Buried by God: A sermon for Proper 25A, 2026

Posted on by
Reply

Proper 26A
October 25. 2026

Maybe it’s because I spent this week at the Society of St. John the Evangelist, in silence, praying and chanting the daily office with the monks. Maybe it’s because of the books I was reading as well—about mysticism, prayer, doubt, and despair. Maybe it’s because of where I am in my life, or because it’s fall and the beautiful weather, the riotous color of the trees, the luminous sunlight  and with it all the encroaching darkness of winter.

Whatever the case, when I turned today’s readings a few days ago and read again the familiar story of Moses’ death and burial, and the author’s description of him as one “whom the Lord knew face to face,” that brief comment prompted reflection on Moses’ biography and the contours of his relationship with God.

Over the past weeks, we’ve heard readings from Exodus that begin with his birth and rescue by Pharaoh’s daughter; his murder of an Egyptian slave master and flight into the wilderness. We have learned of his call by God to lead the Hebrews out of bondage and to the Promised Land, the dramatic deliverance of the Hebrews at the Red Sea. We were told of his struggles with the Israelites in the wilderness, and the giving of the Ten Commandments.

Through it all, and not always foregrounded, has been Moses’ complex and changing relationship with God. There was his dramatic, paradigmatic encounter with God at Mt. Horeb: the burning bush; Moses’ call, and God’s self-revelation: I will be who I will be.

There was the later encounter with God when the whole of the Israelite people came to the foot of Mt. Sinai, also known as Mt. Horeb. When God spoke out of the earthquake, wind, and fire, the people recoiled in fear and asked that God speak only to Moses as their mediator. He went up the mountain and was enclosed by a cloud from which God spoke to him and dictated the 10 Commandments and other laws. When he came down the mountain, we’re told his face shone, and he veiled it so that the people were not frightened by it.

But what prompted all of this reflection on my part was something that hit me while I was reading this verse from today’s Deuteronomy reading: “Never since has there arisen a prophet in Israel like Moses, whom  Lord knew face to face.”

Remember last week’s reading from Exodus? Moses asked to see God’s glory, and; God responded: “no one can see my face and live.” Instead, God showed Moses God’s backside. That’s quite a contradiction, isn’t it, and I’m curious if it has puzzled commentator over the centuries as much as the reference to God’s “backside” has. But I think, and this may be only because of what I’ve been doing, and reading, over the past few days, that it’s one of those contradictions in scripture that points us to something much deeper, something that deserves our closer attention.

You may well wonder why I’m going on about all this, especially because of the language that’s being used and the imagery it invokes. We’re meant to imagine a God very like us, with a face and a backside at least. It conjures up pictures of the old white man with a beard in the sky, and we’re all quite beyond that. Our theologies are much more sophisticated. We know better.

But beneath the homey, earthy imagery lies deeper truth. It points to the intimacy and depth of the relationship between Moses and God. Perhaps there’s no better example of the power of that imagery than in another detail that fascinates me in the Deuteronomy passage. We’re told that when Moses died, God buried him.

Here, we have an allusion to one of the most intimate, heart-breaking, universal actions that humans experience. Indeed, burial may be one of those things that sets us apart as humans from other animals, that we take care of our dead. It is attested in the archaeology of the earliest human cultures. At the same time, it is an experience from which we moderns are insulated—by the funeral industry and the depth of our own emotions. I’ve had the experience many times of being in a room where someone has recently passed, and their loved ones, or even professional caregivers have been reluctant, or even refused to touch the body of the deceased. And at cemeteries where the space in which the coffin, or the urn will be placed is carefully concealed by a carpet of fake grass. It’s even the case, that the funeral director will hand me a vial of (presumably antiseptic) sand to cast on the coffin when I say “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” rather than offend sensibilities with clumps of earth in the pile concealed under the blanket of fake grass.

To image God, the Creator of the universe, deigning to pick up a shovel, dig a hole and bury the body of his beloved servant and prophet Moses, is at it once cringe-worthy and deeply moving. What does that intimate gesture tell us about their relationship?

If you find that image troubling or offensive, that’s ok. You’re not the first to do so; we’re not the first Christians to struggle with that image. It’s been a problem since the beginning of our faith. Theologians and ordinary Christians have found ways to reinterpret and reimagine such imagery to make it meaningful for their lives and s faith. WiWhat sort of imagery from your personal experience might you draw on that could help you enter into as intimate a relationship with God as that of God burying his beloved servant Moses?

But such language can offer us comfort and strengthen our faith. To imagine a God so intimately involved in the lives of those God loves, a God whose concern and care extends to the clothes on our back or the disposition of our final remains, a God who knows us face to face, can be a source of strength when we struggle or stumble.

And it also, I think, helps us reflect in a new way on the story from the gospel, in which a lawyer asks Jesus to prioritize the commandments. Jesus’ response is hardly revolutionary.  His words are quotations from Deuteronomy and Leviticus, straight out of Moses’ law,Moreover a contemporary of his, Rabbi Hillel, is remembered to have said in response to a similar question, “What is hateful to you do not do to your neighbor; that is the whole Torah, the rest is commentary; go and learn it.”

We have compartmentalized so much of ourselves, so much of our lives. We place our faith in God in one small sphere of our lives, for Sunday mornings, for example, or for those quiet moments of prayer  and meditation. We think of love as an emotion, we talk of falling in or out of love, or we say, we love this or that food, or activity. We are commanded, in Deuteronomy, here in Jesus’ words, to love the Lord our God with all of our heart, soul, and mind—we might say “with all of our selves, with our whole being.” I’m not sure I can even fathom what that might look like for me, what that would be like to love God with all of myself. And then, on top of that, we are commanded to love our neighbor as ourself. Is that even possible?

Here’s where I think the earthy, intimate image of God burying Moses might be of help. For in that very human, incredibly intimate action—I bet most of us are turned off by it, by the idea of the transcendent, immortal, invisible, omniscient, omnipotent, being though of performing that very intimate even offensive act, who of us could imagine, in this day and age, actually burying a loved one with our own hands—in that incredibly intimate action, we see a parable of God’s love for us. Imagine God lowering Godself to care for us so intimately. Imagine that love. If God can love us so powerfully and intimately, how can we not love God with the same intensity, with our whole selves, hearts, minds, and souls. And if God can love us, how can we not love our selves? And how can we not love our neighbors, and the stranger with our whole being, loved, as it is, by God?

Gotcha Questions and the Image of God: A Sermon for Proper 24A, 2026

Posted on by
Reply

October 18, 2026

Picture the scene. It’s the week before Passover in Jerusalem. Tensions are running high, as they always do in this season. It’s Roman practice to bring additional troops down to Jerusalem to help with crowd control and to be close at hand in case the usual disturbances break into open revolt.

On Sunday, a small group of ragtag peasants and fisherfolk from Galilee, led by their rabbi, had entered the city. They staged some sort of public display. It’s not clear how many of them there were, but there was a donkey and palm fronds. It was clearly drawing on imagery from Jewish scripture and history—this was imagery associated with the Davidic monarchy, and it’s likely that the leader was making some sort of messianic claims, interpreted by his followers and hangers-on as a call to rebellion against Rome.

The first thing they did after entering Jerusalem was to go to the temple. Most tourists did that, for Jews, the temple was likely the reason they had come to Jerusalem. It was spectacular—rebuilt by Herod the Great, still under construction. It gleamed with marble and gold in the distance. But this group didn’t go to the temple to worship or offer sacrifice. Their leader entered the temple courtyard, headed straight for the tables of the moneychangers, and again, caused some sort of disturbance, overturning the tables, crying out against their presence in this sacred space.

They left the city, it was evening, and went to the nearby town of Bethany, where they spent the night (either with friends, or because the accommodations were cheaper there than in the city during a high tourist season).

The next day, they came back in and headed straight for the temple again. And over the course of that day, their leader, Jesus taught and engaged in conversation and debate with various religious figures and groups. Over the course of this day, things get more pointed, as Jesus directs his attention at the religious elite, criticizing them for their actions and telling parables that are clearly directed at them. At one point, Matthew reports that the chief priests and Pharisees wanted to take action against him, arrest him, but they held back because of the crowds that were listening to him. It may also have been that they weren’t sure what charges they could bring against, whether those charges would stick, and whether they could convince the Romans that Jesus was enough of a threat to go after him.

So, some Pharisees and Herodians got together. That in itself is quite interesting. They were two groups that had little in common and were political opponents. The Herodians, as the name suggests, were supporters of Herod’s family, who had come to power through their connections with Rome. While they had done things to ingratiate themselves with the Jewish populace, like rebuiliding and expanding the temple, they were despised because of their support for Rome. The Pharisees were generally opposed to the Roman occupation, though they were unlikely to support armed revolt.

So when these two groups come together to ask Jesus this question, “Is it lawful to pay taxes to the Emperor,” they think they’ve got Jesus trapped. The Herodians would say yes, the Pharisees likely would say no (but pay anyway). And if Jesus agrees with either of them, he’s in trouble. If he says “yes” he would likely lose whatever popular support he had. If he says “no,” they can have him arrested for sedition.

A classic “Gotcha” question. We see them all the time; especially now, in the midst of the campaign for midterm elections, with so much at stake. Journalists, influencers, and the like, try to get candidates to say embarrassing things, confront them with past statements, seek to create soundbites that will go viral.

But, as is usually the case in these dialogues between Jesus and his opponents or questioners, Jesus turns the question back on them. First he asked them for a coin. Then he asked them a question, Whose image and title is on the coin? Caesar’s was their reply.

Already, there’s a great deal of interesting stuff in this story. Jesus asks for a coin, and out comes from someone’s pockets, a denarius. In the Roman Empire, coins were minted with the image of the emperor. Because of the commandment against images, however, most Jews considered Roman coinage, with the emperor’s image and an inscription alluding to his divinity idolatrous. In fact, special coinage without an image of the empire was minted and used in the Jewish temple precincts, where this conversation took place. It would have been embarrassing, to say the least, for one of Jesus’ interrogators to come out with such a coin.

Jesus asks them a question when the coin is offered: “Whose likeness does it bear?” The Greek word Matthew uses here is “ikon” It’s the same word used in the Greek translation of Genesis 1:26, when God says, ““Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness.” And I suspect that Matthew had that connection in mind. He wanted his readers to reflect on the significance of what it means to bear the “image and likeness” of God.

Jesus may have avoided the trap that the Pharisees and Herodians laid for him. But he has left us with important questions. What does it mean to be created in the image and likeness of God? It’s not just that as we humans we all share that same nature, being created in the image and likeness of God—that we need to remember that all of us, whatever our ethnic background or nationality, whatever our sexual orientation, gender identification, whatever our political views, our economic status, we are all created in God’s image and likeness. It’s also that remembering whose image we bear ought to make a difference in the way we live our lives, in our actions, in our goals and aspirations. What difference would it make, if, as we think about decisions we have to make, the choices we’re faced with, we paused for a moment and asked ourselves, Will what I do, what I choose show to myself and others that I bear God’s image and likeness?

Think for a moment, about how you might make sense of Jesus’ next sentence, “Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, give to God what is God’s,” if you approach it from the perspective of being created in God’s image and likeness.

This little sentence has become one of the proof texts for a certain understanding of the relationship of church and state, the relationship between the competing demands of the government and our Christian faith. Most of us view it somewhat simplistically. As citizens of the US, we are obligated to obey the government, pay taxes, and the like, and our faith is a largely personal, private thing. But if we are created in God’s image and likeness, if we bear that image and likeness, and if we are called to shape our lives, remake our image and likeness according to the model of that image and likeness revealed to us in Jesus Christ, then limiting our faith to a private, individual corner of our full and busy lives, seems like quite an inadequate response to the God who created us.

And so it may be that as we live out our lives, seeking to be faithful followers of Jesus Christ, bearers of God’s image and likeness, these two questions—what does it mean for our daily lives that we bear God’s image and likeness, and that second question, how do we embody, live out, that command, “Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, Give to God what is God’s,” are the most important questions we face.

Don’t forget your tux! A Sermon for National Coming Out Day, 2027

Posted on by
1

October 11, 2026

Today we are observing “Coming Out Day” which is observed every year on this day, October 11. To recognize it in our worship is to acknowledge the importance of members of the LGBTQ+ community in our midst and in the wider world, and to offer a special welcome to those members of that community who have been ostracized or traumatized by religious communities in the past and also on behalf of our fellow Christians, past and present, to lament the harm that has been and is done in the name of Christianity, and to repent of our own actions and those of our denomination and wider Anglican Communion.

Such an observance is especially important now as we have seen new attacks on the LBTQ+ community and especially on those who are trans. While it is heartening that in our diocese, a Trans priest has been called as Dean of the Cathedral of All Saints in Milwaukee, in the wider culture trans individuals are increasingly marginalized and vilified. 

At first glance, or on a superficial reading, today’s parable might seem perfectly suited for an occasion like today. It’s the familiar Parable of the Wedding Banquet. In Matthew’s version, a king throws a wedding banquet for his son and invites all of the usual guests. When they send their regrets, he sends his servants out into the city to invite everyone in to fill the banquet hall. It seems to be a parable of welcome and inclusion, appropriate for a Sunday such as this.

But not so fast. When you pay attention to the details, the parable becomes quite problematic, even, dare I say it, offensive. Let’s recall the context. Remember, Jesus is teaching in the temple during the last week of his life. The week began with what is called the Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem, which we commemorate on Palm Sunday. That event is immediately followed by Jesus’ entering the Temple and overturning the tables of the moneychangers. The next day, Jesus enters into debate with the chief priests and Pharisees, who question his authority and, we’re told, want to have him arrested but fear the crowds because of his popularity. It’s then that he tells the parable we heard last year, of the wicked tenants who killed the landlord’s servants and sons. 

As I was preaching this at the 8:00 service, it occurred to me that in Luke’s version of this parable a verse appears that has had powerful impact in the Christian tradition. In Luke’s version, the master tells the slave “Compel them to come in.” St. Augustine of Hippo used that proof text to argue for the Roman Empire’s forcing heretics and schismatics to join the Catholic Church, and to punish them if they didn’t. That’s hardly a message of inclusion, is it!

Today’s parable follows that one and it shares some of the same details. Again, it begins with Jesus saying “The kingdom of heaven is like this…” Remember as I have said repeatedly, when trying to make sense of Jesus’ parables, look for surprising, even inexplicable, behavior. And there’s plenty of that here. First of all, a king throws a wedding banquet for his son and sends out invitations. Now, if you’re invited to a royal wedding banquet, in what universe would you send your regrets? I mean, it’s the party of the year, the party of the decade. We probably can all still call to mind the royal weddings of Harry and William, right? Who was there, what the guests were wearing, Bishop Curry’s sermon at Harry and Meghan’s weddin.

But the bizarre behavior doesn’t end there. When the king extends the second invitation to the same A-list, instead of politely saying no, the invited guests kill the servants who have brought the invitations—Huh? What’s that about? In response, the king lays waste to the city. 

So now he sends his servants out again, (into a destroyed city, I suppose) and invites everyone else, “both good and bad,” to the feast. So far, so good, perhaps.

But then comes the incident with the man who is attending without a wedding garment. Again, consider the situation. The slaves invited everyone whom they encountered to the wedding banquet. Presumably, the banquet was about to begin. Where was the guy going to rent a tux at the last minute? In its original context, Matthew may have intended this bit of the parable to be directed precisely at those who weren’t prepared for what was to come, or as a reminder that the community gathered in the name of Christ may have been inclusive, but it also required certain ethical behaviors. We’ve seen such insistence earlier around the instructions concerning confessing sins and community conflict.

It’s not a reassuring message—we love to say “Come as you are” and “All are welcome here.” We want to be inclusive, welcoming, all those positive things. But let’s face it. Following Jesus has consequences, requires commitment, demands of us that we grow into his image and likeness; that we follow his teachings. And some of that, much of it, is hard. It was hard for Jesus’ first followers; it was hard for the community to which Matthew was addressing his gospel. It has been hard for Christians down through the centuries.

It is hard now. Bearing witness to inclusion and welcome when our government is detaining, killing, and transporting immigrants and refugees can be dangerous. Bearing witness to inclusion and welcome when LGBTQ+ individuals are again marginalized and trans people are scapegoated by politicians and the wider culture is unpopular. Advocating for a nation and community where all—people of color, immigrants, LGBTQ+, are able to flourish, to express themselves, to participate in our democracy and our cultural institutions can have consequences. The fact that the pride flag that flew from our tower sign was torn down repeatedly until we hung it out of reach of passers-by was a nuisance, but also a reminder of the environment in which we live. 

A few months ago, as I was standing outside the church greeting people, I was confronted by a man who decided to share with me what he thought the bible had to say about homosexuality. I listened to him patiently before entering the church to begin worship. As he harangued me, I thought about asking him if he was going to be going to church that day, or if he thought it unnecessary. Rather ironic, don’t you think, that he felt comfortable quoting scripture to me but didn’t seem to think it important to participate in Christian community.

From time to time, I’m reminded of the struggles the Episcopal Church endured in the years after 2003 and the election of Gene Robinson as our first openly-gay bishop. It was a long, painful road to full inclusion of LGBT+ people in the life of the church and the authorization of same-sex marriage. There are those in the the wider society who would even now welcome the reversal of those gains. And there may be some among us today who wish we wouldn’t talk about such matters, that it is unseemly to do so.

But as followers of Jesus, as the body of Christ, we are called to extend God’s love and mercy to all human beings, to embrace them in their diversity and difference, to offer them space to flourish and grow. As Paul writes in 1 Corinthians, all are members of the body of Christ, and the body needs all of its members. The presence of LGBT+ Christians in our community creates a stronger, more resilient, more creative body that bears witness to God’s grace and love. Thanks be to God!

Vineyards of Generosity: A Sermon for Proper 20A, September 20, 2026

Posted on by
Reply

I want you to picture in your mind a vineyard. Do you evoke memories of visits to vineyards in France or Italy, or maybe Napa Valley? Can you see the rolling hills, the vines, the ripe grapes, perhaps even workers harvesting. Perhaps it’s a memory of one of those movies that have been popular in recent years, appealing to nostalgia, or authenticity—the scene of an extended family sitting at a table groaning with food; and bottles of wine. Corrie and I recently watched Eva Longoria’s series on French cuisine that featured many such scenes in Burgundy, Alsace, and elsewhere.

In the biblical tradition, the vineyard is a symbol of God’s bounty and goodness. The bounty of the vineyard becomes wine that gladdens the heart. And God is the one who tends the vines and presides over the bountiful feast.

But such images of joyous celebration and bucolic relaxation belie the backbreaking labor that is required to tend the vines and harvest the grapes and the narrow margins with which most vineyards operate. Earlier this summer, I read a story in the New York Times about Napa Valley vineyard owners who are burning their vines because of the glut on the market, caused in some part by our current trade wars.

In the Palestine of Jesus’ day, there was also an economic transformation taking place, as small landholders were losing their land to the consolidation of agricultural production of vineyards, wheat, and olive groves. It’s likely that among the day laborers mentioned in today’s parable were just such people who had lost their land and livelihood and were forced to seek work everyday.

The parable we just heard is often interpreted allegorically—with the landowner standing in for God. On this view, the laborers who were hired at the beginning of the day are usually understood to be Jews, and those who come into the vineyard in the course of the day are the Gentiles who receive the gift of God’s grace. That the earliest workers grumble when they find out they are paid the same amount as those who worked only an hour, feeds into traditional anti-semitic tropes. 

As I’ve often said, parables are meant to unsettle us, to challenge us to see the world in a new way, from a new perspective. This one is no different. In these little stories, we should look for strange behavior, for actions that don’t make sense and explore how those actions and behaviors might challenge our assumptions about the world and God.

There’s plenty of strange behavior in this story. The landowner, for example. He begins the day just the way that landowners and farmers have begun the day for thousands of years, contracting with workers to see that the harvest is brought in. We might assume that he hired all the help he needed the first time he went into the market square. And when he hired them, he and the workers bargained on the pay they would receive. Presumably all were satisfied.

It’s now the landowner begins to act strangely. He comes back into the marketplace throughout the day (One might think that he would want to stay back and oversee the harvest). And throughout the day, he continues to hire workers. What’s his motive for this? Does he really need the additional help or is this his way of helping men who lost out on the opportunity for a full day’s wage? But as the story progresses, something else rather interesting happens. While he clearly stated to the first groups that he would pay them a day’s wage, when it came to the last ones, the ones who worked for just an hour, there was no mention of the pay they would receive. It’s almost as if he ordered them to go, and that they had no idea, no reason to know what pay they might expect. In this situation they lacked power and rights.

The odd behavior continues at the end of the day when the landowner passes out the laborers’ pay. Instead of settling up with those who had been working all day, he starts with the ones who came last. And he pays them a full day’s wage! We can all imagine the surprise and joy we would feel if we were treated that way. We can also imagine the anger and frustration we would feel if we were the ones who worked all day and received the agreed-upon wage, rather than much more. If they received a day’s wage for one hour’s work, it’s only fair that we receive nine times that amount for our nine hours of work.

There’s another way the landowner’s behavior is strange and inexplicable. This is no rational way for an employer to operate. He had better hope they finished the harvest that day, because if he goes out the next morning to hire workers to finish up, do you think anyone would agree to work for him? No, they would all wait, hang out all day, then show up in the market place at the last minute, in hopes of getting a day’s wage for an hour’s work. And all of the other landowners would be angry as well, because they could expect similar behavior from the pool of day laborers.

So, lots of questions… But the fundamental one is this: how does this parable explain or shed light on the reign of God? Matthew introduces this story with Jesus saying, “The kingdom of heaven is like …” That intro prompts us to allegorize it as a story about God offering grace and salvation. But how might have Jesus’ listeners heard this story? We can assume that many of them knew all too well the rigors and challenges of life as a day laborer? How would they have judged the landowner’s behavior? Would they have commiserated with those who were jealous at the latecomers? Would they remember days they had spent in the hot sun, working themselves to the bone, all for a meager sum that was enough for one person to live on, but not enough to provide for a whole family? 

In negotiating with and paying the first set of laborers a denarius, the landowner was acting justly—he paid the agreed-upon wage. In paying those who came later the same amount, he was acting with generosity. 

I find the different settings of the parable instructive. On the one hand, there’s the marketplace where the landowner conducts his business, hires his workers. On the other hand there is the vineyard, where the abundance of God’s grace is on display. The grapes that are being harvested will be turned into wine, a symbol of God’s love and extravagance. 

In the parable, we see the values of the market place being subverted by the values of God’s vineyard. As the day progresses, best practices in business give way to something else, as the landowner orders the laborers into the vineyard without first establishing their pay. When he does pay, everyone is treated equally, it’s not equal pay for equal work; it’s equal pay for each person.

It’s a bit like the story from the Hebrew Bible we heard—God’s gift of manna in the wilderness. God provided food for the Israelites, just enough for each person per day. There was abundance, but no hoarding because the manna would spoil.

We hear a great deal about economic anxiety today, about people worrying about whether they will have a secure future or whether their children will live as comfortably as they do. Along with that, there is a sense that some people receive benefits they don’t deserve, that they haven’t earned. We’re locked in competition with others, and so often our own status, our own sense of self is tied up in how much we make, what we own. It’s a dog eat dog world, and we want to come out on top. 

This parable points to a very different reality. In the vineyard, it doesn’t matter how hard you worked, when you started, where you came from. There’s enough to go around. It’s a world of abundance and generosity, not a world of scarcity and competition. Can we imagine such a world where greed and competition, and ambition are replaced by generosity? Can we imagine a world where the losers and the outcast, those discarded by society, are of great value to God, worthy to live each day with dignity? Can we imagine a world, can we help to bring into being a world where God’s generosity is greeted with gratitude and not jealousy? 

A Sermon for Proper 19A, September 13, 2026

Posted on by
Reply

The irony struck me as I began work on my sermon for today. As I’ve mentioned before, one of the things I do each week as I began thinking about my sermon is to go back through my files and read other sermons I have preached on these propers. Looming over each of the five sermons I’ve preached on these texts over the years is the memory of September 11, 2001, the twenty-fifth anniversary of which we commemorated two days ago. 

The events of that day and the days, weeks, and months that followed brought out the best and the worst in human nature and American culture. There was solidarity and compassion but there was also anger, hatred, and violent retribution. The war on terror brought with it an erosion of civil liberties, islamophobia, torture, and countless lives lost. Like so many other eras in American history, we have not had an honest reckoning with the past nor are we able, apparently, to learn from those errors. 

To hear Jesus speaking about forgiveness on this occasion is challenging indeed. But before we get to the gospel, the story from Exodus offers another perspective on the response to trauma and violence.

Our reading from Exodus has brought us to the Red Sea. The Israelites are fleeing Egypt and are caught between the army chasing them and the sea in front of them. A miracle brings them across the sea and destroys their enemy. In verses not included in today’s reading, we’re told that as they watch the destruction, the Israelites sing praises to their God:

“Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously, horse and rider has he thrown in to the sea.”

                                                                                                           Sentiment like this may be difficult to express, to rejoice in the destruction of one’s enemies; it is also a natural, human response to such an event. Yet, we sense that responses like this, no matter how natural, do not seem appropriate for Christians. An old rabbinic story, going back nearly two thousand years, offers another perspective on the Israelites’ celebration at the destruction of the Egyptian army. It goes like this:

“Having reached safety on the other side, and seeing the Egyptians perishing in the sea, the Israelites began to sing and dance.

“In heaven, the angels saw the Israelites singing and dancing, and they too began to sing and dance. But God rebuked them: ‘Those Egyptians perishing in the sea are my people also, and you want to sing and dance?'”

To celebrate a victory is one thing, whether that victory is on the battlefield or the playing field; to ask for, or offer forgiveness to someone who has harmed us, or whom we have harmed is quite another.

The parable we read in today’s gospel challenges us to think about forgiveness. It is set in the context of Peter’s question to Jesus, How often should I forgive someone who has wronged me? Jesus’ answer to Peter is over-the-top. Jesus says, “As many as 7  times 70—490 times. 

In its own way, this saying has also caused harm and trauma. It is one thing to ask forgiveness of someone I’ve wronged; it’s quite another to demand that an injured party forgive the perpetrator when there has been no repentance. I wonder how many times victims of sexual abuse or violence have been expected to forgive their abuser based on these verses. 

And then there’s what used to be the public ritual of the public figure caught in some wrongdoing who makes a grand show of confessing their sin and expecting to be reinstated to the public’s good graces. Today, in our coarsened society, such empty rituals are no longer common. It seems like public figures, be they celebrities, politicians, or athletes, can do what they want with impunity.

Still, we expect or desire offers of forgiveness in our personal relationships, when we have hurt a loved one with our words or actions, or when we have been hurt by someone. So Jesus’ words stand as a challenge to us: how often should we forgive one who’s behavior has harmed us once, or repeatedly? What might Jesus mean by these words?

Perhaps the parable is meant to make Jesus’ meaning clear, I don’t think it does. We are given the story of a rich man who takes pity on someone who owes him 1000 talents. The slave goes off and demands the repayment of 100 talent debt from someone else; when the debt isn’t repaid, he has him thrown in prison. Learning of that action, the king, denounces and imprisons the first slave.

The math: a talent was roughly 130 lb a measure used of gold and silver; one estimate is that it equaled about 15 yrs of wages for the typical worker; so the king, being owed 10000 talents, is owed 150,000 years of wages. A denarius was a coin worth about a day’s wages; the slave is owed 100 denarii, so that’s quite a bit of money as well.

The parable leaves us with questions, even though its meaning is quite clear. We should forgive those who owe us, just as God forgives us. But the questions—why does the king not forgive the slave a second time? After all, Jesus has told Peter to forgive not seven but seventy seven times. The parable invites us to think of forgiveness as a calculus—there exists, somewhere a finite number of times, beyond which it is not necessary to forgive. But that’s precisely the wrong way of thinking about things.

To think about forgiveness as a debt suggests that we understand it in terms we comprehend—mathematics or economics, and given all the talk of debt in our culture, we are sorely tempted to go down that route. That’s overlooking something that is crucial in understanding Peter’s question: “How often should I forgive my brother? For that question implies there is relationship between the one forgiving and the one owed. Including that in the equation changes everything. 

We ask God to forgive us and we experience God’s forgiveness, rich, unbounded, unmerited. It is that relationship and that experience that should shape our own forgiveness. That is the point both of Jesus’ answer to Peter and the parable itself.

I have lived long enough and served as a pastor long enough to know that pain and anger from hurt can last a very long time. We process things quite differently; in different ways and at different speeds. Even the same hurt inflicted on two different people can linger in very different ways in those who have been affected. Forgiving others may be difficult, even, at times, impossible. Yet our God, who has forgiven us so deeply and so completely, invites us, not only to be forgiven, but to forgive in the same way, richly, unboundedly, and totally. Thanks be to God!

Trauma, Memory, and God’s Grace: A Sermon for Proper18A, September 6, 2026

Posted on by
Reply

Christians are a people of memory. We are a community called together by memory; called to remember. Our central act of worship is a memorial and a re-enactment; but more than that we enter into the story itself as we remember God’s saving acts and participate in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

But as we all know, memory is a fickle thing. In our own lives, there are stories we’ve told ourselves, stories about us others have told us that might not bear up to close scrutiny and as we age, some of those stories fade into mist or even oblivion. On a personal level, we may repress memories of embarrassing moments or traumas we’ve experienced, but especially in the case of trauma, it can continue to shape us subconsciously, and even, as we are learning, for generations to come.

We see that same dynamic played out in scripture, as the authors and editors tell the story they want preserved. At the same time, they often reveal alternative or counter-stories that raise questions about their perspective. Nowhere is this more true than in the story from Hebrew Scripture we just heard; God’s instructions to Moses and the Hebrews on how to prepare for Passover. This event may be the key story in all of Hebrew Scripture—It describes God’s nature as the Hebrews and then Jews experienced God. It also defines the Hebrews and then the Jews as God’s people.

The story of Passover describes God’s liberation of the Hebrew people from bondage. It’s the story that Jews continue to tell and re-enact each year both because it celebrates God’s salvation of God’s chosen people and because it identifies contemporaries Jews as part of that larger story, part of God’s salvation history.

Passover is a celebration of Israel’s liberation by God; but it is set in the context of a larger story. We’ve heard parts of that story over the last few weeks—of Moses’ birth and rescue by Pharaoh’s daughter, the burning bush and God’s call to him. Between that event and today’s readings unfold the familiar story of the plagues. The instructions for the Passover come in the midst of the tenth plague—Yahweh’s killing of the first-born of Egypt, horrendous suffering. 

One might expect that the mood of Passover is joyous, but in the verses that were read, there is a stress on Yahweh’s judgment as well as on liberation. The joy of liberation is tempered by the reality that liberation came at a horrific price. We haven’t heard these weeks the stories of all the other plagues. But this last one, the killing of the firstborn of all Egyptian families, and their livestock, was the culmination of unimaginable violence and suffering. That violence would continue throughout the story—the destruction of the Egyptian army at the Red Sea, and later during the conquest of Canaan, as God demanded that the Hebrews kill everyone whom they encountered. But that will come later.

Back to the story of the Passover. There’s another important element, here. Liberation too is not self-evident. The command to eat while dressed for a journey and to eat hurriedly gives yet another note of urgency. The Hebrews may be free, but their enemies were pursuing them. 

The raw emotion and violence of the Passover narrative might tempt us to try to smooth its rough edges, to re-interpret it so as to better fit our world view. That would be a mistake. The Passover is the central ritual event in Judaism; its message and its re-enactment have played the leading role in how Jews understand themselves. The instructions to eat hurriedly, dressed as for a journey, put contemporary Jews back into the story of the flight from Egypt. Today’s Jews become Hebrews fleeing Pharaoh as they eat their lamb, bitter herbs, and unleavened bread.

Indeed, Passover is so important in the life of Judaism that early Christians had to reinterpret Passover as they developed their own rituals and theology. Thus, in the Gospel of John, Jesus is crucified as the Passover lamb; in Matthew, Mark, and Luke, the last supper Jesus shared with his disciples was the Passover meal, and thus our own Eucharist and our Christology borrow heavily from Passover imagery.

But there is a deep problem here. One the one hand, we have the image of a God, who hears the suffering of God’s people, and intervenes on their behalf. God frees them from their slavery in Egypt and promises that they will possess a fertile land. On the other hand, in the course of gaining their freedom, God wreaks vengeance on the Egyptians. 

The story of the plagues, read carefully raises profound questions about the nature of God and God’s willingness to destroy human and animal life. Indeed, it is not at clear in the story that either Pharaoh or the Egyptians have any power to avoid the horrible fates that awaited them. They certainly were not given a choice to avoid the final plague. At one point, God told Moses that he was bringing this last plague, the killing of the first-born on Egypt so that “my wonders may be multiplied.” 

There’s even today’s psalm which praises God’s vengeance against Israel’s enemies and concludes that all of it is “glory for God’s chosen people.”

It is an image of God with which we should be uncomfortable—hearing this lesson with its promise of the destruction of all the first-born of Egypt, not just humans mind you, but even cattle, that language should make us squirm in our pews. 

We might be tempted, many of us have been, to put that language and imagery down to the Angry God of the Old Testament, and contrast it with the loving God of the new. That is one of the oldest heresies on the books, and it’s flat out misinterpreting both the Old Testament and the New. There’s plenty of wrath and judgment in the New Testament’s depiction of God, and plenty of love and mercy in the Old Testament’s—we see that in today’s reading from Romans, in which Paul says twice that “love is the fulfilling of the law.” 

We look at such events and seek explanations. The size of the hurricanes and fires may in part be attributed to climate change, but the reality of natural disasters, earthquakes, hurricanes, and wildfires cause great damage and cost lives. We want to know why. And sometimes, we want to attribute such events to divine agency; that they are God’s judgment on us, or on the inhabitants of those places where they are occurring. But such attempts are misguided—as Jesus says in Matthew, “the rain falls on the just and the unjust.” 

Instead, we should remember another important lesson from our reading of Exodus—God hears and responds to the cries of those who suffer. In the Christian tradition, we see God in Jesus Christ, walking with us, suffering, and dying on the cross. It’s a symbol of God’s presence in the midst of all of the evil and suffering in the world. We should look for signs of God’s presence, God’s love and grace, wherever people suffer, in floods and hurricanes, in the rubble of bombed cities.

As God’s people, we are also called to hear the cries of those who suffer—from hurricanes and earthquakes, yes, but also the cries of the hungry and homeless, the fearful and the hurting. More than that, we are called to respond to those cries, to work to end their pain, to bring justice and liberation to the oppressed, the enslaved, the incarcerated. 

And to bring us full circle, we are called by God, as a people and community of memory, to tell honest stories, about ourselves and about God. Yes, we should celebrate the liberation we have experienced; we should remember and give thanks for the blessings God has given us, but we should also remember and mourn the price that was paid for that liberation and those blessings—the people who suffered because of them, the people who still suffer, and we should, when necessary, repent.

Wildflowers and Burning Bushes: A Sermon for Proper 17A, August 30, 2026/

Posted on by
Reply

A few weeks ago, I was out on a bike ride on the Capital City Trail, between Dunn’s Marsh and Lake Farm Park. It’s a beautiful stretch of the trail, rolling terrain, some wooded areas and a lot of prairie. I love riding through the prairies in the summer—the scenery is a riot of color with purple coneflower, wild sunflowers, and rudbechia dominating the landscape. As I was riding along, I saw from the corner of my eye a flower I didn’t recognize, but it took me a second to process it and by then I was a few yards further down the trail and reluctant to turn back. 

Later, as I made my way back home the same way, I kept my eyes peeled for the same flower and when I saw it, I stopped took a photo, and identified it with my camera. It was prairie blazing star, a purple-spiked flower. There was just a small cluster of them in one spot just a few feet from the trail. I have biked the same trail several times since then, and I haven’t seen that flower again. Perhaps I haven’t looked for it, or I was too focused on other things, deep in thought, to notice it. 

The story of Moses’ encounter with God at the burning bush is one of the foundational stories of biblical tradition—the story of God’s self-revelation to Moses and God’s call to Moses. But it starts in such an ordinary, mundane way. Moses was going about his business, tending his father-in-law’s sheep.

A lot has happened since we encountered Moses as a little baby, rescued by Pharaoh’s daughter. He grew up at court, with all the privileges entailed, and when he was a young man out and about, he encountered a slave driver whipping a Hebrew worker, got angry and killed him. So he had to flee, and ended up here, in Midian, where he encountered Jethro and married his daughter.

I can imagine him there with a flock of sheep, no one to talk to, lost in his thoughts. He might have been wondering how he had gotten here, after living at Pharaoh’s court; he might have been wondering how his life might have turned out if he hadn’t done that one bad thing. He might have been wondering how his life would turn out now. He might have been feeling just a little bit sorry for himself. One boring day after another, watching a flock of sheep as they grazed.

And as he’s going about his business, on a day like any other day, he has an encounter with God. He sees a burning bush; it’s strange because the fire doesn’t seem to destroy the bush but it keeps burning. So he goes to investigate. On one level, this encounter with the divine is a straightforward theophany, the scholarly term used for such experiences of the holy. There’s a strange event—the burning bush; the divine address to a human, and the human’s response of fear and humility. Moses took off his sandals and hid his face. There’s also the divine self-revelation. I am the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. In Hebrew scripture, such theophanies often include a call or commission, as this one does: God tells Moses to go back to Egypt and lead God’s people out, to this place, to worship God.

But Moses isn’t having it. As I’ve said before, these stories from Genesis and Exodus depict many of the leading characters in complex ways. They aren’t all good. That’s certainly the case with Moses, even from what little we know so far. After all, he did kill that Egyptian, so at the very least, he’s probably hotheaded, rash. But now we see another side of him. He’s not going to accept the task God has set out for him without some discussion or debate. He pushes back, saying to God, “That’s all well and good, God, but who should I tell them has sent me?”

Now, in Hebrew scripture, names are incredibly important. They aren’t random but reveal something essential about the person’s identity. Jacob, which was said to mean “heel” for example, was called that because he was grasping the heel of his brother when they came out of the womb. Later, he would be renamed Israel after wrestling with the angel, which was said to mean “he strives with God.” 

So when Moses asks for God’s name, he is asking to know who God is, but knowing names also gave one some power over the one named. But God’s answer eludes Moses’ trap, and eludes our efforts to understand and control God as well. On one level, God’s response, “I am who I am” is the perfect comeback. It could mean, “Moses, don’t try to control me.” But the Hebrew could be translated in other ways, most significantly, in the future tense—“I will be who I will be.” 

It doesn’t just prevent Moses from defining or confining God into categories he’s comfortable with. It’s declaring to Moses that if he wants to know who God is, he will have to spend time with God; he will have to experience God, walk with God. And over the course of his long life, Moses would do just that. 

But it wasn’t just Moses. The same was true of other biblical figures—Abraham who God called out from his home. It was true of Jacob, who after wrestling with God was renamed Israel. 

And it is true of people in the New Testament, not least the disciples, who Jesus called to follow him. We see that with Peter, who made his great confession of faith, “You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God.” And yet a few verses later, when he hears Jesus speaking about what will happen to him in Jerusalem, Peter rebukes him, refuses to believe that Jesus might suffer and die—and in response, Jesus calls him Satan. He, and the other disciples would learn what Jesus meant by his prediction only by following him. They would learn, only by following him, who Jesus was and what it meant to follow him, to take up their crosses.

We often think we need to figure everything out, to know what we believe, know who God is. But as I’ve said before, sometimes, the questions we ask are more important, more revealing of ourselves and of God. Scholars have pondered for centuries just what God’s answer to Moses means. Those few words have opened up infinite speculation and questions that would have remained unspoken if Moses hadn’t asked his question.

Moses asked God a question. Do you have questions about God? Any questions about or for God that you dare to ask? 

Asking these questions, actually saying them out loud, opens us up to the possibility of deeper relationship with God. The God we encounter as we ask the questions is a more expansive, more exciting, more challenging God.

In addition to God’s answer to Moses, we learn something else about God in this reading. It’s something very important but often overlooked. God hears the cries of those who suffer. God responds to the oppressed. 

In addition to Moses’ question, there’s another question that emerges from today’s readings. God called Moses to lead God’s people out of bondage. Jesus called his disciples to take up their crosses and follow him. Relationship with God, relationship with Jesus Christ is not just about being or knowing, it is also about being called. And so the second question we are posed today is, “Where is God calling us?” Our inclination may be, given what Moses did next, given what the disciples ended up doing, that being called by God means big things—becoming a prophet, a saint, a hero of the faith. But close reading of scripture reveals something else, that God uses ordinary people, like you and me, and that God often calls us in very small, ordinary ways. So where is God calling you? Sometimes, that call from God may come in a spectacular event, like a burning bush; but sometimes it may be so small and quiet that we might be prone to miss it if we aren’t paying attention—like not seeing a prairie blazing star as we’re riding by.

Finally, remember that “God will be who God will be.” Among all the other things this means is that our deeper knowing of God, our deeper relationship with God, lies in the future, with all of its possibility and uncertainty. God is calling us all to new things, new adventures, and as we go, we will learn more deeply who God is and experience more deeply God’s love and grace. 

Who do you say that he is? A Sermon for Proper 16A, August 23, 2026

Posted on by
Reply

August 23, 2026

When I read today’s first lesson earlier this week, I couldn’t help but think how my reading of it was affected by our current context. A capricious, ruthless, fearful ruler commanding the separation of families. The suffering it must have caused, not just the slave labor, but then the demand that male children be killed. And the resistance. The different ways in which powerless women refused to submit to the yoke of oppression—with lies and obfuscation, by hiding and concealing. Another interesting fact, the only characters named in the story were the midwives: Shiphrah and Puah; and then, at the end of the story, Moses. No one else is given a name, not his mother or sister; not Pharaoh or Pharaoh’s daughter, but only the two midwives and the baby saved from murder. 

Empire looms over the gospel story as it does over the Exodus story. I’ve mentioned before that geography is important to the gospel writers. Each of them use geographical details in slightly different ways, but paying attention to where events are said to take place, paying attention to Jesus’ itinerary, helps elucidate larger themes in the gospels’ portrayal of Jesus.

In today’s gospel reading we are in the region of Caesarea Philippi. He’s been traveling a great deal in these chapters. A couple of weeks ago, he was in Galilee, and as we saw, he and his disciples crossed over the Sea of Galilee. Then, last week, in the reading from chapter 15, Jesus went from there far to the northwest, to the region of Tyre and Sidon, along the Mediterranean coast. After that, Matthew tells us, he returned to the shore of the Sea of Galilee. 

Now, he and his disciples are in or near Caesarea Philippi. That’s far to the north on the border of the province of Syria, in a region controlled by Philipp, Herod the Great’s son. Caesarea was a city that Augustus had given to Herod and Herod had rebuilt. Herod had built a marble temple dedicated to Augustus. When Philipp succeeded his father, he continued the building spree and renamed the city Caesarea Philippi, in honor of his imperial patron and himself. Like all such cities in the Roman Empire, it was a projection of Roman power and culture. It was both symbol of that power and a central node of power.

It was here that Jesus asked these two questions—“Who do people say that I am? Who do you say that I am? Those of us who are familiar with the story, familiar with the Christian tradition, know a little bit of how this story has been interpreted in the history of Christianity. It is a founding text for notions of papal supremacy, and the power of the institutional church. “On this rock, I will build my church, and the gates of hell will not prevail against it.” As you probably know, one of the most common symbols of the papacy are the papal tiara above two crossed keys. 

But I’m not interested in that tradition of interpretation. Rather, I want to focus on the power and significance of those two questions, and I want to imagine, if you can, Jesus asking those questions today, on Madison’s Capitol Square, , or in the halls of the US Capitol, or the White House. Jesus asked his questions in the shadow of empire, with the presence of Roman military and cultural power dominating the landscape and no doubt the minds and lives of the residents.

Who do people say that I am? 

That’s the easy question to answer. The disciples had no problem offering answers—John the Baptist, Elijah, Jeremiah, one of the prophets. What answers would you give to that question today?

“Who do you say that I am?”

That’s the hard one and I can imagine the disciples looking away, looking down at their sandals, trying to avoid Jesus’ searching gaze. Awkward silence, until Peter blurted his response,, “You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God.” And I can see the other disciples rolling their eyes as Peter responded, thinking to themselves, “There he goes again. Why doesn’t he just shut up?”

But Peter’s answer was not because he had studied harder than the other disciples, that he had memorized everything Jesus had said. Peter’s answer came not from himself but from God. And even he didn’t know what his answer meant. A few verses later, after protesting in response to Jesus’ prediction of his arrest, execution, and resurrection, Jesus would call Peter, “Satan.” And as we know, Peter would deny Jesus at the moment it mattered most. 

Still, now, he made the confession, “You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God.”

We live in perilous times for Christianity. It’s not just the rise in the numbers of those who claim no religious affiliation. There’s the close identification of evangelical Christianity with right-wing political views, the conflation of American Christianity with American nationalism and of course, white supremacy and racism. 

We might think that the questions Jesus asks here are primarily doctrinal—about his nature and identity with God. You might have thought, as I gave you silence a few minutes, “Now what does the Nicene Creed say?” 

You might think that Jesus wants an answer full of doctrinal statements. But I don’t think that’s the case. Jesus asked the question of his closest friends and companions, people who had walked with him across Galilee, to the Mediterranean, and now to the far north. They had listened to him, even when they didn’t always understand what he meant; they had seen him heal the sick, cast out demons, feed thousands. They had stuck with him even after they heard of John the Baptist’s death, and begun to imagine that a similar fate might await their leader as well.

They might not have been able to say the words—even Peter needed God’s help to say them, but deep inside, I think they probably were sensing something of who Jesus was, because they were getting to know him. 

I don’t think the point is that we get the answer right. After all, Peter didn’t really understand what the words he was saying meant. I think the point is the conversation—hearing Jesus’ questions, taking them seriously, wrestling with them, and in that response, opening ourselves to him and to his love. 

Our American culture, American Christianity, have named Jesus but I don’t think those of us who experience and know Jesus in ways different than that, who see in him someone who welcomes the stranger, feeds the hungry, clothes the naked, loves his enemy, can simply argue for an alternative definition, blurt out a different response to the question. We have to show in our lives, and in our community who Jesus is.

When Jesus asks us, “Who do you say that I am?” he does not want an answer in word or doctrine. He is asking us to speak from our hearts; he is asking to see us put our answer into action, not words. 

Who do you say that I am? That may be the most urgent question facing us today in the midst of all of our political turmoil. Can we confess, and express a Jesus who offers hope to those in despair, who breaks down the barriers that divide us, who loves everyone, without exception, and whose love casts out our fear?

Fearing the chaotic abyss: A sermon for Proper 14A, August 9, 2027

Posted on by
Reply

It was the summer after my junior year of college and I was doing what I had done every summer since I hit my teens—I’d given up my books and schoolwork for a hammer and nail apron and took my place on the jobsite where my dad was building or remodeling houses. This summer, the first job was to frame a two-story house and I found myself walking around on the second floor joists as we began hanging rafters for the roof. All of a sudden, I looked down and realized where I was, twenty feet or more above the ground. My legs began to tremble and I had to get down on my hands and knees to stabilize myself. It had been nine months since I had found myself in a similar position, and even though my body remembered it, my mind was playing tricks on me. I was scared, and it would take a couple of days of working up there before I got comfortable again.

I wonder if Peter had a similar experience, walking out on the water, suddenly realizing where he was, and freaking out about it. There’s actually a backstory about my fear—I had to overcome fear of heights to work with my dad. I remember as a younger boy, maybe ten years old, climbing around on a half-framed house and falling. I didn’t hurt myself. But years later, when I started working for my dad, I had to overcome that memory before I could function fully on a ladder or a roof.

This morning’s thunderstorm put me in mind of another incident from that same summer. We were finishing the metal roof on a large pole barn, 40 or 50 feet above ground, when a thunderstorm suddenly popped up. I’ll spare you the details. It was quite possibly the scariest experience I’ve ever had.

So many of us are fearful right now. The old certainties on which we relied seem to have fallen away; the safety net is being dismantled; our very sense of who we are as a nation, a people dissolving in front of our eyes. It often seems like we are hovering over an abyss of chaos.

I know that many of us come to church in search of reassurance and hope, to hear words of inspiration and comfort in these troubled times. Today’s gospel lesson speaks directly to fear. It’s the familiar story of Jesus walking on the water. And no doubt, those of you have attended church all your lives, going all the way back to Sunday school as kids, could tell me about this story—that it’s about Peter’s impulsiveness, his lack of faith, and of Jesus saving him in spite of himself; a lesson that we can transfer to ourselves. And so it is, but it is also, or could be, about so much else.

First, a note about context. This story is set immediately after the miracle of the feeding of the five thousand. But there’s another event that may offer additional perspective. Chapter 14 begins with the account of Herod’s execution of John the Baptist. After receiving word of this from John’s disciples, Matthew reports that he “withdrew to a deserted place.” But time and space for grief and reflection were not to be. The crowds followed him, Jesus had compassion on them, and healed their sick. It was that evening that Jesus took five loaves and two fishes, and from them fed the crowd.

Our story picks up immediately after that event. Again, Jesus withdraws after sending the disciples ahead. He needs time to grieve, to recharge and reflect on what John’s death might mean for his own ministry. The disciples begin their journey across the Sea of Galilee. They were sailors, at least four of them were, and the Sea of Galilee was their home. They apparently spent the night on the lake, their boat was battered by wind and waves—the Greek is literally, “tortured” so we’re meant to imagine the disciples had to struggle mightily against the great danger they faced. What I find surprising in this brief account is that Matthew doesn’t say anything about the disciples’ emotions until the moment they catch sight of Jesus walking on the water. They may have struggled in the storm throughout the night, but Matthew tells us that they became afraid only when they saw Jesus, thinking he was a ghost.

Similarly, when Peter takes out after Jesus, he is fine until he notices the wind. Then he becomes frightened begins to sink, and calls out to Jesus, “Save me.”

There are other dimensions to this story. One of the most significant is the sea itself. Throughout biblical literature, the sea is a symbol of chaos. It is the primordial stuff, present at the beginning of creation, out of which God creates order. For Jesus to walk on water is another proof of his power over evil and chaos, demonstrated as well by the fact that the storm ended when he entered the boat. And the disciples responded appropriately, worshipping him and confessing him to be the Son of God. 

To make another connection with ancient understandings, walking on water certainly symbolized divine power, but when humans attempted it or claimed the ability, it was seen as hubris, arrogance, and tyranny. The Emperor Caligula, for example, who reigned from 37-41, had a temporary bridge built across the bay of Naples so he could cross on foot, as befitting a God, and not cramped in a boat. So this event, coming after Herod’s execution of John the Baptist, after Jesus fed the five thousand, is another example of God’s reign breaking in, to provide food, to bring order out of chaos, to initiate God’s justice and peace.

And the disciples respond accordingly. It’s worth pointing out that in Mark’s version of the story, which doesn’t include Peter’s attempt to walk on the water, ends with this description of the disciples: 

“And they were utterly astounded,for they did not understand about the loaves, but their hearts were hardened.”

By contrast, Matthew’s story ends very differently. The concluding verse reads: “Those in the boat worshiped him, saying ‘Truly, you are the Son of God’.” Two things here. First of all, the use of the word “worshiped.” When we hear that word, we think of what we do on Sunday morning: sing hymns, read scripture, pray, all of that. It’s all quite respectable, rather staid. But the word translated as “worshiped” literally means “prostrated”—to get down, not just one’s knees but to lie prone before the one being worshiped. It’s the sort of bodily gesture that would have been expected when approaching the throne or person of the emperor. You might well wonder how the disciples could have done that in a boat in the middle of the Sea of Galilee.

The second thing is the confession—Truly you are the son of God—the one able to feed five thousand, to calm the seas, to demand the kind obeisance normally demanded by the Emperor: an alternative ruler, an alternative kingdom.

In so many ways the world in which we live is chaos. We may feel like we are the disciples in the boat struggling against a mighty storm. We may feel like Peter, sinking as we notice ourselves suspended amid chaotic forces. We are afraid. I am afraid. I am afraid for our planet, for the human race, for this nation, our city. I fear for American Christianity that has been complacent and complicit in the sins of white supremacy, racism, and the violence of war. 

But if, like the disciples, we truly confess Jesus to be the Son of God, then our allegiance to him supersedes all other allegiances, including that of our nation. If we confess Jesus to be the Son of God, we need to name and fight the sins and evils that surround us. We need to call out and confront all those who conflate flag and cross; we need to confess our sins and complicity in the racism of our nation and out city. We need to call out and condemn the hatred and evil that that we’ve seen in too many other places across America over the last couple of years.

As followers of Jesus, as his disciples, we are at a moment of decision. We can confess him to be the Son of God, we can take up our crosses and follow him into the chaos that surrounds us. We can share his message of love, proclaim the justice of God’s coming reign, or we can turn away, look away, in disbelief and silence, and allow those forces of chaos to overwhelm us a church, a city, and a nation.

Jesus is reaching out his hand to us. Do we have the strength, the courage, the faith, the moral clarity to grasp it? For in that hand lies our salvation.

My statement on the Killing of Corey Ruiz

Posted on by
1

July 25, 2026

The Feast of St. James the Apostle

My siblings in Christ:

We are grieving, heartbroken, angered by the shooting death of Corey Ruiz this week. His death is mourned by all of us, but especially his family and friends. For many of us, his death reminds us of other such incidents, like the killing of Tony Robinson. The videos are horrifying. The questions raised by this incident are all too familiar. Why was deadly force used? Why are African Americans victims of police violence in disproportionate numbers to the percentage of their population in Madison? Why did officers fail to de-escalate? What can we do to prevent such incidents in the future? 

Answers to some of these questions may come from the investigations currently underway but the deeper issues around racism and state violence will persist. As faithful Christians we are called to lament the suffering and injustice that occur and to commit ourselves as a congregation and as individuals to build a more just and equitable future. At Grace, our Racial Justice Committee (formerly “Creating More Just Community”) has been working since its founding in 2015 to educate and advocate around issues of racial justice and equity. We have sponsored speakers, led programs on understanding racism, and through our participation in MOSES, have advocated for reform of the criminal justice system. We have also supported vulnerable populations through our food pantry, our hosting of the men’s homeless shelter for nearly 40 years, and now through our partnership with Catalyst for Change.

 All of this is commendable but it is not enough. Even as we grieve and continue to process the events of the last week, engaging in a clear-eyed assessment about what those events reveal about our community, we must redouble our efforts to construct a society in which all its members can thrive and flourish. 

We may be grieving, angry, and dispirited; our hope for a better future crushed under the weight of all the evils in the world. Yet God continues to work in the world; the Risen Christ proof of God’s power. And as St. Paul writes in the Epistle reading for Sunday: 

For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:39-40).

Grace’s Racial Justice Committee meets on the second Tuesday of each month at 5:00 pm via zoom. We welcome new members. Catalyst for Change will be giving us an update on their work after the 10:00 service on Sunday July 26. The statement issued by MOSES is available here.