HOMILY: "This Supper of the Suffering Servant"

Isaiah 42:1-9

The First Sunday after the Epiphany
Communion Sunday, January 11, 2026

1.

I was handed this long-stemmed white rose on Thursday night at a huge and raucous protest in Merrimack, by a bright-eyed old woman wearing a neon vest that said PEACEKEEPER across the back. And it’s a plastic rose, of course, but its purpose served the cause. When outrage runs deep—as it does again this week, across the country—dissent stays true to a higher calling. Human dignity. Sweet liberation. True justice. When resistance coalesces quickly—as it does this week, around the martyrdom of Renee Nicole Good in Minneapolis—leadership draws from the deepest wells of compassion and grace. That Thursday night protest in Merrimack was angry and defiant, and I was angry and defiant too. Still am. But I took the old woman’s rose as an invitation to communion in a secular space, as an offer of wisdom in another moment charged with rage and grief and perhaps even a dose of despair.

Renee Good’s murder in Minneapolis, by a poorly-prepared and sadly emboldened ICE agent, has shaken us all to the core this week. And Thursday’s protest amplified the outrage of all kinds of New Hampshire folk, from all generations and backgrounds, who also worry for the government’s plans to build new warehouses, detention and deportation outposts, in communities like Merrimack. No, no, no, we said. The madness of racism has not only infected the spirit of America, it has now proven dangerous to communities simply standing together in love and solidarity; it has now proven lethal for mothers, fathers, students simply acting in good conscience to protect neighbors from armed vigilantes with government IDs.

But I had this rose in my hand, and I had today’s ‘servant song’ from Isaiah in my mind. And it makes we wonder how it is we couple outrage and compassion in moments like this one; or how it is we yoke the gentle spirit of the ‘suffering servant’ in Isaiah with the resolute, even tenacious commitment I felt in that determined community of protest Thursday night. There was such anger among us, outside that Town Hall; we have been pushed together to some kind of limit, even some kind of breaking point, by a government of such cruelty and callousness it defies all imagination and decency.

And yet this morning the Holy One calls out the servant to bring true justice to the nations, true justice, consequential justice, not by crying out or raising her voice; not by breaking tender reeds or bellowing such bluster as to quench a wavering flame. But by offering light in the darkness. And by opening the eyes of all who struggle to see. And by freeing captives from their prisons, and opening the doors of detention so the frightened can go free again.

Did you catch that in the text? It’s subtle, but it’s deep and provocative, I think. Even that one verse at the end of that first stanza. “So gentle that you do not break a bruised reed, or quench a wavering flame, faithfully you will bring forth true justice.” I wrote this one verse on a scrap of paper and folded it into my coat pocket Thursday night. It’s the first of four defining poems in what’s known as the Second Book of Isaiah, or Second Isaiah, and together they’re called “Servant Songs.”

And this first suggests a kind of faithfulness, a kind of engagement, a kind of advocacy that is nurtured not in defiance and anger, but in trust and prayer; not in outrage, but in tenderness and humility; not only in righteousness over and against evil, but in sacrificial commitment to one another’s liberation. “So gentle that you do not break a bruised reed.”

Becca and Renee Good

I was struck yesterday by the statement released by Renee Good’s grieving wife Becca, who said that her wife lived by an overarching belief that there is “kindness in the world and we need to do everything we can to find it where it resides and nurture it where it needs to grow.” She was a Christian, Renee was, who knew that all religions teach the same essential truth: “that we are here to love each other, care for each other, and keep each other safe and whole.” Many will imply that she was an anarchist or a zealot; but she was indeed a Christian, Renee Nicole Good, a follower of Jesus. And like him, she carried the cross to the very end.

2.

Over the centuries, some have interpreted the Servant Songs of Isaiah merely as foreshadowing Jesus’ own messianic arrival. But I prefer to believe that Jesus read this poetry early and often, and that he took it to heart as he grew and matured in faith and conscience. And like many faithful Jewish believers and many devoted communities since, Jesus integrated these same Songs into his spirituality and self-understanding. What it means to be God’s servant in the world. What it means to love sacrificially among the brokenhearted of the world. And more importantly, I prefer to believe that Jesus integrated these Songs into his sense of community vocation, congregational mission and discipleship. Let’s not miss this.

Because this first Servant Song, at least, is clearly intended not as a clarion call to individual service, but as a ringing invitation to congregational, even covenantal mission. And as we look forward to our own Annual Meeting in a couple of weeks, it’s significant I think, that we hear in this poetry, God’s “appointment” of a covenant people—not just a superstar messiah, not just a heroic champion, and not one or two amazing souls, but a covenant people, “a light to the nations.” And here, again, is our calling, ours in community: “to open the eyes of the blind, to free captives from prison, and those who sit in darkness from dungeon and detention.” Our covenant calling.

Toward the end of Thursday’s protest, organizers assembled at the door of Merrimack’s Town Hall—where residents of Merrimack would soon file into a town council meeting. There, to register their wholehearted opposition to any kind of ICE warehouse in Merrimack or anywhere else in New Hampshire. Some non-Merrimack folk were understandably disappointed not to be invited in, not to have their own opportunity to speak and express all kinds of outrage for what’s happened across the country of late.

And that’s when our friend, Grace Kindeke took the bullhorn and spoke to the murmuring crowd. Grace has spoken here at the Community Church several times, worked for many years with Maggie Fogarty and the American Friends Service Committee, and serves now as Program Director with the New Hampshire Center for Justice and Equity. She’s a proud advocate for New Hampshire’s immigrant communities and a brave voice for oppressed peoples everywhere. And with that bullhorn in hand, Grace channeled the wisdom of Isaiah, the spirit of the servant and the grace of God. Surrounded by a restless community, a sad and mad community, she found a way to fuse anger to tenderness, and outrage to hope, and despair to lovingkindness. Her voice did not waver. She was strong and loud. Her invitation was not demur. She was insistent and uncompromising.

But I could see tears in her eyes, and then rolling down her face. And I could hear love in every encouraging word she said. And between thoughts, she’d look around at the crowd on all sides with such kindness and such purpose: “We have to move forward together,” she said. “We have to move forward together, because we are so much stronger and wiser together than when we are apart.” And even as she said these words, I could feel the crowd leaning in towards her, straining to see that power in her eyes, aching to feel what she was feeling, eager to soak up the determination that Grace had gathered like a warm winter shawl around her shoulders. She found a way. To fuse anger to tenderness. To wed outrage and hope. To inspire broken hearts with lovingkindness. And that, my friends, is leadership. Servant leadership of the highest order. I found myself mouthing another line from today’s text: “You will neither waver nor be crushed!” “You will neither waver nor be crushed until justice is established on earth, for the islands await your teaching!” Wow. That was Grace Kindeke Thursday night; but not just her, it was a whole community, a beloved community, right here in New Hampshire, speaking truth to power, with love and gentle hope.

3.

We are wise, my friends, to remember that communion, our sacrament today, is the supper of a suffering servant. It’s not magic, but it surely is transformational. It requires no ‘hocus pocus,’ but it absolutely requires embodiment and intention. This kind of communion does not save us from sadness, but delivers us from isolation, for resilience and living hope and even a kind of imperfect yet holy salvation. I’m thinking about the occasional sandwich I share with Antony at his table downstairs. And I’m thinking about baked pigeon at a family table in Bethlehem last summer, and the laughter around that table as Palestinian friends imagined a future of justice, and liberation, and harvests, and joy. This kind of communion is simple and bountiful. It’s global and it’s not ours alone. It’s God’s greatest gift.

This is indeed the supper of a suffering servant: not the triumph of one faith over others, or one people over others, or one world view over others; but the joining of our hearts in a spirit of compassion and care. When we say ‘covenant’ in this place, this supper reveals that covenant’s soul, that covenant’s purpose, that covenant’s roadmap.

And when Jesus says, “Take, eat, this is my body,” he is inviting in you and in me a kind of practiced, generous and embodied solidarity. The kind of solidarity that makes plain our covenantal commitments. In the streets of Minneapolis. In the hallways of our Durham church. As we write letters to our electeds and advocate for one another. As we resist every kind of bigotry and all manner of contempt. Join me, Jesus says, in a covenant of love. Join me, he says, in freeing captives from their prisons and those who sit in darkness from dungeon and detention. Join me, he says, in accepting the cost and embracing the joy of discipleship. In every way you can. In daily practice and community mission. Together. As a people.

Today, perhaps, we are especially mindful of Renee Good’s presence at our table, and Grace Kindeke’s too, and the presence of all those other suffering servants who show up as allies and friends for targeted immigrants in city streets across this country. ICE agents took Renee’s life this week; but her spirit has been sown like a seed in the fertile earth of her beloved city. And by faith, and the wisdom we receive from our ancestors, we believe that such seeds, sown in love, are even now gathered as abundance and courage in a kin-dom that knows no end.

And indeed, though I never once met Renee Nicole Good, I think I heard her speak on Thursday night in Merrimack. In the fierce and gentle pleading of my friend, Grace Kindeke. Calling us to care gladly for one another in a movement of generous imagination and resilient faith. Inviting us to accept the yoke of suffering if need be, that others may be free, that neighbors may find safety and protection, that America might yet live up to our promises and hopes. And if Renee’s spirit was hidden in Grace’s passion Thursday night, she is surely here among us this morning: confirming Jesus’ own promise that even death cannot, will not overcome the power of divine love. No bullet can do that. No government can cancel grace. No army can outflank soul-force.

And because that’s so, because the Creator continues to create, because Love continues to rise in us, we will neither waver nor be crushed until justice is established on earth. That project may well take generations, even centuries to complete. But we will not waver, nor will we be crushed. Until justice is established in Minneapolis, and in Merrimack, and across Turtle Island, and all around God’s good earth.

Amen and Ashe!