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"

SAY NO MORE TO: "WE GROW WAR"

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

United Church of Christ

ONE GUN AT A TIME: "Guns to Gardens"

EVENT: Guns to Gardens Event

DATE:    Saturday, October 17, 2026

TIME:      9 am to 12 noon

PLACE: Community Church of Durham, 17 Main Street, Durham, NH 03824

“Guns to Gardens” in collaboration with the Community Church of Durham is providing an opportunity for Granite Staters to remove unwanted firearms from their homes without putting them back on the market.  Instead, these guns are transformed into garden tools and beautiful arts and crafts—objects more useful, and less harmful, to our community.

All are invited on Saturday, October 17, between 9 am and 12 pm.  You’re invited to bring unwanted, unloaded firearms in the rear of vehicle.  If you’re unsure whether the firearm is loaded, you’ll let our volunteer know.  Your identity will remain anonymous.  Trained volunteers will then dispose of your gun safely, using ATF guidelines.  Scrap metal and wood from dismantled firearms will be given to artists to be transformed into functional works of art and garden tools.  

Under state law, NH law enforcement is prohibited from destroying firearms which come into their possession.  Any firearm surrendered to police may only be used by the police, stored, or sold at public auction, thereby returning them to use in the community.

Guns to Gardens – NH provides an alternative.  Whether it’s a veteran disposing of a firearm they no longer want in the home, a new parent eager to protect children, a gun owner removing firearms from easy reach of friends in crisis, or a community member generally wary of escalating gun violence, previous participants have made it clear this is a valuable program for New Hampshire.

$25 gas gift cards will be offered to the first 30 participants.  For more, see: https://www.ccdurham.org/guns-to-gardens-10-17-26/ or https://www.nhcucc.org/mission-groups/guns-to-gardens; or contact the Rev. David Grishaw-Jones at the Community Church of Durham...DavidGJ@CCDurham.org.

A JEWISH VOICE FOR PEACE!

COALITION-BUILDING IS THE WAY: "Apartheid Free!"

OMER BARTOV on "Israel: What Went Wrong?"

We were deeply honored to host an event, organized by Not in My Name NH (a NH coalition of Jews against Genocide), featuring the scholar and historian Omer Bartov of Brown University.  With courage and clarity, he describes what we've all seen unfolding over the past many decades, and the particular way in which the US has facilitated Israel's devastating genocide in Gaza (and now, he adds, in the West Bank).  The time for sanctions, he says, is now or never!

HOMILY: "On Earth As in Heaven"

A Meditation for Creationtide

Sunday, September 13, 2026

John 4 (at Jacob's Well)

1.

Hidden in another peculiar conversation, embedded in another quirky bit of dialogue, is a question. This question.

Is there a wellspring within you, within you, that roils and rises within to awaken and arouse the life without end in your soul? The life without end in your soul? That’s the question today. At the heart of the gospel itself.

It’s an odd little moment between the two of them, the Jew and the Samaritan at the well; but it’s anything but superficial and cheap. And this question bounces between the two of them, and then across time and space to you and me. On this second Sunday in the Season of Creationtide. Is there a wellspring within you that stirs and sometimes even surges to arouse the life without end in your soul? And before you take even a moment to answer for yourself, allow me to be so bold, maybe even so brazen, as to answer for you. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Whether you think of yourself as liberal, radical, evangelical, progressive. Whether you’re an artist, an activist, an academic or a mystic. Yes. Yes. Yes. Whether you’re kicking off a new year in the classroom or shifting new responsibilities at work, whether you’re tackling a new ministry here at church or even reexamining every last priority in your life. Whether you’re preparing for a baptism, and a few of you are, or you’ve been a member of this church (or some church somewhere) for all of your life. The gospel does not equivocate. There is within you—as there is within every one of us here—that wellspring that stirs with sustenance and spirit, that calls out from the depths, to inspire and bless and awaken your truth. Which dances of course, spins and skips and dances, with all truth.

And this Jesus, then, the Jesus we find in the fourth gospel, embodies the promise. To take him seriously is to absorb the promise. To offer it shelter in your own soul. You are not created for boredom. You are not created for monotony or manipulation or abuse. Within you is this wellspring of grace, this wellspring of courage, this wellspring of desire. And you need never, never be thirsty.

2.

The wild thing in our story this morning is the way the two of them—Jesus and the Samaritan—tease this good news out of one another; the way the two of them, even playfully, identify the gifts, possibilities, and promises for one another. Living water. Quenched thirst. Life without end. There’s no doubt at all that Jesus is poking around in her spiritual life, in her community’s practice, inviting reflection around what truly nourishes, what quickens her spirit, what sustains her. That’s so clear here.

But isn’t it just as true that she does something similar for him: that she jousts with him verbally, that she plays a bit with metaphor and language, that she provokes in Jesus himself self-awareness and even divine vocation? So that he can say to her, eventually: “I offer water, I offer water that will become a wellspring within you…” And he gets there because she engages fully and from the heart in this conversation. It’s stunning, really. And theologically consequential. How the two of them discover that wellspring of god’s grace in one another—the wellspring that stirs with sustenance and spirit, that calls out from the depths, to inspire and bless and awaken their truths.

And isn’t it our experience that God comes so often in the guise of a stranger, a refugee with a dream, a woman with a bucket, and we’re challenged by something new in her story, or provoked to see things differently as we consider her point of view? This is indeed the great gift of koinonia, of our life together in the Body of Christ. That if we’re vulnerable in community, if we’re open to one another, if we risk hearing the stranger’s story and whatever it is that makes that story holy—God so often shakes loose in us a calling we’ve been missing, a calling that serves now as a kind of wakeup call for the kingdom of heaven, the kin-dom of God. On earth as in heaven.

I worked with a young couple years ago as they planned their wedding and worked out some tricky family dynamics along the way. She’s Palestinian from a big Arab American family in the Midwest; and he’s Jewish from a rowdy Jewish family in California. And their engagement had turned the tables, so to speak, on several of their dear aunts, uncles and cousins. On both sides. And their assumptions around identity and commitment. And one or two grievances around history and distrust. Big stuff, really, for any young couple to work through.

What I remember most vividly from our work together is the intention the two of them invested in bringing their beleaguered, befuddled families together, and the gratitude we discovered for one another as we worked these things through over several sessions. And they challenged me. They challenged me, in a whole bunch of ways, to set aside ideas that limited their imagination, biases that assumed irreconcilable differences and disappointment. And I heard in their voices a kind of resilience and even an innocence that changed me in the end: it transformed the way I understood the Palestinian-Israeli divide, and it changed the way I experienced my ministry with so many other couples in complicated moments.

Just last week, by the way, now twenty years later, the two of them sent me greetings from California on their twentieth wedding anniversary; and they thanked me, unnecessarily, I think, for the gifts and insights of our time together. And what was a gorgeous, international, multicultural wedding.

3.

And like that wedding twenty years ago, our story this morning is, in part, about crossing boundaries, clearly, and breaking customs, and recognizing in our differences themselves the wildest opportunities for theological discernment, spiritual awakening and human understanding. “I can’t believe that you, a Jew,” she says to him, “would associate with me, a Samaritan; much less ask me to give you a drink.” And there seems to be a kind of twinkle in her eye: am I right? As if she knows exactly what she’s doing. And the differences between the two of them reveal sacred space for curiosity, playfulness, metaphor and discovery. It’s everything the spiritual life can be.

Isn’t it always that way though? Doesn’t it work that way for you too? My friend Sean Rohlfing here reminds me every Sunday what singing hymns is really all about. My friends Pam Monroe and Bryn Burns open my heart, my imagination to the true meanings of marriage and covenant. And Ernie’s voice is Jesus’ voice now, Jesus in the here and now, saying: “Come, follow me.” Come, follow me. And in all of this, in the push and pull of life together, in the bearing of our griefs and blessing of our gifts, you and I taste that wellspring, that everlasting water rising, bubbling, even surging within. Slaking our thirst in a way no seltzer, no coke, no beer ever could.

But we have to be honest, right. This doesn’t mean, it certainly doesn’t mean that we have figured ourselves out. And it doesn’t mean we don’t get sick or really confused or even depressed sometimes. Because we do. But there is, within us, within you, just the same, a wellspring that ripples with grace and quickens your spirit and links you, connects you, joins you to the One Great Love that is your one true home. Like all the rest of us you are a mixed bag of doubts and despair; of guts, glory and grace; and all of that, all of you, is made, designed, fashioned in the image of God. You see, your brokenness is itself a sign of God’s presence in your life, a confirmation (if you will) of divine solidarity: that you too are perfectly imperfect; that you too are wounded and worthy; that you too are dust and DNA and blood and bone tossed together in a body that’s built to get old and weird. Go figure.

There’s this temptation, and I think you know what I’m talking about, to fall into the trap, or maybe the bad habit that says: Yes, but I’m the exception. Yes, all this wellspring business sounds good, poetic, even generous; but I’m the exception. I’m too broken to be included in the circle of grace. I’m too depressed to even understand what that means. My mistakes are too significant. My faith is inconsistent. I’m the exception. And to be honest, my friends, the Samaritan woman at the well has her own reasons to fall for this temptation: rules she’s broken, relationships she’s left behind, commandments she’s transgressed, and authoritarians she’s probably ticked off.

But this Jesus, this gospel will not exclude you, me, her, anyone from the cosmic dimensions of God’s grace, from the universal reach of God’s love, from the kin-dom that knows no beginning or end. “I offer water,” Jesus says, and he’s not kidding, “that will become a wellspring within you that gives everlasting life.” The temptation is to believe—even for a moment—that there are exceptions, that there are limits, that you or I might be that exception. For any number of flimsy but well-rehearsed reasons. You know the drill. But Jesus says: No way. Don’t fall for it. The way the world carves us up. The way its weariness exhausts us. Jesus says: Don’t fall for it. We’re all in this together. Let our circle be unbroken.

HOMILY: "Jesus in Creationtide"

Sunday, September 6, 2026
The First Sunday in Creationtide
John 3:1-17

1.

The question that Nicodemus asks, several times really, in today’s reading is so spot-on, I think, so fair in fact, that it seems a little flippant, or maybe whimsical, in the moment. “How can an adult,” he rightly wonders, aloud for all to hear. “How can an adult be born a second time?” And then, so that his point isn’t lost in translation: “I can’t go back into my mother’s womb to be born again!” There may even be something playful about all this, this witty banter between the two of them. Nicodemus and Jesus. And they’re into it.

Now I think we can assume Nicodemus understands that Jesus is working here in the realm of metaphor, poetry, philosophy. When Jesus says: “The truth of the matter is, unless one is born from above, one cannot see the kin-dom of God.” Of course, he is. And what we’re reading, then, what we’re privy to here in John’s gospel, is a conversation around interpretation and meaning and faith. And maybe readiness. Maybe readiness.

What would it mean, Nicodemus is asking himself, for me to trust this particular Teacher? This strange cat who’s turning water into wine at weddings, who’s flipping profitable tables in the temple market, who’s hanging out with hooligans and prostitutes in the name of God? What would it mean, he’s asking himself, for me to start all over again and engage Jesus’ particular path, Jesus’ wisdom and Jesus’ truth? Am I willing to surrender to this kind of newness, to this kind of metaphor, to the reshaping of my inner and outer life? And indeed, friends, these are the questions we ask this morning. Am I willing to surrender to this kind of newness? Am I ready?

Nicodemus has heard something, seen something in Jesus, that arouses his curiosity, awakens his imagination, excites him in some strange and consequential way. Maybe it’s Jesus’ capacity for trust in a power higher than himself. Maybe it’s his conscience, his unbounded compassion, his courage in crisis. Nicodemus has experienced it. Am I willing, he’s asking himself now, to surrender to it? To make it my own?

And that’s how, that’s why, the two of them—the Pharisee and the Rabbi—get into it around birth and rebirth, around faith and the kin-dom, and around the kind of Holy Spirit that blows where it wishes, and surges as it desires, and dances to its own sweet tune. So here they are. Chapter Three. Puzzling together over the newness of life with God. Questioning whether this kind of newness is even possible. What it might change in us. Where it might take us. And who it is—and this is maybe the biggest question of them all—who it is that speaks from the heart of this sweet, holy, windblown mystery. Who it is—this Jesus, this Rabbi, this poet—that speaks so fearlessly about rebirth and resurrection and everlasting life. 

Everlasting life? No wonder Nicodemus needs a minute.

2.

This text, of course, has been and continues to be all too smugly quoted and deployed, and for most of the wrong reasons. For God so loved the world, the King James version we all heard first: “For God so loved the world, that He gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have eternal life.”

The thing is, though, that Jesus resists—throughout John’s gospel—Jesus resists the simplicity and dogmatics that are so often foisted upon him. And what we’re working with here is metaphor, language, poetry. And it’s wonderfully complex and curious as metaphors so often are. So let’s clear all those dogmatics aside, for the morning at least, and dive into these deep, dark, wonderful waters. The third chapter of John. And let’s wonder about our own readiness: our own readiness for rebirth in the Spirit and new life in Christ; and what in God’s name this kind of newness means for you, me and the church.

Yes, God…so loved…the world. John 3:16. But in the realm of metaphor, yes, in the world of spirit and faith, words have to matter. Words have to matter. And particular words challenge old habits and suggest a new kind of consciousness. And the Greek here, friends, the ancient Greek word in 3:16 is ‘cosmos.’ World is simply too small. World is simply too familiar. World is too comfortable and maybe even too tribal. My world is what I know, where I’ve been, where I could plausibly go; it’s defined by the horizons of my experience, and maybe my species’ limitations.

“Yes,” Jesus says, “God so loved the COSMOS as to give the Only Begotten One, that whoever believes may not die, but have full and everlasting life.” It makes a difference. COSMOS. Again, we want to clear all those dogmatics aside. COSMOS. The word itself suggests a much wider lens for our reading, a deeper receptivity to what’s going on here, and a more humble approach to faith, rebirth and Jesus himself.

Because that word, you see, COSMOS in the ancient Greek, has a far more expansive meaning than just ‘world.’ Because COSMOS captures everything, everywhere, always. All of it. All of us. Because COSMOS includes the places we know and love and touch with our fingers and toes, and the places we’ve never been and probably never will go. Because COSMOS includes the knowledge and wonders we can grasp in our minds or see with our eyes, and everything else: all the questions we’ll never answer, all the mysteries only God can understand, all the weirdness and loveliness that lies beyond our grasp. COSMOS. God so loved the COSMOS.

So you see, this text, this passage isn’t a threat. It’s an epiphany. The mystery and mercy of this Jesus is hidden in a love that is always bigger, bolder than we can imagine. And that’s the good news. That’s the heart and soul of faith itself. God so loved the COSMOS. The mystery and mercy of this Jesus is generated by a love that is wilder than any wind, swifter than any current, and sweeter than any feast. And this Jesus, then, is given to us all not just to anoint or bless or save a few, or a tribe, or a nation, or a species, but to gather the whole of this creation in glory and everlasting life. This is the perfect text for this First Sunday in Creationtide. This Jesus gathers it all in glory. Ecosystems and communities of all kinds. The tiniest creatures that live but for a fortnight and the greatest beasts that earth has ever known. Galaxies and unsearchable dimensions of the unseen beyond. You and me, and every hungry or headstrong child in every land and generation.

Faith isn’t a competition for salvation, you see. The zealots get it all wrong. Faith is a way of participating, Jesus says; faith is a way of delighting and sharing in the one great love that moves inside us all, and bathes all that is and will be in grace. Not just the lives or ideas we know and understand. Not just the places we visit and love. But all that is and will be. In grace. This Jesus isn’t interested at all in dividing the world up into the saved and unsaved, the familiar and the scary, friends and enemies. This Jesus comes from God to reconcile, to refresh, to awaken God’s radical and holy oneness in you and me.

And here’s the thing. The reason this chapter still works. The reason it still matters. Because surrendering to that love, yielding to that kind of grace, is kind of like being born from above. That’s it, Jesus says: that’s the metaphor. So play with it. Dive in, splash around. Let it wash over you and awaken nerves and feelings and dreams you never knew you had. Surrendering to this kind of love, the John 3:16 kind of love, is kind of like being born from above. Are you ready for that? That’s the question as a new year dawns in Durham. Are you ready for that?

3.

A few weeks ago, I’m sitting on a dock up the coast a bit, and I’m dangling my ankles in warm summer waters. And I’m visiting with one of my daughters who is sitting nearby, and dangling her own ankles likewise, in the glassy lake we love so very much. And we’re talking about family stuff, about us in fact. And maybe some will recognize this dynamic; my daughter and I are working out something kind of new in our relationship. And it’s tricky, to be honest. She’s not a kid anymore, in fact she’s a young adult training to be a psychotherapist; and she’s involved for the first time in a very serious relationship. And some of the old ways we’ve related, and loved one another, and supported one another, don’t work the way they used to. Is this sounding familiar? She’s not 7 or 12 or even 19 anymore. She needs something different from her dad now. And I haven’t quite figured out how that goes.

So we’re talking all this through, and I’ll be honest and tell you it’s not all that easy, this growing up stuff at sixty-four. But we’re doing our best. The two of us. We’re dancing around the important stuff, sure, but getting into it a little, just enough. When high above us, in a stately old pine, there’s a really loud rustling in the branches, and then a dramatic flapping sound; and we turn from one another to look skyward, and catch two bald eagles, two great birds, casting themselves from the tree into the summer breeze; and then directly over our heads not more than a stone’s through; and then way, way out, across the bay before us. Where it seems they land together in another tree, on another shore, to wait together and watch (presumably) for their next meal. It seemed to happen in a instant. For that instant the two of us, my daughter and I, took one collective breath. And gasped.

“So don’t be surprised,” Jesus says to Nicodemus, “when I tell you that you must be born from above. The wind blows where it will. You hear the sound that it makes, but you don’t know where it comes from or where it goes.” Watching those two eagles, watching them with my daughter that day, I found myself wondering if Jesus’ faith is about a kind of uninhibited trust, and the kind of uninhibited trust that allows those great birds to leap from one nest, in every expectation that there will be another out there, another strong branch, somewhere across the bay. And if that’s faith, if that’s where Jesus is going, just maybe I’ll trust that my daughter and I will figure it out, that we’ll work through our disappointments or even missteps; and that what I need to do, always what I need to do is stay open to her, be honest with her, listen well and turn my spiritual life over to God. Again. And again. And again. Like the eagles winging it across the lake and disappearing from view. As they’ve been doing, I presume, for thousands of years.

And when Jesus says, “So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit,” maybe he’s saying we work out newness in our lives, you and I; we work out newness in our relationships, and newness in our communities, as we surrender to summer thermals, as we yield to God’s invisible but undeniable grace, as we trust the Spirit’s care and courage to see us through. “So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” Or in the words of the great gospel tune by the legendary Thomas A. Dorsey: “The Lord will make a way somehow.” The Lord will make a way somehow.

NAMES: "Hannah Rose"

BOOKS: "Here Where We Live is Our Country"

 

I've just finished Molly Crabapple's remarkable history of the Jewish Bund, and I can honestly say that it is the most difficult book, the most affecting history I've read in a long, long time.  It's the story of Jewish resistance in tsarist Russia, and then Poland and beyond, as the Bund faces rising tides of bigotry, racism, fascism and genocide...and resists through courageous networks of workers, artists, activists and visionaries.  And all the way through, there runs a thread: that our one hope is one another, solidarity, building movements beyond borders and differences.

Here's what Molly says about her project:

"So why did I write thie book about the Bund--who lost, who were failed--and not about victorious killers? Because I am sick of monsters--whether they belong to my group of any other or any other.  Because I know that we all have the capacity to be victims and tormenters, as well as bystanders, staring blanklyat a burning wall.  Because I want off the samara wheel of atrocity, and the Bund's demand of solidarity across difference is the only way to get there.

"Such solidarity is fragile and frequently betrayed, but it is all we have.  It is the only thing that can save us..."

For my many friends working so bravely to protect human rights, strenghten democracy and end the occupation that has decimated Palestinian communities in Gaza and the West Bank...I recommend this book as a challenging, indispensable and inspiring reflection on where we've been, and where we might still go.

See more about Molly Crabapple here.