Conversations Before the Cross 4

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A Man Born Blind from Birth

A Sermon for the Salem United Church of Christ, Harrisburg, PA

by Rev. James Eaton, Pastor

Fourth Sunday in Lent/A • March 15, 2026

John Chapter 9

What are his references? That’s a question most of us ask in one way or another from time to time. Employers ask it: no one hires someone without at least trying to find out how they did previously. And the answer doesn’t always have to be positive! I was fired from my first job as a ministerial intern in seminary after a long period of conflict with the senior minister. A while later I began looking for a new job and found a church and minister that really excited me. I told them about my experience, trying to be objective, not trying to hide any of the details; I remember the minister interviewing me saying, “So, you resigned from your last job? I said: No, I was fired. The minister said he didn’t feel a need to check my references, but of course he did, so he did something ministers do under the circumstances: he called a friend in a church nearby. So not long afterward I was called into the senior minister’s office to hear him say, well I decided to do a little checking on you after we talked, so I called a friend who knows the situation in the church where you worked…and he said the guy you worked for is crazy and being fired there is an honor!

What are his references? It’s a question that creeps into our relationship with Jesus in one way or another. We see his story through the glasses of our common sense, our life experience and our own individual histories. We look for the points in these histories that can connect and explain his story. These are Jesus’ references. There’s nothing new about this process, the earliest Christians did the same thing. They were in many cases Jews who looked for a special person from God, just as God had sent Abraham, Moses, Elijah, David and Elijah. In many ways Jesus met these expectations, but in others he did not. The story about the man born blind from birth was remembered because it spoke to the questions of Christians trying to live their daily lives in harmony with God’s intention—trying to understand whether Jesus of Nazareth was a part of that intention.

This story matches the story of the church. It is our story. We also are people who encountered Jesus, were changed by him and now live in a world where his presence is not always apparent. We look forward to a final time when our Lord will appear beside us and we will be able to see him and touch him. Our problem is what to do in the meantime. This is finally an individual challenge: remember, neither the blind man’s friends nor his parents, neither the crowds nor the Pharisees, were any help to him in understanding how to live with his new sight. There is a mystery here, a mystery that lies at the heart of the way God loves us. For in the structure of our relationship with God there is a scandalous particularity, an individuality, that shakes the foundations of every life that takes it seriously. “Who shall ascend the hill of the Lord?”, the Psalmist asks, and the answer is always someone’s name, some particular name, some particular person. 

Why one person and not someone else? Why you and not me? Why me and not you? This scandal, this particularity, lies near the heart of all our questions about suffering and meaning. Who is this blind man that he should be healed—while others remain blind. Is his moral life more faithful? Does he pray more deeply or more eloquently? Is his faith stronger or in need of strengthening? Nothing in the text answers such questions, nothing in the action of the story gives any explanation. So it is with us, isn’t it? Since ancient times, one strand of thought in Israel held misfortune and disability and disease to be the direct consequence of sin, sometimes a consequence carried on through generations. There is a part of our religious impulse that always wants to quantify. So much sin, so much grace: measured out like the sugar and flour of a cake mix, balanced off like the weights on a jeweler’s scale. But Jesus directs attention away from the surface to the deeper realities of the situation. Sin is related to grace, of course, but not as the disciples think. The man’s life is not a result of his own action but is part of the structure of God’s revelation. The blind man is about to become the living gospel, the person who bridges the gulf between God and human being.

“Who shall ascend the hill of the Lord and who shall go for us”, the Psalmist asks, and the answer is always some particular person at some particular moment of time. So Jesus came to a small village for a moment and opened a blind man’s eyes. We tend to think of such characters as special, different, not like us, but the fact is that he is precisely like us. He is a young man who has overcome the obstacles of his life, found a trade and is working industriously at it. He is just like us: pregnant with the possibility of epiphany, capable of becoming the candle by which the divine flame of God is seen to burn and give light. The disciples want to give this man a practical explanation, almost a scientific one. “Who sinned?”, they ask, “This man or his family?” But to Jesus the man’s circumstances including his blindness are an occasion for showing God’s presence. “This happened so that the work of God”—some translations say glory of God—“might be displayed in his life.”

The Pharisees of the story are puzzled because Jesus doesn’t follow what they expect: His references are nonexistent and his behavior is scandalous. Since they don’t know who he is they concentrate on the how: their concentration on the question of how Jesus healed the man is so striking that he finally asks if they also want to become his disciples. They are seeking a clue to the who through the how: They want the regular procedures followed; they want the rules to apply to everyone. They want to know who Jesus was: where he came from, where he’s been, what schools h attended, how he learned to heal. There is comfort in the past: it is predictable, it is safe, it can’t get out of hand and surprise you. “We are disciples of Moses,” they tell the man.

But they’ve forgotten Moses was once a wild, free spirit on fire with God. They’ve forgotten the Moses who asked to see God, though that was against all rules. They remember only the rules Moses left. Moses said, “Keep the sabbath holy” and they have transformed that into something else entirely: don’t work on the sabbath. They can’t see that healing is holy; they only see Jesus breaking a rule. Finally, they conclude, he can’t be from God. They don’t know his references and so they simply say, “As for this man, we don’t know where he comes from”.

But the blind man is amazed at this: here are the religious and political authorities of his life puzzled. 

Now that is remarkable! You don’t know where he comes from yet he opened my eyes. If this man were not from God he could do nothing! 

This is the ultimate testimony of the believer, the follower of Jesus Christ: that our lives have been changed, healed. And that this is so, regardless of how the world may see or understand that change. Sometimes the change is remarkable and radical. Sometimes it is internal and quiet. Sometimes it leads to moments of soaring courage; more often to the simple endurance of living life hopefully each day. The blind man’s history hasn’t changed but now he lives with vision. He is healed. His future is new; as Paul said, “In Christ there is a new creation.” Christ calls us to a new creation, a creation beyond the rules we knew and lived by.

“Who shall ascend the hill of the Lord?” This blind man—this particular life, at this particular moment—is the means by which God chooses to work and call others. Who would have thought God would choose such people: a nine or ten year old shepherd, a blind man sitting by the road side. You, me, the person sitting in the pew next to you: are these really the means by which the Almighty God chooses to work and become known? Who shall ascend the hill of the Lord? It’s us: there isn’t anyone else. The people of these Bible stories are not the heroic figures we romantically assume. They are people who are busy about their lives and getting on with them. People who have their own hearts and hopes but who are changed when they become the particular way God’s work is demonstrated and moved forward.

The blind man’s story is our story as well, if we are the followers of this Jesus of Nazareth. The blind man is not any more prepared to become the visible agent of the invisible Spirit than you or I, and the whole event causes considerable disruption in his life. Friends desert him. His parents refuse to defend him. The religious and political authorities of the village and the area cross-examine him and threaten him and are finally puzzled by him. Through all this, the agent of his change—Jesus, the one who caused the change—is nowhere to be found. If this is, as I suggested, intended to be not only the story of the blind man but the story of the church and therefore our story as well, what does it suggest the task of faithful Christian people is?

The clue to the answer is near the end of the story. After all the shouting has died down the man meets Jesus again, though of course he doesn’t recognize him—remember, he’s never seen Jesus before. “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” Jesus asks, and when the man asks who this is, Jesus reveals his identify: the man replies, “Lord, I believe.” What is the most important task of believers? Perhaps it is simply to be believers—to live as believers—to keep living as believers. This is, a simple and yet enormously difficult formula. Our culture, like the culture of the first century Christians who remembered this story, is hostile to Christian faith and seeks to erase it by a concentration on the technological question, the question of how things are to occur, how life is to be lived. So our culture constantly offers us formulas: take control of your own life, read this book, listen to this speaker, see this therapist, try this diet. In this culture, our faith offers not a how but a who: Jesus of Nazareth, God’s anointed, the Christ who comes into the world. We offer an invitation: not to take control of your own life but to offer your life to God who is known in this man.

To respond in this way is anything but easy. It’s striking to realize how difficult the blind man’s life becomes after he is healed. His friends and family desert him, his trade is lost and the local authorities keep after him. Does he have moments when he wished he had his simple life back, wished the l light would go out again and he could sit by the side of the road begging? Perhaps, but what the story suggests is a man so transformed by this experience that he can hardly imagine his former life. At the end of the story, when he knows Jesus, the text simply says “he worshipped him”. Christian faith is finally this: the ability to worship Jesus, not because you have been given satisfactory references but because you have seen what he has done and know that if this man were not from God, he could do nothing. What are Jesus’ references? You are—I am—we all are together. “You are the Body of Christ and individually members of it”, Paul says. We are the ones he is healing; we are the ones he has taught to hope. Hope is ultimate healing. It comes not from a reference or a technique but from a decision about whom you will believe and what you will worship. 

Nowhere is that decision more clearly defined than at the end of this story. There finally we have the alternatives we also face. The blind man responds to Jesus simply when Jesus reveals his identity: “‘Lord I believe’..and he worshipped him”. The Pharisees are still fussing, still asking, “What are his references?”. By the end of the story, the blind man has a vision that lights his life; the Pharisees are blind. 

We walk in a forest throughout our lives. There are dark shadows that stretch out; there are places where the path is not clear. There are dangers and difficulties and moments when the way opens on inexpressible beauty. As we walk through this forest, we must ultimately decide whether we will trust the vision of Jesus Christ or stumble blindly, hoping on our own to avoid the pitfalls. Nothing guarantees our choice. Putting a cross on the sign does not mean we will not act like Pharisees inside. Only our decision to freely embrace Jesus as a guide can keep us on the path; only our commitment to come to him, as the blind man did, whatever our lives, whatever our history, and simply say, “Lord, I believe”.

Amen.

Conversations Before the Cross 3: Samaritan Woman

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A Sermon the Salem United Church of Christ of Harrisburg, PA

by Rev. James Eaton, Pastor

Third Sunday in Lent/A • March 8, 2026

John 4:5-42

I’m nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody too?

Those words were written in the nineteenth century by Emily Dickinson but I wonder if they might not stand for the thoughts of the Samaritan Woman as she trudged down the hot dirt path to Jacob’s Well and saw a strange man sitting there. One more man who would by his averted glance, his sitting aside, demonstrate his contempt for her and all she was. One more person who would demonstrate indeed that he believed she was nobody. She’s walking down the path at the middle of the day, the sixth hour. It’s an odd time to fetch water; water is usually fetched at the beginning and end of the day by young women who gather happily at the well. This woman has set herself aside and comes at the middle of the day for reasons about which we can only wonder. She is a minority in a culture of disdain. She is nameless even here in the Gospel. She is a woman in a patriarchal society, she is a casualty of relationships. All these things are like boundaries around her. 

The boundary of Samaria: as much a psychological boundary as a national one, one of those boundaries human beings create which seems to outsiders  artificial and yet to those who observe it is crucial to identity. How many years have we heard about the troubles in Ireland and yet which of us could distinguish between an Irish Catholic and an Irish Protestant? But the distinction is life and death there. Years ago the television program Star Trek had a show in which the crew of the Enterprise visited a world of enormous conflict between two races who were half starkly white and half deeply black. Captain Kirk, trying to make peace, arranges a meeting between the leaders of the two factions. He says, “I don’t understand, you’re both half white, half black.” But both combatants look at him in amazement. “But Captain!”, one replies,  “He’s white on the right and black on the left; I’m black on the right and white on the left!”. Jesus asks the woman for a drink and she’s amazed!  “You are a Jew and I am a Samaritan woman. How can you ask me for a drink?”  There she is with all her boundaries and someone enters her space. What do you think she expected? What do you expect when you, as a woman, walk into a public place and there is a strange and threatening man? I asked this question in Bible Class and every woman there said the same thing: “I’d avoid him”. She expects to avoid him, she expects to endure his silent contempt, she expects to be nobody. But he asks for a drink. And before he’s done, she’s begging him for living water. There’s nothing more basic than a drink of water. Jesus asks for a drink and the woman asks for living water, the woman who was nobody, the woman who was nobody. The church is looking back and this is what they are remembering: once I was nobody. “I once was lost and now am found”, we sing. I once was nobody and I had living water poured on me and I became someone. One by one Jesus crosses the boundaries that have isolated this woman. He asks for water as if she were a friend; he offers living water as if she were family. He makes the well again a place to share for her, though she had been alone. Jew, Samaritan—we’re both thirsty, he seems to say. She wants to talk theology: a way to put the boundaries back. “What about where we worship”, she asks; “worship in spirit wherever”, he replies—that’s what God really wants.

Finally, something happens that saves this from being theoretical and that’s the moment when he asks about her husband; that’s the moment when it becomes concrete, there’s a moment when it becomes personal. There’s a story about a woman in an evangelical church who was very judgmental. One day she got the Deacons to invite a noted fire and brimstone preacher to visit. He said, “God is going to judge everyone! Everyone who has take the Lord’s name in vain, you’re going to have God’s judgment!” “Amen!”, the woman shouted. “Everyone who has looked with lust is going to have God’s judgment!” he shouted. “Amen! Preach it!”, she said, rocking in her pew with her enthusiasm. “Everyone who gambles and plays bingo is going to have God’s judgment!”, he yelled. And the woman stopped rocking and said to her neighbor, the one who had won $5 just last night with her at bingo, “Well, now he’s stopped preaching and gone to meddling.” It’s one thing to talk about theology; it’s another thing to talk about personal things, private things. “Call your husband”, Jesus says. That’s personal. “I don’t have a husband”, the woman replies. Whatever this woman’s history, and the church has imagined all kinds of histories for her, we know this: she has been dumped. We know it because the text says she has had five husbands and under the law of the time, she couldn’t divorce anyone, women couldn’t divorce their husbands, so five men husbands have left her. What does Jesus say to her? We don’t know; the text doesn’t t tell us but it is clear that whatever he says, she comes away from the encounter with a tremendous sense of acceptance, a deep feeling of having been heard and cared for, because her response is to ask, “Can this be the Christ?” He knows her: from his knowledge, she takes the courage to know him

It is the experience Paul talks about:

 You see at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous person, though for a good person someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrated God’s own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” 

God didn’t wait for us to get right, God came when we were sinners, when we were a mess. God already knew us. That affirmation about God is at the core of what it means to be Christian. Christian life doesn’t start when we know God nor is it founded on what we say about God. Christian life begins when we know God already knows us and loves us.

The church has all too often forgotten that we come from God’s knowledge of us to our knowledge of God. We have fenced the communion table, we have created boundaries which kept people like this woman out. I want to say this one thing about the communion table: the invitation is for sinners. This table is a symbol that God is coming to us where we are, to give us the possibility of going to what God hopes for us. This table is a place to receive the food that can nurture us. And what is that food? Not just bread and grape juice. These are just symbols. They are symbols of God’s nurture, they are symbols of God’s call to move beyond the boundaries, beyond what we are, to what we can become. 

Just like Jesus with the Samaritan Woman, every day we encounter people who don’t expect much from us. They don’t know you are a Christian; they don’t know you at all. In every one of those encounters, there is the possibility of someone being nurtured. In every one of those encounters, there is the possibility to share the well, to share the living water. God has for each one of us, for me, for you, this plan: that you will be a blessing. And everything you need to be a blessing is right there if you will look around and see it. That looking around begins with the woman’s question. When she leaves Jesus, she says, “Can this be the Christ?” What do you think? Can it? Can you believe this is a Christ who can care for you despite all the boundaries?

What this finally means is: can you believe in hope? It’s frightening to believe in hope sometimes; it’s scary to believe in a hope beyond reason. The movie Shakespeare in Love is the story of the young Will Shakespeare writing a new play he calls Romeo and Ethel, which you may know more familiarly as Romeo and Juliet. The movie has a romantic subplot and several conspiracies which all gather momentum near the end, as the play is put on stage. There are all kinds of obstacles and as they occur people keep rushing up to the stage manager and wringing their hands. To each in turn he replies, “It will all work out”. “How”, they ask. “I don’t know” he says. It will all work out—How?—I don’t know: over and over again. That’s the hope Paul talks about; not a hope founded on reason, a hope founded on the faith that there is a God whose love is so powerful it can break the boundaries, there is a God whose love is so powerful it can call out of nothing creation, there is a God whose love is so powerful it called Jesus Christ from death back to live, there is a God whose love is so powerful it can call you to the same life. Share it, live it, offer it, as living water, as you share the well this week. 

Amen

Conversations Before the Cross #2

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A Sermon for the First Congregational Church of Albany, NY

by Rev. James Eaton, Pastor

Second Sunday in Lent/A • March 1, 2026

The black and white flickering picture on the screen highlights the dark points of farm implements, makes the wrinkles on faces stand out, tells us the movie is sometimes long ago. It’s the beginning of the Wizard of Oz, but it begins with the dust and dreary farm and the harsh black and white light. We’re in Kansas in the depression. Dark clouds forming a funnel, an image burned on everyone who’s ever lived in tornado country as disaster in motion, and suddenly the house is lifted, Dorothy with it, whirling through the air. When it lands and she opens the door suddenly the world is transformed: it’s now in color. Perhaps you know the story, how Dorothy sets off to find the wizard and a way home. Along the way she meets the Scarecrow, who wants a brain, the Tin Man, who desires a heart and the Cowardly Lion who begs for courage. Each is invited to come along and each has to ask the same question this conversation asks us: do you believe in the possibility of transformation? Can the world change color, can the leopard change his spots, can the whole world change—can you change?

That’s the question Nicodemus is left pondering. He comes to Jesus at night, when good Jewish men are locked up in their gated homes. He is a substantial man, well off, presumably married with kids at home. He’s respected, a leader in his community and his synagogue. Yet something brings him out, some need, some emptiness. Long after Nicodemus, St. Augustine would write, “Lord, you have made us for Yourself, and our hearts are restless until they find rest in you.” [Augustine, Confessions 1.1.1] Perhaps he has a restless heart. Perhaps he’s just curious.

He comes to Jesus with courtesy, calling him Rabbi, a term of respect, roughly comparable to “Reverend” or “Teacher”, and he says that he knows Jesus “came from God”. He’s been impressed by the signs Jesus has done. Presumably, he means the healing which was an important part of Jesus’ ministry. He doesn’t ask a question; he simply comes. What would you have asked? What do you want to know from Jesus? Perhaps Jesus is used to such seekers; perhaps he simply sees the restless heart before him. He says, simply, directly: “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”

What do you hear Jesus saying? We are so used to American cultural religion with its emphasis on what we do, on the gospel of achievement applied to salvation, that we may hear the familiar phrase, “You must be born again.” But that’s not what Jesus says. First, he doesn’t command anything. There’s no imperative here. It’s a simple, flat statement: “No one can see the Kingdom of God without being born from above.” I think Nicodemus must have heard the born again part, as we often do. Because he immediately focuses on the physical: no one can be born again he says. We apply the same thought, often, to ourselves. Nicodemus makes the obvious argument: grown up, grown old, we can’t go back ad start over. “How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?”

Isn’t this really what most of us think? You are born, you grow up, you learn things, you experience things. You have some tough times; you have some good times. At times you prosper, at other times you don’t. Through it all you accumulate all those bits and pieces that make you, you. And among them are some scars, some injuries that left a mark. Maybe it was a marriage that didn’t work out; maybe it was a loss, maybe it was a friend who isn’t a friend any longer. Maybe you never quite lived out some dream you had earlier on. How do you go back and restart  after all that? I’ll tell you a secret only two people in the world know: I wasn’t that great a parent to my oldest child. I didn’t know how to be a parent, I certainly didn’t know how to parent a girl. I didn’t tell her how proud she made me nearly enough, and I wasn’t kind enough, and I didn’t know how when she raged to think, “Well, she’s 13, it’s just hormones,” and walk away, so I yelled back. I’d give a lot to  go back and change that. But I can’t.

Maybe you have something like that, something you wish had been different but never will be. So maybe you agree with Nicodemus: you can’t go back. If you do, then it’s so important that you listen closely to what Jesus says. Because you and I and Nicodemus have all misunderstood Jesus if we thought he was talking about going back. He says,

‘You must be born from above.’

The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” [John 3:8]

Jesus isn’t talking about being born again at all. He’s talking about being born of the Spirit: being reborn. Jesus isn’t talking about undoing the past: he’s asking about the future. The wind blows where it will: it’s hard to predict, it’s hard to see. So is the future, and the question isn’t what about the past, but what are you going to do about the future? Can you live as someone born new today from God’s Spirit?

This starts with seeing. How many of God’s blessings do you see each day? How do you see other people. We are being asked today by a great political movement to see people of other faiths, Muslims particularly, as fearful. Do you see others, strangers, as children of God, the same God who loves you? Can you see this way? Can you start, not over, but fresh each day, freshly looking out for what God is doing. There was a moment when Western surgeons learned to treat cataracts which were often the cause of people being blind from birth. Annie Dillard talks about some of these people in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, concluding with this case.

…a twenty-two-year-old girl was dazzled by the world’s brightness and kept her eyes shut for two weeks. When at the end of that time she opened her eyes again, she did not recognize any objects, but ‘the more she now directed her gaze upon everything about her, the more it could be seen how an expression of gratification and astonishment overspread her features. She repeatedly exclaimed,
‘O God! How beautiful!’ [Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, p. 30f]

Jesus invites Nicodemus  to a new life, not to a do over of his old life; not to be born again but to be born from above, into a new spiritual life.

This, he says, is his purpose: 

For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.

“Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.

And the first step is to believe and begin the journey. 

What happened to Nicodemus? We don’t know; the gospel never mentions him again. But sometimes it takes a while for the seeds of the spirit to sprout and blossom and bear fruit. There is a moment when the Tin Man, the Scare Crow and the Cowardly Lion think the gifts they seek, the new life they hoped to find, will never happen. What happens then? The wizard gives them each a gift to recognize the gifts they already have. The Scarecrow gets a degree, the Tin Man a heart and the Lion a medal for courage. What about you? What would it take to change your life? What would it take for you to believe that’s possible, that you can be born from above? 

Perhaps it is to simply to see God’s love, the way that girl saw the world. Maybe one of your wounds is that somewhere along the way, someone suggested God was sitting like a judge, writing up everything you’d ever done wrong. Maybe your list is long. Then listen: God is here, not to judge, but to love; God is here, not to judge, but to save. God is here, inviting you to start fresh today. God is here: how beautiful.

Amen.

Conversations Before the Cross 1:

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Satan Speaks

A Sermon for the Salem United Church of Christ
of Harrisburg, PA

by Rev. James Eaton, Interim Pastor ©2026

First Sunday in Lent/A • February 22, 2006

Matthew 4:1-11

What was the best day of your life? Go there for a moment: remember it. Was there a party? Were you with a few people, family, a crowd, or were you alone? Was there cake? There’s often cake on the best day of your life. What did it smell like? How did it taste? Did you know then it would be the best day of your life? I mention all this because Jesus’ baptism must have been about the best day of his life, even though there is no report about cake. I don’t think chocolate cake had been invented yet, so perhaps it doesn’t matter. But there was a crowd, his friend John, and wow: a voice from heaven! Even when Jacquelyn and I were married, there was no voice from heaven, though she looked like an angel. “You are my beloved child, I’m pleased with you.” Some of us live our whole lives waiting to hear that; it must have been amazing. 

All of this is a prelude, it turns out, because no one gets to live in the best day of their life forever ,and for Jesus, the next day is terrible. It’s like living here, having it hit 50 degrees one day and then a couple of days later barely making 16. Ouch: things sure can turn around. In the life of Jesus, the turnaround is to go from heaven opening to being driven into the wilderness and going hungry for 40 days. No cake; no food at all. Just the dangerous, daunting, desert wilderness where all you can hear is your empty stomach begging to be filled. This is the site of temptation: this is where temptation always occurs, when we are empty. How can I get what I need? Isn’t that the question that leads to temptation? 

“Jesus was led by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil.” Matthew, Mark, and Luke all include this story, apparently using two different versions which they combine. Since no one else is present, we can only conclude they are relying on Jesus’ own account of his time in the wilderness. Geography is theology in the gospel. To go from the Jordan River into the wilderness is to go backward on the journey of God’s people. There, just as they had been, Jesus is hungry, thirsty, and there he faces temptation. He faces it alone: the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove has flown off; the voice from heaven is silent. Jesus, as the song says, has to walk this lonesome valley by himself.

Alone, hungry, vulnerable, Jesus fasts for forty days and nights. Here is the first thing to learn about temptation: it often comes when we are most vulnerable. Today we rarely practice the spiritual discipline of fasting in Protestant churches, but our fathers and mothers in the faith did. We took over Thanksgiving from the Pilgrims; seldom mentioned and almost never included in Thanksgiving is the fast that preceded it. Today, the Lenten discipline of giving something up has fallen into disfavor, but giving something up, taking something off the table of possibility, induces temptation. It walks us into the valley where Jesus walked.

Imagine him there in the desert. He’s lost but beyond worrying about direction. There is a moment when you become so focused on your hunger that nothing else matters. This is the moment he hears the voice of temptation; this is the moment, alone, hungry, vulnerable, he is like us, on his own, facing temptation alone. Three temptations are mentioned, but in a sense, they are the same temptation. All of them circle back to this simple principle: who’s in charge here?

“If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become bread.” This is the first test.

A few days before, he is acclaimed as Son of God, but what does that mean? The first temptation is to use who he is to sustain himself on his own, to feed himself. God fed the people of Israel with manna, bread, in the wilderness; why shouldn’t the Son of God feed himself by making bread appear? It is a test: if you are the Son of God—the question suggests that perhaps he is not the Son of God after all. Does he believe in what’s been said? Does he believe in his own call? And can that call, that power, be used for himself, to meet his own needs? The second temptation, to recklessly throw himself out into the air, depending on the angels to save him, is like it. Both ask: do you believe who you are? Show it by using the gifts of God not for God’s purpose but for your own.

The Wizard of Earthsea is a long story about a young wizard who becomes so proud of his gifts that he uses them to show off. But in showing off, a dark side of him splits off, and the rest of the tale is a story of how that darkness darkens the world until finally, as a wizard named Sparrowhawk, he must confront the darkness. Along the way, he learns this most important lesson: that all gifts are given with a purpose, and the purpose is to serve others and serve the larger unfolding, blossoming purpose of the creator. The challenge of the temptation to Jesus asks whether he will serve his own needs or stand in humility and serve the unfolding purpose of God. Why am I hungry, he must have wondered: the answer is so that in hunger, he can learn humility.

The final temptation in the wilderness sums all temptation up because it asks who Jesus is serving. All the kingdoms of the world are offered, a way of summing up worldly success; only serve me, the tempter says.

How does Jesus face these temptations? He faces them by living from God’s Word. Today we live in such a self-regarding culture that worship is often judged by the standards of entertainment. “I really enjoyed that,” someone will say, and there are endless advertisements for preachers to help us make worship more fun, more interesting, more lighthearted. But worship is really a way to come back to the Word of God. This is what finally answers temptation and it is the only thing that answers it. Three times Jesus is tempted; three times he quotes back God’s Word to the tempter.

We all walk through times of temptation. We all walk through wildernesses. We all face questions. Tracy Cochran writes, 

Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing. “[Quoted by Tracy Cochran, In the midst of Winter, an Invincible Spring, Parabola, Spring, p. 26]

If we want to find the adventure, we have to walk through the temptation and answer the question of who we are serving. 

This year, this season, this Lent, I hope to walk with you, listen to God’s Word, listen to the characters in the story, listen to their questions. Here is the first and most important and the tempter is asking it every single day: who are you serving? Rainer Rilke, a German poet, said in a letter to a young friend, 

I want to beg you, as much as I can, dear sir, to be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.” [Rainier Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, 1903.]

This season, we are challenged to live the questions God’s Word asks, to confront them, to wonder with them, to let them live in us and change us.

Amen.

Us 2.1

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A Sermon for the Salem United Church of Christ of Harrisburg, PA

by Rev. James Eaton, Interim Pastor ©2026

Transfiguration Sunday • February 15, 2026

Matthew 17:1-9

“You are my beloved”. Twice, the gospels tell us, heaven opened and Jesus heard in his deepest soul God speaking these words. Once at his baptism; again, late in his ministry, when he took his closest friends up a mountain and they saw how like the great prophets Moses and Elijah he was. Because we aren’t reading these stories in order, we miss some of the context. Before this, he has healed and offered hope; before this he has taught his friends his path will lead to a cross. They have argued with him, feared for him, followed him. Now he shines with the vision of this mission, now he is transfigured, altered, like the wick of a candle, as the love of God burns and sheds light in the world. What happens on the mountain? How many have asked this? If we truly look, we will know what happen because we see it ourselves at times. What happens on the mountain? What happens when we live in the love of God?

Let me tell you a story. There was once an old stone monastery tucked away in the middle of a picturesque forest. For many years people would make the significant detour required to seek out this monastery. The peaceful spirit of the place was healing for the soul.

In recent years, however, fewer and fewer people were making their way to the monastery. The monks had grown jealous and petty in their relationships with one another, and the animosity was felt by those who visited. The Abbot of the monastery was distressed by what was happening, and poured out his heart to his good friend Jeremiah. Jeremiah was a wise old Jewish rabbi. Having heard the Abbot’s tale of woe he asked if he could offer a suggestion. “Please do” responded the Abbot. “Anything you can offer.”

Jeremiah said that he had received a vision, and the vision was this: the messiah was among the ranks of the monks. The Abbot was flabbergasted. One among his own was the Messiah! Who could it be? He knew it wasn’t himself, but who? He raced back to the monastery and shared his exciting news with his fellow monks. The monks grew silent as they looked into each other’s faces. Was this one the Messiah?

From that day on the mood in the monastery changed. Joseph and Ivan started talking again, neither wanting to be guilty of slighting the Messiah. Pierre and Naibu left behind their frosty anger and sought out each other’s forgiveness. The monks began serving each other, looking out for opportunities to assist, seeking healing and forgiveness where offense had been given.

As one traveler, then another, found their way to the monastery word soon spread about the remarkable spirit of the place. People once again took the journey to the monastery and found themselves renewed and transformed. All because those monks knew the Messiah was among them. The monks changed and their change made all the difference. 

What happens on the mountain? Just before this, Jesus asks his disciples who they say he is; Peter alone says, “You are the Christ.” Then we’re told Jesus lays out the conditions of discipleship. 

If anyone would come after me, let that one deny themself and take their cross and follow me. For whoever would save their life will lose it, and whoever loses their for my sake will find it.
[Matt 16:24-25]

Jesus isn’t talking about pretty pectoral crosses or a bit of gold on a chain. He means the real cross, a symbol of terror and death in his time. John preached repentance; Jesus calls for discipleship, living our whole lives following him, even when that means death and suffering. Six days later, the gospel says, he takes Peter, James and John up onto a a high mountain and he’s transfigured before them. What happens on the mountain?

The details are strange. Matthew says, “his face shone like the sun, and his garments became white as light.” [Matt 17:2} Mark focuses on the garments too: “glistening, intensely white, as no fuller on earth could bleach them” [Mark 9:28] Luke says “the appearance of his countenance was altered and his raiment became dazzling white” [Luke 9:29] This is a time when peasants wore homespun clothing that was never really clean, certainly never really white, so it’s not surprising all three think of pure white as miraculous. 

All three gospels mention the appearance of Elijah and Moses. That makes sense. Just as we have two testaments in our Bible, the Hebrew Bible is divided into two great sections: the Torah, or Law, and the Prophets. Moses is the great giver of the law, the man God chose to lead God’s people to a new community. Elijah is the great prophet, who was himself drawn into heaven without dying and is expected to return with the Messiah. Thee they are, talking to Jesus: the three of them: it’s like a curtain call at the end of a play. 

The second thing happens when the three Jesus brought along, Peter, John, James, see all this and perhaps understand finally and are changed. They don’t glow, their clothing doesn’t turn white, but they understand this is a unique moment. They’re tired and sleepy, according to Luke, but Peter says, “I’ll make booths”. Booths have a special significance for observant Jews. Each fall, booths are built, little shelters, which remember when Israel was on the way to the promised land, when they had newly remembered they were God’s people. The booths are made with branches and they are open to the sky. You eat in them, pray in them, remember in them God’s provision. Peter, James and John are remembering who they are, who they are meant to be: God’s children. The final thing that happens is that God speaks in this moment, naming Jesus as God’s beloved Son and saying, “Listen to him.” This is the second time we hear this blessing, the first was at his baptism. We’re told that after God spoke, they kept silence and Jesus was alone with them. 

What happens on the mountain? When we talk about the transfiguration, all the emphasis gets put on the special effects: the white garments, the glowing Jesus, the long gone figures of Moses and Elijah, the voice of the Lord. But we should be paying attention to the disciples, people just like us, people Jesus brought with him. What happens on the mountain is that Jesus is transfigured—but what also seems to happen is that the disciples are changed. 

How do we change? Almost 26 years ago, I stood in the chancel of another church, a church where I had been the pastor for five years, a place I knew well. But on that day, another minister was at the center, directing our worship, a man who is like a father to me. And as I stood there and looked out at the congregation, Jacquelyn appeared in a white dress at the back and there was a light around her. In moments she was next to me, a few moments later we were married. We were changed, changed by love, and that has made all the difference. 

What happened on the mountain?. In those moments, those disciples saw Jesus in a new way and a new covenant began. For certainly whenever heaven opens and God’s love is so evidently, clearly, showered down, a difference is made; all the difference is made. When software is written, the programs on which we all depend so much today, there is a process of correcting mistakes. The first computer was literally wired together at Princeton University and because of the heat of its tubes, moths would fly in sometimes, burn up in the circuits and create a short. So problems with a computer came to be called bugs. Every original piece of software has bugs and needs to be change and the change is Version 2; then version 2.1. What happened on the mountain is that the disciples went from version 1 to version 2. 

Now we gather in the name of Jesus who was transfigured on the mountain and as the continuing expression of that covenant community of disciples. Like them, I think we often misunderstand him; like them, we aren’t always ready to follow immediately where he’s going. We don’t always get it immediately but that’s ok; Jesus is willing to wait for version 2.1 of us. And when we do get it, when we ourselves hope in that love, have faith in that love, practice that love, what happens? Christ comes; God blesses. And the kingdom is here, right here, among us. 

Amen.

Remember Who You Are

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A Sermon for the Salem United Church of Christ of Harrisburg, PA

by Rev. James Eaton, Interim Pastor ©2026

Fifth Sunday After Epiphany/A • February 8, 2026

Isaiah 58:1-12 • 1 Corinthians 2:1-16 • Matthew 5:13-20

What are your rules?  We all live with rules. Before I got here things morning, I put on a suit and tie; I grew up with a rule that said this is how professional men dress. Even when I was a little boy, my mom would make me dress up and stick a clip on tie to my shirt. Today, wee drove down Front St.; Jacquelyn drives and she obeys speed limits. I came in, put in the code for the alarm because that’s the rule for entering the building. And before I came to lead worship, I put on this robe. The robe originated in the 16th century; it’s what college people wore. It was a reaction against the fancy vestments of Anglican and Roman Catholic clergy. Somewhere along the way over the years, we added on a bit of the vestment for color, and that’s why I have this stole. It’s a symbol that says I’m ordained to lead worship and administer the sacraments; the color is chosen by the rules for different seasons, it’s not just whatever I feel like wearing. So you see, already before I even said, “The peace of the Lord be with you”, I’ve already threaded my way through and entire matrix of rules. We all live that way: I’m sure you could think for a moment and list a half dozen rules about dress and behavior you’ve already observed today. I begin today with rules because the scripture lessons we’ve heard today are all about rules and how to understand them.

To understand, we need to know a bit of history. In 586 BCE, the Babylonians stormed Jerusalem and destroyed it. They took the gold from the Temple and burned it, the Temple that had stood for 400 years, since the time of Solomon. They took the leaders and many others into captivity in Babylon. Fifty years later, the Babylonians were defeated by the Persians from present day Iran. The Persian king allowed the captives to return and rebuild the Temple and they began to do that. To commemorate this wrenching history, four days of fasting were instituted each year: one for the day the siege had begun, one for the day Jerusalem fell, one for the day the Temple was burned and a fourth that commemorated the murder of an early leader in the rebuilding. 

The oracle we heard this morning comes from the third prophet to use the name Isaiah, and he lived during this period. Perhaps you’ve seen pictures of European cities after World War 2, full of ruins, people slowly moving among them. That’s how we should imagine Jerusalem in this time. Temple worship was renewed, and the fast days were proclaimed. But people did not feel God’s presence and that’s what’s reflected here. It’s a about people who are performing the rituals of faith without its heart—and God’s reaction.

Shout out; do not hold back! Lift up your voice like a trumpet! Announce to my people their rebellion, to the house of Jacob their sins.

“Why do we fast, but you do not see? Why humble ourselves, but you do not notice?” Look, you serve your own interest on your fast day and oppress all your workers. You fast only to quarrel and to fight and to strike with a wicked fist. Such fasting as you do today will not make your voice heard on high.

[Isaiah 58:1ff]

In other words, their world is falling apart and their connection to God is distant; they don’t feel God answering them. 

It’s as if they’re looking for God and saying, “Hey! You’re not obeying the rules! We fasted, we spent a day in ashes, we went to worship, home come you’re not working for us?” It’s as if faith in God were a transaction. Go to a store, pay your money, you get your goods; doesn’t God work that way? Fast, pray, observe the rituals—shouldn’t God do God’s part? How many of us have tried this. Someone we love is sick or in danger, something we dread threatens, and we pray what I call the “If prayer”: “If you heal this person, avert this disaster, do what I want just this once, God, I’ll go to church, make a donation, or do something we think God wants.” These people are doing the If prayer in a larger way, and it isn’t working. They think God isn’t abiding by the rules, but the truth is, God’s rules are simply different.

So the prophet goes on to explain the sort of fast that God wants.

Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the straps of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke?

Is it not to share your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them and not to hide yourself from your own kin? [Isaiah 58:6f]

If you remember last week’s reading from Micah, you may be thinking this sounds a lot like what Micah said, that God wants us to do justice, love mercy, walk humbly with God. That’s the heart of God’s rules; that’s the core of Torah and Jesus is going to sum it up when he’s asked and say the greatest commandment is to love God completely and to love your neighbor as yourself.

That’s great in general. But as one leader said, “People don’t eat in  general, they eat every day.” How can we embody this day to day? We’re living through a difficult time. People are so divided that even simple social events have become minefields. No one wants to lose friends and yet, we are meant to live by God’s rules. This is why the downtown clergy organized the pilgrimage for peace. We didn’t want another partisan demonstration, we didn’t want signs—although some people brought them—we didn’t want to shout. We wanted to step back and say just what we begin every worship service with here: “The peace of the Lord be with you.” We wanted to show our community what the mind of Christ looks like and that it’s so much more important than the labels on our churches or our politics. Peace is not just refusing to argue; peace is something deeper, it is seeing the dignity of each person, understanding they are a child of God. That lifts yokes, as Isaiah says. 

Living this way is what the Apostle means by having the mind of Christ. The people fasting and complaining are failing because they think outward gestures alone will attract God. Having the mind of Christ means looking at things differently, a way that shows a concern for others. That’s not how our culture is teaching us to think these days. We all know the signs: the way that we’re constantly invited to division. When I was an elections official, we once spent ten minutes talking about what colors of clothing were appropriate for poll workers: no blue, no red, no hats, no slogans. It’s more rules than the ones for which stole! We can all see where this has gotten us: two people shot and killed in Minneapolis, the arrest of thousands of people just trying to do exactly what our great grandparents did, go to America, work hard, make a life. How do we change this shift? How do we live with the mind of Christ.

I found a story the other day that I want to share about a man my age who learned to do this. His name is Frank and this is how Frank woke up.

I almost threw a punch in the checkout line last Tuesday. Not because I’m violent, but because at 74 years old, I finally woke up.

My name is Frank. I’m a retired mechanic from outside Detroit. I live alone in a house that smells like old dust and silence. My wife, Ellen, passed six years ago. My kids? They’re busy in New York and Atlanta, chasing careers, raising grandkids I mostly see on FaceTime.

I realized recently that I had become invisible. I was just “that old guy” blocking the aisle with his cart, counting pennies because Social Security doesn’t stretch as far as it used to.

Every Friday, I go to the big superstore on the edge of town. It’s the highlight of my week, which tells you everything you need to know about my life.

That’s where I met Mateo.

He was the cashier at Lane 4. Young, maybe 22. He had a piercing in his eyebrow and tattoos running down his arms—sleeves of ink that disappeared under his blue vest. To a lot of folks from my generation, he looked like trouble.

His English was heavy with an accent. He’d say, “Did you find everything okay, sir?” and most people wouldn’t even look up from their phones. They’d just shove their credit card at the machine.

I watched people treat him like furniture. I heard a lady in a fancy coat huff, “Can’t you go faster?” I heard a man mutter, “Learn the language or go home.”

Mateo never flinched. He just kept scanning, smiling, and saying, “Have a blessed day.”

Three weeks ago, I was behind a young mother. She looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, a baby crying in the cart. She was buying store-brand diapers and two jugs of milk.

When she swiped her card, the machine buzzed. Declined.

She turned beet red. “I… let me put the milk back,” she stammered, holding back tears. “I get paid on Monday.”

Before I could reach for my wallet, Mateo was already moving. He didn’t make a scene. He didn’t announce it. He just pulled a crumpled ten-dollar bill from his own pocket, scanned it, and handed her the receipt.

“It is covered, Miss,” he said quietly. “Go feed the baby.”

She looked at him, shocked, whispered a thank you, and hurried out. The next customer immediately started complaining about the wait.

But I saw.

That night, I sat in my recliner and stared at the wall. Here was this kid—working for minimum wage, getting treated like dirt—giving away his own money to a stranger. Meanwhile, I’d spent the last five years feeling sorry for myself.

The next Friday, I wrote a note on a napkin. When I got to his register, I slid it over. It said: “I saw what you did for her. You are a good man.”

Mateo read it. He looked up, and for the first time, his professional mask slipped. His eyes got watery. “Thank you, Mr. Frank,” he whispered.

We started talking. I learned he works two jobs. He takes night classes online to become a Paramedic. “I want to save lives,” he told me. “My parents sacrificed everything to get me here. I cannot waste it.”

Then came last Tuesday.

The store was packed. Tensions were high. Inflation has everyone on edge. A large man in a baseball cap was slamming his items onto the belt. Mateo made a small mistake—he had to void an item. It took an extra thirty seconds.

The man exploded.

“Are you stupid?” the man shouted, loud enough for three lines to hear. “This is America. Why do they hire people who can’t even work a register? Go back to where you came from!”

The air left the room. People looked at their feet. The cashier next to us looked terrified. Mateo just stared at the scanner, his hands trembling slightly.

My heart was hammering in my chest. My whole life, I’ve been the “keep your head down” type. Don’t make waves. Mind your business.

But this was my business.

I stepped forward. My joints ached, but I stood as tall as my 5’9″ frame would let me.

“Hey!” I barked. My voice cracked, then found its steel.

The angry man spun around. “What?”

“He works harder in one shift than you probably do all week,” I said, pointing a shaking finger at Mateo. “He is studying to save lives. He helped a mother buy diapers when she was broke. What have you done today besides yell at a kid?”

The man turned purple. “Mind your business, old man.”

“Decency is everyone’s business,” I said. “You want to be a tough guy? Be tough enough to show some respect.”

The line went deadly silent. Then, a woman behind me started clapping slowly. Then another guy nodded. “He’s right,” someone muttered.

The angry man grabbed his bags and stormed off, muttering insults.

I looked at Mateo. He wasn’t trembling anymore. He was standing straight, shoulders back. He looked at me, and nodded. A silent bond between a 74-year-old rust-belt retiree and a 22-year-old immigrant student.

I walked to my car shaking like a leaf. I cried in the parking lot. Not out of sadness, but because for the first time in years, I felt alive. I felt like a human being again.

Yesterday, Mateo handed me my receipt. On the back, in neat handwriting, he had written: “My father is far away. Today, you were like a father to me.”

I’m sharing this because we are living in angry times. We are told to hate each other. We are told to pick sides.

But here is the truth I learned at Walmart: You don’t have to solve the border crisis. You don’t have to fix the economy. You just have to change the air in the room.

Be the one who speaks up. Be the one who sees the person behind the name tag.

We are all just walking each other home. Make sure you’re good company. 

[https://www.facebook.com/MindInspireofficial/posts/i-almost-threw-a-punch-in-the-checkout-line-last-tuesday-not-because-im-violent-/716147278216554/]

God’s rules aren’t complex or difficult. Love God, Love your neighbor. Have the mind of Christ whether you’re here or at Walmart or Giant or work or somewhere else. In the mind of Christ, all people are God’s children. It’s the ultimate birthright citizenship: every single person included. When we live like this, when we make our church a temple of this kind of love, we are truly God’s people. Then we shine like a lighthouse of love; then indeed, we are like a lamp set on a stand that gives light. So remember who you are: God’s child, Christ’s follower. Act like it, live like it, share it.

Amen.

One Day

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A Sermon for the Salem United Church of Christ

by Rev. James Eaton, Pastor ©2026

Fourth Sunday After Epiphany/A • February 1, 2026

With what shall I come before the LORD and bow down before the exalted God? Shall I come before him with burnt offerings, with calves a year old? 

Will the LORD be pleased with thousands of rams, with ten thousand rivers of oil? Shall I offer my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul? 

He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God. 

—Micah 6:6-8 (NIV – Used by permission

An old man is walking on a path with the sea off to his left and as the breeze blows on the water and his family trails quietly after him, we might think this is a group on the way to a picnic. But soon the concern on his face and the worry in the eyes of his family show and it’s clear a picnic is not their destination. We see a cemetery: row on row on row of white crosses and we’re told this is Normandy, this is the great American cemetery where thousands and thousands of American men are buried. Men who stormed ashore across those beaches in fear and fire to defeat an awful demonic evil. Men who gave their lives so others, so that you and I, would be safe. Here is a man who was part of that generation which grew up in depression and then was called to go off at the beginning of adulthood to kill or be killed. As the man stops in front of one particular cross, the tears stream down his face. He turns to his wife and says, “Am I a good person? Have I lived a good life?” 

The scripture reading pictures just such a moment. Am I a good person? Haven’t we all asked that question: The lesson imagines a man who comes to a priest or prophet, to someone he believes can speak for God, to ask just that question. Am I a good person? What can I do to be a good person? With what shall I come before the Lord? One by one he goes through the options the ancient world suggested. Should I bring a year old calf? Can I be justified for the price of a cow? Should I bring thousands of rams? Rams are male goats. I’ve never seen thousands of them but once I brought a baby goat home from school to keep at my house overnight. That one single goat made such an incredible mess of our basement and smelled so bad that I can’t imagine anyone having a thousand of those things in any kind of religious meeting house. Should I bring streams of oil? The oil they mean here is olive oil. It was used for cooking and perfumed and used instead of bathing: you would pour the oil over yourself and then scrape it off. Should I bring streams and streams of oil? 

You see what this man is doing? He’s bidding for the love of God. I asked the children in a church once, “What would it cost to hire your mother to do what she does for you?” I got lots of responses: $15, $20, even $100! What would it cost to be a good person before God? —a prize calf, a thousand rams, streams of oil, even a first born child. The religion of Israel didn’t practice child sacrifice but others around them did. One archaeologist has discovered at Carthage a place with over 15,000 baby skulls. That was the cost over the years of people feeling they were good persons before their God. This man is not exaggerating, he is asking what it will cost to be a good person before God and he’s wondering if it might not be very dear indeed. He wants to know the answer to a question we all ask: What does God want? What does God want from me?

The answer is simple: do justice, love mercy, walk humbly with God. Justice in the Bible comes with a special concern for the poor, the immigrant, the widow, the child, for anyone, in other words, who is vulnerable. Mercy is that unlimited love God models for us which asks not what is fair but what will help. Justice is about public policy , how we act as a community; mercy is what we do as individuals to fulfill our vocation to bless others. Humbly walking with God means simply thinking God might be more right than your own opinion. This may seem simple; it turns ought to be tough. Every church meeting for example begins with a prayer for guidance; most then go on as if What We Did Last Time is the true Torah. We say, “It seems to me…” and share our good common sense although clearly nothing in the scripture makes sense. There, an old woman named Sarah has a baby, a tree trimmer named Amos knows more about God’s Word than all the Ph.D. temple priests and fishermen become apostles.

What does God want? Do justice; love mercy. These things are hard so we often substitute social service programs. A number of years ago I worked in a church with a food pantry. The rule for getting food from the food pantry was simple: if you’re hungry, we’ll feed you. This rule never bothered the poor folks who got food; it always bothered the well to do folks who handed it out. We had long committee meetings about the rule and how to change it so that only people who deserved food would get it. Some of the farmers from the area churches didn’t like the pantry feeding migrant workers because they felt the workers didn’t hav]e as much motivation when they knew their families would get fed regardless of whether they worked. Some people didn’t like giving food to women on welfare who drove cars even if it was the only way their kids would be sure to get a decent meal. Finally after years of wrestling over the pantry rules, an old man said at a meeting, “I’m tired of arguing about this. The Bible says Jesus told his disciples, ‘You give them something to eat!’  He didn’t make any rules and neither should we”. There was a long silence and in that moment a miracle happened: a program with the rule mentality of the Department of Social Services turned into a place where Christians were doing justice. In the eight years I worked in that church the food pantry went from being a little four or five bag a day operation to a program costing $39,000 a year. But the  biggest change wasn’t in the food pantry, it was in the people who ran it as they came to understand what it meant to do justice even when it doesn’t make sense and doesn’t fit the rules.

 What does God want? Do justice, love mercy, show them both in your daily walk so that walk becomes more about following God than getting where you think you should go. Now we are at the beginning of a new decade. We have a choice: we can make this moment like one of those opening prayers at a committee meeting that’s forgotten by the time the minutes are read or we can ask, “What does God want?” If we ask, it will soon be clear that God does not want a calf, God does not want a bunch of goats, God does not want streams of oil. What God wants is simple: do justice, love mercy, walk humbly. Isn’t that when we are at our best? 

A few years ago some Congregationalists, Reformed churches just like this one, got together with just these purposes in mind. A slave ship named Amistad had landed in New London and they did what we do best: held a meeting. The meetings expanded and soon the step that’s natural for Congregationalists was taken: they organized a committee. That committee worked for years until finally those slaves were set free and even the United States Supreme Court had to admit that slaves were people. Just about every old Congregational Church in New England has some part of this story to tell. One congregation I served founded the first school for the children of escaped slaves during this time. Why did these people do this? Because they heard what God said: Let my people go; because they asked what God wanted and heard God wanted justice and mercy and humility. That moment, when Congregationalists set out to do justice, is one of the best chapters in our story. And if we want to write a chapter just as good, it will take more than raising enough money to buy a calf and some goats and olive oil, it will mean spending more time on how we can do justice and love mercy better instead of just refining our knowledge of Roberts Rules of Order.

It’s hard to know how to do these things. But I know what it looks like when it happens. One summer I was in Boston with Jacquelyn. We have a continuing argument her about giving money to pan handlers. I keep quoting a theologian, William Sloane Coffin, to the effect that charity is not justice; she keeps saying, they need the money. We were crossing a street and there was a man in a wheel chair who had been pan handling without much success. He was about to go try his luck elsewhere. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her get her dollar out. But he didn’t see it, so he went on about his business, which was finding a better corner to pan handle, so he started to cross the street. She got to the other side and he wasn’t there anymore, he was out in the street, halfway across, and she went running after him, out into the street, to give him that dollar. When she caught up with him, he looked at her like she was a crazy woman, I don’t think he has a lot of people running after him to give him a dollar. And I knew I’d lost the argument. I thought, that’s it, that’s what we should be doing, running into the street because we love mercy so much we just can’t bearÏ to miss a chance to show some. We should be doing what that old man did at the meeting: reminding each other of just what God has to say about justice and asking how we can do some. We ought to ask of every program in this church, we ought to ask of everything that is said in this church, how is this going to help us do justice, how is it going to let us express mercy, how is it a part of our walk with God?

The image with which I began is the beginning of the movie Saving Private Ryan. The man in the cemetery is Ryan, now grown old, but most of the film is a flashback to a time after the invasion of Normandy when a patrol was sent to find and bring back Private Ryan. The flashback ends with a battle on a bridge and there is a moment when Private Ryan confronts the commander of the unit which had been sent to save him. It’s a moment full of the sound of explosion, the smoke of gunfire and the confusion and fear of everyone. As the captain lies dying, bleeding from wounds he received saving Private Ryan, he grips Ryan’s arms, looks into his eyes and says, “Earn this…earn this.” God has given into our hands all of creation and the time to enjoy it, to live in it, to appreciate it. But creation is not just a fact; it is an occasion, it is an occasion for us to live out the great potential we have to do justice, to love mercy, to walk humbly with God. Each day asks: what is to be done; each day invites us to do what God wants. One day we will; will this be that day?

Amen

This sermon has been revised. It was originally written for the United Congregational church of Norwich, CT, won the Connecticut Fellowship Sermon Award in 1999 and was preached at the communion service of the National Association of Congregational Christian Churches in 1999

This Little Light

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A Sermon for the Salem United Church of Christ of Harrisburg, PA

by Rev. James Eaton, Interim Pastor ©2025

Second Sunday After Epiphany/Year A • January 18, 2026

Isaiah 49:1-7 * 1 Corinthians 1:1-9 * John 1:29-42

Down in the Chesapeake Bay, just east of the Magothy River, a little north of Annapolis, south of the Patapsco, there is a squat little lighthouse called Baltimore Light. It marks the start of the channel that leads to Baltimore. It was first lit in 1908 and ever since sailors have looked out for it, especially in fog or darkness. It isn’t much to look at but it does this one thing: it provides a light to guide all of us safely on our way. Out in San Francisco, the entrance to the Bay is marked by the Point Bonita light; up in New York, of course, there is Lady Liberty, holding high a sculpted torch, the first sight thousands of immigrants including my great-grandmother first saw when they came to this country. We are in the season of Epiphany and it’s all about light showing forth the light of God, walking together in that light, reflecting that light.

That’s what’s happening in the story we read from the Gospel of John. John doesn’t tell the whole story of Jesus’ baptism but he knows that the presence of God’s light, personified as God’s Spirit, is present in Jesus. Perhaps the baptism has already happened.

The next day he saw Jesus coming toward him and declared, “Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world! [John 1:29]

Don’t miss the verb here: ‘see’. Throughout John, things start with seeing, move to knowing, and finally to witnessing [Pulpit Fiction] We need to see to go forward. That’s what the lighthouses do: they give mariners their location, they help them see where they are and where they should go. John sees Jesus and knows his path: he is the forerunner, and just like a lighthouse, he points out the direction: “Here is the lamb of God.” The lamb of God is the signal of God’s grace, the one sacrificed before Passover, whose blood marks the children of God for salvation. Now John sees him; now John points the way forward.

John’s disciples get it. Once again we have the language of seeing: “”Look, here is the Lamb of God!” [John 1:36] and two of his disciples, Andrew and another, do indeed look and seeing Jesus, follow him. They ask where he’s staying and once again we have this vision language: Jesus replies, “Come and see.” [John 1:39] This is Jesus’ whole approach; he never compels, never demands discipleship, he tells people to wake up and come and see. Andrew does, and he goes and gets his brother Peter to come along with them. When Jesus sees Peter, he renames him. 

Isn’t this what we do in families? My daughter Amy had a best friend when she was young who called her ‘Amoos”; she liked the nickname and used it and then it got shortened to “Mo”; she even had a t-shirt at one time that said “Mo the Motorcycle Maniac”, although in truth I don’t think she’s ever been on a motorcycle. In the family, it got transformed to “Moee” and sometimes I still call her that. You see what Jesus is doing here? John sees him, the disciples see him, they recognize him and he takes that sight, that light, and makes it the center of a new community. One writer said, 

We have to live the story. We have to stay with Jesus; where are you staying, they asked. The word for remain and stay …is menei. Later in John it will be translate as abide: abide in me. Simply put, we have to live with him, and in him.  It means following, hanging out with him, studying him. Then we will find him, and find the meaning in him. It will become real. [One Man’s Web]

When we stay with him, then we discover the same light John saw, then our paths become his path, our way becomes his way, our light is the reflection of his light.

Isaiah tells us why God sends such light into the world. For centuries, prophets had spoken about God’s special care for Israel. Now, Isaiah says, 

“It is too light a thing that you should be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob and to restore the survivors of Israel; I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.” [Isaiah 49:6]

God has sent this light for the whole world. You know the song, “He’s got the whole world in his hands”; this is the expression of that. God’s justice, God’s mercy, God’s love is going to shine in the whole world and God sends individuals to do it. 

For God’s light to shine, we must become lighthouses. Claudette Colvin was a black teenage girl in Montgomery, Alabama, in the  1950s when racism was legally enforced. She grew up in segregation: water fountains marked “white” and “colored”, rules about where she could go to the movies, that she couldn’t go to a park, or the zoo or swim in a pool in the hot summer. The rules said black people had to sit in the back of the bus and give up their seat to a white person if the bus filled up. Claudette was 15 but one day she had the courage to refuse to move from her bus seat. She was arrested and jailed. 

Later, Rosa Parks would do the same thing; she became the face and spark plug for the early Civil Rights movement. Her arrest led to a bus boycott that changed the law forever. Colvin was largely forgotten, but her light was the dawn of that movement for freedom and justice. Colvin died recently at 86. Five years ago, when she sued to get her conviction expunged, she said,

“I want us to move forward and be better,” Colvin said…“When I think about why I’m seeking to have my name cleared by the state, it is because I believe if that happened it would show the generation growing up now that progress is possible and things do get better. It will inspire them to make the world better.”[https://www.cnn.com/2026/01/13/us/claudette-colvin-death}

Isn’t that what God challenges all of us—to inspire others to see that God’s light can spread, justice can come, we can become a loving community that cares for all?

Today is our Annual Meeting. I imagine there will be reports on what we did this past year, so many fellowship events held, so many worship services, so much money budgeted. Some will be quietly feeling sad that our budget or attendance or influence is not what it once was. I imagine Colvin felt small when the police arrested her. Sometimes we feel small. But the real question before us isn’t what we spent last year, what we did last year, it’s what are we going to do this year. How can we be a lighthouse here? There’s about 30 of us on any given Sunday, a few more who can’t get here but are with us in prayer. It’s not many. But look at this story. Isaiah speaks of God sending a single servant. John asks us to behold the lamb of God. Jesus starts with these two disciples, Andrew and someone else who apparently dropped out. He finally ends up with just 12, less than half the people here. 

But just a few years later, Paul is already writing to a group thousands of miles away in Greece, in Corinth, reminding them of what we ought to remember in our meeting: 

in every way you have been enriched in him, in speech and knowledge of every kind just as the testimony of Christ has been strengthened among you so that you are not lacking in any gift as you wait for the revealing of our Lord Jesus Christ.[1 Cor. 1:5-7]

The most important question for us is how will we take the gifts of God and share that light.

Not long after Colvin was arrested, when Rosa Parks was arrested for the same thing and the community began to react in what became the Montgomery Bus Boycott, they turned to a young minister in his first church to lead them. His name was Martin Luther King, Jr., and surely the light of God shone from his work, surely he was a lighthouse for God’s love. Tomorrow we remember his life with a holiday, but we should remember his work. One thing that always impresses me is that while we know him as a national leader for freedom and justice, he never stopped being a local pastor. It’s hard to do that. I recently read a biography about King and at one point the writer mentioned how his secretary would send him daily reports on correspondence and calls. In one of those reports, she mentioned calls about his national campaign for justice and also that the key for the coke machine in the office had been misplaced. I laughed: that’s just like a pastor’s life. “Pastor, tell me how I can be saved,” one moment and the next—where is the key?

Shortly before King was murdered for leading a march for economic justice, he preached a sermon to his home congregation at Ebenezer Baptist in Atlanta. He talked about the prospect of his death. He didn’t want a long funeral, he said. He didn’t want his eulogist to talk about his Nobel Peace Prize or his college degrees. “I’d like someone to mention that day that Martin Luther King Jr. tried to give his life serving others,” he said, his voice loud, strong and quavering, the word “tried” full of grit and gravel. The congregation was rapt. His father was silent. “I’d like for someone to say that day that Martin Luther King Jr. tried to love somebody! I want you to say that day that I tried to be right on the war question! I want you to be able to say that day that I did try to feed the hungry … I want you to say that I tried to love and serve humanity! Yes, if you want to say that day that I was a drum major, say that I was a drum major for justice. Say that I was a drum major for peace, that I was a drum major for righteousness, and all of the other shallow things will not matter … I just want to leave a committed life behind.”

That’s what I hope for myself; that’s what I hope for our church. It’s wonderful that we are an historic church; it’s great that we have been here so long. But what really matters is this: are we a lighthouse for Jesus? Are we reflecting the light of God here today?

We have this little light: let it shine! 

We have this little light: let it show the way to justice.

We have this little light: let it show the way to people walking in darkness.

Amen

All Washed Up

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A Sermon for the Salem United Church of Christ, Harrisburg, PA

by Rev. James Eaton, Interim Pastor © 2026

Baptism of the Lord Sunday/A • January 11, 2026

Matthew 3:13-17

“How have I ever deserved such love?” A woman asks this question near the end of a movie called The Danish Girl and I wonder if it is Jesus’ question at his baptism.

 I imagine it as a hot day; this is desert country after all. The stories about John tell us there were crowds but what’s a crowd? Twenty people? A couple hundred? Thousands? We don’t know. John is a striking figure, a charismatic man filled with the Spirit of God, who speaks a fierce message, calling people to repentance. He’s on the shore of the Jordan River. This is the river that had to be crossed centuries before by God’s people to enter the promised land. This is the water that had to be waded, this is the stream that stood between them and the fulfillment in history of God’s love and covenant. Is there a line to be baptized? Did Jesus stand behind others as one after another they came to John, talked to John, heard him pray and then felt him forcefully plunge them into the water, let the water cover them like someone drowning, and then lift them up, wet, wondering what comes next, clean, ready for the next chapter? Now Jesus comes; now he looks at John, now their eyes make a private space only they understand. Now John is taking Jesus in his arms, as he has with all the others, now Jesus is plunged into the water, there is perhaps that instant of fear so instinctive when we are underwater, now he is lifted up and heaven opens, Jesus hears what we all want to hear, “You are my child, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” This is baptism.

Baptism is rare here and in church life, we’ve become fussy about the rituals that surround it. We have considerable evidence for baptism, both of children and adults, in the early church. The Didache, a collection of sayings and teachings probably written about the same time as the New Testament says this about baptism.

Concerning baptism, you should baptize this way: After first explaining all things, baptize in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, in flowing water. But if you have no running water, baptize in other water; and if you cannot do so in cold water, then in warm. If you have very little, pour water three times on the head in the name of Father and Son and Holy Spirit. Before the baptism, both the baptizer and the candidate for baptism, plus any others who can, should fast. The candidate should fast for one or two days beforehand. [Didache, 7:1-4, found at http://www.paracletepress.com/didache.html]

This is great news if you’re one of those people who think details aren’t important; bad news if you’re a ritual maker. What it says is that the form of applying the water, the part that most interests us, doesn’t really matter. Use running water—if you’ve got it. Use a few drops if that’s all you’ve got. 

But if the details don’t matter, what does? The clues are in scripture. Isaiah says, 

But now thus says the LORD, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.

This word is addressed to people who feel themselves lost. Every day the news shows us pictures of refugees from Gaza and other places. Israel had become refugees and this is God saying, “You’re not forgotten: you’re still mine.” There’s a reason every baptism begins with a question: “What name is given this child?” We name a person at baptism in a way that honors them uniquely but also connects them with a family, a heritage. Whose are you? You are God’s own child, regardless of your age. Baptism is a reminder we’re not on our own; we belong and we belong to someone, to God. In the visible church, here, we are meant to be the emblem of that belonging. We baptize because we recognize the person being baptized belongs to God. Belonging, then baptism.

But it’s also a response to fear. Swimming is taught to children these days and we forget that for most of history and still today in many places, people fear water. Water is dangerous. Once my son was teasing me about not playing sports; he talked about having the courage to go out on the soccer field, knowing he might get bruised. I pointed out that I sailed and commented, “Every year, some sailors die when they drown.” It was a poor joke yet it had a truth: water is dangerous. Baptism began as a way of making sacred what we feared. In John Irving’s novel, The World According to Garp, a family retreats to a home on the ocean shore in New Hampshire. There’s a beach and the children are warned about an undertow that can suck them down. Misunderstanding, the way children do, they call it “the undertoad”. I know about the undertoad. Once, long ago, I was on a beach in New Jersey, swimming while my parents watched a few yards away. The undertow—the undertoad!—caught me, swirled me around and I’ve never forgotten the fear of that moment. “When you pass the waters,” God says, “I will be with you”. When the undertoad grabs you, you will still be God’s.

But it’s not all water; baptism is more than being washed up and set down fresh and fancy. Acts tells the story of an early church mission. Someone has gone up to Samaria and baptized some folks there. They didn’t ask the Consistory, they didn’t follow the ritual, they just went ahead and did it. But somehow, the baptism wasn’t effective, and the disciples know this because there has been no evidence of the Holy Spirit among these folks. We don’t know what this means; we only have this little testimony. Yet clearly the early church knew that baptism wasn’t simply a human act of applying water; it had a deeper, transforming significance. Today, baptism has become about the water; God meant it to be about the Spirit, the breath, the wind that blows through life. In the beginning, Genesis says, the Spirit of God blew on the face of the waters and it’s from this ordering that creation follows. Baptism is meant to be a sign of a deeper spiritual blowing in us that causes us to live out the gentle, loving, forgiving way of Jesus. No amount of water can do that; it takes the Holy Spirit. Our task as baptized Christians is to nurture the presence and experience of that Spirit in those who come here, those God sends.

The final clue I want to call attention to this morning is simple and direct. At the end of the account of Jesus’ baptism, it says, “suddenly the heavens were opened”. We live in a world caught up in the details of earthly life: what to wear, eat, how to get through the day. What we miss if we forget our baptism is that heaven is open; God is calling. The question with which I began, “How have I deserved such love?” has a simple answer: you don’t, you can’t. We don’t deserve love: it is pure gift, the gift of the God to whom we belong, whose children we are. If we believe we are indeed, God’s people, if God has given us the Spirit to bind us and energize us in living out love, if we know heaven is open to us, then indeed, we are loved in a way beyond deserving. You are my beloved, God says to Jesus: you are my beloved, God says to you.

The movie I mentioned earlier, The Danish Girl, is a fictionalized account of a real person, a man named Einar Wegener, married to Gerda, who discovered within himself a female identity he named Lili. It was a time and place with little understanding about such things the word ‘Transgender’ hadn’t even been invented and as Lili emerged and his life became living as Lili, as Einar receded and this woman became fully alive, he faced the conflict of being a woman living in a man’s body. At first treating this as a problem to be solved, Lili and Gerda struggled to find a way forward. Ultimately, Lili became the first person known to have undergone a series of operations to remake the body to match the identity as a woman. What’s clear from the real history, not as clear in the movie, is that there were years during which Lili faced the conflict of hiding her real self, living in shame, keeping the secret. Finally, near the end of the moveie, Lili sees how loved she is, asks the question with which I began, “How have I deserved such love?”, and answers it in the only way it can be answered. “Last night I had the most beautiful dream…I dreamed I was a baby in my mother’s arms…and she looked down at me…and called me Lili.” The dream is being called by your true name: known in your true self. And loved. Like the mother in the dream, like our father in heaven, God is calling out to us, loving us, loving us beyond anything we can or ever will deserve. In the moment we see this, in the moment we know this, heaven does indeed open. And that is baptism. 

Amen.

Rise and Shine

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A Sermon for the Salem United Church of Christ of Harrisburg, PA

by Rev. James Eaton, Interim Pastor ©2026

Epiphany Sunday • January 4, 2026

Matthew 2:1-12

Among the figures that populated my grandmother’s nativity scene, none were more impressive than the Three Kings. Made of carved wood and painted in bright colors, the Kings sat on camels linked together by gold colored chains, and they had little treasure boxes that fitted behind them, boxes which opened and could be made to contain real treasures: bits of gold from the chocolate coins my grandfather gave us or some other thing that became a treasure just by being secret. I never cared much about the cattle or the sheep or, for that matter, the fat little shepherd boys, but my brother and I played with the Kings until their chains broke and one of the camels lost a leg. We didn’t care: even legless, they seemed to contain the real mystery of the nativity just as they contained our treasures. 

We weren’t alone in our fascination. The emphasis we put on Christmas is unique to our culture; Eastern Christianity, most European Christians and the rest of the world spend far more time on the celebration of Epiphany than on Christmas. It is their moment for gift giving and reflecting on God’s gift of presence in Jesus Christ. Too often for us, Epiphany comes as an afterthought to Christmas: a time to finish vacuuming the pine needles and get back to normal. Today I want to call you out from the normal to a story that promises to let your heart swell with joy.

Perhaps it’s best to begin by putting the creche figures back, letting go of the stories that people have made up, and seeing what Matthew tells us about the Magi. Magi means “Wise Ones”—and that’s what they are; only later did a legend grow up that named them and called them kings. The Magi are astrologers: watchers of the sky who look for meaning in the stars, relating patterns in the planets to prophecies. One night they see some conjunction, some stellar event in a region of the sky called the House of the Hebrews and their prophetic books tell them that there is a special king expected in the land of Judah. So they go: packing up, joining a caravan, just as settlers once crossed this continent by wagon train. They take the ancient caravan route, the route that Abraham would have traveled, the route traveled by merchants and slaves and conquerors and people for thousands of years and about a year or so later they come to Jerusalem. There they pay a courtesy call on the reigning monarch, Herod. How disturbed he must have been to hear that a king—another king!—has been born. 

This story challenges us with these two great images of reaction to Jesus: Herod on the one hand and the Gentile Magi, the outsiders, on the other. What the Magi see as a great possibility, Herod sees only as a great threat. Herod, Matthew tells us, was disturbed; he tells the Magi to find the child and report back. When they outwit him and slip away, he’s enraged and has all the boys born in Bethlehem killed. Herod can think only of securing his own position, even though it means violence. The conflict that will bring Jesus to the cross is already in motion right here, right from the beginning: cross and crown are at war.

This story asks us the same question the old spiritual asks: Which side are you on? Put another way, What light lights your life? The word ‘Epiphany’ means manifestation or showing forth, as a light shines. The light in which we walk, the light that lights our lives, does show and it does make a difference. We know this about color and light: sit in a red room, psychologists tells us, and you somehow become more aggressive. The same is true of your life: the light in which you see things is a matter of decision. One camp song says, “I have decided to follow Jesus”. What have you decided? What do you decide-day to day?

The story also asks: what journey are you willing to make? This is a time when many make New Year’s resolutions. In two weeks, we’ll hold our Annual Meeting and look forward to a new year as a church. This is a time of transition as we look for a new settled pastor here. What new mission will we undertake together? This is a pleasant place to come on Sunday, but Christ’s call is not to get together with friends and feel better; it is to heal and help. How can we do that in new ways? We are so blessed in this church; how we will make that blessing a star shining more brightly? We have a wonderful history here at Salem: Epiphany asks us to pack up and move forward to the future, following Christ. 

Finally, the story asks: what purpose drives your journey? Both Herod and the Magi go to Bethlehem. Both go; but only the Magi find Christ. Despite all his violence, Herod misses the baby even as he misses the point. Real authority can never come from coercion; real authority comes from God who seeks faithful and voluntary obedience. Only a journey which remembers that its purpose is to follow wherever the light of God leads finds its way to the Christ child.

Today we begin the year, and we celebrate Epiphany—the showing forth of God’s light—with communion. We often speak of this as the commemoration of the last supper. Today I ask you to remember that in the resurrection this last supper became a kind of breakfast for the spirit: the first meal of the disciple’s journey, the first meal of the church before we began to work in the world. This work is ours, and it continues. Though we may pause, though we may stumble, nevertheless, we keep on, remembering to walk in the light, and lighting the paths of others, so that, as Isaiah said, “Your heart will throb and swell with joy.” This is the promise of this meal, this is the hope of this moment: that our journey may lead us to such joy and may be a means of joy to others as well. Sometimes we have walked in darkness: but today, today and hence forward, let us walk in the light. Rise and shine: your time has come.

Amen