Overcoming Evil With Good: How do we fight for others without harming a soul? ~ Romans 12:9-21

 

There are moments in the life of faith when the question is no longer, “Do we care?” But, “How do we care without becoming cruel?”

There are moments when the question is not, “Should we stand up for the vulnerable?” But, “How do we stand up without tearing others down?”

And in this moment—
when immigrants and refugees are talked about more than they are listened to,
feared more than they are known, harmed more than they are helped— the church faces a hard and holy question:

How do we fight for others without harming a soul?

Because Paul knows an uncomfortable truth.

It’s possible to oppose injustice and still lose our way.

It’s possible to speak for the oppressed and curse others –dehumanize.

It’s possible to be right— and still be unfaithful.

That’s why Paul’s words in Romans 12:9–21 are so urgent for the church right now. Paul is writing to a small, fragile Christian community living under the shadow of empire. They have no political power. No armies. No leverage.

What they do have is the gospel of Jesus Christ. And Paul is determined that they not trade that gospel for the weapons of the age— not trade love of enemy for methods of meanness.

So he doesn’t offer theological prescriptions, but practices of a faithful life:

Let love be genuine.
Hate what is evil; hold fast to what is good.
Bless those who persecute you.
Do not repay evil for evil.
Do not avenge yourselves.
If your enemy is hungry, feed them.
Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

This is not weak language. It’s not naïve language. It is Jesus-shaped resistance.

So what does that kind of resistance look like?

Naming Evil Without Becoming Evil

Paul does not deny that evil exists. In fact, he tells the church to hate it.

The way of Jesus is not moral confusion. And love is not indifference. Justice matters. Truth matters. Patience matters. Genuine love matters. And the kind Jesus reveals—is not polite nor private. It is often provocative and public.

Last week we saw Jesus, with love and hope, engineer exactly that kind of public provocation in his first sermon, enraging his listeners by saying plainly and unequivocally: God loves foreigners. Jesus was always willing to name harmful behavior and provoke unjust systems, even when it cost him his safety. Even when it meant his listeners might try to shove him off a cliff.

He was willing to suffer violence for telling the truth. But notice what he does not do. He does not respond by trying to karate-kick them off the cliff in return. He shows us that it is possible to speak truth boldly and lovingly without becoming what we resist. He challenged them yet walked away without harming a soul (no kicks, no stones, no curses).

Paul names this temptation clearly: “Do not be overcome by evil.”

Because evil is not only something out there— in unjust systems, harmful rhetoric, or broken policies. Evil also tries to move inside us. Into our instincts. Our imaginations. Our speech. Our strategies. Evil wants to shape us. It wants to convince us that the ends justify the means. Or as my friend likes to say, “The ends justify the mean.” That being right is somehow the “get-out-of-jail fee card” for bad behavior.

And this is where justice movements—especially faithful ones—are most at risk.

Injustice can wound us. Fear can harden us. And anger—even righteous anger—can quietly train us to mirror the very contempt we oppose.

When immigrants are described as criminals or threats, the temptation is to respond with equal contempt: to caricature, to mock, to write people off as beyond redemption, to employ those methods for all the right reasons.

But Paul insists that if evil gets to decide how we speak, how we see, and how we engage— then even when we are right, evil has already won.

This is why Martin Luther King Jr. insisted that nonviolence was not a tactic, but a way of life. “Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” Not because hate is ineffective— but because it is contagious and hurts everyone. And hate is an acid which harms as much the soul in which it is stored as much as the soul on which it is poured.

Leaving Room for the Wrath of God

Paul then says something that sounds strange to modern ears, but is actually deeply freeing:

“Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God.”

This is not a call to apathy. It does not mean injustice does not matter. And it certainly can’t mean God is eager to destroy our enemies so we don’t have to care. God never repays evil with evil. In Jesus Christ, we see who God truly is – One who loves enemies and forgives them.

So what is Paul saying? To leave room for God’s wrath is to say two truths at once.

First: Justice demands action—but not weaponization.

We must act decisively but deliberately place our vengeance fantasies into God’s hands. We must stand up but refuse to become judge, jury, and executioner. And when we do, we pray and hopefully see how God enacts justice. And friends, God’s justice always looks like Jesus crucified and risen.

Second: Injustice has real consequences.

While God is not the direct cause of violent harm, Scripture does acknowledge the reality of consequence—natural and even spiritual. In Romans, Paul describes God’s wrath as consent—a giving over. God allows us the freedom to experience the reality of our painful choices that cause real harm.

It is “God’s” in this sense: harming others is always defiance against God, and God will use even the bad consequences of our actions to prick our consciences and transform our lives. In this sense, “God’s wrath” is the pig-pen of Jesus’ Prodigal son story.

This matters deeply in conversations about immigration.

It allows us to say—at the same time— that some policies are unjust and dangerous – harming even those who seem to benefit, and that every person involved—immigrant, citizen, official, neighbor— is still made in the image of God and remains an object of God’s love.

Leaving room for God’s wrath frees us from the exhausting work of hatred. It allows us to fight for immigrants and refugees without fighting against the humanity of others. It allows us to fight and leave some things with God.

Feeding Enemies With Spicy Love (the show Hot Ones - The format involves celebrity guests eating ten chicken wings, each prepared with a progressively hotter hot sauce, while answering questions which become disrupted by the increasing heat. The show's tagline at the beginning of each episode: “The show with hot questions, and even hotter wings.”)

Paul writes, “If your enemy is hungry, feed them. . . And so heap burning coals upon their heads.” This is not passivity. This is courageous, creative resistance. It is a refusal to cooperate with dehumanization— even when it feels justified. It’s spicy love. And we have seen this kind of resistance bear real fruit or bring the heat.

Megan Phelps-Roper was once one of the most visible faces of hate in America as a member of the Westboro Baptist Church. She picketed funerals. She spread cruelty in God’s name. She held signs which gleefully damned others. She brawled with others online curating the church’s social media presence. But ultimately she left the church’s religious-inspired hatred.

What changed her was not being shouted down. Not public humiliation. It was being fed and cared for by people who disagreed with her fiercely and yet treated her with dignity— curiosity, patience, even civility. It was the very people damned on her signs who refused to return her hate with their own damnation.

Over time, that kindness haunted her. It disrupted her certainty. It burned at her hatred.  It enflamed her with hot questions. It opened space for doubt, reflection, repentance— and eventually, transformation.

She did not leave a life of harm because arguments defeated her. She left because patient, genuine love outlasted her defenses. That is what it looks like to overcome evil with good. It is fighting not to win an argument, or to defeat an opponent, but to win a friend.

What This Looks Like on the Ground

So what does Romans 12:9–21 look like when the church advocates for immigrants and refugees? It looks like this:

It means letting love be genuinely spicy, provocative, and public rather than sentimental, easy, or private. Love that’s real, messy, and not necessarily nice. Love that names injustice and does not shy away from calling evil what it is. When naming evil, I often like to use first names. But God rarely if ever calls evil names like Stephen or Megan or Jon. God names evil as greed, hatred, contempt, abuse.

It means refusing to spread false or exaggerated stories— even when they benefit “our side.”

It means speaking about immigrants as neighbors, workers, parents, and children—
not as problems to be solved but family to be empowered. And it means speaking about those who might wish them harm as brothers and sisters. Everyone is family! The “kin” of kindness is for everyone.

It means challenging unjust policies clearly and truthfully, while praying not only for those harmed by the system, but also for those who uphold it.

And finally, it means choosing language and behavior that opens doors rather than seals them shut— that feeds rather than starves, that helps rather than hurts.

As Paul says, “So far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.” Peace does not mean silence. It means our struggle is guided by love rather than contempt that is held available for all.

The Promise at the End

Paul ends with both a warning and a promise: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

The warning is real. Even in our zeal, the church can engage the world in ways that harm our witness. Fear can define us. Violence can disciple us. But the promise is just as real. Good can prevail. Love can win. The way of Jesus is not only faithful— it is hopeful.

It trusts that people can change. That hearts can soften. That systems can be transformed.

And that the church can be a living sign of another kingdom.

This is why King could march with joy. Why Jesus could speak truth without hatred. Why former enemies can become witnesses to grace.

Closing Invitation

Church, we are called to welcome the stranger— and we are called to guard every heart.

May we be a people who speak boldly, love fiercely, resist faithfully, and fight in the way of Jesus.

Not repaying evil for evil. Not surrendering to fear. But overcoming evil with good and without harming a soul. Amen.

“Today, for Them”: Welcoming the Stranger in the Way of Jesus ~ Luke 4:14-30

 

What was the spirituality of Jesus like? What animated his mission? And what would he think about us spending two months so far on the spirituality of immigration? Last week I briefly imagined what Jesus might have said to the prophet Nehemiah who responded to foreigners with threats, violence, and expulsion. This week, we won’t have to imagine, we need only watch Jesus and listen.

Because in his very first sermon, Jesus stands up in his hometown synagogue in Nazareth, and doesn’t just offer a devotional reflection. He doesn’t give a comforting word about God’s love in general. He hearkens back to Scripture, defines his mission, and then—almost immediately—reminds his neighbors that his ministry extends beyond Israelites and includes outsiders – non-Jews, pagans, foreigners. And how do people respond? They try to kill him.

That alone should give us pause, especially since the preacher today is well - me.

If Jesus’ very first sermon about love, justice, and foreigners, could provoke awe and attempted murder, then maybe we should stop assuming that faithfulness to Jesus’ mission will always feel safe, affirming, or polite.

1. The Spirituality of Jesus Is the Joy and Urgency of “Today”

After reading from Isaiah about the Spirit of the Lord, Jesus sits down. Every eye is fixed on him. And then he utters a single, earth-shattering sentence:

“Today this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.”

That word—today—is not incidental. In Luke’s Gospel, it’s a theological keyword. He uses it more than any other Gospel writer, and he places this scene at the very beginning of Jesus’ public ministry – a declaration of liberation for the poor and marginalized.

Not tomorrow.
Not someday.
Not after the right people are in power.
Not when the borders are secure.
Not when the economy is stable.

Today.

God’s promise is not deferred. God’s justice is not postponed. God’s mercy is not theoretical. The Spirit’s work is happening now, in real bodies, real communities, real conflicts.

Jesus will live this way of “today” consistently:
He prays, “Give us each day our daily bread.”
He teaches, “Do not worry about tomorrow.”
He announces, “Today salvation has come to this house.”

Jesus models a spirituality that is radically present. He notices the person in front of him. He responds to suffering as it appears. He trusts that God is active in real time.

And yet—if we’re honest—the church often reverses this.

Jesus says, “Today,” and we say, “Eventually.”
Jesus says, “Look—right now,” and we say, “Let’s wait and see.”
Jesus says, “God is liberating people on the earth today,” and we say, “The good news is about getting to heaven when you die.”

A Jesus-animated spirituality of today refuses to spiritualize away suffering. It refuses to delay justice. It insists that God’s love must take flesh now—in policies, in neighborhoods, in how we treat the most vulnerable among us  - today.

2. The Mission Jesus Announces Is Good News for the Marginalized—Here and Now

Jesus reads from Isaiah, but Luke is careful to preserve the wording of the Greek Scriptures—the Septuagint. And that matters.

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
because he has anointed me
to bring good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
and recovery of sight to the blind,
to send the oppressed away in freedom,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

And behind this text is not only Isaiah 61, but also Isaiah 58:

“Is not this the fast that I choose:
to loose the bonds of injustice,
to undo the thongs of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to break every yoke?”

This is not charity. This is not vague compassion. This is gospel justice.

In the Septuagint, “release” is the word used for the forgiveness of debts. “Freedom” is the language of emancipation. “The year of the Lord’s favor” echoes Jubilee (Lev. 25)—the restructuring of economic and social life so that no one is permanently excluded. Everything – money, oppression, bodies, is spiritual.

Jesus is not announcing a private spirituality of personal salvation. He is proclaiming the healing of the world. And notice who benefits first: the poor, the imprisoned, the blind, the oppressed.

Which means—by definition—those on the margins. Those without power. Those without legal protection. Those whose suffering is often justified or ignored.

If we translate that into our own moment, it includes people fleeing violence, families at borders, asylum seekers waiting for hearings, migrant workers whose labor is welcomed but whose lives are treated as disposable.

We live in a world where people drown at sea because no nation wants to claim responsibility. Where children languish in detention centers. Where fear of the foreigner is dressed up as realism, prudence, or even patriotism.

Jesus names all of that and says: This is what the Spirit has sent me to confront—today.

3. The Turning Point: When Welcome Extends to Outsiders

At first, the congregation loves this sermon. Luke tells us they “spoke well of him” and were amazed. Who doesn’t like good news—especially when it sounds like it’s for us? And it’s important to remember that the Jews were currently oppressed and their own country occupied.

But Jesus knows something. He knows that admiration can turn to rage the moment privilege is threatened. He knows that mercy can provoke anger when it moves from me to them. So he keeps preaching.

He names the unspoken assumption in the room: Do this for us NOT them. Heal us, please, but harm them. Bless us but curse them. Take care of our people first – only – primarily – exclusively.

And so he reminds them of two stories.

Elijah sent not to an Israelite widow, but to a foreign woman in Zarephath.
Elisha healing not an Israelite, but Naaman—the general of an enemy army.

In both cases, God’s saving action bypasses the insiders and blesses outsiders.

Jesus is not rejecting Israel. He is reminding them of their calling given to Abraham long ago: through you, all nations will be blessed (Genesis 12:2-3, 22:18). You were never meant to hoard grace; you were meant to share it.

But here’s the hard truth: people often support justice until it costs them something.  The moment Jesus suggests that God’s love is not controlled by national, ethnic, or religious boundaries, the mood shifts.

The crowd becomes furious. They drive him out of town. They try to throw him off a cliff.

Let that sink in. The first act of violence in Luke’s Gospel is not against a criminal. It is against a God-ordained preacher who insists that God loves foreigners.

Jesus suffers violence not for being too harsh. He is rejected for being too merciful.

4. Jesus’ Spirituality Includes the Liberation of Others, Even at Personal Cost

Jesus reveals that there is no such thing as liberation that stops with me. There is no salvation that ignores you. There is no faithfulness that refuses responsibility for “them.” He challenges the very “mercy me” theology expressed by Nehemiah last week. And this is precisely what provokes rage—then and now.

Anger often erupts when people are asked to give up the illusion of being first. When they are asked to share resources. When they are asked to see strangers not as threats, but as neighbors.

We see this pattern everywhere.
In political rhetoric that dehumanizes migrants.
In policies designed to deter suffering rather than relieve it.
In churches that speak warmly about love but go silent when that love demands risk.

But Jesus does not retreat. He passes through the violence and keeps going.

And the rest of the Gospel shows us what this costs him.

He touches those others avoid.
He eats with the wrong people.
He crosses boundaries again and again.
And eventually, the violence that begins in Nazareth finds its way to Jerusalem.

The cross is not an accident nor simply a God-ordained fate. It is the consequence of a life lived in radical welcome.

5. So the question becomes, “What Animates Us—Today?”

What animates us?
Fear—or trust?
Scarcity—or abundance?
Privilege—or solidarity?

Jesus says, Today.
Today God is at work among the poor. Today God is freeing the oppressed. Today God is blessing people we might rather ignore.

The good news is not only that Jesus welcomes the stranger. It is that he invites us into that same vocation. Will join him today?

To be a people who rebuild ruined cities.
Who loosen the bonds of injustice.
Who offer not just sympathy, but solidarity.
Who let joy—not despair—fuel the work of justice.

This is hard work. It exposes our fears. It costs us something. And yes, it can provoke resistance—even from within the church. But it is the holy work of Jesus.

Because “this very day,” God is loving people we have been taught to fear.
“This very day,” God is blessing those we might wish he wouldn’t.
“This very day,” Jesus stands among us and says:

This scripture of liberation is fulfilled in your hearing.

May we have the courage to follow Jesus.
May we have the faith to welcome the stranger.
And may we discover, even now, the joy of liberation—good news - for all. Amen.