Sermon Title: They Cannot Cancel What Jesus Already Claimed
Scripture: Luke 19:1-10 April 6, 2025
Throughout history, we’ve seen the destructive power of systems that dehumanize, oppress, and cancel. Systems that seek to strip hope from our lives, especially when circumstances seem beyond our control. There are times when illness robs us of our strength, age takes away our independence, or society judges our worth based on what we can no longer do. This is the reality of what some might call “cancel culture,” though, in truth, it is an old pain repackaged.
But what we fail to understand in these moments of loss and struggle is this: What God has already claimed can never be canceled. No human or system can erase the purpose, worth, or value that God has placed on us.
Today, I want us to reflect on the story of someone who truly knew what it meant to be “systemically canceled.” A man who experienced rejection but found in Jesus a love that transformed not just his life, but the very system around him. This man’s name was Zacchaeus.
The Rejected Tax Collector
We find Zacchaeus in Jericho, a man desperate to see Jesus. But Zacchaeus wasn’t just anyone—he was the chief tax collector, a role that made him a despised figure in society. Not only did he collect taxes for the Roman Empire, but he also profited from it, often at the expense of his own people. The crowd in Jericho, knowing Zacchaeus’ role, viewed him as a traitor, someone who had betrayed them for money.
In this moment, Zacchaeus faced a form of systemic cancellation. He was rejected by his community, pushed aside, and kept at a distance. And yet, Zacchaeus was determined. He wanted to see Jesus.
Luke tells us that Zacchaeus was short in stature, and because of the crowd’s disdain for him, he couldn’t push through to see Jesus. In fact, some biblical scholars believe that the crowd intentionally blocked Zacchaeus, making sure he couldn’t get a glimpse of the teacher everyone was eager to see.
The Crowds and Our Own Struggles
Now, we may not identify with being a tax collector, but we all understand the experience of being blocked out or pushed aside. We know what it’s like when our bodies betray us, when we’re no longer the person we once were. Some of you might remember a time when you were the one everyone turned to, the rock of your family, only to find that now, you need help with the simplest tasks. Or maybe you’ve felt the sting of being overlooked when your job was eliminated, or when your voice was silenced because others preferred their comfort over addressing the hard truths.
Maybe the cancellation you face comes from societal expectations or judgments—when your value is tied to what you can do or produce, and not to who you are. But I want us to pause and think about this: What if, like Zacchaeus, we could reframe our thinking in these moments of cancellation? What if we stopped asking how we can reclaim what’s been lost and began to understand that nothing—nothing—can cancel what Jesus has already claimed for us?
The Radical Love of Jesus
Zacchaeus, determined to see Jesus, climbs a tree. Despite the obstacles, he does everything he can to catch a glimpse of the one who is changing the world. And then, in the most surprising and transformative moment, Jesus looks up and sees Zacchaeus. Not only does Jesus see him, but He also calls to him: “Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today.”
Now, think about this. In a moment when the crowd would have expected Jesus to ignore Zacchaeus or condemn him, Jesus does the unthinkable. He invites Himself into Zacchaeus’ life. This isn’t just a social call. This is a divine claim on Zacchaeus’ life. It’s an earth-shattering declaration: Zacchaeus, despite your past, despite what others think of you, I claim you as my own.
In that moment, Zacchaeus is no longer defined by his role as a tax collector or the community’s rejection of him. He is claimed by the love of Christ, and that changes everything.
Transformation, Not Just Behavior Modification
Jesus’ encounter with Zacchaeus doesn’t stop at a simple invitation for a meal. No, Zacchaeus’ entire life is transformed. He doesn’t just try to “be better” or “do better” as some of us might try when we are confronted with our failings. Zacchaeus reimagines his entire life. In response to Jesus’ grace, he offers to give half of his possessions to the poor and to pay back four times the amount he took from anyone he wronged.
This isn’t just restitution. It’s a complete reordering of Zacchaeus’ understanding of his life’s purpose. No longer does his identity rest in taking from others, but in giving, in restoring, in making things right. This is what happens when the extravagant love of Christ touches us—it transforms us from the inside out.
What Is God Claiming in You?
You might be wondering: Can God still claim me, even in the face of rejection or loss? The answer is yes. Your story is not over. You are not canceled because God’s claim on your life remains steadfast.
When the world tries to cancel you—when illness, age, or societal pressures tell you your value is finished—remember that God’s claim speaks louder. When voices of judgment seek to silence you, God’s voice is louder still.
This is a truth I’ve seen lived out. I think about the story of Rich Stroshane, a violin maker. Rich held up a block of raw wood, an ordinary piece of timber that many would have passed by. But to the trained eye of a master craftsman, this was not just a block of wood—it was the potential for something beautiful. With care and skill, that raw material was transformed into a violin, an instrument capable of making beautiful music.
Some of you may feel like that block of wood right now. Life has left you rough, unformed, and unrecognized. But hear this: Just as the craftsman saw the potential in the wood, God sees the masterpiece within you. When God claims you, you come alive. When Jesus sees you, you are transformed.
Closing: Cling to God’s Claim
I say to you today, don’t be afraid of the systems that try to cancel you, because what God has already claimed cannot be undone. No matter what society may say, no matter how circumstances may change, God’s claim on your life is secure. As the psalmist writes in Psalm 139:14, “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” And as Paul reassures us in Romans 8:38-39, “Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Today, I encourage you to remember this: You are not canceled. You are claimed. Your worth is not determined by the systems of this world, but by the radical love of God who sees you, loves you, and has a purpose for you.
When the world tries to cancel you, remember: What Jesus has already claimed can never be canceled.
May we all live into the fullness of that truth today.
Amen.
Sermon Title: The Church America Never Saw Coming
Scripture: Luke 13:6-9 March 23, 2025
Welcome on this Third Sunday of Lent to the agricultural world of first-century Judea. A fig tree was more than just a plant—it was an economic lifeline. Farmers depended on fig trees for sustenance and income. When a tree failed to produce fruit for three consecutive years, it wasn’t just an inconvenience; it was an economic catastrophe.
But notice the gardener’s radical intervention. The landowner’s immediate impulse is economic: “Cut it down. Why should it use up the soil?” This is the language of productivity, of ruthless efficiency. It’s a voice we still hear today—in boardrooms, in political chambers, in systems that reduce human worth to output.
The gardener, however, sees differently. “Sir,” he says, “leave it alone for one more year, and I’ll dig around it and fertilize it.” This is profound. In a culture of immediate judgment, the gardener offers patience. In a system that demands instant results, he offers transformation.
The word for “dig around” implies careful, intentional work. It’s not a casual intervention, but a committed, labor-intensive process of creating conditions for growth. The gardener doesn’t just wish for change; he works for it, understanding that transformation requires both grace and active cultivation—both rest and growth.
Many of you have dedicated your lives to building what you believed would be a more just society. You’ve written policy papers, served on nonprofit boards, donated to progressive causes, marched for civil rights, supported electoral reforms. Yet today, you look at our democracy and wonder: Where did we miscalculate? How did our carefully constructed systems, our well-intentioned efforts, our decades of work seem to be crumbling before our eyes?
This is not a moment of failure. This is a moment of profound reckoning. God is not tallying our political achievements or measuring our impact by immediate outcomes. God is the gardener who understands that transformation is not a linear process. Sometimes the most critical work happens underground, in root systems we cannot yet see.
Our current moment is not an ending. It is a deep pruning. Just as the gardener in the parable does not abandon the tree, but instead digs around its roots, fertilizes the soil, and creates conditions for potential—so too are we called to continue our work. Not with despair, but with a radical, persistent hope that understands transformation is a collaborative, generational process.
We are not passive observers. We are active cultivators of democracy’s most fragile and powerful promise: the belief that human dignity can triumph over systemic oppression. Our work continues. Our hope endures.
This parable of the fig tree is not merely a lesson in horticulture, but is a profound spiritual lightning rod. Here we encounter a landowner who sees waste where a gardener sees potential; a moment of judgment that becomes, instead, a moment of grace.
The fig tree—its bark rough like forgotten stories, branches twisted but resilient—is granted not punishment, but patience. Not elimination, but extraordinary care. Look closely. The text does not suggest the tree will immediately bear fruit. It suggests only the possibility of fruit.
And in that possibility resides the most radical of theological promises: that what appears unsuccessful might, with tender intervention, become something miraculous—like soil waiting to be awakened, like hope with the texture of earth.
We stand today not in a moment of despair, but in a moment of profound potential—the church America never saw coming, its presence as palpable as wind before a storm.
The systems surrounding us may seem out of control. Venezuelan migrants transported like commodities, the air heavy with their unspoken stories, absent of the creative tension of due process. Segregation bans put in place to protect us from Jim Crow, Martin Luther King Jr. Center defunded. Government workers reduced to disposable metrics, their dignity as fragile as paper. Our judicial system—once a beacon of democratic balance—Attorney General and the Executive Branch attempting to shatter our systems of checks and balances by ignoring the ruling of the courts.
We might feel powerless watching Washington’s machinery crush the human spirit. But here is the profound truth: The path to transformation does not start in the Oval Office, but in Newton Corner—what happens locally shapes what happens nationally.
Jürgen Moltmann reminds us that hope is not a passive waiting. It is an active resistance—but resistance that understands the power of strategic rest. Hope has texture. It demands we see beyond the immediate, beyond the seemingly impossible—like wind slowly carving canyons, like water wearing away stone through patient, persistent presence.
The other day, I ordered a box of bananas for my carefully planned diet—those precise meal replacement shakes that keep my days structured and predictable. When the delivery arrived, I placed the box near the stove, a routine action in an ordinary day. But then the smoke alarm pierced the silence, its shrill cry cutting through the air.
Walking into my unit, I found everything clouded, the bananas teetering on the stove’s edge, their skin singed and fragrant with burnt potential. Most would have thrown them away. Damaged. Unproductive.
But as I peeled back the layers, I discovered something wild. These were not just bananas. These were ZOMBIE BANANAS—risen from the smoky grave, ready to become something epic!
I went full mad scientist in my kitchen, pureeing them into submission, freezing them in perfectly portioned baggies. The kitchen filled with the sweet, slightly burnt smell of transformation. Take that, smoke! Take that, potential waste! And now? I have the creamiest, most rebellious meal replacement shakes in town. Boom! Transformation complete.
Who says miracles cannot happen in moments of apparent failure?
Black Womanist Theologian Katie Geneva Cannon reminds us that hope has teeth—a “steel-spined commitment to transformation” that refuses to accept the world as it appears, while also understanding the power of strategic rest.
We are the community that sees beyond metrics, beyond systems that reduce human beings to numbers, and instead affirm the fundamental truth of human worth—our vision as clear as morning light.
We can be a sanctuary where souls find respite from spiritual, economic, and political crushing. We are a living coalition of difference—bringing together those wounded by militarism, scarred by racism, silenced by sexism, marginalized by ableism, forgotten by ageism.
Here, our differences are not divisions but the very threads that weave us into a more complete tapestry. We offer a new narrative—a spiritual voice that transforms local whispers into national conversations. We declare radical human dignity beyond productivity, a living testament that transcends output.
Where systems demand performance, we choose presence, seeing souls waiting to be recognized. We transform shame into sacred story, speaking abundance where internal narratives whisper unworthiness. Our struggle is not our definition; our pain is not our punishment.
We are the community that sees beyond metrics, beyond systems that reduce human beings to numbers, and instead affirm the fundamental truth of human worth—our vision as clear as morning light.
But let us understand the deep roots of this transformative work.
The church America never saw coming has always been a movement of radical reimagination, deeply embedded in biblical narrative—its roots as complex and interconnected as an underground mycelial network.
Look at Moses—a stuttering shepherd who organized an entire enslaved population against the most powerful empire of his time. He did not have institutional power. He had a staff worn smooth from years of wandering, a community bound by shared suffering, and a radical vision of liberation that burned like desert heat.
Consider Nehemiah, who did not wait for permission from distant authorities. When he saw the broken walls of Jerusalem, he mobilized everyday people—artisans, merchants, priests—to rebuild. Each family worked on the section nearest their home. Stone by stone, their hands calloused and backs bent, they reconstructed not just walls, but hope.
Jesus—the greatest grassroots organizer in human history—gathered people marginalized by systems: tax collectors, sex workers, fishermen, the chronically ill. He transformed them from isolated individuals into a collective capable of changing the world together in solidarity.
Some say Jesus started a movement, not an institution. Others point to Augustine’s City of God as the foundational institutional framework. But both perspectives miss the deeper truth: Jesus institutionalized movement building. He did not create a static organization, but a dynamic, transformative community structure that could adapt, grow, and challenge existing systems.
We need both institution builders and movement makers to fully embody the radical mandate of collective liberation.
70 percent of Americans describe themselves as spiritual, yet only 22 percent connect that spirituality to traditional institutions. We are a generation hungry for meaning, searching for connection beyond algorithmic interactions and productivity metrics.
We become the church when we refuse to let anyone be disposable, when we understand that worth is not measured by constant output. When we turn our pain into power, our isolation into connection, and our individual struggles into collective breathing.
We are the living testament that transformation begins right where we are—with the people right in front of us, with the stories we dare to tell, with the dignity we refuse to let be erased, and in the sacred spaces between our doing.
And we are just beginning. Our roots run deeper than any system can comprehend. Our hope has teeth. Our resistance breathes.
SERMON TRANSCIPT An Invitation We Did Not Expect
SUNDAY, MARCH 16, 2025
On this Second Sunday of Lent, we find ourselves in a season of unraveling.
A time when the comfortable layers of our lives begin to fall away, inviting us to look deeper, to breathe slower, to see more clearly.
I remember a day when everything was falling apart.
I was striving to get the office Church Office, then the dishwasher did not work, and I had to secure maintenance service, and it was one thing after the other. wrestling with a day that felt like it was constantly spinning out of control. I was doing what I’d always done – keep performing. Keep moving.
Rushing to get to my car, I needed to make a quick ATM stop, and refuel the gas tank, so that added another 15 minutes. A moment stopped me that would change everything.
A parent and two children were selling candy. As I hurried by, the young teen said. “Free candy,” she said. Now, nothing is ever truly free. I pulled out my wallet, ready to pay.
But she stopped me.
“No,” she said. “You don’t get it. This is free. You look like you could use a free candy.”
I waited for the punchline. For the hidden camera. For some elaborate joke. But there was none.
She was offering me something I couldn’t buy. Something I couldn’t earn. Something I simply had to receive.
That child’s unexpected grace was more than just a free candy. It was a moment of profound invitation – just like Jesus’ interaction with Mary and Martha.
In that moment, she disrupted my entire performance. My rush. My constant doing.
She offered an invitation to something I couldn’t earn. Something I couldn’t control.
Let’s dig deeper into what’s really happening in the text.
Jesus isn’t just managing a domestic dispute in Martha’s kitchen. He’s revealing something profound about human overwhelm.
Look at Martha. She’s doing everything right. She’s serving. Preparing. Working herself to exhaustion. In that culture, hospitality wasn’t just a nicety – it was a sacred duty. Martha is performing exactly as society expects. Every dish perfectly placed. Every surface meticulously cleaned. Every expectation met.
And she’s drowning.
“Lord,” she says, “don’t you care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself?” Her words drip with exhaustion. With frustration. With a kind of spiritual burnout that feels achingly familiar.
Martha represents every single one of us who has ever felt crushed by expectation. Who has ever looked around and thought, “I’m doing everything right. So why does this feel so wrong?”
This isn’t just a story about two sisters. It’s a profound exploration of human overwhelm.
In that culture, a woman’s place was only in service. Cooking. Cleaning. Caring. This role is important, but also women were not learning to teaching. Never sitting at a rabbi’s feet. That space was exclusively male – a sacred territory of religious scholarship forbidden to women.
Mary’s choice isn’t just personal rebellion—it’s a profound challenge to an entire system that defines women’s worth through service alone. When she sits at Jesus’ feet, she isn’t just claiming individual dignity; she’s dismantling the very structures that reduce human beings to prescribed roles. Her act is not just personal transformation, but a courageous reimagining of community.
When Jesus invites Mary to sit and learn and explore becoming a teacher yourself, he’s saying something extraordinary about human dignity. About who gets to be considered worthy of knowledge. And lead spiritual formation. Both Martha’s role was valid, and Jesus expanding to say AND so is Mary in the role of one who is learning to teach.
Mary’s choice to sit isn’t passive submission. It’s deliberate transgression to engage in what? Holy ambition! She’s claiming a space that society has explicitly denied her.
But here’s the thing about claiming space – it’s never comfortable.
Just like Martha was wrestling with her overwhelming expectations, we’re constantly managing impossible loads. The roles we’re told to play. The performances we’re supposed to maintain.
Think about your own life. How many masks do you wear? How many versions of yourself exist between work and home, between public and private? We’re constantly shifting, adapting, trying to fit into the spaces others have defined for us.
And isn’t that exhausting?
Here’s the truth we don’t want to hear: Our overwhelm isn’t our enemy. It’s trying to tell us something.
Think about your own life. How many pieces are you trying to hold? Work. Family. Spiritual life. Personal dreams. We’re constantly trying to manage these fragments, like we’re holding a bunch of china plates, terrified of dropping something.
But what if dropping something is exactly what we need to do?
What if that something is perfection?
Let’s talk about something real.
We’re all trying so hard, aren’t we? Trying to be perfect. Trying to prove our worth. Trying to show the world we have it all together.
But here’s the truth: Perfection is a lie. A beautiful, exhausting, impossible lie.
What if we engaged in some creative arithmetic this Lent? What if we gave up perfection for Lent? And then, what if we decided to add faithfulness?
We drop perfection. We embrace faithfulness. And we do this for one profound reason: so we can faithfully and clearly respond to God’s call in these times.
As Frederick Buechner so beautifully described, God’s call is where the world’s deepest need meets our deepest gladness.
Think about that. Your call isn’t a burden. It’s not a checklist. It’s the sacred intersection where your unique gifts touch the world’s most urgent longings. Where your joy meets the world’s deepest pain.
Faithfulness isn’t about getting everything right. It’s about showing up. Exactly as you are. Messy. Broken. Beautiful. So you can hear. So you can respond. So you can step into that calling.
Some days, faithfulness looks like getting out of bed. Some days, it looks like asking for help. Some days, it’s just breathing. And that is enough—because it keeps you open. Listening. Ready.
We drop perfection so we can be present.
We embrace faithfulness so we can be responsive.
We clear away the noise so we can hear God’s call.
Jesus doesn’t want your perfect performance just to check off boxes. He wants your true self. Not the self you think you should be. Not the self others expect you to be. But the real you. The one ready to answer when called.
Perfection says, “Do more.”
Faithfulness whispers, “You are enough. And you are ready.”
Our entire journey—dropping perfection, embracing brokenness, showing up authentically—it’s all so we can be positioned to respond to God’s call. To that place where our deepest gladness meets the world’s deepest need.
And we do this not just for ourselves. We do this so that not only I, but we can be made whole again.
Our brokenness is collective. Our healing is communal. Our calling reaches beyond individual restoration to the restoration of all. When one of us becomes whole, we all move closer to wholeness.
We are not alone in this journey.
Jesus looks at Martha. He looks at Mary. He looks at you. And he says: You are enough. Right here. Right now. Exactly as you are. Ready to be called. Ready to help make us whole.
As a wise leader once said, if you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything.
An Invitation We Did Not Expect SERMON 3/16/25
On this Second Sunday of Lent, we find ourselves in a season of unraveling.
A time when the comfortable layers of our lives begin to fall away, inviting us to
look deeper, to breathe slower, to see more clearly.
I remember a day when everything was falling apart.
I was striving to get the office Church Office, then the dishwasher did not work,
and I had to secure maintenance service, and it was one thing after the other.
wrestling with a day that felt like it was constantly spinning out of control. I was doing what I’d always done – keep performing. Keep moving. Rushing to get to my car, I needed to make a quick ATM stop, and refuel the gas
tank, so that added another 15 minutes. A moment stopped me that would change everything.
A parent and two children were selling candy. As I hurried by, the young teen said. “Free candy,” she said. Now, nothing is ever truly free. I pulled out my wallet, ready to pay. But she stopped me. “No,” she said. “You don’t get it. This is free. You look like you could use a free candy.” I waited for the punchline. For the hidden camera. For some elaborate joke. But there was none. She was offering me something I couldn’t buy. Something I couldn’t earn. Something I simply had to receive.
That child’s unexpected grace was more than just a free candy. It was a moment of profound invitation – just like Jesus’ interaction with Mary and Martha. In that moment, she disrupted my entire performance. My rush. My constant doing. She offered an invitation to something I couldn’t earn. Something I couldn’t control.
Let’s dig deeper into what’s really happening in the text. Jesus isn’t just managing a domestic dispute in Martha’s kitchen. He’s revealing something profound about human overwhelm. Look at Martha. She’s doing everything right. She’s serving. Preparing. Working herself to exhaustion. In that culture, hospitality wasn’t just a nicety – it was a sacred duty. Martha is performing exactly as society expects. Every dish perfectly placed. Every surface meticulously cleaned. Every expectation met. And she’s drowning.
“Lord,” she says, “don’t you care that my sister has left me to do all the work by
myself?” Her words drip with exhaustion. With frustration. With a kind of spiritual burnout that feels achingly familiar. Martha represents every single one of us who has ever felt crushed by expectation. Who has ever looked around and thought, “I’m doing everything right. So why does this feel so wrong?” This isn’t just a story about two sisters. It’s a profound exploration of human overwhelm.
In that culture, a woman’s place was only in service. Cooking. Cleaning. Caring.
This role is important, but also women were not learning to teaching. Never sitting at a rabbi’s feet. That space was exclusively male – a sacred territory of religious scholarship forbidden to women. Mary’s choice isn’t just personal rebellion—it’s a profound challenge to an entire system that defines women’s worth through service alone. When she sits at Jesus’ feet, she isn’t just claiming individual dignity; she’s dismantling the very structures that reduce human beings to prescribed roles. Her act is not just personal transformation, but a courageous reimagining of community.
When Jesus invites Mary to sit and learn and explore becoming a teacher yourself, he’s saying something extraordinary about human dignity. About who gets to be considered worthy of knowledge. And lead spiritual formation. Both Martha’s role was valid, and Jesus expanding to say AND so is Mary in the role of one who is learning to teach. Mary’s choice to sit isn’t passive submission. It’s deliberate transgression to engage in what? Holy ambition! She’s claiming a space that society has explicitly denied her.
But here’s the thing about claiming space – it’s never comfortable. Just like Martha was wrestling with her overwhelming expectations, we’re
constantly managing impossible loads. The roles we’re told to play. The
performances we’re supposed to maintain. Think about your own life. How many masks do you wear? How many versions of yourself exist between work and home, between public and private? We’re constantly shifting, adapting, trying to fit into the spaces others have defined for us. And isn’t that exhausting?
Here’s the truth we don’t want to hear: Our overwhelm isn’t our enemy. It’s trying to tell us something. Think about your own life. How many pieces are you trying to hold? Work. Family. Spiritual life. Personal dreams. We’re constantly trying to manage these fragments, like we’re holding a bunch of china plates, terrified of dropping something. But what if dropping something is exactly what we need to do? What if that something is perfection?
Let’s talk about something real. We’re all trying so hard, aren’t we? Trying to be perfect. Trying to prove our worth. Trying to show the world we have it all together. But here’s the truth: Perfection is a lie. A beautiful, exhausting, impossible lie. What if we engaged in some creative arithmetic this Lent? What if we gave up perfection for Lent? And then, what if we decided to add faithfulness?
We drop perfection. We embrace faithfulness. And we do this for one profound
reason: so we can faithfully and clearly respond to God’s call in these times.
As Frederick Buechner so beautifully described, God’s call is where the world’s
deepest need meets our deepest gladness. Think about that. Your call isn’t a burden. It’s not a checklist. It’s the sacred intersection where your unique gifts touch the world’s most urgent longings. Where your joy meets the world’s deepest pain. Faithfulness isn’t about getting everything right. It’s about showing up. Exactly as you are. Messy. Broken. Beautiful. So you can hear. So you can respond. So you can step into that calling.
Some days, faithfulness looks like getting out of bed. Some days, it looks like
asking for help. Some days, it’s just breathing. And that is enough—because it
keeps you open. Listening. Ready.
We drop perfection so we can be present. We embrace faithfulness so we can be responsive. We clear away the noise so we can hear God’s call. Jesus doesn’t want your perfect performance just to check off boxes. He wants your true self. Not the self you think you should be. Not the self others expect you to be. But the real you. The one ready to answer when called. Perfection says, “Do more.”
Faithfulness whispers, “You are enough. And you are ready.”
Our entire journey—dropping perfection, embracing brokenness, showing up
authentically—it’s all so we can be positioned to respond to God’s call. To that
place where our deepest gladness meets the world’s deepest need. And we do this not just for ourselves. We do this so that not only I, but we can be
made whole again. Our brokenness is collective. Our healing is communal. Our calling reaches beyond individual restoration to the restoration of all. When one of us becomes whole, we all move closer to wholeness.
We are not alone in this journey. Jesus looks at Martha. He looks at Mary. He looks at you. And he says: You are enough. Right here. Right now. Exactly as you are. Ready to be called. Ready to help make us whole.
As a wise leader once said, if you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything.
Sermon: JESUS CAME OVER. WILL WE?
March 9 Luke 10:46-52
Beloved, I’ve heard the parable of the Good Samaritan preached numerous times. Perhaps you have too. And every time, without fail, the message remains constant: “Be like the Samaritan.” Help those in need. Cross distances. Show mercy. The focus rests squarely on what we are to do. All good things, mind you. All true things.
But they’ve become so familiar that we might miss what flows beneath the surface. This morning, I want us to look at this story from a different angle—not focusing on what we should do, but what’s being done for us. Because sometimes, many times, we’re not the Samaritan at all. We’re the one in the ditch. Will you stay with this man for a moment? Feel the hot dust against his broken body, the sun searing through his swollen eyes, sweat and blood mixing in rivulets down his face. Smell the metallic tang of his own blood, the stench of sweat, tiny rocks from the dirt pressing into broken skin while dust coats his wounds like baking flour.
We know this place, don’t we? Not the physical road perhaps, but that place of desperate need. That place where help seems far off and hope grows dim. We’ve all been there – in our personal lives, in our national life, in these difficult days when our democracy feels as fragile as a paper boat in a storm. The truth is, my friends, we are all the man in the ditch.
And while we are all called to be the Samaritan, more importantly, Christ is the truest Samaritan who comes over to us. When that neighbor you barely knew brings meals every day while you’re sick – that’s Jesus coming over. When that choir member sits with you in your grief, though no words are spoken – that’s Jesus coming over. When that old friend calls “just because I felt I should” on your darkest night – that’s Jesus coming over. When the doctor says “cancer,” when grief overwhelms, when anxiety grips – Christ crosses the distance through the hands and hearts of others.
That’s the very nature of our Jesus. Every time Jesus comes over in Scripture, things don’t just return to normal – they become more than anyone imagined possible. The blind doesn’t just see – they become a witness to God’s power. The woman at the well doesn’t just get water – she becomes a messenger of living hope. The Canaanite woman doesn’t just receive healing for her daughter – she teaches Jesus himself about the wideness of God’s mercy. The disciples on the road to Emmaus don’t just meet a stranger – they discover the risen Christ in their midst. That’s what happens when Jesus comes over – the impossible becomes possible.
How about those times that Jesus showed up to us in disguise? not always come wearing the face we expect. Doesn’t always speak with the accent we trust. Doesn’t always fit the categories we’ve made. We all remember lying in our own ditch of grief, convinced that only certain people, certain words, certain prayers could help. And then help came wearing a tattered shirt with a stench that singes your nostrils, came with different politics and questionable theology, never set foot in a church and the only time they heard the name Jesus was the name of a child’s classmate, came through the very people we’d been taught couldn’t possibly be carrying God’s grace.
The man in the ditch had to trust not just anyone, but a Samaritan. Had to let not just anyone, but a Samaritan’s hands touch his wounds. Had to accept not just anyone’s help, but a Samaritan’s mercy. So often the very people who the world says we should fear or look the other way at are the ones God sends to save us. And is it not ironic that our healing requires not just receiving help, but receiving it from the “wrong” hands? Where would that man be – where would you be – if we did not trust our Samaritan to help us when we were in a ditch?
And yet, isn’t it flabbergasting that you hear many Christian voices in the public square tell us that walls and divisions are part of God’s plan. They say if we don’t like them, we need to take that up with our Creator. But here’s the thing – this isn’t just about walls. This is about how we these voices use holy language to create distance, to make some people matter less. They take something that sounds righteous – protecting borders, defending doctrine – and turn it into a weapon. They flatten entire human experiences into categories: who belongs, who doesn’t. And they do it with such certainty, such righteousness,
that they forget they’re talking about actual human beings – God’s creation!
It results in those outside the margins being pushed toward non-existence
while concentrating power among those within their circles.
Look at the Housing and Urban Development cuts – real families choosing between medicine and rent. Look at the patriarchal systems they perpetuate, telling women they matter less, even as we celebrate Women’s History Month.
These are more ditches where people lie wounded by their systems of power.
But that’s not the way of Jesus. He looked past every societal division,
spoke with women as equals when no one else would, touched those deemed untouchable, elevated those society had cast down. But here’s where God’s grace enters the story. Jesus shows us a Samaritan helping a Jew. Now, this is crucial to understand what this meant. A Samaritan helping a Jew wasn’t just unusual – it was revolutionary. It wasn’t just unexpected – it was scandalous.
This wasn’t just kindness – this was divine rebellion against the very walls they had built. In his ministry, Jesus shattered the very concept of hierarchy. In a world obsessed with status and power rankings, he created something entirely new: a community where everyone was simply neighbors.
Not just welcome – but a whole new way of being human together. Shakespeare understood something of this love – Christ’s love. Remember young Juliet’s words to Romeo: “So long as I can breathe or I can see, so long lives your name, and it gives life to me.” Here was love that defied the walls of hatred, that came over despite every reason to stay away. Their tragedy wasn’t that they loved too much – it was that their world loved too little. Because from the very beginning, God created not in isolation but in relationship… light coming over to dance with darkness, waters above coming over to meet waters below, earth bringing forth vegetation that comes over to feed the animals, humans created to come over and tend it all in an intricate web of mutual dependence. Even our own bodies are miracles of systems coming over to work together.
We feel it in the tension between caring for our immediate circle and responding to the cries of the circle of those who are suffering in our community. Some say we must choose – that we can’t possibly do both. But Christ shows us a different way. Jesus lived this tension perfectly. And here we encounter a profound paradox, my friends.
Within Jesus dwelled both perfect neighbor and rejected stranger. As the truest neighbor, As the truest neighbor, he touched lepers others feared to approach, fed thousands when religious leaders questioned his timing, healed the sick on the Sabbath while others called it sin, and stood between an accused woman and her accusers. the truest stranger – his hometown tried to throw him off a cliff, his own family thought him mad, and those closest to him would eventually betray and crucify him.
Just look up at night. Those stars you see? They’re coming over to each other across light-years, pulling at each other, dancing together in cosmic webs. Down here on Earth, tree roots don’t know anything about property lines –they’re too busy coming over to share nutrients with their neighbors through underground networks. In Clay, New York, my own tree on my property apparently didn’t get the memo about my property tax assessment – it’s been sharing nutrients with the neighbors next door for years, no permits required.
And don’t get me started on the squirrels, rabbits, complete with diplomatic immunity from supposedly squirrel-proof birdfeeders. They’ve established their own United Nations between yards, the morning doves turned my porch light into a heater without ever paying a dime towards the electric bill. But you know what? Maybe they’re onto something.
In these troubled times, when our democracy feels like that Alaska Airlines flight— plunging toward earth, passengers gripping armrests, wind howling through a blown-out door— we must remember something vital: That plane didn’t crash. It turned around. It flew higher than before. and so can we, when Christ comes over, when we come over to each other. We can have something more inclusive, more vibrant, more progressive, more welcoming than before.
What looks like descent becomes ascent. What appears as ending becomes beginning. What feels like death becomes resurrection. Because when Jesus comes over, resurrection isn’t just possible – it’s promised. And that’s exactly what Jesus does in our darkest hours. When Jesus comes over, he shows us how to build a different kind of world. A world where the innkeeper’s door stays open. Where strangers become neighbors. Where even those who once robbed and beat each other might sit at the same table. We see it happening in our world today with acts of holy defiance to look at the world through swollen eyes and die on the side of the road.
When our judicial system stands up, our elected officials stand up, and most importantly as we are watching the people around us stand up. Why we saw it in Newton, when people came together on Tuesday. Why we saw it in Newton,
when people came together on Tuesday at 8:30pm with the League of Women Voters and many others on that day across to protect democracy at record numbers. Interfaith communities standing guard at synagogues and mosques. Small towns welcoming refugee families. These aren’t just isolated acts of kindness –
And within each of us, we carry both the capacity to stay away
and the capacity to come over. In God’s economy, there are no permanent strangers – only neighbors who haven’t yet recognized each other.
May we have the courage to follow where Christ leads – May we as we wait, watch, and work open our hearts to Christ who will come over again in these troubled times crossing the distances that divide us, reaching out with open hearts and open hands. For there, my friends, is where we’ll find not just our neighbor, but our Lord. The question for our world today is Will we? Amen
Scripture Title: A Word from Our Sponsor
Luke 9:28-37 March 2, 2025
This morning I want to talk about mountains and valleys – not about escaping to spiritual heights to avoid the messiness of life, but about how our mountaintop moments prepare us for the real work that awaits in the valleys below. And speaking of interruptions that transform us…
Those words echo from my childhood summers, watching television in my godparents’ condo, four floors up. There I’d sit in their living room, completely absorbed in whatever show my godmother had chosen, until that phrase would break through at the most dramatic moment:
“We’ll be right back after a word from our sponsor.”
Someone had paid dearly for our attention. Those words have lingered with me, beloved, particularly as I consider how sponsors didn’t merely interrupt – they wielded the power to shape the very essence of what we watched.
Consider “I Love Lucy,” that treasured icon of 1950s American culture. When Camel cigarettes sponsored the show, Lucy Ricardo couldn’t be caught with any other brand between her fingers. When Philip Morris took over, entire scenes demanded reshooting. The sponsor wasn’t just funding entertainment; they were weaving themselves into its very fabric.
But dear friends, God – our divine sponsor – shapes our lives with infinitely more grace and purpose. God lifts us to mountaintops of revelation so we can be guided us back to the valley with finds its meaning.
Picture this:
For eight days, Jesus’s disciples carried the weight of his words about death and resurrection. Then, in an act of divine choreography, Jesus led Peter, John, and James up that mountain to pray. There, before their startled eyes, Jesus transformed – his very being altered, his clothes radiating light. Moses and Elijah appeared, discussing God’s magnificent plan to shatter death’s chains.
And then there’s Peter – oh, Peter! – doing what we all do when silence becomes too heavy. He fills it with nervous chatter, like that person who can’t help but laugh during a funeral’s most solemn moment. He suggests building three tabernacles, as if responding to the parting of the Red Sea by proposing to install a diving board. Beloved, Peter’s misstep is our gateway to revelation. Strip away all the spoken words from this story, and you’ll discover it crumbles without speech. Yet isn’t this true of our own encounters with the holy?
Beloved, we don’t need to climb physical mountains to find our sacred encounters! Right here, in this holy space, when we gather as God’s people – this is our mountaintop. It happens when the choir’s voices soar and your heart soars with them. It happens in that sacred moment of silence after the prayers, when hundreds of hearts beat as one. It will happen when we come to the table for communion today, Remembering Christ’s love. And yes, it happens when we gather after service, in conversations where you suddenly see Jesus in the face of a fellow pilgrim.
Just last week, as I prepared to host the Newton Interfaith Leadership Association’s winter meeting here at our church, I experienced such a moment. Susan Nason encouraged my involvement, while our event sexton, Rich Stroshane, transformed our space with meticulous care – arranging tables, adjusting lights, creating Eliot hospitality with all the trimmings. In preparing for this gathering of faith leaders, I found myself drawn to what seemed a mundane task – continuing my three-month project of unpacking my office.
Sometimes, friends, God’s deepest truths find us in these ordinary moments of sorting and organizing, when we least expect divine encounter. As your new pastor, knowing first impressions matter, I persisted in my office organization project. With increasing congregant visits and knowing at least one clergy person would inevitably wander in, I wanted to present an orderly space.
Then came the holy surprise. Among the papers, I discovered Jeff Jacoby’s article with its arresting headline: “Religion is America’s mighty engine of charitable goodness.” The words leaped from the page: “No force in American life has ever matched religious belief in its ability to translate ‘Love the stranger’ and ‘love thy neighbor’ into organized, effective, and ongoing action.” This discovery, buried in mundane office clutter, echoed Peter’s mountaintop moment.
Divine truth reveals itself in the most unexpected places. And how timely this revelation proves. As Elizabeth Baker’s husband Robert Abbe – whom I met at one of our first small group dinners (and yes, that’s an intentional invitation for you to join us and meet remarkable people who might just find their words quoted from this pulpit) – observed: “We live in a confluence of two parallel universes.” We see this collision in our homes, our workplaces, our social media feeds – spaces where words wound rather than heal. In these spaces, beloved, many voices claim to speak for God.
But the validity of such claims rests not in the volume of their proclamations, but in whether they embody the fruits of the Spirit that Paul names – love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control – and the transformative love that Jesus himself modeled for us.
The kind of mercy that breaks down walls rather than building them higher. Our mountaintop moments prepare us for these valley challenges. When someone shares their pain or experience of injustice, we’re called not to defend or debate, but to listen with the same attention we give to God’s voice.
Remember this truth: We’re all at different places on this journey, moving at different paces, processing in unique ways. Some race down the mountain, ready to act and speak truth to power. Others need time to sit with their revelations, letting understanding slowly dawn. Sometimes, we’re just in different places on our learning and growth journey. And that’s okay too.
As God shows patience with us, we must extend that same grace to others – creating space for questions, doubts, and growth. Transformation isn’t a sprint to the finish; it’s a pilgrimage we share. Every word, every action must reflect God’s character: love seeking understanding before judgment, mercy bridging divides, justice embracing compassion. For when we truly encounter God on the mountain, we cannot help but become more attentive listeners in the valley.
In these days when chaos and division seem to reign, our sacred encounters whisper an eternal truth: Healing happens in quiet spaces. Bridges rise from holy listening. And love still transforms everything it touches.
When television sponsors shaped American culture, they did it for profit. But our response to today’s moral crises must reflect a far greater Sponsor – one who envisions a world where justice flows like water. Every policy about migrants at our borders, every law about who can marry whom, every attempt to erase diversity from our schools, every decision about which side of global conflict we support – these aren’t just political choices. They’re spiritual ones. They should bear the watermark of our divine Sponsor’s values. Because God’s programming isn’t about maintaining power or protecting privilege – it’s about creating a world where the stranger is welcomed, where love is honored regardless of gender, where our differences are celebrated not erased, and where we stand with the oppressed, not the oppressors.
Make no mistake about what these mountaintop moments guarantee us: You will not falter in the valley. You will not lose your way in the darkness. You will not be shaken when opposition comes. Because once you’ve stood in God’s glory, you carry that authority with you. Our divine Sponsor doesn’t just inspire us – God equips us with unshakeable confidence for every moment below.
That’s the word from our Sponsor. That’s the Word that created worlds. That’s the Word that became flesh. That’s the Word that still speaks today.
Stay tuned, beloved. The best part of the program is still to come.
Amen.
Sermon Transcript: Sunday, Not Today! Psalm 37:1-11;39-40 February 23, 2025
Growing up, it should be no surprise to some of you that I loved books, and one of my favorite books that my late aunt gave me was a collection of nursery rhymes entitled “Mother Goose’s Nursery Rhymes.” I know you all are not children that are here today, and in fact you all are quite well-read—a well-read congregation—but there is a nursery rhyme from that collection that I still keep in my office to this day, all tattered, that stands out to me that I think that we can all relate to. And here is that nursery rhyme:
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the king’s horses and All the King’s Men
Couldn’t put Humpty back together again
A simple nursery rhyme, words we whisper to children at bedtime. But within these words lies a truth that no matter your age, we can all grasp: everything we build can break, and everything we hold precious can slip through our fingers. We live this in our everyday lives, in our communities, and our world.
You rush through the day checking the news, scrolling social media, racing through emails, and all we see around us is collapse, corruption, and crisis. Does it not feel like these days we are living in a consistent state of emergency? Always running, always behind, always chasing time itself. And in this endless race, we barely notice what seemed solid as rock turns fragile as an egg shell, and we wonder what is next—not if, but when.
But unlike Humpty Dumpty, will the story be told that we could not be put back together again, whether it is our lives, this nation, our communities, or the world? And I say not today. Our story continues past the falls.
In Psalm 37, here David writes from this very experience—not some imagined fable. He watched his own child rebel against him. David tasted the pain of exile, and if we are going to be 100% honest about the track record of David, David also knew what it was like to be the wicked himself that prospered while the righteous suffered. And now David himself was the one who was suffering while the wicked prospered.
So, when he says “do not fret because of those who are evil,” he’s not offering us empty words. He’s sharing wisdom that was learned through the School of Hard Knocks. The Hebrew word he uses for fret—”tar”—means to heat yourself up in anger or anxiety. Think of taking a pot of water, putting it on the stove, and it boiling over. That’s what happens inside of us when we are overwhelmed about the corruption, the violence, the suffering that we experience in our lives in the world, when our days slip away too fast, when that surge of worry burns us up from within.
And what do we do? David here does not just tell us what not to do. David here shows us how to act. He says:
- Trust in the Lord and do good
- Dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture
- Take Delight in the Lord and God will give you the desires of your heart
Look at those words about what David says to do: Trust, Do, Dwell, take Delight. What a quartet. And these words carry weight—they hold stillness, they push back against our rushing world. And this is not giving up; this is indeed standing firm.
Let us remember what Rachel Held Evans in “Searching for Sunday” wrote: “Faith is not the belief that everything will be okay but the trust that we are not alone in the midst of everything that is not.”
To this world that tries to convince us that what we are seeing is the new normal and perhaps today we need to get with the program, we say not today. There is nothing normal about where what we are seeing and what we should accept. But on the other hand, this can create the demand to also panic, to react with rage, to withdraw, to carry on as if nothing is happening. Into this we too must declare what? Not today. Not today will we let fear write our story. Not today will we surrender to cynicism. And not today will we let despair win.
Let me tell you about a moment in my own life where I had to draw that Line in the Sand and say not today. It was September the 4th, 2023. One moment I was enjoying Labor Day festivities, the next I was rushed to the hospital. Five days disappeared, and when I woke up, I couldn’t engage in the basic functions of life alone. People asked me, “If you’re a pastor, if you’re so close to God, how could this happen?” They wanted deep theology, and I gave them simple truth: faith isn’t a shield against falling—it’s finding the courage to say not today. And I made one simple decision that I would live, take it day by day, but dying was not the option. Not today.
As African-American womanist theologian Dolores S. Williams writes in “Sisters in the Wilderness,” the strength of the oppressed comes from their faith not just in a future deliverance but in the hope that sustains them—the hope that sustains us right now in the present.
Yes, we live in what sociologists call a “time famine” in an age of information overload, always racing the clock, never enough hours, always squeezing in more. But what if the mathematics to persist and say not today and decide and that choice to live with hope and do good is not so much about having to add more to our lives, having to do addition? Perhaps maybe it is about division. What if it is about persisting to be intentional with the time that we do have?
The psalmist shows us four things: trust, delight, dwell, and do good. And look at what sits right in the middle—Delight. Not by accident. We don’t schedule Delight; we choose it, we protect it, even when the world rushes by. See, the world wants us worn down, distracted, and discouraged, but we can make the choice to be different. This Faith isn’t waiting for change but it’s acting now in this moment with whatever it is that we do have, however tired we feel, whatever the cost.
So what does saying not today really look like in practice? It is beautifully simple: each day choose one small Act of Hope or kindness. Just one. If you need to write your not today moment somewhere where you can see it—your mirror, your phone, your fridge notepad—let it remind you that even on the hardest days you can still choose to do one small act that says today I will not give in. Not today will I stop caring. And not today will I forget that love is stronger than fear and I can still persist and live with hope.
One person, one moment, one choice at a time—that is how hope persists and that’s how light spreads. That’s how we live our not today. Today we say I will keep showing up. The world stays broken, the news doesn’t improve, problems do not shrink, but we are not alone.
Like that nursery rhyme we begin with, we all face falls, but unlike Humpty Dumpty, our story continues because we serve a God who takes what’s broken and makes it new—not by fixing what was but by creating what could be with what we have right now.
So to everything that tries to rush us past what matters, to every voice that whispers “In these times, give up,” to every force that pushes us to despair, we say it with one voice—what do we say?
Because we stand together, held in God’s love, strong in each other’s presence, in the name of the one who falls with us, rises with us, and walks beside us always. And today, and when we ask, “Have I been left alone?” will always shout back to us: Amen.