Faith – About Things That Matter

Liberation Theology as Critical Thinking: Why God Talk Still Matters

I recently found myself in conversation with a young activist—brilliant, earnest, morally serious—who made a claim that was both understandable and unsettling. Young people, he said, simply don’t want to hear from old people like me, especially old white men. We’ve had our turn. We made a mess. And whatever we call “wisdom,” grounded in our long lives and accumulated experience, feels to them less like insight and more like obstruction.

I understood immediately why he would feel that way. My generation was born during the Great Depression and its aftermath; the boomers who followed presided over imperial wars, environmental devastation, runaway capitalism, and the hollowing out of democratic institutions. Zoomers have every reason to be suspicious of elders who lecture them about patience, realism, or incremental change. The house is on fire. Who wants to hear a sermon about proper etiquette?

And yet, something about the conversation troubled me—not because I felt personally dismissed, but because of the assumptions beneath the dismissal. In particular, the identification of “young people” with young Americans struck me as dangerously parochial. Outside the United States, especially in the Global South, students and young intellectuals are often strikingly comprehensive in their critical thinking. They do not imagine that wisdom expires with age, nor that critique began with TikTok.

Across Latin America, Africa, and parts of Europe, young activists routinely engage figures who are not only old, but long dead: Marx, Engels, Gramsci; Frantz Fanon, Simone de Beauvoir, W.E.B. Du Bois, Mary Daly, and Malcolm X. They read these thinkers not out of antiquarian curiosity, but because the structures those thinkers analyzed—capital, empire, race, class—remain very much alive. Ideas endure because oppression endures.

Nowhere is this more evident than in the tradition known as liberation theology.

Liberation Theology

Liberation theology is often caricatured in the United States as a quaint Latin American experiment, a left-wing theological fad that peaked in the 1980s and was later disciplined by Rome. That caricature misses the point entirely. Liberation theology is not primarily a set of doctrines; it is a method. More precisely, it is a disciplined form of critical thinking rooted in the lived experience of the poor. (In this connection, see my book, The Magic Glasses of Critical Thinking: seeing through alternative fact and fake news.)

At its core lies a deceptively simple question: From whose point of view are we interpreting reality? Classical theology asked what God is like. Liberation theology asks where God is to be found. And its answer—radical then, still radical now—is among the poor, the exploited, the colonized, and the discarded.

This shift has enormous epistemological consequences. It means that theology is not done from the armchair, nor from the pulpit alone, but from within history’s conflicts. Truth is not neutral. Knowledge is not innocent. Every analysis reflects interests, whether acknowledged or denied.

This is why liberation theologians insist on what they call praxis: reflection and action in constant dialogue. Ideas are tested not by elegance but by their consequences. Do they liberate, or do they legitimate domination?

That is critical thinking in its most rigorous form.

Beyond the American Youth Bubble

In Latin America, thinkers such as Gustavo Gutiérrez, Elsa Tamez, Leonardo Boff, Jon Sobrino, and figures like Franz Hinkelammert, Enrique Dussel, Paulo Freire, and Helio Gallardo pushed this method far beyond church walls. They integrated history, economics, philosophy, pedagogy, and political theory into theological reflection. They read the Bible alongside dependency theory and Marxist political economy, not because Marx was a prophet (he was!), but because capitalism is a religion—and a deadly one.

Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed remains one of the most influential works of critical pedagogy worldwide. Its central insight—that education is never neutral, that it either domesticates or liberates—could easily be applied to theology, media, or political discourse. What Freire called “conscientization” is nothing other than the awakening of class consciousness.

Contrast this with much of American youth culture, where “critical thinking” is often reduced to identity signaling or stylistic rebellion, easily co-opted by market logic. The phenomenon of Charlie Kirk and similar figures is instructive here. Kirk’s appeal to college students is not an aberration; it is a symptom. Young people are starving for meaning, for narrative coherence, for moral seriousness. Into that vacuum rush slick, biblically uninformed ideologues like Kirk who weaponize Scripture in service of hierarchy and exclusion.

The Bible as Popular Philosophy

For millions of Americans, the Bible remains the primary source of moral reasoning—and often of historical understanding as well. This is frequently mocked by secular intellectuals, but mockery is a luxury we can no longer afford. The Bible functions in the United States as a form of popular philosophy. People may know little about economics, geopolitics, or climate science, but they believe they know what the Bible says.

And what they believe it says shapes their views on Israel and Palestine, abortion, feminism, sexuality, immigration, and race.

The tragedy is not that the Bible matters, but that it has been systematically stripped of its prophetic core and repackaged as an ideological weapon. White, patriarchal, misogynistic, anti-gay, xenophobic, and racist forces have successfully co-opted a tradition that is, at its heart, a sustained critique of empire, wealth accumulation, and religious hypocrisy.

This is not accidental. Empires have always sought divine sanction.

Yeshua of Nazareth & Class Consciousness

What liberation theology insists upon—and what American Christianity has largely forgotten—is that the Judeo-Christian tradition is saturated with class consciousness. From the Exodus narrative to the prophets, from the Magnificat to the Beatitudes, the Bible relentlessly sides with the poor against the powerful.

Yeshua of Nazareth did not preach generic love or abstract spirituality. He announced “good news to the poor,” warned the rich, overturned tables, and was executed by the state as a political threat. His message was not “be nice,” but “another world is possible—and this one is under judgment.”

Liberation theology takes that judgment seriously. It refuses to spiritualize away material suffering or postpone justice to the afterlife. Salvation is not escape from history but transformation of it.

To say this today is not to indulge in nostalgia. It is to recover a critical tradition capable of resisting the authoritarian, nationalist, and theocratic currents now surging globally.

The Need for More God Talk, Not Less

Here is where my disagreement with my young interlocutor becomes sharpest. The problem is not that there is too much God talk. The problem is that there is too little serious God talk.

When theology abdicates the public square, it leaves moral language to demagogues. When progressives abandon religious discourse, they surrender one of the most powerful symbolic systems shaping mass consciousness. You cannot defeat biblical nationalism by ignoring the Bible.

Liberation theology offers an alternative: God talk grounded in history, class analysis, and the lived experience of the oppressed. It exposes false universals. It unmasks ideology. It insists that faith, like reason, must answer to reality.

This is not theology for clerics alone. It is a way of thinking—rigorous, suspicious of power, attentive to suffering—that belongs at the heart of any emancipatory project.

Old Voices, Living Questions

Perhaps young Americans are right to be wary of elders who speak as if experience itself confers authority. It does not. But it is equally short-sighted to assume that age disqualifies insight, or that the past has nothing left to teach us.

Outside the United States, young people know better. They read old texts because the structures those texts analyze persist. They mine ancient traditions because myths and stories carry truths that statistics alone cannot.

Liberation theology stands at precisely this intersection: ancient scripture and modern critique, myth and materialism, faith and class struggle. It reminds us that critical thinking did not begin with social media, and that wisdom does not belong to any generation.

If we are serious about liberation—real liberation, not branding—then we must reclaim every tool that helps us see clearly. Theology, done rightly, is one of them.

Not because God solves our problems.

But because the question of God forces us to ask, relentlessly: Who benefits? Who suffers? And whose side are we on?

Me and Charlie Kirk

The more I watch Charlie Kirk’s “debates” with college students, the more compassion I feel for him. He strikes me as a brilliant but frightened young man—haunted, as I once was, by a God of fear and judgment. Like Charlie, I once believed in that God until I reached roughly the same age he was when he died at just thirty-one.

That “biblical” God, as I was taught, was the almighty creator, lawgiver, judge, and punisher—the terrifying being who condemned sinners to eternal torment for disobedience. Who wouldn’t be afraid of such a deity? Certainly not me. Like Charlie, I accepted it all.

My education—spanning from kindergarten in 1945 to my doctoral studies in Rome in 1972—was entirely within the Catholic Church. Nuns and priests trained me in one of the most traditional, patriarchal institutions in the world. They taught that there was “no salvation outside the Church.” It was our duty to convert the “pagans.”

So I spent thirteen years in seminaries preparing to be a missionary in Asia—China, Korea, Burma, Japan. Then came five more years of doctoral study in theology. The indoctrination could hardly have been deeper.

Like Charlie Kirk’s brand of fundamentalism, my Catholic formation fostered a deep suspicion of science and “secular” knowledge. Pope Pius IX’s Syllabus of Errors (1864) had warned against modern thought. From it emerged the apologetic mindset that shaped both of us—a defensive “us versus them” posture toward the modern world. Apologetics gave us tidy answers to every challenge: “If they say this, you say that.” Charlie mastered it. So did I. We both found it airtight, logical, and comforting.

Our politics flowed from the same worldview. My Catholic mentors, like Charlie’s conservative allies, saw communism as evil incarnate. When Senator Joseph McCarthy died, one of my seminary teachers told me, “A great man died today.” At twenty-two, I cast my first vote for Barry Goldwater.

And yet, even in that enclosed world, the “bad ideas” we feared had a way of slipping in. Despite my resistance, studying Latin and Greek classics, French and English literature, and Church history began to unsettle my certainty. Questions emerged about morality, colonialism, the Crusades, and the value of other faiths. I fought those doubts—but they persisted.

When the Second Vatican Council (1962–65) finally opened the Church to modernity, I was among the last to let go of my conservative instincts. I loved the Latin Mass, the vestments, and the comforting clarity of dogma. Like Charlie, I thought the Bible was literally dictated by God through chosen “transcribers”—Moses, David, Solomon, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.

But my four years of pre-ordination Scripture study shattered that illusion. Doctoral work confirmed it: The Bible isn’t a single book. It’s a diverse library written by many flawed human beings over a thousand years. They used different names for God and often disagreed about divine commands.

The Bible contains myth, legend, poetry, law, prophecy, fiction, and coded “apocalyptic” literature—resistance writings against empire, not predictions of the end of the world. I still remember my shock learning that Matthew’s “three wise men” story was midrash, not history. To treat all of it as literal fact is to miss its deeper truth.

Even so, like Charlie, I continue to believe the Bible is true—not in every detail, but in its moral and spiritual essence. As one of my friends says, “The Bible is true, and some of it even happened.” Its central story is not Adam and Eve’s fall, but the Exodus—the liberation of slaves. That story reveals the Bible’s real heart: what scholars call “God’s preferential option for the poor.”

The Bible sides with the enslaved, the widow, the orphan, the immigrant—the victims of empire. In fact, it may be the only ancient text written almost entirely by people conquered by Egyptians, Assyrians, Persians, Greeks, and Romans. Its truth is that followers of Jesus are called to stand with the oppressed.

I wish Charlie Kirk had lived long enough to encounter that truth. I believe his integrity might have led him toward it. But he dropped out of college after one semester, calling higher education a scam and a waste of time. He thought it was too expensive and too slow—a mere credentialing machine for good jobs.

To him, studying literature, history, or biblical scholarship in college was pointless. Worse, he saw such studies as dangerous, because they exposed students to the “bad ideas” that challenge inherited faith.

That, I think, is the crux of the problem. For both Charlie and my younger self, religion was the one realm where childhood knowledge was considered complete and unchangeable. Questioning it was betrayal. It’s as if a student of arithmetic said, “I know all about addition and subtraction—don’t confuse me with algebra or calculus.”

But algebra and calculus exist. They expand mathematical truth. And in the same way, modern biblical scholarship and scientific discovery expand our understanding of faith. History, psychology, sociology, and biology all reveal new dimensions of reality. Dismissing them out of fear is not faith—it’s denial.

I know, because I lived that denial for years. So when I watch Charlie Kirk confronting the questions of college students, I feel compassion. I see a man of goodwill trapped in a theology of fear. My heart goes out to him—and to all conservative Christians whose terror of change and of God narrows their vision to biblical literalism and political reaction.

Faith can be so much larger than that.
It can liberate, not confine.
It can open hearts instead of closing them.

That’s the lesson Charlie Kirk never got the chance to learn.

When Bible Readers Like Charlie Kirk Ignore Its Class-Consciousness

The recent assassination of Charlie Kirk provoked a flurry of commentary about God, faith, and politics. Among the more thoughtful responses was David Brooks’ New York Times column, “We Need to Think Straight About God and Politics.” His essay reminded me once again how central theology remains for understanding today’s world—and how dangerous it is for progressives to ignore it.

But despite Brooks’ good intentions, his article was fundamentally flawed. He missed the Bible’s class-consciousness, a theme that runs through its central narratives and prophetic voices. In doing so, he overlooked the way modern biblical scholarship interprets scripture: as a profoundly political document that consistently sides with the poor and oppressed against the wealthy and powerful. Without acknowledging this, Brooks failed to resolve the very problem he set out to explore: how God and politics relate.

Ironically, Charlie Kirk—whose white Christian nationalism has been condemned by many—grasped something Brooks did not: that the Bible is not politically neutral. But Kirk twisted that insight. Rather than recognizing God’s solidarity with the marginalized, Kirk placed the divine firmly on the side of the dominant white, patriarchal class. His theology inverted the teachings of the Jewish prophet Jesus of Nazareth, who identified God with the poor, the dispossessed, and the oppressed.

In what follows, I want to clarify this point by (1) summarizing Brooks’ argument, (2) contrasting it with Kirk’s theological vision, and (3) comparing both with the insights of modern biblical scholarship, which I’ll describe as “critical faith theory.” My thesis is simple: without acknowledging the achievements of such theory with its implied class-consciousness, we cannot understand either the Bible’s meaning or its challenge to today’s politics.

Brooks’ Confusion

Brooks began by observing that Kirk’s funeral blurred the lines between religion and politics. Speakers portrayed Kirk as a kind of martyr, invoking Jesus’ example of forgiveness, while Donald Trump and his allies used the occasion to unleash vengeance and hatred. Brooks admitted he was disturbed and confused: why such a volatile mix of faith and politics? Shouldn’t religion stay in the private sphere, separate from political life?

To make sense of it, Brooks reached for the old notion of complementarity. Religion and politics, he suggested, are distinct but mutually supportive. Politics deals with power; religion provides the moral compass reminding us that everyone, regardless of ideology, is a sinner in need of grace. On this view, the Bible does not offer a political program. It simply sets the stage for moral reflection.

In short, Brooks tried to preserve a moderate middle ground. Faith should shape moral values but not dictate political programs.

The problem is that this neat separation has little to do with the Bible itself.

Kirk’s Fundamentalist Class-Consciousness

Kirk, unlike Brooks, made no such distinction. He declared openly: “I want to talk about spiritual things, and in order to do that, I have to enter the political arena.”

Brooks responded with incredulity, but Kirk’s reasoning is clear. His fundamentalist reading of scripture led him to embrace a particular worldview that has always been political. He believed the Bible is the literal word of God, with Moses, David, Solomon, and the gospel writers transcribing divine dictation. He accepted the traditional Christian narrative—codified since the fourth century—that humanity is fallen through Adam and Eve’s sin, redeemed by Jesus’ sacrificial death, and destined for heaven or hell depending on baptism and personal acceptance of Christ.

This theology, which became the official religion of the Roman Empire in the fourth century, was weaponized to support conquest, colonization, and oppression. From the Crusades to the slave trade to European colonialism, Christian rulers used this story to justify domination of Muslims, Jews, Indigenous peoples, Africans, and other non-white, non-Christian populations. Christianity, in its imperial form, became the religion of empire.

Kirk, then, was not wrong to insist that “spiritual talk” inevitably enters politics. But he saw Christianity as legitimizing the rule of a largely white, patriarchal elite. His class-consciousness was real—but inverted.

Critical Faith Theory: A Different Story

Modern biblical scholarship tells a very different story. Beginning in the late 18th and 19th centuries, historians, linguists, archaeologists, and literary critics began examining scripture using the tools of critical analysis. They discovered that the Bible is not a single book with one author but a library of texts written and edited over centuries. These texts include myth, poetry, law codes, prophecy, letters, gospels, and apocalypses. They contain conflicting theologies: some justifying empire, others resisting it.

What emerges from this scholarship is not the story of Adam’s sin and Jesus’ death reopening heaven’s gates. Rather, it is the story of liberation from slavery and God’s solidarity with the poor.

The central narrative begins with the Exodus, the liberation of enslaved people from Egypt. Israel’s God revealed himself as a liberator, entering into a covenant with the freed slaves to form a just society where widows, orphans, foreigners, and the poor would be protected. When Israel’s leaders violated that covenant, prophets arose to denounce them and call the nation back to justice.

Over centuries, Israel itself was conquered by empires—Assyria, Babylon, Persia, Greece, Rome. Prophets promised deliverance from oppression, not heavenly rewards in a distant afterlife.

Jesus of Nazareth stood squarely in this prophetic tradition. A poor construction worker from Galilee, he proclaimed the arrival of God’s kingdom—a radically new order of justice and peace. He challenged religious elites, preached solidarity with outcasts, and raised the hopes of the oppressed. Rome executed him as a rebel through crucifixion, a punishment reserved for political insurgents.

His followers, convinced he was raised from the dead, created communities that practiced what today might be called Christian communism. The Book of Acts records that believers shared possessions in common and distributed resources “as any had need.”

This was not an abstract spirituality but a concrete economic alternative. As I’ve pointed out elsewhere, it might be called “communism with Christian characteristics.” As Luke the evangelist put it in his Book of Acts 2:44-45, “All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need.” In Acts 4:32, the same author writes: “Now the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one claimed private ownership of any possessions, but everything they owned was held in common.”

This approach to scripture—often called liberation theology—describes God as having a “preferential option for the poor.” Far from being neutral, the Bible takes sides. It consistently identifies God with the marginalized, not the powerful.

Jesus as the Rejected One

The class-consciousness of the Bible is perhaps most powerfully expressed in the figure of Jesus himself who, remember, is considered the fullest revelation of God.

Think about who he was: the son of an unwed teenage mother, raised by a working-class father, living under imperial occupation. As a child he was a political refugee in Egypt. As an adult he befriended prostitutes, tax collectors, and drunkards. He clashed with religious authorities and was executed as a political criminal. His death—torture and crucifixion—was reserved for those considered dangerous to empire.

This is not the profile of someone embraced by elites. It is the life of someone MAGA nationalists like Kirk would reject as unworthy, threatening, or “vermin.” Yet Christians confess this despised and rejected man as the revelation of God.

Jesus himself underlined this identification when he said in Matthew 25:40, “Whatever you do to the least of my brothers and sisters—the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the prisoner—you do to me.” The divine is encountered not in palaces, temples, or megachurches, but among the poor and excluded.

That is the class-conscious heart of the Bible.

Why It Matters

The contrast between Brooks, Kirk, and liberation theology highlights three very different approaches to God and politics.

Brooks wants to keep religion in the realm of private morality, supplementing politics but never shaping it directly. The problem is that the Bible itself refuses to be apolitical.
Kirk recognizes the political dimension but twists it to sanctify empire, patriarchy, and white supremacy. His theology reflects the imperial Christianity that oppressed much of the world.
Critical faith theory insists that the Bible sides with the oppressed. Its story begins not with sin and guilt but with liberation from slavery, continues with prophetic denunciations of injustice, and culminates in Jesus’ solidarity with the poor.

For progressives, this matters enormously. Too often the left cedes the Bible to the right, assuming it is inherently conservative. But modern scholarship shows the opposite: the Bible is a revolutionary text. It challenges systems of exploitation and offers resources for building communities of justice, equality, and care.

Conclusion

The assassination of Charlie Kirk has sparked renewed debate about God and politics. Moderates like David Brooks remain confused, trying to maintain a polite separation between religion and politics. Kirk, by contrast, embraced a political theology but aligned God with the ruling class.

The Bible itself, however, tells a different story. Through the lens of critical faith theory, we see its central theme: God’s preferential option for the poor. From the Exodus to the prophets to Jesus and the early church, scripture consistently sides with the oppressed.

Progressives ignore this at their peril. To cede the Bible to the right is to abandon one of the most powerful sources of hope, resistance, and liberation in human history. If read with eyes open to its class-consciousness, the Bible remains what it has always been: not the book of empire, but the book of revolution.

A Gospel for Palestinians under Siege

Readings for the 20th Sunday in Ordinary Time: JER 38: 4-10; PS 40: 2-4, 18; HEB 12:1-4; LK 12: 49-53

Today’s gospel excerpt presents real difficulties for a thoughtful homilist. That’s because it shows us an apparently confrontational Jesus — one who sounds completely revolutionary. It raises an uncomfortable question: why would the Church choose such a passage for Sunday worship? What are we supposed to do with a Jesus who doesn’t sound like the soft-focus “Prince of Peace” in our stained-glass windows?

In the context of Zionist genocide and starvation of Palestinians, perhaps this is providential. Maybe this gospel can help us understand a truth that polite Christianity often avoids: people living under the heel of settler colonialism supported by empire — even people of deep faith — sometimes find themselves pulled toward resistance that is anything but gentle.

We forget that Jesus and his community were not free citizens in a democracy. They were impoverished, heavily taxed subjects of an occupying army. Roman power loomed over their fields, their marketplaces, their synagogues. By today’s international standards, they were an occupied people with the legal right to resist.

And in Luke’s gospel today, Jesus says, without apology:

“I have come to set the earth on fire, and how I wish it were already blazing… Do you think that I have come to bring peace on earth? No, I tell you, but rather division.”

In Matthew’s parallel account, the language sharpens:

“Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.”

These are not the soundbites that make it into Christmas cards. They make us ask: what happened to “Turn the other cheek” and “Love your enemies”?

Some scholars, like Reza Aslan, suggest that Jesus’ nonviolence applied primarily within his own oppressed community, while his stance toward the Roman occupiers was far less accommodating. Others, like John Dominic Crossan, argue that Jesus was unwaveringly committed to nonviolent resistance, and that later gospel writers softened or altered his message to make it more palatable in times of war.

Either way, the backdrop remains the same: an occupied land, a foreign military presence, a people dispossessed. In that context, fiery words about “division” and “swords” are not abstract theology. They are the language of a people under siege, the language of survival.

This is where the parallels to our world are hard to miss. Today, in the land we call Israel-Palestine, we see a modern occupation with its own walls, checkpoints, home demolitions, and armed patrols. We see Palestinian families pushed off their land in the name of “security.” We see the weight of military might pressing down on those who have little power to push back.

This is not to glorify violence but to say that this kind of daily humiliation, dispossession, and threat inevitably breeds anger, desperation, and — for some — the temptation to meet force with force. The gospel today, like the headlines from Gaza and the West Bank, confronts us with the messy, often tragic choices that emerge under occupation.

As Christians, we have to wrestle with this. Would we cling to a nonviolent ethic, like the Jesus Crossan describes? Or, living under bulldozers and armed patrols, would we find ourselves understanding — perhaps even empathizing with — those who choose other paths?

Jesus’ words today refuse to let us take the easy way out. They call us to name the real causes of conflict — not some vague “ancient hatred,” but the concrete realities of military domination, settler colonialism, and American imperialism. They challenge us to imagine what peace would require: not simply the silencing of the oppressed, but the dismantling of systems that oppress them in the first place.

Because if we only condemn the flames without questioning the spark, we miss the deeper gospel truth: that justice is the only soil in which true peace can grow.

Rescuing Faith from Capitalism: A Theological Response to Project 2025

Readings for 18th Sunday in Ordinary Time: Ecclesiastes 1:1-2, 2:21-23; Psalm 90 3-6, 13, 14, 17; Colossians 3: 1-5, 9-11; Luke 12: 13-21

I’ve recently been invited to join the Arc of Justice Alliance (AJA). It’s a new progressive think-and-action movement designed to offer a coordinated, long-term alternative to the far right’s increasingly authoritarian agenda.

No doubt you’ve heard of the Republican Project 2025. Backed by the Heritage Foundation and other major right-wing institutions, it’s a blueprint for seizing executive power, dismantling federal regulatory structures, militarizing domestic politics, and further entrenching white Christian nationalism. It is as serious as it is terrifying.

The Arc of Justice Alliance is our answer. It recognizes a hard truth: for over 50 years, the U.S. right has invested billions into building a machine—media networks, policy mills, judicial pipelines, and ideological training camps for candidates. Progressives, by contrast, have often been merely defensive, scattered and uncoordinated. That’s changing now. AJA is bringing together scholars, activists, spiritual leaders, artists, and organizers to craft a long-term vision for democratic justice, human rights, and environmental sanity.

But here’s something that may surprise you: one of the right’s most potent weapons has been theology.

The Republican machine has spent decades coopting the Judeo-Christian tradition, turning it into a moral fig leaf for capitalism, nationalism, and even genocidal violence. Faith has been hijacked—not just by televangelists, but by policy strategists who know how powerful religion can be in shaping hearts and winning votes.

The results? A public religion that celebrates guns over peace, capitalism over compassion, and settler colonialism— in Palestine and elsewhere—over human dignity.

As a liberation theologian, I’ve been invited by AJA to help reclaim the authentic Judeo-Christian tradition. To rescue the voices of the prophets—from Moses to Jesus to Paul—from those who’ve turned them into champions of empire. We’re done letting Jesus be portrayed as a flag-waving American whose top moral priorities are deregulated markets, gun rights, and misogyny.

This week’s liturgical readings couldn’t be more timely. They mock the cult of wealth accumulation and call for spiritual liberation from materialist obsession. Ecclesiastes calls it “vanity” to work endlessly, lose sleep over your earnings, and die before enjoying anything. Psalm 90 reminds us life is brief—we might not wake up tomorrow. Paul tells us to set our minds on things beyond consumerism, and Jesus, in the Gospel of Luke, outright laughs at the man who builds bigger barns while ignoring his soul.

These aren’t just pious musings. They’re indictments.

They expose what capitalism demands of us: exhaustion, anxiety, competition, disconnection. They also expose what it consistently fails to deliver: peace, community, purpose, or justice.

Here’s the deeper issue: capitalism isn’t just an economy—it’s a theology. It teaches that your worth is your wealth. That you are alone, in competition, in a world of scarcity. That power, not compassion, is what keeps you safe. That “salvation” is financial security.

But the deeper tradition—the one the AJA seeks to reclaim—teaches something radically different.

It teaches that our lives matter not for what we earn, but for how we love. That justice, not greed, is the heartbeat of the universe. That our deepest wealth is found in community. That joy is a collective act of resistance.

And crucially, it teaches that we must name and dismantle the systems—economic, political, and religious—that keep us enslaved to fear and false gods.

That’s why we’re building the Arc of Justice Alliance. Not just as an intellectual exercise, but as a spiritual and moral response to empire. We are building a machine of our own—not to mirror the right’s authoritarianism, but to match its discipline and exceed it in vision.

So let’s stop pretending the Gospel is about prosperity. Let’s stop letting capitalism wear a halo.

Let’s laugh, like Jesus did, at the absurdity of endless accumulation. Let’s build networks of joy, resistance, and solidarity. Let’s speak clearly, act boldly, and remember what freedom really looks like.

This is what the moment demands. And this is what the AJA stands for.

Please join us!

What Will You Regret When You Die?

An AI-Assisted Homily on Overwork, Jesus, and Choosing the Better Part

Readings for 16th Sunday in Ordinary Time: Genesis 18:1-10a; Psalm 15: 2-5; Colossians 1:24-28; Luke 10: 38-42

Facing the Final Question

What will you regret most when you’re dying?

Chances are, like most people, it won’t be that you didn’t work hard enough. Instead, you’ll wish you’d spent more time with your loved ones—more dinners with friends, more laughter, more life.

“Every male patient I nursed said the same thing: they missed their children’s youth and their partner’s companionship.”
— Hospice Nurse

Women often expressed the same sorrow, though many—especially from older generations—hadn’t been the household breadwinners. Still, the verdict was nearly universal: we’ve built lives around the treadmill of work, and at the end, that’s what we mourn.

A Culture Addicted to Work

Let’s be honest: our culture worships overwork.

Especially in the United States, where the average worker puts in three more hours per week than their European counterparts. That’s nearly a month more labor every year.

And when it comes to vacation time? The average American takes less than six weeks off per year. The French take nearly twelve. Swedes? Over sixteen.

Into this burnout culture comes today’s Gospel reading from Luke—a bracing call to step back and reconsider our priorities. A reminder that Jesus, too, challenged the grind.

Jesus, the Counter-Cultural Radical

We often forget just how radical Jesus was.

Deepak Chopra, in The Third Jesus, reminds us that Christ actually instructed his followers not to worry about money, food, or the future.

“Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear.”
— Jesus (Matthew 6:25)

And today’s Responsorial Psalm adds more layers. The “Just Person” is praised for refusing to lie, slander, or take bribes. That all sounds virtuous—nothing shocking there.

But then comes the line:

“They lend not money at usury.”

Wait—what? Lending at interest is considered robbery in the Bible. Imagine if Christians and Jews actually followed that commandment. Our entire debt-driven economy would have to be reimagined.

Rethinking Martha and Mary

Now let’s talk about Mary and Martha.

Most traditional sermons interpret the story spiritually: Martha represents worldly busyness, while Mary models a quiet, contemplative life devoted to prayer.

But that interpretation misses the human, grounded context of the Gospel.

In Un Tal Jesús (“A Certain Jesus”) by María and José Ignacio López Vigil—a powerful retelling of the Gospels popular across Latin America—Jesus is portrayed as joyful, deeply human, and radically present.

In their version, this story doesn’t take place in a quiet house, but in a noisy Bethany tavern run by Lazarus, with Martha and Mary hustling behind the scenes. Passover pilgrims are crowding in. It’s hot, chaotic, and full of life.

Martha is working furiously. Mary? She’s seated beside Jesus—laughing.

Jesus Tells Riddles

Jesus: “What’s as small as a mouse but guards a house like a lion?”
Mary: “A key! I guessed it!”

Jesus: “It’s as small as a nut, has no feet, but climbs mountains.”
Mary: “A snail!”

Jesus: “Okay, one more. It has no bones, is never quiet, and is sharper than scissors.”
Mary: “Hmm… I don’t know.”
Jesus: “Your tongue, Mary. It never rests!”

They’re cracking jokes, swapping riddles, enjoying one another.
Not praying. Not planning. Not “producing.” Just being.

Martha, frustrated and overworked, finally bursts out:
“Jesus, tell my sister to help me!”

And he answers gently but firmly:
“Mary has chosen the better part.”

Jesus and the Sacredness of Play

That might sound scandalous to us—Jesus dismissing work?

But it’s entirely consistent with his teachings. Jesus valued community over productivity, joy over profit, presence over anxiety.

And that should make us pause.

What if we took that seriously?

What if we reorganized our lives—and our economy—around the idea that play, rest, joy, and social connection are sacred?

What if we voted for leaders who supported:

Shorter workweeks
Guaranteed time off
Universal income
Job sharing
A culture centered around well-being instead of output?

In the End, What Really Matters?

Because when we reach the end, we won’t say:

“I wish I’d worked more overtime.”
“I should’ve answered more emails.”
“I’m glad I missed those birthday dinners.”

We’ll long for the laughter we didn’t share, the walks we skipped, the stories we never heard, the moments we missed with the people we loved most.

So, What Will You Choose?

Mary or Martha?

Work or presence?

Breadth of life or depth of joy?

“Mary has chosen the better part.”

We can too.

Let’s not wait until the deathbed to realize it.

2nd Report From Rome: Will Leo Show The Courage of Bishop Budde?

Tomorrow morning at 6:00, Peggy and I will drive to Vatican Square with some new Roman friends to attend the inauguration of Pope Leo XIV. The ceremony will begin at 10:00. That means we’ll be there four hours ahead of time. The attempt to secure good seats promises a long morning.

As you may recall, what Carl Jung called “synchronicity” has brought us to Rome at this precise time. Our ostensible purpose for being here was simply to spend three weeks with our son, daughter-in-law, and three small granddaughters (ages 5, 3, and 1). We wanted to spend as much time as possible getting to know the girls, whose parents’ foreign employment patterns would otherwise make that far more complicated.

However, my real synchronic purpose for being here, I’m convinced, is to reconnect me with my deep Catholic roots for purposes of final evaluation before transition into Life’s next dimension.

With that process in mind and at the age of 84, I feel overwhelmed by Rome’s beauty – its tree-lined streets, omnipresent sidewalk cafes, its lavish fountains, statuary, Renaissance paintings and churches, its operas and ballets. Today all that seems even more wonderful than it did more than half a century ago when I spent five years here (1967-’72) getting my doctoral degree in moral theology.

Those were magic years for me, when after spending my teenage and early adult years in a seminary hothouse, I finally began waking up to the real world. It all shook me to the core.

And here I’m not just thinking of personal growth experiences, but of the dawning of political awareness about the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Movement, Women’s Liberation, and of Liberation Theology which I’ve come to understand as “critical faith theory.” (By that last phrase I mean understanding the way Christianity has been used by western colonial powers to enslave, brainwash, and justify repeated exterminations of Muslims, “witches,” Native Americans, kidnapped Africans, and colonized people across the planet.)

Along those lines, being here in Rome during the ongoing holocaust in Gaza makes me think of Pope Pius XII’s virtual silence on the Jewish Holocaust in the 1930s and ‘40s. It has me wondering if Leo XIV will follow in his shameful footsteps.

I mean, the new pope will have a golden opportunity to confront his fellow American Catholics undeniably responsible for the ongoing slaughter in Palestine. I’m referring to J.D. Vance, Marco Rubio, and possibly Joe Biden. It’s as if during the Holocaust, Pius XII had the chance to publicly confront Hitler or Goering.

Will Leo use this golden opportunity to call them (and the absent Mr. Trump) to task the way the courageous Episcopal bishop Mariann Edgar Budde did when presented with a similar opportunity in the early days of the Trump administration? Recall that as the episcopal leader of 40,000 congregants in the D.C. area, Bishop Budde had Trump and Vance squirming in their seats as she pled for mercy on behalf of the immigrants, refugees, Palestinians, and others whom those key members of her audience show every evidence of despising.

Will the papal leader of 1.2 billion Catholics show similar courage tomorrow? Or will he take refuge in “safe” generalities, “diplomatic” bromides, and empty platitudes about “peace,” justice, and mercy?

My guess is that it will be the latter. But we’ll see.

Good Friday: Heretical Trumpists Celebrate an Imperial Jesus

Today is Good Friday. This morning’s New York Times (NYT) correctly identified the day as “part of the holiest week in the Christian calendar.”

It also recalled President Trump’s campaign promise to “bring back Christianity.” According to him and his first lady that means following “the living Son of God who conquered death, freed us from sin, and unlocked the gates of Heaven for all of humanity.” The pair wants this to be “one of the great Easters ever.”

The article went on to recall how Mr. Trump’s aspirations were following and expanding the lead of George W. Bush who established the first White House Office of Faith Based and Community Initiatives in the early 2000s.

Mr. Trump’s “personal pastor,” Paula White-Cain who heads the Office affirms its ability “to weigh in on any issue it deems appropriate.” Chief among them, she said, were the desire to “eradicate anti-Christian bias” including deviation from the position that there are two sexes, male and female. Such concerns have afforded the Faith Office “unprecedented access” for faith leaders to “officials in intelligence, domestic policy and national security.”

Accordingly, Mr. Trump has often met with pastors from states like Colorado and Pennsylvania. On returning home, those reverends have shared photos taken with the president sometimes with heads bowed in prayer, imposing hands of blessing on the president’s head, or with Mr. Trump joining them in singing hymns.

All of this led the NYT article and accompanying video to identify the White House as “one of the safest places in the world to be a Christian.” In fact, one of the Christian pastors interviewed for the piece said that “he doesn’t see any rails on the limits of the faith office.”

Good Friday Perspective

As a Jesus scholar and theologian, I found all this quite ironic, false, and heretical. In my view it is reminiscent of Germany of the 1930s, when Christian pastors and Catholic bishops routinely endorsed the leader of the Third Reich, who also affirmed allegiance to the Jesus reflected in Mr. and Ms. Trump’s profession of faith.

The reality was, however, that Hitler’s Germany and the policies supported by Trump’s MAGA crowd reveal an actual hatred for Jesus mourned and celebrated this Good Friday. After all he was the son of an impoverished unwed teenage mother who was houseless at birth. He was an immigrant in Egypt. He was an unemployed construction worker. He was a harsh critic of the Jewish political and religious establishment, of the Roman Empire, and of the rich in general. He said that the future belonged to the poor, the non-violent, and those persecuted for justice sake. He ended his life as a victim of imperial torture and capital punishment.

Conclusion

So, if there are no rails, no limits, on Mr. Trump’s faith office how about lowering them for pastors like Episcopal Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde? (Remember how she infuriated Donald Trump and JD Vance at Trump’s inaugural prayer service at the National Cathedral in Washington. She did so merely by pleading with Mr. Trump to “have mercy” on LGBTQ people and immigrants targeted by his policies.)

If there are no rails, how about lowering them for rabbis, ministers, priests, and faithful demanding that Mr. Trump stop the Hitlerian genocide he’s committing in Zionist Israel?

If there are no rails, how about implementing policies that recognize and honor Jesus in the children of poor unwed teenage mothers, in the houseless, in immigrants, in the working class, in opponents of the rich and powerful, in those protesting the hypocrisy of Jewish Zionists, in U.S.-supported torture facilities, and on death row.

Only changes like those can convince followers of the historical Jesus that the White House is “one of the safest places in the world to be a Christian.” Only changes like those can make this “one of the great Easters ever.”

On Faith, Wokeness, & DEI

Readings for the Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time: Jeremiah 19:5-8; Psalm 1:1-6; 1 Corinthians 15: 12, 16-20; Luke 6: 17, 20-26

This Sunday’s readings reject the anti-DEI, anti-Wokeness memes of what Marianne Williamson calls the Trump/Musk power couple.

The selected texts remind us that the natural order is one of diversity, universal love, and complete inclusion (DEI) that prioritizes the needs of women, children, immigrants, and former slaves. As we’ll see, the tradition is outspokenly anti-rich and demands reparations.

The readings also suggest the truth recognized in all major faith traditions that awakening to such reality (rather than remaining asleep) is the whole point of the human project aimed at transcending childish egocentrism and ethnocentrism. The point is what our black brothers and sisters call being “woke.” Even more, it’s to achieve world centrism and ultimately cosmic centrism that understand and respect the unity of all creation.

By contrast, putting oneself first, putting one’s country first, idolizing wealth and the power it brings are all condemned in the teachings of Yeshua.

In other words, the Judeo-Christian tradition represented in today’s readings roundly rejects the villainizing of DEI and wokeness. Even more, they call Yeshua’s followers to a class consciousness and a fundamental option for the world’s poor and oppressed against the rich whom Yeshua condemns in no uncertain terms.

Let me show you what I mean in terms of class consciousness and the warfare of the rich against the poor.

Class Warfare

Whereas in the past it might have been possible to argue that we live in a classless society, that is no longer the case. The accession of Donald Trump to the office of president has rendered such argument moot. The man has declared war on the poor.

Think about the brazenness of it all.

I mean, after the display at Trump’s inauguration, it is now impossible for anyone to deny that Elon Musk and other billionaires play powerful roles in calling the shots. The shot callers include Donald Trump himself, Musk, Mark Zukerberg, Jeff Bezos, Tim Cook of Apple, and Sundar Pichai of Google. All of them were there occupying prominent seats the day that Trump took office. At times it even appears that Elon Musk, the world’s richest man, rather than Mr. Trump is our country’s president. Our system is undeniably plutocratic.

And what is the basic argument of these people? Simply put, it is that THE RICH DON’T HAVE ENOUGH MONEY, WHILE THE UNDESERVING POOR AND MIDDLE CLASS HAVE TOO MUCH MONEY.

They’re convinced that the world’s and our country’s problems are caused by the poorest people on the planet. Accordingly, we’re expected to believe that:

In a country of 320 million people, 12 to 15 million impoverished, undocumented, hardworking, tax-paying refugees are “invaders” and bringing us all down.
The U.S. with 4.5% of the world’s population (along with its European fellow colonialists) has a God-given right to control the entire planet.
Those formerly colonized in Latin America, Africa, and Asia should be sanctioned for uniting (e,g,, in BRICS+) to seek non-violent rectification of the colonial system that has impoverished them for more than 500 years.
The wealthy South African cohorts of their erstwhile countryman, Elon Musk, are now victims of black South Africans who must be sanctioned for treating them unfairly.
Uniformity, inequity, and exclusion are American and Christian values as opposed to diversity, equity, and inclusion.
It’s ludicrous to awaken (become woke) to the absurdity of it all.

Let me say that again: All of this (and so much more) provides unmistakable evidence of the wealthy’s conviction that THE RICH DON’T HAVE ENOUGH MONEY, WHILE THE POOR HAVE TOO MUCH MONEY.

Think about it a bit further. To increase their money supply, the billionaires want lower taxes, less government regulation of their businesses, and continued subsidies to their corporations maintained or increased. Correspondingly, they want “wasteful” programs like those funding Medicaid, HeadStart, food stamps, and public schooling curtailed or eliminated. Even Social Security is questioned. For the rich, minimum wages are an abomination as are unions and the so-called “right” to collective bargaining. The rich see all such government programs and organizing as wasteful, i.e., as excessively enriching the lives of the undeserving poor.

Yes: For the upper class, THE RICH DON’T HAVE ENOUGH MONEY, WHILE THE POOR HAVE TOO MUCH MONEY. That’s what they believe! It can’t be said often enough.

It’s all a declaration of class warfare.

Today’s Readings

Today’s readings contradict all that. Look at my “translations” and summaries immediately below. Compare them with the originals here to see if I got them right.

Jeremiah 17:5-8: In the early 6th century BCE, the great prophet Jeremiah foretold the defeat of his people by the Babylonians (modern day Iraq) because of Judah’s social injustices and moral decay. Of course, his message of doom brought him death threats and cancellation. In today’s reading he says: We who pretend to be God’s People are cursed because we’ve prioritized the wisdom of the world (flesh) over the insights of the heart. Our failure to recognize the rhythms of history makes us like a dried-up bush in a parched desert. Only our hearts’ return to the Divine Mother-Father and to the Mosaic Covenant (that prioritizes the needs of the poor, widows, orphans, and immigrants) will restore our identity as a mighty tree planted near clear running water.

Psalm 1: 1-6: Yes, God’s law commands care for the poor, the widows, the orphans and immigrants. These are God’s “Chosen People” just as Israel once was when it too was poor and enslaved in Egypt. Then their hope was in the Great I Am rather than in the wisdom of Egyptian slavers with their wicked, sinful, and insolent oppression of Yahweh’s chosen. Never forget that. Such mindfulness will insure prosperity for all. Be encouraged too by the fact that the rich and powerful oppressors will inevitably be blown away like chaff in the wind. Blessed be the hope of the poor!

1 Corinthians 15: 12, 16-20: Yeshua’s return from the realm of the dead cannot be denied without destroying the faith and hope of the poor. He is the quintessential avatar of the poor and oppressed brought back to life from “death” that is no more than a temporary slumber. Alleluia!!

Luke 6: 17, 20-26: In the Gospel of Luke, Matthew’s “Sermon on the Mount” is delivered “on a stretch level ground.” Also, Matthew’s “Blessed are the poor in spirit” becomes a more down-to-earth “Blessed are you who are poor.” In both cases however, the penniless Yeshua promised ultimate political triumph, abundant food, joy, and heaven on earth to the poor, the hungry, the tearful, despised, excluded, insulted, and demonized. (He promises reparations!) Moreover, he cursed the overfed, apparently joyful rich and famous. In Yeshua’s Great Reversal, the rich are destined to be hungry, disconsolate, in tears, and disgraced. (Take that Messrs. Pilate, Herod, and Revs. Anas and Caiaphas! Take that Messrs. Musk and Trump and Rev. Huckabee!)

Conclusion

In an interview with NPR, Evangelical Christian leader Russell Moore said that several pastors had told him disturbing stories about their congregants being upset when the ministers read from the “Sermon on the Mount ” where as we’ve just seen (in Luke’s “Sermon on the Plain”) Yeshua favors the poor over the rich.

“Multiple pastors tell me, essentially, the same story about quoting Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount – [and] to have someone come up after to say, ‘Where did you get those liberal talking points?”

Moore added: “And what was alarming to me is that in most of these scenarios, when the pastor would say, ‘I’m literally quoting Jesus Christ, the response would be, ‘Yes, but that doesn’t work anymore. That’s weak.”

But here are Yeshua’s words:

“Blessed are you who are poor,
                        for the kingdom of God is yours.
            Blessed are you who are now hungry,
                        for you will be satisfied.
            Blessed are you who are now weeping,
                        for you will laugh.
            Blessed are you when people hate you,
                        and when they exclude and insult you,
                        and denounce your name as evil
                        on account of the Son of Man.
Rejoice and leap for joy on that day!
Behold, your reward will be great in heaven.
For their ancestors treated the prophets in the same way.
            But woe to you who are rich,
                        for you have received your consolation.
            Woe to you who are filled now,
                        for you will be hungry.
            Woe to you who laugh now,
                        for you will grieve and weep.
            Woe to you when all speak well of you,
                        for their ancestors treated the false prophets in this way.”

Like Bishop Budde, Jesus’ Wokeness Infuriated His Neighbors

Readings for the Third Sunday in Ordinary Time: Nehemiah 8:2-4a, 5-6, 8-10; Psalm 19: 8,9, 10, 15; I Corinthians 12: 12-14, 27; Luke 1: 1-4, 4: 14-21

Last Tuesday Episcopal Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde infuriated Donald Trump and JD Vance at Trump’s inaugural prayer service at the National Cathedral in Washington. She did so by echoing in her sermon the Spirit of Yeshua of Nazareth whom this Sunday’s Gospel reading depicts as delivering his own inaugural address to his former neighbors in his hometown of Nazareth.

Bishop Budde’s words asked Mr. Trump “in the name of our God” to “have mercy” on LGBTQ people and immigrants targeted by his policies. Her words chimed with those of her Master who in his programmatic words proclaimed his work as directed towards outsiders – the poor, the blind, the imprisoned, oppressed, and indebted.

Evidently, Messrs. Trump and Vance prefer their version of God and a Jesus who puts America first. They seem to consider Americans (and Zionists) as somehow “chosen” by a God who joins them in despising those with non-binary sexual orientations. Instead of welcoming strangers (as Bishop Budde put it in tune with oft-repeated biblical injunctions) their God would build walls and evict them from our midst.

Ironically, the Trump/Vance position is not far from that articulated by Ezra, Israel’s 6^th century BCE priest and scribe who invented the concept of a genocidal Israel as God’s chosen one. (You can read a summary of Ezra’s words immediately below.)

So, predictably, Mr. Trump and his followers (like Yeshua’s contemporaries rejecting him) wasted no time in vilifying Bishop Budde.

Instead, she deserves our admiration and imitation as a woman of vast integrity and courage. Let me show you what I mean.

Today’s Readings

Nehemiah 8:2-4a, 5-6, 8-10

Following the Jews’ return from the Babylonian exile (586-538), the Jewish priest and scribe, Ezra rewrote the Hebrew’s largely oral traditions that eventually became their Bible. He unified those narratives about mysterious beings called “Elohim.” These were human or perhaps extraterrestrial “Powerful Ones,” some good-willed, some malevolent, who had never been universally considered divine. In Hebrew oral tradition, they had variously been called by names such as “Elohim,” “El,” “El Shaddai,” “Ruach,” Baal, and Yahweh. Ezra unified and rewrote those traditions as if all of them were about Israel’s now “divine” Powerful One (Yahweh). The tales included divinely authorized genocides of Palestinians (identified in biblical texts as Canaanites, Hittites, Amorites, Perizzites, Hivites, Jebusites, Geshurites, Maacaathites, and Philistines). All of them had lived in the “Holy Land” long before the arrival of the ex-slave invaders from Egypt who ruthlessly decimated their numbers in the name of their Powerful One. In Nehemiah chapter 8, Ezra is depicted as spending half a day reading his conflated narrative [now called “The Law” (Torah)] to Israel’s “men, women, and those children old enough to understand.” The new narrative brings everyone to tears as a nationalistic and exclusive consciousness dawns that Yahweh-God had chosen them as his special people.

Psalm 19: 8,9, 10, 15

Despite the genocides, the people praised Yahweh’s words as simple, perfect, refreshing, trustworthy, wise, illuminating, pure, eternal, true, and completely just. They identified Ezra’s words as Spirit and Life.

I Corinthians 12: 12-14, 27

Yeshua, however, never called his Heavenly Father “Yahweh.” Instead, he (and his principal prophet Paul) understood God as a Divine Parent, the Creator of all things, the “One in whom we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28). Yeshua (and Paul) rejected the idea of “Special People” in favor of all humanity as comprising One Human Body. For both men, no part of that Body (even the least presentable) was better or more important than any other. For Paul and Yeshua, Jews and non-Jews were the same. So were slaves and free persons. In fact, for Yeshua’s followers, those the world considers less honorable should be treated “with greater propriety.”

Luke 1: 1-4, 4: 14-21

In the first sermon of his public life, Yeshua addressed his former neighbors. He was asked to read from the scroll of the prophet Isaiah (a contemporary of Ezra) who dissented from genocides and mistreatment of captives. Here’s what Yeshua read:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
because he has anointed me
to bring glad tidings to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim liberty to captives
and recovery of sight to the blind,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to proclaim a year acceptable to the Lord.“
Rolling up the scroll, he handed it back to the attendant and sat down,
and the eyes of all in the synagogue looked intently at him.
He said to them,
“Today this Scripture passage is fulfilled in your hearing.”

When his neighbors heard his words, they wanted to kill him. Who did he think he was?! Everyone knows God favors the rich, not the poor. Just look at the Great Ones’ gaudy lifestyles and possessions. And those people in prison deserved to be there. Once freed, they’d threaten us all. And besides, the blind were sightless because of some sin they or their parents had committed. They deserved their lot in life. As for “the oppressed . . . There are no “victims.” Everyone knows that. Victimology is a hoax. Who did this Yeshua think he was?! Let’s kill him.

Conclusion

Yes, Yeshua, like Bishop Budde confronted his contemporaries to champion the One in whom we live and move and have our being.” For Yeshua that Divine One considers all humankind a single indivisible body. For him this meant incorporating those his world wanted to amputate as outsiders, invaders, criminals, and as official enemies like Samaritans, tax collectors, street walkers, the poor, imprisoned, the sightless, oppressed and indebted.

In Yeshua’s spirit, Bishop Budde urges incorporation of immigrants, LGBT outcasts, and official enemies such as the Palestinians, Russians, Chinese, Iranians, North Koreans, Venezuelans, Nicaraguans, Cubans, Syrians, Iraqis, Afghans, Somalis, Sudanese, Libyans, etc. etc. None of them is our enemy. All of them, she says with Yeshua and Paul, are closer to us than our brothers and sisters. They are parts of our own bodies. None can be amputated.

Such universalism, such wakefulness always infuriates those who would divide and rule over us. It angers as well ordinary people (like Yeshua’s neighbors) who have been brainwashed into accepting prevailing nationalistic understandings of the Bible’s often genocidal “God.”

Today’s readings call us to wake up! Bishop Budde’s got it right. Trump and Vance are heretics.