Where's Jesus?

Sermon for April 19, 2026
Luke 24:13-35

Well, it’s been a week when a certain meme bearing a resemblance to Jesus has been the talk of social media.  But instead of dwelling on that, I want to ask the question I think our Gospel reading might point us toward:  If we were seeking Jesus, just where would we look, anyway?  To explore that, let’s take a little journey and see what we find.

The journey starts in the Holy Land.  Almost three years ago, I was blessed to take a Holy Land pilgrimage.  Of course, that journey included visits to the most significant locations in our faith family’s history.  In fact, the itinerary took a loosely chronological approach to Jesus’ life, with the trip’s next-to-last day including the site of Jesus’ crucifixion and burial.  

Then, on the last day, to celebrate resurrection, we went to Emmaus, the location for our Gospel reading today.  We intrepid travelers piled onto the bus, again, for day 10 of lurching through antiquity.  By this point, we knew the drill:  Sit in traffic for a while; listen to Ranya, the guide, tell the story of where we were headed; wind along tiny roads through the hills or the desert or the cliffs, marveling that the driver never did hit anything.  Once we got to this day’s destination, seven miles or so out of Jerusalem, we crept up an even smaller road, climbing an impossible hill; and we piled out of the bus to see … well, a church.  Another church.  It should have been obvious, of course, but most of the places we went didn’t have any structures from Jesus’ time still standing.  And, even if you’re visiting something in nature, something other than the site of a holy building … who knows historically which cave in Bethlehem housed the Holy Family, or which hillside by the Sea of Galilee hosted the feeding of the 5,000?  Pilgrimage is an approximate thing.

Anyway, near the place where at least some historians think Emmaus was, we piled out of the bus to see a church dating from centuries after Jesus would have walked the road there.  Now, the church was cool; it was a Crusader structure built just before the Christian conquerors were kicked back out of the Holy Land – so close to the end of the Crusader empire that the Christians never even got to finish their paintings in this church.  Well, as we’d done a couple of dozen times by this point in the pilgrimage, we walked into the church, heard five minutes of history, did the Clark Griswold head nod as we looked around, and walked back out again.  The bloom was off the rose, as far as church-visiting was concerned.  And, at that one, near the site of Emmaus, I didn’t feel any particularly inspiring presence of Jesus.

Gathering for worship overlooking the hills where Emmaus
may have been.

           Then we got back on the bus for a short drive to another church.  This one was closed for repairs, but we were there to use its garden perched at the edge of the cliff.  In the garden were stone benches and a rough table – a spot set aside for pilgrim groups to use for worship.  And walking up to it, we were blessed with a lovely view across the sparse, rough, beautiful Judean hill country.  There, we celebrated Eucharist.  We followed Jesus’ lead, as we’d each done a thousand times before and since:  We took simple bread and wine, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to each other as the wind blew our hats off.  We’d come together as strangers 10 days earlier, each with a different reason for being there.  But by this point, we were us: a band of pilgrims whose hearts God had been forming – including, in some way, forming into one, at least for a given time.  As that pilgrim band, we weren’t just individuals receiving Jesus.  We were the Body of Christ in that place at that moment, bound together by Love to be Love in the world God gives us to inhabit.

Now let’s bring our journey a little closer to home.  Last Wednesday, I was at Mission Chateau for the monthly service we do there, and we were using the readings appointed for today, including this Gospel.  I told basically the same story about Emmaus I just shared, giving thanks for what the theologians call the mystery of incarnation – the way Christ shows up among us, still making us new through his gift of resurrected life when we’d least expect it.  For at least some in the group gathered there, this Emmaus story rang true; one worshiper told me later she was grateful for the reminder that God does, indeed, come alongside us – especially given the grief she’d been carrying.  It was lovely.

But, even though the Body and Blood had been consumed, God wasn’t done showing up that day.  After nearly everyone had left, another one of the residents asked if I’d come sit with her.  She was someone I’d seen before at these services but not someone I really know.  I sat down, and we exchanged pleasantries for a minute before she said, “I want to tell you something.”  She locked eyes with me, to make sure I was really listening, and she said:  “I see things sometimes – visions.  Now, when you were standing there at the table, saying the Eucharistic prayer, I saw Ann [my wife, Ann] and Jesus, standing there on either side of you.”  Then, she reached out, patted my chest, and said, “I want your heart to know the peace they were here to bring you.”

Now, here’s what that woman didn’t know, something I’m not sure I’ve shared here, either.  Honestly, I am not blessed with visions of Ann.  I don’t glimpse her coming around the corner or sitting next to me on the couch.  And, honestly, I’m not blessed with visions of Jesus out of Hollywood central casting, either.  But … there have been a number of times, as I’ve stood behind St. Andrew’s altar saying the Eucharistic prayer, when I’ve known that they’re with me – both of them, Ann and Jesus, standing on either side of me.  It’s not a visual thing, but it’s real presence.  And those moments of presence make me smile like pretty much nothing else does.  Anyway, that’s what this woman saw Wednesday morning – Ann on one side of me and Jesus on the other, as I stood behind a table in the Mission Chateau library, offering the Eucharistic prayer.  I can’t tell you how grateful I am that she told me what she’d seen.

You know, there are so many Jesuses out there we might seek.  There’s the Jesus of history, pursued by pilgrims across the ages, in person and in study and in prayer.  There’s the Jesus of our life together in the here and now – the faithful company of disciples wherever we find ourselves, the Body of Christ in a particular place, whoever they may be and wherever they may stand.  There’s the Jesus who sidles up alongside us when we’re not looking, the one who catches our eye and asks some question we’ve probably been avoiding, a question that’s been burning within us.  And then there’s the Jesus of sacrament, the bread and wine that becomes Body and Blood, a real presence in your hands and on your lips, so much more present than the mere physicality of wheat and grapes.

It’s this last Jesus we’re most accustomed to – and, honestly, we find him so often this way that Communion can become just something we do.  But it’s all about what eyes we use when we look to that Bread and that Cup.  You don’t have to have my new friend’s gift for visions to encounter the living Christ at this altar.  We come forward, and God never fails to show up – taken, blessed, broken, and given for you, an outward and visible sign of love for us that becomes a sure and certain gift of love to us.  You just have to come with the eyes of faith wide open.  You just have to stretch out your hands into heavenly space, breaking that plane marked by the altar rail, the thin place between yourself and what’s next, the thin place between eternal life, chapter 1, and eternal life, chapter 2 – you just have to stretch out your hands into that heavenly space to find divine Love so really present you can taste and see it.

And then … you go back to your seat.  You go back to your grocery list, or your project at work, or your kid’s questions, your last glimpse of your beloved.  Just as the two disciples experienced at Emmaus:  On this side of eternal life, Jesus will inevitably fade or fly away.  And just like the two of them, we want that moment of real presence to last.  But, no.  Jesus doesn’t work that way, at least not yet, not here, not now.

And why?  Because we have to move from the sublime holiness of real presence back to the ordinary holiness of whatever life brings next.  After our divine encounter, we’ve got work to do, we pilgrims on this path together.  It’s an insight that goes back to St. Augustine in the 400s:  He lifted up that consecrated Bread and Wine, and he said, “Behold what you are; become what you receive.”  Behold what you are; become what you receive.  Just like the bread, just like Jesus himself, we are taken, blessed, broken, and given for God’s work in this world.  We bear Jesus into all our moments, from the mundane to the miraculous, the Body of Christ given for the world here and now.  Turns out, we become the One we’ve been waiting for.

Don’t believe me?  Well … maybe now, maybe later – in fact, maybe during Communion – stop a minute.  Look to the left, look to the right, and behold the face of God.

Rejoicing as Resistance

Sermon for Easter Day, April 5, 2026
Matthew 28:1-10

I want to start this morning with a question:  If Jesus came out of the tomb and met you on Easter morning, what would he say to you?  Think about that:  Where do your head and heart take you – to confrontation, indictment, and judgment?  To affirmation, love, and blessing?  To calling, empowerment, and mission?  If Jesus came out of the tomb and met you on Easter morning, what do you think he’d have to say?

I ask because the version of the resurrection story we just heard, the one in Matthew’s Gospel, has Jesus saying something different from what we hear in the other Easter stories.  It’s the very first word he speaks when he meets the women who’ve come to the tomb.  And what is that word?  Drum roll, please:  Jesus says … “Greetings.”

Really?  That’s the best he’s got?  Jesus is risen from the dead, and what he speaks is the salutation from a form letter?

Well, let’s rewind and give the scene some backstory.  In Matthew’s version, what comes just before Easter morning is a conversation between the Jewish religious leaders and Pontius Pilate.  The chief priests and Pharisees want Roman soldiers to seal up the tomb and guard it, to keep the disciples from stealing the body and claiming Jesus had risen.  Pilate sees his potential PR problem, so he gives the religious leaders a platoon.  “Go,” Pilate tells them, saying more than he knows:  Take the soldiers and make the tomb “as secure as you can.” (27:66)

Then comes the story we heard this morning.  Mary Magdalene and “the other Mary” (28:1), probably Jesus’ mother, come to the tomb – but why?  In other Gospels, they come to tend to the body, but not in Matthew.  You can’t very well anoint a body sealed in a tomb and guarded by soldiers.  No, they’ve come “to see the tomb” (28:1).  Just as they’ve been seeing Jesus for years and watching God’s purposes unfold, now they want to see what’s next.  After all, Jesus told his friends he’d be killed and raised on the third day, so the women want to see what’s about to happen.  Just that act of showing up is a pretty courageous statement of faith, right?  Given what happened on Good Friday, you could understand why Jesus’ friends wouldn’t be expecting much by Sunday morning, even why they’d be hiding out.  That’s the approach the guys took.  But the women had stayed with Jesus at the cross, and now they’re coming to see what happens next.

They arrive at the tomb and see it all sealed up, the emperor’s soldiers standing guard.  And suddenly, the women’s courageous faith pays off.  The earth shakes as an angel of the Lord descends from heaven, looking “like lightning” (28:3).  Remember, this isn’t some cute cherub from a greeting card; this messenger is a commander in the heavenly army.  And he pretty clearly outranks the Roman soldiers, who now tremble and “become like dead men” (28:4).  Turns out, they’re the only “dead men” at this tomb.  The angel breaks the seal, rolls back the giant stone, and – my favorite detail – the angel sits on it.  Now, why does God Almighty’s emissary sit on the stone he’s just pushed away?  Because he can, that’s why.  It’s a great way to thumb the divine nose at Caesar (or you can substitute a more colorful use of a finger).  As one scholar puts it, “God out-empires the empire and renders it lifeless."¹

But wait; there’s more.  Not only has God defeated the empire by raising the true King from death, the women receive a divine message just for them.  “Do not be afraid,” says the lightning-like warrior as he squats on the stone.  You’re looking for Jesus, who was crucified – as dead as dead gets.  Well, “he is not here,” says the angel, “for he has been raised, as he said.” (28:5-6)  Come on in, look around – see for yourself.  Then, go tell the guys, who didn’t believe like you did.  Send them to Galilee, for “there, you will see him” (28:7).

But before the two Marys can even get to the disciples’ hideout, Jesus himself appears.  The Marys must have been dumbfounded.  They’re standing there, slack-jawed, awaiting a word from their risen King.  And then it comes, the very reveille of resurrection: “Greetings” (28:9).  Cue the disappointed trombone: Wha-wah.

Come on!  The resurrected Jesus can’t be a downer, right?  There’s got to be more to what he says than just, “Greetings.”

And there is.  The word in Greek is chairete, which was a standard greeting in the Greco-Roman world.  But I think that word’s literal meaning is what’s important.  Chairete doesn’t just mean, “Hi there.”  It means, “Rejoice!”²  In fact, it’s the same word Jesus uses in the Beatitudes,³ when he foreshadows Good Friday:  “Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account.  Chairete – rejoice – and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven.” (Matthew 5:11-12)

“See?” Jesus says to the Marys.  Evil doesn’t get the last word.  The last word is also the first word of resurrected life: Rejoice!

Well, that’s good for Jesus and the two Marys, but what about us?  What do we have to rejoice about today?  I mean, rejoicing might feel a little naïve, at best, given what’s happening all around us.  Let’s see.  There’s war.  Deep division.  Dishonesty normalized as a stand-in for truth.  Meanness normalized as a stand-in for compassion.  And Jesus says to us, “Rejoice?”  Why in the world would we do that?

Well, in the world, we wouldn’t.  But we do anyway, and here’s why.

We rejoice because Love out-empires the empire.  Now, in the long night of Maundy Thursday, on the cross of Good Friday, in the dark tomb of Holy Saturday, it’s hard to remember the wonders we’ve seen.  But blind people receive their sight; marginalized people receive the water of life first; dead people live again.  Peter and James and John and Andrew and the other guys had seen all these things, but the last two awful days had made them believe a different story – the world’s story.

But the Marys chose differently, and so can we.  We have it within our power to choose the story we’ll inhabit.

I want to share with you a story that about 50 of us inhabited a couple of months ago at the Winter Free Store, as we partnered with our friends at St. James United Methodist on Paseo.  Volunteers waited tables for about 350 neighbors, serving up a hot breakfast on a 15-degree morning.  Personal shoppers guided guests around tables where they could pick out coats, boots, gloves, hats, socks, hygiene bags, and fresh fruit and vegetables.  And what story were we inhabiting there?  One volunteer wrote this on her evaluation:  “It’s truly a gift from God that I was able to serve the people of Kansas City.  Thank you!”  Another wrote this:  “I love getting to know people from other churches, and I love meeting a real need for others in our city.”  And a third wrote simply, “I enjoy giving back! It’s all love!”  In all, more than 100 members of St. Andrew’s, St. James, and our community showed up in the ugly cold to shout “Rejoice!” into a narrative of division and scarcity.

The story of the Winter Free Store is a lot like the story that my friend Kathy Lutes inhabits, just as several of you do.  I’ve told you before about Kathy, a priest in Minneapolis who braved even uglier cold a couple of months ago to stand with people at risk of apprehension and deportation.  Kathy was out there with thousands of other people wielding the weapon of … hymn-singing.  It’s the same story others of us here inhabit when we sort clothes at JVS, or help get food to refugee families, or stand in a crowd on the Plaza calling on our country to put Love first.  We’re shouting “Rejoice!” into a narrative of fear.

So that brings me back to the question I asked a few minutes ago:  If you were out in that garden on the first Easter morning, and the resurrected Jesus made you stop in your tracks, what do you think he’d say to you?

Well, I think he’d say, “Rejoice!”  And I think he’d follow it up with: “Because I love you.”

On a Richard Rohr podcast I listen to in the mornings, I heard a guest talking about her experience as a little girl encountering Jesus.  Now, this guest, the Rev. Dr. Jaqui Lewis, is a writer and theologian and activist.  But she was remembering being with her mom in church and receiving Holy Communion for the first time.  When the bread came by, her mom said, “This bread means God will always love you.”  Then, when the cup came by, her mom said, “This cup means God will never leave you.”⁴  That’s why Jesus says, “Rejoice!” – because, in the life of every blessed one of us, Love always gets the last word.

In the strength of that bread and that cup, we can live a story the world thinks is nonsense.  We can choose to rejoice in the love that God gives us and commissions us to share.  In your dinner conversations, rejoice in love.  In the work you do, rejoice in love.  In the way you steward your gifts and resources, rejoice in love.  In the relationships you build, rejoice in love.  In the policies you advocate and the votes you cast, rejoice in love.  Why?  Because when you meet the risen Jesus in your day-to-day life, the first thing he says is, “Rejoice!”  And the second thing he says is, “Because I love you.”  And the third thing he says is, “Go and do the same.”

Rejoicing may seem naïve these days, and following Love may seem a fool’s errand.  But our Lord is no fool.  Christ is risen and asks us to live that way, too.  When we rejoice in love, we look the power of death in the eye and say, “Not today – or tomorrow, for that matter.”  The forces of hopelessness and division can only win if we allow ourselves to be hopeless and divided.  Instead, come together and rejoice – sit on the stone that God rolled away and rejoice that Christ is actually the one in charge.  

The world tells a story that Love is empty of power.  God writes the story that Love is power.  So, decide this day which story you’ll choose.  As for me, I will rejoice.

1.      The New Interpreter’s Study Bible. “Matthew,” introduction and notes by Warren Carter. Nashville: Abington, 2003. 1799 (note).

2.      Hare, Douglas R.A. Matthew. A volume of Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching, James Luther Mays, ed. Louisville: John Knox, 1993. 330.

3.      “Χαίρετε.” Bible Hub. Available at: https://biblehub.com/greek/chairete_5463.htm. Accessed April 3, 2026.

4.      “A Critical Mass: The Secret of the Remnant with Rev Jacqui Lewis.” Everything Belongs: Living the Teachings of Richard Rohr Forward, a podcast from the Center for Action and Contemplation. May 2, 2025. Transcript available at: https://cac.org/podcasts/a-critical-mass-the-secret-of-the-remnant-with-rev-jaqui-lewis/. Accessed April 3, 2026.

Don't Go It Alone

Sermon for Sunday, March 1, 2026
Genesis 12:1-4a; Romans 4:1-5,13-17; John 3:1-17

As we continue through Lent and this sermon series on "Following Jesus Together," I want to look at the two main characters in our readings this morning and see what their examples might show us as we make our way – or maybe stumble our way – through this journey of faith.  I think what binds these stories together is the question of how to trust.

The first character is Abram, better known by the name God gives him a few chapters later, Abraham.  At the point where today’s reading begins, we know nothing about him.  The only backstory from the previous chapter is that Abram’s father takes his extended family from Ur in what’s now southern Iraq to Haran in what’s now southeastern Turkey.  There, out of the blue, the God of Israel summons Abram and says, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.   I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing.  I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse; and, in you, all the families of the earth shall be blessed.” (Genesis 12:1-3)

Can you imagine being Abram in that moment?  He’s 75 years old, married to Sarai, with no children and no prospects, other than inheriting whatever he got when his ancient father died.  Abram’s not even a worshiper of Yahweh; there is no “people of Israel” worshiping Yahweh yet.  The Lord simply taps Abram on the shoulder and says, “You’re the one. Get going.”

And Abram goes.  He and Sarai pack up their livestock and the guys who tend the animals, and they set out for a land they’ve never seen before with nothing but a prayer.  We don’t hear anything about his motivation – his hopes, his fears, his reckless heart – and we don’t hear his conversation with Sarai, which must have been … lively.  Maybe it’s the absence of detail that makes Abram’s story such rich material for the apostle Paul to reflect on, when he writes about Abram’s trust two millennia later.  As we heard in the second reading today, Abram “‘believed God, and it was reckoned to him as righteousness’” (Romans 4:3). So, Abram goes down in spiritual history as the paragon of trust … or blind faith, depending on how you want to see it.

Our other character this morning is Nicodemus. From the perspective of the Gospel of John, we might see Nicodemus as the anti-Abram.  He’s a spiritual leader – a member of the Sanhedrin, the Jewish governing council of experts on the Law.  He’s a man of status and stature, someone people turn to for rulings and advice.  He’s the status quo, in the flesh.  But Nicodemus can see that God’s at work in this new rabbi, Jesus, who’s just turned over the merchants’ tables in the Temple to indict a system that puts profit ahead of people’s well-being.

Nicodemus probably can’t stand Jesus’ method, but he, too, sees the system is broken.  So, Nicodemus comes to Jesus under the cover of darkness to learn more.  Showing astonishing respect to someone who’s breaking all the rules, he says, “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God” (John 3:2).  “Tell me what you’re up to.”  So, Jesus tells him it’s not enough to be born into the right community; God wants us be reborn spiritually, committing ourselves not just in law but in life.  Nicodemus just can’t wrap his head around it.  Like most of us, I think he wants faith to make sense before he’s willing to give his heart to it.

So, we have these two examples today, Abram and Nicodemus.  Abram may be Scripture’s great example of faithfulness, but to me his story has always seemed aspirational at best.  Most of us aren’t receiving flashes of insight so clear that we know it’s time to take our lives in a new direction.  Most of us are more like Nicodemus, and we could use some practical guidance in the art of trust.

Well, let’s start with what not to do, in terms of practicing trust; and at the top of that list is perhaps what tempts us most: going it alone, spiritually.  In our culture, we love the individual success story, whether it’s the Old West sheriff who takes down the bad guys, or the entrepreneur who bootstraps his way to wealth, or the prosperity-Gospel preacher who dishes out truth direct from the Divine.  Those stories are compelling … and, I’d say, tempting, in the sense that they teach us that only special people have the capacity, or the divine favor, to tap the pipeline to success.  And our stories of faith heroes like Abram can reinforce that narrative:  If I could just trust like he did, I’d see blessings like he saw.

But I think most of us are wired more like Nicodemus.  Now, Nicodemus has every reason to go it alone.  He’s the answer man – an elder, a Pharisee, a religious expert.  But Nicodemus is wise enough to know what he doesn’t know.  He can see that Jesus is channeling God, but it’s not happening the way it’s supposed to happen – through meticulous legal study and wise rulings from smart guys like him.  So, he goes to Jesus and does maybe the hardest thing in this journey of spiritual growth:  He admits he doesn’t get it.  “Look, Jesus, you say that we know God’s presence and power in our lives by being ‘born from above’ – what does that even mean?”  I love that.  Here’s the answer man becoming the student sitting at the true teacher’s feet.  Now, Jesus can’t give it to him all at once.  It’ll take 18 more chapters of John’s Gospel to begin to glimpse the mystery that being lifted up on a cross opens the door to eternal love.  But I hear Jesus saying to Nicodemus, “Hang in there.  Even when you don’t have the answers, trust that I do.  The longer you walk with me, the clearer Love becomes.”

Nicodemus shows up again in the Gospel story only twice more.  A few chapters later, when the people of Jerusalem are hanging on Jesus’ every word, the religious leaders send their police to arrest him.  Nicodemus speaks up against the other members of the council, wanting to give Jesus a hearing, at least.  All he gets is ridicule from the other experts. (John 7:45-52)

But one of them, at least, must have connected with the way Nicodemus saw Jesus in a different light – and that’s Joseph of Arimathea.  Now, Scripture doesn’t say anything about this directly, but I think Nicodemus must have found a spiritual companion in his fellow council member, Joseph (Mark 15:43).  If you recognize that name, Joseph of Arimathea, it’s from the crucifixion story.  Once Jesus dies on the cross, Joseph goes to Pilate and asks for the body.  And then, he and Nicodemus take the body, carefully prepare it for burial, and place it in Joseph’s family tomb. (John 19:38-42)  Why would Joseph and Nicodemus take on this awful job together? I like to think they must have been talking for a long time about this mysterious teacher from Galilee.  They both disagreed with the other religious leaders, who wanted to see this pesky Messiah dead.  I imagine Nicodemus and Joseph wrestling with Jesus’ story as it played out – witnessing his miracles, struggling with his teaching, finally making the connection between their tradition and this stranger from heaven.  Their spiritual friendship empowered them to hold their heads high, go stand before Pilate, and honor Jesus when nearly everyone else turned away.

Unless we’re Abram or some other spiritual superstar, we don’t do so well at trusting God on our own.  And, blessedly, I don’t think that’s what God has in mind.  So, what kinds of resources can help us learn to trust when the path’s not clear?  When we can’t even see the next step, much less the end of the journey, where can we turn?

For me, the power to trust comes from conversation partners – human and divine.  We find some of those partners in Scripture and other spiritual writing.  This is why it matters to read the Bible – not in the sense of meeting some dreary obligation, nor in the sense of looking for magic words to conjure up what we want from God, but in the sense of listening to the wisdom of our spiritual forebears who’ve already traveled the road we’re on.  That same truth holds about other spiritual guides, from ancient writers to today’s podcasters.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve felt lost and alone and then heard precisely what I needed to hear in that morning’s reading or podcast.

And then there are the conversation partners God gives us in the flesh.  This is the point of the Companion Groups we’re beginning, and for which more than a hundred of you have signed up – the chance to share how we experience God showing up, or not, in day-to-day life.  In addition, you can find opportunities for theological reflection nearly everywhere you look in the life of the church, formal and informal – in worship, and Bible studies, and prayer groups, and classes, and coffee-hour conversations, and spiritual direction, and coaching with your friendly local clergyperson.  Just to say this out loud:  People sometimes tell me they don’t want to bother the clergy for a spiritual conversation because we’re “so busy.”  Let me tell you, there are bothersome aspects of our jobs, but talking with you about finding God in your life is not one of them.  That’s why we’re here.  Let us share the joy of those life-giving conversations.

However it is that you’re wired to find connection, take God up on the offer.  If you do have an Abram moment and immediately trust in a word straight from the Almighty, more power to you.  For the rest of us, trust grows through listening to one divine voice after another – from Scripture, from conversations, from books, from podcasts, from prayer – maybe even from sermons (stranger things have happened).  When we listen that way – with a heart like Nicodemus, willing to keep at it even when we don’t understand – then we can trust that we’ll hear God speaking just what we need to hear.

Living the Way You're Made

Sermon for Ash Wednesday
Feb. 18, 2026

Well, it’s Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, so we face the perennial question: What should I give up or what should I take on? I do want to suggest a couple of ways to answer that question, but I want to come at it from a different direction than you might expect.

We know Lent is a time of “self-examination and repentance; … prayer, fasting, and self-denial; and … reading and meditating on God’s holy Word” (BCP 265). The prayer book tells us that. But why? What is it about us, and about our relationship with God, that our tradition wants us to look at? What’s the Church asking us to remember today?

For many of us, and maybe for Western Christianity in general, the answer tends to come from a negative place: Lent is here to remind us of our sinfulness, our brokenness, the ways we miss the mark. When we approach it that way, Lent becomes a time for corrective action to address our individual failings – a season for holy new-year’s resolutions. Maybe God will like me better if I shed a few pounds.

But hiding under that dim view of our nature is a perspective I think might be closer to God’s heart. Yes, absolutely, we miss the mark; and many of us are acutely aware of it – especially you who’ve come out or tuned in on a Wednesday for the fun of remembering that you are dust and to dust you shall return. Talk about preaching to the choir! But the reason we know we miss the mark is because of something else we know deeper down: that how Genesis describes us is also true, that you and I are made in the image and likeness of God (1:26). We wear the face of the One who created us, and our life is designed to reflect God’s own life.

Our Eastern Orthodox brothers and sisters understand this more easily than we do. From that side of the Christian tradition, the goal of human life is theosis – nothing less than becoming one with God. For us Westerners, who enjoy wallowing in our sinfulness, we might be willing to say union with God would be our heavenly goal. But the Orthodox tradition says that’s our work now. And how would we do such a thing? By being disciples of Jesus, conforming our way to his Way, because walking his path is how we learn to live a divine life.

So, what if we approached Lent more like that? Rather than seeing penitence as a way to atone for our sins – which, by the way, we can’t; and Jesus has already done it for us anyway – what if we saw Lent as a time to get back to the garden, to notice who we truly are and the extent to which our lives do, and don’t, reflect our divine nature?

How would we do that? Let me offer three resources – three tools to help you remember that you’re made in the image of God and then notice how you are, and aren’t, living into God’s likeness.

The first tool is our Lenten devotional booklet, which I’m hoping you’ve received in the mail. (If you haven’t, feel free to pick one up in the entryway.) It’s titled Five Minutes With God, Lent Edition; and the idea is just that: to set aside a little time daily to check in. For each day, you’ll find an excerpt from the readings we’ll hear in worship on the coming Sunday – so, for example, from now until this Sunday, the daily devotions sample from the readings for the first Sunday of Lent. Along with each reading is a rich question to help you apply that day’s snippet of Scripture to your own life. These questions give you something to contemplate as you sip that first cup of coffee in the morning, or take a walk, or work out, or get ready for bed. Plus, the daily Scripture helps you get ready to hear what God might be saying to you through the readings on Sunday, too.

The second tool is something you’ll find here on Sunday mornings through Lent – a sermon series titled, “Following Jesus Together.” The Gospel readings this Lent are some of the very best stories about Jesus: standing up to Satan in the wilderness, teaching the experts how to live by the Spirit, healing the Samaritan woman’s broken self-image, giving sight to a man born blind, and raising Lazarus from the dead. Not only do these stories help mark the path Jesus asks us to take, they also show us how to do it – which is, not by ourselves. When we try to travel alone, we’re more likely to get lost or stumble on the rocks along the path. But when we turn to those whom God puts alongside us, the way becomes much more clear … and more life-giving. So, this sermon series will help us find the path Jesus is giving us, see how we might be tempted to stray from it, and lean on others as we follow Jesus’ lead.

Then there’s the third resource for your journey, an opportunity that begins this Lent and will carry on though the months ahead. We’re starting something called Companion Groups – small groups of eight to 10 people gathering once a month to grow spiritually together. Now, you might hear that and think, “Why would I take on one more thing?” But it’s not a heavy lift. The idea is just to share with a few others what you’re noticing along this path you’re walking. Maybe some of the questions in the devotional guide really got you thinking. Maybe you heard something in a sermon that keeps coming back to you. Maybe a friend said something that helped you see yourself or your life in a new way. Or, maybe, you’re just not hearing much at all from God, and you’d like a little support along the way. It’s amazing what can happen over a drink and a snack, a little prayer, a little honesty, and the Holy Spirit to bring it all together.

So, if you’re looking for a Lenten discipline that means more than giving up chocolate, again, consider this season’s trio – the devotional guide, the sermon series, and a Companion Group. Or just do whatever you can among those options or from the practice you follow already. After all, Lent isn’t about proving anything – it’s not about testing your mettle or racking up points on God’s scoreboard. Lent is about realizing that you’ve been fashioned by the One who fashions all goodness, all beauty, all love. That’s who we are, at our core. And I think it would make God smile if we tried to live that way.

Your Life Brings God's Kingdom to Life

State-of-the-Parish Address
Matthew 4:12-23; 1 Corinthians 1:10-18 (readings transferred one week because of weather)
Feb. 1, 2026

I need to let you know, so you don’t get distracted later:  This address will be a little longer than a usual sermon.  There’s a lot going on in the church and the world, so I’m giving myself six extra minutes. 

Jesus said, “Follow me” (Matt 4:19). So, let’s keep that in mind as we consider the state of our parish at the start of 2026.  Of course, what I’m supposed to say is, “The state of our parish is strong.”  In these addresses, the president, or the governor, or the rector always says that.  But I want to say something different because it’s more honest.  The state of our parish is … fine … at least for now.

You’ll see a lot of very good news in the annual report.  Outreach giving and service is downright inspiring: $103,000 given from the operating budget, another $105,000 in parishioners’ own gifts to our outreach partners, and 3,800 hours of service from you.  That’s crazy good.  Also in that category, we’re seeing more younger faces on Sundays and more little people running down the aisle to receive Communion.  The baristas have reached 10,000 hours of serving all sorts and conditions of community members over at HJ’s.  In terms of temporal affairs, we’ll be replacing our aging flat roofs and HVAC units this year with gifts outside the budget.  The effort is led by parishioner Frank Thompson, who has already led replacement of the parking lot and renovation of the undercroft – bless all those who are making this work possible.  And our number of pledging units is up, as is the number and proportion of increased pledges.  There’s a lot of good news.

And there are challenges.  Although the number of pledges is up, the amount pledged is $91,000 less than last year because a major giver died.  Also, we had a higher level of unfulfilled pledges in 2025 than usual – $110,000 pledged but not actually given.  Because of those unfulfilled pledges, we missed our revenue projection for 2025, which hasn’t happened in many years.

Now, this needn’t make you worry about staffing or outreach or utility bills in 2026.  We’re poised to do great ministry together this year.  As you’ll see in the budget presentation downstairs, we’ll be … fine.  But if we keep doing everything just the way we’ve been doing it, it won’t be long before “fine” means what its famous acronym stands for: frustrated, insecure, neurotic, and emotional.

I’d like to avoid that.  So, the leaders of your commissions related to resources – finance, stewardship, facilities, and endowment – are coming together this year to plan for a time when our current senior members and their generous pledges are no longer with us.  Watch for more about that as 2026 unfolds.

So, that’s the news from the land of temporal affairs.  How about the land of spiritual affairs?  That’s why the church is here, after all.  Our “core business” is to … hmmm … how would we frame that?  What are we here to produce?

Well, you could see our product as worship – preaching, music, prayer, and sacraments to connect us with God.  You could see our product as education – teaching people about God and God’s vision for the world.  You could see our product as outreach – being the hands and feet of Jesus to bless a hurting world.  You could see our product as fellowship – bringing the body of Christ together in love.  You could see our product as prophetic witness – speaking for God to the world around us.  We promise to do all those things in the Baptismal Covenant, our job description as Christians.

But I think our product is something different.  Our product is you.  What the Church is here to produce is disciples – people who follow Jesus Christ as their Lord.  The Church forms and equips disciples through all our ministries, all the ways the Baptismal Covenant frames the work of love.

So, forming followers of Jesus will be our focus this year, with a theme of Companions on the Way.  Why would we make that our theme?  Because a life of meaning and value and purpose – the life for which we yearn – that’s not a path we take alone.  It’s a path we take in community, growing in relationship with people who become our companions – a word that means, at its root, people who break bread together.  With our companions on the way, we find nothing less than the staff of life, the true Bread that came down from heaven – divine Love itself.

We find and journey with our companions in different ways, even in one person’s life.  It happens vertically, so to speak, in the one-on-one time we spend with God.  And it happens horizontally, too, in the relationships God empowers us to build – relationships across the dinner table with the people closest to us and relationships with friends we travel alongside.  All those paths move us toward heaven, now and later.

As I said, everything we do at church builds those vertical and horizontal companion relationships – worship, outreach, prayer, learning, welcoming others, having a party.  But to help us focus on going deeper with our companions, human and divine, we’re offering a couple of special resources this year.

One is a series of devotional guides.  The one for the Epiphany season is the start, but we’ll provide one for each season across this year.  And, beginning with Lent, the guides will be specific for each day, briefer, and easier to navigate – think of it as “five minutes with God.”  As you drink your first cup of coffee, or check in with your kids or grandkids, or decompress with your beloved at the end of the day, you can use this resource to reflect on something from the coming Sunday’s readings and see where a rich question will take you.

The other resource is something we’re calling Companion Groups.  Starting in Lent and continuing through the year, these small groups, eight to 10 people each, will gather once a month to connect with God and each other.  What will that look like?  A group might share something to eat and drink, check in about what’s bubbling in their lives, reflect on what they’ve been hearing in the season’s devotional guide, and come away amazed at how the Holy Spirit connects those dots.  If you’d like to be part of a group, you can sign up in the entryway or at the meeting downstairs, or you can sign up online.

What’s the point of the devotional guides and the small groups?  As you journey with your companions, human and divine, two miraculous things happen.  First, you grow deeper in love with God and the people around you, experiencing heaven not just later someday but in your life, right now.  And second, you begin to see how your extraordinary, ordinary life helps bring about God’s reign and rule of love.  How?  By being the person God’s made you to be – through the work you do, the choices you make, the actions you take, the good for which you stand.

Now, most often, no one will notice.  At the Free Store two weeks ago, I watched a parishioner talking with a woman who’d come late and couldn’t get the warm gloves she needed.  So, this parishioner went and got her own gloves out of her coat and gave them to the woman, who never knew where they came from.  That’s the kingdom of God, in the flesh.  But sometimes, you’ll find yourself acting as God’s agent more publicly – in what you say to someone at work, in the insight you post, in the rally your attend, in the causes you support.  As the poet said, “We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.”¹  The kingdom of God is not a church, or a nonprofit, or a political party, or a nation.  The kingdom of God is one person after another following Jesus instead of following the other voices that claim our allegiance – voices of power or wealth or privilege or affinity.

I believe that’s our primary work as the Church.  It may seem like our mission is to provide worship, or put on classes, or feed the poor, or offer fellowship, or raise money.  Instead, each of those things supports our true purpose, which is to help you grow as a follower of Jesus, live out his love across your life, and share it with others.  That’s the Church’s superpower in a world that wants us to think we’re irrelevant.  Your changed life brings God’s kingdom to life.

So, in terms of temporal and spiritual affairs, I believe we have good, healthy work ahead of us this year.  That’s also true about a third aspect of the state of our parish – our intersection with the political and social moment in which we’re living.  And here, the same truth holds:  Your changed life brings God’s kingdom to life.

We’re in a time when we’re being asked, or maybe told, to overturn some of our nation’s fundamental presumptions – how we treat one another and how we treat the rest of the world.  For many decades, certainly across my life, Americans have followed norms that restrained our personal and collective temptations.  We’re in a time now when those norms are slipping.  Not so long ago, I would have assured someone that the losing side in an American election wouldn’t consider overturning the result, and that leaders wouldn’t consider deploying the armed forces against protesting citizens, and that leaders wouldn’t consider ending bedrock alliances when allies don’t follow our demands.  These presumptions are different now than they were a few years ago.  You may like those changes, or you may abhor them, but changes are happening.

I know some of you are frustrated with me for not speaking and writing about all this more directly.  Recently, a parishioner wrote to me about what he described as the administration’s “growing brutality and lack of empathy for citizens.”  He said, “I think it’s time we, as a church, become much stronger in [our] messaging. If some parishioners have a problem with that, so be it – they can leave and find another place of worship. It’s time to get off the fence.”

You deserve to know how I see the Church’s role in these times when slipping norms are emboldening our leaders to change the way they treat those who oppose them.  So, here goes.

First: I don’t see “the Church” as me.  I lead this parish, and you hear my voice more than others; but I am not the parish.  You are.

Second: If you are the Church, then it matters how you see the world.  Now, I can’t prove this, but my gut tells me St. Andrew’s is a microcosm of our politics.  I’d bet my next paycheck that we’re 50/50 progressive and conservative.  Now, I don’t know whether that tracks precisely with supporting the president and not supporting the president, but I’ll bet it’s close.  So, if we’re 50/50 on nearly any given issue, even priest-math tells me I’ll annoy half of you with any perceived political stance I take.

And that raises the question:  So what?  True leaders speak the truth, right? – regardless of whom they annoy.  That’s the perspective of the parishioner who wrote to me recently.

Let me be transparent about this.  There’s a very practical reason not to alienate half of you:  If those of you who disagree with me write me off and stop listening, I’ve lost whatever opportunity I had to change your heart.  But here’s an even better reason not to alienate half of you:  We need each other.  That’s always been true, but oh my goodness is it true now.

Some of my best friends and closest partners here are people whose votes cancel mine in every election.  And over the past 20 years, I’ve learned more from them than I can begin to say.  Maybe they’ve grown a little knowing me, too.  Well, the same truth holds at the congregational level.  I’m not sure there’s any institution but the Church, and especially this church, that has the capacity to hold us together as the powers around us are tearing us apart.  We need each other to be here, Sunday after Sunday, to remind us that we need each other always, as companions on the way.

Now, does that mean it doesn’t matter what we believe or how we behave?  Far from it.  Instead, it means that what binds us together here, across our differences, is not our allegiance to, or our rejection of, a political figure and his movement.  What binds us together is our allegiance to Jesus Christ as our sovereign.

So, then, what does Jesus have to say to our parish and to our nation?

Let’s take it from the top.  A scribe asks Jesus what’s the most important commandment, and Jesus says:  Love God with everything you’ve got, and love your neighbor as yourself (Matt 22:37-39).  Full stop.

I think what that means is that everything we do must align with giving our allegiance to God alone and giving others the same care we’d give ourselves.  So, for those who want to claim that this is a Christian nation – not that we are Christian nationalists, for that is not who we are – but if we want to claim that our nation is guided by the God revealed in Jesus Christ, then we must follow God’s priorities – especially when God’s priorities challenge our own.  A Christian nation follows rules, norms, and boundaries beyond “I can do what I want.”  A Christian nation recognizes that God’s agenda defines the true national interest.  A Christian nation prioritizes raising up those who struggle the most.  A Christian nation has the strength to say, “We honor and serve even those who differ from us because they’re made in God’s image and likeness.”

So, in this challenging moment, what’s the Church for?  The Church is here to form you to follow Jesus in loving God and loving neighbor through every aspect of your life – family, work, finances, volunteerism, advocacy, voting.  If you look at the changes happening in our nation, and you can honestly say they represent what Jesus wants to see, then work and vote for them.  If you look at the changes happening in our nation, and you say Jesus opposes them, then work and vote against them.

But, for God’s sake, literally – if you disagree with me, or if you disagree with the person sitting next to you in the pew – whatever else you do, don’t leave.  That’s precisely what the forces of division want.  Instead, tell me that you disagree, and then let’s share the sacrament of a cup of coffee as companions on the way.

Our broken world says, “Join only with people who look and live and think and love like you.”  The good news of Jesus Christ says, “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people” (Matt 4:19) – these people and those people, people you like and people you don’t, people you agree with and people you can’t understand.  “Follow me,” Jesus says, “as your Companion on the way, and learn to live as I live.  Follow me,” Jesus says, “alongside these companions I give you, and with them build my kingdom of love.

“Follow me,” Jesus says.  For it’s in his love, and his love alone, that we are bound together.

1.      From “Poem for South African Women” by June Jordan, presented at the United Nations, Aug. 9, 1978. Available at: https://www.junejordan.net/poem-for-south-african-women.html. Accessed Jan. 30, 2026. See article by Howell, Patrick A. “We Are the Ones We’ve Been Waiting For.” Huffpost, April 18, 2017. Available at: https://www.huffpost.com/entry/we-are-the-ones-we-have-been-waiting-for_b_58e785b9e4b0acd784ca5738. Accessed Jan. 30, 2025.

Are You as Human as I Am?

Sermon for Sunday, Jan. 25, 2026
Micah 6:1-8; Matthew 5:1-12
(Readings for Epiphany 4 switched with Epiphany 3)

Eight days ago, dozens of us joined dozens of folks from St. James Methodist to offer the Free Store, now a twice-a-year event where anyone can come for a hot meal and the chance to shop for things we all need.  At this time of year, that means warm coats, boots, gloves, hats, socks – the basics I take for granted.  It’s a tremendous thing to provide that hot meal and some essentials of life for 325 people on a cold morning.  But it’s a good thing for me, too – a chance for God to form my mind a little more fully into the mind of Christ.  Just recently, I realized my winter coat was ripping out after a decade’s use, so I pulled out my phone, ordered one online, and had it delivered to my door.  That’s my life.  And it’s good for me to remember it’s not the life of thousands of neighbors of mine.

In fact, I had a brief conversation with a young woman at the Free Store waiting for breakfast.  She asked about what was in the next room, where the clothes were – most important, did they have boots?  Now, this young woman had a disability in at least one of her legs, which made walking hard in any case.  And she stuck out her twisted ankle to show me what she was wearing that frigid morning – very old bedroom slippers.  She said, with masterful understatement, “I kinda need some new shoes.”  I told her we did have boots, and I silently prayed there were still some left at that point in the morning.

It’s good to remember that my life is not the life of thousands of neighbors of mine.  In fact, it’s not just good.  It’s holy.  To practice God’s justice, we have to see the other not as the other but as a child of God.

God’s justice … now there’s a rich concept.  We heard it in the first reading this morning, those famous words of the prophet Micah.  Let me set the stage a bit for this verse we see on T-shirts and yard signs so we can know what was on the prophet’s mind.

Micah looks around at the Kingdom of Judah about 700 BC, after the northern Kingdom of Israel had already fallen to the Assyrians, and Micah sees a clear throughline.  Both these Jewish kingdoms have failed to keep the covenant they’d made with Yahweh.  God freed them from the Egyptians, gave them this land, and asked the people for their exclusive loyalty.  Although the answer at first was a hearty “yes,” the people eventually said, “No, thanks.  We’ll worship you when it’s convenient, but there are lots of other cool gods out there, too.”

So, speaking for God, Micah plays the role of prosecutor and judge, making the case against the remaining Kingdom of Judah and basically saying, Justify yourself!  Through the prophet, God says, “What have I done to you?  In what have I wearied you?  Answer me!” (6:3)  Micah then imagines how the people would respond.  What is it God wants, anyway?  Burnt offerings of calves and rams?  Maybe child sacrifice, like some other cultures?  No, Micah exclaims.  God “has told you … what is good” – your allegiance, expressed in action.  “[W]hat does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” (6:8)

There’s that word … justice.  What is it to “do justice”?  In our culture, we think of it as following and enforcing the law, and there’s truth in that.  Our “justice system,” on its best days, strives to accomplish that goal.  But God’s justice is broader than that.  God’s justice is what it looks like when we live out the social order God desires.  And what is that?  Well, it does include punishment for wrongdoing, but it doesn’t stop there.  God’s justice applies to all of human interaction.  It includes intentionally caring for the vulnerable rather than assuming it’s someone else’s responsibility.  It includes ensuring that resources are accessible to all – not necessarily that everyone has the same but that everyone has access to what they need.  It presumes that these conditions are the responsibility of the community, not compartmentalized as a function of religion or a government department – but that the community is responsible for the community’s wholeness and right relationship with God.  And why would God expect all this?  Because a right relationship with God would reflect God’s own nature, which is Love.¹  So, if justice is how we express divine Love, then maybe, at the end of the day, justice depends on how you regard the other.  And to regard the other righteously, in a way that reflects the Love that God is, then you actually have to see the other.

From Micah’s call to do justice, our readings take us to Jesus’ vision of justice lived out in a broken world.  The Beatitudes sketch the life of the disciple community, an alternative community – what “God’s empire” would look like in contrast to the Roman Empire.²  This series of nine blessings comes in two parts.  The first four raise up those who are disheartened – the folks who probably just want to give up because the Romans and the complicit religious authorities deplete their spirits, cause them grief, make them doubt their capacity, and make them yearn for a society that is in right relationship with God.  But in a culture that values wealth and power, God blesses those who are out of resources and out of options, a process that Jesus has begun.³  Then Jesus goes on to describe the way of life for his followers, in contrast to the Romans and the religious leaders.  It’s a life of practicing mercy, practicing right relationship, and making peace, despite the harsh consequences.  As one scholar says, “Persecution is inevitable when the powerful elite are challenged,” but “God rewards faithfulness.”⁴

So, how do we learn to live this way?  How do we learn to do justice – to practice mercy, right relationship, and peace?  I think it starts by seeing the other not as “them” but as “us.”  And, it turns out, we have a place to practice doing that six days a week.

Last Sunday, parishioner Craig Lundgren shared that our Brew Crew, the baristas who serve at HJ’s Café, have logged 10,000 hours welcoming all sorts and conditions of people for coffee.  Now, for the church as an organization, and for the baristas, and for Sarah Tepikian, our staff member at HJ’s, this is not easy.  We’ve had to put up signs at HJ’s saying you can’t lie down here or get into fights.  We’ve had to employ security, just as we do on this side of the street on Sunday mornings.  But a beautiful “both/and” happens there.  On any given day at HJ’s, you’ll find Trolley Trail bikers and hikers, members of community groups, and folks looking for a place to stay warm.  And on Fridays, we see maybe the best expression of the community that HJ’s invites when neighbors of all kinds gather to play music and drink coffee and sing together.  The tremendously cool thing is that no one at the church organized this.  It’s not a ministry.  It’s the Spirit’s work, an inbreaking of the reign and rule of God.  And when it happens, you see the other as being just a little bit more like you.

Practicing God’s contrast kingdom of mercy, right relationship, and peace – it’s the hardest work there is.  It isn’t sweetness and light; it’s messy, inconvenient, and disruptive.  Sometimes, it even spills out into the streets, as we saw on Friday.  In Minneapolis, thousands of Minnesotans turned out that day, in weather colder than ours, to express their outrage about the government’s tactics in apprehending people who may have broken immigration laws.  Now, some will argue that those people in the streets were just agitators looking to discredit the government and disrupt authority.  I’m sure you could find some people in Minneapolis who would fit that description.  But I know that thousands of others are like my friend Kathy, a priest who lives there.  She’s a few years older than I am – a mom and grandma who makes the best bars you’ll ever eat.  And she braved those frigid temperatures to stand for God’s justice.  Mtr. Kathy, and thousands more people with otherwise boring, normal lives, looked at the way their government is treating the other, and they saw a disconnect between God’s justice and the application of law.  

And then, yesterday, as the protests in Minneapolis continued, a confrontation turned deadly, with ICE agents using lethal force.  This second killing of a Minneapolis protester will continue to be analyzed deeply and, God willing, an investigation will reveal truth.  But, at the end of the day, people will believe what they see more than what they’re told.  In any event, I think it’s safe to say that othering can have even fatal consequences.

Interestingly, on the same Friday as the Minneapolis protest but half a country away, the 53^rd annual March for Life took place in Washington, where a very different crowd of protesters also saw a disconnect between God’s justice and the government’s policies.  Now, I don’t know anyone personally who went to the March for Life, but I imagine they’d consider abortion to be something that fails to care for the vulnerable and therefore denies the justice of God.  They look at a fetus, or even an embryo, and see a person.  Now, half of you hearing this will say they’re right, and half of you hearing this will say they’re wrong.  But, once again, justice comes down to personhood – on the topic of abortion, the question of personhood.  And if it’s a person there in front of you, the requirement for God’s justice pertains.

I certainly can’t solve the personhood question related to abortion, and I won’t try.  But I think it’s surprising that a core Christian principle may have been motivating protesters at both rallies on Friday: the call to stand in contrast to a culture that dehumanizes people made in the divine image and likeness.

What do we do with that?  My point isn’t whether the two rallies were morally equivalent.  My point is that we each have to ask ourselves, “Who’s the other to me?  Is that other as fully human as I am?”  If the answer is “yes,” then we have work to do to see that other the way God sees them: fully human, broken and beloved, and worthy of being taken just as seriously as we’d take any other child of God.

1.      Anchor Bible Dictionary, vol. 3, 1127.

2.      New International Study Bible, 1754 (note).

3.      Ibid.

4.      Ibid.