Today we bring our summer worship series about the Faces of Our Faith: Bold and Untold Stories to a close. We’ve explored 14 different figures from that Bible, told their often-untold stories, and heard how their faith had an impact on those around them. We’ve also heard wonderful testimony from our own congregation about the faithful folks who influenced their spiritual journeys. I’m grateful to Lorenzo, Dave, Jeffra, Bob, Allie, Sam, and Becca for having the courage to tell their stories!
The final story in our series is Mary Magdalene, which is very appropriate, since last Wednesday, July 22 was Mary Magdalene’s feast day. I love Mary Magdalene. I have a stack of books about her, I’ve taken classes and workshops about her, and I love sharing the things I’ve learned about her. I have so much information to share that I could preach an entire sermon series on her. Unfortunately, I only have ten minutes today. So I’m going to offer you some of this information in the form of a list: seven things you may not know about Mary Magdalene, but should.
On Pentecost, we remembered the coming of the Holy Spirit to the disciples through tongues of fire and the ability to speak and understand many languages. After that event, the Book of Acts says that three thousand people received the message and were baptized. The Apostles then began preaching the gospel in Jerusalem, telling people about Jesus’ resurrection and proclaiming that his New Creation had begun. They even taught in the courtyards of the Temple. The number of converts was growing. All of this angered the Temple leadership. The disciple Stephan was stoned to death
Now we arrive at today’s reading from the 8th chapter of Acts begins by telling us that “a severe persecution began against the (Jesus followers)...and all except the apostles were scattered throughout the countryside of Judea and Samaria.” They continued preaching the gospel and gaining new disciples wherever they went. The apostle Philip went down to the city of Samaria proclaiming the Messiah to them and performed many miracles. The people were amazed and many converted.
The next morning, scripture says that the Angel of the Lord appeared to Philip and told him, “Get up and go toward the south to the road that goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza.” As you heard earlier, Philip does so and there encounters the Ethiopian eunuch.
At the Temple, then, several strands of Israel’s long story come together: Mary and Joseph arrive with their child; Simeon takes Jesus in his arms; and Anna, a prophet named for grace and descended from a scattered tribe named for blessedness, recognizes the significance of the moment. Luke says she immediately begins speaking about Jesus to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.
That phrase suggests that Anna was part of a larger community of hope. She apparently knew who was still waiting, who was still praying, and who had not given up on the possibility of redemption. And when the moment came, she knew where to take the news.
El nombre de Ana también nos recuerda a otra gran mujer de la Biblia: Ana, la madre de Samuel. Ella llevó a su hijo al templo y cantó un himno sobre un Dios que levanta a los oprimidos. Ese mismo canto inspira más adelante el Magníficat de María, la madre de Jesús.
Ahora aparece otra Ana en el Templo y ella reconoce en el niño Jesús al Mesías esperado y comienza a anunciarlo a todos. La fe de Ana fue formada por una vida de oración, espera y esperanza. Nos recuerda que Dios suele revelar sus mayores sorpresas a quienes permanecen atentos y fieles, aun después de muchos años de espera.
Anna’s face of faith is one shaped by a long life: by grief and memory, prayer and community, identity and hope. She represents those people whose contribution to the story may occupy only a few verses, but whose years of faithfulness have prepared them to recognize something important when it finally appears.
Lydia was originally from what is now Turkey. She was a dealer in purple cloth, which likely means she worked in a valuable trade. Purple goods were associated with wealth, status, and influence in the Roman world.
The text presents her as a person of agency. She speaks for herself. She responds to Paul’s message. She and her household are baptized. And then she invites Paul and his companions to stay in her home. That detail matters.
In the earliest years of the church, homes were central to Christian life. Before there were church buildings, Christians gathered in houses for prayer, teaching, meals, fellowship, and song. So when Lydia opens her home, she is not simply being polite. She is creating space for the church to take root in Philippi.
Esta mañana continuamos nuestra serie Rostros de Nuestra Fe con la historia de Lidia. Aunque su historia ocupa pocos versículos, su importancia en la iglesia primitiva fue enorme.
Lidia era una comerciante de telas de púrpura, un producto asociado con la riqueza y el poder. Cuando Pablo llegó a Filipos, la encontró junto a un grupo de mujeres reunidas para orar a la orilla de un río. Lidia escuchó su mensaje, abrió su corazón y fue bautizada junto con su familia.
Después, abrió también las puertas de su casa. En una época sin templos cristianos, los hogares eran lugares de oración, comida, canto y comunidad. La hospitalidad de Lidia ayudó a crear un espacio donde la iglesia en Filipos pudo echar raíces. Su fe se expresó en hospitalidad, liderazgo y generosidad.
Desde sus comienzos, la Iglesia también fue una comunidad que cantaba su fe y esperanza. Y esa tradición continúa en nuestra herencia congregacional: el primer libro publicado en lo que hoy es Estados Unidos fue un libro de salmos preparado por iglesias congregacionales en el año 1640. La historia de Lidia, nuestros himnos y nuestra herencia nos recuerdan una misma verdad: la fe no es pasiva; se vive y se practica en comunidad.
Over the years, God has continued stretching our imagination. We've learned that compassion is only the beginning.
It's one thing to hand someone food; it's another to ask why they are hungry.
It's one thing to welcome immigrants; it's another to organize so every immigrant can flourish with dignity.
It’s one thing to pull babies from the Nile; it’s another to go upstream to stop the babies from being thrown in.
That's why you've heard us say that we're moving from welcoming to belonging, from charity to solidarity, from simply responding downstream to crises toward working upstream to transform the conditions that create them in the first place. That isn't because we've abandoned mercy. It's because mercy keeps leading us toward justice.
La historia de Sifrá y Puá nos recuerda que el mal casi nunca se presenta como mal al principio. Muchas veces llega disfrazado de órdenes, políticas o simplemente de "cumplir con mi trabajo". Ellas escogieron obedecer a Dios antes que al faraón, y su compasión se convirtió en valentía y resistencia frente a la injusticia.
Al reunirnos hoy para nuestra Reunión Anual, también nosotros preguntamos qué clase de iglesia queremos ser. Sí, seguiremos alimentando, acompañando y dando la bienvenida. Pero Dios también nos llama a ir más allá: no solo rescatar a los bebés del río, sino ir río arriba para detener las fuerzas que los empujan al agua. Por eso hablamos de pasar de la caridad a la solidaridad, de la bienvenida al verdadero sentido de pertenencia, trabajando para transformar las causas de la injusticia y no solo sus consecuencias.
This week in our Faces of Faith series we consider the remarkable tale of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego from the book of Daniel. It is a story where the main characters are challenged, face intense tribulations, but remain true to YHWH and are profoundly rewarded for their faithfulness. But we first need to look at the context of their story.
In 597 BCE, the Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar II declared war and laid siege to the city of Jerusalem, capital of the Kingdom of Judah. Jerusalem surrendered and the Babylonian army laid waste to the city, setting much of it on fire. Nebuchadnezzar issued a decree that all smart and capable Israelites be brought to Babylon. So its King Jehoiachin (Juh-HOH-wuh-kihn) was carried off, along with members of the royal household and many sacred treasures. Among the first wave of captives were four young men from the house of David named Daniel, Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah. Scripture tells us that “God gave these four young men knowledge and skill in both books and life.”
They were brought to Babylon to be trained for a period of three years, after which they would be compelled into King Nebuchadnezzar’s service. They were given new names that honored Babylonian deities: Daniel was named Belteshazzar, Hananiah was named Shadrach, Mishael was named Meshach, Azariah was named Abednego.
So they had lost their country, their homes, their way of life, their families, their language, and even their names. They were now living in a strange land, the land of their conquerors and were required to serve King of the captors.
In the catalog of memorable biblical characters, the daughters of Zelophehad are definitely not at the top of the list. In fact, I’m willing to guess that until today, most of you had never heard of them. Am I right?
Don’t feel bad about that—they are definitely not what Pastor Marvin called “headliners” last week. Their story does not appear in the Revised Common Lectionary, and I have never seen a stained glass image or classical religious painting of Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah. I have never heard a sermon preached about these daughters, and, although I have read the entire book of Numbers, I really have no memory of encountering the daughters in my reading.
And yet, their story is not insignificant. In addition to today’s text from Chapter 27, they are mentioned briefly in Chapter 26 of Numbers, and again in Chapter 36. And they appear yet again in Chapter 17 in the book of Joshua, after the Israelites have conquered the promised land and the land is being apportioned to the twelve tribes. The daughters show up and confront Joshua and the priest Eleazar, and make sure that they remember that God commanded that they be given their father’s inheritance. And it was given to them.
In the patriarchal structure of biblical-era society, property passed from father to son. Women and girls had to rely on their male family members for subsistence and protection. Widows without sons and unmarried daughters without a father or brothers were the most vulnerable in such a community. They had no power and no advocate, and—one would think—no voice.
And yet, these five sisters had courage. They stood up and marched right up to the entrance of the meeting tent and confronted what they saw as an unjust system. “Why should the name of our father be taken away from his clan because he had no son?” they said. “Give to us a possession among our father’s brothers.” Notice that they didn’t weep or ask or beg. They demanded! These disenfranchised women confronted what was unjust, demanded justice for themselves, and proposed a more equitable law—one that would benefit not only these five sisters, but generations of women to come.
These daughters represented the least powerful in their community, and yet they dared to challenge the tradition of the patriarchy.
But if you actually read Scripture, you discover that God seems to have a particular affection for ordinary people. People who appear for only a few verses. People who never preach a sermon or never perform a miracle.
A servant girl. A widow with two coins. A boy with five loaves and two fish. A nameless woman who reaches out and touches the hem of Jesus' garment. They often show up for just a moment. And yet without them, the story itself would be different, lacking even.
I think that's important because sometimes we imagine that faithfulness belongs to the extraordinary. We tell ourselves, "I'm not a pastor. I'm not a theologian. I'm not a saint. I'm just an ordinary person trying to live a good life."
But the good news of Scripture is that God has always been in the business of working through ordinary people. The kingdom of God is built not only by famous leaders, but by everyday acts of courage, kindness, persistence, hospitality, and hope. We are a priesthood of all believers.
In fact, if the Bible teaches us anything, it is that there really are no "minor" characters. There are only people whose stories we have not paid enough attention to.
Cuando pensamos en la Biblia, pensamos en los protagonistas principales: Moisés, David, Pedro, Pablo, María y Jesús; los grandes nombres.
Pero si realmente leemos las Escrituras, descubrimos que Dios tiene una manera especial de obrar a través de personas comunes. Una joven sirvienta. Una viuda con dos monedas. Un niño con cinco panes y dos peces. Una mujer sin nombre que extiende la mano para tocar el manto de Jesús. Puede que aparezcan solo por un instante, pero sin ellos, la historia sería diferente.
Y tal vez eso sea una buena noticia para nosotros. Porque a veces pensamos que la fidelidad es algo propio de lo extraordinario. Sin embargo, una y otra vez, Dios obra a través de personas comunes y de actos cotidianos de valentía, bondad y esperanza.
Quizás no existan realmente personajes «secundarios» en la historia de Dios, sino solo personas a cuyas historias no hemos prestado suficiente atención.
"Come, let us build ourselves a city and a tower with its top in the heavens, and let us make a name for ourselves; otherwise we shall be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth." The fear is not failure. The fear is difference. The fear is dispersion. The fear is the world in all its wild, ungovernable variety. Empire always fears difference. Empire prefers one language, one story, one identity, one sexuality, one center of power. Not merely a shared tongue, but a shared way of naming reality. A shared hierarchy of values. A shared understanding of who belongs and who does not. Empire demands sameness.
Babel is not ultimately a story about human beings reaching too high. It is a story about what happens when uniformity and supremacy become idols. The tower is not merely an architectural achievement — it is an imperial project, a monument to the dream of one city, one name, one way of being human. And so God does what God has always done when imperial power consolidates around sameness: God scatters. God diversifies. God insists that the earth is wider than any tower can contain.
The confusion of tongues is not God's punishment for diversity. It is God's protection of diversity.
En la historia de Babel, toda la humanidad se reúne en un solo lugar, con un solo idioma y una identidad compartida. Juntos construyen una torre, con la esperanza de hacerse un nombre y evitar ser dispersados por toda la tierra.
A menudo interpretamos esto como una historia sobre el orgullo: personas que aspiran demasiado alto y a las que Dios castiga confundiendo sus lenguas. Pero, ¿y si nos hemos estado planteando la pregunta equivocada?
Fifty days after the resurrection, during the Festival of Weeks, the Holy Spirit makes a dramatic entrance to proclaim her acceleration of the new creation! Whereas the presence of the Spirit had appeared as a pillar of fire while the Hebrew people followed the prophet Moses through the desert toward a new beginning, now the Holy Spirit lighted on each of them appearing as a fiery tongue that did not burn. As people’s languages had morphed and been confused at the Tower of Babel, now they spoke in different languages but understood one another. And it didn’t matter who they were or where they were from, everyone present was blessed with these gifts. God’s spirit was poured out on all flesh, just as the prophet Joel foretold. THESE were the signs of the New Creation manifesting! And thus, the Holy Spirit became the active presence of God in all of our lives, empowering and transforming believers to love God, love others and work toward co-creating a world full of God’s shalom and life-giving Spirit.
So where do we see the Holy Spirit today? What does the Spirit do exactly? What are roles does she play in our lives?
And at the center of that work is a simple but radical conviction: the people most impacted by the systems we seek to change must be at the center of shaping the solutions.
Not spoken for. Not managed from a distance. Not treated as projects.
But empowered as leaders, wisdom keepers, changemakers, and beloved children of God.
That means parents becoming advocates.
Neighbors becoming organizers.
Young people becoming leaders.
Community members becoming decision-makers.
That’s empowerment.
Not charity alone, but participation.
Not dependency, but belonging and leadership.
Creativity is not only painting or music or art, though it certainly flourishes there. Creativity is the courage to imagine that things can be different.
Every movement for justice began because someone imagined a better world first.
Someone imagined freedom.
Someone imagined dignity for an oppressed people.
Someone imagined a church rooted in love and justice and belonging.
That is holy creativity. And of course it's best accompanied with the creativity of art and song, which fuels movements.
——-
Pertenecemos a un Dios creador que hizo surgir la vida del caos primordial y, dado que hemos sido creados a imagen de Dios, ese poder creativo reside también en nosotros. La creatividad es el coraje de imaginar que el mundo puede ser diferente. Hay que ser atrevido a soñar más allá de los límites del presente para hacer realidad un mundo más justo.
Earlier this year, the editors of The Nation magazine nominated the entire city of Minneapolis for the Nobel Peace Prize. The editors acknowledged that, “while individuals and organizations have been granted this prize since its inception in 1901, no municipality has ever been recognized. But,” they insisted, “in these unprecedented times, we strongly believe that the case can be made that Minneapolis, the largest city in Minnesota, has met and exceeded the [Nobel] committee’s standard of promoting ‘democracy and human rights, and work aimed at creating a better organized and more peaceful world.’” (1)
Here, in part, is the editors’ nomination statement to the Nobel committee:
The people of Minneapolis have suffered countless abuses, including harassment, detention, deportation, and injury. And, in incidents that shocked the world, federal agents have killed multiple residents, including poet and mother of three Renee Nicole Good and intensive care nurse Alex Jeffrey Pretti.
In response to these horrific developments, elected officials, clergy, and labor leaders in Minneapolis and Minnesota have called for nonviolent protest [...]. The people of Minneapolis and neighboring communities have answered that call with peaceful mass demonstrations that have drawn tens of thousands of protesters to the streets in frigid weather. They have coupled their cry for federal agents to withdraw from Minneapolis with chants that declare, “No hate, no fear… immigrants are welcome here!”
The word compassion means a “deep awareness of the suffering of another accompanied by the wish to relieve it.” Compassion is at the center of Jesus’ teachings. It is at the core of what it means to be a Christian and therefore a disciple of Christ. We see the suffering of people in the world and in our communities and we feel this tug inside our spirits, this call to respond, to play some part in repairing the situation and easing their pain. Yet in a world full of suffering, where do we begin? The problems can seem immense and complicated, while we ourselves feel so small. How can we even HOPE to make a difference? How can WE change anything?
En la iglesia no sólo estamos llamados a resistir aquello que está mal; estamos llamados a tener claridad sobre lo que estamos construyendo. Así que hoy, volvemos a Jesús, el agente de cambio. En el capítulo 4 de Juan, Jesús se encuentra con una mujer samaritana junto a un pozo, cruzando profundas brechas sociales, étnicas y religiosas arraigadas en siglos de conflicto. En lugar de evitarla, interactúa con ella, la escucha y le devuelve su dignidad. Al hacerlo, Jesús nos muestra que el cambio real no comienza con la caridad, sino con la relación. Él cambia el paradigma: de la exclusión al sentido de pertenencia, del ritual a la transformación.
Organizing teaches us something deeply aligned with the Gospel: That transformation doesn’t happen for people. It happens with people, and among people. As I wrote in a recent article on community organizing, organizing is not charity; it is solidarity. It is not about speaking on behalf of others, being a voice for the voiceless. Rather, it is about co-creating the conditions for people to speak and lead for themselves.
And there’s one more important element that was added. Have you noticed it yet? Can you see the open door inside the “n”? This open door image adds yet another layer to our beloved logo, and gives us something to ponder: Are we standing on the outside of the door, being welcomed in? Are we standing inside the door, opening it to welcome in the stranger? Or are we opening the door to the world, preparing to get up and go out there, carrying our resurrection hope into the world? I think it gets to be all three at once.
La buena noticia está más viva que cualquier cosa que intente matarla.
Viva en el amor. Viva en la justicia. Viva en ti.
Todo acto de valentía —
toda elección a favor de la dignidad —
todo momento de misericordia —
eso es resurrección.
Así que no temas. La buena noticia está... viva. Y sigue alzándose.
So if you’re asking this Easter, “Tell me something good…”
Here it is:
The good news is more alive than anything that tries to kill it.
More alive than violence.
More alive than injustice.
More alive than despair.
And it is alive in you.
Every time you choose love over fear—
Every time you stand for dignity—
Every time you feed, welcome, resist, and repair—
Resurrection is happening.
We’ve been mighty busy this Lenten season leading up to Holy Week—potlucks, Songs of Resistance last Sunday (shoutout to Pastor Ashley), and another No Kings rally yesterday (shoutout to District 20 Woman of the Year, Pat Payne). And to those of you who were there, you may hear a few echoes today.
Today is Palm Sunday—wave those palms!
We know the story: smiling faces, palms laid down, a triumphant entry. But the version handed down to us has often been sanitized, often turned into a mere children’s pageant.
So let’s set the record straight. Palm Sunday was a protest.
Biblical scholars John Dominic Crossan and Marcus Borg in their book The Last Week, posit that Jesus enters Jerusalem at the same time that empire enters too. On one side, the machinery of Rome: governors like Pontius Pilate riding in on war horses, backed by soldiers, enforcing control. A parade of empire. A parade meant to intimidate. A parade meant to remind people who is in charge. Meanwhile at another entrance of the walled city, the Mercy Gate, here comes Jesus on a donkey, with the people, cloaks on the ground, palm branches in their hands. Not a parade of domination, but a parade of protest.
There’s a question underneath everything we’re holding in Lent this year: Tell me something good. And if we’re honest, that’s not always an easy request. Because the world can feel heavy. Because the news is complicated. Because even the movements and leaders we trust can and do disappoint us. And yet, the Gospel insists: there is good news. Not shallow good news. Not denial. But deep, grounded, hard-won good news. And today, Jesus tells us exactly where to find it: rooted in justice, mercy, and faithfulness.
Dime algo bueno. No siempre resulta fácil: la vida es pesada; el mundo, complicado. Sin embargo, el Evangelio insiste en que existe una buena nueva, real y sólida: se halla en la justicia, la misericordia y la fidelidad.
In the Gospel according to John, Jesus is teaching in the Temple. And suddenly, the teaching is interrupted. A woman is dragged into the center. Not named. Not protected. Not dignified. She is “caught in adultery,” they say. And then the trap is set. The academics and religious leaders turn to Jesus: “The law of Moses commands us to stone such women. What do you say?” It’s a lose-lose situation. If Jesus upholds the letter of the law, he participates in violence. If he rejects it, he undermines the Torah.
But Jesus does something unexpected.
So Jesus is once again flipping the script, inverting the hierarchy and power structures of the day. By saying that the kin-dom belongs to those with the humility of children, Jesus is once again asserting that the last shall be first and the least shall be greatest in God’s realm.
But the disciples still do not understand what he is trying to teach them. Their perspective still mirrors the ethos of their day. In fact, just a few chapters earlier, a couple of them asked Jesus if he would grant them the honor of sitting at his right hand and left hand in his future kin-dom. Imagine how confusing and heartbreaking it must have been for them to hear Jesus say that such lowly and humble children would be considered greatest in the kin-dom.
This passage is a powerful metaphor about the love that God has for all those that who lack means, status, agency or power. Jesus loves the little children, and all of those who are most vulnerable. Widows, orphans, foreigners/immigrants, and the poor are groups that the Bible tells us deserve special care and protection. In fact, scripture consistently emphasizes God's compassion and justice towards these vulnerable populations. We see God’s care and concern for them lifted up throughout the Bible.
It had been a long day. Jesus and his disciples had crossed the sea to find a deserted place, longing for rest, for quiet, for a moment to breathe. But the crowd found them — thousands of people, hungry not just for bread, but for healing, for hope, for a word that could make sense of their suffering.
As the hours wore on and the sun began to dip low over the hills, the disciples grew anxious. They were practical people. They were counting heads. And what they counted told them one thing: this is impossible. “Send the crowds away,” they said, “so that they can go into the surrounding country and villages and buy something for themselves to eat.”
It was a reasonable suggestion. Logistically sound. Fiscally responsible. And completely without imagination.
But Jesus looked at his disciples and said five words that must have stopped their hearts cold: “You give them something to eat.”
Gulp. Not a miracle. Not a dismissal. A commission. A challenge. A call to do the impossible — together.
The late, great philosopher and theologian, Rev. Fred Rogers once said, “Everyone longs to be loved. And the greatest thing we can do is to let people know that they are loved and capable of loving.” (1) In his simple and straightforward way, Mr. Rogers has captured what I believe is the good news at the heart of the Gospel of Jesus: love—love for God, love for each other, and love for ourselves.
Throughout this season of Lent, rather than focusing on the traditional texts and themes of Lent, we are choosing to lift up the “good news” that was central to Jesus’ life and ministry. On Ash Wednesday, we began by pondering the good news of radical welcome and invitation. Last week, Pastor Ashley lifted up the surprising good news that even small and seemingly insignificant seeds can take root and create tremendous change.
Today, we explore the good news of love. When we think about love in the gospels, we might think first of the gospel passages that have come to be known as the “Great Commandment.” In all three of the synoptic gospels—in Luke 10, Mark 12, and Matthew 22, someone asks Jesus what is the greatest commandment. And each time, Jesus responds similarly.
Good morning, Beloveds!
600 years before the birth of Jesus, during Israel’s captivity and exile in the land of Babylonian, the Prophet Ezekiel prophesied that Israel would eventually rise from the ashes of captivity and be exalted before the nations. Ezekiel famously described the coming kingdom using the vision of a mighty Cedar tree planted upon a lofty mountain top…becoming lord among trees. So imagine how shocking it would have been to hear Jesus say that the kingdom of heaven should instead be likened to a common weed.
Ezekiel ben-Buzi was a contemporary of both Jeremiah and Daniel and is counted as one of the major prophets. He was raised in Jerusalem as a member of a priestly family and entered into the work of the priesthood while he was a young man. A short time later, Ezekiel and King Jehoiachin were among the aristocracy, who were taken into Babylonian captivity by King Nebuchadnezzar in 597 BCE.
Written during the 22 years of the Babylonian exile, the book of Ezekiel is widely acknowledged to have been primarily composed by the prophet himself. (1) In the book, Ezekiel describes how he was called into prophetic ministry while in exile through a series of visions in the fifth year of his captivity. During this first prophetic period, his messages were principally directed at the city of Jerusalem and the weakened, client leadership of King Zedekiah in the southern kingdom of Judah.
The season of Lent— the 40 days of preparation (minus Sundays) that precede Easter—is probably the oldest and most ancient of liturgical seasons that we celebrate in the church. In the early days of Christianity, Lent was originally a season for new converts to the faith to learn and prepare for their baptism, which would happen on Easter Sunday. During that time, they would study what was central to Christianity. They would learn who Jesus was. They would learn the stories of his life and ministry, and they would come to an understanding of what those stories meant. They would learn the practices of Christian faith, and they would prepare for taking on a new life in Christ, which is what baptism was seen as. Rather than a season of penitence, as it is seen now, Lent was a season of preparation.
This season of preparation was probably well-established by the time of the Council of Nicaea in the year 325. But the practice of wearing ashes on the forehead was not something that was done by everybody in those early centuries. In the early days, ashes were reserved for the most notorious and wicked of sinners. It was a mark not of devotion, but of shame. The church would put these crosses of ash on peoples foreheads and send them out in public as a way of really forcing them to acknowledge their sins and come back into unity with the body of the church.
It took another four or five centuries for this practice of ashes on the forehead to become widespread across Christianity as a way of helping us understand our own sinfulness, because we all sin, and of recognizing the fragility of our lives, and the fact that one day we too will be nothing more than dust.
On a high mountain, something happens that does not make sense. Jesus’ face shines. His clothes blaze white. The air shimmers with glory.
And the disciples do what we often do when confronted with mystery: they become afraid. Transfiguration Sunday is not subtle. It is luminous. It is overwhelming. It is radiant with the insistence that what you see is not all there is.
In Exodus 24, Moses climbs Mount Sinai. A cloud covers the mountain. The glory of the Holy burns like a devouring fire. Six days of waiting. Then a voice. The text tells us that the glory of God settled on the mountain like fire. Fire does not just illuminate. It transforms. It changes whatever it touches. The people at the foot of the mountain see smoke and flame. They see uncertainty. They see danger. But Moses sees possibility. He climbs anyway. And undergoes 40 days of transformation. Faith requires that kind of climb.
Good morning, Church, and happy Bad Bunny Day to all who celebrate. I’m guessing most of us know what anger feels like. There are the everyday sparks: a pestering sibling, someone cutting us off in traffic, our team losing on a bad call. Those are acute bursts—anger that flares up quickly and often fades just as fast.
But then there’s another kind of anger. The kind that doesn’t dissipate. The kind that settles in the body. The kind that builds.
I don’t have to guess too hard to know there’s some chronic anger out there right now. Things are stacking up. For some of us, it was a meme posted by the President last week. For others, it’s something far closer to home. Either way, the pressure is real.
And here’s the first thing we need to say clearly: anger is not bad.
Anger has gotten a bad reputation in the church. We’re often taught to suppress it, spiritualize it away, or pray it into silence. But Scripture tells a more honest story.
“Imagine you’re in Galilee, on a windswept hillside near a little fishing town called Capernaum. Flocks of birds circle and land. Wildflowers bloom among the grasses between rock outcroppings. The Sea of Galilee glistens blue below us, reflecting the clear midday sky above.
A small group of disciples circles around a young man who appears to be about thirty. He is sitting, as rabbis in this time and culture normally do. Huge crowds extend beyond the inner circle of disciples, in a sense eavesdropping on what he is teaching them. This is the day they’ve been waiting for. This is the day Jesus is going to pass on to them the heart of his message.” (1)
Jesus begins his teaching in a curious way. He starts with blessings—the phrases we have come to know as the beatitudes. “In Jesus’s day, to say ‘Blessed are these people’ is To say, ‘pay attention: these are the people you should aspire to be like. This is the group you want to belong to.” [‘We Bless’ means, ‘these lives matter’]. It’s the opposite of saying ‘woe to those people or cursed are those people,’ which means, ‘take note: you definitely don't want to be like those people or counted among their number.’ His words no doubt surprise everyone, because we normally play by [different] rules of the game.”
The world is both burning and blooming. That line may be one of the most honest theological statements I’ve read in a long time. That sentence names something we all know in our bones, and those who have eyes to see, see it.
Everywhere we turn, there is evidence of burning: systems fraying, violence recurring, truth distorted, hope exhausted. We carry grief in our bodies. We carry fear in our newsfeeds. We carry weariness in our souls.
And yet. . . children still laugh. Neighbors still show up. Love still refuses to disappear. The sun still rises. The world is burning—and the world is blooming.
Karen Salmansohn, a self-described “Middle-of-Life” Doula, and columnist for Psychology Today, is a pioneer in the Mortality Awareness Movement. She doesn’t want us to fixate on death; she wants us to fuel the now. A mortality-focused lens helps one focus on what matters.
She penned a poem, entitled “The world is both burning & blooming” that really resonated with me this past week, perhaps it will with you as well:
You get the bad news
and the sunrise in the same day.
You cry over the headlines, then you laugh at a baby
wearing a hat shaped like a bear.
This is the dual citizenship of being alive.
Rage and reverence,
Grief and grace.
You are allowed to feel both.
You are allowed to scream,
& still notice how good the soup is.
You don't have to choose.
Let it all in.
Today is the second Sunday after Epiphany. The season of Epiphany begins after the 12 days of Christmas and lasts through Candlemas. During Epiphany, we focus on the incarnation of God among us, the manifestation of God’s physical presence in this realm. In fact, Epiphaneia in New Testament Greek means manifestation. Our stories and songs during this time concern the revelation of God’s manifested presence to her people.
These well-known lyrics of Charles Wesley are a great example:
Christ, by highest heaven adored,
Christ, the everlasting Lord.
Veiled in flesh the Godhead see;
hail the incarnate Deity,
pleased with us in flesh to dwell,
Jesus, our Emmanuel.
Hark the herald, Angels sing
Glory to the newborn king.
In Pastor Brenda’s opening remarks last week, she cited Diana Butler Bass saying that “(Epiphany) beckons us to pay attention and participate in widening the circle of light in the world—to push back against all brittle injustice and brutality.” (1) It calls us to be inspired and inspire others, to ignite the light of Christ in ourselves and then to carry that light and illuminate the world.’
The three of us Pastors felt that these words - “Inspire, Ignite, Illuminate” - were just what people needed in these challenging times. And so, we decided that it would be our theme for this Epiphany season.
The first Sunday after Epiphany has traditionally been reserved in the church for remembering and celebrating the baptism of Jesus. It follows directly after the celebration of the visit of the Magi and, along with a celebration of Jesus’s first miracle of turning water to wine at Cana, is one of three feasts of light that emphasize the revelation of Jesus to the world. Throughout this season, light and revelation are emphasized in the Bible readings and rituals that are traditionally shared in the church during Epiphany. And the season closes with the story of the Transfiguration—that mountaintop experience where Jesus appears in glory to three of the disciples, alongside images of Moses and Elijah. Epiphany is a season that moves us from the soft light of the manger and the magi following the light of the star to Jesus telling his disciples—and us—“You are the light of the world.” (1)
In the ancient church, these early feasts of Epiphany and Christ’s Baptism and miracle of the wine were considered much more important feasts than that of Christmas—which seems awfully strange to us now, who spend so much time and energy preparing for and celebrating Advent and Christmas. But I think the ancient church was on to something. Rather than just marking time between Christmas and Lent—a sort of “liturgical placeholder,” as theologian Diana Butler Bass calls it—this season is instead an “invitation to discover grace, goodness, and God.” It “beckons us to pay attention and participate in widening the circle of light in the world—to push back against all brittle injustice and brutality.” (2) It calls us to be inspired and inspire others, to ignite the light of Christ in ourselves and then to carry that light and illuminate the world.