Tag Archives: Jesus

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 4

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A Man Born Blind from Birth

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

by Rev. James Eaton, Pastor

Fourth Sunday in Lent/A • March 15, 2026

John Chapter 9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

This Little Light

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

by Rev. James Eaton, Interim Pastor ©2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We have this little light: let it shine! 

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

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

Amen

Climbing Up the Mountain

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

by Rev. James Eaton, Interim Pastor ©2025

First Sunday in Advent/A • November 30, 2025

Isaiah 2:1-5 * Psalm 122 * Romans 13:11-14 * Matthew 24:36-44

“…they shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation; neither shall they learn war anymore.” [Isaiah 2:5]

In 1939, the generation which had fought the “war to end all wars” 20 years earlier went back to war. In those 20 years, one of the most alarming changes had been the rise of air power. Fearful that London would be bombed, as in fact it was, British authorities organized the removal of 800,000 people to the countryside; about one and a half times as many as live in the Harrisburg-Carlisle area. Most were children. They gathered with a few clothes, a gas mask, and a name tag and were sent to rural villages where host families picked them out, sometimes separating siblings. This memorable event is the background to C. S. Lewis’ book, “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe”. That story begins with four children sent out of London to stay at an old mansion with a sometimes distracted older professor and his housekeeper. As children do, they get bored and explore unused rooms, finding a wardrobe. Climbing into it, they find it is the gateway to a fantasy land called Narnia, where a great conflict between the Wicked White Witch and the great Lion Aslan is underway. Ultimately, Aslan sacrifices his life to save the children and is then resurrected, and the children lead the way to a great victory, saving Narnia. They become rulers and one day, on a hunt, they accidentally ride past the entrance to Narnia and find themselves climbing out of the wardrobe, back where they were, children again, but with this wonderful memory of victory. That memory sustains them; they know that whatever evil freezes the world, it will ultimately be made green again.

Today’s readings in Isaiah and Matthew are a special kind of literature called eschatology. Eschatology is a kind of literature that looks back to this time from the vantage point of God’s final victory. There are many kinds of language. That shouldn’t surprise us. Looking at a rose, for example, a botanist would say, “A rose is a woody perennial flowering plant in the genus Rosa, family Rosaceae. But the poet Shakespeare said,

O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live;

Wow: totally different, both true. Same rose: different languages. The scientist wants to describe the rose. The poet wants to describe the experience of the rose.

Isaiah is a prophet of a time when God’s people are defeated by the terrible armies of Assyria and Babylon. The reason for the defeat, the prophets say, is the unfaithfulness of the people. So in the face of such sin, God refuses their offerings, refuses their worship, refuses them God’s help. That’s what comes before this Word from the Lord. That’s what God’s people are experiencing. Isaiah tells it in all its terribleness.

Your country is desolate,
    your cities burned with fire;
your fields are being stripped by foreigners
    right before you,
    laid waste as when overthrown by strangers. [Isaiah 1:7]

After speaking about the devastation of God’s people, the prophet then has another vision. It’s as if he turned a telescope around. Now he looks from the final victory of God, and we hear the vision that was read this morning.

In the midst of devastation, there will be new harvests. In the midst of conflict, there will be peace. What makes the difference? The advent of God as the great judge.

God shall judge between the nations and shall arbitrate for many peoples; they shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation; neither shall they learn war anymore. [Isaiah 2:4]

This is the language called eschatology; this is the prophet wanting us to experience the hope of God’s promise.

That’s what Jesus is doing in the portion of Matthew we read this morning. He lives in a place occupied by a foreign army, governed by rulers who are famously unjust and uncaring. He tells his followers that the time of God’s Kingdom has arrived; the very time when God is become the judge, just as Isaiah said. He tells them that people are missing it. Some get it; some don’t. 

For as in the days before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day Noah entered the ark, and they knew nothing until the flood came and swept them all away, so, too, will be the coming of the Son of Man. Then two will be in the field; one will be taken, and one will be left. Two women will be grinding meal together; one will be taken, and one will be left. [Matt. 24:38-40]

So Jesus is turning the telescope around, changing the view. “No one knows” when God will break in and the crisis will occur, he says. 

That alone should tell us to ignore all those people who think they know everything about God’s plan. For a long period, we had the “Left Behind” series, which was more about making money for a few people than the real word of God. The real word is: no one knows when the advent of peace, of justice, of God’s immediate presence will happen. Instead, Jesus simply says, “Therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect.” [Matt. 24:44] Paul preaches the same message and simply says, “Walk decently”, in this time between.

The word of ultimate hope can be powerful. In the years before the Civil War brought the liberation of slaves throughout our nation, many had the courage to leave their bondage, and flee north to freedom. Part of what empowered them was the stories of the Bible of how God had led people from bondage to slavery. They made the story their own, they made all these stories their own. And they used songs to communicate. One of those songs was, “Climbing Up the Mountain, Children.” The song says,

Climbing up the mountain children, I didn’t come here to stay

And if I nevermore see you, gonna see you on the judgment day.

It reminds us all of where we are: climbing a mountain, moving upward toward God’s vision of us, toward a community of joy, a community of justice. It reminds us that we may get lost on the way but that ultimately in God’s final judgment, we are all brought together, we are all gathered as God’s children.

I imagine every one here is climbing some mountain. For some, it’s physical illness and pain, for some it’s a nagging gray hopelessness, for some it’s worrying about the circumstances of life, how to stretch a budget to fit needs. In the 1850s, many enslaved people were escaping. William Still was an African-American abolitionist who frequently risked his life to help freedom-seekers escape slavery. In excerpts from letters, Still left a record of some of the letters sent to him from abolitionists and formerly enslaved persons. The passages shed light on family separation, the financial costs of the journey to freedom, and the logistics of the Underground Railroad. In those letters, they often refer to escaping people as “goods” or “boxes”. One I want to lift up says simply,

We knew not that these goods were to come, consequently we were all taken by surprise. When you answer, use the word, goods. The reason of the excitement, is: some three weeks ago a big box was consigned to us by J. Bustill, of Harrisburg. We received it, and forwarded it on to J. Jones, Elmira, and the next day they were on the fresh hunt of said box; it got safe to Elmira, as I have had a letter from Jones, and all is safe. [https://www.americanyawp.com/reader/the-sectional-crisis/stories-from-the-underground-railroad-1855-56/]

These people, including people from this very church, were all in danger. But these people believed in the promise of freedom and a new life. So they climbed that mountain in that hope.

The hope of advent isn’t simply that Christmas will come; it is what Jesus says, what Isaiah says, that in the love of God, we have a place, we are embraced as children of God. In that hope, in that peace, we come to Advent not as people marking off the days until Christmas, but knowing that God comes into our world, into our lives,
even when we least expect it.

Amen.

Making God Smile

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

by The Rev. James E. Eaton, Interim Pastor • © 2025

14th Sunday After Pentecost/Year C • September 14, 2025

Luke 15:1-10 

One of the most astonishing things I’ve ever seen is a just born baby learning to make mom smile. Have you seen this? A few years ago, I went to visit a mom with a new baby, a friend and church member. I expected her to be glad to see me; I expected her to be proud to introduce me to her child. What I remember is standing by the bed, ignored, irrelevant, as her new daughter tried out expressions, clasped tiny fingers and stared endlessly into her mother’s eyes, eyes that never left her. The sounds were happy; mom’s smile was quick and constant. After a few moments, she looked up at me, just a little embarrassed, as if caught at something and said, “I’m sorry, I’m totally entranced.” Calmly, enthusiastically, that new baby learned to make each of us smile at her and we did. So when we read in this text: “…there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.”, it’s not hard to imagine the experience: we are meant to learn to make God smile like a baby teaching mom, and Jesus is giving lessons.

That’s a nice, feel good message for a Sunday morning. But does it have anything to do with our real lives? How do we make God smile; do we have to smile ourselves? How often we’ve settled for a bland, smiling Christianity that never hears, never sees, the fear and trembling of those around. How often we’ve gone home, scripture read, songs sung, sermon preached, as if the word, the songs, the preaching existed only in a world of endless smiles, while we ourselves live in a frowny face place where things hurt, and we constantly fear the next wave of grief or disaster will overwhelm us. Can we hold on to the smile of God in such moments?

Perhaps we begin to understand how when we see that Jesus teaches God’s smile comes out of being lost, the experience that so terrifies us that we will do almost anything to avoid it. The Bible has two images of being lost. One is wandering in the wilderness, a place full of life-threatening danger, where the things we need—food, drink—are unavailable. God’s people are formed in the experience of wandering the wilderness and Jesus himself is forced there after his baptism. Lost in the wilderness, Jesus meets a tempter who offers easy answers; he hangs on to being lost, until God finds him—the story concludes, “Angels waited on him”. Another experience of being lost is grieving. Over and over again in the prophets, in the Psalms, we hear the anguished voice of God grieving for lost Israel, which has broken its covenant and left its Lord.

We heard that in the reading from Jeremiah this morning. Jeremiah lived in a time of incredible violence. His home, Judah, went to war with the much more powerful Babylonia and was defeated; Jerusalem itself was destroyed, its leaders and many others exiled to Babylon. 

I looked on the earth, and it was complete chaos, and to the heavens,
and they had no light.

I looked on the mountains, and they were quaking, and all the hills moved to and fro.

I looked, and there was no one at all, and all the birds of the air had fled.

[Jeremiah 4:23-27]

Defeat meant feeling deserted by God. The people were lost.

When have you been lost? When has the darkness descended until you didn’t know if there was a path, much less how to find it? There are griefs, there are losses, that leave us lost, wandering, uncertain, unsure, unable to find our way on our own. These past few weeks have seen two murders for political purposes and children shot at their schools. I know every time I read about this, it makes me feel lost.  

When Jesus speaks about the lost, this is what he means. There is nothing more helpless than a lost lamb. A lost dog will wander around and often return home. A lost cat will find its way back. Pigeons home; even a child may ask the way. Lost horses frequently return. But a lost lamb will not come home, will not return, will not come back. It will simply lie down and bleat its fear and the very sound becomes an invitation to predators: easy kill. What should be done about the lamb? The sensible thing of course is simply to abandon it; it’s gone, and leaving the herd might endanger it. Yet here Jesus lifts up the lost lamb as the occasion that leads not only to a satisfied smile on the part of a shepherd but also: “…when he comes home, he calls together his friends and neighbors, saying to them, ‘Rejoice with me…’” The joy of the shepherd overflows into a party that invites his friends and neighbors. 

The same is true in the other image Jesus shares. A woman’s dowry was often worn around her neck in his time; to lose a piece was to lose the chance at marriage. Have you done what this woman does? Lost a wedding ring, an engagement ring, a special paper: searched and searched, moved papers, cleaned the whole house, cleaned out a drain, searching until it was found? Again: her joy overflows and creates a community of joy around her. Her joy, his joy, makes God smile.

We live in a whole nation of the lost today. So many are afraid of losing homes; so many have lost jobs. Sons and daughters have been lost in wars. And there are so many voices of fear, angry voices, little Satans really—for Satan just means ‘tempter’ and what they tempt us to give in to the idea that we can fix ourselves by abandoning others, that we can fix ourselves by hurting others. That’s why we have such a plague of violence. Three hundred fifty years ago, Congregationalists, English reformed church folks just like us were scared too, and they let themselves get whipped up into literal witch hunts because someone said that would fix everything. They took their fear out on the least of their communities. This happens today: same thing in a different day and it has nothing to do with the life of Christ or the mission of Jesus. 

What Jesus does is just the opposite: he welcomes people, sinners, the lost, everyone to his table, to this table right here. The mystery Jesus offers is that the solution to being lost is to find someone; the joy of finding will overflow and create a whole community of joy. So he gathers the lost, sometimes called sinners, and he eats with them. He invites them to his table. Who belongs at this table? Everyone who has ever felt lost. Everyone who has ever wandered—everyone! Gay people and straight people belong at this table; young moms and widows and the unemployed and the rich and middle-aged guys who are wondering why just working harder doesn’t make them happier and women who are trying to figure out what to do after the kids are grown, single people and working people and retired people and people who have never been inside a church in their lives. When we gather them at the table of Jesus, when we find the lost and bring them in, we’re helping Jesus and God smiles: there is joy in heaven.

We know this instinctively and sometimes we practice it. One of the great things we do here is the clothing closet. It’s a simple process: we all have clothing we don’t wear, don’t need. So do others. So we gather it up, size it, make it ready, and give it away. It’s just like what Jesus does with Gods’ grace: gives it away, free to anyone in need. We do other things as well. Christian Churches United helps us work with other churches helping people who are lost get found. It’s the fulfillment of our prayer to walk in Christ’s way.

Timothy states the purpose of Jesus bluntly, clearly: “Jesus came into the world to save sinners”  If we are followers of Jesus, doesn’t it make sense that we would be on the same mission? This is the beginning of a new year of programs here. It’s a time to think about vision. We need to ask: what is Jesus doing? What can we do to help? And when we ask, we’ll hear this call from the deep heart of God’s Word, Jesus came into the world to save sinners. When we ask, we’ll remember what Jesus said: finding someone who needs God and didn’t know it, helping someone who needed us and didn’t know it, is a reason to rejoice, a thing that makes God smile. That’s it, that’s my vision: make God smile. Let God’s smile shine, until we can see where we’re going, until we know we aren’t lost, we’re on the way God had in mind all the time.

Amen.

Still I Rise

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A Sermon for the Locust Grove United Church of Christ

by Rev. James Eaton, Interim Pastor • © 2025

Easter Sunday Year C • April 20, 2025

Luke 24:1-12

Christmas begins with lights. On Christmas Eve, we gather here to look for the Lord, to celebrate his coming. The last thing we do is to light the candles. It’s a wonderful moment: celebrating the one who came as the light of the world, we pass the light, candle to handle, one to another until the whole room sparkles and we sing. But Easter begins in darkness. The last thing we do on Maundy Thursday is to extinguish the candles, remembering the darkness to come on Good Friday. So we come to Easter from the darkness.

Like a stage cleared in the final act of a play, John tells us the crowds have cleared out, first shouting, “Hosanna” for Jesus come as king, later demanding, “Crucify him!” when the Romans and the city authorities arrest him and put him on trial as a terrorist. Peter denies him in the courtyard of the jail. Killed on a cross in the gathering shadows of sunset that marks the beginning of the sabbath, his followers fade away. Finally, it’s left to a sympathetic rich man to provide for his burial and the body is stashed in a cave tomb, too late for preparation before shabbat, which starts as darkness begins and night takes over. Only now, in the darkness of the dawn, does anyone, a few women, venture to the tomb. They buy spices to prepare the body, to make the final arrangements and give some dignity to the dead. They are going to the grave and they’re worried that the stone closing it off will be too much to roll away; they’re worried they won’t be able to get in to where Jesus lies dead in the darkness. It’s early: John says, “while it was still dark” [John 20:1b]

The burial caves of Jerusalem are on a cliff wall. Imagine walking along the a cliff, as the darkness turns into dawn, slowly, carefully negotiating the turns in the path, watching just the steps ahead, not the whole path, unable to see around the next turn. Carefully, quietly, the women walk the path, stumbling here or there, clutching each other to keep from falling, arms full of the precious spices. They know a large stone blocks the entrance to the tomb and they are already trying to think of a way to move it. You see how like us they are? They have a problem: they’ve brought the things they will need to do their job and they are discussing how to deal with the biggest obstacle of all. Isn’t that what we do?

Now they come around the last curve. Are they still talking about the stone or has the nearness of the grave silenced them? Now they look toward the grave, discovering the problem they worried so much about isn’t there: the stone is moved. Who moved it? How did they do it? The women don’t know or seem to care. The grave is open; they walk slowly toward it, silent now I’m sure, they come to the entrance and, they enter the cave and suddenly the darkness lightens and in the light there is a person sitting, dressed in white, shining with it. They’re afraid: who wouldn’t be, they came to deal with a dead man, not a live angel. 

He says what angels always say: “Don’t be afraid.” He shows them where Jesus had lain, they see the grave clothes they had intended to anoint with their spices which won’t be needed after all. And he tells them what to do. The women run. Of course they run: wouldn’t you? “They went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”, one account says. What about you? What about me? What are we to make of this story? 

Most importantly, that Easter is not only for Easter Sunday. The gospel of Mark starts, “The beginning of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, the son of God.” All that follows, all the stories of Jesus’ ministry and teaching, the story of the cross, this story of Easter is prelude, just a beginning. The good news is that it’s not the end. In the failure of the worldly events, there is a space made by faith. In the vulnerability of the cross and the tomb, there is an empty place and God works in that wilderness, God is present in that wilderness, raising Jesus. The Pharisees cannot understand him, the Romans cannot kill him, his own followers cannot follow him but God’s grace is so powerful it can overcome all of them. Go home, the angel says: go back to Galilee. He’s not gone, he’s still here: “there you will see him.” Easter is a summons to see.

Maya Angelou is a poet who has seen in the long history of oppression of black people a reason for hope, an image of resurrection. She says, in part, 

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don’t you take it awful hard

‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines

Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise. [Maya Angelou, Still I Rise]

There he is: rising in the sweep of history, bending history to the love of God, the justice of God a little bit every day. See him there: see his power there. See his resurrection there. To the violence of the Empire, of all empires, he says: “Still I rise.” 

But it’s not only in the big things that Jesus can be seen. Terry Marquardt wrote about grieving for her grandmother and remembered,

My aunt was with my grandmother during the last nights of her life, when the pain in her spine was so horrible that she hadn’t slept for two days, and the medication had stopped working, and she was beginning to lose hope. It was too much to lay down, so the two of them were sitting in the living room at 2:00 in the morning when my aunt had an idea.

“Mom, let’s have a party.”

“How could I possibly do that,” my grandmother said, motioning to her stiff body, kept awake by the sensation that it was being ground into dust.

“Let’s try,” my aunt said.

And she started to sing.

My aunt sang the Mennonite hymns my grandmother had taught her, songs from my grandmother’s childhood in a Mennonite farming community in northeastern Canada, songs that were sung in the fields, at their dinner tables, to greet the dawn, to end their day, on the way to church. My aunt and my grandmother sang all night long, until there was no pain, until my grandmother’s nurse woke up and tiptoed into the room. “I’ve never heard such beautiful music,” she cried.

View at Medium.com

In that moment, in those songs, her grandmother was rising, and they were rising with her.

We thought the problem was how to give Jesus a decent burial, how to roll the stone away. But it turns out that the stone we worried about is already rolled away; Jesus is gone ahead. The empty tomb is God’s message to the Emperor, to the soldiers, to the world, to the followers who have scattered that in the midst of death, still I rise. This is God saying, in the midst of betrayal, whether Judas and his double crossing kiss or Peter in his fearful denial, still I rise. This is God saying to the torturers and the prison guards and the judges and the crucifiers just following orders, still I rise. This is God saying that even when I feel abandoned on a cross and cry out asking why I’m forsaken, still I rise. This is God saying, even from a tomb closed up tight, still I rise.

This is the beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the son of God. It starts with fearful followers running away. In the days that followed, every one of them had to decide what to do about the news that he had risen; every one had to decide how to live when the tomb was empty and despite the plain sense of his death, there was this amazing experience where it was clear that he was saying, “Still I rise”.  Every one of them had to decide whether to keep running or to rise with him, to look for him, follow him, to Galilee.

Where is Galilee? It’s where they came from, where they started. Jesus is going back to the beginning and starting over: that’s where they will see him. Their lives are about to start over because these lives are lived beyond the fear of death. The great question about the Christian movement of the first century is what powered it, what allowed it to change history. The answer is the people Jesus changed; the answer is the people who saw him rise and took his resurrection as the pattern for their own lives. Jesus was risen and they said with him, still I rise.

It’s the same with us. We are prepared to go to the grave; we are good at raising the money to buy spices, we can discuss how to move the stone. But are we ready to leave the grave and go to Galilee? Can we take Easter home, can we take it wherever we go? Still I rise, he says: despite what we thought, he calls us, invites us, forgives us, commands us. Come see me: come follow me. 

He’s gone ahead and when we see that, we’re ready to take the next step, to let go of our fears, accept his forgiveness and follow him. Easter isn’t a day, it’s an invitation: come see me. The gospels tell us how he appeared over and over to people, and his message is always the same: love one another, see me, follow me, because still, I rise: even when you don’t believe it, even when you don’t understand it, still I rise. Peter denied him but it’s Peter he calls back to tend his sheep. Mary ran in fear but it’s Mary who first meets him on the way. Thomas won’t believe him but it’s Thomas who feels his wounds. To the powerful who prey on the poor, his presence says: still I rise. To the hopeless who cannot find the way out of darkness, he says, “I am the light of the world”—still I rise. To us, to all of us, who come here, wondering, he says: still I rise. Come follow me. Come: because on your way, on your journey, you will see me: for still I rise. 

Amen

The Lord Has Need of It

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A Sermon for the Locust Grove United Church of Christ, York, PA

by Rev. James Eaton, Pastor © 2025

Palm Sunday/C • April 13, 2025

Luke 19:28-40

Notice the breath. Buddhist teaching begins with this simple suggestion: notice the breath. A yoga instructor says it over and over: notice the breath. It’s repeated because one of the hardest things is to see what’s really there. We get used to a room, and don’t see it’s color; we get used to a person and forget why they interested us. We hear a story and when it’s repeated, assume we know the details already and fill them in. Maybe you grew up like I did, in a church where Palm Sunday was one of the most fun times in the year. It didn’t have presents like Christmas but it did have palms and it was one Sunday when children were not only invited into the sanctuary but allowed to be a little rowdy. Who would have thought our Sunday School class would have to be told to be louder when we shouted Hosanna? 

So we come to Palm Sunday, perhaps with that vision in mind;. We’ve heard this story. We know how it goes: Jesus, palms, crowds, yay yay, hosanna, done;  moving on. But to truly hear Luke’s version of this story, the one we read today, begin by noticing what isn’t there: no palms, no children, no hosanna. Perhaps if we notice what isn’t there and clear it away, we will be ready to see what is there. Notice the breath. That’s our job today: see what Luke shows us, understand what God means, consider what to do about it.

Jesus has been on the way to Jerusalem for a long time. Along the way, he told his friends that it would mean a cross, death, suffering, but that they should believe as he did in God’s power to give life, in God’s love beyond life and death. Everything in the gospels says they didn’t believe him. When he first tells them, Peter himself didn’t believe it and argued with Jesus. James and John are arguing about the power structure of the new administration of King Jesus right up to the very end, to the point where he has to tell them to stop. 

Now they approach Jerusalem itself,. Herod—remember Herod? He was the king when Jesus was born, he was the king who killed John the Baptist, he’s the king that threatened Jesus. Herod had rebuilt the Temple and parts of the city. The temple had so much white marble and gold trim it was said a person could hardly look at it in the harsh mid-day sun. It lasted less than 50 years. 

Jerusalem is on top of a small mountain, Mount Zion The road up to it is windy and switches back and forth. At Passover, people came from all over to the city, so it would have been crowded; imagine driving to Harrisburg for the Thanksgiving parade  Jesus and his disciples and followers are peasants and so are most of the people around them. They don’t have special clothes for this special time; peasants wore a sort of undergarment and a cloak. The cloak was valuable enough to pawn for a day’s food, important enough that there was a law that the pawnbroker couldn’t keep the cloak overnight. They’re often pictured marching like a military unit, lined up behind Jesus with crowds on either side but that’s a mistake. Jesus and his friends are part of a larger procession of pilgrims to the city. Surely they would have spread out as much as possible; think of a crowd moving along Among them may have been a Roman military unit, sent to reinforce the garrison at a time when trouble was expected. That would have meant soldiers in metal breastplates with swords and a commander mounted on a horse leading them. 

Now they come to the Mount of Olives. It’s where Jesus will go after the last supper, where he will pray, where he will be arrested. There are really two processions going on here. One is Jesus, who is walking toward the cross, marching toward heavenly glory; the other is everyone else, walking toward victory, marching toward worldly success. 

As they move along, Jesus sends some disciples off to acquire a colt. And he gives them a coded phrase: “The Lord has need of it.” Now the word ‘Lord’ has a double meaning. It could mean the owner of the donkey but it’s also the word most often used to describe Jesus. The way he instructs them is strange: “If someone asks why you are untying it…” It’s as if you saw a stranger in front of your house getting into a neighbor’s car.. “Just say, ‘the Lord has need of it’” In the event, when they untie the colt, it’s the owner himself who confronts them. Sometimes when this is preached, explanations are created about how Jesus had prearranged for the colt. We don’t really know, but if he had done so, why are the owners asking what they’re doing? “The Lord has need of it,” they say. This time ‘Lord’ clearly means Jesus. The owner must have faced a difficult choice. A colt is valuable, like a car. We’re all used to the church asking for funds but then we decide what to give. Here, he’s confronted with a choice; what would you do? “The Lord has need of it.” 

What we call the Palm Procession really begins with this colt. When they bring it back, they throw their cloaks, their valuable cloaks, on it to make a saddle and it says “…they put Jesus on it.” Notice the breath: notice the detail. He doesn’t climb on, he doesn’t mount up. Like the Spirit whooshing him off to the wilderness at the beginning of his ministry, his friends put him up on that colt and suddenly people must have looked and suddenly he’s become a symbol and suddenly he’s mocking all the panoply and pageantry of the marching Romans and soldiers, coming to Jerusalem, as they are, coming mounted, as they are, but on a colt. People must have noticed and remembered that the prophet Zechariah had said,

9Rejoice greatly, O daughter Zion! Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem! Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey. [Zechariah 9:9]

There are two processions here. One is Jesus, who is walking toward the cross, marching toward heavenly glory; the other is everyone else, walking toward victory, marching toward worldly success. One is led by people proud of their power; one by a man rocking humbly on a colt. One is led by people determined to deal death to make power; one is led by someone who believes life can overcome death. 

The crowd notices; people are inspired. Inspired—meaning filled with Spirit: notice the breath, the Spirit. They take off their cloaks and throw them down. We call it Palm Sunday but there are no cheap palms, no branches cut from trees someone else owns here. The cloaks they are throwing down are for some their most valuable possession. Like the owners of the colt, they have heard, “The Lord has need of it”, and give more than what they have—they give what they are. It’s dangerous to celebrate this prophet. This is exactly the kind of demonstration those soldiers are meant to stop. Just as some Pharisees had warned Jesus that Herod was trying to kill him, now they warn him to make his followers be quiet, to stop this dangerous demonstration. Jesus simply says it can’t be stopped: if they stop, creation itself will take up the cry. 

What is it they are shouting? We all grew up shouting hosanna, which means “Save us”. I’ve led countless services over the years where we had people shout, where we waved palms, I’ve done it here. But notice the details in this account, because each account has something to say. And in this one, it’s not Hosanna they shout, it’s “Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!” Now we’ve heard that, or something very much like that before, haven’t we? It’s like the lines to an old song, the kind that can drive you crazy trying to remember. Where did we hear it? What’s the title? Who’s the singer? We heard it on Christmas Eve. Its title is the Advent, the birth, of Christ. It’s the song of the angels. We have circled back to Christmas; we have circled back to Jesus.

This is Palm Sunday and it’s about a procession but there are really two processions. One is Jesus, who is on his way to the cross, marching toward heavily glory; the other is everyone else, walking toward victory, marching toward worldly success. Jesus doesn’t live alone. He consciously builds a community. In Luke we hear not only about the 12 disciples but about 70 people he sends out. In this story, it’s the people around him who move the story forward: the owner of the colt, who gives it when the Lord has need of it, the friends who make a saddle of their cloaks, because the Lord has need of them, the people who don’t even know Jesus yet lay down their cloaks because somehow they too sense the Lord has need of them. 

What are we to do about all this? Every one of us eventually faces a moment when we sense the Lord has need of something. We’ve been talking throughout Lent about moving from fear to faith. Perhaps the greatest need of all is for us simply to believe Jesus, listen to him, and build our life together around what he says instead of what we think. Who we are is God’s children; who we are is people meant to sing songs of praise like the ones around Jesus. What the Lord needs isn’t just what we have: it’s who we are. If we don’t sing the song of salvation, it’s left to the stones. God will make a way, God is making a way, and we are meant to be that way.

Notice the breath. Breath is a basic Bible play on words. Breath: in Greek, pneuma, in Hebrew, reach: both are the words we translate ‘spirit’. Notice the breath: notice the Spirit. This is Palm Sunday and it’s about a procession but there are really two processions. One is Jesus, who is walking toward the cross, marching toward heavenly glory; the other is everyone else, walking toward victory, marching toward worldly success. Which one are you marching in? The answer is the one you give when the moment comes and the Spirit says: “The Lord has need of it.”

Amen.

Here I Am

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A Sermon for the Locust Grove United Church of Christ of York, PA

by Rev. James Eaton, Interim Pastor ©2025

Fifth Sunday After Epiphany/Year C • February 9, 2025

Isaiah 6:1-8 * 1 Corinthians 15:1-11 * Luke 5:1-11

My favorite place in Spain is a little fishing village named Cambrils. Now, all fishing villages have a common layout, so imagine this scene being like that. There are the houses and churches and plazas to gather and then closer to the water various shops and cafés. In a working village, there would be the smell of seaweed and rotting fish from the bits and pieces that fall off. You know what the shore smells like. Then there is a road, an open area, just in from the sea itself. Then there are the docks and the boats. There are gulls wheeling in the air over it the road and the docks, diving occasionally to find some speck of food. And then, of course, endlessly moving, always changing, there is the water. Jesus has gone to a fishing village to teach and heal and exorcize demons. Just like the story we read last week, people gather to hear him and marvel at his teaching. What they don’t know is that something incredible is about to happen. Did you see it? 

Today we’ve read three stories of how people just like us came to be called by God. There’s Isaiah, one of the greatest prophets of Israel. We think he was a priest in the temple, and he tells this fearful story of monstrous looking seraphim and a brazier from which a coal is plucked to touch his lips and purify his speaking. Wow: at my ordination a bunch of ministers, some of them so old they could barely get up after they knelt, laid their hands on me while a prayer was offered—I’m glad I didn’t have Isaiah’s initiation. Yet there is the same interplay, the same Lord asking, “Who will go?” And one person, Isaiah in this story, me at that ordination, saying “Here am I, send me.”

The portion of First Corinthians is also a call story, although it may not seem so at first glance. Paul has been dealing with the divisions in that congregation, divisions caused in part by others coming and perhaps teaching them something different from what they’d heard from Paul. So he quotes to them the bedrock of Christian faith. Scholars tell us that this looks like something already familiar, like the lords’ prayer. If that’s true, clearly it settled down early, because this letter was probably written about 20 years after Jesus. 

For I handed on to you as of first importance what I in turn had received: that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures and that he was buried and that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the scriptures and that he appeared to Cephas, then to the twelve. Then he appeared to more than five hundred brothers and sisters at one time, most of whom are still alive, though some have died. Then he appeared to James, then to all the apostles. Last of all, as to one untimely born, he appeared also to me. [1 Corinthians 15:3-8]

The striking thing about this is that it mixes things we hear other places, like the appearance of the resurrected Christ to Cephas, another name for Peter and then to the twelve. But it also mentions 500 brothers and sisters and James; we don’t hear about those appearances anywhere else. At the same time, he doesn’t seem to know about the appearance to Mary Magdalene that John mentions. He says at the end, “Whether then it was I or they, so we proclaim and so you have come to believe.” [1 Cor 15:11] So he’s reminding them of their call in Christ.

That brings us back to Luke and the fishing village. Can you see it? Can you smell it? There’s a crowd and frankly? Not all of them showered this morning. There are fishing guys working on nets. Most of a fisherman’s time is actually spent cleaning and mending nets, not fishing. In Spain, that work was often done by women but here it seems to be Peter and Andrew and James and John and presumably others doing it. And there’s Jesus. He’s not new in town. The gospels tell this story a bit differently but in Luke’s version, he’s been there long enough to have gone to Peter’s house, where he miraculously heals Peter’s mother-in-law. Her response to this miracle is to get up and serve dinner. It’s an interesting side note that the Greek word used for this—diakonis—gives us the word ‘Deacon’. Peter’s mother-in-law was the first Deacon. The crowd is doing what crowds do, pressing in to hear and get closer. There’s no sound system, just voice, and the thing about a fishing village is that it has an edge: step back too far, and you’re in the water. I imagine Peter’s boat being side tied to the dock, and Jesus asks to use that as a pulpit; Peter shrugs and says sure, so they get in, Jesus sits down, which is the position rabbi’s used for teaching, and he talks to the crowd. None of the gospels tell us what he said.

Then there is this remarkable moment. He turns to Peter and says, “Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.” Peter replies the way churches always reply when Jesus tells us to do something: “We already tried that, and it didn’t work.” It makes sense, doesn’t it? After all, Peter and the others have been fishing these waters for a long time and most recently all night. I bet Peter grew up fishing; some people just take to it when they are small. My son did. And this is corporate fishing, it’s not a rod and reel and a worm; you have to get ready, load bait, arrange the nets, get set. Peter and his crew are exhausted, they’re ready to finish fixing the nets and go home and get some sleep. But here’s this guy who may know a lot about the Torah but knows nothing about fishing calmly telling them to go fish. They know better; there just aren’t any fish right there, right then. 

I’ve seen this play out in churches. Some new member is all excited about their new faith and new church, they get on a board and start suggesting things. The long time members quietly tell them, “We tried that ten years ago, and it was a failure” or “We can’t afford that” or “That’s not how we do it here.” Thank God that this time, Peter and the others shrug and decide to go along with the new preacher. So they set out, let down the nets and there’s a miracle: the nets fill up. Can you imagine what that would look like? Silvery, slippery fish jumping all over, the nets bulging, weighing down the boat. These are open boats, pull the side down far enough and they’ll sink. The first time we took our sailboat out on our own, I forgot to detach something from the engine shaft. The result was that when I went below as we were starting back, there was water already up over the floor boards. I’ve been sailing since I was 12 and in my whole life, that was one of the scariest moments. So I get what they are feeling. “This is too much!” No wonder Peter says, “Go away from me Lord!” I wanted a big catch, but this is too big; I didn’t want a miracle, I just wanted to get by.

They make it back to shore, apparently. We never hear what happened to all the fish; hopefully someone took care of them cleaned them sold them. Jesus just laughs; he tells them not to worry about it all because they’re going to become fishers of men. Now if you grew up with that line like I did, you probably think this is where this turns into a sermon telling you to out and evangelize, get people to come to church with you. That would be a fine thing to do, but I don’t think that’s the message here. “Fishers of men” has a particular meaning in the Bible. In Jeremiah (16:16) it’s a description of God sending people to find evildoers and idolaters; in Amos 4:2, it’s connected to being conquered and exiled because of the sins of the people and Ezekiel has a similar message. Becoming fishers of men isn’t evangelism; it’s confronting injustice. It’s proclaiming the year of favor for the poor, recovery of sight to the blind, freedom to captives. 

Peter hears this call and responds first with repentance, then with obedience. He’s already called Jesus Lord; now he puts that word into action. He’s gotten a glimpse of the miraculous abundance Jesus reveals. We call it eternal life sometimes; in the gospels it’s a miraculous catch of fish, it’s feeding thousands of people from a few donations. What is it here?

The musical Rent is about a group of Bohemian young people in New York in the plague years of AIDS. It begins with a song about abundance: “525, 600 minutes”, the minutes in a year. Stunning, isn’t it? Isn’t that a miraculous catch, to have 525, 600 minutes laid out this year waiting for us to fill them? Each of these stories offers us a perspective on God’s call to someone, each is a question: who will go? Isaiah says “here am I”; Paul says, remember that Christ is risen. Peter says, go away from me Lord, but he follows Jesus, leaves the boat and the fish and his mother-in-law and presumably his wife and family behind. There are still 482,400 minutes left in this year. How will you fill them with your call? Oh, there’s one other line from Rent I want to share: it’s a refrain at the end: no day but today. When is God calling you? No day but today.

Amen. 

All Washed Up

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A Sermon for the Locust Grove United Church of Christ, York, PA

by Rev. James Eaton, Interim Pastor © 2025

Baptism of the Lord Sunday/C • January 12, 2025

Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

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

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

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

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

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

But if the details don’t matter, what does? The clues are in the scripture we read this morning and they have nothing to do with measuring out water. Isaiah says, 

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

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. [Isaiah 43:1-7]

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

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

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

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

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

The dream is being called by your true name: known in your true self. And loved. Like the mother in the dream, like our father in heaven, God is calling out to us, loving us, loving us beyond anything we can or ever will deserve. In the moment we see this, in the moment we know this, heaven does indeed open. And that is baptism. 

Amen.

Leaping Love

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A Sermon for the Locust Grove United Church of Christ of Locust Grove, PA

by Rev. James Eaton, Interim Pastor

Fourth Sunday in Advent/C • December 22, 2024

Micah 5:2-5a, Luke 1:39-55

Ever since Thanksgiving, and even before in some cases, in stores, in media, in daily life, we’ve been bombarded with Christmas. Our culture encourages a season of frenzied spending and parties, of decorations we buy and hang to show the Christmas Spirit. But where is that Spirit? Our Lectionary, the guide to scriptures we hear each Sunday, has taken a different tack. This whole Advent season, we’ve been asked to look not to Bethlehem, not to the stable but to other events. We began with the end: Jesus coming in power, and the heartfelt command to be alert, to watch and listen for Jesus appearance. The last two Sundays we heard about John the Baptist whose testimony is that one more powerful is coming. Finally, today, the last Sunday in Advent, we hear this story on the eve of Jesus’ birth.

A Strange Story

It’s a strange story, isn’t it? Luke doesn’t begin his gospel with Jesus; he begins with the parents of John, his father, Zechariah. Zechariah is a priest and during a service in the temple, the angel Gabriel appears and tells him that he and his wife Elizabeth are going to have a son. Zechariah doesn’t believe him because Elizabeth is too old. So Gabriel tells him he will be mute until his son is born. Never mess with an angel! So today we don’t hear from Zechariah; we hear from Elizabeth. She is, indeed, pregnant; she’s had her own inspiration, and now she’s about to bear a child who will be known later as John the Baptist. There’s no statue for Elizabeth in nativity scenes but let’s pretend there is and set her aside for a moment while we talk about the other person in this story: Mary. 

Now if you were Roman Catholic, you’d have heard all about Mary. But what you would have heard is about Mary characterized as the mother of Jesus, not this Mary, not this young unmarried woman. There are endless theological debates about Mary in which the word ‘virgin’ figures prominently. Most of those debates are in Greek and none of them tell us about the reality of someone we would call a girl. Most Biblical scholars suggest Mary would have been about 14. That’s very young in our culture; it was common in hers. What is shocking is that she is pregnant without being married. Girls who became pregnant out of wedlock were often shamed, sometimes stoned.

Mary’s Story

So we have this story that becomes stranger the more we listen to it. Mary has had her own angelic visitation; you’ll have to come back another time to hear that. Already engaged to Joseph, the angel tells her she will become pregnant with one who will become king, one who will reign in David’s line. She’s from Nazareth, up in the north; now she’s made the hundred-mile journey to Judah, to see someone who may be an aunt or a cousin, Elizabeth. These are two pregnant women who have no business being pregnant: one is too old, one is too young. There are no men in the conversation; this is women’s business. And at the moment they meet, something happens only a woman would understand: the baby in Elizabeth’s womb leaps.

This is the second time in the last few weeks when I feel totally unable to speak to a Biblical story. What does a man know about a baby in the womb moving? Nothing, not a thing. So I did what I did last time, I asked Jacquelyn about it. She said, “Well, May didn’t move around much; mostly she hiccuped.” I tried to imagine what that would be like, having someone hiccup inside you. It sounds awful. I mean, what do you do? You can’t feed them sugar, you can’t scare them, you can’t do anything but just wait, I guess. The one time she remembered May moving sharply was at a baseball game when some unthinking guy holding a beer, didn’t see her belly, tried to go past her and accidentally punched her belly. “May punched back,” she said. So, a word of caution; May isn’t here often, but if she is, don’t punch her, she punches back.

The reading goes on with two songs of praise, one from each woman. But I want to come back to this meeting. Luke—who, like me, is a guy, and therefore really doesn’t know anything about babies leaping in a womb—is the only place that tells this story. But we do have a story in Matthew about the same general time. Matthew tells us, 

Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly.
Matt. 1:18f

Joseph is usually described as a carpenter but the word translated ‘carpenter’ actually isn’t about someone who does what we think of as carpentry. It’s a person who makes tools out of wood: Joseph is a toolmaker.

Looking for Safety

So this is the story when we put it together. An angel visits a young girl, Mary, tells her she’s going to become pregnant. She’s already engaged; maybe she’s in love in that can’t stop thinking about him crushy way 14-year-old girls have. The Holy Spirit overwhelms her; she’s pregnant. Joseph knows the baby isn’t his. Honestly? Nazareth is a small place, if you know anything about small towns, you know they don’t keep secrets well. Joseph is planning to end the engagement; while he thinks about this, Mary leaves town, goes to visit her cousin or aunt Elizabeth. It’s a long way to go, a hundred miles, perhaps. Remember that the main way you get places in that time is you walk. What makes a young, pregnant girl walk a hundred miles? I can only think of one thing: she’s scared, and she’s looking for a safe place.

That’s what she finds with Elizabeth; that’s what that leaping baby in Elizabeth’s womb means. Maybe Mary still doesn’t quite believe the angel sent to her; maybe she’s already felt too many stares and heard too many questions. Maybe she’s figured out what’s going on with Joseph. But when she meets Elizabeth, when Elizabeth tells her own story, when Elizabeth’s baby leaps recognizing the special significance of Mary’s baby, she’s already safe. 

So we have these two stories of praise from two women who aren’t supposed to be having babies but are, who aren’t the sort of people we think of as especially blessed, but are. The rabbis who teach the history of God’s grace in Israel are all male but here it’s two women who say in the most profound way possible that God’s love is still active, still present, still making things happen in the world. 

Elizabeth speaks of the Mary’s baby as a fulfillment of the angelic message. Mary says, 

[God] has come to the aid his child Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants forever. [Luke 1:54f]

She also connects this aid to God’s special love for the poor, the weak, the powerless. Leaping love is for all, but it begins with loving those who need it most.

What about us?

What about us? What does this kind of love that leaps when Jesus is near mean in our lives? There is a big temptation here for me as a preacher. I want to suggest some specific thing to do.
I want to endorse some mission. I want to tell a story of some other church, some other time, some other people who leapt at a chance to express God’s love and helped someone or some people feel safer, fed them so they were less hungry, cared for them in a way that transformed their lives. 

But those are other people, other times, other places. So I’m going to simply leave the story here with you. Mary went to Elizabeth, seeking safety, and found it. When did you feel safe? How did that feel? When have you helped someone feel safe? When can you do it again? How can we do it together as a church? We have this sign: “A small church with a big message”. Isn’t that the message?—that here, you are safe in the arms of love, God’s love. In Reformed Churches, we don’t use the word ‘sanctuary’ much. But perhaps we should. Because that’s what this place is meant to be: a sanctuary of safety, where all are reminded we are children of God together. If you want to feel that leaping love, you don’t have to be pregnant with a child: we are all pregnant with possibility. May we turn that possibility into the reality of helping people find safety here.

Amen.