Category: Lent

Is It Too Late?

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Lent, Sermons Year ALeave a comment

John 11:1-44

For the past several weeks we have been returning to a simple but transforming truth: God loves us. Not with a distant love. Not with a conditional love. But a with love that knows our names. A love that sees us and sees all of us. A love that seeks us out even when we feel lost. A love that bends down to the ground and touches the places where we are the most wounded. A love that heals, repairs, restores, and resurrects. And we have talked about how the knowledge of that love has the power to change the world.

However, the season of Lent is a season for honesty, and if we are to be honest, there are moments in life when that truth becomes difficult to trust.

Because sometimes, the circumstances of the world force us to ask a troubling question, a question many people are asking right now: Is it too late? Have we passed the point of no return? Has the train left the station?

Have we reached the point when it is too late for love to truly make a difference in this broken world? Is it too late for love to turn it around?

That question hangs quietly beneath the surface of today’s story in the gospel of John. Mary and Martha send word to Jesus saying: “Lord, the one you love is ill.” Notice the words. They don’t just say “Lazarus is sick.” They say: “The one you love is sick.” They are reminding Jesus of the relationship. Of the bond. Of the love.

And the gospel writer confirms the belovedness: “Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus.”

Yet, the next thing we read feels deeply unsettling. Instead of going immediately to Bethany…Jesus is late.

What in the world? I will never forget my first and my last time being late walking into my 8am college chemistry class. I slowly opened the door and saw the professor at the chalk board with his back to the class. So, thinking I might sneak to my desk unnoticed, I walked as quietly, but as fast as I could. But before I could sit down, with his back still to the class, I heard the professor say with a condescending tone, “Good morning, Banks. Better never than late.”

Since then, I’ve tried my best, to never be late for anything.

Jesus loves Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, but his love shows up late. By the time he arrives, Lazarus has been dead four days. And when Martha meets Jesus out on the road, she says the words many grieving people have whispered across the centuries:

“Lord, if only you had been here…” In other words, “It’s too late now, Jesus.”

Jesus, I am afraid the ship has sailed. The window is closed. Lazarus is dead and buried.

Right now, the world is asking some difficult questions. As violence spreads across the Middle East and bombs fall between nations locked in war, as the strait of Hormuz is on fire, many people are asking: Is it too late for peace?

When retaliation follows retaliation, when anger hardens into hatred, when the machinery of World War III is already moving, is it too late for reconciliation?

Others are asking a different question closer to home.

Is it too late to prevent an economic recession? When the cost of gas and food skyrockets…when programs for the poor are slashed—is it too late to do anything about people dying of poverty in the richest nation in the world?

Is it too late for democracy? When our leaders lie…when fair elections and the free press are constantly attacked…when trust in institutions erodes—is it too late to repair what has been broken?

Is it too late for the planet? When science is denied…when environmental protections are lifted…when our love for money is greater than our live for the earth—is it too late to stop or even slow down the doomsday clock?

Still, others are asking an even older question that has echoed through the American story. Is it too late for the dream, the dream that this nation might yet live into the promise spoken in its founding documents: liberty, justice, dignity for every human being. Is it too late for that dream?

And on a deeply personal level, many people quietly carry their own version of the question. Is it too late for the one who has made terrible mistakes? The one who believes their past defines them. The one who feels buried beneath regret. Is it too late for the person facing illness? For the one sitting beside a hospital bed? For the one staring into the mystery of death? Is it too late?

When Jesus arrives in Bethany, the house is filled with mourners. Mary falls at his feet. The crowd is weeping. And in the middle of all that sorrow the gospel gives us the shortest verse in all of scripture: “Jesus wept.”

Think about that. The one who is about to raise Lazarus from the dead…stops to weep. Because the love of God does not stand outside our suffering offering explanations. The love of God mysteriously enters our suffering. God stands beside the tombs of life with tears in divine eyes.

So, we stand beside the tombs of this world—a graveside, a hospital bed, a broken community, a wounded nation, a world at war, the good news is that God is already there, weeping with us.

Jesus finally arrives at Lazarus’ tomb. A stone seals the entrance. The kind of stone that declares the situation final. But Jesus says: “Remove the stone.”

Martha protests: “Lord… there will be a stench.” In other words: It’s too late now, Jesus. It’s four days too late. Hope is too late. Life is too late. Love is too late.

The mourners know that the story is over. But Jesus interrupts their certainty. And the stone is rolled away, and Jesus calls into the darkness with a voice that echoes across the centuries: “Lazarus, come out!”

And suddenly the question that seemed so certain, “Is it too late?” is answered by the impossible. The man who was dead four days walks out of the tomb alive. Still wrapped in burial cloths. Still bound by the garments of death.

Then, Jesus turns to the community and says something we often overlook in this great story: “Unbind him and let him go.”

Resurrection does not end with the miracle of life. It continues with the work of the community. Lazarus is alive. But someone must step up and help remove the grave cloths. And this, is what may be the heart of this story. It’s not just about Jesus bringing his beloved back to life. It’s about the community, people like you and me, doing the work of unbinding. It’s about doing the liberating work of removing grave cloths.

A community organizer once told a story about a young man in his red-lined neighborhood who had grown up surrounded by poverty. Underfunded schools. Limited opportunity. A justice system that seemed far more interested in punishment than restoration. By the time he was twenty-three he had already spent years cycling in and out of jail.

One day the organizer sat with him and asked a simple question: “What do you think your life could look like if things were different?”

The young man sat quietly for a moment. Then, he said something heartbreaking: “You ask me about my life? Honestly, I feel like I’ve been dead and buried for years.”

He felt buried under expectations. Buried under mistakes. Buried under systems that had already decided who he was supposed to be.

But the organizer and others in the community refused to accept that burial.

They mentored him. Helped him find work. Supported him as he rebuilt his life. And slowly he began to emerge from the tomb others had built around him.

The organizer later said something that echoes today’s gospel story. He said: “He wasn’t dead. He was just wrapped in grave cloths.”

Our world is filled with people wrapped in grave cloths: cloths of poverty; cloths of racism; cloths of bigotry; cloths of violence; cloths of despair.

And every time we challenge injustice…every time we refuse to accept war as inevitable…every time we chip away at a system that oppresses some while rewarding others…every time we restore dignity to those the world has buried, we are helping to unbind Lazarus. We are removing burial cloths and participating in resurrection.

So, when the world asks its heavy question, “Is it too late?” The gospel answers with a resounding: “It’s never too late!”

It’s never too late for peace.

It’s never too late for mercy.

It’s never too late for freedom.

It’s never too late for the democracy and for the dream of liberty and justice for all.

It is never too late for anyone who believes their life is beyond redemption.

Because the love of God does not abandon the world to its tombs. The love of God stands at the entrance of every sealed place and calls out with resurrection power: “Come out.” And the community, that’s you and me, is called by that same voice to participate in the work of reparation and liberation.

And we have heard that voice before.

We heard it when Sarah laughed—laughed because she thought it was too late—too late for joy, too late for promise, too late for life—and still, God said, “Not yet.”

We heard it when Abraham looked at his years and wondered if the promise had passed him by, and God said, “Not yet.”

We heard it when Moses tried to talk his way out of his calling: “Send someone else… I’m not enough… I’m too late…” and God said, “Not yet.”

We heard it in Hannah’s weeping, in Ruth’s wandering, in Elizabeth’s waiting—stories that felt finished, lives that felt settled, hope that felt buried—and still, God said, “Not yet.”

We heard it in Peter, who thought failure was final—and in Mary Magdalene, standing at a tomb, certain that death had won—and even there… especially there…God said, “Not yet.”

And if God has said it before, if God has spoken into barren places, into broken lives, into sealed tombs, then maybe, just maybe, God is still saying it now.

To a world at war, to a people weary of injustice, to a life that feels buried under regret: “Not yet.”

And when that voice speaks, through me and through you, through us collectively as the body of Christ in this world—stones move, grave cloths loosen, and hope breathes again.

Because in the Kin-dom of God…love is never too late.

Amen.

Seeing Clearly in a Violent World

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Lent, Sermons Year A1 Comment

John 9:1-41

Our gospel lesson today speaks about a kind of blindness that has nothing to do with our eyes but has everything to do with how we see God.

Jesus and his disciples encounter a man who has been blind from birth. He sits beside the road like so many people society has learned not to see. He is not asked his name. He is not asked his story. Instead, he becomes a theological puzzle. The disciples look at him and ask a question that has echoed through centuries of religion: “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

Do you hear the assumption beneath that question?

If something is wrong, someone must be to blame.
If someone is suffering, God must be punishing them.
If tragedy occurs, it must somehow be deserved.

The disciples are not asking how to help the man, how to love the man. They are asking how to explain him. And that, my friends, is one of the oldest forms of spiritual blindness.

Because when we cannot see God clearly, we begin to see one others through the lens of judgment. We categorize people. We label. We decide who is worthy and who is not. We divide the world into the righteous and the sinners, the blessed and the cursed, those who matter, and those we can write off.

But Jesus refuses the premise of their question. He says, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned.”

In other words: You’re asking the wrong question!

The blindness in this story is not just in the eyes of the man sitting beside the road. The deeper blindness is in the religious imagination that believes God would punish a child before he was even born.

The truth is: that’s exactly how many of us were taught to see God.

The truth is: that’s exactly how some of us were taught to see God, a God who created a heaven for some and hell for others—a divine sorting system separating the saved from the damned. We were also told God knows all, past, present, and future. That means God created some people, all the while knowing, they would be tortured in hell for all of eternity.

And somewhere along the way, the fear of God instead of the love of God, became the engine of our faith.

Today, we are grateful to have Brian Recker with us, whose work explores how that fear has shaped Christian belief and practice for generations. And how when fear shapes our theology, it inevitably shapes our ethics.

Because if God condemns, we learn to condemn. If God divides humanity into insiders and outsiders, we feel justified doing the same. If God punishes people, then punishment itself begins to look holy. And if God punishes people eternally, then taking the life of another can start to look holy too.

Over time, that vision of God begins to justify things we might otherwise resist.

It rationalized stealing this land we enjoy.

It justified slavery.
It defended segregation.
It condemns LGBTQ people as beyond God’s love.

And it whispers that violence, war, and domination are acceptable tools in the hands of those who believe they are on God’s side.

Fear does not just distort our picture of God. It distorts how we see one other. And it doesn’t save us from hell. It unleashes hell on earth.

The good news is that Jesus reveals a very different vision of God. He doesn’t argue theology with the disciples. He doesn’t stand above them looking down on them, violently lashing out at them.

He bends down to the ground. He kneels in the dirt. He spits in the dust and makes mud that he places on the man’s eyes, telling him to go wash in the Pool of Siloam.

It’s a strange miracle of mud, spit, and dust. But it’s the same dust from which the book of Genesis says humanity was first formed. It’s almost as if Jesus is re-creating this man’s sight from the very soil of creation itself.

And when the man washes, suddenly he can see. But here’s the irony: the man who had been blind can now see clearly; but the religious authorities, those who believe they understand God the best, cannot.

They interrogate the man. They question his parents. They debate whether the miracle could possibly have happened. And finally, when the healed man refuses to abandon the truth of what he has experienced, they throw him out. Because when love disrupts a theology built on fear, the system is threatened.

Sometimes it’s easier to deny a miracle than to change our picture of God.

During my time in New Orleans planting a new expression of church, a movement that we called, “Just Love Your Neighbor,” I also served as an “as needed” or “PRN” hospice chaplain, like I do now.

I had a Jewish patient who had been married to a Christian for over 50 years.

After his death, his wife asked me to preach his funeral service. When I asked why she didn’t want to ask her pastor, she responded: “I am afraid that he might insinuate my husband is in Hell because he is not a Christian, and I know you will not do that.”

After the funeral, she started participating in our new movement, giving her time and her dollars, while remaining a member of her church.

Over time, she opened up about the frustration that was leading her to reject the things that she was being taught in her church.

One day, she said something like: “I was always taught that God loved me. But I was also taught that if I didn’t believe the right things, particularly about Jesus, God would send me to hell forever. But I think I am beginning to realize: that’s not love; that’s a threat.”

She paused for a moment and then said quietly, “I don’t think I’ve ever actually met the God Jesus talked about.”

That widow was not rejecting her church. She was rejecting her church’s distorted image of God. She was rejecting a God who looked suspiciously like our fears.

And she’s not alone.

There are countless people, here in this city, who are walking away from church, not because they’ve rejected the love of God, but because they cannot reconcile that love with the threat of eternal punishment.

Sometimes, the people some say have lost their faith, or doubt their faith, are actually the ones who see God the most clearly.

And the ones who are the most certain, those who say they see clearly, the ones we hear saying “The Bible is clear…,” are actually the ones who are the most blind.

And this blindness doesn’t only affect individual lives. But it shapes the entire world.

Right now, we are witnessing what happens when this blindness goes unchallenged. Missiles continue to cross the skies of the Middle East, and this week we learned that one of them, fired by our own country, struck a school in Iran, killing children as they sat in their classroom. Children at their desks. Children with books open in front of them. Children who woke up that morning expecting an ordinary day at school and instead became casualties of war.

No child should ever have to die because adults could not find another way.

If we can hear that story and not feel something break inside us, then perhaps the blindness Jesus speaks about has reached deeper into our hearts than we realize.

Because no matter which flag flies over the missile launcher, the God Jesus revealed is not the author of bombs that fall on children.

And yet, the language of righteousness still fills the air.

Every nation says God is on their side.
Every government says the violence is necessary.
Every military claims the destruction is justified.

But when we look through the eyes of Jesus, we begin to see something different.

We see children in classrooms who never chose this war.

We see parents praying the same desperate prayer on every side of every border: “O God, let my child live!”

And if we can see that, if we truly allow ourselves to see it, then we must ask an uncomfortable question: How did a faith centered on the Prince of Peace become so comfortable blessing violence?

Part of the answer is in the way we imagine God. For when we believe in a God who punishes, violence begins to look like divine justice.

But when we see the God revealed in Jesus, the God who heals instead of harms, who forgives instead of retaliates, who tells us to love even our enemies, then war begins to look less like righteousness and more like the tragic consequence of humanity still struggling to see clearly.

At the end of the story, Jesus finds the man who has been cast out by the religious authorities. And the man does something remarkable. He believes. Not in a doctrine. Not in a system. But in the love of the one who healed him. He trusts the love he encountered. And that is the heart of this story.

The miracle is not simply that a blind man gains sight. The deeper miracle is that Jesus reveals what God actually looks like.

A God who does not stand far away diagnosing sin. But a God who kneels in the dust beside human suffering. A God who touches our wounded places without hesitation. A God who sees us completely, and loves us anyway, unconditionally, unreservedly, and does all that God can do to recreate, restore, and resurrect.

When we begin to see God that way, something inside us changes. Shame begins to loosen its grip. Hatred begins to lose its power. The walls between “us” and “them” begin to crumble. And the people we once feared begin to look like neighbors again.

Near the end of the story, Jesus says something haunting: “I came into this world so that those who do not see may see, and those who think they see may become blind.”—Reminding us that the greatest spiritual danger is not doubt. It is certainty. Especially certainty about a God who violently condemns anyone before they were born.

But the good news of the gospel is that Jesus is still opening eyes, still kneeling in the dirt of our world, still touching wounded lives, and still inviting us to wash away the old stories that told us God was against us.

And when our eyes finally open, we may discover something astonishing. The God we feared was never really there. And the God who is there has been loving us all along.

Later today, Brian will help us explore what it means to move beyond a faith driven by fear of hell toward a spirituality rooted in love. And that journey, from fear to love, is exactly the journey this gospel story invites us to take.

The man healed by Jesus ends this story with a simple testimony: “One thing I do know: I was blind, but now I see.”

That may be the most honest confession any of us can make. Because faith is not about having every answer. It’s about learning to see. Seeing the love that is God more clearly. Seeing our neighbors more compassionately. Seeing our enemies more humanly. And seeing the world as Jesus sees it: a world filled with beloved people; a world worth healing; a world where love, not fear, has the final word.

And when we finally see that clearly enough, we may find ourselves saying with the man in the story: “One thing I do know, I was blind, but now I see!”

Amen.

Loved People Love

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Lent, Sermons Year ALeave a comment

John 4:5-42

Jesus is tired.

 Now, think about that for a minute.

It’s only chapter four.

He’s just getting started.

He’s got a long way to go.

This one whom John affirms was in the beginning with God and was God, the one through whom all things came into being, is not just tired. Verse 6 reads he is “tired out.”

And it’s not because he lost an hour of sleep setting his clock forward the night before.

This is what happens when you are on a mission to make the world more inclusive, more equitable, more just for all people.

This is what happens to a body and soul when you are working to dismantle the violent systems in place that divide, oppress, and marginalize and when you challenge religious structures that bless those systems.

You get tired out.

So, if you are exhausted today, and you don’t think it’s because you lost an hour of sleep last night: congratulations. It probably means that you are following Jesus.

Jesus does what we may feel like doing today. He sits down. He takes a load off. He catches his breath at a well near Synchar, an historic watering hole the old-timers called “Jacob’s well.” It’s noon. The disciples have gone off to find some lunch. And Jesus, the Word made flesh, needs a drink.

So, if you feel like you need a drink today, again: congratulations! It probably means you are following Jesus.

Then, here she comes. A Samaritan woman, all alone. Because she comes at noon—when most came early in the morning or will come later in the evening when it is cooler—we might imagine she wanted to be alone. She was trying to avoid running into someone she knew.

 She’s carrying a jar. But she is also carrying something else. She may be carrying communal hostility. She’s certainly carrying some emotional baggage, some personal heartbreak, some shame, and maybe some spiritual trauma.

Jesus sees this woman and says, “Give me a drink.”

Wait a minute.

 Everyone knows Jews and Samaritans do not eat or drink together. And every good Rabbi knows they should never ask “those people” for favors.

So, what is really going on here?

Notice, that before Jesus addresses her shame, her complicated relationship history, Jesus asks her for water.

         This is interesting as Lent has a way of making us think that the first thing God asks from us is repentance. We need to try harder, give something up, change something, fix ourselves.

         But look carefully at this story. Jesus knows the order of John 3:16 and leads with love. He doesn’t begin with condemnation. He begins with conversation. He doesn’t say, “Explain yourself!” He says, “I’m thirsty.”

         Jesus makes himself vulnerable in her presence. He asks something of her but it is not judgment. He asks her for a water. And in doing so, he dignifies her. He is essentially saying: “I am willing to receive life—from you.”

This is how divine love works. God does not stand above us at a distance, evaluating us. God sits down at the well, identifies with our thirst, and speaks our language.

And when Jesus eventually names her five husbands and the man she is currently in a relationship with, it is not to shame her. It is to show her: “I see you. I see all of you. And I am still here.”

This is what I believe God wants us hear clearly today: We are fully known. And we are still deeply loved. Not our cleaned-up versions. Not our Sunday-morning version. The real me and the real you. All that we are— is loved.

Lent is not a forty-day wilderness journey to earn that love. Lent is the journey of waking up to that love.

         It is then that Jesus initiates a conversation that will shock his disciples as it crosses three lines at once: gender, religion, and ethnicity: “If you knew the gift of God… you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.”

         Notice the word “gift.” It’s a big word. Jesus is not talking about something to earn, to work for, or to purify oneself for. He’s talking about a gift, the gift of living water.

Living water in the ancient world meant fresh, flowing, moving water. Not stagnant water. Not trapped water. Jesus is talking about water that renews itself and says that this is what it is like to have the gift of God’s love inside us. It’s not a trickle. It’s not rationed. And it’s not withheld until we get our lives together. God’s love for us is spring welling up to eternal life.

         The truth is: although we may be exhausted today because we are following the way of Jesus in a world that is broken, some of our exhaustion may be a result of trying to earn water that is already flowing. We are trying to prove ourselves worthy of love that has already been given.

And here’s the turning point of the story: the woman leaves her water jar. Think about that. The jar is the whole reason she came!

The very thing she carried to survive… she leaves behind.

Because when you finally know you are loved, you don’t have to hold your jar so tightly anymore.

Once we know we are loved, truly loved, something shifts inside of us. We stop grasping. We stop defending. We stop pretending. And we become free to love others.

She runs back to the city, to the very people who may have whispered about her, to the people she was trying to avoid by going to the well in the heat of the day and says: “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done.”

Notice what she does not say. She what she does not say. “Come see someone who shamed me.” “Come see someone who condemned me.” She essentially says: I was seen, all of me… and I was loved still.

And because she has tasted living water, she suddenly becomes a conduit of it. The woman once isolated becomes an evangelist. The outsider becomes the bridge. The thirsty one becomes the well.

This is what happens when we know we are loved. We become free to love like Jesus. Loved people love people.

Not because we are trying to impress God.
Not because we are afraid of perishing.
But because love has filled our cups until they are running over.

Psychologists sometimes call this “secure attachment.” It’s the idea that when people feel deeply accepted, it creates the emotional safety needed to love others freely.

And long before psychologists ever studied this, the early Christians understood it intuitively.

The writer of 1 John put it simply: “We love because God first loved us.” (1 John 4:19).

Because when people finally know—deep in their bones—that they are loved, something changes. Fear loosens its grip. Defenses soften. The jars we cling to so tightly no longer feel necessary.

And suddenly, we become free to do what Jesus calls us to do:
to love one another, as he loves us.

Lent is a season of returning to the well. Lent invites us to sit down, to rest, to admit that we are tired-out. Lent invites us to bring our thirst—for forgiveness, for purpose, for meaning. Lent invites us to stop hiding, to let ourselves be known, and to be loved, fully, unconditionally, unreservedly. To receive water gushing up to eternal life.

The good news is that we do not need to dig deep for this water. The good news is that Christ is already sitting here.

And here’s the deeper layer: Jesus is also thirsty. Later in John’s Gospel, hanging on the cross, Jesus will say, “I thirst.” The God who offers living water is not detached from human suffering. God shares it.

Which means our thirst does not disqualify us. But it is the very place where grace meets us.

And in a week when bombs are falling in Iran and across the Middle East, when more lives are being lost to the hell of war, when human beings are left to drown in the sea after their ship was torpedoed, as leaders gloat, we are reminded just how thirsty this world really is— thirsty for peace, for mercy, thirsty for some humanity, for the courage to choose love over violence.

         You have heard me surmise that much of the church is broken today, and as a result, our nation is broken, because many in the church have rejected the call to follow the way of love, mercy, and grace Jesus modeled and embodied.

But maybe it is not so much a refusal to follow as it is a refusal to sit down at the well and receive that love, mercy, and grace.

When we are unsure of our own belovedness, we cling to things like status, tribe, fear, and certainty. We avoid Samaritans. We protect our jars.

But when we know, when we deeply know that we are loved—We cross lines. We listen longer. We empathize. We risk vulnerability. We speak truth without judgment. We tell our stories without shame.

Because the simple truth is: loved people love. And a congregation that knows it is loved becomes a well in a thirsty world. A church that knows it is loved does not hoard grace, it shares it freely will all, and all means all.

         And notice what happens.

The townspeople in our story eventually say: “We know that this is truly the Savior of the world.”

Now think about that for a moment. The first group in John’s Gospel to make such a universal confession is not Jewish disciples. It is Samaritans.

The outsiders are the first recognize the wideness of God’s love. Because when you have been thirsty, you recognize living water when you see it.

This Lent, the invitation is simple:

Come and see.
Come thirsty.
Come tired out.
Come complicated.

Because the good news is this: Christ is already sitting at the well, waiting. And when you sit down beside him, you will discover something life-changing:

You are understood. Because he is tired too. He shares your thirst.

You are known. Because he sees all of you.
And you are loved still.
And that love is living water within you.

So, drink deeply.

And then leave your jar behind,

 and go love like Jesus.

Because the world is thirsty.

Amen.

The Verse We Turned Upside Down: Recovering the Promise at the Heart of John 3:16

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Lent, Sermons Year ALeave a comment
John 3:16 Christian T-shirt Design

John 3:1-17

John 3:16 was the very first verse many of us memorized as a child, and it’s a verse that has stuck with us. We can hardly watch a ball game without seeing it on posterboard.  We see it on billboards.  And we see it on tracts lying around in public restrooms.

 For some of us, seeing this simple verse reminds us of God’s universal and unconditional love. We receive peace, affirmation, and hope. And yet, for others, including me, just the words “John-three-sixteen” triggers a little religious trauma.

I have suggested that the reason that things seem so upside down in the world these days is because John 3:16 has been turned upside down. Instead of leading with “For God so loved the world,” churches lead with “you are going to perish.” And God’s love for the world becomes a footnote instead of the title of the story. Consequently, some of us have been conditioned, not to hear John 3:16 as love, but as a divine threat or fateful ultimatum with eternal consequences.

Instead of announcing love, churches announce fear.
Instead of proclaiming grace, churches proclaim judgment.
Instead of good news, churches specialize in spiritual anxiety.

One of my favorite preachers, Rev. Karoline Lewis writes: “John 3:16 is used as an assertion of exclusion rather than one of God’s abundant love. A verse that sends people to hell rather than voices God’s extravagant grace.”

Detached from its context, it’s used to draw hard lines between “us” and “them,” and “the saved” and “the lost.” John 3:16 is used to justify a vision of salvation that is far more invested in sorting souls than in loving the world.

But when we put John 3:16 in its context, we see that there’s a seventeenth verse.

  “Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” Not to condemn. Not to threaten. Not to sort out. Not to shame. But to save.

Here’s where we need to take a moment to address this loaded word, “save.”

Because when many of us hear the word “save,” we hear: “rescue from hell after we die” or “spiritual fire insurance.”

But that’s not how John uses the word. Salvation is not primarily about where we go when we die, but about how we live right now.

To be saved means to be made whole.

To be saved means peace, knowing you are loved.

To be saved means to step out of fear and into trust.

To be saved means to move from despair into hope, from darkness into light.

To be saved means to experience life, fully, and abundantly.

And when John speaks of “perishing,” he is not describing God actively destroying people, but the tragic reality of refusing the nonviolent, abundant life God offers. In a world of war and violence, where people are dying in conflicts like the recent military action between our country and Iran, it’s important to understand that John’s word ‘perish’ is not about divine retribution but about the real human cost of turning away from life-giving peace and love.

And it’s important to remember that eternal life in John’s gospel is not some future reward, but it’s a present participation in the life of God. It’s not about God helping us to escape the world, but about us working with God to heal the world, to make the world more peaceful, equitable and just.

And if salvation means wholeness, peace, and liberation from fear and shame, and if eternal life sounds like God’s active participation in the world, then suddenly John 3:16 begins to sound like good news and less like spiritual trauma.

Some of us, including me, were taught that God’s love came with a catch— that one wrong belief, one wrong doubt, one wrong question, one wrong action or thought, combined with one wrong prayer asking for forgiveness, could be damning.

Some of us were told that our sexuality, our identity, our mental health, our honest wrestling with questions, disqualified us from God’s love. We were taught to fear hell after death more than to trust love in life.

After our recent baptismal service, as I was driving Christopher Lilley home, Chris expressed his desire to be baptized. When I asked if he’d ever been baptized, he told me that he had (I believe he said “more than once”), but he had been told so often that he was going to hell because of who he was, he just felt like he needed some more assurance that he was going to be okay.

Parked in front of his apartment, before he got out of my car, I did my best to assure him that God’s love for him was unconditional. I said a little prayer that he would know deep in his bones that there was nothing in heaven or on earth, no person, no power, not even death could ever separate him from the love of God. I prayed that he would somehow know the height, breadth, depth, and length of God’s love for him.

Chris’ response was classic Chris. I would like to say there were tears and a great big hug, a verbal acknowledgment from Chris that he was unconditionally loved, blessed, and affirmed by God. But Chris just smiled, giggled the way Chris did, and said, “Okay then. Do you think you could give me a ride to church this Wednesday?”

The truth is: when “God so loves the world” becomes conditional, it ceases to be about love and becomes all about control. And control masquerading as gospel, doesn’t save anyone. It wounds people, and it wounds people deeply.

So, before we can turn John 3:16 right-side up for the world, we may need to first turn it right-side up for ourselves.

Because we cannot lead with love if we have never accepted it

And this is where the season of Lent meets us.

Lent has often been preached as forty days of intensified guilt, forty days of reflecting on how broken and sinful we are. But what if Lent is not a season of self-loathing, but a season of returning to our true origin? What if, to use the language of Jesus in his conversation with Nicodemus, Lent is a season of being “born from above?”

What if repentance this Lent is not confessing how sinful we are, but it’s confessing how loved we are, and how resistant we are to being loved, fully, unconditionally? What if Lent is a season of accepting that we were born in love, from love, for love?

But hear this clearly in this season of Lent: if trusting in God’s universal, unconditional, and never-ending love feels hard for you right now, that does not mean you are faithless. It may just mean you were hurt, perhaps even in God’s name. And it may take some time for you to accept God’s love. The good news is that the God who meets us in the wilderness does not rush our healing. Love is patient and long suffering. And love will not leave us just because we are struggling to trust it.

Nicodemus comes to Jesus at night. He’s curious, but he’s cautious. He’s religious leader fluent in certainty, and he has some questions for Jesus. And how does Jesus answer?

“You must be born again.”

No, Jesus never said that. Jesus said, “you must be born from above.” Sometimes the language of being ‘born again’ sounds as if it’s been shaped more by fear than by love. You could say it sounds more like “being born from below” instead of “being born from above.”

And we know what being “born from below” sounds like, don’t we?
It sounds like this: You are depraved. You are defective. You are suspect. You are one wrong belief away from eternal fire.

But Jesus says we must be “born from above.” And that sounds like this: You are loved well before you loved. You are loved before you believe correctly. You are loved before you get your life together. You are loved because God is love.

Being “born from above” has nothing to do with accepting the right doctrine or saying the right prayer. It’s simply allowing love, not fear, to name us, to identify us, and to call and commission us.

Jesus says we must be born from above, because we cannot share the good news that “God so loved the world” if we secretly believe God barely tolerates us.

We cannot love our neighbor as our self, if we believe our self is despised.

We cannot lead with love if our inner life is still afraid of condemnation.

Some of the most judgmental forms of Christianity today are not rooted in conviction, but are rooted in unhealed shame. People terrified of their own damnation often become the loudest proclaimers of someone else’s. Because when we are afraid for ourselves, it becomes easier to focus on the fear of others. And more difficult to see others as beloved.

To know we are loved is so important that “For God so loved the world” in John’s gospel is not a theory for salvation. It is embodied.

God loves Nicodemus, who comes at night because faith feels risky in the daylight.

God loves a Samaritan woman with a complicated story.

God loves a man born blind.

God loves a paralyzed man waiting by a pool.

God loves a woman nearly stoned by men certain of their righteousness.

God loves Lazarus, four days dead.

God loves disciples who argue about power while he kneels to wash their feet.

God loves friends who fall asleep when he asks them to stay awake.

God loves Peter, who will deny him over and over.

God loves Thomas, who cannot believe without touching the wounds.

God loves people who doubt.

God loves people who fail.

God loves people who hide.

God loves people who are afraid.

God loves the ones the system ignores.

God loves the ones religion shames.

God loves the ones the empire crucifies.

And (and this is a big “and”), “God loves the world” means God loves a fragmented world, a doubting world, even a world that turns the gospel upside down, using faith as a weapon, blessing bombs, mocking mercy, demonizing empathy, and crucifying love.

John 3:16 has been turned upside down, and now it’s past time for us to turn it right-side up again: by leading with love; by reading verse 17 alongside verse 16; by refusing to preach hell more passionately than we preach hope.

And by believing in our hearts, “For God so loved the world.”

Not parts of it. Not the easy parts. Not the familiar parts.

The world.

So, receive that love.

Let it name you. Let it free you. Let it heal you.

And then go love this world, turn the world right-side up!

Not with fear, not with control, but with the same unconditional, universal love of God. Amen.

Refusing to Bow Down

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Lent, Sermons Year A1 Comment

Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7; Matthew 4:1-11

For the past few weeks, we’ve been listening to Jesus preach his first sermon on a hillside. But on this First Sunday in Lent, the lectionary takes us back to the beginning of his ministry.

After his baptism in the Jordan, Matthew tells us that Jesus was led by the Spirit into the wilderness. Not by accident. Not by happenstance. Not by taking a wrong turn. But by the Spirit.

The word Matthew uses suggests Jesus was “launched” into the wilderness, like a ship pushed out into deep water. Because before Jesus could teach God’s reign of love and justice, he had to first confront the seduction of power.

And here’s something we overlook when we read or hear this text. This story is not just about Jesus confronting the seduction of power long ago. But it is about the church, the Body of Christ, confronting that same seduction today.

Every time we come to this table, consuming the Body of Christ, we affirm that we are the Body of Christ. This means the temptations Jesus faces in the wilderness are not his alone. They are ours.

This text in Matthew is about the soul of the church. And it is about the soul of our nation.

Now, before we move too quickly into the temptations, we need to pause and ask: Who is this “devil” in the story? The Greek word is, diabolos, meaning “the accuser,” “the divider,” “the one who slanders and distorts.” In Jewish imagination, this figure is not a rival god equal to God, or the ruler of the underworld, but a voice in the world that tests, twists, and tempts. It’s a force that magnifies fear and manipulates truth. The “devil” is not some scary red creature with horns and pitchfork. It’s the embodiment of every lie seducing humanity to grasp for power and supremacy.

It’s the ancient whisper from Genesis that Eve heard in the garden: “Did God reallysay…?” It’s the voice that promises security through exclusion, glory through domination, and comfort through control. Jesus is not arguing with some cartoon villain in the desert. He’s confronting the deepest distortions of power and faith that still haunt the world.

The tempter doesn’t come when Jesus is strong. The tempter comes when he is depleted, having fasted in the wilderness for forty days, saying “Turn these stones into bread.”

On the surface, it makes perfect sense. It sounds rational, justifiable. You’re starving, physically and spiritually. You need to be fed. So, feed yourself.

But as we are reminded every Sunday when we share Holy Communion together, Jesus understands that bread is much more than calories. Bread is covenant. Bread is relationship. Bread is community around a shared table.

Bread is a holy gift. It’s a process that takes time. There are no shortcuts to baking bread. Bread is not made from stones, but from seed in the ground. From rain and sun. From soil and sweat. From farmers and millers and bakers. From kneading hands and patient waiting.

Plant. Wait. Harvest. Grind. Knead. Bake. Serve. Eat together. Save the seed. Repeat. Shortcutting hunger may satisfy the body in a moment, but it will not nourish the soul, build a community, or strengthen a faith. This is why Jesus answers, “We do not live by bread alone.”

The temptation to turn stones into bread is the temptation to control. But as Master Baker and Christian Educator extraordinaire Maria Niechwiadowicz writes: “The true beauty of bread baking is learning to let go of control, to become attentive to the process instead.” This is why she leads Bake and Pray workshops. She writes: “When we approach baking as liturgy, as a rhythm of prayer, our focus shifts. We begin to notice how the dough has a life of its own, and how God is tending to our own spirits in the same quiet, steady way. Baking bread becomes a practice of noticing. It calls us to slow down, pay attention, and rest.”

And this where this temptation becomes political today.

Religious nationalism promises quick fixes and easy solutions to our fears. It says we can solve our complex problems with control, force, and exclusion. It offers the stone-bread of hatred—hard, fast, satisfying in the mouth for a moment, but incapable of sustaining life.

Because cannot build a peaceful and just world with stone-bread. A nation’s soul cannot nourished with anger. The problem of human hunger, physical or spiritual, cannot be solved by shortcutting the slow, relational, justice-centered work that real, holy, God-bread requires.

Our broken nation cannot heal by consuming stone-bread of fear. But we can heal with the God-bread of empathy, repair and reconciliation.

The beloved community cannot be created with the stone-bread of alienation, separation, or domination. But it can and it will with the God-bread of acceptance, equity, and inclusion.

Lent is not a season for quick fixes. It’s a season for planting. It’s a holy time to ask: How are we satisfying our hunger? How are we healing the world? How are we making our bread? Are we grasping at stones because they are quick and easy to throw? Or are we willing to do the slow, sometimes exhausting, long work that nurtures body and soul: the work of planting justice, kneading mercy, baking reconciliation, and setting a table wide enough for all of God’s children?[i]

It is then the tempter takes Jesus to the pinnacle of the temple, to the architecture of faith, the center of religious life. And there, you could say, “in church,” the devil quotes scripture. That’s right, the devil is in the church and the devil has memorized some Bible verses! “Throw yourself down. God will catch you. The angels will bear you up.”

On the surface, it sounds faithful. It even sounds biblical. But this temptation is about performing faith instead of living it. It’s hanging the ten commandments on a wall of classrooms, or mandating Bible teaching in the classrooms, while refusing to fund the classrooms, to feed the children, and to pay the teachers a living wage. It’s a mouth full of scripture and a heart full of hate. It’s about manufacturing a religious spectacle to prove to others that you are on the side of God.

And Jesus refuses: “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.”

In other words: Authentic faith does not need a stunt. Later, Jesus will say, if you want people to know you are on the side of God, that you are my disciples, love one another as you have seen me love you.

Jesus understands that faith, like bread, takes time, patience, and love—in quiet obedience, in daily prayer, in healing the sick one body at a time, in touching the untouchable, in eating with sinners, in welcoming children, in doing the difficult work of liberation and reconciliation, in walking dusty, lonesome roads to meet people wherever they are.

You don’t build faith in God by jumping off buildings. You build it by walking steadily in love, loving your neighbors as you love yourselves, standing up for and with, the least of these.

Religious nationalism thrives on religious stunts and theatrics. It believes that if we can just show strength (visible, loud, triumphant) then that must mean God is with us.

But Jesus understands when faith becomes performance, it stops being faith. And when the church becomes obsessed with visibility and influence, it forgets the slow, steady work of justice.

The kin-dom of God grows more like yeast than fireworks. It’s quiet, persistent, transformative from the inside out. The season of Lent invites us to step down from the pinnacle to practice the long obedience of mercy, truth-telling, and solidarity. No stunts. No spectacles. Just faithfulness.

Finally, the tempter says the quiet part out loud. No more talking about hunger. No more scripture games. Just a mountain. A wide view. And a deal.

“All the kingdoms of the world and all their splendor I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me.” There it is. The devil just comes out and says it with breathtaking honesty. Worship power, and you can have power. Bow down, bend the knee, and you can rule.

No shortcuts disguised as feeding oneself. No spectacle disguised as faith. Just the ancient bargain from the Garden of Eden spoken out loud: “You can be like God.” You can take control, secure dominance, and make it all yours.

And here’s what makes this temptation so dangerous: it would have worked.

Jesus could have enforced God’s reign of love and justice from the top down. He could have imposed righteousness. He could have seized the machinery of empire and steered it toward good. But that’s not the kingdom of God. Because the moment you bow to power to get power, power becomes your god.

Thus, Jesus refuses to negotiate. “Away with you, Satan, you tempter and deceiver! For it is written: Worship the Lord your God, and serve God only.” Jesus refuses to confuse the reign of God with the rule of empire.

Religious nationalism makes this exact offer to the church. It says: “Align yourself with political control.” “Trade your prophetic voice for proximity to the throne.” “Overlook hate and greed, even sexual assault and pedophilia, if you can getyour way.” “Secure cultural dominance, and then you can shape the future.”

But we cannot build beloved community by bowing to power or create justice by surrendering to supremacy.

We cannot proclaim good news to the poor and liberation to the oppressed while kneeling before systems that require the poor to remain poor and the oppressed to remain bound.

The kingdom of God does not arrive through coercion but grows the way bread grows: through seed in soil; through slow, tedious, patient work; through trust; through shared tables and a cross-shaped love.

This path looks weak from the mountaintop. It doesn’t glitter. It doesn’t dominate. It doesn’t trend or immediately go viral. And it leads, eventually, to another hill, not a throne, but a cross.

And that is the decisive rejection of this temptation.

Jesus ultimately chooses suffering love over controlling power. He chooses grace over domination. He chooses faithfulness over force, nonviolence over violence. And because he does, angels come to him in the wilderness and minister to him.

Not because he won. But because he refused to bow.

Lent asks the church the same question the wilderness asked Jesus:

Whom will you worship?

Will we bow to the splendor of control?
Will we trade love of neighbor for political power?
Will we accept injustice if it keeps “our side” in charge?

Or will we worship the Lord our God, and serve God only?

This Lent, may we refuse to bow and resist the bargain. And choose the slow, holy work of love, mercy, and justice.

May we plant gardens instead of building empires.

May we always choose to worship God alone.

Amen.

From Dust You Came. For Justice You Are Called.

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Lent, Sermons Year ALeave a comment

Isaiah 58

I often encounter people who tell me that they would attend our church—if they were religious.

Some say to me, “If I believed in organized religion, I would go to your church.”

And I usually respond, “I wish you would come, because I think you’ll find we’re not that religious, and we’re really not that organized.”

And I wish they were here tonight. Because they would be surprised to learn that this day, often assumed to be reserved for the most devout, is actually God’s demand that we be done with religion.

Tonight, the church hears the prophet Isaiah asking a question that challenges religion. He looks at organized religion, the traditions and the the rituals, and he doesn’t hold back. In the words that are traditionally read by the church on this day, he shouts a question that should shake us to the core: “Is this the fast that I choose?”

In other words: Is being religious what you think repentance looks like? Do you think this is what faith is all about? Is it sitting quietly inside a sanctuary, while outside, injustice, hate, and cruelty are loud? Is it bowed heads while policies crush the poor? Is it words sung or spoken that soothes souls but never unsettles systems?

Isaiah says no! Because the truth is: God is not interested in religion that ignores justice. God is interested in a faith that transforms the world.

Isaiah is speaking to people who are deeply religious. They fast. They pray. They gather for worship. They present their offerings and sing their praises to God. And yet, workers are still exploited, the poor are still hungry, Eunuchs are still subjugated. Foreigners are still mistreated. And the vulnerable are still scapegoated.

And Isaiah tells it like it is: You seek God in the sanctuary, but you serve the systems of death. You humble yourselves in worship, but you harden your hearts in public life. You follow the laws of the Sabbath, but you don’t follow politics. You read the Bible, but you refuse to let it interpret the world you live in. You look after your own, but you neglect your neighbor. In divisive times, you call yourself apolitical, when you are actually being amoral.

Oh, how the church needs to hear Isaiah tonight!

Because the crisis we are living through in this nation is not merely a crisis of policy. It’s a crisis of values.

A nation that can afford abundance but tolerates poverty.

A nation that claims liberty while restricting dignity.

A nation that invokes God while rejecting the commands of justice, mercy, and love.

As we begin the season of Lent, Isaiah refuses to let us spiritualize repentance, contrition, and worship by saying the fast God chooses looks like this:

Loosening the bonds of injustice.
Undoing the yoke of oppression.
Sharing bread with the hungry.
Housing the unhoused.
Clothing the naked.
Refusing to hide from your own kin.

And who is our kin? Who is our neighbor?  In other words, Isaiah is saying, that we should be available to do the work of justice for the entire human family.

Jesus stands firmly in this prophetic tradition.

In Matthew’s gospel, Jesus exposes performative religion—faith that wants spiritual credit without social responsibility. He warns against prayer and fasting that seeks approval instead of transformation, against a righteousness that hides from justice.

Ash Wednesday names what many would rather avoid:

We are shaped by systems that privilege some and punish others.
We are beneficiaries of structures that reward greed and normalize inequality. And silence in the face of that reality is not neutrality.
It is consent.

Ashes tell the truth about who we are. We are dust.

In Genesis, God forms humanity from the dust of the ground — from the same soil that grows our food, from the same earth that holds every other body. We are not dropped into the creation from above. We rise up from within it. We belong to the earth and to each other.

Dust means we are made of what everyone else is made of. The same earth runs through all of us. The same breath sustains all of us.

Which means we are not autonomous individuals competing for survival. We are interdependent lives sharing one fragile existence. Dust cannot declare independence from other dust. What happens to one part of the soil affects the whole field.

Dust reminds us of something the powerful try to make us forget: No one is disposable. You cannot discard part of the earth without damaging the whole. You cannot throw away people without wounding yourself.

So, when you come forward tonight, and the ashes are placed on your forehead, you will hear these words: “From dust you came; for justice you are called.”

These words are not a blessing. They are a summons declaring that repentance is not complete until justice is pursued. That worship is not faithful until it confronts what dehumanizes. That Lent is not about what makes us feel holy, but about what makes the world more humane.

Lent is a season of moral clarity. It’s a season to break with greed in a culture of hoarding. It’s a season to confront racism in a society built on racial hierarchy. It’s a season to resist bigotry when fear is marketed as righteousness.

If our observance of Lent does not make us more honest, more generous, more courageous, Isaiah would say we have missed the point.

Ash Wednesday does not mark us for shame or for death. It marks us for responsibility. For truth-telling. For solidarity. For resistance grounded in love and for a life committed to justice.

Ash Wednesday tells the truth: we are dust. And God has always done revolutionary work with dust.

In the beginning, God bent down to the earth, gathered soil in divine hands, and breathed into it— and humanity stood up. The first declaration of dignity was spoken over dirt.

When empire tightened its grip and Pharaoh seemed untouchable, God did not raise up another emperor. God raised up a shepherd from the wilderness, dust from the margins, and said, “Go.” And the empire trembled.

When a giant towered over Israel in bronze and steel, God did not choose armor. God chose a boy and five stones from the ground. And dust struck down domination.

When a valley lay scattered with dry bones (history’s casualties, abandoned and forgotten), God did not turn away. God spoke. God breathed. And dust became a living, moving people again.

When a woman was dragged into the center of accusation and shame, Jesus did not stand above her. He knelt in the dirt. He wrote in the dust. He reminded the powerful that they, too, were earth.

And when violence did its worst, when love was crucified and laid in the ground, they thought the story was over. They returned him to the dust.

But the earth could not hold what God had breathed into it. And on the third day, dust rose.

So, when you hear the words tonight that you are dust, it does not mean you are powerless. For dust is where God begins. Dust is where God breathes. Dust is where God builds movements, topples idols, and raises what the world declared dead.

And tonight, ashes will mark your forehead. Not as a sign of shame. Not as a symbol of defeat. But as a reminder: You are dust. Dust shaped by God. Dust filled with breath. Dust capable of courage. And don’t ever underestimate what God can do with dust, especially dust that has decided to seek justice.

Amen.

 

Benediction

Beloved, as you go into this season of Lent,

Go remembering that you are dust
formed from the earth,
held together by breath,
bound to every living thing in sacred belonging.

Go not in shame, but in courage.
Go not in fear, but in hope.
Go not to perform religion, but to practice love.

May the God who breathes life into dust
breathe holy restlessness into you
a hunger for justice,
a tenderness for the vulnerable,
and a stubborn refusal to accept a world as it is
when it could be more humane.

May your fasting loosen injustice.
May your prayers soften hardened systems.
May your repentance bear the fruit of repair.
May your worship spill over into mercy.

And when you grow weary,
remember: dust is where God begins.
Dust is where God breathes.
Dust is where resurrection rises.

Go in peace
to love boldly,
to serve humbly,
and to do justice with joy.

Amen.

Anointing a Movement

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

John 12:1-8 NRSV

Palm Sunday is just a week away, and you know what that means. Well, at least according to the Revised Common Lectionary, it’s time to gather around the table with Jesus for an unforgettable dinner party where so much more is happening around, and under the table, than we can imagine.

In fact, there must be more happening around this table, or this whacky supper scene would be like some bizarre, meaningless dream, like the kind we have when we’re sick with a fever.

It’s a scene that begs us to take a deep dive, asking some serious questions.

Because, seated at the head of the table is none other than Lazarus, who just a few weeks ago was dead and buried. And this is no Weekend at Bernie’s situation! Lazarus is alive and kicking, because a few days ago, Jesus stood at his grave, called him by name, and raised him from the dead.

What on earth can this mean? That Jesus is at the table with Lazarus, who was dead and buried but is now asking someone to please pass the gravy!

We are told that Lazarus’ sister Martha is serving. Sounds like Martha. Always busy in the kitchen. His sister Mary’s also there. But she’s in the dining room with Jesus. Something else that makes sense, as we might remember Jesus’ visit with Mary and Martha as told by Luke.

But it’s what Mary does next that completely floors us! As Mary literally gets in the floor! The scene under the table is almost as insane as the living and breathing presence of Lazarus at the table! She’s down there anointing Jesus’ feet with a pound of very expensive perfume. Think about that! A pound of perfume! Of course, the fragrance fills the entire house.

Then, we have another surprise. Judas, the disciple whom John says is about to betray Jesus, is also at the table. Jesus is at the table with both friend and foe, ally and adversary. And just as we start to ponder the meaning such an inclusive, open table, Judas shocks us by asking a question that we can easily imagine Jesus asking, “Why wasn’t this perfume sold and the money given to the poor?”

But just when we think that we have seen and heard everything, we are floored again by Jesus’ response: “The poor you will always have with you. You will not always have me.”

Oh, Jesus. I sure wished you hadn’t said that.

 Because Jesus, although it sounds absurd, because it is absurd, Christians will use that one sentence to justify ignoring over 2,000 verses in the Bible calling for economic justice and a civic responsibility to care for the poor, marginalized, and oppressed. Jesus, I know this sounds ridiculous, because it is ridiculous, Christians will make their faith solely about worshipping at your feet, praising you, instead of following you. In fact, they will worship you while embracing a way of life, that is the exact opposite of following you.

They will stand behind and support the Herods of this world who defund programs that serve the poor. They will bless authoritarians who cut humanitarian aid, leaving food intended to feed the hungry to rot in ports and warehouses. They will support tyrants who suspend refugee resettlement programs, who target and remove from the country certain ethnic groups without any due process or legal counsel. They will support executive orders criminalizing migrants, dismantling public education, that take away healthcare, eliminate food assistance and public health services, remove environmental protections, and deny science. And in the place of fair, progressive taxes, they will bless rulers who institute tariffs, causing the cost of goods and services to skyrocket, hitting the poorest amongst us the hardest—all to enrich the already ultra-rich.

And preachers, who claim Christian, will gather on Sunday morning, stand in pulpits, and not say one word about it. They will shrug their shoulders, and using your name, say something like: “Poverty? Well, there’s really nothing we can do about that. Like Jesus said, we’ll always have the poor among us.

So, Jesus, I really wished you hadn’t said that.

But you are Jesus. So, you must have a had a pretty good reason for saying it.

Hmm. Let’s think about this… You said it the context of this whacky dinner party where there is so much more going than we know.

Lazarus was dead and buried, but he’s now sitting upright and taking nourishment! Mary is under the table anointing your feet with this expensive perfume that she purchased for your burial, to anoint your dead body. Hmmm.

In the home of one who had been brought back to life from the dead, instead of anointing your dead body, she is anointing your living body.”

Jesus, I think we are beginning to see a theme here.

At a table, belonging to Lazarus, who had been called out of death into life, Mary anoints not the death of Jesus, but the life of Jesus. Mary anoints the living Jesus, the living way of Jesus, the living movement of Jesus.

So, maybe in defending the anointing of Mary to Judas, Jesus wasn’t saying that we can’t do anything about poverty. Jesus was saying that doing something about poverty in this world is going to take more than selling some perfume and writing a check. Eradicating poverty is going to take more than charity. It’s going to take a living movement. It’s going to take embracing a way of life, a holy movement, that challenges the corrupt systems of injustice, that resists the Empire, and speaks truth to power.

This whacky dinner party is beginning to make sense to us now, as it seems to me that one of the problems with the church today is that too many Christians prefer the dead feet of Jesus over the living feet of Jesus.. Just ask them: “Who is Jesus to you?” They’ll respond: “The one who died for my sins.”

They prefer the dead feet of Jesus over the living feet of Jesus that takes steps to bring good news to the poor and to the marginalized, the feet that takes a stand to liberate the oppressed, the feet that stands at the bedside of the sick brining life to the dying, and feet that even stands outside a tomb bringing life to the dead.

Jesus didn’t die for anyone’s sin. Jesus died because of sin. Jesus died because the Empire preferred a dead Jesus about personal and private salvation over a living Jesus about political and societal transformation.

In anointing the living feet of Jesus, Mary was anointing a movement—a dynamic, public, political movement of feet standing for justice, a movement of feet marching for peace, a movement of feet making strides for acceptance, belonging, diversity, equity, and inclusion.

Mary was anointing a way of living, a movement that put legs and feet on thoughts and prayers, that walks the extra mile to bless the poor, filling the hungry with good things and sending the rich away empty.

At the dinner table of Lazarus who had been called out of death into life, Jesus is calling us out of death into life: “Do you want to do something that changes the world? Do you really want to do something about poverty? Then don’t embrace my dead body lying in a tomb. Embrace the life I am living, the way I am walking, the movement I am embodying. Walk the walk, take the steps, and make the stands I am making.”

Like he did while standing in front of the tomb of Lazarus, I believe Jesus is calling us out of death today. He is calling us by name, begging us to come out to become his living feet in this world.

I love the way the Apostle Paul states this truth in the fifth chapter of his letter to the Ephesians:

Wake up from your sleep!  Climb out of your coffins! Christ will show you the light!

So, watch your step. (C’mon Paul! He’s saying, “Watch how you march, where you stand.”)

Use your head. Make the most of every chance you get. (And listen to this next sentence) These are desperate times!

So, don’t live carelessly, unthinkingly  (I hear: “Please don’t willfully misinterpret Jesus to avoid your responsibility to the poor. ‘Cause more than two thousand verses of scripture can’t be wrong.”)

Then, Paul says: “Make sure you understand what the Master wants” (Ephesians 5:14-17 MSG).

And what does the Master want?

The Master wants a movement. The Master needs us to do more than support a charity. The Master wants a movement. The Master wants fearless feet that march against all the forces of death in the world— the forces of greed, selfishness, disease, and violence—marching in a movement to raise the entire creation back to life!

The Master wants compassionate feet that take a stand for mercy, empathetic feet that walk in the shoes of another.

The Master wants gracious feet that run to welcome a stranger

The Master wants quick feet that jump to defend someone being oppressed, strong, determined feet that never retreat, give in, or give out.

The Master wants tireless feet that can stand for over 25 hours on a senate floor to proclaim words of love and truth, liberty and justice, fairness and equality, kindness, and decency to a nation in crisis.

The Master wants courageous feet that can stand in the street for two hours in the bright springtime sun on a Saturday afternoon in front of city hall to call out greed, bigotry, and corruption.

The Master wants caring feet that can stand for an hour in a silent vigil to be a public, prophetic witness for justice, or for just three minutes to speak truth to power at a meeting of the city council.

Six days after this dinner at Lazarus’ house, Jesus is, once again, at a table with his disciples. It would be his final dinner before nails are driven into his feet, as well as his hands. After the dinner, Jesus gets up from the table, takes off his robe, and ties a towel around himself. He then pours water into a basin and begins washing the feet of the disciples, wiping them with the towel around him.

Now, many will say that he was just teaching his disciples how to be a servant. But those of us who just have read the previous chapter… we have this idea that he is teaching us something more. Jesus was anointing a movement. Because Jesus knows that eradicating poverty and the problems of this world is going to take more than volunteering to serve in a soup kitchen. It’s going to take a movement—an anointed, living, dynamic, breathing, alive and kicking, nonviolent, courageous, public, street-taking, truth-telling, peace-making, mercy-seeking, justice-doing, forward-marching, love-infused, prophet-inspired, Spirit-empowered, Jesus-led movement.

Are we ready to be the feet in such a movement? The times are indeed desperate, so I pray we are.  Amen.

Time to Be Prodigally Prophetic

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

 

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32 NRSV

One day, Jesus is confronted by some grumbling Scribes and Pharisees: “Jesus, why do we keep hearing these stories about you hanging out in some sketchy parts of town? We hear these rumors about you eating and drinking with those people, the kind of people everyone knows are sinners!”

 “And you claim to be a man of God!”

“Rabbi, if you are a Rabbi, let me tell you something. Our God is an awesome God who will punish not only the sinner, but the sinner’s children and grandchildren. God will strike you down with a lighten bolt, and if not that, send a cancer, a heart attack or maybe a stroke. And, Jesus, you better watch out, because if you get too many sinners in one place, too many sinners at one bar or pub, or in one city or in one nation, God might send a tornado or an earthquake, and take out everyone!”

When Jesus is confronted by these religious people with a bad and violent theology, he 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. The parable of the lost boy has been commonly referred to as the “Parable of the Prodigal Son” for some pretty good reasons.

Growing up in church, my home pastor would often use the dictionary when he came to a point like this in his sermon. I think he defined a word for us every Sunday!  He would say, “Now, Webster defines ‘prodigal’ as…”  In that spirit, but with a 21st century twist, allow me to do the same: Now, Google defines “prodigal” as…

  1. wastefully or recklessly extravagant
  2. giving or yielding profusely; lavish
  3. lavishly abundant; profuse
  4. a person who spends, or has spent, his or her money or substance with wasteful extravagance.

The youngest son had the gall to demand his inheritance so he could leave home.  Demanding his inheritance meant that he had come to this point in his life where he did not mind regarding his father as being dead and buried. Isn’t that nice?

Then the surprising part. The father just hands it over. Then, we are told that the boy ventures out into a wild and “distant country,” I guess like West Virginia, where he wasted every red cent whooping it up—thus, the designation “prodigal”— reckless, lavish, wasteful, extravagant.

When the boy ran out of money, there was a great famine in the land. That was when the prodigal son found a job feeding pigs, and things got so bad, the boy thought about eating and drinking with the pigs!

“Oh, of course there is a famine,” say the religious leaders with their bad and violent theology! “That is what we are trying to tell you!  A famine! That is brilliant!  Oooh. God is soooooo good. I bet that boy starves to death! Or at least gets a bad case of salmonella from eating with the pigs. And serves him right! A just punishment for a prodigal—one who had everything only to recklessly waste everything. Death from lack! Death from scarcity! What wonderful irony. How cool is God?”

 Jesus continues… “the boy decides to go back to the father and beg forgiveness…”

“Yeah, good luck with that!” the religious leaders howl, laughing at such a ridiculous scenario!

However, we know the rest of the story…

“And when he was “a long way off,” the father saw him and ran and embraced him. Think about this. How do you suppose this father saw him “a long way off?” Because the father had been waiting, looking down the road every day for the boy to return.

Some of my fondest childhood memories are sitting on the front porch with my brother and my sister, waiting and watching for Daddy to come home from work. We would position ourselves on the porch at just the right angle so if we squinted and strained hard enough, we could see through our dogwood trees and our neighbors’ crepe myrtles to get a glimpse of Daddy’s Green Ford LTD from a half a mile away. Then we would be ready to run out into the yard to pounce on Daddy as soon as he opened the car door to welcome him home.  As soon as he got out of the car I would jump on his back, while my sister and brother would grab both his legs. On a good day, if we could muster just enough leverage, Daddy would fall into the grass where we would lavish him with hugs and kisses like three little puppy dogs while he nearly tickled us to death. Mama, used to get on us. She’d remind us how tired Daddy was from working all day, and how one day when he drove up and saw us running and screaming towards the driveway, he was going to just keep going down the road!

I think mama was just jealous.

Every day, this father sat on his front porch, gazing down the road, watching and waiting, hoping and praying, grieving for his boy to return home. And while the boy was still a long way off, when through the fig and the olive trees the father could just make out his silhouette coming doing the road, the father got up and started running to meet his child, and throwing his arms around him, he began kissing him profusely.

I wonder how long the father waited for his son’s homecoming.  I wonder why the father waited. Can’t you just hear his concerned friends and neighbors, or maybe even his pastor telling him: “Old man, it’s time for you to move on. You’ve gotta get past this.  You’ve gotta face the facts. He’s not coming back. It’ time to get over it. It’s time to move on. Concentrate on your older boy who’s still here with you.”  But every day, the father still waited and watched and hoped and prayed and grieved.

 And he really didn’t have any evidence that his son was still alive. A young kid with a pocket full of cash, first time away from home, traveling alone—he was an easy target to any would-be thieves and murderers. Remember the story of the Good Samaritan? Still, the father patiently, and you might say…recklessly… waited. Every day, he kept looking down the road in front of his house. Straining to see, hoping and praying to see, his son coming home.

Then the great reunion and the biggest, most extravagant homecoming party anyone has ever heard of! The sandals, the ring, the robe, the best one! The calf, the fattest one! Nothing held back for this son who everyone thought was dead but now is alive, was lost and now is found.

And the religious leaders are seething, but now, with the older son. Listen how the older son talks about his brother: “How can you do this for ‘this son of yours?’ “How can you do this, not for ‘my brother,’ but for this one who’s, as far as I am concerned, a stranger, a foreigner, from some distant country?”

Then, it occurs to us.

We thought this was a story of a prodigal son, but it’s really a story of a prodigal father. It is a story of a parent’s love that is “reckless,” “profuse.” “extravagant,” and “excessive.”

When the boy wanted to leave home, the father recklessly gave him his inheritance. While the boy was gone out into the far country, his friends and neighbors would say that the father recklessly waited. And when the boy at last returned, the father recklessly threw an extravagant party. The father loved his son prodigally when he left home, he loved him prodigally while he was away from home, and he loved him prodigally when he returned home.

The good news is that is how our God loves each one of us.  It’s the exact opposite of violence. Our God is a God who, when it comes to love, holds nothing back. God’s love for us is extravagant, excessive, relentless, even reckless. The point of the story is that God’s love for us is profusely prodigal.

This is why we should never apologize for loving others in a way that the conservative religious culture would characterize as “liberal” or “radical.”

God is profusely prodigal in God’s desire to draw all of us unto God’s self. God is relentlessly radical to have us in God’s arms so God can shower us with divine kisses. And as the ranting of the religious leaders and the anger of the older brother reveal, such prodigal love, such extravagant grace and profuse mercy, such over-the-top compassion and empathy, will always be rejected by the conservative religious culture, and even frowned upon by some of our family members.

In fact, if we are praised by the predominant religious culture and by most in our families, then that is a tell-tell sign, that when it comes to love, when it comes to being a disciple of Jesus, we are doing something terribly wrong.

So, like a parent waiting on the porch for their wayward child to return home, may our love for others and for this planet, may our love for justice and equality, our love for diversity, equity, and inclusion, may our love for peace and freedom, always be profusely prodigal.

Then, it will be prophetically prodigal. Because love—when it is extravagant, when it is lavishly abundant and reckless, when it is completely nonviolent and unconditional, when it is radically counter-cultural and seemingly foolish—that’s the type of love that has the power to change the world! In fact, it is the only power that can change this world!

Ya gotta love that we are having our first nonviolent peace vigil this week on April Fool’s Day, as I am sure that we will have some passersby look at the signs we will be holding and say: “Look at dem crazy fools!” Because when we dare to be prophetically and publicly prodigal in a conservative, religious town, we are going to look foolish. And perhaps we are. How foolish are we?

  • We’re prodigally prophetic and foolish enough to believe that the only life worth living is a life that is given away.
  • We’re foolish enough to believe the Kingdom of God belongs to the poor.
  • We’re foolish enough to believe those who hunger and thirst for justice will be filled.
  • We’re foolish enough to believe the last shall be first.
  • Thus, we’re prodigally prophetic and foolish enough to use our power and privilege, not to enrich ourselves, but stand up for the marginalized, defend the most vulnerable, and free the oppressed.
  • We’re prophetically prodigal and foolish enough see every human being, every race, color, gender, and every sexual orientation, is the image of God, that every person is a beloved child of God.
  • We’re foolish enough to forgive seventy times seven.
  • We’re foolish enough to turn the other cheek, go the extra mile, give the very shirt off our back.
  • We’re prodigally foolish enough to feed the hungry, love an enemy, welcome a stranger, and visit a prison.
  • We’re foolish enough to believe that this world, this earth can be a better place, that all of creation can live in peace.
  • We’re prodigally foolish enough to get back up when life knocks us down.
  • We’re prodigally foolish enough to never give up, never give in, and never give out.
  • We’re foolish enough to believe that nothing can separate anyone from the love of God.
  • We’re recklessly, profusely, prodigally, prophetically foolish enough to believe that nothing can stop us, not even death, because nothing can stop love. Nothing can cause it to fade or to fail. Love always wins, and love never ends.

Light It Up: Changing the way we see the world to change the world

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


Inspired by Practicing Peace, Living Nonviolence: A Weekend with Rev. John Dear, March 22-25, 2025, Lynchburg, VA

Today’s lectionary gospel lesson is from Luke 13 where we read beginning with verse one:

At that very time there were some present who told him about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices.

He asked them, ‘Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did.

Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem?

No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.’

Here, Jesus is challenging some very bad theology. It’s a bad theology that supposes that people who suffer from the violent actions or inactions of authoritarians like Pontius Pilate somehow deserve what they get. The lives lost, harmed, displaced, or deported, are never the fault of the builders of towers or of the ones who make the executive orders.

It’s a bad theology that was created to always blame the victim, and it’s been called “one of the most sinister features of the fascist character.”[i]

The poor suffer, why? Because they are too lazy to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps, of course. They didn’t study hard enough in school. They’re not grinding hard enough at work. They’re not applying for enough jobs.

It’s a bad theology that views poverty as punishment for people who just don’t try hard enough, while exonerating the lawmakers, policy makers, and the oligarchs who’ve purchased those politicians to enrich themselves. It’s a bad theology that views people living in poverty as “parasites,” cursed by God for some good reason, and views the rich and the powerful, the builders of towers and the wielders of weapons, as people who are blessed by God.

Jesus emphatically speaks against this greedy and violent way of seeing the world: “No, I tell you!” And then, with a sense of urgency, Jesus challenges us to do something about it, before this dark and violent worldview is the death of us.

“No, I tell you, but unless you repent you will all perish as they did!”

But there’s a problem when some of us hear this word “repent”, as the word itself has been the victim of bad theology—perhaps with the intention to prevent us from ever fulfilling Jesus’ urgent plea to do something about the culture of greed and violence.

Maybe some of you, like me, were taught like that the word “repent” means to turn away personal sins. Raised as a Baptist, that meant to stop drinking, dancing, smoking, cussing, and having sexy thoughts.

However, when Jesus used the word “repent” to speak of our urgent need to change, he was talking about changing the way we see the world, so we can act to change the world. I believe the apostle Paul understood this when he wrote that in Christ, there is a new creation (2 Cor 5:17). When we follow Jesus, the way we see the entire creation changes. Sadly, that verse is also the victim of bad theology as it is often translated “In Christ, there is a new creature” to keep the focus on personal, individual sin and away from societal, cultural, social, and political sin.

Jesus talked more about our failure to see than he ever talked about private sins. Listen to John recount how Jesus spoke of his purpose in this world: “I came into this world…so that those who do not see may see…” (John 9:39). And throughout the gospels, Jesus continually asks: “Do you have eyes and fail to see?” (Mark 8:18) “Why do you see the speck in your neighbor’s eye?” (Matthew 7:3) “Blessed are the eyes that see what you see!” (Luke 10:23) “Prophets and kings desired to see what you see but did not see it!” (Luke 10:24)

Over and over Jesus talked about importance of seeing a world that many people have difficulty seeing.

This is why I believe Jesus called himself the light of the world. For to truly see anything, what do we need? We need light. Thus, he said: “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life” (John 8:12).

I believe Jesus called himself the light of the world, because it was his life’s mission to lead us to change the way we see the world so we can change the world, to see the truth of who God has created us to be, of how God has created us to live.

And what is the truth that God wants us to see?

I believe the answer can be found in Jesus’ first recorded sermon which Rev. Dear read a few moments ago.[ii]

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

Jesus wants us to see the truth that God blesses the “poor in spirit.” Not the religious, the devout, the pious, or even the spiritual. Not the pastors, the elders, the deacons, not even the church member who serves every week in a soup kitchen. No, God favors the ones who have come to be served in the soup kitchen. They are not the ones with something to give. They are the ones with nothing to give. Jesus says the ones who are blessed, the ones who are favored by God are those who, spiritually speaking, are completely destitute. Their very spirits have been broken. And notice that Jesus uses the present tense. Not will be blessed. Not might be favored. They are, right now, right here, blessed. And their future is the kingdom of heaven. Can you see it?

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”

Jesus wants us to see that God favors the mourners. Not only those who may be mourning the death of someone or are grieving over the injustices of the world, but maybe especially those who are mourning over their own lives, those who are wondering if their lives have any value. They remember how their fathers and mothers, their ancestors, were valued by this world. They consider how they are valued by this world. And they look into the eyes of their children and grandchildren, and they grieve. They cry out in the streets for their lives to matter, yet Jesus calls them blessed and promises comfort. Can you see it?

“Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.”

The meek are favored, says Jesus. Not the powerful and violent. Not the ones with the charisma or the confidence, or the physical ability, or the privilege, or an inheritance of wealth, to do whatever is necessary to overcome all sorts of adversity and make it to the top. Jesus says, blessed are the ones who never seem to get ahead. It is the last, says Jesus, not the first, who survive and inherit the earth. Can you see it?

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they will be filled.”

Not the ones who are righteous, but the ones on whose behalf the prophet Amos preached: “Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream” (Amos 5:24). These are the ones who are unjustly judged, mistreated, shunned, scapegoated, and bullied by society, even by communities of faith. They suffer grave injustices simply because of who they are.

They have been beaten up so badly by the world that they hunger and they thirst for justice like a wanderer lost in a hot desert thirsts for water. Jesus says that they are blessed, and they are the ones who will not only be satisfied, but will be filled, their cups overflowing. Can you see it?

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.”

Not the perfect and the proud, the boastful and the arrogant. Not the ones who never admit any mistake. But God favors the ones who are fully aware of their imperfections, the ones who have made mistakes, terrible mistakes, and they know it. Thus, when they encounter others who are also suffering from unthinkable errors in judgment, they have mercy, compassion, empathy, and in their hearts, there is always room for forgiveness. They give mercy, because they need mercy for themselves. And because they are favored by God, they will receive it. Can you see it?

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

Not the pure, but the “pure in heart.” Not the ones whose outer appearance and abilities suggest to some that they have the best genes. No, God favors the ones who are viewed by some as flawed. We are reminded of the words of 1 Samuel “for the Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7). God will see the pure beauty of who they truly are, and they will see God. Can you see it?

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.

Not the ones who have necessarily found peace for themselves. But  blessed are the tormented, the disturbed and the restless, who, because they are so continuously in chaos, seek to make peace whenever and wherever they can. Blessed are those who are without stability, the immigrant and  refugee without a home, but seek it, because they will find a home, a place of security, rest and a peace that is beyond all understanding, within the family of God.[i] Can you see it?

One way to sum up Jesus’ Beatitudes may be: “Blessed are the victims of bad theology.” God is on the side of the  ones violent authoritarians like Pilate victimize and God wants us to see that and then turn the entire culture of greed and violence upside down!

And this, Jesus pronounces, is not a prescription of how things should be or how things could be. Jesus asserts that this is how things are! Can you see it?

If not, then maybe we need some more light! Because if we can’t soon see it, says Jesus, we are all doomed to perish!

I believe this is why Jesus announces: “I have come as light, as the Light of the World, to help you see it, to give all who are blind to it, the sight to see this world as God sees it.” The way of God’s universal, inclusive unconditional love for the entire creation is the only way to never walk in darkness, to never perish, but have the light of life!

And after preaching what we call the Beatitudes, revealing who is truly blessed and favored in by God in this world, Jesus announces to those who want to follow him: You are the lights of the world!  And you must not ever hide your light, shine it privately in a sanctuary or personally at home, but shine your light courageously and publicly on the way things are, so all may begin to see the world the way God sees it.

We are to shine our lights by loving all people, but especially those who are the the victims of bad theology. We are to light it up by loving and doing justice and working to create a world that blesses the least among us: the poor, those who are crying out for their lives to matter, the weak and the underprivileged, those who need mercy, the marginalized who hunger and thirst for justice, the physically maligned but pure in heart, and the spiritually or mentally troubled who yearn for peace.

Will we be despised for it? You bet. Will people say that the way we accept and love and affirm others, the way we speak truth to power, is socially and even theologically unacceptable? Of course. Will we be demeaned and even persecuted by others, even by those in organized religion? Most certainly. Might we get arrested? If we are truly following the way of Jesus, that’s always a possibility!

But here’s the good news:

Jesus also said, “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you [notice the change in person] when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”

So, while many people, even those who claim to be Christian today, have chosen to live in a dark, violent world, a world where they blindly believe that it is the rich, the prosperous, the privileged and the powerful that are blessed and favored by God, a world that will inevitably bring suffering to all of us, including them, let us commit ourselves to living in the world created by our gracious, loving God, in the world that Jesus, the Light of the World, came to help us see.

And let us, as lights of this world, for the sake of this world, keep lighting this world up, courageously, and publicly until the day comes when the eyes of all are finally fully opened, and there is finally peace on earth.

[i]https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victim_blaming#:~:text=Adorno%20defined%20what%20would%20be,features%20of%20the%20Fascist%20character%22.

[ii] Interpretation of the Beatitudes inspired by Frederick Buechner. Whistling in the Dark: An ABC Theologized (New York: Harper Collins, 1988), 18.

We Must

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn LentLeave a comment

Luke 13:31-35 NRSV

It’s one of the greatest sentences Luke attributes to Jesus: “Go and tell that fox for me, “Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work. Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way.” Notice, Jesus didn’t say, he might, he may, or he’ll try. Jesus said, “he must” continue living, loving and serving his way.

I love to read how the forbearers of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) stirred up thousands upon thousands of people in the late 18th and early 19th century. Some estimate that when Barton Stone held his revival at Cane Ridge, Kentucky in 1801, nearly 30,000 people showed up. That’s 10% of the entire population of Kentucky.[i] Can you imagine that?

Today, I believe a good question we should ask ourselves is: What in the world were these folks preaching? How did they start a movement that would later become one of the largest denominations in North America?

I believe they simply had the audacity to fully commit themselves to following the way Jesus lived, loved and served at all costs.

Following Jesus was not something that they did casually, haphazardly, timidly, or reservedly. They followed Jesus passionately and fervently, eagerly, and urgently. And following Jesus was not something that they did privately. They followed Jesus publicly. And they didn’t care who they offended, or if those with political or ecclesial authority opposed them for it.

They unashamedly imitated Jesus who said: “Oh, King Herod, wants to kill me? Well, you tell that fox that I must keep doing the business of the one who sent me.

 I must keep liberating people from demonic evil, systemic, political, cultural, and personal.

You tell Herod I must keep bringing people healing and wholeness today, tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. And you tell them that I must take this mission all the way to Jerusalem.

That’s right, you tell that fox for me that I must do these things. Not that I might do these things, not that I am going to try to follow this way, but that I must follow this way.”

I believe Barton Stone started a movement by simply putting the word “must” back into a Christianity that had grown apathetic, moderate, and mainstream.

He preached that Christians must put God’s word over the words of the culture, the way of Jesus over the way of the world.

We must denounce all man-made creeds and confessions, and we must commit ourselves to following Jesus at all costs.

“Oh, the presbytery thinks we’re going against the doctrinal grains of the church, do they? Oh, the government thinks we are bucking the unjust political systems, do they? Well, you tell those foxes that we must keep following Jesus today, tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. We must keep fighting for the inclusion of all at the Lord’s table. We must keep preaching against the demonic evils of slavery, white supremacy, and anything else that does not jive with Jesus! You tell those foxes that we must be on this way.”

I do not believe we can overemphasize how committed our forbearers were to the gospel even when the gospel was directly opposed culture. At Cane Ridge, during a time when Presbyterians believed only like-minded Presbyterians could receive communion, Presbyterian Barton Stone invited an African-American slave, a Baptist pastor, to not only receive communion, but to actually serve communion. And if you asked him why he included this man, I believe he would have simply said, “As a follower of Christ, I must include him.”

And later, when Stone inherited two slaves, he immediately emancipated them. Trouble was that they were living in Kentucky long before the Civil War and the Emancipation Proclamation. So, what does Stone do? He tells his family and his two former slaves, “Pack your bags, because we must move to Illinois, because our new friends must be free!”

And thousands of people from all over the then expanding United States responded to Stone by saying, “We must join this movement!” And by 1960, the movement they started exploded into a denomination with 1.6 million members.

Now here’s the troubling news. Today, we have less than 300,000 members, with less than 100,000 who report they attend worship regularly.

There are many complex reasons for this decline. Other so-called “mainline” denominations have experienced similar declines. The rejection of the way of Jesus by many today who call themselves Christians have attributed to much of the decline. The lust for power and cultural dominance is one reason.

This morning, I want to suggest that one of the reasons the many mainline churches seem to have lost its way is that we have removed the word “must” from our vocabulary.

We have lost a holy passion to follow Jesus at all costs.

We have lost a burning drive to place the supreme law of God to love our neighbors as ourselves, like our own flesh and blood, like our own siblings, treating foreigners as if they are native-born, over any other law or executive order.

We have lost a sense of urgency to be a courageous movement for wholeness that boldly speaks truth to power.

Our faith has become more of something that privately changes our souls instead of something that publicly changes the world.

Consequently, our faith intends to mirror the culture instead of transforming the culture. Watered down by peer pressure, greed, and a lust for power, our faith has become mainstream, mainline, and moderate.

In fact, when you look up the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) on Wikipedia, you will discover that we are described as a “mainline denomination in North America.”

Barton Stone would roll over in his grave! For Stone followed a Jesus who was far more upstream than mainstream, more radical than moderate, always swimming against popular currents of culture. He followed a Jesus who must be on a way of selfless, sacrificial, inclusive, liberating love, even it got him to some trouble.

Do you remember the story of twelve-year old Jesus when he did the unthinkable by leaving his parents behind? When his upset parents finally found him in the temple, Jesus asked, “Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house” (Luke 2:49)?

After healing Simon Peter’s mother-in-law, the crowds used all the peer pressure they could muster to prevent Jesus from leaving them, but he replied, “I must proclaim the good news of the kingdom of God in other cities also; for I was sent for this purpose” (Luke 4:43).

Warning the disciples who resisted suffering and persecution, Jesus said: “The Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and scribes and be killed and on the third day be raised” (Luke 9:22).

When he encountered a man who needed to stop stealing from the poor, Jesus said, “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today” (Luke 19:5).

Right before his arrest on the Mount of Olives Jesus describes his death by saying: “For I tell you, this scripture must be fulfilled in me” (Luke 22:37).

Jesus selflessly and sacrificially travels to Jerusalem, to the city that is known to kill the prophets, and he travels there, not casually, haphazardly, timidly, or reservedly. But with passion. With eagerness. With urgency in his steps, conviction in his heart, and the word “must” on his lips: “You tell that fox that I must be on this way.”

Now, tell me, when it comes to your faith, when is the last time you have ever said aloud or silently: “I must!”

“I must share the liberating love and transforming grace of Christ with someone who needs it today!”

“I must find a way to include and protect these who are being demeaned and dehumanized for being different, tomorrow and the day after tomorrow.”

I must find a way to create a more peaceful and just world, the next day, and the day after.”

“I must feed someone today who is hungry.”

“I must share hope today with someone who can’t any chance that things will ever be better.”

Truthfully, as a pastor, I don’t hear many folks use the word “must” very often in the church. I hear the word “might.” “I might, if nothing else comes up.” “I might, if everything else goes alright this week.” “I’ll check my calendar, and then I might think about it.”

And I often hear the word “try.” “I’ll try to help out, if I don’t have somewhere else to be.”

And I often hear “maybe.” “Maybe I’ll be able to work a little on that project. Maybe I will be able to give some of my time this week.”

And sometimes I hear all three, in the same sentence! “I might try to be more faithful, maybe.”

And I must confess that I am just as guilty.

But think about what kind of church this would be if we all had the same type of urgency and passion as our Lord. “Can you help with our children’s ministry?” “I must help with our children’s ministry!”

“Can you serve on this ministry team?”

“I must serve on it!”

“Can you attend the John Dear workshop on living a non-violent life?” “I must attend!”

“Will you follow Jesus at all costs? Even if it gets you into some trouble?”

“We must!”

The good news is that I believe this urgency and this passion can be as contagious in the twenty-first century as it was in the nineteenth century.

If we decide to be more upstream than mainstream, I believe First Christian Church in Lynchburg and other churches can bring revival to our nation and encourage many others to say with us:

We must join this movement for wholeness in our fragmented world.

We must join this mission to use the gifts God has given us.

We must speak up and stand against racism, xenophobia, transphobia and hate in all its forms.

We must serve and protect the least of these among us and treat the foreigner like our native-born.

We must take a stand for the Word of God, even if it gets us into some trouble.

We must do what we can to transform this this city, our region, and our world with the liberating love of God, even if it goes against the powers-that-be.

We must follow Jesus by loving our neighbors as ourselves, like our own flesh and blood, like our own siblings, even when it is not culturally popular or socially acceptable.

We must do unto others as we would have them do unto us, even if our friends forsake us and our enemies wish to do us harm.

Oh, you say that we might be labeled “enemies of the state?” You say that our loud resistance and public protest might be deemed illegal?

Well, you tell that fox that it is the season of Lent, we are Disciples of Christ, and we must on a way of compassion, mercy, and justice. We must resist hate. We must embrace love. We must pick up our crosses, and we must carry it wherever our Lord leads, no turning back, today, tomorrow and the next day.

[i] Duane Cummins, The Disciples: A Struggle for Reformation (St. Louis: Chalice Press), 2009.