HOMILY: "Love Never Falters"

Sunday, November 9, 2025
Community Church of Durham
Luke 1:26-38 (The 2nd Sunday of Early Advent)

1.

So I wander into the dry cleaner’s the other day with a hundred and one things on my mind, none of which have anything to do with dry cleaning. I’m worrying about Zoran Mamdani and whether they’ll keep him safe in New York. I’m puzzling over this year’s stewardship drive and whether we’ll raise enough money for next year. And I’m thinking about a neighbor who’s waiting for results from a biopsy that may or may not change his life. You know how it is when you’re so preoccupied with issues of the day and things to do that you can hardly remember taking a shower and getting dressed. But there you are at the dry cleaner’s, waiting for the woman with your ticket to retrieve a handful of shirts from the motorized delivery system. And you’re thinking: “How did I even get here?”

But she turns to me, the woman with my ticket, and she says: “Can I ask you a question?” And we’ve had a few conversations over a couple of years, and I know she knows what I do, my day job. So before I can say yes or no, she asks me if I believe that hell is real thing; if I believe in a place like that, and consequences for blasphemy and bad behavior. And I must look kind of bewildered by her question, and the strange setting for her disquieting query; because she follows up with a half-smile, and says, “I’ve had a really tough week.”

And I’m reminded in that moment—as the motorized system clicks through Portsmouth’s laundry—that religion isn’t just a Sunday thing, and that my church is no longer defined by four walls and a roof, and that the God I love with all my heart calls me, wants me, even needs me to take this moment and this dear sister seriously. If this Advent practice has something to do with wakefulness and watchfulness, with keeping the heart alert to opportunities and grace, this is one of those moments. So I put my phone in my pocket, and take a step in her direction.

And something’s different in her now, something about her. There’s a sadness in her smile that hints at something more than disappointment, something more like shame. Something’s happened, life has taken a turn, and she’s not just feeling embarrassed by a mistake, but ashamed of it, scarred by it, and almost unworthy of anything like love. She says as much. “I don’t go to church anymore,” she reminds me, “but when I used to go, they’d say that people like me are going to hell.” And then swallows hard. “Do you believe in that?”

The first thing I want to say is that my heart breaks, it really does, when I hear a sister worrying like that, taking on generations of crippling Christian theology, and assuming that she’s unlovable and undeserving of mercy and grace. No matter what’s happened to her, or what she’s done. How can it be that there are Christians in the world invoking shame and punishment in the name of God? And isn’t it ungodly that there are friends out there, sisters and brothers out there, waking up in the morning and going to sleep at night with that kind of dread? That kind of fear? In the name of God! Doesn’t it break your heart too?

But the other thing—and this is the part I say out loud in the dry cleaner’s—is that God’s love never tires, never falters, and never fails. (That’s right out of First Corinthians, as you know.) God’s love never tires, never falters, and never fails. If we take Jesus at his word, if we embrace his parables and his example, if we dare to celebrate his resurrection as God’s victory over shame and death, then we live in a world where God’s love never falters or fails. To screw up is simply human. To make brutal mistakes is also human. But so is overcoming cruelty with mercy. And so is our capacity for forgiveness and love. And so is the turning, turning, turning of our souls toward light. So the way I read the Bible—and this, again, is the part I say out loud to my friend—the way I understand Jesus is this: that there is no condemnation in God, no punishment or isolation or cruelty in God; but only abundant life, wild mercy and a longing for connection and community. And that’s why the prodigal son returns home to a feast. And that’s why the sleepy disciples get a second chance, and a third, and a fourth. And that’s why the resurrection is more than just a fairy tale: it’s the foundation of our faith. God is love. God will always be Love. And nothing, nothing can change that truth.

So, you see, this isn’t the first sermon I’ve preached this week! I don’t know if that other one made much of a difference. But my friend at the dry cleaner’s promised she’d give it some thought. And maybe we’ll talk again next week.

2.

Raphael Soyer, "Annunciation," 1980

So what if? What if Mary is “thoroughly shaken” by Gabriel’s appearance at the well in Nazareth because she too has been accused of wrong-doing, or because she too has been called out for so-called “sinful” behavior, or because she too has been saddled by shame meted out in the name of God? I guess I’m reading this familiar story a little differently this morning. And there are, to be fair, a whole lot of ways to read these wonderfully complex texts. But I’m reminded this morning of my friend at the dry cleaner’s, and her sad smile, and her sense of doom and dread around whatever it is that has happened to her or whatever it is she’s done. I’m reminded of her shame. Her isolation. And I wonder now. What if Mary’s pregnancy, even her choices as a young woman, have already brought neighborly ridicule, or worse, sanctimonious judgment from priests and pastors? What if religion itself is a burden? Maybe she’s expecting more of the same from this angel?

I don’t have to tell you—I’m sure that I don’t—how shame makes the dark nights darker, and the cold days colder; and how it calls into question our capacity for connection, relationship and love. And I don’t have to tell you how shame works on our human spirits to wear away the joy that is or ought to be our inheritance. And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that it’s too often a tool of the powerful, a tool of the elite, and sadly even a tool of the church. (Which makes this week’s conversation at the dry cleaner’s something of a miracle: that my friend was willing to risk that particular conversation with me, a known and confirmed religious professional!)

But this angel, of course, this angel at the well, is not at all a messenger of doom, and not at all a peddler of punishment and cruelty. He comes not to condemn Mary, or even criticize in the slightest her lifestyle choices or bewildering predicament. This angel—Gabriel—greets her with good news and blessing: “Good morning!” he says. “You’re beautiful with God’s beauty,” he says. “Beautiful inside and out!” he says. And then, the four words that sum up all the others: “God is with you.” God is with you. No punishment. No shame. “God is with you.”

The wonderful mystic Matthew Fox likes to say that the foundation of Christian theology is not and never can be “original sin”—because that perverse doctrine violates the profoundly joyful and jubilant spirit of Genesis and scripture itself. (“Original sin?” Nonsense!) Genesis, right? Where God looks at all God is creating, and God says “it’s all so good, it’s all so very, very good!” It’s the first prayer, really, the generative prayer, the defining prayer at the heart of Biblical faith. That God looks at all God is creating, and God says “it’s all so good, it’s all so very, very good!”

So Matthew Fox goes on to write a book called “Original Blessing!” His conviction being that you and I, all that ever is or will be, is made in the image of God, made for God’s blessing, made to be celebrated and shared according to God’s own passion for justice, equity and peace. “Original Blessing!”

And isn’t that the spirit of this text today, this annunciation, this moment where the angel finds Mary doing her daily chores—and wipes clear all the gossip, cleanses her bright spirit of any judgment, releases her from any shame that might yet be clinging to her soul? “You’re beautiful with God’s beauty!” Made in the image of God! “Beautiful inside and out!” Made in the image of God! No longer will the nattering of neighbors drag Mary down! No longer will the judgment of priests limit her sense of wonder and joy! No longer will her vocation be limited by cruelty, shame, or patriarchy! And it’s here in our story, it’s here in our tradition, that Good News becomes incarnational reality. Embodied in Mary. Awakened in her body, in her courage, in her calling. New life in Mary is conceived in grace, in shamelessness, in God’s “original blessing”—and it’s the kind of new life that changes not just her life, but ours. Makes us whole. Makes us well. Makes us God’s.

3.

There’s an old Celtic verse in our communion liturgy this morning, and I hope you’ll take it to heart as you celebrate with us and even as you take the bread of life, the Body of Christ, into your own body. Into your own precious soul. It says, “Heaven is here, and earth, and the space is thin between them.” Heaven is here, and earth, and the space is thin between them. Like Mary—I would be so bold as to say, “just like Mary”—you are face to face with an angel. Like Mary—I would be so bold as to say, “exactly like Mary”—you have at hand, maybe even in your hand, the blessing that reveals all other blessings. You too are beautiful with God’s beauty, in all your humanity, in all your splendor, for all your quirks and any and all mistakes you’ve made. You too are beautiful with God’s beauty. Beautiful inside and out!

And the sacrament is many things; but it is surely this. A blessing made plain. A promise made clear. An incarnational invitation to bear in your life, in your body, in your choices and prayers the Love of God. Because God’s love never falters, never fails. Because heaven is here, and earth, and the space is thin indeed between them. Because you are created for blessing, for blessing and joy and communion—and not for shame. So no, then, I’m not buying it. There’s no such thing as hell. Not in a universe of God’s making and God’s blessing and God’s wildly merciful companionship. There’s no such thing as hell.

Amen and Ashe for that!