Words We No Longer Avoid: Politics ~ Acts 17:1-9

 

Over the past several weeks we've taken up words that many churches have quietly set aside. We've talked about sin, wrath, judgment, and even depression—words that can make us uncomfortable, but words that Scripture refuses to avoid and that perhaps we have misunderstood. Today we come to another one, perhaps the one that terrifies us most of all: politics. [cue thunder and lightning sounds]. AHHHHH!

Now, the moment I say that word, many of us think of elections, parties, campaigns, maybe cable news. We wonder whether church is about to become another arena for partisan debate. But before we decide whether politics belongs in the church, we ought to ask a more basic question: What do we actually mean by politics?

At its most fundamental level, politics is simply the ordering of our common life. It concerns authority, power, resources, and influence. It asks, “Who gets what?” “Who exercises power?” “Who flourishes because of it, and who is potentially forgotten by it?” Understood that way, politics is not first about Republicans or Democrats, liberals or conservatives. It is about the way human beings live together under systems of authority.

Once we understand that, something surprising happens. We discover that the New Testament has been speaking politically from the very beginning—not because it endorses one party over another or settles every political controversy (it doesn't), but because it announces that ultimate authority belongs to someone else.

The earliest Christians signaled this by adopting the Greek word euangelion—good news, or “gospel.” Today that sounds like an entirely religious word, but in the Roman Empire it was pre-Jesus and profoundly political. It was a particularly “emperor-word.” A euangelion announced the accession of a new emperor or a decisive military victory. It proclaimed that Caesar had secured peace and prosperity. So when the first followers of Jesus proclaimed the message of a crucified Galilean from an obscure corner of the empire as the “gospel,” they were making an astonishing claim. The true “gospel” was not that Caesar ruled the world. The true good news was that Jesus did.

Likewise, the church confessed that Jesus is Lord—Kyrios. That title certainly  echoed Israel's confession that Yahweh alone is Lord. But Caesar also claimed that title. So every time Christians confessed that Jesus is Lord, they declared that everyone and everything - ruler, empire, nation, and ideology, stood beneath the lordship of Jesus. The Apostle Paul says it quite powerfully, ¹⁶ For in him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things have been created through him and for him. ¹⁷ He is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” (Col. 1:16-17)

The gospel confession that Jesus is Lord imagines a Christian politics that resists three things:

• It resists Christian nationalism. A gospel that recognizes Jesus on the throne cannot be conscripted beneath any particular flag, because every nation is one of the powers Christ relativizes. To baptize any nation's dominance is simply to hand the throne back to Caesar under a Christian name. You’ve most likely noticed that our church building sports no flag. That’s because the sanctuary should either display the flags of every nation or none at all, because the gospel blesses every tribe, tongue, and people—not one nation above another. Christianity is an international peace treaty not a national identity.

• It resists partisan captivity. If Jesus is Lord, then no political party can claim our ultimate allegiance. A simple question reveals where our loyalty lies: Can Jesus criticize the party I voted for? Can I? If the answer is no, then perhaps party and piety have quietly become one.

• It resists a privatized faith. The gospel is not merely about what happens inside my heart. It also concerns how power is exercised, how neighbors are treated, and how communities are ordered.

To make that case, consider three “guiding stars” – three Biblical examples from the New Testament. I’m using “guiding stars” as a metaphor to acknowledge that there is helpful guidance from the Bible that it is critical but not fixed. It guides us but also requires recalibration over time because while the stars and earth are important in our navigation. They (and we) are also always in motion.  

First Star: A Magnificat Vision (Luke 1:46-55). In the Magnificat, Mary sings that God has “brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted up the lowly, . . . filling the hungry with good things while sending the rich away empty.” Luke places this song at the very beginning of his Gospel because it tells us what God's kingdom looks like. When God sets the world right, God takes seriously the realities of power, provisions, and concern for the plight of the poor, which is why fascist governments have often banned this song from being sung publicly. Mary reminds us that the politics of the gospel always asks, “Who needs to be lifted up because they’re kept down?” “Who needs to be fed because they’re hungry?” “Who needs to be welcomed and remembered because they are excluded and forgotten?” Our policy answers may vary, sure, but the questions shouldn’t.

Second Star: A Crucified King (John 19; Acts 17). Rome did not crucify people because they prayed too much. Crucifixion was a political punishment reserved for enemies of the state and rebellious slaves. The charge nailed above Jesus' head read, "King of the Jews." His crime was understood as a rival claim to authority.

So in Acts 17 when Paul arrives in Thessalonica, the accusation against the Christians is remarkably precise: “They are all defying Caesar's decrees, saying that there is another king, one called Jesus." The empire heard exactly what the church was proclaiming: another King overruled Caesar. The one Caesar condemned, God vindicated.

Third Star: A Fallen Commercial Babylon (Revelation 18). Too often Revelation is read as a coded timetable of the end of the world rather than a contemporary, poetic critique of a failed empire. It’s more Bob Dylan than kooky prophet. Through Lord-of-the-Ring’s-like imagery, John is “unveiling” (which is what Apocalypse means) something much more immediate. Worship, he insists, is always political because worship answers the question of ultimate allegiance and orients our care. Babylon (aka Rome), according to John, is not merely a corrupt religion. It is also a corrupt economy built upon luxury, exploitation, and human lives treated as commodities. It’s a place where merchants weep over lost profits rather than harmed people. John exposes an economic system that prizes commerce over compassion and wealth over worship. Even economics, he insists, eventually answers the question: Who is Lord?

At this point I should offer a clarification, especially as someone shaped by the Pietist tradition, which always maintained the need for conversion. “A heart strangely warmed,” as our forebearers said.  Whenever Christians begin speaking about the public implications of the gospel, some assume we've abandoned personal conversion or inward transformation. It is nothing of the kind.

The gospel never asks us to choose between a changed heart and a changed world. Scripture refuses to separate what God has joined together. The God who forgives sinners also feed people. The God who transforms hearts also transforms us to love our neighbors – whoever those neighbors are, whatever those neighbors believe.

John Wesley understood this well. Although remembered for emphasizing personal holiness, he famously insisted that “there is no holiness but social holiness.” The grace that changes a heart inevitably changes how that person lives among others. The gospel and Christian discipleship led Wesley to oppose slavery, care for the poor, and advocate for prison reform. He understood that holiness is wholeness. The gospel renovates the whole person—and through renewed people, God is renewing the whole world. That means that the same compassion that saves us is the same compassion that seeks to ensure that kids have enough to eat, the same peace that reconciles us is the same peace that seeks to curtail militarized violence, the same love that welcomes the prodigal home is the same love that welcomes and protects all who are vulnerable, regardless of their gender or sexual orientation.

In fact, confining Christianity to the inner life is not the absence of politics. It is its own kind of politics. It quietly declares that Jesus may concern himself with my soul but not with my systems, my economics, my institutions, or my public life. That arrangement is remarkably convenient for the powers that be. A gospel that never leaves the sanctuary will never trouble a throne.

So when I say that the gospel is political, I am not trying to politicize something that was once purely spiritual. I am simply refusing a false choice. Christ reigns not only in our hearts but over the whole world. Mary sang that. Jesus lived that. John of Patmos wrote that. The gospel was their answer to the question: Who is Lord? Not Caesar. Not nation. Not party. Not market. Jesus is Lord.

And that confession remains the most political claim the church can make—not because it serves the ambitions of earthly power, but because it places every earthly power beneath the authority of the crucified and risen King. Amen.

Words We No Longer Avoid: Depression and the Gentle Whisper of God ~ 1 Kings 19:1-15, 18

 

Our series this summer is called Words We No Longer Avoid. Every community has words that are uncomfortable. We whisper them. We rename them. We pretend they belong to someone else's life. Sometimes we avoid them because they are painful. Sometimes because we don't know what to say. Sometimes because we've been wrongly taught that faithful people shouldn't have to deal with them, like today’s word - depression.

For many years, the church has not always known what to do with that word. We've been more comfortable talking about sin than sadness, more comfortable talking about victory than despair, better at celebrating mountaintops than acknowledging caves. But Scripture never avoid emotional distress. It’s remarkably honest about the human condition. Again and again, it tells the truth—not only about faith, but about fear; not only about hope, but about hopelessness. Which is why one of the greatest prophets in Israel's history is introduced to us today not standing triumphantly on Mount Carmel, but running for his life.

Just one chapter earlier Elijah experienced one of the greatest victories in all of Scripture. Fire has fallen from heaven. False prophets have been defeated. God has shown himself faithful and Elijah revels like some Hebrew prizefighter. And then comes the death-threat. And Elijah flees – terrified. He leaves his servant behind. He walks alone into the wilderness. He collapses beneath a broom tree and prays a heartbreaking prayer: "I have had enough, Lord. Take my life."

Today many of us understand what Elijah is living through—exhaustion, fear, isolation, hopelessness, despair, even suicidal thoughts. Whether Elijah would meet a modern clinical diagnosis isn't really the point. The point is that Scripture is showing us something we often forget. A faithful person can experience profound emotional darkness. And Elijah isn't alone.

Moses also once prayed that God would take his life. Job cursed the day he was born. Naomi renamed herself "Bitter." Jonah wanted to die. The Apostle Paul confessed that he despaired of life itself (2 Cor. 1:8). Even Jesus, in Gethsemane, tells his friends, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.” What do these people have in common? None of them are faithless. Apparently, faith and despair are not opposites. Devotion and depression can occupy the very same heart.

One of the greatest burdens people living with depression often carry is the burden of shame. “If I just trusted God more... “ “If my faith were stronger...” “If I prayed harder...” “If I loved Jesus enough... then I wouldn’t feel this way.” But notice Elijah's story. There is no condemnation. No critique. Never a lecture. God never says, “Elijah, what’s wrong with you?” God never chides, “Where’s your faith?” The text never suggests Elijah's despair is punishment for sin.

I’m not saying that every emotional struggle is easily understood or not without root causes that harm us. Our lives are always more complicated than simple formulas. But this story refuses the easy conclusion that depression is simply a failure of faith.

Instead, our story presents us with something much more honest. It presents a faithful human being who has simply reached the end of himself. We live in a beautiful world, but also a broken one. We experience loss, violence, disappointment, grief, illness and loneliness. Sometimes the weight of living becomes unbearably heavy. Depression doesn’t lie outside the ordinary landscape of human life. Sometimes depression is simply what happens when fragile human beings are forced to carry more than they were created to bear.

So what does God do? God sends an angel. The angel doesn't begin with a sermon. Or theology. Doesn't begin with correction. She begins with a gentle touch, bread, water, and rest. The angel gently touches Elijah and says, "Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you."

The angel doesn't say. “Snap out of it.” “Try harder.” “Pray more.” Instead, the messenger of God acknowledges reality: “The journey is too much for you.” Sometimes that's the most healing sentence another person can hear. Not because it removes the burden. But because it reminds us that we don't have to pretend the burden isn't there. Friends, depression isn't simply something that happens in our thoughts. It affects our bodies. Our sleep. Our appetite. Our energy. Before God addresses Elijah's soul, God nourishes Elijah's body. Before God asks questions, God offers food. Before God speaks, God cares. That tells us something important about how we are called to love one another.

Now some of you today aren't the ones under the broom tree. You're the angel. The word “angel” literally means “messenger,” “envoy,” “ambassador.” Sometimes they are clearly spiritual beings but other times they’re ambiguous and mysterious – perhaps angelic, perhaps or all-too-human. Regardless, they are sent to represent the king or God.

Someone in your family... your workplace... or sitting just a few pews away... May be exhausted, lonely, depressed. They need an angel. Not to fix them. Not to tell them everything happens for a reason (Don’t ever say that). Sometimes the most angelic thing you can do is bring a meal. Sit quietly. Listen without trying to solve. Send a text. Offer a hug. Stay. Sometimes God's greatest miracles arrive looking remarkably ordinary. A casserole. A gentle hug. Presence.

And don't underestimate the courage it takes for Elijah to respond. Twice the angel tells him to get up and eat. Twice Elijah does. Getting up and taking care of yourself may not sound heroic. Until you've experienced depression. When you're healthy, brushing your teeth feels insignificant. When you're depressed, brushing your teeth can be an extraordinary act of courage. Getting out of bed means facing another day. Facing another day means choosing life once more when every instinct wants to disappear beneath the broom tree.

Sometimes faith looks less like moving mountains and more like eating breakfast. Sometimes courage looks like taking one more step. Sometimes hope looks very small. But God never despises small things.

Eventually Elijah arrives at Mount Horeb, where he hides inside a cave. And God asks him a personal question. “What are you doing here, Elijah?” Not because God lacks information. God already knows. The question is an invitation. An invitation to ponder. To speak. To tell the truth. To put words around pain. And God listens. God doesn't interrupt. God doesn't rush. God simply makes space for Elijah's story.

Then comes one of the most mysterious and iconic moments in all of Scripture. A mighty wind tears apart the mountains. But the Lord is not in the wind. An earthquake shakes the earth. But the Lord is not in the earthquake. Fire comes. But the Lord is not in the inferno. And then... a gentle whisper. I don't pretend to know exactly why God goes through all the pyrotechnics. But I wonder if Elijah expected God to arrive with the same violence his own heart was experiencing.

Perhaps he imagined God was angry or that God had come to overwhelm him. Instead, God whispers. Depression has a way of shouting. It tells us we're alone. It tells us we'll never feel differently. It tells us we're burdens. It makes ordinary things feel like hurricane, earthquake, and wildfire. But God's voice is different.

God rarely competes by shouting louder. Not because God is weak. But because love doesn't overpower with fear - it patiently outlasts it. Notice what draws Elijah out of his cave. Not the earthquake. Not the fire. Not the wind. Only the gentle whisper of God.

A God whose power is expressed through astonishing tenderness. Who feeds before questioning. Who listens before speaking. Who whispers before commanding. And notice how the story ends. God doesn't tell Elijah simply to get over it. Instead, God softly gives him back a future. There is work yet to do. There is help he has not yet met. There is companionship he cannot yet see. There are seven thousand faithful people he didn't even know existed. Depression had convinced Elijah he was completely alone. God gently reminds him that he never was.

Perhaps that's the deepest truth this story has to offer us. Some of you came this morning carrying your own wilderness – perhaps running for your life. Some of you are sitting exhausted beneath your own broom tree. Some of you have been hiding in your own cave for a very long time. If that's you, I don't imagine one sermon will suddenly make everything better. Depression is real. Healing takes time. Often it takes many angels: counselors, physicians, medication, friends, prayer, rest, and communities willing to walk patiently beside us. All of these are gentle whispers from God when the journey is too much for you.

But if you hear only one thing today, hear this: Your depression is not proof that God has abandoned you or that you lack faith. The God who found Elijah beneath a broom tree still finds people in the wilderness. The God who entered Elijah's cave still enters ours. The God who whispered to Elijah still whispers today. Not always with bombastic Bible bombs. But with ordinary angels carrying bread. With friends. With therapists. With physicians. With tears shared honestly. With communities that refuse to let us suffer alone. And always with the quiet promise that even in our deepest darkness, the God who refuses to avoid us will never leave us alone. Thanks be to God. Amen.

In the spirit of Rizpah: A litany of lament for recent ICE shootings

 

In 2 Samuel 21:1–14, we find the land of Israel stained with blood, suffering under the curse of famine. Seeking to end the crisis, King David makes a political bargain with the Gibeonites. To satisfy their demand for revenge, he hands over seven children of Saul's household—children who are not his own, including the sons of Saul's concubine, Rizpah. They are executed, and their bodies are left exposed to be consumed by birds and wild animals.

But with the reckless love that only a grieving mother can know, Rizpah refuses to look away. She sets up camp beside the bodies and, for months, endures the scorching sun, the cold nights, and the rain, driving away every bird and beast that would rob her children of their dignity. Her grief becomes a protest. Her vigil becomes a prayer.

When David hears of Rizpah's courageous witness, something in him changes. He gathers the bones of the dead and gives them an honorable burial. Rizpah's steadfast compassion pierces the humanity of a king who had become so dehumanized that he could exchange human beings for political expediency and leave them to die without remorse.

Bishop Desmond Tutu reminds us that true liberation comes only when all are set free and “the oppressed are freed from being oppressed, and the oppressors are freed from being oppressors.”

In that same spirit, we remember Joan Sebastián Durán Guerrero and Lorenzo Salgado Araujo – two men who were here properly in the US and recently killed by ICE agents. We speak their names because every child of God bears a sacred dignity, and because love of neighbor refuses to look away when that dignity is denied. Like Rizpah, we choose to bear witness. We choose to stand in solidarity. We choose to keep vigil until every life is honored.

I invite you now to stand with me in silence, in the spirit of Rizpah's faithful witness.