cries out from the back: "Brothers, what do we do?" Peter’s face softens as the camera pushes in for his close up. He answers, "Change your direction. Return to God. Be baptized. Let Christ be your Lord. And let His grace be your joy." More than a 5-step plan; Peter gives them the way to a whole, new life. The crowd erupts in a loud, riotous roar. From this one impromptu sermon, we are told three thousand people were baptized that day. Let’s pause the film for a moment. Think about what that says to the power of testimony? From Peter’s public proclamation, the Church and her faith was established. How, then, can your story help change the direction of someone’s life? You might think you have nothing important to say. But here’s what I’ve learned. The most powerful testimony you can offer, isn’t your words. It comes through your heart and hands. For compassion always speaks louder than doctrine. Tenderness lasts longer than platitudes. The way you show love has the power to change someone’s life forever. Now, back to the movie. The film transitions to a montage: this crowd moves toward the Jordan River in numbers so vast they seem to stop the flow of the water. With hearts aglow, these pilgrim people return to their homes in Egypt, Mesopotamia, Crete, Arabia, all over the Roman empire, carrying the message of Christ with them to their communities. The opening credits roll over a montage of the unlikely: rich and poor, free and enslaved, Jew and Gentile. It’s a visceral reminder that God’s love is a wildfire that refuses to be contained by a single city, a single building, or a single heart. We know from our journey through Lent that Jesus started with twelve ordinary people to build a Kingdom. Those twelve—plus a few hundred "extras"—rose above their own flaws to become not just the voice of God, but the hands and feet as well. This is important for us to remember, today, as we face deep divisions within the church. This story in Acts, reminds us that with our powerful testimony, we are given a great responsibility to carry the gospel out into the world - not just with our words, but in our deeds as well. We are called to manifest God’s love in all that we say and do. The cynics are out there. People are watching us. But what do they see? Christians in name only? Or Christ followers? A community who intentionally live the Way of Jesus? People who will put aside their ego, and care for the least of these, so no one is without. It doesn’t matter what we say on Sunday, if our actions are silent the rest of the week. I’ve spent decades speaking in front of people. That might seem terrifying to you. I get that. But my words don’t mean anything if I don’t practice what I preach. You may not have the right words, but you’re willing to sit with a friend going through a break up. That says more than any sermon I could give. You might not understand church doctrine, but that doesn’t stop you from organizing a clothing drive to help single mom’s who are struggling to make ends meet. That’s testifying. Like Meister Eckhart famously said: Go preach the gospel, using words only when necessary. Scripture tells us that Peter eventually steps down from the pulpit to serve others, just as Jesus did. He shared the good news by loving God, loving others, and serving both…just as we are called to do. This is how the first church lived out the gospel. Their way would go on to inspire others to do the same. Think about St. Francis who gave up his family fortune to care for the poor. Or St. Catherine of Siena who risked her life caring for victims of the plague. And St. Teresa of Calcutta loved those the world had left for dead. Then there are the "Everyday Saints" in our communities. My friend Kerry shows up every Monday at the food pantry to handout groceries to those suffering with food insecurity. Julie Garcia, a great-grand mother who walks the hallways of her retirement home, praying for her neighbors. God uses ordinary people like you and me to be everyday saints. To proclaim Christ’s glory and love. One of the last things Jesus taught his disciples was, “Love one another as I have loved you.”That’s the gospel. That’s it. Two thousand years later, love still remains the best way to proclaim Jesus as Lord and Christ. But we have to be willing to do it. After the opening credits and montage of people having their lives transformed, the camera settles in a great room of a private home where many have gathered for a meal. The camera focuses on a Roman soldier. His eyes are wet with tears. He unbuckles his sword, hands it to Peter, and falls to his knees. Peter doesn't look down on his former enemy; he reaches down, pulls him up, into a loving embrace. Here the gospel is proclaimed without a single word spoken. In that hug, Peter shows him what the resurrection looks like in real-time. He repeats the message of the empty tomb. "The one who was dead is now alive. Where there was weeping, there is now joy." In that sacred space—somewhere between mercy and grace—the Church comes alive.
Outside of my own family, nearly everyone from that first Sunday is gone. According to the books on church growth, that might look like failure. But what if this church was meant to grow exactly like the garden it was planted in? Always evolving, always shifting from one season to the next. In our garden, some plants bloom for a season then die off, leaving behind nutrients for whatever comes next. Others scatter seeds in the wind, that take root in fields we may never see. There’s a sacred truth found in the soil beneath our feet. A holy reminder of our Easter hope: In the darkness of the earth, God is constantly bringing new life from seeds buried long ago. Our Easter reading comes from the gospel of John. This is the second part of the story. The stone has already been rolled away. Peter and John have already raced to the tomb and discovered their friend’s body is gone. When everyone else returns home, one brave soul stays behind in the garden searching for answers to a mystery that has echoed throughout time.
Each of the four gospel offers its own unique perspective on this story. But the empty tomb is always the main focus. It's what Easter is always about. Somewhere along the way, though, the narrative shifted from a “divine mystery” into something more like a "holy rescue mission." The assumption was that there was a cosmic design flaw in humanity, that forced God to go into emergency mode to "save" us. This atonement theory, as it’s called, argues human beings are sinful by nature because of what happened in the Garden of Eden. And the only way to fix this “mistake” is to appease God with a sacrifice that only God could make. Enter Jesus and the cross. This is what I was taught as a kid. But as an adult, it always troubled me. Why would God need something that only God could give God’s self? But what if that wasn’t the purpose for the incarnation or crucifixion? And what if they killed Jesus simply because they didn’t like what he had to say. I mean, how well do we care for the widows and orphans, muchless the strangers who live among us? Never mind being gracious and merciful and forgiving to our enemies. I think if Jesus were here today, the results would be the same. So what if Easter isn’t about giving God a sacrifice, but about God giving us unconditional love? What if resurrection wasn't "Plan B," but the plan all along? We always look for the answer in the tomb, but what if it’s in the garden whose roots go all the way back to the first garden in Eden? There’s a reason Richard Rohr calls Eden "Original Goodness." Here, God looked at the physical world—the dirt, the trees, the skunks and stars—and called it all good. And where God declared human beings “Very good.” This pronouncement was God’s “Yes” to life, stamped into creation from the get-go. From that Divine “Yes,” all things evolved. Fast-forward to another garden. The garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus was arrested. This is where the "No" of the world collided with the "Yes" of God. In this place of anguish and surrender, Jesus shows us how the "old self" must be released so the "new self" can emerge. Which takes us to this unnamed garden, where Mary Magdalene mistakes her beloved teacher for the gardener. It’s an honest mistake. Dead people are supposed to stay dead. That’s the law of nature. But what if Mary wasn’t mistaken? What if she is revealing the same truth the soil has been whispering since Eden? That resurrection doesn’t defy the laws of nature, it fulfills it. Creation has been teaching us this for eons. A sunflower knows it must die so her seeds can rise and multiply. A mighty tree knows that it will one day fall, decompose, and return to the soil so it can be reborn into something new. From the earth mountains arise and erode. As science has proven, every carbon atom in our bodies comes from something that died before us. And when we die, those atoms continue on, transforming into something new. Death and resurrection. That is the pattern of creation. It’s the template baked into the earth. What if Easter is no more a mystery than the Big Bang? I mean, if everything that exists was once compressed into a single point, then something had to die for this garden to be born. In the context of our faith, if God can turn the death of stars into galaxies filled with life, then surely God can make Easter out of Good Friday. As Rowen Williams writes, “There is no situation in the universe in the face of which God is at a loss.” God’s not demanding a sacrifice or scrambling to fix a broken plan. Resurrection is God’s “Yes” knitted into life itself, so death never has the final word. God does. I think this aligns with what Jesus said, "I have come so that you might have life, and life abundant." Maybe that’s what incarnation is about. God in flesh and blood, walking among us, showing us how to live fully and faithfully, without the fear of death getting in the way. When Jesus greets Mary, he doesn’t say, "Behold, I have paid your debt!" No. He simply says, "Mary." He calls her back to her original goodness. He doesn’t see her as a "fallen creature" in need of fixing. He sees a beloved child who God already declared “Very good.” These are the same words God pronounced over you and me. The very words our world has trouble believing. Which might explain why after calling Mary by name, Jesus doesn’t demand to be worshiped. Instead, he sends her to “tell the others.” That is still the Easter call. Our purpose for this life. To go and scatter the gospel like seeds in the wind so it can produce the fruits of love, joy, peace, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. That’s exactly what Jesus did with his life. Because that’s what divine gardeners are called to do. They cultivate and tend to the always-evolving, always-blossoming garden of life. So what if Mary was right to see Jesus as the gardener? The one sent to till the soil of our lives so something beautiful can grow. Just as Jesus cultivated a life of compassion and mercy, we are sent to do the same: tilling this soil with kindness, nourishing this life with grace, and bearing the fruits of love in all the ways we care for one another. This feels much closer to what Jesus taught. And what the gospel is all about. Easter isn’t a repayment. It’s a reminder that God’s love is life. Love always produces a bountiful harvest, even out of death. So, when something in your life dies—a dream, a relationship, a version of yourself you thought you needed—ask yourself: “What if God is using this moment as compost for a new spring?” While that first church we planted in this garden no longer exits, something new and wonderful has risen in its place. A new community, knitted tightly together in love, where our little lives and our little deaths quietly reveal the mystery of Easter. Because every act of compassion we offer, whether it’s intentional or not, is a tiny resurrection, where something new comes to life. Every time a heart opens, forgiveness is offered, mercy extended, Christ rises again and again. Every time you show love to someone who may or may not deserve it you show Jesus, the face of God’s love incarnate. That’s our purpose, the call of the church. Make love grow. So what if we take Jesus at his word? What if we leave this garden today not as people saved from something, but as people born for something. To love God, love others, and serve both. Like Jesus said, “it’s in the way you love one another that the world will know you belong to me.” This wild, generative love God set into motion at the very beginning is the very thread that knits all things together: to God, to Christ, and to one another. God’s Love cannot be contained in us any more than a body can be contained in a tomb. This Love is still expanding, still creating, still calling us to give it meaning. This might prove to be challenging in a world that is broken, divided, and in deep dark pain. So instead of asking “what if” maybe a new question is in order. Maybe it’s time to start asking “how to.” How to be a gardener like Jesus. How to sow mercy, compassion and grace into this wild and the beautiful tapestry called life. How to shine a light into the darkness, how to be salt that enhances the flavor of the world. In other words, how to practice resurrection with everything we have, so God’s love can bloom again and again. Amen. |
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 17:21Get the Book
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“Prius vita quam doctrina.”
~ St. Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274) * “Life is more important than doctrine.”
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