“From a Distance”

Luke 10: 25-37

October 5, 2025

First Congregational UCC of Manhattan, KS

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

 

In 1963, Michael Collins joined the 3rd class of NASA astronauts. In 1966, he exited and re-entered the earth’s atmosphere for the first time. In 1969, he orbited the moon 33 times as a part of the Apollo mission. And in 1974, he shared this observation in his memoir:

 

I really believe that if the political leaders of the world could see their planet from a distance of, let's say 100,000 miles, their outlook would be fundamentally changed. The all-important border would be invisible, that noisy argument suddenly silenced. The tiny globe would continue to turn, serenely ignoring its subdivisions, presenting a unified facade that would cry out for unified understanding, for homogeneous treatment. The earth must become as it appears: blue and white, not capitalist or communist; blue and white, not rich or poor; blue and white, not envious or envied.

 

I am not a naïve man. I don’t believe that a glance from 100,000 miles would cause a Prime Minister to scurry back to his parliament with a disarmament plan, but I do think it would plant a seed that ultimately could grow into such concrete action.

 

Michael Collins was a Catholic altar boy, so I have to think he had some familiarity with scripture. And I hear the echoes of the Apostle Paul in his words: “The earth must become as it appears: blue and white, not Jew or Greek; blue and white, not enslaved or free; blue and white, not male or female.”

 

Most of us will never be able to look at the earth from 100,000 miles away like Collins did. But all of us who profess to follow Jesus must struggle with the promise and demand found in the Apostle Paul’s words. Because there is a promise AND a demand there. It feels cuddlier to only focus on the promise part – as if Jesus will somehow magically wave a wand and take away all of the divisions in the world and make the Prime Ministers spontaneously scurry back to their parliaments with disarmament plans, and make the ICE agents unmask their faces, and make the war contractors toss and turn at night and realize that profiting off the murder and starvation of innocent children is not actually how they want to live their lives after all.

 

To hear only the promise in Paul’s words is to hold out hope that Christ will somehow magically bring all of this to pass.

 

But if we listen to Jesus himself, we start to see a slightly different picture. Jesus spent his time healing and sowing compassion, yes. But he also spent his time teaching us how to live. And when we pay attention to his words, we start to also hear the demand woven into the Paul’s promise of human unity.

 

******

Like Michael Colllins, Jesus was also big into thinking beyond boundaries. And today’s story is no exception. It’s one of the “greatest hits” of Christian scripture and it’s a two-fer. Not only do we get the well-known parable about the Samaritan on the Jericho road, we also get Jesus plainly stating the Greatest Commandment: to love God and love your neighbor as yourself.

We call it the Greatest Commandment, but at first glance it seems to be three commandments rolled into one. Love God. Love your neighbor. Love yourself. 

A wise person once told me that he had puzzled over this seeming contradiction for years: why, when asked for the SINGLE most important commandment, does Jesus accept the lawyer’s reading from scripture as the answer? It’s clearly three things, not one! Eventually, this person told me, they came to the conclusion that perhaps those three things are not as discrete as they seem. Perhaps, because we are made in God’s image and because God lives and moves within us, perhaps loving God, loving our neighbors, and loving ourselves aren’t as distinct as we think. Perhaps we are loving God whenever we love our neighbors. Perhaps we are loving God when we choose to love ourselves.

Perhaps the firm boundaries between me and you, us and them, heavenly and earthly are more porous. Perhaps when viewed from 100,000 miles up – or through Jesus’s eyes – the separation melts away a bit. And we can start to remember that loving God and loving our neighbors as ourselves truly is a single commandment.

It seems the lawyer himself was also a bit puzzled by the simplicity of this greatest commandment. Despite lifting it directly from scripture himself, he still has questions. He asks Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

Nothing like a legal type to get technical with the language. But Jesus takes it in stride, showing us once again what a fantastic teacher he is. He knows that stories teach and he weaves a story for this man. Simple enough for the youngest child to understand, yet it drives the point home in a way only a parable can.

 

The parable is, of course, that story of the Good Samaritan. For many of us, it’s well-worn and familiar. But it would have been quite shocking to those first hearers.

 

In essence, Jesus uses this parable to blow expectations wide open. The answer to the question, “who is my neighbor?” is both simple and terrifying. The answer is, “the person who takes care of you.” Or, as Frederick Buechner put it, “anybody who needs you.”

 

It’s not about where you live. It’s not about who looks like you. It’s not about who you vote for. It’s not about what denomination you are. 

 

No, it’s not about any of those things. Jesus says that our neighbor – you know, the one we’re supposed to love as ourselves – is the person who shows us mercy. Jesus says that our neighbor is the one that needs our care. The Samaritan is our neighbor not because he’s an outcast (though you could certainly find that argument many other places in Scripture) but because he offers care. The man in the ditch is our neighbor because he needs us.

 

It's such a simple and profoundly human story. All of us, every single one of us, has basic needs. We need water to drink and food to eat. We need to have our wounds tended to. We need to have a safe place to sleep, out of the elements. When you look down from 100,000 miles above, we humans all start to look a whole lot alike. We all need peace. We all need love. We all need each other.

 

I know you know this already. I know I’m not telling you anything new. But we seem to live in a world that threatens to undo these simple truths at every turn. Our spirits are constantly attacked by news of people turning against one another. We humans forget that we are all made in God’s image. We forget that every single one of us deserves a chance to simply live freely in a just world. 

And this is not an accident. Those who hold power are doing what Empire has always done. They consolidate their power by attempting to turn the rest of us against one another. They stoke fear and violence. They hide their faces while committing atrocities in broad daylight. They send troops into sleepy neighborhoods. They drop bombs and block supplies. And as each of these daily horrors is enacted, the message we receive is constant: protect yourselves from the enemy. 

But Jesus comes with a different way. Jesus doesn’t stand under the lights on a big stage. Jesus doesn’t ride in fancy jets or an armoured car. Jesus stands among the crowds, with everyday people like you and like me. He speaks their language. He loves to hear their questions. He reminds them that, like the lawyer in today’s story, they already have the answer within them. He affirms their curiosity. Again and again - by quoting scripture, through acts of compassionate healing, and with the power of stories - he reminds them of the main thing: Love God. And love your neighbor as yourself.

Zoom out to 100,000 miles if you can. Look at the beauty of this good earth spinning in space. Pause to take in the miracle that we exist here at all. Notice, like Collins did, that when you’re at that distance, this marble spinning in the black expanse looks quite different. The all-important borders are invisible. Those noisy arguments and yelling heads on our screens? You can’t hear them at this distance. 

The tiny globe continues to turn, Collins says, “serenely ignoring its subdivisions, presenting a unified facade that [cries out] for unified understanding… The earth must become as it appears: blue and white, not capitalist or communist; blue and white, not rich or poor; blue and white, not envious or envied.”

Blue and white, not a citizen of this country or that, not Russian or Ukranian, not Israeli or Palestinian, not a member of this political party or that one. You can’t see anyone’s immigration status from space either. 

What becomes very clear from this vantage point is that we are all of us neighbors. Spinning in the vastness of space on this planet we call home. 

The promise - and the demand - is as clear today as it was 2,000 years ago. There is neither Jew nor Greek, enslaved or free, male or female. There is humanity. Created in God’s image. Full of need, full of gifts. Languishing on the side of the road and mercifully stopping to provide care. 

Just us. Here. Together. 

May we accept the good news of the promise and fashion our lives to meet the demand. May we love God and love our neighbor as ourselves. 

“Curiouser and Curiouser”

Exodus 2:23-25; 3:1-15; 4:10-17

September 21, 2025

First Congregational United Church of Christ of Manhattan, KS

Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

Curiosity killed the cat. Or so we’re told. 

But my guess is that for every cat curiosity killed, a million other cats didn’t die, but, instead caught a mouse or made a new friend or found some treats tucked away out of sight. 

Curiosity can lead us into danger, sure, but it can also lead us into new possibilities. The problem, of course, is that one never knows which way curiosity is pointing us until we take that first step and go exploring. And so, curiosity seems to be inherently brave. To be curious is to take a risk, to be vulnerable, to admit that there are things out there beyond our knowledge that we’d like to explore. 

Moses was saved by curiosity. As the story goes, his life should have been snuffed out immediately. The Pharaoh had ordered two Hebrew midwives, Shiphrah and Puah, to kill all newborn Hebrew boys. But Shiphrah and Puah carried within them the type of brave curiosity that begets great strength. To hold a newborn child in your arms is to dwell deeply, fully in the realm of possibility. Months, years, decades stretched out before the midwives as they looked down at the gift of new life in their arms. Who would this child become? What hardships would come their way? What joys? Might this one become a teacher? This one a father? This one a wise leader?

“Curiosity leads to call.” [1] And so the midwives were called to defy the king’s orders. They bravely refused to kill babies born under their watch, but the babies still weren’t safe. The king ordered the whole realm to kill male babies by drowning them in the Nile River. Many perished. 

But Moses was born to a curious woman named Jochebed, who rocked her newborn son in the dark silence of her home, praying for his safety through her tears. When the boy reached three months of age, she could hide him no longer, so she did the only thing she could think of: she carefully sealed a reed basket with tar so it would float. And she put her baby boy in the reeds along the riverbank. 

Moses’s sister, Miriam, couldn’t bear the not-knowing of it all. She had to see what would happen to her baby brother. And so, this curious little girl stood watch to see what might happen next. 

The king’s daughter came down to the river to bathe and saw the basket there, among the reeds. Another curious woman! She asked her servants to investigate. When they opened the basket, her heart was moved with compassion for the crying infant. “This must be one of the Hebrew babies,” she said. Brave, curious Miriam stepped out of the reeds with a question on her tongue, “Would you like me to go and find one of the Hebrew women to nurse the child?”

And so baby Moses was reunited with his mother. She nursed him for a time and then gave him back to the king’s daughter, who adopted him. 

Moses was raised in the king’s palace. The midrashim tell about Moses that we don’t have in our Bible. The rabbis said that he was a curious child - wandering off down the palace hallways and finding his way into nooks and crannies. They said that the king was fond of Moses - they enjoyed playing games together and sometimes this curious child would even reach up and grab the king’s crown, placing it on his own head with a giggle. When some of the king’s magicians saw this, they grew concerned. They felt it was a bad omen - that this child would one day challenge the king. But Jethro, his future father-in-law happened to be nearby and said, “Don’t be silly. He’s just a curious child. He doesn’t have any idea what he’s doing. Here, I’ll show you. Place the boy in front of two objects: a golden chalice and a hot coal from the fire. He’s so silly he’s just as likely to grab the coal as he is the chalice. Watch. You’ll see.”

And so they placed Moses in front of the objects. He started to reach for the sparkly chalice, as most children would. But an angel moved his hand to the hot coal instead. He burned his hand and immediately stuck his fingers into his mouth to soothe himself. His fingers burned his tongue and this is, the rabbis said, how he became “slow of tongue.” [2] 

As Moses grew into adulthood, his curiosity never left him. Sometimes it got him into trouble. One day, it altered his life completely. He was walking among the Hebrew people and saw how horribly the Egyptians mistreated them. He heard a scuffle and ducked into an alleyway to see what was happening. There, he found an Egyptian violently beating an enslaved man. Without thinking, Moses sprang into action, defending the man from harm. His strength was, perhaps, greater than he realized, and Moses killed the Egyptian. 

After this, he went on the run. He made a home in a foreign land and found a wife, Zipporah. He lived happily alongside her family. Things were different in Midian. A far cry from his privileged youth in the Egyptian palace. But Moses was happy in this new place. There were always new things to see, new customs to understand, new places to explore. And he became a father! Gazing down at his infant son, he must have felt what those midwives felt all those decades ago: a sense of curiosity and wonder. “Who would this child become? What joys lie ahead? What struggles?”

One day, the rabbis say, Moses was out tending his father-in-law’s flock in the countryside. He was never bored at work. The world was enough for him. He examined bugs and watched birds fly overhead. He sang songs and made up stories. He spoke to the sheep and kept an eye on the weather. Moses had been watching a raincloud off in the distance when he suddenly realized one of the younger sheep was wandering off. He left the rest of the flock behind and chased the missing lamb. The faster Moses ran and the more he yelled, the quicker the lamb ran away. By the time Moses caught up with her, he was out of breath and red in the face. Coming around the corner, he saw that she had stopped to drink at a stream. His anger drained as he realized the lamb had just been thirsty. “Oh, sweet lamb,” he said, “I’ve been so foolish. You were only thirsty and by chasing you I’ve made everything worse. You must be so tired now. Here, let me help,” and he scooped up the lamb, placing her over his shoulders and carrying her back to the flock. 

The rabbis say that God was watching Moses that day. Seeing his compassion, God said, “That’s the one I want to lead my people out of slavery in Egypt.” [3] 

Years passed and Moses continued to watch over Jethro’s flock. The curious little lamb who had wandered off grew up and Moses kept a careful eye on her. If there was something interesting to see, she could be counted on to take the detour to find it. If there were nooks and crannies to explore, you can bet the lamb would squeeze into them. One day, as Moses was moving the flock from one pasture to the next, he realized the curious lamb was missing. He looked around and found her, meandering on a dirt path through some bushes. Grumbling under his breath, he doubled back to bring her in. By now, he knew better than to chase her, so he walked slowly, gravel crunching under his sandals. He pushed the brush out of his way and came into a clearing. The lamb was standing still, staring at a lone bush. 

The bush was like nothing Moses had ever seen. He felt himself pulled towards it, as if by an invisible hand. He absentmindedly put his hand on top of the lamb’s head as his mind overflowed with questions. “What kind of fire was this? How was the bush burning from within, but there was no smoke? He walked slowly around the bush. How could a bush burn like this without diminishing at all? Where were the ashes, the heat, the smell of burning wood?” 

Perhaps it was Moses’s simple gift of curiosity that changed his life that day. His ability to sit in discomfort in the presence of something that simply didn’t make sense, without shrinking away. He didn’t reflexively shrink back, he just stayed. Perhaps it is because he didn’t pass judgment or come to any conclusions at all that God knew he was the right one to go on a journey requiring great vulnerability, courage, and faith. 

Out of nowhere, the bush SPOKE. “Moses! Moses!” thundered the bush. Moses responded in Hebrew, “Hineni! Here I am! It’s me!” English doesn’t quite capture the fullness of hineni. It’s more than just a geographical statement about where a person is located. In the Hebrew Bible, it’s a deep YES rooted in a desire to be of service. 

When God calls out to Adam in Genesis, Adam does not respond hineni. Instead, he hides from God because he is afraid. Abraham and Isaiah both respond to the call of God with the word, as does the young Samuel. And hineni isn’t only a word for humans. God also speaks the word in Isaiah, promising to faithfully answer humanity’s cries for help. 

Hineni is a word for those who are curious. A word for adventurers. A word for lambs who wander off again and again and midwives who courageously save babies from genocidal tyrants. “Hineni! Here I am!” It’s a word for intrepid explorers who make a way out of no way. A word for little girls who have to know the end of the story and bravely follow their baby brother down the river to see what happens next. A word for princesses who peek into mysterious baskets and find their lives changed. “Hineni. Here I am.” 

It’s a word for all who wander. Those who stare up at the sky and consider the clouds. Those who create worlds inside their minds as they daydream. “Hineni. Here I am.”

The answer of the curious. The vulnerable. The courageous. The faithful. 

Thanks be to God for those who keep their hearts and minds open. Present. Learning. Growing. Answering the call. 

Hineni. 

NOTES: 

[1] Fretheim, Terence E.. Exodus: Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (p. 54). (Function).

[2] Exodus Rabbah 1.26, as found in The Storytellers’ Bible, p. 114. 

[3] Exodus Rabbah 2.2, as found in The Storytellers’ Bible, p. 114. 

“Jacob the Trickster”

Genesis 27:1-4, 15-23, 28:10-19a

September 14, 2025

First Congregational United Church of Christ of Manhattan, KS

Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

Oh, Jacob, Jacob, Jacob. What an epic tale. 

We meet Jacob in Genesis 25. He’s the son of Isaac and Rebekah. You may remember Isaac from that little story about how HIS father, Abraham, almost murdered him on the mountain in Moriah. But I’m not preaching on that story today - lucky me. Isaac grew up and married Rebekah, who gave birth to twins: Esau and Jacob. While pregnant, she received a prophetic word: that the older son would serve the younger. Which is not how it usually goes. 

The story goes: Esau was born first, with Jacob close behind - grasping his heel, in fact, as if he were trying to pull his elder brother out of the way and enter the world first. There are entirely too many stories about Jacob for me to summarize in one sermon, but today we get a couple of Jacob stories.

By the time we get to chapter 27, Jacob has already tricked Esau into selling his birthright for a bowl of stew (hey, when you’re hungry, you’re hungry) and in today’s reading we see him tricking his elderly father into giving Jacob Dad’s best blessing. When I was listening to the Bible Worm podcast earlier this week, Rabbi Amy Robertson and Dr. Bobby Williamson were cracking me up by comparing this part of Jacob’s story to Little Red Riding Hood. 

Rebekah wants to ensure the prophecy is fulfilled so she guides Jacob to go into his aging father who is, one imagines, comfortably seated is his La-Z-Boy recliner. Because Esau is noticeably, well, there’s no other way to say this, I guess - he’s just a lot hairier than Jacob - Rebekah gussies up her younger son’s arms with animal pelts in order to fool Isaac, who isn’t seeing as well in his golden years. 

And this is where it starts to sound like Little Red Riding Hood. 

Isaac said to Jacob, “Come here and let me touch you, my son. Are you my son Esau or not?” So Jacob approached his father Isaac, and Isaac touched him and said, “The voice is Jacob’s voice, but the arms are Esau’s arms.” Isaac didn’t recognize him because his arms were hairy like Esau’s arms, so he blessed him.

“Myyyyyyyy what big teeth you have! Myyyyyyyyy what hairy arms you have!” 

As I listened to Bobby and Amy laugh, I couldn’t help but smile. Somehow I’d never really seen the comedy in this story before. I think I’ve spent too many years clutching my pearls and taking it way too seriously. I’d get mad at Jacob for lying. Mad at Rebekah for telling him to do lie. Mad that the liars win, and on and on. 

All this time, I’ve missed something important about Jacob’s story, but now I see it. With extreme gratitude to Biblical scholars Karla Suomala and Justin Michael Reed, may I present to you: Jacob, the Trickster. [1] 

This story doesn’t read like history because it isn’t. There’s no evidence that a person named Jacob had all these adventures. The story reads more like a legend, a tall tale, folklore. Perhaps you were lucky enough to have a teacher who taught you about elements that are commonly found in human folklore and fable - stories like these transcend culture and time, existing throughout human history and all over the globe. These traditional stories often have morals, themes like good vs evil or the loss of innocence. We know we’re hearing one if it begins with “once upon a time….” And these stories typically have character archetypes: the old wise crone, the innocent child, the clown, the damsel in distress, the seer, and tricksters like Jacob.  

The Trickster is the underdog who isn’t supposed to win, but sometimes does. He’s not rich or handsome or strong - he’s not the expected hero. Instead, he’s wily, smart, clever, creative. He’s not afraid of bending the rules to reach his long-term goals. He exists outside of societal conventions and this frustrates others. He doesn’t always win - sometimes he just gives us a good laugh. 

I would be remiss, of course, if I didn’t note that Jacob is not the only Trickster in this saga. His mother, Rebekah, uses her smarts to orchestrate things behind the scenes. As a woman in this culture, her formal power was limited, but she certainly knew how to make things happen. And it seems like trickery may run in the family as Jacob later meets his match in Rebekah’s brother, Laban, who has a few tricks up his sleeve, too. 

There are Tricksters all over the place in our human stories. Coyote in indigenous American folklore. Anansi the spider-man from West Africa. Loki the Norse shapeshifter. Maui the Polynesian hero. Robin Hood the English outlaw. And, for those into more contemporary references: Captain Jack Sparrow in the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. 

Zora Neale Hurston wrote about the gift of Tricksters. They show us how the underdog can sometimes “make a way out of no way.” And even when they don’t win, Hurston said, Tricksters can help us laugh in the midst of some very hard times. [2] 

It turns out that humor is a powerful force for those on the margins. When you’re just a small fry, up against the powerful, corrupt leaders, a little creative humor might be just what you need to turn the tide. 

Srđa Popović is a modern-day Trickster. Born in 1973, he was one of the founding members of Otpor!, a youth-led, nonviolent Serbian resistance movement that played a key role in the overthrow of Yugoslav President Slobodan Milošević back in the year 2000. Otpor! started out as a small group of 20-somethings in Belgrade. They were not rich or powerful. They were just young folks who wanted freedom. They knew instinctively that they didn’t stand a chance against the government if they chose violent resistance, so they took a different tack.

We all know that non-violent resistance is morally superior to violence, but many don’t realize that non-violent resistance is also much more effective - especially when there’s a huge power differential. Political scientists have studied uprisings all over the globe and have found that nonviolent actions are much more likely to succeed. [3] 

Otpor! may have looked like a scraggly group of college kids, but they knew how to use the resources at their disposal to make big waves. Humor was one of their best tactics. Popović calls this strategic use of humor “laughtivism” and says that it works for at least three reasons:

1. Humor melts fear. Fear is the handmaid of tyranny. But it’s hard to be afraid when you’re laughing. When we’re joking, fear just seems to melt away. Leaning into playfulness makes us braver, stronger, and more deeply connected to each other. 

2. Humor makes your movement look cool. People want to have fun. If you’re able to laugh in the face of evil? People will want to join you. 

3. Finally, humor creates a can’t-win situation for your opponent. If you mock someone in power, they basically have two options. If they ignore you, chances are good others will also start to ridicule them and their power will erode. If they come after you, they’ll probably end up looking very foolish and their power will erode. It’s a lose-lose scenario. [4]

Like any good Trickster, Otpor! mastered the use of strategic humor. The more ridiculous, the better. One of their earliest stunts involved a giant metal barrel. They painted it red and left a baseball bat sitting nearby. They attached a sign that invited people to drop in a coin for Milošević’s retirement fund OR if they couldn’t spare a coin due to his economic policies, they could take a whack at the barrel. In a matter of minutes, crowds had gathered, laughing, making tons of noise, and venting their frustrations on the barrel. The police showed up but couldn’t find the culprits who had left this odd gift on the sidewalk. Unsure of what else to do, they awkwardly hauled the barrel off in the back of a squad car, Creating a perfect photo op that undermined the authority of the government because they looked ridiculous “arresting” a metal barrel. [5] 

Former members of Otpor! have been sharing what they know all over the globe for decades now. And their humorous tactics have been used by everyday people all over the world, fighting for democratic freedoms. One of the funniest stories I heard this week took place in Germany about ten years ago. Every year, neo-Nazis gather in Wunsiedel for a Nazi parade. [6]  The locals hated it but couldn’t stop it. So they created a “charity walk,” raising funds for an anti-Nazi group and made the Nazis unwitting participants. They put up big banners and signs celebrating all the money raised. For each meter the Nazis marched, more cash was raised for the anti-Nazi cause. They had aid stations where they handed the marchers snacks. They gave them congratulatory certificates at the end of the walk. They didn’t have to punch Nazis to make their point, they just ridiculed them. And had fun raising $10,000 for a good cause at the same time. 

Humor melts fear. Humor makes your movement look cool. And humor creates a can’t-win scenario for those who unfairly hoard power. 

Tricksters know these truths. They make us laugh. They make us cheer for the underdog. They win, they lose, then frustrate, they entertain. And if we can loosen our grip on our pearls ever so slightly, they might even remind us that we worship a God who has scattered those with arrogant thoughts and proud inclinations, pulling the powerful down from their thrones and lifting up the lowly. A God who has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty-handed. A God who came to us in human flesh, born among stinky animals and laid in a manger. A God who proclaims the last will be first, and the first will be last. 

Thanks be to our tricky God. Amen. 

NOTES:

[1] https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/narrative-lectionary/jacobs-dream/commentary-on-genesis-271-4-15-23-2810-17-2, https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/narrative-lectionary/jacobs-dream-2/commentary-on-genesis-271-4-15-23-2810-17-4 

[2] https://hackneybooks.co.uk/books/124/571/HighJohn.html

[3] https://news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2019/02/why-nonviolent-resistance-beats-violent-force-in-effecting-social-political-change/ 

[4] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BgaDUcttL2s&t=2s 

[5] Engler, Mark; Engler, Paul. This Is an Uprising: How Nonviolent Revolt Is Shaping the Twenty-First Century (p. 67). 

[6] https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-30100756 

“Tangled Up in Revelation”

Revelation 7:1-17

August 31, 2025

First Congregational United Church of Christ of Manhattan, KS

Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

When I am riding my bicycle home from work, I often ride up Manhattan Avenue and a memory comes back to me: it was a hot August day and I had just moved into my dorm room on campus. I was about to begin my first year of college and I was on top of the world. I was out and about, navigating the world on my own - no parents, no worries. I felt pretty great about myself. In fact, I had just done something that felt very grown up. I rode my bike from Moore Hall down to Aggieville to pick up some school supplies at the bookstore. 

And as I rode my bike back to my new home, something a little strange happened as I got close to Petticoat Lane. I was riding along, riding along and suddenly……EEEERCH. Bam! I fell over on my side. Scraped my knee. Wounded my pride. 

Did you know that your shoelace can get caught around your gears when you’re on a bike? 

Yeah, neither did I when I was 17. Some lessons you have to learn the hard way, I guess. Since that day, I have always checked my shoelaces before getting on my bike. 

Falling off your bike hurts. But there might be one good thing about it: it keeps you humble. Right when you’re feeling all grown up, like you’ve got things figured out, you can be humbled by a simple shoelace. 

Now I promised you a sermon on Revelation - not shoelaces and skinned knees. So let’s dig into this book that so many of us love to hate. I promise I’ll circle back to bicycles and humility before we’re done. 

If I were to go around the room and ask every single person their favorite book in the Bible, I’d venture to guess that Revelation wouldn’t likely come up. Am I right?

Revelation isn’t winning any popularity contests. But it turns out there’s actually a lot of important stuff in here, if we’re willing to do the hard work of uncovering it. But before we can do that, I think we have to at least name some of the things that keep us away from it. 

First, it’s scary. I can remember gathering up courage and peeking at a few paragraphs here or there as a child….and then slamming my Bible shut. Back then, I thought this was some kind of magical book, akin to a Magic 8 Ball, maybe, and that if I read it too often, the horrors in it would come to pass. I was really terrified by this book as a child. For anyone who thinks of this book as a prediction about the future, it’s horrifying. I mean, even though God wins in the end, a lot of scary stuff happens before we get to that point. 

Fortunately, Revelation was never meant to be a prediction or even prophecy. Instead, it’s a odd and unique type of literature called apocalyptic. 

That’s why you’ll sometimes hear it referred to as the Apocalypse of John or John’s Apocalypse. Apocalypse means revelation. Or it’s sometimes translated as “unveiling.” Which is interesting, because apocalyptic literature often obscures more than it reveals. At least at first. 

Revelation isn’t the only piece of apocalyptic literature in the Bible. There are other examples in various places like Daniel and Matthew. Apocalyptic is a coded way of speaking to an oppressed group of people about their oppressors and God’s ultimate power over them. 

Believe it or not, Revelation is meant to be a love song of hope. Through very carefully crafted symbols and coded speech, the authors of apocalyptic literature unveil a parallel universe – unseen by the average person – where God is in control and working diligently to dismantle forces of evil. It’s meant to be uplifting, not scary. 

Of course, the fear factor isn’t the only problem with this book. Many of us stay away from it because we just can’t identify our God with some of these images. There’s a lot of blood, violence, and some horrible misogyny to boot. 

Anyone know the hymn “Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?” We don’t sing that one around here. I don’t think that being dunked in lamb’s blood is very appealing to most people these days. But those kinds of bloody images are all over the place in Revelation. John’s God is angry, violent, filled with wrath. If you think God in the story of the 10 Plagues in Egypt is bad, just wait until you see how God acts in Revelation.

Even without all this blood, though – even if John’s Apocalypse wasn’t terrifying and pointing to a violent God – there’s yet another issue that can feel troubling. And that’s this: in this book John reveals a God who is 100% all powerful. We hear the language from today’s reading echoed centuries later in the text that Handel set to music – “King of Kings! And Lord of Lords!” 

A ruler is one thing - the ground of our being, our ultimate source, our leader and guide. Okay. Sure. But once we get into a particular vision of a Ruler who is all-powerful, all-mighty, totally omnipotent, some of us start to feel a little squirmy. It can be hard to look around a world filled with genocide and school shootings and ICE raids and believe God is all-powerful. Many of us find ourselves needing to choose between a loving God who is unable to control everything and an all-powerful God who allows terrible things to happen. 

Personally, I long ago chose a God of love whose power is limited. And that’s a difficult version of God to reconcile the one John unveils in this book. It really is. 

Here’s the thing about Revelation, though. And this was the discovery that made me feel like I could dip my toe in, or maybe even wade back into these pages looking for something worthwhile. Ready?

Revelation wasn’t written to us. We’re not the audience. The author says so right up front: this book is to the seven churches in Asia in the first century. It’s not written to us. 

But even more than that, this was the real game-changer for me: Revelation was specifically written for a group of people who were persecuted, oppressed, given very little authority over their own lives, forced to live within the confines set by the Roman Empire. They were persecuted for their identities. They were kept in poverty. They lived with the constant threat of violence. John’s Apocalypse was written as a word of hope and possibility for people who were living in a world on fire all around them. 

Wait. Maybe the 21st century has more in common with the 1st century than we initially thought. 

Regardless, you have to have a secret decoder ring to catch all the references. Biblical scholars have certainly tried to unpack it all over the years. And when they have, the overwhelming message to these struggling people is: hold on. Help is on the way. God has not forgotten you or forsaken you. Your God is working behind the scenes right now, fighting for your freedom. God has not abandoned you and God will bring you safely to freedom’s shore. 

Those are intended to be words of hope and consolation for people who are embittered and embattled. And they must have provided comfort to our ancestors or they wouldn’t have made it into the Bible. Perhaps there is a way they can provide consolation to us, too, if we keep our hearts and minds open. Or perhaps not. My guess is: some of us may find Revelation comforting and some of us never will. It’s not a one-size-fits-all, that’s for sure. 

Revelation is a messy book. And it seems every time I come back to it, I find something new and confusing. And perhaps the confusion, the messiness, the inscrutability of this book is important, too. We don’t understand it. Not all the way.

It’s kind of like what happened to 17 year old me when she was riding her bike down Manhattan Avenue. I went from feeling totally grown up to very silly in an instant. Humbled by a shoelace. 

Reading Revelation can feel like that. It can keep us humble.  

No matter how hard I try, I am not likely to ever really “get” Revelation or name it as one of my favorite books of the Bible. And no matter how grown up I feel or how carefully I ride, I am bound to get tangled up and fall off my bike from time to time. 

Revelation reminds us that no matter how much we seek God’s face, God is ultimately unknowable. Just when we think we’re starting to get a handle on it, something shifts and we discover we were wrong. Or confused. Or that there’s so much more to God that we’ve never even seen before. 

 

I love what D.H. Lawrence said about the book. Lawrence said, “When we read Revelation, we feel at once there are meanings behind meanings.” Isn’t that lovely?

Maybe part of what compels us to Revelation is precisely that we can’t understand it. There is a beauty in letting go of conquering the text and simply letting the wildness of the images wash over you.

Revelation may obscure more than it reveals. It may shroud more than it unveils. We can feel adrift upon its pages – as if there’s no real way to find solid footing. Its true meaning seems impossible to grasp. Like water slipping right between our fingers. 

In all our musings about God: this particular book keeps us humble. And that’s not a bad thing.