What We Owe One Another

Romans 13:8-14

September 6, 2026

 

            I have been having computer issues this week. My old laptop shook off its earthly charging cord and went to that great tech recycling bin in the sky. But losing the old laptop required me to get a new laptop, and that required a couple of trips up to the Best Buy in Cool Springs. Yesterday, Brent and I were on our way to Best Buy, and we were stopped at a big and busy intersection. I was in the passenger seat and not paying attention to the traffic ahead of us, when I heard a loud bang and Brent said,

            “Oh my gosh, an accident just happened! A car went up in the air!”

            We were a few cars back from the light, but on the other side of this busy, big intersection, two cars hit. One of the cars had flipped over on its side, and a woman was trying to climb out of the car window. Several people on that side of the highway had stopped to help.  Two men were helping the woman get out of the car, and they carried her away from the car. Other people were bringing jackets or anything extra that they had in the car to put on the road, and then around her shoulders.  And the two men carrying her laid her on those clothes. One of the guys who had helped her get out of the vehicle, then climbed into it, I guess to make sure no one else was trapped.

            We were able to drive around it, and I worried to myself about whether we should have stopped as well, but there were so many people right there that I think more folks stopping would have been a hindrance rather than a help.  Both Brent and I were pretty shaken up by this, because we both understand how quickly something like that can happen and how terrible it can be. As we were driving down our part of the highway, two fire trucks were racing toward the accident. And I did what I always do when I see something like this, I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer for everyone involved – the drivers, the helpers, the first responders. And I thought about the fact that we had just witnessed love at work in the people who helped the woman out of the car, ran to bring jackets, and called for help. That’s what Paul was talking about when he said to owe no one anything except for love, I thought. The people who helped may or may not have thought about owing love to someone else, but their actions spoke loud and clear.

            “Owe no one anything except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.”

            What we owe one another. Maybe this should be a question instead of a declarative statement. What do we owe one another? Paul writes that the only thing we should owe one another is love. Whenever I read statements like this in our scripture, I always think about how beautiful and poetic this kind of language sounds, but how hard it actually is to live out and live into. Loving one another is never a simple task, because love’s requirements are not simple nor are they easy. The debt of love requires us to put ourselves last and others first. Love requires us to reach outward rather than drawing inward. Loving one another can put us into situations that are challenging, even frightening. Owing each other love is not as simple as it might sound, is it? So, what do we owe one another? If we owe only love, then what does that mean and what does that look like?

            One challenge to owing one another only love is that so much of our world – our societies, our relationships, businesses, and even the church – seem to be built and structured on something else other than the debt of love. We look at owing one another as quid pro quo. If you do for me, then I’ll do for you. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. But that has nothing to do with what Paul is writing about in this letter to the church in Rome.

            Paul wrote that the one thing we owe to one another is love. There are three types of love in Greek. There is Eros — which is romantic love. When we fall in love, we fall into eros. There is Philia — which is friendship and loyalty. Think of Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love. Its name begins with philia. The third kind of love is Agape. Agape is love that willingly sacrifices itself for another. It is love that does for someone else without expecting anything in return. It is love that pulls a woman out of a car or carries someone out down flight after flight of steps in a burning tower.

The love that Paul uses in these verses is not eros. It is not philia. It is agape. Owe no one anything other than agape, a love that sacrifices itself for another. I go round and round with Paul on many things, but I cannot deny the power of his rhetoric. This is a rhetorical feat. By using the language of owing, of debt, and then pairing that with agape, Paul sets up his listeners for a shock, especially if you take into account what he writes in the verses preceding ours about what we owe others in authority.

Listen, y’all. You should be good citizens. Obey the laws. Pay your taxes. Do what is right. But when it comes to owing others, the only thing you owe is love. That’s it. Oh, by the way, the love that you owe each other is agape love.

Wait a minute, Paul. Agape love is about sacrifice and willingness to give all that we have and do all that we can. So, what you’re saying is that all we owe is agape, but that means that we owe one another everything! Yikes!

But here’s the rub. Paul makes it sound simple. But we know it isn’t. We know how hard it is to love others. Yesterday, Brent and I witnessed people acting out of agape love. But I can’t help but wonder if those same people would have anything to do one another had it not been for that terrible accident? I’m not trying to be cynical. It’s just that we are living in divided, polarized times. That’s an understatement. A crisis brought out the agape, the love, that lives in us. On Friday, we will observe the 25^th anniversary of the most terrible crisis in my lifetime. On September 11, 2001, we watched in real time as agape love leapt into chasm hate created. Agape love seems to be at its most visible in an emergency.

But Paul was not writing in terms of an emergency or a crisis. He didn’t write, owe no one anything except love when the worst happens. He did not pen, owe no one anything but love but only when the world falls apart. He wrote,

“Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.”

Paul does not make this love we owe one another conditional or time contingent. What we owe one another is love, agape love, love that sacrifices, love that puts the other first, love that does what is hard and even what is scary. And this isn’t love that is reserved only for the people you like or agree with. It is for everyone.

Why can’t we do that? Why can’t we take Paul’s words seriously and act in a way that shows we love others, without concern about what it may cost us? I think that’s the clue. What does it cost us to owe nothing but love?

            I think when we read and hear statements about agape love like this, we believe that we are being called to give away everything we have. Certainly, Jesus did not shy away from that kind of call in the gospels. He told the rich young man that if he wanted to follow Jesus, he had to sell his possessions and give everything to the poor. And it is highly possible that Jesus was speaking literally. But, for the sake of argument, Paul’s words are not necessarily asking us to give up everything we own for someone else, so what is this agape love? Does agape love require us to believe that other people are as human as we are? Do we owe other people the right to exist, even if their existence challenges us? Do we owe other people the common courtesy of treating them with dignity and respect? Do we owe others the belief that their experience, their perspective, their life has meaning and truth, even if we don’t understand it or can see it?

            It seems to me that some of the worst atrocities humankind has committed against humankind — and there have been many and continue to be many — comes out of our ability to convince ourselves that the other is not fully human, that they are lesser than us, or that their lives matter less. And when we can convince ourselves of this, then we can convince ourselves to do terrible things to others because we believe that their lives matter less than our own; or that their lives matter not at all.

            What do we owe one another if we all we owe is agape love? We owe one another everything.

            Writer Anne Lamott tells a story in her book, Bird By Bird, about an eight-year-old boy. His little sister was diagnosed with a blood disease. His parents tell him that he may have the same blood as his sister, and if he does, then a transfusion of his blood could help her live. The brother agrees to be tested, and it turns out that his blood is a match for his sister. The parents ask him if he is willing to give her some of his blood so she can live. He asks to think about it. He goes to bed and the next morning he tells his parents that he is willing to give his sister his blood. All the arrangements are made. The little boy and his sister are in a room together, and they begin the transfusion. Everything seems to be going fine. The doctor comes over to check on the little boy. The doctor asks how he is doing, and the little boy looks at the doctor and asks,

            “When will I begin to die?”

            I’m sure everyone rushed to explain to him that he wouldn’t die giving his sister his blood. I’m sure they immediately reassured him that all would be well. This would not require his giving of his life for his sister. But the little boy thought it would. And he did it anyway. He was willing to die so his sister could live. That is agape. That is what we owe to one another. Thanks be to God.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.

Now Go

Exodus 3:1-15

August 30, 2026

 

            My first call was to be the Associate Pastor of a church in Rockville, Maryland. Rockville is right off the beltway around Washington, D.C., and it was a nice church with nice people. I had my first interview with their search committee when they came to a job fair at my seminary. I was a last minute add-on to their interview schedule. I hesitated about interviewing with churches because I was not sure about what I wanted to do after seminary. Would I go on to a call in a church or would I stay on campus and continue with another degree? But I thought I should at least try an interview. Some of the search committee members confessed to me later that when they first read my resume, they were not convinced that I would be the right person for the call but were pleasantly surprised when they met me in person. I guess we were all unsure about each other. But as we talked during the interview, it began to feel right.

            After that initial interview, I drove up to Rockville for a second interview, see the church, meet the with the Head of Staff, and all the other things that you do when you are interviewing for a call. Everything looked good. Everyone was excited. However my excitement was tinged with trepidation. That’s an understatement. I was terrified. Not because it was a bad call or because I had a bad feeling about it. I was just terrified. I had no idea what I was doing when it came to being a minister, none. None. It didn’t matter that I was about to be a seminary graduate. It didn’t matter that I worked as a church intern for a year. I knew that when it came to ministry I was clueless. My fear was real.

            I must have hidden my fear well because they offered me the call. I said “yes,” and smiled and hugged folks. But in my mind I was screaming, “AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!” After the interview was over and I was driving back to school, I told myself that if I heard the band REM’s song Don’t Go Back to Rockville on the radio, I would take that as a sign. That would be it, I told myself. That would be my sign from God that this was not the right thing to do. If REM told me not to go back to Rockville, then I would not go back to Rockville. I would go back to my apartment, call the committee chair, apologize for my change of heart, and turn down the call.  

            Brent and I were talking about this the other night, and I told him that I have never prayed so hard to hear a song as I did on that drive back to Richmond. I searched every radio station. Please, somebody play REM. REM must be playing somewhere! Brent joked that I was probably wishing for a call line so I could make a request.  

            But my fears were not eased by REM. I did go back to Rockville. I took the call, and even though it was not perfect, I learned a lot. I grew a lot. I started to figure out how to become a minister in that call.

            Flash forward a few decades, and I was again looking for a call. My first interview was virtual, and it was with this church in a town that I had heard of but knew nothing about. It was a call in a town with a name that sounded out-of-place in Tennessee. Pulaski. There are no songs about not returning to Pulaski that I know of, and by the time I was interviewing with the search committee REM had broken up. It was doubtful they would write one for me. I was offered the call. I was excited! The committee was excited. And just like that first call I was terrified. I had served in ministry for over 20 years when I first came here. I served in churches from Maryland to New York to Iowa to Minnesota and Oklahoma. I was most definitely not a first time pastor. But I was still terrified. I still had to trust that God was telling me, “now go,” not because I didn’t like the folks here or the church or the area, but because every call has both promise and challenge. Every call means that I will have to learn new things and be challenged in new ways and have to figure out how to be a minster in this new church and in this new place. With every new call, including this one, no matter how excited or enthusiastic I am, I am equally convinced that I do not know what I am doing. No amount of experience can change that fear.

            I’m not alone. A friend and colleague in our lectionary group told us about Eugene Peterson, the acclaimed minister, teacher, and author. He served one church for over 20 years. He went on to teach and contributed to the scholarship of the church. He wrote a colloquial translation of the Old and New Testaments – The Message – which we use sometimes in worship and definitely in our Wednesday night bible study. Yet with all that experience, with all that ability, Peterson once said that he never really felt like he knew what he was doing. He never felt like an expert in ministry. He just made it up as he went.

            All of this is to say that I get Moses. I understand why he answered God’s call to lead God’s people out of Egypt with the words, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” In other words, “Wait, what? I must have misunderstood you, God. You want me to do what?”

            The focus of these verses from Exodus is usually the burning bush, understandably so. Moses is shepherding his father-in-law, Jethro’s, flock, and he leads them out to what was probably the edge of nowhere, beyond the wilderness. And while he’s minding the sheep and minding his own business, he sees a bush that was on fire but it was not being consumed by the flames. An elementary knowledge of fire tells us that fire needs fuel. A bush on fire should have burned up, and the fire would have either extinguished itself or jumped to a new source of fuel. But this bush just kept burning. Moses sees it and decides to give it a closer look. God sees that Moses is coming near to give the bush a closer inspection, and God calls out to Moses from the flames.

            Moses responds, “Here I am.” God tells him to take off his shoes because this is holy ground. God then establishes his identity and his connection to Moses. God is the God of Moses’ father, of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob. Then God tells Moses that just as Moses has seen the burning bush, God has seen, really seen, the misery of his people in Egypt. He has heard their cries and knows their suffering. And now he has come to deliver them from this misery to a good land, a broad land, a land flowing with milk and honey. So, God tells Moses that the way he will deliver the people is by sending Moses to Pharoah to bring God’s people out of Egypt.

            I think it is safe to say that this not what Moses was expecting to learn. He questions God’s wisdom in sending him. Moses doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s not anyone special. He isn’t prepared or trained to go to Pharoah and to set God’s people free. But God promises that Moses will not be alone. God will be with him. God will go with him. And when Moses has brought the people out of Egypt, they will worship God together on this very mountain.

            God may be sure, but Moses is not. So he stalls and delays. If you think about it God has already told Moses who he is. God has already offered his litany of identity. But Moses, who I suspect was playing for time, wants to know God’s name. Um, if I go to the people and tell them, “God sent me,” they’re gonna want a name.

            I cannot speculate as to what name Moses thought he might hear, but it probably was not, “I Am Who I Am,” or “I Will Be Who I Will Be,” which is another way that can be translated. This probably did not give Moses the clarity he was seeking. After all, how can you wrap infinity, endless being, creator of all, into a name? How would Moses convince the people that God was calling him to lead them with a name like I Am Who I Am?

            As I said, the focal point of this story may traditionally be the burning bush, but I think the real crux of these verses comes down to two words: now go. My former professor, Tyler Mayfield, an Old Testament scholar at Louisville Seminary writes that “holy spaces have holy consequences.” By paying attention to the burning bush, Moses found himself on holy ground. But as Mayfield wrote, encountering God is not just about seeing the burning bush, then posting it on your social media with the caption, #blessed, then going back to your daily life.

Encountering the holy means that there is more coming, more to be done. Holy spaces have holy consequences. Moses met God in the burning bush, in that holy space, and the consequence was that he was told, “now go.” The holy space was important but not the final point. The holy space led to holy consequences.

            I suspect it is an understatement that Moses felt inadequate to the call he was given. He was unsure if he could handle the holy consequences of his encounter with God in that holy space. Jesus’ words in our gospel lesson only reinforces the challenges of being called. He tells the disciples openly, without any pretense or attempt at subtlety, what it means to be the messiah. It means suffering. It means death. It means resurrection, but that does not happen without the suffering and death first. And if they want to become his followers, then they must be prepared to deny themselves, pick up their own crosses, and follow – wherever that path may lead because just as Moses encountered God in that holy space, so too have the disciples encountered God in the person of Jesus. The holy space they have lived in comes with holy consequences. The holy consequences may mean losing everything in order to gain everything. Now go.

            The thing I have come to learn about holy spaces and holy consequences is that whenever you find yourself in a holy space and answer the call to go, where God leads is to another holy space and another call to go. That was true when I answered to call to go to Rockville, and it has been true for every call I have answered since then. But whatever the call may be, no matter how unprepared or how inadequate we believe we are to face the challenges ahead, the promise is always the same. God will be with us. We are not alone. God is with us.

We gathered in a holy space, and in this holy space we are all called to go out. I cannot predict the holy consequences that await us, nor do I know what each person’s unique call may be. The calls we face may be daunting and hard, but I also know this. God is with us. We are not alone. There are plenty of times in my ministry when I have forgotten this promise. There are plenty of times when I have doubted God’s presence. But God has not forgotten me, and God has been faithful, even when I wasn’t. I’m still here. I’m still called. I’m still afraid. I am not sent out alone.

We are not sent out alone. God is with us. So whatever the holy consequences may be, we will be given the tools, the knowledge, the ability to face them, because God is with us. God was with Moses. God was with the disciples. God is with us. Now. Go.

            Let all of God’s children answer this call in this holy space saying, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.

 

Because They Feared God

Exodus 1:8-2:10

August 23, 2026

 

There is a key moment in the movie It’s a Wonderful Life when George Bailey has been granted his wish to have never been born. He doesn’t understand the insight that he’s been given at first, and along with his guardian angel, Clarence, he goes into his hometown of Bedford Falls and is scared and angry at the changes that he sees. Goerge and Clarence go to what should have been a nice, clean housing development that the Bailey Building and Loan has worked to build. Instead, he finds a cemetery, and in the cemetery, he finds the gravestone of his younger brother Harry.

George argues with Clarence that Harry Bailey is still alive. Harry Bailey is a war hero and the whole town is gearing up for a huge celebration for his homecoming and for the honor he received. Harry Bailey saved a whole transport ship of men from being killed when their ship came under fire. But Clarence tells George that on that cold winter’s day so long ago, Harry died when he fell through the ice on a frozen pond and drowned. And that whole transport ship of soldiers? They all died because Harry wasn’t there to save them because George wasn’t there to save Harry.

Even before Clarence tells George that it is strange how one person’s life touches so many others, those of us watching the scene play out recognize that truth. George’s life has touched so many others. George saved his little brother Harry from drowning when they were kids. Harry grew up and saved a transport of soldiers. Who knows if any of these soldiers when on to save other people? The point is that without George in the world, living in his life, the consequences are greater and more widespread than he could imagine.

I think we see this truth in scripture as well. When we talk about Moses being called to liberate the Israelites from enslavement in Egypt, we have to go back in time and consider the women who ensured that Moses could be born so that he could be called to liberate his people from Egypt. Moses’ story does not begin with a burning bush, nor does it begin with a basket on the Nile. Moses’ story begins with two women named Shiphrah and Puah.

First, it is remarkable that we know their names. Women often go unnamed in scripture, so to know the names of these midwives is a gift. Shiphrah and Puah were two midwives to the Hebrew women and Pharaoh commanded their presence. There is some debate as to whether these two women were Egyptians who midwifed the Hebrew women or whether they were Israelites. Dr. Wilda Gafney analyzes the etymology of their names and concludes that they are Israelites. Because of her scholarship, I am going to stick with the assumption that Puah and Shiphrah are Israelites as well.

So, these two midwives, who were part of the enslaved people under Egypt’s thumb, were ordered to come before Pharaoh. Pharoah gives them a terrible directive. He is terrified of the Israelites and their growing numbers, and he wants to stop their increase. From the very beginning of these verses we know that trouble is coming. This Pharoah is new to the throne, and what’s worse is that he does not know Joseph. The word know is better interpreted as remember. Generations have passed since Jospeh was alive, but the Pharoah should know that history. But he did not know or remember Joseph, and all that Joseph did to save the Egyptians from starvation during famine, or of Joseph’s close ties to the previous pharaoh. This new guy did not remember or know any of that, or maybe he didn’t care. But what he does know is that Israelites are many in number, and he does not like that at all. So, he decides to deal with what one scholar called, “the Hebrew problem.”

He directs these two women, who were responsible for bringing life into the world, instead to act to end life before it begins.

“When you act as midwives to the Hebrew women, and see them on the birthstool, if it is a boy, kill him; but if it is a girl, she shall live.”

Surely these two women were horrified by the decree Pharoah gave them. Gafney envisions that there were probably many more midwives than just Puah and Shiphrah, and that perhaps these two women were the heads of a midwifery association of sorts. She imagines that they go back and call a meeting and tell the other midwives what Pharoah has directed them to do, and then they come up with a plan to thwart this evil order. And it would seem that their plan was to continue on as usual. We won’t do anything. We’ll just let the babies be born as they are born until Pharoah notices.

Pharaoh notices. I suspect that when the king sent them out to do his dirty work, he never thought he would have to deal with these midwives again. But the Israelites were still multiplying in number and his Hebrew problem was not going away. So, he summoned the two women once more. They must have had their response rehearsed because at least from what we read in the text there is no hesitation in their reply. When Pharoah asks,

“Why have you done this, and allowed the boys to live?”

Shiphrah and Puah reply, “Because the Hebrew women are not like the Egyptian women; for they are vigorous and give birth before the midwife comes to them.”

We can’t stop the baby boys from living, Pharoah. These women are so strong that they give birth before we can even get to them to help, to do our job. Moses leads his people out of enslavement in Egypt because Puah and Shiphrah ensure that no baby boys will be killed on their watch. Pharoah will have to find another way. And sadly he does. If killing the baby boys as they’re being born doesn’t work, then they must be killed afterward. He then orders that the Hebrew baby boys should be thrown in the Nile.

We don’t know if Puah and Shiphrah or another midwife was present at Moses’ birth, but we know that his mother looked at him and saw that he was a fine boy. In Hebrew these words are the same as God looking at his creation in Genesis and seeing that it was good. This child is part of God’s creation and he is good. But because he was a baby boy, he was supposed to be thrown into the Nile, yet Moses’ mother is not going to destroy God’s good creation. She is not going to be the instrument of her child’s death. She hides her son for three months. But after three months, a baby gets much harder to hide. So she takes a new action. She covers a basket in bitumen and pitch, the same materials that Noah used to waterproof the ark. In fact, the Hebrew word for basket in these verses is the same word used for the ark. Basket, ark, ark, basket. Just as the ark ensured that life would continue even in a catastrophic flood, so Moses’ mother ensures that life will continue in spite of Pharoah’s deadly orders.

Moses’ mother places her baby boy in this tiny ark and sets him in the reeds on the edge of the Nile. In this way, she obeys Pharoah, thwarting his wicked plan in a way he probably could not have imagined. But this did not mean that Moses was safe. His mother knew she was taking a great risk in doing this. She knew that her son may still not survive. Moses’ older sister, Miriam, is told to watch from a distance and see what happens.

It was Miriam who saw Pharoah’s own daughter find the little ark. It was Miriam who watched as Pharoah’s daughter opened the basket and discovered the baby boy. Pharoah’s daughter knew immediately that this was a Hebrew baby, and she must have known what was supposed to happen. But she took pity on the baby. She felt compassion for the baby. Even being a member of Pharoah’s household could not make her do her father’s vile deed. She did not throw this baby out into the river to his death. She saved him. Miriam steps out of her watching place and tells Pharoah’s daughter that she can find a nurse for the baby. When the other woman agreed, Miriam goes and brings Moses’ mother to her. This is strange and wonderful twist because not only did Moses’ mother save her child, but she is also given her baby back to nurse and is paid for doing it. When the boy is old enough to leave his mother, she brings him back to Pharoah’s daughter to raise as her own son. Moses’ mother ensured that her son would live, and the compassion that Pharoah’s daughter felt for the baby ensured that he would be raised in the household of the king.

Moses brought his people out of slavery because these women made certain that Moses could be born at all. Why did they do this? The answer for Puah and Shiphrah is stated clearly. They feared God. They feared God far more than they feared Pharoah. And other women? Moses’ mother saw the goodness of God’s creation in her baby boy, and maybe she feared harming that creation, that which is good. Even more, she was a mother, and she loved her child. She could not do what Pharoah commanded because she loved her child. Miriam, still a girl, must have loved her mother and her brother enough to stand guard, to stand watch, to act quickly and shrewdly when she saw Pharoah’s daughter discover the ark where her brother lay. And Pharoah’s daughter proved that compassion and kindness can win out over evil, even if that evil lives close to home.

Because they feared God. I’ll be honest, I struggle with the whole fear God aspect. I was brought up both to fear God who could annihilate me and to see God as a loving shepherd who loves me. It got confusing. But while I don’t spend most days afraid that God will strike me down or that God’s enormous foot will come down from the heavens and stomp me out of existence, it gives me pause to think of meeting God face-to-face one day and being asked hard questions. I do fear meeting God and being asked, “Why?” Why did I see injustice and not speak up? Why did I see someone hurting and pull back my hand instead of reaching out? Why did I stumble so many times while I was trying to follow Jesus, trying to live the good news, trying to live as though the kingdom of God is already here? Why did I live in fear?

Because they feared God. These women feared God. They respected God. They loved God. They feared God more than they feared Pharoah, and it must have been terrifying to defy Pharoah. But they did it anyway. And that’s the point. God calls us to act with courage, to live boldly, in spite of our fears. And that is what we must do because we fear God more than we fear those who deal in death. And we are not alone. God is mentioned very little in these verses. But God is there, with them, and God is here. With us. With us. Thanks be to God.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

Amen.

 

 

 

 

Great Is Your Faith

Matthew 15:21-28

August 16, 2026

 

            “Across the world, in every culture, in every time, in every imaginable crisis, mums have gone looking for their children.”

            This is a quote from Dr. Sarita Robinson, a United Kingdom survival psychologist, and it is said in the new limited series, Pompeii: Out of Time. This series is currently streaming, and it is brilliant. It is a retelling, a reimagining, and a reconstruction of what happened on that terrible day in 79 AD when Mount Vesuvius erupted and destroyed Pompeii and Herculaneum and affected other communities along the Bay of Naples. Tapping into the sciences of volcanology, archaeology, classics, and psychology, the series seeks to recreate what would have happened on Pompeii’s last day.

            One of the scientists that was consulted for the series was Dr. Robinson, and she says these words about mothers in relation to the story of a young boy, Avi, who it is believed, based on archaeological evidence, to have escaped from the city. Tom Hiddleston, the show’s host, producer, and driving force, comments to Dr. Robinson that Avi must have faced the terror of that day alone. But Dr. Robinson says that he may not have been alone, at least not the whole time, and then she says these words.

            “Across the world, in every culture, in every time, in every imaginable crisis, mums have gone looking for their children.”

            Her point was that even in the midst of a horrific crisis, such as a volcano erupting, a mother will not stop looking for her child. And even though the woman in our story from Matthew’s gospel is not caught up in a natural disaster, her child, her daughter is facing another kind of disaster, another kind of crisis. She is being tormented by a demon.

            Thinking about what this survival psychologist said about moms (and dads too) made me want to begin this sermon by first asking questions of the woman we encounter in our story rather than turning our questions on Jesus. In the past, I have done the opposite. I’ve focused solely on what Jesus says and does, because this is a story where his response to someone does not resonate or jive with the Jesus that we think we know. This is one of those hard stories about Jesus which requires us to ask hard questions of him, but first I want to know about this woman.  

            In Mark’s gospel, the other gospel where we read this account, she is a Syrophoenician woman. But in Matthew’s gospel, she is referred to as a Canaanite. The Canaanites were not a nation per se, but groups of people living in a particular region. Even though they were not a nation state, Canaanites were considered enemies of Israel from the earliest days of Israel’s existence. When this woman approached Jesus, that ancient enmity and all that it implies would not have been lost on the woman, on the disciples, or on Jesus. She is an Other. Perhaps she is the most Other of the many Others that Jesus encounters. She is an Other because of her culture. She is an Other because of her gender. She is an Other because of the circumstances of her birth. She is an Other. I grew up in the last years of the Cold War, and if I had been called upon to describe someone who was considered a complete Other to my life, my country, my way of thinking and living, I would have described a Russian. But every generation has its Others, so replace the word Canaanite with any person who might be an Other in your world, and you get the picture. But this woman, this Other, clearly recognizes Jesus for who he is, and she does not hesitate to approach him. Approach is too mild. She shouts at him. She yells at him, trying to get his attention. But notice that she uses the language of worship and reverence,

            “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.”

            Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David. I don’t think this is just sweet talk on the woman’s part. She recognizes Jesus and she recognizes that he is not just another guy who might have the ability to help some folks. She sees him and she recognizes something in him. But Jesus ignores her. If she was trying to butter him up, it didn’t work. He ignores her. She could shout till the heavens opened, but he will not acknowledge her.

Another person might have given up at this point. Another person might have walked away, cowed and intimidated at being ignored and rejected. But not this woman. She is undeterred. If Jesus thinks he will ignore her into submission, into leaving him alone, he needs to think again. The scripture passage makes it seem as though this all happens quickly, but in my mind I imagine that she continues to shout and follow and shout some more. She shouts so much and so long that the disciples can’t take it anymore. She is getting on their last collective nerve, so they ask him to send her away. Please Jesus, send her away, so she’ll stop shouting at us. Just make her stop.

But Jesus won’t be swayed, and in response to his disciples’ plea, he says something that would have devasted me if I had been in her place– it devastates me to read it now at a relatively safe and comfortable distance – he says that he has only come for the lost sheep of Israel. And though it is not said, it is implied that this woman is not one of those lost sheep. But even this does not put her off. This woman persists. She does not turn away. Instead she kneels before him, again in a posture of worship and reverence, and utters only three words,

“Lord, help me.”

            And when Jesus refuses even that simple request, telling her that it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs, she turns the table metaphor on him, saying,

            “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.”

            So, who was this woman? She was a Canaanite. She was an enemy. She was an Other. To so many people she would have been a nobody, without status, without power. But she would not be consigned to nobody status because she recognized Jesus and saw that there was something in him, something about him, that could help her daughter. But who was she? We will never know her specifics, but we do know one essential detail about her. She was a mother.

She was a mother. She was a mother with a daughter who was hurting and tormented. She was a mother, and her child needed help, and she was clearly prepared to endure whatever it took to get the help her daughter needed. She was a mother. And across the world, in every culture, in every time, in every imaginable crisis, mothers, and fathers, and parents of all kinds, will go looking for their child, and they will do whatever they must to get the help their child needs. They will go to whatever lengths it takes to find healing for their child, to protect their child, to defend their child. This woman was a mother, and Jesus could insult her if that’s what it took because she knew he could heal her daughter.

            In all of the ways that this woman is a stranger, a foreigner, an outsider and an Other, she is also universal. She is a mother with a sick child. She is the mother who demands answers and fights for justice for her child. She is the mother who will put her child in a boat because the sea has become safer than the land. She is the mother who will not stop asking, pleading, persisting, and enduring if that will get her child the help she needs. This foreign woman, this enemy woman is not so foreign after all. She is every one of us who loves someone so much, that we will do whatever it takes to get help for the one we love. She is a mother.

            Now, what about Jesus?

            I will not insult your intelligence or mine by trying to soften or excuse away what he says in this story. He insults this woman. There is no getting around it. Yes, it was a different time, and yes, we are dealing with translations, and yes, in the original Aramaic, maybe what he said would have a different meaning or carried a different connotation. But we have to deal with what is before us, and what is before is a Jesus who ignores this woman, who states categorically that he is only there for the lost sheep of Israel, and who then compares her request for her daughter to be healed to a dog getting the food that should have been given to the children.

            What really makes this so strange and difficult is that in the verses preceding these, Jesus tells a group of Pharisees who complain about Jesus’ disciples not following tradition and washing their hands before they eat, that it is not what comes into us that defiles us but what goes out of us, what comes out of our hearts and minds. And then he and the disciples leave there and go into Tyre and Sidon. Tyre and Sidon are gentile regions. If anything, Jesus and the disciples are now the Others and the foreigners and the strangers. So, he tells the Pharisees that what comes out of our hearts is what really defiles, and then he says terrible things to a mother with a sick daughter. And he preaches about the lost sheep of Israel in gentile land. None of it seems to make any sense.

            In the past when I have preached on this passage or its parallel in Mark, I have reached the conclusion that what is happening in this story is that Jesus needs to learn. Jesus is fully human which means that he is not immune to the biases and prejudices that we all experience. So, in this story, we see Jesus learning. I still believe that is true. I still think that this is a prime example of Jesus learning and growing and maturing into his ministry and into himself.

            But I think what Jesus learns is much more than what I have understood in the past. I don’t think that this is just Jesus learning when he is wrong, although that is part of it. I think that this is Jesus learning that God lives in people we don’t expect. God dwells in people we don’t like. God stares back at us from the eyes of people we consider Other.

            I think, I believe, that Jesus finally looks into the eyes of this woman and sees not just a woman of Canaan or an enemy or an Other, but he sees God. He sees every mother who is desperate for her child. He sees every father who will plead for the life of his loved one. After all, this is the Jesus who tells the story about a shepherd who will leave 99 sheep to go looking for the one that is lost. This is the Jesus who tells the story of a father who will not stop scanning the horizon looking for his lost son.

            This is the Jesus who makes a point of eating with everyone that good society rejects. Which is what makes this woman’s response about even the dogs eating crumbs from the master’s table so profound. Because this is the Jesus who intentionally and frequently opens up the table to the Others in this world. Jesus is the one who teaches us about making room at the table for all. This woman puts that back on him by asking that she be welcomed at the table too.

            If you are going to make the table open to all, then am I not included in that all? Do I not have a share in your good news? Maybe that is the biggest lesson of this story. Jesus learns and understands more completely that if the good news of the kingdom of God is really good news, then it is good news for everyone. It is not just good news for some, but for all. If it is really good news then it cannot be contained or limited. It is for everyone – for you, for me, and for this mother and her child. If the good news is truly good news, then it is good news for all. So, yes, this woman’s faith was great. Jesus saw that great faith in her and he learned from it. If the good news is good news, than it is good news for everyone. Jesus learned and understood this in a new way through this woman. May we do the same. Thanks be to God.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.

Community Spirit -- The Day of Pentecost

May 24, 2026

Acts 2:1-21

 

            “We thank you, O God, for the gift of your fabulous Spirit.”

            Many years ago, a moderator of another presbytery was renowned for the rich and sometimes unusual language he used in his prayers. He did not use language as a way to impress or to show off to the people praying with him. His prayers were sincere and heartfelt. But whenever he would lead us in prayer, I would be on the edge of my seat because I knew his prayer would not only be powerful but beautiful and unique too.

            I don’t remember what else we talked about at this particular meeting of the presbytery, but I do remember that the moderator closed the meeting with a prayer that began, “We thank you, O God, for the gift of your fabulous Spirit.”

            We thank you, O God, for the gift of your fabulous Spirit. I have thanked God for the gift of the Holy Spirit countless times, and I have referred to the Spirit in as many reverent ways as I could possibly think of: powerful, enlivening, emboldening. But until that prayer I had never considered describing the Spirit as fabulous.

            Fabulous is a fabulous word. But I know that it is often used in less weighty contexts, such as, “How does this dress look on me? It’s fabulous!” Or “Oh my gosh, your new kitchen looks fabulous!” We toured our son and daughter-in-law’s newly renovated house the other day, and I think I may have used fabulous more than once. If you want to sound a little Hollywood, a little dramatic throw in the word “fabulous.” But that’s why this moderator’s decision to use the word  fabulous to describe the Holy Spirit seemed so wild, so radical. It’s not a word that I would have applied to the Spirit.

            But what is the etymology of fabulous? While fabulous is a synonym for marvelous and incredible, it is linked, language-wise, to fabled. Something that is fabulous is fabled. It is legendary. Something that is fabulous is so extraordinary that it is found only in the stuff of myth or it is almost impossible to believe. Does this mean that the moderator who prayed that prayer believed that the Holy Spirit isn’t real? No. Nor am I trying to imply that the Holy Spirit is only myth or legend. But it is extraordinary.

The Spirit brings about extraordinary events. The Spirit effects extraordinary change.  But let’s be honest, if we were to hear the story of Pentecost, the coming of the Spirit, in any other context than scripture, without any reference to the holy or sacred or divine, what would we think? We might be incredulous at the events described, because the story of Pentecost, as is the story of the Resurrection, is an extraordinary story. This wild wind blows through a group of people gathered in prayer. It doesn’t just swirl around the outside of the house, it fills the house where the disciples are sitting, praying, eating, sleeping, waiting. But the wind is just the beginning. After the wind fills the house, divided tongues of flame appear above these peoples’ heads. Can you imagine what that must have looked like? Can we even begin to understand what the disciples were feeling and thinking when they realized that tongues of fire were dancing above their heads?

But this is not the end of the strangeness, the seemingly impossible. The other folks witnessing these strange, extraordinary events probably could not believe what they were seeing, but then they must have wondered if they could grasp what they were hearing. Each of these men began to speak in the languages of every person represented in that large diverse crowd. If someone was from Medes, that person heard the Spirit in his or her own language. If  folks were gathered from Mesopotamia or Carthage or Cappadocia, each person heard and understood the words of the disciples in their own language. And the people gathered knew that these disciples were from Galilee. They recognized that these were common people. There was no way they had been taught to speak in any language other than Aramaic, a little Latin, or maybe Greek. But the result of this strange wind and the even stranger dancing flames above their heads was that they could speak in the languages of every person gathered in that place. Whatever was happening was beyond anything these people had seen, heard, or experienced. And it makes me think that if the word fabulous stems from fabled, then this was a fabulous Spirit indeed.

            But if the story of Pentecost was merely the stuff of legend or fairy talks, then we might walk away from it thinking, "That was cool. Hope they make a movie version." But we do believe that this story of the Spirit’s descent is true. Why? Because the consequences of the coming of the Spirit are also extraordinary. The disciples are transformed into men of courage and strength that they did not exhibit before. The Peter who stands in our story and speaks to the crowds is not the Peter who impulsively tried to walk on water as Jesus did, only to be distracted by waves and wind. The Peter who preaches this powerful, persuasive sermon that opened hearts and minds is not the Peter who told Jesus to wash not just his feet but his whole body. This is not the Peter who swore he would never deny Jesus, then denied him three times as Jesus waited to be crucified. This is a transformed Peter.

They are all transformed. They all find their voice, their courage, their call with the coming of the Spirit. And their transformation leads to others being transformed as well. And it is no secret that the gospel spreads like wildfire. Those burning rings of fire above the heads of the gathered disciples, that wild wind that filled the upper room, were signs that the Holy Spirit, the wondrous, marvelous, astonishing, fabulous Spirit, was set loose in the world, and nothing, nothing would ever be the same.

But something that we don’t often realize in our celebrations this day is that the events of Pentecost, the powerful descent of the Holy Spirit, that we read about in Acts does not stop with the end of our chosen verses. That day continues through the end of chapter 2. Peter continues to preach. Yes, some thought they were drunk or just off in general. But others continued to listen. Others continued to hear, and they believed. And when they believed, something even more powerful happened. They began to live as they believed. Not only were they baptized, but they also threw themselves into becoming a community. That’s where the Spirit led them. The last verses of this chapter reveal that the disciples and the new believers lived as one community, as one family of faith. They sold their possessions and put the money into a common pool. They made sure that everyone was taken care of, that everyone had what they needed. They prayed together. They praised together. They ate together. They worked together. They built their new life together.  

The profound gift of this fabulous Spirit was community, and that community was built on people hearing the good news in their own language. People sometimes preach the coming of the Spirit on Pentecost as the reversal of what happened at the Tower of Babel. If you remember that story, all the people spoke one language and they used their ability to communicate not as a way to live together harmoniously, but as a way to become more like God than God. They wanted to build a tower that would elevate them to the same height as God. So they were given different languages and scattered across the world.

Yet the coming of the Spirit at Pentecost does not reverse that. When the Spirit comes, it does not bring about one language again. When the Spirit comes all the languages are still there, but no one is excluded because of their language. They could all hear the good news in their language. Language is no longer a barrier. Language does not provide the means to exclude but to include. In fact language opens the doors to a new community and a new community spirit. The Spirit provides a bridge between all these different languages, between all these different people. The differences in language and culture and custom are still there, but they are honored and recognized. The community spirit does not suffer because of the differences. The community spirit grows because of them.

I was in college the first time I went to New York City. I traveled with a group from the campus radio station. We made the long drive from Clarkesville to New York for a convention of college radio and communication programs. When we finally made it to the Big Apple, I called my parents to tell them we had arrived safely. This was long before cell phones, so I went to find a pay phone. There were many pay phones in the lobby of this hotel, and as I waited to call my mom and dad, I realized that I was hearing a cacophony of other languages being spoken. I think I detected French, German, Spanish, Italian, Greek, and so many more than I could recognize. I remember that I stopped and just listened, fascinated and excited at so many languages being spoken at once.

It was the greatest thing I had ever heard, and even though I was not particularly religious or church driven at that point in my life, I understood that I was getting just a glimpse of the kingdom of God. God’s world, in all its glorious, messy, fabulous diversity was there in that place, and I was a small part of it.

Thank you, O God, for the gift of your fabulous, extraordinary Spirit, which has the power to transform us into the people you created and call us to be. Thank you, O God, for the gift of your fabulous and amazing Spirit which has the power to bring people from every corner of this world to your abundant table. Thank you, O God, for the gift of your fabulous Spirit which has the power to open our hearts and minds and ears and eyes to the work you call us to do, the love you call us to share, and to all the children you have created. We thank you God for the gift of your fabulous Spirit which brings us into community and reminds us that the good news really is good.

Let all of God’s people shout out, “Alleluia!”

Amen.

 

 

           

Why Are You Looking Up? -- Seventh Sunday of Easter

Acts 1:6-14

May 17, 2026

 

            Expecto Patronum.

Is anyone familiar those two words? I’ll say them again. Expecto Patronum. They are most recognizable from the Harry Potter books and movies. The first time we encounter them is in the third book of the series, The Prisoner of Azkaban. These two words are a spell that when cast bring forth a person’s patronus. A patronus is a creature that protects the person who casts the spell from these terrible monstrosities called dementors. The patronus can be any creature. Harry’s patronus was a large stag, just as his father’s was. But whatever form the patronus takes, it comes to protect the one who calls it.

I’m not going to do a deep dive into Harry Potter today. But these words, Expecto Patronum, were not made up by the author. She did not just throw some vowels and consonants together and call it a spell. Expecto Patronum is a phrase that comes from the Latin, and it means “I await a guardian.”

Waiting for a guardian comes at the end of our passage from acts. The disciples and certain women who had ministered alongside them, including Mary the mother of Jesus and Jesus’ brothers are waiting. They are waiting in the upper room, perhaps the same room where they had eaten a final meal with Jesus in the days before his death, where he had washed their feet, and where one of their number had left from to do the work of betrayal. So in this upper room, the people closest to Jesus have gathered there once more to wait.

But before the waiting, they were gathered around Jesus himself. In the opening verses of this first chapter of Acts, Luke – the author of both the gospel and of Acts – notes that the risen Jesus has spent forty days with the disciples talking to them about the kingdom of God.

I had never considered the reason why Jesus did not ascend immediately into heaven after his resurrection. Why does it take 40 days before he ascends? Like the Israelites’ 40 years and Jesus’s 40 days in the wilderness, the number 40 signifies a time of preparation. Jesus’s earthly ministry might have been over with his crucifixion and resurrection, but his preparation with the disciples was clearly not. He prepares them for the kingdom of God – a kingdom that is not like the kingdoms they understand and know. The kingdom of God is not just the restored kingdom of Israel, writ large. Even though the disciples clearly hope that it will be. The kingdom of God, as one commentator wrote, is not about the Davidic kingdom returning in all its previous glory. It is not a human kingdom founded on power, but it is God’s realm which is both here and still to come. It is a kingdom based on love, on justice, on mercy. It is a realm that defies human terminology and labeling. It is a kingdom far wider, far greater, farther reaching than any kingdom the disciples – or us – could conceive with our limited understanding.

So, now at the end of the 40 days, Jesus tells the disciples that they are to wait for the power that will come upon them through the Holy Spirit. And when the Holy Spirit comes, they will be his witnesses in Jerusalem, in Judea, in Samaria, and throughout the whole world. And just when the disciples thought they could not see anything more amazing than witnessing their rabbi resurrected, they see him lifted up into a cloud and taken from their sight.

Of course they stood there gazing heavenward. It makes sense to me that they remained rooted in that place, eyes fixed on the last spot where they saw their beloved teacher. I can understand their reluctance to turn away. I can relate to their hesitation to move on, to leave, to walk away. But even though they may have wanted to, they could not stay. Their impetus to go came from a supernatural nudge. There was a sudden appearance of two men in white robes standing by them saying,

“Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven? This Jesus, who has been taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven.”

This reminds me of the two men in dazzling clothes who appeared to the women at the empty tomb and asked them,

“Why do you look for the living among the dead?”

The women needed to be told that they would not find Jesus in the home of the dead. He was risen. And the disciples now need to be told that they cannot remain looking up, at least not for the time being. They must go forward.

So the disciples return to Jerusalem. They enter the city and go back to the upper room where they were staying. They gather there, along with the other women and Jesus’ family and they wait. They wait for the power of the Holy Spirit. They wait for the day when they will see Jesus return. They wait.

In the tradition in which I grew up, what was emphasized about this account of Jesus’ ascension was the promise of the second coming. In our tradition, we refer to Jesus’ coming again in glory in our worship service. It’s understandable that the second coming is a big deal to a lot of folks, a lot of church traditions, and to many people in my extended family. My dad once told me that every New Year’s Eve, my grandfather would gather the family together and they would pray that in this New Year, Jesus would finally return. But I have wondered for a long time if focusing so completely on the second coming isn’t also missing the point just a little. I wonder if we have not gotten way too caught up in looking up?

Jesus spent 40 days between his resurrection and his ascension preparing the disciples to be witnesses to him and to the kingdom of God. But whether the disciples fully got that, it’s hard to know. That’s why that supernatural nudge was necessary. The two men appear to the disciples just as they appeared to the women. They all needed to be prodded into taking the next step. The disciples needed to be reminded that their work was not focused solely on looking up, but on looking out. When the Holy Spirit comes upon them on Pentecost – the story that we will read and celebrate next week – we learn that their ministry was to go out, to reach out, to set out, move out … into the world, into the midst of the brokenness and the hurting and the chaos. Their ministry, their call was to bring the good news of the gospel to the world, to be Christ’s body, hands, feet, mouth, mind, and heart in a world that so desperately needed it.

The men in white robes appear in that moment, when the disciples are staring up into the heavens, as one commentator put it, mesmerized or paralyzed we aren’t sure, to move the disciples into action, to push them toward their calling.

Why are you looking up? And to their question I add, why aren’t you looking out? I know the men in white don’t say this, but to me it seems implied. Why are you looking up? Why aren’t you looking out?

I struggle with looking up. And I struggle with looking out. I think we need both, but it seems to me that we either spend too much time doing one and not enough time doing the other, and vice versa. Let’s be honest. We need to look up. We need to look up to God in trust, in hope, in expectation. But how often do I forget that? How often do I throw a quick glance upward just to remind God that I’ve got this. I can handle all things on my own. God just needs to get on board with my plans. I’m in control and it’s going to be just fine. And only when everything is not just fine do I realize that I have been looking in, not up. I haven’t been trusting God, I’ve been trusting myself only. I’ve been looking at only what I want to see – in me and in God.

But on the other hand, I wonder if only looking up is another way to privatize faith. It’s just you and me God. My salvation is based only on our relationship. We got that all worked out, just the two of us so no one else needs to be involved. That means I don’t need to look out. I just need to look up and wait for you to come and get me. This is all about me. So I’m just going to look up.

Do you see what I’m getting at? Both of those scenarios focus on me and me alone. Either I’m looking inward, believing that I’m looking out, and trusting only in myself, or I’m looking up and thinking it’s only about me and God. Either way, it’s all about me.

But all about me, or all about you, or all about any one person does not fit with what Jesus taught and preached and lived. Maybe the disciples were mesmerized or paralyzed while looking up but they looked up together. When they returned to Jerusalem, they went back together. They stayed together. They waited together. They prayed and devoted themselves to scripture together. They were in community, the community that Jesus created and nurtured. And when the Holy Spirit does come upon them, it descends on them in community. The power they receive in the Spirit was not limited to them alone, it was shared. It was shared with every person gathered there with them, and it was then shared with the whole world. The disciples spend the rest of their lives looking out, going out, reaching out – to the whole world.

The disciples looked up and they looked out. It seems to me that God requires both. God wants us to look up. Look up, God says, look to me, trust me, believe in me, listen to me, follow me. And look out. Look out at my children made in my image. Look out and see them. Are you caring for them? Are you loving them as I love them? Look out at the world I created. Are you caring for it? Are you loving it the way I love it? Are you looking up but are you also looking out? It seems to me that God requires both. We must look up, look up to God for our hope, for our strength, for our courage. But we must also then look out. We must look out at the world God has created, at the children God has created and loves. We must take the power and strength and courage and hope we receive from looking up and carry that out into the world.

And yes, part of our following, part of our looking and out is waiting. But as one scholar said, our waiting is not passive. Our waiting is active. We wait in prayer together. We wait in fellowship together. We wait in serving together. We wait in loving together. Our waiting is part and parcel of our looking up and our looking out. We wait and we pray. We wait and we hope. We wait and we work. We wait and we remember. We wait and we live in the moment. We wait and hope for the future.

Expecto Patronum. I await a guardian. Jesus promises the disciples that while they wait they are not left alone. They will receive an Advocate, a guardian in the coming of the Holy Spirit. That promise is our promise as well. We are not alone. We are not alone in our waiting. We are not alone in our looking up. We are not alone in our looking out. We are not alone. So we look up in trust and in great expectation. And we look out in hope, in compassion and in love. And we give thanks that God calls us to do both. We give thanks that we are called again and again and again to look up and to look out. Thanks be to God.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

Amen.