Wednesday, October 28, 2026
Sunday, October 25, 2026
HOMILY: "Step Into the Open"
Sunday, October 25, 2026
The 4th Sunday in Incarnation
Read 1 Thessalonians 2
1.
Faith in the God embodied in Jesus Christ is going to change your life. It’s going to change the way you spend your time and your money, for starters. But just as importantly it’s going to rewire your heart a bit, or maybe more than a bit, so that you care about people in a different way, and you read the morning news in a different way, and you watch the sun setting or the moon rising in a whole new way.
But most of all, most of all, faith in the God embodied in Jesus Christ is going to break your heart open: so wildly wide open that the whole world falls in and is suddenly yours, not just your home, but your sanctuary. And when the whole world is yours, when it’s your sanctuary, you find yourself loving people, loving watersheds, loving days and nights with a love that’s radically and sometimes even painfully vulnerable. Vulnerability. That’s what faith does. That’s what faith means. It’s the trans student at UNH choosing to transition here, with you, and the church that says, “Yes, of course! Let’s go!” And it’s Brother Sean trusting all of you with his faith, with his heart, with his voice; and it’s the choir that says, “This is what we’re here for.”
Vulnerability. That’s what faith does.
And that’s maybe the first and most arresting message of this letter Paul writes to the church in Thessaloniki. My faith in Jesus, he says, causes me to step out into the open, even when that means danger and uncertainty in my life. Because this Love fills me with courage. My faith in Jesus, he says, leads me into new alliances and new relationships, and moves me to build new churches in new places. Because this Love fills me with hope.
Along the way, Paul’s suffered physical attacks, imprisonment and derision from dear ones he once trusted and needed. But now, this break in the expected trajectory of his life. Now, this intrusion of a Lover so unpredictable and forgiving, this intrusion of a Love so delightful and immense. And it’s broken his heart wildly wide open. And now every breath is vulnerability and grace.
And after all, the great American novelist Flannery O’Connor was exactly and prophetically right, when she said, “You shall know the truth and the truth shall make you odd.” Misquoting Jesus, of course, in the Gospel of John. “You shall know the truth and the truth shall make you odd.” Every breath is vulnerability and grace.
2.
There’s more to say about Paul, the apostle, the teacher, the builder of beloved communities; and there’s more to say about this letter to the Thessalonians which is, in all likelihood, the first of his recorded letters in the New Testament. But this notion of holy vulnerability and broken hearts, and the whole world falling in: it reminds me of the Guns to Gardens event we hosted here at the church just last weekend. The oddly constructed community of disciples who pulled that event together. Ran the chop saw. Directed cars through the lot. Handed out gift cards. And the strange mix of vulnerability, uncertainty, hope and even desire that permeated that little group for four hours on a cold and windy Saturday morning.
I was aware that morning, and I believe others were as well, of the unseen presence of so many saints. The children and teachers of Newtown, Connecticut. The queer community of dancers and lovers at the Pulse night club in Orlando, Florida. Jewish worshippers at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburg. And friends, a couple of mine and a few of yours, who’ve used guns in ending their own lives far too tragically, and way too soon. I was aware of their presence. And their prayers. Bending near to join our own. It was a morning unlike any other out here.
And our event—which was a project of our New Hampshire Conference of the United Church—challenged both the logic of weaponry and the inevitability of violence in public spaces and family life. It was obviously symbolic. Of course, it was. Fifteen guns were destroyed. And we know that there are millions (even millions and millions) of unwanted, unneeded and unholy weapons out there—putting children at risk, teachers at risk, so many at risk. But we offered the promise—yes, in this sacred space, the promise—that we can indeed dismantle them one by one, and the culture of fear and distrust they buttress in America. We can do this with training and hard work, and big-broken-hearted church folk. We can dismantle the guns. And then we can turn the pieces left over to artisans and farmers who will use those pieces for garden tools, jewelry and even musical instruments. Last week, one of our volunteers was playing a flute out here, a flute made from the decommissioned barrel of a shot gun! Friends, that’s not just swords into plowshares. That’s madness into music.
3.
So the faith. The faith itself makes us odd, right? It rewires our hearts and makes us a little strange, and even a little vulnerable, in the process.
As we were planning the event, we wanted very much to get the word out. And for several reasons, right? We wanted to get the word out so that neighbors on the Seacoast could take advantage of the opportunity. But we also wanted our friends to see what’s possible when a community like ours—careful, kind and brave—commits to a vision of a world beyond violence and fear. And maybe symbols matter. Maybe they do. We are not consigned to a future of fear and bluster and violence as our only protection. We are not limited to a version of democracy in which every stranger is a threat, and every new encounter a crisis. We are made for life together, that’s our gospel, that’s our faith. We are made for life together, not fortresses and castles, but life together.
So we put up flyers all over the Seacoast, and we posted as much as we could to Facebook and Instagram and all the usual sites online. And, while some of our neighbors were appreciative, I have to admit I was taken aback by a bunch of others. Because there were others who reacted to our dismantling of guns with a mixture of dismissive sarcasm, angry vitriol or (even worse) homophobic ranting. One said: “You’re ruining our country.” Another said: “You’re just a bunch of (and you can insert here a homophobic slur)…” And still another said: “Great. Don’t blame us when they come for your kids.” And I’m not exactly sure what he or she meant by ‘come for your kids’—but it seemed like a vision of a world where the only way we keep one another safe is with guns in the closet. Or in our pockets, I guess. We’ve given up on justice, civility, relationship and neighborly trust.
And the homophobia? Are we consigned to a world of such toxic masculinity—such brazen contempt for life—that peace is mocked and compassion considered an affront to greatness and strength? Scrolling through some of this madness online, I’m reminded of Charlton Heston’s menacing quote in 2000, when he stood before a national NRA meeting, with a rifle high above his head. He was responding to another attempt (which turned out to be another failed attempt) at meaningful gun control in Congress. And he said with a sneering smile—you remember this—to the cameras in the hall: “I'll give you my gun when you take it from my cold, dead hands." Is this the best we can do? Is this the best democracy can do? “I'll give you my gun when you take it from my cold, dead hands." Of course, not.
And here, my friends, is where you and I have to step out into the open. With Paul and his partners in ministry. And the Thessalonian church. In a world where Charlton Heston seems to have won the argument, we’re called by God to step out into the open with good news and grace. And it’s not going to be easy. And we’re going to face some derision, even some contempt.
But know this. The good news of God’s love arrives in Jesus to liberate us from any fantasy, any addiction, any shame that translates fear into purpose. The good news of God’s love arrives in Jesus to liberate us from the kind of pride that says my anger is more important than your safety. And this is where Paul—and I would hasten to add, early Paul, Paul before Paul was interpreted and softened and made suitable for empire—this is where Paul throws the doors of our hearts wide open indeed. We need not live in fear any longer. We need not dread God’s punishment, God’s vengeance any longer. We need not resent our differences, or scapegoat one another, or envy one another anymore. For God’s love comes in Jesus to liberate us: to wipe away every anxious worry, to clear our minds of every kind of resentment, and then to light the flame of love so bright in our hearts that we love one another even as Jesus did. That we love one another even as Jesus did. Cherishing our differences. Reconciling in seasons of hurt and harm. Building day by day a beloved community that shines with trust and grace.
So is Charlton Heston the best we can do? Of course, not.
We shall beat swords into plowshares, says the prophet. And our spears into pruning hooks. Our nations shall not lift up sword (or fly deadly drones) over other nations. Neither shall we study war anymore. If the church has a future on this continent, we’ve got to step out into the open with that good news, with that gospel; for faith is nothing if not the promise of grace in a world transformed by love. Turning madness into music.
The 4th Sunday in Incarnation
Read 1 Thessalonians 2
1.
Faith in the God embodied in Jesus Christ is going to change your life. It’s going to change the way you spend your time and your money, for starters. But just as importantly it’s going to rewire your heart a bit, or maybe more than a bit, so that you care about people in a different way, and you read the morning news in a different way, and you watch the sun setting or the moon rising in a whole new way.
Vulnerability. That’s what faith does.
And that’s maybe the first and most arresting message of this letter Paul writes to the church in Thessaloniki. My faith in Jesus, he says, causes me to step out into the open, even when that means danger and uncertainty in my life. Because this Love fills me with courage. My faith in Jesus, he says, leads me into new alliances and new relationships, and moves me to build new churches in new places. Because this Love fills me with hope.
Along the way, Paul’s suffered physical attacks, imprisonment and derision from dear ones he once trusted and needed. But now, this break in the expected trajectory of his life. Now, this intrusion of a Lover so unpredictable and forgiving, this intrusion of a Love so delightful and immense. And it’s broken his heart wildly wide open. And now every breath is vulnerability and grace.
And after all, the great American novelist Flannery O’Connor was exactly and prophetically right, when she said, “You shall know the truth and the truth shall make you odd.” Misquoting Jesus, of course, in the Gospel of John. “You shall know the truth and the truth shall make you odd.” Every breath is vulnerability and grace.
2.
There’s more to say about Paul, the apostle, the teacher, the builder of beloved communities; and there’s more to say about this letter to the Thessalonians which is, in all likelihood, the first of his recorded letters in the New Testament. But this notion of holy vulnerability and broken hearts, and the whole world falling in: it reminds me of the Guns to Gardens event we hosted here at the church just last weekend. The oddly constructed community of disciples who pulled that event together. Ran the chop saw. Directed cars through the lot. Handed out gift cards. And the strange mix of vulnerability, uncertainty, hope and even desire that permeated that little group for four hours on a cold and windy Saturday morning.
I was aware that morning, and I believe others were as well, of the unseen presence of so many saints. The children and teachers of Newtown, Connecticut. The queer community of dancers and lovers at the Pulse night club in Orlando, Florida. Jewish worshippers at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburg. And friends, a couple of mine and a few of yours, who’ve used guns in ending their own lives far too tragically, and way too soon. I was aware of their presence. And their prayers. Bending near to join our own. It was a morning unlike any other out here.
 |
| Guns Dismantled, Photo, Becky Field |
3.
So the faith. The faith itself makes us odd, right? It rewires our hearts and makes us a little strange, and even a little vulnerable, in the process.
As we were planning the event, we wanted very much to get the word out. And for several reasons, right? We wanted to get the word out so that neighbors on the Seacoast could take advantage of the opportunity. But we also wanted our friends to see what’s possible when a community like ours—careful, kind and brave—commits to a vision of a world beyond violence and fear. And maybe symbols matter. Maybe they do. We are not consigned to a future of fear and bluster and violence as our only protection. We are not limited to a version of democracy in which every stranger is a threat, and every new encounter a crisis. We are made for life together, that’s our gospel, that’s our faith. We are made for life together, not fortresses and castles, but life together.
So we put up flyers all over the Seacoast, and we posted as much as we could to Facebook and Instagram and all the usual sites online. And, while some of our neighbors were appreciative, I have to admit I was taken aback by a bunch of others. Because there were others who reacted to our dismantling of guns with a mixture of dismissive sarcasm, angry vitriol or (even worse) homophobic ranting. One said: “You’re ruining our country.” Another said: “You’re just a bunch of (and you can insert here a homophobic slur)…” And still another said: “Great. Don’t blame us when they come for your kids.” And I’m not exactly sure what he or she meant by ‘come for your kids’—but it seemed like a vision of a world where the only way we keep one another safe is with guns in the closet. Or in our pockets, I guess. We’ve given up on justice, civility, relationship and neighborly trust.
And the homophobia? Are we consigned to a world of such toxic masculinity—such brazen contempt for life—that peace is mocked and compassion considered an affront to greatness and strength? Scrolling through some of this madness online, I’m reminded of Charlton Heston’s menacing quote in 2000, when he stood before a national NRA meeting, with a rifle high above his head. He was responding to another attempt (which turned out to be another failed attempt) at meaningful gun control in Congress. And he said with a sneering smile—you remember this—to the cameras in the hall: “I'll give you my gun when you take it from my cold, dead hands." Is this the best we can do? Is this the best democracy can do? “I'll give you my gun when you take it from my cold, dead hands." Of course, not.
And here, my friends, is where you and I have to step out into the open. With Paul and his partners in ministry. And the Thessalonian church. In a world where Charlton Heston seems to have won the argument, we’re called by God to step out into the open with good news and grace. And it’s not going to be easy. And we’re going to face some derision, even some contempt.
But know this. The good news of God’s love arrives in Jesus to liberate us from any fantasy, any addiction, any shame that translates fear into purpose. The good news of God’s love arrives in Jesus to liberate us from the kind of pride that says my anger is more important than your safety. And this is where Paul—and I would hasten to add, early Paul, Paul before Paul was interpreted and softened and made suitable for empire—this is where Paul throws the doors of our hearts wide open indeed. We need not live in fear any longer. We need not dread God’s punishment, God’s vengeance any longer. We need not resent our differences, or scapegoat one another, or envy one another anymore. For God’s love comes in Jesus to liberate us: to wipe away every anxious worry, to clear our minds of every kind of resentment, and then to light the flame of love so bright in our hearts that we love one another even as Jesus did. That we love one another even as Jesus did. Cherishing our differences. Reconciling in seasons of hurt and harm. Building day by day a beloved community that shines with trust and grace.
So is Charlton Heston the best we can do? Of course, not.
We shall beat swords into plowshares, says the prophet. And our spears into pruning hooks. Our nations shall not lift up sword (or fly deadly drones) over other nations. Neither shall we study war anymore. If the church has a future on this continent, we’ve got to step out into the open with that good news, with that gospel; for faith is nothing if not the promise of grace in a world transformed by love. Turning madness into music.
THE WORD: "Radical Paul in 1 Thessalonians"
For Sunday, October 25:
1 Thessalonians 2
1 Thessalonians 2
Brothers and sisters, you yourselves know that our coming to you was not a waste of time. You remember how we had just suffered through brutal and insulting attacks in Philippi; but because of God, we boldly stepped into the open to tell you God’s good news, even though it would likely mean more conflict for us. For we haven’t approached you—or anyone else for that matter—with some error or impure motives or deceitful agenda; but as we have been entrusted with the good news, that’s how we are telling the world of God’s liberation.
We aren’t trying to please everybody, but God, the only One who can truly examine our motives. We didn’t come seeking respect from people—not from you or anyone else—although we could have leveraged our position as emissaries of the Anointed One, the Liberating King. Instead, we proved to be gentle among you, like a nursing mother caring for her own children. We were so taken by you that we not only eagerly shared with you God’s good news, but we also shared with you our own lives. That’s how much you’ve come to mean to us.
Don’t you remember, my brothers and sisters, how hard we worked and struggled? We worked day and night so that we wouldn’t be a burden to any of you and so that we could continue to proclaim to you the good news of God. As you know, we comforted and consoled each of you as a father soothes his own children, encouraging you to live lives worthy of God—of the One calling you into
the kin-dom of God’s glory.
So we have good reason to give thanks to God without pausing. For you have
taken into yourselves the word of God we brought to you and received it as a message from God—not just something whipped up by someone like you or us—and that word is at work in you who believe.
We desperately desire to see your faces again. However, as much as we wanted to come to you—I, Paul, assure you we tried again and again—our plans have been thwarted. While this is our frustration, what in the end is our true hope? What is our true joy, our victor’s crown in all this? It is nothing if it isn’t you standing before our Lord Jesus the Anointed as he walks among you. You are our glory! You are our joy!
Monday, October 19, 2026
WHAT IT TAKES: "To Turn Toward Neighborliness"
"The choices are easy...living them ain't easy." (Cassandra Wilson)
Sunday, October 18, 2026
POEM: "Still the Steeple"
STILL THE STEEPLE
on the rededication of the renewed steeple,
at the Community Church of Durham, NH
18 October 2026 / Dave Grishaw-Jones
on the rededication of the renewed steeple,
at the Community Church of Durham, NH
18 October 2026 / Dave Grishaw-Jones
For Doug Bencks
When a wandering soul wanders free,
Having paid a dear price for his own liberation,
Now seeking shelter for his freedom and courage for his spirit,
Still the steeple.
When a curious student asks of a strange God
If there might be a place at Her table,
A sanctuary for unscripted grace and sweet renewal,
Still the steeple.
When a two-spirit sibling risks religion’s history,
Having heard a rumor about Jesus, open and affirming,
And trusts new friends for a feast that truly satisfies,
Still the steeple.
When a solitary singer aches for other voices,
Dreaming of a song that confounds all despair
With beauty and rhythm and holy chutzpah,
Still the steeple.
When a child with unanswerable questions and
A heart breaking with love and restlessness
Wants simply a friend, a reason to hope,
Still the steeple.
No relic of irrelevance,
No artifact of ancient days.
No signpost of surety,
No bright white line between us and them.
Having paid a dear price for his own liberation,
Now seeking shelter for his freedom and courage for his spirit,
Still the steeple.
When a curious student asks of a strange God
If there might be a place at Her table,
A sanctuary for unscripted grace and sweet renewal,
Still the steeple.
When a two-spirit sibling risks religion’s history,
Having heard a rumor about Jesus, open and affirming,
And trusts new friends for a feast that truly satisfies,
Still the steeple.
When a solitary singer aches for other voices,
Dreaming of a song that confounds all despair
With beauty and rhythm and holy chutzpah,
Still the steeple.
When a child with unanswerable questions and
A heart breaking with love and restlessness
Wants simply a friend, a reason to hope,
Still the steeple.
No relic of irrelevance,
No artifact of ancient days.
No signpost of surety,
No bright white line between us and them.
Still the steeple.
Always the gospel.
Forever opening the doors of our hearts to a
World of hesed and agape,
And God’s own promise of justice and peace
For us all.
Always the gospel.
Forever opening the doors of our hearts to a
World of hesed and agape,
And God’s own promise of justice and peace
For us all.
Friday, October 16, 2026
VOTE, VOTE, VOTE
I bumped into a neighbor at the grocery store yesterday, a neighbor who is also an elected representative to our state's House of Representatives. She sighed in noting how toxic things are in government these days, due to the vicious and premeditated cruelty of "free" staters and an unhinged Republican Party.
Then, this news: that the Rev. Alexis Simpson, a United Church of Christ minister and leader of the state's Democratic Party, has received a death threat from the NH Libertarian Party.
What must you and I do, citizens of the state, leaders and neighbors? First, we must vote and we must insist that our neighbors and congregants vote. Vote, vote, vote. Do not give in to intimidation...from any quarter. Vote, vote, vote.
Second, as they say at the airport, "When you see something, say something." Or, "When you hear something, say something." Do not let these awful, dangerous threats go unchallenged. Do not let them pass in conversation. We are better than this. We have to be better than this.
To be a democracy we must all engage: generously, bravely, without violence, and in neighborliness. Vote, vote,, vote.
Wednesday, October 14, 2026
Tuesday, October 13, 2026
Friday, October 9, 2026
ON POWER: "At the Doorstep of the Military Industrial Machine"
My Remarks at the Sig Sauer Protest:
Saturday, October 10, 2026
Newington, NH
I wanted very much to be with you all today, but Covid had other plans for my weekend. I wanted to add my voice to yours and demand that Sig Sauer recognize its complicity in Israel’s genocidal campaign against Palestinians. That genocide hasn’t happened and couldn’t continue without Sig Sauer’s weapons and others like them. And it hasn’t happened and couldn’t continue without our American blessing and financial backing. If Sig Sauer’s complicit, we’re all complicit. And you’re all here today to change that. To say no more!
With Sig Sauer’s grotesque machinery, and this technology is indeed demonic and grotesque, Israel continues to terrorize Palestinians of all ages, obliterate whole families, and enact a rightwing vision of a land cleared of Palestinians once and for all. My Palestinian friends in the West Bank say that Israel aims to crush their spirits: day by day, drone by drone, death by death. Their resistance is a sign of grace. A reminder of the steadfast spirit of life itself.
As a Christian I believe in human kindness (of course, I do) and I preach loving service as our purpose together on this planet. But what you’re doing today, my friends, takes my faith to another level, and challenges my commitment to take another step forward. A consequential step forward. What you’ve done in confronting Sig Sauer this year, and now together in their neighborhood today, is powerful work. It’s powerful work. And it’s not the power of the fist or the gun. And it’s not the power of hatred and contempt. And it’s most certainly not the power of devastating drones outfitted with AI-operated machine guns. What you’re doing today manifests in public the power of a people committed; the power of a people committed to collective liberation and a just peace for all; and the power of many kinds of people doing the hard work of organizing, and strategizing, showing up together, and making sacrifices of time and energy for a future worthy of our children and all children. You aren’t just talking about peace, you’re making peace today. You aren’t just writing another wonderful op ed today. You’re putting your bodies where your convictions stand. Together. Nonviolently. As one people. United.
You know, as I do, that this is just one day, one leg on a much longer journey. You know that. But, my friends, we will bring the American war machine to an end by building this kind of power together. Right here in tiny New Hampshire. Right here at the polished doorstep of Sig Sauer. Wherever corporations and governments have sold their souls for profit. Wherever CEOs and Boards of Directors have betrayed their obligation to children and life and the common good. We will bring the horrific Israeli genocide to an end by continuing the invest in relationships, like those you’re looking at right here; by continuing to invest in hard work, like the work that brings us to this place today. We will bring this genocide to an end by continuing to invest in nonviolent traditions that we know work. And we will do it all together. Not as single, heroic individuals. But in a movement of kindness and love AND power. Yes, power.
So my little congregation in Durham stands with you today; some of us are here in the flesh, others are with you in spirit. But our entire congregation has committed itself to ending apartheid in Israel, joining efforts to boycott Sig Sauer and any other company profiting from death, and destruction, and genocide. You can count on us. And I know we’re counting on you.
Because we are not powerless. Not by a long shot. We have only to build our power, one day a time, one conversation at time, one disciplined campaign at a time, one called-out company at a time. We have only to watch and learn and use our God-given power to transform violence into new life, to turn our own country from a madhouse of war into a garden of justice. We have only to show up again and again and again for every Palestinian and every Israeli who yearns for the only freedom that really matters. The freedom that is ours together.
God bless you, all!
The Rev. David Grishaw-Jones
Pastor, Community Church of Durham, NH
I wanted very much to be with you all today, but Covid had other plans for my weekend. I wanted to add my voice to yours and demand that Sig Sauer recognize its complicity in Israel’s genocidal campaign against Palestinians. That genocide hasn’t happened and couldn’t continue without Sig Sauer’s weapons and others like them. And it hasn’t happened and couldn’t continue without our American blessing and financial backing. If Sig Sauer’s complicit, we’re all complicit. And you’re all here today to change that. To say no more!
With Sig Sauer’s grotesque machinery, and this technology is indeed demonic and grotesque, Israel continues to terrorize Palestinians of all ages, obliterate whole families, and enact a rightwing vision of a land cleared of Palestinians once and for all. My Palestinian friends in the West Bank say that Israel aims to crush their spirits: day by day, drone by drone, death by death. Their resistance is a sign of grace. A reminder of the steadfast spirit of life itself.
So my little congregation in Durham stands with you today; some of us are here in the flesh, others are with you in spirit. But our entire congregation has committed itself to ending apartheid in Israel, joining efforts to boycott Sig Sauer and any other company profiting from death, and destruction, and genocide. You can count on us. And I know we’re counting on you.
Because we are not powerless. Not by a long shot. We have only to build our power, one day a time, one conversation at time, one disciplined campaign at a time, one called-out company at a time. We have only to watch and learn and use our God-given power to transform violence into new life, to turn our own country from a madhouse of war into a garden of justice. We have only to show up again and again and again for every Palestinian and every Israeli who yearns for the only freedom that really matters. The freedom that is ours together.
God bless you, all!
The Rev. David Grishaw-Jones
Pastor, Community Church of Durham, NH
United Church of Christ
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