Peace that Divides

Sermon preached by Rev. Wesley King on Sunday, August 17, 2025

As we prepare for this word, would you please join me in prayer?

God of healing mercies, we come to you this day as imperfect people. We know that you desire for us hope and happiness and love. Yet, we have found so many ways in which to block your gifts or to grab hold of them as if we are entitled to them. We've been given the pathway to peace in the witness of Jesus Christ. He taught us to live as a people of compassion and service. But our service has often been for ourselves, for our own gratification. We have failed to be your church. We are witnesses on earth. We have neglected the needs of others in our own rush for our own comfort. Forgive us, O merciful God. Heal your wounded spirits, our wounded spirits. Turn us again to you, that we may again learn of your love and mercy, and help us to become partners in peace and hope for others. And may glory be to God our Creator, to Jesus Christ our Redeemer, to the Spirit our Sustainer. As it was in the beginning, will always be, world without end. Amen. And amen.

There's a gym in my hometown that's a faith-based gym, and the logo is this shield with a big kind of gaudy cross on it. The name of the gym I've always giggled at: Resurrected Warrior. I typically giggle or roll my eyes sometimes because it feels a little silly to me that this gym would have that persona of Jesus. But I understand why they call it that. It comes from a literal understanding of John's apocalyptic writing in the book of Revelation.

But I understand that book differently—that it isn’t meant to be understood as a literal description of the end of times, but instead a genre of prophetic writing meant to challenge the powers of empire and give hope to an oppressed and occupied people. Still, this image of Christ that the owner had—or maybe the image of Christ the owner thought might sell more memberships—is fair. Because to be honest, Prince of Peace Pilates doesn’t have the same je ne sais quoi.

Truthfully, I think our culture has many ideas and imagery of who and what Jesus of Nazareth is and who he came to be. Some describe Jesus as someone who wants you to prosper. And while I do believe that’s true, I don’t think twelve monthly payments of $5.99 is how you achieve it. Some describe Jesus as a healer. And I do believe that to be true as well, but I don’t think a bottle of holy water for $10 will fix whatever problem you might have. Some describe Jesus—like the gym in my hometown—as a shredded bodybuilder who, like social media influencers, wants you to achieve your peak aesthetic goals. And I do believe that our bodies are temples and holy vessels that we should take care of. But I don’t think that Jesus cares about the size of our biceps or triceps.

I think many people have made Jesus Christ into their own image, rather than trying to live into the image of who Jesus Christ is as described in scripture.

Now, our text today is a strange one. Jesus, the Prince of Peace, says that he’s coming to bring strife and divisions, and that families will essentially be torn apart in his name. So I want to read this text again, this time from the Living Bible translation. And I also want to offer a method of reading scripture. This is a method that Catholics and Episcopalians often use when reading the gospel message in order for them to ingest it in three different ways. They say, “The gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ: may it pierce our minds, may it pierce our mouths, and may it pierce our hearts.”

Here now from the Living Bible Translation:

"I have come to earth to bring fire to earth, and oh, that my task were already completed. There is a terrible baptism ahead of me, and how pent up I am until it is accomplished. Do you think that I have come to give peace to the earth? No. Rather, strife and division. From now on families will be split apart, three in favor and two against, or perhaps the other way around. A father will decide one way about me and his son the other. Mother and daughter will disagree, and the decision of an honored mother-in-law will be spurned by her daughter-in-law.”

Then he turned to the crowd and said, “When you hear the clouds beginning to form in the west, you say, ‘Here comes a shower.’ And you’re right. And when the south wind blows, you say, ‘Today will be a scorcher.’ And it is. But you hypocrites! You interpret the sky well enough, but you refuse to notice the warnings all around you about the crisis ahead.”

What we know about this passage from Luke’s gospel is that Jesus in this moment is in transition. He’s on his way to Jerusalem, where he will ultimately meet his end. Earlier in this chapter, someone from the crowd of thousands who had gathered to ask Jesus some questions said, “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the inheritance with me.” And Jesus replied, “Who appointed me as judge or referee between you and your brother?”

Jesus then goes on to say, “Guard yourself against all kinds of greed. After all, one’s life is not determined by one’s possessions, even when someone is wealthy.” I take that to mean that probably the people he was speaking with didn’t have much in the first place.

Later in Luke’s gospel, he is sitting with tax collectors—some of the most hated people in the community—and with sinners. The Pharisees and the legal experts were grumbling and judging him. He also heals a man later in the gospel on the Sabbath, which was against the law.

So Jesus was teaching people a new way of living, a new way of interpreting the law that they had been given—even breaking the law when necessary to care for and love his neighbors. He was challenging Roman and religious authority.

I can imagine those who were listening to him and following him might have returned home to their households or communities, who likely didn’t take too kindly to these new teachings, these broken laws, these words of challenge to the way things were. I can imagine these teachings caused a lot of heated conversations, perhaps over the dinner table. I can imagine fights breaking out as sons, grandmothers, and fathers brought home the radical teachings of this man Jesus, and all the arguments that might have followed.

Think of it this way: we all think very highly of Martin Luther King Jr. now. But at the time, he was marching and obstructing roadways. He was encouraging sit-ins, protests, and rallies. In fact, when he died, he had a public disapproval rating of nearly 75%. And that wasn’t just racists—that was everybody.

And so I think of Jesus the same way. His teachings were radical. He was challenging Roman and religious authority. He was challenging ethnic and racial assumptions of the time. He was challenging gender assumptions of the time. And like MLK, he was making a lot of enemies. And like MLK, he was later murdered for it.

Jesus said, “Do you think that I’ve come to bring peace on earth? No, I tell you, I have come instead to bring division.”

Now, I don’t know about you, but that makes me uncomfortable. I grew up thinking of Jesus as the Prince of Peace, as someone who would unite the nations—“Every knee will bow, every tongue will confess.” And I still believe those things universally about Christ. But in this story, we are in a particular part of human history. At this part of the story, Jesus has not yet completed his time on earth.

This summer, I participated in the Center for Faith and Justice program in D.C., and they gave us shirts that said, “If you want peace, you have to fight for justice.” And I believe we are closer to achieving peace because of those who fought for justice. Much like MLK, the peace Jesus was working toward would not be realized until long after his death, resurrection, and ascension. And in some ways, it still hasn’t been fully realized. That’s what we continue to fight for.

That is why we continue to fight for justice now—so that one day that same peace the prophets foretold, that Jesus preached about, and that MLK dreamed of might finally become reality.

Peace does not mean passive. Peace does not mean saying nothing in order not to ruffle any feathers. Peace does not mean taking the path of least resistance when you know what the right thing is, even if the right thing may be much harder.

Jesus starts this passage saying that he came to cast fire upon the earth and how he wished that it were already ablaze. My hometown gym, and those who like me grew up hearing a very literal understanding of the final book of the Bible, might interpret that to mean something apocalyptic, something end-times related.

But think back to John the Baptist, who told the crowds that while he baptized with water, there would be one to come after him who would baptize with fire. And maybe that fire that Jesus is casting is the courage to be Christlike as described in scripture—especially in a world that has made Jesus into its own image.

Maybe that fire looks like taking care of the vulnerable and the downtrodden in a culture and in a society—and even among other Christians—who say that somehow empathy is now an epidemic and a weakness. Maybe that fire looks like taking care of human beings no matter where they are from or where they were born, when our culture, society, and even other Christians generalize them as criminals and lowlifes. Maybe that fire looks like ensuring that we don’t look, sound, or act like our society, our culture, or even our fellow Christians when they aren’t being Christlike.

The Indian philosopher Barodata said in the 1920s, “Jesus is ideal and wonderful, but you Christians—you aren’t like him.” Even last week, Reverend Margie said, “By faith, we proclaim to be a different kind of Christian in this world. One who is not tempted by the powers of greed and pride, but is faithful to a God of humility and love.”

Our passage ends with verses 54 and 55. I’m reading from the Common English Bible now:

"Jesus also said to the crowds, ‘When you see a cloud forming in the west, you immediately say, It’s going to rain.’ And indeed it does. And when a south wind blows, you say, ‘A heat wave is coming,’ and it does. You hypocrites! You know how to interpret the conditions on earth and in the sky. Then how is it that you don’t know how to interpret the present time?’”

When I hear this, my mind translates it into something like this: “You seem so self-aware of the obvious around you, yet you have your heads in the clouds. And I’ve told you, but you still don’t understand.”

And I get it. This is a hard passage. It shakes us up. Jesus is using his teacher voice in this moment, and it seems like the folks surrounding him just don’t get it. But we’re not judging. Churches across the world will read this gospel message this morning, and still much of our world won’t get it either.

But that’s where we step in, friends. That’s where we step up.

The front of your bulletin says, “Help us to become partners in peace and hope for others.” And I love that. But don’t be fooled into thinking that achieving that peace and hope only looks like sitting around a campfire singing kumbaya. It means fighting for justice now so that we might someday have peace.

And it might be tough. It might be unpopular. It might be hard and uncomfortable. It might mean uncomfortable conversations at the dinner table with friends and family. But we have been called to so much more. We have been called to bring the kingdom of God to earth as it is in heaven, where each and every person is treated with respect and dignity as a beloved child of God. We have been called to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and visit the imprisoned. We have been called to be agents of peace and justice and mercy and compassion in Christ’s name.

And I believe that we can do it. I might be naïve, but I believe that our fight is not over.

I offer this prayer as we close today. I pray that you receive it in this moment, take it with you into your week, and live it this week:

Christ, who has called us to be so much more than this world might offer, help us to become partners in peace and hope for others. Help guide us in how we achieve that peace and hope. Be with us, be before us, be beside us, and behind us in this work. And may the fire that you have baptized us with ignite our bones to do your will on earth. May it be so. And may we make it so with our living and our loving.

Amen.

19 Reasons

We don't know who wrote the book of Hebrews. We really don't. But we do know who this book was written to. This book was written to a group of new Christians who were following Jesus and were already being ridiculed and imprisoned, who were already having their possessions stolen, who were being mocked for following this person named Jesus Christ. So this book was written to them amidst a lot of their disappointment and discouragement that this person that they loved, this God enfleshed, hadn't returned yet, had been resurrected, and they thought would return immediately and still hadn't. And so they were losing hope. That's who this book was written to.

And we're kind of in a different time, aren't we? We're in a different country than that. We're in a different demographic than those Christians hearing these words today. And yet, I think this passage that Sarah just read from Hebrews has something to offer us in the way of encouragement and hope. We have all heard the first verse of that passage before, right? I call these pillowcase verses like Philippians 4:13 and Jeremiah 29:11. They're sort of the perfect verses to put on a pillowcase. And so this one is kind of like that: “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things not yet seen.”

Sometimes verses like this lose their power when they're taken out of context. Or sometimes words like the word faith are so overused that they lose their meaning. Faith. How would you describe faith to someone who asked you what it meant?

I love what the author of Hebrews does. Instead of giving a long Webster's definition, he actually points to a litany of biblical patriarchs and matriarchs who embodied faith as a way to explain the word to this group of people. And what you'll notice is this author—or I'm going to say preacher, because a lot of theologians think that the book of Hebrews is just one long sermon—this preacher told them about people. And the thread through all of the people I'm about to describe in Hebrews 11 are people who followed God even when they were not sure where God was leading them.

I'm going to say that again: they were people who followed God even when they were not sure where God was leading them. So Sarah read eight verses this morning, but I want to give you the entire overview of this chapter. So I am going to quite literally roll up my sleeves, because 19 times in this chapter alone, you are going to hear the words by faith. You are going to hear how our ancestors followed God by faith. Are you ready? Are you ready? Okay, buckle up.

By faith, our ancestors received their approval from God. By faith, God created the world—created something visible out of something that was invisible. By faith, Abel and Enoch and Noah put their trust in a God who didn't even tell them the plans God had for them, but they trusted God anyway. By faith, this guy named Abraham obeyed God when God told him to depart from his homeland of Mesopotamia and go to a foreign land he had never been to. God promised him that this land would provide for him, and Abraham went without knowing where or seeing what it was.

And by faith, Abraham stayed in that land for a very long time—a land where he was seen as a foreigner, a land where he was living in tents with Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs to the exact same promise as him. By faith, he was able to have children with Sarah, even after they had been told they were too old, or, as the scripture writes, he had been deemed “good as dead.” By faith, Abraham was put to the test, offering up his son Isaac. And by faith, Isaac then invoked blessings on Jacob and Esau. By faith, Jacob blessed each of the sons of Joseph.

Y'all see where we're going? By faith, Joseph, at the end of his life, mentioned the exodus of the Israelites. By faith, Moses, the leader of those Israelites, was hidden for three months by his parents because, scripture says, they saw he was beautiful and they were not afraid of the king. And by faith, he refused to be called a son of Pharaoh's daughter, instead receiving ill treatment with the Israelites, the people of God, rather than receiving the fleeting pleasures of sin. By faith, he left Egypt. By faith, he kept the Passover. By faith, the people passed through the Red Sea.

By faith, the walls of Jericho came crumbling down after they had been encircled for seven days. By faith, Rahab lived because she had sheltered two Israelite spies and kept them safe. And what more should I say? That's the preacher in Hebrews talking, not me. Verse 32: “What more should I say?” the preacher says. “For time would fail me if I continued to tell you about Gideon and Barak and Samson and David and Samuel and Jephthah and the prophets, who through faith conquered kingdoms, who through faith administered justice, who through faith obtained promises and shut the mouths of lions and quenched the power of fire and escaped the edge of the sword, and were made strong out of weakness.”

Y'all, this is in the Bible. You may need to read this before you take a test or have a work presentation. This is a cheat code right here. By faith, some were mocked and suffered and were flogged and put into chains and imprisoned. They wandered in deserts and mountains and caves and holes in the ground. Yet, all of these were commended for their faith. Though they did not receive what was promised, they knew that God had provided something better.

Imagine, imagine hearing this sermon, church, when you are hopeless, when you really, really thought your Savior was coming back, and you look around and you do not see Him, and you are being beaten and brutalized for your own belief. Imagine hearing this lineage of biblical heroes before you who, by faith, were able to do what God asked them without knowing where God was leading them. Faith, the preacher shows us, is not about certainty in God, as many people would lead you to believe. It's about trust in God.

Faith is a hope that is directed toward the future. Perhaps you caught that in Abraham's vision—it's not strictly earthbound. As David Gray points out, Abraham looks beyond the temporal binding of his own life to this full reality of God and God's promises—the city of God. Did you hear that in verse 16? The city of God contrasts with these tents that they were living in and moving in. This city of God, this heavenly place, was a place that would provide them stability—stability and safety and permanence. The holy architect of that city had their back.

It is as if God is saying, “Keep one eye on the very human realities of this world, and the other eye on the future kingdom that I have promised you—a kingdom for those who live by faith.” Because when you live by faith, you let your future determine your present. I want to say that again: when you live by faith, you let your future determine your present. Which doesn't mean we get to bypass this life and just wait around for the heavenly one. It means we get to put our trust in an architect who has already pointed us toward where we are going, even if we don't know where God is leading us to today.

And it's because of this faith in the future kingdom that we can trust in that God today. We as Christians believe that faith cannot be severed from hope. But we also know that hope is really risky, isn't it? Hope is risky. It's probably why the author and preacher of Hebrews felt the need to use 19 examples to tell the people the kind of faith and hope they were going to have.

I wonder, church, what about our 19 examples? What would a preacher say to Vine Street Christian Church 19 times to allow us to live into this risky and bold hope and courage and trust in the year of our Lord 2025? I'm going to give you 19 of them. You ready?

By faith, you are participating in the life of a church during a season of a lot of transition and change. By faith, you are putting your trust in not one but two reverends with nose rings—it's true, one, two. By faith, the leaders of our church this morning are saying yes. Our council members, our elders, our deacons are saying yes to serving our church this year. By faith, Lydia is putting together a Room in the Inn task force to make sure that our lay leaders continue to do the necessary work of serving and walking with our homeless neighbors.

By faith, our staff is expanding and changing and dreaming of what this church can be. By faith, we all try to hit these high notes, and we hope to God it sounds decent on the live stream. By faith, Quentyn is leading an open and affirming task force to make sure that “all means all” in the life of this church. By faith, we are doing the best we can to live and believe in hope in a time of fear and scarcity. By faith, we are going to try intinction during communion again, y'all—come on.

By faith, our Sunday school teachers have answered the call to teach spiritual formation and biblical curiosity to kids ages one to 101. By faith, our new members today will take a chance on this church as they start an orientation. By faith, we are counting on this new HVAC to keep the temperature comfy up in this sanctuary. By faith, you have pledged your tithes and offerings, trusting that we will do the will of God with the gifts that you give.

By faith, we are discerning ways to engage in outreach in a new way and be the hands and feet of Christ out in the world. By faith, we proclaim to be a different kind of Christian in this world that is not tempted by the powers of pride and greed, but is faithful to a God of humility and love. By faith, every time we close this service, we hold hands and say, “Jesus Christ is Lord,” because we desperately and faithfully believe it to be so. By faith, we show up week after week to love each other and serve each other—even when it's uncomfortable, even when we are annoyed, even when we'd rather sleep in, even when we feel overscheduled, overburdened—because we believe that a commitment to a community is the only way we're going to get through this, y'all. Amen.

And by faith, we believe in the one who didn't place his hope on things of this world, but placed his hope on the resurrection, the heavenly place, the eternal place where we will all be one with God. And by faith, we live our lives as if that is true—trusting in the things that are unseen, having confidence in what could be with God's help. And by faith—somebody was counting—they think I got to 19 there.

Church, if you hear anything today, I hope you hear that all things are possible through God by faith. And faith isn't the assurance in things that we can see or that we know are going to happen or that have been foretold to us. No, that would be boring. What a silly end to that story. Faith is the substance, is the belief in the things that are unseen and yet to come. Our litany of heroes like Abraham and Sarah and Moses and Rahab and Abel and Enoch—they didn't know what was on the other side of their “yes,” but they said yes anyway.

Their faith was courage. Their faith was trust. Their faith was hope—hope in a future kingdom, hope in a God who had a plan even when they didn't. Their faith allowed them to follow God when they weren't sure where God was leading them, trusting, hoping that something better was waiting for them on the other side of their yes. Say yes with me this morning, Vine Street. Say yes with me and let's see what waits for us on the other side of that yes. Amen.

Courage and Context

Sermon preached by Rev. Wesley King, August 3, 2025

This morning’s text is one that I normally would shy away from because these types of texts have been used—and misused—to try and assert control or shame people for many, many years.

This entire book, actually—the book of Colossians—has been used and misused many, many times. This book contains a version of the “wives, submit to your husbands” text. It also contains the “masters, be just and fair to your slaves” text. But I decided that instead of trying to shy away from this text and choosing an easier one, I wanted to possibly turn this into a teaching moment. It’s why I’m right here instead of up there. I’m also down here because I want us to truly tackle this text together this morning. And I want you to know that I expect both of us to put in a little bit of work.

So, if you’d like to actually grab that pew Bible and go to page 2011, I invite you to do so. And while you do so, allow me to pray over our time together.

Spirit of the living God, fall afresh on me. Melt me and mold me. Fill me and use me. Spirit of the living God, fall afresh on me. Amen.

Okay, you don’t have to raise your hands, actually, but how many of you grew up during, adjacent to, or just knew about—or remember—purity culture? Hello.

If you are unaware of what I’m talking about, purity culture was an evangelical movement from the ’90s that placed a really strong emphasis on abstinence before marriage. This is where you start getting uncomfortable in your pews. It also laid out that abstinence was the only sexual ethic outside of marriage and thus did not leave any space for anything or anyone that did not fall into that heteronormative assumption.

It instructed women and girls to cover up and dress modestly, though that same instruction was often not given to the men or the boys. Purity culture also emphasized traditional gender roles and asserted that men must be the head of the household, the main moneymaker, and that women must be more submissive. They must stay home. They must provide whatever is needed for their husbands. Dating was discouraged or heavily confined—mostly to avoid premarital sex. Self-pleasure was highly discouraged, though more strongly discouraged for women than men.

You’re really getting nervous now.

And lastly, purity culture established comprehensive moral systems in which sexual behavior was closely tied to your spiritual identity, your gender roles, and your communal belonging—meaning if you did not believe this way or act this way, you were out.

Texts like this passage from Colossians were central to purity culture.

Now, some still proclaim that it was the right decision and are happy to have participated in this movement. Others, though—and truthfully, most of the people that I’ve heard from, talked to, or read about online—have shared that all it did was turn them off to church, make them repressed and confused.

All of that to say that what we do here, the words we share here, has weight. These texts—these words—are long-lasting, for better or for worse. And that is why what we do here must be intentional, and we must be invested in what that message is.

So today I want to talk about this text. But more than that, I want to talk about how we read and engage texts like these—specifically, three different ways that I want you to use, or invite you to use, rather, moving forward.

And the first way is this: you have to ask yourself, Who wrote this? Who were they writing to, and why?

The letter to the Colossians is considered a disputed letter. That means that biblical scholars do not believe that Paul literally wrote this letter. In fact, Colossians is perhaps the first letter written in Paul’s name after his death.

My Bible professor at LTS, Dr. Jerry Sumney, said this: “Paul personally did not found the church at Colossae. But the language is more powerful if Paul had already suffered a martyr’s death.”

So if Paul didn’t write it, who did? Most scholars suspect Ephesus—someone who was on Paul’s mission team—probably wrote this. And I’m also not saying that we shouldn’t listen to him just because Paul didn’t write it. But it does pose the question of how much weight we give it, or how much authority we give it over our lives, knowing that Paul himself didn’t give the instruction.

Moreover, we have to understand that Paul and his mission partners believed that Jesus’s return was imminent—so much so that in some of his letters to the Corinthians and the Ephesians, Paul even discouraged folks from getting married altogether because he believed that Jesus could return at any moment. And thus, perhaps this text too was written with that same kind of urgency in mind.

Next, the Colossian church had several leaders come through proclaiming that you had to have seen visions in order to secure your place with God. That is mentioned one chapter before this, in chapter 2. And so Paul’s purpose in this letter—or in this text—was to instruct, or possibly re-instruct, what his theology is when it comes to spiritual living and salvation.

Keep in mind that the early church did not have thousands of years of theological tradition. Many ideas and theologies and understandings flowed through the early church. And part of Paul’s purpose in writing his many letters was to institute what they believed and why.

These details are crucial because if we read these passages at face value, we are only hearing our 21st-century understanding of a text that was never intended for us. Now, that isn’t to say that we can’t learn something from it—but it is to say that it was not written to us with our 21st-century context in mind.

Here’s an example of what I mean: if I write the words, I want a Mountain Dew, and I give that note to Margie, she’s going to assume that I want the soda, Mountain Dew. But if I put that same note in a time machine and send it back a hundred years—before the invention of the best soda, Mountain Dew—they’ll assume that I’m talking about actual dew from an actual mountain. And if I send that note 100 years into the future, who knows what they’ll think I’m talking about.

That context—that historical context—is key.

Understanding that this passage was written to an early and young church about spiritual living in a time when women were still property to be owned and used to barter business deals, and where slavery was common practice, is crucial in discerning the weight that we give this passage and the authority that we give it over our lives.

Which leads us to the second way to read and understand scripture: discerning what is contextual about a passage and what is universal.

I always get really frustrated when I hear somebody say, “The Bible says it. I believe it. And that settles it.” Because if that’s the case, then what do you do about the parts that say, “Don’t get married because Jesus is coming back”? What do you do about the part one chapter later than this text in which we instruct masters to be just and fair to your slaves, in a society in which we denounce slavery? What do you do about the fact that the details of the four Gospels are all different—and sometimes even contradictory?

The Bible says... what you believe... what is settled...

The Bible is not univocal—meaning, it does not have one writer. This book was assembled over the span of 1,200-ish years and has been translated umpteen times. That’s not to discredit it at all—but it is to say that it takes more work than that.

The author of our text says in verse 5: “So put to death...”—again, words we probably wouldn’t use now—“Put to death the parts of your life that belong to the earth, such as sexual immorality, moral corruption, lust, evil desire, and greed, which is idolatry.”

Now, when I was growing up, this verse was interpreted to mean what my 1990s Sunday School teachers understood it to mean—and that’s what they taught me. But what did it mean to the writer?

Well, people much smarter than me think that it likely meant sexual practices as a part of pagan worship at that time. It likely meant adultery—specifically for the woman or the wife—as the men were not always expected to adhere to that same standard. It could have meant any practice that did not lead to pregnancy, as procreation was always the main goal. It could have meant sexual practices between married men and women that the society or the culture deemed inappropriate.

The point is: biblical scholars think it could have been a number of things pertaining to that time.

And so to you I ask: What is contextual from this passage, and what is universal? In other words, what was written for a very specific historical context—a very specific point in time—and what might we glean from it today in 2025?

I do believe that God holds a sexual ethic for us. And I believe that that message is universal. But surely the actual practice of said ethic is not the same as the first century.

So then, what is it?

I believe a key part of Christian discipleship is engaging with scripture and discerning God’s will—not just accepting something because someone told you so many moons ago. And in that same mindset, don’t just accept what I have to say today because I’m up here wearing this.

The writer had a specific intention in mind—as did our Sunday School teachers and preachers growing up. But I’m asking you: What do you think it means?

Growing up, I was told that drinking alcohol was sinful—any alcohol at all. But as I’ve grown older, though, I’ve come to realize that, for me at least—only speaking for myself—drinking alcohol isn’t inherently sinful. I’ve had many parties, dinner parties, celebrations, or just nights out with friends in which beer, wine, or rye bourbon (which is my favorite) was shared—as were cherished memories and stories. Bonds were built, relationships and friendships forged, and they remain to this day.

But I’ve also misused alcohol at times—made poor choices, said or did things that I might regret. And so I’ve had to learn my limits and how to conduct and control myself. And so I wonder if maybe our sexual ethic is similar.

The truth is: the Bible does not convey the message of “abstinence only before marriage.” Those words—or that message—is just simply not in the book. That’s just how people have interpreted it.

Which is fine, by the way. For some people, maybe it works. And for others, maybe it doesn’t. Because I know people who waited until marriage and wish that they hadn’t. And I know people who didn’t wait and wish they had.

So maybe sexual morality is more complex than that. Maybe a godly sexual ethic is for you to discern with God.

Perhaps it’s more about honoring the act, treating people with dignity and respect, emphasizing communication, and not treating sex as something of power or gain or control—but as caring for and perhaps loving somebody else.

Verse 7 of that text begins:

“These are the ways that you once followed when you were living that life. But now you must get rid of such things—wrath, anger, malice, slander, abusive language from your mouth. Do not lie to one another, seeing that you have stripped off your old self with its practices and have clothed yourself with a new self, which is being renewed in knowledge according to the image of its creator.”

To me, this message is universal. It surpasses historical context and speaks through time and space. Christ has called us to love our neighbors as much as we love ourselves. And here, Paul—or someone writing on Paul’s behalf—is reminding us that in order to love our neighbors as Christ has commanded, we must put away anger, put away wrath, put away malice and slander and abusive language that hurts and harms our neighbors if we are to be set apart.

The beginning of this passage describes us as being raised with Christ—meaning that when Christ was resurrected from the dead, we too were raised, leaving behind earthly behaviors that hurt and harm. For when we are raised with Christ, it is to be more like Christ.

Lastly, the third way that I want you to understand scripture is not only personally—how does it affect you and your walk—but communally. In scripture, in the original text and in the original languages, these authors and speakers are rarely using the singular “you.” So much of these teachings were meant for the entire community.

So with that in mind: What does it mean to respond to this text as a community?

Perhaps we end sexual immorality by working to end human trafficking.

Perhaps we end moral corruption by ensuring that our communities are registered to vote so that their voices are heard and counted.

Perhaps we end lust and evil desire by training people to communicate what they want and what they need, but also recognizing consent and honoring the “no” as much as the “yes.”

Perhaps we end greed by ensuring that funds and resources are not hoarded but are flowed and given back to the community.

Maybe a country made up predominantly of Christians doesn’t look very Christian at times because for far too long, the majority of us have just been on autopilot—not engaging with the text, not engaging with God—just accepting it at face value and then never questioning, never digging deeper, never re-evaluating or asking ourselves these questions.

And to be fair, many of us were taught, especially at young ages, not to question—and that actually doing so was antithetical to our discipleship.

Wasn’t going to tell this story, but after my grandfather died, my grandmother was really doing poorly. And I went and visited her, and she began to share with me all these questions that she had: Why did this happen? Why could God let this happen? And then she very quickly cowered and said, “I know you’re not supposed to question God. I know you’re not supposed to question.”

And I asked her. I said, “Gran, the Bible is full of people questioning God. The Psalms, the lamenting Psalms—everybody is questioning God. Why would you let this happen, God? How long, O Lord, must we wait?” But that speaks to the fact that she—like myself—was taught that questioning meant that you were not a good Christian.

And I’m not saying to throw away the things that we learned growing up. We wouldn’t have made it this far without the amazing parents, grandparents, teachers, preachers, and everybody who taught us the stories of God and of God’s abundant love.

But in those moments that we find ourselves questioning, perhaps instead we lean into it—not as an act of defiance, but as an act of taking agency over what we believe and why.

Friends, we follow a God whose time spent here on earth ministering was spent asking questions—both of his own followers and of religious authority. He often said, “You have been taught this, but what I tell you is this.”

I believe that that is another way that we are raised with Christ. Jesus’s example on earth was many things, and one of them was an eagerness to seek love despite laws, to seek mercy despite mandates, to seek compassion despite codes of conduct.

This led him to questioning the man who was accusing—or actually the men who were accusing—the woman of adultery and were ready to murder her for it.

This led to Jesus questioning religious authority when he healed the man on the Sabbath, despite it being against the law.

This also led to the Ethiopian eunuch questioning Philip as to why he couldn’t get baptized despite his racial, sexual, and gender differences.

This led to the Stone-Campbell movement ordaining Rev. Clara Hale Babcock in 1889—despite her being a woman—because the first people who shared the gospel were women.

This led to Vine Street Christian Church in the 1960s questioning why anybody would be barred from the table of God because of the color of their skin, when our own Savior had brown skin.

This led to our denomination questioning why anyone would be barred from membership or ordination or any other facet of the church because of their orientation or their gender, back in 2013—because these people too are children of God.

Friends, I hope that this has given you not any answers but more questions. But I hope that you take these frameworks and apply them to the scriptures you read. Ask these questions. Be empowered to ask these questions.

And I think in doing so, we will find and follow Christ’s example.

So may we question.
May we inquire.
May we discern.
May we pray and seek God’s will.

And in doing so, may we be raised with Christ—leaving behind earthly things that may hurt or harm ourselves or our neighbors.

And may it be so.
But may we make it so with our living and with our loving, and with the help of God.

Amen.

Holy Boldness

Sermon preached by Rev. Margie Quinn on Sunday, July 27, 2025

Prayer by Marie Howe: Every day I want to speak with you, and every day something more important calls for my attention—the drugstore, the beauty products, the luggage that I need to buy for this trip. Even now, I can hardly sit here among the falling piles of paper and clothing, the garbage trucks outside already screeching and banging.

The mystics say that you are as close as my own breath. Why do I flee from you? My days and nights pour through me like complaints and become a story I forgot to tell. Help me. Even as I write these words, I'm planning to rise from the chair as soon as I finish this sentence.

Prayer is complicated. It's intimidating. It's fleeting. It's inconsistent. And it may be something that you or me mostly do alone—in our car or before we go to sleep. Maybe your prayers are hurried or even transactional: “God, if you help me find my car keys, I promise to go to church this Sunday.” I've done that one before.

And maybe your prayers are sung or shouted. Maybe they are desperate: “God, let her live. I will do anything for you if you let her live.” Maybe your prayers are sighs too deep for words to express.

When we think of the word prayer—or at least when I think of it—many of us go immediately to that spiritual conversation with God, this personal posture of begging and giving thanks and admitting our wrongs. Our prayers are sprinkled with “I”s and “me.” And I really don't think there's anything wrong with that.

If prayer is, as one pastor says, being exactly who you are before God, that includes me and God. But what does it mean this morning that the disciples don't ask, “Teach me to pray?” They say, “Teach us to pray.” Teach us to pray.

It is as if they understand that this whole prayer thing is not just personal—it's communal. They've seen Jesus praying quite a bit in the Gospel of Luke. He prays before his baptism in Luke 3. He prays after cleansing a leper in Luke 5. He prays before he calls his disciples in Luke 6, going up to a mountain. And he prays before his transfiguration in Luke 9.

So it's not surprising that after watching their rabbi pray and pray and pray, they notice this rhythm and they ask Jesus, “Teach us how to pray. We don't get it.”

Jesus offers them a pretty simple instruction manual:

“When you pray, say,
‘Father, may your name be revered as holy.
May your kingdom come.
Give us each our daily bread.
And forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us.
And do not bring us to the time of trial.’”

Pastor and professor Jennifer Wyatt notes that in his answer, Jesus offers four requests: a request for the kingdom to come, a request for daily bread, a request for forgiveness, and a request for deliverance.

In other words, in this prayer, Jesus summarizes all of the things that we need most when we come to God together: God’s presence, our needs met, forgiveness, and mercy.

God's presence, our needs met, forgiveness, and mercy.

And so in my mind, for me, it boils down to: presence, bread, forgiveness, and mercy. Say it with me: presence, bread, forgiveness, and mercy.

This is more than a prayer, though. Jesus is not only teaching them what to say. He is teaching them a life—how to live before our God.

And how does Jesus address God in this prayer? Not as someone far away, but as a father.

And if that doesn't resonate with you as a parent, isn't that so nice—that Jesus invites the disciples as a group to remember that their relationship with the one who listens is personal? That the God in scripture is one who is intimate and sacred and a trusted authority—and personal. Personal. Not a relationship centered on fear, but on love.

What I resonate most with is that the Lord's Prayer does not contain the word “I” anywhere in it.

In other words, this is not a prayer that we are meant to pray alone. We've got other prayers that we can pray that way. Meaning that where two or more are gathered, we are encouraged to remember our life together.

Presence, bread, forgiveness, and mercy.

We pray the Lord's Prayer every Sunday—whether we use trespasses or sins or debts, or kingdom or kin-dom, or Father or Creator—not as this mindless recitation, but as a collective pleading to a sacred God.

It is no coincidence that we pray this every week. In Luke's gospel, the Lord's Prayer says “us” four times and “me” zero times.

What matters is that this isn't a “me” prayer—it's an “us” prayer.

It's a promise to each other and to God that we want God's kingdom to come. We want our bread—not just for us in this room—but for every person on earth, from Gaza to Green Hills down the street.

We want God's will—not our will—to be done. We want forgiveness for the ways that we as a community have failed to show up and bring the kingdom of heaven here on earth. We want God's mercy and deliverance. We want to forgive others too—together, as a community.

When we think about church—when we think about this service—it’s important to be reminded that our worship is not sprinkled with prayer. It is centered on prayer.

We open worship with prayer. We follow our sermons with prayer for the people. We pray for the offering we give. We pray for the bread that we break. And we pray the Lord’s Prayer.

Not one, two, three, or four—five prayers. That’s a lot of praying. And it’s not a coincidence. And it’s not fluff. We include these prayers because we understand as a church that gathering means praying.

Gathering means praying.

And y’all—we don’t have one person say all the prayers. We have young and old, youth and elders, men and women, pastors and congregants. That’s for a reason.

I’m not good at praying by myself. I need you and you and you to pray with and for me. And if we only pray one day a week, let it be when we are together.

If we only think to lift up each other’s names or ask for forgiveness or remember those who don’t have enough bread in our world, let it be with the sinners and the saints who are sitting to our left and to our right.

Okay, but back to the passage.

So, the story that follows Jesus saying the Lord’s Prayer—which you probably picked up, the Luke version is different from the Mark version—the story that follows is so refreshing and relatable to me.

And I love when Jesus is kind of funny in his stories. And it goes like this:

Let’s say you’ve got a friend. Actually, let’s name him. Somebody give me a name.

Jose.

Jose. You shouldn’t have said yourself—I’m about to call you out.

Jose. Say you’ve got a friend named Jose and you call Jose up at midnight: “Give me some bread. I’ve got a buddy who just got into town and I looked in the fridge and the pantry—I don’t have any food for him.”

Jose is like, “Don’t bother me. My door is locked. My children are asleep. I’m about to hang up the phone on you. I can’t get up and give you anything.”

Jesus says even though Jose is not going to get out of bed, at least because of his persistence, he’s going to get up and get out of bed and give you what you need.

I love that. Because of his persistence—not necessarily because he wants to—but because he is persisting in the life and urgency and habits that God instills in him. He’s going to get up out of the bed. He’s going to unlock the door. And he will give you the bread that you need.

Persistence in prayer.

Professor N.T. Wright says Jesus is kind of encouraging this holy boldness. Holy boldness. A sharp knocking at the door. An insistent asking. A search that refuses to give up. That’s what our prayer should be like.

This isn’t just a routine or a formal prayer going through the motions like daily or weekly tasks. This is a battle—a fight against darkness. And those who have glimpsed the light are called to struggle in prayer.

We don’t have to get it right. We struggle in prayer. We struggle for peace, for reconciliation, for wisdom, for a thousand things in the world—for the church, perhaps a hundred or two for one’s family, friends, neighbors—and perhaps a dozen or two for oneself.

And I know there are too many things to pray about. We become paralyzed by the enormity of “thoughts and prayers.”

Who has seen that on Twitter or heard it again and again these last few years?

We are asked to send out thoughts and prayers at an alarming rate and perhaps become callous to the ways that “thoughts and prayers” has been thrown around amidst senseless violence.

But prayers in church—hate to say it—are not optional. They are vital for our spiritual health.

And he says that they are like the metal shell of a car. To be effective, it needs fuel for its engine. To be effective, prayers need energy, too. In this case, the kind of dogged and even funny determination that you’d use with a sleepy friend like Jose, who you hoped would help you out of a tight spot.

Maybe church—maybe our prayers—are really just us shaking awake a sleeping Jesus, asking, searching, knocking with an annoying persistence because we believe in a loving God who might just be listening—who may not give us the results that we want, but whose door is always open to us.

One friend said to me, when asked, “Why do you pray?”

“Because prayer changes me. It may not change the outcome of what I desire, but prayer changes me.”

And we don’t have to say the right words. And we don’t have to say the same words. We just have to stay in relationship with the one who loves us mutually.

So this morning, as we sing the Lord’s Prayer in a minute, and as we speak the Lord’s Prayer in a few minutes, and as you hear Reverend Wesley and elders Kathy and Larry pray, consider that our role as a church—as a church—is to bang on that door over and over again.

Whether it’s clunky or messy or you’re already thinking about the next thing, we ask for presence, for bread, for forgiveness, for mercy—always. And we do it together.

Always.

Amen.

Everything is Theological

Sermon preached by Rev. Wesley King, July 20, 2025

My iPad is updating right now. As we wait on my iPad to update, would you join me in prayer this morning?

Gracious God, may the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart—and all of the beautiful hearts that are gathered here this morning—be acceptable in your sight. In the name of your Son, we pray. Amen.

Friends, it is good to see you.

This past week, I spent a full seven days in Memphis, Tennessee, for the General Assembly of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), which is—if you don't know—the denomination that Vine Street belongs to. And it's one of those things that I look forward to with both excitement and dread every two years. Excitement, because there are always amazing preachers, amazing worship, amazing music, workshops, and the chance to see so many people—friends and colleagues that I rarely get to see. And dread, because it is a long time. It is early mornings, long days, and often late nights. And while it can be so invigorating and life-giving, it is draining. So, I was happy to come home on Wednesday.

This year was kind of bittersweet because we recently changed our governing document so that we will no longer meet every other year—we will now meet every three years. And though we don't know what it will look like in three years’ time, it was still a good time together. It was amazing to see people that I love and adore, a church that I believe in, and to see how the Spirit is moving despite how sobering our world—or the news—can be sometimes.

This year, I did something I’ve never done before. I introduced a resolution to our General Assembly on behalf of the work that I do for our denomination—my day job. A resolution is kind of like a piece of legislation, though not mandatory. It announces the direction that the denomination is going. My resolution was GA-2515, opposing Project 2025 and other policies that are inconsistent with our commitment to justice, mercy, and compassion for our neighbors.

Signed onto this resolution were New Church Ministry (which is my day job), Open Hearts Gathering Christian Church in Charlotte, North Carolina, St. Andrew Christian Church in Olathe, Kansas, and Independence Boulevard Christian Church in Kansas City, Missouri. I spoke on the resolution in front of thousands of people, along with about six or so others. And when the vote was called, the General Assembly of this denomination overwhelmingly voted in favor of adopting this resolution.

But this process unveiled two conversations that I think our text today supports—and that we, as a little "c" church (Vine Street), and as a big "C" Church, need to have.

The first conversation is this: when I floated the idea of this resolution in a Disciples clergy Facebook group back in January, I was asked, “Wouldn't it be better for us to just get involved in our community rather than working on a piece of paper that won't do anything?” And this person is not completely wrong.

These resolutions, as I mentioned, are not mandatory in our polity—which is a word that means how we govern ourselves. These resolutions do not force any Disciples congregations to believe, affirm, or follow them. In fact, you as an individual are not mandated to believe, affirm, or follow any of the resolutions that we adopt in our denomination. While it is an indication of where and how our denomination is moving in the world, we remain a big tent people who can and will disagree and still gather at the same table.

But I do want to have a conversation about this idea that it has to be either/or. This person had good intentions. Responding to the policies of Project 2025 will immediately affect our neighbors. And I've been having this conversation a lot, actually. But I believe that it has to be both—both the immediacy of need and the longevity of change.

And this is the example I often give: each fall and winter, our church—along with many, many others—participates in Room in the Inn. This amazing ministry seeks to take individuals experiencing homelessness off the street for a night, give them a warm meal, a place to take a shower, and a warm and safe place to sleep. The next morning, we drop them off back wherever they would like to go. Vine Street participates in this wonderful ministry, and it’s a beautiful way to care for our neighbors. If you're interested in helping out with this, speak to Lydia Grub—I know she’d be happy to talk with you about it.

But I want to suggest that it can’t just be the immediacy of need without the longevity of change. If we feed, clothe, and provide shelter for these folks, but never work with the city or other charities or the state or federal government to eradicate homelessness, then we are just putting Band-Aids over bullet holes. It’s charity, yes—but it’s not justice.

Similarly, if we’re only working toward long-lasting systemic change and not meeting the immediate needs of our neighbors, that isn’t justice either. We can't tell our neighbors who need a meal, a shower, a roof tonight to “come back later—we’re instituting a three-year strategic plan to end homelessness.”

So, I felt that it was important for our denomination to name and publicly oppose Project 2025—to call it out for what it is: policy violence. But we also named that, while this was a first step, it was not—and could not be—the final step. The end of the resolution reads as follows:

“Whereas the church has historically addressed policies and agendas of multiple administrations in a nonpartisan manner:

Therefore, be it resolved that the 2025 General Assembly of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) in the U.S. and Canada, meeting in July of 2025 in Memphis, Tennessee, declares that Project 2025 is inconsistent with how we have discerned our call to follow Jesus Christ in our world—in word and deed, through prayer, and through the reading of scripture.

Be it further resolved that we encourage the General Assembly and all members of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) to get involved in local justice organizations, who will undoubtedly need our help in countering this document.

And be it further resolved that we call on Disciples of Christ—regardless of political affiliation—to be vigilant in opposing the policies listed in this document at the federal, state, and local level.

And finally, be it resolved that we call on Disciples to put their faith into action, to fight for justice for all of God’s children, and to stay steadfast in our mission to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God.”

The second conversation is this: there was some opposition to my resolution—and that’s okay. Some said they didn’t think it was necessary because we had already made resolutions committed to justice, mercy, and compassion for our neighbors. And we have. They felt that naming Project 2025 was too political. Similarly, some folks didn’t think the resolution went far enough—and that’s okay too.

Disagreement is okay.

We Disciples, as I mentioned, consider ourselves a “big tent” people, meaning that we acknowledge that we will not always agree—and we acknowledge that that is okay. I shared with those who spoke to me and opposed this resolution that my end goal is not to be political. My end goal is not to admonish any political party or presidential administration. My end goal is to love, care for, and protect our neighbors—especially the most vulnerable among us.

I have always believed, unfortunately, that everything is political, because policies affect us and our neighbors. And thus, we are—like it or not—thrust into the political arena in order to love, care for, and protect those Jesus calls us to protect.

The problem is that when we say “politics,” most people hear “partisan.” But our end goal is theological—not partisan. Likewise, we are not disillusioned into thinking that any political party, always and without fail, has our best interests at heart.

One colleague at General Assembly this week reframed it for me this way. She said that in her mind, nothing is political—instead, everything is theological. She went on to say that she doesn’t oppose the reconciliation bill because it was introduced by a Republican. She opposes it because the Bible teaches us to care for the poor, the sick, the immigrant, the vulnerable—the very people this bill will disparage and disenfranchise. Likewise, she did not hold her tongue about the injustices happening to the people in Gaza while the former administration looked the other way, just because they happened to be a Democratic administration.

Our end goal is—and must be—the livelihood of our neighbors, those we are called to love as much as we love ourselves.

Later this morning, you’ll hear from Brian Zelic, an organizer for NOAH. NOAH stands for Nashville Organized for Action and Hope. NOAH is committed to things affecting our community—like affordable housing and transportation—things that affect our neighbors because they are instituted through policy. His work, though nonpartisan, is political. But NOAH’s end goal is theological: a community in which everyone has what they need to live the abundant life that God has called them to.

If you're interested in learning more about NOAH—and again, you are not committing to anything, you're just learning—we will have refreshments following the service in the South Meeting Room. Brian will be expanding upon his work with NOAH and how we at Vine Street might get involved. I hope you’ll join us.

But we aren’t doing this or talking about this because it’s trendy or because it’s hip. We’re doing it because we have been called by the prophets of old to do this work.

Our text today gives a prominent description of Israel’s economic sins. One commentary said this: “Like Jesus’s God, Amos’s God is a God of justice—a God who sides with the poor when no one else comes to their aid. This God refuses to do nothing while those in need suffer deeply—even if it means the death of Israel. God will take action against those who will harm the least of these.”

If you haven’t picked up on it, hospitality is huge in the biblical narrative. And I don’t mean how we understand the word hospitality—a warm welcome, refreshments, swag bags full of stuff that will live in your junk drawer until the end of time. I mean biblical hospitality: welcoming the stranger, like Abraham’s hospitality to the three strangers in Genesis 18; or sacrificing your own resources for others, like Rebekah’s hospitality in Genesis 24 or the widow of Zarephath in 1 Kings 17.

Likewise, God often, in the Hebrew Bible, destroys—or threatens to destroy—entire communities because of their lack of hospitality. Despite what the street preachers may say, Ezekiel 16:49 says that the actual sin of Sodom and Gomorrah was their lack of hospitality—their violence toward the stranger and their greed over all else. God sends Jonah to Nineveh to warn them about their inhospitality and violence, and thankfully, they listen before it becomes too late.

In these stories, people tend to focus on the wrath of God. But I think it’s more important to focus on how much importance God places on hospitality—biblical hospitality. How we treat the stranger among us, the ones society has cast out, and how we give of ourselves for the betterment of others.

In verse 6, Amos accuses the powerful and the affluent of his day of bullying the poor for silver and the needy for a pair of sandals. In our day and age, “silver coins” might translate to tax cuts. A “pair of sandals” might translate to a $1 trillion requested military budget—meanwhile cutting SNAP for 42 million people and Medicaid for 71 million people.

I mentioned that we had amazing music and worship at General Assembly. We had amazing speakers, including the Rev. Dr. Bernice King, the daughter of the late Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. We had amazing fellowship, workshops, and business meetings.

But what I’m most proud of from our time in Memphis is when we—Pastor Margie and I—participated in a Moral Monday rally led by many of our denominational leaders, including the Rev. Dr. William Barber II. All to bring attention to how this reconciliation bill will harm the most vulnerable among us.

That means we left our beautifully air-conditioned convention center to march and rally for our neighbors in the very, very hot streets of Memphis—outside the walls of the temporary church we had designated. Calling attention to policy that will harm the very people Jesus calls us to care for, the very people Paul calls us to care for, the very people the prophets of old—Amos, Micah, Jeremiah—call us to care for.

And I know I keep bringing up the reconciliation bill because I know how dangerous it is. But if we think that this policy violence doesn’t really affect us, doesn’t really affect the middle class—think again.

As many have pointed out to me: yes, the bill includes some good things, like the new tax deduction for tips and overtime pay for workers making less than $150,000. And that does sound good—except that it’s capped at $25,000 each, and it expires in 2028. Meanwhile, the tax cuts for the wealthiest people in this nation, established back in 2017, are now extended permanently.

If you’re wondering what this has to do with our text—or what this has to do with God—I think it’s important to note that in our text today, while God is calling out Israel for their economic sins through the prophetic voice of Amos, they’re still having church. They’re still praising God. They’re still attending temple. They’re still following the law—all the while letting their neighbors suffer.

Meaning: they were having church, but they were not being church.

God says in verse 10, “I will turn your feasts into mourning and all of your songs into lamentation.”

I love gathering with you all every Sunday. Gathering in this beautiful space, seeing your lovely faces, hearing the beautiful words and melodies shared in this space. But unless we are being the church out there—we are not honoring God.

It has to be both.

One commentary said this: “Amos’s words continue to shape our personal identity. Amos calls each of us to expose injustice. For when we do so, we become beacons of hope for those caught in the web of violence, pain, and suffering.”

I know in my heart of hearts that this church is ready to burst at the seams with the potential to respond to this world of hate and suffering with the God of love and abundance. I see it in our history—in the ways that this church made it known in the 60s that any and everyone is welcome at the table, regardless of race, and thus is welcome at Vine Street Christian Church.

I see it in our present—in the ways this body of Christ responds to need and injustice in our community through Room in the Inn, through the community grants, through the school drive at West End Middle School, and potentially through NOAH, and so many other ways I don’t even have time to list.

I’m going to end this morning by asking you to grab your bulletin. And I want us to read our prayer that we heard earlier—but I want us to read it responsively, as one body. We do this to recommit ourselves to the work of God, the work of justice, and the work of being church outside of these walls.

We read together:

God of justice, we confess to you today that we have trampled on the needy, choosing greed.
We confess that we have brought ruin to the poor of the land, neglecting many parts of your creation.
We confess that far too often we choose busyness over the gift of your loving presence.
We mourn the harm we have caused—knowingly and unknowingly, individually and collectively.
We ask your forgiveness to envelop us, inspiring us to make amends with ourselves and with others.
Help us better love you by loving all of your creation. Amen.

Friends, may it be so. And may we make it so—with our living and with our loving.

Amen.

Won't You Be My Neighbor

Sermon Preached by Rev. Jack Snellgrove on Sunday, July 13, 2025

Here is your cleaned-up transcript with corrected spelling and grammar. No summarization or editorializing has been added, per your request:

Thank you. It's good to be here. I am one of you, and Lana and I are grateful to be here and appreciate you so much. The text today that I'm focusing on is the parable of the Good Samaritan, and the text that you read is a good prelude for that, as it speaks about hospitality.

But just let me share with you the essence of the parable. A lawyer that was among the crowd asked Jesus—after he had asked what was the greatest commandment. And Jesus said to him, as Jesus’s teaching mode is, “What does the law say?” And the lawyer said, “It's love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength.” And Jesus said, “That's right. Do this and you will live.” And then the scripture says, “The lawyer, seeking to justify himself, said to Jesus, ‘Who’s my neighbor?’”

And Jesus then tells a parable. He says, “There was a certain man who was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell among robbers and thieves. They beat him, stripped him of his clothes, stole what he had, and left him half dead”—paraphrased, lying in a ditch. Along came a priest, a member of the Jewish royal order, who saw the man lying beside the road and passed on by. Next came a Levite, one who is vested in the law of the Torah. He looked and saw the man and passed on by.

Then came a Samaritan. And what we need to know here is the Samaritan is considered an enemy to the Jewish. Along came a Samaritan, and the Samaritan looked and saw the man, and he took him and bound up his wounds. He placed him on his donkey and took him to a nearby inn, cared for him, and then told the innkeeper—after having given him two denarii, which is two days’ wages—“Take this and provide for his needs, and if there is more needed, I will repay you when I return.”

At the conclusion of the parable, Jesus said, “Who was the neighbor?” And the young lawyer said, “The one who showed mercy and compassion.” And Jesus said, “Go and do likewise.” Now, that's the text for today.

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.
A beautiful day for a neighbor.
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
It’s a neighborly day in this beauty wood,
A neighborly day for a beauty.
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?

I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you.
I've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you.
So, let's make the most of this beautiful day.
Since we're together, we might as well say,
“Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won’t you be my neighbor?
Won’t you please?
Won’t you please?
Please, please, won’t you be my neighbor?”

My apologies to Mr. Rogers. I started to bring my chair and change my shoes and put on that sweater, but I thought that might be a little too much.

Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood is the show that educated me as I watched it with my children growing up. The lyrics make the point of trying to define who is a neighbor. A neighbor is not only about location, but being a neighbor is defined by what we do and who is the person in need.

As a young boy—preschool—I knew who my neighbors were. There was Mr. and Mrs. McNair; they lived next door to our left. And then there were Verdice and Nell Hydrickch. No, no, no—I'm sorry. My memory. I have senior moments now and then. Mr. and Mrs. McNair were on our left. They were an older couple—somewhere in their 50s. And then Verdice and Nell Hydrickch lived on our right. They had three kids: Claude, Jean, and Patty. Claude was the oldest, then Jean, then Patty. They were our neighbors.

And so, when my Sunday school teacher talked about loving my neighbor and being a good neighbor, I knew exactly what she meant: love the McNairs and love the Hydrickches. And I did that.

People that lived far away, perhaps in foreign countries, were my neighbors too. But they were to be treated as if, my Sunday school teacher said, as if they lived next door. It was for these neighbors—the ones that lived far, far away—that I put my pennies and nickels and dimes in this little box shaped like a church. And I would bring those three or four times a year, and we would give them so that it could feed the poor in our world.

I also learned—that’s when I knew that we were not poor—because they never gave the box back to me. So that was good to know. I gave our offering to these neighbors. And there was another group of neighbors that I brought food from our pantry to help—those that didn’t have food. I brought the ones that said “spinach.” Yeah. Kids have marvelous ways of getting rid of things in the pantry that they don’t like.

But I brought canned goods and things that we could give to those that were in need. And these were our neighbors also. In my mind, these were church neighbors—neighbors defined by the church. I never met them. Sometimes there would be pictures, and I could see pictures and say, “Oh, that’s what my neighbor looks like.”

I did think it was strange, though, that in our church’s neighborhood, where the building was located—a Black community and church were right outside our back door. I would suspect they were neighbors. And yet, our church—we never did anything for them as a congregation, even though they were next door. I always visited with the McNairs and the Hydrickches, and we were always borrowing sugar, flour, and milk from one another as we needed it. And yet with our Black neighbors next door at church, we never shared anything, at least that I knew about. We didn’t even share conversations.

I was confused. But after all, this was the South, and I was just a kid. Adults knew better than I did. So I just accepted that this was how adults—and my church—defined what it means to be a neighbor. But that was then.

Then I was a child, sitting in Miss Bertha’s Sunday school class, singing Jesus Loves Me and Jesus Loves the Little Children of the World. My Sunday school teachers and my preacher instructed me as to who is my neighbor. But now, as an adult—now, as an adult—I take my cue for who is my neighbor from the teachings of Jesus. I now understand that “neighbor” is defined by my actions and not solely by a person’s location.

So when Mr. Rogers sings, “Won’t you be my neighbor?” he’s asking me to enter into a relationship wherein we treat each other with kindness and generosity. That’s what it means to be a neighbor.

Now, all of this brings us to the teachings Jesus regarded. Whenever he was asked, “Who is my neighbor?” he told the parable that I told you. Let me be clear: I’ve preached on this text for almost 50 years. And in each sermon, I try to get at the heart of the teaching. But as I approach the text today—as I have often done—I feel that I missed some of the points of the parable. So my sermon is a confession of what I missed. It doesn’t take away from what I said previously—I think I was okay. You know, it was okay. But today, I come with new eyes.

For instance, I have, for the most part, given the lawyer in the text a hard time. I read the word tested—that the lawyer tested Jesus—I read it in a negative way. I understood that the lawyer was trying to trick Jesus into making a mistake, saying something that would lead people to disrespect him or possibly get him on the wrong side of Jewish law.

I also understood the phrase seeking to justify himself as a phrase that meant he wanted to validate his point of view, his knowledge, and demonstrate how much smarter he was than Jesus—or to take himself off the spot. That was then. That’s how I preached that sermon all through my ministry.

But today, I want to give the lawyer credit for seeking clarity—clarity in Who is my neighbor? Because I say this because I find myself asking the question, Who is my neighbor? I still find myself asking the church for clarity: Who is my neighbor?

The events of last week have impacted me as I sought to understand this parable’s impact upon the lives of individuals and communities and our nation.

The events I reference are the massive flood of the Guadalupe River in southern Texas. The rapidly rising waters of the river—they say 22 feet in two hours—destroyed property and killed over a hundred people, many of whom were little girls from a Christian camp called Mystic Camp. And from the pictures and reports I’ve seen and heard, this was a horrific tragedy, leaving the surrounding communities devastated.

The grief is overwhelming for neighbors who knew someone who was killed or suffered the ravages of the storm. The New York Times reported on many celebrities who journeyed to southern Texas to the site, offering help. And besides the physical help, there was also the pouring out of funds to give aid to those who were suffering loss. The response was, according to The Times, so great that local community people pleaded with those providing help to please, please work with the established relief agencies in order to coordinate the efforts.

Truly, truly, mercy and compassion were demonstrated toward those who were—and who are—suffering. Lots of neighboring going on.

Immediately—listen to this—immediately, Mexico, who’s not always been in our good graces lately, right, with the administration? Mexico, under the leadership of President Claudia Sheinbaum Pardo, rushed to provide help and assistance to the ravaged area. President Trump and First Lady Melania visited Kerrville, Texas on Friday. They toured the area and met with families affected by the tragedy, as well as many volunteers working in rescue operations. Fox News reported extensively on the many residents that praised the president for his concern and his compassion.

Being a good neighbor was the defining characteristic of so many people as they responded to this event.

But even as I anguished for the flood victims, I was also aware of the thousands of Gaza residents who are suffering from the ravages of war and face so many obstacles just to get meager relief supplies that are being offered. They grieve over 60,000 deaths, and yet much of the world—including our current administration—moves on as if they’re not there.

I also note that while our president was visiting Kerrville, his staff was hunting down immigrants across the nation, building prisons to house the thousands he intends to deport. He’s cutting Medicaid to the poor, refusing to fund SNAP, a government organization that provides food for the poor.

I thought to myself: if our president is a person of mercy and compassion, how could he and his administration not be a neighbor to the immigrant, the poor, and those who are suffering the abuse of war? That’s what I asked myself.

Defining who is my neighbor is a real question today. Perhaps I—and others—have been too hard on the lawyer in the text asking for clarity. Because I think a lot of folks are asking, Who is my neighbor? when they look at these actions.

When Lana and I retired in 2008, we eventually moved to a community located on the Savannah River about 40 miles north of Augusta, Georgia, in a community in South Carolina—McCormick, South Carolina. And in the absence of having a Christian Church nearby, we started attending a community church.

Well, about four or five years ago, this community church’s denomination had a General Assembly—much like what’s going on at the General Assembly in Memphis. And a resolution was passed by the denominational assembly that they would be a sanctuary church. That means that if there were any alien—any immigrants, legal or illegal—that sought help and relief, they would reach out in mercy and compassion.

Immediately, the congregation became divided in half. And after a vote, half of the people left that congregation, saying, “We will not be a part of a congregation that breaks the law.”

What law? Who is my neighbor? Split this faith community. And it’s splitting our nation and this community.

We have friends who are part of the United Methodist Church, and they’re living in the aftermath of a split—a major split—over whether same-sex couples can be married in the church, and whether a pastor or minister can be in a gay or lesbian lifestyle.

Who is my neighbor? If the foundation of the law of God is to love God with everything I am—heart, mind, soul, and strength—and to love my neighbor as myself, then I think the lawyer has a valid question when he asks Jesus, “Who is my neighbor?”

And Jesus answers his question with the parable that I told you. And we immediately know the answer—it’s the same one the lawyer gave. Who is my neighbor? The one who showed mercy and compassion. That’s our definition.

Loving my neighbor as myself requires me to see myself in their place and act in ways that I would want someone to act toward me. If I and my family are running away from an oppressive government wherein my life and the life of my family is in danger, how would I want a congregation to treat me? If I had to enter the country illegally, putting ourselves in the place of others is the act of being a neighbor.

I can understand the lawyer, after hearing the parable, saying to Jesus, “Sorry, that’s not who I am.” And we have a lot of folks saying that today: Sorry, that’s not my neighbor. Our administration is saying that—our current administration. The people in southern Texas are our neighbor. But the immigrant community, the poor, those that are not like us—they’re not our neighbor.

I loved the church of my childhood. I respected the Sunday school teachers, the preachers, the elders, the deacons, the leaders. I treasure my childhood. But that time is gone. We can no longer isolate ourselves geographically or racially or according to our economics. If we are truly to be Christians, we have to be able to see people as our neighbor.

The church of my childhood was too small. When we moved to Murfreesboro, I had lots of folks asking us to come join them in their congregation. And of course, being a real Disciple—a real Disciple—I simply said, “Well, thank you very much. We’re looking for a church that is accepting of all people.” And they said, “Oh, we accept everybody.” I said, “Oh, your table is open to everyone?” “Oh yeah, our table is open to everyone.” And I said, “Well, LGBTQ+—are they welcome?” And there was a silence. All did not mean all.

And so we found our way to Pine Street. Praise the Lord. Where all means all. And we define neighbor to our community as being those who display mercy and compassion. And that’s our defining characteristic as a community of faith.

So, who’s your neighbor? Who’s your neighbor?

If we had time, I’d ask us to break into small groups and tell stories about who’s our neighbor—but we don’t. But maybe we could do that at a fellowship dinner sometime. I’d love to hear your story about who’s your neighbor. I got lots of them.

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.
A beautiful day for a neighbor.
Won’t you be mine?

Amen.

Witness at the End of the World

Sermon preached by Rev. Brittany Paschall on Sunday, July 6, 2025

Beloved, it is an honor to be with you here at Divine Street Christian Church, a place that has long been a Jordan stream of justice and love and mercy. I take a moment of personal privilege to acknowledge the invitation extended by your beloved Reverend Margie, who has been a longtime friend and has long been on the battlefield for justice and peace—a co-laborer in the world that we long to see come.

I greet you first in the spirit of the God who animates our very breath and being through the liberating love of our savior Jesus the Christ, carried by the Spirit. I acknowledge my ancestors as I step into this sermonic moment—many who are now across the Jordan witnessing to me. I speak the names of my grandparents: The Reverend Dr. Julia A. Pascal, Elder Samuel Aken Tolbert, Sarah Elizabeth Jamaima Red Tolbert, Doris Jean Pascal. I offer gratitude for the beloveds who have joined me here today—most especially my mama and my daddy.

And now we move to the preaching moment. Think with me about the topic: Witnessing at the End of the World.

Let us pray.

Holy One, I am your woman and this is your word. I, like the first woman to carry your gospel, meet you in awe and terror. And while I want to cling, you send me forward to preach your word. Help me. This I pray.

And now, may the meditations of my heart and the words of my mouth be pleasing and acceptable in your sight. God, you are my strength and my redeemer. Amen.

I must admit, beloved, that I am moved by each of the lectionary texts this week. I began this sermon in the aftermath of a week filled with news of war, and I finished it nestled in the woods of unceded Cherokee, Shawnee, and Choctaw land, where I had the privilege to steward sacred space and retreat over the last several days.

In many ways, the last few days and years of my own life have been devoted to receiving and calling in my own healing and that of others—reorienting myself to a God that indeed nurses me, bearing and sharing the burdens of beloved community, and attempting to witness to a world when the world, and sometimes my world, falls before my eyes.

And while each of the texts—from the histogram of the healing of Naaman in 2 Kings to the imagery of God as a nursing mother, all the way to the call of Galatians to bear each other’s burdens—each call us into wholeness. Each reminds us of it. Even our Gospel text this morning calls us to witness.

And this call to witness, it stirs questions in me. Honest questions. Deep questions.

Is it that our miraculous healings, even in the midst of our own resistance, call us to witness? Must we now, like Naaman, testify to what God did for us in the water? Is it that a mothering God nurses and nourishes us in part for the purpose of becoming those who nourish and nurture a broken world with the holy substance and sustenance of liberation, peace, and justice?

Are our personal experiences of a God who has a womb not enough to give us the insight to make our own muscles strong enough to birth and sustain movements? Is my neighbor’s and my sisters’ and siblings’ bearing of my burdens as much a comfort as it is a call?

Beloved, I do believe so. Beloved, I concur that it is time that we witness at the end of the world.

Our text today not only commissions but models what witnessing at the end of the world will require of us. We arrive here at today's text by way of Jesus’s commissioning of some seventy—or seventy-two, according to some ancient manuscripts—disciples. Jesus gives them clear instructions, advising them to travel light, offer peace, stay where offered sanctuary, and heal the sick. He also advises them to move on from places where they are not welcome, shaking the dust off—which is for another sermon.

They are told that they are not simply impersonating Jesus, but that whoever listens to them hears him.

At face value, the text this morning appears to be a beautiful commissioning, counseling, and comforting of those who follow after Jesus—which it is. But just as we contextualize the what and the how of the text, the where and under what circumstances it takes place begs to be glanced at.

It is important to note that when I speak of worlds ending, it is as much rooted in my ability and necessity to imagine a new world as it is to name that many of the worlds we are subjected to and subjugated in are not sustainable. Jesus sends those commissioned into worlds that need to end. He sends them into a world that is trembling under empire—a world of occupied lands, spiritual unrest, and social division.

It is a place where power is violent, hospitality is uncertain, and truth is often met with rejection. The harvest is plentiful, yes—but the wolves are real also, and the work is dangerous. A world not unlike our world today in many ways.

This is to say that the disciples are sent out into a world that is at least on fire, if not ending and beginning again, dependent upon their witness.

Witnessing at the end of the world requires embodied joy, vision for the unseen spiritual battle, courageous engagement with the serpents of evil, and rootedness in the eternal kingdom, where our names are written and we are held.

When we look to embody joy, we look to Luke the 10th chapter and the 17th verse: “The seventy returned with joy, saying, ‘Lord, in your name even the demons submit to us.’” The seventy-two returned with joy after mission and risk.

In January of 2019, I was sitting in The Well coffeehouse with a friend. I was writing communications for a campaign we were running for the final push for the clemency of Cyntoia Brown Long. We had joined a years-long fight—one that spanned faith communities and crossed party lines. A fight carried by organizers and survivors and lawyers and elders and artists and a few clergy that wanted to be on the right side—but, more importantly, by everyday people.

We were deep in this final push, unsure of what the outcome would be, but grounded in our commitment to justice. In the middle of drafting this press release, this update, I got a text from a comrade—now a state legislator—that simply read, “Congratulations.” I was confused at first. “Congratulations for what? We had not won.” It still looked bleak. I was unsure what she meant.

She had received the word before we had. Clemency had been granted.

I opened my browser, searched for confirmation. I needed to see it on three reliable news sources. And when I saw it with my own eyes, I stood up from that table and took a lap around the coffee shop.

That was embodied joy.

Embodied joy is not just the lap I took. It is the stillness in the in-between. It is the quiet warmth of a hot tea in your hand when you don't know if the thing that you are fighting for will ever come to pass. It is the weariness of my body and the fire that still lives underneath.

Embodied joy, beloved, is what happens when the mission takes root in you.

And so I understand in my own small way what it must have felt like when the seventy returned to Jesus. They were not just reporting their success. They were testifying to the joy that lived in them because they had gone, because they had trusted, because they had shown up to witness.

Anyway, joy in this text is not a reward. It is not a sign of comfort or ease. It is a sign that the witness is alive. Joy is what the body does when it has risked itself for something holy.

The first thing witnessing at the end of the world requires is not power, beloved. It is not strategy, and most certainly is not certainty—but joy. Joy that breathes, joy that testifies, joy that takes up space in your own body.

And now what else does witnessing at the end of the world require?

Witnessing at the end of the world requires vision for the fall. The text says in Luke 10:18, “I watched Satan fall from heaven like a flash of lightning.” Jesus reminds the seventy that there is spiritual battle unfolding beyond what most can see.

The fall of Satan is a cosmic event. The fall of empire is a cosmic event—a sign that the powers of evil are already defeated even as they rage in the world.

You see, this unseen battle is happening alongside the visible struggles—the wars, the injustice, the division, and the oppression that we understand in our natural being. In my own life, I have required this vision of the fall. It is a vision that has helped me hold hope amid chaos. During times of global unrest and personal crisis, I remind myself that what we see—the broken systems, the pain—is not the final word.

As I wait for my roommates to come home from occupations and protest, as I wait to know if my classmates’ loved ones made it through the night in a war-torn country, there is a spiritual reality at work—one that invites us into participation in the healing and renewal. And if we have this vision, it gives us the courage to walk into the world, to witness in the world’s chaos without despair, knowing that God’s justice is breaking through even when the news is overwhelming.

Beloved, will you open your eyes to the unseen battle? Will you trust that God is at work beyond what you can see? Will you carry the vision for the fall of empire so that your feet remain steady and your hearts hopeful?

Beloved, you must not only carry this vision, but you must take on the serpents. Luke 10:19 says, “Indeed, I have given you the authority to tread on snakes and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy, and nothing will hurt you.”

You see, beloved, this is not a gentle invitation. Jesus tells the seventy—and us—that there are real dangers out there and in here. Snakes and scorpions, symbols of evil and threat, particularly in Western theology, will cross our path. We are not called to avoid them or to pretend that they do not exist. We are called to walk through their territory with authority.

But the serpents—the serpents that Jesus names—are not only outside of us. They live inside of us, too. In our shadows, in our shame, and in our fears, the serpents, the scorpions live. In the parts of ourselves that systems have taught us to silence or shrink. The voice inside that says, “You are too much. You don’t belong.”

In my recent work teaching about nonviolent movements and spirituality, I have been moved by leaders like Pauli Murray, James Lawson, Grace Lee Boggs, and the Reverend Dr. Prathia Hall, who had a dream before King did—and how they have exemplified this very truth. They tread on serpents of empire, racism, and violence while wrestling with their own internal battles.

This was not easy. It is not easy. It required courage—spiritual courage—and steadfast faith. James Lawson, one of the great architects of nonviolent resistance, reminds us that the ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands—where they stand, where she stands—in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he, she, they stand at the times of challenge and controversy.

To witness at the end of the world is to stand exactly in those times of challenge—when the serpents hiss close and when the shadows tempt to silence us.

Jesus gives us authority not to dominate but to survive, resist, and thrive with courage grounded in truth and love. Our witness demands that we do this—firm enough to confront injustice and inner shadows, gentle enough to heal ourselves and others in the process.

Beloved, what serpents are in your path? What shadows whisper that you’re not enough? Jesus calls us to walk through with authority, with courage, and with Spirit as our guide. This is the witness we are called to embody.

After all the joy, however, all the battle with serpents, and all the visions of spiritual shifts, Jesus grounds the seventy—and us—in a profound truth. Luke 10:20 says, “Nevertheless, do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.”

Our ultimate joy and deepest security do not come from power, success, or even the victory over the serpents. It comes from being known and held by God, from our names being written in heaven.

This, beloved, is the foundation for a courageous witnessing at the end of the world. It is rootedness in a kingdom that transcends empires and even the storms that rage in our bodies and souls. It is a grounding in divine love that holds us steady when all else shakes.

For me, it is this rootedness that keeps me going—especially when the world feels and is overwhelming, and my own body weary. It is the quiet certainty that I am held, named, and beloved beyond all circumstances.

Maybe for you it is a prayer practice that centers you. Maybe it is the memory of ancestors who carried this witness before you. “I’ll be a witness for my Jesus,” they said. Maybe it’s the vision of healing and justice that reminds you of what kingdom looks like—or the eight-year-old that slept on my shoulder as I wrote parts of this sermon.

Beloved, we witness at the end of the world—the world as we have known it—trembling and breaking. We witness in the shadow of wars—the war in Ukraine, the endless conflicts in the Middle East, the struggle for survival in Syria, where bombs fall and families flee.

We witness in the floods and fires—Texas waters rising, LA being on fire, just like Octavia told us it would be. Homes swallowed by hurricanes, forests burning across continents, climate crises unrelenting.

We witness in the fight for rights—the fierce battles over bodily autonomy, the ongoing struggle for Black and Indigenous and queer liberation, the protest against systemic racism and state violence.

We witness as the old empires fall and the old money resists. We witness—sometimes suddenly, sometimes in slow motion—and a new world struggles to be born.

In this trembling, and in this breaking, in this fear, and in this hope—we are called to witness.

We witness at the end of the world because of our embodied joy.
We witness at the end of the world because our vision is clear.
We witness at the end of the world because we can take on serpents.
And we witness at the end of the world because of the Kingdom—

The Kingdom that will come when this, and as, and while this world ends.

The world is ending, beloved.
The world is ending, beloved.
The world is ending, beloved.

And the Kingdom is coming.
The Kingdom of God is coming.
The Kingdom of God is near.
The Kingdom of God is here.

Will you be a witness?
Will you be a witness?
Will you be a witness?

Will you stand, and sit, and tread over the serpents?
We will live into the hope that naming our names in heaven promises.

The answer is yes.
Because the Spirit goes before us.
Because we have been given authority.
Because joy is ours to embody.
Because love never lets us go.

And because, beloved, mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.

May it be so.

Amen.

A New Kind of Prescription

Sermon preached by Rev. Wesley King on June 22, 2025

I invite you to imagine with me—and if that means closing your eyes, I invite you to do that as well.

Imagine that you are in the year, or somewhere around the year, 50 AD. That is when our text for today is believed to have been written and distributed—50 AD, somewhere around there.

You have heard about this miraculous guy named Jesus and the way that he did things that others could not, and the way that he stood up to empire but was also punished and killed for it. You are intrigued, but you're also cautious. After all, you are still occupied by Rome, based in ancient Galatia—now modern-day Turkey. You have olive to brown skin and you have these dark features.

Life is bleak, but also you don't know anything else.

You hear that this guy named Paul, who's this big deal in the Jesus movement, wrote this letter to your group of friends in Galatia, who also are very intrigued by this guy named Jesus.

So ladies, you put on your best cotton or wool dress and you begin getting ready. Fellas, you also put on something that looks like a cotton or wool dress—it is the year 50 AD, after all—but you look great, and you head to this house church to hear from this guy named Paul.

You get to this house church, and everyone's being cautious because the government isn't too keen on people speaking up and speaking out. I know it's getting really hard for you to imagine these things, but you walk inside and you stand against the back of this house. This guy walks up and begins reading these words from this Paul guy to your group:

"Before faith came, we were guarded under the law, locked up until faith that was coming would be revealed, so that the law became our custodian until Christ, so that we might be made righteous by faith. But now that faith has come, we are no longer under a custodian. You are all God's children through faith in Christ Jesus. You all who are baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, nor slave nor free, nor male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus."

You are astonished, but also shocked by this message. Perhaps you are Jewish, and you've always heard things about those people who are Gentiles. What do you mean that we are somehow the same? Or maybe it was the other way around. Perhaps you are a free person, and now you hear that you are somehow the same as someone who is not free, and you don't understand how this could be. Or maybe you're a woman, and for the first time it enters your brain that perhaps you could be equal with the sex that has all of the power in society.

These words, depending on who you are in this imaginative story, could be empowering, could be disturbing, could be confusing, could be exciting, or even bewildering.

And who is this person that is bringing us together—this person that sees us beyond these earthly labels and sees us as one?

If your eyes are still closed, I invite you to open them now, bringing yourself back to 2025, in which some things have changed drastically and some things have not.

This week, I spent time at Georgetown University in Washington, D.C., attending the Center on Faith and Justice Summer Academy. And I got the full dorm experience that I never got when I was in undergrad—nor did I ever want.

I've been sleeping on a twin bed all week on a mattress—if you can call it that—living in a dorm that is musty and either too hot or too cold. I also didn't have any utensils to eat with in the dorm, so I'll give you an image. One night I had ordered takeout pad thai, and I'm sitting there in my bed, eating pad thai with my hands. It was not pretty. But it's the things that we do for the work.

Nevertheless, I was joined by people and faith leaders from all over the world—from the U.S., from Singapore, from South Korea and South Africa. Mainline Protestants, Catholics, Pentecostals, Evangelicals, and others. We were of different races and ethnicities. We had different grasps on the English language. We had different theology and different theological language.

And here I was, mulling over this text all week and seeing it lived out in real life. The labels that we gave ourselves—or that others gave us—did not matter, because we were all there to work for justice, specifically in the name of Jesus.

The executive director of the Center on Faith and Justice is a person by the name of Reverend Jim Wallace. Some of you might know who that is—you might be familiar with his work. He's a writer, a teacher, a preacher, and a justice advocate who believes that the gospel of Jesus must be emancipated from its cultural and political captivities.

I'm going to read that again because I feel like that's important: The gospel of Jesus must be emancipated from its cultural and political captivities.

Reverend Jim Wallace is a New York Times bestselling author, a public theologian, a preacher, and a commentator on ethics and public life.

At one point, Jim found out that myself and one other friend from the group were Disciples ministers, and he tells the groups, "These folks are part of the Disciples of Christ. They aren't Methodist. They aren't Presbyterian. They are Disciples of Christ." Sounds like a lot to live up to, doesn't it?

And he was obviously joking. But it did lead to a lot of conversations about who the Disciples are and why we call ourselves that. And since we have a couple of new faces in the room, I thought that it might be good to share a little bit with you this morning, too, in case you're not familiar.

Coming out of the Second Great Awakening, our founders Alexander Campbell and Barton Stone sought to return us to the early church, dropping labels like Baptist or Presbyterian and choosing to just call ourselves Christians or Disciples—thus the name of our very long denominational name: Christian Church (Disciples of Christ).

Now, that information alone will not get you an A on any Disciples history and polity class—but it is a start.

And perhaps you're starting to see how this is fitting into our text for today.

Our text is a wonderful glimpse into what the kingdom of God—or, as some people call it, the kin-dom of God—can be. And I'm sure that we've probably heard this text before, either from Galatians or from one of Paul's other letters. But today, I want to challenge you to think a little bit beyond this text.

Going back to our little imaginative story—imagine that you hear this letter from this guy named Paul, but then at some point you have to go home.

You, a woman, go back into a world in which you must depend greatly on a man—a husband or male figure—for safety and financial security and shelter.

Imagine that you, a slave, must go back into the world in which you are not the same as a free person. You must go back into the context in which you are indentured or owned.

Imagine that you are a Jew or a Gentile, and you must go back into a world that hyper-focuses on you based on where you're from, what you faithfully practice, or where you were just born to be.

These words shared by this man named Paul were nice in that moment, but they also felt distant and disillusioned. They felt delusional.

But also, as you go about your week, you continue to think about this man named Jesus, who is bringing people together—creating a world in which you aren't enslaved or treated differently because of your gender, or your status in society, or your religious beliefs, or where you were born.

You know that this world he is creating is not your current reality.

But what if it were?

How do we make this so?

How do I hear more?

I've got to go back and see if he's written any more letters to our group.

In the meantime, this dream that Paul shared of a world in which all people will be one in Christ—it sustains you. It encourages you. And it empowers you.

When Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. gave his speech "I Have a Dream" in 1963, he likely knew that he wouldn't live to see that dream fully realized. In fact, he was assassinated just five years after that speech.

And so, he never saw people of color rise and ascend to the highest offices in our land. He never saw that in large part, our schools are fully integrated, and that everyone has a protected right to vote.

Now, racism and systemic issues are still very prevalent in our world. But I think we can all agree that some progress has been made. And it was Dr. King's understanding of biblical text that allowed him to dream a better world and a better nation than the one that he had experienced.

Dr. King also said that we have guided missiles but misguided men. But that's for another sermon.

So what if this image of the kingdom of God found in Galatians isn't a description, but instead is a prescription for the kingdom of God—something that we must continuously work towards?

In our text today, Paul begins with this key component: that the law was our custodian. He writes, "Before faith came, we were guarded under the law, locked up until faith that was coming would be revealed, so that the law became our custodian until Christ, so that we might be made righteous by faith."

He's saying that Christ is our custodian. Now, the NRSV calls it our disciplinarian.

This means that, above all else, we are accountable to Christ.

Now, I'm not saying to hit 80 on two wheels when you leave the parking lot today because "Christ is my custodian, officer" will not get you out of a ticket.

But what I'm saying is that in realizing the kingdom of God, we are held accountable to Christ above all else.

Remember, Dr. King was a lawbreaker. He protested. He loitered. He disobeyed the police. He obstructed roadways. And he was arrested for it. And he eventually was killed for it.

Jesus was a lawbreaker. The law said to rest on the Sabbath—and he chose to heal on the Sabbath and break the law. The law said to stone those who were caught in adultery—but Jesus broke it by stopping them and asking, "Who is here without sin?" He broke the law. He was arrested. And he was killed for it.

But in doing so, he laid out a way of living that is higher than any human-made law. He laid out an example of living in which we are all held accountable to him—and him only—that we might be made righteous, as Paul said.

That person in our fictional story would have understood the clear injustices of their time. But whereas society told them that men and women had different rights and privileges, Jesus said, "Nope, they are the same."

Whereas society said that Jews and Gentiles had irreconcilable differences, Jesus said they are more alike than they even begin to understand.

Whereas society said that all people are indentured or owned, Jesus said, "No, you are all equal in my name."

And a lot has not changed, right?

In our day and age, when we hear society say that human beings are somehow legal or illegal, we know that Jesus says that cannot be. We are all children of God.

When we hear society say that these people are worthy and these people are not, we know that Jesus says that cannot be. We are all children of God.

When we hear society say that these people are valuable, but these people are not, we know that Jesus says that cannot be. We are all children of the same God.

But we can't just say it—we have to make it so.

I don't have to tell you that even as we read these beautiful words by Paul today, we still have injustices—based on our gender, or our status in society, or based on the identities, based on who we are, where we're from, who we love, and the list goes on and on.

But we aren't here to just do church as a hobby on Sunday. We have been called to bring the kingdom of God down to earth. To do justice and love mercy and walk humbly with God. To bring this vision that Paul had to fruition in whatever way we can—because we belong to each other.

So I ask the group today: Are we prepared to bring the kingdom of God to earth? "Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven."

My colleagues this week sure seemed prepared.

One couple was from South Africa, as I mentioned, and they shared how they had personally been beaten by the police and counterprotesters while protesting the apartheid in South Africa.

One colleague from Singapore—she was actually preparing to leave to go to Cambodia a little bit later this year as a missionary. She had been trained as a family physician and was taking her overt skills as a medical doctor to help the people of Cambodia—and was taking her covert skills to help them organize for justice in a country where even questioning authority or critiquing the government can get you jailed or even killed.

They are prepared to do what is necessary to ensure that in Christ, there is no male or female, there is no Jew nor Gentile, nor slave nor free—but that we are all one.

And if they can make these grave sacrifices, surely we can do something, right?

Surely we can speak up when something is happening to our neighbors—for Jesus says that we are the same.

Surely we can call our legislators when they are planning to cut Medicaid, which is something that 71 million Americans depend on—1.44 million Tennesseans, by the way. Or SNAP benefits, on which 42 million Americans depend—700,000 here in Tennessee. That's the size of the city of Nashville.

If they are willing to lay down their lives, quite literally, for the gospel—surely we can do something.

And I know it's so easy to feel alone. In fact, following the COVID-19 pandemic, we entered into what the CDC called a loneliness epidemic.

But friends, I'm here to remind you that we are never alone. We are never alone because God is with us. And even if we feel alone, I guarantee you that we all feel alone together.

I leave you with this poem by Rosemary Watola Traumer titled “Belonging.” I hope that these words speak to you. They are a secular poem, but I believe within the deepest part of my being that these are sacred words:

And if it's true that we are alone, we are alone together.
The way blades of grass are alone but exist as a field.
Sometimes I feel it—
The green fuse that ignites us,
The warm thrum that unites us,
The inner hum that reminds us of our shared humanity.
Just as 35 trillion red blood cells make up one body of blood,
Just as 136,000 notes make up one symphony,
Alone as we are,
Our small voices weave into one big conversation.
Our actions are essential to the one infinite story of what it is to be alive.
And when we feel alone,
We belong to the grand communion of those who sometimes also feel alone.
We are the dust—
The dust that hopes.
A rising of dust.
A thrill of dust.
The dust that dances in the light with all other dust—
The dust that makes the world.

Are we prepared to do the kingdom work here on earth?

I believe that we are.

So may it be so—but also may we make it so, with our loving and our living.

Amen.

Not Anymore

Sermon preached by Rev. Margie Quinn on June 15, 2025

Let's have a little fun, shall we? How many of you have read the book Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert? So, this is a book about an author who had just gone through a really nasty divorce, and she decided to go on a pilgrimage, let's call it, and she wanted to spend four months in Italy, four months in India, and four months in Indonesia. She wanted to go to Italy to experience the pleasure of food. And she wanted to go to India to an ashram to find God. And she wanted to go to Indonesia to achieve balance before coming back to the States with this renewed travel.

So she—I'm going to skip over Italy. She ate a bunch of spaghetti, right? Okay. So, she's full from her experience in Italy and she goes to India, and she shows up. Do y’all hear this? Is it annoying? Okay. Can I just take this off for now? Okay. Better. Okay. Okay. She just ate spaghetti. All right. She goes to India and she gets to the ashram and she's very excited about what's going to happen there, and she was sort of hoping for what she says is a dazzling encounter with God. Maybe something like blue lightning or prophetic vision.

She describes how she had been talking too much all of her life—cannot relate—and she didn't want to waste this great spiritual opportunity by being really social and chatty all the time. She says she hoped to become known as that quiet girl. She showed up and after a few days, the ashram gives everyone a role while they're staying there in residency. Maybe she hoped she could have a role in the garden, growing beautiful plants and picking fresh vegetables. Maybe she could be in the kitchen baking bread and, um, reveling in the wafting scent of that experience. Maybe she could do maintenance and just find holiness in sweeping and mopping. Or maybe she could be the quiet administrator answering emails behind the scenes.

But she gets to the desk of the staff member in charge of the roles, and the staff member looks at her and says, "We would like for you to be the key hostess. You will talk to and greet every single person who enters the ashram during their time on this retreat. You will be the holy conversationalist." Meaning she was going to have to talk a lot more.

And I always think about this story. It makes me laugh because despite Liz's best efforts to perform a task that was so different from her nature, she is thrown right into a role that suits her gifts. And she is quite literally called to speak.

I know y'all have heard this passage before—Jeremiah's call story. God is in need of a prophetic voice once again in the midst of loss and war and exile. And God picks a very young boy, perhaps about 10 years old, named Jeremiah to be that voice. The word of God comes to him, and Jeremiah is really reluctant to have anything to do with this whole being the divine orator for God thing.

So, in what I imagine is a really tender and parental way of delivering this news, maybe God kneels down and gets down to Jeremiah's level and looks him in the eyes and says, "Jeremiah, before I formed you in the womb, I knew you. Before you were born, I consecrated you. I appointed you a prophet of the nations." I just think God reveals so much to us in that really personal and intimate moment—that we are known personally and intrinsically by God. God who is and has been always forming us.

But to be appointed as a prophet of the nations—no pressure.

Jeremiah's response is a familiar one because it's the same response as Moses and Isaiah and Jonah—particularly Jonah, who waited in a whale for three days before deciding to pray and answer God's call. He resists it. He says, "Ah, God, truly I don't know how to speak, for I am only a boy. I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy."

How many of us have voiced these same fears?
I do not know how to, for I am only...
I do not know how to join the choir, for I'm only an okay singer. But do you take okay singers? Yeah, TJ's going, "Come on."
I do not know how to teach Sunday school, for I am only learning some of this stuff myself.
I do not know how to preach in church, for I am only a youth.
I do not know how to be an elder, for I'm only good at praying when I'm by myself.
I do not know how to march in a protest, for I am only one person. I am only just becoming aware of certain social issues.
I only have one hour.
I only think I should stay home and advocate for folks there.
I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.

Don't say that.
God responds, "Don't say that. Don't say that you are only this or that. You shall go to whom I send you. You shall speak to whom I command you. Don't be afraid of them, for I am with you. I will deliver you."

The word of the Lord isn't just heard by Jeremiah. It happens to him. God happens to Jeremiah in this event, this moment. Jeremiah doesn't choose God. God chooses Jeremiah. And not once has Jeremiah proved that he is qualified for this role, but God decided that he is. And God knows Jeremiah well enough to know that he's probably going to do everything in his power to resist. But God is a God who doesn't let Jeremiah slip away and go unnoticed. God has his back.

"I will send you where you need to go," God says. "I'll help you speak up even when your voice shakes. I will be with you, Jeremiah. You don't have to do this alone." Which is a good thing because God basically calls Jeremiah to be a holy nuisance, a constant annoyance, a weeping prophet who begs the people to see the injustice around them and do something about it.

And people mocked him. And people laughed at him. They didn't want to hear from him. He even tried to remain silent in Jeremiah 20, which I'll read in a second. He tried to give up speaking, just like Liz did at the ashram. He says, "If I say I will not mention God or speak any more of God's name, if I try to be silent, there is this burning fire within me shut up in my bones, and I'm weary from holding it in, and I can't."

The spirit of God is so strong in Jeremiah that when he tries to silence his calling, he feels like there is a fire in his bones that he cannot shut down—that is waiting to breathe out of him. That the word of the Lord has chosen Jeremiah's lips to be anointed.

Have you ever experienced that, church? Trying to resist what God is so clearly calling you to do? Trying to be the quiet girl at the monastery when God is calling you to be the key hostess?

Now, I don't want y'all to think that we all need to go out and be a public speaker, but I deeply believe that every single one of us has gifts and each of us has a calling based on those gifts. Whether it's sports or art or cheer or organizing or teaching or marketing or parenting—and it's not so much what our calling is but what we are going to do once we have said yes to God.

Amen?

Will we quiet it down or will we let that fire burn?

"I can't, for I am only..."
That's not going to cut it, folks. Not now. Not now.

We have to move beyond our hesitations and reservations and listen for God's affirmation of our unique callings in this world.

We don't need to read these prophets as biblical superheroes. Jeremiah, as James Calvin Davis wrote, was the everyman's prophet. He showed that fear and anxiety and resistance and inadequacy and even resentment toward God are understandable reactions to the call to represent God in the world. And these feelings don't disqualify us from serving God's intentions. In fact, I think they make us a little more human, a little more relatable in our serving.

Church, I'm looking at a bunch of everyman's and every woman's prophets. Not superheroes, but people who are called by God.

And I'm wondering what happens when we just ditch the "I can'ts" and the "I'm onlys" for "I must" and "I definitely."

Jack read what happens after Jeremiah heeded the call in chapter 7. He stood outside of the temple of the church and he spoke of God's judgment—not because there was corruption necessarily happening in the temple, but—and I want y'all to listen here—because the temple was a place to hide after people had been corrupt in the public sphere, in public policy.

And Jeremiah says this from right outside of the gates to the temple. So he is on the outskirts of this group, both physically and socially. He says:

"If you want to amend your ways and your doings, you've got to truly act justly with one another. If you do not oppress the alien, if you do not oppress the orphan and the widow and shed innocent blood in this place, if you do not go after other gods to your own hurt, then I will dwell with you in this place, in the land that I gave to your ancestors forever and ever.

And here you are," Jeremiah says through God, "trusting in deceptive words to no avail. Will you steal and murder and commit adultery and swear falsely and make offerings to Baal and go after other gods that you don't even know and then come and stand before me in my house?

You'll feel that parenting coming through.
"Come and stand before me in my house, which is called by my name, and say, ‘We're safe,’ only then to go out and do more abominations. Has this house, which is called by my name, become a den of robbers to you?"

Who else talks about that?
It's the answer to every Sunday school question.
Jesus. Woo. Y'all better wake up.
"I am watching," says the Lord.

Strong, prophetic, bold words are spoken by the boy Jeremiah—words that convict me. Words that make me question what I am hiding from when I come here. What I am saying when I'm out there that I'm not willing to confront. And yet he threw away his "can'ts" and his "onlys" to preach a message of justice and fairness—particularly for the most vulnerable in his community—in the name of the Lord.

He couldn't. He was only a boy.
Not anymore.
We can't. We're only a small church in a southern city showing up, doing what we can.
Not anymore.

The Future of the Church...

Preached by Rev. Wesley King on June 8, 2025

Well, good morning, church.

Would you please bow in prayer with me, beginning with a few moments of holy silence?

Holy God, may the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart and all of the hearts that are gathered here this morning be acceptable in your sight. Amen.

Okay.

A drive-in on the beach, a dive bar using karaoke tracks, and a group of former inmates discovering a new life on the outside. What do these three things have in common?

They are—or were—an iteration of church within our denomination, the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ).

Daytona Beach Drive-In Church was established as an outdoor ministry by First Christian Church of Daytona Beach with a vision to provide a less formal service to its vacationers and, of course, its snowbirds. After establishing a relationship with Neptune Drive-In back in 1953, First Christian Church of Daytona Beach began leading Sunday worship there in addition to its other services at its own location. At Neptune Drive-In, it used the projection platform for the sermons, and the concession stand was used for the choir. I'm sure they enjoyed that.

Four years after its first service, Drive-In Christian Church was chartered, which means it became a full church within our denomination as a separate congregation. And when the movie theater closed in 1961, the faith community bought that property.

Next, Gilead Church was a new church plant in Chicago that began meeting in a dive bar, and they used karaoke tracks to sing thematically appropriate songs for worship—albeit they were mostly pop songs. They were a storytelling church, and they utilized the stories of God that we find in Scripture, but also the stories of God that we find among us and within us. They did not follow the lectionary. Instead, they chose themes based on whatever spoke to the neighborhood and the folks who came.

Their congregants were largely folks who did not grow up in church and had been disillusioned by religion. And some of them were a little rough around the edges, we’ll say. For example, their board had to have a conversation like, “How many four-letter words is too much for a worship service?”

Lastly, Church of Another Chance was a body of believers who were seeking new life on the outside. These formerly incarcerated folks—mostly men, I believe—sought to rebuild their lives after serving their time. And this church was right here in Nashville. And I know many Disciples in this area, perhaps some of you, even volunteered and helped serve this community.

These communities look vastly different from us. They worship vastly different from us. They obviously use a little more colorful language than we might. But they were—and they are—church.

For the past four years, I’ve had the honor of serving our denomination as the Associate Executive Minister for New Church Ministry. This is the entity that Reverend Margie talked about earlier, and this is the group within our tradition that starts new churches or helps resource those who are starting new churches.

We were tasked back in 2001—I wasn’t there—with starting a thousand new congregations a thousand different ways before the year 2020. They accomplished that goal, and some of those churches are actually still open today. Though, as you can imagine, with the pandemic, some have closed as well.

Today, I have the honor of serving the current 230 churches in formation across the United States and Canada—one of which meets right over here in our chapel: that is Novellalon’s Christian Church. And one of the things that I get to love the most about this position is that I get to see the many and mighty ways that God is working in our denomination. I see, often, the creative and innovative and new and fresh ways that God shows up in our world—ways that most consider, “That doesn’t even look like church.”

Later in the service, when we take up the offering, these specific funds will go to the Pentecost Offering, as Reverend Margie already mentioned, and half will go to Tennessee and half will go to the national church. So I hope that you’ll pray and give generously when that time comes.

Now, let’s get back to the text.

This scene from Acts 2 is a really wild scene. Imagine this rushing wind sound coming from the heavens—but also somehow there’s flames and fire there as well. And then imagine all of this diverse group of people speaking in different languages, but also somehow they understand each other at the same time. It’s this really dramatized story, and I often contemplate how this could literally happen, and maybe you’re the same way.

In fact, I often wonder if most of us are actually maybe a little uncomfortable with the mystery found in these stories and find ourselves trying to explain away the parts of the story that we simply just don’t understand. Like maybe the rushing wind was just thunder. And maybe the fire and the flames was actually just lightning. And perhaps the hysteria of this crowd was just caused by them being scared of this storm.

But I also wonder if maybe in doing so, if in doing that, we are missing the point altogether.

Maybe if we’re honest with ourselves, more often than not, we—the big “C” Church—take the role of the pious Judeans in this story, trying to explain away the mystery and make sense of what is happening. But in doing so, we are not leaving any room for God to move in ways that are inexplicable.

The pious Judean crowd often discredits what’s happening, chalking it up to just being drunk. And then Peter stands up, raises his voice, and says, “These people aren’t drunk. It’s only nine o’clock in the morning.” Which—Peter’s never been to Broadway here in Nashville—but at that time, I’m sure it made sense.

And then he gifts them with this prophetic and imaginative word from the prophet Joel. And he says:

“In the last days, God says, I will pour out my Spirit upon all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy. Your young will see visions, and your elders will dream dreams. Even upon my servants, men and women, and everybody, I will pour out my Spirit in those days, and they will prophesy.”

Now, a minute ago, I mentioned that I work for New Church Ministry. And that means that I get to see the amazing new and fresh ways that God is moving in our midst and the ways that God’s people are responding. But what I didn’t share then is that I also get to see how God’s people—like the Judeans in this story—often try and gatekeep what is and what isn’t church. Who is in and who’s out.

Now sure, there are criteria that make something church, right? There’s something that we’re doing together right now that’s different from any other philanthropic group or advocacy group or charity. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the rigid parameters that we put on what we will and won’t consider church. How it looks. What they preach. How they preach. Where they meet. The music that they use. The practices, the rituals that they participate in.

Friends, I often wonder if we’re getting in our own way when it comes to what God is doing in our world. I often wonder if we’re getting in our own way when it comes to what the church could be in this world.

After all, our reputation has led the world to believe that the Church at large is just this hypocritical, behind-the-times, anti-this, anti-that body. And unfortunately, they are not entirely wrong.

When I look at Tennessee, churches here seem to have big budgets for indoor fireworks shows, but I don’t see them at the Capitol when they are cutting Medicaid and other resources that people need to live.

Churches here seem to have funds to give away AR-15s as door prizes in worship, but I can’t find them at the vigils for gun violence victims.

These churches like to flaunt Jesus as a mascot for the powerful instead of a liberator for the oppressed and the poor and the downtrodden and the vulnerable.

This is who we have led the world to believe we are. But it doesn’t have to be that way. We don’t have to be that way.

One of my favorite lyrics is from composer Stephen Schwartz—who I’m sure you know from the Wicked musical (and the movie trailer for Part Two just came out recently)—but he also wrote this musical called Children of Eden. And there’s this lyric that I love. It goes:

“There’s no journey gone so far that we cannot stop and change direction.
No doom is written in our stars—it’s written in our hands.”

We have the ability to change.

Now, Vine Street has done amazing things in this community. Just last week, we heard from Terry Terrell, one of our community partners at Urban Housing Solutions, about the ways that Vine Street has helped fund this ministry for low-income and homeless seniors. And I hope that you will follow up this generous gift that we’ve given them with the opportunity to volunteer. When I heard that we can lead bingo—that sounds like my spiritual gift.

But even we are not immune from getting in our own way when it comes to being what God has called us to be in the world. Even we aren’t immune to getting in our own way when it comes to being the hands and feet of Christ in this city.

But the good news is, Vine Street, that we have this unique opportunity to decide who we want to be in this next chapter of our life as a community and as a church.

We have a strong and firm foundation of welcome and justice and fellowship, of outreach, that we can build upon. But I’m curious as to what visions our young will vision and what dreams our elders are dreaming up. I wonder what our sons and daughters and everybody will be prophesying over this church and how the Spirit will do her thing and move this community into new places that God is calling us to go.

Earlier I asked you to fill out this piece of paper: “The future of the church must include ______.” And there were a lot of good responses. If I don’t read yours, it’s because somebody also said it, and I’m trying to condense for time’s sake.

The future of the church must include me and everybody else.
The future of the church must include—and this one came up a couple times—Reverend Margie as our lead minister. And a hearty amen to that.
The future of the church must include outreach and meeting the needs of people to grow and to stay alive.
The future of the church must include beautiful music glorifying God.
The future of the church must include seeking justice for all people—“all” is in all caps.
The future of the church must include opportunities for individuals to have small group sharing and genuine connection.
The future of the church must include—and I really love this one—a functioning HVAC unit. I thought that was you, Katie.
The future of the church must include empathy, inclusivity, and courage.
The future of the church must include young faces and young voices to keep the mission going for years to come.
The future of the church must include the voices of young people whose visions will lead the way.
And this one I really liked: “The future of the church must include”—and then they marked out “include” and wrote—“must not exclude.”

“I will pour out my Spirit on all people. And your sons and daughters will prophesy. Your young will see visions. And your elders will dream dreams. Even upon my servants, I will pour out my Spirit in those days, and they too will prophesy.”

In just a moment, we’re going to sing a hymn that is not in the hymnal. Instead, the lyrics are included on the back of your insert in your bulletin. The tune is The Church’s One Foundation, so hopefully you’ll recognize that tune. But the lyrics are new, and they have to do with what the church could be:

“Beyond all that we imagine, beyond all that we can dream,
Beyond all that’s before us and all we’ve seen.”

And if singing without sheet music freaks you out or happens to throw you off, then I pray that you’ll just reflect on those words and ask yourself what visions you might be visioning or what dreams you might be dreaming up.

Our text today highlights that while sometimes we may stand in our own way—or in the way of others—to live into what God is calling us or them to be in this world, it doesn’t have to be that way. And the prophet Joel and Peter remind us that we have that ability to prophesy over the church in ways that bring God’s kingdom down to earth, to love those who have felt nothing but hate, and to lift up those that others have put down, to free and liberate the oppressed and the poor, to feed the hungry and clothe the naked, and be who God has called us to be.

Vine Street, you have a long history. You have been a bulwark in this community, led by faithful servants, both clergy and lay alike. And as I mentioned in my prayer last week, we have this firm foundation of our past that we will use to build our future.

And we have that same gift of prophetic imagination that Joel had and that Peter had—to create the church that we want to be and create the world that we want to see.

May it be so. But also, may we make it so—in our loving and our living.

Amen.

Thank you, church.