Category Archives: Matthew

Hello?

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

by Rev. James Eaton, Interim Pastor ©2026

Second Sunday After Pentecost • June 7, 2026

Genesis 12:1-9 * Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26

I want to begin today with something that won’t make sense to some younger folks and I apologize for that. I want to take you back to a time when all phones were connected by wires to the wall. Do you remember that? Some were black things with a dial that had numbers and letters; in 1959 AT&T shocked us with the introduction of the Princess Phone, a curving bit of plastic that had a base but held the dialing wheel right on the phone. Back then, when the phone rang you generally picked it up and you had no idea who it was on the other end. It could be a friend, it could be a family member; it could be good news, it could be bad news, it could be someone who just wanted to chat. You let the call interrupt your day. There was no signal that said “likely spam” so you knew not to answer; there was no special ring tone for your best friend. Just the same ring for everyone, and you picked up the phone and said, “Hello?” All calls began the same way: picking up the phone, saying “Hello?” and then hearing the other voice telling you who it was and why they called.

Today, of course, calls are very different. Almost all of the calls I get are from people who want to make money off me; I get a lot of calls every single day from loan companies that want to give me money—so I will pay it back with interest. Some of the calls want me to give to good causes or campaigns for various candidates. All these have in common that they aren’t in my phone book so they first flash a message that says, “Likely spam” and generally I don’t answer, I hit a cancel button. I try not to cancel calls from any of you; those are what I call the “Hello?” calls, people I’m happy to hear from. Calls interrupt us; they ask for attention when we are paying attention to something else, they ask us to respond. That’s what’s happening in two of the stories we read today.

Matthew invites us to imagine Jesus walking along. Where is he going? We aren’t told. He’s not alone; he has some disciples with him, perhaps others, maybe some of the Pharisees who show up later. He sees a tax collector booth, the way we see toll booths on the highway. No one likes paying taxes and in this time, tax payers were especially hated because they were a symbol of Roman oppression. Everything had a tax on it, what you did, what you earned, and every time you crossed a bridge. Tax collectors paid a fee upfront for the right to collect the tax on something so there was a built in incentive to get as much as possible. They were people shunned in their community. Yet here is Jesus, walking by, and simply saying, apparently out of the blue, “Follow me.” 

It’s an interruption, a phone call out of the blue. We aren’t told what happens next but it must have been positive because in the next sentence, Jesus is at Matthew’s house, having dinner with him and other tax collectors and people who are described with the catchall term, “sinners”. Sinners means people who for whatever reason are thought of as not worthy to come before God. It’s shocking and some good church folk ask his disciples about it: Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?” [Matt 9:12] Eating tougher is surrounded by customs in this time; no one just sits down with strangers. Yet here Jesus is, with a bunch of the unworthy, sinners, tax collectors, people no one wants. This is his answer: “Go and learn what this means, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’  For I have not come to call the righteous but sinners.” [Matt 9:13] It’s a 700 year old quote from the prophet Hosea. Jesus is looking back into the Biblical tradition to remind these Bible teachers of what the tradition truly teaches: God’s mercy for all, no distinction, no one left out, no one left behind.

Before they can say anything, there’s another interruption, another “Hello?” moment. A local leader—Mark calls him a leader of the synagogue—begs Jesus to come resurrect his daughter who has died. So they all leave the dinner and go off to deal with this crisis and on the way yet a third “Hello?” moment occurs. A woman with a woman who has been bleeding for years touches Jesus; in another version of the story, she grabs the fringe of his cloak. Women who are bleeding are definitely among those who are seen as unworthy, in Biblical terms ‘unclean’. No good and righteous man has contact with them but Jesus stops stock still and turns and says, “Take heart daughter, your faith has made you well”. He takes the time to heal her even though he’s apparently in a hurry.

Notice that he doesn’t examine Matthew’s fitness before he calls him; he doesn’t ask that the dinner guests be vetted before he eats with them, he doesn’t tell the woman to prove her goodness, he just heals her. These are all stories of interruption; these are all “Hello?” moments that show Jesus flinging God’s grace into the world as casually as a homeowner watering the lawn. No one waters just one section, or one bit of grass; you water the whole lawn. Jesus comes to save the whole world. He does it one table, one dinner at a time, because eating together is a way we have of connecting to each other. One writer said, 

I have many food-related memories from childhood. Food bank lines stacked with government-issued blocks of processed cheese my scrawny arms could barely carry. Mean lunch ladies who told me that free lunch kids like me could only have the white milk, not the chocolate milk. I learned early that food could divide people or make someone feel excluded. I learned the economic difference between white milk and chocolate.

I have other memories of food, such as my mother’s fried chicken. I remember those rare Sundays when she wasn’t working as a nurse’s aide, when she would invite folks from her church to Sunday dinner. It didn’t really matter who you were—you would lose your sense of etiquette trying to negotiate your favorite piece of that golden brown bird. I learned that food could make one feel welcome. I learned that hospitality—and, symbolically, food—could not only mediate social relationships but even break boundaries. Whom we ate with could be inclusive and recalibrate relationships. It was always powerful to see my mother as host and pastors and parishioners as grateful guests. God’s hello’s interrupt but they also break boundaries; God’s hello’s come out of the blue but lead us to God’s path.

We see the same patten in Genesis. The very word means beginnings and from Chapter 1, which we read last Sunday, until just before today’s reading, we have a series of stories that move from creation through humanity’s fall from grace to Noah and the flood and the rainbow covenant, God’s promise to never again wipe out all life. Then we’re given an explanation in the Tower of Babel of how languages are invented because of human pride followed by a long genealogy that takes us from Noah’s sons to Terah, the father of Abram. Suddenly the progression of legends and myths is interrupted. God speaks to Abram, a man just like any other man, and says, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land I will show you.” [Gen 12:1] Wow—in a time when your clan was all, when most people lived and died in the same area, this is a tremendous “Hello!”, an interruption of all life.

The section before this contains a long genealogy in which Abram’s wife, Sarai, is noted and we’re given this note: Sarai was unable to have children. Certainly this is significant in the culture where the primary job of a woman was to have children. What makes it even more stunning is that when God promises blessing, part of the blessing is, “I will make you a great nation.” How will this promise be realized with a woman who is barren? What did Sarai think about this call; what does she think about leaving everything? Surely she’s leaving her family and home too. No more visits to see them; no more going home for holidays, just a husband and his calling and his journey. Her life is being interrupted also: she doesn’t object, but it’s not clear she agrees.

Still, they go forward. God’s promises this: 

I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing.

I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse, and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.” [Genesis 12:2-3]

Go forth: become a blessing to everyone who will ever be. 

So they go, first to Canaan, which is now Israel, through Shechem. Now the interesting thing about Shechem is that it’s up in the hill country of what will later be Northern Israel and still later Samaria, a part of Israel conquered by the Assyrians and in Jesus’ time, a land of people who are rejected by the Jews themselves. That’s where Abraham builds the first altar to our God. There is where Abraham responds to God with his own hello. 

This is the beginning of our whole faith story. This is how God comes, interrupting lives, sending people to new places and new directions. What happens to Matthew when he follows Jesus? He stays with the disciples after Jesus’ crucifixion; he’s there after the resurrection, he becomes an evangelist. Early church leaders believed he wrote down stories of Jesus that became the Gospel of Matthew. Some legends say he was an preacher in what’s present day Iran where he angered a local king and was killed for his faith, becoming a martyr. The interruption became his life.

What happens to Abram and Sarai is that they continue to journey beyond Canaan. We’re going to hear more of their story this summer. The interruption becomes the foundation of their lives and the fountain that produces three great religions: Judaism, Christianity and Islam. All revere Abram and claim this story of the great interruption of his life as the beginning of their history with God.

These stories invite us to ask where God intends to interrupt our lives. Where is God saying hello to you today? Our church life is like our personal lives: it tends to float along day to day without much change. Where is God trying to interrupt our church? How would accepting that Hello change us?

Ain’t No Mountain High Enough

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

by Rev. James Eaton, Pastor

Trinity Sunday/A • Mary 31, 2026

Genesis 1:1-2:4a • Matthew 28:16-20

Climbing up the mountain children
I didn’t come here for to stay
If I never more see you again,
Gonna see you on the Judgement Day

You can listen to the song here

Do you know this song? It’s in the style of a spiritual. Spirituals used religious metaphors to signal slaves and call them to take the risks of seeking freedom. It’s striking how often mountains figure in our faith tradition. Ancient people looked up and believed they were looking toward God. So to get higher was to get closer to God, draw nearer divinity. Isn’t that our hope? Isn’t that why we come to worship?—to feel closer to God. Today, let’s listen to these two stories from scripture and let them help us climb the mountain toward God.

Take that long, long story that open Genesis, the book of beginnings. Did you follow it as we read it this morning? When you listen to a song, there are two parts: you listen to the lyrics and you also listen to the music. It’s the same way with this story. The words are the lyrics; the rhythm and balance is the music. It starts out with what our translation calls “the formless void”; in Hebrew, the “Tohu Bohu”, absence of anything and then—light. The light is divided—night and day. There’s a place: now it’s divided, above, below—sky and world. It’s divided: Earth and seas. On the earth, plants, in the sky lights—time and fruitfulness. In the sea, creatures of every kind, in the air, birds of every kind. On the land, animals and cattle, which is to say animals that live mutually with humanity. Finally: us—humankind, gendered and made in the image of God. What we hear if we listen more to the music than the lyrics is an amazing, ultimate ordering, a place for everything, everything in its place. 

Clean Up!

It reminds me of being a boy in the room I shared with my brother. We had closets, desks, and some storage areas. And we had an amazing mess of toys, dirty clothes, books, magazines, half-built plastic models and what I can only describe as “Interesting Stuff”—a special rock, some shell brought back from a beach. My mom would tell us to clean up and we would, in the way boys clean up, which is to say we’d dump stuff into the closets and push it under the bed. But every once in a while, often on a summer day, my mother, in the way of mothers who are never fooled and knew exactly what we’d done, would appear in our room and tell us that today we were going to really clean. We knew what really clean meant: everything came out from under the beds, everything came out from the closet and then, bit by bit, my mother would help us put it all away, dirty clothes to the laundry, beds made without lumps, toys and models on shelves, trash thrown out and Interesting Things examined and put into a box. She brought order and even though we whined about the process, at the end we loved it. She’d stand in the doorway, arms crossed and say, “Now that’s the way this room should be. Try to keep it this way, at least for a little while.”

That’s what this story in Genesis is about. People who want to argue about it as a scientific description of how things came to be are missing the song it means to sing. This isn’t about how things came to be, it’s about how things are meant to be, all in order: night, day, animals, cattle, human beings, ordered by a loving God, everything in its place, everything dancing together to the music of God’s order, just as a choir sings together to the music of the organ. Now there are various names for this order. When it comes to everything, we call it creation; when it comes to human beings, we call it justice. It’s where God is always trying to move us, and the pathway there is the mountain we are meant to climb.

We have to climb it because, just like my brother and I, on the whole we are messy children. We are meant to be caretakers of creation; we wander off and become consumers instead. We are meant to live in the equality of mutually, equally being made in the image of God, recognizing that image in each other. Instead, we create hierarchies, we compete to be better than others and, in our pride, we use our strength to create systems that oppress some and benefit others. Hierarchy always involves coercion and coercion is violence. Violence disorders the balance, the order, God created and like the pressure under a volcano, it gets stored up until finally the coerced erupt against it.

A long time ago, when May was small, she had a problem and needed help. She seriously and carefully explained the problem and then came to what she wanted and said, “That’s where you come in.” Clearly, today we need someone to stand, like a mother at the doorway of a messy room, to clean things up. And that’s where you come in. Yes: we are meant to be part of the solution to putting things back in order. Just like my mother, God has a plan and the plan is in the other story we read this morning. It begins with God seeing the disorder of the world and coming to us, like my mother coming into the room. The signature act of God in Jesus is resurrection. Resurrection is God transcending violence. The cross is all the world’s violence, all the police on someone’s neck, all the politicians refusing to help the needy and helping friends get the benefits of God’s creation. The cross is domination; resurrection is the solution.

Trinity Sunday

The other story we read today pictures Jesus with his disciples on a mountain. “Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them.” [Matthew 28:16]. Jesus tells them to do three things: make disciples, baptize, teach his commandments. Today is Trinity Sunday and this is the one place in the Bible where the Trinity is explicitly mentioned. I have a history with the Trinity; the history is that when I was 12, I was in Confirmation Class, the old minister, probably not as old as I am now, tried to tell us about the Trinity and I said, “That doesn’t make sense!” Later he called my mother and asked her not to bring me back. Honestly? The Trinity is a way of trying to encapsulate that God comes to us in many ways. Jesus isn’t preaching theology here; he’s giving commands. Matthew says this interesting thing about the audience: “When they saw him, they worshiped him, but they doubted.” [Matt. 28:17] Believing all the theology doesn’t really matter, apparently; even the doubters are included. So if that’s you, welcome! 

What Jesus is teaching isn’t theology, it’s this: go make disciples. Sometimes we’ve misinterpreted this to mean “force people” but Jesus never forced anyone; he only invites. And what he invites them, what he invites us to do, is to obey what he commanded. It starts with the  power of forgiveness and what is forgiveness? It’s the intentional act of saying, “Let’s start new.” It’s the do-over after a missed opportunity, it’s the refusal to store up grievance and let it become resentment. Baptism is the symbol of this, the symbolic washing that gets rid of the dirt of the past. His ultimate command is love, loving the image of God where ever it’s found, whether in God or in God’s image, the person you meet, the person you haven’t met. To make disciples simply means to help someone else start to live this way, usually because they’ve been inspired by the example you set.

Living Now

This is a disordered moment. The regular rhythms of life are off. We are at war in a distant way that seems to cost mostly other people’s lives and our money. Our politics sounds more like a call to holy war than an invitation to solve problems. We can’t choose whether to live in this time; we can choose how we live. We can’t choose whether we live in a racist culture but we can choose how we live in it. We can use our politics, our money, our social media, our lives to say, to others, “I care about you—you’re a child of God, I’m going to treat you like one.” That’s being a disciple; that’s teaching Jesus way of love by example.

Somewhere, someone is rolling their eyes at this, I’m sure. Somewhere, someone is thinking it will never work. I imagine some days my mother stood in the doorway and thought, “How will they ever clean this up?” Jesus started with 12 disciples; here he is, just a short time later, and already he’s lost one—there are only 11 left to gather in Galilee. But it doesn’t stop him. He knows the truth that our politics always forgets, the one Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., so eloquently voiced when he said, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” 

In all the time since that moment in Galilee, there have been plenty of failures. Christians have busily built their own systems of domination and others have had to fight to restore justice. But God never stops trying, never stops coming to clean up. There’s another mountain song that reminds me of this. It’s meant to be a love song but I think of it as God’s love song for us and it begins, “A’int no mountain high enough, a’int no river wide enough, to keep me from you.” That’s the message of the resurrection: there is no power, no principality, nothing that can ultimately overcome God’s hope. When we live in justice, care for creation and each other, appreciate the image of God in creation and and all people, follow Jesus’ commands, then we are part of God’s plan. Isn’t it time to clean up today?

Amen. 

The Cross

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

by Rev. James Eaton, Interim Pastor © 2026

Good Friday/A • April 3, 2026

Matthew 27:32-44

Jesus has been preaching, teaching, casting out demons and healing broken lives throughout the region of Galilee. It’s a place broken by many divisions. In Galilee there are rich people who enjoy fabulous luxury; there are poor people literally starving. In Galilee there are devout Jews but there are many Gentile settlers as well. There are farmers but also manufacturers, weavers and potters and metal smiths. In Galilee Roman and Palestinian and Jew and many others as well live side by side and not always peacefully. There are slaves, citizens, outcasts and many people just trying to get through the day, to put bread on the table, raise their children, take care of their parents, and wondering if there isn’t something they are missing. It is in Galilee that Jesus first turns to his disciples to ask, “Who do people say I am?” and then, “Who do you say I am?” It is there that Peter exclaims, “You are the Christ, the anointed one of God”. And it is in Galilee that Jesus first speaks of the cross to come.

What is the cross? What does it mean to pick up your cross? What does it mean to follow Jesus with your cross? It’s difficult to extract the cross from the overlay of lore and tradition which surround it. It’s difficult to separate it from the meanings we have thrust upon it. Like an old piece of furniture finished and refinished and painted over, it takes careful effort to strip off all the surface layers and see the cross for itself, for what it truly is, and not mistake it for the decorations we have applied. Today crosses come in all shapes and sizes; they come in all kinds of materials. For us the cross is principally jewelry. It’s an ear ring, a pendant, a lapel pin. Clergy wear pectoral crosses: big ones that sit on the chest, perhaps hoping people will assume the bigger the cross, the more faithful the minister. For us the cross is pretty and empty and we put it on or take it off like a name tag.   

But the first century knew the cross for what it was: an image of death, a symbol of execution. The Jewish historian Josephus who lived in that time tells of thousands of crucifixions in the area of Jerusalem. Two thousand were crucified by the general Varius about the time of Jesus’ birth and five hundred a day for weeks were crucified by Titus in 70 AD during the Jewish war. In June 1968, the skeleton of a crucified man from the period was found in northeastern Jerusalem. He had died with his arms tied to a crossbar, with a foot nailed on either side of the upright, with legs unbroken and he was found with an iron nail still impaled in his right heel. Death for a crucified person does not come from the trauma of the nails; it comes from asphyxiation. The unsupported position of the body strains the diaphragm and eventually the person is unable to breathe. It is a long, painful death designed to terrify all who see it. The public nature of crucifixion was its essence. Crosses were guarded by the Romans to make sure that the victim was not rescued by friends or family. For a Jew, death on a cross carried an additional stigma. Deuteronomy provided that a man who was hung on a tree was cursed.  So a crucified Jew was not only dead but cast out as well from the covenant of Abraham. It was a spiritual death as well as a physical death.

This is the meaning we must extract from the cross. The cross is about death and degradation. It is the stripping away of dignity, it is the denial of humanness as well as the extinguishing of life. This is the cross; this is what it means. This is why Peter and the others reacted so strongly when Jesus said he was going to a cross; they were scared to death. No one had to tell anyone in the first century about the meaning of the cross. Crucifixions were common; all they had to do was walk out in a public place to see them, to hear the gasps of the victims and feel an involuntary prayer forming: “Thank God it’s not me”!

The cross is terrifying. So terrifying that other generations couldn’t stand to think about it. In the centuries after Jesus, crosses became more and more elaborate and more and more beautiful. The high art of the Middle Ages found its expression in the production of crucifixes and the working and reworking of the cross in gold and silver and with inlaid jewels. By the 1600s when a longing to return to the deeper, simpler, purer meaning of Christian faith swept England and our fathers and mothers in the faith, the early Reformed Christians, rode to war against the Church of England, they made a thorough going attempt to destroy these pretty crosses. All over England they melted them down, broke them apart, and closed the chapels which had housed them. No pretty gold or silver or brass cross ever adorned a Reformed communion table. Today we are reluctant to speak of this period; we don’t like to remember there were religious wars or that people died to free themselves from the dead hands of kings and popes and bishops. But we shouldn’t forget it; we should remember what they did and celebrate it. Every cross they destroyed, every pretty, jeweled, precious cross shaped artifact they destroyed was one step closer to recovering the bright hard light of the cross experience.

For the cross is not an object but an experience. The cross you wear is not the true cross: the cross on the table here is not the true cross. The true cross is our fear; the true cross is our excuse. The cross is what holds us back from God, the ultimate barrier to living as a covenant partner in the kingdom of God. Jesus and his first followers certainly knew this even if we do not. To them crosses weren’t beautiful; they were frightening. The call to carry a cross was a call to faith in the midst of fear, a call to bring even fear to God faithfully. The text of Jesus’ first prediction of his death contains this experience. Peter is basking in getting the right answer when Jesus speaks of the cross and he tries to argue with Jesus. Peter is scared! But Jesus tells him to get behind him, that is, not to be a barrier. The call to the kingdom of God is not all comfort; it is a call to face the threat of death. It is the call to a faith in life and the life giving power of God so complete that death—and the cross—lose their power.

For the cross is life and death. Jesus knows this: Jesus speaks of it. He says, “Whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me and for the gospel will save it” There is the choice: to hang on to your own life with your own two hands as hard and tight as you can, grasping and scratching with all your might what you will lose in the end—or to let go and believe you can live in the hands of God. To come to the cross, to the real cross, is to to face our own death, our own suffering, our own fear and embrace them; to believe that even there, God is present, to believe it even when there is no feeling of presence. 

The cross was not beautiful to Jesus or his followers. It was not a symbol of life, it was a concrete reminder of death. But it reminded them as well that even there, on a cross, on that symbol of the greatest, most violent, ultimate worldly power of their time, God was alive: God was present. The cross was not powerful because of its beauty; it became beautiful because they remembered the power of God had overcome it. There, faithful even to death, Jesus embraced God. To follow Jesus is to let go of the charm bracelet cross, the ear ring cross, the pectoral cross, the brass table cross and pick up a real one. It is to frankly and faithfully face fear and failure, accept what you cannot change not in despair but in faith that God can work even there. It is to accept your death but even more to offer your life to the transforming energy of God’s love. 

This is the true cross. It exists in only one place: the hearts of faithful Christians. We see its shadow from time to time. I see it in hospital rooms the night before an operation. I see it in the lives of people living their faith. The true cross is not pretty and does not hang on ears or walls; it does not sit on shelves or tables; it burns in the hearts of men and women who are being transformed because they are faithfully seeking to live the gospel. It is not the triumphant signal of victory; it is the last exit before the Kingdom. And when we have passed it, tthen we know that we are home with God where we belong, for as Paul said, if we have died with Christ, we shall certainly live with him. 

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

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

What’s In a Name?

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

by Rev. James Eaton, Interim Pastor ©2025

Fourth Sunday in Advent/A • December 21, 2025

Isaiah 7:1-10 • Romans 1:1-7 • Matthew 1:18-25

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet; / So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d, / Retain that dear perfection which he owes / Without that title.

Juliet has a problem: she’s fallen in love, deep, hopeless, the way adolescent girls do, with a boy who’s from a family her family hates. She famously points out that it’s his name that’s the problem, not he himself. So, just like a favorite football player, traded to a new team, putting on a New Jersey, she suggests he simply get rid of the name.

Names are the first things we get, and they often reveal something about who we are. Romeo’s last name is Montague, and he’s the enemy of the Capulets, Juliet is a Capulet, and the families are enemies. Names often carry meaning, honoring someone like a grandparent or a friend. I was named after my dad’s best friend when I was born. He played trumpet in the University of Michigan band. Later, they had a disagreement, so I haven’t seen the man I’m named after since I was about six. Some names show affection or are private. Jacquelyn is from Texas, and when we became a couple, she brought that southern spirit home. She calls me “Preacher man,” and no one else is allowed to use that name, and no one does. It’s her private name. All three of today’s scripture readings encourage us to name our savior. They challenge us with different names and invite us to experience him in various ways.

To understand the section from Isaiah, we need a bit of background. King Ahaz’s Judah is caught between Egypt to the south and Assyria to the east. Some local kings have allied with the Egyptians and want Ahaz to join them, so the kings of Damascus and Samaria are at war with him, fighting around Jerusalem. He’s unsure of what to do, and when he turns to the prophet Isaiah, he’s told to rely on God. Isaiah invites him to ask for a sign from God, but Ahaz refuses. So, Isaiah tells him what sign will be given: a child who will be named Immanuel. ‘Immanuel’ means God with us; it comes from the Hebrew word for God—El—and the Hebrew for ‘with us’. Isaiah is teaching Ahaz this fundamental fact: God’s permanent presence. He wants him to make a difficult choice: to rely on God when Ahaz only sees the armies of his opponents. 

Isn’t it interesting how we all approach tough decisions? What’s the first thing we do? Do we crunch the numbers, jot down the pros and cons, or maybe just rely on a well-worn saying or some online advice? What if we really considered God’s presence in that moment? What if we turned to God in prayer, asking for less of a direct answer and more of God’s hope? What if we called God Immanuel? How would that shift our perspective? How would it transform our church?

I used to go to a gathering of clergy every April and I had a lot of friends who were older ministers. One year, a discussion leader asked us to talk about what we actually did during the week. For me then, it was mostly researching the scripture, preparing a sermon, so I said that; most of the people in the group said the same. One of us, a man I had come to respect a great deal, said, “Every morning I go in the office, look at the calls, say hi to my secretary and then I take the church directory in the sanctuary and I sit and pray for each person in the church.” I was stunned. I certainly prayed for people but usually just the ones who were in the hospital or sick or had asked for prayer. I’d like to say I went home and started doing this and I did for a couple of days but then things got in the way and it slipped away. Years later when I faced a difficult conflict at the beginning of COVID, though, I was so frustrated that I began to do it again. It didn’t solve the conflict but it did quiet me so I stopped being angry. I began to be less angry and more able to be a real pastor. I regularly do that now: I pray for each of you, I pray for our church. I see it as my most important job. I wonder: what if every day, every one of us simply asked God to help us be a more faithful, vibrant, loving church?

I’m eager to move on to Matthew and his account of the advent. He begins with a genealogy that traces 14 generations from Abraham to Joseph. He wants us to understand that this birth is a part of God’s enduring relationship with these people. Some of the names are truly remarkable. Rahab, for instance, was a prostitute who aided the Jews in capturing Jericho; Bathsheba famously had an affair with King David. Ruth, on the other hand, isn’t a Jew; she’s from Moab, which means she comes from a completely different family. Finally, we arrive at Joseph, who is distantly related to King David and, therefore, to God’s promise to David that his line would always be with him. This story is all about Joseph; if you’re interested in Mary, come back on Christmas Eve, when we’ll read Luke’s story, which is all about Mary. 

Joseph and Mary are engaged, which is a much more serious commitment than our engagement today. It’s been publicly recognized, and there might even be a contract. Now, Joseph has discovered that Mary is pregnant and immediately assumes she’s been unfaithful. He’s a good person who follows the Torah, and the Torah in Deuteronomy suggests that he should end the marriage. He knows this will be incredibly difficult for her, and he truly cares about her, so he does what we would do: he takes his time, considers the situation, and comes up with a plan to get out of the marriage without hurting Mary too much. “Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to divorce her quietly.” [Matt 1:20] But then, an angel appears to him in a dream. The angel begins like all angels do, saying, “Don’t be afraid,” but then says something that doesn’t quite make sense: “Don’t be afraid to take Mary as your wife; she’s going to have a child, and you’re going to name the child Jesus.” Well, the angel doesn’t actually say ‘Jesus’; he says ‘Yeshua,’ which is Hebrew for Joshua. Later, it gets translated into Greek, which doesn’t have that ‘sh’ sound, so it becomes Jesus. It’s a name that means, “God saves.” 

So, that’s what he does. Now, there’s the tricky part of Mary being a virgin—or not. Early on, Christians linked the Isaiah passage we read with this one. In Greek and later Latin, a Hebrew word meaning ‘young woman’ was translated as ‘virgin’ because it wasn’t really about the body but more about young women in general. The church really took hold of this. Today, it’s a big deal for some, but a stumbling block for others. If it helps you, that’s great; if it doesn’t, that’s okay too. It’s important to remember that we focus on the biological details here in a way that no one in Jesus’ time would have. They had lots of stories about virgin births. Some people even believed that Emperor Augustus was born of a virgin, and there are other similar stories. It’s a way of saying that in this person, God has come to humanity in a special way. And the reason for this coming, this advent, is specific: salvation.

What does salvation mean? For some, it’s about an emotional experience; for others, it’s a quiet, internal feeling. Generally, it means understanding that God isn’t just everywhere, but with you, personally present. When we feel God present, we often feel a sense of our own inadequacy, our own sinfulness. I know this feeling; I stand here and talk about loving my neighbor, but when that neighbor is driving poorly near me, I can get pretty angry. Still, I know God is with me, present, sometimes disappointed, always forgiving and inviting me to grow up a little, act on what I believe. Calling the baby Jesus is a marker: God is not just present in history, but right here, in this person, and as that person grows up, God is providing a class in how to live a Godly life, even when that life ends in a cross.

This brings us to Paul and his letter to the Romans. Unlike many of Paul’s letters, this time he was writing to a church he hadn’t gathered, to people he didn’t know. The section we read comes from the beginning of the letter. He’s introducing himself, and he does it by calling up names. “Paul, a slave or servant of Christ Jesus, called to be an apostle.” There’s a lot to unpack in this simple sentence. First, he’s added another name to Jesus: Christ. Christ is the Greek word that translates “Messiah.” Messiah means “the anointed one” or “the chosen one,” chosen by God. The job of the Messiah is to redeem God’s children. Now, we already know Matthew has given us a long list of the family of God’s children; Paul is going to explain to the Romans and to us that we also are part of that family, adopted into it. And in that family, there are no distinctions. We’re all invited equally, invited by God, made into one family by God.

He names himself an apostle, someone who has seen the Risen Lord, and then he says that he is a servant or a slave of Jesus Christ. He’s giving us a rule about how we stand in relationship to Jesus: not as equals but as servants and members of the kingdom he preaches. He’s going on and talk about what it means to live as part of that kingdom but right here, right from the beginning, he’s inviting us in.

That’s really what all these names are: doorways into the meaning of Christ for us. So today’s scriptures give us three names, three doorways, into the meaning of Christ for us. We started with Immanuel, God present with us. We went on to Jesus, God saves. Now we are given a new name: Christ, the anointed one, the chosen one of God. You probably have different names too: husband or wife, son or daughter, dad or parent or mom. If you work, you have a title at work. And you have your own private sense of self. What name does God call you? What name will you call God?

Amen.

Lighting the Candle of Joy

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

by Rev. James Eaton, Interim Pastor ©2025

Third Sunday in Advent – Year A • December 14, 2025

Isaiah 35:1-10 • James 5:7-10• Matthew 11:2-11

Seasons of the church year have a luminous aspect. Easter is all light. There was a time in my life when I’d get up before dawn, preparing to lead a sunrise service. I know some people do sunrise services at a more convenient time, but I’ve never been an easy pastor; I always insisted on literally gathering before sunrise so it would happen during the service. Lent is dark: we start with ashes, we think about suffering culminating on Good Friday and the cross. Christmas is all lights: we put them on Christmas trees, and I’m old enough to remember the annual chore of climbing on ladders, helping my dad put up outdoor lights. 

But Advent, Advent is unique; Advent is both dark and light. It began as a little Lent; when I was first in ministry, we wore the same colors for Advent as for Lent. I was gone for a few years and when I came back, someone had decided we’d wear blue for Mary. But still, Advent has a darkness to it, balanced by the candles of Advent. So there is light as well. Christmas Eve is the best example: the next to the last thing we do on Christmas Eve is darken the worship area, just before we all light candles. I’m looking forward to sharing that moment with you in a couple of weeks. Advent light comes in stages, one candle at a time. A candle for hope, a candle for peace, and next week a candle for love. All these are blue; one candle alone is pink, the candle for joy. The reason for the tradition is that in the Latin mass, the word ‘Caudate’, which means ‘Rejoice’ began the service. So our challenge today is how can we light the candle of joy not only here but everywhere?

Today’s scripture readings have that light and dark in them. We started today with Isaiah’s prophecy that gushes out like a warm soda bottle someone shook up. He starts with all creation rejoicing. We often forget how central creation is to God. But there it is overflowing: desert blooming, “…it shall blossom abundantly and rejoice with joy and shouting.” [Isaiah 35:2b]. Wow: my English teacher would never have allowed “rejoice with joy”, it’s too much, it’s over the top. But it doesn’t stop with creation, it’s people too, and not just the healthy ones either.

Strengthen the weak hands and make firm the feeble knees.

Say to those who are of a fearful heart, “Be strong, do not fear! Here is your God. He will come with vengeance, with terrible recompense. He will come and save you.”  [Isaiah 35:3f]

That really feels like I’m being personally addressed because honestly, my hands are not as strong as they were; I have trouble gripping the line on the boat these days, and my knees, well, my running days are over for sure. And the highway taking us home to God is so well-marked, so straight, so perfect that, according to Isaiah, “not even fools, shall go astray.” What Isaiah seems to have in mind is joy coming from heaven like a snowfall or a rain shower. You can’t escape it; it’s going to get on you even if you have bad knees, arthritic hands, even if you’re a fool. God’s light is going to shine so powerfully that every corner is lit up, every person is lifted up, and even creation itself is full of the joy of God’s coming.

Well, that’s the fun part of today’s Word: all God’s children parading together in joy. But there’s a darkness too. Before we get to carried away, we need to listen to the gospel. There, things are not joyful, there things are not light. There we are taken to a prison cell in a dark dungeon. King Herod Antipas was a famously bad actor and among his may sins was having his brother killed so he could marry his brother’s wife. John has been speaking about this and just like today, political violence from leaders was common. So John’s been thrown in prison. I’ve visited in prisons and they are not fun places. They’re noisy and drafty and there is an air of pervading violence. Even if nothing bad is happening right now, you feel like it could at any moment. The only light in that time is from candles or lamps of burning oil and those are expensive; no one’s going to waste them on a prisoner. I imagine John sitting in the dark, hearing the cries of these, wondering if it all is ending, if he was wrong. So he gets a couple of friends to contact Jesus and ask, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” [Matt. 11:3]

What would you say? How would you answer? Jesus doesn’t do theology, he doesn’t demand faith in him, he simply says, “Go and tell John what you hear and see” and then he points out the fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy.

…the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, those with a skin disease are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. [Matt. 11:5]

He’s quoting Isaiah 35:5-6 but surely he also has in mind what we read this morning. Where Jesus goes, the candles of joy are lit and the light of God shines. There’s no demand to come to Jesus; instead, there is this invitation to open your eyes and look around.

Isn’t this our challenge? How do we also light those candles. How do we say to our world, our city, our friends, “Look here if you want to see Jesus? This week I listened to an NPR show with a man who talked about how important his mother was to him. He said that she was 89 and had some medical challenges these days, and he admitted, in all honesty, taking care of her is sometimes a burden. He talked about how he has to wash her, help her use a bedpan, and that she isn’t always nice about the whole process. Then he said this amazing thing, “What I’ve learned, though, in caring for the one who brought me into the world, is that it is a kind of prayer.” He went on to say that too often we think of prayer as asking for something; for him prayer has become this act of service, this care for another. He’s found a new purpose and a new relationship not only with his mother but with God as well. Because he’s lighting a candle of joy in the process of doing something difficult for another.

Ursula K. Le Guin wrote a whole novel about a woman who was terribly burned as a child. Taken to a healer, they are only able to save her life, not fix the damage. What the healer says is powerful: “What cannot be healed must be transcended.” So our question is how to we take the dark parts of life, transcend them, make them into prayer, make them a candle of joy to light?

I know that in my life, one of the most difficult things was when Jacquelyn started working as a flight attendant. I don’t have that reflexive fear of flying many have but I do know that thins happen on airplanes. Somewhere in the background of my mind are the flight attendants on 9/11 and in 2009, not long after she started, an airplane landed in the Hudson River. Planes do crash and even when they don’t, sometimes Flight Attendants get hurt on the plane. Jacquelyn has gotten hurt. So when she started going off to fly every week, it was hard, it was very hard. I didn’t sleep at night; I worried. Every time I said goodbye it felt like it might be the last time I’d see her.

But we’ve been doing this a long time, now. I still have problems some nights when she’s gone, but I’ve learned this important thing: my original thought was right, when she goes off to fly, I might never see her again. But she’s here now. She’s with me now. So it’s up to me to use this time to make a good life with her, and we work at that together. That’s become my prayer: thank god she’s here now.

My friend Jefferson gave me a book of Maya Angelou’s poems last Sunday. One that spoke powerfully to me says,

Thank you, Lord.

I want to thank You, Lord,

For life and all that’s in it

Thank you for the day

And for the hour and for the minute

I know many are gone,

I’m still living on

I want to thank You.

I went to sleep last night

And I arose with the dawn

I know that there are others

Who’re Still sleeping on

They’ve one away.

You’ve let me stay.

I want to thank You.

We don’t know why we’re here, always. Yesterday, I know you heard about the terrible shooting at Brown University in Providence, RI. I can’t imagine what that’s like: to be calmly preparing to take an exam and have violence suddenly burst in. One of them said this,

Spencer Yang, 18, who was shot in the leg in his Brown classroom on Saturday afternoon, described helping a fellow student who was seriously injured as they hid behind seats.

“To keep him conscious, I just started talking to him, so he didn’t close his eyes and fall asleep,” Mr. Yang said in an interview from the hospital, where he was being treated for a wound in his leg. “I handed him my water,” he said. “He wasn’t able to respond that well. He was just there nodding and making noise.” “He’s stable now, thankfully,” Mr. Yang added.

When Mr. Yang got up that morning, he didn’t expect to help save a life. When he went to that classroom, he didn’t expect to lie on the floor. But thank God he was there.

That’s it really: I don’t know if I will be here tomorrow, I don’t know if Jacquelyn will be here tomorrow, but she’s here now, I’m here now. When we realize what a wonderful, miraculous thing that is, it can become in our lives, a kind of prayer. Thank you, Lord. I’m still here: help me let my life light a candle of joy because you give me this life. 

Amen.