The Fifth Sunday after Epiphany
Matthew 5:1-12 (The Beatitudes)
1.
I mentioned last Sunday that I was recently introduced to a wonderful book by Rob Hopkins, a British pioneer in permaculture and sustainability. And it’s the book’s title that fluttered in my heart for days after: “How to Fall in Love with the Future.” “How to Fall in Love with the Future.”
I confess that I then had to look up permaculture—which (as you probably know) is a regenerative design system, based on observing natural ecosystems, to create sustainable, self-sufficient human habitats. A world made whole and holy. By care and partnership within watersheds and localities. And I was thrilled then to discover that, right here on the Seacoast, there is a thriving network of permaculture farmers, practitioners and visionaries—who are showing us how, right here in frosty New England, to make it happen. One of these is my friend Amy Antonucci with whom I was arrested at Congressman Pappas’ office in Dover two years ago. A brave, nonviolent and peace-loving perma-culturalist. Amy might even say that permaculture is something like her religion these days. And I wouldn’t talk her out of that.
But back to that title, to Rob Hopkins’ book: “How to Fall in Love with the Future.” The idea is that we’re living in an era of constant and deliberate dread. But human communities are capable, truly capable, of overcoming dread with imagination, and overwhelming anxiety with creativity and compassion. Why not fall in love with the future? See where that takes us? Step bravely into a world worthy of the two-year-olds among us?
Of course, authoritarian bosses sow fear and dread into the ground of our common life: fear of scarcity and financial ruin; fear of the colored immigrant coming for our jobs; fear of the religion we don’t understand; and dread around the waterfall of bad news that hits our screens, souls and spirits every morning. It’s this dread that fuels a fascist agenda of wealth consolidation, resource extraction and ecocide in the name of security and nationalism. From Ukraine to Minneapolis. From Gaza to the front pages of our papers. Dread drives the conversation. But it doesn’t have to be so, says Rob Hopkins. Within us, within all of us—is a river of wisdom wide enough and deep enough to reveal a future of shared prosperity, mutual blessing and wonder.
And Jesus loves a good river. But this morning he climbs a mountain, probably his favorite mountain, trails of childhood wonder, views of the lake where he learned to swim and then fish; and he climbs this dear and beloved mountain to meet this crippling dread head on and offer us a practice, a future we can love. A practice, a future we can embrace. A practice, a future we need not fear—but must nurture in daily choices and cultivate in backyard gardens and indeed claim as our dear and precious human birthright. To be clear: that practice is fully articulated in the whole of the Sermon on the Mount (which we find in the fifth, sixth and seventh chapters of Matthew). What we read this morning—these Beatitudes—is just the preface, just his introduction. But it’s a pretty fair place to start. The first steps on a trail that leads perhaps to a future we can love. And build together.
2.
For starters, we fall in love with the future when we are honest with our pain, our grief, our loss. And this runs against the cultural grain in a lot of ways, even mainstream spiritual memes that prioritize confidence and positivity. “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” Jesus says. “Blessed are those who mourn,” he says. For theirs is the kin-dom; for they will be comforted. The biblical tradition here, the practice, is sometimes known as lamentation. Lamentation. And it’s absolutely critical to distinguish between lamentation and dread. Lamentation invites God into the heart of our heartbreak. Lamentation dares even to challenge or question God; but calls on God just the same. Dread—on the other hand—presupposes God’s indifference; and so often yields to despair.
It’s stunning, really, to watch what’s happening in Minneapolis these past several weeks: how the intensity of that community’s grief is now vocalized in community song circles and vibrant, colorful, loving protests. With so many neighbors seized from schools and playgrounds; and advocates killed in their streets—Minnesotans are leaning into lamentation, honest and raw lamentation; but not dread or anything like despair.
Which is not to say that their singing erases their pain, or that their efforts cancel so many excruciating losses—but a community of the brokenhearted sings a song of determination and love; a community of the angry organizes creatively, trains itself boldly, moves together toward a future they can taste now. Lamentation. Lamentation. God is in the midst of it all. Attentive to their pain, committed to their dream of freedom and justice for all. “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” Jesus says. “Blessed are those who mourn,” he says. For theirs is the kin-dom; for they will be comforted.
3.
On Friday I was honored to march with dozens of UNH students through the streets of Durham. And this remarkable march was organized, almost single-handedly, by Thaddeus Sieverding an undergrad who’s been attending services here this year. He's sitting in the third pew from the back this morning! And we were joined on Friday, along the way, by dozens more from Oyster River High School. Determined young people. Walk-outs. Their faces shining with concern, but also with hope. And there were church friends mixed in, plenty of you, and other clergy too, and townsfolk happy to walk together and bear witness together and say ENOUGH together.
And I have to tell you, my friends, that as that Oyster River High contingent turned the corner onto Main Street by the President’s house, and then happily joined the longer line of UNH students, I turned to look and found myself face to face with kids I know, kids you know: Hannah Bogle (who sang for years with Lorna’s choir), Brennan Whaley (whose light shines so brightly in this community), Carina Seitz and Fionn Totty (who are both in this year’s confirmation class), and Fionn’s brother Faolan, and Jack Flannery who kept shouting “Pastor Dave’s here, Pastor Dave’s here, Pastor Dave’s here,” and Caleb Bromley too. In no time, I was high-fiving the whole flock of them. Kids who have taken all the faith and courage you’ve offered and made it into a lifestyle, a commitment, a practice. It was like going to church in the streets on Friday. And I’ve got to be honest. Watching Jack work the crowd, and Hannah linking arms with her friends, and Caleb proudly walking in that long line of resisters like it mattered—I had an inkling of what it means to fall in love with the future. What it means to overcome dread with imagination, and anxiety with creativity and compassion. And it doesn’t happen by accident. It happens when we begin to trust that God meets our passion for justice with God’s wisdom, with God’s grace, with God’s blessing. Step by step by step.
“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,” Jesus says on the mountain, “for they will be filled.” “Blessed are the peacemakers,” he says, “for they will be called children of God.” Maybe the future we love is tasted first in the here and now—when we hunger and thirst for justice here, when we hunger and thirst for peace now, when we hunger and thirst for healing in our own lives, when we hunger and thirst for our children’s happiness and their freedom to love and dream as only they can.
I think of this every time I sit down to visit with my dear friend Antony downstairs. In his presence, I feel my soul hungering for a nation healed of its racism and bigotry. In his presence, I feel my spirit thirsting for a world redeemed, for a planet made whole and holy again—so that Antony and his family can celebrate birthdays together again, and break bread together again, and hug one another bravely and tenderly again. Maybe, just maybe, the future is tasted first in the here and now. When we faithfully resist the dread foisted upon us by peddlers of hate and open our tender hearts instead to the humanity of our neighbors. I remember sitting with a large Palestinian family last summer, at a Sunday dinner after church, and I remember their laughter and their joy in being together, and their urgent plea that I take that spirit home with me. To the US. To advocate for their survival. To speak out for their children and their grandchildren. To hunger and thirst for a justice and future that includes them all.
4.
So I’ll finish by suggesting to you just a little practice that I’ve taken up these past few weeks. When dread comes my way. As it sometimes does. When the insanity of the President’s racism rips across my laptop and throws my day into a spinning cycle of rage and disgust. As it sometimes does. When I’m tempted to give up. When the pain in my heart overwhelms even my faith. When Jesus seems distant and just another fantasy.
And when something like dread comes my way, I turn to a simple, little song I’ve learned online with friends and allies in Minneapolis this month. Most of the time I just hum it to myself. But I have, on more than a few occasions, closed my office door, and sang it out loud at my desk. Because, you know, sometimes you have to.
It goes like this:
“Hold on, hold on, my dear ones, here comes the dawn.”
So when I hear that a nurse in Vermont has been kidnapped by ICE and incarcerated in Dover, I sing. Because there are thousands out there who are holding on, welcoming the dawn, and falling in love with the future. And when I hear that our reps in Concord are voting to make guns on campus the new norm, I sing. Because there are thousands more laying down their weapons and hate, and studying war no more. And when I hear that a friend is now tempted to give up on politics, to give up on America, I sing. And maybe you will too.
“Hold on, hold on, my dear ones, here comes the dawn.”
Matthew 5:1-12 (The Beatitudes)
1.
I mentioned last Sunday that I was recently introduced to a wonderful book by Rob Hopkins, a British pioneer in permaculture and sustainability. And it’s the book’s title that fluttered in my heart for days after: “How to Fall in Love with the Future.” “How to Fall in Love with the Future.”
 |
| UNH Marchers with Church Friends |
I confess that I then had to look up permaculture—which (as you probably know) is a regenerative design system, based on observing natural ecosystems, to create sustainable, self-sufficient human habitats. A world made whole and holy. By care and partnership within watersheds and localities. And I was thrilled then to discover that, right here on the Seacoast, there is a thriving network of permaculture farmers, practitioners and visionaries—who are showing us how, right here in frosty New England, to make it happen. One of these is my friend Amy Antonucci with whom I was arrested at Congressman Pappas’ office in Dover two years ago. A brave, nonviolent and peace-loving perma-culturalist. Amy might even say that permaculture is something like her religion these days. And I wouldn’t talk her out of that.
But back to that title, to Rob Hopkins’ book: “How to Fall in Love with the Future.” The idea is that we’re living in an era of constant and deliberate dread. But human communities are capable, truly capable, of overcoming dread with imagination, and overwhelming anxiety with creativity and compassion. Why not fall in love with the future? See where that takes us? Step bravely into a world worthy of the two-year-olds among us?
Of course, authoritarian bosses sow fear and dread into the ground of our common life: fear of scarcity and financial ruin; fear of the colored immigrant coming for our jobs; fear of the religion we don’t understand; and dread around the waterfall of bad news that hits our screens, souls and spirits every morning. It’s this dread that fuels a fascist agenda of wealth consolidation, resource extraction and ecocide in the name of security and nationalism. From Ukraine to Minneapolis. From Gaza to the front pages of our papers. Dread drives the conversation. But it doesn’t have to be so, says Rob Hopkins. Within us, within all of us—is a river of wisdom wide enough and deep enough to reveal a future of shared prosperity, mutual blessing and wonder.
And Jesus loves a good river. But this morning he climbs a mountain, probably his favorite mountain, trails of childhood wonder, views of the lake where he learned to swim and then fish; and he climbs this dear and beloved mountain to meet this crippling dread head on and offer us a practice, a future we can love. A practice, a future we can embrace. A practice, a future we need not fear—but must nurture in daily choices and cultivate in backyard gardens and indeed claim as our dear and precious human birthright. To be clear: that practice is fully articulated in the whole of the Sermon on the Mount (which we find in the fifth, sixth and seventh chapters of Matthew). What we read this morning—these Beatitudes—is just the preface, just his introduction. But it’s a pretty fair place to start. The first steps on a trail that leads perhaps to a future we can love. And build together.
2.
For starters, we fall in love with the future when we are honest with our pain, our grief, our loss. And this runs against the cultural grain in a lot of ways, even mainstream spiritual memes that prioritize confidence and positivity. “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” Jesus says. “Blessed are those who mourn,” he says. For theirs is the kin-dom; for they will be comforted. The biblical tradition here, the practice, is sometimes known as lamentation. Lamentation. And it’s absolutely critical to distinguish between lamentation and dread. Lamentation invites God into the heart of our heartbreak. Lamentation dares even to challenge or question God; but calls on God just the same. Dread—on the other hand—presupposes God’s indifference; and so often yields to despair.
It’s stunning, really, to watch what’s happening in Minneapolis these past several weeks: how the intensity of that community’s grief is now vocalized in community song circles and vibrant, colorful, loving protests. With so many neighbors seized from schools and playgrounds; and advocates killed in their streets—Minnesotans are leaning into lamentation, honest and raw lamentation; but not dread or anything like despair.
Which is not to say that their singing erases their pain, or that their efforts cancel so many excruciating losses—but a community of the brokenhearted sings a song of determination and love; a community of the angry organizes creatively, trains itself boldly, moves together toward a future they can taste now. Lamentation. Lamentation. God is in the midst of it all. Attentive to their pain, committed to their dream of freedom and justice for all. “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” Jesus says. “Blessed are those who mourn,” he says. For theirs is the kin-dom; for they will be comforted.
3.
On Friday I was honored to march with dozens of UNH students through the streets of Durham. And this remarkable march was organized, almost single-handedly, by Thaddeus Sieverding an undergrad who’s been attending services here this year. He's sitting in the third pew from the back this morning! And we were joined on Friday, along the way, by dozens more from Oyster River High School. Determined young people. Walk-outs. Their faces shining with concern, but also with hope. And there were church friends mixed in, plenty of you, and other clergy too, and townsfolk happy to walk together and bear witness together and say ENOUGH together.
 |
| Oyster River High Marchers, 2/6/26 |
And I have to tell you, my friends, that as that Oyster River High contingent turned the corner onto Main Street by the President’s house, and then happily joined the longer line of UNH students, I turned to look and found myself face to face with kids I know, kids you know: Hannah Bogle (who sang for years with Lorna’s choir), Brennan Whaley (whose light shines so brightly in this community), Carina Seitz and Fionn Totty (who are both in this year’s confirmation class), and Fionn’s brother Faolan, and Jack Flannery who kept shouting “Pastor Dave’s here, Pastor Dave’s here, Pastor Dave’s here,” and Caleb Bromley too. In no time, I was high-fiving the whole flock of them. Kids who have taken all the faith and courage you’ve offered and made it into a lifestyle, a commitment, a practice. It was like going to church in the streets on Friday. And I’ve got to be honest. Watching Jack work the crowd, and Hannah linking arms with her friends, and Caleb proudly walking in that long line of resisters like it mattered—I had an inkling of what it means to fall in love with the future. What it means to overcome dread with imagination, and anxiety with creativity and compassion. And it doesn’t happen by accident. It happens when we begin to trust that God meets our passion for justice with God’s wisdom, with God’s grace, with God’s blessing. Step by step by step.
“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,” Jesus says on the mountain, “for they will be filled.” “Blessed are the peacemakers,” he says, “for they will be called children of God.” Maybe the future we love is tasted first in the here and now—when we hunger and thirst for justice here, when we hunger and thirst for peace now, when we hunger and thirst for healing in our own lives, when we hunger and thirst for our children’s happiness and their freedom to love and dream as only they can.
I think of this every time I sit down to visit with my dear friend Antony downstairs. In his presence, I feel my soul hungering for a nation healed of its racism and bigotry. In his presence, I feel my spirit thirsting for a world redeemed, for a planet made whole and holy again—so that Antony and his family can celebrate birthdays together again, and break bread together again, and hug one another bravely and tenderly again. Maybe, just maybe, the future is tasted first in the here and now. When we faithfully resist the dread foisted upon us by peddlers of hate and open our tender hearts instead to the humanity of our neighbors. I remember sitting with a large Palestinian family last summer, at a Sunday dinner after church, and I remember their laughter and their joy in being together, and their urgent plea that I take that spirit home with me. To the US. To advocate for their survival. To speak out for their children and their grandchildren. To hunger and thirst for a justice and future that includes them all.
4.
And when something like dread comes my way, I turn to a simple, little song I’ve learned online with friends and allies in Minneapolis this month. Most of the time I just hum it to myself. But I have, on more than a few occasions, closed my office door, and sang it out loud at my desk. Because, you know, sometimes you have to.
It goes like this:
“Hold on, hold on, my dear ones, here comes the dawn.”
So when I hear that a nurse in Vermont has been kidnapped by ICE and incarcerated in Dover, I sing. Because there are thousands out there who are holding on, welcoming the dawn, and falling in love with the future. And when I hear that our reps in Concord are voting to make guns on campus the new norm, I sing. Because there are thousands more laying down their weapons and hate, and studying war no more. And when I hear that a friend is now tempted to give up on politics, to give up on America, I sing. And maybe you will too.
“Hold on, hold on, my dear ones, here comes the dawn.”
