Month: September 2025

Woe to Selfish Religion

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Sermons Year CLeave a comment

Amos 6:1, 4–7; Luke 16:19–31

If you missed it, some Christians spent the first part of last week preparing for “the Rapture” which was supposed to have happened on Tuesday. Videos were posted of excited believers talking about getting their affairs in order, sharing their plans for their property and pets, in the event that they get swept up in the sky to meet Jesus, leaving all non-believers on earth to suffer tribulation.

This wild belief we call “the rapture” didn’t come from any responsible interpretation of scripture, but from a vision of a young Scottish woman named Margaret McDonald who, in 1830, dreamed about people flying away to heaven to escape hell on earth. Her dream was shaped by preachers who taught that the world’s problems were just too great, too hard, too much for human beings to solve.

That dream later made its way into the Scofield Study Bible, then into movies and novels like The Late Great Planet Earth and the Left Behind series, and of course, into pulpits across America. Though based on a gross misreading of scripture, it is often preached as gospel truth, terrifying folks into “getting saved.”

Before I was baptized when I was eleven, I remember lying awake worried I’d wake up to find that my parents had been raptured away, leaving me behind to raise my little brother and sister. However, I did take some comfort thinking that since Nana and Granddaddy didn’t go to church, and granddaddy drank beer, maybe they’d still be around to take care of us.

Another teaching that haunted me as a child came from Jesus’ parable of “the Rich Man and Lazarus.” I can still see myself on those hard wooden pews as preachers painted vivid pictures of the flames of hell. If I didn’t “get saved,” they said I would one day gaze into heaven from my eternal home in hell, begging for a sip of water.

The message was clear: unless I walked down that aisle, I would either die and suffer forever in hell, or be left behind after the rapture to suffer the tribulation.

Notice what both teachings did. By telling us that faith was about escaping suffering, they took all the focus off addressing the suffering and pain of this world. They made us forget that Jesus actually taught us to live a way of love that relieves suffering here and now. They drained away any responsibility we might have to work in our broken world for justice, peace, and mercy.

And maybe that was the point, the whole scheme all along. Because following Jesus is not easy. Following Jesus means helping people like Lazarus. Following Jesus means always standing in solidarity with the poor and marginalized. Following Jesus means challenging systems of greed and injustice that keep some people feasting while others starve. And that is much harder than saying a quick prayer to escape hell.

But the gospel was never intended to be an easy way out. The gospel has never been about escaping suffering. On the contrary, the gospel has always been about suffering with and for the poor, because it is good news for the poor. It is liberation for the oppressed. It is God’s vision of justice, mercy, and peace on earth. It is repenting from fear, selfishness, and greed to embrace love, selflessness, and generosity.

Let’s return to the parable. An unnamed rich man dressed in purple feasted every day. At his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, longing for crumbs. Even the dogs showed him more compassion than the rich man.

When both die, Lazarus is carried into Abraham’s bosom while the rich man suffers torment. But notice that, even then, the rich man doesn’t repent. He still treats Lazarus as a servant: “Send him to me with some water.” “Send him to warn my brothers.” He never once says, “I am sorry for ignoring Lazarus. I am sorry for building a gate to shut him out. I am sorry I closed my eyes to his suffering.”

There is no repentance. Only entitlement.

And Abraham’s reply is devastating: “They have Moses and the prophets. If they will not listen to them, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.”

That’s the tragedy of this parable. It’s not simply about torment after death. It’s about the refusal to listen and to change. People can hear the prophets, even witness resurrection, yet still cling to greed and selfishness. People can be easily brainwashed into thinking that faith is about saving themselves, not about transforming the world.

And so today, many have been brainwashed by preachers, politicians, and propaganda machines into believing the gospel has nothing to do with loving Lazarus at the gate, nothing to do with compassion for immigrants, nothing to do with healthcare, housing, or hunger, nothing to do with injustice. “Just say the ‘sinners’ prayer,’ secure your ticket, and let your neighbor take care of himself.”

But Jesus says otherwise.

Through this parable, Jesus is giving the same warning Amos gave centuries before:

“Woe to those at ease in Zion. Woe to those who lounge on ivory couches, who eat lambs from the flock, who drink wine by the bowlful, and anoint themselves with the finest oils, but are not grieved over the ruin of the nation.”

Amos saw people living in luxury while their neighbors suffered. Jesus saw it too: a rich man feasting while Lazarus starved at his gate. Both are indictments of those who refuse to listen and change.

And this is not just ancient history. This is us.

Today, we live in a society where billionaires launch rockets into space while children go to bed hungry. Wine is consumed by the bowlful while communities like Flint and Jackson are poisoned by contaminated water. People recline on ivory couches while their neighbors suffer.

And today, we see friends, neighbors, even family so brainwashed by lies that nothing can change their minds. Someone could shoot a man on Fifth Avenue, and they still wouldn’t change.

Behind the gates of fascism today is Lazarus. Lazarus is our LGBTQ neighbor under attack by lawmakers and preachers who twist scripture into a weapon.

Lazarus is the immigrant locked in detention centers, or drowned at sea, while politicians build careers on cruelty.

Lazarus is the scientist and teacher defunded and mocked so that ignorance can rule.

Lazarus is the journalist, librarian, or truth-teller threatened for speaking up.

Lazarus is the Black and brown neighbor targeted by violence and mass incarceration.

Lazarus is the Palestinian neighbor starving in the rubble of Gaza.

Lazarus is always the poor—always—while the rich anoint themselves with oil.

And churches are complicit by clinging to a false gospel of escape-from-it-all.

Preach healthcare as a human right and you’ll be told, “That’s socialism.”

Preach feeding the hungry and you’ll hear, “That’s enabling laziness.”

Preach racial justice and they’ll say, “That’s too political.”

They’ll say anything to avoid listening and changing. “Just focus on getting people ready for eternity!” they’ll say.

But Jesus says: that’s not the gospel. The gospel is about loving Lazarus at the gate. The gospel is not about escaping hell. The gospel is about making life less hellish now. The gospel is about God’s kingdom coming on earth as it is in heaven.

And let’s be honest: being told you are wrong is tough to hear. It’s hard to confront our comfort, our privilege, and our complicity. It’s hard to admit, “I was wrong. I shut my gate. I ignored Lazarus.”

But that’s the hard and narrow way of the gospel. The good news is not escape from this world. The good news is that God is redeeming this world, and invites us to hear that news, to repent and to join. The good news is that Jesus has already crossed the great chasm to bring heaven’s love into earth’s suffering. The good news is that resurrection is real, that life can triumph over death, love over hate, justice over greed.

The gospel is more demanding than the sermons that once terrified us, but it’s also more beautiful. For it’s not about fear. It’s about love. It’s not about escape. It is about engagement.

It is about getting up from our couches of comfort and walking out to the gate where Lazarus is lying. It is about opening the gate wide and saying, “You are not left behind. You are not forgotten. You are my neighbor, and I am called to liberate you, to love you.”

The gospel calls us to open the gates of our churches, not just for Sunday worship but for Monday mercy and Tuesday justice, everyday peace-making. The gospel calls us to open the gates of our politics, our budgets, our neighborhoods, so that the poor are lifted, the hungry are fed, the sick are cared for, the oppressed are liberated.

This is not charity. This is not pity. This is gospel. This is resurrection life breaking into a world addicted to death and people addicted to an easy way out.

Our scripture lessons present us with a choice. Will we sit behind our gates, pretending nothing can change? Or will we rise to the call of Amos, of Jesus, of the resurrection itself?

The world is aching today for a church that will live the gospel. The world is waiting for Christians who will trade their rapture charts for justice marches, their escape plans for solidarity plans, and their fear of hell for the hard work of making life less hellish for Lazarus at the gate.

The Spirit of God is calling us right now to repent of selfish religion and embrace liberating love. To turn from the false gospel of escape and to embrace the true gospel of engagement.

The Spirit is pleading with us to listen. Listen to Moses and the prophets. Listen to Amos crying out from the marketplace. Listen to Jesus telling of Lazarus at the gate. Listen to resurrection itself”

“Don’t harden your hearts! Don’t cling to selfish religion! Don’t mistake fear for faith!”

For there’s no problem in the world too great, too hard, or too much for the disciples of the Christ!

Because here’s the promise: if we choose love, if we listen, if we take Lazarus’ hand at the gate, we will find God already there, already at work, already making all things new.

So, disciples of Christ:

Let’s open the gate!

Let’s step through the fear!

Let’s take Lazarus’ hand!

And let’s walk together into God’s new creation!

For the good news is this:

God is making all things new.

And God is calling us, here and now, to join in that work.

Amen.

Pastoral Prayer

God of all nations and peoples,

we gather today with hearts full of both gratitude and grief.

We give thanks for life, for breath, for the gift of community.

We give thanks for beauty—in the turning of the seasons,

in the laughter of children, in the resilience of your people.

Yet, we also bring to you our burdens.

We pray for those who are sick and struggling,

for those who carry heavy grief,

for those living with fear, with hunger, with loneliness.

We pray for communities torn apart by violence and war,

for families separated by borders,

for the earth groaning under fire, flood, and storm.

God, we confess how easy it is to turn away from pain,

to shield our eyes from suffering,

to harden our hearts to injustice.

But you have called us to love our neighbors as ourselves.

You have called us to seek justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with you.

So today, O Lord, give us the courage to see as you see,

to love as you love, to live as your children, bound together in one human family.

Where there is despair, make us bearers of hope.

Where there is hatred, make us instruments of peace.

Where there is apathy, stir us to act with compassion.

We offer all our prayers—spoken and unspoken—in the name of the One who came that we might have life, and have it abundantly,

Amen.

Pastoral Prayer

God of all nations and peoples,

we gather today with hearts full of both gratitude and grief.

We give thanks for life, for breath, for the gift of community.

We give thanks for beauty—in the turning of the seasons,

in the laughter of children, in the resilience of your people.

Yet, we also bring to you our burdens.

We pray for those who are sick and struggling,

for those who carry heavy grief,

for those living with fear, with hunger, with loneliness.

We pray for communities torn apart by violence and war,

for families separated by borders,

for the earth groaning under fire, flood, and storm.

God, we confess how easy it is to turn away from pain,

to shield our eyes from suffering,

to harden our hearts to injustice.

But you have called us to love our neighbors as ourselves.

You have called us to seek justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with you.

So today, O Lord, give us the courage to see as you see,

to love as you love, to live as your children, bound together in one human family.

Where there is despair, make us bearers of hope.

Where there is hatred, make us instruments of peace.

Where there is apathy, stir us to act with compassion.

We offer all our prayers—spoken and unspoken—in the name of the One who came that we might have life, and have it abundantly, Amen. 

Invitation to Communion

Beloved, this table is not a table of ivory and luxury—it is the table of Christ.
Here, there is no rich man and poor man, no gate to divide us, no crumbs and banquets—only bread broken for all, only a cup poured out for all.

At this table, Lazarus is lifted up, the hungry are filled, and the comfortable are called to share.

Here we taste a different kind of feast—the feast of God’s justice, the feast of Christ’s love, the feast that anticipates the kingdom where none are excluded.

Come, not because you want to be fed, but because God calls you to be transformed.

Come, for all are welcome.

Invitation to the Offering

In the parable, the rich man ignored Lazarus at his gate. At this moment, Lazarus is still at our gate—in our neighborhoods, in our city, in our world.

Our offering is not a transaction. It is an act of resistance. It says we will not be numb. We will not pass by. We will not close our eyes to suffering.
Through our gifts, we choose to see Lazarus, to love Lazarus, to stand with Lazarus.

Let us give, then, not from ease or obligation, but from compassion, solidarity, and joy in God’s vision of justice.

Benediction

Go forth, people of God,
not with a gospel of escape,
but with the good news of engagement.
Go forth, to open the gates,
to love Lazarus at the threshold,
to stand with the poor, the silenced, and the oppressed.
Go forth, to listen to Moses and the prophets,
to follow Jesus in the way of love,
to live resurrection life in a world addicted to death.
And as you go,
may the God who makes all things new
strengthen you,
the Christ who crossed the great chasm walk beside you,
and the Spirit who will not be silenced empower you—
today, tomorrow, and forevermore. Amen.

Is There a Balm in Gilead? A Cry for Peace in an Age of Fascism

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Sermons Year CLeave a comment

Jeremiah 8:18-9:1

My joy is gone. Grief is upon me. My heart is sick. Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there? O that my head were a spring of water, and my eyes a fountain of tears, so that I might weep day and night for the slain of my poor people.

How many of you can feel the enormous grief of the prophet? It’s heavy. It’s exhausting. And I confess that there was a time this week I felt like just giving up.

Jeremiah’s gut-wrenching lament comes from the suffering of a broken city—amid a people demoralized by a corrupt government, betrayed by those in power, and abandoned by the religious establishment.

The prophet’s voice trembles with profound sadness. He sees a nation that has lost its way: a people who claim to believe in God but who fail to practice kindness, justice, and mercy; leaders who have consolidated power by telling lies, scapegoating the weak, silencing dissent, and threatening violence.

Sound familiar?

In Jeremiah’s time, the Babylonian war machine bore down on Judah.

Instead of defending the vulnerable, the powerful protected their own wealth and position, leaving ordinary people exposed to invasion and suffering. The poor were crushed, widows abandoned, orphans ignored, and migrants exploited. The powerful told the people what they wanted to hear, proclaiming “peace,” when there was no peace, because there was no justice.

And Jeremiah wept.

Jeremiah wept because people fell for the lies. He wept because the cries of the vulnerable went unheard. He wept because leaders in the nation had hardened their hearts. And he wept because those leaders were blessed by religious leaders.

Sound familiar?

It was not only a political crisis. It was a moral crisis, a spiritual crisis.

And on this International Day of Peace in 2025, we find ourselves in a strikingly similar crisis, as fascism tightens its grip on our nation.

Power has been consolidated by dividing the nation, scapegoating immigrants, and silencing dissent. The playbook of the powerful demonizes the most vulnerable among us. It criminalizes protest, censors history, dismantles education, denies science, and spreads lies, all to protect their power.

We live in a time when comedic satire aimed at the rich and powerful is silenced, while hate aimed at the poor and powerless is protected. A comedian was pulled off the airwaves after mocking the President. Yet, a Fox news host openly called for the killing of the homeless and the mentally ill—those whom Jesus would say that “if you do it to them, you do it to me”—and not only did he keep his job, he was defended by many who claim to be Christian.

This is much deeper than politics. It’s about the soul of the nation. When truth is silenced, when the poor are demonized, and when those in the church bless it, it is more than democracy at stake. It is our very humanity and witness to God.

This is the sin-sick world Jeremiah saw.

Judah was collapsing under its own corruption. The prophets who should have spoken truth to power bowed down to power. Babylon loomed large, an empire built on conquest, intimidation, and fear. And Judah’s leaders tried to imitate the empire, believing violence would secure peace. Peace through strength, as they like to say. Prophets like Jeremiah were threatened, beaten, and even imprisoned for speaking truth (Jer. 20:1–2; 26:7–11).

But Jeremiah rose up and spoke out anyway. Listen to his words from the previous chapter:

Don’t for a minute believe the lies being spoken here: ‘This is God’s Temple, God’s Temple, God’s Temple!’ [It’s] total nonsense! Clean up your act, the way you live and treat your neighbors…[quit oppressing the alien NRSVUE], exploiting street people and orphans and widows. Quit taking advantage of innocent people, [and stop going after other gods to your own hurt …NRSVUE] Get smart! Your leaders are handing you a pack of lies, and you’re swallowing them! Use your heads! (Jeremiah 7, The Message).

Jeremiah wept because the people had been conned, falling for the lies of the powerful, even against their own interests, choosing violence over love, a false peace over justice. And Jeremiah wept because people were being hurt in the name of God.

His nation was sick with sin and Jeremiah lamented: “Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician here?”

It’s difficult not to see the parallels to 2025.

Today, politicians quote scripture while cutting food program and taking away healthcare. Governors sign laws to censor history, erasing the stories of Black, Brown, and queer lives. Politicians want to control the media and criminalize protest, making dissent itself illegal. They attack education, deny the reality of climate change, and sneer at science.

And they bless it all in the name of God. They silence the prophets in the name of peace. They embrace fascism in the name of patriotism.

The nation is sin-sick when comedians who poke fun at power are silenced, while broadcasters who fantasize about killing the poor are protected. The nation is sin-sick when protest is criminalized and violence is excused, when truth is silenced and lies are amplified, when bigots are honored and those who speak out against bigotry are villainized.

Thus, Jeremiah’s cry becomes our own: “Is there no balm in Gilead?”

So today, we join Jeremiah’s weeping.

We weep for all who are still swallowing lies at their own peril.

We weep for immigrants locked away without due process, terrorized and scapegoated for problems they did not cause.

We weep for our unhoused neighbors, those whom many wish would just disappear.

And we weep for the silenced voices—journalists, teachers, artists, prophets—punished for telling the truth.

However, here’s the good news. We weep with the prophet today, but we weep with hope. If not, I don’t think we would be in this sanctuary this morning. We weep before God as those who know the tears of the faithful are sacred, that the laments of those who believe in love are holy, that weeping itself is an act of resistance in a culture that tells us that everything is fine.

Jeremiah asked: “Is there no balm in Gilead?”

Two thousand years later, the African-American church of the 19th century answered the prophet. Although the powerful what us to forget it, while African Americans were considered chattel property with no rights, subjected to forced labor from sunrise to sunset, while they were bought, sold, and separated from their families, their lives defined by brutal coercion, including whippings and the threat of death, while they were denied legal rights and autonomy, they were somehow still able to sing out loud, words that we will sing in a few moments: “There is a balm in Gilead!”

Not the balm that came from bowing down to their masters. Neither was it the balm of hating them or responding to their violence with more violence. It was the balm of God’s justice, the balm of Christ’s love, and the balm of Spirit’s fire. The balm with the power to make the wounded whole, to heal the sin-sick soul. The balm that is found wherever people choose love over hate, truth over lies, and justice over fear.

The balm of Gilead is in the streets where the people march. It’s in the pulpits where prophets preach and in the pews where worshippers pray. It’s in the classrooms where teachers defy censorship, and it’s in the laments of all who believe in love.

The balm of Gilead is found in our tears, our laughter, our songs, and our courage.

Jeremiah cried, “O that my head were a spring of water, and my eyes a fountain of tears.”

In 2025 America, we know our tears can become rivers of justice. Our lament fuels our resistance, and our weeping gives birth to action.

When protest is criminalized, our tears compel us to march anyway.

When immigrants are demonized, our tears move us to stand with them in solidarity and proclaim that no human being is illegal.

When history is censored, our honest tears become words telling the truth in our classrooms, in our pulpits, and in our homes, because we know it is only the truth that sets us free.

When science is denied, our weeping stirs us to honor the creation, because we believe in our hearts God has entrusted this world to our care.

When God’s name is used to do harm to our neighbors, our grief send us out of the sanctuary into the streets to protect them in the name of God.

When satire is silenced, even in mourning, we will laugh louder, for we believe humor is holy and joy is a weapon.

When hate is excused, we will raise our trembling voices for love, because we know love will ultimately win.

On this International Day of Peace, we cry with Jeremiah, we weep with Jesus, and we rise with the Spirit. We stand to reject the fake peace of empire and the immoral peace of silence, while we embrace the true and costly peace of justice, the risky peace of love, and the revolutionary peace of the gospel.

Because while fascism may grip the nation, it cannot crush the Spirit. Those in power may silence prophets, but they cannot silence God. Hate may roar for a season, but love is eternal.

“Is there no balm in Gilead?”

Yes, there is a balm! And we are called to be it!

Today, we weep. But the good news is that our tears are not the end of the story. Because there does come a time when our tears turn into hope. There comes a time when lament gives birth to testimony, when weeping rises up into a witness that shakes the foundations of empire.

And now is that time!

We see that people in our nation are already paying the price for being a moral witness. Workers are being fired from their jobs, teachers dismissed from classrooms, journalists silenced—all because they dared to post on social media what Jeremiah would have shouted from the streets—”Those with power are lying. Fascism is here. And anyone who does harm to the poor, to the immigrant, to the most vulnerable among us, is no friend of God!”

And when prophets are silenced like this, when truth is censored, when jobs are lost for speaking conscience, the church must rise with even greater courage to say: “Yes, these days are heavy, but we will not bow down. We are exhausted, but we will not give up! We will not allow fascism to have the last word! We will not allow love to be silenced while hate is amplified! And we will not allow truth to be buried beneath lies! Even if there is a price to pay!”

So, let’s rise together as balm in a broken land.
Let’s rise as physicians for a sin-sick nation.
Let’s rise as a river of justice, a mighty movement of revolutionary love, because we are the balm. We are the healers.

This week, we have wept for the nation. Collectively, in the words of the 119th Psalm, our tears have cried a river. But let’s remember that rivers have power. Rivers carve valleys. Rivers reshape the land. And they move history itself.

Now is the time to let our tears carve a new way forward.

Amen.

Pastoral Prayer

God of weeping prophets and wounded people, we come before You with broken hearts and open hands.

We weep for children taken too soon by gun violence,

for immigrants cast out and scapegoated,

for unhoused neighbors treated as disposable,

for truth-tellers silenced while lies are protected.

You, O Lord, hear the cry of the poor.

You see the fear that grips our nation, the cruelty that masquerades as strength, the empire that blesses weapons more than it blesses life.

Yet, you also see the power of love rising,

voices refusing to be silenced,

hands building communities of care,

feet marching for peace with justice.

Heal us, O God. Make us bold enough to speak truth in love,

to resist every system that thrives on fear and division,

and to live as balm in this wounded land.

We pray not only for peace but for the courage to embody it—

in our homes, in our streets, in this church, in our nation.

Through Christ, who wept with us and yet rose with power, we pray.

Amen.

Invitation to Communion

This table is not the empire’s table.
It is not gated, policed, or censored.
It does not silence the hungry or privilege the powerful.
This is Christ’s table—where the broken find healing,
where the weary find rest,
where the silenced find a voice,
where the despised find welcome.

On this International Day of Peace,
we come to taste a peace rooted in justice,
a love that breaks chains,
a hope that refuses to die.

Come, not because you are worthy,
but because Christ makes you whole.
Come, because there is a balm in Gilead,
and it is poured out here in bread and cup.

Invitation to Give

Our offerings are not hush money to quiet our conscience.
They are seeds of resistance, investments in justice,
fuel for the Spirit’s movement in this place and beyond.

When the world blesses weapons,
we bless children.
When the empire silences prophets,
we empower truth-tellers.
When systems sow fear,
we plant love.

Let us give, not reluctantly but boldly,
trusting that God will multiply these gifts
into balm for a wounded world.

Commissioning and Benediction

Go now as people of lament and of action.
Let your tears water the seeds of justice.
Let your weeping fuel your courage.
Let your prayers become protest,
your songs become strength,
your love become revolution.

The world asks, “Is there no balm in Gilead?”
We leave this place answering:
Yes, there is a balm—and we will be it.

Go in peace, go in power, go in love.

And let the church say: Amen.

The Most Hopeful Word in Scripture

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Sermons Year CLeave a comment

Luke 15:1-10

This morning, I’ve got a simple sermon. Now, don’t get too excited. I didn’t say short! I said simple. It’s about one word. Just one word. And I believe it may be the most hopeful word in scripture.

Jesus is confronted by grumbling Scribes and Pharisees: “Jesus, why do you insist on hanging out with people everyone knows are sinners? Rumors are flying all over town about you eating, drinking, and having parties with those people!”

And Jesus responds as he usually does by telling a story. Here, he tells three stories: one about a lost sheep, another about a lost coin, and another about a lost boy.

It is in these wonderful stories that we find what I believe is the most hopeful word in the entire Bible.

What about the word “found?” Now there’s a hopeful word. In each of these stories, there is something or someone who is found. The shepherd finds the lost sheep. “And when he found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices!” The woman finds the lost coin. “Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.” And the father finds his lost son. “Let us celebrate for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost but now he is found!”

Found: It’s a wonderful word. For being found is the polar opposite of being lost. Being found means being recognized and accepted, welcomed, and affirmed where we are and for who we are. Being found means coming home. Coming home to a place where you are loved unconditionally and appreciated and understood. Being found means belonging. Being found means salvation.

Found: What a hopeful word! For how many of us yearn to be known fully, understood completely, accepted entirely, and loved unconditionally? How many of us yearn for a place that we can call home? Where we can be our authentic selves and be welcomed and affirmed. Found: it’s a wonderful, hopeful word. It is who we are called to be as a church, and it is what makes this Open and Affirming congregation in Lynchburg so special.

“Found” is good. “Found” is hopeful. But it’s not quite the word I’m after. What about “rejoice?” Now, that’s a hopeful word…

In each of these stories, there is an awful lot of rejoicing. You gotta love the way Jesus responds to criticism about all the parties he was attending by telling three stories about having a party?

When the shepherd finds his lost sheep, he lays it on his shoulders and “rejoices.” He comes home, calls together his friends and neighbors and invites them to a party, saying, “Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.”

After the woman found her lost coin, she called together her friends and her neighbors, saying, “Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.”

And who can forget the party in the final story of the lost boy. When the boy is found, the father says to his servants: “Quickly, bring out a robe, the very best one, and put it on my boy. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let’s eat and celebrate; for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!” And they began to rejoice together with food, music, dancing, and belonging.

Rejoice: it’s an incredibly hopeful word, but it is not the word I am thinking of. There is another word, a smaller word, a stronger word, a word that will preach hope in every age!

Jesus says that the shepherd searches until he finds the lost sheep. The woman searches until she finds the lost coin, and the father waits until the lost boy is found.

It’s important to remember that each time Jesus tells a parable, he is implying that God is like that. God is like a shepherd who searches, not for an hour, not for 24, 36, or 48 hours, not for a week or a month or even a year, but searches until he finds his sheep. God is like a woman who turns on all the lights in the house, sweeps every square inch and feverishly searches until she finds it. And God is like a parent who patiently and graciously waits untiltheir child comes home.

The most hopeful word in the Bible may be the simple word until.

I have always prided myself on being open-minded. I have preached sermons about the importance of being open-minded. I’ll never forget that after one such sermon, a worshipper came up to me and asked, “Pastor, don’t you think that sometimes it is good to be close-minded? Don’t you think that there are some things that even God is hard-headed about?”

Although the worshipper was notorious for being closed-minded, he did have a pretty good point. For the good news is that the God Jesus describes is a close-minded, hard-headed, stubborn God. God is obstinate and unrelenting in God’s desire to draw all people unto God’s self. It was a very stubborn, immovable, and inflexible love which propelled to the cross. Perhaps the most close-minded statement that was ever made was made from the cross: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

So, you say: “I know I am not the person I need to be. How much longer will God keep molding me, shaping me, enveloping me with grace? The good news is, until.

You say, “I keep failing, I keep falling. How long will God continue to pick me up and put me back on my feet?” The good news is, until.

You say, “I don’t think I am ever going to get over the loss of my loved one. How much longer can I keep calling on God to help me?” The good news is until.

How long will God keep fighting for me in this battle? How long will God keep protecting me in this storm? The good news is, until.

How much longer is God going to believe in me and stand by me and make a place for me at God’s banquet where there is going to be endless rejoicing?

The answer is in the simple, yet most hopeful word in the entire Bible: until.

And we’re not the first to discover this hope. In a dream, Jacob wrestled with God all night long by the river, refusing to let go. His stubborn cry was: “I will not let you go until you bless me.” And God stayed with him, held onto him, and gave him a new name and a new future.

Hannah prayed in the temple year after year, pouring out her soul, long after others had given up on her. She prayed until her tears turned into songs of joy, and Samuel was born.

Moses went back again and again to Pharaoh, each time with the same demand: “Let my people go.” Pharaoh hardened his heart, but Moses kept coming back until God’s people were set free.

And Jesus told us of a widow who kept knocking on the door of an unjust judge, demanding justice. She would not be silenced, and nevertheless, she persisted. She kept knocking until the judge gave in.

Even in Gethsemane, Jesus prayed not once, but over and over, staying with God until his spirit was strengthened to bear the cross.

The whole story of scripture testifies to this hope: God will not quit. God will not give up. God will not turn away. No matter our mistakes, no matter our trouble, no matter our obstacles, God will love us, chase us, hold us, and transform us—until.

And church, if God is stubborn like that, if God loves us until, then the people of God must be stubborn too. That means we cannot quit on our neighbors. We cannot give up on this nation. We cannot give in to violence, even when those who call us their enemies declare war. We can never answer hate with more hate, but with a stubborn love that never grows weary in this nonviolent struggle for justice and peace.

As the late Henri Nouwen once said: “Those who choose, even on a small scale, to love in the midst of hatred and fear are the people who offer true hope to the world.”

We must stand, we must work, we must love (Somebody say it) “UNTIL!”

Until our streets and our schools are free from gun violence, and political violence no longer poisons our common life.

Until our presidents stop dividing the nation, and our leaders speak words that heal instead of harm.

Until every child in America can walk into a fully funded school,
with books that tell the truth about our past, not with shelves stripped bare by censorship.

Until Black and Brown lives are safe, voter suppression is dismantled, and police violence is no more.

Until immigrants are welcomed as neighbors, not treated as criminals.

Until every worker earns a living wage, and nobody has to choose between medicine and rent.

(Somebody say it) “UNTIL!”

Until women’s bodies are honored, and reproductive freedom is protected.

Until our queer and trans siblings are celebrated as God’s beloved.

Until every person is granted equal protection and due process under the law.

Until Christian nationalism is unmasked as idolatry.

Until this planet is a more sustainably just and harmoniously peaceful home for every creature.

Until justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream!

That’s the stubborn love of God! And now, the same stubborn love that propelled Jesus to the cross now propels us into the streets!

And when we get tired, when we feel like giving up, asking ourselves, “How long will God sustain us in this struggle?” The gospel answers: Until.

Thus, when the powers and principalities ask us:

So, how long are you going to keep showing up?”

“How long are you going to keep organizing?”

“How long are you going to keep protesting?”

“How long are you going to keep flying that flag?”*

“How long will you fight for healthcare, housing, and hope?”

“How long will you keep praying and prophesying and bearing witness against greed, violence, division and hate?”

We will rise up with one voice and declare:

“We will not stop.

We will not bow down.

We will not turn back.

And we will not be silent. Not for a season.

Not until the news cycle moves on.

Not even until the next election.

We will love.

We will struggle.

We will stand.

And we will march

until every person is free,

until every child is safe,

until every body is honored,

until justice is done,

and the kingdom comes on earth as it is in heaven!”

Amen.

 

*Referring to the pride flag that flies outside on our church sign.