Tag: Resistance

The False Religion of Herod: Wisdom Pilgrims in Violent Times

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Advent and ChristmasLeave a comment

Matthew 2:1-12

Some say that “an epiphany” is what happens anytime someone discovers something brand new, like when they say something like: “I was today-years-old when I discovered thisor learned that.”

I was today-years-old when I discovered the game we played as children called, “tag,” (T.A.G.) is an acronym: “Touch and Go.”

I was today-years-old when I learned the nursery rhyme “this little piggy went to the market,” didn’t mean this little piggy was going to Kroger to pick up some groceries. It meant this little piggy was going to be the groceries!

I was today-years-old when I learned the word “stressed” is just “desserts” spelled backwards. Or I was today-years-old when I learned that the Bible never says there were three wise men. It only mentions three gifts. And they were not kings, but magi, astrologers, who did not visit the baby Jesus at the manger with the shepherds. but visited the toddler Jesus in a house maybe a couple of years later. And there is no scholar who believes they rode on camels.

However, the word “epiphany” means something more. Even the Google says: When someone says, “I had an epiphany,” it means they’ve experienced a powerful, illuminating moment of clarity that changes not only their perspective, but their actions.

The Epiphany we commemorate today reveals what’s really going on in the world, and then, calls us to make a change, to do something. Epiphany is both an unveiling and a calling.

Matthew wastes no time unwrapping Christmas: “After Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, in the time of King Herod…”

Before the star shines and gifts are given, Matthew names the power in the room. Because Epiphany is not just about who Jesus is. It’s about what his presence in the world exposes.

Herod hears of a child born “king of the Jews,” and Matthew says he is frightened, and notice this, “all of Jerusalem with him.” Because when an unhinged autocrat like Herod is frightened, everybody is in trouble.

Herod is frightened because oppressive power always recognizes a threat when it hears one. And this is the first thing that Matthew wants us to understand. Jesus, and the way of liberating love, mercy, justice, and nonviolence he would teach, model, and embody, and call others to follow, poses a serious threat to the kings of this world.

Now, one might guess that Herod would follow in the steps of his predecessor Antiochus IV who outlawed Jewish religious rites and traditions.[i] But Herod does not reject religion. He does something far more sinister, something that came quite naturally for his egotistical, greedy, self-serving, always-looking-out-for-number-one self. Instead of banning religion, he uses religion. He exploits faith purely for personal benefit.

He gathers the scribes. He pretends to consult the scriptures. He listens as scribes read the prophets to him. He speaks fluently in religious language, asking about the Messiah.

And then he lies. Not crudely. Not clumsily. The smooth-talking conman lies faithfully.Or at least, it sounds that way:

“Go and search diligently for the child, and when you find him, bring me word, so that I also may go and pay him homage.”

This is Herod doing one of the things Herod does best: conning people in order to serve himself. This time it’s religious people, making them believe he is one of them.

But the religion of Herod is a lie. It’s just fear, dressed up as faith. It’s violence wrapped in reverence. It’s power using the name of God for evil purposes.

Matthew wants us to see this clearly, because as you know, this is not an ancient political scheme. It’s a recurring one.

And today, we need to say it clearly and often: White Christian Nationalism is not Christianity. It is the lie of Herod, baptized and repackaged.

It claims a nation and a race of people are God’s favorites.
It confuses achievements and dominance with the blessing of God.

It demands absolute loyalty and calls it being faithful.

And it’s all a lie.

And what makes the lie so dangerous is wherever it takes root, someone, or some group, is always made expendable.

Antisemitism grows when Christianity is fused with national identity, turning Jewish neighbors into outsiders within a so-called “Christian nation.”

Islamophobia flourishes when that same logic decides who belongs and who never will, baptizing fear and casting Muslims as threats rather than beloved neighbors.

And political violence becomes justified when religious language sanctifies power, hardens hearts, training people to confuse cruelty with righteousness in the name of God and country.

Herod did not invent hatred. He simply learned how to make hate sound holy.

This is the evil Epiphany reveals. The whole world witnessed it on Christmas Day when bombs dropped on Muslims in Nigeria were called “a Christmas present.”

This is the false faith of Herod. It’s state violence that is baptized. It’s innocent lives reduced to collateral, and it’s the holy name of Christ used to bless what the nonviolent Jesus condemns.

And when Christians applaud it, excuse it, or explain it away, then the lie has completed its work. Because the greater travesty is not only that power speaks this way; it’s that the church learns to tolerate it.

This is why Epiphany matters. Epiphany exposes this false religion of Herod. But as even Google points out, Epiphany doesn’t stop there. Epiphany tells us exactly what to do about it.

In a recent article, Father John Dear reminds us that the Magi are not decorative figures in a nativity scene. They are our model. He calls the Magi “wisdom pilgrims,” people on a lifelong spiritual journey toward the God of peace. They follow the light they are given, not toward comfort, but toward truth.[ii]

It cannot be overstated that the Magi are outsiders, foreigners, practitioners of another tradition; and yet, they suddenly see what the insiders miss. They are “that-day-old” when they recognize that God’s presence and power is not found in palaces or on thrones, but in vulnerability. They kneel before the child, presenting their gifts.

And then comes the main point of Epiphany.

After the revelation, after the worship, after the gifts, they are ordered to return to Herod: to report back; to cooperate and to collude; to assist a system that sacrifices the innocent to preserve itself.

But Matthew tells us that once they encounter this child, once they meet the God of peace enfleshed in vulnerability, they cannot comply. They disobey orders. Not violently. Not dramatically. But decisively. Because, as Father Dear would say, once you meet the nonviolent Jesus, obedience to violent power becomes impossible. Epiphany makes cooperation with violence morally incoherent.

This is the moral clarity that is needed in our world today. The Magi understand something Herod never will: you cannot encounter a God who enters the world without violence and then support a war-making system. You cannot kneel before a vulnerable child and not resist a tyrant.

This is why Father Dear points out that, after Epiphany, discipleship becomes civil disobedience. Because it is obvious that the nonviolent Jesus cannot be fused with empire. And religion used to justify violence or cruelty is no longer Christian. It is anti-Christ.

This is why the lie must sound religious. Because violence cannot survive without spiritual cover. This is why empire always needs chaplains. Because power depends on churches that will quote scripture while looking away.

The good news is that not many of you, if any, were “today-years-old” when you discovered not every prayer is faithful. Not every “God bless America” from a politician is holy. Not every appeal to God deserves our allegiance. Not every law should be followed. And this is where Epiphany informs our public life.

Because when religious language is used to justify war, the church must decide whether it will provide cover or tell the truth.

When antisemitism hides behind distorted theology, the church must remember Jesus was a Jew.

When Islamophobia is baptized as security, the church must choose whether fear or love will shape its witness.

When political violence is normalized with Christian rhetoric, the church must decide whether it still recognizes the voice of Herod and follows the voice of Jesus.

The Magi show us what faithfulness looks like after Epiphany. It looks like nonviolent resistance.

And that is the call Epiphany places on us now.

Not to admire the Magi.
Not to romanticize their journey.
But to join them.

Father Dear says we too are called to be “wisdom pilgrims.” We are people who seek the nonviolent Jesus on the margins of a culture addicted to violence. We are people who are allowing our encounter with Christ to lead us away from systems that depend on bloodshed and cruelty. We are people who live the Sermon on the Mount not as metaphor, but as mandate.

Our faith is a faith of resistance. It’s faith that refuses to bless bombs. It’s faith that refuses to baptize borders. It’s faith that refuses to confuse domination with God’s blessing. It’s a faith that will call out the proclamation that “this is a Christian nation” for what it is. It’s a lie, a dangerous lie that must be called out. Because change will happen, not because people will stop the lies, but because the lies are exposed by the light.

The good news is that the light still shines in our world.
Truth is still being revealed.
And Christ is still born into this world that would rather kill him than change anything.

So, let’s go from this place today as wisdom pilgrims.

Follow the Light, even when it leads you away from power.

Shine the light, even when it is dangerous to do so.

Refuse the lie, especially when it sounds religious.

Withdraw your cooperation from violence in every form it takes.

Kneel and offer your gifts only where the God of the nonviolent Jesus is truly revealed.

And may the God of peace guide our steps, the Christ of nonviolence shape our faith, and the Spirit that is Holy give us courage to live what has been revealed, to live this Epiphany.

And when we are challenged, when our faith is questioned, when we are asked what’s gotten into us. “What kind of kind of resolution did you make this year?”

May we remember this Epiphany Sunday and answer: “I was today-years-old when I learned that following Jesus means becoming ‘a wisdom pilgrim.’”

Amen.

[i] https://www.thetorah.com/article/antiochus-iv-persecution-as-portrayed-in-the-book-of-daniel

[ii] https://open.substack.com/pub/fatherjohndear/p/civil-disobedience-a-spiritual-journey?utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=post%20viewer

 

 

 

Radical Welcome. Revolutionary Love.

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

Luke 17:11-19

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

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

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

That’s the kind of preaching I believe in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They all cry out: “Lord, have mercy!”

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

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

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

But the story doesn’t end there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We’re not feeding our souls.

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

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

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

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

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

So, here’s our call this stewardship season:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, let’s stand up with gratitude.

Let’s step out in faith.

Let’s lean forward in love.

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

It’s not just a theme or a slogan.

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

It’s the gospel.

It’s the good news.

And it’s our calling.

It’s our witness to the world!

Amen.

Resisting the Devil

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

Luke 4:1-13 NRSV

If you are like me, you can probably resonate with the Ash Wednesday prayer that was shared this week by Week of Compassion, our denomination’s relief, refugee, and mission agency:

Dear God, we are so weary. Honestly. Just flat worn out. Everything is so much…too much…right now, and there seems to be no end in sight. No end to the worry. No end to the tragedy. No end to the questions. No end to the confusion...

 

Can you relate? I know I can. The good news of our faith is that Jesus also can.

The season of Lent seems to have arrived at the perfect time. In the words sent in an email to encourage pastors this week by Rev. Jim Wallis, the executive director of the Center of Faith and Justice, I believe it is “not accidental, nor coincidental, that this Lenten season comes to us at this moment of history. It is providential.”

Because on this First Sunday of Advent, our gospel lesson reminds us that Jesus understood what it felt like to be “flat worn out” or “depleted.” The word Luke uses is “famished,” as Jesus has been fasting in the wilderness and tempted by the devil.

I know, I know. We don’t talk that much about “the devil” today. And maybe that is part of our problem.

Now, back in the day, my mom had something to say about the devil nearly every day! I probably heard it most often when I was being scolded for some kind of mischievous behavior. I can still hear her say: “Jarrett, the devil’s really gotten into you today!”

As some of you know, I came down with some type of 24-hour bug this past Wednesday night which forced me to miss the Ash Wednesday service. Thankfully, the elders didn’t hesitate to step up and lead what I was told was a beautiful and encouraging service to begin this year’s Lenten. You know what mama might call a fever that prevented me from going to church? “It was the devil.”

And today, if you are invited to mama’s house for dinner don’t expect to be ever serve “deviled eggs.” Not in her house. Oh, she still makes ‘em, but she calls ‘em “angel eggs.” And if I ever slip up and make the observation: “Why mama, these eggs look and taste just like deviled eggs to me!” You know what I’ll hear: “The devil’s gotten into you today, Jarrett!”

And like many teenagers in the 70’s, at least those who grew up Baptist, I got my fill of sermons calling Rock ‘n Roll, “the devil’s music.”

But that’s not the devil that we need to talk about today. That’s not the devil that we need to summon the energy to resist today in our famished, weary, worn-out state.

We need to talk about the devil that is working against us like the force of gravity as we climb together to reach Dr. King’s mountaintop where all people are finally free at last.

We need to talk about how to resist the devil in our nation today that is trying to send us backwards, even knock us off our feet!

We need to talk about how to resist the devil that has pulled many Christians today off and away from the narrow road following Jesus.

We need to talk about the devil that Jesus somehow found the strength to resist even when he felt depleted and powerless.

Let’s look closer at our gospel lesson this morning which comes to us at a most providential time.

First, Jesus resists the devil by refusing to make some bread from the stones that are around him to feed himself. It’s a temptation to follow a way using one’s privilege and power to look after one’s self, to feed one’s self, to put one’s self first, instead of following a way that uses the power and privilege we’ve been given to care for others, to tend to the needs of others, to feed others, even putting the needs of others ahead of our own needs. Jesus resists any movement that suggests that one should put one’s self, or even one’s nation first and any power that believes “empathy is a fundamental weakness of civilization.”[i]

Secondly, Jesus resists the devil by refusing to sell his soul in order to gain political power. Jesus refuses to worship the devil, to join others today who fool-heartedly believe that the end somehow justifies the means, even if those means are the most vile and ugliest of means like: celebrating mass deportations and the separation of families; pardoning men who violently attacked police officers; allowing women to die without access to healthcare and children in other countries to die without food, all the while passionately defending a obvious lies, flagrant greed, unethical behavior, violence against women, and gross immorality coming from the highest seats of public service, sacrificing everything that Jesus taught and stood for on the idolatrous and insidious altar of White Christian Nationalism.

Thirdly, Jesus resists the devil by resisting the enticing promises of protection, comfort, and safety. As is obvious in Luke’s next scene as Jesus is nearly thrown off a cliff for inferring that God loves, and may even favor, those considered to be foreigners, and when later in Luke’s gospel Jesus scolds Peter for drawing his sword to protect Jesus, Jesus refused to succumb to the temptation to follow any path that promised to protect him. Even in a wearied, famished state, Jesus would not fall for any promise of protection by the devil, even from exaggerated or made-up threats like: liberals coming for our guns; refugees coming for our pets; immigrants coming for our jobs; or boys are coming for our daughter’s place on her swim team.

See why the season of Lent has come at a perfect time?

For today, we find ourselves in a wilderness, and like Jesus, we are famished. We wonder how we will ever resist the anti-Christ spirit that so many people today find so attractive. How do we resist the devil when we feel so depleted, defeated, and powerless?

Now, please hear me this morning when I say that the need for resistance today is not a partisan, political issue. It is not a Democrat or Republican issue. It is a gospel issue. Because we’re not talking about a political attack on a political party, we are talking about an anti-Christ attack on the “least of these” whom Jesus has called us to care for, warning us that how we care for them is “the final judgment of the nations.”

So, when we’re talking about resisting the devil, we are not talking about defending a political or partisan agenda. We are taking about defending and caring for the stranger, the sojourner in our midst, the hungry, the homeless, the imprisoned, and the sick, because we believe this is how God judges a nation, and how we can determine if we are on the path of Jesus. We are talking about resisting the devil who is actively tempting us to get off that path. For example— to look the other way as Congress prepares a budget bill that cuts Medicaid, SNAP and other food programs for the almost 50 million hungry people, mostly children and seniors.[i]

But how do we resist the devil when we are so tired? So weary? How do we resist the devil when we feel overwhelmed and distracted by all the lies, chaos, and cruelty that the devil throws our way? How do we resist the devil when are famished?

This is why Rev. Wallis says the season of Lent has arrived at the perfect time.

For today we remember that Jesus was able to resist the devil – how? Look at the very first verse of our gospel lesson. Because he was “full of the Holy Spirit.” And do you remember what had just happened before Jesus was “led by the Spirit into the wilderness”?

In the previous chapter we read: “…and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’”

So, what does that mean for us?

I believe Jesus was able to resist the devil, even when he was flat worn out, because of his identity as a beloved son of God. Jesus was able to keep climbing the mountain because he was full of the Holy Spirit. And the good news is because we identify with Jesus and with his baptism, because the Holy Spirit has descended upon us, because we also God’s beloved children, because we are also full of the Holy Spirit, we too, even when we are famished, have all the power we need in the world to resist the devil!

And look again at verse one. Luke tells us that Jesus was “led by the Spirit into the wilderness.” You and I did not just stumble into this wilderness in which we find ourselves today. The Holy Mountain we need to climb today did not just suddenly appear in front of us. The devil standing before us didn’t just arbitrarily show up to stand in our way, tempting us to go another way.

The Holy Spirit has led us to this place of resistance. We are called by God to be here, and we are empowered by the Spirit to resist the devil in our way, to climb the mountain before us, remaining true to the path we are being led by Christ himself to take.

This is our place, our purpose, and our moment to come together as followers of Jesus to embrace this providential Holy Season of Lent praying for the courage show up to advocate for the way of love Jesus taught and embodied.

This is our time to gather in public places to speak out against the idolatry of Christian Nationalism and for liberty and justice for all.

This is our time to resist the power of fascism, the allure of greed, and the appeal of hate, and the charismatic attraction pulling us down a path of self-service, self-indulgence, and self-preservation.

This moment is ours to align our purchases with our purposes by boycotting goods and services from mega corporations today who are bending their knee to the devil.

This is our time to join with people of other faiths, and with people who may not claim a faith but believe in loving our neighbors, especially those Jesus called the least of these, to resist any power which threatens such neighbors.

This is our time to love out loud, to take the church into the streets, so that others might have hope and say of us, “The Holy Spirit has really gotten into them!”

In the words of Rev. Wallis from that email encouraging pastors today: “It’s time to bring our liturgical season of Lent into our historical crisis, right now, and bear the cost of doing so. Lord, have mercy. Amen.”

[i] https://www.cnn.com/2025/03/05/politics/elon-musk-rogan-interview-empathy-doge/index.html

[ii] Sermon inspired from email received from God’s Politics with Jim Wallis, March 6, 2025.