“A Tale of Two Queens”

Esther 1: 7-12a, 4:10-17

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

November 17, 2024

Today’s contemporary reading is VERY contemporary - it’s only a week old. Last week, five days after the election. the Rev. Amelia Fulbright shared a list of 10 actions and inactions with the people of the Congregational UCC of Greensboro, North Carolina. 

We will

1. Not shut down & go into hiding.

2. Not keep silent for the sake of keeping the peace. 

3. Not suppress our anger, but we will use it as fuel for the work of justice.

4. Not minimize the fears of marginalized people.

5. Not succumb to flimsy false equivalences for both sides ism-s.

6. Not be deceived by the politics of 'us' & 'them.'

7. Use whatever power we have to protect and uplift the most vulnerable among us.

8. Be doggedly committed to telling the truth.

9. Cling to one another in community & not try to do this on our own.

10. Embrace joyful living as an act of faithful resistance. (habit, not feeling).

It’s quite the list, isn’t it? It made me think about what my own list might look like. And what our list might look like. What WILL we do - and what will we NOT do - at this moment in hsitory? 

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s no shortage of people in this world who are interested in telling you how to spend your time. People have lots of things THEY want to do, and they often want you join them. People have lots of OPINIONS about how you should be spending your time. When the heat gets cranked up (and, boy, has it been cranked up for, oh, the last decade or so) people get very impassioned about how they’re spending their time. And we sometimes fall into the trap of thinking everyone else should be doing what WE’RE doing. We look at how other people are Loving Loudly and wonder, “Is that what I should be doing?” We feel lonely in our work and invite (or, sometimes, let’s be real, SHAME) others into joining our work. 

I’d like to invite us all to take a deep breath. 

Okay - how about another one? 

Oh, and let’s not forget our shoulders. Are they up here? Let’s bring those down. 

And gather around for a story. 

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away from here in time and space, but perhaps not-so-very-far-away-from-here in spirit and sort, there were two queens. One said “no” and one said “yes.” 

They ruled alongside a king named Ahasuerus. The Book of Esther tells he us was king of the 127 provinces of the Persian Empire, stretching all the way from India to Ethiopia. 

The Rev. Kaji Douša describes him like this:

You may not know his name, but, 

oh, you know him. 

The kind of man so 

filled with entitlement that he would 

order [his wife] to interrupt her important work and 

Enter a den of drunkards with their ogling eyes. 

The kind of man so accustomed to 

accessing a woman’s body that 

when she refused, 

he was so overcome with rage that he 

punished her brutally. [1]

This kind of man doesn’t only exist in long ago, far away places, does he? 

Well, in those days, as the king sat on his big, important throne in his winter palace in Susa, he was still a baby king in some ways—just three years into his reign. And the king was doing what those who rule Empire love to do….relax, throw a party, let the wine flow freely, invite all the important people, remind them of their place in the pecking order, show off. 

And this...this was quite a party. It went on for, we are told, for six months. And when it ended, the king gave a second party for everyone in the citadel. And this was also a big party. “Drinks were served in golden goblets,” the text says. “and the royal wine was lavished according to the bounty of the king. Drinking was by the jug-full, without restraint.” 

This party was a party just for men. We know this because we are told there was a second party next door, a party for women, hosted by Queen Vashti. That’s the important work that the king interrupted when he demanded her presence. She was doing her duty, welcoming guests into the royal palace. 

So, on the seventh day of this party, when the king is good and drunk, he calls together his eunuchs and orders them to bring the queen to him. To the party with all the drunk men. To the party where there are, presumably, no women present. The king wants to show her off like the prize piece of property that she is. He even goes so far to tell her what she should wear for the show:

Her crown. 

A brief word about how this is all supposed to work, because it’s not what most of us are accustomed to. The king had many women at his disposal. The queen, yes, but also a whole harem of other women to choose from. These women, including the queen, mainly lived in their own world, apart from the king and the minions of Empire. 

The men they interacted with most often were the eunuchs - men uninterested in stealing the king’s property, i.e. the women. The eunuchs acted as the go-between for these two separate worlds. And when the king decided he wanted to see a certain woman, his wife or one of his many other options, he sent a eunuch to fetch her. 

The woman’s job was clearly defined. She was to say yes. Every time. No exceptions. In fact, I’m pretty certain the yes wasn’t even expected. Saying no was such an impossibility that yes wasn’t even required. When the eunuch comes for you, you fix your face and go to the king. That’s the only option. 

Until. 

The drunk king called for Queen Vashti, his wife, to show her off to his buddies. Wearing her crown. 

And, the text says this: “Queen Vashti refused.” 

She said no. 

And because of her “no” we meet the second queen in this story. 

Born into a world where girls and women were considered to be men's property, Queen Esther was incredibly vulnerable from the beginning. We are told that she was an orphan, which means she had no protectors. Fortunately, a cousin named Mordecai took her into his household. 

The Hebrew verb for “take” is prominently featured in Esther’s story. She is taken into Mordecai’s home. She is taken from Mordecai and delivered to the palace, where she is taken to the king. Eventually, she is taken as the king’s wife. [1]

So many things happen TO Esther. She is, at first, a fairly one-dimensional character. A vulnerable but lucky orphan, beautiful and compliant. It seems that she is everything Queen Vashti was not - she knows how to play the palace games, she knows she must come to the king when called, she knows she’s not supposed to make waves. 

But this is not a fairytale, and I want us to imagine for a minute what we also know to be true about Esther. We know that she was a young woman who had gone through immense trauma. Orphaned - and taken from the only family she had ever known to live with a bunch of strangers as a part of the king’s harem. And while a part of the king’s harem, she had a secret that she knew she had to keep: she couldn’t tell anyone she was a Jew for fear of retaliation. We don’t know how young she was when all of this happened, but we know she was still just a girl. Esther had to navigate things no child should have to understand. Esther was a survivor. 

If we look at Queen Esther through a trauma-informed lens, we know that she had likely developed lots of coping techniques to continue navigating her life. So it comes as no surprise to me that when Mordecai asks her to intervene on behalf of the Jewish people - to use her position of influence and be a hero - she wants no part of it. She responds with a litany of the rules because rules can keep you safe. She knows that the rule is you only go to the king when called. You do not initiate contact. To do so is to risk death. 

Mordecai presses on, trying to convince her that she must act. He says, “Do not think that in the king’s palace you will escape any more than all the other Jews. For if you keep silence at such a time as this, relief and deliverance will rise for the Jews from another quarter, but you and your father’s family will perish. Who knows? Perhaps you have come to royal dignity for such a time as this.”

I’ve always heard this story through a kind of Wonder Woman lens. Esther, brave and strong, realizes that she is destined to be the savior of her people and courageously steps forward to lead the way. 

But Esther’s bravery is not a savior complex. Instead, her strength comes from a life of surviving a million little traumas and pain. She has learned to push forward even when things are difficult because her life has been difficult. And, if we read Mordecai’s words carefully, we also see that her decision to act is perhaps not so much about saving the day as it is a resigned understanding of the current state of affairs. 

As a Jewish woman living in the palace on the eve of a state-sanctioned genocide, her options are limited. She can either do nothing, which means she will likely be killed along with all the other Jews, or she can take a huge risk and fight for her people, which might still get her killed - or might lead to a happier ending. 

Esther, who has had a lifetime of practice at doing hard things, decides she’ll take the chance. She says “yes.” Maybe she does it because she’s feeling like Wonder Woman. Or maybe she does it because if you’re likely to get killed, you might as well die trying to do the right thing. Maybe she’s incredibly brave. Maybe she’s incredibly exhausted. Most likely, she’s both. 

Queen Esther’s YES. And Queen Vashti’s NO. 

You see, it’s not that saying yes is the right thing to do. And it’s not that saying no is the right thing, either. The answer lies in what Dorothy Bass calls the spiritual practice of “saying yes and saying no.” It’s about “renounc[ing] the things that choke off the fullness of life that God intended for us, and follow[ing] through on our commitments to pray, to be conscientious, and to be in mutually supportive relations with other faithful persons. These acts take self-discipline. We must learn the practice of saying ‘no’ to that which crowds God out and ‘yes’ to a way of life that makes space for God.” [1] 

So, friends, in this frantic season of wondering WHAT’S NEXT, my prayer for all of us is that we can take a breath. Lower our shoulders. Seek the Spirit’s wisdom. Adjust our crowns and emember these two queens who said yes and no. 

May your “yes” be yes, and your “no” be no. May you seek the work that is yours to do and invite (not coerce!) others to consider joining you. 

Remember that bravery and love flow from both answers. 

(And probably go ahead and lower your shoulders again, too. 

For good measure.) 

NOTES:

[1] https://practicingourfaith.org/practices/saying-yes-and-saying-no/ 

• 
  

“No Matter What”

Exodus 16:11-18,31,35

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

November 10, 2024

“The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.”

There’s a powerful scene at the very end of the 2021 sci-fi-satire film Don’t Look Up. It’s a movie about scientists who are trying to warn everyone else about a literal meteor that’s about to hit Earth. The movie itself is hilarious at points in a “you have to laugh or else you’ll just spend all your time crying” kind of way. It pokes fun at our 24-hour news cycle, misinformation, corporate greed, clueless politicians, and more. No matter what the facts in front of their faces show, people simply aren’t willing to believe a meteor is coming for them. Even when they can see it directly overhead. 

And at the end of the movie, the main characters and their loved ones gather for dinner. They come together around the kitchen table. They turn off the news. They tell stories about mundane things. They reminisce. At one point, they all hold hands and wonder if they should pray. But no one really knows how to. The sole religious person among them finally prays: asking for grace, forgiveness, and most of all, for God’s love and care to soothe them and give them courage through the difficulties that lie ahead. 

And then the talk turns to apple pie and whether storebought or homemade is better. The scene is overlaid with a montage of images from what’s happening out there in the rest of the world - the meteor is crashing, people are running, babies are being born, children are laughing, couples are kissing, animals are panicking. But around this kitchen table it could be any other day. They are talking about apple pie and coffee. They are holding hands. The coffee cups on the table are shaking and, finally, the walls begin to peel away. 

As poet Joy Harjo writes, “Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.”

**********

It’s no accident that so many of our sacred stories are about eating and gathering around tables. As Harjo says, “No matter what, we must eat to live.” 

Jesus’s first miracle is water into wine at a wedding party. And later, of course, the loaves and fishes. Elijah asks the widow to make him a bit of bread with her meager ration of flour and oil. The lovers in the Song of Songs sing about pomegranates and milk and honey. There are parables about fig trees and the giant party thrown for the prodigal son when he returns home. The leaders in the early church fretted and argued about how to sit down at tables together when some of them followed more restrictive dietary laws than the others. Jesus cooks up a breakfast of fish on the lakeshore after the Resurrection. And we still remember that last meal with his disciples every time we gather at the table for Communion. 

Even the prayer that Jesus taught his followers reminds us we all have to eat to live: “give us this day our daily bread.”

**********

The Israelites didn’t have tables to gather around when they were wandering in the wilderness. 

They had left their tables behind. And their grain. And their yeast. And their bowls. And their ovens. They dropped it all and left home - striking out in hopes of a better future. They were told they were headed for the land of milk and honey. They were told things would be better on the other side. They were told that all they needed to do was believe, hope, and follow - and that they’d finally be free. 

Imagine their surprise when it turns out the Promised Land wasn’t just next door. I was talking with my pastor friend Leah earlier this week and she made the observation that there’s really no reason they should have been wandering in the desert for 40 years. They should have been able to make that journey a lot faster. But, hey, if there’s one thing we know about humans it’s that we’re not always able to do things the way we’re supposed to. We mess up. We disappoint. We wander in circles, making the same mistakes and getting lost in the same way. We fail. We fall short. And often we manage to do it over and over and over again. 

And in all that wandering, Harjo’s words rang true: “No matter what, we must eat to live.” 

And so the people of God found themselves in the wilderness without a table to gather ‘round. No chairs to pull up. No tea cups to warm their hands. No pitchers of water to share. No bread fresh out of the oven. Nothing. They were depleted. Lost. Exhausted. Despondent. 

The story goes that God showed up: quail in the evening, manna in the morning. Bellies were filled. Needs were met. Stories were shared. Perhaps you’d even like to imagine families gathering around a big boulder here or there - makeshift tables in the wilderness. 

*************

On Wednesday morning, manna showed up here at church. I came down at 8:00 a.m. to turn the lights on in case anyone needed to stop in for a hug or prayer before beginning their day. As I left the house that morning, I grabbed a box of brownie mix from my pantry. It just seemed like the kind of day where brownies might be helpful. 

I turned on the oven in the kitchen and suddenly realized, “Wait. I can’t make these brownies. I didn’t bring an egg.” And I couldn’t run out to the store because I wanted to be present at the church in case anyone stopped by. Ugh.

Before 9:00 a.m. Linda showed up. We shared a big hug and she told me she had come to put the coffee on. Before long, she was bustling around the kitchen - coffee, tea, storebought snacks - all lovingly set out for anyone who might need them that day. 

And then Jackie showed up with groceries for Second Helping. Linda and I visited with her as she put them away. We all noticed that it was good to have something tangible to do in the wilderness - groceries need to be brought in, volunteer slots still need to be filled, people still need to eat to live. Also? It turns out there were extra eggs in the Second Helping groceries and Linda assured me I could have one for the brownies. At one point I heard the voice of a man that was unfamiliar to me. And I heard Sandy talking to him and sharing info about the Common Table meals and walking him out to the Blessing Box to see what else they could find out there. 

Before long, the kitchen smelled like chocolate and then Janet showed up with an armfull of carbs from Parkside. It all went onto the table - coffee, tea, water, fruit, brownies, croissants, and more. It was more than really anyone needed but that table anchored the day. People continued to wander in and out all day long - numb, confused, sad, angry, surprised, unsure. And the kitchen table stood steady. 

“The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.”

**********

People are hungry right now. They were hungry a week ago. They’ll be hungry next week, too. 

Sometimes that hunger is physical: a craving for something that tastes good, a basic alarm bell in our rumbling tummies reminding us it’s time to fuel up, or the deeper hunger when we don’t have access to the food we need. 

Sometimes that hunger is emotional: we need to be held, soothed, heard, understood, seen. 

Sometimes that hunger is spiritual: we need to know we’re not alone in the wilderness, that something exists beyond what we can see in front of our own faces, that we don’t live our lives in vain. 

“No matter what, we must eat to live.”

**********

And so we keep gathering around kitchen tables. We sit with family, friends, and strangers, too. We pass the plates and refill the glasses and make sure everyone has what they need. When we notice people lingering around the edges, we scoot over and pull up a chair for them. We make new friends. We re-tell the stories we learned from our ancestors. We pray and tell jokes. We compliment the chef and ask if we can help with the dishes. 

Quail in the evening and manna in the morning. We say we don’t quite understand how the Spirit makes it happen - except we do understand a little, don’t we? We show up and make the coffee. We bring carbs to share. We walk each other to the Blessing Box and we show up with groceries for Second Helping. We open up our arms and hearts to receive one another - keeping a special eye out for those who have been pushed to the margins. We remind each other that there’s no need to hoard - that there’s actually enough for everyone if we just remember to share. 

It took our ancestors a lot longer than it should have to reach the Promised Land. Some of them never made it. Time and time again they disappointed one another. They had to stop to lick their wounds. There were shouting matches and tears. They argued about the best route. They failed to learn from their mistakes. They lost hope. They found it again. They carried the sick and tired when their feet gave out. They took turns chasing the children and carrying the babies. They wandered in circles. They found themselves back at the beginning. They cried tears of frustration. 

They kept gathering around tables. Because the world begins and ends and begins and ends ane begins at the kitchen table. 

Beloveds, it is my prayer for you that you that in all our many beginnings and endings and everything in between, you will continue to find the sustenance you need. 

And that you will keep showing up at tables to share what you have - especially with those who need it most. 

May it be so. 

“In Times of Trouble”

Luke 1:46-55

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

November 3, 2024

Mary was brave. But even a brave person will feel unsettled when an angel of the Lord appears. 

I’ve never seen an angel myself - at least not one that bellows out “Greetings!” - but since the angels in these stories often follow their greeting with “Don’t be afraid!” I’m guessing it’s a distressing experience.

Surely Mary was afraid. Being told you’ve been carefully selected to give birth to the Messiah? Stressful information, regardless of your situation. But for an unmarried teenager in a society that frowns on pregnancy outside of marriage? Yikes.

Afraid or not, Mary listens to the angels, asks fewer questions than many of us would have, and then accepts the charge. 

Soon after, she departs for the hill country, off to visit her relative, Elizabeth. Who - it turns out - is also pregnant. The two women share an intimate moment of joy and excitement over their shared pregnancies and then Mary sings the song we’ve come to know as the Magnificat.

**********

What I found myself wondering as I read this familiar story this week was this: where is Mary’s mother? 

Wouldn’t a mother’s guidance be helpful in this situation? We know that Mary’s already engaged to Joseph, so it’s possible she’s already started living with her future in-laws. But Mary’s mother isn’t just absent from this story, she’s absent from all of scripture. She’s not there beside the manger or anywhere else in the story of Jesus’s life. 

Grandmothers, you may want to write a stern letter to the editor complaining about this oversight.

We know, of course, that so many details of this story didn’t go down the way they are portrayed here. The stories about Jesus’s birth in our gospels conflict with one another and were written years after his death. Plus, he was born a nobody from nowhere, so who would have been paying attention to the details anyway?

The stories may not be factual reports, but they are still important. As I’ve heard some preachers say, “I don’t know if this story happened, but I know that it’s true.” Meaning: there are important truths conveyed in these Biblical stories even if we lack eye-witness accounts. 

So it’s possible her mother was there all along. We don’t know. But her absence in this story makes my heart ache a bit for young Mary. I am reminded of my favorite painting of The Annunciation by Henry Ossawa Tanner. Mary sits on a bed in the dark with a gleaming shaft of light beside her. She looks up at it with a face full of questions. And she looks so very young and so very alone. 

**********

 

Welcoming new life into the world is a funny thing. Even as a mature first-time parent who was ecstatic to meet my child, I was surprised, during my pregnancy, to discover an emotion I couldn’t quite put my finger on lurking in the shadows. 

I eventually figured out it was grief. Co-mingled with joy, to be sure, but grief, nonetheless. Because I could see that becoming a mother meant a significant chapter of my life was ending. Welcoming something new meant letting go of what had been. 

All Saints Day is one of the times in the church year when we lift up the power of grieving - specifically the complex feelings of loss we walk through when someone we love dies. This is how we most often think of grief - grief over someone who has died. But grief takes many other forms, too: grief over the loss of possibilities, changing relationships, endings (happy and sad).

We can experience grief when we lose a pet, end a marriage, change jobs, move away, or give up a long-held dream. Whole societies experience grief when we go through something like a global pandemic, wars, acts of violence and natural disasters, a season of political unrest. We may feel ill-at-ease, sad, shocked, anxious, confused, guilty angry, terrified, numb. Grief tiptoes up on us when we’re least expecting it. It can wash over us like a tidal wave or drip steadily on the windowsill of our hearts. And it can be all jumbled up with hope, excitement, and joy. 

In short: grief can feel like a mess. 

Which is why I wish Mary had her mother. And I wonder where her mother is. And I wonder if there is grief jumbled up there in Mary’s brave heart when the angel comes to visit. Because wherever her mother is, she’s not there with Mary on that bed in the dark. 

*********

But Mary - wise, brave, resourceful Mary - steps outside the frame of the painting right away. 

She may not have her mother, but she knows this is no time to be alone. She weaves her own community - traveling to be with her relative, Elizabeth. In doing so, she also ensures Jesus will not be alone. He will be born into community, entering the world connected to his cousin, John, who will come to play such an important role in his life. 

And the song Mary sings while with Elizabeth - the one we’ve come to know as The Magnificat - connects her to her ancestors, too. It’s a remix of Hannah’s song, from First Samuel. And Hannah’s song has echoes of Miriam’s song from Exodus 15. All three are songs about God’s faithfulness in times of trial and how God’s heart is most-especially with the vulnerable. They are prophetic songs - songs of a world turned upside down. The last are first and the first are last. The hungry are filled with good things and the rich are sent away, wanting. And they are songs about community woven across generations: Mary sings of “the promise you made to our ancestors — to Sarah and Abraham and their descendants forever.”

We can imagine Mary singing this song to her infant son. For all we know, it’s a song that Mary’s mother sang to her. 

It’s a song that connected Jesus to not only his mother’s voice but the hearts of his ancestors. A song that showed him his place in the world - anchored firmly in a long line of prophets, misfits, and outsiders hoping against hope for a better world. A song that spun a vision of the world as it could be - a vision of God’s realm come on earth. 

Is it any wonder, then, that as an adult Jesus spun stories about lost sheep finding their way back to the fold, tiny seeds growing into mighty bushes, day-laborers encountering a generous landowner, outsiders pausing to help strangers on the side of the road when insiders shirked their duty, and two lost sons and their lost father finding their way back to one another? 

This was the song Jesus inherited from the saints who went before him. And it’s the song we inherit, too. 

In times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to us singing her ancient song of wisdom, bravery, and hope. She sings through her loneliness and fear, seeking community with kin and ancestors. She listens for the songs of the saints who went before, taking strength from their faith and hope. She sings through grief and pain, excitement and joy - she sings a song of life lived in community, the wisdom of our ancestors, and hope for a better world for all children. 

May the song continue through us. 

“Abundant Life: Compassion”

Mark 10:17-31

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

October 13, 2024

Jesus is repeating himself. 

“It’s really hard for rich people to enter God’s realm.” 

Blank stares all around. 

“It’s really hard for rich people to enter God’s realm.” 

Maybe some more blank stares. 

“It would actually be easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle.” 

Horrified faces. 

I guess he finally hammered it home with the visual of a camel going through the eye of a needle. It is, in fact, a memorable object lesson. 

Despite Jesus’s clear repetitions and careful explications, we Jesus-followers have still managed to mangle this passage over the centuries. 

The problem, I think, comes down to a couple of key phrases. Phrases that - let’s be real - we need to get our heads around. Because they don’t just come up in this story - they come up over and over again in Jesus’s teachings. 

First: eternal life. In Greek “aionios zoe.” When I say “eternal life” what do you think most people think of first? ________ We usually think of this as being about what happens after we die. Namely, that we go on in some way after our bodies die. And it’s not that this would be wrong - it’s just that it’s not a complete definition. Zoe means life. That’s clear. But the Greek aionios doesn’t have a parallel in English. Yes, it can be about a quantity of time, going on forever. But it’s just as much about the quality of time. It’s not only about life after death, it’s also about the quality of our lives here and now. 

Second: the kingdom of God. I usually call this the Realm of God. Again, I think a lot of people think about the afterlife, specifically heaven; the good place in the sky where we’re finally united with God. But there’s little evidence to suggest this is about the afterlife at all. Instead, Jesus teaches about God’s Realm as if it’s something we could reach here and now. A way of being fully aware of God’s presence with us - and our presence in God. He gives the sense that it’s here among us, if we could all get on the same page and grasp it together. 

Misunderstanding these two small phrases has huge implications. Because this text becomes something it’s not. Biblical scholar N.T. Wright explains that Jesus’s contemporaries would have had an understanding of two ages - the here and now and the age to come. This conversation is about the age to come - aionios zoe - meaning the “new world that God is going to usher in, the new era of justice, peace and freedom God has promised.” [1] The rich man is asking how he can ensure he gets to be a part of this new world. Wright says:

Among the various results of this misreading has been the earnest attempt to make all the material in Jesus’s public career refer somehow to a supposed invitation to “go to heaven” rather than to the present challenge of the kingdom coming on earth as in heaven. [1] 

All that heavy emphasis that some parts of Christianity place on getting into heaven? It turns out Jesus didn’t talk about that much at all. He was much more concerned with what’s happening here on earth. 

There’s a beautiful tiny phase in this passage that’s often overlooked. When the rich man asks Jesus what he must do to ensure he’s a part of God’s new era of justice, peace, and liberation, it’s clear he’s been on a good path. He’s been keeping all the major commandments. But Jesus wants to clarify that living fully into God’s vision of abundant life is about more than just checking off boxes. Living in God’s Realm is about a total transformation - a willingness to make ourselves vulnerable and live in ways that are supremely counter-cultural. I think Jesus knows this is impossible before he even says it. But his delivery doesn’t feel snarky or even like a challenge. Instead, the text says that before he tells the man to sell all he owns and give it to the poor, Jesus looks at him and loves him. 

It’s such a beautiful moment of compassion. Jesus looks at the guy and loves him. 

In that loving gaze - I see so clearly how Jesus stands between the here and now and the age to come. He has one foot firmly planted in the human experience. Jesus knows before the words leave his mouth that this rich man isn’t planning to sell everything he owns and give it all to the poor. He knows that we humans struggle to live faithfully, to trust in God’s abundance, to stay focused on the ways we are bound together. He has one foot in there here and now. 

And at the same time, he’s got his other foot firmly planted in God’s Realm. He can see God’s vision of justice, peace, and liberation. He can envision a world where the first are last and the last are first. He can even see how we get there. Jesus is between both worlds and the immensity of that is right there on his face for everyone to see. 

From that vantage point between worlds, Jesus could see the tensions we feel. How much we want to do the right thing and how hard it is. How deeply we feel compassion for others and how we often aren’t sure how to help. How hard it is to trust in abundance when possibilities feel limited. How we want to hide from our own vulnerabilities and, in doing so, miss out on the fullness of life that comes with knowing God is with the last, least, and lost. 

When we try to sit down and make a plan like the man in this story, we often find ourselves tangled up in knots. But Jesus reminds us that living in God’s Realm isn’t something we can just make happen all on our own. It’s something we co-create with the Spirit. God casts a vision and we make choices each and every day to step into it. The path isn’t linear - in fact, so much of what we’re asked to do as we fumble our way toward God’s Realm seems impossible and scary. 

When we start to feel off-kilter and unsure, I think we can plant ourselves in the compassionate gaze of Christ. He looks at us in all our confusion and wanting-to-do-rightness and loves us. If we can allow ourselves to stay in his sights, we have a much better chance of seeing glimpses of God’s Realm in the here and now. 

Speaking of glimpsing God’s Realm in the here and now: I want to end with a story I heard last weekend at the Kansas-Oklahoma Conference annual gathering. The Rev. Dr. Courtney Stange-Treager from the UCC Cornerstone Fund was one of the guest speakers who shared about generosity. Courtney shared with us that one of her favorite phrases when discussing generosity is “God Math.” Things that don’t seem like they would add up suddenly do. Fears about scarcity are banished and God’s abundance becomes clear. It all adds up, even though we didn’t think it would. 

Courtney told a powerful story about God Math in action. Back in 2017, nine people got stuck in a riptide at Panama City Beach in Florida.[2] It all started when two young boys got pushed too far out into the water. Their parents went in after them but also got sucked out. Other family members joined in the attempt to rescue them. Eventually, people started forming a rescue chain and a total of 70 or so people made one giant human chain reaching out into the ocean to save these strangers. 

The people that jumped into action didn’t have time to make a plan. There were no committee meetings or careful calculations. No mission statement or benchmarks. They were simply moved by compassion for these strangers in need and jumped into the fray. Together, they did what none of them could have done alone. It took all of them, working together to each do their small part to save this family. That’s why Courtney called this an example of God Math: people moved to jump up, jump in, hold hands, and all work together for good. We may not always have a plan. In fact, if we did sit down and make a plan, we might talk ourselves out of it. But we trust in a vision of something larger than ourselves, and we are moved by a sense of deep compassion for those in need, and we do together what we couldn’t do ourselves. 

It’s a little like what Jesus says in this story, “With God, all things are possible.” 

Held tight in Christ’s compassionate gaze, may we all live with one foot in the world as it is and another as it could be, trusting in God’s vision of a more just world for all. 

NOTES

[1] Wright, N.T. How God Became King: The Forgotten Story of the Gospels. 44-45. 

[2] https://www.cnn.com/2017/07/11/us/human-chain-florida-beach-trnd/index.html