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.
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.