Tag: demonization

One Human Family

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

Matthew 5:21-24

Almost every day, I read or hear someone say that much of the church today looks nothing like the movement of love and justice that Jesus started.

Many agree it is due to a wide-spread rejection of Jesus’ words in the Sermon on the Mount. Folks in church have dismissed the beatitudes where Jesus proclaims that God is on the side of the poor, the meek, the grieving, the compassionate, and those who hunger for justice and peace. Because they prefer to live in a world where God is on the side of the privileged and powerful, those who have never had to ask for their lives to matter, even on the side of those who are merciless and violent—to the people who look, speak and worship differently.

Because frankly, if you are one of the privileged, it’s just better that way. It’s more comfortable. It’s safer and just easier.

         However, I want to suggest that the main reason many churches look nothing like Jesus is because some of us have refused to obey the first command Jesus gives about worship. We’ve ignored Jesus’ command to stop worshipping, stop singing, stop praying, get up in the middle of the sermon, and go home. And don’t come back, until we’ve reconciled with our brothers and sisters.

Or maybe it’s because, we’ve grossly misinterpreted this command.

As a child, I remember being warned very seriously by my mother: “Jarrett, you must never, ever call your brother, Jason, ‘a fool.’ Because you could go to hell for that!”

And I believed her. I think I called my brother every name in the book. But I never called him a “fool.”

It’s strange when I think about it, as I grew up in a world where I heard the “n-word”spoken casually. I’ll never forget hearing racist jokes told around the dinner table, right after church, hearing laughter at the expense of others.

No one warned me about that.

         My family was deeply religious, in church every time the doors were open. And yet, we seemed to miss what Jesus was actually saying in his first recorded sermon.

Referring to verse 22, and the danger of calling a brother or sister “a fool” or else “be liable to the hell of fire,” I’ve heard people boast, “Well, I’ve never called my brother or sister a fool!”

The problem is that whenever Jesus speaks of family, he always broadens its definition.

Later in Matthew, we read about a time Jesus is teaching in the synagogue when someone interrupts him saying, members of your family are here to see you. Jesus turns and points to everyone in the room and says, “All of these are part of my family.” In every word and action of Jesus, he continually enlarges the circle. Family is not defined by bloodline, nor ethnicity, nor tribe, nor nation.

In Matthew’s Gospel, the word translated brother or sister, adelphos, stretches beyond biology. Family is not bloodline or tribe. It is anyone who belongs to God.

So, when Jesus says, “if you say to your adelphos, ‘you fool,’” he’s talking about the person sitting in front of you and behind you, the one across the aisle, across the border, across the political divide.

He’s saying: The ones you despise are your siblings, and that should change everything. Because it’s one thing to insult a stranger. It’s quite another to degrade members of your own family. It’s one thing to caricature “them.” And it’s another to realize there is no “them” in the kingdom of God.

Jesus then names two insults. The first is raka, an Aramaic word which means something like “empty-headed,” “stupid,” “washed up,” “good for nothing,” “worthless.” It’s a dismissal of someone’s value. It’s saying someone is disposable and can be discarded.

The second word is translated “fool.” In Greek, it is moros. It’s the root of “moron.” But in that culture, calling someone moros was not about intelligence. It meant morally worthless, godless, demonic, beyond redemption. It was a way of saying: You do not matter, you do not belong, and you never will.

With these two words, Jesus was warning people of the harm of dehumanization and demonization.

When we hear Erika Kirk call the protesters in Minneapolis “demonic,” when we see images depicting Barack and Michelle Obama as apes, when Congresswoman IIlan Omar is called “garbage,” when immigrants are described as “infestations” or “invasions,” and when a Puerto Rican singer is told “he doesn’t belong,” we are witnessing a centuries-old strategy of dehumanization and demonization.

Enslaved Africans were called “property” and “animals,” because you cannot enslave someone you fully recognize as part of your family.

Indigenous peoples were called “savages,” so land could be stolen without moral consequence.

Black men were labeled “brutes” and “bucks”, so lynching could be framed as protection.

Jewish people were depicted as “vermin,” so genocide could be justified and rationalized.

Japanese Americans were called enemies, so detention centers could be normalized.

The pattern is always the same: First, a label, then a caricature, then a policy, and then a grave.

What we are continuing to learn about the Epstein files should not surprise us as we are bombarded with language that objectifies women: jokes that reduce women to body parts; comments that treat women as trophies or temptations; speech that minimizes harassment or blames the victims of assault.

Before assault becomes physical, language makes it conceivable. When the bodies of women are described as things to be grabbed, owned, and evaluated, then empathy is lowered and permission to harm is created.

Jesus is saying here that once someone is no longer adelphos, once they become “less than,” harm becomes easier to justify.

But if she is your sister, if she is adelphos, then her dignity is not negotiable.

If Barack and Michelle Obama are adelphos, then ape imagery is not just offensive. It’s family betrayal.

If Black and Brown immigrants are adelphos, if the Puerto Rican artist is adelphos, then slurs are not just words. They are deep wounds within the household of God.

If women exploited and molested by rich and powerful men are adelphos, then the demand for justice will be relentless and a suggestion that the acceptance of injustice is worth a $50,000 Dow Jones will not be tolerated.

Now, it’s easy to hear a sermon like this and think of someone else. It’s easy to nod our heads because we would never post the meme, never chant the slur, never laugh at the joke. But Jesus does not say, “If your enemy has something against someone else.” He says, “If your sibling has something against you.” Which means this is not only about the loud cruelty out there. It is about the quiet ways we withdraw from people who frustrate us. The way we roll our eyes and dismiss others. The way we avoid hard conversations. The way we decide someone is not worth the effort. Dehumanization does not begin with a microphone. It begins in the heart. And even good, justice-seeking people are not immune.

         Jesus says dehumanization endangers us with hell. But like a misinterpretation of the word adelphos, raka, and moros, the way we have interpreted “hell” has actually made this world more hellish.

The word Jesus uses here is Gehenna. It’s a valley outside Jerusalem associated with burning refuse and with Israel’s history of violence. It symbolized what happens when a society becomes a dumping ground for human dignity.

Jesus is saying that Gehenna is what we create on earth when we treat others as garbage, worthless, washed-up, disposable.

And then, to underscore how important it is to treat all people with dignity, to love others like family, to love all people as we love our own, as our very selves, Jesus says this: “If you are offering your gift at the altar and remember that your sibling has something against you, leave your gift at the altar.”

Leave the worship service before the peace is passed and the benediction pronounced. And go. Be reconciled. Jesus refuses to separate love of God from the love of people and suggests that God does not receive praise from lips that practice dehumanization of others.

Reconciliation is not politeness, or kindness, although we certainly need more of that in the world. It’s not pretending harm did not happen or moving on, letting bygones be bygones, nor is it “agreeing to disagree.”

Reconciliation is truth-telling. It is repairing and restoring. And it is a refusal to continue dehumanizing and being silent in the face of dehumanization.

After learning that our sibling Christopher Lilley, passed away suddenly this week, many have asked me if Chris had family. I do not know of any biological family, but I do know he had family. He had church family, members of this church and members from the former Court Street United Methodist Church, who enveloped Chris in love and grace. He also had his recovery family, a community that helped him stay sober for the last 11 ½ years.

I cannot put into words what it meant to Chris that he had people who treated him as adelphos.

Two months after Chris was born in the Brooklyn neighborhood of Baltimore, Maryland, his mother literally discarded him, threw him out with the trash, leaving him outside of a garbage dumpster. Chris was found and placed in the custody of the state for months before he bounced around between several different foster parents. Years later he was finally adopted, but his childhood was one of trauma.

Chris struggled with mental illness and alcoholism. He often heard dehumanizing and demonizing voices in his head. Most wrote him off. However, the good news is there were people in this city who loved Chris, who treated him like family, who let him know that he was not trash. He was a beloved child of God, a sibling of immeasurable worth.

And not only did Chris overcome his addiction to alcohol, he became a sweet, caring, empathetic, soul. The little way he giggled at his own jokes revealed a spirit that was far from broken.

Chris had an incredible passion for social justice. Chris often told me how he had no tolerance for white supremacists, Nazis, and bigots, for anyone who made anyone else feel like trash. Chris called me often, many times just to ask me how I was doing, or how people on our church’s prayer list were doing.

Having been treated as garbage, Chris experienced his share of Gehenna in this world. But because he found a community of grace, reconciliation, and restoration, I believe he also experienced a little bit of heaven.

So, before we come to this table, before we say the prayers, before we receive the bread and drink from the cup, we must ask:

Where have we dismissed someone as less than?
Where have we laughed along at jokes that harm?
Where have we stayed silent?

This table is not for the perfect. It is for the honest. It is for those who are willing to love as Jesus loved, to resist dehumanization and demonization in all its forms.

 

Invitation to Communion

Here we remember a body that was mocked.
A man publicly shamed. A Savior treated as disposable.

And we remember that he refused to return contempt with contempt.

This meal does not erase our responsibility. It forms us for reconciliation.

So, come.

Not because you have never spoken harm. But because you are willing to stop.

Come, ready to see every person as adelphos.
Come, ready to reject the language of Gehenna.
Come, ready to build a community where dignity is not negotiable.

Because Jesus is not just trying to keep us from committing murder. He is trying to form a community where murder becomes unthinkable.

Disciples Are on the Side of Witches

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Luke 18:9-14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Disciples stand firmly on the side of witches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let them demonize us.

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

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

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

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

Amen.