HOMILY: "Keep It Close"

Sunday, November 30, 2025
Community Church of Durham
Isaiah 43 (The 1st Sunday of Deep Advent)

1.

Baptism 2025

So I’m assuming that some of you, many of you, have been part of our very special celebrations this past month. Celebrations that have, in many ways, lifted the old roof off this sanctuary and released into the universe all kinds of gratitude and grace. You were here two weeks ago for David Ervin’s concert, with a magnificent musical community joining the beloved church community in shared testimony to the power not just of music, but of collaboration and creativity. You bore witness to all the ways one man’s gift lands in the church like a stone in still pond—sending ripples in a thousand directions, year after year, decade after decade. Wow. God is good.

And you were here just last Sunday for the 20th Anniversary of our Open & Affirming Covenant. You wept a little as we sang songs of unity and healing.

For gay and for straight, a place at the table.
Transgender and queer, a rainbow of light,
Many the ways of loving and living:
For gay and for straight, a future that’s bright!

And you smiled broadly as we baptized Margo and Tabitha right out there. I’ve got the pictures to prove it. Water, water and rainbows everywhere! And you felt that surge of courage—as I sure did—as we repurposed that original statement for a new day of service and witness. “We honor human relationships—all of them—that are based on love, responsibility, mutual respect, trust and fidelity.” Again, wow! God is good.

And it’s not simply the case that you’ve been part of the action—you have (in so many ways) dreamed it into being, and you have (in so many ways) invested in it, and you have (in just about every way) made it happen. Through your prayers. By your faithfulness. Because of your energies. And so it is that we have seen the Holy Spirit at work, we have seen the Holy Spirit at play, we have seen the Holy Spirit breathing life and courage into and through a community we love. It has been a very special and memorable month indeed!

2.

So when we read in the ancient scroll that God is doing a “new thing,” we have only to remember what our own eyes have seen, what our own ears have heard, what our own hearts have experienced. In this very place. In just these last weeks. Among these people.

And just as the prophet has imagined, what we’ve seen here is a diverse community of curious seekers and devoted leaders gathering from the east and west, from the north and south, around good news and gladness. Not despair and division. But God’s good news and God’s gladness. “Don’t you recognize it?” That’s the prophet speaking. “Don’t you recognize it?” “I’m making a way in the desert, paths in the wilderness.” “I have put water in the desert, and streams in the wilderness.” And these stunning promises, these tender reassurances: framed as they most often are in scripture with, “Don’t fear, for I am with you.” Don’t fear, for I have called you by name. Don’t fear, for you are mine.

So—there is a way in the desert, a path in the wilderness. And we have walked a fair piece already. Baptized and fearless.  Claimed for God's purpose.  Named indeed by God.

And if you’re wondering, by the way, why we’re so lavish with the water (or maybe I should say 'extravagant' with the water) when we baptize Margo and Tabitha as we did last week, it’s because we believe that our symbols have to match our gladness, our liturgies have to correlate with God’s commitments. In the text, our God doesn’t say: “I’m putting a drop of water out there in the desert…so you can grovel and suffer and beg for mercy.” Our God doesn’t say: “I’m setting out a thimble of sustenance in the wilderness…so you can wipe a little on your forehead and be on your way.” No, no, no.

Our God says: “I’m making a way in the desert, so you can get home.” “I’m setting before you holy paths, so you can travel together.” “I’m putting running streams in the wilderness, so you can touch my power and immerse yourselves in my grace and go joyfully into a future of hope and justice and care for one another.” I’m doing a new thing! So, yes, my friends. Your baptism in Christ—and that’s what it means to belong here, to be connected as we are here—your baptism in Christ is a baptism of running streams and hustling rivers, a baptism of plenty and power, a baptism that washes away any hint of shame or inadequacy. Your baptism joins us as one people, to travel these holy paths, to go gladly together, to follow Jesus together, to revel in the love of the One who calls us by name and invites us all home. For singing and praising. For feasting and serving. For making peace and giving thanks. Your baptism, my baptism, Margo’s baptism, Tabitha’s: a way in the desert, running streams and hustling rivers!

3.

It's important to note that this particular text—the extraordinary poetry we find in the 43rd chapter of Isaiah—it’s important to note that it’s conceived in a people’s exile: in a people’s experience of extreme vulnerability and spiritual longing. And this particular people have been forced into exile, driven from their homes and families. They have not gone willingly.

So this 43rd chapter is, in a luminous way, God’s promise to an immigrant community, God’s declaration of solidarity with a community traumatized by the violence of nations, the politics of greed, and their own fears for families left behind. This is a people on the run. This is a people far from home. This is a people without the proper papers, piecing things together, always aware that the next knock on the door could be the last one.

BELOVED COMMUNITY: "Open and Affirming in Durham!"

SILENT GENOCIDE: "Kairos Palestine / Documentary"

HOMILY: "Oil of Gladness"

Sunday, November 16, 2025
Isaiah 61 (The 3rd Sunday of Early Advent)

1.

This could be the first scroll, the first text Jesus reads in public, and his preaching out of Isaiah gets him in a world of trouble right out of the gate. “The Spirit of the Lord, the Eternal, is upon me,” he calls out to the synagogue and its members in Nazareth, “because God has anointed me to bring good news to the poor, to bind up the brokenhearted, to free the detained from their many prisons…” His reading causes a stir, because he follows it up with this: “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” In other words, this is no fantasy. What Isaiah imagined is coming to pass; what Isaiah believed possible is now doable.

And as familiar as this old text is to many of us, as pivotal as it is to the gospel itself, it’s the last stanza that sneaks up on us this morning. Isaiah’s bold witness to the joy in his heart and the vibration of his soul, and the newness that sprouts like fresh flowers in springtime. We are called not to the kind of justice that subdues the spirits of our adversaries or even the legions of our enemies—but to the kind of justice that inspires gladness, praise, sprouting like so many fresh flowers “before all the peoples, for all creation to see.”

You see, God’s justice is not dark and punishing. God’s justice is not a zero-sum game in which the winners gloat and the losers sulk. And Isaiah captures this so very compellingly. God’s justice is like the oil of gladness, running down the cheeks of the once lost and now found. God’s justice confers a mantle of praise on the traumatized, a song of thanksgiving on the ruined city, instead of a faint spirit, instead of hopelessness and despair. “It’s as though I’m dressed for my wedding day,” says the prophet, “in the very best: a bridegroom’s garland and a bride’s jewels.” You see what Isaiah’s doing. Justice is not simply a matter for the courts, tribunals, and law reviews. Justice is a feast, a collaborative celebration, and a cause for poetry and praise.

To seek peace, then, and to do justice, and to bind up the brokenhearted—is to revel in our humanity and rejoice in one another and discover all over again what it is to believe. “And that’s what it’s like with God’s great glory—” says the prophet, in this last stanza, “the Lord will cause justice and praise (justice and praise!) to sprout up before all the peoples, for all creation to see…” So when Jesus takes the scroll in Nazareth and says, “The Spirit of the Lord, the Eternal, is upon me,” he's not inviting us to barroom brawl; he’s saying it’s time to put gladness and praise at the heart of our movements. Because justice is human flourishing in a universe of wonders, and justice is human solidarity fleshed out and mutual liberation dared and delivered, and compassion made concrete in cities, villages and neighborhoods.

2.

It strikes me, my friends, in our own season of organized resistance and faithful witness, in 2025, that we can and we must take all this, take Isaiah to heart. A justice-loving people is a people made courageous in their gladness, a people made bold in praise and thanksgiving. And that’s got to be us.

As we work with painstaking care, for example, to protect a friend seeking asylum in our very presence, and to extend that same protection to others across the state, we will continue to give thanks for that one refugee and his enormous, resilient and devoted heart. And we will recognize in him not just heart, but faith—the kind of faith that trusts (often against the odds) the promises of scripture. That there is indeed good news for the poor; that there is indeed liberation and freedom for those detained and imprisoned; that there is indeed resurrection and new life for the traumatized families of the world. Along the way we discover dear friends keeping watch in windowless hallways and so many others working tirelessly behind the scenes on legal initiatives and legislative campaigns. And there is—in all of this—a church wrapped in robes of righteousness, a community committed to a refugee’s liberation, his family’s safety, as nothing less than our very own future. Do you see, do you see what happens when we put gladness and praise at the heart of our movements? “It’s as though we’re dressed for our wedding day, in the very best…a bridegroom’s garland and a bride’s jewels.” God’s justice is a promise to be tasted among us, a delight to be revealed in our time, a project that keeps us human. “Sprouting up before all the peoples.” And it’s hard; yes, it’s very, very hard. But it’s also good; it’s very, very good.

Mary Magdalene (By Ann of Everett)

And what about next week’s 20th anniversary of our Open and Affirming Covenant? I shared a meal this week with our Open and Affirming Team; and I can tell you, there is an irrepressible spirit of gladness in that circle of leaders and friends. From the very beginning, the Open and Affirming initiative was dedicated not only to righting wrongs hundreds of years in the making; but to lifting the spirits of queer members, their friends and families, and celebrating the gifts and commitments of queer leaders, and opening the doors of our hearts and buildings to new visions and new energies and new possibilities for ministry and friendship. Justice and praise. Justice and praise. Justice and praise. I dare say that what we’ll experience together next Sunday is a whole church filled with irrepressible joy, a whole people vibrating with exuberant hope, a gorgeous mix of siblings wrapped up in robes of righteousness and delight. “And that’s what it’s like with God’s great glory—” says the prophet, this is right out of the scroll, “the Lord will cause justice and praise (justice and praise!) to sprout up before all the peoples, for all creation to see…” Do us all a favor next week, and watch for it. Watch for the ways joyful hearts and vibrating souls do justice for one another! What it looks like. What it sounds like. And how very sweet it is!

MUSIC: "Wondering..."

ROADMAP: "From Ceasefire to Peace"

HOMILY: "Love Never Falters"

Sunday, November 9, 2025
Community Church of Durham
Luke 1:26-38 (The 2nd Sunday of Early Advent)

1.

So I wander into the dry cleaner’s the other day with a hundred and one things on my mind, none of which have anything to do with dry cleaning. I’m worrying about Zoran Mamdani and whether they’ll keep him safe in New York. I’m puzzling over this year’s stewardship drive and whether we’ll raise enough money for next year. And I’m thinking about a neighbor who’s waiting for results from a biopsy that may or may not change his life. You know how it is when you’re so preoccupied with issues of the day and things to do that you can hardly remember taking a shower and getting dressed. But there you are at the dry cleaner’s, waiting for the woman with your ticket to retrieve a handful of shirts from the motorized delivery system. And you’re thinking: “How did I even get here?”

But she turns to me, the woman with my ticket, and she says: “Can I ask you a question?” And we’ve had a few conversations over a couple of years, and I know she knows what I do, my day job. So before I can say yes or no, she asks me if I believe that hell is real thing; if I believe in a place like that, and consequences for blasphemy and bad behavior. And I must look kind of bewildered by her question, and the strange setting for her disquieting query; because she follows up with a half-smile, and says, “I’ve had a really tough week.”

And I’m reminded in that moment—as the motorized system clicks through Portsmouth’s laundry—that religion isn’t just a Sunday thing, and that my church is no longer defined by four walls and a roof, and that the God I love with all my heart calls me, wants me, even needs me to take this moment and this dear sister seriously. If this Advent practice has something to do with wakefulness and watchfulness, with keeping the heart alert to opportunities and grace, this is one of those moments. So I put my phone in my pocket, and take a step in her direction.

And something’s different in her now, something about her. There’s a sadness in her smile that hints at something more than disappointment, something more like shame. Something’s happened, life has taken a turn, and she’s not just feeling embarrassed by a mistake, but ashamed of it, scarred by it, and almost unworthy of anything like love. She says as much. “I don’t go to church anymore,” she reminds me, “but when I used to go, they’d say that people like me are going to hell.” And then swallows hard. “Do you believe in that?”

The first thing I want to say is that my heart breaks, it really does, when I hear a sister worrying like that, taking on generations of crippling Christian theology, and assuming that she’s unlovable and undeserving of mercy and grace. No matter what’s happened to her, or what she’s done. How can it be that there are Christians in the world invoking shame and punishment in the name of God? And isn’t it ungodly that there are friends out there, sisters and brothers out there, waking up in the morning and going to sleep at night with that kind of dread? That kind of fear? In the name of God! Doesn’t it break your heart too?

But the other thing—and this is the part I say out loud in the dry cleaner’s—is that God’s love never tires, never falters, and never fails. (That’s right out of First Corinthians, as you know.) God’s love never tires, never falters, and never fails. If we take Jesus at his word, if we embrace his parables and his example, if we dare to celebrate his resurrection as God’s victory over shame and death, then we live in a world where God’s love never falters or fails. To screw up is simply human. To make brutal mistakes is also human. But so is overcoming cruelty with mercy. And so is our capacity for forgiveness and love. And so is the turning, turning, turning of our souls toward light. So the way I read the Bible—and this, again, is the part I say out loud to my friend—the way I understand Jesus is this: that there is no condemnation in God, no punishment or isolation or cruelty in God; but only abundant life, wild mercy and a longing for connection and community. And that’s why the prodigal son returns home to a feast. And that’s why the sleepy disciples get a second chance, and a third, and a fourth. And that’s why the resurrection is more than just a fairy tale: it’s the foundation of our faith. God is love. God will always be Love. And nothing, nothing can change that truth.

So, you see, this isn’t the first sermon I’ve preached this week! I don’t know if that other one made much of a difference. But my friend at the dry cleaner’s promised she’d give it some thought. And maybe we’ll talk again next week.

2.

Raphael Soyer, "Annunciation," 1980

So what if? What if Mary is “thoroughly shaken” by Gabriel’s appearance at the well in Nazareth because she too has been accused of wrong-doing, or because she too has been called out for so-called “sinful” behavior, or because she too has been saddled by shame meted out in the name of God? I guess I’m reading this familiar story a little differently this morning. And there are, to be fair, a whole lot of ways to read these wonderfully complex texts. But I’m reminded this morning of my friend at the dry cleaner’s, and her sad smile, and her sense of doom and dread around whatever it is that has happened to her or whatever it is she’s done. I’m reminded of her shame. Her isolation. And I wonder now. What if Mary’s pregnancy, even her choices as a young woman, have already brought neighborly ridicule, or worse, sanctimonious judgment from priests and pastors? What if religion itself is a burden? Maybe she’s expecting more of the same from this angel?

I don’t have to tell you—I’m sure that I don’t—how shame makes the dark nights darker, and the cold days colder; and how it calls into question our capacity for connection, relationship and love. And I don’t have to tell you how shame works on our human spirits to wear away the joy that is or ought to be our inheritance. And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that it’s too often a tool of the powerful, a tool of the elite, and sadly even a tool of the church. (Which makes this week’s conversation at the dry cleaner’s something of a miracle: that my friend was willing to risk that particular conversation with me, a known and confirmed religious professional!)

But this angel, of course, this angel at the well, is not at all a messenger of doom, and not at all a peddler of punishment and cruelty. He comes not to condemn Mary, or even criticize in the slightest her lifestyle choices or bewildering predicament. This angel—Gabriel—greets her with good news and blessing: “Good morning!” he says. “You’re beautiful with God’s beauty,” he says. “Beautiful inside and out!” he says. And then, the four words that sum up all the others: “God is with you.” God is with you. No punishment. No shame. “God is with you.”

The wonderful mystic Matthew Fox likes to say that the foundation of Christian theology is not and never can be “original sin”—because that perverse doctrine violates the profoundly joyful and jubilant spirit of Genesis and scripture itself. (“Original sin?” Nonsense!) Genesis, right? Where God looks at all God is creating, and God says “it’s all so good, it’s all so very, very good!” It’s the first prayer, really, the generative prayer, the defining prayer at the heart of Biblical faith. That God looks at all God is creating, and God says “it’s all so good, it’s all so very, very good!”

So Matthew Fox goes on to write a book called “Original Blessing!” His conviction being that you and I, all that ever is or will be, is made in the image of God, made for God’s blessing, made to be celebrated and shared according to God’s own passion for justice, equity and peace. “Original Blessing!”

And isn’t that the spirit of this text today, this annunciation, this moment where the angel finds Mary doing her daily chores—and wipes clear all the gossip, cleanses her bright spirit of any judgment, releases her from any shame that might yet be clinging to her soul? “You’re beautiful with God’s beauty!” Made in the image of God! “Beautiful inside and out!” Made in the image of God! No longer will the nattering of neighbors drag Mary down! No longer will the judgment of priests limit her sense of wonder and joy! No longer will her vocation be limited by cruelty, shame, or patriarchy! And it’s here in our story, it’s here in our tradition, that Good News becomes incarnational reality. Embodied in Mary. Awakened in her body, in her courage, in her calling. New life in Mary is conceived in grace, in shamelessness, in God’s “original blessing”—and it’s the kind of new life that changes not just her life, but ours. Makes us whole. Makes us well. Makes us God’s.

GENOCIDE: "What It Means..."

HOMILY: "The Hem of His Robe"

Sunday, November 2, 2025
Community Church of Durham
Mark 13 and Mark 5 (The 1st Sunday of Early Advent)

1.

Our story says that a swarm of people were following Jesus that day, dozens, maybe hundreds of them, and they were crowding around him, to get a glimpse perhaps, to see what he might do or say next. And our story says that within that swarm of people, within that surge of fascination and desire, was one woman in particular who had been suffering for a long, long time. One woman who had been cast aside by a health care system that dismissed her as unimportant; impoverished and without any kind of safety net; and in all likelihood isolated for years by illness and suspicion. Her misfortune embarrassed them all.

And yet, within that tangled crowd, this same woman somehow negotiated anxious bodies and frenzied limbs, keenly aware of who was passing through that day, and what Jesus was really all about, and how Love kept its promise in his every step, with his every breath. (You’ll find this story, by the way, in Mark, Chapter 5.) No doubt she was invisible to many that day, or maybe simply ignored by most; irrelevant to the drama in the street.

But still she kept watch—this remarkable woman—still she kept watch in the hubbub of the hundreds. Still she kept watch—this resilient spirit—because hope stirred without reason in her heart. Still she kept watch. And when the time was just right, when she got just close enough, she reached out, she extended her achy wrist and frail fingers, and she touched the hem of his robe. And that simple moment in a swarming crowd, her watchful reach, her faithful touch—it changed her life. Not only hers, it turns out; but his too.

“Take heed, then, and watch,” Jesus says toward the end of Mark’s story, “for you do not know when the time will come.” It’s an Advent theme, to be sure; but not just seasonal. It’s also a profoundly Christian practice. Perhaps now as much as ever before. Watchfulness and humility. Trust and discernment. “Of that day or that hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor even the Son, but only God...” You and I are called to faith that is deep and resilient, but also unafraid of the unknown: unafraid of the unknown, undaunted by grief and despair, and alert to divine possibilities in the push and pull of everyday life. You see, we don’t have to have all the answers to all the questions to “touch the hem of his robe.” And we don’t have to be the boldest prophet, or the wisest saint, or even the kindest or sweetest one, to “touch the hem of his robe.”

But we do have to keep watch. And we do have to stay alert. Even and perhaps especially when powers and principalities overwhelm us with bad news. Even and especially when it seems they may be planning to burn the whole place down. Disciples of Jesus remain vigilant: for Love’s footprints in the paths we walk; for moments worthy of praise and delight; and, yes, for the hem of his robe before us. Within our grasp. Einstein once said that “there are two ways to live our lives. One is as if nothing is a miracle; the other is as if everything is a miracle.” And that’s us. That has to be our faith. Staying awake to the mystery that cannot be bought and sold on the market. Keeping watch for the beauty that shimmers on bright sunny days, but also the dark, gray and brooding ones. Alert for the grace that moves in every heart, in every people, in every moment.

“Take heed, then, and watch,” Jesus says, “for you do not know when the time will come.” And I think that means protecting a resilient and robust tenderness within our hearts, though it’s tempting to default toward cynicism and even rage. And I think it means committing to prayerfulness in the daily round, a consistent practice of attentiveness in flesh and spirit, anchored in breath and body. And I think it means trusting that God’s Love is not a prize to be earned or a bet to be wagered, but an unearned, unmerited, unrestricted, unhindered gift. For every single one of us. For you and for me. And the whole wide world around. Without exception. We call that divine gift, that once-and-for-all blessing GRACE. And so we take heed, then, and we watch. We remain vigilant. We keep our hearts tender, open, available to the Spirit’s need and direction.

2.

And isn’t it possible, then, that the very watchfulness Jesus encourages in Mark 13 is embodied in the courage and faith of this woman who touches the hem of his robe in Mark 5? How she resists the negativity, even the cruelty, that marginalizes her existence and embraces instead the glory promised to every single human life? How she defies powers and principalities and asserts her own dignity and worthiness? And how she scans the crowd that day and sees not a frenzied, anxious community competing for love, but instead a kindhearted healer open to conversation, confident in grace, and eager for connection?

Because this is what happens. When she touches the hem of his robe. In our story. Jesus stops suddenly, even abruptly, turning 360 degrees in the tangled crowd that now screeches to a halt around him. And Jesus knows, in his heart and in his flesh, that some kind of power has been activated in him and released into the crowd. And it’s such an intimate thing, a holy thing, this power that’s awakened in him, this experience of human touch, even connection. So he wants to know. “Who touched the hem of my robe? Who touched me just now?”

And it’s interesting, right, because the story doesn’t suggest that Jesus owns or possesses this power, that it’s his alone or his to give away. This kind of grace—the power of Love—is activated in the distance between them, in the sacred space where she reaches out to touch the hem of his robe. And it flows, then, from him to her, and from her to him, and (in all likelihood) back and forth between the two of them. She is transformed, no doubt, and so too is Jesus. That’s what love is; that’s how empowerment works; that’s the kind of healing, the kind of wholeness available to every one of us and all of us. If we take heed. If we keep watch. Grace awakens among us new possibilities for wonder, delight, service and communion. The power of Love, aroused in a moment of courage and hopefulness, flows from one to another, from one to another, and back again. Doing its good work. Inspiring hope between us and sustaining us, in beloved community, for wild mercy and generous service and heartfelt praise.

And we do know that Love works this way: as it does between Caden and Gwyneth, as it does between Diane and Henry, as it does between David and his choir, as it does between Antony and every lucky soul who sits in his hallway day by day by day. Grace awakens among us new possibilities for wonder and delight. It sustains us, in and out of season. If only, if only, if only—we keep watch.

3.

Last summer, as my Palestinian hosts were arranging for my hastier-than-planned departure, my good friend Zoughbi Zoughbi ran out to a Bethlehem gift shop. He returned, just as the taxi driver was loading my bags, with this icon. Iconography is big in Bethlehem, an art form to be sure, but just as importantly a spiritual practice. A way of telling the story with images, encouraging reflection and curiosity, and even wonder. And Zoughbi placed this small icon in my hand as the wary driver bounced from one foot to the other. And he said to me: “Keep this story close. Let her show you the way.” Ten words, our farewell. Keep this story close. Let her show you the way.

The icon depicts Mary and Jesus, as so many do in Bethlehem. But it’s Mary’s hands that draw my attention now, and will for years to come. In one, of course, she cradles the Christ child, whose cheek is pressed to her own. She looks upon the child with care and gladness, his life a sign of peace promised, shalom, salaam. The other hand, however: Mary’s other hand is empty. The Christ child in her right hand, the other empty—like this.

And yet, as my driver left Bethlehem behind and turned for checkpoints at the Jordanian border, I turned this gift, this icon, in my hand and wondered. Maybe Mary’s second hand isn’t empty at all, but alert, and attentive, and waiting for the unknown to reveal itself. Maybe the story told by this particular icon is a story of deep faith wedded to profound humility, a story of Christian devotion joined to radical openness. (By the way, I’ll leave this precious piece on the table here, so you can take a look after the service.)

MUSIC: "Still Haven't Found"