Tag: justice

Do Not Be Afraid: Love Is About to Be Born!

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Advent and Christmas, Sermons Year A1 Comment

Matthew 1:18-25

On the fourth Sunday of Advent, we stand with a man named Joseph, on the threshold of a future he never expected.

Week after week, Advent has been inviting us to look for God to show up where no one is looking: in the wilderness, in the shadows, in the cries of prophets and the songs of unlikely women. And now, as Christmas draws near, our gospel lesson leads us into the quiet and conflicted heart of a man who wanted to do the right thing but wasn’t sure what the right thing was.

We’ve been there before, haven’t we, asking: “Now, what?” “What in the world do we do now?” “How should we respond to the news we’ve just received, this loss, this change, this crisis?” And how do we respond faithfully?

How do we believe with the prophet Zechariah in a future that seems impossible? How do we believe that what is broken doesn’t have to stay that way? How do we move past our grief and our cynicism?

Here’s some good news that we shouldn’t miss: Matthew writes, “This is how the birth of Jesus the Messiah came about.”

How about that? Christmas didn’t come wrapped in certainty, clarity, or confidence, but in confusion, shock, and scandal, in questions that kept Joseph up at night.

Joseph receives the news that Mary is pregnant with a child that is not his. But Joseph is righteous, which means he loves God and neighbor. He believes in the golden rule and wants to do the merciful thing, the kind thing, the just thing. But sometimes, even righteousness can get tangled in fear. Even righteousness can struggle to imagine a horizon beyond the one we can see.

And so, Joseph, like so many of us, makes a plan to manage a difficult situation quietly, discreetly, safely.

This may be where that old saying “If you want to make God laugh, make a plan.”

Joseph had a plan. A good plan. A righteous plan. And then God showed up, and God being God says: “We’re going to need to revise that!”

An angel of the Lord interrupts his plans: “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid.”

It’s something perhaps we all need to hear:

Do not be afraid of uncertainty.

Do not be afraid of mystery.

Do not be afraid of this news you did not expect.

Do not be afraid to love beyond what the world tells you is reasonable

or socially acceptable.

Do not be afraid to let go of your plans and let God write the rest of your story!

And then comes the promise: “The child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit… and you shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.”

It’s important to understand that this is not just about personal sin, as we have been led to believe. It’s about God stepping into a world shaped by injustice and rescuing God’s people from everything that keeps them bound. Jesus is born to save people from the moral sickness of systems that deny dignity, distort truth, and crush the vulnerable.

Joseph stands right where many of us stand in this season: between the world as we know it today and the world God is unfolding; between our lived reality and the day when love will finally win; between answering a call and fear of where saying “yes” to that call may take us.

And it is precisely here, in this fragile in-between space, that Advent makes its final turn, not toward certainty or explanation, but toward love. And not toward just any love.

The love that breaks into Joseph’s life is not a sentimental love that asks nothing from him. It’s not a love that Joseph is only meant to feel deep inside.

 It is a fierce, courageous, and public love that asks something of Joseph: for him to be selfless; for him to sacrifice; for him to give of himself, for him to walk humbly and do justice. It’s the kind of love that refuses to leave any of God’s children cast aside or put away. And it is a love that refuses to allow fear to keep Joseph on the sidelines, insisting instead that he become a participant in God’s unfolding promise.

We know something about that kind of love; because this year, we have lived it. We have seen this love hold us together when the world felt like it was falling apart.

It’s the love that kept us going when mercy was mocked, when compassion was ridiculed, and empathy was dismissed. It’s the love that kept us committed when the holy values of equity, diversity and inclusion were attacked.

It’s the love that kept us showing up when the headlines were heavy, when the rhetoric of the powerful dehumanized the vulnerable, when policies wounded the poor, and when silence would have been much easier than faithfulness.

It’s the love that steadied us as we protested, prayed, voted, organized, fed, welcomed, and spoke out, sometimes with trembling voices, always with stubborn hope, because being silent was not an option, and we knew disengaging was not faithfulness.

It’s the love that has held us.

It’s the love that has carried us.

It’s the love that keeps us from surrendering our conscience,
even when cruelty is normalized, lies are rationalized, faith is compromised, and the truth is redacted.

It’s the love that will not let us look away, back down, or give up.

It’s the love that compelled us to feed the hungry, welcome the stranger, stand with the marginalized, and speak truth even when it came at a cost.

It’s the love that refused to let exhaustion become indifference, or disappointment become despair. It’s the love that sustained Marian Stump in the last year of her life, and so many who faced unexpected hardships, giving this year meaning and purpose with hope.

Time and again, when it would have been easier to retreat, this love called us forward.

And, like Joseph, it asks us not merely to survive the moment, but to participate in what God is still bringing to birth in the world. The same love that has carried us through fear and fatigue continues to call us today: to choose courage even when the path is uncertain. It asks us, like Joseph, to march into God’s unfolding promise, not safely, not quietly, but faithfully, boldly, and without delay.

The story of Joseph, of fear giving way to faithfulness, of uncertainty giving way to courageous action, is the Advent story.

It’s Joseph’s story. And it is our story. It’s a story that teaches us that God’s love does not always look like what we wanted or expected. But it’s always more than we knew to hope for.

Matthew says that all of this happened “to fulfill what the Lord had spoken through the prophet.” A virgin. A child. A name: “Emmanuel, God with us.”

And it’s important to pay attention to where the prophet imagines Emmanuel showing up: not in palaces; not in legislative chambers; not in the places where people wield power as if it belongs to them. Emmanuel is born among the poor, the marginalized, the least of these, in places the world least expects.

And today, if we want to see where God is Emmanuel, where God is still showing up, we must look where the world still refuses to look:

among immigrant families demonized for daring to hope;
among those struggling in poverty in the richest nation in the world;
among workers whose wages don’t cover their rent;
among seniors choosing between food and medicine;
among children whose schools are underfunded;

among those who are dismissed, dehumanized, or told their lives do not matter.

If Christmas teaches us anything, it is that God does not wait for systems to change before God moves. God enters the world right in the middle of the darkness amid the injustice, and says: “Look what I’m about to do!”

“When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him.”

Joseph steps into God’s calling even though everything around him still looks uncertain. This is the moral courage William Barber calls “standing on higher ground,” on the ground where justice outweighs fear, where mercy outruns judgment, and where love overrides everything!

Joseph chooses love over reputation. Love over comfort. Love over convenience. Love over any path that would have been easier. Love over everything!

And friends, Christmas 2025 asks nothing less of us.

When laws are passed that deepen poverty, we must be Joseph.

When families are separated, migrants are demonized, and immigrants are treated as threats rather than neighbors, we must be Joseph.

When leaders weaponize fear, pitting race against race, faith against faith, neighbor against neighbor, we must be Joseph.

When cruelty masquerades as strength, when lies are repeated until they are accepted as “truth,” when power is prized over people, we must be Joseph.

When the right to vote is narrowed, restricted, or quietly taken away, especially from the poor, the young, the elderly, and communities of color, we must be Joseph.

When creation itself groans under neglect and exploitation, when people cannot afford health insurance, when children are denied safety, dignity, or opportunity, we must be Joseph.

And when our own lives are disrupted, by grief, illness, injustice, or futures we never planned, we must be Joseph.

And the good news—the hopeful, peaceful, joyful, love-filled, good news of Christmas—is that God is still whispering to a fearful people: “Do not be afraid. I am Emmanuel. I am with you.” “Do not be afraid, because Love is about to be born!”

And when Joseph holds that newborn child, he will hold a future no empire can contain, no lie can stop, and no hatred can overcome. And on this Fourth Sunday of Advent, we are reminded: God is still writing the story!

And so, as Christmas approaches:

Let the weary find rest.
Let the silenced find voice.
Let the broken find healing.
Let the fearful find courage.
Let the struggling find companions on the road.
And let love—real, disruptive, justice-making, life-restoring love—be born again in us.

Because Emmanuel is still with us. God is still moving toward us. And Christ is still being born wherever love takes the risk that Joseph took.

May this Advent love, bold, disruptive, and steadfast, fill us with hope.

May it remind us that no matter what the new year brings—uncertainty, struggle, sickness, or sorrow—we are not alone.

May it strengthen us to speak truth, to stand for justice, to welcome the stranger, and to act with courage.

And may it remind us, again and again, that God is still at work. God is still bringing light out of darkness. God is still calling forth life and making all things new.

Amen.

When Empire Meets Love

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Sermons Year C1 Comment

Luke 19:1-10

I will forever be grateful for the way Shirley Paxton and Linda Burger graciously welcomed me into their homes. Even when they were not feeling their best, they opened their doors wide.  And instead of talking about their ailments, as I expected, Shirley and Linda only wanted to talk about me, how I was doing, how my family was doing. They were interested in the church and my role as the senior minister, but they seemed more interested in who I was as a human being, as a father, a husband, a son, and a brother.

 After my first visit with Linda, I will never forget her walking me outside with Ken to my Honda Civic, asking me how in the world I was able to fit into such a little car. It reminded me of my first visit with Shirley. During a barrage of personal questions about me and my family, how my wife and I were liking Lynchburg, she suddenly came out with: “Just how tall are you?”

“6-foot-four,” I replied.

“That’s funny,” she said, “I’m four-foot-six! Stand up and let me stand beside you.”

We stood up next to each other there in her living room and laughed and laughed.

Shirley Paxton and Linda Burger may not have been very tall, but they both had very large spirits, something Zacchaeus had to grow into. And that’s where we meet him today, small in stature, and smaller still in spirit.

Zacchaeus worked for Rome, the empire that taxed the poor to feed the rich, ruled by fear, and crucified anyone who dared to resist. And sometimes, it feels like that same spirit still stalks our streets today.

 Zacchaeus was a chief tax collector, which meant he didn’t just collect money for Rome, he personally profited off the suffering of his neighbors. Thus, when the people saw him, they didn’t see a neighbor. They saw a traitor. And maybe that’s exactly what he was.

However, the good news is, or should I say the challenging news for us living a country that seems full of traitors these days is: Jesus saw him differently, teaching us what can happen when empire meets love.

Luke tells us that Jesus was passing through Jericho, a city built on exploitation and one of Rome’s outposts of control. Jericho was a city where the wealthy lived behind high walls and widows begged outside the gates. And there, in a crowd of people, standing on his tiptoes, was Zacchaeus, who then climbed a tree to catch a glimpse of grace.

Have you ever wondered what made Zacchaeus climb that tree? Why he wanted to see this radical rabbi named Jesus, the one stirring up good trouble for the sake of love. Maybe he was just curious, wondering who this troublemaker was who was proclaiming good news to the ones he was oppressing, while at the same time proclaiming love for tax collectors like himself.

Maybe Zacchaeus was desperate. Maybe, deep down, Zacchaeus didn’t like working for the empire. Maybe he was tired of living off the backs of others, tired of being part of a system where he was asked to trade his soul for a paycheck.

When empire meets love, sometimes it begins with a just a glance, for someone to catch just a glimpse of truth.

And then comes the surprise! Jesus stops beneath that tree, looks up and calls Zacchaeus by name: “Zacchaeus, come down. For I must stay at your house today.”

Luke says, “he came down at once.” I don’t know if that means he climbed down in a hurry, or was so startled when he heard Jesus call his name and heard the urgency in his voice, that he fell out of that tree!

The scene is shocking in more ways than one. For Jesus looks up at the one everyone else looks down on. Jesus humanizes the one everyone else demonizes. And it is because of that, love is able to enter the house of empire.

And something happens when love enters your house and sits at your table. Something happens when you stop hiding behind the systems of the world and start listening to the Savior of the world. Something happens when grace moves in and refuses to leave you where it found you.

It’s too bad Luke doesn’t tell us what Jesus said to Zacchaeus. But we can be certain Jesus didn’t sit there in silence, not the way many of us will be tempted to do this Thanksgiving, when empire shows up at our tables dressed like politics or prejudice. Whatever Jesus said, it was enough for Zacchaeus to realize he had missed the whole point of living. That life is not about accumulation but restoration. That love, grace, mercy, and justice are not accessories to faith. They are the very heart of it.

At the table with Jesus, Zacchaeus doesn’t just say, “I’m sorry.” Zacchaeus flips the whole system on its head: “Half of my possessions I will give to the poor, and if I’ve cheated anyone, I’ll pay them back fourfold!”

On this stewardship commitment Sunday, it is important for us to understand that this is what faithful stewardship looks like. Now, I’m not talking about giving 400% instead of 10%. I am talking about stewardship being about more than keeping the lights on in the church. It’s about the church shining a light into the world. It’s about giving others an opportunity to catch a glimpse of grace and truth. It is the empire coming face to face with love.

Zacchaeus teaches us that it’s not just about giving from what we have. It’s about giving back what the empire has stolen. It’s not about charity. It’s about equity. It’s about making reparations. It is about doing justice in an unjust world.

Before meeting love, Zacchaeus was the face of injustice. He worked for a system designed to keep the poor in their place. The tax collector’s job was to remind people that Rome owns you, Rome rules you, and Rome can take from you whatever it wants.

And today, that same spirit still walks among us. It criminalizes poverty. It takes food from the hungry. It turns brown skin into suspicion. It raids restaurants and convenience stores. It tears children from their parents’ arms. It’s the spirit behind every deportation, every detention center, and any system that profits off fear.

The challenge of Zacchaeus’ story for us is that when Jesus met the face of this spirit in Zacchaeus, Jesus didn’t demonize him. He humanized him. Jesus didn’t shame him or scold him. He didn’t see a villain. He saw a child of God buried beneath the mask of empire.

Jesus then invited himself to Zacchaeus’ home, to meet Zacchaeus where he was, where he lives, to learn more about him as a human being, as a father, a husband, a son, and a brother. Jesus invited Zacchaeus to sit down with him at a table, to break bread, which allowed a revolutionary love to touch his soul and transform him.

If Jesus were walking our streets today, I wonder if he’d stop beneath the watchtower of a detention center and call out to an ICE officer: “Hey John, why don’t you come down from there. Come down and let’s sit together at a table where no one is illegal, and every child is safe.”

For that’s what radical welcome looks like. It’s not a polite kindness that leaves injustice unchallenged. It’s the fierce, unrelenting love that says even to the enemy: “You will not make me hate you. You are God’s beloved child, and I believe you were made for much more than this.”

The good news is I believe that invitation still echoes in our world today. Jesus is still calling: “Come down. Leave the systems of empire. Come sit at the table where the walls come down and the children are safe, where love doesn’t get deported and where grace has no borders.”

This is what we mean when we say, “Radical Welcome, Revolutionary Love.” Radical welcome isn’t polite hospitality behind closed doors. It’s repentance made visible in public. It’s empire being converted— one heart, one invitation, one table at a time.

When Zacchaeus welcomed Jesus, he didn’t just open his front door. He opened his wallet, his conscience, his life. He said, “Half my possessions I will give to the poor. And if I have defrauded anyone, I will pay back 400%.” That’s crazy!

When Zacchaeus changed, Jericho changed. When one house opens its doors to grace, the whole neighborhood begins to glow!

This is what happens when love gets inside a house built by empire. Everything gets rearranged. When love moves in, greed moves out. When grace shows up, fear packs its bags. When Jesus crosses your threshold, the entire house starts to look like heaven.

And church, this is what stewardship is all about. It’s not about fundraising. It’s not maintaining our building. It’s opening our house to the holy. It’s saying, “Lord, this table, this budget we are pledging to fund, this ministry, this community, it’s all yours. And we want you to do something crazy here, something world-changing here!”

Because that’s what happens when empire meets love.

When greed meets grace, chains start breaking.

When fear meets faith, walls start falling.

When apathy meets compassion, hearts start healing.

When a church decides to truly live like Jesus— salvation lights up the city.

Zacchaeus’ story isn’t just about one man’s salvation. It’s about us. It’s about what happens when we let Jesus interrupt our comfort, when we climb down from the systems that keep us safe, separate, and silent and we say, “Come on in, Lord. Our house, our hearts, are wide open.”

And when empire meets love, tables get longer.

When empire meets love, budgets start looking like moral documents.

When empire meets love, the hungry are fed, the unhoused are sheltered, and the sick receive healthcare.

When empire meets love, equity is practiced, kindness is extended, mercy is offered, and justice is done.

When empire meets love, saints like Shirley and Linda smile down from glory, because they see that the welcome they practiced still lives in us.

So today, as we dedicate our pledges, as we name our saints,
as we remember those who opened their homes and hearts, let’s promise to keep doing the same: to open our doors wide; to welcome without condition; to love while refusing to hate; and to give until it changes someone’s life.

Because love like that is still revolutionary.
Love like that still topples empires.
Love like that is still how salvation comes to this house—
to our house
to this church,

to this city,
to this world that God so loves.

So, church, let’s come down from our trees.
Let’s come down from the tree of fear and scarcity.
Let’s come down from the branches of comfort and silence.
Let’s come down and open the door, set a table and make room for love.

Because Jesus is calling our name, saying: “First Christian Church in Lynchburg, Virginia, I must stay at your house today!”

Amen.

The Most Hopeful Word in Scripture

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

Luke 15:1-10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Somebody say it) “UNTIL!”

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

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

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

Until Christian nationalism is unmasked as idolatry.

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

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

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

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

Thus, when the powers and principalities ask us:

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

“How long are you going to keep organizing?”

“How long are you going to keep protesting?”

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

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

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

We will rise up with one voice and declare:

“We will not stop.

We will not bow down.

We will not turn back.

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

Not until the news cycle moves on.

Not even until the next election.

We will love.

We will struggle.

We will stand.

And we will march

until every person is free,

until every child is safe,

until every body is honored,

until justice is done,

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

Amen.

 

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

This Ain’t No Cruise

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Sermons Year C, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Isaiah 1:1, 10-20

At this hour last Sunday, Lori and I had just been forced off the “Fun Ship” called “the Carnival Sunshine” which had returned to Norfolk from an 8-day Caribbean cruise.

Now, I only say “forced off” in jest, but there was a part of us that really didn’t want to get off that boat. For we had just experienced a week of extravagant leisure, a week where our biggest decisions were: The buffet or the dining room? The baked Alaska or the crème brûlée? The pool deck or the beach excursion? How many naps do I take today? Will I snooze in my cabin or out under a cabana?

And behind all this pleasure was our charming, enthusiastic cruise director, who just happened to be from just down the road in Danville.

He had the type of haircut, personality and southern accent that made me think: “You know, I can see myself in this line of work.”

Seriously, I believe I have what it takes to be a great cruise director. Smile big, talk fast, and make sure no one thinks too hard about what’s going on behind the scenes. Just keep the show going and the mood light, even if the ship is headed straight into a storm! Use my gifts of schmooze to keep everybody on board entertained, distracted, and happy.

And I can’t help but to think how many pastors out there, like me, are also well-suited for this type of work; and unfortunately, how many of them function more like cruise directors than pastors in their churches.

For how many sanctuaries have been turned into cruise lounges? How many chancels have been transformed into theatrical stages? How many sermons are just spiritual entertainment? How many worship services are designed to make people feel good but not do good?

A cruise director never challenges you. Cruise directors don’t convict you. They never ask you to change your life, to give up something, to sacrifice anything, to take any risk. On the contrary, they want you to avoid risk. A good cruise director is there to make sure the activities are safe, the music is right, the lights are warm, the drinks are flowing, and your conscience is quiet.

All while injustice rages on the shore.

The truth is that too many churches today have become floating sanctuaries of self-centered peace, enjoying smooth sailing while the poor are drowning in debt, depression, and despair.

The good news is, while I am convinced that I could be an excellent cruise director, and I’m still a little tempted to google their annual salary, the prophet Isaiah comes today to remind me that God did not call me to be a cruise director. God didn’t call me to keep the church comfortable, safe, and happy. God called me to speak truth that is often uncomfortable and even dangerous, as God calls us to live justice, to be the people of God in a dark world flooded with cruelty, corruption, greed and spiritual compromise.

Isaiah tells it like it is in today’s Hebrew lesson: God has absolutely no interest in our religious performances if it does not inspire justice. God isn’t impressed by our singing, our prayers, our preaching, or even our communion. God says, “I’m tired of your offerings. I’m sick of your noise. I am fed up with it all. All I want is to see how you treat the most vulnerable among you.”

And Isaiah’s not playing around:

Hear the word of the Lord, you rulers of Sodom! Listen to the teaching of our God, you people of Gomorrah!

Now, Isaiah’s not talking to pagans. He’s not talking to outsiders. He’s talking to the religious people, to the faithful folks: the worshippers; the tithers; the choir members; the Bible study attenders. And he calls them “Sodom and Gomorrah” because of how far they’ve drifted from whom they have been called to be.

They were faithful doing all the religious stuff: showing up for worship; observing the liturgical calendar and all the rituals; making sacrifices; offering prayers; singing hymns. But God…God wasn’t impressed.

I have had enough of your burnt offerings!
I do not delight in the blood of bulls…
Your new moons and your appointed festivals, my soul hates.
Even though you make many prayers, I will not listen.

God says:

You’re making a lot of noise, but you’re not being a movement.
You’re throwing parties for yourselves while the poor are languishing.
You’ve built a sanctuary, but not a shelter.
You’re singing and dancing all while the blood of the oppressed cry out from the streets.

You’ve made church a place of escape rather than engagement.
Your worship is more like a cruise rather than a call to action!

In other words, “You’ve turned my house into a Carnival Fun Ship!”

Jeremy, Mark, Judy, choir, hear me when I say there’s nothing wrong with beautiful music offered to God. Just as there is nothing wrong with well-prepared sermons or joyful gatherings. Verna, there’s nothing wrong with well-organized communion. And of course, there’s nothing at all wrong with having a big offering! But if all this beauty ever becomes a substitute for doing justice, it’s not worship, says Isaiah, it’s idolatry.

Pastors who succumb to the temptation to use their cruise-director gifts in the church want their congregants to enjoy the journey but do nothing to challenge the systems. They want their parishioners to put their hands in the air for Jesus, but never encourage them to lift a finger for the poor. They want their members to memorize the creeds, but forget about Medicaid, minimum wage, and mass incarceration.

A cruise director doesn’t ask you to sacrifice or leave your comfort zone. But a real pastor, a prophet, most certainly will.

Because that’s what God has called us to do.

God has called pastors to stand up with Isaiah and prophetically proclaim to our congregations:

“Cease to do evil and learn to do good; seek justice and rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan and plead for the widow.”

God has called us to constantly remind our congregations that that’s the kind of worship that God wants. Not empty rituals in the sanctuary, but radical righteousness in the streets. Not polished performance, but public accountability to the least of these.

Have you ever felt like God is not listening to your prayers?

Isaiah suggests that the reason we sometimes feel like God isn’t listening to our prayers is because God isn’t listening to our prayers!

Isaiah says that if we truly want to know that God is listening to us, if we truly want to feel God’s presence, if we want our worship to me meaningful, then we must do some things.

And if we don’t do those things, according to Isaiah, God might respond to our worship this way: “Stop tramping into my courts. And I have had enough of your preacher. His sermons, his prayers, your hymns, everything about your church, they have become a burden to me. And I have stopped listening!”

If we want our prayers to be received by God, Isaiah says that we better be doing what we can help the most vulnerable members of our community.

Frederick Douglass once said, “I prayed for freedom for 20 years, but God didn’t hear my prayer until I moved my feet.”

After marching in Selma for civil rights, Rabbi Abraham Heschel said, “I felt my legs praying.”

This sanctuary can be full of people who have gathered for God on Sunday morning, but if nobody’s using their legs to stand up for the marginalized come Monday, God says: “it means nothing.”

We can shout down the walls of Jericho, but if we never speak out against building a wall with the bricks of racism, God says: “Our hands are full of blood.”

We can post Bible verses all day on social media, but if we stay silent while fascism is in power, while Gaza is being ethnically cleansed, while LGBTQ youth are targeted, while immigrants are scapegoated, while healthcare is gutted, while workers are exploited, the planet is polluted, and while the single mother, the disabled neighbor and the black child are caught in the crosshairs of systemic sin, then our faith is just a lie.

True faith moves us out to the front lines, moving us from ceremony to solidarity, from pews to picket lines, from pulpits to protests.

So, let me take you back to that cruise.

Folks lounging on the deck. Others wading in the pool. Music playing. Bob Marley singing, “don’t worry about a thing ‘cause every little thing gonna be alright.” Food and drinks being served. Laughter in the air. The cruise director’s doing his job: keeping us all smiling, dancing, relaxed, full, and distracted.

Now, on vacation? That’s fine. But in church? That’s deadly.

And today, too many churches have gotten comfortable relaxing on the deck. Sunning themselves under the glow of cheap grace. Floating along on the sea of privilege. Sipping sweet spiritual drinks while the world is drowning just off the side of the ship.

I’m glad to see all of you here this morning, but if you’re looking for some comfort, this ain’t the place.

If you’re looking for some entertainment, you’re in the wrong room.

If you’re looking for somebody to tell you everything is fine, while the world is on fire, this ain’t that church, and I pray I ain’t ever gonna be that preacher!

Because although I believe I could be a good cruise director, I believe God has called me to be a pastor.

After a summer break, Java with Jarrett returns this week at a new location. And I can’t think of a better place to meet with the pastor. Located in the Givens bookstore, it’s called “the Troublemaker’s Café.”

Because as a pastor I have been called to keep reminding you: It’s time to get off the boat and into the deep, into the struggle, into the messy, risky, beautiful, troublemaking work of real worship. God has called us to be prophets of another way, to be builders of a better world, to be troublemakers for truth.

Listen again to these words:

Seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow.

That’s not vacation talk. That’s vocation talk. That’s God calling us to jump off the deck and into the deep waters of justice!

The good news for our world today is that God is still calling, still pleading, still inviting:

“Come now, let us argue it out. Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be like snow.”

This is what the grace of God looks like. It’s not just to save us. It’s to change us. It’s not just to comfort us. It’s to call us forward, to remind us that the time for playing church is over, and the time for becoming the church is now!

So, here’s our challenge today:

If you’re looking for a cruise, this ain’t it!
If you’re looking to be entertained, you’re in the wrong place!
But if you’re ready to live your faith out loud…
If you’re ready to lift your voice against injustice…
If you’re ready to love your neighbor as yourself, not just in word but in deed, not just with your prayers, but with your legs, then this is the church for you!

Yes, the water’s deep. The waves can be scary. But Isaiah assures us that God will be with us! Because we’re not playing church here. We’re becoming the church!

And the world is waiting.

Amen.

Trinity in the Trenches

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Sermons Year C3 Comments

Romans 5:1-5

Ok, here it is! The sermon that you’ve been waiting for! I wouldn’t call it a sugar-stick sermon, but it’s certainly a hopeful sermon. And oh, how we need some hope today! Because, in today’s world, we wonder how we’re still standing.

Our epistle lectionary lesson Romans 5:1-5 enters our turbulent time like a divine disruption, a flame refusing to be swallowed by the night. It doesn’t offer quick fixes or shallow answers, but it offers deep, lasting, transforming, Trinitarian hope.

I know, I know. Some of you have never been big fans of the Trinity. That’s because you’re not fans of any doctrine or creed, especially if it was decreed by the empire centuries ago, with other edicts and declarations that have caused more harm in the world than good. You don’t get it, and I get that. The Trinity is a strange concept. Three in one? Why three? Why not 7 or 12 or 17 or 153? Actually, I kinda like 153!

The good news for us on this day we call “Trinity Sunday” is that the Trinity doesn’t have to be a dusty old imperial doctrine. The Trinity can be divine, living reality.

I know, I know. Some of you didn’t like the sound of that. A preacher telling you what reality is. We have too much gaslighting these days from the power-that-be, and you’ve come to church this morning to hear the truth!

But hear me out. I am saying that maybe the Trinity, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, or the Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer if you prefer, is not an ancient puzzle to solve. It’s a real, living, transforming, presence in which to dwell. The Holy Trinity is something to be lived more than learned, experienced more than explained, something or someone with whom to relate more than to understand. It’s not abstract; it’s active. It’s moving. It’s breathing. It’s calling, prodding, pushing, pulling us toward who we have been and are still being created to be.

Listen again to how the Apostle Paul describes the Trinity in his letter to the Romans:

“Since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ… and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.”

Let’s walk together in this text and let the Trinity meet us in our grief, our protests, our healing, and our rising.

“Since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God…”

To say, we are “justified by faith” is to say that God, the source of all that is, made a decision about us before the world could.

Before society tagged you as expendable, God named you “beloved”. Before empires wrote policies and made decrees to discount or disappear you, God wrote your name in glory.

  • Before redlining maps were drawn, God marked your entire neighborhood and called it blessed.
  • Before school districts were zoned to maintain inequality, God declared your mind worthy of wisdom.
  • Before they looked at your skin, your gender, your sexuality, and your zip code, and said “unworthy” God looked at you and said “very good!”
  • Before they erased you from textbooks, God had written your story in the Lamb’s Book of Life!

And it is God, the creator of everything, the energy of, in, and behind the universe, Love Love’s self, who is the one who declares peace over us— a cosmic, reconciling, justice-making peace.

It’s not the peace of silence. It’s not the peace of the status quo.

It’s not the peace one enjoys when they decide to play it safe.

It’s not the peace that comes with caution, following the rules or staying out of trouble.

It’s the peace that always lifts up the lowly, the least and the left out, even if it means flipping a table or two to do it!

It’s the peace that comes with the freedom of being justified. It’s not passive peace. It’s a prophetic peace. It’s the peace that tears down what divides and oppresses and builds what unifies and liberates in its place.

  • It’s the kind of peace that marched with Dr. King and bled with John Lewis on the Edmund Pettus Bridge.
  • It’s the kind of peace that says “Black Lives Matter” not to exclude anyone, but to expose what peace really demands.
  • It’s not the kind of peace that settles, but the kind of peace that agitates until justice rolls down like waters.

Let’s look at the next line:

“…through whom we have obtained access to this grace in which we stand…” (v.2)

Jesus is our access point to grace. Jesus didn’t just die because of our sins; He lived to show us what love looks like under empire, under oppression, under the shadow of the cross by living a life of grace.

Grace is not a loophole. It’s a lifestyle. Grace is what empowers us to stand tall in the rubble, to stand in front of an army deployed by a corrupt authoritarian and still speak truth. Grace is opportunity. Grace is an opening, a door, a window, even a crack. Grace is how Jesus reached out to the woman at the well, touched the leper, and restored the outcast.

And Paul says, Jesus is the access to this grace.

Sadly, this is where the church has really messed up its theology. Grace is not a ticket to heaven to escape the world. Grace is the opportunity to bring heaven to the world.

This is the grace Jesus came to give.

So let me say this prophetically: If your theology makes room for grace but not justice, you haven’t met Jesus yet.

If your gospel preaches forgiveness but ignores the systems that crucify, it’s not good news. It’s a performance.

Christ gives us grace to stand. Not to retreat. Not to hide. But to stand—

· To stand in the courtroom when the system is tilted, and still speak truth to power, with trembling hands but with a steady soul.

· To stand in the streets, in the pouring rain or the scorching heat and still lift up signs and prayers for a justice that won’t wait.

· To stand in your weary body—chronically ill, over-policed, underpaid—and say, “My presence is still a miracle!”

· To stand in grief when you’ve buried too many dreams, too many loved ones, and somehow still hope again.

· To stand when depression tells you to stay in bed, when anxiety says you’re not enough, and say: “Grace brought me here, and grace will keep me, and grace is enough.”

The good news is that there is more, much more! Look at verse 5.

“…and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit…” (v.5)

Ah, the Spirit. The One too many of us try to explain instead of experience.

This is the Spirit who whispers to us when all hell is breaking loose.

This is the Spirit who moves us in protest chants and in silent prayers.

This is the Spirit who pours—not sprinkles, drizzles, or cautiously trickles, but liberally pours the love of God deep into us until we can breathe again, smile again, even laugh again.

And this is why we don’t give up or stand down or ever bow down. Because love has roots that run deep. Love has a heartbeat in us. And even when suffering surrounds us, the darkness envelops us, even when the trauma returns, the Spirit keeps saying, “Hold on. The good old days may be gone but good new days are coming!”

The Spirit does not eliminate suffering. The Spirit takes suffering and makes suffering meaningful. The Spirit resurrects and transforms suffering. The Spirit assures us that suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, and character produces a hope that never disappoints us!

So, what do we do when the world is on fire?

When empires write decrees and send in the troops?

When systems still crucify the innocent?

When liberty and justice feels like a luxury only for the privileged?

When the whole world seems to be upside down, and we’re barely hanging on?

That’s when we remember the One, or the Three, who are holding on to us. The Father speaks peace. Christ gives grace. And the Spirit pours out love!

This is our Triune hope in the trenches, our Trinitarian anchor in a turbulent world. This is why we preach. This is why we worship in a pew, sing a hymn, and give an offering. This is why we pray and why we protest. This is why we forgive and feed, cry and console, resist and rise!

The Trinity is not an idea. It’s not just a concept. The Trinity is our inheritance, our identity, and our liberation. It’s how we can still stand when all is falling around us.

Still stand when policies crush the poor.

Still stand when truth is unfashionable.

Still stand when they gaslight and try to divide us.

Still stand when they deploy the military against us and threaten to kill us.

Still stand when love looks like resistance and hope costs everything.

The Trinity is not theoretical. It’s revolutionary!

The Father says, “Stand in this love.” The Son says, “Stand in this grace.” The Spirit says, “I’ve poured this love in you like wildfire—now go and light up your city, your state, your nation, and my world with my love. Go and stand and love until the torch of liberty and justice burns for all!”

So, let’s go and stand. Stand in courtrooms and stand in classrooms.

Stand in pulpits and in stand in peace vigils.

Stand in mourning and stand in movement.

Stand with our scars and with our sacred calling.

And when the world asks: Who gave you permission to stand like this? Who told you that you could be this courageous? How are you this strong, this confident? And why are you smiling like that?

That’s when you say, “I’ve been justified by faith!” “I’ve got peace from the Father!” “I’ve been given grace from the Son!” “And have been anointed with fire from the Holy Ghost!”

Now stand, and let your life be a sermon the world has been waiting for and cannot ignore.

Reviving the Heart of a Lady

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

Acts 9:36-43

This morning’s epistle lesson is one of a handful of biblical stories where someone, other than Jesus, dies and is raised back to life.

In 1 Kings 17, we read the story of the prophet Elijah raising to life the dead son of a widow. Luke tells a similar story of Jesus also raising to life the dead son of a widow. Mark tells a story about Jesus raising the dead daughter of a synagogue official (Mark 5). And it is John who tells the infamous story of Lazarus (John 11).

In Acts 20, we read Luke’s fascinating story of Eutychus, the only person in the Bible who can blame his passing on a Sunday sermon that went too long!

Bless his heart, as Eutychus sat in a windowsill listening to Paul preach on and on and on and on, the poor fella nodded off to sleep and toppled out the window, falling three stories to his death!

To Paul’s credit, he stopped preaching and immediately ran downstairs. I suppose feeling somewhat responsible for his congregant’s tragic and untimely demise, Paul knelt down, propped the dead body up in his arms and said to the shocked eyewitnesses who were standing nearby: “He’s ok. He’s fine. Nothing to see here! Go on about your business.” Luke tells us Paul then went back upstairs and had communion, while Eutychus, having had his fill of preaching for the day, and maybe for the rest of his life, skipped the rest of the service and went away alive and well (Acts 20).

Now, who here today can believe that you could literally be bored to death by a sermon?

I know. All of you can.

But who here believes that if I so happened to bore one of you to death with one of my sermons, that I possess the power run down the aisle, prop up your lifeless body in my arms and bring you back to life?

No one believes that.

But we do have the new defibrillator now hanging up right outside the narthex ready to go. So, I guess you never know!

However, believing that one has the power to literally raise the dead back to life is no laughing matter. For example, no one would be laughing if someone’s heart did stop during the service, and I called off the one rushing the defibrillator down the aisle, exclaiming: “There’s no need here for science! Stand back! I got this!”

A few years ago, the nation watched in horror as members of a Pentecostal Church in Redding, California, inspired by the raising-the-dead stories in the Bible, prayed over the body of a 2-year-old little girl for five days, attempting to bring her back to life.

So, how should these stories be interpreted? Are they to be taken literally, or should we look for some deeper meaning, some symbolic meaning that is more true, more real, and more prophetic, than any possible literal understanding.

What are we to make of the story of Tabitha, the only woman referred to as a disciple in the in the New Testament, who died but was raised back to life by Peter?

We are told that she lived a life devoted to good works and acts of charity, but then, one day, she became ill and died. Those who had been caring for her washed her body and laid her in a room upstairs. She must have been an important figure in the life of the early church as the apostle Peter was immediately summoned to come to the home to pay his respects. As soon as Peter arrived, he was taken upstairs to the room where the body of Tabitha was lying in wake.

Among those at the visitation were (and I quote) “all the widows” of Joppa. They stood beside Peter weeping, showing off the items of clothing that Tabitha had made for them.

Think about that. “All the widows.” What an impact Tabitha had made to those who were among the most marginalized and disadvantaged in society, those who had been discounted— victims of injustice by being excluded from inheritance laws. They all stood around the body grieving, as their ally, their advocate, and their champion, was no more.

It’s then that Peter clears the room. He prays, and turns to the body and says, “Tabitha, get up.” Tabitha opens her eyes, and seeing Peter, she sits straight up.

What in the world can this mean?

The most obvious meaning to me is that this world needs more Tabathas. The world needs more Tabithas who are committed to good works, to acts of charity, and to defending and caring for the marginalized and the most vulnerable among us.

Heaven doesn’t need another angel, as people like to say at funeral visitations. We need more angels here on earth, specifically angels like Tabitha.

Earlier this week, I overheard a conversation between a local pastor and another man that went like this:

“I hope to retire at the end of the year,” said the pastor, “but I am worried that it may take a long time to find my successor, as there’s not many men studying for the ministry these days.”

The other man responded: “Well, in the interim, do you have some leaders in your congregation who might step up to help lead the church?”

The pastor replied: “We do have couple of young, godly men in the church who I am currently mentoring.” Then he said, “And I have this woman. She’s incredible, a hard worker, very devout and dependable.”

He then added: “If she were a man, I’d want to have her cloned.”

I should have spoken up.  But instead, I just quietly wondered if this preacher had ever heard the story of the church leader named Tabitha.

And then this wave of sadness came over me, as I was reminded of the role the church currently plays in supporting the subjugation of women in our society and is one of the main reasons I may not live to see a female elected President.

Tell me, when you first heard that “nine-year old baby girls need to be happy with two dolls this Christmas,” did you notice that there was no mention of anything boys would need to sacrifice?

Because sacrificing is for the women—those who should forgo a college education and a career so they can stay home where they belong and raise a family.

Today, we hear those in power mocking and discounting women who do not have biological children. The suggestion has even been made that the votes of women who do not have children should count less than women who have children.

Every day, it seems as if we encounter some form of hyper-masculinity that has historically associated with fascism.

In 1930’s Germany, as incentive to keep women in their place, and to keep immigrants in the minority, Adolf Hitler introduced the “Cross of Honor of the German Mother,” a decorative medal that honored “children-rich” mothers of German heritage, excluding Jewish Germans.

The medals came in three classes: the Bronze Cross for mothers of four or five children; the Silver Cross for mothers with six or seven children; and the Gold Cross for mothers with eight or more children.

Six years after Hitler’s medal program was introduced, Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin followed suit with the “Order of Maternal Glory,” also offering three tiers: “Third Class” for mothers of seven children; “Second Class” for mothers of eight children; and “First Class” for mothers of nine children.

Soviet women raising 10 or more children were given the title “Mother Heroine” up until the fall of the USSR in 1991.

In 2022, the Mother Heroine award was revived, adding a payment of 1 million rubles, which is equivalent to more than $12,000.

And now, the White House is considering implementing similar incentives, including payments of $5,000 in cash and a “National Medal of Motherhood” to moms in the U.S. who have six or more children.[i]

I believe it’s important to point out today that Tabitha is never described as a mother. We are only told that she was a faithful disciple, devoted to good works and acts of charity, especially among those who were marginalized and discounted by society.

Perhaps what this country needs is a “National Medal of Justice Doers!” Because what this country needs are more people like Tabitha. It needs more allies, advocates, and champions for the poor, the discounted, and the marginalized.

But what if Tabitha’s story means even more?

What if Tabitha is a larger symbol for our deepest and best moral value of caring for the least of these? And what if Peter in this story, the one who revives this value, the one considered by Catholics to be the first Pope, is a symbol for the church?

What if Tabitha is a symbol of kindness, compassion, mercy, and empathy? A symbol of diversity, equity, and inclusion? A symbol of welcome and belonging? A symbol liberty and justice for all, especially for those discounted and marginalized.

What if Tabitha is a large feminine symbol holding up a light for all those who are left out and left behind: the tired; the poor; the huddled masses yearning to breathe free; the wretched refuse, those considered despicable, regarded as garbage; the homeless; the tempest tossed?

Then, like the Tabitha in Luke’s story, we know today that she has fallen ill, gravely ill. You might say she has a heart problem, is heart sick, or suffering a heart attack.

Her heart has been broken by those who believe character no longer counts.

Her heart has been hardened by sexism, racism, fear, and greed.

Her heart has been jolted out of rhythm by chaos and confusion.

Her arteries have been clogged by the evil forces, the principalities, the powers, and the world rulers of this present darkness.

Hate has put her heart in cardiac arrest.

So, what do we do when the heart of liberty-and-justice-for-all stops beating?

Well, that’s when we summon Peter, we summon the church, we summon all disciples who are committed to the way of love Jesus taught. That’s when we summon all people who have good hearts, to be, in the words of Rev Dr. William Barber, “the moral defibrillators of our time” to shock what is the very heart of our nation! To shock what is the heart of this nation, liberty and justice for all, with the power of love and mercy, especially for the poor, the marginalized and the most vulnerable.[ii]

So, the question that Tabitha’s story beg of us today is this: Do you have a heart? Is there a heart in this congregation?

Do you have a heart for poor people? Do you have a heart for transgendered people? Do you have a heart for immigrants?

Do you have a heart for women? Do you have a heart for mothers who have been deported by ICE and separated from their families? Do you have a heart for the value, the worth, and the dignity of all women, regardless of whether they choose to have children?

Then you have been summoned today. You have been called to be “the moral defibrillators of our time” to shock our city with love, to revive the pulse of our state with mercy, and to raise back to life the very heart of our nation.

[i] https://people.com/trump-team-ponders-incentives-motherhood-birthrate-11719580

[ii] Address to the DNC by Rev. Dr. William Barber, 2016

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.

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.

We’re Climbing a Mountain

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Sermons Year C3 Comments

Sermon inspired from the Anti-Racism/Pro-Reconciliation Facilitator Training workshop presented by the Virginia Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) ARPR Ministry, Martinsville, VA, February 28-March 1, 2025

Luke 9:28-43a NRSV

I have an embarrassing confession to make this morning. I am afraid that some very shameful pictures of me have been posted on the internet. And to make matters worse, I know this will be hard for some of you to believe, but Lori, is with me in those pictures. We thought we were alone.

The pictures were taken on the very top of Sharp Top Mountain. Has anyone here seen them? It has been brought to my attention that some of you may have.

What makes these photographs so disgraceful and humiliating, is that when people see them and say to us, “Oh, I see that you and Lori climbed all the way to top of Sharp Top Mountain!” to be truthful, I must confess that we took the bus.

I know, you are disappointed.

And I am the one who posted the pictures, because the scene from the mountaintop is nothing less than glorious!

Do you want to hear something more disappointing?  For more than thirty years, I have been preaching on Transfiguration Sunday recounting the story of Jesus taking Peter, James, and John to the mountaintop to experience something glorious, and I do not remember ever considering how difficult it is to climb a mountain. Because as far as I know, I don’t believe there were any buses in service for them to take.

And to add to my shame, the mountain that I climbed riding safely in a comfortable, climate-controlled bus, is visible almost everywhere I go in and around Lynchburg, standing as symbol of my shame!

But seeing this mountain as I am driving around, I also think about giving myself a second chance to actually climb it one day. But it’s been a year and a half, and I am still waiting for that perfect day, that day when I don’t have so many other things on my calendar, that day when the weather conditions are just right, when the wind is calm, when I know there’s going little temperature change from the bottom to the top, when the snakes, ticks, bears, coyotes and poison ivy are more scarce, and, of course, when I am in a little better physical shape.

There are so many obstacles to climb a mountain! So many excuses that can be made. Because glory doesn’t happen without some thoughtful planning, some arduous work, some risk of danger, some level of endurance, and even some pain.

On the way to glory, there can be twists and turns. And I am not just talking about ankles and knees. On the way up, sometimes you may have to take a downward turn, even curving around backwards, before heading back up. And because of that, the road is always long. A short mile and a half can take hours.

Unseen forces like gravity are constantly working against you, wearing you down, pulling you in the opposite direction, doing all it can to slow you down, or stop you in your tracks. Yes, there’s some hope on the journey. In some places there are glimpses of the summit, but there’s also self-doubt on the journey and moments of despair.

Perhaps that is why Jesus took Peter, James and John and went mountain climbing—to teach them that glory doesn’t happen without some work. That any vision of the culmination of the law and the prophets and the messiah cannot be seen, transformation and transfiguration cannot occur, liberation and reconciliation cannot be experienced without some serious climbing, without some risk along the way, without unseen forces and entities wearing you down along the way, without a few setbacks along the way.

Perhaps Jesus was trying to teach them that when it comes to real change, glorious change, there’s no such thing as a convenient and comfortable bus that is going to pick you up to take you safely and quickly to the summit. Reaching the summit takes hard work. It takes much energy, and a lot of time. It takes courage, and it takes faith.

So, maybe that is why Luke follows the story of Jesus and the disciples’ mountain climbing adventure with the story of a boy possessed by some dark and evil force.

Now we can only speculate what kind of evil tormented that boy, that put him in physical, psychosocial, or spiritual chains. Maybe he had epilepsy, a traumatic brain injury, or some other disability. But maybe the systems of his day had put him in some place of disadvantage. Perhaps he suffered discrimination and prejudice because of the color of his skin. Maybe he was suffering from the sting of rejection for being non-binary or gay.

We just know that the disciples were unable to do anything to begin to liberate to the boy, to break the chains, to challenge the systems of injustice, to confront the wicked authorities and evil forces that were oppressing the boy, that were refusing to see the image of God in the boy. And like my inability to climb Sharp Top Mountain, I am sure they had plenty of excuses. Maybe they were waiting for some quick and easy solution.

Thus, comes the scathing indictment from Jesus: “You faithless and perverse generation!”

Jesus says to those who claim to be his followers but fail to do the holy work of liberation: “You faithless and perverse generation!” Can you imagine Jesus saying such a thing today? I think you can—

As we are certainly witnessing a perversion of the gospel as a large swath of Christianity has been corrupted to favor a faithless authoritarian over a faithful patriot, favor billionaires over the poor, and favor the privileged (whether that privilege comes from race, gender, sexuality, or money), over anyone who is different.

The world dashes the poor against the rocks of hunger, war, and greed every day. In the words of theologian Cláudio Carvalhaes: “The economic beast controlled by a few demons is making people [today] convulse day and night.”

The immigrant, the refugee, the homeless, the incarcerated, the sick who cannot afford their medications, the mothers who work three jobs to make a minimum wage to feed her children, the trans boy or girl unseen by their country, the victims of mass deportation, the broken families, the traumatized children—they are all like that boy, “thrown into the shadows of our society, convulsing day and night right in front of us!”

And the Christians who have resisted worshipping the beast, those whose faith has not been perverted— those who listen the cries of the left-out and left-behind, who listen to the laments from their friends who are from Ukraine or know people in Ukraine, or are farmers, researchers, or federal workers—we can certainly feel powerless. We can become frozen in our tracks, not knowing what to do, what steps to take to break the chains. And if we can’t find an easy solution or some quick fix, find a meme on social media that will quickly change some minds, come up with some program or event to make it all right, make some real progress to give us some instant gratification, we can become stuck, paralyzed, and, then do absolutely nothing. And we become like the disciples who are rebuked by Jesus.

Yes, perhaps Luke tells us the story of the disciples’ failure to liberate the boy on the heels of the story of the Mount of Transfiguration to teach us that the path to transformation, liberation, restoration, and reconciliation, the road to justice, equity, and freedom, is like climbing a mountain.

It is a long, tedious journey. It is a risky, difficult, hopeful, and sometimes disappointing process. Along the way, there are always forces working against us. One moment we can see the summit and the next moment, a cloud of doubt rolls in, and we wonder if reaching the summit is ever a possibility. Sometimes we take three steps forward only to take four steps backward.

As I reflect back on Black History Month, I become irritated, as I have heard people talk about the Civil Rights movement like it is ancient history, that the fight for equality and justice has been won, that racism is an evil from the past which has been defeated, a sin of the country that should be forgiven, and even forgotten. That we have somehow reached the mountaintop that Martin Luther King Jr referenced in his sermon on April 3, 1968, the day before his assassination.

When the truth is that the Civil Rights movement is far from over. In 2025, the work of justice and liberation continues. The road to glory and reconciliation is a long road that faithful people are traveling today. We are still climbing to reach Dr. King’s mountaintop. While we’re making some headway, there are powerful forces pulling us back.

That is why I believe the season of Lent is so important for the follower of Jesus. For Lent has been called a journey to resurrection, a journey to glory. And there are too many Christians today who ignore or skip this journey by hopping on a bus to get straight to Easter!

That’s why the most attended Christian worship service is on Easter Sunday, while the least attended service is on Ash Wednesday or on Maundy Thursday or Good Friday.

However, Ash Wednesday and Lent remind us that the journey to glory takes some contrition, it requires some sacrifice, it involves some work. It is hard work, but it is also holy work. It is the work we were created by God to do, the road we are called by to travel, the mountain we are destined by God to climb. Thus, when we are climbing, every step we take is on holy ground.

And yes, there will be setbacks. There will be times of disappointment, even moments of despair. But Lent teaches us that those of us with a faith that has not been perverted must keep climbing.

When a citizen calls our LGBTQ neighbors abominations at a public meeting of the city council, we must keep climbing.

And when that citizen claims he has suffered religious persecution after he is surprisingly reprimanded by a council member, we must keep climbing.

When we realize our nation is no longer the leader of the free world for the very first time in our lifetime, we must keep climbing.

While perverse politics seek to turn back to clock on civil rights, school segregation, voting rights, and women’s rights, we must keep climbing.

As a faithless and perverse congress tries to take away Medicaid from our most vulnerable citizens among us, we must keep climbing.

When our friends, family or coworkers try to talk us down from the mountain, when unseen forces are pulling us down, when the wicked winds howl and knock us down, we must get up, and keep climbing.

When we are gaslighted by the perverted and faithless privileged, telling us that we no longer have to climb, that we have already reached the summit, we must keep climbing.

And knowing that we may not reach the mountaintop and witness the glory in our lifetimes, we are going to train our children, and if we live long enough, our children’s children, to keep climbing.

Knowing that when we climb, wherever we are on the journey, whatever position or situation we may find ourselves in, when we climb, even if we are pushed back and knocked off our feet, when we climb, even if we are crawling down on our hands and knees, when we climb, we are always on holy ground.