Family Values, According to Whom?
Have you ever noticed that Jesus and American culture have very different ideas about family values? About what families are even for? About what Jesus himself is doing here on earth at all? Sit with that one for a second before you answer it.

Now sit with this one too: why is Jesus (seemingly) picking this fight? Why families, of all things? Why is the nonviolent guy claiming that he's here for division, with a sword in hand?

Take a guess before I tell you what I think. What would need to break open inside a household, a family, for the realm of God to get any closer to happening?


My guess circles back to the same place: hoarding. Resources kept. Power concentrated. Worth assigned arbitrarily and unevenly, generation after generation. And, here's the thing: if Jesus is for nonviolence, and if Jesus is for equity outside of the domineering, controlling systems that treat people like objects and assign their value from the outside, then of course he ends up here, at family, with something that looks like a sword in his hand. Where else would he go? This is the easiest place to start, it's the place closest to each and every one of us, that we most easily would overlook.

The Household Is Never Neutral
Even though the text says "sword" and "family division": Jesus isn't attacking families so much as exposing a pattern that's been sitting in plain view, right under our noses. Ancient households were systems of hierarchy, inheritance, loyalty, property, power. Resources flowed inward and stayed there. Worth and value are assigned (unevenly, arbitrarily based on things like birth order, gender...etc), generation to generation. Nothing like today, right?

And in Jesus' world, the household wasn't some private, sealed-off unit. A family household mirrored the larger systems of domination and accumulation running the whole show socially. Again: nothing like today, right? (I'll let you sit with that one too.)


But Jesus is here for the realm of God, come near. And in his telling, that realm arrives with a sword. Not to start a war, but to dismantle the violent, hoarding architecture built into both the household and the empire architecture it was modeled on. So, he starts by leveling the field (telling us it is enough for students to be like teachers, for slaves to be like lords/masters). And then he shows us exactly how unlevel that field already is— starting with the one place we'd expect to be safest: family. I imagine he starts with family because a significant chunk of his whole point is that you have been taught to measure your worth by systems that were never built to assign it in the first place, and those systems are...creepily sneaky and tough to pick out. Evils masquerading as good, as Bonhoeffer might say. And I don't mean that family is evil- but I do mean that some of the things family might attempt to do in the name of family can be real evil, and I think Jesus was saying the very same thing. Keep reading, you'll get what I mean with examples.

Slave Like Lord, Student Like Teacher
When Jesus says it's enough for the student to become like the teacher, the slave like the lord, he is not handing out a consolation prize. He's making an announcement: the way of Jesus, the way that opens the realm of God, doesn't assign worth by status, productivity, usefulness, or output. Whoever currently gets ranked "below" simply gets brought level with whoever's been ranked "above." And that's it. That's enough. Parallel. Equal footing. Everyone standing on the same ground, equally valuable, in the way of Jesus.

In modern terms, I like to think Jesus might put it like this: it's not a problem that billionaires and trillionaires exist! In fact, EVERYONE gets to be a billionaire and trillionaire!

Lutherans of old in the room might recognize what I'm saying here as something close to Luther's critique, called incurvatus in se — or being "curved in on onself." The problem being, the self, and the systems we build, curving inward on themselves keeping resources, status, and worth contained, protecting the status quo in the process. That's exactly the orientation Jesus is trying to get us to notice, and then move away from.

So, Jesus opens the circle way, way wider. Everyone is inherently worthy. Everyone has dignity. Everyone is valuable and that value holds even in the middle of conflict. In fact, in Jesus' telling, conflict can be (though not always, and not automatically) a sign that you're walking deep in the way of Jesus.

To refuse to be defined by family, by bad theology, or by any other system of control and dominance  is to walk in the way of Jesus. Or, to put it even more plainly: to refuse any system that denies the God-given dignity of yourself or of someone else is to walk in the way of Jesus.

What Happens When You Stop Being Afraid
So — guess what happens once you fully realize your own worth? Once you actually believe that your dignity has existed, and always has existed, entirely outside of all the fancy and mundane hierarchies we've built for measurement?

You start refusing those systems and their violence. Because you finally realize you have nothing left to fear.
When you discover that your dignity and worth are inherent, not assigned by cultural norms nor handed down by whoever's in charge in a given moment, the systems built on unequal worth begin to crack. They crack because those systems govern you by getting you to locate your worth inside them: good kid, good employee, good student, good whatever-they-need-you-to-be.

Think of the kid who leaves home because their family can't accept their queerness. Or the person who walks out of an abusive relationship because they have realized in some way finally, that they were never meant to be treated that way, under any circumstances. These are people walking in the way of Jesus.

And families, institutions, economies, and cultures organized around possession and ranking experience that kind of leveling as a threat. Of course they do. And what comes with the experience of threat?

Conflict. Suddenly parents are against children, children against parents, exactly like the text says.
"Wait — we can't ALL be billionaires and trillionaires!" ...Well. That's true, according to any system that needs us to keep competing and vying for value and status. But it's only true inside those kinds of systems. Because a machine that depends on keeping us hungry, afraid, and constantly competing for more cannot keep running once we realize we don't have to define ourselves by any of it. Because, in reality, that machine never could define us in the first place. There is in fact plenty for ALL of creation. The only place there isn't is inside a system built on violence and a scarcity it manufactured on purpose to keep itself alive and keep everyone in that system under-resourced and hurting for more.

Difficult to Manage
And here's where the next issue comes in: once you really believe you are beloved, that you are inherently worthy, that you were never meant to endure the abuses of systems that had you chasing someone else's version of your own soul or your own life, you are no longer finding so many reasons to be afraid and you become difficult to control.

Because you've discovered the only kind of freedom that's actually available: the freedom that comes from knowing, believing, and living in the truth of your own belovedness, and everyone else's, across all of existence.


People who've discovered they're free are very hard to manage inside violent systems (all those pernicious systems that exert control by assigning your value and treating you like a tool, or a product, built for extraction). You can probably see, now, why there's so much invested in making sure you never get here. Because people who know their worth stop needing to prop up those systems, stop being afraid of losing those systems, stop even participating in them. And it gets worse for the systems than that: once you know your own worth, and the worth of everyone and everything else in creation, you do a full 180 and start insisting that there is plenty to go around, and that none of us need to live this way.
Uh-oh....

Taking Up the Cross
I imagine you can guess this generates some waves.

When Jesus says " unless you take up your cross," he's naming exactly how hard it is to live this kind of life— partly because we are already complicit in these systems, and partly because the world responds to this kind of nonviolent insistence on dignity the way it always has: badly. With anger. With every stunt available to pressure you back into the role you were assigned, back into chasing the value and worth that was never yours to chase in the first place. He is also naming that, if you're not doing this work, you can't expect to be of equal worth to Jesus and Jesus' way. It's a simple equation, really (and no, it's not works righteousness, it's just the basics of following through and being a Christian): following in the way of Jesus means a different values system and that is going to generate conflict...and that sure is carrying your own cross.


It is genuinely hard to be in the middle of this kind of conflict. People take it personally. People will tell you that you're the one generating chaos, making problems. And fair enough, you are making problems. You are breaking every problematic ideal those systems rely on. But it's good trouble, in Jesus' own telling. It's actually what he came here to do.

Still, even when it's good trouble, even when we're told we're worth more than the sparrows, it hurts to be in this kind of conflict. It's frustrating to want out and discover you can't fully extract yourself, because the harsh reality is that we still have to eat, house ourselves, get ourselves from place to place. We can't wipe our hands clean of all our complicity, no matter how much we want to.


It is painful to see inherent worth clearly (really know it, in yourself and in everyone) and then watch so much of the world keep devaluing it, harming it, refusing to let creation have what it actually needs.


And yet. Following in the way of Jesus, heading toward the realm of God, means stepping away from the systems that keep inducing us to do violence in order to maintain violent control over one another. So, to stay close to Jesus, to remain among those who walk his way, we take up our cross, and we keep going.

Losing Your Soul to Find It
And when Jesus says "lose your soul/life to find it, for my sake," he means letting go of a life organized around possession, hoarding, extraction, ranking, and control of other people.

He does not mean losing your soul to uphold the very norms and dogmas that harm you or harm someone else. Remember where this whole text started: Jesus levels the field. Slaves like lords. Disciples like teachers. Everyone brought up into a dignified, abundant life—not flattened back down into someone else's hierarchy.

The promise here, tangled up in all of Jesus' hard wisdom about the conflict that different values systems and change will inevitably bring, is not that freedom is easy, or that the way of Jesus is easy. (You'll hear in a couple of weeks about Jesus' yoke being easy and his burden being light — LOLZ. We'll get there.)

Instead, the promise—the actual good news—is that abundant life is what you find on the other side of freeing yourself from systems of dominance and control. Jesus came to give you abundant life. And abundant life begins the moment you receive what has been true about you, since before you were born: that you are worthy. That you are loved. That you are of infinite value.

So the work, now, is to stop trying to fit ourselves into, or assign, or even possess, whatever this backwards world is trying to convince us could or should belong to us alone.

with joy,
Pr Sam

Next Sunday I'll be out of town, seeing a seminary friend get married. Max Del Bosque will be in the pulpit at UniLu in my place. Can't wait to hear Max's (invariably thoughtful, most often downright brilliant) perspectives. 

This sermon is for the person who's been hurt by religion and isn't sure what to do with that. It's for the one who's tired of performing faith, or who suspects the loudest versions of Christianity they see right now aren't the whole story. It's for anyone who needs permission to just... reach, or keep reaching.

The reading:
As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man called Matthew sitting at the tax-collection station, and he said to him, “Follow me.” And Matthew got up and followed him. And as he sat at dinner in the house, many tax collectors and sinners came and were sitting with Jesus and his disciples. When the Pharisees saw this, they said to his disciples, “Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?” But when he heard this, he said, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. Go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ For I have come to call not the righteous but sinners.”
While he was saying these things to them, suddenly a leader came in and knelt before him, saying, “My daughter has just died, but come and lay your hand on her, and she will live.” And Jesus got up and followed him, with his disciples. Then suddenly a woman who had been suffering from a flow of blood for twelve years came up behind him and touched the fringe of his cloak, for she said to herself, “If I only touch his cloak, I will be made well.” Jesus turned, and seeing her he said, “Take heart, daughter; your faith has made you well.” And the woman was made well from that moment. When Jesus came to the leader’s house and saw the flute players and the crowd making a commotion, he said, “Go away, for the girl is not dead but sleeping.” And they laughed at him. But when the crowd had been put outside, he went in and took her by the hand, and the girl got up. And the report of this spread through all that district.

Take a moment and ask yourself: Who is Jesus, to you?

Before we read this Gospel together on Sunday, I asked everyone the same question.

Maybe he’s a healer type. Maybe he’s a prophet. Maybe he’s more of a community organizer. Or maybe, for you, he’s truly divinity walking the earth, emanating light wherever he goes. My answer doesn’t matter here. What matters is who Jesus is for you.

The Jesus Who Doesn't Quite Fit
Now — and this is the hard part — read the Gospel excerpt again, and see if you notice a Jesus who is not quite like your Jesus.

You know what I mean, right? If your Jesus is the one doing miraculous healings, it might strike you that here he tells a woman it’s her own faith that heals her. Or if your Jesus is the one who dies on the cross to wipe your sins away, it might snag you that here he’s telling the Pharisees he’s come for mercy, not sacrifice.

Hold onto whatever didn’t quite agree who Jesus is for you. It will matter, a bit later on.

As I sat with all three of our readings this past week, I found a thread running through them, and it’s a strange one for a religion with such a loooong history of altar-building. Hosea, speaking for God: I desire steadfast love and not sacrifice, the knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings. Paul, to the Romans: the promise comes not through the law but through faith (through trust, through relationship) and so it’s guaranteed to everyone, not just the people who got the rules right. And then Jesus, sitting at a table with tax collectors and sinners (the “wrong” people) when the religious professionals start asking their scrutinizing questions, he quotes Hosea right back at them: Go and learn what this means. I desire mercy, not sacrifice. You gotta love Jesus with a pithy response, quoting scripture to the scripture professionals. 

So God is not asking for sacrifice. No need for the burnt offering. (Though I do love me some incense.) No need for the performance of religion—and not just the temple-or-church kind. I mean the kind we still do, inside the building and out. The self-sacrifice that hollows you out and calls itself holiness. The exhausting project of being good enough, clean enough, sure enough, perfect enough, caring enough, etc., etc., etc. God keeps saying, across centuries, in three different readings on this one ordinary morning: that’s not what I’m after. I’m after you. I’m after a thing between you and me.

Thing is... This is also the famous weekend where Jesus says, Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. I have come for the sick. We love this verse when we get to be the ones welcomed in. Or when we're quoting it as a justification in the face of our (many, and quite human) failures. And we should. This is good news. Jesus didn’t come only for the wealthy and the perfect. 

The Sickness That's Easy To Miss
But I want to turn it slightly, because I think there’s a sickness here that’s easy to miss. The sickness I mean has to do with our Jesus. Remember that little exercise we did, listening for the Jesus who didn’t quite line up with the one who is “ours”? The gap between the Jesus you brought with you and the Jesus who is showing up in the text?

I don’t need you to tell me what your gap is. That gets to stay private. I didn't ask for share time because I genuinely want you to think about this and be honest with yourself about it. Consider what the Jesus in this story actually does, or doesn’t do:

The woman with the extensive bleeding reaches out and grabs his clothes. And Jesus doesn’t perform a miracle according to this text. He doesn’t wave magic hands. What he does, according to this story, is turn and say: Take heart, daughter. Your faith has made you well. Except the Greek doesn’t quite say “made you well.” It says sesōken se, or, your faith has saved you. The reaching saved her. The trust saved her. Jesus is saying: this was you.

That is not a powerful "I did it for you" Jesus, by the world’s measure. That is a Jesus who tells a woman her own desperate reach was the thing that healed her. And that is very different from the version of faith on the loudest stages of our country right now.

Jesus’ version, the one we find here, is frankly kind of timid. Supportive of people who are afraid and willing to try anyway. The versions of faith we tend to encounter on the loudest stages is strong, certain, armed, and frequently very sure of who’s in and who’s out. It supports golden statues and all kinds of agendas, some we easily name as a problem, and others that even our proud, educated selves are oddly fine with, because they might benefit us one way or another. 

That big-stage version of faith is powerful, yes. It is also a sickness. And it would have no idea what to do with this Jesus in the excerpt we got today. The one at the table, the one telling people to go learn what mercy, not sacrifice means, the one who lets himself be touched and then tells people their own faith is what healed them. This Jesus refuses that over-and-above "strong" kind of power. Jesus does not refuse power itself, though. Make no mistake, there is enormous power moving through these stories. But Jesus refuses the power of the sacrifice, the altar, the laws, the empires, the strongmen. He instead chooses the power that moves through bodies and relationships: through mercy, through trust, through the dangerous tenderness of letting someone touch you and then affirming that touch. That’s not weakness, but  it’s also not what the world tends to call powerful. And simultaneously...it’s the only kind of power that has ever actually saved anyone in any lasting way, from what I can tell.

So- at any rate: whatever snagged for you earlier — whatever in this text didn’t fit the Jesus that is "Jesus for you" — I hope you'll hold him gently this week. ​Because, God desires mercy, trust, and relationship rather than sacrifice. And one of the ways we resist that invitation is by clinging to a domesticated, personal Jesus instead of letting the living Christ challenge and change us. So maybe that Jesus who didn't quite fit is exactly the one who is trying to reach you, hoping to be heard and praying to that what he's showing or telling you will work. 

A Different Kind of Power
It's pride month. And, though almost every one of my sermons is incorporating something or someone queer, I'm going to be more overt about it in the coming weeks. So- as if this sermon weren't already queer enough just in its format... are you familiar with the (queer!) artist Spencer LaJoye? They recently moved to California from the eastern side of the US, and they have a song you might recognize: Plowshare Prayer. (That link is LaJoye singing it live — go listen before you read on. Really.)

The lyrics pray that if a prayer was once used as a sword against you, this one might instead become a plowshare — something that breaks you open so you can grow.

And if that line doesn’t bring you to tears, there’s another I can’t get past:
if you don’t want healing, I just pray for peace.

Here’s what I want you to notice: Listen to that song and see if you can hear Jesus in LaJoye's voice. Because to me, that's exactly who LaJoye is channeling. 

To the queer kid wrestling with life in a compulsory heterosexual world, Jesus turns and says, hey- I see you. Your reaching is faith, and it has already saved you. To the trans person who has been denied in entirely too many ways, Jesus says, you are not dead. Even if these fools are out here as if you are. To the one who is exhausted from running the Silicon Valley treadmill and just wants to be done, Jesus says, amen. To the person who got hurt by church and has been circling the door ever since, half-hoping, half-braced for it to hurt again Jesus says, if you don’t want healing, I just pray for peace. He doesn’t even assume a cure. He lets the woman reach. He takes the girl’s hand only when asked. He sits at the table and invites us grow and learn what it means: mercy, not sacrifice.

anyone can try this, you don't have to have been in a church on Sunday...
​
Put on the Plowshare Prayer. Then sit for a moment with the place where "your Jesus" and the Jesus in this story (or even in this song!) don’t line up. Don’t fix it. Don’t resolve it. Just notice it, and ask what the Holy Spirit might be trying to offer you. Maybe it's mercy, not sacrifice.

with joy,
Pr. Sam

A few sources behind this one, in case you want to chase them down: Spencer LaJoye, whose Plowshare Prayer carried the whole back half of this sermon; and the Jewish scholar Amy-Jill Levine, whose work keeps is awesome about keeping us Christians away from attempting to make Jesus' own Jewish tradition a villain — in this case, as Levine points out, the woman who reaches for his cloak isn’t breaking a purity taboo, she’s a person daring to be seen, and that’s the part that matters. ​

based on Acts 2:1-21 and John 20:19-23 for Pentecost Sunday, Year A
On Pentecost Sunday, we return to that locked room in John 20 — where frightened people are hiding behind heavy doors — and to the wild scene in Acts where the Spirit lands on all flesh without asking permission first. This sermon sits with the particular kind of locked room that educated, thoughtful, progressive people tend to inhabit without realizing it: the one that looks like wisdom from the inside. Into that room, and into this specific political moment where the word "Christian" is being weaponized to decide whose body counts, Pentecost arrives with breath, fire, and the ancient insistence of the prophet Joel that the Spirit falls on all flesh — not approved flesh, not respectable flesh, not economically useful flesh. All of it. The question this sermon leaves you with is not theoretical: what locked room have you mistaken for wisdom, and what would happen if you finally opened the door and let yourself (or others) out?

​The doors were locked.
John tells us why: fear. These folks were afraid. Specifically, in John's words, of "the Jews" 

...but let me translate that into modern language for our ears today: what John is describing is fear of religious leadership in cahoots with government leadership, willing to kill a totally innocent guy. Judaism is not the problem, here.

So yes. They were afraid.
And for all my joking about these stooges known as Jesus' besties, at the core of things, their fear is completely reasonable. The disciples were not cowards. They were people who had watched someone they loved be murdered for the crime of… well, no actual crime.

So there they are behind their locked door. And there goes Jesus, walking right on in anyway.
Ironically enough, he says: "Peace be with you."

Right, man. Have you seen what is happening out there? Trouble has been brewing for a while, and you yourself were publicly executed quite recently. Peace my butt.

At any rate — then he breathes on them.
Not all that unlike Genesis 2, where God breathes life into the mud creature known as Adam. Or Ezekiel, standing in that valley of dry bones saying: I can tell the truth to these bones, but if they are going to live again, God, you are going to have to breathe. Jesus breathes onto these frightened people hiding behind locked doors  in this room that has kind of become a tomb.
Or maybe even a womb.
Something enclosed. Something waiting. Something probably not meant to stay sealed forever.

And I have been thinking about that locked room-tomb-womb. Not  the disciples' - though-- I've been thinking about ours.

There is a very specific kind of locked room that educated, thoughtful, progressive people tend to live in. And the thing is: it does not look like a locked room from the inside. From the inside it looks like being informed. Wise. Ethical. Up to date. It looks like reading the right (well researched!) things and having the appropriate (logical really) opinions and mostly talking to people who already agree with you because they are intelligent and see the issues at hand clearly. From the inside, this all feels a lot like being engaged and involved and thinking critically, with clarity.

You would never guess we're operating in a room with a locked door. Unless you happened to be someone were standing on the outside. Someone like Jesus. And the Holy Spirit, who don't care about our locked doors.

So anyway, here comes Jesus through locked doors, bringing breath and Spirit, and effectively shoving people out of the room.

And you notice the direction of the Spirit in both John and Acts is outward, right? Toward the city. Toward the street. Toward other bodies. Toward the messy world outside.

It seems like a lot of spiritual language treats all things Holy Spirit as internal. Private. Interior. Personal. But based on what the excerpts we got today say, the Holy Spirit in scripture is rarely private. The Spirit interrupts. The Spirit gathers. The Spirit sends. The Spirit moves people.
Pentecost is not a story about private spirituality. Pentecost is a story about bodies and fire. Lots of moving, interacting bodies and hot, breathy fire.

There's that line from the prophet Joel in Acts: I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh. Your sons and daughters will prophesy. Your elders will dream dreams. Even upon those the world has pushed to the bottom — even upon them, I will pour out my Spirit.
All flesh.

We are living in a time where our government is actively using the word Christian to justify deciding whose body-- which flesh--counts. Whose body is legally recognizable. Whose family is valid. Whose gender will be acknowledged. Whose disability is inconvenient. Whose suffering is too expensive. Whose existence can be turned into a political talking point.

And directly into that reality, Pentecost. Mx. Holy Spirit (truly a kween if ever there was one) arrives boldly declaring: all flesh. Not some flesh. Not approved flesh. Not respectable flesh. Not economically useful flesh. Just simply: all flesh. Every body in this room. Every body outside this room. Every body the world has scapegoated, ignored, criminalized, abandoned, or deemed disposable.

The Spirit falls on all flesh. Not metaphorically. Actually.
And that really matters, because Christianity as espoused by people who want it to support governmental initiatives seems to keep trying to be selective about bodies, attempting to control and put limitations on our very human, fleshy, made-in-the-image-of-God bodies.

Meanwhile: the Holy Spirit remains profoundly uninterested in our designs, and keeps landing directly on all flesh, pouring over every single body, refusing to wait for institutional permission.

And then, there is the fire. Think about what fire actually does. Fire transforms what it touches. It does not leave things unchanged. Fire burns. Fire illuminates. Fire spreads. Fire changes the temperature of the air around it. We lean on fire for life. And though we work very hard to control fire, fire is most often not especially interested in our permission or our will.

The disciples did not ask for fire. They were up in their locked room trying to stay safe together. And into that room: Jesus' breath, Mx. Holy Spirit, and good old transformative-won't-leave-you-the-same-fire.

Pentecost is not comfort arriving, unfortunately. Pentecost is transformation beginning, and continuing. And maybe that is why some folks like to reduce fire to metaphor instead of seeing it for it's literal reality. Because metaphorical fire is easier to manage. We can say "What does it mean?" to a metaphor, and get right into an intellectual rabbit hole, justifying all our categorizations and in-groups and out-groups. But actual fire does things. Actual fire changes things. This isn't about wht does it mean, it's about what it does. And what "it" does ("it" being fire, and Mx. Holy Spirit, in this case) is generate the kind of change and transformation that pushes people out of their locked rooms, away from their comfortable echo chambers, and allows people to understand one another and love better. And that-- that changes what is possible.

But here is what I notice about us  (and when I say us, I mean us here and like, the United States US). Us people who are high achievers, who read and assess and strategize and try very hard to get everything exactly right. Us people who calculate carefully, tracking whether the timing is optimal, questioning whether we are prepared enough.

Mx. Holy Spirit is the kween, and she is profoundly uninterested in all of our achieving and optimal condition tracking. Following Mx. Holy Spirit will cost you something. That is not a flaw in Christianity. That is one of its central truths. The manna arrives after the wilderness begins, other side of our locked doors. 

Mx Holy Spirit does not run risk assessments before loving people. She goes right ahead and falls on all the fleshy people and creatures the world has already dismissed: disabled folks, homeless folks, trans folks, immigrating folks, people without status, people without credentials, people our culture has decided are disposable. And, she is moving and kicking up change before respectable institutions have even figured out whether they're even willing to acknowledge her.

So what about you?

What locked room have you mistaken for wisdom?

What fear have you decorated so thoroughly that it now feels responsible?

What echo chamber have you confused with correctness?

Maybe Mx. Spirit has already set something in your life on fire. Maybe that fire is uncomfortable. Maybe it is burning away something you desperately wanted to keep. Maybe you are standing there with your hand still on the lock, desperately (and ineffectively) trying to negotiate with transformation.

There is no negotiating with a flamer like Mx. Holy Spirit, I hope you know. Nothing stays the same. Not even Jesus stayed with the disciples in the same form forever. Everything that is the Gospel keeps moving toward transformation, toward resurrection, toward release, toward becoming. Mx. Spirit is not going to let our locked room-womb-tombs stay locked forever.

So maybe Mx. Holy Spirit is asking you to let something go.
Or maybe she is simply standing there insisting that you open the damn door already.
Christianity is not about theoretical intellectual discussions held safely behind locked doors and in comfortable echo chambers. Christianity is about becoming people who dance and sing right along with that holy flamer, Mx. Holy Spirit, into the world with our actual bodies — forgiving, releasing, refusing to retain what needs to be let go, so that everyone might be free. Jesus did say, afterall, whatever sins we forgive are forgiven...whatever sins we retain are retained.

The Spirit and fire are here, beckoning us to own our power and get to work.
So, make like the disciples and quit wasting time and effort on trying to keep yourself locked up in one of those womb-room-tombs, refusing to let yourself — or others — out.


with joy,
Pr. Sam

based on John 14:15–21 for the Sixth Sunday of Easter, Year A

A few of you have asked me about my thing with the bees. Bee jewelry makes it onto my jacket every weekend, and there are a handful of reasons for that, but one of the biggest comes from the Easter Vigil liturgy, the Exsultet.
There's this line about the Paschal candle being produced through the work of the bees and human hands together. And I love that image because the production of the very first that comes into our darkened sanctuary after Good Friday is presented not as ressurection magic, but as collaborative effort betwen us, and the bees. Tiny creatures. Human labor. Repetitive work that, brought together, creates the first light in the room otherwise left like a tomb.
Bees do incredibly small work. Almost invisible work. Tiny flights and movements. Tiny acts of pollination.
And yet? Lose the bees, and entire ecosystems begin collapsing.
We so often buy into this myth that meaningful change happens in one giant dramatic moment. But most meaningful change does not work like a lightning strike. It works like mycelial networks underground. Like roots cracking concrete. Like the work of the bees. Even the movements we think of as rather sudden — Civil Rights. Stonewall. BLM in 2020 — those were visible peaks of much longer accumulated labor. Deep community organizing. Conversation. Protest. Feeding people. Acts of art. Presence. Refusing disappearance or silencing.
Tiny, repeated acts that eventually changed entire landscapes. Sometimes with a hallmark moment we all name and remember, like Stonewall. Sometimes without one — which is its own kind of reckoning, like the slow-built pathways of Christian Nationalism that we're watching now. Those were also built one tiny act at a time.
We are in this passage again — a continuation of what came last week, all of it building toward Jesus' official taking of leave. Ascension is coming. Pentecost is coming.
The disciples seem anxious as hell. Those exact words are not written down — but come on. You can hear it in the text. Jesus keeps saying things like do not let your hearts be troubled and I will not leave you orphaned. Nobody says those things when everyone's feeling great. These are the things we say when fear and anxiety are already filling the room.
And it makes sense that the disciples would be fearful. These were people hoping for something clearer. Stronger. Faster. They were living under empire — violence, occupation, exploitation. Their expectations had been wrapped up in a militaristic response to a militaristic regime, and what they received instead was a guy on a cross who then seemed to come back to life. Awesome party trick — but not exactly the thing that feels like it's going to bring down the soldier with the threatening sword when he's demanding more supplies, more money, more compliance from your family.
Any of us would want certainty. Okay, Jesus, sure — God in all of us and in you, but… when do we win?
They wanted specific dates. A clear plan. An underdog victory story. They wanted something to cling to that might make them stop being afraid.
Jesus does not give them a single one of those things.
Instead, he gives them commandments. And if you want to get really technical, he gives them a commandment: love one another as I have loved you. Which honestly sounds deeply unsexy compared to the underdogs taking over and coming out on top. But the wisdom someone thought worth writing down for us to receive is: keep my commandments. Love one another.
The disciples want a conquering system. Jesus responds with an ecology.
They want domination. Jesus responds with pathways for relationship.
They want certainty. Jesus responds by giving them practices. Tiny, repeated acts of love — just the minuscule daily work of the bees.
I think this excerpt from John is easily distorted because we hear if you love me, you will keep my commandments as moral pressure. Like Jesus is standing there with a clipboard. But in John's gospel, commandments are not a list of rules to follow. And in fact, commandments aren't even a list of rules to follow in the Hebrew Bible — they are suggestions for how we live better together, and with God. The commandment here is: love one another as I have loved you. That's it.
Which means Jesus is not saying: prove yourself spiritually impressive. Be some kind of saint. In fact, it's quite the opposite — Jesus is saying: when you participate in love, you participate in God. If you are loving, you know me and you are doing the thing required of you.
This whole chapter is soaked in mutual indwelling language. I am in God. God is in me. I am in you. You are in me. This is ecosystem language. Relational language. Love circulates. Care circulates. Courage circulates. God is not the distant emperor somewhere above the clouds. This is not far from what Luke is writing in Acts: in God we live and move and have our being. God with us via connection, truth, nourishment, courage, protest, mercy, song, bread — through showing up for one another again and again and again.
Zero words about perfection. Lots of words pointing toward participation and collaboration. Like the work of the bees, and human hands.
I also think we can easily distort this passage when we hear I will not leave you orphaned and interpret it as just a line of comfort. In fact, I think this might be the central line of the whole excerpt — but maybe not for the reasons we were first taught.
Because notice: Jesus does not promise the disciples will stop feeling afraid. He does not promise that empire and its overbearing problems disappear tomorrow. There is no promise that the hurts and frustrations and pains will go away. He does not promise certainty beyond this: certainly they will continue to see him and experience him — God — via loving one another.
Maybe I will not leave you orphaned is way less about comfort — and in fact, making it primarily about comfort might be what makes it lose its teeth. Maybe I will not leave you orphaned is more an instructive reminder: you are not orphaned when you remain bound together in love. You are not orphaned when the work continues. You are not orphaned when people keep feeding each other, protecting each other, telling the truth, tending wounds, making art, singing songs, blessing what is breaking, refusing to disappear or silence one another — faithfully continuing on, even when we don't feel like we're getting it quite right.
The world teaches us that power comes through domination.
Jesus skips all of that and insists that abundant life comes through stubborn, ordinary, repeated acts of love. The basic, everyday work of the bees.
And honestly? Bees themselves are not perfect little symbols. Bee colonies operate with hierarchy. They've got their own disagreements, chaos, and problems. They are strange little creatures — just like we are. But they keep participating in the work that sustains life beyond themselves.
Maybe that is the core of discipleship too. Because a lot of us — whether we'll admit it or not — believe that the best way to live well and abundantly is primarily to get things correct, to ensure we entirely dismantle the problems as we go. But that doesn't really work out. All we end up doing is either avoiding the simple everyday work, or reifying the very systems of destruction we claim we're trying to dismantle.
No human is perfect. We are all horribly inconsistent. There is no moral purity among us — and honestly, the more certain someone is, the more suspicious I become.
So maybe that's the invitation and reminder this week. Not perfection. Not moral purity. Not certainty. None of these are necessary.
Just: keep practicing love anyway. Keep participating in courage anyway. Keep telling the truth anyway. Keep blessing what is breaking anyway. Keep on keeping on in the way of Jesus.
Tiny acts. Tiny mercies. Tiny bits of courage.
Because the kingdom of God doesn't come in like a military coup. It comes in more like tree roots cracking up a cement sidewalk. It's the little in-and-out, every-day work of the bees — that eventually becomes that collaborative first light, in a world filled with fear and anxiety, but aching for hope.

​with joy,
Pr. Sam