STYMIED FRIDAY: "At the Cross"

Kreg Yingst Art

Friday, 2 pm

I've spent a good bit of the morning preparing my heart, and some space at the church, for a Good Friday gathering this evening.  Outside, a party's been in full swing since about 11--a house full of undergraduates next door--and the dissonance is jarring, puzzling, sad even.  On small cards, I've written the names we'll hold in prayer tonight: Mahmoud Khalil, Rumeysa Ozturk, Mohsen Mawsawi, Kilmer Abrego Garcia--sisters, brothers, sons, daughters detained, slammed into Louisiana cells, used as pawns in Pilate's awful game.  Do my beer-guzzling neighbors know these names?  Do they care?

This year, Golgotha could be anywhere.  The car pulled over, its windows smashed in New Bedford.  Masked men in the streets of Somerville.  Queer kids bullied by their classmates' parents.  HIV programs defunded at the whim of a tyrant.  Maybe even a quiet and lonely kid in one of those bedrooms next door, uninvited to the party downstairs.

It's possible that whatever Easter offers, the only way to assess that gift is through this sad and awful day, this day of detentions and bitter deportations, this day of blame and scapegoating, this day of genocide unleashed and voices silenced.  Will we keep watch?  Will we sit together at the cross?  Are we faithful enough to weep?

When the women arrive to anoint Jesus' bloodied body, the text says they are 'stymied' in their task, unable to do what they'd hoped, because the stone's been rolled back.  Only there, face to face with all that stymies, all that rages within us, all that is just plain wrong--might be catch a glimpse of One whose power is beyond ours, One whose love is not contrained by narcissism and greed.  Easter begins in their 'stymied' hearts--and ours.

SPEAK UP: "Francesca Albanese on Genocide"

HOMILY: "Shake Up the Space"

A Meditation on the Procession of the Christ with Palms (Luke 19)
Sunday, April 13, 2025

1.

Where there is nothing left to lose,
There may be nothing left to do
But shake up the space and make it new.

(Micah Posey, A Table-Flipping Prayer)

I found myself in an argument of sorts this week, with a group of colleagues I love and respect; and this ongoing argument revolves around our varied understandings of power. Power. Simple word, complicated concept. Is the church comfortable with generating and building power for action, advocacy, resistance even, in the public square? Is power itself consistent with our faith, with the gospel, with the beatitudes of Jesus? Or are we to work on an entirely different plane: trusting that loving service alone will transform unjust systems of violence and privilege? Is the church called to promote mercy and kindness in human relations, and to leave notions of power and advocacy to secular players and institutions?

It was a lively argument on a gray day. And surely not resolved. All of it unfolding on a Zoom screen in a dozen boxes. But I confess to being surprised, again, by colleagues who seem almost allergic to the notion of power in and around the Christian church. Or even progressive interfaith coalitions. Power is the province of the callous, apparently; charity is the calling of the church.

Well, respectfully, I think I’d like to disagree. Faith has nothing to do with coercion, of course, or intimidation or political bullying. But over and again in the Gospels, Jesus embraces and then extends power in and then through communities of care and resistance. Power-with-others; not power-over-others. But power nonetheless. When the curious ask Jesus if God is at work in his circle, he says, “The blind see, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poorest of the poor see the glory of God.” Nothing passive about all that. So, yes, Jesus embraces power, builds it among his followers, and empowers them to be changemakers too.

In this Palm Sunday story, for example, the waving of palms, the spreading of cloaks, the rejoicing of crowds—it’s all about the “display of power” they’ve all seen in and around Jesus. That language is right there in the text, by the way. The “display of power” they’ve witnessed in his ministry. Clearly, Jesus himself is not allergic to the notion and practice of power. And his disciples have noticed this, have trained with him for this, have discovered in his mercy and love a new and generative kind of power. And we can’t understand this procession of palms and praise, this wildly wonderful ascent to Jerusalem, apart from that project. The power they have built together. The power they have manifested along the way. The power Jesus has insisted they use for the good. To bring down destructive empires. And build up the kin-dom of God.

“Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!” That’s the cry in the streets, right? “Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!” This isn’t just sanctimonious liturgy, friends; this is joyous praise on the lips of those with nothing left to lose, raucous thanksgiving in a crowd made bold by Jesus’ particular kind of power, made brave by his particular kind of movement, made aware of their own capacity for godly play and social change. “Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!”

Remember, for example, that in the days prior, they’ve encountered massive crowds of hungry, impoverished neighbors crushed by an economic system that degrades them. Remember that in that moment the disciples are ready to send the crowds away, overwhelmed by their pain and the challenge of meeting it; but Jesus insists that they take control of the moment, that they invite God’s partnership in the moment, that they organize the poor, and then assess the resources in hand, and then feed them with whatever bread, whatever fish, whatever at all they can find. Power, Jesus says, is something we cultivate in ministry. Power, Jesus says, is something we build together. Power is ours not to subjugate and intimidate, but to organize and feed and celebrate. “Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!”

And then, maybe the day before this rowdy procession of palms, Jesus has called Zacchaeus out of the sycamore tree. Remember this story?  Remember the song?

Zacchaeus is some kind of tax-collector and the story says he’s very rich, maybe Elon Musk rich or Jeff Bezos rich or maybe just you and me rich. But he’s curious, just the same, about Jesus and this movement he’s building along the way. And he leaps from that sycamore tree, and Jesus says: “I’m staying at your house tonight. We’re hanging out at your house tonight. Let’s break bread at your house tonight.”

And again, the power of Jesus’ attention, the power of the community he’s gathered, the power of human relationship is such—that Zacchaeus is transformed by their time together, his life radically rearranged, his commitments reconfigured. Not just in some vague way—but tangibly, concretely, even financially. Half of his possessions he gives to the poor, that same night, on the spot. “And if I’ve defrauded anyone of anything,” he says, “I will pay back four times as much.” The power of conversion, right? The power of righteousness resurrected, right? Not just warm and fuzzy power—but consequential power. The kind of power that redistributes resources, opportunities and does right by human community. And Jesus says to the whole house that night: “Tonight salvation has come to this house.” Power. Power in communion. Power in conversation. Power to change the world. “Salvation has come to this house.”

And this, all this is what’s happening on the road, in the movement, within this beloved community of believers and dreamers and broken souls Jesus has gathered. This is why the crowds on the outskirts of Jerusalem are hopeful and glad; this is why they’ve pulled palms from the trees to wave and celebrate; this is why they’ve taken their own precious cloaks and laid them on the roadway as Jesus rides past. “Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!”

2.

Now there are—in my very basic understanding of New Testament Greek—there are two words used to describe power in relationship to Jesus. “Exousia” and “Dunameis.” The first (‘exousia’) suggests the energy and purpose that derive from his special calling, his particular relationship to God and God’s dream. But the second (‘dunameis’)—and this shows up in today’s reading—the second refers to the kind of power generated in human relationships, in faithful partnerships, in collaborative and covenantal action.

“Dunameis”—in fact—shows up in the English language as ‘dynamism’: it’s the ancient root of our English word, ‘dynamism.’ And this then is the word Luke uses and Mark uses, the Gospels use again and again, as Jesus builds a movement with folks like Zacchaeus and the Syro-Phoenician woman, as Jesus invites creativity among them in addressing the hunger of the poor or the needs of children or the bigotry that divides neighbor from neighbor. “Dunameis” is power-with, power-together, power-deepening-in-community, power-extending-to-make-us-whole.

Sec. Kristi Noem in El Salvador (April)

In first century Jerusalem, as in 21st century America, there are all kinds of signs that coercive power is the name of the game, that political bullying gets things done. They had the Roman legion parading through the city at the Passover festival, buffed up on giant war horses. We see ICE agents in masks kidnapping grad students in Somerville and whisking them off in plain sight to kangaroo courts in Louisiana. They had purity codes back then, restricting the poor from full participation in community life, and the disabled from being counted as fully human, and women and slaves from speaking freely in court. We see Congress voting cynically just this week to restrict voting rights for immigrants, for people of color, for trans neighbors and perhaps eventually even for women.

But “dunameis”: “dunameis” involves both the nurturing of new imagination and the building up of relational power. It’s everything Jesus is modeling out there in the desert with the hungry thousands; and it’s everything he’s asking of Zacchaeus face to face over supper. When we offer our energies to God in prayer, when we turn to Jesus for instruction and inspiration, when we turn our own desires over to the kin-dom of God—then, then, then the Spirit breathes fresh life into the church and empowers us in bringing hope, healing and even justice—maybe even justice—into our communities. Not the justice of bullies, but the justice of God.

For example, on Friday night, our high school youth spent a cold night on the street, in cardboard boxes, learning something significant, something sacred—about the lives and needs and hopes of those who live among us without homes, without safe spaces in their lives. That kind of immersion, that kind of commitment—shaped by Kristin Forselius and other youth leaders: it nurtures in our youth a kind of power for action, the kind of power that gets into their bones, and into their relationships, and into their hearts. That’s “dunameis,” right? That’s the power the crowds on the Mount of Olives are celebrating in Jesus, the power that offers hope for a renewed community in a redeemed future.

Or how about the organized ways our immigration team is preparing for whatever comes next on that front? Because of our love for one another, because of our commitment to one another, because of the immigrants who’ve changed our lives for the better—we are moved to do brave things; we are motivated to persist; we will work together as long as it takes, and we will protest together whenever we have to, and we will organize within communities, congressional delegations and city governments in every way possible. Because “dunameis” is the gift and promise we claim in faith. Because “dunameis” moves us to assert our vision, and (yes) God’s vision, for a beloved community where hatred is no more and bigotry is dissolved once and for all, and all God’s children are fed generously and abundantly at the table of creation. “History belongs to the intercessors,” said the wonderful Walter Wink. “History belongs to the intercessors, those who believe and pray the future into being.”

PASSION SUNDAY: "The Violence of the Righteous"

Violence is the sickness, the communicable disease, that occupies the souls of peoples, churches, whole nations.  Whether it's a well-funded and U.S.-bankrolled army bombing Gazan hospitals (over and over again) or an antisemitic terrorist setting fire to a Governor's mansion in Pennsylvania, the temptation comes for us all, inviting fear and not mercy to rule our hearts.

Until we set our hearts on justice, on shared wellness and collective liberation, until we tell the truth about war's many lies--violence will all too easily leap from crisis to crisis, from grievance to grievance, from one broken heart to the next.  This particular disease is only to be eradicated by spiritual practice, prayer and confession, repentance and broken bread.  An eye for an eye is a failed project.  Only love--embodied and brave--will save us now.  Gaza's resurrection has everything to do with purging our many hearts of antisemitism once and for all; and the vitality and freedom of Jewish communities (there and here) depend on a reckoning with an occupation unchecked for far, far, far too long.  And a genocide fueled by religious pride.

In the end what Josh Shapiro and his family need is precisely and always what every Palestinian family needs: lands (and neighborhoods) made holy by covenants of justice and mutual aid, governments devoted to human rights (and voting rights) in their fullest expression, and a shared sense of wellness and purpose.  Violence is our common enemy.  War is the spirit chewing through our spirits and hearts.  It fails us now in a thousand terrible ways.

We must beat our many swords into plowshares, as the prophet says, one ghastly weapon system at time, and then study war no more.  

RESISTANCE: "First They Came For..."

PROFILE IN COURAGE: "Ibtihal"

HOMILY: "Resurrection Interrupted"

A Meditation on the Parable of the Prodigal (Luke 15:11-32)
Sunday, April 6, 2025

1.

“And then they begin,” the story goes, “then they begin to celebrate.”

Now I’ve always thought of the parable about the prodigal and the celebration inspired by his homecoming as a kind of resurrection story: or maybe a narrative within which is embedded an invitation to life resurrected and community reborn. Forget—for a moment—about magical notions of angels in graveyards and bodies rising from the dead. Forget—for a moment—complicated speculation about eternal life and worlds without end. Isn’t this story, isn’t this parable Jesus’ own vision of broken lives healed, lost souls redeemed? We’re (what?) two weeks from Easter Sunday. Isn’t this it?

The father—the weary, heartbroken, but patient father—sprinting up the road to greet the younger son. And not just greeting him there, not just a fist bump or a peck on the cheek—but throwing his arms around the boy, and kissing him over and over and over. As if he’s spent every hour since the boy’s departure imagining just this very moment, praying for it. Isn’t this the only resurrection that really matters? The kind of love that bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things? And then: isn’t this same parable an invitation, our invitation, to radically unreasonable mercy, the kind of mercy that resists fatigue and frustration and waits as long it takes, the kind of mercy that blasts a heart-shaped hole in the walls we so proudly build and protect?

Jesus is a wonderful storyteller. And this is perhaps not just his finest, but his theological masterpiece. A resurrection story. The younger son asking just for a job, but the father calling for a party, for a feast, for the fatted calf and the best band around and dancing into the wee hours. The ring for the boy’s finger and sandals for his feet. “For this son of mine was dead,” he says, “and is alive again; he was lost and is found!”

And this is the moment, Jesus says, this is the moment they begin to celebrate. A kind of Easter moment. The dead are alive again; the lost are found! Can you imagine all those sweet reunions, a feast for all five senses, a community at peace—shalom and salaam, shalom and salaam? Can you hear the laughter and the loving, the music and the dancing, a community made whole by joy? Resurrection and reunion. Resurrection and communion. Resurrection and a community made whole.

2.

Except it’s not, right? It’s not yet whole.

So often in his storytelling, Jesus keeps his hand partially hidden, plays his cards slowly and deliberately. And then: there’s something to shake things up, something to shake the story upside down, something to shake us up and make us wonder. All over again.

If this parable is indeed a resurrection story—and I believe that it is—it’s a resurrection interrupted. It’s a reunion incomplete. It’s a community yet to be fully realized. Right? Because out there in the field, nursing a handful of grievances (and one or two may be justified), the elder son is angry. Yes, they’ve got the best band around playing foot-stomping happy tunes. And yes, they’ve killed the fatted calf and put the ring on the young son’s finger. And yes, they’ve begun to celebrate.

But it turns out that this resurrection story is just getting started. This resurrection story is a work in progress. This resurrection story is going take some time to play out. Because something’s going on out there in the field, and the elder son’s not so sure about any of it. Not quite ready for Easter Sunday.

Some years ago, the wonderful scholar Amy Jill Levine noticed something many of us had missed in this story. And that is: that by the time the elder son hears about the celebration, by the time he catches wind of his brother’s return and the festivities planned around it—the party is well under way. The fatted calf has already been killed. The band’s already been hired—and, by the way, they’ve already set up and are well into their first or maybe their second set. What’s up with that? she asked. The timing seems a bit off, to be honest.

And then, these unsettling questions. Could it be that the father forgets about the son working his heart out in the field every day? Could it be that he truly has taken that boy for granted? He certainly doesn’t see fit to send word out—about this once-in-a-lifetime celebration. He certainly doesn’t give him advance notice, so he can plan his work day around the feast, or come in early to get cleaned up, or any of that. What’s up with all that? How is it that this lovely, loving, merciful man—who’s shown such overwhelming grace to the long-lost son—can have a blind spot in his heart for the needs and hopes and vulnerabilities of the other one?

The elder son gets a bum rap—through most of biblical history—as an ingrate. But maybe it’s just that he’s not been singled out for an invitation.

SATURDAY'S ACTION: "Let's Do This!"

Democracy is not a spectator sport, it's a participatory event. 

If we don't participate in it, it ceases to be a democracy.

                                                                                        Michael Mo0re

Siblings in Faith,

April 5

All around the country, many will gather in protest tomorrow: for democracy and against fascism; for the planet and against plutocracy; for compassion and decency and against cynical power grabs.  It's a longtime coming.  We've watched for two and a half months now, as a new/old government has systematically terrorized our neighbors and eviscerated our institutions.  And we've quite simply had enough.  There will be protests in Portsmouth and Concord, in Boston and Portland, and in hundreds and thousands of American towns.  And this is a very, very good thing!

I hope you'll join the Portsmouth protest--which begins at 12 in Market Square.  Find out more HERE.  It's important that we stand together, raise our voices together and build power for the long haul.

Speaking of which...I'll spend tomorrow at our Durham church...with 25 friends from four different churches...with facilitators from the Granite State Organizing Project.  From 9 to 3, we'll learn about building power, the kind of power that makes schools safe for ALL kids, the kind of power that leverages our energies to get affordable housing built, the kind of power that protects institutions and traditions that reflect the best of our American values, the kind of power that resists the rule of the billionaire over the rest of us.

We'll welcome friends from other churches to join us in a lively day of workshops and conversations about creating a network in Durham, and on the Seacoast, which allows us to stand up strong and think smart and work collaboratively (and powerfully) on issues that affect all of us.  "Democracy is not a spectator sport," says Michael Moore.  Protests are important.  Making noise is important.  But, over the long haul, we're going to have to invest in democracy and democratic work together.  And that's what this GSOP organizing workshop is all about.

If you'd like to join us tomorrow, and make that YOUR act of protest and hope, please do.  All are welcome.  It would be helpful -- for planning and food -- if you'd just let me know by signing in to this form:

https://officeccd.breezechms.com/form/379716

Wherever you are tomorrow, we are in this TOGETHER--protesting, strategizing, working as a community with our like-minded communities.  And this is, no doubt, God's desire for us in 2025.  I'm grateful for each of you, for all of you, and for our heart.  In such a moment as this.

See you on the way,

Pastor Dave Grishaw-Jones

Community Church of Durham

Email me: DavidGJ@CCDurham.org

MORAL IMPERATIVE: "Being Human"

POEM: "Jesus Walking Upstream"