Month: October 2025

Disciples Are on the Side of Witches

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Luke 18:9-14

You know, it’s a strange thing to be called unholy for trying to love like Jesus. I believe I shared that time with you when I was called “a demon” in a resturant in Fort Smith, Arkansas.

This stranger who disapproved of the sexuality of the person with whom I just finished sharing a meal, approached me as I was leaving with a question: “You do know what the law says about her don’t you?” I said, “Arkansas law?” He said, “No, God’s law.”

I said, “Well, Jesus said that the greatest law is to love our neighbors as ourselves.”

He walked away, scribbled something on his receipt and handed it to the waiter who then showed it to me: ‘Beware, he’s a demon in disguise.’”

It would be interesting to know how many people drive by our church, see the Pride flag, and decide they already know who we are:

“That’s the liberal church.” “That’s the church that’ll let anybody in.” “That’s the church that doesn’t believe the Bible.”

And I smile. Because that’s exactly what they said about Jesus!

The truth is: if you’re going to follow the one who touched lepers, elevated the status of women, proclaimed that the differently sexual were born that way, welcomed tax collectors, and ate and drank with sinners, you’re bound to get called some names. You’ll be accused of going too far, being too soft, loving too much. And you’ll be demonized for it.

There are probably some in this town who suspect that what we disciples do inside these walls during this hour is akin to some kind of witchcraft. So, just in case they’ve tuned into our YouTube channel to check out what demonic spells this false prophet is brewin’ up, to see what kind of voodoo we do, on this Sunday before Halloween, I want to make what may sound like a shocking confession:

Disciples stand firmly on the side of witches.

Now that I have their attention, maybe they’ll stick around to hear this story that Jesus told.

Two men went to the temple to pray. One was a Pharisee, religious, respected, and righteous. The other was a tax collector, despised, and distrusted, and demeaned.

The Pharisee stood tall and prayed proudly: “Thank God I’m not like other people—thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like that tax collector over there.”

Meanwhile, the tax collector stood far off, head bowed, hand to his chest, praying, “O God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

And Jesus said, “The tax collector went home justified, rather than the Pharisee.”

The Pharisee had the problem that many in the church still have today. The Pharisee defined his holiness by “those people” he put down. He could only feel righteous if someone else was condemned. And that’s exactly how all witch hunts begin, with a prayer that says, “Thank God I’m not like them.”

In 1692, this was the prayer that was whispered and shouted all over Salem, Massachusetts. Fear was in the air: fear of women who had some power, women who refused to be submissive and quiet; fear of the patriarchy losing control. Preachers thundered from their pulpits. Neighbors accused neighbors. Hysteria spread. And before it was over, 200 people were accused of witchcraft, 30 were convicted, and 19 were hanged, mostly women.

But the Salem Witch Trials were never about witches. It was about a religion poisoned by fear. It was about a faith so fragile, so shallow, that it needed scapegoats to survive. It was about a church that was so desperate to justify their own purity that it demonized and destroyed the children of God. The Puritans thought they were defending God’s honor, but they were really defending their own control.

The bad news is that this spirit didn’t die in 1692, as every generation has had its witch hunts. Every age has Pharisees who pray, “Thank God we’re not like them.”

We saw it on the ships carrying enslaved Africans in chains across the Atlantic, justified by a twisted theology that said dark-skinned bodies were less human.

We saw it in Nazi Germany, where millions of Jewish people were branded evil and exterminated in the name of “purity.”

We saw in the McCarthy hearings, when careers and lives were ruined because someone was accused of being “un-American.”

We saw it in the Jim Crow South, where people went to church on Sunday morning and attended a lynching in that evening.

We saw it after 9-11 when all Muslims were blamed for the sins of extremists.

And we see it today whenever our LGBTQ siblings are called “abominations,” when trans youth are targeted by hateful politics, when poor people are labeled “parasites,” when immigrants are demonized as “invaders,” and whenever women are made to feel inferior to men.

We see it when vanity is prioritized over humanity, as the powerful dismiss the hungry while they destroy the East Wing of the White House to build a golden ballroom.

Every witch hunt begins the same way: with fear dressed up as faith and cruelty justified as conviction. Pure evil, the worst evil in history has always been born when people believed that others were less than.

And if you dare speak out against such evil, the ones who demonize the witch will demonize you. But as Disciples, that’s what we have been called to do, because we follow the One who always exposed the evil spirit of fear for what it is.

When Jesus sat down with tax collectors, he was breaking the spell of self-righteousness. When he healed the lepers, he was undoing centuries of religious purity laws. When he talked with the Samaritan woman at the well, he was crossing every line of gender, race, and religion. When he liberated those the people believed to be possessed, he was calling out systemic oppression.

And for that, they said he was possessed. They labeled him a heretic. They called him a glutton, a drunkard, and “a friend of sinners”—all just another way of calling him a witch.

So yes, disciples are on the side of witches. We stand firmly on the side of the accused, the condemned, and the cast out. Because that’s where Jesus stands, and that where love always leads us.

The Radical Welcome we practice here at First Christian Church should never be mistaken for southern hospitality or polite piety. Our welcome is protest. It’s the refusal to let fear dictate who belongs and who doesn’t belong at God’s table. Every time we open our doors to someone the world has rejected, we’re breaking the spell of Salem all over again. Every time we affirm the dignity of someone who’s been told they are less than, we’re undoing the curse of dehumanization.

And that always makes some people uncomfortable. It made the Pharisees uncomfortable. It made the Puritans uncomfortable. And makes all those today whose faith has been hijacked by a spirit of fear uncomfortable.

But that’s okay. Because comfort has never been the goal of the gospel. Transformation is. The church’s mission has never been to police the gates of heaven but to tear down the walls that keep anyone from seeing how wide the gates really are.

That’s the Revolutionary love we have been called to practice. It’s a love that doesn’t just include but transforms. It’s a love that refuses to see anyone as “less than,” not even those who demonize us.

It was this Revolutionary love that propelled Jesus to non-violently pick up and carry a cross while praying for the forgiveness of those who were forcing him to carry it.

It’s what led Dr. King to face dogs and firehoses without surrendering to hate.

It’s what gave Fannie Lou Hamer the courage to keep singing freedom songs after she was beaten in a Mississippi jail.

It’s what led Desmond Tutu to preach forgiveness in a nation soaked in blood.

Revolutionary love is defiant. Revolutionary love stands up to evil and says, “You will not make me hate you.”

It stands up to even those in power whose hearts seem hardened, whose empathy seems long gone, and whose ambition has blinded them to mercy, and says, “I still believe in your humanity.”

That’s what it means to be a disciple of Jesus in a witch-hunting world. Not to join the crowd shouting, “Crucify him,” but to hang beside the condemned and whisper: “You are not alone. Look, I’m on your side. I will be with you, and you will be with me, forever.”

So, when people call us “that church,” the one with the flag, the one that welcomes everyone, the one that’s too political, too affirming, too much, I say, “praise God!”

Because that means we’re standing where Jesus stood. That means we’re loving in ways that make the stokers of fear and the sowers of division nervous. That means we’re living the kind of gospel that still turns the world upside down!

Yes, we could save ourselves from some ridicule if we took down our flag, but our calling is not to just to be saved. Our calling is to be faithful. Our calling is to follow Jesus by standing with those accused of being “too different” or “too much.”

Because disciples are not on the side of those who judge and condemn. We’re on the side of the witches. We’re on the side of the enslaved, the lynched, the silenced, the scapegoated, the outcast, and the crucified. We’re on the side of those who have been demonized by sick religion and dismissed by worldly power. And we stand there not out of pity, but in solidarity, and we know the God of mercy stands there too.

The kingdom Jesus preached is not built by purity or perfection. It’s built by mercy and mutuality. It’s built by people humble enough to pray, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner,” and brave enough to extend that same mercy to others. The world doesn’t need more temples filled with Pharisees. It needs more churches filled with recovering witch hunters who’ve laid down their sticks and stones to pick up some empathy and compassion.

The world doesn’t need more purity tests. It needs more people who understand that holiness is found in how we treat the most despised among us.

Because I’ve lived long enough to see the pattern. I know the history. It’s never the ones who love too much who do the evil in this world. It’s always the ones who forget that love is the whole point.

So, let the world accuse us of loving too much. Because that’s how we’ll know we’re getting close to the heart of Jesus. Let them call us names. That’s how we’ll know we’re walking in his way.

When we stand the side of the witches, on the side of the accused, the excluded, the erased, we know we’re on the side of the God who never stops expanding the circle.

So, let them drive by our church and call us “unholy” or “too much.”

Let them demonize us.

But we’re going to keep loving.
We’re going to keep welcoming.

We’re going to keep conjuring the Holy Ghost and following the way of Jesus.

That means we’ll never stop proclaiming the mercy that humbles the proud and lifts up the lowly.

Because we Disciples believe the Kingdom of God is coming near, and the radical welcome and revolutionary love of Jesus is leading the way.

Amen.

What’s Written on Your Heart

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Sermons Year C2 Comments

Some appeal to guilt: “If you don’t give, how will we keep the lights on and the camera rolling?”

Some appeal to fear: “If you don’t tithe, God will not bless you.”

Some appeal to self-interest: “Give, and you’ll get an unexpected check in the mail.”

And some appeal to nostalgia: “This is the church your grandparents built. You owe it to them to give.”

So, this stewardship season, I want to make something clear: you will never ever hear anyone in this church suggest that pledging your tithes and offerings, your service and your presence, is a way to bribe God, to buy blessings, to feed our souls, or keep our consciences clear.

Furthermore, we are not being asked to make a pledge to the 2026 budget because we recently had to replace the hot water heater, the roof may leak in a heavy rain, and we’ve hired an expensive professional to relocate a large family of bats which have taking up residence in the attic.

That’s because, we believe your pledges, your service, must come from a deeper place.

It was the prophet Jeremiah who proclaimed: “The days are coming,” declares the Lord, “when I will make a new covenant…I will put my law in their minds and write it on their hearts.”

We give because God’s law has been put in our minds and written on our hearts.

Now, when we hear the word “law,” we might think about rules, regulations, and restrictions, what we can and can’t do. But Jeremiah isn’t talking about that kind of law. He’s talking about something much deeper than any rule or ritual.

Jeremiah is talking about the moral rhythm of God. He’s talking about justice, kindness, mercy, and humility. He’s talking about empathy and compassion, engraved not on tablets of stone, but on the living tablets of human hearts.

This is the reason we pledge our gifts. We give, not from guilt, not from obligation, not from a belief that we will get something in return, not even from a command. We give because the rhythm of God’s morality has been written on our hearts.

And when this is written on our hearts, we don’t have to be told to pledge, to give, or to care, to love, to be kind, to show mercy, and to do justice. We just do. We don’t even need a stewardship campaign to tell us we need to embody radical welcome and revolutionary love. It is just who we are.

So, as we think about stewardship this month, as we consider pledging our tithes and our offerings, our service, and our presence, to make this world more just, loving, and peaceful, an important question we should ask ourselves is this:

What is it that is written on our hearts? Because the reality is, everyone has something written inside of them.

Sadly, for many, it is fear—put there by wicked men who seek power by dividing us.

For some, it’s scarcity. It’s the fear that there’s not enough.

For some, it’s fear of the other, immigrants taking what we believe is ours.

For some, it is cynicism. It’s the fear that nothing in this world ever changes, anything I give simply will not matter.

The good news is that not only does God have a powerful eraser, in the words of the prophet, “forgiving wickedness and remembering sin no more,” the good news is that God is still writing. And when God writes, God never uses the ink of fear, but always writes in the ink of justice.

Onto our each of our hearts, God is writing justice, not selfishness; compassion, not comfort; and selfless love, not self-preservation.

Here’s some more good news. Your choosing to be here this morning is a good sign that that the ink of God is flowing through your veins. That’s why I believe you are sitting in a pew this morning. That’s why you give. That’s why you serve. That’s why you show up when your neighbors need you, and that’s why you rally when your country needs you.

Jesus illustrated this truth with a story of a woman, a widow with no power, no protection, and no position. She doesn’t have wealth. She doesn’t have influence. All she has is the ink of God on her heart.

She shows up before a judge who, the text says, neither feared God nor had respect for people. We know the kind. He doesn’t care about justice. He doesn’t care about her. He doesn’t care about God. He cares only for himself.

But because of that something written on her heart, nevertheless she persists. She keeps showing up. She keeps knocking. She keeps demanding justice.

Now, we don’t know what her case was.

Maybe her landlord was exploiting her.

Maybe her neighbor had taken her land.

Maybe she had been cheated out of her inheritance.

Maybe she was being denied healthcare, due process, or civil rights.

Most certainly, she was a victim, or should I say “a survivor” of misogyny.

Whatever it was, she kept showing up.

And although the judge doesn’t have a moral, empathetic bone in his body (again, we know the type, don’t we?), even he gives in. Not because he suddenly finds compassion, but because she refuses to go away.

Now, this is not a story about nagging God until God gives us what we want. This is a story of faithful persistence in the face of injustice. It’s a story about a woman who knew something about the power of showing up. The odds were against her, but she kept showing up. The judge was morally depraved, but she kept showing up. Her friends told her she needed to accept things the way they are because nothing in this world ever changes, but she kept showing up because God’s justice, the rhythm of God’s morality was written on her heart.

It was the same rhythm that propelled Marion Stump to show up in Miller Park yesterday at the No Kings Rally— demonstrating that when justice is written on your heart, when the ink of God is coursing through your veins, not even pancreatic cancer can keep you from showing up!

This is why this is a perfect text for our stewardship season in this time and place. Because giving is a form of showing up. Serving is a form of showing up. Speaking out, organizing, marching, standing with the vulnerable, fighting for democracy — all of it is showing up before the immoral powers and principalities and saying: “There will be justice here.”

As the widow kept knocking at the courthouse door, we must keep knocking at the world’s door. And every gift of generosity, every dollar given, every act of kindness, every time we show up, is one more knock, one more insistence that justice matters, and love will win.

Now, here’s a statistic that gives me hope today: Researchers say that if just 3.5% of a nation’s population mobilizes in sustained, nonviolent action, they can turn the tide against authoritarianism. Think about that. Not half the country. Not even a tenth. Just 3.5%. That’s about one in every thirty people. If one in thirty people with justice written on their heart keeps showing up, keeps marching, keeps knocking, keeps giving, keeps serving, keeps praying, you can change the direction of a nation. This nation can be turned toward justice again.

So, we must never believe our offering doesn’t matter, our presence doesn’t count, our gifts are too small, or that our persistence is not power. Because every time we show up, every time we give out of what’s written on our hearts, we’re part of that 3.5%. We’re part of the turning. We’re part of God’s kingdom breaking in.

Good stewardship is and has always been heart-based. It’s justice-based. It’s love-based. It’s what Jeremiah saw when he said:

No longer shall they teach one another, saying, ‘Know the Lord,’ for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest.

When the covenant is written on our hearts, we don’t need coercion. We don’t need compulsion. We don’t need manipulation. Because the Spirit itself bears witness in our hearts, and when God’s handwriting burns in your chest, you wake up every morning asking: “How can I give myself today for justice, for peace, for love?”

And the good news is that the world doesn’t need an extraordinary event to change. It changes through ordinary persistence. Through the widow who won’t give up. Through the disciple who keeps showing up. Through the church that keeps preaching hope, even when hope seems hard to find, because every time we show up, we bear witness to the covenant of God written inside of us. We demonstrate to the world: “Greed will not have the last word. Hate will not have the last word. Fear will not have the last word. And love will one day ultimately and finally win.

Disciples, we are the people who keep showing up. We show up for one another. We show up for our neighbors. We show up for the nation. We show up wherever anyone thirsts for justice and hungers for love.

Because when the covenant of God is written on your heart, you can’t sit still in the face of suffering. You can’t stay silent in the face of injustice. You can’t keep your hands closed when the Spirit is calling you to open them.

The widow kept showing up before the unjust judge, and we keep showing up before an unjust world—not out of guilt, not out of duty, not to get something in return, but because there’s something divine inside of us that will not let us rest.

It’s what Jeremiah called a new covenant. It’s what Jesus called the kingdom of God. It’s what we call faith in action.

So, this stewardship season, we’re not asking you to give out of fear or guilt or obligation. We’re asking you to give because you’ve got something written on your heart.

Give because you believe that love is stronger than hate, and there’s a love inside of you that will not let you go. Give because you trust that justice will prevail. Give because you know that hope still has work to do in this world!

Give, because you’re part of that 3.5% who refuse to bow before kings, who refuse to be silent in the faces of those in power with no regard for people or God, who refuse to quit knocking, who refuse to stop showing up.

Because that’s what the church is.

It’s not a building that needs maintaining, but a movement that needs to keep marching.

And we will keep showing up—not until we get what we want, but until the world becomes what God dreams it to be.

Until every heart bears the handwriting of God, and every gift, every prayer, every act of courage echoes that same eternal truth:

We give, we serve, we love, we persist, because it’s written on our hearts!

Amen.

Pastoral Prayer

God of persistence and promise,
You are the One who writes truth on human hearts,
who carves compassion into our very being,
and who teaches us to keep showing up
in hope, in prayer, and in love.

You have written Your covenant not on stone tablets
but in the living flesh of our hearts.
So even when the world forgets justice,
even when the powerful ignore the cries of the poor,
Your truth keeps pulsing within us,
calling us to rise again, to knock again,
to believe again that love will have the final word.

We thank You for the saints and prophets
who never stopped knocking on the doors of indifference.
For the mothers who marched,
for the workers who organized,
for the dreamers who still believe in a more just tomorrow.
May their persistence live in us.

And forgive us, O God, when we grow weary in doing justice.
Forgive us when our compassion has an expiration date,
when our generosity depends on convenience,
when our prayers fade because the answers take too long.
Remind us again that the work of justice
is not measured in days or dollars or ease,
but in faithfulness, in showing up again and again.

In this season of stewardship, teach us to give not from fear or guilt,
but from gratitude and conviction.
Let our generosity be an act of defiance
against greed, apathy, and despair.
Write Your covenant deep within us,
until our giving, our praying, and our living
all bear witness to Your love at work in the world.

We pray for those whose hope feels faint today:
for the tired caregiver; the underpaid worker;
the neighbor who feels unseen; the soul that feels unheard.
May they find strength in the knowledge
that You are the God who listens, the God who remembers,
the God who still answers cries for justice.

And so, we will keep showing up.
We will keep praying, keep working, keep giving,
until the widow’s cry is answered,
until Your justice rolls down like waters,
and Your mercy like an ever-flowing stream.

We ask this in the name of Jesus,
the One who kept showing up,
the One who never gave up,
the One who lives and reigns through love.
Amen.

Radical Welcome. Revolutionary Love.

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

Luke 17:11-19

I want to begin this sermon talking a little bit about preaching.

There are basically two kinds of sermons you’ll hear in churches today. One starts with a thought the preacher has. They then hunt through the Bible to find a verse or two to back up that thought.

The second kind starts, not with the preacher’s idea, but with the scripture itself. Preachers who follow this path use a tool called the lectionary, a three-year cycle of readings first shaped by the early church in the fourth century and rooted in the reading traditions of Jewish synagogues. The lectionary keeps preachers from preaching their own pet ideas, and since it always includes a gospel lesson, the preacher is encouraged to interpret each reading through the life and love of Jesus.

That’s the kind of preaching I believe in.

And it’s probably why, in my previous congregations, I’ve been criticized for preaching too many sermons about the poor and marginalized. Because here’s the reality: Besides the truth that Jesus said his very purpose was to proclaim good news to the poor and liberation to the oppressed, there are over two thousand scriptures instructing people of faith how to treat the poor. As Bishop William Barber says, “If you cut all those verses out of the Bible, the whole book would fall apart. There’d be nothing left.”

So yes, I plead guilty—for preaching the Bible in the light of Jesus. And every week, the scriptures amaze me. For they never seem to read like old stories but read more as a mirror to the present. This is why I was taught in seminary to prepare for a sermon with the Bible in one hand and a newspaper in the other, as I would always be able to find a relevant word of challenge and hope.

Today, Luke’s gospel brings us face to face with Jesus on the border, where he once again encounters the marginalized poor who are crying out for mercy.

It’s a beautiful story about healing and gratitude, but when we look closer, we see that it is about so much more than that. It’s about who gets welcomed and affirmed and what kind of love has the power to change the world.

And that’s why it’s the perfect reading to launch our stewardship season with the theme: “Radical Welcome. Revolutionary Love.”

Luke tells us that Jesus is walking along the border between Galilee and Samaria. In 2025, there’s no way we can rush pass that detail. Jesus is on the border—that place where boundaries get policed, where soldiers get sent, where dreams are crushed, and walls get built. It’s the place where the desperate gather, immigrants are scapegoated, and the poor are told to go back to where they came from.

It is there that Jesus meets ten people with leprosy—ten people who know exactly what it means to be told they don’t belong. They’ve each heard the words of Leviticus cherry-picked and used like weapons against them, if you can imagine such a thing:

The person who has the leprous disease shall wear torn clothes and let the hair of his head be disheveled; and he shall cover his upper lip and cry out, ‘Unclean, unclean.’ … He shall live alone; his dwelling shall be outside the camp. (Leviticus 13:45–46)

That’s what marginalization looks like in scripture form, an ancient version of “You’re poisoning the blood of our country.”

So, the outsiders keep their distance while they cry out: “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!”

And isn’t that the same cry echoing all around us today?

It’s the cry of immigrants and of all who are excluded from the opportunities enjoyed by the privileged.

It’s the cry of anyone denied due process under the law or denied representation in gerrymandered voting districts.

It’s the cry of LGBTQ people shut out and abused by the church.

It’s the cry of women who are denied access to reproductive care.

It’s the cry of every Black and Brown neighbor who drives past a Confederate flag waving in the wind—a painful reminder of the systemic racism they are forced to endure.

They all cry out: “Lord, have mercy!”

And what does Jesus do? He doesn’t ignore their cries. And he doesn’t ask for credentials or proof of worthiness. Without asking whether they’re citizens of Galilee or Samaria, he opens a free clinic right there at the border.

But notice something else: Jesus doesn’t just give them free healthcare and send them on their way. He wants to make sure they’re restored back into community. That’s why he says, “Go and show yourselves to the priests.” Because according to the Mosaic Law, only a priest could officially declare them “clean” allowing them to re-enter society.

Because Jesus is never satisfied with individual healing. Jesus wants liberation. Jesus wants justice. He wants inclusion. He wants acceptance, belonging, and abundant life for all.

But the story doesn’t end there.

Out of the ten who are healed, only one turns back to say thank you—and Luke wants to make sure we know that the hero of the story was a Samaritan, the foreigner in the group. The outsider of outsiders. The religious heretic. The one the establishment called impure, illegal, and alien. And when this outsidiest of all the outsiders turns back to Jesus, “Jesus doesn’t say, “Sorry, you’re not one of us.” “Sorry, you don’t sing in our language.” “Sorry, your faith and traditions are different from ours.” He says, “Your faith has made you well.”

This is what radical welcome looks like in a world obsessed with borders—literal and figurative. Who’s in, who’s out. Who’s legal, who’s illegal. Who’s acceptable, who’s disqualified. This is the world Jesus dares to say: “All belong. All are worthy. All can be healed, and liberty and justice can be for all.”

This is the radical welcome we’re called to embody as a church. To be people who don’t just tolerate diversity but celebrate it. To be a community where God’s wide, universal, unconditional embrace is visible, tangible, and undeniable, where every person hears the gospel loud and clear: “You belong here!”

And this welcome is not only radical. It’s revolutionary.

Because this kind of love doesn’t just heal individuals; it transforms systems. It disrupts the status quo. It flips tables. It tears down walls. It not only welcomes—it honors. It not only includes—it affirms.

And because of this, revolutionary love is always costly. It cost Jesus his reputation. It cost him his safety. It eventually cost him his life. But he showed us that the only love worth living for is the kind of love worth dying for.

This is the kind of love we are called to practice. A love that refuses to let anyone stand outside the circle, and keeps widening that circle again and again, no matter the cost. A love that refuses to stay silent in the face of injustice and is always willing to risk comfort for the sake of compassion, willing to be called an “insurrectionist,” to even get shot in the face with a chemical weapon like the Presbyterian Minister in Chicago this week.

So, you may ask, “What does this have to do with stewardship?” The answer is “everything.”

Because stewardship is not about maintaining a building or keeping the lights on. Stewardship is about resourcing the ministry of radical welcome and revolutionary love.

When we give, we’re not paying dues to an institution; we’re investing in liberation.

We’re not buying comfort; we’re building community.

We’re not keeping the lights on; we’re keeping hope alive.

We’re not feeding our souls.

But every dollar we give is bread for the hungry, balm for the wounded, space for the excluded, and hope for the desperate. Every pledge we make is a declaration: “We refuse to be a church of scarcity, fear, or maintenance, but choose to be a church of abundance, courage, and mission!”

Giving to our church is much different than giving to a charity. It’s resistance to the forces of greed and self-interest. It’s protest against a world that says money is for hoarding, power is for the few, people should be divided, and love is conditional.

Giving to our church proclaims: God’s economy is different. In God’s economy, generosity multiplies. In God’s economy, love grows stronger the more it is shared, and our lives become fuller the more we give them away.

It’s the Samaritan who shows us that gratitude itself can be revolutionary. When he turns back to give thanks, he refuses to be silent. He refuses to treat his healing as a private, personal blessing and interrupts our gospel lesson with praise, teaching us that gratitude interrupts despair and fuels generosity.

That’s what this year’s stewardship season is about. It’s an invitation to practice gratitude like that Samaritan. To turn back to Jesus. To say, “thank you.” To recognize that every good gift comes from God, and that the only faithful response is to give back.

So, here’s our call this stewardship season:

To give back by walking the borderlands with Jesus, refusing to let anyone be cast aside.

To practice welcome so radical that people say, “I never knew church could look like this.”

To embody love so revolutionary that systems tremble, powers take notice, and hope is rekindled.

To give with such joy and generosity that the world knows: this is a congregation that truly takes Bible seriously while living in this world as disciples of Christ.

And no, it’s not easy. It takes faith. It takes sacrifice. It takes courage. People will laugh at us, dismiss us, and even attack us. But here’s the good news: the same Jesus who healed the ten and honored the Samaritan is still walking with us. The same Spirit that moved then is moving now.

The lepers cried out for mercy, and Jesus answered. The Samaritan turned back to give thanks, and Jesus affirmed his faith. Today, we stand in that same story. We are the ones who have been welcomed. We are the ones who have been loved. We are the ones who have been healed.

And now it’s our turn. It’s our turn to welcome, to heal, to affirm, to love, to give.

So, let’s stand up with gratitude.

Let’s step out in faith.

Let’s lean forward in love.

Because the world is waiting for a church like this—a church that practices radical welcome and revolutionary love!”

It’s not just a theme or a slogan.

It’s not just the idea of a preacher with some cherry-picked verses to back it up.

It’s the gospel.

It’s the good news.

And it’s our calling.

It’s our witness to the world!

Amen.