HOMILY: "People Power"

Sunday, November 8, 2026
The 6th Sunday in Incarnation
Mark 5:21-43

1.

We have two interlocking stories in the Gospel this morning. And when a storyteller weaves two stories together in this way, there’s a purpose to this weaving, right. A narrative purpose. And in our case, a theological purpose in linking one story (here it’s about a respected father and his very sick daughter) with another story (here it’s about a poor woman grabbing Jesus from behind in a crowd).

Touching His Garment

I’m convinced that this particular storyteller is deliberate, prayerful, even confessional in the ways he ties these stories together. He wants you and me to feel this moment where Jesus goes off with Jairus, hastily, to minister to his daughter at home. The urgency of the request, the decision to go. And then he wants us to feel this moment of disruption, where Jesus and Jairus are quite literally pulled aside by an unnamed and unaccompanied woman in the crowd. Then there’s a tender moment of connection, when Jesus is moved, even shaken by her courage and faith. And then there’s still another moment, a devastating moment that follows, soon after, when word comes that Jairus’ daughter has died.

And I’ve always imagined—and I think it’s fair—that Mark’s genius is describing the ways Jesus includes them both in his ministry, in his vision, in his practice; the ways Jesus responds with attention and compassion to both. In effect, here in the text, in Mark’s gospel, is the holy ground where love and justice embrace. That same sacred terrain that Brother Antony celebrated in his sermon last week. Where love shapes justice, and justice confirms love. In an emerging human community. Everyone included. Everyone touched. All of us lifted up together.

And so I’ve always imagined that this kind of storytelling intends to remind us that health and wholeness aren’t part of a zero-sum game in Jesus’ ministry, that we’re not here on this planet to compete for wellness and grace and longevity. Despite what the pharmaceutical industry would have has believe, or what the military industrial complex needs us to believe. I’ve always imagined that Jesus calls into being a new world here, in which the poor woman’s health (her integrity, her health) and the privileged girl’s future are bound up together. Bound up, as Martin Luther King, Jr. used to say, “in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny.” An inescapable and divinely designed garment of mutuality.

Which, after all, is the dress-code for the kingdom of God.

Now we all have ways, I’m sure, of thinking about what happened in this week’s American elections. But I’ll suggest that one possibility is that, after long years of grift and grievance and divisive cruelty, Americans voted this week for something like neighborliness and compassion. Something indeed like that inescapable and divinely designed garment of mutuality. A Black woman will be governor of Georgia. A Latina will be governor of Texas. An Indigenous woman will be governor of New Mexico and another will serve in the US Senate from Minnesota. A Muslim doctor will represent Michigan. In the US Senate.

And who knows where all this will take us. And indeed there is so much hard work yet to be done. But, wow, it feels kind of good, kind of liberating, actually. To acknowledge our shared humanity. To choose it. Even, for a few days, to revel in it.

2.

But there’s yet another dimension to these interlocking stories in Mark, another suggestion that I now find fascinating and compelling. And in this Season of Incarnation, recalling the embodiment of God in Jesus, it seems urgently important now.

Is it possible that Jesus’ power—whatever it is in Jesus that might heal brokenness and restore vitality in others; is it possible that Jesus’ power is awakened, even activated in and through relationships? In the spaces between him and others? [Note: One translation of 'in-carnation,' out its Latin roots, is 'between bodies...'  Think on that a bit!  Not just "in-the-flesh", but "between our bodies..."]]

I wonder now if it’s the poor woman’s touch—you remember that she reaches out from behind him, clutches at his cloak in the crowd; I wonder if it’s her courage, her touch that stirs in him something like agape, or love, something like respect, or even reverence. After all, Jesus is no superhero; that’s not his gig. He’s vulnerable and open to the world. And he’s touched, he’s moved by her nearness, by her pain, and, yes, by her prophetic imagination. And then, when she kneels beside him, when they kneel together there, in the dusty road, and when she tells him the whole truth of her story, the complicated, heartbreaking, but life-honoring truth of her story—I wonder if that’s how Jesus comes to recognize his strength in hers, his courage in hers. “Daughter,” he says at last, “your faith has made you well.” Your faith has made you well! And I have to believe that Jesus’ faith, that Jesus’ faith is awakened in hers.

And here’s where the interlocking stories in today’s text offer all kinds of possibilities for our own practice, for own life together in community. If Jesus’ faith is awakened in hers, if his power is made dynamic and generous in her presence, then it is also this way for us, for you and me, for the church. In prayer and song, in collaborative witness and happy fellowship, you experience something like power and dare even to lean into it. And the faith we confess together makes tired hearts fresh and cynical minds new again.

And that’s what’s going on in this text, I think, or part of it. Because it’s this extraordinary faith—awakened in their time together in the road—that inspires Jesus to go on then, to persevere even as the neighbors sneer and laugh at his innocence. It’s this extraordinary faith—awakened in their storytelling—that inspires Jesus to follow Jairus home now, and to face his daughter on her death bed. And it’s this same faith, stirring now in him, that moves Jesus at last to take the girl by the hand and say to her: “Talitha Koum” or “Little one, rise up!”? It’s not magic, you see. It’s power. And it’s godly power, stirred and shaped by the poor woman who pulled him aside and told him her story.

Razzouk Tattoo Shop, Jerusalem, 2025

By the way, friends, this is indeed an Easter moment, early on in Mark’s gospel. A resurrection moment well before that big, glossy resurrection moment at the end of the story. When he says, “Little one, rise up!”, Jesus deploys the language of resurrection, the vocabulary of new life, the practice by which we overcome despair and death and cruelty and division. “Little one,” he says, “rise up!” I’ve got the Arabic version of ‘koum’ tattooed into my arm now. "Al masiyh coum!"  Christ rises up!  Resurrection is an orientation of our spirits, you see; it’s a way of life. Inspired, nurtured, grounded in Christ, and in the life we share together.  

Friends, God’s power is revealed in us—or at least, planted in us—as we open our hearts and our lives to one another. As we open our church to the hopes and heartaches of neighbors and new friends. When Jesus calls us to discipleship, he calls us to embrace God’s power in our hearts, in our hands, and (most importantly) in our communities. To leave behind old forms and habits like coercive power, and develop instead our capacity for resurrection and healing and peace. Relational power.  Christ-like power.

What we find in this reading is not the power of the authoritarian who gilds ballrooms in gold and buys the allegiance of devotees. And it’s not the power of techno-fascists who buzz drones over defenseless cities and bully poor communities with bombs and bullets and fear. And it’s not the power of brute strength or invested wealth. No, God’s power is awakened in Jesus as he sits quietly in the dusty road listening to a poor woman’s story. God’s power is awakened in you and me as we pay attention to one another, to the yearning in another’s heart, the pressures we face in making ends meet, the aching of our children for happy and playful days. And if we keep our hearts open, if we pray without ceasing, God’s power can move mountains, and bring down empires, and lift broken communities to hopefulness and mutuality and, yes, even liberation and peace. Do you believe that? Mark does. The Gospel does. “Talitha koum.” “Talitha koum.”

A KEYNOTE: "Power and the Church"

New Hampshire Council of Churches
Fall Jubilee / 2026
Saturday, November 7, 2026

A Keynote:

1.

Our team at the Durham church includes a live-in sexton whose name is Antony. And he’s much, much more than a sexton to me and to our community, as I’ll explain in a minute. And his honest-to-god name isn’t even Antony, which I’ll get into. But what I want you to know this morning is that every night as he does his locking up, every night as he makes his rounds to make sure no candles are left burning or windows left open, Antony pauses in our quiet sanctuary, for 30, 40, sometimes 60 minutes, and he prays for our little church.

It’s astounding to me how many of our stories he knows, and how many broken hearts he holds in his own, and how committed he is to this simple, nightly practice of prayer. Every night. Our sanctuary. Which has become his own. His sanctuary. Friends, I don’t know how prayer works, I don’t know the metaphysics of it all, really. But I know this. When we pray for one another like this, like Antony does, it changes us. It transfigures us. Human hearts become instruments of peace. Tiny mustard seeds become sanctuaries of grace.

And the week leading up to Tuesday’s elections, Antony improvised a bit. Instead of sitting in a pew for those 40, 50 minutes, he stepped up onto the chancel, before our communion table, which some of you might call your altar; and Antony fell to his knees and prostrated himself there. Before the table, the altar, the eyes of God. Deep into the dark night. Prostrate in prayer. And Antony prayed for an hour, every night for a week, for our country. Yours and mine. Which has become his own.

Antony, as some of you know, is not only our church’s sexton, and not only my dear colleague in ministry in Durham, but an immigrant, a refugee, a remarkable father, who left his family in Africa 9 years ago. He left because his faith and conscience had implicated him in a daring resistance movement in his native land and his life was in danger there. We’re not using Antony’s given name, or his home country for that matter, because for years now he’s been marked for deportation by an American government that’s branded him and others like him as enemies of the state. And we’ve wondered and watched for years now, as ICE agents terrorize, kidnap and deport immigrant friends across our state and continent. When would they come for Antony? And what would we do when they did?

Six years ago, we committed—as many of your communities have committed—to the centuries-old Sanctuary Tradition. And in that spirit we offered Antony all the protection and love we could muster in our Durham church. Where he now lives and prays. In sanctuary. And where we all watch together for unfamiliar vehicles and unannounced visitors.

That image of Antony prostrate on the chancel late at night, praying for our country on the eve of an election, strikes me as a kind of icon for discipleship in our time. I hope this makes sense to you. Because there has to be a spiritual practice—a robust, disciplined, supported spiritual practice—at the heart of our faith, joining our most vulnerable spirits to our most loving God, calling on God’s grace as we stumble and fumble in the shadows for hope and resilience. It’s this kind of practice that does two paradoxical things. In it, in a sustained practice, God makes our hearts tender and soft and open to newness. But this too: in a sustained practice like Antony’s, God breathes strength and courage and resolve into our bodies, into our souls, and (perhaps most importantly) into our movements. Love does all that. It makes us soft and it makes us strong.

So imagine Antony there, every night, like a priest before the greatest Mystery of All: praying for his wife and their three teenaged children in Africa; praying for a new friend at church who he knows is struggling mightily with a deep depression; praying for other immigrants he’s befriended over the years, and their courage, and their strength, and their families; and praying for all of us, for all of us (!), as we prepared to vote. In an election in which he couldn’t vote. But an election that mattered to him and his friends and his family in ways I could only begin to understand.

2.

In the days since Tuesday’s election, I’ve been thinking a lot about a theological topic, another practice, I’ve neglected far too often over my 40 years in parish ministry. And that topic, that practice is power. My dear friend Antony reminds me—over and over again—that the church can be, that the church should be a powerful community, an empowering community. It’s been all of that for him these past six years. That’s for sure. And he makes us more and more powerful too, by his friendship, by his perseverance, and by his prayerfulness. By virtue of Antony’s presence in my life, and in our church, I am a more powerful Christian today, because I am tethered now, as our church is, to his pain, and to his story, and to his hope.

And Antony reminds me too that prayer itself is a powerful practice: not because it makes us stronger or smarter or better than other believers or non-believers; not because it sets us up for a string of successes or victories denied to those who don’t pray. No, prayer is a powerful practice because prayer embodies in flesh and bone our love for one another, it embodies in flesh and bone our commitments to one another, in a spirit of Love and a community of discipleship and imagination. Churches should be powerful communities, and prayer empowers us. We are made soft and strong—for the good work before us.

And here’s the thing, this first weekend in November: if we’re to hold governments accountable, and newly elected representatives accountable, to our shared values like human rights and democracy and the kind of economic justice that protects our integrity, our children, our planet; if we’re to follow up on whatever it is that happened on Tuesday and make it mean something, we’re going to have to get real and honest, and real honest, about our power. My friends, if we are made in the image of God, if we are stardust and glory and made in the image of God, we are created to be powerfully loving together, to be powerfully collaborative in politics and advocacy, to be powerfully creative in music and the arts. We are created to exercise power in thoroughgoing humility and accountable networks of cooperative care. And daring political imagination.

So hear me now: Powerlessness is not discipleship. Powerlessness is not discipleship.

What Jesus insists on, I think, is the kind of power that is nurtured in deep and committed relationships, in churches like yours and mine. What Jesus insists on is the kind of power that moves us into broad coalitions around core values and prophetic purpose. Like protecting immigrant neighbors from xenophobic agencies. Like healing the earth of exploitation and ecological degradation. Like re-imagining an economy that feeds our children, and honors our labor, and promotes collaboration and creativity instead of militarism and genocide. When Jesus calls disciples to leave behind habits and attachments, he calls on us to embrace a wonderfully beautiful kind of power. Not powerlessness. But power. Relational power. Collaborative power.

3.

And as I think about this now, on the eve of my retirement from parish ministry next summer, I believe that we can be even braver in thinking about our congregations as power-institutions on the American scene. Power institutions drawing power from prayer. Power institutions drawing power from ancient texts. Power institutions drawing power from honest-to-God relationships in our churches. And then, and then, we’ll want to work together – with the NH Council of Churches, with the Granite State Organizing Project, with Voices of Faith, with NH Outright, with all kinds of partner networks – to build the new world we deserve. To give birth to the new world we deserve. To embrace the advent of wholeness and liberation for all. An economy of grace.

To be clear, the NH Council is already doing so much of this work; and GSOP is already doing so much of this work; and God knows, NH Outright is on the front line even now. But these networks need our churches. Those in the room today, and so many others across the state. Do you see that? These wonderful networks need our institutions. These networks need us to step up and embrace the power in our communities. They’re ready for us.

And then, joined in love and purpose, we’ll find ourselves thinking strategically together, building strategic campaigns together, and (perhaps most importantly) holding our churches accountable to the power we’re building within and beyond them. Always honest about the weaknesses of our work. Always humble in the face of mistakes we make. And always joyful and glad when we make progress together. And always, always committed to building accountable power and loving power for the good of our communities. And our children. And our world.

For me, lastly, I want to think, over these next weeks and months, about what Antony’s prayer life means for me. In my relationship with Jesus, this is where the rubber hits the road. Can I begin to understand where Antony’s prayer comes from? It takes a leap of conscience and compassion. Can I begin to feel the urgency of Antony’s prayer, the pain of familial separation he feels every day, the aching for freedom and liberation? I have to listen carefully. To Antony. To his voice. To his story and his yearning. There are no shortcuts. Can I make his urgency something of my own? Can I allow Antony’s faith to shape and inspire my priorities, my ministry, my advocacy, even my retirement? For me to truly and faithfully hear the call to discipleship, Jesus’ call to discipleship, involves a kind of radical vulnerability: to Antony’s prayer life, to Antony’s story, to his hope.

4.

Twenty-two years ago, I hosted an incredible marriage celebration in Northern California for 45 gay and lesbian couples. Just saying this out loud brings a happy chill to my spine this morning. These were 45 queer couples who had been married in the month just after San Francisco first issued marriage licenses out of City Hall. 2004. Remember 2004?

That afternoon, in church, we had rabbis and priests, we had pagan couples jumping brooms and even the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus—about seventy-five of them—singing freedom songs from the chancel steps. And 45 couples. They came forward one at a time, each one celebrating vows, each one receiving a blessing of some kind. And each one basking in the glow of a loving community, in the prayers of grandparents, and children, and neighbors and a wild variety of religious leaders.

I don’t have to tell you that that movement—that marriage equality movement—is ongoing and requires vigilance. The work of liberation and justice continues. But it is always built around the kind of power that takes relationships seriously. It is always built around the kind of power in community that perseveres—from season to season, from generation to generation—because we owe it to one another. Does that make sense to you? We owe it to one another. We are dependent on one another. We are devoted to one another.

That 2004 moment was not magic. It was built powerfully, strategically, faithfully by generations of queer activists and their allies—including churches and synagogues and Quaker meetings like yours and mine.

And so we have learned together—in networks committed to marriage equality, in movements determined to protect immigrants, in campaigns dedicated to ending apartheid and genocide forever. We have learned that we are powerful beyond our fears and doubts. When we listen to one another carefully and receive those testimonies as sacred texts. When we organize. When we pray and then organize. When we pray and organize and then make good, good, good trouble. Again and again. We can build holy power, loving power, in our churches! We can insist on human rights and ecological renewal and justice and peace. We’ve done it before. And we will do it again.

For all of you, for the power in your hearts, for the power in your churches, for the nonviolent power of the nonviolent Christ, I give thanks to God. It’s such a joy to be among you all this morning.

Amen.

NO MORE: "No More to US Complicity!"

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.

Guns Dismantled, Photo, Becky Field

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 WORD: "Radical Paul in 1 Thessalonians"

For Sunday, October 25:
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!

WHAT IT TAKES: "To Turn Toward Neighborliness"

"The choices are easy...living them ain't easy." (Cassandra Wilson)

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

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.

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.

SWORDS INTO PLOWSHARES: "Guns to Gardens"

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.

LET THEM LIVE: "What Genocide Cannot Erase"