Will the Real Mary Please Stand Up/A Little Christian Herstory

 Cue ominous Dateline NBC-like music:

In the charming hillside village of San Gimignano, Italy, named for the fourth-century bishop Saint Geminianus, there is a tiny tourist attraction that one could easily pass by in the shadow of the town’s stunning skyline of towers. The Museum of Torture, a disturbing and brutal reminder of humanity’s inhumanity, turns out to be a big hit with the kids. Far enough removed from the reality of many of the ancient torture devices on display, one might be tempted to indulge in a little gallows humor. Still, the attraction has a distinctively gruesome and somber vibe. Perhaps in part because right there, front and center, is the torture device about which Christians are most familiar.

Kidding aside, before we bust out the jelly beans, Cadbury eggs, and fancy Easter clothes, before the first mimosa is poured, we are confronted with the stark reality of torture on a cross and the cost of speaking truth to power in a politically volatile climate.

Although the protagonist in our Gospel story does not speak, her bold and scandalous action speaks loudly.  

Six days before the Passover, Jesus and friends gather for a celebratory meal. By now, people are talking about the resurrection event—so much so that Lazarus may be in just as much danger as Jesus.

Martha serves. Mary brings out her best, most expensive oils for anointing and floods the room with exotic fragrance. Fresh in Mary’s mind, no doubt, is the foul odor of Lazarus’ open tomb as her brother is miraculously brought back to life. 

After the death (and resurrection) of a loved one, priorities tend to get really clear. Mary seems clear and focused as she lets down her hair and begins to tenderly wipe Jesus’ feet. Judas is mortified, mostly about the expense. We hear nothing from the others. But Jesus defends Mary’s extravagant and prescient love offering. She is preparing another body for burial. This time it is Jesus who is still very much alive. Perhaps Judas is right to consider the cost – and not only with regard to the poor (John 12:1-8). 

What might this sensuous and outrageous act have cost Mary? Perhaps her true identity. 

(Music up) 

Maybe it’s time for the real Mary to please stand up…

We begin our investigation with the anointing of Jesus in the four gospel accounts. John’s Gospel names Mary of Bethany as the woman who anoints Jesus’ feet. An unnamed woman in Matthew and Mark anoints his head. Luke calls the woman who also anoints Jesus’s feet with her hair and her tears “a sinner.” We might also look to Mark and Luke, who describe Mary Magdalene as having been plagued by seven demons. Does any of this evidence point to something fishy in Magdala? We must press on.

While there is only one Martha in the Gospels, there are multiple Marys. Luke depicts the hardworking sister Martha and contemplative Mary. While some consider Mary Magdalene to be the only “apostle to the apostles,” based on John’s telling, there is some evidence of third-century usage of the title referring to both Martha and Mary. To further muddy the waters, Eastern Orthodox icons of holy myrrh-bearing women include Mary, the mother of Jesus, Martha, Mary Magdalene, and others. 

This mystery grows more complex when we consider some extracanonical texts, like the Gospels of Mary and Thomas, that simply name Mary with no additional descriptor. 

With all the different Marys, it stands to reason that later Christians might conflate or compress all of them together. Eastern Christianity, however, did not. In the Orthodox Church, the two Marys (Bethany and Magdala) retain their individual sainthood.

In an influential sermon in the 6th century, Pope Gregory changed the Western narrative about the sinful woman who anointed Jesus’ feet in Luke, by identifying her as Mary Magdalene. Thankfully, Mary, “the prostitute,” only had her reputation destroyed for a short 15 or so centuries and was finally exonerated in 2006 by Pope Benedict. 

The plot thickens when we consider the still popular legend claiming that Martha, Mary Magdalene, and Lazarus relocated to Southern France after the crucifixion.  Intrigued? Just wait, there's more:

(Music up)

New Testament Scholar and Villanova Professor Elizabeth (Libby) Schraeder recently uncovered some fascinating inconsistencies in John’s Gospel, believed to have been written after the other three, sometime in the late first or early 2nd centuries. Some original Johannine manuscripts, dating to the 2nd century, contained no mention of Martha, only Mary. According to Schraeder, Martha was added to these documents around the fourth century.  More similar edits have since been uncovered. 

Why so much ado about Mary? And to borrow more Shakespeare, what is in a name? Turns out maybe a lot.

Is it possible that all the women with the precious ointment are Mary of Magdala? Contemporary scholars are not the only ones who seem to think so. Jerome, an early church father, speculated that Magdala, which means tower, may have actually been Mary’s nickname.  Another early church patriarch, Tertullian, corroborates that Mary was Lazarus’ only sister and goes so far as to attribute the Christological confession in John chapter 11 to Mary. According to Schraeder and others, this evidence elevates Mary’s status to one of equality with Peter, who makes his own Christological confession in the synoptic Gospels.  Could Mary Magdalene have played an even more prominent role than previously thought? 

After all, the dinner in our Gospel passage takes place in Bethany, just two miles from Jerusalem, a week before the crucifixion. Mary Magdalene was there. Just saying…

What are we to make of these Mary mashups and mix-ups? Were they intentional? Could some of the confusion have been a deliberate tactic, a cover-up to protect the real Mary? Had her true identity been revealed, would she have been cut down like many of the other disciples before having time to preserve the wisdom gleaned at the foot of her teacher? Was there something more sinister involved? 

(Music up)

It’s a lot to take in on this last Sunday in Lent. It’s a lot, but soon, Jesus will travel to Jerusalem, where he will suffer a violent and tortuous death. This should put things into clearer perspective. Whichever Mary anointed Jesus at this first dinner party, it was clearly an act of love and devotion, a precursor to Jesus’ foot-washing at the second and last supper—a precursor to the final act of sacrificial love that will flood the world with the incomprehensibly joyful fragrance of resurrection.

Mary gets this. Her raw, organic, earthy anointing suggests we slow down and notice the love in the room, that we honor the feet of the one who walks into the fire for the least of us, and that we celebrate, as poet Lucille Clifton writes, “that every day something has tried to kill (us) and has failed.”  

It seems altogether possible that a dark-skinned Jewish woman whose name means beloved was closest to Jesus. But a tower on a hill is not so easily hidden. Perhaps Mary was wise to lay low for a couple thousand years.

In these final days of Lent 2025, may we consider, or perhaps reconsider, Jesus and Mary’s scandalous love offerings with clarity, with open eyes and hearts, so “that among the swift and varied changes of the world, our hearts may surely there be fixed where true joys are to be found.”

April Is National Poetry Month

 It’s National Poetry Month

Who knew?

I should write a poem about faith,

about how things that seem darkest

can change literally overnight. 

How impossible light can flood our fear 

until barely a taste of its bitter toxin

 remains on the tongue to speak about. 

I should write about the peace of tranquil seas,

using other soothing metaphors to remind myself

 that God is poetry, that God is…

as we wake up to a new day on Earth.

But I won’t write a poem. I won’t do it

just because someone declares it a month.

Instead, I will breathe in and breathe out,

do a little yoga. I will pray, and I will dream 

of fresh ideas for anointing the beloved.

When People Ask Me Why?

When people ask this of me (and it is quite often),

I sometimes respond: "I cannot tell you the whole story, 

for I, myself, do not yet fully understand."

 

But what I will tell you is this: "I could not not do it.

I have often referred to this call 

as a nudge that would not budge."

 

Have you ever experienced such a bizarre and remarkable thing?

If you have, you will understand my reluctance to offer 

too many insufficient words.

 

When a call comes in, the way I see it is, we have choices. 

We can answer, or we can let it go to voicemail. 

I did that for a while.

 

Then, I decided to answer. Suddenly, the sky was brighter, 

the earth beneath me shifted a little. 

And nothing was the same as before.

Faith, Fear, and Tarzan the Motorcycle Man

 A Sermon for Lent 2, Year C. 
Find the readings here.

When the Coronavirus pandemic struck five years ago this month, we had no idea what to expect, least of all how we might be forced to adapt and change because of it. Quite naturally, fear ensued. We’re still processing it. This week I came across a New York Times article about how Covid changed the lives of 29 people. Here are just a few examples:

In response to the uncertainty of the future and the protracted fear of contracting Covid, 72-year-old Donna Sintic from Santa Monica, California gave up trying to control things that were out of her control. She found herself becoming more grateful. 

Sarah Kelly, 35, from Winston Salem, North Carolina, who was finishing graduate school when Covid hit, ran out of her savings, moved back to her hometown and lives a much simpler life with the unanticipated joy of a five-month-old baby girl. 

Miguel Guzman, 56 from San Antonio, nearly died after contracting Covid. He is grateful to be alive and play his mariachi music. He says when he was facing his own death, he was most concerned about his family and how they would manage without him. 

A funeral director, Shawn’te Harvell, 56, from Elizabeth, NJ, was appalled by the way funerals changed during the pandemic. Sometimes it would be just the funeral home director and the deceased at the cemetery with families joining on Facetime. Shawn’te says Covid caused him to reevaluate the way he approaches funerals. 

A 22-year-old from Rosemont, Minnesota, Charles Huang, has never had Covid. He is still fearful in public and chooses to mask. Charles says the isolation is ongoing and painful.[1]

The Lord is my light and my salvation. Whom then shall I fear, writes the psalmist.

Umm…let’s see, where to begin: reckless drivers, reckless politicians, doctors with scary diagnoses, drug dealers, arms dealers, bullies…friends who talk you into paragliding.

I am afraid of heights. On our recent vacation, we were on a narrow, windy unpaved road leading down, down, down, through the jungle to see one of those magnificent Costa Rican waterfalls when a motorcycle sped past us. At the bottom, the waterfall was beautiful. So was the young man disrobing down to his underwear and heading into the water. When he realized he had company, underwear motorcycle guy was totally unfazed. We made small talk as he emerged from the water, tugged on jeans, tee shirt and helmet, and revved up his bike. As he zoomed off, my husband Rob said, “There goes Tarzan.” The six of us, old college friends, had a good laugh. 

“Do not be afraid. I am your shield. Your reward shall be great,” God assured Abram when his faith appeared to waver. 

A couple of days later, I breathed through my fear of heights and accepted the challenge to go paragliding. My reward? My personal paragliding tour guide turned out to be Tarzan, the underwear-motorcycle guy. And he was just as charming and unruffled at 1500 feet as he was coming up and out of the water. Clearly, it’s all about faith.

The writer of Hebrews defines faith as the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen (Heb 11:1). Faith is more of a verb than a noun, a process rather than a possession, writes Frederick Buechner. While some suggest doubt is the opposite of faith, Paul Tillich considers doubt to be essential.[2]

Abram, later renamed Abraham, had faith—the quintessential patriarch also doubted. A lot. Like the dreaded circle of death on our computer screens, Abraham’s faith signal would be strong, then flicker, and then, return again as he struggled over his identity, his paternity, and even his masculinity.[3] Throughout his exceptionally long life, in his quest for a reliable, uninterrupted connection with God, Abraham offers consolation for our own often awkward, complicated faith journeys. God works through Abraham to propagate and populate and prove that God always makes good on God’s promises. But knowing when to wait and when to act can be tricky.

At age 86, in one example of flickering faith, Abraham and his wife Sarah decide to take matters into their own hands and start their family by forcing their servant Hagar to be their surrogate. Perhaps Father Abraham had developed a case of temporary amnesia, forgetting God’s promised vision, forgetting his own vision of light, still burning strong in the middle of his “deep terrifying darkness.”

Jesus, on the other hand, demonstrates for us how to stay the course even when things seem darkest. Last Sunday, Jesus was in the wilderness preparing for his ministry, this week Luke’s Gospel takes us to Jesus’ final weeks on the job. Despite having received his termination letter, Jesus is finishing up strong with no time for that “fox” Herod. His sights are set on Jerusalem, where prophets go to die. Fun fact: Jerusalem is mentioned 800 times in the Bible. Luke mentions it 23 times, more than any of the other three Gospels. Fellow etymology nerds might appreciate the meaning behind the name: Jerusalem means to inherit shalom, peace or wholeness.[4]

Jerusalem is in Jesus’ future. And he seems unafraid. Perhaps because he knows fear distracts us from our purpose. That fear prevents us from exercising our faith muscles, keeping us stuck in unhealthy patterns and habits. Perhaps because Jesus is fully awake to the light within; that perfect love that casts out all fear (1 John 4:18). 

Love that emboldens us to stand up for justice.[5]

Love that keeps us centered and present. 

Love that embraces vulnerability. 

Love that makes God’s presence more palpable – some call this union or oneness, the peace that passes all understanding… This love can carry us through just about anything.

There was a prayer jar in the meditation room of the hospital where I completed my clinical pastoral education last year. Each day as my chaplain colleagues and I pulled out the small scraps of paper on which people scribbled their darkest worries and fears, we were reminded of a strange paradox: It takes so much courage, it’s really the bravest among us, who can fully accept our total dependence on God. 

I encourage you to write down your worries and fears on that small orange sheet of paper you were given. Intentionally let go of it as you place it in the collection plate. Breathe through any doubts. As the psalmist writes, 

Be strong and God will comfort your heart. 

My friends, wholeness comes through both strength and vulnerability. A healthy balance of masculine and feminine… 14^th Century anchoress, two-time pandemic survivor and theologian, Julian of Norwich, shared her vision of God: “As truly as God is our Father, God is our Mother.”[6]

The Covid-19 pandemic may have changed us. And most assuredly the world will go on changing. And yet God’s love burns strong, in the middle of our darkest fears. Like a mother hen, God gathers us for such a time as this, enfolding us in Her love, even as He emboldens us for service to the world. May it be so.

Amen.

---

[1] Jenna Russell and Christina Morales, “How Covid Changed the Lives of These 29 Americans,” The New York Times, March 11, 2025, sec. U.S., https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2025/03/10/us/covid-19-changed-people.html.

[2]   Buechner, 4.

[3]   Frederick Buechner, Beyond Words, New York, (Harper Collins, 2004), 109.

[4] “Jerusalem Etymology Online, Origin and Meaning,” accessed March 8, 2025, https://etymologyworld.com/item/jerusalem.

[5] “Pauli Murray Center Denounces Removal of the Priest’s Biography from National Park Service Website,” Episcopal News Service (blog), March 10, 2025, https://episcopalnewsservice.org/2025/03/10/pauli-murray-center-denounces-removal-of-the-priests-biography-from-national-park-service-website/.

[6] “Julian the Theologian,” The Christian Century, accessed March 14, 2025, https://www.christiancentury.org/article/features/julian-theologian.

Thin Places and Monumental Moments

 Friends, this week, we finish up Epiphany and move into Lent, a word that is tied to the coming of Spring (yay!). Need some ideas for a Lenten practice? Just ask!

 

I’m considering a Lenten poetry study, through a theological lens. Because sometimes the world seems so fraught with complexity and ambiguity, because we often cannot wrap our minds around some change – (For example, the Alaska Stand on the Ocean City Boardwalk closing after 90 years!) I need scripture. I need poetry. They offer an alternate way into the complex and the ambiguous. Lately, I’ve been reflecting on this poem. See if you recognize it by its first line:

 

“Not like the brazen giant of Greek Fame, with conquering limbs astride from land to land…”

 

Did that line ring a bell?

 

This one might be more familiar: 

 

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”

 

The New Colossus was written by 19^th Century poet Emma Lazarus. Intended as a gesture of worldwide welcome when it was mounted on a bronze plaque in the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty in 1903, the poem sparked some heated debate.

 

This poem, as poems will do, spurred reflection on a sixth-grade field trip to New York City. Daffodils had started to poke through the earth, but there was still a chill in the air as my boisterous classmates and I bounced and giggled, snacked, and serenaded our way up I-95 on the hard green vinyl bench seats of a yellow school bus. As I recall, it was even chillier when we finally got to our destination, but our bodies warmed quickly as we scrambled up the endless circular stairs into the glorious crown of the iconic statue gifted to us by France in 1886.

 

Looking out over New York Harbor would be a thrilling experience for any kid. But even from a cloud-high perspective, there’s no way our young minds could fully comprehend the monumental (get it?) symbolism of Lady Liberty’s light.

 

Similarly, in our Gospel reading, Peter, James, and John seemed to be having some difficulty of their own grasping the full magnitude of the light on that mountain.

 

Early church tradition holds that Mount Tabor is where the Transfiguration of Jesus took place. A dome-shaped hill in Northern Israel about 11 kilometers from the Sea of Galilee, and seven km from Nazareth, Mount Tabor was situated near a major trade route, one that was apparently worth fighting for, as it was home to countless bloody battles. Although several religious structures were built there over the centuries, only two remain, a Catholic and a Greek Orthodox church. There’s a 12K race around the mountain each April and a 5K hiking trail that’ll take you to the top. One source suggests the Hebrew word Taborcomes from the root word meaning “something fragile or easily broken.” Mount Tabor is a popular pilgrimage site, considered to be a “thin place.”

 

A thin place is where heaven and earth are said to meet, where profound spiritual experiences can and do happen. Stories of thin spaces vary from culture to culture. In these mystical places, it is said, the veil between the ordinary and the sacred is so thin, so fragile that one can get a glimpse into another realm. 

 

Today’s thin space atop the mountain is chock full of fascinating details like a visitation from deceased Biblical luminaries, otherworldly light, and God’s voice from inside a cloud. And yet, theologians in general, especially Protestant ones, do not seem to know what to make of the Transfiguration. One writer suggests that we avoid it because it’s just too complex, ambiguous, and mystical, which makes some of us squirm. Not me. I say, bring it on. 

 

All three synoptic Gospels include this story, albeit with slight variations. In his second letter, Peter recalls the event for his readers (2 Peter 1:16-17). And even though John’s Gospel doesn’t have a transfiguration story per se, one might make the case that the entirety of his gospel is infused with mystical light. In John, Jesus is the light.[1]

 

In light of all that is happening in our world, perhaps we could use some special reminding that the veil between heaven and earth might actually be thinner than we might think. 

 

Here’s what the 13^th Century Sufi mystic poet Jalaluddin Rumi has to say about that veil:

 

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.

Don’t go back to sleep.

You must ask for what you really want.

Don’t go back to sleep.

People are going back and forth across the doorsill

where the two worlds touch.

The door is round and open.

Don’t go back to sleep.[2]

 

In such a fast-paced world, it’s tempting to go back to sleep, to check out. To numb out. But keep awake friends. Lent is almost here. We are but dust. Remember? 

 

This just in from the farthest reaches of the cosmos: The Webb Telescope reveals Unpredictable bursts of light pulsing from the gas and dust surrounding Sagittarius A*, offering new insights into the mysterious behavior of the most massive object in our galaxy

.

 

Back on earth, some churches are distributing tiny little red cards with detailed instructions for what to do if confronted by immigration officials. Indeed, some things do feel quite fragile, if not completely broken.[3] 

Here’s the poet Mary Oliver: 

 

"Why do people keep asking to see
God's identity papers

 when the darkness opening into morning
is more than enough?”

Certainly, any god might turn away in disgust.

Think of Sheba approaching
the kingdom of Solomon.
Do you think she had to ask,
“Is this the place?"[4]

Is this the place? Asking for our future children. Asking for anyone who, like me, has ever taken their comfortable life for granted. Is this the place? Or is it a thin place? It’s hard to say. Things feel a little cloudy these days. I refuse to stop looking for the light (Mt. 13:43).

 

Transfiguration by Madeline L’Engle:

 

Suddenly they saw him
the way he was,
the way he really was
all the time,
although they had never
seen it before,
the glory which blinds
the everyday eye
and so becomes invisible.

 

This is how
he was, radiant, brilliant,
carrying joy
like a flaming sun
in his hands.

 

This is the way he was—is—
from the beginning,
and we cannot bear it.

 

So he manned himself,
came manifest to us;
and there on the mountain
they saw him, really saw him,
saw his light.

 

We all know that if we really
See him we die.

 

But isn’t that what is
required of us?

 

Then, perhaps, we will see
each other, too.

 

I keep thinking about those little red cards tucked away in pockets and purses.[5]

And then I hear Rumi’s words: 

 

“Ask for what you really want. Don’t go back to sleep.”

 

We cannot always comprehend the meaning while we’re all up inside a monumental moment. Sometimes silence is the only appropriate response to the holy. Silence and listening, and looking at one another with the sincere intention of seeing Christ there.

 

The veil is thin my friends. Your own light is near blinding. Don’t go back to sleep.

 

Amen.

---

[1] Patrick Schreiner, The Transfiguration of Christ: An Exegetical and Theological Reading, 1st ed (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2024), 16. 

[2] Coleman Barks, The Essential Rumi - Reissue: New Expanded Edition (New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2004).

[3] “Red Cards / Tarjetas Rojas | Immigrant Legal Resource Center | ILRC,” accessed February 24, 2025, https://www.ilrc.org/red-cards-tarjetas-rojas#espa%C3%B1ol.

[4] Mary Oliver, Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver (New York: Penguin Press, 2017), 3.

[5] “Immigration Action Toolkit,” The Episcopal Church, accessed February 28, 2025, https://www.episcopalchurch.org/immigration-action-toolkit/.

Blessings and Woes

  

I’m a Maryland girl. I love it down the ocean, hon. I enjoy a nice bowl of crab soup, especially when it’s cold outside. Show of hands, who prefers cream of crab? Who’s more of a Maryland crab soup fan - with all the veggies? Anyone mix the two? Apparently, it’s very trendy.

 

The cream of crab soup at The Food Market in Columbia, MD, currently has 43 reviews. “Loads of crab meat,” writes one satisfied customer. Steve B. reports, however, that the menu may have overstated the claim that their crab soup was “the best in these parts.” Kayla disagrees. Her cream of crab is “out of this world.” Amanda gives it an A+ and orders an extra cup to take home. Melody enjoys lobster fingers with her soup, which is, by the way, “Amazing.” 

 

Mostly good reviews. I’d try their soup. 

But, while many reviewers have good intentions to share information and advice, some reviews are tough. Reviewers can be fickle. It takes wisdom to sift through the good opinion of others in search of truth.

 

There’s nothing fickle about our readings today. 

 

In language strongly resembling wisdom literature, Jeremiah takes a break from all his prophesying and lamentation about the sad state of affairs in 6th Century BCE. Jeremiah has a lot to say to the people, religious and political authorities, and even to God, and it takes him all of about 50 chapters. The prophet tends to call things as he sees them. Despite a preponderance of doom and gloom, Jeremiah also offers hope and the promise of a brighter future using beautiful poetic language: “Those who delight in the law of the Lord are like trees by a stream, bearing fruit and prospering.” The rest of you, good luck. 

 

The apostle Paul, perhaps discouraged by the divisiveness of the Corinthian Church and their repetitive propensity for getting sidetracked from what’s most important, builds a case for resurrection as the foundation of the Christian faith. Like Jeremiah, Paul also lays it on the line: If Christ has not been raised, our faith is futile. For Paul, Christ is the Wisdom of God (1 Corinthians 1:24) in stark contrast with the foolishness of people.

 

In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus and his newly appointed apostles, along with a “great multitude” of new and diverse potential disciples, have gathered to experience the healing power of Jesus. He doesn’t disappoint. And they are treated to a sermon. This is the sermon on the plain, similar but shorter than the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew’s gospel. Blessed are the poor, the hungry, the grieving, the excluded…Woe to you who seem to have it all; it could all disappear in a flash. All y’all, those who struggle the most, those in need of a miracle, you are blessed. Blessed are you when people say mean things. They did that to the prophets. Woe to you when people build you up and flatter you with praise. False prophets got the same treatment. 

 

If Jesus’ sermon was a restaurant dish, I imagine it might generate these kinds of reviews: “Comfort food with a kick.” “Pretty hard to swallow.” Or, “Amazing,” like Melody.

 

Of course, those were hypothetical reviews. I mean, who disagrees about biblical interpretation? Umm…Seems like - everyone. Have you noticed? 

 

That was rhetorical. Where can we go for wisdom? What sources can we trust? 

 That’s not a rhetorical question. 

 

In the years leading up to the Civil War in America, abolitionist Frederick Douglass, another Marylander whose feast day falls on February 20^th, also found trusted sources to be in short supply, so he started a newspaper, naming it The North Star after the light that guided enslaved people to freedom. The North Star began publishing in 1847 in Rochester, New York, using the slogan:

 

“Right is of no Sex—Truth is of no Color—God is the Father of us all, and all we are Brethren.” Good, right? Douglas believed firmly that nonviolence was key. But when he started to lose faith, an encounter with Sojourner Truth reportedly shook him to the core. In a public antislavery forum, Truth was said to have challenged Douglas’ new resolve with the provocative rhetorical question: “Is God dead?”

[1]

 

I don’t know about you, but I’m hearing similar questions being asked of the church today. 

 

I think it’s wisdom people are seeking. 

 

Jesus, the wisdom teacher, comes down to a level place where he can look his followers in the eyes and speak truth. Jesus knows his words will generate mixed reviews. He knows minds tend to wander and truth can be interpreted differently. He knows the divisiveness of the human heart. Those who listen become the early church.

 

Two thousand years after Jesus preached his sermon, we are the church, still tasked with carrying out a counter-cultural message of love that is just plain hard for this ever-changing, ever less God-centric world to grasp. How do we stay focused?

 

How do we keep a Christ-centered focus as this community grows and changes? You know what we could use? A new slogan to guide us through. Kinda like Frederick Douglas had.

 

I like the way Psalm 36 expresses our utter dependence on God: “In your light, we see light.” How about Psalm 121? God will keep us “in our going out and our coming in.” That’s good too. 

 

There’s always “We’ll leave the light on for ya.” We could borrow that one from Motel 6. Which incidentally also gets some mixed reviews:  

 

“Didn’t get my AARP discount. Customer service excellent. Everyone so nice and helpful. Couldn't find the pool.”

 

Bless our hearts.

 

Blessed are you, church, poor and unmoored, yet still striving to stand up for kingdom principles. 

 

Blessed are you who hunger for justice even while feeding others. You who imagine a world without locked doors or ceilings, without walls or exclusions.

 

Blessed are you who mourn. And blessed are you who mourn the pain of your neighbors. Those who, even in your own grief, show up to pray, smile, sing, embrace, and care for others.

 

Blessed are you when people revile you for your opinion, and you with patience to listen respectfully.

 

Blessed are you, the broken body of Christ, at God’s table. You with crossed fingers during the creed. You who walk humbly in faith, acknowledging doubt, embracing uncertainty, all while answering your individual calls to ministry. 

 

Blessed are you who are anxious yet manage to keep a resurrection perspective, you whose hands stitch together God’s love for others.[2]

 

Woe to you, church, who seek truth among mortals, obsessed with your stats and your “great multitudes,” with wealth over wisdom, status over soul. 

 

Woe to you, church, with your “all are welcome” signs, filled to the brim with people who look and think and vote and pray exactly like you. 

 

Woe to you, with your excellent Google reviews and five-star ratings, you might be laughing now…

 

Hard truths.

 

Remember when Jesus asks Peter, “Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me?” “Of course, I do,” responds Peter. “Then just feed my sheep,” Jesus says plainly (John 21: 15-25).

 

God is love. God is love. God is love. Nothing can ever separate us from that love (Rom 8:38-39). Not our wandering minds or our fragile fickle hearts, though they sure will try. 

 

Can we agree on that?

 

Amen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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[1] Alex Schwartz, “‘Is God Dead?’: Frederick Douglass’s Recollection of a Contentious Moment in Antislavery History,” New North Star: A Journal of the Life and Times of Frederick Douglass 3 (December 13, 2021), https://doi.org/10.18060/25879.

[2] Adapted from: Cláudio Carvalhaes’, Liturgies from below: 462 Acts of Worship; Praying with People at the Ends of the World (Nashville, TN: Abingdon Pres, 2020).