THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

I once faced a group of children and asked a question. “What’s it like to be Christian?” One kid spoke up immediately. “It means to be nice.” This was in that very wide Bible-belt region where many who claimed the title “Christian” were more likely to condemn those who weren’t just like them than they were to ponder whether they themselves offered an image of the risen Christ. 

I wasn’t sure what I might have heard as an answer to my question, but as I think about it now, it seems like I was given an easy out. I say that because many of our ideas of “being nice” mean we give in to many of the ways that enable and support conflict, just so we can avoid it. 

So, let me ask another question. How many of you here really enjoy conflict? 

I ask that in full confidence that I’m not preaching at the Red Mass, with a congregation of legal professionals whose livelihood often entails engaging in conflict. I also ask that as one who must confess an avoidance of conflict as much as possible. It’s something I learned watching my own mother, who shied away from any conflict. 

I also ask that question in full confidence that I am standing before a congregation that is conflict averse, and who avoid any open expression of conflict in favor of appearing “nice.” You might have discerned that I’ve outgrown a bit of my conflict avoidance by now. 

I once attended a workshop to help us learn how to deal with conflict. It didn’t hurt that it was in Honolulu in February, where conflict seemed to be washed away by the surf on Waikiki Beach just on the other side of our windows. Our greatest conflict at that point seemed to be with distraction. 

We were taught how to “handle” those who thrive on conflict. I learned soon after that the techniques we discussed didn’t really resolve conflict; instead, they seemed to require reinforcing the box we tried to place the sources of conflict in. 

Call it God’s will, karma, or God’s sense of humor, I shortly found myself as rector in the most conflicted parish in that diocese. They didn’t like female clergy but had a female bishop. They didn’t like the ordination of LGBT persons. There was a hidden history of clerical abuse related to that, but I didn’t know that yet. I soon discovered that they really didn’t like each other all that much sometimes, either. It seemed like when they had a choice of biblical persons to imitate, they chose the Pharisees. 

Today’s Gospel gives us a lesson in how to deal with conflict. Telling someone they’re headed for Hell isn’t in the syllabus. Neither is playing nice and letting abuse and bullying win the day. 

The Gospel teaches us that conflict resolution is first and foremost based in relationship. A wounded person is to go to the one who caused the wounds and explain their perspective in a way that is honest but not threatening. The conversation occurs in the spirit of reconciliation, not vengeance. If reconciliation does not occur, then a witness is added. If that doesn’t work, then the whole congregation is informed, still, mind you, in a spirit of reconciliation. 

If all that is ineffective in restoring the relationship, then the offending person is to be treated “as a Gentile,” an outsider. This is not, at least at first, what we might call excommunication, but rather an opportunity for evangelism. It is an opening to teach again the reconciling love shown to all of us on the cross and an invitation to share in its humility in a desire to also share in the resurrection to new life. 

If reconciliation comes about, we then have to admit that the new relationship will be different from what it was, at least for awhile. We cannot forget, nor can we pretend that the wounds have not occurred, especially when scars remain visible. Maybe that’s one reason why Jesus showed his amazed disciples his own scars after he was raised from the dead. 

We cannot avoid conflict, and to say there is no conflict is to live in denial, no matter where or who we are. I’ve said many times after several decades of church work, where two or three are gathered, there are probably at least five opinions. I sometimes experience conflicting opinions in my own household, and I live alone! 

Living in the love of Christ means we hold each other to some form of accountability. In fact, we can only do that, hold each other accountable, when we love each other enough to help ensure we are faithful to the truth given to us in the Word made flesh. 

To deny accountability, to avoid speaking the truth in love in order to avoid conflict, is to deny the possibility of redemption for both of us. As I told a friend one evening regarding that avoidance, if we deny redemption, we might just remove ourselves from possibilities of salvation. 

The effects resulting from that conversation are that conflict continues to endure in the minds of some. And as a result, we are outsiders to each other. Children of God, gathered together, the work continues. 

That work includes our accepting that, from a Christian perspective, conflict resolution is not a “win/lose” proposition according to cultural standards. If we must use competitive terms like "win" or "lose," the Gospel teaches us that the only “win” is to restore the relationship in some life-giving way. If that does not, or cannot happen, then everyone loses. 

This holds true for personal relationships, parish health and growth, and even for a nation that has chosen to ensnare itself in “forever wars” ever since victory seemed like a forever gift after 1945. 

And while we treat competition as a game, when it comes to relationships, it’s life and death, not life or death. Moses set that choice before us. Wisdom continues to await our making the correct choice. 
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As I said, the work continues. 

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

Last week we heard the preceding verses to today’s Gospel, Peter’s confession and Jesus’ response. Today we hear what it really means to confess Jesus as the Christ. It’s not a lesson likely to result in what some among us have described as “happy clappy people.” 

First, though, we have to deal with Simon, now called Peter. He’s a bit full of himself at this point, relishing the afterglow of Jesus’ response to Peter’s confession. Peter simply cannot accept that his Messiah must suffer rejection, cruelty, and death. After all, centuries of teaching point to the coming Messiah as a conquering king, one who will deliver Israel from those very things Jesus says must lie ahead not just for him, but as we soon learn, for those who follow him. 

Peter learns that as quickly as his earlier words echoed the Spirit of God, his next breath could just as easily inhale an opposing spirit. Jesus makes that point abundantly clear. “Get behind me, Satan!” It’s easy to envision the shock on Peter’s face, and even his gasp seeking a renewed spirit. 

I’ve often thought that Jesus isn’t just speaking to Peter at this point. His words are more directed at the spiritual source of Peter’s admonition. The Gospel begins with an encounter with that same source, where Jesus rejects the offer of power and worship. I wonder what he might say to those of us gathered today to celebrate his grasp of those very things he found necessary to reject. 

My thoughts also cause me to wonder what our world might be like if Jesus’ words were accepted. What if Satan, the accuser, the adversary, actually chose to heed them and instead of continuing to try to undo the work of Jesus, decided to follow him. It’s a great big “what if.” Maybe the biggest what if in history. 

“If anyone wants to be my disciple, that one must take up her or his cross and follow me.” He continues with words calling us to accept suffering and hardship, and even death, just as he will show he does for himself. 

Peter wasn’t the first to misunderstand what that means. Jeremiah, some five or six centuries before, bellowed his lament to God. He calls God out as unreliable, as a trickster who made promises to the prophet that appear to be broken, even completely forgotten. 
God’s answer feels a bit unwelcome, and again not leading to a state of “happy clappiness.” “You will stand before me.” Not in judgement, but as the front person speaking not just for God, but God’s own words to the people whom Jeremiah would rather see struck by several well-placed lightning bolts. 

God tells Jeremiah that the wounds, the sorrow, the rejection felt by the prophet are also borne by the One in whose name he speaks. It’s not easy to accept that your work might be justified only after your own life has ended, but later when your words become true, become historical fact. It’s also not easy to accept that those who must suffer are those you also love, revealing God’s own emotion while watching it happen. 

I once spent a weekend helping with a diocesan youth retreat, with about 150 teenagers gathered at a local parish. One of the breakout sessions focused on words from today’s Epistle. “Pray for those who persecute you.” Stories of bullying and other high school traditions came out. 

I switched the focus for a bit when I asked, “Have any of you prayed for Osama bin Laden lately?” He was still alive at that time. They stared at me, and I explained, “Not that his work will find success, but that his heart and mind might be changed.” A few weeks later I asked the same question of my parish across town. 

The crosses we bear could become known when cries for justice let go of the desire for vengeance, but instead go to the source of the many injustices around us and call their instigators to true discipleship, to follow Jesus with us. A cross we bear could be one where we let go of individual wants in order to help furnish someone else’s very real need. But I think the greatest cross we must bear is the one written in love shown toward those seemingly filled with hatred toward ourselves and others. 

Those crosses mean we die to ourselves, we repudiate many of the things that our selfish selves want to grab, leaving us with nothing life-giving to share with others. That is the discipleship Jesus means when he says, “Follow me.” 

Then we have to pick up one more cross, the one that asks, “Are we really following Jesus?” Is our work, is our soul’s desire, a revelation of the Spirit of the Messiah, the Son of the living God? If not, then we need to look again at who it is we truly follow. Yet, too many times, we decide to do that which makes us feel good about ourselves, and create a god in our image who we hope will magically make our own desires come true. 
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Because as Jeremiah learned, standing before God now, facing in the same direction as our Creator, seeing as God sees and speaking God’s word in so many ways, could mean that when we turn and stand before God in our final direction, facing the Giver of life, we find the salvation of the crosses borne by us, and once and for all, the cross borne for us. And then, we might hear another confession that identifies who we are, words that say, “Welcome home, my child.” 

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​Every person seeking ordination in The Episcopal Church meets with the diocesan Commission on Ministry sometime near the beginning of the process. When I met the Commission in West Virginia some 25 years ago, the chair asked me a pointed question. “Who is Jesus Christ for you?” 

I didn’t hesitate. “He’s the pattern for my life.” The expected answer was more along the lines of words like "Lord," "Savior," "Messiah," or perhaps a recitation of a theological formula memorized in seminary. As you might imagine, there was some ‘splainin’ to do. 

Today we hear Matthew’s version of what’s known as St. Peter’s confession. Since we’re Episcopalians, we have a feast day for that—January 18. But it falls neatly into the sequence of Gospel lessons now, and it’s worthy of our attention more than once a year. 

At first, it seems as if Jesus is having an identity crisis. “Who do people say the Son of Man is?” he wonders out loud. It may just be the first documented publicity poll in the history of the world. There are a few incorrect answers. “But who do you say that I am?” 

Peter, never shy about being the first with his hand in the air, says, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” 

Throughout its history, the institutional church has provided many answers to the question about who Jesus is. The western church, based in Rome, took Jesus’ follow-up remarks to mean Peter is the first pope, and the institution is the rock upon which Peter’s confession stands. 

And so it was for much of the West until a monk named Martin took hammer in hand and said not so politely, “I disagree. I think there’s more to it.” And so, there was some ‘splainin’ to do. 

At the beginning of this story, Peter was known as Simon. His answer results in Jesus’ renaming him. The name Peter is our translation of Petra, meaning “rock,” and so we might call him “St. Rocky.” More than an ordination to high authority, Jesus indicates that Simon, now “Rocky” will be known differently. He will be known not by his given name, but by his confession of who Jesus is. He is himself forever changed by those same words. 

The words that follow cause me to wonder whether they were inserted by later church authorities, appearing to be spoken by Jesus in order to justify institutional norms. More ‘splainin’ needing much more time. 

“Whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven, and whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven.” Is Jesus giving the disciples, particularly Peter, authority over both heaven and earth? If so, shouldn’t our prayer be changed to “our will be done in heaven as it is on earth?” 

Maybe. 

You see, if the earlier words are true, then there is no separation between the places where God’s will is done. That’s true if the Spirit speaks and works through us to reveal not just God’s will but also to reveal who Jesus truly is for us. And if the Spirit speaks through us and works through us, then it is the same as if Jesus is physically present, revealing God’s will for all creation. Then, if you jump ahead to read the end of the story, you’ll find that heaven and earth become one—again. More ‘splainin.’ 

Paul says, “I appeal to you to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God.” We offer ourselves as vehicles for God’s purpose, God’s will, so that the words we pray are more than words we simply say. They are a reminder of who we are in Christ, a remembrance of who Jesus is for us. It is your will be done, not our will be done. To mean the latter is to continue the work of the serpent in the garden to undo creation by making god(s) in our own image. 

The works we do and the treasures we seek go much further than the words we say to reveal who Jesus is for us. Even then, those things fall way short of explaining the fullness of who Jesus is. Our hands and hearts are just as important as our words in making our confession. And since our confession is usually incomplete, we’re left where we have often been before. 

There’s more ‘splainin’ to do. We have the rest of our lives to do it. 

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​One day while in seminary, a few of us got into my car and went into Columbus, Ohio, to rummage through used bookstores. On the way back, we started discussing the upcoming Sunday lessons. One of those was today’s Gospel. A classmate expressed his confusion over it, especially Jesus’s initial response to the Canaanite woman. Use of the word translated as “dog” was as derogatory as any four-letter word we might imagine. 

I had a thought about that and said, "Maybe it’s Jesus’ own conversion.” That led to a discussion about how all the stories in Matthew had been located in Jewish territory up until this point. After this, Jesus begins to move into Gentile territory. 

The history of the institutional church has many stories about membership, at first about the effect of baptism and whether it could or should be repeated. Then, boundaries were set around the table—who could receive Holy Communion and who could administer it.

Recent history regarding the effects of salvation and its reception only helps to reinforce those boundaries. It causes one to wonder why so much energy is used making sure some are excluded, as if God couldn't decide that and needed our help. But then, there's that line heard at Peter's confession, which comes around next week. Stay tuned. 

When we look back at Hebrew teaching—from before and during the time of Moses through the later prophets—we find answers our ecclesiastical ancestors seem to have forgotten. Moses taught, actually included it in what’s considered “The Law,” that aliens and foreigners were to be treated like family. Some family traditions probably mean they are to be treated better than close relatives, but that’s another sermon for another day. When I had siblings in children’s choirs, I often had to say at the beginning of rehearsals, "For the next hour, act like you’re not related.” 

Today’s lesson from that part of Isaiah that covers the restoration of Judah from the Babylonian exile is a case in point. Remember that Judah’s salvation in this sense comes at the behest of the Persians, who are agents God uses to deliver Judah from captivity. Then remember that ancient Persia is modern-day Iran, and Babylon was in what’s now Iraq. That is also Abraham’s native land. We still have ancient lessons to learn. 

The Canaanite woman is an outsider whose mere presence in the room, let alone conversation, means those present are ritually unclean. All she asks is what any mother would want for her child—for her to be made well. Jesus ignores her at first, then finally answers her plea in such a way as to try to just make her go away. Her reply reminds him who he is, which she evidently sees better than anyone else in the room. I can imagine her expression and her determination as she says, "Even the dogs eat the crumbs under the children’s table.” 

I can also imagine that Jesus’ expression changed with his recognition of the consequences of this encounter. Moving from rigid boundaries to compassion, he says, “Go. Because of your faith your daughter is healed.” 

Because of her faith, Jesus’ own faithfulness expands beyond the rigid boundaries of tradition and expectation. If we don’t want to accept that interpretation, then consider this whole scene as a challenge to everyone else in the room that their own boundaries might just exclude them from God’s compassion, God’s salvation. 

And maybe that’s the point. 

The late Rachel Held Evans had an evangelical zeal that led her to the desire to let others know they lived outside her perceived boundaries of God’s grace. She and her husband moved into a part of Chicago known as Boystown, where a majority of the residents were and are homosexual. At first, she wanted to “save” them from their wicked ways. 

Then she got to know her neighbors. She witnessed their love and caring for each other in ways that only those brought together by their outcast status seem to be able to do. She then begins to speak of her own conversion. “I went there wanting to make them Christian. Instead, I learned from them what it really means to be Christian myself.” 

You see, when we truly live into our faith, when we open all the deadbolt locks on the doors of our hearts and minds, we might discover that we are where we are not because God has work for us to do, but that God’s work is really happening within us. I’ve told you many times that God can be sneaky. 

Sometimes we get so settled in our traditions and practices that we lose sight that another way might be just as good, or perhaps even better. Sometimes it takes what might be considered the intrusive presence of an outsider to startle us to a wider understanding of our faith. That's because our faith is often so limited by our own personal boundaries that we lose sight of God’s infinite and eternal love. 

That does not mean that God loves each and every thing going on within and around us. But it does mean that God’s love reaches out to embrace the unloved and sometimes unlovable in our own perspectives. It's just that God uses our own arms to embrace them. It also means that we stand firm in the face of unloving spirits that work to exclude those who differ from themselves. And while many might boast that God loves us just as we are, the love of God does not leave us there but leads us through a life of continued and continuing redemption as we move into closer relationship with our Creator and each other. 

When serving as a hospital chaplain, I was called late one night to visit a patient in the emergency department. She was dropped off in a state of hysteria by friends after they convinced her that demons were going to claim her eternal soul. She said over and over that she knew God was stronger than demons, but she was so afraid. 

After a few repetitions, I began to interrupt her. “But God is stronger.” Again. You said God is stronger than demons. But . . . God is stronger. She began to calm down, and I finally said some words she seemed to have never heard before. “God loves you.” 

We talked more, and after about two hours of waiting for the behavioral health nurse to approve admission, she consented to receive Holy Baptism. Altar guilds would be hard pressed to find the necessary furnishings for baptism in an ER room, but we made do. Let your imagination wander to what I used as a holy water basin. I have no idea what happened to the demons who drove her to the hospital. Visions of water and dissolving witches from the Wizard of Oz come to mind. Baptism, anyone? 

Sometimes demons work overtime to make sure we don’t notice who they are. Our work involves naming reality and where it leads us. Like that day with Jesus and the Canaanite woman, and like the promise of all the Isaiahs, sometimes it also means we ourselves are converted in ways that help to see as God sees us and those around us. That in itself is a full-time job. 

After all, some may be foreigners, outcasts, or alien to us. That doesn’t mean they are those things to God. After we remind ourselves of that, it’s time to make sure they understand that, too. 

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​The story of the feeding of 5,000 men, plus women and children, is one that’s found in each of the four canonical gospels. Each tells the story in slightly different ways, although each one is what we call a teachable moment for the disciples. 

In Matthew’s version, this event follows a series of parables that try to describe the kingdom of heaven. That’s Matthew’s phrase for the approaching reign of God inaugurated by the birth of Jesus. 

Matthew pauses from the parables to give us a look back as he tries to explain who Jesus is. Today’s story comes just after Jesus has returned to his childhood home in Nazareth. At first, it’s the hometown hero, the boy everyone’s talking about. It quickly turns into questions along the lines of "We knew you when? Just who do you think you are now?” Jesus leaves Nazareth without much to show because of the lack of faith of its residents. Luke gives us a bit of elaboration, which we heard last year. 

The identity question persists. Word of his deeds and teachings reaches Herod, who wonders if Jesus is really John the Baptist raised from the dead. Herod had John beheaded, and Matthew reminds us of that. 

When Jesus hears that news he needs a little “me time.” He tries to get away to a quiet place, but the crowds find out and follow him there. The day goes on, and it’s getting late. The disciples want to send everyone home so they can have supper, but Jesus brings everything home to them when he tells them they can feed the hungry crowd. 

With what? Have you seen the price of groceries lately? Bananas are getting close to a denari a pound, and don’t get me started about the price of eggs, let alone hamburgers. That stuff they call pork is cheaper, but Moses said “no.” 

“What do you have?” asks Jesus. Five loaves of bread and a couple of fish. And there’s no fish helper to stretch things out a bit. And the tartar sauce has been out in the sun all day, so it’s a no-go. 

That’s the beginning of the story. You heard what happened and how much was left over. So, to make a short sermon longer, what does it all mean? 

First of all, it doesn’t mean we offer a little bit and then magically make it do a lot more so we can say we did something. In case you haven’t noticed, none of us here is Jesus in the same way Matthew presents him in today’s lesson. That’s why trying to remake today’s event happen, could turn into little more than a parody where we become the parable we don’t want told. 

But there is something more substantial than our meager attempts at playing God. Matthew’s Gospel has been described as an “apocalyptic gospel,” words that cause some to shy away from it because the word apocalypse raises visions of misinformed interpretations prevalent among fundamentalists and dispensationalists and missed dates for what they call “the rapture.” 

While the feeding of 5,000+ is an event in the life of Jesus of Nazareth, it also points us to a hope that when Christ returns to establish God’s reign on earth—that eternal Kingdom of Heaven Matthew talks about—no one will be left hungry, either for real food or, as the Sermon on the Mount tells us, for righteousness. 

So today’s lesson is not just about something that happened way back when, but a vision of a time yet to come, a promised time of eternal salvation for God’s people and God’s creation. 

Maybe we’re not getting the glimpses necessary to instill hope because many of our efforts are based on offering what we can get by with instead of all that we have on hand. Maybe we’ve waited so long for the fulfillment of the kingdom that we really have stopped believing those words we still say every week: "He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end.” 

But, if we’ve stopped believing that, then why are we here? We might as well declare that the resurrection is just another springtime festival and that Christmas is only about Santa and not the incarnation of the cosmic Christ. 

The difficulty lies in the fact that so many of the teachings of our faith have been co-opted by those seeking only individual and personal salvation in another place and time. Our dissolution of communities, our neglect and distrust of others, our hoarding of personal wealth, and the exhaustive and exhausting need for more are all signs and wonders that compete for faith in the promises of the risen Christ. 

We live in a culture that depends on and requires our belief in scarcity. If we had half as many affordable homes as we have rented storage lockers in our region, we could solve the housing crisis. If we believed in the coming reign of God for all creation, we would start forming a living community where that vision cannot and will not be so easily dismissed. Then, we could get to work taking better care of the world Jesus has promised to return to. 

We’ve spent so much time and energy maintaining budgets and buildings that all we can see is the next utility or repair bill, and we wait in fear for it to come. Maybe we’ll begin to gain a vision of “the life of the world to come” when we, with fear and trembling, offer all we are to join the journey to that life and dare take in the sights along the way, and not bury our noses in the online travel planner. Because some day, all we have will be behind us, and all we are will be left hoping for entrance into the kingdom. 

In the meantime, keep in mind that offering a fish sandwich to a hungry stranger might just be the first tangible sign of salvation they hope for, too. 

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

Matthew’s Gospel uses the phrase “kingdom of heaven” more than any other book in Christian scripture. He uses language that his first hearers could understand, as the concepts arise from ancient Hebrew tradition. 

We don’t share that tradition, even though we’ve been hearing and reading the same scriptures Matthew’s audience read and heard. Our understandings of the words kingdom and heaven are colored, tainted, if you will, by more recent uses of the terms. 

It probably doesn’t help our post-enlightenment minds when Jesus uses parables to describe these words. We have to remind ourselves that the key word in these stories, several of which we hear today, is the word like. That’s a metaphor, not current usage, like, “I, like, heard this parable, and I was, like, confused by its, like, meaning.” Heaven help us from the likes of that compulsion. 

In order to understand what Jesus means by the “kingdom of heaven,” we need to accept that both terms, kingdom and heaven, are limited by our language, especially when we try to use them to describe that which is of and from God. Because, like the word “God,” when we think we have defined them, they are, by definition, wrong. 
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Early Hebrew understanding of the word “heaven” meant what we might refer to as the sky. It was a visible area that stretched as far as the eye could see and contained not only air but also the sun, moon, stars, and, as they were discovered, other planets. This area was separated by a shield, or dome, that separated them from the earth. Think about that when you read the story of creation in Genesis one. 

The early history of Israel tells us of a one-time extended family growing into multitudes of people descended from the twelve sons of Jacob. They were known as tribes. These tribes grew until they were led by some chosen by God, known as judges and prophets. 

One of those prophets, Samuel, was approached by leaders of the tribes asking that he anoint a king to lead them, like other nations around them had. Samuel resisted until God told him to go ahead, since they were not really rejecting Samuel but were trying to reject God’s leadership of them. You can read again how all that worked out in the short- and long-term. 

That’s the short version. There’s more. 

It’s difficult to express what it means to have God in “the heaven” and the presence of that God on earth. Surely we have some understanding of the Holy Spirit, and we celebrate the Incarnation at the end of December. But wrapping our minds around an immortal one who is tortured and executed seems to defy description without making it little more than a transaction in some other-worldly marketplace. 

Then we get to work on helping others get an idea of what resurrection means for themselves and, as Paul tells us, for all creation. We fumble with words that often add to the confusion. 

So, what is the kingdom of heaven? Not "What is it like?" but "What is it?" 

It is both as near to us as breathing and yet not yet fulfilled. It is of more value to believers than anything we can attach a number to. It is at the core of our being, but not anything we can possess. 

The kingdom of heaven is at once past and future, with hints in the present when the people of God, who might call themselves Christian or Jewish or Muslim, or any other name, find themselves to be active participants in the ongoing work of caring for and revealing God’s love for all creation and its creatures. Not because they hope to gain entrance into the kingdom and grab a selfie at the pearly gates, but because the living love of God made real in the risen Christ is the guiding principle of their lives. 

The world around us, indeed, and all creation labors in its quest for the kingdom of heaven. Our task is to live in this groaning, weary world in such a way as to invite all who desire it to join us in our own quest for its fulfillment. 

It is, after all, what we’ll be praying for in just a few minutes. 

I wonder what our reaction might be if that prayer got answered at the very moment we say, "Your kingdom come, your will be done.” 

Imagine a world where evil does not and cannot exist. Imagine a world where no housing or food shortages are known, where sickness and death are no more, and where all those who are, as Paul says, “in Christ,” past, present, and future, are alive in bodies that will never die. 

Now imagine all that on this planet, not in some far-off spiritual world. Because that's what scripture teaches. It’s what we say we believe in the creeds. The resurrection of Jesus that we celebrated just a few short months ago is just the beginning of the new age of God’s kingdom, an age yet to come to its fulfillment. 

We do not build that kingdom, but we do build a community for that kingdom. That idea that we call heaven is fulfilled when Christ returns to “judge the living and the dead.” And it is to happen here, on planet earth, and will mark the fulfillment of the promise, “I will be with you, even to the end of the age.” 

That age is the restoration of God’s first gift—a garden where all that is needed is supplied, where God takes pleasure in “walking in the cool of the evening” and spending time with and in the creation restored to its original blessing of goodness. 

Maybe when we start living for that answer to our prayer “your kingdom come," we'll begin to really understand our role as caretakers of creation, stewards of all that God said is “very good.” It’s the big picture that includes us as stewards of the story that continues to be the only true hope for all creation. 

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

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Matthew's Gospel is written to a Jewish audience trying to reinvent themselves a decade or two after the Romans destroyed Jerusalem and its temple. Matthew’s first hearers are in Antioch, a part of that Jewish diaspora, and it’s likely many still remember living and working in Jerusalem. 

Returning to their home is not an option. Rome continues to rule there, with its imperial cult and obedient army. And, while Matthew is not likely to be an eyewitness to the life of Jesus of Nazareth, he takes the name of a disciple whom Jesus called. That disciple likely passed down first-hand knowledge of Jesus’ teachings, and we hear one of those today. 

Agricultural metaphors abound in Matthew. Today’s parable of the weeds is unique to Matthew and addresses some issues that might have arisen among people who find they live in a new setting and culture. Their center of worship is no more. Their identity seems to be dissolving before their very eyes. And what about living among others who are very different in culture, tradition, and ancestry? 

Matthew’s task is difficult. He has to convince his first hearers of their need to look ahead and consider a new identity because of what has happened. It’s not just the destruction of the Temple and the surrounding city. Matthew has to convince them that what they thought would happen was wrong. They need to accept that in light of how a traditional belief actually worked out. 

That belief is in who the expected Messiah is and how that Messiah would work. Expectations of a strong military leader did not come to fruition. There was no overthrow of the occupying Roman government and its army. There has been no restoration of what Matthew calls “the kingdom of heaven” to Israel. 

Instead, Israel is once again driven from its homeland, losing once again the tangible sign of God’s long ago promise to their ancestor Abraham. So, it seems natural that they would turn away from that promise and seek to establish their tightly-held identity all on their own. 

After all, their world has changed. It’s vastly different. If only they could bring back “the good old days” when prosperity reigned and everyone lived and thought alike. 

Now, all they see are like weeds growing up all around them. The urge is to pull them up, get rid of them, to make the garden of themselves look and feel good, even perfect again. 

But that could very well cause more damage to themselves than the weeds could ever do. Besides that, determining what is good and what is seen as evil is something only God can do. And despite our best efforts, we still are not God.

In some way, Matthew tries to remind his hearers of their own forgotten past. They are now aliens in a strange land—again. That was true when Judah was taken captive and driven to Babylon. It was true when their ancestors were overtaken in the Northern Kingdom of Israel, and many fled to Egypt, where their ancestors once lived to escape famine in their own land.

Being aliens in a strange land is their identity, it’s in their ancestral DNA. Abraham, known as Abram, left the familiarity of home and comfort to go to a land God would show him when he got there. And from that land he received, and believed in a promise.

What about us? For those of us who have moved around a bit, it seems somewhat easier to accept an alien identity than it might be for those who have been in the same place for years, even decades. Yet, the world around us seems strange. Many things have changed, and we find ourselves attempting to recreate the world that once was.

Consider that all those alien experiences of Israel and Judah were God’s way of forcing them to rethink the immense possibilities of the very promise made to Abraham. Maybe there is more than one way to give birth to children of God’s promise. And maybe many of those have already reached adulthood at the time of rebirth.

There is hope in planting seeds. There is hope in waiting patiently for growth and hope in gathering harvest. But that harvest ultimately belongs to God, even when some of it might be used to feed ourselves.
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Maybe the issue is that we keep our focus on identifying weeds instead of on the promise of growth. Maybe, by grace we can discover a beneficial place among us for some of those weeds. After all, even a dandelion leaf can find its way into a gourmet salad.

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​I once worked with a congregation that sponsored a monthly food pantry. Folks would pre-register with evidence of household size and income so that the truck would arrive with enough food. We usually had a lot left over, with nowhere to store it. 

One day we had so much canned food left over that someone called a friend from a large charismatic congregation some twenty miles away. A man arrived in a cargo van, and we loaded the remaining cases into it. As he was preparing to leave, he told me, “We appreciate the food. We want to use it to get folks into the church so we can get them saved.” 

I was stunned. After he drove away, I thought, "We don’t need to get them saved. We need to find a way to tell them they are saved.” 

The eighth chapter of Paul’s letter to the church in Rome is the centerpiece of the Epistle. Paul sets the stage in the first four chapters as he describes the difference between observance of the law and dependence on grace. Chapters five through eight are one long crescendo following that preliminary discussion. It’s helpful to read those four chapters straight through in a different translation so our minds are stirred anew by Paul’s words. 

We take so much for granted. We hear each Sunday’s lessons from the same translation and mostly with the same ears as we’ve always done. We assume that what we’ve always thought we believed is true without questioning whether that is so. I began asking questions about that before I went to seminary; in fact, it was the answer that startled me and led me to believe my call to ministry might not be on the organ bench but in the pulpit. 

It’s no secret that I was raised in fundamentalism. I heard repeated altar calls that followed an hour or so of singing and testimony and then at least thirty minutes of hellfire and damnation preaching. I’m surprised there weren’t some primed to light a match somewhere so the smell of sulphur might cause us to think we were staring into the very fires of hell if we didn’t go get ourselves saved, maybe for the second or third time. 

My startling answer came when a minister, also named Paul, dared to tell a group of us the truth, much in the same vein as the apostle he loved studying. One of our group had been badgered by classmates at college, who told him that since he didn’t believe what they did, he couldn’t be saved. 

I have since described that way of thinking and what is truly spiritually abusive as so much “male bovine residue.” 

​Paul begins this section by saying, “Therefore, since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.” He begins to sum up his argument with today’s words: “Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” While Paul’s rhetoric can be difficult to understand, what he basically says is this:

There is nothing you can do, nothing you need to do, to earn salvation.

You are saved, in a relationship with, and at peace with God through the saving work of Jesus of Nazareth. Not because you earned it, but because that’s how much God loves you. That’s how much God desires to be a part of your life. You are one whom God felt worthy of dying for.

But it goes beyond that. You, I—we are ones to whom God offers the life of the risen Christ. Faith in Christ, made real by participating in the creative and creating work of the Word made flesh, still living among us, is the sign to others of the same life-giving love that we believe saves us all.

That means we don’t attempt or need to bribe others to come into our fellowship to get them saved. It means we offer them food because they are hungry. It means we offer clothing and soap and, yes, toilet paper, because they have enough, shall we say, residue to deal with because we live in and often support a system that wants to bury them under all that.

The life of the Spirit isn’t reserved for some future time and place we call heaven. The life of the Spirit is here, right now, waiting for doors to open through which we enter into that life by making room for the Spirit to enter into our own.

We don’t, and cannot, get saved. But we can live in the Love that saves us, which Paul tells us is ours because God desires it to be so. As the words so often spoken, and which we probably take for granted, tell us, our true offering in response to God’s gracious gift is to “walk in love as Christ loved us and gave himself for us.” That walk is our life in Christ. The gift keeps on giving. The Love is forever.

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​ At first glance, today’s lessons seem disjointed, unrelated. The first lesson sends me to Advent with a side of Georg Frederic Handel. The Psalm is reassuring, hopeful. The Epistle seems ready to remind us why we should feel guilty, while the Gospel simply wants to yell, “grow up!” 

There’s some doubt that the same writer penned today’s first lesson as the one who wrote chapters one through eight. Those chapters speak to a people fresh from exile, whose king coming to them could well have been Darius of Persia. Those returning from exile found a city in ruins. They depended on a benefactor for support and relief. Darius passed through Judah on his way to settle a dispute in Egypt, so he may have spent some time among those whom his predecessor, Cyrus, freed from the Babylonians. 

Today’s words, however, seem to speak more to the time of Alexander the Great, a couple of centuries later. Judah is threatened once again, and was occupied by the Greeks after they overthrew the Persians. Then along came the Romans and a second destruction of Jerusalem a generation or so after Jesus. 

People living in uncertainty often reach out for anything, or anyone, who can provide a sense of peace amid turmoil. Those living in Jerusalem during Jesus’ time lived in hope of a Messiah who would come from the lineage and tradition of David. Now, those who know that history will understand that David’s time was not all that peaceful. Only a generation later, with the death of Solomon, Israel was divided internally, perhaps setting in motion the conflicts that would ultimately destroy both kingdoms. 

Hence, Jesus’s admonition. John came living in austerity, and they complained about him. Jesus spends time eating and drinking with those around him and they call him a glutton and a drunk. Some complain because the Temple is only open when it’s not convenient, or the hymns are too long, or too many, or too few. And the Temple hours have changed, on top of all that! Some say they got nothing out of the sermon or the prayers or anything else, as if they were the ones being worshipped. It’s too cold. It’s too hot. All my friends are having fun right now at the beach or the park or the ball game or at brunch. 

The risen Christ hears a lot of complaints. And probably still wants to shout, “GROW UP!” 
We have yet to learn that our reason for being here is not about us. Worship isn’t about attendance; it is about attendING to the one we worship. Worship is not about receiving, but about offering ourselves in gratitude for what has already been freely 

given. Worship is not about numbers, but being present in the number of the redeemed who then go to do one thing. 
That one thing is to live in the expectation that God will come, that the risen Christ will be present among us, that the Holy Spirit will speak to us and through us as a sign of that very singular hope. 

That expectation is in Paul’s struggle to be a living apostle of Christ, especially when so many temptations lie close at hand to entice him away from the purpose of his life. He speaks of law and grace in ways that can be difficult to understand, but that we can all recognize as true in our own lives. 

Jesus gave us one task—make disciples. If everything else we say we do in his name doesn’t help us do that, then they are little more than a distraction. Maybe that’s why so many struggle. Our focus has become about buildings and programs and even competition with other parishes that we’ve forgotten not only how to make disciples, but how to BE disciples. 

In Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus tries to reveal the presence of God among his own people. After awhile, he turns in another direction and moves instead among outsiders, called Gentiles. Maybe he heard all the whining and complaining he could take, and decided to go elsewhere. 

I heard a story once that while leaving church one Sunday morning, a person was heard saying “I didn’t get anything out of that service today.” Pray that’s not the voice of God we hear, but that instead God hears our voices of prayer and praise and faith, and accepts our real offering of ourselves in gratitude for the hope God has given us in raising Christ from the dead. 
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That’s when the words of the Psalm begin to make sense. 

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​ I once read a story about a state trooper who stopped a driver on the highway. When the trooper approached the car, the driver asked why. After checking license and registration, the trooper replied, “I saw all the religious bumper stickers and then the way you were driving and a few hand gestures. I assumed the car must be stolen.” 

This week brings many reminders and definitions of words like “liberty” and “freedom.” But today’s Epistle lesson reminds us that we are slaves in one way or another. We don’t like that word, slaves. We’ve heard a lot about it and might have toured scenic park-like settings or cemeteries where battles were fought over the right to own another human being. 

We continue to hear words of condemnation spoken about and toward those who live here as a result of that way of life. But you really have no right to complain about the presence of those whose ancestors were kidnapped and forced to move an ocean away from home for your own ancestors’ benefit and enrichment. 

Paul says we are all slaves. We all submit to the authority of someone, perhaps some entity. Paul contrasts being slaves to sin and being slaves to righteousness. If anyone wants to help me explain that, now’s your chance to step forward, shackles and all. 

We might declare ourselves to be free. But first we need to understand the meaning of the terms "sin" and "righteousness." Then comes the sometimes uncomfortable task of admitting which one we really choose for ourselves. 

One commentary I read mentioned a friend of the writer who is a slave to fashion. We don’t have to look beyond news headlines to find those who are slaves to wealth and/or power. Many enslave themselves to attention and prestige, and some of those are found in church pews on a regular basis. 

I remember a convention in another diocese where it seemed one or two persons submitted their names for nearly every position available. I didn’t want to hear about time management issues if they had won every election. I’ve seen the same thing happen with parish committees. Then I see the burn-out that follows. It could be what our Prayer of Confession refers to as “things done and left undone” all in the same action. 

My working definition of sin is “actively separating ourselves from the God who gives us life.” From that point we might develop endless lists of “sins,” including, as I mentioned recently, the purchase and eating of pretzels. As a former professor used to say regularly, "There's sin everywhere.” 

Sin is predominantly known by choosing to gratify only ourselves, serving only ourselves, and insisting that only what pleases us as individuals is acceptable. Sin denies the benefit of being in relationship with each other, a reciprocal way of life that seeks the good of and in the other as much as the pleasure of the self. 

The slavery of sin denies goodness in others, while the slavery of righteousness seeks harmony and benefit of living together in right relationship. That means everything from helping each other as we are able to not crowding and swerving around others because we haven’t yet learned that waiting longer at the next red light is not always a good and joyful thing. 

Slavery to righteousness is made known to us in the cross of Jesus of Nazareth. As Paul says in his letter to the Philippians, he became a slave—a slave to and for love to reveal who God is for us. 

Being a slave to righteousness means living in ways that reveal our slavery to and for love through how we live at home, in our communities, at work, and even what we call “at church.” Being a slave to righteousness is how we move from being “at church” to being the church—the Body of Christ continuing the life of obedience to the speaking of the Spirit, words taking on flesh, our flesh, in our own time. 

When we choose to be slaves to righteousness, we don’t need bumper stickers or sweatshirts or other banners and slogans to make it known. Others will know by the way we move through the highways of life in ways that seek the well-being of others as much, but no less, than we do for ourselves.

Nearly fifty years ago, we began hearing a designation known as the “me generation.” It describes a move away from communal relationships into a focus on self-interest. We’re living the results of that now that include everything from identity politics to the decline in religious attendance and participation. The rise in social and economic inequality and the almost instant choice of violence as a response to disagreement give evidence that our communal fabric is being torn to shreds.

Paul’s writing shifts our focus in his discussion of slavery to righteousness. He tells us we are baptized into the death of Jesus, resulting in our rising to the new life of resurrection. But Paul would not confine his words to what happens at our fonts. Our restriction of the effectiveness of that ritual to the actual event betrays our misunderstanding of its true meaning.

Our life as disciples of the risen Christ is an ongoing baptism into his new, never-ending life as we choose between the slavery to sin and slavery to righteousness. In other words, we opt to live in ways that deny the presence of God, or to live in the self-giving example of the One who humbled himself, even to death on a cross.

The very real life-or-death choices we make reveal our true master. The life we live, as individuals and as a faithful community, reveals whether we live in hope or the despair of fear. Choose wisely.