The Light That Shines in the Darkness

December 31, 2017 – The First Sunday after Christmas Day

Isaiah 61:10-62:3; Galatians 3:23-25; 4:4-7; John 1:1-18

© 2017 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here.

 

Last Sunday was a long but glorious day. Because I knew that it would be 3am or later before I went to bed, I slept in a little bit—until 5:00am—before starting my usual Sunday-morning routine. After a good and satisfying observance of the Fourth Sunday of Advent, I went home, ate a light lunch, and, as I often do, took a nap. When I woke up, I took my second shower of the day, put on a different clergy shirt and a different suit, and headed out the door for the evening services. As I got dressed for the second time, I wondered whether I should have worn my “Sunday best” that morning or saved it for the evening services.

Although more common in the African-American Christian community, the concept of “Sunday best” is something we understand as well. It primarily refers to that set of clothes that we save for going to church on Sundays, but it also means the hair style, the hat, the special meal, and the attitude that we associate with Sunday church. In a quaint but theologically significant way, we save our best for God, and we bring our best to worship. But what happens when our best isn’t all that great?

It was pretty dark when the 5:00pm service started, and it was completely dark when the 11:00pm service began. I got here early enough to see the gorgeous and elegant flowers placed behind the altar, hung on the pews, set around the incarnation window, and placed above the door in the back of the nave, but, by the most of the congregation arrived, the light coming through the windows had faded, and the flowers, though beautiful, were harder to discern. Before the later service, we dimmed the lights a little bit, and, by the time the prelude of anthems and carols started, the full effect of the flowers was lost. By Monday morning at the 10:00am service, the light had returned, meaning that the blossoms were on full display, but by then some of the peonies had and wilted and some of the roses had dropped their petals.

We lit the candles in the aisle at the 5:00pm service, and most of the candles had dwindled to little more than nubs by the time the service ended. We relit them for the 11:00pm service, but I don’t think that all of them had enough wax to survive the whole time. If you were here for that service, you also may have noticed that one of the globes on the pew stands had fallen and shattered in between the services. If you came to the Christmas Day service, you couldn’t miss it. Of course, despite the missing globe, God was faithfully worshipped even though one of the candles stood without its glass protection.

Because it was designed for families, the first service was an exercise in controlled chaos. Kids were squirming and chirping. Mothers were shushing and scowling. The children’s pageant was beautifully energetic with nervous angels and wandering sheep. Although I’m sure the congregation got the point, I don’t know whether anyone actually heard the Christmas story. The later service had a remarkably different feel. Instead of rambunctious children, we had a few over-enthusiastic and slightly over-served partygoers who had made church their last stop for the evening. I get more hugs from parishioners on Christmas Eve than at any other time, and I don’t think that’s because the Christmas spirit has warmed their hearts. The 10:00am service on Christmas Day was as cold and sober as any I have ever attended, but there were only seven of us, including the clergyman, the LEM, and the representative of the Altar Guild. Yes, we were there to worship the newborn king and each of us had made an effort to be there, but I admit that I was wearing glasses instead of contacts and cotton khakis instead of wool trousers, having used all the “Sunday best” I had back on Sunday.

Throughout it all—noisy children, tipsy grownups, dim lights, wilted flowers, faithful few—the light of Christ shone through the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. There is something about Christmas and the fact that we set aside time to celebrate our savior’s birth that enables us to see the light that has come into the world no matter how dim it is or how distracted we are. At other times, however, that light feels harder to see. As the year comes to a close and news outlets remind us of the biggest stories of the previous twelve months, it feels like there is a lot more darkness closing in on us than light shining through it. As we take stock of our own lives, despite the abundant blessings we have been given, it is easy to let the absences and struggles and shortfalls tell our story. But it doesn’t have to be that way. We don’t have to wait until Christmas to see the light that God has brought into the world.

That light is always within us. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God…All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.” All of creation was breathed into life by God as God spoke the Word that called it into being. That Word—that light and life—is contained within every created thing. The darkness that draws in around us cannot overcome that light, but it sure can make it hard for us to see it. Yet, if we listen to the voice of the prophets, we will hear them calling us back to that light that shines within us all.

One of those prophets is John the Baptist: “There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him…The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.” We spent half of Advent listening to the message of John the Baptist, hearing him call us to repentance and point us toward the Lamb of God. And, now that we have seen this thing that has taken place in Bethlehem, we understand what John’s preaching was all about. In his invitation to repentance, John beckoned us to look within ourselves and see what it means to turn away from the darkness and embrace the light of life. He understood that the messiah was coming, that in him the light of God would become clear, and that the only way that we would see that light is by shunning the ways of darkness.

When the Word became flesh, the glory of God shone not in the invisible realm of heaven but here on earth where we could see it in the baby boy who grew up to be Jesus. That light, which resides within us all, was uncovered in the Incarnate One. In him, all the darkness of sin was stripped away. In him, we saw again the light of creation restored to its full brightness. But not everyone was able to see that glory shining within our humanity. For some, the darkness was not something to leave behind but something to embrace. They did not heed the prophet’s warning and, thus, could not see the light that had come into the world or the light that was buried within them. But those who heard the prophets’ message of repentance, who prepared themselves to receive the light, and who believed in his name were given power to become children of God—those through whom the light of life shines brightly, scattering the darkness.

By taking our nature upon himself, God has adopted us as his sons and daughters. In the birth of God’s son, God made it possible for the light that was given to us in creation to be restored to its full, original, untarnished glory. But to see that light we must go through the darkness. We must look beyond it and see the light buried beneath it. We must turn from that darkness and embrace the light of life, the light that has the power to banish that darkness. That light is within us all, but we must search for it. As followers of Jesus, we must be a people of the light, a people who refuse to let the darkness define us. May we carry that light with us beyond this season of Christmas. May we search for its bright shining even when the darkness seems heaviest. May we bring the light of Christ with us into the world so that others, too, may see the light that shines within us all.

Uncontainable Joy

I have four children. The oldest is ten, and the youngest is two. I vaguely remember how excited I was when my first child was born, when she rolled over, when she crawled, when she babbled, when she took that first step, when she went to preschool, and when she lost her first tooth. I don't remember sharing any of those moments on Facebook, but I do remember being filled to the brim and overflowing with love and gratitude and excitement that my child was going through all of those things.

Of course, my two-year-old has had none of that. Sure, there are moments of celebration, but, when you're the fourth one to take that first step, you'd probably be thankful if both parents even noticed. Because it's been ten years since my first child went through all of that, I tend to roll my eyes when I see others posting exuberant videos on social media of their children's first everythings, but I understand where that joy comes from. I have known that joy. I still remember that joy. Secretly, I still harbor that joy at each of my children's moments even if I don't broadcast them to the world.

On Sunday, when we hear the words of Isaiah the poet-prophet, we hear words of rejoicing that cannot be contained:

I will greatly rejoice in the Lord,
my whole being shall exult in my God;

for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation,
he has covered me with the robe of righteousness,

as a bridegroom decks himself with a garland,
and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels.

In the Episcopal Church, we read the same lessons every year on the First Sunday after Christmas Day, which means this song of Isaiah is always sung during Christmas. Although the prophet had no idea about Jesus, about the Incarnation, about the birth of a savior-messiah in Bethlehem, or about the redemptive sacrifice that the Son of God would endure on the cross, these words of uncontainable joy are appropriate for us to sing at Christmas.

When God sent God's Son to be born of a virgin and to take our human nature upon himself, all of creation exulted in God because God has clothed us in the garments of salvation. Although experienced in a different age and through a different medium, the prophet knows what it means for the whole earth to celebrate God's deliverance: "For as the earth brings forth its shoots, and as a garden causes what is sown in it to spring up, so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise
to spring up before all the nations." The prophet can say without hesitation or equivocation that God's distressed-but-now-rescued people will be "a crown of beauty in the hand of the Lord." These are the words of a prophet who cannot contain his celebration. Are they our words?

Christmas has come once more. Presents have been opened. Churches have been decorated and undecorated. School is still on holiday, and parents are becoming exasperated with the round-the-clock attention that their children require. But are we sill singing with the joy of the Incarnation? Are we still in touch with the salvation that God has brought to the earth in the birth of God's Son?

Let these words ring out in our churches and in our hearts this Sunday. Let them be our own uncontainable joy. Jesus is born! Salvation has come! May we shine with that light to the ends of the earth!

Incarnation Hangover

Our church's offices are closed again today, as they are every year, as we all recover from the Christmas sprint. This year, this break seems particularly important as we had the fullness of a Sunday morning plus Christmas Eve and then another service on Christmas Day all in a row. I'm discovering for the first time in eleven years that a Christmas Eve on a Sunday isn't as hard as I expected it to be. It's kind of nice to have all of that push at once instead of splitting up the week. But now it's time to prepare for a sermon for this coming Sunday, and I find that I have a bit of an incarnation hangover for which the hair of the dog might be the only cure.

This year, we all had to work hard to keep Advent as Advent and transform the church and our hearts into Christmas in between the morning services and the evening celebrations. Because of that--because of that intentional delay--it was easy to over-indulge on Christmas when it got here. The "Merry Christmas"es that were exchanged at church Sunday evening felt particularly celebratory, and the joy of that night seemed as splendid as ever. Because I'd been denying myself (and my poor family) the Feast of the Nativity for so long, we all dove in head first. I've woken up today, the second day of Christmas, to sort everything out. Is it really Tuesday? Who's having surgery today? Who needs a hospital visit? And am I really preaching on John 1 this Sunday? Another incarnation sermon?

As I read John 1 this morning and wonder what in the world a sermon might look like this week, I am drawn to the transition between verses 13 and 14: "And the Word became flesh and lived among us..." Up until that point, the Word was described with words like light and life. The light was coming into the world and John the Baptizer was sent to proclaim the coming of that light and the world did not know him, but still the Word was light and life--not flesh. Then, all of the sudden, in verse 14, the Word becomes flesh and yet still we see the glory--the light--within it. I love how John gives us two glances at the incarnation--the light that was coming into the world and the flesh that the Word became.

I'm not ready yet, and that's ok because I have a few more days to think and pray and study a super-familiar text. Unfortunately, it's a short week, and I'm still a little stunned from the last few days. I'm going to sip on this gospel text slowly and trust that in time things will begin to come into focus.

In God's Eyes, We All Count

December 24, 2017 – Christmas I

Isaiah 9:2-7; Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:1-15-20

© 2017 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon is available here.

 

On a hot summer day in 1790, U. S. Marshalls began knocking on doors throughout the country. George Washington had been President for a little over a year. The Constitution had been in effect for only a little bit longer, and Article I, Section 2, of that governing document declared that it was time to count the people—though not all of the people, mind you. “Indians not taxed” were to be excluded, and slaves only counted as three fifths of a person, but the young government needed to know how to apportion representatives and taxes, so a census was to be taken.

A census is a curious thing. As a child, I remember being fascinated with the thought that every person within our nation’s borders would be counted, and I remember being surprised at how offended my father was that the government would ask him a bunch of personal questions. Over the decades, the census has adapted to clarify what it really wants to know. At first, the only name they bothered to record was the head of each household. Other free persons didn’t get their names written down until 1850, and the names of slaves weren’t recorded until after slavery had been abolished. In the first census, they didn’t bother to segregate anyone by age except to distinguish between white men and white boys, but, by the second census, they had six different age categories for both white males and white females, but they lumped everyone else into an indiscriminate category of race, gender, and age.[1] As Carrol D. Wright, the Commissioner of Labor in 1900, wrote, the decennial census was “embodied in the Constitution for political reasons wholly, and with no thought of providing for any systematic collection of statistical data beyond the political necessities of the Government.”[2] In other words, the government only counts what the government thinks is important enough to count.

As individuals, we, too, only count what is important. Do you know how many paperclips are in the container on your desk? Or how many nails are left in your toolbox? I have no idea how many cans of chick peas or black beans there are on our pantry shelf, but I can tell you that there are two cans of boiled peanuts in there because I don’t snack on chick peas. I don’t know how many juice boxes are in the outside refrigerator, but I do know that there is plenty of beer in that same fridge. As young children, we learn to count everything, and as we grow up we learn to stop counting the things that don’t matter to us. That’s why it hurts so much when someone discovers that he or she doesn’t count. The only child in the class who doesn’t get an invitation to the birthday party. The spouse who eats alone because her husband is completely consumed by work. The senior citizen who has no one to be with on Christmas morning. The staff member whose idea is completely ignored. The parishioner whose hospitalization gets overlooked by the clergy. The student whose gender identity means that there is no school bathroom to use and no box to check on the government’s next census. We only count what matters to us and for those reasons that are important to us, and, when we don’t bother to count someone or something, we are declaring effectively that they aren’t worth it.

I wonder whether Joseph felt with particular anger the burden of having to take his pregnant fiancée from Nazareth to Bethlehem simply because some government official said he had to. For the better part of a week, through hostile territory and hazardous conditions, Joseph and Mary traversed the 80 miles, while the carpenter contemplated the futility of the trip. Sure, his ancestral home was the city of David, but why did it matter to the Roman occupiers of Palestine where he and his nine-month-pregnant bride-to-be stood to be counted? Was he really supposed to put forth all of that effort just so the government could more accurately and effectively tax the people whom they ruled? There was no representation in the Senate offered to the Jewish residents of this distant province. The Empire only cared about one thing. To them, this poor couple was nothing more than a miniscule part of a much bigger revenue stream.

When Joseph and Mary arrived in Bethlehem, they discovered again what it meant to count to no one. Instead of being welcomed by some distant relatives, they went to the village inn and found that there was no place there for an unwed pregnant woman and her fiancé. Despite what is depicted in most nativity plays, including our own, the gospel never mentions a kind innkeeper, and it seems just as likely that Mary and Joseph snuck into a stable when no one was looking because they could find shelter nowhere else. When it was time, instead of being heralded by family and close friends, this ignoble birth went all but unnoticed by anyone except the nervous but joyful parents and the livestock bedding down beside them…

That is, until God Almighty broke the silence of that night and filled the skies above the nearby pastures with the heavenly light—not shining above the palace in Jerusalem, not revealed to the rulers in Rome, not declared through a government edict or announced in any official proclamation, but beaming brilliantly in a field full of sheep and shepherds. To them, the angel of the Lord announced the baby’s birth, declaring, “I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.” And, in that moment, when God announced to those lowly shepherds what God had done through those lowly parents in that lowly stable, God revealed that salvation comes not to those who are important by the world’s standards but to those forgotten ones whom God counts as God’s own children.

The powers of this world think of the poor and weak and insignificant as nothing more than a means to an end, but God sees them as God’s beloved children. We are enamored by a prince born to a royal family and swaddled in the plushest garments, but God arrests all of creation in a baby born to an impoverished family and wrapped in tattered rags. We would celebrate on the grandest stage with those who would bring us honor, but God celebrates in an open field with poor, dirty shepherds who have less than nothing to bring to the manger. In the birth of God’s son, Jesus Christ, God shows the world how God sees us. In the incarnation, by taking our human nature upon God’s self, God declares that we belong to him, that in God’s eyes we all have value, that to God every one of us counts.

On this holy night, we celebrate the adoption of the human race by Almighty God. Through the birth of Jesus Christ, God sees each one of us as God’s beloved son or beloved daughter. Like a parent wrapped up in a child’s every move, every step, every milestone, God is enraptured by us. No matter who you are or where you are or where you have toddled off to, God loves you as God’s own child. When God looks down upon you, God doesn’t see one among billions. God sees one whom God loves as God’s own. This Christmas, look first at the mirror through God’s eyes and see yourself as God sees you—as God’s beloved child. And then look out at the world through those same eyes and see what God sees: that absolutely everyone is a vessel into which God has poured God’s love. If we will love each other the way God loves us—as God’s own children—then peace will reign and love will win and the birth of Jesus Christ will unite us all.

---

[1] https://www.census.gov/history/www/through_the_decades/overview/1790.html.

[2] Wright, Carrol D. and William C. Hunt, History and Growth of the United States Census (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1900), 13.

Obedience of Faith

In Sunday's short epistle lesson from Romans 16, Paul uses an interesting phrase that seems to fold together his entire letter. What does Paul mean by "obedience of faith?" How does this relate to his theology of justification? How is this different from obedience to the law? From slavery to sin?

Sunday's reading is from the end of Romans. The phrase "obedience of faith" is from 16:26--the penultimate verse in the entire letter. But this isn't the first time Paul has used it. Back in the first chapter, Paul opens his letter with these same words as he defines his calling and ministry: "Paul, a servant of Jesus Christ...through whom we have received grace and apostleship to bring about the obedience of faith among all the Gentiles for the sake of his name." In other words, if you asked Paul what his job was, he might very well say, "My job is to share the gospel of Jesus Christ to bring about the obedience of faith among the Gentiles."

In my preaching, I don't talk a lot about obedience. It's a turn-off word. Like a light switch, it turns off my attention because it quenches all my hope. Obedience? I know that I'm supposed to be a better priest, a better husband, a better father, a better disciple of Jesus. Obedience is the reality that I'm supposed to maintain but can't. Anytime someone talks about obedience, I think about an overbearing parent or a strict teacher or a guilt-dispensing preacher. But this is Paul. This is Romans. This is justification by faith. This is grace over law. This is hope for the hopeless. Where is the hope in this obedience?

Obedience of faith is a different sort of obedience. As the rest of Romans makes clear, this is an obedience that parallels the obedience to which Israel was invited through the Law, but faith opens up a new means for fulfillment. First comes justification. Jesus is the faithful one, and faith in his victory over sin and death imputes to the faithful the justification (made-right-ness) that means we belong to God. When we have faith like Abraham and faith like Jesus, we are given right-standing before God. Then the fruit of that righteousness is manifest in the lives of the faithful. We remain obedient through faithfulness. It is faith that enables obedience. We become slaves to righteousness. We are shaped, remade, rebranded by the right-standing that we have been given so that our lives reflect that obedience. I like to think that Paul's readers in Rome saw that complex phrase in his opening lines and spent the rest of Romans learning what it means. By the end, they were able to say with joy, "The gospel has given us obedience of faith."

So what does that mean for us? It means when I recognize that I could be a better priest, better father, better husband, and better disciple of Jesus, the answer isn't to try harder but believe more fully. I must believe that God has the power to make me perfect in his sight and that that power comes not from within me but from Jesus' victory over my faults--my sin. Believing in that--staying grounded in that faith--is what evokes obedience. I am obedient when I am faithful. My job is to believe in God's transformational grace and let that faith shape my every moment, my every decision, my every word, my every thought.

Surprise Message

On Sunday morning, we will read from 2 Samuel 7 and will hear King David ask the prophet Nathan whether it is time to build a house for the Lord: "See now, I am living in a house of cedar, but the ark of God stays in a tent." Nathan understood what David is hinting at, and he confirmed for the king that his plan was a good one: "Go, do all that you have in mind; for the Lord is with you." But, that night, the Lord appeared to Nathan and told him to reverse course: "Go and tell my servant David: Thus says the Lord: Are you the one to build me a house to live in?"

It made perfect sense that David would build a temple for Yahweh. God had given David and the people of Israel security and prosperity. The place of worship, the place where Yahweh dwelt, however, was still in a tent. I don't know about you, but I like living in a tent for one night. I've never been on one of those fancy safaris, on which "tent" means "palace with canvas walls," so I might change my mind and stay for three nights in one of those, but I like living in a house with real, solid walls. And, if King David is going to live in a palace with cedar paneling, it makes sense that God would live in a similar abode.

But God isn't ready to move into a house yet. Instead, God uses this gesture by the king to double down on his investment in David: "I will make for you a great name, like the name of the great ones of the earth...Moreover the Lord declares to you that the Lord will make you a house. Your house and your kingdom shall be made sure forever before me; your throne shall be established forever." This promise of a "house" doesn't mean a palace in which the king will live but a house--a dynasty--that will persist forever. God tells Nathan to tell David that his lineage will rule on the throne forever.

Of course, it doesn't. Solomon screws up, marries lots of foreign woman, and, in his old age, begins to worship foreign gods. As a result, God rips the kingdom from him and gives ten twelfths of it (all but the tribes of Benjamin and Judah) to another king. The monarchy is divided. Eventually, both kingdoms will fall. The throne of David is defeated. There is no heir to serve as king.

But God isn't in the business of breaking promises. Part of what the angel Gabriel announces to Mary in Luke 1 is the restoration of David's line through her son, Jesus: "He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end." It may have been dormant for a while, but the promise made to David is resurrected in the birth of Joseph's son, Jesus.

There's an Easter story here. Death always precedes resurrection. God's promises are always sure. As God's never-failing faithfulness overcomes the failure of David's heirs, we remember that with God nothing is lost. With God, there is always hope.

Good News in Unlikely Places

 

Tuesday in the Third Week of Advent - December 19, 2017

Isaiah 45:5–25; Luke 7:18–23

 

 

Audio of this sermon can be heard here.

 

I don't believe in luck, but I do believe that some people are luckier than others. By that, I mean that I don't believe that random events are meaninglessly random, but I do believe that some people, through no fault of their own, are the recipients of a disproportionate number of otherwise inexplicable favorable events. And I also believe that some people are the disproportionate recipients of the "bad breaks" in life. Sure, some people "make their own luck," which is to say that people who go through life unprepared or inattentive or pessimistic are more likely to stumble their way from day to day, but I also know too many people who have endured too much hardship to think that it's as simple as cause and effect.

 

When it comes to people who just can't catch a break, poor people must be at the top of the list. It's hard to win the game of life when you start out with half a deck. Although there are exceptional cases when individuals break through the vicious cycle of poverty, most people who are born poor will stay poor. In this country and in most countries, the quality of education that a poor child receives is directly related to the income of her parents, and it's hard for a really smart kid to make good on those smarts when she is trapped in the worst-funded school in the county. One of my children has not been to the doctor for a sick visit in two years. That's not luck. That's access to good nutrition, good hygiene, good preventative medicine, and a stay-at-home parent, which are all things that a child in a single-parent, barely-making-it household probably doesn't have. Access to affordable health care is essential, but so is providing enough nutritious food for a growing human body to function properly.

 

People come into my office all the time looking for financial assistance. I presume that 99% of them are stuck in their poverty because of the choices that they have made. But they aren't choosing between turkey and ham, between Advil and Tylenol, between hiring a babysitter or taking a day off of work when their kid is sick. They choose to be homeless because they are living with an abusive partner and have no where else to go. They choose drugs or alcohol because they don't have the mental health support to cope with a hungry baby who won't stop crying. They choose soup kitchens and disability checks and handouts because they don't have enough money to buy a car to look for and get to the job they need to turn their life around. They choose chaos because they don't know peace. They have never known peace.

 

And what does God say to them? In the eyes of God, you are blessed, you are loved, you are not forgotten.

 

Who is Jesus? Is he the one that we've been waiting for? Is he the savior who has come to redeem the world? "Go tell John what you have seen and heard: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor have good news brought to them." Jesus is the one who has come to earth to restore the sight of the blind. Jesus has come to help the lame walk and to cleanse the lepers. Jesus has brought hearing to those who are dead. And Jesus is even the one who has come to bring the dead back to life. But Luke the Evangelist knows as well as a sixth-grade essayist that you always save the strongest argument for last. And, if you really want to know whether Jesus is the Son of God who has come to bring salvation to the whole world, then you need to know that he is the one who has come to bring good news even to the poor.

 

If ever there was someone who needed life-changing, trajectory-altering, history-reversing good news it is the poor. For all of human history, poverty has been a plague we cannot solve. Those with resources can, for the most part, dig themselves out of whatever hole they have fallen in. But not a poor person. Not a poor family. Not a poor community. Not a poor nation. Not poverty itself. Jesus the Christ brings a reversal as dramatic and thorough as a dead man springing back to life. And it is good news for the poor.

 

But how is this good news? Jesus' good news for the world is the realignment of our assessment of value. Jesus who came and died and rose again, who told the rich young man to sell all that he has and give it to the poor, who proclaimed that it is easier for a camel to fit through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven, reveals that God is not on the side of the rich and powerful. Jesus proclaims that God is not on the side of the middle-class and upwardly mobile. God's victory is manifest in the lives of the hopeless.

 

Every human institution that stands in the way of the redemption of the poor is damned. That's payday lenders. That's crooked landlords. That's property-tax-funded education. That's taxes on groceries. That's American health care. That's you. That's me. That's the tax bill that's before Congress and every representative and senator who votes for it and every one of us who votes for those who support it. How will we know whether Jesus is the one on whom the world has been waiting? What do you see and hear? The more I sit with Jesus and read the Bible the more convinced I am that if I want to know what it means to call Jesus my savior I need to know what it means for transformation to come to the poor.