Homiletic helps – About Things That Matter

What the Gospel of the Man Born Blind Says About War, Empire, and Biblical Illiteracy

Readings for Fourth Sunday of Lent: 1st Samuel 16: 1b, 6-7, 10-13a; Psalm 23: 1-6; Ephesians 5: 8-14; John 9: 1-41

If you have been following the news the past couple of weeks, you know that the world seems once again to be sliding toward catastrophe. The bombing of Iran by the United States and Israel represents a case in point.

Reports describe cities under bombardment and civilians trapped beneath collapsing buildings. On the first day of the conflict alone, a missile strike destroyed a girls’ elementary school, killing scores of children.

Yet amid such horrors, political leaders insist that these acts defend freedom, protect civilization, and even fulfill God’s purposes. Meanwhile a powerful current within contemporary Christianity—especially among right-wing interpreters of the Bible—assures us that geopolitical violence somehow fits within the divine plan.

None of this is new. For centuries religion has been used to sanctify empire and to bless the ambitions of the powerful. The prophets of Israel knew this. Jesus knew it.

And the readings for this Fourth Sunday of Lent expose the pattern with remarkable clarity. Taken together, they ask and answer a disturbing question: who actually sees the truth of history—the powerful who claim to interpret God’s will, or the people pushed to the margins of society?

The answer in today’s readings is that the marginalized see more clearly than the powerful.

Unlikely Choice of David

The first reading from First Samuel tells the familiar story of the prophet Samuel searching for Israel’s next king. Samuel arrives at the house of Jesse and begins inspecting the man’s sons. The eldest looks strong and impressive. Surely this must be the Lord’s anointed. But God interrupts Samuel’s expectations with a startling correction: “Not as man sees does God see. Man looks at appearances, but the Lord looks into the heart.” One after another the impressive candidates pass before Samuel and are rejected. Finally, Samuel asks whether there are any more sons. Jesse answers almost as an afterthought: “There is still the youngest, who is tending the sheep.” In other words, the boy so insignificant that no one even thought to invite him. Yet it is precisely this overlooked shepherd—David—whom God chooses.

Biblical scholars have long recognized something profoundly political in this story. Again and again the biblical narrative reveals a God who acts from below rather than from the centers of power. The decisive figures in salvation history are rarely kings or priests or generals.

Instead, they are slaves in Egypt, shepherds in Bethlehem, fishermen in Galilee, a construction worker from Nazareth. The logic of empire assumes that leadership belongs naturally to those who are wealthy, impressive, and already powerful. The Bible insists on the opposite: God’s future consistently begins among those whom society overlooks.

Lord & Shepherds

Psalm 23 deepens this theme. “The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.” We often hear those words as gentle religious poetry. Yet in the ancient world they carried a quiet political edge.

Kings throughout the Near East loved to describe themselves as shepherds of their people. Pharaoh was a shepherd. Babylon’s emperor was a shepherd. Caesar claimed to shepherd the Roman world. But the psalm rejects that claim. The psalmist does not say that the king is my shepherd or that the empire guarantees my security. Instead, he says that the Lord alone is shepherd. The source of life, protection, and abundance is not the machinery of power.

The psalm imagines something very different: green pastures, quiet waters, and a table prepared in the presence of enemies where cups overflow. It is an image of a world organized around care rather than domination.

Paul’s Wokeness

Paul’s words to the Ephesians introduce another theme running through today’s readings: the contrast between light and darkness. “You were once darkness,” Paul says, “but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light.” Notice how Paul defines that light. It is not merely personal piety or private virtue.

“Take no part in the fruitless works of darkness,” he writes, “but rather expose them.” In other words, light reveals what systems of power try to hide. Unjust structures survive only by persuading people that their violence is necessary and their privileges natural. But when those illusions are exposed—when reality becomes visible—the system itself begins to tremble.

What the Poor See

That insight prepares us for the extraordinary drama in today’s Gospel from John. Jesus encounters a man blind from birth. The disciples immediately ask a question reflecting the dominant ideology of their time: “Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

It is the ancient version of a familiar argument: suffering must be someone’s fault. Victims must somehow deserve their fate. Jesus rejects that entire framework. The man’s blindness is not the result of personal guilt. Instead, it becomes the occasion through which God’s work will be revealed.

Jesus then performs a strangely earthy action. He spits on the ground, makes clay, and spreads the mud across the man’s eyes. The gesture echoes the creation story in Genesis where humanity is formed from the dust of the earth. It is as if Jesus is re-creating the man, giving him new sight. But the real miracle unfolds afterward.

Once the man can see, he becomes the center of a storm of controversy. Neighbors question him. Religious authorities interrogate him. Even his own parents become frightened and refuse to defend him.

Why such anxiety? Because the healing threatens the authority of those who claim to interpret God’s will. If Jesus truly comes from God, the leaders who oppose him might be wrong. So the authorities attempt to discredit the miracle. They accuse Jesus of breaking the Sabbath. They pressure the healed man to denounce him. When he refuses, they ridicule him and eventually throw him out of the synagogue.

Meanwhile something remarkable happens within the man himself. His understanding of Jesus gradually deepens. At first, he knows only that “the man called Jesus” healed him. Later he declares that Jesus must be a prophet. Finally, he encounters Jesus again and proclaims, “Lord, I believe.” The man who began the story blind ends it with the clearest vision of all.

The irony is unmistakable. Those who claimed to see—the religious experts—become increasingly blind. Those who were supposedly ignorant perceive the truth. Jesus summarizes the entire episode in a single unsettling sentence: “I came into this world so that those who do not see may see, and those who see may become blind.”

Conclusion

The pattern repeats itself throughout history. Empires convince themselves they are bringing peace even as they spread destruction. Religious authorities persuade themselves they are defending God even while they silence prophets. And ordinary people—the ones dismissed as insignificant—very often see the truth far more clearly than those who wield power.

That is why Paul’s words sound less like poetry and more like a summons: “Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead, and Christ will give you light.”

Lent is not simply a season for private self-examination. It is a call to wake up—to recognize how easily faith can be manipulated to justify violence, to question the narratives that normalize suffering, and to listen to voices that systems of power would prefer us never to hear.

Again and again, Scripture insists that God’s work in history begins in unexpected places: among shepherd boys forgotten in the fields, among beggars sitting at the roadside, among those cast out by respectable society.

Those who appear powerless often become the clearest witnesses to truth. And that may be the most unsettling lesson of today’s readings. The future of God’s kingdom does not depend on the calculations of the powerful. It emerges from the courage of those who have learned to see.

Which brings us back to Jesus’ words at the end of the Gospel: “I came so that those who do not see may see, and those who see may become blind.” The question these readings place before us is simple but disturbing.

Are we willing to let the light of the Gospel open our eyes—even when it forces us to see realities we might prefer to ignore? Even when it forces us to see from the viewpoint of immigrants, the homeless, the impoverished, Venezuelans, Nicaraguans, Cubans, Iranians, Palestinians, the LGBTQ+ community, the addicted, the imprisoned . . .?

Wells, Walls, and Manufactured Thirst

Readings for the Third Sunday of lent: Exodus 17:1–7, Romans 5:1–2, 5–8, John 4:5–42.

The readings for this Third Sunday of Lent deal with the very human question of thirst. They raise the question, what are we thirsting for — ultimately?

Our politicians give us a glib answer. They tell us that our thirst is for security — from the threatening humans that surround us. The nation is dying we are told. We have lost our greatness. We are being overrun. Scarcity is closing in.

“Make America Great Again” is not just a slogan; it is an appeal to a deep anxiety — the fear that there is not enough: not enough jobs, not enough cultural cohesion, not enough safety, not enough control.

And so we are offered a diagnosis: the crisis is immigration. The problem is those people (who happen to be the poorest in the world!). The solution is walls, expulsions, exclusion. We are invited to believe that national greatness depends on tightening the circle.

But step back for a moment. The United States has 4 percent of the world’s population and consumes roughly a quarter of its resources. The “crisis” is narrated as though the most powerful nation in human history were a fragile victim of desperate families crossing deserts.

That story itself deserves scrutiny. It feels eerily similar to another story we heard today.

Thirst in the Desert

In Exodus 17, the people have escaped Egypt — escaped forced labor, escaped imperial extraction, escaped brick quotas. But once in the wilderness, they panic. There is no water. And fear rewrites memory. “Why did you bring us out of Egypt?” they ask. “Were there not enough graves there?”

Notice what is happening. A people freed from empire begin to long for the security of empire. Scarcity produces nostalgia. Anxiety produces accusation. Moses becomes the problem. Freedom itself becomes suspect.

And they ask the piercing question: “Is the Lord in our midst or not?”

That question echoes beneath our own political rhetoric. Is God present in pluralism, in equity, in inclusion? Is God present in demographic change? Is God present in movements of displaced people seeking survival? Or is God only present in the imagined stability of a past we have sanctified?

At Massah and Meribah, the people’s fear does not disqualify them. Yahweh brings water from rock. Not from Pharaoh’s storehouses. Not from a border wall. From a rock in the desert. The provision comes not through renewed control, but through trust in a God who sides with vulnerable people.

The biblical tradition has always insisted that this is the decisive revelation: God is known in history through concrete acts of sustenance for those escaping bondage. Not through slogans of greatness, but through water in the wilderness.

The Woman at the Well

Then we move to John’s Gospel, and the political charge intensifies.

Jesus is in Samaria — enemy territory. Centuries of ethnic hatred stand between Jews and Samaritans. Purity codes, historical grievances, competing temples. If ever there were a border crisis, this was it. And yet Jesus does not reinforce the boundary. He crosses it.

He asks a Samaritan woman for a drink.

It is astonishing. The one who will speak of “living water” begins by placing himself in need before someone religiously and socially marginalized. He does not begin with a lecture about law and order. He begins with vulnerability.

And this woman — doubly stigmatized as Samaritan and as female — becomes the first missionary in John’s Gospel. She leaves her jar and runs to her town: “Come and see.”

Our Real Thirst

What if the real thirst in our society is not for greatness, but for encounter? What if the deeper crisis is not immigration, but isolation? What if we have mistaken demographic change for existential threat because we have forgotten how to sit at wells with strangers?

“Living water,” Jesus says, becomes a spring within — not hoarded, not policed, not weaponized. It flows outward.

The irony is painful. The people who once wandered as refugees in the desert now fear refugees at their gates. The descendants of immigrants fear immigration. The community that drinks from a rock fears sharing water.

And beneath it all is that ancient question: “Is the Lord in our midst or not?”

If God is only with the secure, then fear makes sense. But if God is the One who hears slaves, who provides water for rebels, who speaks across enemy lines, then perhaps the presence of the stranger is not a threat but a test.

Paul, in Romans, says that “the love of God has been poured into our hearts.” Poured. Abundance language. Not scarcity language. Not zero-sum logic. Poured out while we were still estranged, still flawed, still confused.

Conclusion

Lent invites us to examine our thirst honestly. Are we thirsty for justice — or for dominance? For community — or for control? For security — or for solidarity?

Greatness, in the biblical sense, is never about territorial assertion. It is about fidelity to the God who brings water from rock and who offers living water at a contested well.

The wilderness is frightening. Demographic change is unsettling. Empires promise certainty. But the Gospel suggests that life springs up not from walls, but from wells.

The bush still burns. The rock still flows. The well is still there.

The only question is whether we will drink — and whether we will let others drink too.

Donald Trump’s Nakedness, His STFU SOTU Speech

Readings for the Second Sunday of Lent: Genesis 12: 1-4a; Psalm 33: 4-5, 18-19, 20,22; 2 Timothy 1: 8b-10; Matthew 17: 1-9

The Gospel reading for this Second Sunday of Lent is about the “transfiguration” of Jesus.

It’s about how the primitive Christian community’s understanding of Jesus and his significance changed following their experience of what they came to call his “resurrection.”

After that experience, whatever it was, they came to see him clearly as the New Moses and the New Elijah. As such he would introduce a New Order that would embody liberation of society’s most marginalized (Moses) and outspoken confrontation against the given imperial order (Elijah).

Jesus himself called that New Order the Kingdom of God.

It is what the world would look like if God were king instead of Caesar.

That vision should take on new meaning for Americans in the aftermath of Donald Trump’s disgraceful State of the Union Message last Tuesday. It should even embolden the profane response STFU.

Trump’s Un-transfigured World

If you watched the speech, you know what I mean.

It seemed like the dying gasp of the ruling Septuagenarian and Octogenarian classes.

It was a flailing, lie-filled proclamation of a Golden Age that never existed and that never will be if we follow the path the failed braggart president celebrated.

It was the opposite of God’s Kingdom – a world with room for everyone.

I mean, Trump’s SOTU celebrated division, wealth and power, and a militarism while targeting the poorest people on our planet. He had the staggering nerve to tone-deafly call them what the Epstein Files are revealing the political class itself to be: lawless rapists, pedophiles, robbers, drug dealers, gang members and murderers. And Trump’s crowd are blackmailers besides.

Making those allegations, the president revealed his own nakedness and that of his mindless Maga colleagues who mindlessly jumped to their feet to applaud the beauty of the Emperor’s non-existent robes.

Yes, the Files, the coverups, the sweetheart deals for Epstein and Maxwell, the redactions, the months-long failures to disclose, and the reduction of Pam Bondi’s Department of Justice to the President’s private law firm are revealing everything.

The Emperor indeed has no clothes. He’s shamelessly parading around stark naked and tiny.

And reminiscent of the Hans Christian Anderson story, it’s the little children he’s imprisoning (with their bunny ears and Spiderman backpacks) who proclaim the emperor’s embarrassing nudity.

No clothes! Naked! Tiny. Or as Joseph N. Welch put it to Senator Joseph McCarthy “Have you no sense of decency, sir, at long last?”,

Jesus’ Transfigured World

The tale of Jesus’ Transfiguration tells an opposite story.

It’s the story of a poor construction worker – a former immigrant, a prophetic teacher of unconventional wisdom, the death row inmate whom empire jailed, tortured and submitted to imperial capital punishment – whose life and teaching revealed a New Order that was shining and pure because it had room for everyone.

And in today’s reading, it’s his transformed clothes and the spiritual company he keeps that tell the story.

Matthew puts it this way: “His face shone like the sun and his clothes became white as light. And behold, Moses and Elijah appeared to them, conversing with him.”

That is, the one whose imperialized class status would eventually reduce him to nakedness on Mt. Calvary is perceived by his first followers as magnificently clothed.

Even more, Matthew’s account of Jesus’ Transfiguration has him conversing with Moses and Elijah.

Moses, of course, is the great liberator of the enslaved and poor.

Elijah was the courageous prophet who not only spoke truth to power but resisted false gods who take the side of the rich and powerful rather than God’s truly chosen ones, the poor and oppressed.

Don’t Let the Democrats off the Hook

But none of this should let the Democrats off the hook just because some of them refused to attend the STFU SOTU affair. Don’t let them get away with just not being Trump.

It’s time for us to echo Zohran Mamdani, the most popular politician in the country.

In my novella, Against All Odds: How Zohran Mamdani Became President and Changed America Forever, I imagine a moment like this. Not because of special foresight, but because systems built on secrecy, oligarchy, militarism, and spectacle inevitably crack. In that story, hidden ledgers surface. Blackmail networks become visible. The machinery of power is exposed. The old guard responds the only way it knows how — with louder threats, more force, and louder applause.

Sound familiar?

But exposure alone is not liberation.

Which brings us back to the mountain of Transfiguration.

That scene depicted there is not mystical escapism. It is political theology. It declares that the authority of empire is provisional — that the true sovereignty belongs to the God who sides with slaves, captives, resident aliens, and the poor.

Luke makes the program explicit: “He has anointed me to preach good news to the poor… to proclaim liberty to captives… to set at liberty those who are oppressed.”

That’s a rival social order.

And if the imperial system is unraveling before our eyes — if its nakedness is becoming visible — then what must follow is not nostalgia or revenge, but reconstruction.

In Against All Odds, the answer to systemic collapse is not personality cult or partisan fury, but the institution of a Republic of Care. It is clarity. It is the articulation of a simple, material program centered on ordinary people’s lives. Among others, the items in such a program would include:

Affordability
Universal health care
Full employment
Higher wages
Free education through college
Environmental protection
Expanded voting rights
An end to oligarchic distortions like the Electoral College
Strict term limits in every branch of government
Drastic reductions in military spending.
No endless wars
Immigration reform rooted in dignity
The dismantling of structures whose primary function is coercion at home and abroad.

In liberationist terms, none of that is utopian dreaming. Mamdani’s election proved that. The reforms just listed are what happen when the needs of the poor become the criteria of policy.

Conclusion

Trump’s embarrassing speech was the voice of Caesar defending a crumbling temple.

The Transfiguration is the unveiling of another possibility altogether.

Empires grow louder when they weaken. They shout about enemies. They celebrate force. They promise greatness. That is what dying systems do.

But the biblical tradition suggests something else: when Pharaoh hardens his heart, liberation accelerates. When Ahab clings to power, Elijah’s voice sharpens. When Rome crucifies, resurrection faith spreads.

Lent invites us to see clearly — to recognize naked empire and to imagine, without apology, a transfigured order grounded in justice for the poor.

Our petite impotent emperor is exposed.

The question now is whether we have the courage to climb the mountain with Peter, James and John to see what comes next.

Lent, Empire, and the God We Worship

Readings for the first Sunday of Lent: Genesis 2: 7-9, 3: 1-7; Psalm 51: 3-6,12-13, 17; Romans 5: 12-19; Matthew 4: 1-11.

Today is the first Sunday of Lent. Its readings begin with the creation myth in Genesis. They conclude with the famous story of Jesus’ temptations in the desert.

But let me begin not in Eden or in the wilderness, but in Washington, Brussels, and Tel Aviv — and in the shadow places of our own national story.

We live in a country that represents roughly 4.5 percent of the world’s population yet assumes a decisive voice in nearly every corner of the globe. We maintain military installations across continents. We speak of “rules-based international order” while reserving to ourselves the authority to determine when rules apply.

The war in Ukraine grinds on amid NATO expansion despite promises to the contrary. Gaza has become a landscape of genocide even as our government supplies arms and diplomatic cover.

Regime-change interventions in Iraq, Libya, and Afghanistan have left instability that outlives the speeches that justified them. And at home, the Epstein scandal remains a symbol of elite circles that appear shielded from consequences that would crush ordinary people.

Whatever one’s political alignment, it is difficult to deny that we inhabit an imperial moment.

That is why the Gospel today matters. Because the final temptation Jesus faces is not about private morality. It is about his rejection of empire.

How Animals Became Human

But before we get to the desert, we must pass through Genesis. And Genesis is stranger than we usually allow. It’s a sacred myth about how the animals became human.

Nonetheless, we were taught — many of us in catechism classrooms that did not encourage too many questions — that this story explains how a perfect world fell apart because of disobedience. But biblical scholarship has long suggested something more subtle and more interesting. The story reads less like a fall from perfection and more like the painful emergence of moral consciousness.

God forms the human being from the soil — adamah — and breathes into it. The human is an earth creature animated by divine breath. The animals are already there. What distinguishes this creature is not biology but awareness.

The serpent does not tempt with gluttony. The fruit is “desirable for gaining wisdom.” The promise is that “you will be like gods, knowing good and evil.” The issue is not appetite; it is autonomy. It is the claim to define good and evil independently of the Giver of breath.

And here is where the text becomes theologically uncomfortable. The God portrayed in Genesis can sound petty and jealous. (In fact, as biblical scholars Mauro Biligno and Paul Wallis have suggested, the plural Elohim in today’s reading might not refer to God at all, but to “Powerful Ones” pretending to divine identity. But that’s another story.) In any case, the prohibition from on high appears arbitrary. The threat — “you shall die” — sounds disproportionate. If we read the story naïvely, we are left with a deity who seems insecure about competition.

Many Christians resolve that discomfort by refusing to wrestle with the text. We flatten it. We moralize it. We turn it into a children’s story about disobedience and punishment. That is the fundamentalism many of us were raised on — including in Catholic form — a fundamentalism that often ignores biblical scholarship and historical context in favor of simple certainty.

But the deeper issue in Genesis is not that God fears competition. It is that humans actually do become like God. In the end the Powerful Ones (Elohim) admit “The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil.” However, the moment the earth creature claims ultimate moral sovereignty, alienation follows. Shame. Blame. Fear. Violence. The story is mythic, but it describes something real: despite God-like powers, when creatures enthrone themselves as divine, relationships fracture.

The serpent’s whisper — “you will be like gods” — does not remain in the garden. It scales upward into civilizations.

Empires are what happen when that whisper becomes policy.

Jesus’ Temptations in the Desert

Which brings us to the desert. Matthew tells us that Jesus is led by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted. The temptations escalate. First, appetite: turn stones into bread. Reduce humanity to consumption. Then spectacle: throw yourself from the temple and force divine validation. Manipulate religion to secure legitimacy. And finally, the decisive offer: all the kingdoms of the world and their magnificence — in exchange for worship.

This is the climax. Empire is offered as destiny.

And here the contrast with Genesis becomes luminous. The first humans grasp at godlike autonomy. Jesus refuses it. He refuses to reduce life to bread. He refuses to weaponize God. And he refuses political domination secured by kneeling before a lesser power.

“The Lord your God shall you worship, and him alone shall you serve.”

That sentence is not pious abstraction. It is a political declaration. It means that no nation, no military alliance, no economic system, no leader can claim ultimate allegiance. It means that empire — however benevolent it imagines itself — is not God.

This is precisely where much contemporary Christianity falters. Christian fundamentalism, whether Protestant or Catholic, often aligns itself enthusiastically with imperial power. It baptizes national projects. It equates military strength with divine blessing. It reads Scripture in a way that reinforces dominance rather than questions it. The same tradition that once rejected liberation theology for being “too political” now blesses drones, sanctions, and occupation without hesitation.

And yet the Gospel we read today shows Jesus rejecting the very thing many Christians defend.

He rejects empire as diabolical.

Paul & Psalms

Paul’s letter to the Romans reframes the story. Through one human being came sin — the pattern of grasping autonomy. Through another came obedience — the pattern of trust. The contrast is not between sexuality and purity, or rule-breaking and rule-keeping. It is between self-deification and worship.

Psalm 51’s cry — “Create in me a clean heart” — becomes, in this context, a plea for undivided allegiance. A clean heart is not one that never doubts. It is one that refuses to kneel before false gods.

Lenten Conclusion

Lent, then, is not about chocolate or minor self-denials. It is about allegiance. It is about whether we will continue participating in systems that assume the right to dominate the earth and dictate history — or whether we will align ourselves with the one who refused.

If Genesis tells the story of animals becoming human through moral awareness, the desert tells the story of a human refusing to become a god.

And that refusal leads to a cross, because empire does not tolerate rivals or dissent.

We begin Lent in a world intoxicated with power. The kingdoms are still on offer. They are offered to nations. They are offered to churches. They are offered to each of us in smaller ways — security in exchange for silence, comfort in exchange for complicity.

The question is not whether temptation exists. The question is before whom we will kneel.

Dust breathed upon by God does not need to become divine. It needs only to remain faithful.

And that, perhaps, is the most subversive act of all.

The Commandments and the Epstein Revelations: Whom Does God’s Law Really Protect?

Readings for the Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time: Sirach 15:15-20; Psalm 119; 1 Corinthians 2:6-10; Matthew 5:17-37

Let me say it straight out: the Epstein affair is not primarily about sex. It is about law. It is about whether the commandments — and the legal systems supposedly derived from them — apply equally to everyone.

For decades, Jeffrey Epstein moved among billionaires, politicians, royalty, financiers, academics, and cultural elites. His crimes were known. Complaints were made. Investigations occurred. Yet he received an extraordinary plea deal. Associates remain shielded. Documents remain sealed. Networks remain largely untouched.

Meanwhile, poor defendants fill prisons for far lesser crimes – and in the case of immigrants and asylum seekers, for no crimes at all. Petty theft, drug possession, probation violations, and “illegal” border crossings — these are prosecuted with relentless enforcement of law.

If you want a relevant commentary on such two-tiered systems of “justice,” look no further than today’s liturgical readings. They are explosive in their contemporary application.

Sirach: God Commands No Injustice

Start with Sirach 15: 15-20. There the book’s author says: “If you choose, you can keep the commandments… He has set before you fire and water… life and death.”

At first glance, that sounds like individual moral exhortation. Choose good. Avoid evil. But Sirach adds something devastating: “No one does he command to act unjustly; to none does he give license to sin.”

That line destroys every attempt to sanctify unjust systems like ours. I mean in the United States, injustice is routinely protected by law. After all, Epstein’s plea deal in 2008 was legal. The shielding of his powerful associates has been legal. Non-disclosure agreements are legal. Sealed records are legal.

But Sirach says God commands no injustice.

If the law functions to shield predators when they are rich and well-connected while punishing the poor with mechanical severity, then the issue is not simply moral failure. It is structural perversion.

Liberation theology (i.e. non-literalist biblical interpretation supported by modern scripture scholarship) reminds us that “choice” is structured. The poor do not choose within the same field of protection as billionaires. There, fire and water are not distributed evenly. Life and death are not equally accessible.

The commandment is not merely “Don’t sin.” The deeper question is: Does the legal order reflect God’s refusal to legalize injustice?

Psalm 119: Blessed Are Those Who Follow the Law

Now look at today’s responsorial psalm. It’s refrain proclaims: “Blessed are they who follow the law of the Lord.”

But what is the law for?

As José Porfirio Miranda and Norman Gottwald argue, the Decalogue emerged not as abstract piety but as social protection. It arose among people resisting royal systems that accumulated land, wealth, and power in elite hands.

Both theologians remind us that biblical law was a shield for subsistence households. “You shall not steal” originally meant: the powerful may not confiscate the livelihood of the vulnerable. “You shall not covet” meant desire backed by power must be restrained.

In that light, now ask the uncomfortable question: when billionaires operate in networks of mutual protection and the law seems reluctant to expose them fully, is that still Torah? Or is it what the prophets called “corruption at the gate?”

Psalm 119 blesses those who follow God’s law — not those who manipulate civil law to protect privilege.

Paul: The Wisdom of the Rulers

In the same spirit of Sirach and Psalm 119, Paul speaks of “a wisdom not of this age, nor of the rulers of this age… who are passing away.” He also adds something chilling: “None of the rulers of this age understood this; for if they had, they would not have crucified the Lord of glory.”

The cross was a legal execution. It was state-sanctioned. It was justified under Roman law and enabled by religious authority.

That’s Paul’s point.

The rulers always believe their system is rational and necessary. Franz Hinkelammert reminds us that ruling ideologies present themselves as inevitable. Markets are inevitable. Elite networks are inevitable. Certain people are untouchable.

When the Epstein affair reveals how proximity to wealth and power appears to blunt accountability, we are witnessing what Paul calls “the wisdom of this age.” A wisdom that protects itself.

The rulers crucified Jesus legally. Legality is not the same as justice.

Jesus: Fulfilling the Law by Protecting the Vulnerable

In Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus declares:
“I have not come to abolish the law but to fulfill it.”

Then he radicalizes it. “You have heard it said, ‘You shall not kill.’ But I say to you, whoever humiliates…”

Jesus’ point is that dehumanization precedes violence. When victims are dismissed because they lack status, when their testimony is doubted because they are young, poor, or socially marginal, contempt is already at work.

“You have heard it said… You shall not commit adultery. But I say to you, whoever looks with lust…”

Could these words be more pertinent to the Epstein Affair? In a world where wealthy men are allowed to treat vulnerable underage girls and women as property, lust backed by power means coercion. Jesus targets the interior logic of such domination.

His teaching on divorce does the same thing. It sides with the economically vulnerable spouse. Legal permission did not equal justice.

Notice the pattern: every intensification of the commandment in today’s readings closes loopholes that allow the powerful to exploit the weak.

That is fulfillment of the law. If a legal system permits exploitation through influence, money, and secrecy, it has not fulfilled the law. It has hollowed it out.

Two Systems

The Epstein affair is not an anomaly. It is a revelation.

It reveals what liberation theology has long argued: sin is social as well as personal. Structures can be sinful. Systems can crucify.

When poor defendants encounter swift prosecution while elite networks encounter delay, protection, and opacity, we are not witnessing isolated moral failure. We are witnessing two systems.

Sirach sets before us life and death. The death-dealing system is one where law bends upward. The life-giving system is one where law protects the vulnerable first:

“Blessed are they who follow the law of the Lord.”
Blessed are those who refuse to equate legality with justice.
Blessed are those who demand that commandments function as protection for the powerless.
Blessed are those who see through the “wisdom” of powerful elites

Jesus did not abolish the commandments. He sharpened them until they pierced hypocrisy.

Before us remain fire and water. The question is not whether we personally avoid wrongdoing.

The question is whether we will accept a system where justice is negotiated by wealth — or insist that the law once again become what it was meant to be: protection and good news for the poor.

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.

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.

Pope Leo: Please Go to Gaza; Celebrate Mass in Khan Yunis!

Readings for the Solemnity of Saints Peter and Paul, Apostles: ACTS 12:1-11; PSALM 34: 2-9; 2 TIMOTHY 4: 6-8, 17-18; MATTHEW 16; 13-19.

Every morning as I watch Amy Goodman’s “Democracy Now,” I feel sickened by the reports from Gaza. No doubt that most reading these words have similar experiences. And why not?

In Gaza as everyone knows genocidal Zionists are systematically causing the deaths of untold thousands of children and their mothers. The Zionist monsters starve, bomb, and even gun down their victims as they line up at distribution sites where food is used as bait. The brutes are causing a manmade drought intentionally aimed at depriving infants of water for the formula they cannot live without.

You know the result.

The Zionists do all that in blatant contravention not merely of all human values and international law, but of the Jewish tradition itself. Their genocidal atrocities also contradict the teachings of the one Christians identify as the greatest of the Jewish prophets and whom they worship as the incarnation of God himself.

For that reason, it’s impossible for me to understand how any of that can be squared with the teachings of Yeshua and his critical understanding of his beloved Jewish tradition. It’s impossible for me to comprehend how self-proclaimed pro-life Christians (so concerned about unborn fetuses) can stand by in silence and even applaud when tens of thousands of children along with their mothers, fathers, and grandparents are slaughtered before their very eyes.

Where’s the specifically Christian protest from Yeshua’s followers? Apart from his general calls for a ceasefire, how come the new pope isn’t showing more leadership on this question?

Contrast their and his relative silence with the prophetic words of Episcopal bishop Mariann Edgar Budde directly confronting her president and vice president on behalf of the most vulnerable in her own country. She was vilified and dismissed by Christians and Jews as disrespectful and overly political.

However, she was only following in Yeshua’s footsteps. After all, he confronted the leaders of his day as hypocrites, whited sepulchers, snakes, and broods of vipers (MT. 23:1-39). And he in turn was only following the examples of great Jewish prophets like Amos, Isaiah, and Elijah. All of them today would be called anti-Semitic, and “self-hating Jews.”

I write such painful words because this Sunday’s “Solemnity of Saints Peter and Paul” celebrates another pair of self-hating Jews. Their following of Yeshua caused them to be seen as enemies of their people and of the Roman imperial power of their day. As a result, they were imprisoned and were ultimately victims of capital punishment.

And they in turn were only following the example of Yeshua himself as I’ve already said. He suffered ostracism, imprisonment, torture, and execution for his own unstinting opposition.

But wouldn’t outspokenness be dangerous for a new pope who’s just getting his papacy off the ground? Wouldn’t it be too polarizing and politically alienating for him to speak directly to Netanyahu, Trump and Vance the way Bishop Budde did? Even more, wouldn’t it be unthinkable for him to actually go to Gaza on papal pilgrimage?

In the context I’ve just described, the readings for the day suggest that those who claim to inherit the tradition of Peter and Paul and of Yeshua’s prophetism should never fear danger, ostracism, or political alienation. They should be the first to put their lives on the line, to risk imprisonment and even death to oppose those who prove unfaithful to the holy Jewish faith. Today’s readings assure the Divine Spirit of the universe will always have their backs.

The first reading from the Acts of the Apostles describes Peter’s harrowing escape from prison. The second reading has Paul claiming that he was “rescued from the lion’s mouth.” That was a clear reference to the famous story of Daniel in the lion’s den.

Yes, the founders of what became Christianity were the enemies of their days’ Jewish authorities – the same “leaders” who were also the sworn enemies of the One identified in today’s selection from the Gospel of Matthew as “the Christ” – i.e., as God’s anointed one.

Of course, Yeshua’s outspokenness brought him to death row too. He passed through the torture chamber where he was nearly beaten to death and crowned with thorns – afterwards only to be hung on a cross – the form of agonizing death that the Romans reserved for enemies of their emperors every bit as cruel and lacking in moral principle as Netanyahu, Trump, and Biden.

In fact, that’s the heart of the Christian tradition – identification with the poor, the oppressed, the imprisoned, tortured, and executed. That’s the meaning of the belief that God manifested the divine essence most fully among the poorest of the poor. God’s Self was maximally revealed in a construction worker, on death row, in a victim of torture, and assassination by the state. Contemporary theologians speak of such revelation in terms of God’s “preferential option for the poor.”

But there’s the difference between Peter, Paul, and Yeshua on the one hand and Pope Leo on the other. All three of the former were impoverished nobodies. They were poor Jewish workers standing up for their comrades in the face of oppression by what Romans characterized as the wealthiest, most militarily powerful empire in the history of the world. (Sound familiar?)

Unlike Yeshua, Peter, and Paul, the newly elected Pope Leo is not a nobody. Unquestionably, he potentially possesses one of the most powerful voices of moral conscience in the world.

Imagine if he used it with Yeshua’s outspokenness on behalf of those martyred children in Gaza!

Imagine if Pope Leo displayed the courage and commitment of his alleged predecessor, Peter or that of St. Paul. Imagine if he showed the fortitude of Bishop Budde or of Greta Thunberg and her colleagues who were recently turned back from bringing food and medical aid to starving Gazans. Compared to the pope, Budde and Thunberg are nobodies too.

So, imagine if Pope Leo decided that his first papal pilgrimage would be to Gaza. Imagine if he celebrated Mass in the ruins of the refugee camp in Khan Yunis? No one could ignore it. The Zionist and American perpetrators of genocide would be completely humiliated.

There’d have to be a ceasefire during his visit. Food aid would be released.

Imagine if he stayed in Gaza till hostilities finished.

That’s why I plead: Pope Leo, in the name of your predecessor, St. Peter, in the name of Paul, and above all in the name of the great Jewish prophet Yeshua, please go to Gaza! Use your power to put a stop to the monstrous slaughter!

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.