Giving Caesar the Things of God (Reflections on Pentecost 21, Year A 2026)

Then he said to them, “Whose head is this and whose title?” They answered him, “Caesar’s.” Then he said to them, “Give therefore to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and to God the things that are God’s.” (Matthew 22:20-21)

I keep noticing that our Lord rarely gives a direct answer, even to a question as straight forward as the righteousness of paying taxes. His answer to the scheming Pharisees in the gospel reading for Pentecost 21, Year A in the Revised Common Lectionary (Matthew 22:15-22) has to make us ask, “But what really is Caesar’s and what is God’s? Are the two always mutually exclusive?” Admittedly, not every religious question is a matter of public policy, but isn’t every matter of public policy a religious question because ultimately everything is a religious question?

I know. Some people just don’t want to hear about politics in church any more than others want to hear religion in their politics. But sometimes the church and state collide. Sometimes the best way to give to Caesar is to remember everything belongs to God.

A recent news event here in the U.S. has brought to mind an example of what I mean. As you may know, it has been announced that the perpetrator of the mass shooting at Ft. Hood, Texas in 2009, a crime which took the lives of thirteen individuals and wounded thirty-two others, is scheduled to be executed in December. I don’t want to discuss here the rights or wrongs of capital punishment or livestreaming of the execution except to say I am morally opposed to both. What I want to do is share an example of a moment when what Luther called the Kingdoms of the Right and Left Hands—the church and the state—came together in an appropriate way.

I remember my wife and daughter and I were going out to dinner on the night news of the Ft. Hood shooting broke. Earlier that year my daughter Sandra, at age 34 and feeling that being a senior systems analyst for a major television network was not a sufficient contribution to society, had joined the United States Army Reserve as an enlisted soldier. Sometime during the evening, she received a text from a friend in her unit telling her the Ft. Hood shooter had been captured. Sandra exclaimed with disbelief, “It’s a f------g officer!” I think her mother and I both realized at that moment that whenever a young person puts on the uniform of our country, death and injury can come in so many different and unexpected ways. There needn’t be a war.

Some weeks later, in November, I was on my rounds as a volunteer chaplain at the Delaware Valley Veterans Home. I passed through the large activities room as many of the veterans watched the live broadcast of the Ft. Hood memorial service on a large screen projector television. I stopped to watch, and I was arrested by the way one of the army chaplains, Colonel Michael Lemke, an ELCA pastor, led the invocation.

The memorial was an outdoor event. As such, the uniform of the day was the ACU—the camouflage army combat uniform. I always thought that, as a rule, soldiers were not to embellish their dress, but Chaplain Lemke had draped a tippet over his camouflage. A tippet is a long, black, scarf-like vestment similar to the stole worn around the neck of the officiant. It is unique to the Anglican denomination, but I’ve learned that, on U.S. Army bases, Lutherans and Episcopalians often have chapel together. This breach of sartorial regulations said two things to me. First, Chaplain Lemke was there in his capacity as a pastor. This may have been an official U.S. Army ceremony, but it was also church. It was a holy moment, and God was present. Second, the black tippet served as a mourning shroud, its blackness expressing the grief and pain of the community.

The chaplain’s dress was not his only breach of army tradition that day. When Pastor Lemke read the names of those who had been killed, he read only their given names. No ranks. No surnames. The military, by using exclusively ranks and surnames, purposely removes the soldier’s individuality. Pastor Lemke, however, observed the tradition of the Church in which all are remembered and prayed for only by the name given them at baptism—the name known and spoken by their parents, spouses, siblings, and friends. As he slowly read the names—“Juanita. Michael. John”—the dead became people and not merely victims. Listening to these names spoken aloud, I felt the enormity of the tragedy. I felt the humanity. I looked around the hall, and I could feel the veterans were feeling it too.

Shortly thereafter I wrote Pastor Lemke a letter telling him how much I appreciated the way he’d handled the ceremony and how his piety and respect of for liturgical tradition had moved the veterans at Delaware Valley. He phoned me at my church office and thanked me for the letter. “It means a lot,” he said. “More than you know.” We chatted for a while and discovered we’d both studied at the same seminary. He told me he would soon be reassigned and deployed to the Middle East. I told him my daughter was slated to be deployed soon too. He told me his daughter would soon start her studies at the Lutheran Theological Seminary at Philadelphia, and we promised to pray for each other’s daughters.

When I remember that ceremony at Ft. Hood, I remind myself how much it matters that we are the Church. The best way we can give to Caesar is to offer him the things of God.

God bless you, my friend. Keep giving the things of God. The world needs what you offer.

 Then he said to them, “Whose head is this and whose title?” They answered him, “Caesar’s.” Then he said to them, “Give therefore to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and to God the things that are God’s.” (Matthew 22:20-21)

I keep noticing that our Lord rarely gives a direct answer, even to a question as straight forward as the righteousness of paying taxes. His answer to the scheming Pharisees in the gospel reading for Pentecost 21, Year A in the Revised Common Lectionary (Matthew 22:15-22) has to make us ask, “But what really is Caesar’s and what is God’s? Are the two always mutually exclusive?” Admittedly, not every religious question is a matter of public policy, but isn’t every matter of public policy a religious question because ultimately everything is a religious question?

I know. Some people just don’t want to hear about politics in church any more than others want to hear religion in their politics. But sometimes the church and state collide. Sometimes the best way to give to Caesar is to remember everything belongs to God.

A recent news event here in the U.S. has brought to mind an example of what I mean. As you may know, it has been announced that the perpetrator of the mass shooting at Ft. Hood, Texas in 2009, a crime which took the lives of thirteen individuals and wounded thirty-two others, is scheduled to be executed in December. I don’t want to discuss here the rights or wrongs of capital punishment or livestreaming of the execution except to say I am morally opposed to both. What I want to do is share an example of a moment when what Luther called the Kingdoms of the Right and Left Hands—the church and the state—came together in an appropriate way.

I remember my wife and daughter and I were going out to dinner on the night news of the Ft. Hood shooting broke. Earlier that year my daughter Sandra, at age 34 and feeling that being a senior systems analyst for a major television network was not a sufficient contribution to society, had joined the United States Army Reserve as an enlisted soldier. Sometime during the evening, she received a text from a friend in her unit telling her the Ft. Hood shooter had been captured. Sandra exclaimed with disbelief, “It’s a f------g officer!” I think her mother and I both realized at that moment that whenever a young person puts on the uniform of our country, death and injury can come in so many different and unexpected ways. There needn’t be a war.

Some weeks later, in November, I was on my rounds as a volunteer chaplain at the Delaware Valley Veterans Home. I passed through the large activities room as many of the veterans watched the live broadcast of the Ft. Hood memorial service on a large screen projector television. I stopped to watch, and I was arrested by the way one of the army chaplains, Colonel Michael Lemke, an ELCA pastor, led the invocation.

The memorial was an outdoor event. As such, the uniform of the day was the ACU—the camouflage army combat uniform. I always thought that, as a rule, soldiers were not to embellish their dress, but Chaplain Lemke had draped a tippet over his camouflage. A tippet is a long, black, scarf-like vestment similar to the stole worn around the neck of the officiant. It is unique to the Anglican denomination, but I’ve learned that, on U.S. Army bases, Lutherans and Episcopalians often have chapel together. This breach of sartorial regulations said two things to me. First, Chaplain Lemke was there in his capacity as a pastor. This may have been an official U.S. Army ceremony, but it was also church. It was a holy moment, and God was present. Second, the black tippet served as a mourning shroud, its blackness expressing the grief and pain of the community.

The chaplain’s dress was not his only breach of army tradition that day. When Pastor Lemke read the names of those who had been killed, he read only their given names. No ranks. No surnames. The military, by using exclusively ranks and surnames, purposely removes the soldier’s individuality. Pastor Lemke, however, observed the tradition of the Church in which all are remembered and prayed for only by the name given them at baptism—the name known and spoken by their parents, spouses, siblings, and friends. As he slowly read the names—“Juanita. Michael. John”—the dead became people and not merely victims. Listening to these names spoken aloud, I felt the enormity of the tragedy. I felt the humanity. I looked around the hall, and I could feel the veterans were feeling it too.

Shortly thereafter I wrote Pastor Lemke a letter telling him how much I appreciated the way he’d handled the ceremony and how his piety and respect of for liturgical tradition had moved the veterans at Delaware Valley. He phoned me at my church office and thanked me for the letter. “It means a lot,” he said. “More than you know.” We chatted for a while and discovered we’d both studied at the same seminary. He told me he would soon be reassigned and deployed to the Middle East. I told him my daughter was slated to be deployed soon too. He told me his daughter was about to start her studies at the Lutheran Theological Seminary at Philadelphia, and we promised to pray for each other’s children.

When I remember that ceremony at Ft. Hood, I remind myself how much it matters that we are the Church. The best way we can give to Caesar is to offer him the things of God.

God bless you, my friend. Keep giving the things of God. The world needs what you offer.

Come Dressed for the Party (Reflections on Pentecost 20, year A 2026)

 

I don’t know about you, but I love weddings. I guess it’s because I officiate so many funerals as part of my ministry that when I get the chance to perform a wedding ceremony, I start grinning like a six-year-old on Christmas morning. I even have my own special “wedding garment.” I have a clergy shirt with French cuffs and a rabat vest. I get a haircut and shine my shoes, too. My wife tells me I don’t have to dress up because, “nobody’s looking at you.” Nevertheless, I really enjoy sprucing up for a wedding. It’s one of the very few times people in our culture of casual indifference bother to make an effort. I want this occasion to be as special as possible, so I dress to honor the bride and groom and their families.

The guests invited to the wedding in the parable Jesus tells us in the Revised Common Lectionary gospel reading for Pentecost 20, Year A (Matthew 22:1-14) aren’t quite so thrilled. They’re not even casually indifferent to the invitation—they’re openly hostile to it and kill the slaves who bring it! Of course, it’s not too much of a stretch to say that Matthew is alluding to both prophets and Christian proselytizers who had been martyred for proclaiming the gospel where it wasn’t welcomed. Bible scholars also think the reference to the city the enraged king burns (v.7) is a reminder of how the temple of Jerusalem was destroyed. But if the King’s own subjects won’t come to a banquet in honor of his Son, then he tells his servants to invite everyone and anyone else—the good and the bad. Let’ em all come!

To many this invitation to Christ's banquet comes as a very welcome surprise, so they come in the spirit of celebration just as we might go to a friend’s wedding. There’s a sense of joy because this invitation is just so darn good. It’s an invitation to fellowship, forgiveness, meaning, and eternal life. That’s worth a haircut and a shoeshine, don’t you think?

There are, however, a few like the poor soul in the parable who treat it like it’s Casual Friday. They won’t refuse the invitation, but they won’t make a fuss over it either. They know they’ve been invited so they’ll be happy to snack on the lobster croquettes and drink at the open bar, but they show up in shorts and flip-flops. They’ve confessed Jesus, so they’re good to go. Church on Christmas and Easter or at weddings and funerals if necessary.

They’re still invited, of course. The church has no dress code. We have no rules about mandatory attendance or the amount of your offering or participation. There’s no threat of excommunication if you’re leading a life which is less than honest, kind, or generous. If you cheat on your spouse or cheat your employees or if you’re a racist or a homophobe we still offer you forgiveness.

But, as the old saying goes, that which is cheaply bought is cheaply esteemed. Our salvation is always a free invitation, but discipleship comes with a cover charge. We will benefit from our Christian life by what we are willing to invest in it.

Our wedding garment is our response to God’s invitation. Saint Paul wrote, “As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ.[i]” In Romans he tells us to “put on the armor of light” and to “put on Jesus Christ[ii].” As a clergy person I, of course, have the benefit of wearing my Christian “uniform.” People see me in my vestments or my black clothes and clergy collar and assume I am a follower of Jesus. But, when I take them off, how can I wear Christ? I have to ask myself, “Am I clothed in righteousness?” is my life daily one of gratitude, love, kindness, generosity, and hunger for greater knowledge of my faith? Do I strengthen myself through an active time of prayer? Do I see the wonders of God all around me and live a life of appreciation in response?

Can you think of anyone in your life whom you knew to be clothed in Christ? I thought recently of Marlene Miller, a long-time saint of my congregation who passed away several years ago. She had been born with a condition which threatened to take her life before she’d be old enough to graduate from high school. In spite of this, she lived into her fifties but spent much of her adult life in hospitals and died from a massive brain bleed. The last time I saw her she was in a nursing home. She was bedridden, losing her eyesight and her memory, and was bruised terribly from IV needles. The last words she ever spoke to me—spoken honestly without sarcasm, rancor, or self-pity—were, “God sure is good, isn’t he?”

I feel for the casual Christian who finds themselves confronted by a family catastrophe or a devastating diagnosis and asks, “Why is God doing this to me?” but has no spiritual practice or theology or faith community from which to draw strength. For that person there will be darkness and wailing and gnashing of teeth.

God invites us to the wedding feast. Let’s come dressed in Christ Jesus, dressed in our best selves. And let’s come to party.

God bless you, my friend.

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[i] Galatians 3:27

[ii] See Romans 13:12-14

The Wicked Tenants (Reflections on Pentecost 19, Year A 2026)

 

Have you ever been a landlord or rented out an Air B&B or let a friend (or your adult kid) stay in your house for an extended period? If you have, you know how tricky the landlord/tenant relationship can be. For Pentecost 19, Year A in the RCL we get this pretty violent story some have called “The Parable of the Wicked Tenants.” (Matthew 21: 33-46) At Faith Lutheran here in Philadelphia, we have several different groups of tenants. We have six AA meetings each week, a senior citizen’s group on Wednesday afternoons, and a support group for families dealing with addiction which meets once a month. All we ask is that the tenants treat our little corner of God’s vineyard with respect, clean up after themselves, and give us a small donation to help keep the lights on.

Our Seventh Day Adventist Friends who use the church building on Saturdays aren’t exactly wicked, but some of my folks complain because the Adventists keep moving our stuff and never put it back in the right place. They’ve also installed all manner of electronic gadgets around the worship space without asking our permission. But, hey!, They’re our brothers and sisters in Christ, and we’re not about to throw them out (or put them to a miserable death!).

The tenants in Jesus’ parable don’t get treated so well, even though their landlord shows a surprising gift for tolerance of their wicked behavior. They are thieves who don’t respect the covenant they’ve made even though the landlord has provided generously for them. When called upon to surrender payment they turn to violence. They murder the landlord’s son, possibly thinking he’s come because his Old Man has died. With the heir out of the way, they can claim squatters’ rights to the property. But, when his son is killed, the landlord will summon the authorities and take his vineyard back by force, slaughtering the ones who have misused it and leasing it to others more worthy.

It’s really tempting for us, as we read this story in the context of Matthew’s gospel, to allegorize the tale and see the vineyard as God’s kingdom (especially since the story is paired in our lectionary with the reading from Isaiah 5:1-7, which explicitly compares the vineyard to the house of Israel), the wicked tenants as the Jews, and the future worthy tenants as good Christian folks like us. We can read this and say, Sorry, Jews. You guys screwed up. You killed Jesus and now we’re God’s favorite people (Nyah!).

Okay. Maybe that interpretation is more than a little antisemitic. Of course, we could then say our Roman Catholic brothers and sisters missed the boat with all those indulgences and whatnot, and now the kingdom belongs to Protestants (specifically Lutherans!). But neither of these “us-versus-them” interpretations are particularly instructive or spiritual (They’re not historically accurate, either! Our Jewish and Catholic friends seem to be getting along just fine and are still every bit God’s children just as we are.).

So? What’s this about? I think it’s helpful when we read the Bible to imagine a couple of things. First, we need to put ourselves in the place of the writer or the community to whom he was writing. I think it’s very likely that Matthew was not only allegorizing Jesus’ parable, but also the context in which Jesus tells the parable. By the time Matthew got around to writing his gospel (sometime between 80 and 90 CE), the Jerusalem temple was long destroyed and the priests and Pharisees who opposed Jesus were likely dead too. The folks to whom Matthew wrote were, we think, a community of Jewish Christians in Antioch or some place in Syria. They were trying to sort out their own identity as both Jews and Christians, and it’s not hard to imagine some squabbles breaking out.  Matthew may have been saying to the leaders of that community, Dudes! Remember what happened to the priests and Pharisees in Jesus’ day? Same could happen to you if you’re not producing the kind of fruit Jesus asks of us.

Secondly, whenever we read one of Jesus’ parables, I think it’s useful to cast ourselves in the role of the least likable person in the story. Who are the wicked tenants? We are. In the story the landlord has provided a truly first-class vineyard. He’s given the tenants everything they’ll need to live and be well. He didn’t stiff them, and he’s excruciatingly patient when they stiff him (I’d have sent the troops in after they beat and killed the first group pf slaves!). The parable holds up a mirror to the sin of ingratitude. God provides for me and forgives me every day, and I get my shorts in a bunch when my desktop printer goes on the fritz!

The tenants aren’t just ungrateful. They’re also selfish. They want to keep all the grapes for themselves, forgetting they don’t own the vineyard. We don’t either. Everything we have is from God.

The good news, of course, is that the landlord will find new tenants for his land. If you’ve been keeping up with what’s going on in the Christian world, you’ll notice that American churches are emptying out like a flushing commode—and let’s not even get started on the churches in Europe. Nevertheless, churches in Asia and the global south (Latin America and Africa) are filling up. God’s word is still active. Rather than lament the loss of a once-central religious culture in our land, we should be rejoicing that others are experiencing the love and joy of Christ.

I see this parable as being about more than crime and punishment. It’s an invitation to every Christian to experience gratitude, the joy of living for others, and a reminder that God is always active in mysterious and wonderful ways.

Be hopeful, my friend. God isn’t done yet—not by a long shot. Thanks for visiting this week!

 

Don't Trust Authority (Reflections on Pentecost 18, Year A 2026)

 

When he entered the temple, the chief priests and the elders of the people came to him as he was teaching and said, “By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority?” (Matthew 21:23)

It was April 30, 1992. I left my home in the North Hollywood neighborhood of Los Angeles very early that morning because one of the worst civil disturbances in American history had broken out in the city the night before. The school where I was teaching was all the way down in the Harbor area, and I’d been advised to circumnavigate around my usual commuter route and avoid the parts of the city where the violence had broken out. Traffic was light, and I arrived in Harbor City so early I found I had time for a quick breakfast at a Denny’s. I brought with me the latest Book of the Month Club selection, Hitler: The Path to Power by Charles Bracelen Flood[i].

As I was in line at the register to pay my bill, the elderly gentleman standing behind me noticed der Fuhrer’s picture on the dust jacket of the book and said to me in his slight German accent, “I see you’ve brought the right book for this morning.” The old fellow explained to me that he had been born in Germany and had fled the country when the Nazis came to power. He told me there were many in his native land who were uncomfortable with a republic-style government and actually wanted a dictator to sort out the chaos. In times of confusion and unrest, such as we in L.A. were experiencing that morning, people don’t want to think for themselves. They’re much more comfortable being told what to do by someone with authority.

The question of authority is central in the gospel lesson for Pentecost 19, Year A in the RCL (Matthew 21:23-32). The elders of the people ask Jesus where his authority comes from. He might have just as easily asked them where their authority came from. Like the Germans the old gentleman at the Denny’s told me about, some people want the Church to have authority. They want everything to be black or white, good or bad. Just tell us what’s right and what’s wrong, they say. Denominations with strict rules are always popular. No drinking, no gambling, no smoking, no dancing, no pre-marital sex, no abortion, no same-gender relationships, no Halloween costumes, no reading Harry Potter books, etc. You get the idea. Religion is easy when the Church lays down the rules and tells you how to think.

But a curious thing about Jesus is he rarely uses his authority so directly. He rarely gives a straight answer when questioned. He often turns the question back on the questioner and makes them figure it out for themselves. He answers what appear to be simple questions with clever stories. He confuses Nicodemus and the woman at the well. When John the Baptist’s disciples ask him point blank if he’s the Messiah, he doesn’t say yes or no. He tells them to report what they’ve seen him do, and then do the math[ii]. He certainly has no intention of discussing his authority with the elders in Matthew 21. They wouldn’t believe him anyway.

I would say the Church’s authority comes from the Scriptures, and the Scriptures’ authority comes from what they tell us about Jesus Christ. And his authority comes not from what he says (profound as it is), but from what he does. Jesus welcomes the stranger. He pardons the sinner. He gives food to the hungry. He heals the sick. He defends the vulnerable. He is the embodiment of sacrificial love and gives up his life on the cross. And, by defeating death, he inspires us to hope and charity.

If the Church is to have any authority, it must come from doing the work of Jesus. I may have all the right answers to the theological questions, but I so often find myself asking at the end of the day, “Did I serve the Lord today? Did I do the works of God?”

I’m a Baby Boomer. I grew up in a time when we all wanted to challenge authority. I guess the first son in Jesus’ parable is like that too. He doesn’t want a dictator. If the Old Man tells him to go to work in the vineyard, he’s not about to grab his tools and head outside without thinking about it first. Yet, somehow, he changed his mind. I guess he realized the grapes needed to be tended, and that pruning the vines would be in everyone’s best interest. His decision didn’t come from an outside authority, but from the promptings of his heart.

 Many of my generation (and almost all of subsequent generations) weren’t about to blindly accept Christianity just because our parents told us to. But, in our own time, some of us changed our minds and found our way back into the Church. We found faith, not dogma. Jesus wouldn’t want us to be blind, mindless followers. He’d want us to have the fulness of faith—a faith which comes from questioning, doubting, and ultimately doing.

Let’s just keep doing the work Jesus taught us: forgiving, healing, feeding, caring, and loving. That’s where the true authority lies.

Thanks so much for visiting my blog this week. I hope these thoughts were meaningful to you. Please let me know if there’s something you’d like me to write about. God bless you this week!

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[i] Hitler: The Path to Power by Charles Bracelen Flood (Houghton Mifflin, 1989). Actually, a pretty interesting book. It explores a little of the dynamics my fellow diner was telling me about.

[ii] See John chapters 3 & 4 and Luke chapter 7.

The Hand of Loss (Reflections on the 25th Anniversary of 9/11)

 

This post isn’t a meditation on a Sunday pericope lesson. The opinions expressed are, once again, those of your Old Religious Guy and not those of the ELCA or my congregation. This is just something I felt I wanted to share.

A week ago, America observed the 25^th anniversary of the 9/11 terror attacks. It seems a bit odd to me that we’d even want to hold a Silver Jubilee for an event so god-awful, shocking and traumatizing, but I think it’s always important that we remember tragedies if for no other reason than to reconnect with our shared sense of humanity.

It’s hard for me to recall exactly what I felt on that day. I wasn’t living in Manhattan, and I had no personal connection to any of the nearly 3,000 human beings who lost their lives that September morning. Nevertheless, I still feel that the hand of that day has been laid on the shoulder of every American and rests there still.

The day started with a sense of joyful expectation. It was the first day of a week-long vacation. My wife, Marilyn, and I were packing for a trip to the Rocking Horse Ranch Resort in Highland, New York for a week of trail riding, dancing, and relaxing. The sky was bright blue, the temperature was pleasant, and everything seemed right with the world when a news flash on WXTU radio announced a plane had struck the World Trade Center. We switched on the TV in time to see the second plane smash into the other tower in a burst of flame and black smoke. We learned later that one of Marilyn’s cousins was at work in the World Trade Center when the plane hit the first tower. He was able to escape safely but experienced the trauma of seeing others leap to their deaths rather than burn in the flames.

Our vacation was over. The highways to New York were choked closed. Emergency use only.

There was a prayer vigil that night at Saint Luke’s United Church of Christ, one of the congregations in my ministerium, but I didn’t attend. I doubted any of my parishioners would be there, thinking that I was away. Just as well. I didn’t think I had any words for them anyway. I was still stupefied after hearing President Bush’s announcement, “We are at war.” Having grown up in the shadow of Vietnam, all I could think was, “No. Not again.”

The following Sunday, having called off the supply preacher, I appeared before my congregation. The nave was full—more full than usual and eerily silent. Ginnie, an elderly saint, gripped my arm and said, “We knew you’d come back for us, Pastor.” I have no idea what I said on that day.

On September 14^th all houses of worship in the United States were requested by President Bush to hold mid-day prayer vigils. At  Faith Lutheran we sat mostly in silence, offering up only a few spoken prayers for God’s mercy on the United States and on our young people in uniform who would be called on to avenge this horrible tragedy.

I’ve looked back at my journal of that period and saw an entry from September 24th: “On the Sunday after the attack Marilyn and I went to the Lulu Shrine Rodeo. I couldn’t imagine anything more American than a rodeo. When ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ played and the cowgirls carried the American flag into the arena I wept like a child. I feel both love and grief and fear for what a war in Afghanistan could mean to this nation.”

If you were around in those times, you’ll certainly recall the great spirit of solidarity which washed over our nation and flooded out all the petty things which often divide us. My own contribution was to make a call to my friend and seminary neighbor Khader El-Yateem, the pastor of Salam Arabic Church in Brooklyn. I worried that anti-Muslim rage might spill over and pose a danger to the Arab Christians of Khader’s congregation. He thanked me for my call and assured me he and his flock were okay. “We are under police protection,” he said.

Some months later, through the influence of one of her friends, Marilyn and I were privileged to meet the country singer Alan Jackson and thank him for the anthem he composed in response to the terror attacks, “Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning?” I’ve always felt that particular song expressed as well as anything the poignancy of that time:

Did you weep for the children who lost their dear loved ones

And pray for the ones who don't know?

Did you rejoice for the people who walked from the rubble

And sob for the ones left below?

Did you burst out with pride for the red, white and blue

And the heroes who died just doing what they do?

Did you look up to heaven for some kind of answer

And look at yourself and what really matters?[i]

I was most struck by Jackson’s lyric “Did you go to a church and hold hands with some stranger?” I felt the song struck the right tone, reminding us of own fragility. I think we all understood that message in those days. The aftermath of tragedy saw a surge of humanity, patriotism, and forbearance. The worst of times brought out the best in us.

Unfortunately, like Camelot, the shining moment was all too brief. After U.S. troops, with the aid of our allies, defeated the Taliban, Bush decided—unnecessarily, unjustly, and deceitfully—to invade Iraq. The spirit which had united Americans dissolved in controversy again.

Unlike my wife, I have no close association with the sorrow of 9/11; nevertheless, I feel the loss of two things. My stepdaughter joined the U.S. Army Reserve in 2009 and was deployed to Qatar as part of Operation Iraqi Freedom. She has not been the same since. I grieve privately for her and for her mother.

I also grieve that brief spirit of togetherness when we could mourn and console ourselves as a nation, and when other nations came selflessly to our aid. If the Iraq war didn’t completely destroy America’s credibility, the events of recent years have certainly finished the job. I believe the license used by Bush to invade Iraq put out the welcome mat for Trump’s equally deceitful, illegal and unnecessary war in Iran. Now that the war powers toothpaste is out of the tube, it may be impossible to jam it back in. An entire generation of our citizens, unborn and unbegot on September 11, 2001, will still have the hand of that horrible day pressing on their shoulders.

 

[i] For all the lyrics to this ballad, click here.

Forgiving Our Debts (Reflections on Pentecost 16, Year A 2026)

 

“So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.” (Matthew 18:35)

I really love the collect for Pentecost 16, Year A in the Evangelical Lutheran Worship book:

“O Lord God, merciful judge, you are the inexhaustible fountain of forgiveness. Replace our hearts of stone with hearts that love and adore you, that we may delight in doing your will.”

That’s so cool that God’s love is an “inexhaustible fountain” which makes us find “delight” in doing what God wants us to do. Granted, we don’t always find delight in obedience to God. Forgiveness, the subject of the gospel lesson for Pentecost 16 (Matthew 18:21-35), is something we sometimes have to do through gritted teeth.

In Jesus’ parable of the “Unforgiving Servant,” we see a rich guy—probably some kind of landowner or taxing authority—and his servant or slave or serf or something. The slave owes the boss money. Lots of money. Like twenty years’ salary worth of money. He’ll be dead before he can pay off this note. Jesus doesn’t tell us how the guy got so deep into the hole. He may have been the victim of predatory lending, he may have just been a doofus with money, or he may have gambled himself into the crapper. All we know is he owes way more than he can pay, and he comes groveling and whining before his lord, begging for more time.

Then the lord does something rather unexpected for the uber wealthy. He puts aside his rapacious greed, feels sorry for the poor slob, and forgives him the entire debt! I’ll bet the folks listening to Jesus said to each other, “Yeah! Like that would ever happen!” In the world of this text debt slavery was an everyday occurrence. A debtor could be sold if he was a slave or tossed in the clink for non-payment if he was a freeman. And that was not just in Jesus’ time. That stuff still goes on all over the world—even in the United States.

If you’ve ever had a big debt like a student loan or a mortgage or even a car loan, you know how good it feels when you finally get out from under it. When you make that last payment on the once maxed-out VISA card, you feel like you’ve just lost forty pounds and you want to go skipping down the avenue whistling “Zippi Dee Do Dah.”

But not this guy. Oh no. Now that he’s debt free, he wants to start spending all over again. He finds one of his buddies who owes him a few bucks. He was probably acting like a big shot by loaning the guy money he’d borrowed from their landed master in the first place. Now, instead of chilling out and being grateful to have his life back again, he chucks his buddy into debtors’ prison when the other guy can’t pay. Some fellow serfs see this as a really mean-spirited act, so they snitch on the unforgiving serf to the lord, who, disgusted by the guy’s lack of either gratitude or compassion, has him jailed until he can pay off his original debt (which he probably can’t do).

(Just for fun, the Greek here literally reads, “And being angry, his lord delivered him up to the tormentors until he should pay all that was owing to him.” The Greek word for “tormentors” is basanistais, which could also be translated as “jailors.” I guess jailors in Jesus’ time were pretty rough dudes. Basically, the serf was handed over to the collection agency.)

In the Greek of Matthew’s gospel the word for debt (opheile) is interchangeable with wrong, sin, or guilt. Hence, in Matthew 6:12, Jesus tells us to pray that God will forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. I guess we’ve substituted the word “trespass” in our liturgical use of the Lord’s Prayer because trespassing is crossing a line which ought not to be crossed. It doesn’t carry with it the financial connotation of the word “debt.” Nevertheless, in Jesus’ day, any wrongdoing—weather it was to God or anyone else—was an obligation for which one would have to atone or pay off. To forgive an injury would be to release someone from that obligation or cancel their debt. And sometimes we just want people to pay up.

I always like to ask which character we identify with in this parable. Are we the ungrateful, unempathetic, self-involved debtor? Are we the uncharacteristically generous but ultimately judgmental lord? (One can be both, you know.) Are we the servant whose small debt has landed him in big trouble? Are we the self-righteous snitches who talk against someone instead of talking to them?

One thing’s for sure: we’re probably not Jesus. We might, however, be Simon Peter who asked Jesus the question about forgiveness in the first place. You have to wonder if Peter was getting to his last nerves with someone and just wanted to know where the red line would be before he didn’t have to forgive but could cold cock the guy.

Jesus has to teach him there is no red line. We are to forgive. Period. Like the serf in the parable, we all have been forgiven debts we could never repay on our own. We need to bathe in that inexhaustible fountain of God’s mercy and find the delight which comes from obedience to God’s will. Forgiveness does not depend on the contrition of the wrongdoer. It depends on the heart of the one who is wronged. Jesus told us what we loose on earth will be loosed in Heaven, but what we bind on earth will be bound in Heaven. When we fail to learn the delight of forgiveness, we are delivered up to the tormentor. And the tormentor is ourselves.

May you find delight in the will of God this week, my friend. Thank you for reading. Leave a note and let me know you were here, okay?

Don't be a Jerk (Reflections on Pentecost 15, Year A 2026)

 

As I live, says the Lord God, I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked but that the wicked turn from their ways and live. (Ezekeil 33:11a)

Don’t be a jerk.

I could end this essay with the above sentence. As I read through the lessons in the Revised Common Lectionary for Pentecost 15 Year A[i], I can’t help but notice they’re all about doing the right thing and getting along with folks—even folks who treat you like crap. The lessons the Church gives us for this Sunday in Ordinary Time are simply reminders to behave ourselves as if we’ve actually heard the gospel and not to lower ourselves to the standards of those who’ve hurt our feelings or oppose us in some way.

Just don’t be a jerk. It’s a simple phrase, but it’s pretty hard to follow in practice. We’re all sinners in a sinful world. In Moses’ day the answer to sin was simply to execute those who committed it. It’s like he thought, “There are going to be fewer but better Hebrews.” I guess you can see where the problem lies with that line of thinking. The followers of Jesus weren’t so quick to impose capital punishment, but they sometimes had to resort to excommunication. It was better to kick out the troublemakers. The idea was those who had doctrinal differences or who chickened out and denied Jesus or who were just plain pains in the butt might someday repent and be allowed back into the community. After all, it’s kind of hard to show contrition once you’re dead. A little time alone could make them reconsider their behavior.

We in the Church today aren’t that big on threatening excommunication. Okay. I know. The Roman Catholic Church still blocks folks from the communion rail for divorce and remarriage, but they don’t forbid them from attending mass. By and large more Christians simply walk away from the Church than get thrown out.

Church discipline might not be such a big deal for my peeps here at tiny Faith Lutheran of Northeast Philadelphia. We all seem to get along rather well. Nevertheless, Jesus is trying to teach us in this gospel reading the right way to go about resolving differences. In this time of hyper polarization in America, disagreements can flare into arguments, and political discussions can ignite fistfights. People stop talking to members of their own family. We’d be well advised to practice what our Lord teaches us.

The first—and most important if you ask me—bit of instruction Jesus gives us is to deal with conflict privately (v.15). If you’ve got a beef with someone, it’s not the classy thing to do to chew them out in front of others, or talk about them behind their backs, or post your outrage on social media. Go to the other person when the two of you are alone. If that doesn’t work, Jesus says to talk to the offender in the presence of one or two others. I should explain Jesus is talking here about discipline within the Christian community. In the context of our gospel lesson, you can’t boot somebody out of the church on just one person’s say-so. Jesus is probably referencing the Old Testament rule against putting anyone to death on the word of just one witness.[ii]

In this world where we spend chunks of our lives with our noses pressed to the screens of our mobile phones, it’s not a bad idea to learn how to talk to somebody one-on-one again. I heard a podcast[iii] recently which gave me some pointers on how to do this.

The first tip is stop, look, and listen. Ask yourself, “Who am I in the other guy’s story? An accuser? An uninformed nincompoop who needs to be put right? Somebody who has committed an offense? A threat?” The important thing is not to be defensive. You’re not trying to “win.” You’re trying to reconcile. Just listen first.

Step two: Without scorn or sarcasm repeat the other person’s point of view as you understand it. What is the value they’re articulating? You can say something like, “Clearly such-and-such value is important to you, and I’ve let you feel I don’t respect it.”

Thirdly, if you can get to a point of agreement on something, you might be able to get your friend to question their own position. You can try a little Socratic questioning. “Do you really believe I don’t care about (whatever it is)?” “Would you agree/disagree with this policy had a politician of the other party done/said this same thing?”

Finally, you don’t ever want to walk away mad. If the conversation gets too heated, you can tell the other person, “I value our relationship more than I value winning this debate.” You don’t have to get scolded or yelled at. You can walk away. Just don’t ghost the other person. Always leave the door open for reconciliation. Jesus never gave up on us. We shouldn’t give up on each other.

Ezekiel teaches us we have a duty to speak truth to one another. Paul reminds us not to repay evil with more evil. Jesus hung on the cross to forgive all of us.

So don’t be a jerk.

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[i] Ezekeil 33:7-11, Psalm 119:33-40, Romans 13:8-14, Matthew 18:15-20

[ii] Deuteronomy 17:6.

[iii] No. I don’t remember which podcast. I’ll admit this is plagiarism, but I don’t remember from whom I’m stealing. When you get to be my age, you forget what you’ve had for breakfast most days.