“A Thrill of Awe”

Luke 1:67-802

Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

December 10, 2023

We return to the scene. Two thousand-ish years ago. Our heroes, Zechariah and Elizabeth, prepare for their big moment in the spotlight. Before the manger filled with hay; before the shepherds keeping their watch;  long before the magi come from afar - this couple, Elizabeth and Zechariah, were the stars of the show. 

Mary and Joseph were waiting in the wings. Perhaps making one last trip to Target to stock up on diapers or checking their maps for their upcoming trip to Bethlehem. After spending three months at Elizabeth’s home in the Judean hill country, Mary has returned home. And Elizabeth takes center stage as she prepares to give birth. 

Now, to understand what takes place at the birthing stool with Elizabeth, we have to back up a bit. To a quiet day in Jerusalem months before, when Zechariah was going about his priestly duties. On that day, the angel Gabriel from heaven came - but this time to Zechariah, not Mary. The first annunciation in the Gospel of Luke was not about Jesus, but a baby who would be named John. These two cousins who leapt in tandem in their mother’s wombs were tied together in so many ways - annunciations, dreams, songs, hopes. 

Gabriel appeared to Zechariah and told him that Elizabeth would give birth to a son, who would be named John: “He will turn many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God. With the spirit and power of Elijah he will go before.” 

Zechariah had questions. Having caught Gabriel on a bad day, we are told Zechariah was punished for his skepticism by being silenced for the duration of Elizabeth’s pregnancy. 

But now, here we are, the moment we’ve all been waiting for. Elizabeth has given birth to a healthy baby boy. Friends and neighbors rejoiced alongside the family and on the 8th day they prepared to circumcise the child. Everyone assumed he would be named Zechariah, after his father, but Elizabeth was quick to correct them: “his name is John,” she said. And (let’s all have an eye roll about this) they didn’t believe her. (eye roll) So they asked her husband (eye roll). Zechariah confirmed, “Yes, John.” And that settled it. John was named and Zechariah got his voice back. 

And then (!) the story turns into a musical. This is where I need your help. I’ll sing the first verse of Zechariah’s song so you can learn the tune and then you join me for verses 2 and 3, okay? 

(sing Zechariah’s canticle together)

Songs abound in these stories surrounding Christ’s birth. Zechariah’s song echoes the song Mary sang just months before when Gabriel visited her. We call Mary’s song the Magnificat because it begins, “My soul magnifies the Lord…” Mary’s song is a riff on a much older song sung by Hannah at the birth of her own child, Samuel. 

All this singing really does feel like a Disney musical - where people just burst into song willy-nilly. Though we may not regularly burst into song in real life, sometimes we feel our hearts sing when we encounter something holy, something amazing, something incredible, something truly awe-some. 

Awe is a key theme in our Advent and Christmas stories. Small wonder, since they’re about the births of babies, which is a surefire way to tap into awe. I’ve often wondered if those who attend births eventually become immune to the tangible transcendence that envelops the birthing room. I think it would take witnessing a whole lot of births before my heart stopped skipping a beat at the absolute awe of it all. One moment, nothing but sweat and tears and toil. The next moment, boom. A new human come earthside. And a moment of recognition when you look into the eyes of another soul become flesh and recognize the divine within them. Words can’t begin to capture the feeling of awe in that moment. 

Dacher Keltner, a psychologist at the University of California, Berkeley, has spent a much of his career studying awe. The psychology of happiness was his gateway to the more specific human state of awe, which Keltner defines as “the feeling of being in the presence of something vast that transcends your understanding of the world.” [1] 

Keltner has found that the experience of awe varies from culture to culture, but is accessible to people from all walks of life. [2] Far from being an emotion only available to a privileged few, it transcends socio-economic distinctions. Some of Keltner’s most profound research on awe took place inside San Quentin, where he learned from people who are incarcerated about how they experience awe on a regular basis, even in the midst of the trials and tribulations of prison. [3] 

Keltner explains that awe is “one of the self-transcendent emotions. It draws us beyond ourselves.” It can sneak up on us, of course, but it can also be cultivated. Keltner and his colleagues gathered stories from people in twenty-six countries about when they feel awe. They took these 2600 narratives and had them translated by speakers of 20 languages at UC Berkeley. They were “surprised to learn that these rich narratives from around the world could be classified into a taxonomy of awe, the eight wonders of life.” [4] 

What are the things that make people feel awe most often? Here’s the list:

1. Something Keltner calls “moral beauty”: which is observing other people's courage, kindness, strength, or overcoming. 

2. “Collective effervescence” (a term coined by French sociologist Émile Durkheim): The sizzling, bubbling, popping feeling we get when we feel part of something bigger than ourselves, often in places like weddings, funerals, concerts, sporting events, graduations, political rallies, and, yes, worship. 

3. Nature:  one that I’m sure comes as a surprise to no one. 

4. Music: again, also probably not a surprise. Both making and hearing music can transport us beyond ourselves. 

5. Visual design: big things like seeing the pyramids in Egypt or the Tuttle Creek Dam. And smaller things like the Mona Lisa (who really is quite small, isn’t she?) or the perfect font on a billboard. 

6. Spiritual and religious awe: big mystical stuff like Damascus Road experiences and smaller, quieter stories like looking into the eyes of the person serving you Communion and feeling deeply connected by Christ.

7. Life and death: the birthing stool isn’t the only place that inspires a sense of awe. Being present at a deathbed can also invite us into transcendence. 

8. Finally, epiphanies: “when we suddenly understand essential truths about life” in a flash of insight or recognition. [5] 

Experiencing awe is good for us. Keltner’s research shows that awe triggers the release of the “feel good chemical” dopamine  and reduces inflammation. Awe also increases empathy and connection by “quieting brain regions that are activated when we process information from a me-first perspective.” Awe draws us outside of ourselves and makes us less self-centered - a practice that is certainly Jesus-approved. [6] 

Of course, it’s not every day that you get visited by an angel or witness a birth. These stories in Luke’s Gospel point us towards awe, but how can we get there on days when angels aren’t knocking on our door? Keltner has four suggestions:

1. Pay attention. This can be done by absolutely anybody, anywhere. It just takes some practice. People incarcerated at San Quentin spoke of feeling awe by observing the air, watching “the light outside in the yard,” and “learning how to read.” Awe doesn’t require big stuff, it just requires paying attention. [7]

2. Focus on the moral beauty of others. The news inundates us with stories of people doing awful things. Unplug and take time to witness the goodness of humanity. 

3. Practice mindfulness. Keltner says that “distraction is an enemy of awe.” [8] Mindfulness and paying attention go hand in hand. Both are very good things. 

4. Choose the unfamiliar path. Seeking out novel experiences can lead to awe. It turns out Robert Frost was right: taking the road less traveled by really can make all the difference. [9]

In this Advent season of waiting, may you not only be blessed by a thrill of hope, but also a thrill of awe. And may that thrill of awe lead to the gift of a weary world rejoicing. 

NOTES:

[1] https://www.nytimes.com/2023/01/03/well/live/awe-wonder-dacher-keltner.html  

[2] https://www.theguardian.com/books/2023/jan/05/awe-by-dacher-keltner-review-the-transformative-power-of-wonder 

[3] Keltner, Dacher. Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder and How It Can Transform Your Life. Chapter four. 

[4] Ibid., p. 10-11

[5] Ibid., p. 11-18

[6] https://www.oprahdaily.com/life/health/a42461637/awe-benefits/ 

[7] Keltner book. p. 73

[8] https://www.nytimes.com/2023/01/03/well/live/awe-wonder-dacher-keltner.html 

[9] List from Ibid. 

"How does a weary world rejoice?"

 “How Does a Weary World Rejoice?”

Luke 1:5-22

Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

Nov. 26, 2023

Advent is, perhaps, the strangest season in the Church calendar. The aisles at Target and Walmart have been decked since Halloween. The organized among us have already begun their Christmas shopping. The big, festive tree is twinkling downtown. And there are few things more joy-filled than watching the excitement of a child as they peel open their Advent calendar each morning. 

Advent is, at its most basic, the season of preparation for Christmas. In some churches worship leaders are adamant about not letting any Christmas sneak in (they would be horrified by our pre-Christmas pageant). Traditionally, it’s a somber kind of waiting. A quiet, still time. The texts in the Revised Common Lectionary are mostly full of gloom and doom - heavy on the apocalyptic, in fact. 

Which is to say - it’s a strange season. No wonder it's one of the seasons that the Church has mostly kept to itself. You don’t see many people outside sending Advent cards or cooking up festive Advent dishes. I suppose Advent calendars are the exception - but, hey: behold the power of chocolate. 

Unlike Lent, we’re not necessarily called to a time of fasting or leaning into our spiritual practices. Instead, we’re just called to wait. That’s pretty much what Advent is all about. Just waiting. 

Waiting, of course, happens in all kinds of ways. There’s the impatient waiting at a bus stop or traffic light. There’s the expectant waiting of parents-to-be or longtime-parents waiting for their child to come home during a school break. There’s the very prescribed waiting of precisely 15 minutes for the results of a rapid COVID test. There’s the giddy waiting of, well, Christmas Eve - ears perked up for reindeer hooves on the roof. Waiting can also carry a sense of dread when we know something challenging or very unpleasant is on the horizon. And, of course, there’s urgent waiting like willing the ambulance to come faster or for payday to arrive before the pantry is bare. 

This Advent we are traveling alongside our companions at A Sanctified Art as we explore the theme they’ve created for us: “how does a weary world rejoice?” Who wants to earn a round of applause by naming the hymn that line comes from? _______ That’s right. It’s from O Holy Night, written in the 19th century. The full line is “A thrill of hope - the weary world rejoices.” And so we see these three tied together intimately - hope, weariness, and joy. 

Today’s passage from the first chapter of Luke holds all three of those together. In her book, The First Advent in Palestine, author Kelley Nikondeha paints a picture of Zechariah, the priest. Zechariah lived in a land that had always existed at the crossroads of many cultures and, as such, had almost always been at war. In the time of Zechariah, though, there was peace. But the Pax Romana was a strange kind of peace. It was a silence-filled, surface-level peace that only existed because the Roman Empire ruled vast swaths of land with an iron fist.  

Zechariah, from his vantage point as a priest, saw beneath the veneer of the Pax Romana. He saw the inequality, the desperation, the fear that lurked just below the surface. He saw that most people outside the capital and outside the 1% didn’t feel much peace at all. And it was his place to straddle these contradictory worlds - traveling each year from his home among average people to the capital to rub shoulders with the elite.

Nikondeha explains:

In his priestly role, Zechariah served his village most days by teaching the Law, the Prophets, and other sacred writings. He offered counsel and comfort. But week to week, he also needed to find other work to supplement the small stipend he received from the temple.He likely farmed—planting, pruning, harvesting, and even laboring at the threshing floor and oil press in hard years. His aging body probably struggled to work enough to earn enough. A son’s help would have been such a blessing in this unforgiving landscape. From Zechariah’s vantage point, a chasm existed between the people in his village and the temple elites. Every time he traveled to Jerusalem for his annual week of service, he witnessed the disparity: the ornate clothes, the well-appointed homes inside the city walls, the easy access to power. [1] 

And so, Advent begins with this paradox and complexity in the background. And with a story of waiting. Zechariah spent his time waiting in silence for his son to be born. And his wife, Elizabeth, waited with another pregnant woman, her cousin Mary. 

In this story we see those three strands of our Advent braid woven together: hope, weariness, joy. All of those things can be present in our waiting, can’t they? Sometimes even at the same time. 

Lisle Gwynn Garrity, one of the founders of A Sanctified Art has this to say about the ways these emotions can co-mingle. 

I distinctly remember the first time I laughed after my grandmother died. I was standing in my kitchen when joy interrupted my mourning like a loud dinner guest. Almost immediately, I felt ashamed. This is no time for joy, I thought. As I processed my emotional dissonance, I wondered why I felt so uncomfortable by joy’s intrusion. When did I decide that joy didn’t belong with my grief? Who told me that joy is selfish? Wouldn’t my grandmother love to hear the sound of my laughter? I’ve decided that joy is a companion emotion. Almost always, it comes alongside other feelings: excitement, sadness, exhaustion, relief, apprehension. It’s also a transformative emotion; joy changes you. It can shift your perspective. It can bring warmth to those around you. It will certainly lighten your load. And so, this Advent season, if you ever find yourself thinking, ‘this is no time for joy,’ then I hope you’ll reconsider. I hope you’ll allow joy to be your surprise guest. [2] 

“Joy is a companion emotion. Almost always it comes along other feelings.” Isn’t that a beautiful observation? I wonder what it might look like to practice noticing where joy and other emotions co-mingle this Advent season?

(pause)

Of course, sometimes Joy can be downright impossible to find. And that, too, is okay. The Rev. Anna Strickland, also a part of the Sanctified Art team shares this intimate look at how difficult in can be to find joy in some seasons of our lives:

My first pregnancy was due just days before Christmas. I imagined giving birth amidst the singing of ‘Joy to the World,’ but nine weeks into the pregnancy—the Wednesday after Mother’s Day—I miscarried. I spent the long Texas summer mourning the loss. By the time December finally came, I was four months pregnant with a daughter who would be born on Easter. As I prepared the nursery that winter, my joy was interrupted by a wave of grief for the child I never met, the child who would have been arriving in days, not months. In the midst of what everyone saw as a joyous season, for me there was this hidden pain I felt I needed to tuck away. My grief felt so unearned, but so did my joy. So if you are weary this season, if you feel like joy is out of reach, undeserved, or fleeting, if your pain is tucked away in the closet with the Christmas presents, I hope you’ll find comfort sitting with Mary, Zechariah, and the shepherds as angels bring their greetings of ‘Do not fear.’  [2] 

Amidst the deep pain in our lives, joy can sometimes feel a bridge too far. I wonder, if that’s the case for you this year, what it would be like to earnestly seek comfort during Advent? And how can we support you in that seeking?

(pause)

The story of this Advent question, “how does a weary world rejoice?” has its origin in a pandemic poem. The Rev. Sarah Are Speed, another founder of Sanctified Art, shares this story:

On December 24th, 2021, Omicron was wreaking havoc on New York City. The lines for COVID tests were wrapping around city blocks. Officials were urging people to double-mask. Hospitals were overflowing, and every hour, I received text messages from people saying, ‘I tested positive. I needed someone to know.’ As a pastor in the heart of Midtown, I was washed with fear, anxiety, and grief when I realized that my church would be one of the few Presbyterian churches offering in-person worship that Christmas Eve. Would I be safe? Would people come? Would it feel like Christmas? Once again, COVID was stealing our rituals. Once again, the city was sick. Once again, joy felt out of reach. So I sat down at my computer and wrote a poem titled, ‘How Does a Weary World Rejoice?’ It was an effort to sift through the pain of that day, to still my scattered mind, and to put some words on paper that might serve as breadcrumbs on the way to joy. Two years later, and I’m still asking myself that same question. Fortunately, I have found that our sacred texts provide some answers. How does a weary world rejoice? Day by day, and with God’s help.  [2] 

As we begin this season of Advent waiting - as we seek to braid together hope, weariness, and joy, let’s begin this strange season by receiving the gift of the poem that Rev. Speed wrote on that COVID-filled Christmas Eve. 

“How Does A Weary World Rejoice?”

I think delayed Christmas cards count-

the ones with the haphazard stamps,

mailed three weeks late.

I think the way you get down on all fours 

to be close to your dog 

and your cousin’s baby counts; 

it’s a holy routine. 

I think the way you stretch your body awake 

and breathe deeply when you rise counts;

that’s Yahweh in your lungs. 

I think the extra second you spent 

looking at the sky last night 

and not being afraid to dance counts.

So does giving up your seat on the subway

for someone’s grandfather,

helping her carry the stoller up the stairs,

and running to catch the man who 

dropped his bag in the crosswalk. 

Lighting candles when the sun disappears,

laughing so hard others begin to stare,

and pausing to look at trees every once in a while to say 

“Good job with that one, God”

all definitely counts;

as do mumbled prayers 

and children’s prayers 

and every measure of music. 

How does a weary world rejoice?

I would guess

soul by soul and day by day. 

But if you ask me, 

I bet most all of it counts.   [3] 

NOTES:

[1]  Nikondeha, Kelley. The First Advent in Palestine: Reversals, Resistance, and the Ongoing Complexity of Hope (p. 36). Broadleaf Books. Kindle Edition. 

[2] Sanctified Art theme materials, http://sanctifiedart.org

[3] https://www.writingthegood.com/post/177-how-does-a-weary-world-rejoice 

“Sowing Abundance”

Mark 4:1-9

Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

October 29, 2023

Upon hearing the parable, the disciples nodded gravely, internalized the wisdom given, and promised to share the Good News far and wide.

Just kidding. What they really did was go up to Jesus and say, “Seriously, Jesus. Why do you keep preaching in riddles? No one understands what you’re talking about. It’s unreasonable. It doesn’t make any sense. And, honestly, dude? It’s really tiring to listen to these sermons. It’s too much work. Didn’t you pay any attention in speech class? You know…tell them what you’re going to tell them, tell them, then tell them what you just told them. Maybe try that next time and you’ll have better luck.”

Ah, but Jesus. He rarely listened to criticism, dontchaknow. I feel like he would have been incredibly difficult to supervise. Probably never would have listened to anything you said during a performance evaluation. He goes on speaking in riddles – parables. 

Of all the parables Jesus gave us, something like 40, he only explained 2 of them. And lots of Biblical scholars doubt that he even did that because It’s not his style to explain parables in an easy, one-two-three pattern. After all, the thing that makes a parable an excellent tool for teaching is that it can’t be easily explained. If you think you’ve got it figured out, chances are you don’t. Parables just don’t work that way. Instead, they invite us into their world. We are lured into the story and encouraged to imagine ourselves as various characters….perhaps today we find ourselves identifying with the seeds, but tomorrow we’ll notice we could also be the soil, and next year when we heard the story we’ll be the sower. We get invited in, again and again, to make new meaning in these old, old stories. 

One way to enter into a parable is to rewrite it in a contemporary setting. After all, most of us aren’t farmers anymore. Jesus’s parables often used agricultural imagery because that was the world he lived in but that doesn’t mean it’s the only world that matters. Try these on for size:

“Listen! A bank executive pulled into her reserved parking space, checked her e-mail on her phone, and briskly walked into the office to begin another day’s work….” 

“Listen! A ten-year-old child carefully took their piggy bank down off the shelf and counted out all the coins they could find from saving up their weekly allowance. They got on their bike and headed downtown to spend the money….”

“Listen! A graduate student cashed in his financial aid check at the beginning of the semester, opened up an Excel spreadsheet, and carefully began budgeting how he’d make the money last until Christmas...”

There are a million ways you could re-tell this story. If you go home and work on some of your own, I’d love to hear them. 

Traditionally, many interpretations of this passage have focused intently on the different kinds of soil in the parable. People have spent centuries wondering, “What exactly does it look like to be rocky soil? How do I know if I am just a hard path and the birds might come along and take the seeds?” And, of course, “How do I become the GOOD soil? How do I make sure I am the most hospitable place possible for the Spirit’s Love so I can make it multiply and grow?”

These are lovely questions. But let’s try a different angle, too. Instead of focusing on the soil, what if we shine a light on the sower. 

What a weirdo. I mean, has anyone ever taught this guy anything about farming? I know very little about growing food to eat but I do know is that in Jesus’s time, if we were farmers we would typically have a limited amount of seed saved up from last year. So if we wanted to get the highest yield possible - enough to feed our family, our livestock, maybe even sell a bit at market - we need to use that seed carefully. We’d check the soil. Make sure it’s good soil - ready to use. And then we’d plan our seeds at the right time and tend them carefully so they can flourish. 

Here’s what we wouldn’t do. We wouldn’t take the seed and just throw it all over the place willy nilly. We wouldn’t drop a bunch of it on the path where we’re walking. We wouldn’t throw it down in rocky soil or scatter it where there are thorns. 

That’s just wasteful. Ignorant. Misguided. It makes no sense at all. 

And yet – this sower. This unskilled sower manages to get some seeds into the good soil through this scattershot method of planting. And the seeds that got into the good soil did great. Unbelievably amazing, actually. They yielded huge amounts – 30, 60, even 100 times what was originally planted.

So maybe this sower has skills after all. Their method is unconventional, that’s for sure, but they’re getting good results. 

Reminds me a little of Jesus. Unconventional methods. Good results. 

Although Jesus’s followers complained that he was hard to understand, people kept flocking to him. So many people came to hear him that he had to make the sea itself into an amphitheater. Backed up to the sea by the throngs that came hear him speak, he hopped into a boat so he could talk to the people who followed him everywhere. They may not have fully understood everything he was saying, but they sure did love to hear him say it.

Jesus told stories that made no sense. The world turned upside down. And he did things that made no sense. Water into wine. Feeding thousands with just a few loaves. The dead rising and breathing again. And so the people kept coming. Kept following. Kept watching and listening. 

Because just like the sower who scattered that seed with abandon, Jesus poured himself out time and time again for anyone who had ears to hear and eyes to see. “Listen!” he said. He sowed the seeds of righteousness and justice every which way. He paid little attention to whether or not the seeds were landing on rocky ground or fertile soil. He just kept telling stories -  traveling, listening, giving, healing, feeding, turning the world upside-down. 

Both Jesus and the sower lived and breathed and worked and taught from a position of ENOUGH. Chances are good that they, like us, lived in a world where they were constantly told “conserve, save, be cautious, make plans, be careful, keep track, don’t waste, watch the bottom line, increase your efficiency.” But, Jesus and the sower resisted these messages. They lived in a world of ENOUGH. 

They weren’t weren’t operating from a scarcity mindset. Instead, they were living in a world of abundance: Enough seed. Enough resources. Enough loaves. Enough fishes. Enough manna. Enough water. Enough wine. Enough. 

We, too, live in a world where the gods of scarcity are loud. From birth, we are inundated with messages that there is not enough to go around. We are told that we cannot possibly have enough or be enough to be worth much of anything in this world. 

And into this myth of scarcity, Jesus whispers words of abundance. 

Quiet now. There’s a big crowd and he’s all the way out there on the sea in that boat. Can you hear him?

“Listen! A sower went out to sow. And as he sowed, some seeds fell on the path, and the birds came and ate them up. Other seeds fell on rocky ground, where they did not have much soil, and they sprang up quickly, since they had no depth of soil. But when the sun rose, they were scorched; and since they had no root, they withered away. Other seeds fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked them. Other seeds fell on good soil and brought forth grain, some a hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty. Let anyone with ears listen!”

“The Sheep and the Goats”

Matthew 25:31-46

Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

October 22, 2023

Earlier this week I saw a tweet that said something like, “I’m just out here doing the Lord’s work (judging).” [1]  I snorted because I recognized myself immediately. Just earlier that same day one of the other participants at the dream work retreat I was attending asked me, kindly, “Would you say you like to compare things often?”

Boy, do I ever. I feel comfortable admitting this here because I know I’m not alone in these tendencies. I crave information. I want to analyze, dissect, put back together again. I DO want to compare. And, in fact, I am often judging. We all make judgments all day long - it’s absolutely, 100% only human. We sniff the milk to see if it’s still safe to drink. We check our rearview mirror to judge how much space we have to back up. 

These are helpful ways of judging. 

And probably not what the person meant when they referred to “the Lord’s work.” 

I’m going to guess that when they referred to “the Lord’s work” they were referring to Jesus in today’s chapter from Matthew. Big, boss Christ, enthroned in all his glory, come to judge the quick and the dead and all that jazz. And he makes judging look so very EASY in this passage, doesn’t he? “Sheep to this side, please. Goats, you go over here. Eh, eh, eh! I see you little goat, trying to sneak in with the sheep. Nope! I told you, you’re on THIS side.”

This is one of those passages that I always think of when people try to blithely assert that the “Old Testament God” is filled with wrath and Jesus is only ever meek and mild. This Jesus does not seem particularly meek nor mild. He seems very clear about what he’s doing - which is comparing, judging. He’s sorting the wheat from the chaff, the sheep from the goats. And the text tells us he’s doing it in order to determine who will be cast into eternal punishment. 

I, for one, have a lot of feelings about this passage. Starting with: I don’t personally believe in hell. It’s not consistent with my understanding of God’s essence of love. I tend to think that we humans have obsessively worried about hell and eternal punishment because we worry about a lot of things. And we’ve told stories like this one to encourage other people to behave right and make good choices. 

Making good choices is something I support. I’d just prefer to encourage it in ways that don’t involve the threat of eternal punishment and weeping and gnashing of teeth. 

Regardless of how we may feel about hell, here’s this story of Jesus doing the Lord’s work (judging). And it feels particularly relevant right now because these past two weeks have been filled with judgment as we all try to grapple with the terror in Israel and Gaza. 

We want to separate sheep from goats - these are the good guys and these are the bad guys. We want it to be clear cut. And, dare I say, we even want a righteous God to do some active judging. We want those who slaughter innocents to pause and see the humanity in the other. We want them to wake up and remember that violence isn’t the way, that children deserve to live free of fear, and that the work of peace-making is almost always harder than waging war. 

If we’re being honest with ourselves, we’d probably love for the Human One to come in his majesty and bring all his angels with him. We’d love for him to sit on his majestic throne and press pause on this terror. We want all the nations to be gathered in front of him. And we want him to do the separating. We want him to put everyone in their corners and talk some sense into them. We want him to come and remind people of right and wrong. 

We want someone - anyone - to FIX this heartbreaking, terrifying, seemingly intractable situation. And we want it done immediately, before any other precious lives are taken in Israel or Gaza. And we want peace and a sense of security for our Jewish and Muslim neighbors here, too. We don’t want them to live in fear of being harmed simply because so many are unable to separate people from their leaders and governments. And so many forget that great diversity exists within all religions - and that the government of Israel doesn’t speak for all Jews just as the leaders of Hamas don’t represent all Muslims. 

Despite all the complexities, we sometimes find it easy to be armchair members of the UN security council from the safety of our own homes on this side of the globe. Pointing fingers and assigning blame can feel easy. It’s more difficult to take Jesus’s advice in Matthew 7:

Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your neighbor’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your neighbor, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? 

It seems to me that we need to spend some time grappling seriously with the log in our own eye over here in the U.S. How can we invite others to accountability for the atrocities they’ve committed when we’ve not yet taken accountability for our own actions? The ways we, too, have inflicted terror on innocents. The ways we, too, are caught up in legacies of colonialism and genocide. 

Biblical scholar Walter Brueggemann explores some of the similarities between the ethos of the nation of Israel and the United States in his book Chosen? Reading the Bible Among the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict. He notes that both nations have claimed an identity as God’s elect. Our faith ancestors, too, made theological claims about their divine right to inhabit a particular place. Our faith ancestors also committed acts of violence against the people who were already living here when they arrived. They did so while proclaiming they had a divine mandate. 

We Christians have particular logs to deal with, too. We know that, historically, the Christian Church has committed great violence against Jewish and Muslim people. And that, even today, these attitudes persist in some parts of Christianity. 

But looking at the log in our own eye isn’t as fun as assigning blame to others. Seeing the legacies of colonialism and terror at home and abroad is heartbreaking. Watching the horrors of hatred and violence based on ethnicity - again and again - can make us feel powerless and hopeless. 

It would be so much simpler if Jesus would show up and unequivocally sort us all out. Tell us exactly who’s right and who’s wrong. Exert some authority and make people be kind to one other. Judge and judge us relentlessly in a refiner’s fire until we are free of the evils that plague us. Until we are, finally, kind, just, right, GOOD. 

While we don’t have a living, breathing, Christ-in-all-his glory with us right now we do have these ancient texts that can illuminate truth. How is Christ dividing the sheep from the goats in this story? Christ says the sheep’s righteous behavior was quite simple, “I was hungry and you gave me food to eat. I was thirsty and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger and you welcomed me. I was naked and you gave me clothes to wear. I was sick and you took care of me. I was in prison and you visited me.” 

The sheep are surprised because they can’t remember doing any of these things. So Christ clarifies, “‘when you did these things for least among you, you did them to me.”

This part is quite simple, really. Every single person is imbued with the divine. The way we treat our neighbors is the way we treat Christ. And this story takes it one step further - Christ says that her spirit is ESPECIALLY within those who are the least among us. Once again, God makes it clear that: whoever is oppressed? That’s where her heart lies. And that’s where we should focus our energy, attention, advocacy, and care, too. 

Treat others as if they are holy, sacred, divine, good. Especially those that the world dehumanizes and disparages. That’s what we’re supposed to do. 

And since we don’t have Christ here with a megaphone, it is our job as followers of Jesus to bear witness to his teachings. It is our job to keep loving loudly and insisting others do the same - no matter how inconvenient it may be. It is our job to keep shining a light on injustice - even when all we have is a little pen light and the atrocities are so very overwhelming. It is our job to keep reminding everyone that we are ALL human. Full stop. Every single one of us. And that, as human beings we have a right to be free. We have a right to safety, love, food, water, self-determination, peace. 

And we must do all of these things ever mindful of the giant log in our own eye. It is only when we deal with our own failures and recommit ourselves to seeking a more just peace that we’ll ever be able to call others to account. 

We do all these things in the spirit of the one who is Love. The one who taught in parables and deeds. The one who answered questions with more questions. The one who committed himself so fully to seeking the ways of peace that he followed that path all the way to the executioner’s block. The one who is with us still, calling us into more abundant life, more justice and peace, and more love for one another. Every. Single. Other. May it be so. 

NOTES:

[1] https://x.com/waxmittert/status/1579503758970859523?s=20