It's Faith, Pelagius! (Reflections on Lent 2, Year A 2026)

Pelagius 390-418

 And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. (John 3:15)

 Did you ever hear of this cat Pelagius? He was a monk back in the fifth century and he had some rather queer ideas. He claimed to be a Christian. He was into Jesus and his teachings, but he really didn’t care for this Original Sin thing. He figured that if God so loves the world, why would he make sinful people? Why, Pelagius wondered, would you bother getting your baby baptized when your baby hadn’t done anything wrong? At least not yet. Pelagius liked to believe that we’re all born basically good and that God has given us free will. Therefore, we ought to be able to live lives free from sin. Simple, right?

I start this little meditation on the Revised Common Lectionary texts for Lent 2, Year A with a word about Pelagius because this Second Sunday in Lent happens to fall on one of my favorite commemoratives: the Feast of Saint David[i]. David is the fifth-sixth century Welsh bishop who, in addition to being Patron Saint of Wales and Patron Saint of Poets and Vegetarians, is the guy who scored the winning point in a debate against the followers of Pelagius back in 550 CE. If you happened to live in Dark Ages Britain in the mid 500’s, Pelagianism was all the local rage until David set everybody straight.

Of course, you could always argue that, being a good Catholic priest, David had a self-motivated interest in stomping on the Pelagians. If you believed you could live a sinless life without the Church, the Church might go out of business. Nevertheless, David and the rest of the Church denounced Pelagianism because it really is wrong. Think about it. When was the last time you went even twenty-four hours without sinning? Even if you could make it for a day being sweet as bubble gum and spotless as the inside of a new Camero, you’d still be living off the aftereffects of someone else’s sin. You’d be using products from oppressed laborers or enjoying privilege not granted to others. The stink of sin is all around us. If you’re born on the beach, you’re going to get sandy. If you’re born on planet Earth, you’re going to deal with sin—yours and everyone else’s.

And how’s that free will thing working out for you? Yeah, there are some people who believe they are the masters of their own fate. They’re free to do whatever they want. They’re the sort of people who end up in the dock at Nuremburg or in the Epstein files. The rest of us realize that we’re free to choose which pair of socks to wear, but the majority of our lives are at the mercy of forces we can’t control or even understand. We didn’t choose to be born, and we don’t choose to grow old and die.

I always wonder when this gospel lesson (John 3:1-17) rolls around what Nicodemus was thinking when he came to visit Jesus. Since he was a Pharisee, it’s easy to believe he was into all the rules and regulations which those guys lived by to insure they kept off God’s naughty list. Before the poor guy even gets a chance to ask a question, however, Jesus cuts him short and tells him he’s got to be reborn. The Greek is a little sketchy here John uses the word anothen. It can mean “from above” or “from the beginning,” or “from the very first.” I always think Jesus is telling old Nicodemus, “Buddy, you have to shake off all the preconceptions you’ve been lugging around all your life about yourself and God. All that crap about good deeds and pious living and holy tiruals. You have to start again from jump.” And how would he do that? He’d have to look at the cross. As Christians, that’s how we deal with sin and our own powerlessness over it. When we see that godless instrument of torture and death, we have to be thinking just how cruel and vicious we human beings are capable of being. But we also have to see on it the form of someone who loved us enough to enter into that cruelty and know all the pain and despair and abandonment and shame that is part of life in this messed-up world. There is no pain we’re ever going to feel which Jesus hasn’t felt.

All the lessons for this Sunday in Lent[ii] are really about faith—faith reckoned as righteousness. We can’t keep ourselves from screwing up like Pelagius thought we could. We try, but we mess up every time. We can’t give God anything which isn’t God’s already, and if we think we earn God’s blessings we lose the joy of receiving God’s gift. We don’t need to understand why God loves us. We just have to believe God does.

It all begins with faith. But it shouldn’t end there. Abraham’s faith sent him on a journey to be a blessing to the world. He didn’t know where he was going or why. He just believed. We are also being called to believe we can be a blessing, but not by our own power. Our human will has always been insufficient, but the will of God sustains us, inspires us, teaches us, and gives us the stamina to be the blessing God intends us to be. This world is a mess, but God loves it and wants us to love it too.

Sorry, Pelagius. I’m just not up to being what God wants me to be on my own. Thank you, Saint David. And Saint Paul. And Saint Agustine, Martin Luther, John Calvin, and all the preachers through the centuries who reminded us of both our frailty and God’s exquisite mercy.

Thank you, my friend, for joining me during these sacred forty days. I appreciate your company. Leave me a comment if you wish and come see me again.

 

[i] I have thus far been unsuccessful in getting the ELCA to recognize this important saint on our liturgical calendar, but I will keep trying.

[ii] The first lesson is Genesis 12:1-4a. The epistle is Romans 4:1-5, 13-17.

We're All Tempted (Reflections on Lent 1, Year A 2026)

 

Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tested by the devil. (Matthew 4:1)

It’s a powerful and transcendent story in our gospel lesson for Lent 1, Year A in the RCL (Matthew 4: 1-11). The Spirit leads Jesus out into the dessert so he can duke it out with the devil. That’s a pretty rotten thing for the Spirit to have done if you ask me, but nobody’s asking. I will say, however, that being an alcoholic, temptation is a subject with which I am rather familiar. In my misspent youth I gave in to it all the time.

As I reflect, I realize I never used booze to drown my sorrows. If I was sorrowful for anything—like being out of work for example—I usually put my party pants away and gave all my attention to fixing the problem. If I had to contend five days a week with a classroom full of truculent middle schoolers whom I suspected of being future residents of some house of correction, I approached my work in a sober and conscientious manner. But when payday came around, watch out! I’d spend like a frat boy with his daddy’s credit card. Pretty much every dumb thing I ever did I did when I thought I had the world by the boxer shorts. That’s a dangerous time.

The story we have in Matthew’s gospel comes at just such a fragile moment. Jesus is doing great. He’s just been baptized. You have to think he must be feeling pretty peachy about this. He’s been praised by John the Baptist, the rockstar prophet on the scene, the Holy Spirit has descended on him like a dove, and the voice of God has called him “Beloved” and declared he’s well pleased with Jesus. What more could you ask for?

But before Jesus has a chance to get a swelled head over all this, God’s Spirit drives him out into the desert for a little retreat where he can think about what’s happened and maybe decide where he needs to go from that point on. That’s actually a really good idea. If any of us have had a particularly blessed or successful moment, it might behoove us to take a break and have some prayer time. Unfortunately, when you’re all by yourself with nobody around, nothing much to do, and you’re starting to go hungry, some weird thoughts can start running through your head. The devil (whether you believe in a Satanic figure or just your sinful nature) likes to attack when you’re feeling super-duper or when you’re feeling alone and lost[i].

So, here’s Jesus alone and hungry. What does the devil do? He says, “Turn these stones into bread.” Now Jesus may be hungry, but he isn’t starving. He’s not about to die. He doesn’t need to eat a rock. But what we want and what we really need are often different things, aren’t they? We may pray “give us this day our daily bread,” but we really are hoping to get an extra loaf or two to put away just in case a famine breaks out or something. A little may be good, but more would be better. However much we have, it never seems to be enough. Even if you own a multi-national corporation, you’ll feel you have to merge and acquire another multi-national corporation. You won’t believe the Talmudic wisdom that says he is wealthy who is content with what he has. You’ll curve in on yourself, horde, and neglect acts of charity. The fear of privation will tempt you further away from God.

Then there’s the temptation to doubt. Throw yourself off the pinnacle of the temple and hope God will catch you? No freakin’ way! Don’t take the leap. Don’t trust in God. In fact, don’t trust anybody or anything. Rely only on yourself. Make yourself the god of your life. That’s basically what the serpent tempted Eve with in the First Lesson for Lent 1[ii]. Our original sin is our desire to be like God and control it all ourselves without obedience or trust.

And, of course, there’s the temptation to ambition. Make a deal with the devil for prestige, privilege, and power. Hang with the cool kids. Have everyone look up to you. There’s really nothing wrong with being respected and honored or achieving your life’s goals. The temptation comes when you want that acknowledgement so badly that you’re willing to compromise your values. Or, if you don’t get the position of power or prestige, you can be tempted to self-loathing or bitter envy of the ones who have achieved it. Either way, you’re luring yourself into something pretty miserable.  You can think of those guys who hung out with Jeffery Epstein because they wanted to be with the power players. Or just think about how we all post our highlight reels on social media. Aren’t we just showing off our status?

Yup. There are lots of things which coax us away from being the whole and loving people God wants us to be. The good news is we don’t have to be ashamed of being human. Jesus was there too. Jesus understands it all. He knew the highs and the lows and the temptations which come with both. I don’t feel he’s calling us to a place of shame. He’s calling us to repentance, to a change of mind. He’s calling us to beat the devils of doubt, embarrassment, covetousness, and self-reliance, and just lean on his phenomenal grace.

I hope this Lenten season finds you well and warm, my friend. I always appreciate you for taking time to read my blog. Drop me a comment and stay well.

  

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[i] Or any other time, for that matter.

[ii] Genesis 3:5

Lay Off the Trumpet (Reflections on Ash Wednesday 2026)

 

"St. Lawrence Distributing the Treasures of the Church" (Strozzi 16-17 Cent.)

“So whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be praised by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward.  But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be done in secret, and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.” (Matthew 6:2-4)

So it’s Lent already. It seems like we just celebrated Christmas, but already we’ve come to this special forty-day period the Church has set aside over the centuries for repentance and renewal. Each year on Ash Wednesday we’re reminded in our gospel lesson (Matthew 6: 1-6, 16-21) of the spiritual disciplines of the season which—I mean come on!—really ought to be the stuff we do all year long. You know: pray, give alms, and practice self-denial. It’s that self-denial thing which I think most people think about when they think about this season (assuming, of course, they think about it at all), and that’s probably why folks see this season as something of a bummer. You have to give up something. Who wants to do that?

For some folks, however, that alms giving thing is really attractive—especially if they get something in return. I chuckle when I read the above passage from the Ash Wednesday gospel. Can you imagine some guy in the ancient world actually blowing a trumpet when he made a donation to his temple or synagogue? Just picture a slave puffing out his cheeks into a ram’s horn and then hearing his master proclaim, “I, Abrahm ben Jacob, am donating thirty thousand shekels to the temple’s building fund! Glory be to me and my great generosity!” I have to believe that if some rich slob really did such a thing, some other guy in the crowd would turn to his neighbor and say, “What a vain, self-important jerk that guy is!”

And yet, there are those who just love to blow their trumpet in one way or another. They’ll donate a million dollars to a hospital so they get a wing named in their honor, or a hundred thousand to a university to have a scholarship named after them. When I was interning at Grace Lutheran in Yorktown Heights, New York, the congregation started a massive million-dollar capital campaign to build a new church. Everyone pledged to help construct an appropriate space for the growing Christan community. Naturally, some people wanted to give special gifts for the worship appointments in the sanctuary, but the pastor made the stipulation that the gifts must be given out of love of the Lord alone. There were to be no bronze plaques or engravings to honor the givers. This project was to be completed for the glory of God and the spread of the Gospel. One couple, however, just couldn’t resist a little trumpet blowing. They generously donated the processional torches which flank the altar and escort the lectionary book on high festival occasions. On the underside of the drip cup[i], where no one would ever think to look and in very tiny letters, they had inscribed “Donated by Mr. & Mrs. Smith[ii] in honor of etc.” They didn’t exactly blow a trumpet. It was more like a kazoo, but they made their gift known.

Giving alms isn’t really giving alms if you get something in return. A gift is no gift if something is expected. It’s actually a transaction. When we are obedient to God, that obedience should be its own reward. Otherwise, we’re just making it about ourselves. Martin Luther[iii] always described sin as the soul curved in upon itself. It’s this selfishness we’re called to acknowledge on Ash Wednesday. We are only what Shakespeare called “this quintessence of dust.” Dust we are and to dust we will one day return. Glory belongs to God who formed us out of the dust of the earth. When we uncurl ourselves and stop blowing our trumpets, we’ll see clearly to appreciate the glory and graciousness of God.

I’m delighted that the congregation of Faith Lutheran has not had much of a brass section in terms of generosity. The most gracious gifts given by members of this church have usually been given very much on the q.t. Nevertheless, I’m feeling called to make a rather daring Lenten suggestion about our almsgiving. What if we designated every Lenten offering—not our Sunday or weekly offerings but the ones marked for Lent—as alms for the poor of our neighborhood? You see, in the past, Lenten offerings always were additional gifts which went into the church’s General Fund and were used for our operating expenses. This year, I would like to challenge us to give these offerings to the needy.

Yes. I know. We have a budget which is dangerously unbalanced and we need thousands of dollars to replace a superannuated boiler. But as Lent is a season of repentance, I would like to call the members of this congregation to repent from fear for our survival and believe that God will bless us and further our mission if we uncurl ourselves and look outward. We have an opportunity to make a material difference in the lives of individuals on our own doorstep. Admittedly, this is a risk, but the disciplines of Lent are intended to draw us into a deeper place of faith. Where our treasure is, there our hearts will be.

Do you know the legend of Saint Lawrence? He was a deacon in Rome back in the 3^rd century when the Emperor Valerian was persecuting Christians. Valerian liked to crucify and behead Christians. It was kind of his thing. Nevertheless, he’d heard of Lawrence’s charity to the poor, so he told the deacon he’s spare his life if he forked over the wealth of the church into his personal bank account. Lawrence agreed. He assembled before the emperor all the sick, the lame, the blind, and the destitute, and told Valerian, “These are the treasure of the church.”

May our hearts be with these treasures during this holy season.

I hope you got your ashes today. May God guide you through these forty days, and may they be a real blessing to your life!

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[i] The drip cup on a candle holder or processional torch is technically called a bobech. Bet you didn’t know that!

[ii] Obviously, Smith is not their real name.

[iii] BTW Luther’s Feast Day is today, Ash Wednesday, February 18^th. The great reformer and founder of our tradition passed away on this date in 1546 following a stroke. I’m just full of cool facts today, aren’t I?

The Glory of the Lord (Reflections on the Feast of the Transfiguration 2026)

 While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and a voice from the cloud said, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” (Matthew 17:5)

Glory. The dictionary tells us it can mean “high renown or honor won by notable achievement” or “magnificence or great beauty.” What does the glory of the Lord mean to you? Have you ever beheld anything of such great magnificence that it had you standing still as rock with your mouth hanging open?

I can recall vividly being a teenager standing on the lip of the Grand Canyon and thinking how water and ice were carving that ditch inch by inch for millions and millions of years long before anything like the upright monkeys we are ever appeared on this planet. A few years later I stood in the desert at Joshua Tree National Monument in California. As far as the eye could see there really wasn’t much of anything to look at, but the absence of any kind of man-made sound—the total silence of the place—was crushing and a little frightening. I imagine it must’ve been like the silence Elijah experienced on Mount Horeb which made him hide his face in his cloak[i].

Have you ever felt awe like that? I sometimes get the same feeling on a cloudless pre-dawn morning when I roll my recycle cart out to the curb. I look up at the stars and consider they’re so very far away and it has taken their light uncountable eons to reach the earth. The stars themselves might’ve burned out a million years ago, but the light would still be making its way across the emptiness of space to be perceived by my tiny brain. I also consider that, for all the stars I can see, there are so many billions out there which can only be observed from the middle of the ocean or from some rare points on earth’s surface not polluted by the artificial light we make down here. Did Moses feel that sense of God’s magnificence when he stood atop Mt. Sinai?[ii] Just thinking of the vastness of all God has made and the enormity of time itself makes me shudder with the knowledge of my own miniscule insignificance.

It’s no wonder the disciples who experienced the glory of God on the mountaintop with Jesus fell to the ground in fear. What are any of us compared to the wonder and mystery and might of God? But these lads who experienced something of which they were forbidden to speak—even assuming they could describe it—were given two other important instructions: Listen to Jesus, and don’t be afraid.

I don’t doubt the disciples had been feeling a little insecure given Jesus’ earlier prediction that he would go to Jerusalem and undergo persecution from the leaders of the people and then be put to death.[iii] I think Jesus needed to remind his most faithful friends and followers that whatever was about to occur—whatever pain and anguish the rulers of this sinful world were about to inflict—was nothing but a blink in God’s eye. The glory of the Lord is everlasting and so far beyond our imagining. It’s also far, far beyond the trouble of the present time. I wonder if Peter, James, and John, cowering in that locked room when the resurrected Christ appeared before them, said to themselves, “Of course Jesus is risen! Didn’t he reveal to us the glory of the Father on that mountaintop? What were we afraid of? Why did we doubt? Silly of us, wasn’t it?”

The Feast of the Transfiguration comes on the cusp of the holy season of Lent, a time of repentance and renewal when we in the Church remember our Lord’s Passion and our sinful nature which grieves the heart of God. It seems we don’t require much of a reminder as the nightly news keeps slapping us in the face with tales of violence, injustice, and corruption. It’s therefore important that we take this festival day to return to the mountaintop, to remind ourselves of the magnificence of the God we worship, and remember the God whose glory leaves us shaking in stupefied awe is also the God who loves us. Let the powers of this world, of sin, and of death do their worst. As the Psalmist says, “God whose throne is in heaven is laughing; the Lord holds them in derision.”[iv]

Listen to Jesus and don’t be afraid.

Thanks again for your time, my friend. Please leave me a comment and come visit me again.

 

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[i] 1 Kings 19:11-13

[ii] Exodus 24: 15-18

[iii] Matthew 16:21-23.

[iv] Psalm 2:4

Light and Salt (Reflections on Epiphany 5, Year A 2026)

 

“You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid.” (Matthew 5:14)

Once upon a long time ago in the ancient Mediterranean world, religion was something you did because everyone else was doing it. It worked to hold the tribe or the city state together. You had your own god or set of gods, you made a regular sacrifice at the local holy place, and you hoped your god would send you rain for your crops or fecundity for your livestock or—at the very least—wouldn’t decide to wipe out your whole community with a war or a flood or a plague.

Eventually, however, you came to realize that the gods really didn’t give a crap about you. Yeah, you made your sacrifice. Maybe they liked it. maybe they didn’t, but they were up on Mt. Olympus or wherever else gods hung out and didn’t have much time to interact with you. If you wanted insight into ethical behavior or the meaning of life or anything like that you might go to a philosopher, but your religion wasn’t going to help you out much. If the gods were in a bad mood, you were screwed and there wasn’t anything you could do about it. “As flies to wanton boys,” Shakespeare said, “are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.[i]”

Then along came the Jews, and they only worshiped one God. This God has some pretty strong opinions about what folks should or shouldn’t be up to. This God wasn’t as interested in ritual sacrifice as he was in how people treated each other. This God got in your face and reminded you that there are rules by which a society can work. Break these rules and things fall apart. So, some people started getting really serious about the rules but lost sight of why they were given.

Then along came a teacher named Jesus of Nazareth. He reminded us that the rules were there so we could learn to love one another. The Anglican bishop and religious scholar N.T. Wright summarized this very nicely:

"Jesus doesn't give an explanation for the pain and sorrow of the world. He comes where the pain is most acute and takes it upon himself. Jesus doesn't explain why there is suffering, illness, and death in the world. He brings healing and hope. He doesn't allow the problem of evil to be the subject of a seminar. He allows evil to do its worst to him. He exhausts it, drains its power, and emerges with new life." ~ N. T. Wright[ii]

Jesus got folks excited about his message. So excited, in fact, that within a generation of his crucifixion and resurrection people on three continents were worshipping him as their Lord and Savior. Why? Because it was clear to people that the Christians loved one another. They cared for the community. They shared what they had, and they believed in taking care of the poor and the stranger and those on the margins.

Can you imagine what it must have felt like for the average peasant to be told “You are the light of the world? You are the salt of the earth?” Not “you could be,” or “you should be,” but you are like light—a source of energy and joy and life. You are like salt—someone who brings flavor and preserves and enriches and is of great value. But your light and your value are not for you to horde and revel in. They’re for you to share with a hurting creation.

A city on a hill can’t be hidden. It can stand out as an example of how life and relationships ought to be. You want folks to look to the city and say, “Gosh. Those people have it going on. They’re so loving, so generous, and they always look really happy!” But because the city stands out, it can also be judged. If the city is one giant, rat-crawling slum—that will get noticed too. People will say. “Those guys have everything and they waste it. They’re small-minded and self-absorbed and hung up on their own stuff. Wouldn’t want to be like them.”

We all know that Christianity in America is changing. I hope we’re getting away from the idea that salvation is about going to Heaven when we die. Rather, it’s time we focus on bringing the Kingdom of Heaven to life here on earth. The old 19^th century reformers wanted to reach out to the dark places of society, to the down and out, and bring the hopeless and the destitute salvation. They opened missions and offered soup and a sermon. I’d suggest that today the soup is the sermon. We who have the gift of Jesus—we who are the light and the salt—are called to be in the places of greatest need. We don’t go armed with doctrine but with generosity and enough love to meet the needs of others.

If we let our light shine through our good works people will see it and they’ll get the idea.

 

[i] The blinded Earl of Gloucester says this in King Lear act 4 sc. 1 in case you’re interested.

[ii] Unfortunately, I don’t know the exact source of this quote. I found it here: https://www.azquotes.com/author/15971-N_T_Wright Sometimes you just have to trust the internet.