Thursday, May 14, 2026
Monday, May 4, 2026
Sunday, May 3, 2026
HOMILY: "Liberating Jesus"
A Meditation for May 3, 2026
On the Occasion of Our W.I.S.E. Covenant
Matthew 15
1.
What I most appreciate about the W.I.S.E. initiative we celebrate today—and all the wonderful work our team has done in making it ours—is its recognition that mental health is community health. Mental health is community health. We are not individuals fighting for sanity against great odds in a hostile world. We are human beings in human communities; and we face complex and sometimes unnerving challenges together. We are siblings, beloved of God, created for communion and service and celebration. Together. Martin Luther King, Jr. famously said: “[We] are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny…I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be, and you can never be what you ought to be until I am what I ought to be...”
So it is in a world where you and I are created in the image of God. Created in the image of One whose passion is justice, peace and right relationship. Created in the image of One in whom many are made whole. In a universe that is indeed “an inescapable network of mutuality.”
Which is to say, of course, that mental health is community health. We are human beings in human communities; and we face complex challenges together. And as you and I lean into our W.I.S.E. covenant—day by day and year by year—we promise God and one another that we’ll resist rugged individualism and embrace God’s image. As a deeply connected, mutually affirming and beloved community!
What strikes me in our Gospel this morning is this particular Canaanite woman and her deep, intuitive grasp of just this. That her daughter—suffering terribly, even tormented—can somehow be relieved of that suffering and restored to wholeness through Jesus’ prayers and (perhaps) the compassion of his community. That her Canaanite daughter and this decidedly Jewish rabbi are clothed “in a single garment of destiny.”
And what makes her approach, her fierce approach, even more stunning is the familiar boundary she crosses in coming to Jesus in the first place. Because the boundary she crosses marks the limits (they say) of God’s love, and not just God’s love, but human responsibility as well. Even Jesus falls for the ruse. That peace is promised to the chosen and the chosen alone. That good bread is reserved for true believers.
And he says as much, right? “It’s not good,” Jesus snarls, “to take the children’s bread and toss it to dogs.” In first century culture, in the first century ‘street,’ his meaning couldn’t be any clearer. You are nobody to me. This is what he’s saying to her: You are of no concern to me.
After all, she is a Canaanite, and not an Israelite. A non-believer in a world of strict distinctions, a world that does not—in many ways—recognize her as worthy of care, or her daughter as worthy of healing and wholeness. But she crosses that blasphemous boundary. She challenges conventional wisdom and generations of religious practice. And she defies—in just a couple of moments—she defies supremacist ideology and any and all theological justifications for it. And the best Jesus can do is: “It’s no good to take the children’s bread and toss it to dogs.”
2.
So, the twist in the story, then, is that Jesus is the one possessed. Right? Jesus is the one possessed by a demon that divides human beings, one from another, believer from non-believer, Israelite from Canaanite, worthy from unworthy, pure from impure. Don’t miss what this story means, in the larger context of the Gospel. This is the genius of scripture, I think: it confounds our expectations. Here, Jesus is the one possessed. Jesus’s the one in need of healing, exorcism and wholeness.
And that, my friends, is exactly what happens. In this story. She heals him. If you’re looking for some version of first century feminism in the Gospel, look no more. Here you go. In a patriarchal culture—and it is a patriarchal culture—this is about as subversive as a story can be! He—he meaning Jesus—finds unexpected wholeness through her ministration and witness. He—he meaning Jesus—is transformed for messianic service through her guile and courage and love. Jesus may be the only begotten son of the father from the beginning. But Jesus becomes Jesus right here.
And love is the axis of all this action. Love shakes Jesus loose for his purpose, for his vocation, for his one precious life. Because this Canaanite woman loves her daughter so much, because she refuses to succumb to any version of religion that judges or eviscerates or denies her daughter dignity, because she loves her daughter so much—she calls the demon out of Jesus and offers Jesus a vision of ministry and community that is radically inclusive and resistant to all prejudice and bigotry. At last. “Woman,” he says, “you have great faith. It will be just as you wish.”
And it’s not in the text, of course, but can’t we imagine her then saying to Jesus: Yes and yes! Because I can never be what I ought to be—and my daughter can never be what she ought to be—until you are what you ought to be. And those oddball disciples—who just moments ago were doing everything in their power to shut her up, to keep her away—are leaning in now. For every word. Their eyes and hearts wide open now. And they’re saying, “Amen and Ashe!” “Amen and Ashe!” Like it was all their idea in the first place.
3.
If I may, I’d like to draw out just three insights here—three insights that pertain, I think, to our W.I.S.E. covenant and our commitment to mental health and wellness in and beyond the church.
First, your pain is important within the church, among siblings in your beloved community. And you do not have to bear that pain alone. There’s a myth—and a misperception—that pain is merely personal and most often our own dang fault. But in this place, in our circle, your pain is our pain; and you do not have to bear it alone.
Who knows what that mother in today’s story has heard? That her daughter’s despair is of her own maternal making. That her daughter’s suffering is somehow God’s design for her life. That strong women endure their sadness in private.
And yet, she persists, right? She is relentless in her commitment not only to her daughter’s healing, but to her community’s worthiness and her community’s wholeness. And she insists on a vision—a godly vision—of that “single garment of destiny” within which all families dwell, within which all families ache, within which all families heal. She is Wisdom. She is Sophia. Challenging old, tired, no-good narratives. Imagining a world that is wise and wonderful. She is our muse, our sister, our mother. An advocate for us all.
So whatever your pain, however trauma weighs heavy in your heart: it does not, it cannot diminish how important you are to all of us. And it does not, it cannot mean you are meant to bear that pain alone. And I know it feels that way sometimes. But your pain is our pain. And we are church that we might name it together, and hold it among us, and find light and hope in one another. We can be W.I.S.E. together.
And second, then, is this.
We can and will be healed, transformed, even transfigured—together. It is not God’s intention that you are denied joy, that you are forbidden ordinary wonders and extraordinary beauty. It is not by God’s design that your days are marked by weariness and despair. My friend, you too are created in the image of God. As are we all. In this place, in this circle, we are instruments of God’s grace, all of us, vessels of lovingkindness and affirmation. And we experience God’s hand—in conversation and service—guiding us, blessing us, and even transfiguring our pain into something like gratitude, something like peace, something like praise. Not always so dramatically; but relentlessly just the same. Guiding us. Blessing us. Transfiguring our pain.
And indeed, it is the Canaanite mother’s courage in naming her anxiety, in identifying her daughter’s suffering—that opens Jesus’ heart to the extraordinary transformation possible between them. And so it may be with us: that our courage in speaking of our own mental health experiences will reveal in the church new possibilities for connection and growth; that our vulnerability in naming our weariness, our depression, will open new doors to friendship, collaboration and even delight. Yes, my friends, delight! Yours and mine.
Third, and lastly, then.
Mental health may also mean letting go of habits or attitudes that only diminish our sense of wonder and limit God’s freedom and movement in our lives. And again, this is precisely what happens to Jesus himself in the story today. He seems to be stuck—as all of us are, from time time—in a mindset where God’s love is limited, where God’s grace is constrained, where some are worthy and others are not. (And let’s be completely honest. This isn’t a liberal or conservative thing. We all get stuck there sometimes.) And that mindset has to affect Jesus’ worldview, as it affects ours, Jesus’ ability to mix it up, as it does ours, Jesus’ openness to a world of complexity and diversity. And it has to affect his hope for the future too, his confidence in a world made whole by justice, love and blessing.
And yet, and yet, Jesus is first challenged, and then, liberated by the Canaanite’s fierce and deliberate and joyous love. He is challenged to release his bigotry, to set loose his prejudice, to see her as fully, delightfully and profoundly human. His neighbor in the world. His sister on this planet. Claiming in these holy moments his attention, his devotion and his love. And so it is. That Jesus is himself transfigured in community. That Jesus is himself made whole in relationship. That he too can release habits shaped by anxiety and despair. That he too can see God’s purpose in his life in a whole new way. And as it is with Jesus here, so it can be, so it will be for you and me.
1.
So it is in a world where you and I are created in the image of God. Created in the image of One whose passion is justice, peace and right relationship. Created in the image of One in whom many are made whole. In a universe that is indeed “an inescapable network of mutuality.”
Which is to say, of course, that mental health is community health. We are human beings in human communities; and we face complex challenges together. And as you and I lean into our W.I.S.E. covenant—day by day and year by year—we promise God and one another that we’ll resist rugged individualism and embrace God’s image. As a deeply connected, mutually affirming and beloved community!
What strikes me in our Gospel this morning is this particular Canaanite woman and her deep, intuitive grasp of just this. That her daughter—suffering terribly, even tormented—can somehow be relieved of that suffering and restored to wholeness through Jesus’ prayers and (perhaps) the compassion of his community. That her Canaanite daughter and this decidedly Jewish rabbi are clothed “in a single garment of destiny.”
And what makes her approach, her fierce approach, even more stunning is the familiar boundary she crosses in coming to Jesus in the first place. Because the boundary she crosses marks the limits (they say) of God’s love, and not just God’s love, but human responsibility as well. Even Jesus falls for the ruse. That peace is promised to the chosen and the chosen alone. That good bread is reserved for true believers.
And he says as much, right? “It’s not good,” Jesus snarls, “to take the children’s bread and toss it to dogs.” In first century culture, in the first century ‘street,’ his meaning couldn’t be any clearer. You are nobody to me. This is what he’s saying to her: You are of no concern to me.
After all, she is a Canaanite, and not an Israelite. A non-believer in a world of strict distinctions, a world that does not—in many ways—recognize her as worthy of care, or her daughter as worthy of healing and wholeness. But she crosses that blasphemous boundary. She challenges conventional wisdom and generations of religious practice. And she defies—in just a couple of moments—she defies supremacist ideology and any and all theological justifications for it. And the best Jesus can do is: “It’s no good to take the children’s bread and toss it to dogs.”
2.
So, the twist in the story, then, is that Jesus is the one possessed. Right? Jesus is the one possessed by a demon that divides human beings, one from another, believer from non-believer, Israelite from Canaanite, worthy from unworthy, pure from impure. Don’t miss what this story means, in the larger context of the Gospel. This is the genius of scripture, I think: it confounds our expectations. Here, Jesus is the one possessed. Jesus’s the one in need of healing, exorcism and wholeness.
And that, my friends, is exactly what happens. In this story. She heals him. If you’re looking for some version of first century feminism in the Gospel, look no more. Here you go. In a patriarchal culture—and it is a patriarchal culture—this is about as subversive as a story can be! He—he meaning Jesus—finds unexpected wholeness through her ministration and witness. He—he meaning Jesus—is transformed for messianic service through her guile and courage and love. Jesus may be the only begotten son of the father from the beginning. But Jesus becomes Jesus right here.
And love is the axis of all this action. Love shakes Jesus loose for his purpose, for his vocation, for his one precious life. Because this Canaanite woman loves her daughter so much, because she refuses to succumb to any version of religion that judges or eviscerates or denies her daughter dignity, because she loves her daughter so much—she calls the demon out of Jesus and offers Jesus a vision of ministry and community that is radically inclusive and resistant to all prejudice and bigotry. At last. “Woman,” he says, “you have great faith. It will be just as you wish.”
And it’s not in the text, of course, but can’t we imagine her then saying to Jesus: Yes and yes! Because I can never be what I ought to be—and my daughter can never be what she ought to be—until you are what you ought to be. And those oddball disciples—who just moments ago were doing everything in their power to shut her up, to keep her away—are leaning in now. For every word. Their eyes and hearts wide open now. And they’re saying, “Amen and Ashe!” “Amen and Ashe!” Like it was all their idea in the first place.
3.
If I may, I’d like to draw out just three insights here—three insights that pertain, I think, to our W.I.S.E. covenant and our commitment to mental health and wellness in and beyond the church.
First, your pain is important within the church, among siblings in your beloved community. And you do not have to bear that pain alone. There’s a myth—and a misperception—that pain is merely personal and most often our own dang fault. But in this place, in our circle, your pain is our pain; and you do not have to bear it alone.
Who knows what that mother in today’s story has heard? That her daughter’s despair is of her own maternal making. That her daughter’s suffering is somehow God’s design for her life. That strong women endure their sadness in private.
So whatever your pain, however trauma weighs heavy in your heart: it does not, it cannot diminish how important you are to all of us. And it does not, it cannot mean you are meant to bear that pain alone. And I know it feels that way sometimes. But your pain is our pain. And we are church that we might name it together, and hold it among us, and find light and hope in one another. We can be W.I.S.E. together.
And second, then, is this.
We can and will be healed, transformed, even transfigured—together. It is not God’s intention that you are denied joy, that you are forbidden ordinary wonders and extraordinary beauty. It is not by God’s design that your days are marked by weariness and despair. My friend, you too are created in the image of God. As are we all. In this place, in this circle, we are instruments of God’s grace, all of us, vessels of lovingkindness and affirmation. And we experience God’s hand—in conversation and service—guiding us, blessing us, and even transfiguring our pain into something like gratitude, something like peace, something like praise. Not always so dramatically; but relentlessly just the same. Guiding us. Blessing us. Transfiguring our pain.
And indeed, it is the Canaanite mother’s courage in naming her anxiety, in identifying her daughter’s suffering—that opens Jesus’ heart to the extraordinary transformation possible between them. And so it may be with us: that our courage in speaking of our own mental health experiences will reveal in the church new possibilities for connection and growth; that our vulnerability in naming our weariness, our depression, will open new doors to friendship, collaboration and even delight. Yes, my friends, delight! Yours and mine.
Third, and lastly, then.
Mental health may also mean letting go of habits or attitudes that only diminish our sense of wonder and limit God’s freedom and movement in our lives. And again, this is precisely what happens to Jesus himself in the story today. He seems to be stuck—as all of us are, from time time—in a mindset where God’s love is limited, where God’s grace is constrained, where some are worthy and others are not. (And let’s be completely honest. This isn’t a liberal or conservative thing. We all get stuck there sometimes.) And that mindset has to affect Jesus’ worldview, as it affects ours, Jesus’ ability to mix it up, as it does ours, Jesus’ openness to a world of complexity and diversity. And it has to affect his hope for the future too, his confidence in a world made whole by justice, love and blessing.
And yet, and yet, Jesus is first challenged, and then, liberated by the Canaanite’s fierce and deliberate and joyous love. He is challenged to release his bigotry, to set loose his prejudice, to see her as fully, delightfully and profoundly human. His neighbor in the world. His sister on this planet. Claiming in these holy moments his attention, his devotion and his love. And so it is. That Jesus is himself transfigured in community. That Jesus is himself made whole in relationship. That he too can release habits shaped by anxiety and despair. That he too can see God’s purpose in his life in a whole new way. And as it is with Jesus here, so it can be, so it will be for you and me.
Wednesday, April 29, 2026
Tuesday, April 28, 2026
Sunday, April 19, 2026
HOMILY: "A Holy and Defiant 'Yes'"
Easter 3, April 19, 2026
John 20:19-31
1.
Traditionally, as Orthodox Christians in Jerusalem approach Easter as they did last weekend, their particular celebrations begin the day before, on Holy Saturday. And on Holy Saturday they converge upon the old, old, old Church of the Holy Sepulchre. And you’ll see pictures of some of this on the back page of your bulletin this morning.
When I met Lareen, a young Palestinian activist, last Spring, she took her time in describing some of this to me and what it means to her community. She painted a kind of picture: how thousands cram into the ancient church in the Christian Quarter, every one of them carrying some kind of unlit torch; and how all eyes are upon the tomb at the heart of the cavernous rotunda, the tomb that has for hundreds of years represented Jesus’ own. And Lareen’s eyes swelled with tears as she described her community’s grief: how their own hearts in 2025 and 2026 bear the wounds of a hundred sorrows, and their hands the scars of displacement and ethnic cleansing. All of that—elders and children, broken yet hopeful in the old church on Holy Saturday; waiting and watching, waiting and watching; and how at last, then, an old Orthodox priest emerges from Jesus’ tomb, with a torch lit from within all that darkness, as hundreds and hundreds roar with delight. “Al Masih Cam!” Christ is risen! “Al Masih Cam!” Christ is risen!
And as this good news crackles through the crowd, so too the holy fire! Passed now from one brightly lit face to another. Spread within and then beyond the old church, torch to torch to torch, sister to sister to brother to brother. Throughout the old city and into the world of wonders and woes. “Al Masih Cam!” Christ is risen! “Al Masih Cam!” Christ is risen!
As it happens, Lareen still grieves for a beloved aunt, a beloved Palestinian journalist who was shot and killed by soldiers in the West Bank several years ago. And every year, she says, she goes to that Church on Holy Saturday, lights her torch from a thousand others, and then makes her own purposeful pilgrimage—through the old stone streets of the city up a hillside to her aunt’s grave. And she waves her torch across that grave. The Holy Fire, a blessing and a promise! “Al Masih Cam!” Christ is risen!
It’s her way, she tells me, not only of remembering her aunt and her sacrifice, but of claiming the resurrection for her people and the whole world, God’s holy and defiant “yes” in the face of cruelty and despair. “Yes” to the Christ who speaks truth to power and dismantles empires with love. “Yes” to the community that treasures its culture and history and seeks the common good. “Yes” to kindness and compassion and inclusion and justice.
Did you catch those last wonderful lines of Bruce Sanguin’s prayer: “As fire kindles brushwood / and causes water to boil, / so we await to be set on fire / with hope and gospel passion.” “Yes” to brushwood. “Yes” to fire. “Yes” to you and me set afire with hope and gospel passion.
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For this is our Easter faith. That no act of violence, no heart-breaking loss, no surge of sadness is untouched by Christ’s resurrection. Again: That no act of violence, no heart-breaking loss, no surge of sadness is untouched by Christ’s resurrection; and the Light gathered in his tomb, then, gathered in his tomb and set free then in the world, can and will overcome our many fears and set us free as well. Free to love and be loved. Free to resist cruelty and choose justice. Free to sing hallelujah and praise God and “The Strife is O’er.”
2.
Even so, our faith is necessarily tested by uncertainty; and even Easter joy contends with doubt and disbelief. The genius of that Holy Fire ceremony in Jerusalem is its recognition of light in the midst of darkness, and its kindling of hope and community in a fragmented and traumatized world.
In our story this morning, then, Thomas is called the Twin; and many have wondered if this nickname is indeed to indicate the relentless pairing of doubt and belief in Christian practice. And I like to think this is exactly right. Thomas is something of an archetype. Familiar to us all. The point of the story isn’t to shame Thomas’ skepticism or overwhelm his doubt with incontrovertible evidence. Instead, this wild story reminds you and me of the coupling of doubt and belief in our own lives, in our own community, and the dynamic journey of faith which entertains it all in daily life, in weekly worship, and in our costly discipleship among the world’s broken hearts.
Like so many of us, Thomas is so traumatized by what he’s seen, so distressed by what’s happened within the community he loved; Thomas is so frightened by the unraveling of his people’s hopes and dreams—that he hears his friends’ good news as a cheap and happy fantasy. “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my hand in his side,” he says, “I will not believe.”
I attended a poetry reading on Friday where an Iraqi woman bared her soul out loud in a series of poems lamenting the terrible cost of war in her homeland, and grieving the seemingly endless cycle of greed and violence that pierces the hearts of so many: Iraq and Afghanistan then, Gaza and Iran now. And in her poetry I heard the same bewildering mix we find in our story this morning: defiant faith perhaps, but overwhelming despair; an aching for mercy, but a fearful heart as if maybe mercy isn’t enough. And I really can’t blame her, right? Or Thomas. If I’m honest, I lie awake so many nights, restless with the same brew in my belly: faith and doubt, belief and disbelief. “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands,” Thomas says. “I will not believe.” Sounds right to me.
What’s unsaid in the story is that his friends—those other disciples—will not shame Thomas for his disbelief. And this seems to me very important and urgently so in the church. They will not mock Thomas or even tease him for the doubting in his heart. For his own despair and restlessness. Instead, they seem to simply give Thomas (and Jesus and the whole resurrection story) the time and space it deserves. So that when another week goes by, and when Jesus returns to stand among them in the house where they’re staying, Thomas is brave enough and honest enough and open enough to touch Jesus’ wounded side and take Jesus’ battered hands into his own. “My Lord,” he says. “My Lord and my God!”
3.
I am beyond blessed in the privileges I’m afforded in doing ministry among you all, and in our own United Church of Christ. Which breaks down so many walls that divide us from one another and builds instead a beloved community of mutual care and celebration. You know what I mean.
And last Sunday turned out to be one of the most extraordinary moments, and really one of the most humbling, in my 37 years doing this kind of thing. Downstairs at the Table, with many of you, I had the great honor of facilitating a ritual of blessing for a first-year UNH student who asked us, our church, to hear his new name and welcome his new name and honor his precious transition in worship. A transition, by the way, that has God’s fingerprints all over it. That’s my hot take.
And I don’t have to tell you all about the culture wars being waged in Concord or DC around the rights of transgender teens and the worthiness of their stories and dreams. And I don’t have to tell you about the many ways religious traditions are used to perpetuate fear and bigotry and homophobia. But there we were last Sunday, Van and I, at the Table—as one after another after another after another of you stepped toward him with tears in your eyes, olive oil at your fingertips, and words of love and blessing and determination upon your lips. It was sacramental. It was incarnational. It was profound. “Van, you are loved.” “Van, you are a Child of God.” “Van, we are your church now.” “Van, you rock!” And so many hugs. Huge, holy, heartfelt hugs.
John 20:19-31
1.
Traditionally, as Orthodox Christians in Jerusalem approach Easter as they did last weekend, their particular celebrations begin the day before, on Holy Saturday. And on Holy Saturday they converge upon the old, old, old Church of the Holy Sepulchre. And you’ll see pictures of some of this on the back page of your bulletin this morning.
And as this good news crackles through the crowd, so too the holy fire! Passed now from one brightly lit face to another. Spread within and then beyond the old church, torch to torch to torch, sister to sister to brother to brother. Throughout the old city and into the world of wonders and woes. “Al Masih Cam!” Christ is risen! “Al Masih Cam!” Christ is risen!
As it happens, Lareen still grieves for a beloved aunt, a beloved Palestinian journalist who was shot and killed by soldiers in the West Bank several years ago. And every year, she says, she goes to that Church on Holy Saturday, lights her torch from a thousand others, and then makes her own purposeful pilgrimage—through the old stone streets of the city up a hillside to her aunt’s grave. And she waves her torch across that grave. The Holy Fire, a blessing and a promise! “Al Masih Cam!” Christ is risen!
It’s her way, she tells me, not only of remembering her aunt and her sacrifice, but of claiming the resurrection for her people and the whole world, God’s holy and defiant “yes” in the face of cruelty and despair. “Yes” to the Christ who speaks truth to power and dismantles empires with love. “Yes” to the community that treasures its culture and history and seeks the common good. “Yes” to kindness and compassion and inclusion and justice.
Did you catch those last wonderful lines of Bruce Sanguin’s prayer: “As fire kindles brushwood / and causes water to boil, / so we await to be set on fire / with hope and gospel passion.” “Yes” to brushwood. “Yes” to fire. “Yes” to you and me set afire with hope and gospel passion.
.jpeg)
2.
Even so, our faith is necessarily tested by uncertainty; and even Easter joy contends with doubt and disbelief. The genius of that Holy Fire ceremony in Jerusalem is its recognition of light in the midst of darkness, and its kindling of hope and community in a fragmented and traumatized world.
In our story this morning, then, Thomas is called the Twin; and many have wondered if this nickname is indeed to indicate the relentless pairing of doubt and belief in Christian practice. And I like to think this is exactly right. Thomas is something of an archetype. Familiar to us all. The point of the story isn’t to shame Thomas’ skepticism or overwhelm his doubt with incontrovertible evidence. Instead, this wild story reminds you and me of the coupling of doubt and belief in our own lives, in our own community, and the dynamic journey of faith which entertains it all in daily life, in weekly worship, and in our costly discipleship among the world’s broken hearts.
Like so many of us, Thomas is so traumatized by what he’s seen, so distressed by what’s happened within the community he loved; Thomas is so frightened by the unraveling of his people’s hopes and dreams—that he hears his friends’ good news as a cheap and happy fantasy. “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my hand in his side,” he says, “I will not believe.”
I attended a poetry reading on Friday where an Iraqi woman bared her soul out loud in a series of poems lamenting the terrible cost of war in her homeland, and grieving the seemingly endless cycle of greed and violence that pierces the hearts of so many: Iraq and Afghanistan then, Gaza and Iran now. And in her poetry I heard the same bewildering mix we find in our story this morning: defiant faith perhaps, but overwhelming despair; an aching for mercy, but a fearful heart as if maybe mercy isn’t enough. And I really can’t blame her, right? Or Thomas. If I’m honest, I lie awake so many nights, restless with the same brew in my belly: faith and doubt, belief and disbelief. “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands,” Thomas says. “I will not believe.” Sounds right to me.
What’s unsaid in the story is that his friends—those other disciples—will not shame Thomas for his disbelief. And this seems to me very important and urgently so in the church. They will not mock Thomas or even tease him for the doubting in his heart. For his own despair and restlessness. Instead, they seem to simply give Thomas (and Jesus and the whole resurrection story) the time and space it deserves. So that when another week goes by, and when Jesus returns to stand among them in the house where they’re staying, Thomas is brave enough and honest enough and open enough to touch Jesus’ wounded side and take Jesus’ battered hands into his own. “My Lord,” he says. “My Lord and my God!”
3.
I am beyond blessed in the privileges I’m afforded in doing ministry among you all, and in our own United Church of Christ. Which breaks down so many walls that divide us from one another and builds instead a beloved community of mutual care and celebration. You know what I mean.
And last Sunday turned out to be one of the most extraordinary moments, and really one of the most humbling, in my 37 years doing this kind of thing. Downstairs at the Table, with many of you, I had the great honor of facilitating a ritual of blessing for a first-year UNH student who asked us, our church, to hear his new name and welcome his new name and honor his precious transition in worship. A transition, by the way, that has God’s fingerprints all over it. That’s my hot take.
Monday, April 13, 2026
Friday, April 10, 2026
Wednesday, April 8, 2026
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