The Calls of Abraham and Matthew: A Sermon for Proper 5A, June 7, 2026

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Caravaggio, The Call of St. Matthew 1599-1600, Wikimedia commons

Let me begin by providing some orientation for you. Today, we enter the long season after Pentecost, which continues right until November 29 which is the first Sunday in Advent and the beginning of the new liturgical year. In Roman Catholicism, this is called “Ordinary Time” not to distinguish it from the “special” time which precedes it, but because it is measured by ordinals—numbers. So we are on Proper 5, “propers” referring to the appointed collect and lessons for the day.

         In a sense, though, it is “ordinary” because we have just come out of that part of the calendar that focuses on the birth, baptism, crucifixion, resurrection and ascension of Christ. The great feast days of the liturgical year lie behind us and our gospel readings will focus on Jesus’ teachings and his miracles. We are settling in for the summer, with its slower pace and rhythms, and “ordinary time” seems an apt name for it.

         One more thing to which I would like to draw your attention. Since 2006 or so, the Episcopal Church has authorized the use of the Revised Common Lectionary for our Sunday readings. It is a lectionary shared by the mainline denominations and increasingly by other Christian denominations and churches. One of its innovations was to offer optional readings for the first or Old Testament reading during the Season after Pentecost. 

There are two tracks. Track 2 roughly conforms to the traditional Book of Common Prayer lectionary, which selected Old Testament readings that in some way reflected on the day’s gospel reading. The chief benefit of that approach is to provide some thematic unity to the readings. But it has two drawbacks in my view. The first is that it removes the Old Testament texts from their larger narrative contexts which can lead to confusion. The second, and in my view, more significant drawback is that it leads to a Christological, or even supersessionist interpretation of the OT text, reading it in light of our Christian faith, rather than taking it seriously on its own terms.

         Track 1, on the other hand, offers a semi-continuous reading of Hebrew Scripture. In this year, year A, we will be reading the stories of the patriarchs; year B focuses on the monarchy, and year C on the prophets. We will be following track 1 this summer, and as you heard, we begin with the story of the call of Abraham.

         As a final note before digging into the text, I would like to remind you of where this story comes in Genesis. Last week, on Trinity Sunday, we heard the story of creation as presented in Genesis 1. In the beginning when God created the world, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the earth. Then comes the creation of the man and the woman, later identified as Adam and Eve; the story of Cain and Abel, Noah, and the flood, and finally, in chapter 11 the Tower of Babel, and the dispersal of humanity throughout the world.

         Now, like one of those movie shots that begin with a panoramic view and slowly zoom into a detail, the narrator focuses in on a single family, a single man. Abram. It’s an archetypical story, perhaps the archetypical story for the related traditions of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, because each of these traditions look to Abraham as the progenitor of their faith.

         In the brevity and simplicity of this story lies profundity, much of it unspoken but implied. God spoke to Abram: “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you.” So Abram goes, taking with him his wife Sarai, his nephew Lot, all of his possessions and “the persons (ie., slaves) that they had acquired in Haran” and went to the land of Canaan.

         We’re not told why God chose Abram or why Abram obeyed. We’re not told whether his wife Sarai had anything to say about the decision. And of course, none of the slaves who were taken had any choice in the matter. There’s no mention of “faith” in the text, no matter how much St. Paul reads faith into it from the Romans lesson. 

         We might wonder, as the rabbis whose reflections were included in the Talmud, why God chose Abram. One of the most intriguing of their thoughts was that perhaps God had called many people before calling Abram, but Abram was the first to respond and follow God into the unknown.

         We might ask the same question about Matthew. The story of the calling of Matthew in Matthew’s gospel is as brief and puzzling as the story of Abraham’s call. Jesus sees him sitting at the tax booth, tells him to follow him, and Matthew gets up from the table and follows Jesus. He was clearly not qualified, not fit to be a disciple of Jesus, as the subsequent discussion of tax collectors and sinners reminds us, but nonetheless, Jesus called him, and he followed.

         Although it’s in black and white, and a relatively poor reproduction, the cover image on our service bulletin may be the most famous depiction of this story in all of Art History. Painted by Caravaggio around 1600, it is as enigmatic as the stories we’ve heard. The light seems to focus on the figure in the center of the image. But is that figure Matthew? At the end of the table is another figure, slumped down, his hands fingering the coins spread around. Is that Matthew, is that the one Jesus is calling? The ambiguity intrigues us; we wonder what the painter might have had in mind.

         Then there’s Caravaggio himself. One of the greatest of all painters in the European tradition; a figure of mystery himself. His biography raises all kinds of questions, not least the one many ask today; can bad people create great art? In Caravaggio’s case, the answer has to be yes. Convicted of murder and sentenced to death in Rome, fled to Naples, where eventually he would end up in another fight and a disfigured face. He died in uncertain circumstances, perhaps of illness, perhaps of lead poisoning, perhaps of murder.

         We hear lots of talk about “call” in church settings. Mostly, when we hear discussions of it, our focus is on call to ministry, discernment of a call to holy orders as Grace members Roger and Eileen have been undertaking. But call is much broader than that. Christianity is not chiefly about believing this or that doctrine, or attending services from time to time or even regularly. It is about discipleship—following Jesus. 

         We may resist such language, the image of call, because we don’t think we are worthy of it, that Jesus isn’t calling us, or couldn’t want us to follow him. It’s likely that many of us even think that if anyone is doing the call, it’s us who call Jesus when we need his presence or comfort in our lives. We want him to meet us here and now, and leave us alone when the crisis is over.

         But discipleship isn’t like that. Jesus calls us to follow him, into the future, into the unknown. He calls us where we are, and takes us new places and new directions. He encourages us to leave the past behind, with all of its suffering, brokenness, and sin, and open ourselves to his grace and mercy, as he re-creates us in his image and likeness. May we be open to Jesus’ call, receive his mercy and grace and be made into his disciples.   

The Holy Spirit: God at Play. A sermon for the Feast of Pentecost, 2026

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May 24, 2026

         Today is the Feast of Pentecost, when we celebrate the coming of the Holy Spirit on the disciples.  Over the centuries, Christians have come up with all sorts of gimmicks to commemorate the occasion. In the Middle Ages, many churches had mechanical doves that would descend from the ceiling on Pentecost. It’s common among Episcopalians to wear red on Pentecost. There are those who love to say “It’s the birthday of the church!”—No, it’s not. I once participated in a reading of the Acts passage in different foreign languages. If you think Parthians, Cappadocia, and the like are difficult to pronounce in English, imagine what those words sound like in German.

         Our scripture readings today offer rich and varied images to help us think about the Holy Spirit. There’s the reading from Acts, which tells in dramatic fashion the descent of the Holy Spirit in tongues of fire on the disciples gathered in the Upper Room and the miraculous gift of foreign languages that allowed them to preach to the international crowds gathered in Jerusalem for the festival of Shavuot, the feast of weeks. If any of you have ever struggled to learn a foreign language, you’re probably rather envious of the disciples’ sudden fluency.

         There’s the reading from Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, written to a community that valued the gift of tongues above all others. But in this case, the gift was not miraculous fluency in foreign language but ecstatic utterances that were incomprehensible to others. For Paul, such utterances were not necessarily a sign of greater faith, but only one of many possible gifts of the spirit. In a sense, he is democratizing the gifts of the Holy Spirit. It had been a source of controversy in the Corinthian community, with those who expressed these ecstatic utterances asserting their superiority over other members of the community who did not experience them. Paul’s use of the metaphor of the human body is an attempt to stress the importance of unity among the diversity of gifts and to assert the equal importance of all members.

         And then there’s the gospel text for today, which presents a very different understanding of the coming of the Holy Spirit and its importance to the emergent community of Jesus followers. It takes place on the evening of the First Easter, rather than 50 days later as Pentecost. In addition, the mood is much more contemplative, quiet. In place of the miraculous tongues of fire and the gift of languages, or even the ecstatic speech experienced among members of the Corinthian community, here we have Jesus himself imparting the Holy Spirit on his disciples. 

         But in these few sentences are powerful ideas. Drawing on themes we have been seeing the last several weeks, first of all there’s the implication of identity of Father, Son, and disciples: As the Father sent me, so I am sending you. Shared identity, shared mission, propelling the disciples out of the locked room in which they were hiding into the world. 

         The disciples are also given a unique power. “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven, if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” In Matthew that power, the power of the keys was given to Peter; here it is bestowed on all of the disciples. It marks them as a community of reconciliation and redemption and I think it is an extension of the emphasis on love that we have already seen expressed in the gospel readings over the last several weeks. 

         Finally, and for me this may be the most inspiring; there’s a verse in the Psalm that I have always found appealing and a key to understanding the exuberance of the Holy Spirit: 

         there is that Leviathan, *
which you have made for the sport of it.

         And later: 

                  You send forth your Spirit, and they are created; *
and so you renew the face of the earth.

There’s a sense that the wondrous diversity and beauty of creation is a product of God’s playfulness, something I don’t think we often appreciate fully. We’re prone to take our religious lives, and God, for that matter, a bit too seriously some times. So to imagine creation as God’s playground, if we’re created in God’s image, we should enjoy it just as God does.

         All of these texts illuminate different aspects of the Holy Spirit. But I think there is one important theme to consider. It has become common to think, since the Pentecostal movements of the twentieth century, that the Holy Spirit is primarily an individual gift, proof of one’s faith. Alternatively, and equally prevalent is the idea that individual religious experience, whether it’s the sort of ecstatic experience alluded to in I Corinthians, or simply an overwhelming sense of awe and majesty in the presence of the divine—what the 20th century Religious Studies pioneer Rudolf Otto talked about in his groundbreaking “The Idea of the Holy” is what the Holy Spirit is all about.

I don’t think that’s the case. In Acts, in John, and in I Corinthians, the gift of the Holy Spirit is first and foremost a communal gift, not an individual one. As Paul says, we are all members of one body. It is a communal gift and it is a gift to the church. But there’s a danger there, too. The Holy Spirit has too often been confined to the workings of the institutional church, to support its structures, and there’s no better example of that than our gospel hymn, a version of which is always sung at ordinations in the Episcopal Church. The orderly laying on of hands, the apostolic succession of bishops, are efforts to channel and limit the work of the Holy Spirit.

The Holy Spirit disrupts as well as builds up. It blows where it will and leads us into new territory and new opportunities. As Jesus says to the disciples in John: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And as we see in the reading from Acts, too, above all, the Holy Spirit is about mission, going out into the world beyond the confines of this building and the narrow patterns of our lives. It sends us out to connect with others, to share the good news, to spread God’s love, to enjoy the breadth, diversity, and exuberance of God’s creation, and to imitate that breadth, diversity, and exuberance as we build community together.

On this day, as we celebrate the gift of the Holy Spirit, we are invited to discern its working in the world and in our lives. We are called to embrace its power and to let it do its work, to expand our horizons, to follow its lead, to share it with others. May it empower us to build our congregation and to imagine new ways in which God is calling us to be God’s people, and to share the good news, spreading Christ’s love in our community and the world.

One with the Father and the Son: A sermon for Easter 7C, 2026

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May 17, 2026

Today, the seventh Sunday of Easter, is one of the oddest of all of the Sundays in the liturgical calendar. We are in something like suspended animation, or stopped motion. On Thursday, the calendar, even if we at Grace Church didn’t, commemorated the feast of the Ascension, when Jesus Christ departed from earth and from his disciples forty days after the resurrection. Next Sunday is the Feast of Pentecost, when we celebrate the coming of the gift of the Holy Spirit on the assembled disciples, empowering them to spread the good news of Jesus Christ throughout the world. But today, today we’re waiting.

Both the gospel and the reading from Acts are about departures, leave-taking. They are two pieces of Jesus’ departure from his disciples. The reading from John comes from the Last Supper. Now we’re in chapter 17, Jesus’ lengthy and powerful prayer to God on behalf of his disciples. The reading from Acts gives us a glimpse into Luke’s understanding of Jesus’ ascension, and the disciples’ response to it. Together, they invite us to think about relationships—the relationship between the Father and the Son, the relationship between Jesus and his disciples, the relationships within and among the body of Christ.   

Our collect today actually sets the tone for us: “Do not leave us comfortless.” It’s a reminder of one of the themes of Jesus’ farewell discourse in John: the promise that upon Jesus’ departure, he would leave them with the Paraclete, the Comforter and Advocate, to remind the disciples of his presence among them, and to strengthen them, to give them courage and hope in this new era.

It might be worth pointing out that in the gospel of John, the ascension is part of one all-encompassing event: Christ’s crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension. In a very real sense for John, the real ascension is the crucifixion, as Jesus says in chapter 12, “And I when I am lifted, will draw all people to myself.” The language John uses is “glorification”—as we see here, when Jesus says, “The hour has come. Glorify your son so that the son may glorify you.” That language and imagery may be puzzling to us, because we are more familiar with Luke’s understanding of the ascension, as we see in the reading from Acts.

The disciples at the Ascension are looking up at the sky in the wake of Jesus’ departure. No doubt they are shocked and perplexed by what they’ve just seen and wondering what might happen next. 

In these few verses, they begin in puzzlement and end in prayer. On this last occasion when the Risen Christ is with them, they ask a question that has probably been on their minds since the Resurrection: “Is now the time that you will restore Israel?” One might have hoped, or expected that after his death and resurrection, the disciples would have come to understand that Jesus Christ was not a Messiah in that political sense that they and indeed all Jews were awaiting. But no, even now, at this late date, they seem confused as ever. Jesus promises them the Holy Spirit, departs from them and they stay behind, looking up into the sky.

As they linger, their thoughts and eyes directed heavenward, they are brought back to the earth by two angels who admonish them, telling them basically, you’ve seen enough; it’s over; get back to your business. And so they return to Jerusalem, reconvene in the upper room where they had gathered the night before Jesus’ arrest. Luke takes the time to list the names of the eleven but he also points out that there were other disciples in the group, women as well as men. 

Luke concludes, “They were constantly devoting themselves to prayer.” In that brief description, we can sense something of the odd state in which they found themselves. After all of the spectacular events, the emotional lows and highs, after Jesus’ crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension, the disciples still weren’t sure what was going to happen next. They were waiting and they might not have quite known what they were waiting for. 

No doubt part of what they were waiting for was direction, clarity on what to do next. They were probably also waiting to see what Jesus meant with his final words about the power of the Holy Spirit coming upon them and making them witnesses to him throughout the world. In that sense, the disciples were experiencing something we all experience, as individuals and as a community when we wonder, pray, and try to discern the next steps on our journey, when we wait, hoping for clear direction from God on the way forward.

In times like these, Jesus’ words in John 17 are comforting indeed. We have read over the last three weeks Jesus’ words in these chapters from John. They are his final instructions and communication with his disciples at the last Supper. They are words of comfort but also words of commissioning. Jesus is reassuring his disciples even as he gives them commands. In today’s reading, we encounter one of the most significant ideas in John’s gospel. Throughout John, Jesus has stated his identity with God the Father: “I and the Father are one;” “If you have seen me, you have seen the Father.” Now, he takes that identity a step further. Jesus prays, “Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one.”

These words have often been used to appeal for Christian unity, for ecumenism. I’ve got no problem with that. I have been active in the ecumenical movement throughout my time here in Madison, serving on the Board, and then as President of the Board of Directors of the Wisconsin Council of Churches. But to collapse Jesus’ words here to mean only that is misleading. This isn’t about working across denominational lines or coming up with agreements for joint communion.

Jesus is speaking about something much deeper here. When he states repeatedly that He and the Father are one—he is not talking about intellectual agreement or emotional attachment. He is talking about identity, oneness. When he prays, that they may be one, even as I and the Father are one, he is praying for oneness, identity. It’s hard for us to grasp what that might mean given our culture’s centuries-long emphasis on individualism and autonomy. One way to think about it might be to imagine ourselves, individually and as a congregation, to be so imbued with God’s presence, so filled with the Holy Spirit, that when others encounter us, when strangers join us, they experience and know the love of God in Jesus Christ. 

In essence, what Jesus is praying for is that when people see us, they see him. Can we even imagine such a thing? Perhaps not. Like all humans, individually we are deeply flawed. Like all human institutions, Grace Church, the Episcopal church, are deeply flawed. We experience conflict, we fall short of our values and fail to respond to the world’s needs and each other’s needs. But to imagine ourselves, as individuals, as a congregation, to be the presence of Christ in the world, the visible presence of God’s love, to aspire to that is to be faithful to God’s call. May we embrace it, may we embody it.

Love is his meaning: A Sermon for Easter 6A, 2026

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May 10, 2026

         Today is the twentieth anniversary of my ordination as a priest in the Episcopal Church. Remarkably, nearly 17 of those years have occurred here, as Rector of Grace Church. Looking back, I am enormously grateful for all those who have accompanied me on this journey, to Corrie especially, to all of those clergy and laypeople who encouraged me as I was discerning my call and preparing for my ordination, and all those who have supported and prayed for me, and those who have been ministers alongside me, clergy and laity alike.

         It was the culmination of a long process. I had sensed a call to ministry during my college years but it became apparent that ordained ministry in the religious tradition in which I was raised would not be possible. Soon after joining the Episcopal Church in my early 30s I began exploring ordination but the bishops of two different dioceses seemed unwilling to work with my unique situation. So by my 40s, although I had a strong sense of call, it seemed the church wasn’t hearing that call as I did. I joke that I finally found a bishop who didn’t think I needed to go back to seminary in order to become a priest, since I had a doctorate and had even taught for a year at an Episcopal seminary. Even so, the ordination process took five years to complete, which was frustrating and demoralizing. The process, which is meant to ensure that well-qualified candidates are ordained by the church is fallible and can be dehumanizing. 

         Still, it’s all been worthwhile as well as challenging, intellectually, spiritually, and emotionally. I’ve found myself growing in ways and directions that have been surprising. Just this week, for example, I’ve worked with our new partners in ministry: Catalyst for Change, as they have moved into our basement space and begun to take over the work of Off the Square Club. I’ve met with the team from Historic Window and Door who are about to begin the repair work on the stained glass windows on the Carroll St. side of the nave; and I’ve met with someone from another denomination whose daughter is about to be confirmed in the Episcopal Church and he wanted to learn more about the Anglican tradition and how it differs from his own. 

         Among all that, and everything else, I found myself taking a bit of time to revisit my academic past. Friday was the commemoration of Julian of Norwich in our liturgical calendar and in preparation for the midweek Eucharist I refreshed my memory concerning her life, writings, and theology. I pulled out the volume of her writings that I’ve had since grad school. It’s a paperback, so it’s falling apart now. Its pages are full of notes and underlinings from successive readings for class as a student and as a professor; something of an archaeology of my own history with the text, as a scholar and as a Christian. We’ll come back to that later.

         Today, on this Sixth Sunday of Easter, we heard again from the 14th chapter of John, part of Jesus’ farewell discourse to his disciples, set at the Last Supper, as he prepares them for his imminent departure them and for his continuing presence among them in different modes. In Jesus’ words, and in the beautiful phrases of the collect for the day, our attention is directed to God’s love and all the ways in which our love of God is grounded in God’s love for us. 

O God, you have prepared for those who love you such good
things as surpass our understanding: Pour into our hearts such
love towards you, that we, loving you in all things and above
all things, may obtain your promises, which exceed all that we
can desire; 

         The collect reminds us that the love we have for God is itself a gift from God, and made possible by God’s love for us. A similar note is struck in Jesus’ words here: 

 They who have my commandments and keep them are those who love me; and those who love me will be loved by my Father, and I will love them and reveal myself to them.”

The same theme is expressed in the words of the gospel hymn we just sang; written by Bianco da Siena in the 14th century: “Come down, O love divine, seek thou this soul of mine.” We love, because God first loved us.

         That love is also made manifest in the Holy Spirit. Here, Jesus uses the word Advocate in our translation. It’s an attempt to render in English the Greek word “Paraclete” which means someone who is called to be alongside another, often as a legal representative; so in that sense, “Advocate” is a perfectly acceptable rendering. But there are other nuances in the term. One of them is “Comforter” which was the word used in the King James version here, and connects the gospel to our gospel hymn again: “O comforter, draw near…” we sang. Jesus assures the disciples that the Paraclete, the Advocate “abides in them” striking that other dominant theme of John’s gospel, of abiding, but now, it is the Advocate abiding with the disciples in the absence of the bodily Jesus. 

         As I reflect on my twenty years of priestly ministry, I am deeply moved by all those among whom and to whom I have ministered—the babies and adults I’ve baptized; the couples I’ve married, the faithful Christians I have buried. I reflect on the outstretched hands of all those to whom I have said “The body of Christ, the bread of heaven” as I have distributed Christ’s body; the people I’ve prayed with and for.

         I think also of all those who have accompanied me along this journey; members of altar guilds, vestries, acolytes, musicians, staff members. I consider all the ways God’s love has been present along the way, even when it seemed profoundly absent.

         Our journeys are curious, surprising things. The encounters we have; the circumstances in which we suddenly find ourselves from time to time; the changes and challenges of a culture that is experiencing rapid and disorienting transformation. Sometimes I wonder whether I bear any resemblance to the person I was forty or fifty years ago; sometimes I wonder whether I’ve changed at all.

         At the outset, I mentioned spending some time with Julian of Norwich this week. Julian was a 14th century anchoress and mystic      who experienced a series of visions when she was around thirty years old and spent the rest of her life reflecting on and trying to make sense of those visions. These reflections culminated in what is one of the greatest and most profound works of Christian mysticism of all time. And as she pondered and reflected on what it all meant, Jesus spoke to her words that encapsulate the good news, for the 14th century and today:

         What, do you wish to know the Lord’s meaning in this thing? Know it well, love was his meaning. Who reveals it to you? Love. What did he reveal to you? Love. Why does he reveal it to you? For love. Remain in this and you will know more of the same. But you will never know different, without end.

In the Breaking of the Bread: A Sermon for 3EasterA, 2026

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April 19, 2026

A few weeks ago, when Mtr Bobbi and I were talking about the liturgies of Holy Week, she asked me about the words of invitation. In case you’re wondering, they’re found on pp. 364-5 of the BCP and read: “The gifts of God for the people of God”, then there’s a rubric that says “the celebrant may add”—“Take them in remembrance that Christ died for you, and feed on him in your hearts by faith, with thanksgiving.” I told Bobbi that I always add those words but that she needn’t; I have no idea whether any of you notice this or even care. But there’s a history here having to do with history, and liturgy, and my own journey.

         I was a historian of the Protestant and Catholic Reformations and in my studies I read a great deal about the Eucharistic controversies of the early years of the reformation, debates about the real presence of Christ in the sacrament. The conflicts were heated and not particularly edifying. On one side was Martin Luther who wrote a treatise entitled “That these words ‘This is my body’ still stand against the fanatics.” On the other was Huldreych Zwingli who argued, among other things, that when Jesus said “This is my body” he was pointing not at the bread but at his own body.

         This debate came to a head at the Marburg Colloquy in 1529 which attempted to find common ground among the Protestants so that they could present a united front against the Roman Catholics. The story goes that at one point, Luther lifted the tablecloth where he had written in chalk “Das ist mein Leib” “This is my body” and stomped out of the room, cementing divisions that have lasted down to the present day.

         Twenty years later, when Cranmer was creating the Book of Common Prayer, those differences persisted and in two editions of the prayer book, he used both of those sentences, but separately. In the 1559 BCP, which was an attempt to moderate between the more reformed and more catholic interpretations; both sentences were used in the words of invitation. Why does this matter, and why does it matter to me?

         Well, when I came into the Episcopal Church, I knew all of that background, and as I often explained to my students over the years, that formulation offers a full range of possible interpretations of what happens in the Eucharist: memorial: “Take them in remembrance” real presence “feed on him;” “in your hearts” spiritual eating. And for me, coming into the Episcopal Church with all of my knowledge of the history behind it, allowed me to receive faithfully. Over time, 40 years now, almost 20 as a priest, those words matter less to me; and I have found that my experience of Christ’s presence in the eucharist has deepened immensely, but still it’s a fundamental part of my spiritual journey.

         When thinking about what happens in the Eucharist, one of the gospel stories that has had the greatest impact on me is the one we heard today, the encounter of the disciples with the Risen Christ on the road to Emmaus. 

         It’s a lovely story, and unlike the other stories about the appearances of the Risen Christ, there’s no sense of urgency or excitement in it until the very end. Luke takes his time telling it; it’s almost is if we are walking with him on the road to Emmaus and he is drawing out the story telling it in such a way to keep our attention or perhaps distract us.

         We can sense the emotions of the two disciples as they walk; their disappointment “We thought he was the one who would redeem Israel”—their incredulity: “What are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who didn’t hear about what was happening?” their confusion or disbelief as they retold what happened to the women at the empty tomb. 

Two disciples, one named Cleopas, the other unnamed, but many contemporary scholars suggest that the second disciple might be a woman, perhaps even the wife of the other disciple. We can imagine them on their walk, reflecting on all that had happened, perhaps making plans for the future or at least asking each other what they should do now, when a stranger overtakes them and engages them in conversation.

         As the journey and conversation continue, the disciples are nearing their destination and evening begins to fall. The stranger seems to want to continue his journey but they prevail upon him to stay with them; offering hospitality to the stranger, a meal and perhaps bed. 

         The scene shifts to the table and the roles shift as well; the guest becomes host, he takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to the disciples. As the bread is broken, the disciples recognize the risen Christ. 

         There’s no mention that the disciples consume the bread, there’s no mention of wine, but clearly this is an allusion to the Eucharist. It’s also an allusion to an early miracle of Jesus recorded in all four gospels—the feeding of the five thousand. Because there too, Luke uses the exact same language, in the exact same sequence: He took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it. It’s also the same language, the same sequence used by Luke to describe Jesus’ actions at the Last Supper.

         The resurrection of Christ may seem like a remote event. His appearance to his disciples might seem to us like a one-off, an event that we can’t experience; that we can only read about. But I think this story brings it home to us and makes it accessible to us. For those two disciples who encountered Jesus on the road to Emmaus, invited him into their home and offered him a meal, encountered him in the breaking of the bread. Gathered around that table, after a long conversation together, they saw the Risen Christ.

         That same experience opens itself to us when we share in Christ’s body and blood at the Eucharistic feast. Gathered around the table, in the breaking of the bread, the risen Christ comes to us, in bread and wine, and in the body gathered. For in a real sense, we the people of God, gathered together in worship and fellowship are the body of Christ, just as the bread and wine are his body and blood.

         But that experience isn’t the end of things. Just as the disciples who walked with Jesus on the road to Emmaus engaged in conversation on scripture with Jesus before sharing with him at the table, so to are we all nourished by word as well as by sacrament; we are challenged to grow more deeply in study and scripture, learning from the one who walks beside us. Only then can we say, “Were not our hearts burning within us, while he was talking with us?”

         But even that is not the end of the story, for like all the disciples who encountered the risen Christ, we too must share the good news with others, let them know how he is made known to us in the breaking of the bread. 

On the First Day of the Week: A Sermon for Easter, 2026

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A bit belatedly…

On the First Day of the Week

April 5, 2026

“Oh God, take our minds and think through them, take our lips and speak through them, and take our hearts and set them on fire. Amen.”

         Why did she come to the tomb? The reason given in the other gospels—that the women came with spices and ointments to anoint Jesus’ body for burial doesn’t fit with John’s version of the story. All that had been done by Nicodemus at the time of burial. Did she come because she wanted to grieve near the tomb; to feel that intimacy with Jesus she may have felt when he was still alive?

         And something else. No matter how many times I have read this gospel; preached on it—that’s is around 20 sermons; how many times I discussed this passage with students in class; you’d think I would not be able to find something new or interesting in these 18 verses. But you’d be wrong. For this year, I noticed something I had never noticed before. All Mary sees is the stone rolled away. She doesn’t actually know that the tomb is empty. but in this case, that’s all she needs to run back to the other disciples to tell them that the tomb is empty; that someone has taken away Jesus’ body.

Mary Magdalene is a figure of endless speculation throughout the History of Christianity. I’m sure you’ve heard some of them. She was a repentant prostitute; possessed by seven evil spirits; the wife of Jesus. But all of that is nothing more than conjecture; and conflation of this figure with other “Mary’s” other women who are mentioned in the gospels. All that is also a product our relentless desire as humans to satisfy our curiosity;  to fill out stories and the relentless desire to fill out stories; to give them detail and deeper meaning. 

Often, such speculation, pious though it may be, obscures the stories the gospel writers are trying to tell; and also obscure the true significance of the character in the story. For example, in addition to all of the accretions to Mary’s story that I have mentioned; the church has also long called her the Apostle to the Apostles, for it was Mary Magdalene who first learned the good news that Christ was risen from the dead, and shared that news with the other disciples.

What we know is this: In John’s gospel, she appears only twice. Mary Magdalene is identified as one of the women standing near the cross at Jesus’ crucifixion, and here at the empty tomb. In fact, one of the few details on which all four gospels agree is that Mary Magdalene was present at the empty tomb. 

         Was her immediate reaction to seeing the stone rolled away a burst of emotion on top of all the grief she was carrying: anger at this additional indignity inflicted on her Lord; fear that his corpse would be or already had been defiled? Was she triggered by the scene and desperate to find help to address this new calamity?

         In any case, she ran back and told the other disciples about her discovery and two of them, Peter and the Beloved Disciple, returned with her, or rather before her because they raced along the way; the two of them looked inside, saw the graveclothes neatly wrapped in two piles. And we’re told, the Beloved Disciple saw and believed; no word on Peter’s response, and they went back home.

         Now Mary lingers in the garden. We can imagine the emotions overwhelming her—disbelief, fear, grief, perhaps anger; weeping for her Lord, for her loss, for the lost future she and the others who had been following Jesus had been imagining and hoping for.

         Only now does she do like the two male disciples had done and peek into the tomb. Perhaps she was curious about what they had seen; why they had looked, and then returned to the place where they were staying. She receives the message, the good news; the first of the disciples to learn what has happened. But still, she waits, wonders, and weeps. And then, the encounter with the risen Christ. Still not recognizing him; it’s only when he calls her by name that it all makes sense. 

         There’s a lovely progression in this story as we see Mary Magdalene coming to faith in Christ. It begins in that walk to the tomb in the dark of night; seeing the stone rolled away, and drawing the wrong conclusion. It continues when she reaches out to others seeking their help to make sense of her experience, and then, when they abandon her to her own devices, continuing to struggle to understand. And finally, there’s that moment of grace, Jesus calling her by name, and all of it finally making sense—knowing who he is; discovering who she is; seeing the world, herself, and Jesus with new eyes, the eyes of faith.

         We might contrast her journey here with that of Peter and the Beloved Disciple, who raced to the tomb, looked inside, and went back home. We’re told that the beloved disciple saw and believed—but did he? Distinguished by his close relationship with Jesus “The one whom Jesus loved” he didn’t tarry, he didn’t open himself to an encounter like Mary had; that would come later.

         Like Mary, we come to the tomb, full of doubts, fears, uncertainty. We may be suffering—our bodies may be broken and in pain; our hearts may be broken and in pain. We may wonder whether life is worth living; whether we can go on. The incessant whirlwind of news; the earthquakes shaking the foundations of our lives and our worldviews; wars, violence, oppression; a planet on the brink. 

         We look for signs in the chaos and darkness; but they are ambiguous at best, easily misinterpreted. We may want to turn away; to abandon our hopes and dreams. But if we reach out to others as Mary did; if we wait in silence, we may hear the Risen Christ calling us by name, inviting us into relationship, inspiring hope , giving us new life.

         The cross and the tomb are not the end of the story. Christ is risen, breaking the bonds of death; defeating chaos. God is still at work in the world; creating and re-creating the universe and us. The resurrection of Christ is proof positive that the forces of empire, evil, and death cannot, will not reign forever. Even now, God’s reign of justice, love, and peace, is breaking in around us. The signs may not be obvious; like the ambiguity of an empty tomb, we may overlook or miss them, but if we persevere in our hope; if we keep our eyes open, we will come to see and know that things which were cast down are being raised up and things which had grown old are being made new. 

         May the embers of our faith be kindled into fires of faith, justice, and love, that spread the good news and usher in God’s coming reign. 

Alleluia! Christ is Risen! 

Touring the new men’s shelter

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a group of people touring the new shelter

On Thursday, March 12, a group of Grace members had the privilege of touring the new men’s shelter with Linette Rhodes, from the City of Madison Community Development and Karla Thennes, Executive Director of Porchlight. Located on Bartillon Dr. on Madison’s east side, the purpose-built shelter is the culmination of years of planning and advocacy. From 1984 to 2020, Grace Church hosted a drop in shelter for men in our basement with overflow shelters at St. John’s Lutheran Church and First Methodist Church. At the beginning of the pandemic, the city took responsibility for locating and providing adequate shelter for unhoused men and began planning for a permanent shelter. Over the past six years, the temporary shelter has moved several times but the permanent facility will open later this year. 

I was impressed with the shelter layout and design and the care that had obviously been taken in thinking about what was needed and how to accommodate guests. Ms. Rhodes mentioned that part of their planning process included input from guests and a priority for trauma-informed care. Guests will have lockers and a reserved bed which will offer some certainty and stability. In the past, there was 90-night limit on guests’ length of stay. That was ended in 2020 but guests will have to demonstrate that they are making efforts to find permanent housing.

There remain challenges. The population of unhoused people has increased dramatically over the last six years. When the shelter was at Grace, it served at the most 150-160 on the coldest nights of the year. The temporary shelter has been averaging over 350 guests but the capacity for the new shelter is only 250. The County is currently seeking proposals for a temporary shelter to operate during the winter months. In addition, currently the shelter will be open overnight. It lacks the funding required to operate 24 hours 7 days a week. There is a private-sector effort to raise the necessary funds for fulltime operation: Shelter Friends of Dane County.

I will admit that it was quite emotional for me to tour the new facility. Remembering what Grace’s shelter was like: the darkness of a church basement, the cramped facilities, the lineup of men waiting for intake in bad weather, the lack of access for people with mobility issues. All of that and more had burdened me over the years. But I also remembered all of those people who advocated in vain for changes through that time. There was also the hard work of thousands of volunteers who served meals and the dedicated staff. In 2018, a group of Grace members had begun working on building momentum toward a new shelter. I and city staff, homeless advocates, and civic leaders visited Higher Ground in St. Paul, MN in 2019, a purpose-built shelter operated by Catholic Charities that helped us imagine what a new shelter might look like. 7 years later, that dream is coming to fruition. I’m grateful to all who worked so hard to make it a reality, especially city staff and elected officials who made it possible.

Some other photos:

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door to bedbug furnace people admiring the new commercial kitchen at the new shelterone of the pods for guests showing twin beds and lockers

Nicodemus gets a bad rap: A Sermon for the Second Sunday in Lent, 2026

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March 1, 2026

We are gathered today on this Second Sunday in Lent, full of fear, anxiety, and anger. On top of all else that has happened over the last year as we have watched the institutions and values we held dear collapse; the unbearable burdens of it all weighing us down, and now this, war on Iran, a school with 85 schoolchildren bombed; the leader of their nation killed, chaos and further violence and pain await.

We gather today, distracted and mortified, seeking solace and comfort. Many of us may also have been hoping to use this season of Lent to deepen our faith, to grow in discipleship, to draw nearer to Christ as he and we all draw near to the cross. And yet it may be that for you, as well as for me, the words of today’s gospel offer no solace or comfort, but evoke trauma of past religious experiences—born again, or the weaponization of John 3:16. Words meant to offer life instead have offered condemnation in the culture of American Evangelical Christianity.

Although in this, the first year of our three year lectionary cycle, we spend most Sundays in the gospel of Matthew, for the next four Sundays, and during Eastertide, we will be reading from the Gospel of John. For today and the next three Sundays we will be spending time with three fascinating stories from that gospel, each of them detailing encounters with Jesus. This week, there’s Nicodemus; next it’s the Samaritan woman at the well; then there’s the man who was born blind; and finally, the story of the raising of Lazarus.

Each story is also a story of transformation; most obviously in the case of Lazarus, whom Jesus raised from the dead. In today’s story, there seems to be no transformation but Nicodemus will make two other appearances in the gospel, most notably at Jesus’ death when he assists Joseph of Arimathea in burying Jesus’ body where he is identified as a follower of Jesus. But all that comes later.

For now, let’s focus on the story in front of us. Nicodemus is identified as a Pharisee, a leader of the Jews. So we’re meant to imagine a prominent figure in the community. We’re told he comes to Jesus by night, an image that evokes both darkness—the binary of light and darkness is prominent throughout John’s gospel, and secrecy. We might conclude that Nicodemus doesn’t want others to know that he sought out Jesus.

In any case, Nicodemus says something a bit puzzling to Jesus: “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.” What’s interesting is that Nicodemus approaches him with a term of respect. Not yet an official role in Judaism, that would come a century or two later, but he calls Jesus Rabbi—teacher and goes on to say that Jesus performs signs—a reference in the gospel of John to Jesus’ miracles, which ability is a sign of God’s presence in and with Jesus.

On the surface, it seems fairly straightforward, an acknowledgement of Jesus’ power, but it is also probing: it’s not a direct challenge to Jesus’ authority as we will see later in the gospel, but it seems to imply that Nicodemus isn’t quite sure what to make of Jesus.

Not surprisingly, Jesus isn’t about to give him any help in his quest for information. As happens so often in the gospel, Jesus’ reply to him seems to be something of a non sequitur, perhaps even nonsensical: “I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born from above.” Nicodemus after all has made no mention of the kingdom of God.

And then comes another puzzle. Our translation reads “unless they are born from above.” The traditional translation is: “born again.” Same word, two completely different possible translations. Instead of asking Jesus to clarify what he meant, Nicodemus assumes Jesus means born again and asks how it is possible to enter one’s mother’s womb again. 

I see this as a pivotal moment in their encounter and it’s one that many of us have experienced. When we meet someone or something new, we want to fit into our categories of understanding, to make it make sense on our terms. Nicodemus seems to assume Jesus means one thing, even if it’s nonsensical or absurd, while Jesus is using words that are opening up whole new universes of possible meaning. That becomes clear as Jesus continues, speaking of the spirit blowing where it wills.

In addition to the confusing language that we have here, it’s not clear when Nicodemus leaves the scene. Are the last verses addressed to him, to other bystanders? Or given that Greek texts of the day lacked most punctuation not to mention spaces between words, it’s not even clear whether Jesus speaks the last few verses, or whether it’s the gospel writer addressing us as the text’s readers.  

In any case, I should point out that however John 3:16 has been used or interpreted in the past, it’s rarely coupled with the following verse: “Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” In other words, it is not a statement of exclusivity or exclusion, but rather one of openness and invitation. Christ came into the world that the world—everyone, in fact, everything, the cosmos, might be saved through him.

As I mentioned, Nicodemus will appear again in the gospel, first in chapter 7, where Jesus is again in Jerusalem and is caught up in a dispute over the nature and origin of his authority. While Nicodemus does not defend him in front of the Pharisees, he does point out that Jesus deserves a fair hearing. This may suggest that the earlier encounter with Jesus opened Nicodemus to the possibility that Jesus’ message was life-giving and transformative. 

We see that transformation has taken place in Nicodemus’ final appearance in the gospel where he assists Joseph of Arimathea with Jesus’ burial and provides an extravagant amount of embalming spices. Now, we can conclude that Nicodemus is a disciple of Jesus though a secret one, like Joseph.

Over the past few weeks and months, I have had a number of conversations with people who are relatively new to the church; some are coming back to church after years or decades away, some are experiencing Christian community for the first time. Their journeys are unique, as are all of ours. Sometimes there’s a precipitating event; sometimes, a growing sense that there is something more to life than what they have been experiencing.

I think of Nicodemus, who was first drawn to Jesus because of the signs—miracles he performed but turned away when Jesus didn’t meet his expectations or provide easy answers. But over time, he kept wondering. Maybe he thought about what Jesus said, ruminated over it, tried to figure it out, and kept coming back to it. Maybe Jesus’ words began to make sense, or opened up to him new possibilities of life and faith. In the end, we see him ministering to Jesus at his death, performing intimate acts of devotion and care.

The chaos, violence, and disruption in the world that surrounds us can overwhelm us, immobilize us. It can make it difficult to find space or time to focus on what really matters, to explore our relationship with Jesus. It may make it difficult to process our feelings, to explore the questions that concern us. A chance encounter, words of life, the spirit blowing where it will, may plant seeds that take time to germinate in us. To nurture them, to allow them to grow and blossom may lead to new life in us. I hope you take time this season of Lent, to notice those seeds in yourself, to nurture and sustain them, that your life in Christ may grow to its full stature.

Coffee Hour Temptations: A Sermon for the First Sunday in Lent, 2026

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Many years ago, there was a much-feared section of the GOE’s, the General Ordination Exams required of all candidates for the priesthood in the Episcopal Church, called “coffee hour questions.” They were the sorts of questions parishioners might ask of priests, like “where did Cain’s wife come from?” or “Do dogs go to heaven?” The section was intended to test how well candidates could respond to random questions pastorally as well as theologically. Back in the day, I had lots of experience answering such questions posed by cheeky undergraduates, but I’ll admit those skills have become a bit rusty over time.

         I recently got such a question from a parishioner, and it was at coffee hour. She stopped me and said something like: “I’m really struggling with the Lord’s Prayer. Why do we say ‘and lead us not into temptation’? Why would God lead us into temptation?”

I get it, we don’t need God’s help to be tempted, or Satan’s for that matter, we’ve got our own egos and desires, not to mention billions of dollars in advertising campaigns, and conspicuous consumption, media, that offer us more than enough temptation.

I’ll admit I was a bit taken aback by the question and didn’t have a ready response. So this week, as I began working on today’s lessons for this sermon, I went back and reminded myself of the translation behind our version of the Lord’s Prayer. Some of you may recall that the contemporary version of the Lord’s Prayer that we were using this summer offers a different translation: “Save us from the time of trial” it reads. Most commentators assert that what is meant here is not ordinary temptation like a second helping of dessert but the end-time struggle between good and evil imagined by first-century apocalyptic thinking, the same kind of thinking behind the earlier petition “Thy kingdom come…” But to answer that question, I would respond that the petition should be understood as something like: “keep us away from temptation…”

Temptation…

Two of our readings focus on temptation—first the familiar, archetypical story of the temptation in the garden of Eden, and second, the story of Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness after his baptism and before the beginning of his public ministry.

As the reading from Romans suggests, these few verses from Genesis provide the scriptural basis for the traditional doctrine of Original Sin. To point out several obvious things, however: Nowhere is sin mentioned; neither is Satan, nor fall, nor even temptation. Even the decision by the editors of the lectionary to read it today, on the first Sunday of Lent, in conjunction with the gospel story of Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness, contributes to our mis-reading of this foundational story of Judaism, Christianity, and western culture. Is it about original sin? If by original sin, one means the human condition, then yes.

The inclusion of the verses from chapter 2 helps us understand the authors’ perspective on human beings and on creation. The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden, the Hebrew literally reads, “to serve it and to guard it.” Human beings were created to be in partnership with the garden, to protect it and preserve it. It’s a very different notion than that which appears in Genesis 1, when God commands the humans to have dominion, lordship, over all the animals and plants. We see here a sense of human beings cooperating with creation, given responsibility to protect it. One more point—there’s no sense here that before the fall, humans were intended to live in idleness, rather, they were placed in the garden for an end and a purpose. Created in the image and likeness of God, God intended them to flourish and to aid in the flourishing of creation.

But something happened. They met a talking serpent who gave them a different way to think about themselves and God. The serpent questioned what God had told them and promised them that by eating from the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, they would become like God. 

Everything the serpent tells them is true, if somewhat one-sided. They did not die after eating of the fruit of the tree and they did gain knowledge. And the fruit was desirable. Eve ate because the fruit was beautiful, good to eat, and would make one wise—all of these are appropriate reasons for her decision. And, I would add, of the two humans, at least the woman showed some agency: “she also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate.”

What were the consequences? They gained knowledge; most immediately, of their nakedness. They were ashamed. So whatever intimacy the two beings, “bone of bone and flesh of flesh” had had was suddenly gone—they needed protection from each other. And they needed protection from God. Their nakedness and exposure broke the pair’s intimacy with each other; it also broke their intimacy with God. Instead of becoming like God, they becoming frightfully aware of their difference from God. They wanted to escape from God but God wasn’t done with them. God sought them out in their hiding place, and when God located them, God showed continuing care for them by sewing clothes for them from animal skins. Any punishment would come later. 

It may not be a story about sin and Satan but it is a story of disobedience and rebellion against God. God created the humans for a purpose, for relationship with God and to participate with God in the care of God’s creation. Rejecting that purpose, they chose to aspire to be like God and so spurned their true nature, having been created in the image and likeness of God. 

It’s the story of humanity; it’s our story. Like Eve and Adam, we grasp for the beauty and knowledge we can see; and in grasping for what we want, we turn away from God and deface the image of God in us. The knowledge we gain is knowledge of our own fallen humanity, knowledge of our shame and embarrassment. 

In the story of the temptation of Jesus, Satan asks him, “If you are the Son of God…” This story follows immediately on Jesus’ baptism, when he hears the voice telling him, “This is my Son, my Beloved.” The temptations of Jesus are temptations about what that means to be the Son of God, just as, in the garden, the temptation was about what it means to be human. The temptations of Jesus are temptations about what sort of Son of God Jesus is. Is he the Son of God in the sense that Roman Emperors were sons of God—the most powerful men on earth with all the trappings of power, wealth, and status? 

Or is he the Son of God in some other way? Satan tempts him with other ideas about what it means to be the Son of God. He also tempted Jesus to prove he was the Son of God by forcing God to act in a certain way. But Jesus rejected both of them and in the end, was the Son of God who died on the cross.

We are at the beginning of Lent. On Ash Wednesday, many of us heard those words, “Remember that you are dust and to dust you will return.” They’re a reminder of our humanity, our frailty, and vulnerability. Today, in the Great Litany, we heard centuries-old language that confronts us with our sins and shortcomings, as individuals and as the human race. Lent confronts us with our humanity; it opens up for our reflection and inspection all of the ways we have fallen short of our human potential, all of the ways we have ruined the image of God in us. 

But that’s not all. Lent is also about a God who loves us in spite of the fact that we have turned away from God, in spite of the fact that we have defaced God’s image in us. God loves us even when we hide from God like the man and the woman in the garden. Just as God continued to care for the two who had rebelled against God, sewing clothes for them from animal skins, God continues to love and care for us. 

It’s easy to hear the language of sin in the Great Litany and throughout Lent as language of condemnation and rejection. It’s easy to recoil from that language, especially in our culture of self-help and self-actualization, our culture of gratification and enjoyment. We often want our religion on similar terms. Lent doesn’t allow that. But that’s not the end of the story or experience of Lent. It’s not the whole story of the Christian faith.

The purpose of our confession of sin, the purpose of our self-reflection in this penitential season is to receive God’s grace and love in all of its fullness. Lent is an opportunity for us to strip off our fig leaves of self-deception and self-protection, to allow others and God to see us as we are, and to let God begin to remake us in God’s image. Lent is an opportunity for forty days to experience briefly what the Christian life should be like 365 days a year, receiving God’s grace as we joyfully are remade in God’s image and fully realize the potential God has created us to become. I pray that all of us experience some of that joy and renewal in these forty days.

The Logos of the Cross: A Sermon for Epiphany 4A, 2026

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The Logos of the Cross

Epiphany 4A

February 1, 2026

The last few days there’s been a post going around my social media feed: name five classes you took in college. When I first saw it, I was thinking about my sermon today, so my mind immediately went back to the course on Paul I took when I was a sophomore. It was taught by a recent PhD who left my alma mater after a few years because his approach to the New Testament was a little too controversial for the powers that were there.

Eventually, he would go on to teach for many years at one of the most prestigious graduate programs in Religious Studies in the country, so he landed on his feet and we would continue to connect for as long as I attended American Academy of Religion meetings. In any case, the course was so rigorous and thorough that I never took another course on the Pauline Epistles in my graduate studies. What I learned then, almost fifty years ago, provided the lens through which I continue to look at Paul—expanded by learning from feminist and other contemporary approaches. And I still remember our class discussions on First Corinthians.

I almost always focus on the gospel reading in my sermons—it’s not only accepted practice but in some ways expected. And perhaps I should have chosen to preach on today’s gospel reading the first verses of Matthew 5, the beginning of Jesus’ sermon on the mount. These verses are known as the Beatitudes. But the other two readings are equally compelling. First there are the words from the prophet Micah that climax eloquently with: 

“What does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?”

Then the Beatitudes, which in the Gospel of Matthew are the first public words uttered by Jesus:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth

And so on. Words that have comforted and challenged Christians throughout the millennia, and comfort and challenge us today. If I have time this morning, I will come back to them and connect what Jesus is saying here with what I will be saying about Paul over the next few minutes.

But to Paul, and to 1 Corinthians. We heard the first verses of the letter last week and we’ll have more readings from it over the next few weeks, so it’s worth saying about about the letter as a whole. The first thing to keep in mind is that it was a letter. It was written by Paul to a community that he had founded some years earlier and it reflects that relationship. He has been in contact with members of that community. Apparently he received a letter from them and also a visit from some “Chloe’s people” he calls them. 

Like any other letter, it is written for a particular purpose and to a particular audience—not to us. We are, in a sense, eavesdroppers on that conversation. The questions that are asked are not necessarily questions that concern us—whether it’s ok to eat food that’s been offered to Hellenistic deities, for example. Nonetheless, these letters tell us a great deal about Paul, about the communities he began and those with whom he corresponded. We also learn a great deal about early Christianity. As such, and because they were written only a couple of decades after Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection, they are worth reading to gain an understanding of how this new religious movement was developing and what motivated people to join it.

The relationship between Paul and the early Christian community in Corinth was not an easy one. II Corinthians reveals the intensity of the conflict between Paul and some members of the community, and the extent of the pain he felt from their criticisms. But I’ll leave all that aside. I want to focus in on today’s reading. 

Paul makes one of the great rhetorical and theological flourishes in the Christian tradition as he rebuffs his opponents. He is proclaiming the message, literally, the logos, the wisdom, of the cross: 

 “For Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom, but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block—a scandal– to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles.” When we hear Paul contrasting the “folly” of the cross with the Greeks’ desire for wisdom, our temptation is to read those words in light of our own conflicts between faith and reason. But that’s not the case. For the Greeks, the search for wisdom was a religious quest, a quest for a certain kind of religious knowledge that was acquired only through great effort or personal revelation. 

What Paul is trying to articulate is that the wisdom of the cross, or to use his language, the folly of the cross, is accessible to all. At the same time, it subverts all categories of comprehension and expectation. For Paul, the cross—where we see Jesus Christ dying—where we see God at God’s weakest, is precisely the place where God’s saving power is revealed. That is the central paradox of the gospel for Paul. He uses it to undercut all efforts to connect status or power in the community with one’ own abilities, efforts, or experience. 

There may be nothing more difficult to understand than this key notion of Paul’s. It runs counter to everything we know or expect. As humans, our very conception of God is tied to God’s power and knowledge. God is that being to whom we appeal for help when we are powerless, weak, and in need. We project on God all of our hopes. We turn Jesus Christ into the superhero who will rescue us when we are in danger. 

But Paul says something quite different. For Paul, God is at God’s most powerful, we see Jesus Christ most clearly, when we see him dying on the cross. There we confront and experience God’s love and more importantly, God’s sharing in our humanity and pain. That’s the foolishness of the cross. But that’s also the power of the cross. That’s the power of the incarnation—God with us. Jesus Christ is not the superhero who rescues us, Jesus Christ is the one who is with us when we suffer. Jesus Christ, God is with all those who suffer.

It is there, on the cross, that we see God. It is there, on the cross, that we see God’s reign breaking in upon the world. Jesus proclaims this truth when he announces that those who are poor in spirit, those who mourn, the meek, the merciful, the pure in heart, when he announces that all of them are blessed. They share in God’s reign. They experience God’s reign.

Of course, none of that may be obvious. Those who mourn are grieving; the poor in spirit are suffering. Yet when we accept Jesus’ call to follow him and become fishers of people, we share with him in proclaiming the Good News that God’s reign has come near. We share with him the responsibility of bringing healing and wholeness to a broken world and to broken people. When they experience that healing, they begin to see and experience God’s grace and power in their lives. They begin to experience the power of the cross and the reality that God’s reign is near. Thanks be to God.