Blind sight

March 15, First Lutheran Church of Throggs Neck, Bronx, N.Y.

There are three instances in the gospels in which Jesus cured blind people.

In John 9, Jesus restored the sight of a man who had been blind since birth.

There is the healing of blind Bartimaeus in Mark 10:46-52.

Earlier, in Mark 8:23-25, Jesus delivered a two-part remedial on a blind man who initially saw people walking around like trees but, after Jesus touched him a second time, “saw everything clearly.”

There is no question that the restoration of sight is a monumental miracle. Just how monumental the miracle may be is hard to access by we who have always taken our sight for granted. 

“I never thought of being blind as a disadvantage, and I never thought of being black as a disadvantage,” said Stevie Wonder. “I am what I am. I love me! And I don't mean that egotistically – I love that God has allowed me to take whatever it was that I had and to make something out of it.” 

Ray Charles said blindness clarified his perception of other people. “I knew being blind was suddenly an aid,” he said. “I never learned to stop at the skin. If I looked at a man or a woman, I wanted to see inside. Being distracted by shading or coloring is stupid. It gets in the way. It's something I just can't see.”

Because I have never been blind myself (at least physically), it’s inappropriate for me to speculate how blind people feel about their lack of sight – except to reiterate that blind people I have known were undeterred by it.

Curiously, the blind men who sought Jesus help were utterly incapacitated by their plight, beggars who sat by the road and spread their cloaks so passersby could toss coins in their laps. 

Blindness was regarded by passersby as a terrible affliction, perhaps a punishment for some unknown sin. Jesus had to clarify for his disciples that no one was to blame for a blind person’s disability. 

When his disciples introduced Jesus to the blind man in John 9, they asked a strange question: “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” (John 9:2). 

The question is an odd one because – as British theologian Leslie Weatherhead pointed out – it implies that the blind man may have sinned in a previous life. Weatherhead, writing in The Christian Agnostic (1965), sees deep significance in the fact that Jesus did not scoff at the disciples’ assumptions about reincarnation (one of many eccentric views that led his critics to redub him Weslie Featherhead). 

Jesus however, was more intent on making another point: “Neither this man nor his parents sinned,” Jesus said, “He was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.” (John 9:3) Meaning, of course, that restoring a blind man’s sight calls vivid attention to Jesus’ as an agent of God’s power.

So it was with Bartimaeus, a blind beggar sitting by the road when Jesus passed by.

“When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout out and say, ‘Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!’ Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, ‘Son of David, have mercy on me!’ Jesus stood still and said, ‘Call him here.’ And they called the blind man, saying to him, ‘Take heart; get up, he is calling you.’ So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus. Then Jesus said to him, ‘What do you want me to do for you?’ The blind man said to him, ‘My teacher, let me see again.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Go; your faith has made you well.’ Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way.” Mark 10:47-52)

It’s interesting that Bartimaeus suggests he once had the ability to see, while other blind persons cured by Jesus had been blind all their lives. Doctors tell us that would make a big difference because the brains of persons who have never had sight are incapable of interpreting images and it wouldn’t matter if their optic nerve suddenly started to send signals. 

But miracles are miracles whether they require a quick fix or a massive cerebral reconstruction, and Jesus appears equally adept at both.

The blind men cured by Jesus appear to be ordinary persons – that is, neither excelling nor lacking in moral character. Nothing is known about the state of their souls before Jesus brought them into the light.

But over the centuries, preachers and theologians have used recovery of physical sight as a metaphor for the restoration of ethical insight. 

The Apostle Paul, who persecuted Christians with Pharisaical zeal, was blinded by his encounter with the resurrected Jesus and his sight was not restored until he was touched by the disciple Ananias: 

“And immediately something like scales fell from Paul’s eyes, and his sight was restored. Then he got up and was baptized.” (Acts 9:18)

One of the best examples of the metaphor was provided by repentant slave trader John Newton. Although Newton had a lot on his mind when he wrote “Amazing Grace,” he summed it up in eight syllables: 

“I once … was blind but now I see.”

Newton, an English cleric and poet, was a crew member on a slave ship in 1748 when an Atlantic storm threatened to send the ship to bottom. Newton experienced a sudden religious conversion, but the moral scales about slavery did not drop from his eyes for several more years. In 1755 he quit the sea and began to study theology. He wrote the famous poem to support the three points of his New Year’s sermon on January 1, 1773.

In his moral blindness, Newton made a fortune transporting African slaves to their dissolute masters. Once his sight was restored, Newton joined forces with abolitionist William Wilberforce, who wrote the Slave Trade Act of 1807 that abolished the trade in Britain. 

The miraculous transition from blindness to sight provides the structure for an apt allegory of what happens when Jesus enters our lives.

The physical blessing is breathtaking enough. One blind man initially saw people walking around “as trees,” but when Jesus touched him again he saw clearly. 

But many of us who have always seen with our eyes sit in moral and ethical darkness along the sides of the road, spreading our cloaks to capture whatever self-centered schemes and hand-outs may be thrown our way. For many of us, the darkness prevents us from seeing the fullness of God’s love. In our blindness, we may nurture hatred, greed, and bigotry, and we reach out to grasp whatever pleasures and amusements may be tossed in our laps. 

But as we sit in our darkness, the day will surely come when Jesus will pass by our perch on the side of the road.

That is our cue, as the blind man cured by Jesus in John’s Gospel declared, “I do not know whether (Jesus) is a sinner. One thing I do know, that, though I was blind, now I see.”

That is our cue, as it was for Bartimaeus, to begin shouting out, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”

Jesus, according to his promise, will stand in front of us and say,

“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 let the oppressed go free.” (Luke 4:18).

And just as surely as the blind man testified his sightedness to those who accused Jesus of being a sinner, and just as surely as Bartimaeus began to see the amazed crowd that surrounded him, we will experience the spiritual liberation declared by Jesus. The demons of our darkness – self-absorption, religious chauvinism, racism, sexism, islamophobia, homophobia, xenophobia – will be extinguished by God’s eternal light.

And then we can dance with Bartimaeus and feel the sweet release of the famous chorus:

Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind but now I see.

Woman of Light

 

March 8, 2026, First Lutheran Church of Throggs Neck, Bronx. N.Y.

John 4:5-42

John’s gospel introduces us to two people who are not mentioned in the other three gospels. And they are two very different people.

One is Nicodemus, a Pharisee, a rich man of high status who was intrigued by Jesus but was afraid to be seen with him. He came to Jesus in the still of the night.

The other is a Samaritan woman who encountered Jesus in the heat of the day at what is traditionally known as Jacob’s Well. John does not reveal her name but the Orthodox church has dubbed her Photiní, “the luminous one.”

The Samaritan woman is obviously not a woman of means. Many have read this passage in John and concluded she was a pariah both in her own community and among Samaritan-disdaining Jews.

She has been married five times. She has come to the well in the sweltering noon time when no one else is around, suggesting she is shunned by her neighbors because of her marital infidelity. 

But are we jumping to confusions about this poor woman?

If you read this passage in our trusty Lutheran Study Bible, you’ll find a clarifying footnote.

“While we tend to think that Jesus is questioning the woman’s morals, her marital history is not the point and most likely not her fault.” A woman of her time would have little control over the men who desire her and she may have been passed around from man to man.

Professor Laura Holmes of Wesley Theological Seminary in Washington, D.C., also cautions against judging the woman too hastily.

“While some wealthy women in Rome may have had the legal authority to divorce their husbands,” she points out, “this was only possible with the permission of their fathers … and would not have been likely or possible for a poorer woman in the province of Samaria. Therefore, she most likely had five husbands due to tragedies, either death or being divorced or both.”

“The reason Jesus asks her about her husband,” the commentary notes, “is to get her to another level of understanding, because she then sees Jesus as a prophet.”

It quickly becomes apparent that Jesus’ encounter with the woman is no accident. He and his disciples are walking from Judea to Galilee and it’s necessary to pass through Samaria on the way. But when Jesus pauses to talk to a woman at Jacob’s Wel, we know his reason for passing through Samaria was not merely a geographic convenience.

“Give me a drink,” he tells the woman, not one to beat around the bush.

The woman is astonished. It is certainly not done for a man to approach a woman he doesn’t know, especially a Jewish man and a Samarian woman.

But Jesus does have her attention. Like Nicodemus before, she takes Jesus’ words literally. When Jesus tells Nicodemus, “You must be born again,” Nicodemus asks, “How can this be?” When Jesus tells the woman she might ask him about “living water,” she responds, “Sir, you have no bucket and the well is deep. Where do you get that living water?”

She may have been confused because the Greek word for “living” water also means “running” water—in other words, water from a river or stream, rather than well-water. 

“Since a well can be poisoned or tainted, running water was understood to be safer and more valuable,” writes Professor Holmes. “But even with this misunderstanding, she still wants what this running (living) water does: It will forever quench her thirst, and that is what she desires.”

But as she continues her conversation with Jesus, especially when he shows he knows how many husbands she has had, it becomes clear to her that this is no ordinary man.

“The woman said to him, ‘I know that Messiah is coming …When he comes he will proclaim all things to us.’ Jesus said to her, ‘I am he, the one who is speaking to you.’” (Jn. 4:25-26)

That sounds very matter-of-fact in English. But the woman must have been astonished by his declaration. There is no “he” in the Greek John is using to interpret Jesus’ Aramaic words. What the woman heard was “I Am,” the name of God that was revealed to Moses at the burning bush. Later in his narrative, when skeptical Jews in the Synagogue questioned who he is, Jesus responds, “Before Abraham was, I am.” (Jn 8:58) Jesus’ words were explosive and dangerous, a declaration that he and God are one. If this were not true, he would be speaking blasphemy, and the men in the temple attempted to stone him. 

Indeed, the Samarian woman seems skeptical about Jesus’ declaration. But at that point Jesus’ disciples, who had been out buying food, returned and couldn’t hide their astonishment that Jesus was talking to a mere Samarian woman.

“What do you want,” they demanded. “Why are you speaking to her?” (Jn 4:27)

That must have been an awkward moment for the woman, suddenly confronted by a dozen surly men. She decided this would be a good time to leave. She left her water jar by the well and hurried back to the city.

She still had questions, but she was eager to share her experience with people in the city.

“Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah, can he?” (Jn 4:29)

As further evidence that the Samaritan woman was not shunned by her neighbors, the people were persuaded by her hesitant witness.t

John reports what happened:

Many Samaritans from that city believed in him because of the woman’s testimony, “He told me everything I have ever done.”  So when the Samaritans came to him, they asked him to stay with them, and he stayed there two days. And many more believed because of his word. They said to the woman, “It is no longer because of what you said that we believe, for we have heard for ourselves, and we know that this is truly the Savior of the world.” (Jn 4:39-42)

At this point the Samaritan woman disappears from the Gospels. In order to get some idea what happened (or might have happened) to her, we must turn to the traditions of our Orthodox siblings.

Eastern Orthodox and Byzantine tradition identifies her as Saint Photiní (also spelled Photina or Photine), which translates to "the luminous one". In Russian Orthodoxy she is called Svetlana, which also means bright.

She is revered as a martyr and "Equal-to-the-Apostles" for her role in spreading the Gospel.  According to tradition, she was baptized, became a great evangelist, and was eventually martyred in Rome under Nero.

 "Photiní" comes from the Greek word for light, signifying her role in bringing the light of Christ to others. Tradition indicates she had five sisters and two sons (Photinos and Joseph), who were also martyred. 

We Lutherans do not honor her as a saint.

But we can honor her because, even before she fully understood, even while she was asking if he could be the Messiah, she chose to tell others about her encounter with Jesus. The persons she told were moved to seek their own encounters with Jesus. And as a result of the witness of the woman at the well, they believed.

At times we, too, wonder if our faith and understanding is strong enough to share it with others.

When we hesitate to speak, the woman at the well – Photiní if you will – shines a much needed light on our path.

Amen.

Borning Again

March 1, 2026, Saint Barnabas Lutheran Church, Howard Beach, Queens, N.Y.

“Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.”

My own encounter with Nicodemus goes back to 1966 when I was 19 years old. 

I was an airman with two stripes stationed in England, a member of a group of Americans who called ourselves the “Christian Vocation Group.” On Sunday evenings we brought worship services to vicarless Anglican churches. We took turns leading the hymns, reading the scriptures, leading the litanies, and preaching the message. One night in November it was my turn to preach.

I have to cringe a little at my teen-age presumption that I had something to say to a tiny congregation of mostly elderly women. But lack of experience didn’t stop me. Back then most of my sermons were Billy Graham imitations consisting of hoisting my bible and shouting, “The BIBLE says …”

That night I was preaching on Nicodemus’ encounter with Jesus as it is told in the King James Version.

“Marvel not that I said unto thee, Ye must be born again. The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit.”

Whatever that means.

My exegetical insights were limited at 19, but I knew enough to cover my ignorance by shouting.

Our group members were mostly Southern Baptists so we concluded each worship service in evangelical style: we extended an invitation to the elderly congregants to come forward and be “born again.” Most nights the ladies stared at us in polite silence and continued their knitting.

On this night however, a young man – possibly the son of one of the women – walked toward me with tears in his eyes and collapsed at my feet.

“You said just what was in my heart tonight,” he said.

I was dumbfounded. Something I had said had led someone to Christ? And, if so, what did I say? And how would I know to say it again?

I stood aside as the older members of our group surrounded the young man to tell him about Jesus. That was just as well because I really had nothing more to say to him.

But I confess all this because it is so typical of evangelical interpretations of what Jesus meant when he said, “You must be born again.”

In my brief flirtation with Southern Baptists I understood that being born again was my own responsibility. Jesus wasn’t going to do it for me. If I was going to spend eternity with Jesus I had to decide that on my own. If I didn’t profess my faith in Jesus I was lost for all time, and God would cast me into the eternal darkness.

That seems harsh but I have known many evangelicals who grieved that their spouses or siblings or children were not “born again” and would not be joining them in Heaven.

The thought of eternal darkness was also a terror for me. I sat through many an invitation at evangelical services, swells of “Just As I Am” in my ears, frozen in my pew, unable to rise to my feet to accept Jesus as my personal Savior. I couldn’t wrap my brain on what it would feel like to be saved. I saw others going forward, smiling through their tears, to profess their certainty they had been saved. But how did they really know? And would they feel the same way when the euphoria passed?

I wonder if Nicodemus felt the same confusion, the same uncertainty about what it would mean to follow Jesus?

Nicodemus is a prominent figure in John’s Gospel, the only Gospel in which he appears. We know he is a Pharisee, an influential religious leader in the turbulent times in which he and Jesus lived.

Beyond that we don’t know very much about him. But one thing is clear whenever he makes an appearance: he loves Jesus very much. He has perceived that this charismatic teacher has much to say about the mysteries of God. He approaches Jesus with apparent shyness, perhaps even awe. We know that his love for Jesus continued to the end when he took custody of Jesus’ body after the Crucifixion.

In John 3, Nicodemus comes to Jesus by night to have a secret dialogue with him. 

In my drawing above I have pictured him as perplexed and confused by what Jesus is saying: “You must be born again.” 

But Nicodemus may not have been confused at all. Theologian Charles Ellicott writes that “after the method of Rabbinic dialogue, [Nicodemus] presses the impossible meaning of the words in order to exclude it, and to draw forth the true meaning. ‘You cannot mean that a man is to enter the second time into his mother’s womb, and be born. What is it, then, that you do mean?’” 

Jesus may have feigned surprise, perhaps ironically, that “a teacher of Israel” does not understand the concept of spiritual rebirth: “Art thou a master of Israel, and knowest not these things? Verily, verily, I say unto thee, We speak that we do know, and testify that we have seen; and ye receive not our witness,” (KJV John 3:10–11.)

As we read about Nicodemus’ struggle to receive Jesus’ witness, it’s easy enough for us to conclude that it is Nicodemus’ responsibility to “get it.” Jesus is not going to do it for him. This is the interpretation of many evangelicals over the centuries: You must be born again. Your choice.

But look again at Jesus own interpretation:

“Marvel not that I said unto thee, Ye must be born again. The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit.”

Yes, we must be born again. But we are not in control of how or when that happens. Just as we cannot control where the wind blows, we are not in charge of when and how the Holy Spirit moves in our lives. It is the Spirit – grace, as we Lutherans say – that brings us to faith. It’s not up to us. 

One of the instructors in the leadership classes I attended said she has a simple Lutheran answer when evangelicals ask her, “Have you found Jesus?” 

“No,” she says, “Jesus has found me.”

This is most certainly true.

Shortly before becoming Moderator of the Church of Scotland, the eminent theologian Thomas F. Torrance was asked if he was born again.

“Yes,” he replied.

Then he was asked, “Do you know when you were born again?”

He replied, “I was born again when Jesus Christ was born of the Virgin Mary and rose again from the virgin tomb, the first-born on the dead.”

When was I born again?

More than two-thousand years ago when Jesus died on the cross to fulfill God’s mission to put an end to sin and death.

It is this powerful insight – salvation not by our own decision but through the Grace of the Holy Spirit – that I find most attractive about our Lutheran faith. 

Carolyn Winfrey Gillette is a Presbyterian theologian know for writing new verses for well-known hymns to highlight different themes. She has written powerful hymns expressing God’s presence amid natural disasters, in times of national grief, in times of national celebration, and throughout many holidays and highlights of the church year. Her hymns are available free of charge, with appropriate accreditation, to any congregation that is a member of a denomination that is a member of the National Council of Churches. Her website is https://www.carolynshymns.com/

Carolyn has written a wonderful hymn, “Nicodemus Sought Out Jesus,” that can be sung to the tune of “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing.”

Nicodemus sought out Jesus at a lonely quiet hour.

He said, “Teacher, God is with you! For in you we  see God’s power.”

Jesus turned and gave an answer filled with challenge and with love,

“You can never see God’s kingdom till you’re born from heav’n above.”

“Born again!” said Nicodemus. “Is that something one can do?”

Jesus said, “Don’t be surprised now that you must be born anew.

And it’s not by your own doing: wind and spirit will blow free!

They are not for your controlling; trust in God for what will be.”

God, your spirit still surprises like an ever-changing wind,

Bringing life and love and justice where despair and death have been.

May we see your Spirit working as a gift from heav’n above.

Blest, may we then be a blessing to this world that you so love.

Selah.

Temptation

February 22, 2026, First Lutheran Church of Throggs Neck, Bronx, N.Y.

The waters of baptism have scarcely dried from his skin when Jesus is led to the desert to be tempted by the devil.

If we imagine ourselves in this scene, alone in the desert, we can feel the pressure. 

Every day when we pray we repeat the plea: Do not lead us into temptation. But we are surrounded by temptation. And because we Lutherans are simultaneously saints and sinners, it’s not unheard of that we surrender to it.

For me, this is so commonplace that I don’t even sense the presence of the devil. I do take some solace that in my 80th year my debaucheries are limited to too many sweets, too much overeating, too much television, too much grumbling about the next door neighbor, and too much dawdling over things that must be done. If I had been with Jesus in the desert I might have suggested we call it a night and send out for bagels.

Sometimes, at least in opera and literature, the devil’s temptation is transactional, as when the devil promises to give you your heart’s desire in exchange for your soul. 

One of my favorite depictions of this Faustian bargain is the musical Damn Yankees, a 1950s musical comedy written by Douglas Wallop and George Abbott.

As the story goes, a flabby middle-aged man named Joe Boyd is an obsessed fan of his favorite baseball team, the so-called Washington Senators. The Senators are in a losing season with the New York Yankees and Joe dreams of being a major player on the Senators. He is visited by a dodgy figure named Mr. Applegate who promises to grant Joe’s wish with the proviso that at the end of the season his soul is forfeit.

Following the Faustian formula, flabby Joe Boyd is morphed into the lean and sinewy Joe Hardy, whose athletic genius enables the Senators to win game after game until the team is tied with the Yankees. Will Joe Hardy surrender his soul to win the closing game or will he bow out at the last minute so that the Senators will lose and his soul will be returned to soft, saggy Joe Boyd?

Sorry, no spoilers. You can see the movie version on YouTube for ten bucks.

As Jesus, exhausted and hungry, sits alone in the empty desert, the devil comes to him. Not as an amusing con man named Mr. Applegate but Mephistopheles himself.

Jesus’ empty stomach is likely growling and the devil proposes that Jesus use his powers as God’s son to turn stones into bread.

For all of us, food and nourishment are basic needs and we can’t live without them. Food is also a pleasure and it’s not uncommon – for me, at least – to eat even when we are not hungry. But hunger is a potent motivator. If we have missed lunch we keep checking our watches to see how close it is to dinnertime. If we don’t eat for a day our thoughts turn to food every few minutes. If we fast as a spiritual discipline it may become difficult to focus on God’s presence rather than on the emptiness of our stomachs. In extreme cases people may be driven to do anything for food, as in Les Miserables when Jean Valjean breaks the law by stealing bread for his family and ends up in prison for 19 years.

How easy it would have been for Jesus, who was wholly human as well as wholly God, to miraculously produce the food his body craved. But Jesus reminded the devil that he was not sent into the world to serve his own needs but the needs of vulnerable and struggling humanity. He sharply rebuffs the devil, which must have been a unique experience for Satan.

Trying again, the devil places Jesus on the pinnacle of the temple and urges him to show his godly power by casting himself down.

If Jesus had done so, is there any doubt God would have saved him? We’d only have to guess what the nature of the miracle would be, whether it would be transporting or literally angels lifting him up.

But Jesus made it clear that Messiahship was not a circus, not an entertaining reign of light and mirrors and dazzling events to call attention to himself. Jesus did not come into the world to bedazzle us with his power but to bring persons closer to God through love, healing, teaching, and empathy for all he encountered. As Paul wrote in his letter to the Churches in Philippi. 

“(Jesus), though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death— even death on a cross.” (Phil 2:6-8)

So when the devil asked Jesus to show him something really big by jumping off the pinnacle he replied, “Again it is written, do not put the Lord your God to the Test.” (Mt 4:7)

But the devil, demonic and devious to the end, saved the greatest temptation for last. He tempted Jesus with political power.

“Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory, and he said to him, ‘All these I will give you, if you fall down and worship me.” (Mt 4:8-9)

The devil knew that enticement usually worked. It had worked, certainly, with Caligula and Tiberias and Claudius, the most recent Roman emperors

In Damn Yankees, Mr. Applegate sings nostalgically about other persons in history who surrendered to the temptation of power.

“I see Bonaparte, a mean one
If ever I've seen one
And Nero fiddling through that lovely blaze
Antoinette, dainty queen:
With her quaint guillotine
Yeah-ha-ha-ha, those were the good old days.”

The obsessive pursuit of power affects many people. It touches the forepersons of the shop who become so enamored with their status and 

authority that they bully and abuse the workers rather than look out for their welfare.

It touches politicians who run for office to help people but soon find themselves abusing the power of their office to accept bribes and grant illegal favors for their friends, while ignoring people in need.

It touches pastors who want to do good among their congregations but become so affected by the deference they are shown by adoring parishioners that they begin spewing out commandments and rules for conduct for members. Some members may not even realize they’re in a cult. So it was with Jim Jones. So it was with David Koresh. So it was with L. Ron Hubbard.

It touches all of us, sometimes at the most elemental level. My own childhood memories include children on the playground who rose naturally to positions of leadership among us. Some of them earned my respect and I was proud to call them friends when they grew up to be adult leaders. Others took advantage of their power and became bullies and refused to pick me for kick-ball teams.

Thankfully, Jesus had no interest in power. 

As he fasted in the wilderness and engaged the devil in a dangerous discourse, Jesus was being prepared for his mission to bring all persons into the kingdom of God.

It was in the desert that he understood he would be a messiah who focused on the needs of people and not on himself.

It was in the desert that he understood he must not use his power merely for shock and awe or to draw attention to himself. It was to be used for God’s purpose: to teach about God’s kingdom, to heal the sick, to raise the dead, to set an example for loving human conduct, to be an exemplar unconditional love. 

It was in the desert that he understood that his power was not to be used for his own benefit but for all humankind. His concept of power was different from most people idea. It was, ironically, the power of the weak, the power of the meek, the power of the least. It was power that required the first to be last. In God’s kingdom it is the last, the weakest, the meekest, who are first.

On this the first Sunday of Lent, shall we think of ourselves as living in a spiritual desert? 

Unlike the wilderness Jesus endured, this desert has food in the fridge, warm beds, running water, and a color television.

But we can use this fanciful desert to reflect on what God wants us to know; how to use our hearts and hands for God; tasks that God wants us to take on; things that God wants us to put down; ideas God wants us to change; persons God wants us to reach out to in love; persons God wants us to forgive.

Let us pray that this desert, this Lenten season, will be a time of prayer and a time of understanding what God needs from us, and what we need from God.

And let us never forget:

As we walk through the wilderness, Jesus walks with us.

Ash Wednesday

 

I first met Stephen Bouman in November 2001. He was one of several U.S. church leaders who welcomed a “Living Letters” delegation from the Geneva offices of the World Council of Churches. The delegation representing Christians from around the world came to express pastoral love and support to Americans following the terrorist attacks of September 11. Ground Zero was still smoking as we gathered around its rim to pray.

It quickly became clear to me that Steve – I should call him Bishop Bouman – was in deep mourning for the friends who were lost on September 11. As Lutheran bishop of Metropolitan New York, he knew many of the fire fighters and first responders who died that day. He was grieving their loss and openly angry about the attack.

Over the next several months I heard Steve try to make sense of the terror in sermons in the Interchurch Center chapel and remarks elsewhere. He brought together those of us who were struggling alone with our grief. I came to look upon him as the unofficial chaplain of the Interchurch Center for Nine-Eleven.

On Ash Wednesday of 2002, Steve led worship in the Center’s chapel.

Paraphrasing him, Steve said we had all been living in Ash Wednesday since the terror attacks. We had literally seen the ashes that had once been our friends. A year earlier, many who died on Nine-Eleven had attended Ash Wednesday services and heard the words as a cross of ashes was drawn on their foreheads: “Remember you are dust. And to dust you will return.” 

Today it is Ash Wednesday again and once again Jesus is calling on us to remember our days of life are fleeting and we are called to live our lives in the way Jesus taught us: To love God. To love our neighbors as ourselves. To forgive our enemies. To do justice. To bring good news to the poor, release to captives, insight to those who are morally blind, to set free the oppressed. 

Each year Ash Wednesday calls upon us to do all these things proactively. We are called to add these things to our daily tasks.

Some of us will also honor the sacrifice of Jesus, who gave up his life for us by giving up something that is precious to us. When I was twelve years old, that precious something to me was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It was the longest Lent of my life.

There are, of course, more substantial things to give up.

On this Ash Wednesday 2026, let us good Lutherans hear the voice of Pope Leo XIV on Lent:”

"I would like to invite you to a very practical and frequently unappreciated form of abstinence: that of refraining from words that offend and hurt our neighbor. Let us begin by disarming our language, avoiding harsh words and rash judgement, refraining from slander and speaking ill of those who are not present and cannot defend themselves. Instead, let us strive to measure our words and cultivate kindness and respect in our families, among our friends, at work, on social media, in political debates, in the media and in Christian communities. In this way, words of hatred will give way to words of hope and peace."

Amen.

Don't Blink

 

February 15, 2026, First Lutheran Church of Throggs Neck, Bronx, N.Y. (Edited from a previous homily on the Transfiguration.)

Stargazing was one of my favorite pursuits when I was growing up in Central New York State. You didn’t need a telescope to enjoy it because the stars and the planets formed a vivid panorama every cloudless night. 

Here, in most of the five boroughs, it’s not so easy to pick out the Big Dipper or Orion’s Belt. In the wonderful Lin-Manuel Miranda musical In the Heights, Abuela Claudia sings about the intensity of the stars over Cuba. “In Nueva York, we can’t see beyond our street lights.”

In Vieja York where I lived, you could lay on your back summer nights and stargaze, occasionally spotting fleeting trails of meteorites blazing on the edge the atmosphere. You could pick out Jupiter and Mars, identify constellations, and ask yourself the same questions our ancestors asked thousands of years before us. What else is up there? Is space infinite? How do I factor into the universe? Does God dwell in the vastness? Is heaven up there?

Sometimes we, like our ancestors, think of heaven as a place “up there,” as distant as star systems millions of light years away, unreachable and unknowable without a special means of getting there. Heaven is where God sends us when we’re good.

That’s why the transfiguration of Jesus is such a wonder to us.

 When God transfigured Jesus, God opened the curtain ever so briefly to show us heaven. To show us that Heaven is not “up there” but here and now, all around us. 

 In astrophysical terms, God opened for just a few minutes a holy wormhole to Heaven.

 A wormhole, as Star-Trekkers know, is a hypothetical and unobservable phenomenon related to Einstein’s theory of relativity. While no one has ever seen a wormhole, Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry and other science fiction doyens posit they exist.

 Wormholes are conceived as celestial corridors that enable one (if one is so inclined) to travel incalculable distances in an instance, as if the fabric of space was folded together like a blanket to unite distant point A with unreachable point B.

 On the Mount of Transfiguration, God has opened the wormhole for a stunning glimpse of Heaven.

The Transfiguration is one of many mind-blowing events in the life of Jesus and it appears in all three of the synoptic Gospels. It is an event so unique it can’t be ignored. 

It is less likely to have been made up by a group of retired disciples quaffing new wine while reminiscing about miracles they witnessed. The Transfiguration seems likely to have been based in reality than on some one’s creative fancies. You couldn’t make it up. 

 Here’s Jesus with Peter, James and John, all by themselves, on a high mountain. No one knows which mountain, although the Franciscans built the Church of the Transfiguration on Mount Nebo. Others think it was Mount Hermon, which was closer to Jesus’ stomping grounds of Caesarea-Philippi. But wherever it happened, there are remarkably consistent reports about what happened there.

Matthew writes that Jesus’ face “shown like the sun” (17:2), and Luke reports, “they saw his glory” (9:32).

 “Jesus was transfigured before them,” Mark writes, succinct as always. And lest his readers fail to grasp what that means, he adds a very practical clarification akin to a Clorox commercial: “And his clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them.” (Mark 9:3) 

 None of the gospel writers actually witnessed the event and their descriptions were based on traditions that had been repeated through several generations. They undoubtedly captured the essence of what Peter, James, and John told people all their lives, and even their references to bleached garments are passably poetic.

 In our own era, computer generated images may simulate what the Transfiguration must have looked like, but even then it would be an illusion based on digitally produced light and virtual images. It wouldn’t answer the ancient question, what was it that the disciples really saw?

 Luke mentions (9:32) that Peter, James, and John “were weighed down with sleep” when Jesus began glowing and Moses and Elijah appeared at his side. Were they dreaming? Back in the psychedelic sixties, when I was in college, this kind of question seemed reasonable because we knew the mind was capable of generating some fantastical illusions. But as one who never admitted inhaling, I doubt a simple toke is the equivalent of divine inspiration. 

The Transfiguration of Jesus on the mountain transcends and surpasses any glib encounters with magic or spirits. For one thing, the event could not have been simulated by sleight of hand or optical illusion.

 When Jesus’ face glowed like the sun, the sheer potency of the unexpected event scared Peter, James, and John out of their wits. And when Moses and Elijah appeared, Peter succumbed to babble. 

 Then Peter said to Jesus, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” He did not know what to say, for they were terrified. (Mark 9:5-6)

 Peter stopped just short of calling on John to send out for matzos and mackerel. The three disciples had seen Jesus perform miracles before, but this one was a stunner that took their breaths away. 

 That’s what sets the Transfiguration apart from other miracles: it shook the very souls of its human witnesses and left them without doubt that they were viewing a pivotal moment in the history of creation. Here on the mountain, God and humanity connected. Time bonded with eternity. And the medium that brought heaven and earth together was Jesus of Nazareth, the evidently normal man with whom the disciples ate, drank, walked, and slept. The Transfiguration showed a dimension of Jesus they couldn’t imagine, and with frightening clarity before their very eyes.

 And ears: “Then a cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud there came as voice: ‘This is my Son, the Beloved. Listen to him!’” (Mark 9:7)

 The disciples swung around to see Moses’ and Elijah’s reaction but, with exquisite timing, they were gone. “They saw no one with them anymore, but only Jesus.” (Mark 9:8) In the snap of a synapse, the Transfiguration was over.

 But the effects of the Transfiguration are eternal. The disciples stood on the mountain with Jesus so briefly but in the few moments that passed they saw who Jesus was and is and will be forever. That is why Christian theology assigns such significance to the Transfiguration. It is the bridge between Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection, a holy glimpse of the perfection of heaven, a clear declaration from God that Jesus is “my son, the Beloved.”

The Transfiguration is also a bond between the disciples, and between other Christians who lived and died across the centuries.

 In his book, Reaching Out, Henri J. M. Nouwen tells of an encounter with an old friend he had not seen in a long time. They greeted each other and sat in the sunshine.

 “It seemed that while the silence grew deeper around us we became more and more aware of a presence embracing both of us,” Nouwen wrote. “Then he said, ‘It is good to be here,’ and I said, ‘Yes, it is good to be together again,’ and after that we were silent again for a long period. And as a deep peace filled the empty space between us he said hesitantly, ‘When I look at you it is as if I am in the presence of Christ.’ I did not feel startled, surprised or in need of protesting, but I could only say, ‘It is the Christ in you who recognizes the Christ in me.’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘He is indeed in our midst,’ and then he spoke the words which entered into my soul as the most healing words I had heard in many years: ‘From now on, wherever you go, or wherever I go, all the ground between us will be holy ground.’”

 When Jesus and his three disciples climbed the mount of Transfiguration, they sensed what would follow: crucifixion, martyrdom, persecution and terrible suffering. But for a moment, the Transfiguration transcended all that and reminded them of the salvation promised by God.

 So it is with all of us. Life has its ups and downs, its moments bitter and sweet, and none of us know when or how our lives will end.

 But in Reaching Out, Nouwen reminds us that all our worries and fears are in God’s hands: 

 “Jesus showed us all that the very things we often flee – our vulnerability and mortality – can, at any moment, become the place of holy transfiguration, for us and for our world.”

Are We Light and Salt People?

February 8, 2026. Saint Barnabas Lutheran Church, Howard Beach, Queens, N.Y.

If your doctor told you to go on a salt-free diet, would you shrug compliantly and say, “Okay”?

Or would you prefer to let salt to cascade down on your burger because salt makes everything taste better?

And when you’re falling asleep at night, do you leave the light on because it makes you feel safer, especially if you need to stumble to the bathroom? Or do you sleep better if you cocoon yourself in darkness, pull the blankets over your head, and try not to think about the problems of the day?

When Jesus called his followers the salt of the earth and the light of the world, he knew they would understand the power of both images. We can’t live without salt and light and to be both salt and light elevates each of us to superpowers of faith.

“You are the salt of the earth,” Jesus said, “but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything but it thrown out and tramples under foot. (Mt 5:13)

I grew up in the heart of salt country. In Central New York, salt was not merely a flavor enhancer but big business.

Syracuse is known as the “Salt City” because of the copious amount of salt it produced and sold.

When I was growing up I assumed there were salt mines close by, but this was not the case. Syracuse’s prosperous salt industry was due to its salt springs on the southern end of Onondaga Lake. As the water evaporated, salt was raked up and then packaged for shipping. Syracuse was a top salt producer in the country for much of the 19th century. When salt producers refused to sell salt to the Confederacy, some speculate this contributed to the South’s defeat because soldiers had no means of preserving meat.

Salt was used as a political stratagem in India by the British empire in the last years of the Raj. The Indian people were forced to get all their salt from Britain and Mahatma Gandhi saw that as imperialistic bullying. 

In 1930, Gandhi led a 24-day, 240 mile non-violent salt march to the sea. Walking from Sabarmati Ashram to the coastal village of Dandi on the Arabian Sea, Gandhi and his followers defied British law by making their own salt.

Jesus also called us “the light of the world.” Again, we dwellers of the twenty-first century don’t always see how potent that analogy is. As Moonface Martin says in Anything Goes, “It’s always darkest before they turn on the lights.” In most parts of the Northern Hemisphere, we take it for granted that we can have light by the simple throwing of a switch.

In Jesus’ day it was not so easy. Amy G. Oden, a professor and spiritual director writes, “Salt and light were both precious commodities in Jesus’ time. Both sustain life. Neither can be produced easily on one’s own. They are gifts of creation that require careful ingenuity to access and conserve. And they make all the difference!”

We are the light of the world and it is because of this we have a responsibility to glow mightily. Our adult children who are parents are teaching their children the same song we taught them

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine, 
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine. 

Children (and adults) who sing this song are also reminded that we’re not supposed to shine for the mere joy of shining.

Everywhere I go, I’m gonna let it shine . 
In my brother’s heart, I’m gonna let it shine, 
In my sister’s soul, I’m gonna let it shine,
All around the world, I’m gonna let it shine 
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

This is what Jesus meant when he urged us to “let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your father in heaven.” (Mt 5:16)

But Jesus, being fully God yet fully human, knew it was a very human trait to hide part of the light that is in us as if we had lit a lamp and put it under a bushel basket.

What does that mean to us? Have you ever used bushels to hide the light God has given you?

Do you have the gift of song, did you learn to play a musical instrument years ago, but never mention that?

Do you have a special talent for knitting, for embroidery, for quilting, but never mention it?

Do you have the gift of gab, the flair for engaging people in conversation, for making them feel welcome, but remain silent?

Do you have a head for numbers but prefer to let others do the budgeting?

Each of us, with a little introspection, may discover bushels we use to hide the bushels that hide our light.

We can also celebrate the lights that shine in this very congregation: a master woodworker who contributes his artistry to the church; talented singers and musicians who bring joy to worship; acolytes who support the liturgy; teachers who help children, tweens, and adults to better understand the bible; parents who nurture the lights of their children at home; electricians who jump in whenever trouble shooting is required; organizers who assure the success of dinners, Bingo nights, trips to parks, and other congregation-building events. And so many more.

“Jesus gives the central insight that lights don’t magically end up underneath bushels,” writes oden. 

“The only way for our light to be covered is if we put a bushel over it. We can hear the incredulous tone in Jesus’ voice, ‘No one after lighting a lamp puts it under a bushel’ (verse 15). Ridiculous! Jesus is clear: we are not victims inevitably doomed to being distracted and drained by the bushels of inferiority or self-absorption or fantasy. Bushels can only block out the light.”

The poet David Andrews expressed his own spiritual journey in his poem

Salt and light

Yesterday, you were my God
I saw you, in the eyes of a stranger
I heard you, in their indignation
And I felt you, in their sorrow
And I did nothing

Today, you are my God
I saw you, growing my garden
I heard you rustling through the trees
And I felt your warmth, on my face
And I smiled
Tomorrow, you’ll still be my God

I will see you, if I dare to look
I will hear you, if I am still
And I will feel you, working within my heart
For you are the same God
Yesterday, today, and forever

Help me to be salt,
to those who need to taste
And light,
to those who are lost in their own darkness
And compel me to act,
today.

Amen.