Wednesday, November 5, 2025
Sunday, November 2, 2025
HOMILY: "The Hem of His Robe"
Sunday, November 2, 2025
Community Church of Durham
Mark 13 and Mark 5 (The 1st Sunday of Early Advent)
1.
.webp)
Our story says that a swarm of people were following Jesus that day, dozens, maybe hundreds of them, and they were crowding around him, to get a glimpse perhaps, to see what he might do or say next. And our story says that within that swarm of people, within that surge of fascination and desire, was one woman in particular who had been suffering for a long, long time. One woman who had been cast aside by a health care system that dismissed her as unimportant; impoverished and without any kind of safety net; and in all likelihood isolated for years by illness and suspicion. Her misfortune embarrassed them all.
And yet, within that tangled crowd, this same woman somehow negotiated anxious bodies and frenzied limbs, keenly aware of who was passing through that day, and what Jesus was really all about, and how Love kept its promise in his every step, with his every breath. (You’ll find this story, by the way, in Mark, Chapter 5.) No doubt she was invisible to many that day, or maybe simply ignored by most; irrelevant to the drama in the street.
But still she kept watch—this remarkable woman—still she kept watch in the hubbub of the hundreds. Still she kept watch—this resilient spirit—because hope stirred without reason in her heart. Still she kept watch. And when the time was just right, when she got just close enough, she reached out, she extended her achy wrist and frail fingers, and she touched the hem of his robe. And that simple moment in a swarming crowd, her watchful reach, her faithful touch—it changed her life. Not only hers, it turns out; but his too.
“Take heed, then, and watch,” Jesus says toward the end of Mark’s story, “for you do not know when the time will come.” It’s an Advent theme, to be sure; but not just seasonal. It’s also a profoundly Christian practice. Perhaps now as much as ever before. Watchfulness and humility. Trust and discernment. “Of that day or that hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor even the Son, but only God...” You and I are called to faith that is deep and resilient, but also unafraid of the unknown: unafraid of the unknown, undaunted by grief and despair, and alert to divine possibilities in the push and pull of everyday life. You see, we don’t have to have all the answers to all the questions to “touch the hem of his robe.” And we don’t have to be the boldest prophet, or the wisest saint, or even the kindest or sweetest one, to “touch the hem of his robe.”
But we do have to keep watch. And we do have to stay alert. Even and perhaps especially when powers and principalities overwhelm us with bad news. Even and especially when it seems they may be planning to burn the whole place down. Disciples of Jesus remain vigilant: for Love’s footprints in the paths we walk; for moments worthy of praise and delight; and, yes, for the hem of his robe before us. Within our grasp. Einstein once said that “there are two ways to live our lives. One is as if nothing is a miracle; the other is as if everything is a miracle.” And that’s us. That has to be our faith. Staying awake to the mystery that cannot be bought and sold on the market. Keeping watch for the beauty that shimmers on bright sunny days, but also the dark, gray and brooding ones. Alert for the grace that moves in every heart, in every people, in every moment.
“Take heed, then, and watch,” Jesus says, “for you do not know when the time will come.” And I think that means protecting a resilient and robust tenderness within our hearts, though it’s tempting to default toward cynicism and even rage. And I think it means committing to prayerfulness in the daily round, a consistent practice of attentiveness in flesh and spirit, anchored in breath and body. And I think it means trusting that God’s Love is not a prize to be earned or a bet to be wagered, but an unearned, unmerited, unrestricted, unhindered gift. For every single one of us. For you and for me. And the whole wide world around. Without exception. We call that divine gift, that once-and-for-all blessing GRACE. And so we take heed, then, and we watch. We remain vigilant. We keep our hearts tender, open, available to the Spirit’s need and direction.
2.
And isn’t it possible, then, that the very watchfulness Jesus encourages in Mark 13 is embodied in the courage and faith of this woman who touches the hem of his robe in Mark 5? How she resists the negativity, even the cruelty, that marginalizes her existence and embraces instead the glory promised to every single human life? How she defies powers and principalities and asserts her own dignity and worthiness? And how she scans the crowd that day and sees not a frenzied, anxious community competing for love, but instead a kindhearted healer open to conversation, confident in grace, and eager for connection?
Because this is what happens. When she touches the hem of his robe. In our story. Jesus stops suddenly, even abruptly, turning 360 degrees in the tangled crowd that now screeches to a halt around him. And Jesus knows, in his heart and in his flesh, that some kind of power has been activated in him and released into the crowd. And it’s such an intimate thing, a holy thing, this power that’s awakened in him, this experience of human touch, even connection. So he wants to know. “Who touched the hem of my robe? Who touched me just now?”
And it’s interesting, right, because the story doesn’t suggest that Jesus owns or possesses this power, that it’s his alone or his to give away. This kind of grace—the power of Love—is activated in the distance between them, in the sacred space where she reaches out to touch the hem of his robe. And it flows, then, from him to her, and from her to him, and (in all likelihood) back and forth between the two of them. She is transformed, no doubt, and so too is Jesus. That’s what love is; that’s how empowerment works; that’s the kind of healing, the kind of wholeness available to every one of us and all of us. If we take heed. If we keep watch. Grace awakens among us new possibilities for wonder, delight, service and communion. The power of Love, aroused in a moment of courage and hopefulness, flows from one to another, from one to another, and back again. Doing its good work. Inspiring hope between us and sustaining us, in beloved community, for wild mercy and generous service and heartfelt praise.
And we do know that Love works this way: as it does between Caden and Gwyneth, as it does between Diane and Henry, as it does between David and his choir, as it does between Antony and every lucky soul who sits in his hallway day by day by day. Grace awakens among us new possibilities for wonder and delight. It sustains us, in and out of season. If only, if only, if only—we keep watch.
3.
Last summer, as my Palestinian hosts were arranging for my hastier-than-planned departure, my good friend Zoughbi Zoughbi ran out to a Bethlehem gift shop. He returned, just as the taxi driver was loading my bags, with this icon. Iconography is big in Bethlehem, an art form to be sure, but just as importantly a spiritual practice. A way of telling the story with images, encouraging reflection and curiosity, and even wonder. And Zoughbi placed this small icon in my hand as the wary driver bounced from one foot to the other. And he said to me: “Keep this story close. Let her show you the way.” Ten words, our farewell. Keep this story close. Let her show you the way.
The icon depicts Mary and Jesus, as so many do in Bethlehem. But it’s Mary’s hands that draw my attention now, and will for years to come. In one, of course, she cradles the Christ child, whose cheek is pressed to her own. She looks upon the child with care and gladness, his life a sign of peace promised, shalom, salaam. The other hand, however: Mary’s other hand is empty. The Christ child in her right hand, the other empty—like this.
And yet, as my driver left Bethlehem behind and turned for checkpoints at the Jordanian border, I turned this gift, this icon, in my hand and wondered. Maybe Mary’s second hand isn’t empty at all, but alert, and attentive, and waiting for the unknown to reveal itself. Maybe the story told by this particular icon is a story of deep faith wedded to profound humility, a story of Christian devotion joined to radical openness. (By the way, I’ll leave this precious piece on the table here, so you can take a look after the service.)
Community Church of Durham
Mark 13 and Mark 5 (The 1st Sunday of Early Advent)
1.
.webp)
And yet, within that tangled crowd, this same woman somehow negotiated anxious bodies and frenzied limbs, keenly aware of who was passing through that day, and what Jesus was really all about, and how Love kept its promise in his every step, with his every breath. (You’ll find this story, by the way, in Mark, Chapter 5.) No doubt she was invisible to many that day, or maybe simply ignored by most; irrelevant to the drama in the street.
But still she kept watch—this remarkable woman—still she kept watch in the hubbub of the hundreds. Still she kept watch—this resilient spirit—because hope stirred without reason in her heart. Still she kept watch. And when the time was just right, when she got just close enough, she reached out, she extended her achy wrist and frail fingers, and she touched the hem of his robe. And that simple moment in a swarming crowd, her watchful reach, her faithful touch—it changed her life. Not only hers, it turns out; but his too.
“Take heed, then, and watch,” Jesus says toward the end of Mark’s story, “for you do not know when the time will come.” It’s an Advent theme, to be sure; but not just seasonal. It’s also a profoundly Christian practice. Perhaps now as much as ever before. Watchfulness and humility. Trust and discernment. “Of that day or that hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor even the Son, but only God...” You and I are called to faith that is deep and resilient, but also unafraid of the unknown: unafraid of the unknown, undaunted by grief and despair, and alert to divine possibilities in the push and pull of everyday life. You see, we don’t have to have all the answers to all the questions to “touch the hem of his robe.” And we don’t have to be the boldest prophet, or the wisest saint, or even the kindest or sweetest one, to “touch the hem of his robe.”
But we do have to keep watch. And we do have to stay alert. Even and perhaps especially when powers and principalities overwhelm us with bad news. Even and especially when it seems they may be planning to burn the whole place down. Disciples of Jesus remain vigilant: for Love’s footprints in the paths we walk; for moments worthy of praise and delight; and, yes, for the hem of his robe before us. Within our grasp. Einstein once said that “there are two ways to live our lives. One is as if nothing is a miracle; the other is as if everything is a miracle.” And that’s us. That has to be our faith. Staying awake to the mystery that cannot be bought and sold on the market. Keeping watch for the beauty that shimmers on bright sunny days, but also the dark, gray and brooding ones. Alert for the grace that moves in every heart, in every people, in every moment.
“Take heed, then, and watch,” Jesus says, “for you do not know when the time will come.” And I think that means protecting a resilient and robust tenderness within our hearts, though it’s tempting to default toward cynicism and even rage. And I think it means committing to prayerfulness in the daily round, a consistent practice of attentiveness in flesh and spirit, anchored in breath and body. And I think it means trusting that God’s Love is not a prize to be earned or a bet to be wagered, but an unearned, unmerited, unrestricted, unhindered gift. For every single one of us. For you and for me. And the whole wide world around. Without exception. We call that divine gift, that once-and-for-all blessing GRACE. And so we take heed, then, and we watch. We remain vigilant. We keep our hearts tender, open, available to the Spirit’s need and direction.
2.
And isn’t it possible, then, that the very watchfulness Jesus encourages in Mark 13 is embodied in the courage and faith of this woman who touches the hem of his robe in Mark 5? How she resists the negativity, even the cruelty, that marginalizes her existence and embraces instead the glory promised to every single human life? How she defies powers and principalities and asserts her own dignity and worthiness? And how she scans the crowd that day and sees not a frenzied, anxious community competing for love, but instead a kindhearted healer open to conversation, confident in grace, and eager for connection?
Because this is what happens. When she touches the hem of his robe. In our story. Jesus stops suddenly, even abruptly, turning 360 degrees in the tangled crowd that now screeches to a halt around him. And Jesus knows, in his heart and in his flesh, that some kind of power has been activated in him and released into the crowd. And it’s such an intimate thing, a holy thing, this power that’s awakened in him, this experience of human touch, even connection. So he wants to know. “Who touched the hem of my robe? Who touched me just now?”
And we do know that Love works this way: as it does between Caden and Gwyneth, as it does between Diane and Henry, as it does between David and his choir, as it does between Antony and every lucky soul who sits in his hallway day by day by day. Grace awakens among us new possibilities for wonder and delight. It sustains us, in and out of season. If only, if only, if only—we keep watch.
3.
The icon depicts Mary and Jesus, as so many do in Bethlehem. But it’s Mary’s hands that draw my attention now, and will for years to come. In one, of course, she cradles the Christ child, whose cheek is pressed to her own. She looks upon the child with care and gladness, his life a sign of peace promised, shalom, salaam. The other hand, however: Mary’s other hand is empty. The Christ child in her right hand, the other empty—like this.
And yet, as my driver left Bethlehem behind and turned for checkpoints at the Jordanian border, I turned this gift, this icon, in my hand and wondered. Maybe Mary’s second hand isn’t empty at all, but alert, and attentive, and waiting for the unknown to reveal itself. Maybe the story told by this particular icon is a story of deep faith wedded to profound humility, a story of Christian devotion joined to radical openness. (By the way, I’ll leave this precious piece on the table here, so you can take a look after the service.)
Monday, October 27, 2025
HOMILY: "Be Merciful to Me!"
Sunday, October 26, 2025
Community Church of Durham
Luke 18:9-14 (The 4th Sunday in Incarnation)
1.
The Pharisee in this morning’s parable is a cautionary figure for all of us in religious life. For his religion justifies hubris and detachment. Because he shows up for church every week, or because he pays his tithe every year, or just because: he distances himself from ordinary folk, from the un-churched, from the flawed and the compromised who turn out to be just about everywhere.
And it’s this seemingly minor detail—where Jesus says that the Pharisee is ‘standing by himself’—that sets us up for the lesson in the parable today. Because this fellow’s detached himself from the rest of the crowd, and particularly scoundrels like the tax collector, in order that his moral purity not be corrupted by lesser men, or crude spirits. There’s a temptation in religious life—no matter the tradition—that makes a sacrament of holiness, or an idol of faith itself; and that temptation often drives a wedge between the enlightened and the so-called unenlightened, or between the believer and the so-called nonbeliever, or between the upright and the scandalous.
And Jesus knows that this kind of pride is indeed the enemy of spirituality, and a barrier to God’s grace and peace. James Baldwin once said that “people who believe that they are self-made and masters of their own destiny can only continue to believe this by becoming specialists in self-deception…” Specialists in self-deception! Jesus understands that pride distorts the whole point of his gospel ministry: which is a beloved community where divine love transforms and divine mercy reconciles and only service is sacramental.
And lest I get too full of myself, at this point I should confess that I am, all too often, that same Pharisee. The one in the parable. A specialist in self-deception! When watching the evening news and the madness that’s taken hold in our politics. I am filled with contempt. When standing in line at the supermarket, as a guy in a bright read MAGA hat and a machine gun tattoo buys a couple of six packs. I sniffle with disgust. Even, sometimes, when driving into Durham on a quiet Sunday morning and lamenting all the folk who don’t come to church anymore. I feel a great distance. It’s easy to wish that the rest of the world would shape up. And easy to drown in my own self-righteousness. Not sure this rings true for the rest of you. But it’s my confession. I too can specialize in self-deception.
But Jesus, thank God for Jesus; because he seems determined first to diagnose this disease and then to aggressively heal it. Both characters in this morning’s parable—the Pharisee and the tax collector—both are imperfect, flawed, complicit in a bunch of ways. Both are involved in systems of control and extraction: the Pharisee on behalf of religious elites, and the tax collector for the empire itself. Neither lives a pure and perfect life.
And yet—while the Pharisee boasts of his own genius and purity—the tax collector begs, begs for mercy. He’s much less interested in comparing himself to others, or in justifying his actions against the cruelty or even the stupidity of others. He aches only for a deeper, richer, and a radically honest relationship with God. After all, only God, only God—proves master of this imperfect man’s destiny. So he turns to God. Or more accurately, he hurls himself into God’s open arms. Beating his breast. Crying out. Begging for mercy.
Now, in the fullness of Luke’s gospel, we’ll see that this kind of confession necessitates new behaviors, new commitments to kindness and justice and generosity. The begging here is just a first step. If the Pharisee’s faith drives a wedge between himself and others, grace liberates the other’s heart for courageous relationship and even solidarity. “For all who exalt themselves,” Jesus says, “will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.” His life is in the process now of total transformation. And if you’re curious about what that might look like, look no farther than Luke’s brilliant Parable of the “Good” Samaritan.
2.
Last weekend I officiated at a niece’s wedding, on a green and sun-soaked field, rolled out across a California valley. And I watched two remarkable families (one Indian and the other Mexican) celebrate one another there, rejoice in one another there, and join the son of one and the daughter of the other in marriage.
Community Church of Durham
Luke 18:9-14 (The 4th Sunday in Incarnation)
1.
The Pharisee in this morning’s parable is a cautionary figure for all of us in religious life. For his religion justifies hubris and detachment. Because he shows up for church every week, or because he pays his tithe every year, or just because: he distances himself from ordinary folk, from the un-churched, from the flawed and the compromised who turn out to be just about everywhere.
 |
| The Pharisee & the Tax Collector (Bryn Gillette) |
And it’s this seemingly minor detail—where Jesus says that the Pharisee is ‘standing by himself’—that sets us up for the lesson in the parable today. Because this fellow’s detached himself from the rest of the crowd, and particularly scoundrels like the tax collector, in order that his moral purity not be corrupted by lesser men, or crude spirits. There’s a temptation in religious life—no matter the tradition—that makes a sacrament of holiness, or an idol of faith itself; and that temptation often drives a wedge between the enlightened and the so-called unenlightened, or between the believer and the so-called nonbeliever, or between the upright and the scandalous.
And Jesus knows that this kind of pride is indeed the enemy of spirituality, and a barrier to God’s grace and peace. James Baldwin once said that “people who believe that they are self-made and masters of their own destiny can only continue to believe this by becoming specialists in self-deception…” Specialists in self-deception! Jesus understands that pride distorts the whole point of his gospel ministry: which is a beloved community where divine love transforms and divine mercy reconciles and only service is sacramental.
And lest I get too full of myself, at this point I should confess that I am, all too often, that same Pharisee. The one in the parable. A specialist in self-deception! When watching the evening news and the madness that’s taken hold in our politics. I am filled with contempt. When standing in line at the supermarket, as a guy in a bright read MAGA hat and a machine gun tattoo buys a couple of six packs. I sniffle with disgust. Even, sometimes, when driving into Durham on a quiet Sunday morning and lamenting all the folk who don’t come to church anymore. I feel a great distance. It’s easy to wish that the rest of the world would shape up. And easy to drown in my own self-righteousness. Not sure this rings true for the rest of you. But it’s my confession. I too can specialize in self-deception.
But Jesus, thank God for Jesus; because he seems determined first to diagnose this disease and then to aggressively heal it. Both characters in this morning’s parable—the Pharisee and the tax collector—both are imperfect, flawed, complicit in a bunch of ways. Both are involved in systems of control and extraction: the Pharisee on behalf of religious elites, and the tax collector for the empire itself. Neither lives a pure and perfect life.
And yet—while the Pharisee boasts of his own genius and purity—the tax collector begs, begs for mercy. He’s much less interested in comparing himself to others, or in justifying his actions against the cruelty or even the stupidity of others. He aches only for a deeper, richer, and a radically honest relationship with God. After all, only God, only God—proves master of this imperfect man’s destiny. So he turns to God. Or more accurately, he hurls himself into God’s open arms. Beating his breast. Crying out. Begging for mercy.
Now, in the fullness of Luke’s gospel, we’ll see that this kind of confession necessitates new behaviors, new commitments to kindness and justice and generosity. The begging here is just a first step. If the Pharisee’s faith drives a wedge between himself and others, grace liberates the other’s heart for courageous relationship and even solidarity. “For all who exalt themselves,” Jesus says, “will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.” His life is in the process now of total transformation. And if you’re curious about what that might look like, look no farther than Luke’s brilliant Parable of the “Good” Samaritan.
2.
Last weekend I officiated at a niece’s wedding, on a green and sun-soaked field, rolled out across a California valley. And I watched two remarkable families (one Indian and the other Mexican) celebrate one another there, rejoice in one another there, and join the son of one and the daughter of the other in marriage.
Friday, October 24, 2025
Sunday, October 5, 2025
HOMILY: "The Power to Repair and Make Right"
Sunday, October 5, 2025
Community Church of Durham
Luke 19 (The 1st Sunday in Incarnation)
1.
This summer I was invited to the Carter Center in Atlanta with a serious and fascinating mix of American peace activists, Palestinian Christian leaders and South African pastors. This was a two-day convocation of 130 leaders: all of us grieving ongoing violence in the Holy Land, and genocidal destruction in Gaza; and all of us committing to urgent strategies to end the killing and offer some kind of hope, any kind of hope, to the peoples of Palestine and Israel. Several initiatives emerged from that gathering. And I’m hopeful that our Palestinian Solidarity Service Team will bring those initiatives to us for concrete action shortly. Churches like ours can make a difference; more on that soon.
For much of that meeting, I sat at a big round table, alongside two UCC colleagues and four South African pastors. Veterans of the anti-apartheid movement in their own country; prophets of possibility. One of these bright lights was the Reverend Nontombi Naomi Tutu, the third child of Archbishop Desmond and Nomalizo Leah Tutu. We talked just a bit about her journey into Christian ministry, and she told me that she never in a thousand years imagined she’d follow her father in this vocation. “I have my father’s nose,” she said. “I did not want his job.” But her work in educational reform and advocacy led her, again and again, to a realization that social change requires spiritual revolution, and that spiritual revolution emerges in beloved community. So…there she was in Atlanta, an Anglican priest, a cross around her neck, a collar to match, and all the rest of it. The Reverend Nontombi Naomi Tutu. Committed to sharing her experience, and offering her unique blend of strength and wisdom, to Palestinian partners and friends. For such a moment as this.
The opening invocation that first day in Atlanta was offered by my good friend Zoughbi Zoughbi, a nonviolent Palestinian prophet, a relentless community organizer, and in his 20s a tortured captive in one of Israel’s secret prisons. I can’t get Zoughbi’s wording just right; but he called on the spirit of the Apostle Paul that morning (2 Corinthians 4), and reminded us that though his people are afflicted in every way, they are not crushed; and though they are perplexed, they are not driven to despair; and though they are persecuted by governments seen and unseen, they are not forsaken. And in a room of South African priests, Palestinian theologians, American Protestants and Catholics, and peace activists from a wide range of American communities—Zoughbi insisted that we not give up: not on one another, not on the promise of peace, and not on God. “For though we carry in our bodies the suffering of Christ,” he said, “we are made new, and made bold, and even resurrected by the life of One who rises from the grave.” And then Zoughbi finished with the word that brings so many of our prayers full circle: “Amen.”
And it was what happened next that affected me most. For in that moment, as Zoughbi said his “Amen,” the Reverend Nontombi Naomi Tutu—daughter of Archbishop Desmond Tutu—stood up from the table, just beside me, mind you, and cried out (to Zoughbi and to that whole heartbroken gathering of activists), “Ashe!” “Ashe!” And then, from others around the room (South African friends, African-Americans too): “Ashe!” “Ashe!” “Ashe!” And when Naomi Tutu sat down, making eye contact with Zoughbi on the stage, my Palestinian friend placed his hand on his heart and nodded. Just that. A hand to his heart. And a couple of gentle nods. It seemed to me that his prayer had been actualized, even activated somehow; that the Holy Spirit had infiltrated what might have been just another meeting in Atlanta and made it something else. Something like holy resistance. Something like inspired worship. Something like beloved community.
2.
So what is this “Ashe”? Where does it come from? And why have some of us stitched it into our prayers and liturgies over the past five, ten years? You’ll note, I know you will, that we have done this almost permanently: it’s a weekly feature of our congregational prayer life. “Amen and Ashe.” Why is this?
Well, as I understand it, “Ashe” is a Yoruban word, a West African concept, that indicates human awareness of power: power conferred upon us by the Creator, power to make things happen, and to do good for one another, and to effect change for the blessing of all.
Five years ago, in the wake of George Floyd’s murder in Minneapolis and another wave of racist violence in American streets, African American pastors in the United Church of Christ suggested that using “Ashe” alongside “Amen” emboldened their communities, that it reminded Black churches of their God-given power, their God-given spirit, their God-given vocation to do good and resist violence and create a new world. And why should this be an innovation, they asked, for the Black church alone? Are we not all responsible for active discipleship and active resistance and emboldened anti-racism in our towns, cities and neighborhoods? Shouldn’t every Christian church be praying “Amen” and “Ashe”? Amen, to acknowledge God’s presence and blessing. And Ashe, to invoke God’s partnership and power.
When Naomi Tutu stood up then, in Atlanta, and responded to Zoughbi’s prayer in this way, she was celebrating their friendship—a South African priest and a Palestinian organizer—and naming the power of God that flows through friendship, and across the church, and into the broken, violent and lovely world. When she cried out “Ashe!”—she was offering her own witness to the resurrecting spirit of God who will conspire with us, and resist with us, and rejoice with us, and stand with us until war is no more and all of earth’s children find peace and abundance, everyone beneath a vine and fig tree. The chill that ran up and down my arms in that moment signaled this, insisted on it. Invited me to be part of it. With Naomi and Zoughbi and a worldwide community of love and faith. And that, my friends, is power. And a faithful interpretation, I think, of the biblical tradition itself.
Community Church of Durham
Luke 19 (The 1st Sunday in Incarnation)
1.
 |
| Peter Makari and Zoughbi Zoughbi in Atlanta |
For much of that meeting, I sat at a big round table, alongside two UCC colleagues and four South African pastors. Veterans of the anti-apartheid movement in their own country; prophets of possibility. One of these bright lights was the Reverend Nontombi Naomi Tutu, the third child of Archbishop Desmond and Nomalizo Leah Tutu. We talked just a bit about her journey into Christian ministry, and she told me that she never in a thousand years imagined she’d follow her father in this vocation. “I have my father’s nose,” she said. “I did not want his job.” But her work in educational reform and advocacy led her, again and again, to a realization that social change requires spiritual revolution, and that spiritual revolution emerges in beloved community. So…there she was in Atlanta, an Anglican priest, a cross around her neck, a collar to match, and all the rest of it. The Reverend Nontombi Naomi Tutu. Committed to sharing her experience, and offering her unique blend of strength and wisdom, to Palestinian partners and friends. For such a moment as this.
 |
| The Rev. Nontombi Naomi Tutu |
And it was what happened next that affected me most. For in that moment, as Zoughbi said his “Amen,” the Reverend Nontombi Naomi Tutu—daughter of Archbishop Desmond Tutu—stood up from the table, just beside me, mind you, and cried out (to Zoughbi and to that whole heartbroken gathering of activists), “Ashe!” “Ashe!” And then, from others around the room (South African friends, African-Americans too): “Ashe!” “Ashe!” “Ashe!” And when Naomi Tutu sat down, making eye contact with Zoughbi on the stage, my Palestinian friend placed his hand on his heart and nodded. Just that. A hand to his heart. And a couple of gentle nods. It seemed to me that his prayer had been actualized, even activated somehow; that the Holy Spirit had infiltrated what might have been just another meeting in Atlanta and made it something else. Something like holy resistance. Something like inspired worship. Something like beloved community.
2.
So what is this “Ashe”? Where does it come from? And why have some of us stitched it into our prayers and liturgies over the past five, ten years? You’ll note, I know you will, that we have done this almost permanently: it’s a weekly feature of our congregational prayer life. “Amen and Ashe.” Why is this?
Well, as I understand it, “Ashe” is a Yoruban word, a West African concept, that indicates human awareness of power: power conferred upon us by the Creator, power to make things happen, and to do good for one another, and to effect change for the blessing of all.
When Naomi Tutu stood up then, in Atlanta, and responded to Zoughbi’s prayer in this way, she was celebrating their friendship—a South African priest and a Palestinian organizer—and naming the power of God that flows through friendship, and across the church, and into the broken, violent and lovely world. When she cried out “Ashe!”—she was offering her own witness to the resurrecting spirit of God who will conspire with us, and resist with us, and rejoice with us, and stand with us until war is no more and all of earth’s children find peace and abundance, everyone beneath a vine and fig tree. The chill that ran up and down my arms in that moment signaled this, insisted on it. Invited me to be part of it. With Naomi and Zoughbi and a worldwide community of love and faith. And that, my friends, is power. And a faithful interpretation, I think, of the biblical tradition itself.
Monday, September 29, 2025
Sunday, September 28, 2025
HOMILY: "Keeping the Sabbath"
Sunday, September 28, 2025
Isaiah 56 (The 4th Sunday in Creationtide)
1.
In the fragile community this prophet loves, in an environment of political extremism he abhors, in a cultural ecosystem where finger-wagging passes for spiritual insight and wisdom; there are moralists out and about who would blame every social ill on immigrants in the streets, or so-called sexual ‘deviants’ among them. (That would be their phrase, not mine.) Even in the name of religion, in the name of God, they invoke a thousand curses on bleeding hearts and open doors.
And the prophet hears all of this, around town, and in the temple precincts, around the edges of religious life, ripping through civic debate. Spreading like a plague. And it just breaks his heart. The immigrants are doing this to us. The foreigners have corrupted our way of life. The eunuchs pervert our purity and our faith.
And their proposal, then, is to round up and deport the immigrants; and then to humiliate and permanently exclude the eunuchs from community life. As if all that, somehow all that, will Make Israel Great Again. Then and now, nationalism drives two sinister and related temptations: purity on the one hand (as if there is such a thing) and grievance on the other.
And by the way, let’s not be fooled. This reference to ‘eunuchs’ in Isaiah 56 is a stand-in for any gender identity or sexual orientation that doesn’t conform to the moralizing fundamentalism (or political opportunism) of the day. This prophet is fully aware that there are priests, pastors and pundits insisting that God would banish foreigners, immigrants, so-called ‘illegals’ from the community of faith, once and for all. And he’s equally aware that those same priests, pastors and pundits would permanently exclude queer folk from economies of care, networks of support, the body politic itself.
But this prophet—the third voice in the Book of the Prophet Isaiah—he’s onto them. And he stands in Israel’s tradition of radical freedom and human liberation and Godly interdependence. A covenantal commitment to shared prosperity in a land of plenty. An ethic of hospitality. The moralizers may be peddling deportation and humiliation as social policy, but he’ll have none if it!
“Thus says the Lord.” The four words that signal the most urgent messages, the most pressing poetry in the Hebrew prophetic tradition. “Thus says the Lord.” To the eunuchs who keep my sabbaths, who choose the things that please me and hold fast my covenant, I will give a monument better than sons and daughters; I will give them an everlasting name that shall not be cut off… This is one of these most radical, and one of these most beautiful, and (let’s be honest) one of the most often ignored biblical imperatives in all of scripture. What matters to God isn’t a particular sexual orientation or a particular gender identity—because there are many, and they’re all godly; what matters to God is keeping the sabbath, holding fast to the covenant of compassion, choosing the things that honor God and honor life. Queer, straight, nonbinary, transgender, nonconforming in gender, any gender at all: the point is keeping the sabbath, loving God and treating one another right.
And the immigrants who join themselves to the Lord, to minister to the Holy One, to love the name of the Lord, all who keep my sabbath, and hold fast my covenant—these I will bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer… “Thus says the Lord.” Not only are immigrants welcome in God’s beloved community, not only included: immigrants are essential to God’s vision of a holy mountain, an economy of grace, a joyful house of prayer.
But I don’t have to tell you all that. There is no beloved community with immigrants and eunuchs. There is no beloved community without an open and affirming spirit.
2.
And here’s the thing. The key instruction here is this defining injunction, this defining biblical commandment to keep the sabbath. To keep God’s sabbath. It sounds old, antique even, and maybe even woefully impractical in our 21st century environment. But ask your observant Jewish friends. It is central, critical, indispensable to the Godly practice of God’s people. Always has been and always will be. And here’s why.
Because all creation is conceived in grace, designed for abundance and offered in love, six gorgeous days of divine creativity, God rests on the seventh day and invites human communities to do the same. Because all is provided in those first six days, because the gift is complete, we rest on the seventh day to acknowledge God’s grace and revel in God’s promise. On the seventh day, we resist all craving and temptation and every human impulse to accumulate more than we need. The sabbath is Israel’s fundamental calling, Israel’s mandate, Israel’s vision of a kin-dom where human communities live sustainably, equitably and joyfully in ecosystems of divine blessing and abundance.
(And, yes, I know that the old Genesis story is a myth; but it’s a myth with a purpose. And we dismiss that purpose, I believe, at our own peril.) As God is satisfied with creation, and delighted in it; as God calls us simply to tend it, bless it, share it; so shall we keep the sabbath in remembrance of all that’s provided in grace. So shall we practice gratitude and restraint. As with Israel, so with the church. The heart and soul of biblical faith, you see, is the fertility of creation, the abundance of it all, and our grateful response. Which is economic justice. Which is generous sharing. Which is mutual aid. Which is the calling, the vocation of every beloved community.
Keeping the sabbath, you see, is not just a quaint way to rest a little so that we can gear up for another frenzied work week. In fact, it is exactly not that. Keeping the sabbath is instead about radical trust, grateful faith and a life deeply planted in the rhythms of creation and provisions of God. In a creation abundant and resplendent and designed for tending and sharing. “All will be well,” said the medieval mystic Julian of Norwich, “and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” Keeping the sabbath is a practice of economic restraint, disciplined by valleys and watersheds that provide more than we need, but require our care and devotion; it’s a practice of endless gratitude for the Creator whose loving hand is always reaching for ours in stewardship and partnership. “All will be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” Keeping the sabbath—and not some sort of twisted purity code—is the essential practice of biblical faith and ethics.
Isaiah 56 (The 4th Sunday in Creationtide)
1.
In the fragile community this prophet loves, in an environment of political extremism he abhors, in a cultural ecosystem where finger-wagging passes for spiritual insight and wisdom; there are moralists out and about who would blame every social ill on immigrants in the streets, or so-called sexual ‘deviants’ among them. (That would be their phrase, not mine.) Even in the name of religion, in the name of God, they invoke a thousand curses on bleeding hearts and open doors.
And the prophet hears all of this, around town, and in the temple precincts, around the edges of religious life, ripping through civic debate. Spreading like a plague. And it just breaks his heart. The immigrants are doing this to us. The foreigners have corrupted our way of life. The eunuchs pervert our purity and our faith.
 |
| Olive Harvest, Palestine |
And by the way, let’s not be fooled. This reference to ‘eunuchs’ in Isaiah 56 is a stand-in for any gender identity or sexual orientation that doesn’t conform to the moralizing fundamentalism (or political opportunism) of the day. This prophet is fully aware that there are priests, pastors and pundits insisting that God would banish foreigners, immigrants, so-called ‘illegals’ from the community of faith, once and for all. And he’s equally aware that those same priests, pastors and pundits would permanently exclude queer folk from economies of care, networks of support, the body politic itself.
But this prophet—the third voice in the Book of the Prophet Isaiah—he’s onto them. And he stands in Israel’s tradition of radical freedom and human liberation and Godly interdependence. A covenantal commitment to shared prosperity in a land of plenty. An ethic of hospitality. The moralizers may be peddling deportation and humiliation as social policy, but he’ll have none if it!
“Thus says the Lord.” The four words that signal the most urgent messages, the most pressing poetry in the Hebrew prophetic tradition. “Thus says the Lord.” To the eunuchs who keep my sabbaths, who choose the things that please me and hold fast my covenant, I will give a monument better than sons and daughters; I will give them an everlasting name that shall not be cut off… This is one of these most radical, and one of these most beautiful, and (let’s be honest) one of the most often ignored biblical imperatives in all of scripture. What matters to God isn’t a particular sexual orientation or a particular gender identity—because there are many, and they’re all godly; what matters to God is keeping the sabbath, holding fast to the covenant of compassion, choosing the things that honor God and honor life. Queer, straight, nonbinary, transgender, nonconforming in gender, any gender at all: the point is keeping the sabbath, loving God and treating one another right.
And the immigrants who join themselves to the Lord, to minister to the Holy One, to love the name of the Lord, all who keep my sabbath, and hold fast my covenant—these I will bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer… “Thus says the Lord.” Not only are immigrants welcome in God’s beloved community, not only included: immigrants are essential to God’s vision of a holy mountain, an economy of grace, a joyful house of prayer.
But I don’t have to tell you all that. There is no beloved community with immigrants and eunuchs. There is no beloved community without an open and affirming spirit.
2.
And here’s the thing. The key instruction here is this defining injunction, this defining biblical commandment to keep the sabbath. To keep God’s sabbath. It sounds old, antique even, and maybe even woefully impractical in our 21st century environment. But ask your observant Jewish friends. It is central, critical, indispensable to the Godly practice of God’s people. Always has been and always will be. And here’s why.
(And, yes, I know that the old Genesis story is a myth; but it’s a myth with a purpose. And we dismiss that purpose, I believe, at our own peril.) As God is satisfied with creation, and delighted in it; as God calls us simply to tend it, bless it, share it; so shall we keep the sabbath in remembrance of all that’s provided in grace. So shall we practice gratitude and restraint. As with Israel, so with the church. The heart and soul of biblical faith, you see, is the fertility of creation, the abundance of it all, and our grateful response. Which is economic justice. Which is generous sharing. Which is mutual aid. Which is the calling, the vocation of every beloved community.
Keeping the sabbath, you see, is not just a quaint way to rest a little so that we can gear up for another frenzied work week. In fact, it is exactly not that. Keeping the sabbath is instead about radical trust, grateful faith and a life deeply planted in the rhythms of creation and provisions of God. In a creation abundant and resplendent and designed for tending and sharing. “All will be well,” said the medieval mystic Julian of Norwich, “and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” Keeping the sabbath is a practice of economic restraint, disciplined by valleys and watersheds that provide more than we need, but require our care and devotion; it’s a practice of endless gratitude for the Creator whose loving hand is always reaching for ours in stewardship and partnership. “All will be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” Keeping the sabbath—and not some sort of twisted purity code—is the essential practice of biblical faith and ethics.
Monday, September 22, 2025
Sunday, September 21, 2025
HOMILY: "First Love First"
Sunday, September 21, 2025
Community Church of Durham
I John 4
1.
“We love because God / has first loved us.” Eight words. “We love because God / has first loved us.” What the writer of this letter is saying, perhaps, is that all our loving, all of it, is an expression of that first love that brings all of us, and all creation, into being. “We love because God / has first loved us.” Loving is your birthright, your vocation and your heart’s desire. Yours, mine, ours! Which isn’t to say we all love in the same ways, or according to the same scripts. Of course not. So many differences among us, so much diversity in the human experience. But so it must be with God: as unpredictable as we are, and radically free to love in a bazillion different ways. And so it is. “We love because God / has first loved us.” So make no mistake: Loving is your birthright, my friend, and your vocation and your heart’s desire.
So when you tend to the bees in your beehives at home all summer long, tenderly hoping that your tending is part of God’s mending: that’s the first love birthing your love and making the whole world new. And when you sit with a friend watching a bright yellow sun turn orange and red as it sets over the hills in the west, your heart afire with gratitude: that’s the first love birthing your love and making the whole world new.
And when you commit to a shift that keeps another friend safe in a season of intimidation and cruelty, when you put your body in a place between him and harm: that’s the first love birthing your love and making the whole world new. Loving is your birthright!
And what this means, of course, is that we don’t have to think our way to God. And we don’t have to rationalize God’s existence, according to other intellectual traditions or theories. And we most certainly don’t have to wait for some headstrong evangelist to explain God to us, or even threaten us into belief and salvation. We simply and only yield to the most human instinct of them all, the most human that is also the most divine: we love, and we love, and we love. In the fields out back and your beehives. On a bench with a beloved and that sunset. In a quiet hall, keeping watch for a friend. (And you know the friend that I’m talking about.) All of that loving—because God has first loved us, because God has first loved everything, because God has first loved the world. And we’re a part of it all. Loving. Our birthright. Our vocation. Our heart’s desire.
And the writer of this letter goes on, as you’ve heard, and puts a fairly fine point on all of this. So that his friends in beloved community are clear around their own vocation, their ministry, in the here and now: “If someone claims, ‘I love God,’ but hates a brother or sister, then they’re a liar,” he says. “Anyone who does not love a brother or sister, whom they have seen, cannot possibly love God, whom they have never seen.” Again, the heart, the soul of Christian vocation. And then just to be sure those first Christians don’t miss his point: “Jesus gave us a clear command, that all who love God must also love their brothers and sisters.”
2.
A couple of weeks ago I mentioned here a lively conversation I’d had on campus with two graduate students, Christian graduate students, who worried about the rainbow flag out front, the message it sent, and the kind of Christianity that distorts what they claim to be the urgent truth of biblical faith. Well, two of the three returned last week, visiting me here in the office, and (in the end) sadly announcing to my face that I was a “false teacher” of a misguided gospel. To be honest, I wonder if they came up with that on their own; or if some preacher somewhere put them up to it. But there they were.
Now while I had to admire the chutzpah of a 23 year old who would presume to sit down with a 63 year old pastor and say such a thing, I have to confess the whole thing also breaks my heart. That there are churches out there, and presumably preachers out there, directing their 23 year olds to scour the streets looking for “false teachers;” that there are Christians out there with such a sad and narrow definition of “loving” that it leaves little room for anything other than their own bland and tired and (frankly) misogynist versions of the same; and that these same believers have reduced the bible to its most outdated and damaging verses, without grasping the radically liberating texts in the same book that argue against such judgment and cruelty. Texts like this First Letter of John. Which doesn’t threaten or constrain or limit our loving—but dignifies it, celebrates it, even consecrates it.
Because—and this right here in this morning’s reading—“God is love.” “God is love. And anyone who lives faithfully in love also lives faithfully in God, and God lives in them.” I mean this is the point of it all, am I right? This is our vocation, am I right? Loving as mutual recognition and joyful trust. Loving as prayerful discernment and courageous service. Loving as relationships that shine with respect and commitment and kindness. “Anyone who lives in love also lives faithfully in God, and God lives in them.” And then these words, among the most important and emancipating words in all of scripture: “Love will never invoke fear.” Again. “Love will never invoke fear.” Because “perfect love expels fear, particularly the fear of punishment. And the one who fears punishment has not been completed through love.”
When my fundamentalist friends insist that God’s wrath is upon those who do not conform to their reading of scripture, they have perverted both the essence of God’s presence in the world—as if God’s wrath is the motivating force at the heart of the universe itself; and they have missed the entire point of Jesus’ ministry in the fields of Galilee and the streets of Palestine. Jesus emerges within his own little beloved community in Nazareth not to proclaim God’s wrath, and certainly not to threaten and bully his way to a dynamic new kingdom of justice and peace; Jesus steps out, comes out in fact, to release all of us (and that’s A-L-L, all of us) from fear and punishment and the very threat of punishment. God’s wrath is exactly the thing Jesus comes to abolish once and for all: no more violence, no more punishment, no more fear. Because, he says over and over and over again, “love will never invoke fear.” And “perfect love expels fear.” Once and for all.
I mean, I get it. Getting back to my two young friends in the office. I understand that fundamentalists are all vexed about our rainbow flag, and the loving spirit of our expanding ministry with queer kids, and the spirited weddings we do in this place for all kinds of couples. I get it.
(By the way, I officiated at a wedding in this very space several years ago, in which two women celebrated their vows; and I have not—in 36 years of ministry—celebrated a more joyous, more Christ-like, or more loving marriage; nor a wedding with deeper spiritual values and wisdom; nor a community of such grace, enthusiasm and resilient hope in one another. Some of you were here that day. I imagine it still shines in your soul. As it does in mine. God is love. God is love. God is love.)
So let’s be clear. As this wonderful letter is clear. Jesus comes with a message of love and grace: and that good news diagnoses our fearfulness and then liberates us with a love so big, so sweet, so creative and so “perfect,” that it frees us from those devastating, soul-crushing fears once and for all. “We love because God / has first loved us.” Not because we’re afraid of going to hell. Not because God’s wrath is waiting out there, somewhere, for the unconverted. “We love because God / has first loved us.”
Community Church of Durham
I John 4
1.
So when you tend to the bees in your beehives at home all summer long, tenderly hoping that your tending is part of God’s mending: that’s the first love birthing your love and making the whole world new. And when you sit with a friend watching a bright yellow sun turn orange and red as it sets over the hills in the west, your heart afire with gratitude: that’s the first love birthing your love and making the whole world new.
And when you commit to a shift that keeps another friend safe in a season of intimidation and cruelty, when you put your body in a place between him and harm: that’s the first love birthing your love and making the whole world new. Loving is your birthright!
And what this means, of course, is that we don’t have to think our way to God. And we don’t have to rationalize God’s existence, according to other intellectual traditions or theories. And we most certainly don’t have to wait for some headstrong evangelist to explain God to us, or even threaten us into belief and salvation. We simply and only yield to the most human instinct of them all, the most human that is also the most divine: we love, and we love, and we love. In the fields out back and your beehives. On a bench with a beloved and that sunset. In a quiet hall, keeping watch for a friend. (And you know the friend that I’m talking about.) All of that loving—because God has first loved us, because God has first loved everything, because God has first loved the world. And we’re a part of it all. Loving. Our birthright. Our vocation. Our heart’s desire.
And the writer of this letter goes on, as you’ve heard, and puts a fairly fine point on all of this. So that his friends in beloved community are clear around their own vocation, their ministry, in the here and now: “If someone claims, ‘I love God,’ but hates a brother or sister, then they’re a liar,” he says. “Anyone who does not love a brother or sister, whom they have seen, cannot possibly love God, whom they have never seen.” Again, the heart, the soul of Christian vocation. And then just to be sure those first Christians don’t miss his point: “Jesus gave us a clear command, that all who love God must also love their brothers and sisters.”
2.
A couple of weeks ago I mentioned here a lively conversation I’d had on campus with two graduate students, Christian graduate students, who worried about the rainbow flag out front, the message it sent, and the kind of Christianity that distorts what they claim to be the urgent truth of biblical faith. Well, two of the three returned last week, visiting me here in the office, and (in the end) sadly announcing to my face that I was a “false teacher” of a misguided gospel. To be honest, I wonder if they came up with that on their own; or if some preacher somewhere put them up to it. But there they were.
Now while I had to admire the chutzpah of a 23 year old who would presume to sit down with a 63 year old pastor and say such a thing, I have to confess the whole thing also breaks my heart. That there are churches out there, and presumably preachers out there, directing their 23 year olds to scour the streets looking for “false teachers;” that there are Christians out there with such a sad and narrow definition of “loving” that it leaves little room for anything other than their own bland and tired and (frankly) misogynist versions of the same; and that these same believers have reduced the bible to its most outdated and damaging verses, without grasping the radically liberating texts in the same book that argue against such judgment and cruelty. Texts like this First Letter of John. Which doesn’t threaten or constrain or limit our loving—but dignifies it, celebrates it, even consecrates it.
Because—and this right here in this morning’s reading—“God is love.” “God is love. And anyone who lives faithfully in love also lives faithfully in God, and God lives in them.” I mean this is the point of it all, am I right? This is our vocation, am I right? Loving as mutual recognition and joyful trust. Loving as prayerful discernment and courageous service. Loving as relationships that shine with respect and commitment and kindness. “Anyone who lives in love also lives faithfully in God, and God lives in them.” And then these words, among the most important and emancipating words in all of scripture: “Love will never invoke fear.” Again. “Love will never invoke fear.” Because “perfect love expels fear, particularly the fear of punishment. And the one who fears punishment has not been completed through love.”
I mean, I get it. Getting back to my two young friends in the office. I understand that fundamentalists are all vexed about our rainbow flag, and the loving spirit of our expanding ministry with queer kids, and the spirited weddings we do in this place for all kinds of couples. I get it.
(By the way, I officiated at a wedding in this very space several years ago, in which two women celebrated their vows; and I have not—in 36 years of ministry—celebrated a more joyous, more Christ-like, or more loving marriage; nor a wedding with deeper spiritual values and wisdom; nor a community of such grace, enthusiasm and resilient hope in one another. Some of you were here that day. I imagine it still shines in your soul. As it does in mine. God is love. God is love. God is love.)
So let’s be clear. As this wonderful letter is clear. Jesus comes with a message of love and grace: and that good news diagnoses our fearfulness and then liberates us with a love so big, so sweet, so creative and so “perfect,” that it frees us from those devastating, soul-crushing fears once and for all. “We love because God / has first loved us.” Not because we’re afraid of going to hell. Not because God’s wrath is waiting out there, somewhere, for the unconverted. “We love because God / has first loved us.”
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)