Tag: social justice

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.

Flipping the Tables of Injustice: A Labor Day Call to the Church

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

Luke 14:1, 7-14

Year after year, churches in our country love to plan their worship services around certain secular holidays. Every Mother’s Day churches pass out roses and honor the youngest or oldest mother in the congregation. When Father’s Day arrives, churches give the dads mini screwdrivers or flashlights. When Veteran’s Day, Memorial Day, and the Fourth of July roll around, worshipers wave flags, sing patriotic hymns, and sermons are preached about love of God and country.

But here’s the problem: although those holidays may be meaningful for families, for communities, and for the country, none of those holidays are rooted in the gospel. None are commanded by Scripture, and none are inspired by the words and actions of Jesus.

And yet, when Labor Day comes around, the one secular holiday that echoes the heartbeat of the gospel, that testifies to God’s concern for workers, for Sabbath rest, for fair wages, for dignity at the table, most pulpits in our country are silent. And I am ashamed to confess to you today that I have also been guilty. I have acquiesced to the culture, as this is what you could call my first Labor Day sermon.

To acknowledge Labor Day, I am aware of some churches will host a cookout, but very few will pause on this Sunday to remember that the scriptures declare: “the laborer deserves their wages” (Luke 10:7); and “Woe to those who oppress the hired worker in their wages” (Malachi 3:5); and “Do not withhold wages from the poor and needy” (Deuteronomy 24:14).

It’s a strange contradiction. Churches will drape sanctuaries in red, white, and blue for national pride, but not lift up the struggles of those who built this nation with their hands, their backs, and their sweat. Churches will honor soldiers on Veteran’s Day but ignore teachers, nurses, farmworkers, janitors, and factory workers on Labor Day.

In today’s scripture, Jesus walks into the house of a Pharisee, a religious leader with some clout, and he watches how people are elbowing each other to grab the best seats at the table. He notices how people are playing the game of upward mobility, doing what they can do to sit close to power.

Jesus immediately calls them out, telling them that the kingdom of God, in the words of the late Henri Nouwen, is about “downward mobility,” blessing those at the bottom. So, Jesus flips the script: “Don’t sit with the powerful. Take the lowest seat with the powerless, for the last shall be first, and the first shall be last.” Jesus flips the guest list, saying: “And when you host a banquet, don’t invite the ones at the top who can return the favor. Invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. Invite the ones who never get an invitation.”

Now, this has nothing to do with polite table manners. This is a revolutionary reordering of society. Jesus is calling out the systems that uplift a few, while crushing the rest. He turns the values of status, power, and privilege upside down. I believe you could call today’s gospel another “table-flipping moment” by the same Jesus who stormed into the Temple, flipping the tables of the moneychangers, saying, “My house shall be a house of prayer, but you have made it a den of thieves.”

I believe Jesus is saying: “If the table is built to exclude, if the table is set so that some may feast while others starve, then that table must be flipped.”

Labor Day presents an opportunity for the church to point out that we have too many tables in this nation built on the exploitation of workers.

Wages have been stagnant for decades, while the salaries of CEOs have soared more than a thousand percent.

Workers are told there’s no money for healthcare, no money for paid leave, and no money for fair retirement, but somehow there’s always money for those in the corporate office.

Migrant workers pick our food, service workers keep our cities running, childcare workers and certified nurse’s assistants serve our most vulnerable family members, yet they are often paid poverty wages and denied dignity.

And these injustices are not accidents. They are tables intentionally built by greed. And Jesus wants these tables flipped.

But it’s not easy to flip these tables. For these are old tables, and they are heavy tables. These tables were never designed to be moved.

It reminds us that Labor Day was not freely handed down to us by the wealthy or by the government, but was won by struggle, solidarity, and sacrifice, by workers who dared to organize, who marched, who were jailed, and some who even bled and died for the right to a fair wage, safe conditions, and humane hours.

In 1894, the Pullman Company that manufactured railroad cars cut wages but didn’t cut rent for their employees who lived in their company-owned housing. Workers finally cried out, “Enough!” They walked off the job, demanding dignity. The strike spread nationwide shutting down much of the nation’s railroads west of Detroit.

President Grover Cleveland sent federal troops into Chicago without the permission of local or state authorities. Can you imagine such a thing? Bullets rained down. The blood of workers stained the streets. Thirty workers were killed. Fifty-seven were wounded.

In Billings, Montana, an important rail center, a local Methodist minister named J. W. Jennings, with other preachers across the country, supported the workers. In one sermon, Jennings called out the President and local government for betraying the principles of democracy and failing to defend “the rights of the people against aggression and oppressive corporations.” He prophetically called the President and his party (and you gotta love this): “the pliant tools of the codfish monied aristocracy who seek to dominate this country.”

It was out of this struggle that Labor Day was born, not because President Cleveland loved the workers and respected the people, but because he feared the response of the people who were standing with the workers. Labor Day literally born from the blood of workers and because clergy rose up and spoke out. Thus, the church, especially here in 2025, cannot treat Labor Day as an opportunity to have a cookout. It is a day of holy remembrance, rededication, and resistance.

One could call some Amazon warehouses “modern-day storehouses of Pharaoh,” as it has been reported that workers are collapsing from the heat, tracked like cattle, urinating in bottles because they aren’t given time for a bathroom break. Some have stood up and said, “Enough!” They formed the first union in Amazon’s history. And what did the richest man in the world do? He tried to crush them, just like Pharaoh, just like President Cleveland.

So, here’s a question for us today: Will the church remain silent while Pharaoh builds bigger warehouses? Will we sing about heaven while ignoring the cries of workers in hellish conditions? Will call out state government regarding Virginia’s right-to-work law, which really means: “the right to be poor” or “the right to be fired without cause” or “the right to work without protections?”

Or will we stand up like Rev. Jennings in Montana and stand with Jesus who flips the script, flips the table, and flips the guest list setting the banquet for those corporations control and exploit?

Will the church finally wake up and understand that Labor Day is a holy day? That when we fight for fair living wages, for unions, for healthcare, for rest, we’re flipping the tables of Pharaoh’s economy while demanding the justice of God’s kingdom! And when we stand in solidarity with those who have been pushed away from the table of dignity in the workplace, we are being faithful to our decision to follow Jesus.

When we stand with our immigrant siblings, who clean our hotels and harvest our crops—

When we stand with our queer and trans siblings, who still face workplace discrimination—

When we stand with our Black and brown siblings, who are often last hired and first fired, and who make less for the same work as white people—

When we stand with our women siblings who are still paid less than men—

When we stand with the differently-abled who seldom get a chance—

And when we rise up declaring that diversity, equity and inclusion in the workplace is what the kingdom of God looks like—

Then we are doing our part to not just make room for them at the table, but we are joining Jesus in flipping the table until the lowly are lifted up, and the mighty are brought low!

On this Sunday before Labor Day, through our gospel lesson in Luke 14, I hear the Spirit saying: “Church, it’s time to flip the tables!”—standing with teachers demanding smaller class sizes; with auto workers demanding a just contract; with fast-food workers demanding $15 an hour and a union; with underpaid service workers who rely on tips; with all who are told they are disposable, until they rise up and declare: “We are children of God, and we deserve dignity, justice, and a seat at the table.”

And yes, this might mean uncomfortable conversations at work, in our neighborhoods, even at our family cookouts. But when we signed up to follow Jesus, we were not promised comfort, but we were told there would be a cross involved.

So today, we are not passing by Labor Day as though it has nothing to do with our faith. We are claiming it as a holy day, a sacred day to remember that God’s kingdom comes whenever dignity is defended, whenever workers rise up, and whenever the poor are lifted and the lowly are honored.

Because we believe the Jesus we have decided to follow is still flipping tables. He’s still inviting the poor and the workers and the weary to the feast. He’s still telling us that the kingdom of God is not built on greed but on grace, not on hoarding but on sharing, not on exploitation but on liberation, not on lies but on love.

And if Jesus is flipping tables, we know the church must flip tables too. Flip the tables of silence that keep us comfortable while others suffer. Flip the tables of nationalism that honor the flag more than the worker. Flip the tables of greed that deny fair wages, dignity, and Sabbath rest.

For we know, when we flip the tables, we tell the world that God’s table is wide, and there is room for everyone: teachers and janitors, farmworkers and nurses, factory workers and baristas, Amazon drivers and home health aides.

And when we flip those tables of greed and exclusion, we will discover that Jesus himself is already seated there, breaking bread with us, saying: “This is the kingdom of God, the banquet of heaven, the table of life.”

Amen.

When the Bent-Over Stand Tall

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

Luke 13:10-17

There she was. Bent over for eighteen long years. Eighteen agonizing years of looking at the ground instead of the sky. Eighteen heartbreaking years of staring at her feet when she longed to see the stars. Eighteen years of neighbors passing by, some whispering, some staring, some mocking, and some pretending not to notice.

This one who was “bent over and not able to straighten up at all,” says Luke, had come to the synagogue to hear the teaching of a young rabbi named Jesus.

Listen again to verse 12, “When Jesus saw her…”

Let’s not miss that.

Before anyone else noticed her, Jesus saw her.

When the world looks away, Jesus sees. When society grows accustomed to suffering, Jesus stops.  When the culture calls suffering “normal,” Jesus calls it “wrong.”  When the world says, “nothing can change,” Jesus says, “oh, yes it can!”

This woman lived eighteen years under the weight of her condition.
But how many of us know people bent over for far longer than that?

Notice that Luke tells us that “a spirit” had crippled this woman. This was not some cartoon ghost floating around. Luke is naming the same thing John calls “the spirit of the antichrist,” the same thing Paul calls, “the spirit of slavery.” It’s the same spirit Mark called “Legion” pointing directly to Roman military occupation. It’s the same thing our ancestors called the spirit of Jim Crow. It’s the spirit of greed, the spirit of sexism, the spirit of pride and self-righteousness.

These spirits don’t float around in the air. They take root in systems and in structures. They show up in unjust laws, in hateful rhetoric, and in economic exploitation. When Jesus lays his hands on the bent-over, he is confronting not just sickness but the very spirit that says some people should stay bent over.

This is the spirit of oppression, the kind of spirit that settles in when the world tells you that bent down is all you will ever be. It’s the spirit that whispers, “Stay in your place.” It’s the spirit that says, “You don’t deserve healing. You don’t deserve dignity. You don’t deserve to stand tall.”

It’s the spirit that tells workers scraping by on minimum wage that they don’t deserve a living wage. It’s the spirit that tells people without health insurance that their lives are expendable. It’s the spirit that tells young Black men they are more likely to fill a jail cell than a college classroom. It’s the spirit that tells women, immigrants, trans and queer folk: “You don’t belong. You are less than. You should stay bent.”

The truth is that we are surrounded by the bent-over. And the tragedy is not just that people are bent. The real tragedy is that, like the synagogue leader in our story, the religious and political establishment today would rather preserve the systems that bend people over, than bring healing and transformation that makes the bent over stand tall.

That’s the ugly spirit that cripples this woman in the synagogue. And that’s the spirit that Jesus confronted in that synagogue. And that’s what really angers the religious leaders. Because when Jesus lays his hands on this woman, it’s not just a personal miracle. It’s a public exorcism. It is the casting out of a spirit that says bondage is normal. It is the overthrow of every lie that says any of God’s children should stay bent and broken.

Indignant that Jesus would not only heal on the Sabbath, but heal a woman, touching her, violating the rules of religious tradition, the religious leader scowls: “How dare you! Come for healing on any other day, but not on the Sabbath!”

But the Sabbath was never about rules. The Sabbath is about restoration. The Sabbath is God’s reminder that human beings are not machines. The Sabbath is the declaration that Pharaoh’s bricks and quotas and endless production do not have the final word.

The Sabbath is freedom. And Jesus, right there in the synagogue, calls out their hypocrisy by saying: “How can you untie your ox or donkey on the Sabbath but refuse to untie this woman from her bondage?”

Two years ago, during the Sunday School hour, to get to know the new pastor, we played this game called “Quiz the Pastor” where you were asked to write questions and place them in a box for me to draw and answer. Most of the questions were easy, like “what is your favorite dessert?” But I will never forget one of the questions: “What is the gospel?” I can’t remember how I answered that important question, but I should have answered by retelling this story in Luke 13.

Because Jesus answers that question in the synagogue that day when he talks about the Sabbath: If the Sabbath is for rest and restoration, then the people most in need of restoration, the ones most bent over, the ones most tied down and bound, are the very first who should taste its freedom.

I believe we must be clear: this story is not just about one woman with a bad back in Galilee. It is about all the places where people are bent over today. And it’s about all the ways our society tolerates suffering, because healing would disrupt business as usual.

We live in a nation where: patriarchy is untied while women are bowed down with fewer rights; corporations and billionaires are untied every tax season while workers stay bound; banks are untied from regulations while the poor stay bent beneath debt; guns are untied while active shooter drills bend school children beneath desks; autocracy is untied while gerrymandering and voter suppression bends down democracy; and much of the church in our country has been untied from any responsibility to make this world more loving, peaceful and just, as pastors preach about Jesus’ role in personal salvation while ignoring his role in social liberation.

The synagogue leader says to Jesus: “No, not today. It’s unacceptable to bring that in here!”

And Jesus responds with the gospel: “Not tomorrow but today is the day of liberation! Here and now is the acceptable place and time for all who are bound to be untied!”

And because of this gospel truth, the good news is we’ve seen bent-over people stand tall throughout history.

In 1968, the Memphis sanitation workers were bent under dangerous conditions and poverty wages, but they stood tall, carrying signs that said, “I Am a Man” until the world had to see their dignity.

A year later, Marsha Johnson and Sylvia Rivera were bent by poverty, police harassment, and transphobia, yet they stood tall at Stonewall and beyond, fighting for the dignity of LGBTQ+ people.

More recently, Greta Thunberg was bent by the loneliness of being a child confronting the climate crisis. She was mocked and dismissed by the powerful, yet she stood tall, sparking a global movement of youth demanding a livable planet.

And there have been countless others who have stood tall after being bent down: the farmworkers led by César Chávez, Desmond Tutu in South Africa, Martin Luther King Jr. in a Birmingham jail, and nameless mothers and grandmothers who kept marching, kept praying, and kept believing.

And every time they stood tall, strong men trembled. Every time they stood tall, chains cracked. Every time they stood tall, the Kingdom of God broke in just a little more.

The question is not whether Jesus can help people stand tall today. The question is whether we will join him. Will we dare to touch the wounds this world says are untouchable? Will we dare to lift up those our society keeps bent over? Will we dare to live like the Sabbath is real, that God’s rest and God’s restorative justice belong to everybody?

This is the vision of the Kingdom. Not just one person healed, but entire communities rising up, standing tall, rejoicing together with all.

Because, as Dr. Barber reminds us with the Poor People’s Campaign, when the bent-over stand tall, when the poor organize, when the oppressed resist, when the weary find their strength in faith, then the powers that profit from their suffering are put to shame.

That’s why the crowd rejoiced, and that’s why the rulers were humiliated. Because nothing frightens empire more than people who refuse to stay bent.

So, the question for us today is: Will we be content with a Sabbath that unties donkeys but leaves people bound? Or will we follow Jesus into the holy work of untying our neighbors, of lifting up the bent-over, of making straight what has been made crooked for too long by an anti-Christ spirit in our world?

The good news is that there’s another spirit in our world. The good news is that the spirit of the same Jesus who made that woman stand up is alive and moving today.

He is moving every time someone stands and demands living wages, every time someone stands and fights for universal health care, every time someone stands and calls for racial justice, and stands to end the scapegoating of and the cruelty to immigrants.

He is moving every time someone stands up and does something to help the bent-over stand tall.

And here’s the reality, because we are the body of Christ in this world, if we leave here today and do nothing, then the woman stays bent.

If we leave here today and stay silent, then Herod, and the religious powers who have forsaken the gospel to follow Herod, still win. If we leave here today and choose comfort over courage, then the powers will keep alive the lie that there is no alternative to the status quo.

But I declare to you today in the name of Jesus that there is an alternative! There is a better way! And it begins when the people of God stand tall, when they refuse to bow to Herod and refuse to look away from the suffering around us.

So, let us rise and stand up straight as that woman did. Let us lift our voices in praise, and let our praise spill into protest, and let our protest grow into policy, and let our policy become a new way of life.

Because when the church rises and stands tall, the world cannot stay bent! When God’s people stand up tall together, Herod trembles. And when the bent-over stand tall, that’s when the Kingdom of God breaks in!

So church, it’s time to rise and stand up!

It’s time to rise and stand up for justice!

To rise and stand tall for mercy!

Stand tall for peace! Stand tall love!

Stand until every child of God can stand tall and sing free!

May we always have the courage to see, the faith to act, and the love to untie any bond that keeps any one of God’s children bent down.

And may we rejoice with the crowd until every last one of us can stand tall and rejoice together. Amen.

When Freedom Is Fatigued

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

Galatians 6:1-16

As our country’s freedom is celebrated this weekend, I believe we’re called as people of faith to remember the painful truth of our history and to acknowledge that freedom has never been free. It has been and must continually be fought for.

Our remembering is especially important as history itself is under attack with a dangerous push to whitewash the truth.

Books are being banned, libraries are being closed, and words like “slavery,” “racism,” and “reconstruction” are being scrubbed from school curriculums like they never happened. And just last month, we saw the Juneteenth holiday denigrated by those in power complaining about Americans getting “too many days off.”

They want us to forget the truth and just move on, because if we forget the wounds, we might lose the urgency to heal them. And if we forget the cruelty, the brutality, and the inhumanity, they can more easily repeat it.

So today, we gather to remember the truth, and we do so in the name of Jesus, who proclaimed that it is the truth that sets us free (John 8:32).

Long before 1776, sovereign nations like the Monacans who lived on this land in harmony with the earth, had their lands stolen, and treaties were broken by the same men who would declare liberty and justice for all.

In 1776, while white men signed the Declaration of Independence,
Black people remained in chains, counted as property, not people.
And the pen that wrote “all men are created equal” didn’t write for women, the poor, and the indigenous.

Since then, the story of America has been a story of contradiction:
of beautiful promises and brutal practices; of high ideals and hard-hearted policies. And true liberty and justice for all has always been a struggle.

· It was a struggle when Harriet Tubman followed the North Star through the night leading herself and others out of slavery.

· It was a struggle when Frederick Douglass stood in pulpits and pointed out the hypocrisy of a slaveholding church.

· It was a struggle when Sojourner Truth asked, “Ain’t I a woman?”

· It was a struggle when immigrants crossed deserts and oceans to chase a dream—only to be met with discrimination, quotas, and cruelty.

· It was a struggle when laborers organized for a living wage.

· A struggle when LGBTQIA siblings stood at Stonewall and said, “No more.”

· A struggle when King, Lewis, Williams and others marched across Edmund Pettus Bridge on the day remembered as Bloody Sunday.

· A struggle when Cesar Chavez and farmworkers fasted for dignity in fields that fed the nation.

The truth is that freedom has never rolled in on the wheels of inevitability. As Dr. King said, it comes by struggle and sweat, by movement and by sacrifice.

And that’s why Paul’s words to the Galatians are so prophetically powerful today:

“Let us not grow weary in doing what is right, for we will reap at harvest time, if we do not give up.”

How appropriate are these words today, as those committed to the freedom of all people are, quite frankly, worn out.

We’re tired of begging for justice for the poor and the marginalized.

-Tired of the lies, the hate, the cruelty.

-Tired explaining why it is unfair to call poor people “lazy” and just plain mean to call them “parasites.”
-Tired of explaining why the dignity of LGBTQ persons is not up for debate.

-Tired of explaining why science is real, women’s rights are human rights and Black lives matter.
-Tired of sowing seeds of peace in a land still addicted to violence.

And this weekend Paul has a message for us:

Keep going. Keep working. Keep struggling. Keep sowing those seeds. Don’t grow weary. Because the harvest is coming.

So today, on this weekend of noise and nationalism, injustice and immorality, we gather to tell the truth:

-We’re tired of marching for justice while lawmakers pass bills to steal it.
-We’re tired of praying for peace in a nation that budgets more money for bombs than any nation on earth.
-We’re tired of hoping for change in a country that celebrates independence while restricting who gets to be free.

Today, freedom is fatigued, but the good news is, the struggle is not over. Because our faith is calling us to keep sowing, believing the harvest is coming.

And being exhausted today only affirms our faithfulness to the gospel, because gospel work is heavy work.

Jesus talked about the heaviness of the gospel when he criticized the Pharisees’ hypocrisy for playing lightweight religious games, tithing spices like mint, dill and cumin, while ignoring the weightier matters, the heavy matters of mercy and justice (Matthew 23).

For the gospel is not just about personal salvation. It’s heavier than that. It’s about communal transformation. We are called to confront sin, not just in the soul, but in systems. Because we are called to not just look after ourselves, but to carry each other’s burdens.

Verse 2 of our verse needs to be repeated today as many Americans who call themselves Christians and talk about bootstraps and personal responsibility seem to have forgotten it: “Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way, we fulfill the law of Christ.” Bearing another’s burden, having empathy for others, says Paul, is the essence of what it means to be Christian.

And Christians today, not the Christians in name only, but Christians who fulfill this law of Christ, haven’t been this burdened in years.

And Paul’s message for us is to keep going, keep bearing those burdens, keep sowing those seeds, reminding us that we will one day reap what we sow.

Of course, we in America know all about reaping what we sow.

We elect leaders who sow division, declaring that they hate over half the people in the country, and then ask why we’re so polarized.

We sow billion-dollar weapons, and billion-dollar detention centers, and billion-dollar border walls, and then wonder why there’s no money for education and healthcare.

We sow exclusion and meanness, and do so in the name of God, and are shocked when young people leave the church.

So, we ask today:

What kind of country are we sowing?
What kind of church are we planting?
What kind of future are we tending?

If we sow silence when immigrants are deported, we will reap a nation with no conscience. If we sow tolerance for white supremacy, we will reap a church with no soul.

But if we sow solidarity, if we sow compassion, if we sow truth with love and justice, then we might just see the harvest.

In speaking of the harvest to come, how appropriate is Paul’s warning: “Do not be deceived. God is not mocked.”

Because another truth we must tell today, especially here in Lynchburg, Virginia, is naming the seed that’s continually mocking God and choking the harvest: the seed of White Christian Nationalism.

So many have been deceived into believing that this the Gospel of Jesus. When in fact, it’s the exact opposite. It’s the idolatry of race, the weaponizing of scripture, and the spiritual disguise of liberty that’s only for the privileged. It’s the heresy that says God loves America more than other nations, that straight whiteness is holiness, guns are sacred, and power matters more than people.

It wraps the cross with the flag, prays over injustice, and oppresses all the people Jesus would invite to a party. It anoints hate with holy water. It baptizes voter suppression, xenophobia, patriarchy, and LBGTQ bigotry and dares to call it “religious freedom.” But it’s far from freedom. It’s spiritual fascism dressed in red, white, and blue.

And Paul has a strong warning for those who have been deceived by such fascism: “God is not mocked.”

I believe that means that God is not fooled by the praise songs sung in a sanctuary of a church that turns its back on the oppressed.

God is not honored by churches that preach salvation but vote against food programs, health care, housing, and human dignity.

It’s not just bad theology—it’s deadly theology. And if we don’t name it and speak out against it, it will keep reaping violence, apathy, and war against the image of God in every non-white, non-straight, non-male, non-citizen body.

So, on this Fourth of July weekend Christians must say it clearly: We renounce the false gospel of white Christian nationalism. We will not grow weary naming it, resisting it, and working to plant something more beautiful in its place.

And Paul tells us exactly what we need to plant. Look at verse 15.

“For neither circumcision nor uncircumcision is anything; but a new creation is everything!”

Paul is talking about more pointless, lightweight religious stuff, saying it means absolutely nothing.

Worrying about how much foreskin one has is pointless when you couldn’t care less about the deeper wounds of others. Hanging the Ten Commandments on the Wall of a classroom is ridiculous when you refuse to feed the hungry children who sit in those classrooms.

America doesn’t need more lightweight, God-mocking religiosity. America needs something heavier. America needs a new creation.

A new creation where human dignity isn’t decided by documentation.
A new creation where education and health care are not luxuries.
A new creation where Black and Brown lives matter and queer kids live and thrive.

A new creation where people live like our ancient ancestors— in harmony with the earth, air, and sea.
A new creation where the church never bows to empire but always stands in solidarity with the least, the last, and the left out.

And Paul reminds us: We don’t get there by accident. And we don’t get there mocking God with religious hypocrisy. We get there by sowing it in faith and never giving up.

So, here’s the good news:

If you are exhausted today, it means you’ve been bearing a heavy burden fulfilling the law of Christ.
If you are tired today, it means you’ve been in the struggle sowing a new creation.
If you feel like giving up today, it only means you still care.

If your patriotism feels today more like fatigue than fireworks, you are on the right path.

And today, God has three words for you: Don’t. Give. Up.

Don’t give up on the child who needs your voice.
Don’t give up on the system that looks too broken to fix.
Don’t give up on the Church, even when it’s lost its moral compass.
Don’t give up on the movement. Don’t give up on the struggle.
Don’t give up on your calling, and never give up on love.

And know you don’t have to carry it all alone. Because we’re going to bear the burden together.

So, this weekend, while the nation celebrates its imperfect, incomplete freedom, we’ll keep sowing for the freedom that still hasn’t fully come.

And we will not give up. Because we know the harvest is coming.
And God will not let our labor be in vain.

So go, worn out but willing. March on, wounded but not defeated, stunned but not silent. Sow seeds of justice with trembling hands and tired feet.
And trust that the God who began a good work in us will one day bring home the harvest.

Amen.

Pastoral Prayer

O God of the long road and the tired feet,

You have seen every protest march, every underground meeting,

every whispered prayer beneath the weight of oppression.

You were with Harriet Tubman in the woods,

with the veterans of Selma on the bridge,

with the mothers crying at detention centers today.

This weekend, as a nation sings of liberty,

We are grieving, for we know the truth that not all are free.

We know freedom is more than fireworks and parades—

it is housing, it is healing, it is dignity, it is truth.

We grieve the cruelty of a nation that passes a bill soaked in injustice: that takes healthcare from the sick, food from the hungry, and dignity from the poor to fund tax breaks for the rich and concentration camps for immigrants.

We grieve, O God, for Texas Hill Country—where catastrophic floods struck on July 4 killing at least 51 people including many children, sweeping away cabins at a summer camp with 27 girls still missing.

May the families waiting in anguish feel your presence.

Give rescue workers strength, bring swift comfort,

and awaken in us a fierce call to care for our neighbors in every disaster.

We confess, God, that we sometimes grow tired of it all.

Tired of the suffering of this world. Tired of fighting the same battles.

Tired of speaking truth in ears that won’t hear.

Tired of watching laws be written that wound your people.

So, pour your Spirit upon us like a second wind.

Give us the courage to keep showing up—

to sow goodness, to bear burdens, to carry one another.

And give us joy that this labor is never in vain.

Make us co-creators of your new creation,

until the tired are lifted, the wounded are healed,

and the world becomes your Beloved Community. In the name of Jesus, our justice, and our rest. Amen.

 

Invitation to Communion

Jesus never promised an easy road, but he did promise a shared table.

At this table, the tired are welcomed, the wounded are fed, and no one carries the Gospel alone.

Here we remember that Christ’s body was broken not just for individuals,

but for communities—for the collective healing of the world.

If you are weary, if you are burdened,

if you are longing for a taste of real freedom—

come. All are welcome.

This table is for you.

 

Invitation to Give

Giving to this offering is not about guilt or obligation. It is about sowing.

And we reap what we sow.

When we sow into justice, we reap a more beloved world.

When we give with compassion, we build up the Body of Christ.

On this weekend when so much is spent on fireworks and celebration,

we invite you to invest in something eternal:

a love that serves, a truth that speaks, and a justice that marches.

Let us give, not out of surplus, but out of hope.

Not to keep the lights on, but to light the way.

Commissioning and Benediction

Go now, tired but unbroken.

Go now, weary but still willing.

Go now, and do not grow weary in doing what is right—

for the harvest is coming.

May the Spirit strengthen your hands.

May the Christ who bore our burdens walk beside you.

And may the God who is not mocked guide you into new creation.

Go in peace, go in power,

go in love—

and never give up.

Amen.

Grumpy Jesus: The Fierce Face of Love

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

Luke 9:51-62

Jesus seems a little stressed in our gospel lesson this morning. And who could blame him?

Luke tells us his face is set toward Jerusalem, not toward comfort or safety, not toward respectability or popularity, but toward the seats of power that believe the love he proclaims is weak, the empathy he demonstrates is a sin, the mercy he shows should get him deported, and his grace—His radical inclusion and acceptance of the marginalized? His free handouts of fish and bread and healthcare? His solidarity with foreigners? —Why, all of that lunacy oughta get him crucified!

And at this point in his ministry, he seems exasperated by the lack of support around him, by the religious culture, including his disciples, so much so, the obvious title for this sermon is “Grumpy Jesus.”

Jesus’ journey toward Jerusalem doesn’t get off on the right foot, as he receives word that there no hospitality awaiting him in a village of the Samaritans. No room in the inn, or this time, even in a barn! This is not surprising considering the Samaritans and Jews mutual animosity; yet knowing Jesus’ love that has no borders, he’s obviously frustrated. But perhaps he is more frustrated by his disciples’ response.

James and John, bless their lil’ hearts, ask Jesus if he wants them to reenact a scene from 2 Kings by asking God to rain down fire from heaven and wipe out the entire Samaritan village!

Episcopal priest Rick Morley says this is like “one of those moments at Thanksgiving when your crazy uncle says something so ridiculously inappropriate that everyone just turns and stares with their mouths agape.”

After James and John’s outrageous suggestion, he imagines Jesus doing a face palm.

Of course, grumpy Jesus immediately rebukes them.

Then, Jesus has a series of three encounters with some pretty good disciple prospects. And after James and John’s hell, fire, and brimstone comment, wouldn’t it be nice to have some fresh blood?

The first would-be disciple comes, and without Jesus asking him, presents himself as the perfect candidate: “Jesus, I will follow you wherever you go!”

Now, what’s not to like about that? It’s exactly the kind of people this world needs more of!

But, Jesus, perhaps still exasperated because no one in Samaria left the light on for him, responds: “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.”

“Okaaaay, Jesus. I’ll check back with you when you have had your coffee.”

Jesus then encounters another prospect and invites him to join the movement. He agrees but asks permission to go and bury his father first. It’s a very reasonable, loving, and faithful request. It was his part of fulfilling God’s law to “honor father and mother.”

But then, if you thought the “foxes have holes and birds have nests” comment was a bit snarky, Jesus responds: “Let the dead bury their own dead; but as for you, go and proclaim the Kingdom of God.”

Now, he’s really sounding grumpy.

C’mon Jesus. I know you are upset that you have nowhere to lay your head, and I know your disciples are idiots, or at least can be very frustrating, but the poor man just wants to bury his father! What can be wrong with that? Isn’t honoring our parents part of discipleship? Isn’t taking some time to grieve over the loss of a loved one something God would want us to do?

Then, Jesus encounters the third would-be follower, who like the first one, also volunteers for discipleship without being asked. But first, he wants to go and say good-bye to his family, perhaps to let their children know why Daddy wouldn’t be home for a while. Again, sounds like a reasonable request. Even Elijah allowed Elisha, who was plowing a field, to first say good-bye to his parents before leaving to join Elijah’s ministry (1 Kings 19:19-21).

But grumpy Jesus isn’t having it. Echoing the calling of Elisha, he says, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the Kingdom of God.”

This is when I wanna say: “Look Jesus. I know you’re upset. I know you’re tired. I know you’ve nowhere to lay your head. I know you’re frustrated. I know the disciples that you have been training to be compassionate, loving, forgiving, merciful and peaceful want to fire bomb an entire village. I know you have your face set on Jerusalem and all the opposition that is to come. But come on, Jesus, take it easy. Let this man say good-bye to his family. And for God’s sake, let this one bury his father!”

But this is Jesus. Thus, my faith tells me that there must be something more going on here—something more than a little fatigue, frustration, and fear.

His face is set toward Jerusalem. This could infer that he knows the that his time on earth is short. And he knows that if he is going to usher in the Kingdom of God before he dies, there’s no time to waste.

The same is true for us. The reality is that our time here is also short. And if we want to make a difference for the Kingdom of God while we’re here, there’s not a moment to lose.

But maybe Jesus’ grumpiness has nothing to do with himself. Afterall, Jesus is always demonstrating the importance denying and losing one’s self. So, perhaps Jesus is not thinking about his own circumstance at all.

Perhaps he had in mind other circumstances and people who needed the good news he was proclaiming. Perhaps Jesus knew that, not for him, but for others, for many, there wasn’t a moment to lose.

So, his grumpiness is really a holy urgency, a sacred stress fueled by a divine love with a height, a depth, a width, and a breadth that we can only begin to understand. Perhaps Jesus knew that for God’s kingdom to come to those who need it the most, there’s not a moment to lose.

There’s not a moment to lose –

For those who are poor, for those who hunger, for those who weep, for those who are hated, insulted, excluded, and rejected (Luke 6:20-22).

There’s not a moment to lose –

For those Samaritans who believe they have lost favor with God (Luke 10:25-29);

For a woman who had been crippled for eighteen years (Luke 13:10-17);

For a man who had been suffering with dropsy. Remember that Jesus healed him on the Sabbath in the presence of the Pharisees (he didn’t wait until the next day when it was lawful), proving, there is not a moment to lose (Luke 14:1-4).

There’s not a moment to lose –

For the rich man who thought he was blessed because he was rich. For the poor man who thought he was cursed because he was poor (Luke 16:19-31);

For the ten lepers who approached Jesus in a region between Galilee and Samaria (Luke 17:11-19);

For the blind beggar sitting beside the roadside near Jericho (Luke 18:35-43).

There’s not a moment to lose –

For a man named Zacchaeus who defrauded the poor;

For all of the poor people he defrauded (Luke 19:1-10).

Jesus is frustrated, because there’s not a moment to lose—

For an entire world that feels rejected, cursed and lost;

For LGBTQ people whose lives are not worth the cost to fund a suicide hotline.

For millions of Americans who are one step closer today to losing their health insurance because of a big, brutal, not beautiful, bill in congress.

For immigrants snatched from their homes, their gardens, their schools and workplaces without cause and due process and cruelly imprisoned separated from their families.

Jesus is exasperated, because there’s not a moment to lose—

For all children who suffer from neglect and abuse;

For girls who are raped and then denied healthcare;

For boys who are taught that it is okay to objectify girls;

For the person with a disability who feels like the whole world, even God, is against them.

Jesus is stressed, because there’s not a moment to lose –

For the one dying of loneliness in a nursing home;

For those who have to make the choice every week to either buy their medication or to buy groceries;

For those unjustly locked away in our prisons because of their economic status or skin color;

Jesus is grumpy, because there’s not a moment to lose –

To respond to climate change that threatens God’s good earth;

To end the destructive pollution of the planet with plastics and carbon.

And Jesus has his palm planted on his face today, because many of his disciples still don’t have a clue. Some still want God to rain down fire and brimstone on those who believe and live differently. And many would-be-followers still have no sense of urgency to be public witnesses of love, peace, mercy and justice.

And the clock is ticking. The Kingdom is at hand. The time is now. We don’t have the luxury of comfort. We don’t have the privilege of delay. We can’t afford to wait until the children are grown, until the house is paid off, until we’ve buried all our grief or kissed everyone goodbye. For there’s not a moment to lose.

This world is on fire, not with holy fire, but with the flames of greed, racism, heteroism, white Christian nationalism, militarism, and climate catastrophe. And while some are lighting matches, too many are just watching it all burn. Too many are saying: “Let me finish what I was doing first” or “let me look after my own first,” while the Samaritan is bleeding in the ditch, while the trans teenager is hanging on by a thread, while hungry people with brown skin are afraid to go to the grocery store for fear of being deported to a country where they’ve never been and have no connection.

Jesus has set his face toward Jerusalem, and he is calling us to set ours—not toward comfort or safety, not toward respectability or popularity, but toward the place where justice is born.

We are not called to admire Jesus from a safe distance in some comfortable sanctuary. We are not called to study him or sing praise songs to him. We are called to walk with him, to move with him, to carry his gospel like it’s a matter of life and death. Because it is.

So, let the church rise up, not with stones in hand, but with bread and wine, with towels and basins, and bullhorns and ballots. Let’s sound the alarm, flood the phones, take to the streets, and send so many emails to our representatives we crash the servers.

Let the church understand that there’s not a moment to lose to tell the truth—
Not a moment to lose to dismantle hate.
Not a moment to lose to march with the poor.
Not a moment to lose to shout that Black and Brown Lives Matter.
Not a moment to lose to say queer and trans people are sacred.
Not a moment to lose to break the chains of every modern-day Pharaoh.

In our text Jesus may be tired. Jesus may be exasperated. Jesus may even be grumpy. But Jesus isn’t giving up, and neither can we.

So, let’s stop looking back.
Let’s stop making excuses.
Let’s put our hand to the plow and move forward…
with power, with grace, with courage, with compassion, with mercy and with the fierce, unrelenting urgency of love!

Because the Kingdom is not coming later.

The Kingdom is coming now.

And there’s not a moment to lose!

Amen.

Indivisible, We Rise

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Easter3 Comments

John 17:20-26

I was speaking with a colleague recently who shared that she was struggling to balance delivering sermons that are challenging with sermons that are comforting, sermons that are prophetic with sermons that are therapeutic. She said, “because the truth is that we can’t make peace in the world if we don’t know peace for ourselves.” She then added, “but it is so hard these days to preach soothing, comforting sermons when there is so much injustice everywhere.”

I said: “Yeah, I don’t know when I’ll be able to preach what I have heard some ministers refer to as a “sugar-stick sermon” —One of those sermons that just makes everyone feel good.

She asked: “Do you think your congregation may start to complain?”

I said, “Well if they do, saying they just want to come to church to get some serenity, I think…I’ll just have to…I don’t know…encourage them to check out the new Yoga classes we’re hosting, and perhaps give that a go.”

But then I added: “But since I am one of those lectionary preachers, If I’m presented a scripture text that enables me to preach a sermon that will just put everyone at ease, I suppose I’ll consider it. Because I sure could use a sermon like that myself!”

         So, earlier this week when I checked the lectionary and read Jesus’ words in John 17:

My prayer is not for them alone (not just for the twelve). I pray also for [all] those who will believe in me through their message that all of them may be one,

I thought, “maybe this is it!”

I may actually give my poor congregation a break this Sunday by saying something that soothes their souls, warms their hearts, and gives them permission to take it easy, relax a little, because Jesus is praying for us!  What a lovely thought! And what is he praying for? To go out and change the world? No, “That we may all be one,” that we may be brought to “complete unity.”

How wonderful! First Christian has been due a sugar-stick sermon for a while now, and this Sunday they may finally get one!

I don’t know about you, but living in this divisive time is exhausting. And ya’ll, I’m tired. Tired of the tension. Tired of the chaos. Tired of the fighting. Can we just take break?

Could it really be that Jesus is giving us prayerful permission to stop trying to change the world, and to just come together and get along, accept things as they are, you know, agree to disagree?

Wouldn’t that be nice?

Everybody, no matter your religious or political beliefs— just lovin’ life together, saying: “You do you, and I’ll do me.” “Live and let live!” “Tomato, tomahto.”

We can certainly do it.  We know how to do it. That’s what many of us do every time we get together with family, right?

 So, let’s go up on the mountain this afternoon, sing Kum ba yah, agree to disagree, and have some communion!

Now, before we get too excited, I suppose we ought to take a closer look at Jesus’ prayer.

Jesus is praying to God:

I have made You known to them, and will continue to make You known in order that the love You have for me may be in them and that I myself may be in them.

Jesus is praying for us to be in union with him, not with everyone on earth. Jesus is praying specifically for God’s love to be in us as it is in him. Jesus is praying for a divine moral unity, a unity grounded in holy relationship, divine truth, justice, and love.

Jesus is not praying for us to come together with others in order to keep the peace so we can be comfortable, while the fires of injustice rage! No, I believe Jesus is praying for what William Barber calls “a moral fusion.” He is asking God to fuse us together as one holy movement of divine truth, justice, liberation, and love.

Why?

Look at verse 21. “So that the world may believe…” that Jesus, the one who fed the hungry, defended the vulnerable, liberated the oppressed and challenged systems of injustice, was indeed sent by God.

The church is to be a witness for Jesus. But, when the church is divided, that witness is diluted.

When evangelicals wrap Jesus in the American flag but support policies that ignore the cries of the poor, the witness is diluted.

When pastors stay silent on racism, homophobia, transphobia, and xenophobia, just to keep the tithes rolling in, the witness is diluted.

When pulpits are more worried about being politically correct than prophetically faithful, more concerned about keeping their congregants happy with sugar-stick sermons than sermons that inspire them to do something to change the world, the witness is diluted.

Jesus is saying the moral authority of the church is tied to the moral unity of the people.

Now, if we are going to talk about unity in these divisive times, we need to name a prophetic truth. Fascism is not just a political ideology. It’s a spiritual disease. And its first move is always the same: Divide the people.

Fascism doesn’t need a majority. It just needs a divided public. It’s what William Barber has been preaching for 20 years.

  • It tells white workers to blame Black ones for their poverty.
  • It tells rural communities that immigrants are the enemy.
  • It tells churches to obsess over private piety while ignoring public suffering.
  • It stokes fear, fuels scapegoating, and spreads lies that demonize the very people Jesus dignified.

Because the architects of fascism know that a people united in truth is stronger than any regime on earth built on lies.

So, they don’t want unity. What they want is obedience. They’re not interested in justice, just in control. And they don’t ever want the church to ever come together, rise up as one, and start talking and acting like Jesus!

They need the church to bless their injustice with a bowed head and a blind eye.

But Jesus didn’t die for that. He died and rose to inspire a people to refuse to be divided by the lies of empire! He died and rose to inspire people to be united in their advocacy for the poor, the marginalized and the vulnerable—to be united in their efforts to tear down unjust systems that oppress and in organizing the broken into a holy movement for wholeness, while resisting the temptation to turn against one another.

So, let the church rise today, not with shallow calls for peace, but with a deep and defiant unity, a unity that refuses to trade justice for comfort. May pastors everywhere raise their voices understanding that silence is not harmony. It is complicity.

And the good news is every time we choose solidarity over silence, we strike a blow against fascism! Every time we refuse to be divided, we become more dangerous to those depending on our division.

This time in our history is not a political moment. It’s a moral emergency. And through his prayer, Jesus is telling us how to respond. We are to be one.

William Barber preaches the need for a “moral fusion coalition.” A revival of Jesus-rooted unity that brings together all good people to stand up and exclaim: “We will not be divided by race!” “We will not be divided by religion.” “We will not be divided by party!” And we will not be divided by fear!”

A moral fusion is people who love each other and their neighbors enough to fight side by side.

It’s communities coming together to say poverty is violence and silence is also violence.

A moral fusion is pastors linking arms with priests, rabbis, and imams, speaking in a unified voice proclaiming that hate has never made any nation great, and it never will.

It’s houses of worship becoming sanctuaries for the afflicted, not silos for the comfortable.

It’s labor organizers praying with farm workers.

It’s black grandmothers and young white activists marching together for voting rights.

It’s queer teens and disabled elders showing up at the same city council meeting to demand dignity.

It’s not about sameness. It’s about shared struggle.

A moral fusion is not about unity for unity’s sake, It’s about a moral commitment to the least of these. It’s when we stop asking, “What’s safe for me?” and start asking, “What’s faithful to God?” Because a moral fusion doesn’t blend us into blandness. It binds us in boldness!

That’s the unity Jesus prayed for. It’s the unity we are called to live into, and it’s the unity the empire cannot handle!

Jesus prayed that we might be one. And now it’s our turn to become the answer to that prayer. Not just in what we say we believe, but in what we do, how we act, and how we vote. And oh, how the church today needs to reexamine its actions. Because:

  • If your unity doesn’t do something to care for the poor, you need to know Jesus didn’t pray for it.
  • If your unity doesn’t protect the vulnerable, Jesus didn’t pray for it.
  • If your unity silences truth to keep the peace, Jesus didn’t pray for it.
  • If your unity is built on avoiding conflict instead of confronting injustice, Jesus didn’t pray for it.
  • If your unity demands that the oppressed stay quiet so the privileged can stay comfortable, Jesus didn’t pray for it.
  • If your unity won’t march, won’t speak, won’t sacrifice—then it’s not the unity Jesus was talking about.
  • And on this first Sunday of Pride, it must be said, that if your unity is about limiting the rights of LGBTQIA+ people and the reproductive rights of women, you need to know Jesus never prayed for it, never talked about it, or even once ever thought about it!

The unity Jesus prayed for doesn’t come cheap. It costs comfort. It costs silence. And it costs staying out of trouble.

But when we are indivisible with this unity, liberty and justice can truly come for all.

And the good news is: we don’t have to wait for it. Jesus already prayed it. Jesus already declared it. Jesus already called it down from heaven. And the same Spirit that raised Jesus from the grave is the same Spirit calling us today to rise up together!

To rise up with the poor.
To rise up with the forgotten.
To rise up with the queer, the trans, the disabled, the undocumented, the imprisoned.
To rise up not in mere charity, but in solidarity.

Jesus prayed that we may rise up and be as one.
That we may rise up and boldly love as Jesus loved, as God loves.

And here’s some more good news. It may not be what you’d call “sugar-stick news,” but it is hopeful news:

Fascism will not have the final word.

Fear will not have the final word.
And we will not let division have the final word.

Because love still speaks today.
Justice still speaks today.
And unity—moral, bold, dangerous, Spirit-filled, costly unity—still speaks.

Jesus prayed for it.

Now let’s go and be the answer to the prayer.
Go be one. Go be the witness. Go change the world. Amen.

If We Loved Like Jesus

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

John 13:31-35

In the words of Stevie Wonder, I have “some serious news to pass on to everybody (which is really news to no one): “Love is in need of love today.”

Although some of Jesus’ last words, which are usually understood as one’s most important words, came in a commandment to love one another as he loved, many Christians have rejected those words, and today, love seems to have fallen out of favor.

One excuse I hear is: “Well, love might have worked back in Jesus’ time, but the world’s a much different place today. Love, especially loving like Jesus loved, well, that just doesn’t cut it anymore.”

Preaching love these days gets one called “a left-wing lunatic,” while stirring up hate gets one elected President. Being empathetic toward another gets one called “a sinner,” while being a bully gets one called “faithful,” or “councilman.” Deporting and separating families gets cheers, while asking for some common decency and humanity, gets one called “soft.”

If we truly love like Jesus loved—if we feed the hungry, if we care for the sick, if we give to the poor, if we stand up for the marginalized, if we speak out on behalf of the oppressed, if we welcome the stranger, and accept those who are cast away, we’re considered: “enemies of the state.”

These days, the peace and love crowd who lead with mercy, are out of date. And the mean and tough crowd, those who can make the hard decisions are trending. They can take away SNAP benefits without any apprehension, have people arrested without any due process and disappeared without any second thought. They say the country can afford to show our strength with a military parade, but not to show our compassion with healthcare for the elderly.

But love? Love is weak, they say. And these days, in these times, they say love is for losers. It may have worked back in the first century, when Jesus commanded it, but not here in the twenty-first, not anymore.

But the truth is, first century Palestine was not much different from today. Beneath the rule of the Roman Empire, ordinary people bore the weight of crushing taxes, land seizures, violent crackdowns, and the threat of crucifixion designed to silence dissent and maintain control. The elites—

local, imperial and religious— colluded to rob people of their wealth and dignity, leaving entire communities displaced and impoverished. It was a time when the underprivileged dare not imagine a world where justice was right for the oppressed and not a privilege of the powerful.

And it was into the thickness of that unrelenting, darkness, Jesus commanded his followers: “Love one another.”

Because Jesus knew that love is the light the darkness cannot overcome, and love is only power in the world strong enough to tear down empires and build God’s kin-dom.

So, when Jesus said, “Love one another as I have loved you,” he wasn’t being soft, and he sure as heaven wasn’t being weak.

He was talking about using the most powerful force in the world to change the world! He was talking about a love that was so threatening to the powers-that-be it would get you arrested and could easily get you nailed to a cross.

Jesus was talking about a love that confronts the empire, a love that calls out injustice, a love that always, insistently, and unapologetically, favors the oppressed and welcomes the people society tries to cast out. It’s a love that moves mountains, flips tables, and shakes up the status quo. It’s a love that demands justice for the poor, healthcare for the sick, and freedom for the oppressed.

Jesus said, “Love one another, as I have loved you,” because Jesus knew that love, the love he taught, the love he modeled and embodied, is the only power in the universe that can turn this world around.

Earlier this spring, Father John Dear reminded us that although the term “nonviolence” may sound passive and weak, there’s really nothing passive or weak about it. Nonviolence is “active love. It’s active resistance to evil.”

It’s important to remember that Jesus was anything but passive. He didn’t just sit back in his thoughts and prayers and wait for the world to change. He marched right into the temple and flipped over the tables of those who were hurting the poor saying: “This is not the kingdom of God! This is not how God’s people do things!”

He challenged the hypocrisy of the religious culture, those who claimed to love God but failed miserably in the things God requires, kindness, justice, and mercy, especially to those who were the most thirsty and hungry for it.

That’s how Jesus loved. And that’s how the world today needs us to love.

Dorothy Day, who devoted her entire life to loving like Jesus, once said: “Love, and ever more love, is the only solution to every problem that comes up in the world.” Love keeps coming. It keeps showing up. It keeps resisting and pushing back the darkness.

Dr. King described love’s power this way: “Power at its best is love implementing the demands of justice, and justice at its best is power correcting everything that stands against love.” Love stands up to racism, to sexism, to greed, to exploitation, to marginalization, and says: “Not on my watch!”

Gandhi once said: “Nonviolence is not a weapon of the weak. It is the weapon of the strong.” The strength of love is not how hard we hit or how loud we shout. It’s in how firmly we stand for love when hatred thunders and violence strikes. That’s true strength. And the good news is that the church that commits to loving like Jesus has that strength in abundance!

The problem is that an alternative Jesus devoid of love is now being used to fuel injustice. When I heard in seminary that when fascism comes to America, it’ll be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross, I really didn’t think I’d ever see it.

Ten commandments hang on the walls, but there’s no compassion in the halls. They call it freedom, but it only works for some. Prayers and crosses are everywhere, but mercy? It’s nowhere to be found. They may say it is about God, but it’s all about control.

As Rev. Dr. William Barber likes to say, you can’t say God Bless America and think you’re being holy when you’re terrorizing immigrants, taking away food from the poor, and denying healthcare. That’s not holiness, says Barber, — “that’s pure hypocrisy dressed up in Sunday clothes!” It is sin. And if we stay silent while God’s name gets stamped on policies that crush the poor, deport the stranger, and hoard wealth for the few, then we are complicit in that sin. Jesus didn’t die for a faith that props up empires — he died for a love that tears them down.

And Barber reminds us that none of what we are seeing today is new. In the 1930s, fascists in Europe had a way of wrapping cruelty in religious national pride. They spread lies about minorities and built concentration camps and called it security. They locked up dissenters and called it patriotism. They cut off aid to the vulnerable and called it government efficiency. They blamed the Jews for the crucifixion of Jesus and called it eradiating anti-Christian bias.

And today’s mass deportations, voter suppression, and attacks on the press, free speech and universities — they are all echoes of those same dark chapters.

The good news is that love didn’t fail back then — because love does as love always does— Love showed up.

Love resists. It never quits. Love stays. It never retreats. Love fights. And love always wins.

Harriet Tubman went back, again and again. Because love doesn’t leave people behind. Chains broke. A system cracked. The lie of slavery collapsed. And love won.

In Selma, they beat ‘em with batons on that bridge. But they marched anyway. Love crossed into history. The Voting Rights Act was signed. And love won.

At Stonewall, they said love was illegal. They raided bars and broke lives. But the people rose. Years later, the Supreme Court saw the truth that love is love is love, and love got a seat at the altar. Love won.

In 2020 when everything shut down, love opened up. Mutual aid was demonstrated. Grocery runs happened. Meals on porches were shared. Text chains were created. Check-ins occurred. Love filled the gaps.

Not soft love. Not timid love. Resilient, rooted, revolutionary love—this is the love Jesus commanded when he said: “as I have loved you, love one another.”

It’s a love that doesn’t flinch. A love that never folds. A love that bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. A love that doesn’t give up. Not then. And not now.

If only the church had followed the simple commandment to love Jesus as he loved, it would’ve never been seduced by any politician shouting, “Make America Great Again!” Because the only greatness Jesus is interested in is the greatness of love—Love that welcomes the stranger, feeds the hungry, and protects the vulnerable—A love that would never chant “Send them back.”  But always says: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

So, no — love is not weak, and it is not soft— love is power. Love is resisting. Love is marching. Love is standing up and speaking out.

Love is nonviolence in action, and as Father Dear says, love is a “force more powerful than all the weapons of war.”

The good news is—we can see love is rising today!

We can see love standing unshakably during a silent peace vigil on Monument Square in the pouring rain. It can be seen getting pastors arrested for praying in public in the Rotunda to protect Medicaid. And when the Boss sits down at concert and speaks like the prophet Isaiah.

And we can see love persisting as a new Pope chooses to be named Leo, after the Pope who laid the foundations in 1891 for Catholic social teaching advocating for: the rights of workers, especially the poor; the divine dignity of all persons, the government’s role in social justice; and role of the church in protecting the most vulnerable.

A small act of kindness extended to a stranger, a church sheltering an asylum-seeker, federal judges pushing back to defend the Constitution—This is not weakness. This is the power that can change the world!

If we loved like Jesus, our immigration policies would be built on hospitality, not hostility.

If we loved like Jesus, we would welcome the stranger, not criminalize them.

If we loved like Jesus, unchristian Nationalism would bow to the kingdom of God, and white supremacy wrapped up in Christian language would never be tolerated.

And the church wouldn’t be known for judgment, but for joy. We’d be too busy setting extra places at the table to worry about who belongs and who doesn’t.

If we loved like Jesus, our love would be bigger than our borders. Our love would be stronger than our fears. And our love would be louder than all voices put together conning us to divide, exclude, and hoard.

So, let’s love like Jesus! Let’s make the kingdom of God visible, one act of radical love at a time!

As Rev. Barber says — “it’s not about left or right, it’s about right and wrong.” And love is always right!

So, let’s be known for love. Let love do the talking. Let love do the walking. Let love be the proof. Let love be the revolution! Amen.

A Hundred Fifty-Three

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

John 21:1-11

Happy Star Wars Day! May the fourth be with you!

You may laugh, but there are churches that are observing this day, May the 4th, as Star Wars Sunday, focusing on the spiritual struggle between darkness and light, drawing parallels between “the Force” and the Christian concept of God.

Numbers, like the 4th when it occurs in May, have always been significant in the life of the church, as numbers always seem to be significant in the Holy Scriptures.

The number 40 is symbolic of testing, trials, and periods of preparation, as we remember the story of Noah and the rain that fell for 40 days and 40 nights, and of Moses and the Israelites’ 40-year journey out of slavery into the Promised Land, and of Jesus’ 40-day fast in the wilderness.

The 144,000 protected from judgment we read about in the book of Revelation is based on the number 12, a symbol for wholeness based on the 12 tribes of Israel and the 12 disciples. The number 7 in Revelation symbolizes divinity, whereas the number 6, particularly 666, symbolizes evil.

So, when we read the story of the miraculous catch of fish in this post-Easter story, the number 153 leaps off the page!

Verse 11 reads: “So, Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, a hundred fifty-three of them, and though there were so many, the net was not torn.”

Such an odd number. Such an exact number. Why not just say 150 fish? Or tell a good fishing story by exaggerating it, rounding it on up to 200?

But John says the net contained exactly a hundred fifty-three fish. There are so many possibilities with and no shortage of interpretations.

Some have interpreted 153 fish to mean: “It’s just a lot of fish.”[i] And that moments of such abundance say something about living in a world where the good news of Easter is a reality, as grief is transformed into action, scarcity is transformed into abundance, and despair becomes hope we discover that what seems like the end is only the beginning!

It means living in a world, that when it comes to the love that Jesus taught, modeled, and embodied, we can never give in, give out, or give up, because we know that such love always wins. Such love never ends. Not even death can stop it. It means never retreating in despair believing that things in the world cannot get better.

But something tells me that the number 153 means even more. If it’s just about “a lot of fish,” why didn’t John simply write, “they caught so many fish the nets started to break, and the boats began to sink,” as we’ve heard in another story (Luke 5)? Why does John specifically record the number 153?

Some scholars believe the number symbolizes the truth  that Jesus did not come to abolish Jewish law or the Torah. They point out that the Torah, the first five books of the Bible, was divided into portions to be read in worship. Like the Lectionary that I use each week to preach, the portions were part of a three year-cycle, and the three-year Torah cycle used in Palestine around the First Century had, you guessed it, 153 portions.

Now, if you think that is interesting, listen to this.

St. Augustine pointed out that the number 153 is the triangular of 17. That means that if you add all the numbers decreasing from 17, you get 153. That is to say: 17 + 16 + 15 + 14 +13 + 12 + 11… all the way down to +1 = 153.

So 153, according to Augustine, is all about the number 17, which Augustine believed was a sign of the union of Judaism and Christianity as we have 10 commandments in the Old Testament and 7 Gifts of the Spirit in the New Testament.

How about that? But wait, there’s more.

In the book of Acts, we read that 17 nations were present for Pentecost. So, Peter’s catch of 153 fish at the end of John’s gospel might mean something like the end of Matthew’s gospel when Jesus calls us to make disciples of all nations.

It was St. Jerome who pointed out that during the time John tells this story that there were only 153 species of fish in all the world. Hence, 153 signifies the universal hope that every person of every class and time would be saved through the Gospel.

St. Gregory the Great believed 10 and 7 are perfect numbers, added together make 17. This, times 3, factoring in the Trinity, makes 51. This, times 3 again, makes 153.

St. Augustine also notes that there were 7 disciples in the boat (Peter, Thomas, Nathanael, James and John, and two other disciples), who had all been filled with the 7 gifts of the Holy Spirit. 7 times 7 equals 49. 49 plus 1 (that’s Jesus) makes the perfection of 50. And 50 x 3 for the Trinity gives you 150 plus another 3 for the Trinity gives you 153.

St. Cyril breaks 153 into 100 (the great number of gentiles to be saved), plus 50 (the smaller number of Jews to be saved), plus 3 (the Trinity who saves all).

Others have pointed out that 100 (representing the number of married faithful in the Church), plus 50 (the faithful who commit themselves later in life to celibacy either living as widows or living with their spouse in a brother-sister relationship), plus 3 (the precious few who commit their whole lives to celibacy as virgins) equals 153.[ii]

I hope you are writing all this down.

Now, do you want to know what I believe is the significance of 153?

Allow me to first preface my opinion by reminding you that I have a Doctorate in Ministry and have been a student of scripture for half a century, if you count my Sunday School classes as a child. Plus, I grew up on the Outer Banks of North Carolina; thus, I know a thing or two about fishing.

Here it is. You will really want to write this down. For it is going to blow your mind and probably change your life.

Here it is. Drum roll please. People who go fishing like to count their fish.

That’s it. People who fish count their fish. Now, it may mean a little more than that, but not much more.

I also believe this Easter story has something to do about people, as the story is very similar to other fishing stories when Jesus tells the disciple anglers that they were going to go from catching fish to catching people (Mark 1 and Matthew 4).

Thus, a hundred fifty-three means that people, like fish, are to be counted. Now, compared to the hyper-symbolic, mathematical theories of the saints, that may sound like a hollow interpretation; however, when we consider the number of people who are discounted and marginalized in our world today, this simple interpretation is nothing less than prophetic.

So, what this Easter story says to me is that this movement we call discipleship where we can be confident love will win and justice will prevail, is a movement that prophetically proclaims that every person counts.

A hundred fifty-three is particularly prophetic for Americans as the United States has always had a problem counting certain people, as some in this nation, including those in power today, have always had a problem with equality. There have always been those who want to put a tear in the net, so all will not be counted.

Ever since the Constitution’s original framework, when enslaved people of color were counted as three-fifths of a person, there have been people in this country who have sought to undermine equality, suppress the vote, and discount entire groups of people.

And today, those people are in power, intentionally tearing the net by rolling back all the progress made for equality and civil rights in the 20th century, calling desegregation “a historic wrong,”[iii] and going after any organization, business or university that seeks to count everyone with programs focused on diversity, equity, and inclusion. And now, democracy hangs in the balance.

Perhaps we should have seen the end to democracy coming —when every ten years there’s an argument in our country about who should be counted and who should not be counted in the census, as counting every person is fundamental to democracy, based on the principle that each person counts and deserves representation.

So, I believe 153 is a profoundly prophetic number for America today. A hundred fifty-three affirms democracy and the principle that all people are created equally. A hundred fifty-three means there is no person who does not count.

A hundred fifty-three affirms our annual Holocaust Remembrance Service, as a hundred fifty-three means that six million Jewish people count. And they still count, despite those today who are seeking to re-write history or “move on from past guilt.”[iv]

And a hundred fifty-three also means that 2.3 million people in Gaza count, 2.3 million Palestinians who are starving to death today because of the Israeli and US-backed ban of food and humanitarian aid.[v]

One of the best things about living in New Orleans was when I had the opportunity to officiate a funeral where we marched in the cemetery behind a jazz band singing: “Oh when the saints go marching in, when the saints go marching in, oh Lord, I want to be in thatnumber when the saints go marching in!”

Oh Lord, how people just want to be counted.

People of color who cry for their lives to matter just want to be counted.

Trans men and women asking not to be called by their dead name just want to be counted.

Pregnant women who desire to have a choice in their healthcare, just want to be counted.

Disabled people requesting fairness and equal opportunity, just want to be counted.

Immigrants, refugees, and Asylum-seekers in the pursuit of happiness, just want to be counted.

People who are being snatched off our streets and disappeared, need to be counted.

Books banned; history erased; votes suppressed; due process denied; free speech stifled; basic rights deprived; Medicaid, SNAP, Head Start, low-income energy assistance, and other programs cut—it’s all about people who must be counted!

Think about who you know today—at work or at school, in your neighborhood or in your family—who may feel like they are of no count. And think about what actions you could take, or this week, or next, to let know that they do count—to you, to this church, and to God—and maybe, one day, to the nation.

“Simon Peter…hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, a hundred fifty-three of them, and though there were so many, the net was not torn.”

The net was not torn. All were counted. Amen.

[i] https://www.workingpreacher.org/dear-working-preacher/resurrection-is-abundance

[ii] https://parish.rcdow.org.uk/harefield/wp-content/uploads/sites/148/2022/10/The-mystery-of-the-153-fish-in-the-Gospel-of-John.pdf

[iii] https://wpde.com/news/nation-world/doj-department-of-justice-officially-ends-desegregation-order-at-louisiana-school-plaquemines-parish-after-nearly-50-years-court-system-integrated-racial-segregation-south#

[iv] https://www.npr.org/2025/01/27/nx-s1-5276084/elon-musk-german-far-right-afd-holocaust

[v] https://www.pbs.org/newshour/world/palestinians-struggle-to-feed-their-families-as-israel-blocks-gaza-aid-for-nearly-60-days

Palm Sunday Prayer

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Pastoral Prayers2 Comments

God of Love and Justice,

As we begin this Holy Week, some of us can remember a more innocent time when we possessed a more naïve understanding of the world.

Our thoughts were as innocent as the children who waved palm branches on this day.

We once listened to scripture retell the events of this week and wondered how on earth can the actions and attitudes of people change so dramatically in a just few days.

How can people enthusiastically choose to follow a nonviolent savior riding a donkey on Sunday, and in the same week, choose a violent insurrectionist to be their savior instead. How can people shout “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” on Sunday, and days later, shout “Crucify him.”

But living in this current culture, we no longer wonder.

For we live in a nation where people claim to follow the way of Jesus on Sunday, but during the week, willfully choose to live a way that is the exact opposite.

Instead of blessing the poor, they curse the poor.

Instead of providing comfort to those who are mourning for their lives to matter, they tell them that their lives matter too.

The meek are oppressed; not blessed.

Those who hunger and thirst for justice are scapegoated; not filled.

The merciful are ridiculed.

The pure in heart are bullied.

The peacemakers are labeled “weak” and “stupid.”

And those who seek to follow the inclusive, unconditional, universal way of love that Jesus taught are persecuted for doing so by those who claim Jesus to be their Savior.

The singers of “Hosanna” deny food to the hungry. The wavers of palm branches deny healthcare to the sick. The triumphant deny children an equitable education. Workers are denied a living wage. The imprisoned are denied due process. Immigrants are tormented. Women are subjugated. Strangers are feared and sent away.

Truth and honesty are rejected in favor of misinformation and lies.

Nationalism is preferred over discipleship.

Greed is favored over generosity.

Retribution is supported over forgiveness.

Profit is chosen over the planet.

Guns are valued over children.

Kindness is mocked.

Equality is despised.

Diversity, equity, and inclusion are banned.

Empathy is called a sin.

So, Lord, on this Palm Sunday we pray for the strength to resist, for the courage to dissent, and for the resilience to defy the anti-Christ spirit that seems to have a hold on our world.

Be with us, O God, through the betrayal, the trial, the denials, the mockery, the flogging, the suffering, and the execution; that we like the women disciples, will remain faithful, purposeful, and peaceful all the way to the tomb.

In the shadow of death and grief, renew our spirits to courageously stand against the evil rulers, the authorities, and the powers of this dark world.

May we be resilient until the stone is rolled away, the bonds of death are broken, and the power of evil is defeated. May we remain faithful until love is finally won, peace is fully realized, and liberty and justice are enjoyed by all.

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.