This week’s Gospel looks like a pretty straightforward application of the modern concept of the separation of Church and State, the idea that religion needs to settle down in one corner of our lives while politics isolates itself in a different space. It’s a genuinely noble ideal on a governmental level. Unfortunately, on a human level it’s incredibly difficult to keep the distinction between faithfulness to God and moral responsibility toward our neighbor, on the one hand, clear from laws and public expectations on the other.

Jesus’ primary statement about war simply tells us we need not walk in fear: “you will hear of wars and rumors of wars; see that you are not alarmed; for this must take place, but the end is not yet.” It isn’t a sin to be afraid; fear is one of the gifts God gave humans to help us survive. Fearful as we may be, however, Jesus reminds us that we don’t have to remain helpless in the face of its power. We are people called to turn love into action, and “there is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.”

Even if you might not know each one by heart, chances are you’re at least familiar with the Ten Commandments. First appearing in Exodus as God proclaims them from a fiery blaze atop Mount Sinai and later restated as part of Moses’ final address to Israel before his death, the Ten Commandments have long been a cornerstone of Jewish and Christian tradition.

Jumping to our own day, even though we might know in our heads that the cross was initially a bad thing, it’s hard to associate it with much beyond just being a symbol for Church or Christianity anymore. People wear it almost like a sort of talisman. It hangs not only at the front of congregations like ours but probably from half of the rearview mirrors in the state.

Driving past the University the other night with Shannon, we started talking about whether or not we as Christians are trying to sell something no one really cares about. You’ll hear a lot of pastors and theologians blaming society around us for the change or the rise in religious “Nones,” but I don’t think that’s fair. People are going to be concerned about what they’re concerned about. The real problem seems to be that we as the Church are determined to keep asking and answering questions most of us stopped caring about decades ago.

…most Modern American Christians would summarize [the Gospel] as something like we read this morning, “if you confess with your lips that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved”….But that’s only a minor portion of the overall concept. The Gospel isn’t really about providing relief for guilt or offering a way to go to Heaven when you die. It’s a revolution—a cry of overthrow and victory and liberation.

…we read our cultural ideals onto him, making Jesus the Rugged Individual of American lore—someone confident, knowledgeable, thoroughly capable, completely self-reliant, and utterly focused on accomplishing the task at hand. He’s come to save humanity, and gosh darn it, he’s going to do it—even if Death tries to stand in his way! We use the Transfiguration to prop up our image of an all-knowing, all-powerful God just bubbling beneath the surface of human flesh…

Over the last few weeks our Gospel readings have taken us through the many parables Jesus offers in Matthew 13. We started with the parable of the sower and jumped to Jesus telling the disciples what it meant. Last week we heard the parable of the wheat and the weeds and then, similarly to that first week, skipped a bunch of verses to get to the explanation. This week we’ve popped back to fill in a couple of the stories…

But even after all the reasoning and arguing, in the end there’s simply no way to solve the problem [the Binding of Isaac] presents—no way to explain away the tragedy, because no matter how we try to understand the story or justify motives, there’s no way to erase the trauma inherent to this tale.

Our Gospel passage this week is a challenging one, full of warnings and fear and swords and division. Technically a continuation of last week’s Missionary Discourse—the teachings Matthew records Jesus giving the twelve Apostles before sending them out on their own missions—it feels more like a collection of disconnected sayings than a cohesive set of instructions.

It can be a little tricky knowing where to start when addressing a text written by the Apostle Paul. People have used portions of his letters to defend a variety of positions that most of modern American society finds to be problematic, if not outright offensive. Today it’s his apparent glorification of suffering for suffering’s sake, but that’s probably one of his least controversial ideas.

But what if we could step back for a moment? What if we could turn our ego and pride their heads? What if, instead of approaching the Bible from an aspect of dominance or intellectualism—as a way to paste divine authority onto what we already want to think—we could take a look at it through a more playful lens?

If we were reading it directly in the Bible, most of us would probably look at today’s Epistle as a sort of introduction for one of Paul’s famous “body” passages….However, I suspect we generally miss Paul’s main point about the body, largely because we forget to read it not only in light of the communal aspect of Christianity but especially in connection with what he just told us...

God communicates with people in a way that they’ll be able to understand. The Ancient World needed to understand that God reigns everywhere, not simply in the Heavens and not to some restricted degree on Earth. The Kingdom of Heaven spreads throughout the whole of reality. For us, then, perhaps we need to understand that God’s Kingdom continues to extend throughout our reality as well.

What would you say if I told you the Bible isn’t really about you? All those verses that we read: “If you love me, you will keep my commandments.” “Your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit.” “If you do suffer for doing what is right, you are blessed.” “I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you.” None of those apply directly to you, at least, not to you as an individual.

…what if the problem with our prayers isn’t that we’re doing it wrong or invoking the wrong God or offering an inferior Exchange? What if our real problem is Intention? What if what we aren’t actually seeking to spread God’s glory but simply hoping to make our lives easier? What if we’re simply trying to use magic words to force whatever it is we want to happen? What if our request might actually damage Jesus’ reputation?

Theologians like to make a big deal about Jesus’ “I am” statements in the Book of John. Throughout its history the Church has used these claims as proofs of Jesus authority, Messianic nature, and divinity. So it’s a little strange that no one gives much attention to this one. Commentaries tend to shoot right past it, rushing toward the claim in verse 11. It makes some sense. “I am the Good Shepherd” isn’t necessarily all that hard to figure out. “I am the gate for the sheep” is a little more opaque.

In this impromptu message, I talk about the structure of a standard Sunday service in an Episcopalian church and explain the reasoning behind and purposes for the various parts.

From childhood, many of us learn to be afraid of God. We imagine this unseen Scorekeeper watching our every move and weighing the minutia of every single thought and motive. Despite recognizing the futility, we try to hide ourselves. We pretend that God won’t see our negative choices or bad moments and hope that they’re only keeping track of what’s good.

Most of us probably don’t give much thought to the idea of “Emmanuel,” especially at this time of year. Christmas and Advent, yes. Epiphany, maybe. But Lent or Holy Week? Not really. We may have learned to associate “God with us” almost exclusively with Christ’s birth, but the point where we find ourselves today—Good Friday—might just be the most appropriate time to consider the depth of Emmanuel’s implications.