All Hallows Ride

 

November 2, 2025. Saint Barnabas Lutheran Church, Howard Beach, Queens, N.Y.

On All Saints Sunday we remember those who have gone on before us. Close to our hearts today are parents, siblings, dear friends, neighbors, and other loved ones we miss and will never forget.

Our faith assures us that these saints are not gone forever but dwell in a great crowd of witnesses. Our memories of how they lived their lives, for good or ill, will continue to guide us. Long after they are gone we remember a partner’s intimacy, a mother’s wisdom, a father’s guidance, a teacher’s insights, a mentor’s vision, or a friend’s companionship. It’s not unusual for a grieving widow to sense the unseen presence of her late husband, or for a heartbroken parent to feel the eternal spirit of a lost child.

All Saints Sunday, traditionally, is the day when lost loved ones on the other side of the veil come closer to us.

In Mexico, this closeness is celebrated as Dia de los Muertos, the day of the dead. 

You have no doubt seen decorated skeleton figures with brightly painted skulls, a common symbol of the holiday.

During Día de Muertos, the tradition is to build private altars (ofrendas) containing the favorite foods and beverages, as well as photos and memorabilia, of the departed. The intent is to encourage visits by the souls, so the souls will hear the prayers and the words of the living directed to them. These altars are often placed at home or in public spaces such as schools and libraries, but it is also common for people to go to cemeteries to place these altars next to the tombs of the departed.

A delightful depiction of the holiday is Coco, a Disney film about a young boy seeking his musical hero in the realm of the dead. If you haven’t seen it, I’m sure you’ll find it wonderful.

As the departed members of the crowd of witnesses comes closer to us this All Saints Sunday, I wonder what they might think of the turmoil and divisions that preoccupy us, the living. Our forebears have lived through bright times and dark times, wars and peace, economic depressions and rich prosperity. They have experienced racism and homophobia, both as haters and as the hated. They prayed that the Word of God and the love of Christ guide them through our lives. Now it’s our turn. What does Jesus have to say to us today about our membership in God’s Kingdom?

In his sermon on the plain, so called to distinguish it from the sermon on the mount, Jesus presents a clear vision of the Kingdom of God. This vision is a radical departure from the ways of the world – then and now – and it requires a commitment to discipleship that is difficult and often dangerous.

In Matthew’s version of the sermon on the mount, Jesus cites beatitudes in the third person, “Blessed are the poor … Blessed are those who mourn … Blessed are the meek …” (Mt 5:1-11)

I imagine if I were in this crowd I’d be looking around to see who Jesus is talking about. If I’m not poor, if I’m not mourning, if I’m not particularly meek, I’d nevertheless be impressed that Jesus is promising blessings to those who are. But I wouldn’t assume he is talking about me.

Notice the change of tense in the sermon on the plain. Professor John T. Carroll of Union Presbyterian Seminary in Richmond, Virginia, explains it like this:

“Unlike Matthew’s third-person beatitudes, the entire set of blessings and woes in Luke is cast in the second-person plural ‘you.’ The disciples—and we who listen with them—are addressed directly and intimately. This is about us! And what we hear is a stunningly countercultural vision of the life of those who follow Jesus, of life and relationship within the realm of God. The reversals are extreme.”

“Blessed are you who are poor … Blessed are you who are hungry …Blessed are you who weep.” 

Jesus is talking to us!

The commentary in our handy Lutheran study bibles makes it plain:

“The situation of the poor, hungry, and weeping will be reversed. The lowly are lifted up, and the powerful are brought down, the hungry are filled, and the rich are sent away empty.”

Our study bible also poses discussion questions to challenge our thinking:

“The way things usually are in the world is turned upside-down in Luke 20-26. What might be dangerous about thinking the world needs to be turned upside-down (or maybe right-side-up) like this? What might be dangerous about thinking that this should not happen?”

It’s easy to see the potential dangers in the most radical messages in Luke 6 – commandments that are inescapably addressed not only to the disciples, not only to the crowd, but to you and me, too.

“But I say to you who are listening: Love your enemies; do good to those who hate you; bless those who curse you; pray for those who mistreat you. If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also, and from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt. Give to everyone who asks of you, and if anyone takes away what is yours, do not ask for it back again. Do to others as you would have them do to you.”

These are not only radical commandments. They are also counterintuitive. 

In another time, in another century, I was a Sunday school teacher in a small African American Baptist Church in Conshohocken, Pennsylvania.

My class consisted of seventh grade girls and they regarded me with some suspicion. Their mothers had dressed them in clean dresses, white ankle socks, and pretty ribbons in their hair. That probably made me less cautious than I should have been.

I was teaching Luke 6 and I wasn’t sure I was communicating because the girls were staring glassy-eyed at me. But I did manage to get their attention.

“Jesus,” I said with genial authority, “said, ‘Love your enemies.’”

Their mouths dropped open.

“No, he didn’t,” said one girl, also with a note of authority.

Another girl frowned and shook her head.

“That’s stupid.”

“No, really,” I said, holding out my bible so they could read it themselves.

They were unconvinced.

“Jesus wouldn’t last a day in our school,” said the first girl.

Their skepticism deepened when I got to the part about turning the other c cheek.

“Anybody hit me,” said the smallest girl in the class, “I’ll beat ‘em to a pulp.”

Lesson learned – by me, not them. It was rarely so clear to me just how radical Jesus is.

Lutheran Pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer, author of The Cost of Discipleship, put it this way:

"The love for our enemies takes us along the way of the cross and into fellowship with the Crucified. The more we are driven along this road, the more certain is the victory of love over the enemy's hatred. For then it is not the disciple's own love, but the love of Jesus Christ alone, who for the sake of his enemies went to the cross and prayed for them as he hung there." 

We know so well that the way of the cross cannot be easy. 

This is a dark period in our history. Mass shootings occur almost every day, more than 340 since January. A bizarre sect that calls itself Christian Nationalism has risen that considers empathy and compassion to be weaknesses, that says it’s okay to hate, that seeks to force others to conform to their rigid code of moral conduct, that causes LGBTQ persons to live in constant dread, that threatens the lives of women with its demands to control their bodies, that condones the mass round-ups of people, mostly persons of color and often our neighbors, to be sent to detention centers or cruel foreign prisons without due process of law.

This sect of Christianity has taken the words of Jesus and turned them upside down and inside out.

Now it falls to us, the living, to serve as apostles of Jesus’ message of love and justice as he preached it in his sermon on the plain.

Professor Carroll asks: “What is the endgame for cycles of harm and vengeance, writ so large in our own time? There is no soft and easy message to proclaim from this text. It is the sort of message that could get one crucified by the empire. 

“On All Saints Sunday, though, it is perhaps worth remembering those saints across the centuries who have dared to love enemies, even at great personal cost.”

And we will never forget them.

Fire and Reform

October 26, 2025, Saint Barnabas Lutheran Church, Howard Beach, Queens, N.Y.

 [Sermon originally preached October 27, 2024 at St Paul's Lutheran Church, Rye Brook, N.Y.]

When Reformation Sunday comes around every year, I think of an old friend I knew through the National and World Councils of Churches. 

I met Father Leonid Kishkovsky in the 1970s when we were both young ecumenists representing our churches on these councils. 

Back then, Leonid, a Russian-born priest in the Orthodox Church in America, wore a black cassock and parted his long hair in the middle. His beard and dour expression made me think of Rasputin. 

Leonid was a quintessential Orthodox priest. I told him that when I was a young Air Force chaplain’s assistant in October 1967 I visited Rome. 

“That was the time Patriarch Athenagoras I was there to confer with Pope Paul,” I said. Leonid raised his eyebrows. 

“The Pope and the Patriarch concelebrated a mass at the high altar,” I added. 

Leonid shook his head. 

“No they didn’t,” he said. 

“Yes,” I persisted. “That’s what the church media called it.” 

“Impossible,” Leonid said. “They may have stood together at the altar but it could not have been concelebrated.” 

I replied that as a Baptist layman I could not have made the word up but he was unmoved. 

Later, during one of the National Council of Churches’ worship celebrations of Reformation, I sat next to Leonid. He leaned over and whispered, “We don’t observe Reformation Sunday,” he said, referring to Orthodox churches. “We did not have a reformation. Didn’t need one.” 

Whether they need reforming or not, in most Orthodox churches, the liturgy, ministry, and requirements for ordination have not changed in twelve hundred years. 

Leonid became an archpriest in the Orthodox Church in America and retired to serve as pastor of a church on Long Island. He became ill and, toward the end, preached in a wheel chair. He died in August 2021, may his memory be eternal! 

For Christians who are not Orthodox, Reformation Sunday, if not a high holy day, is a time to reflect on how the church has evolved over the centuries. 

When the reformers risked their lives to translate scripture into the vernacular, it was a revelation. Nowhere in the bible were references to popes, bishops, priestly celibacy, or Purgatory. Soon, thanks to the invention of the printing press in the fifteenth century, these truths were spread far and wide. The established church was threatened and the Reformation was on. 

Imagine the amazement of people who were told that good works was the only way to get into heaven when they read this passage in their own language: 

“For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one should boast. For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus, for good works…” (Ephesians 2:8-9) 

We have so much to thank these early reformers for, particularly the realization that we are saved by faith, and that no one – no pope, no bishop, no priest – stands between the individual sinner and God. 

Thus Reformation Sunday is a day for rejoicing and gratitude for those who came before us, including Martin Luther, who never intended to found a church named for him. As Luther famously said, “While I was drinking beer, God reformed the church.” 

But we would be doing these early reformers a disservice if our rejoicing did not include a sobering awareness of what they faced. The penalty for reform was invariably torture and fiery death at the stake. 

It’s difficult for us to fully appreciate what they went through. 

The late British writer C.J. Sansom wrote seven novels that paint a vivid and horrifying picture of the state of the church under the erratic and unpredictable reforms of Henry VIII. The novels offer detailed descriptions of life in medieval England, the smells, the sewage troughs in the middle streets, the multi-tiered caste system from King to peasant. The novels are written in the voice of Matthew Shardlake, a hunchback lawyer who struggles against his disability to solve crimes and brush against such personages as Thomas Cromwell, Thomas Cranmer, Queen Catherine Howard, and Henry VIII himself. 

In his book Lamentation, Sansom draws us into the dark side of the Reformation when King Henry vacillates on what his people should believe, what they should read, and how they must worship. People who guessed wrong what the King wants them to do at any given time face painful deaths. 

One of the most disturbing scenes in the book involves Anne Askew, a 25-year-old anabaptist reformer who claimed the authority of the Holy Spirit over the king. She was arrested by devious officials who plotted to depose Henry’s sixth and final wife, Queen Catherine, because they suspected she was a closet reformer. They tortured Anne Askew on the rack to force her to reveal that Catherine was one of her supporters. 

But Anne never talked. 

Sansom’s description of the rack is not for the squeamish. We hear the groaning of the ropes and the cracking of Anne’s joints and her screams, we struggle to breathe in the hot humidity of the torture room, we smell the foul sweat of the men pulling at the rack. 

Anne Askew was the only woman to be tortured on the rack prior to being burned at the stake because King Henry, in his tender wisdom, forbad women to suffer this fate. For that reason, the torturers were careful to hide their identities. 

Anne’s body was so broken by the rack that she could not stand. She was tied to a chair and taken to the place of execution where she was chained to the stake in an upright position. 

It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to smell the acrid smoke and feel the flames as they climbed her body. According to some reports – accepted by Sansom in his fictional account – Anne’s suffering did not last long. In a spirit of Christian compassion her executioners tied a bag of gun powder around her neck. It exploded almost immediately, ending her agony and blowing her head off. 

It all began five hundred and seven years ago this Halloween when Martin Luther nailed his Ninety-Five Theses to the door of All Saints Church in Wittenberg. We celebrate this relatively benign but courageous fact today. 

But it’s not as simple as that. The truth is, if he had his way, Luther would have nailed a few Anabaptists to the door, too. And Jews. And the Pope. The defacing of the Wittenberg door was the ominous prelude to decades of burnings, beheadings, torture, and other primitive forms of hermeneutical discussion. 

Luther, who spent much of his life hiding from Catholic assassins, would have readily immolated the odd Mennonite or Jew whose theology he found abhorrent. 

Luther was complicated. Among other things, he was a bona fide prophet. God spoke through him with blinding clarity. 

But Luther also spoke for himself, and on those occasions he was often wrong. He was a typical sixteenth century European Christian who bristled with anti-Semitism and xenophobia and he bristled brisker than most. Had his glowering imperfections been less obvious, his followers might have elevated him to the demigod status of Joseph Smith or Mary Baker Eddy. 

Whether Luther actually defaced the Wittenberg door with nails is a matter of dispute, but historians are clear that he sent the theses to his bishop, Albert of Mainz, on October 31, 1517. They were not a demand for comprehensive church reform but a complaint about the sale of indulgences, a papal racket for selling tickets to heaven. 

The Disputation of Martin Luther on the Power and Efficacy of Indulgences was the opening salvo of the Protestant Reformation. Pope Leo X, who depended on indulgences to continue living in the manner to which he was accustomed, was alarmed by Luther’s disputation and eventually excommunicated him. His Holiness also dispatched goon squads in search of Luther’s hoary head. 

Ironically, the sale of indulgences has never gone away completely. There are still church fundraisers that suggest a donation of $5 will assure the attentiveness of the Blessed Mother to prayers. And scores of television evangelists, most of whom scorn both Lutherans and Catholics, raise millions by promising that contributions to their ministries will bring “special blessings” that undoubtedly include heaven. 

Luther’s point was that with God’s grace, salvation is achieved by faith alone. That was a revolutionary revelation that relieved a heavy burden from sinners who saw themselves struggling futilely to please a vengeful God. We Lutherans are beneficiaries of Martin Luther’s teaching that only the Holy Spirit can give us faith and we cannot do it ourselves. We are not among those who go around asking each other, “Have you found Jesus?” Through grace Jesus has found us. 

Salvation by faith remains a wonderful idea, and it’s too bad Pope Leo X couldn’t see it. It’s also too bad that the reformers themselves sometimes lost sight of it. 

But times change and we Christians are no longer immolating each other. Today Pope Leo XIV warmly embraces Lutherans and Cardinal Timothy Dolan of New York (who knew he was a Luther scholar?) acknowledges “the church needed reforming” in 1517. One can even see the day in the not-too-distant future when Lutherans and Catholics will share the same communion elements of bread and wine at a common table. 

The ideal result of the Reformation will be when Lutherans and Catholics share a common priesthood, but that day seems far off. The Evangelical Lutheran Church in America ordains women as pastors - ministers of Word and Sacrament - and consecrates women as bishops. But the otherwise open-minded Pope is not likely to go there. So for those who believe it is essential for the church to embrace the gifts of all who are called to ministry, regardless of gender, there is still reforming to be done. 

As we look forward to the perfect unity of a reformed church, it may be good to keep in mind that Reformation has always been imperfect, often brutal, and slow to embrace the insight that Luther saw in his more gracious moments: that persons are redeemed by faith, not dogma, and by God’s grace, not priestly intercession. 

True reformation may be a long ways off, but by God’s grace it will come. 

Like the long, slow moral arc of the universe, the arc of reformation bends inexorably toward unity. 

Praying

October 19, 2025, Saint Barnabas Lutheran Church, Howard Beach, Queens, N.Y.

There is some sage advice about what to do if your boss finds you asleep at your work station.

You don’t panic. You simply raise your head, open your eyes and say, “Thank you, Lord. Amen.” That should convince the most cynical of bosses.

You could make the argument, as many of us do, that napping is a holy exercise, especially on a Sunday afternoon. It restores our energies, soothes our bodies, and prepares our spirits to resume our work. All of which brings us closer to our God, so why not see a nap as a form of prayer?

Having said that, we should keep in mind how Jesus reacted when his disciples slept while he prayed in Gethsemane. 

“So you could not stay awake with me one hour? Stay awake and pray that you may not come to the time of trial; the spirit is indeed willing but the flesh is weak.” (Mt 26:40-41)

In Luke 18, Jesus tells the story of an unjust judge who refused to grant justice to a widow who has been treated shabbily by an unknown opponent. At first the judge refuses to hear or rule for the widow. But she comes back repeatedly to his chambers, each time pressing her case. The judge, who may be concerned that this poor woman is making him look bad – or even, God forbid, unjust – begins to tire of her.

“Because this widow keeps bothering me, I will grant her justice so that she may not wear me out by continually coming.” (Lk 18:5)

Eric Barreto, New Testament professor at Princeton Theological Seminary, admits to some surprise that this particular parable is used to encourage prayer.

He writes: “This is a parable many of us need these days! In a world teeming with disappointment and hopelessness, I turn to the beginning of chapter 18, yearning for a refreshing word. Instead, Jesus narrates a parable about the kind of everyday corruption that marginalizes those who can least afford it. It is a surprising parable to tell if Jesus’ aim is to encourage prayer and persistence.”

The archetype of the corrupt judge (or magistrate, or politician, or any abuser of power) is familiar to us.

So we quickly note that this reprobate is not supposed to represent God in the story. He is the very opposite of the loving, just God. If this amoral scoundrel will succumb to the persistent nagging of a justice seeker, how much more will God respond to those who “pray always”?

“And will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night? Will he delay long in helping them? I tell you, he will quickly grant justice to them.” (Lk 18:7-8)

A few chapters earlier in Luke, the disciples showed they weren’t entirely sure how to pray. 

“Jesus was praying in a certain place, and after he had finished, one of his disciples said to him, ‘Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples.” (Lk 11:1)

And Jesus responded by teaching the prayer we recite every Sunday and in our daily devotions.

According to legend, Martin Luther was once asked what he planned to do today.

He replied, “I have so much to do that I shall spend the first three hours in prayer.”

In our frenzied age today, we can only shake our head. Three hours? Is he exaggerating? Where in heaven’s name could we find three hours just to pray. How would our work get done? How could we take time to plan and prepare meals?  Would it be fair to our families if we took so much time away from them? John F. Kennedy once told a friend that his mother, Rose, was frequently away at prayer retreats when he needed her the most.

Here, Luther’s teachings are helpful. Luther believed that all we do – work, planning meals, attending to the household, and being with our families – was holy work. 

Luther said: "The Christian shoemaker does his Christian duty not by putting little crosses on the shoes, but by making good shoes, because God is interested in good craftsmanship". 

Luther's core belief was that honest work, regardless of its nature, is a divine calling and a way to serve God and neighbors, with the emphasis being on diligence and excellence rather than religious ornamentation. 

And of course honest work is always bolstered and sustained by prayer.

One of my favorite examples of prayer at work – although one the antisemitic Luther would have discounted – is Tevye the milkman in Fiddler on the Roof. As he makes his rounds delivering milk and cheese to his neighbors, he is constantly talking to God. He doesn’t separate prayer from his work, which he sees as God’s work. 

Nor does he hide his honest feelings from God.

"Oh, Lord, you made many, many poor people. I realize, of course, it's no shame to be poor. But it's no great honor either! So, what would have been so terrible if I had a small fortune?"

I love this uninhibited conversation with God, and I wish I was better at it. During my erstwhile Baptist days, when I was called upon to say a public prayer, I was very self-conscious about choosing words that were pleasing to God and to the congregation I was facing.

“Lord we – just – thank you for everything, and we – just – pray you will bless us and keep us safe, and – just – show us the way and – just – just – Amen.”

Now I am so grateful for the beautiful liturgy that guides our worship each Sunday – the confession and forgiveness, the kyrie, the prayer of the week, the prayers of the people – all so beautifully written, and all capturing the thoughts of my heart.

Luther approved the reciting of prayers written down or memorized but he did caution us against vain and repetitious praying. Whether we pray the words of a prayer book, or of a rosary, or of the words of our heart, we recognize that we are in dialogue with the Creator of the Universe, and we strive to keep conversation going; to pray always.

Francisco J. Garcia, an Episcopal priest and social activist in Berkeley, California, finds deep meaning in the parable of the widow and the unjust judge.

‘It speaks to the divinely rooted call to pursue justice, while also grounding it in the context of living a faithful life. It urges us to resist the tendency to think about prayer in a simplified and uni-directional way, as merely words we offer to God in a transactional and hierarchical manner (in other words, the idea of praying to God the “Father” up in the sky). It also makes a clear, intimate, and inseparable connection, in my view, between prayer and justice. This parable invites preachers and all who would receive it to think of prayer as an active, dynamic, relational, and even mystical enterprise between us and God.”

That mystical enterprise of prayer is evident in the prayer Jesus taught us.

“When you pray, say: Father, hallowed be your name, your kingdom come.” (Lk 11:2)

When we say these words, we remember that God is holy. The word Jesus used for Father is Abba, or Daddy, an affectionate and intimate term of address for a loving father that is still used by Hebrew speaking children today. We acknowledge that the Creator of the Universe has created a kingdom that dwells within us, and he relates to us as a loving father and not as an unapproachable deity.

“Give us each day our daily bread.” (Lk 11:3)

When we say these words we remember that all we have – food, property, possessions, loved ones – is from God. We remember we cannot claim credit for possessions or fortunes we have gathered, nor think of ourselves as self-made people who have raised ourselves up by our boot straps. We acknowledge that all we have are gifts from a loving God.

“Forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us.” (Lk. 4a) 

When we say these words, we remember that all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. We confess our sins to God and receive God’s gracious forgiveness. When we are so readily forgiven, we remember that we also owe forgiveness to those who have sinned against us. And we remember that it is only through this love for our neighbor that we can live a life of justice and peace.

For it is God’s kingdom, God’s Power, and God’s glory forever. 

God grant us the strength to Pray always.

Amen.

Not Even a Ta?

 

October 12, 2025, First Lutheran Church, Throggs Neck, Bronx, N.Y.

Today’s gospel is so rich with meaning that it takes a little time to unpack.

Let’s follow an Ignatian convention and use our imaginations to place ourselves in the midst of this story.  

We see Jesus crossing the border between Samaria and Galilee, proceeding on his fateful journey to Jerusalem where he knows he faces death.

In our mind's eye we try to see Jesus as he actually was: perhaps covered with the dust of his long walk, sweat trickling down his brown face, walking slowly through the crowds that gather around him. Imagine standing in the midst of these curious people. 

We see Jesus pushing with quiet resolve towards the end of his journey. Still he takes time to notice a group of men who are suffering the agonies of a painful incurable disease. The updated edition of the New Revised Standard Version of the bible refers to their condition as “skin disease” rather than leprosy because it’s deemed more accurate.

We look with horror and disgust on these suffering men who are disfigured by boils, carbuncles, fungus infections, impetigo, scabies, patchy eczema, ulcers, phagedenic ulcers, and more. (https://www.nlt.org.uk/about/biblical-leprosy/) 

We see Jesus pausing with compassion as they cry out, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” (Luke 11:14) 

Perhaps respecting the distance they are keeping from him and the crowd, Jesus does not approach them. He raises his voice: “Go and show yourselves to the priests.”

We see Jesus standing back but we sense his mighty power as the men are “made clean” by the simple act of walking away.

And we see Jesus still in the midst of the crowd as one of the men – his flesh now clear – turns back, praises God, collapses at Jesus’ feet.

And thanks him.

What is the expression we see on Jesus’ face? Bemusement? Patience? Annoyance? Compassion?

Amid the murmur of the crowd we hear his resonant voice:

“Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?” (Luke 17:18)

And more:

“Then Jesus said to him, ‘Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.” (Luke 17:19)

There are some things about this story that can only be detected in our imaginations because the writer of Luke is silent. 

I wonder, for example, how the priests reacted when ten men they knew to be hideously disfigured suddenly appeared to them clean and whole. 

Did the priests think they had done it? Did they say, yeah, sure, you’re welcome?

And if the one man who did prostrate himself before Jesus was a Samaritan – a despised ethnicity among the Jews – who were the other nine? And what is the significance that the grateful man was a member of a loathed minority?

Be that as it may, what are the crucial elements of today’s Gospel message?

Suffering? Compassion? Gratitude? Ingratitude? 

Thankfulness?

With Thanksgiving still weeks away, perhaps it is not too early to consider the things we are thankful for, even if we have overlooked prostrating ourselves as Jesus’ feet to thank God for so many gifts.

To start with, we can all be thankful that biblical leprosy is far behind us. Also called Hansen’s Disease, leprosy is now a chronic, curable infectious disease treated by antibiotics.

Thank you, Jesus, that the repugnant form of the disease is gone, and we must confess that we are even more awed by your miraculous powers to simply waive it away. Being cleansed of leprosy would have been such a relief that we might also assume that the other nine lepers were as grateful as the tenth, even though they didn’t come to tell Jesus. If I had been one of them, I would have danced and sang and imbibed my joy long after Jesus left the border. Did the other nine wake up three days later and ask, “Who was that masked man? I wanted to thank him.”

The reactions of the missing nine force us to look inward: how often do we fail to express our thankfulness to others we owe so much?

I grew up in a loving family in Central New York State. As I entered my rebellious teens I disappointed my parents by doing poorly in high school. I rushed to join the Air Force as soon as I turned 18. Four years later, now in college, I argued with my father – a World War II into my upper seventies, I am aware how blessed I am that my spouse, all combat veteran – over the morality of the Vietnam War, and we often tangled. 

As I grew older I became closer to my parents and we enjoyed a warm, loving relationship. Both Mom and Dad are long gone now, but I wonder: did I ever fully express my gratitude to them for all they did for me and my siblings? Did they know how truly thankful I was, and am, for them?

As I stand on the cusp of my 80th year, I am thankful thay my four siblings, all six of our adult children, and all six of my beloved grandchildren, are alive and well. I know so many who cannot make a similar claim. Have I adequately expressed to God my thankfulness?

Martha and I have a comfortable roof over our heads, warm beds in the winter, food on our table, and gratifying team ministries to pursue in the Bronx. Have I adequately expressed to God my thankfulness?

But we must also acknowledge that all of us pass through valleys in our lives for which we cannot be thankful.

Except for the Air Force and a few happy years as a newspaper reporter in the nineties, all my jobs have been with not-for-profit church organizations. Two of them – the World Council of Churches and the National Council of Churches in the USA – fell upon hard financial times in the nineties and the aughts and had to “right size” by cutting back staff. Communications officers are often the first to go, and each time I spent months living from hand to mouth while collecting meager unemployment. During these times I could not bring myself to express my thankfulness to God.

I worked 20 years as head of communication for American Baptist Churches, supervising media, editing magazines, writing editorials, and feeling very grateful for the opportunities God had given to me. But 20 years is a long time in the high-pressure non-profit world where limited funds are fiercely fought over and in 1992 – burned out and discouraged – I was fired.

Again, I had trouble thanking God for that.

But was getting canned such a bad thing? Certainly I am not the only person who has had failures and  disappointments in life.

Dr. Diana Butler Bass, author of Grateful: The Transformative Power of Giving Thanks, was also summarily dismissed from a job she loved. And, as the title of her book suggests, she found the experience transformative.

“I learned new things about myself, about God, about life—all of it possible only because I was fired,” She writes. “I feel thankful.”

I, too, for example, am thankful that God restored balance in my life. I was fired and in that experience God taught me there is more to life than identifying oneself with a job or a position. I learned there is more to life than being a Baptist editor. I learned that I could be flexible enough to switch gears, to set new goals, that God was still there in the new circumstances of my life, and that life was still good.

Some time ago I received a message from one of my former students when I was on the adjunct faculty of my alma mater, Eastern University. This woman was now on the faculty at another college and she came to work one Monday to find her desk has been cleared out and she no longer had a job. If you’ve ever been through a similar situation, you know how devastating it can be. But I found that I was in a good position to reassure her that this was her opportunity, as it had been mine, to learn new things about herself, about God, and about life. These abrupt life changes can be transformative if you discover the power of giving thanks through them.

“In normal life one is not at all aware that we always receive infinitely more than we give,” writes Diana Butler Bass, “and that gratitude is what enriches life … Gratitude gives us a new story. It opens our eyes to see that every life is, in unique and dignified ways, graced: the lives of the poor, the castoffs, the sick, the jailed, the exiles, the abused, the forgotten as well as those in more comfortable physical circumstances. Your life. My life. We all share in the ultimate gift—life itself. Together. Right now.”

Surely all ten sufferers in today’s lesson knew they had received infinitely more than they had ever been able to give, and I have no doubt they were each grateful in their own way.

No doubt their gratitude gave them a new story, and made it possible for them to be thankful for the fact that we all share in the gift of life, God’s ultimate gift.

God, whether we think to come to you to prostrate ourselves at the feet of Jesus to say it, we are thankful.

And when we are truly thankful, we can transform our lives in ways we cannot imagine.

Thanks be to God.

Faith Envy

October 5, 2025. Saint Barnabas Lutheran Church, Howard Beach, Queens, N.Y.

Luke 17:5-10

Today we observe the awesome power of the littlest things.

Take my wife. Please. 

Martha is an enormous presence in my life. She fills my days with unconditional love, support, and – on occasion – constructive criticism. It’s only when I see her from a distance that I’m surprised how petite she is, a small thing with a titanic aura.

There is power in little things. 

In our Gospel reading this morning, Jesus’ disciples ask him to make their faith bigger. They think this is a logical request because they know Jesus can do anything he wants and they are eager to increase their faith. They think that their does faith not necessarily grow just because they walk, eat, and sleep with Jesus. Faith is not contagious, and Jesus has been known to criticize them for having too little of it. They no doubt remember watching him sleep serenely on a boat being swamped by a storm, and they shout at him to wake up because “we are perishing.” Jesus awakes, calms the storm, and chides the disciples: “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” So it's not unreasonable that they think they need Jesus’ intervention to increase their faith. (Mark 4:37-40)

But again Jesus seems to chide them. Faith is not measured by its quantity but by its quality.

“If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.” (Luke 17:5-8)

Jesus could have used examples other than mustard seeds. Poppy seeds are smaller. Orchid seeds are smaller. Microscopic spores grow into spritely ferns. In a later era Jesus might have mentioned the tiny atom and it’s incalculable potential for power.

This month on Saint Francis Sunday, thousands of beloved critters ranging from elephants to hamsters are brought to churches for the annual blessing of the animals.

Unseen but just as important will be billions of microbes too small for the naked eye to see. Few pastors will be aware of their buggy presence when they are pronouncing the blessings, but none of the creatures seeking blessing could live without them.

Ed Yong, science writer for The Atlantic, probably didn’t know he was writing a theological tome when he penned I Contain Multitudes, The Microbes Within Us And a Grander View Of Life. But Yong has raised questions that are deeply spiritual as well as complexly biological.

According to Yong, more than half the cells in your body aren’t even human. But without these infinitesimal creatures, we could not survive.

They keep ward off disease, aid digestion, repel bad bacteria and viruses, and keep our bodies in healthy balance.

It’s probably just as well that God didn’t reveal this in the beginning. Genesis might have sounded like this:

So God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them, and he created them a microbiota, a microbiome that resideth in the skin, mammary glands, placenta, semen, uterus, ovarian follicles, lung, saliva, oral mucosa, conjunctiva, and gastrointestinal tracts. And God saw that it was good.

There is enormous power in the tiniest things. Faith, even when it is little, is fierce. 

And to drive his point home, Jesus uses an exaggerated and, if you think about it, funny example to catch his disciples’ attention. If you imagine a mulberry tree suddenly ripped from its roots and hurled into the sea, you might stifle a chuckle. The anecdote was so memorable that the disciples remembered it all their lives and the story was still around sixty or ninety years later when the Gospel of Luke was written.

Whenever Jesus used this type of embellished humor, he was making a point he wanted us to remember.

“It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle,” he said drolly, “than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 19:23-24)

This image, too, is vivid and unforgettable. 

It’s also one of those biblical narratives we’ve heard so often that its rhetorical power is waning. To get a better measure of how delightfully surprising the camel-needle image can be, tell it to a nursery class – checking, of course, that they know what camels and needles are. Children who encounter it for the first time recognize a riotous Sesame Street image when they hear one.

Dr. Elton Trueblood, the Quaker writer and theologian, thought anyone who missed the fact that Jesus sprinkled his sermons with witticisms – that on some occasions Jesus was, as Mort Saul would put it, apocryphal of wry – is missing an important dimension of Christian theology.

God knows how easy it is to miss that dimension of Jesus’ homiletical style. Some of us grew up in congregations where a sober frown was regarded as the appropriate mask of faith and the giggles of children were sternly shushed. 

Trueblood writes in The Humor of Christ (Harper & Row, 1964) that the scriptures prove how much Jesus loved to laugh. His sermons and parables were generously sprinkled with irony, hyperbole, and droll scorn. 

Actually, Jesus’ scorn could be quite piercing. His reference to the Pharisees as “you snakes, you brood of vipers” (Matthew 23:33a) is harsher than the more genteel “sons of bitches.”

Jesus’ love of laughter and the good life was used by his enemies to criticize him.  “For John came neither eating nor drinking,” Jesus said, referring to his cousin, the ascetic baptizer, “and they say, ‘he has a demon.’ The Son of Man came eating and drinking and they say, ‘Look, a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners.’” (Matthew 11:24) 

It’s hard to imagine eating and drinking without jokes and laughter, so it’s no theological leap to conclude Jesus was a joke teller and a laugher.

The camel-and-needle schtick is not the only time Jesus uses gross exaggeration to get his point across. It’s an entertaining spiritual exercise to leaf through the Gospels to identify the times Jesus was just kidding and did not intend his words to be taken literally.

In the Sermon on the Mount, for example, Jesus uses hyperbolic images to drive home the point that everyone sins. 

Jesus said, “Everyone who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart” (Matthew 5:28)  

This is a dismaying revelation to all us guys whose eyes stray toward well turned ankles in a crowd, telling ourselves it can’t hurt to look. It is especially challenging today as we are assaulted by mass media that offer images of hundreds of beautiful women and men for instant ogling and free-based fantasizing. 

But wait, there’s more. 

“If your right eye causes you to sin,” Jesus continued, “tear it out and throw it away; it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to be thrown into hell.” 

Point made, but Jesus was not advocating mass blindness on an Oedipal scale. If vicarious lust required wandering eyes to be cast out, the whole world would bump blindly into another Jesus story: “If one blind person guides another, both will fall into a pit.” (Matthew 15:14b). Slapstick humor. 

Nor is Jesus is not above sardonic scatology: “Do you see that whatever goes into the mouth enters the stomach, and goes out into the sewer? But what comes out of the mouth proceeds from the heart, and this is what defiles.” (Matthew 15:17-18) Again, the point is made and the mental image – even if it doesn’t elicit a giggle or two – is unforgettable.

Also unforgettable is Jesus’ send-up of the scribes and Pharisees as he explains in quick-fire Rodney Dangerfield staccato why they should get no respect:

“They do all their deeds to be seen by others, for they make their phylacteries broad and their fringes long” (referring to the more visible sartorial symbols of pharisaic piety, Matthew 23:5). “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!” he said, “For you are like whitewashed tombs, which on the outside look beautiful, but inside are full of the bones of the dead and of all kinds of filth.” (Matthew 23:27).  

Jesus! Lighten up!

“Or,” Jesus said to the crowd gathering on the mount, “how can you say to your neighbor, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye’ while the log is in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your neighbor’s eye.” (Matthew 7:4-5)

But as hard as it is to imagine a log in someone’s eye, it’s a hyperbolic tour de force. 

When Jesus uses humor to grab the attention of his congregation, it’s usually to call attention to a very serious point.

Let’s go back and imagine that mulberry tree ripping out of its bed and soaring into the sea.

Speaking apocryphal of wry, and with more than a hint of wit, Jesus is telling his disciples – and us – that the size of one’s faith does not matter.

As Audrey West, a Moravian scholar, puts it:

“When it comes to faith, even a seed of faith holds tree-like potential. Jesus’ followers can live and act on the basis of whatever faith is theirs, no matter how small or insignificant it seems. 

“Even the immeasurable reign of God is compared to a mustard seed (Luke 13:19).”