Christ calls us to build relationships of mutuality, in which we both offer and receive care.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Fourth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 13 A
Text: Matthew 10:40-42

Beloved in Christ, grace and peace be with you, in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

It feels complicated to be community with one another right now.

COVID-19 forces tough decisions about who you can visit with, how close you can get, and how long you can stay. You have to calculate risk for every social interaction, no matter how minor. To ask: How do I stay safe and keep others safe? How can I love my neighbors while staying physically distant?

Increased awareness of police violence is causing people to re-consider what community safety might look like, to ask new questions about how we can take care of one another, especially those who are most vulnerable? How can we support movements toward systemic change and also support those who are affected by the resulting unrest? How can we raise our voices for justice and also open our ears for learning?

These are complicated and challenging questions, but they’re ones we can’t avoid. We need to wade into the public conversation about how to create community that is just and safe for everyone. We need to be part of this conversation because, as Jesus’ words remind us, caring for one another is part of the deal when you commit to a Gospel-centered life.

Offering hospitality and welcome to another is like offering hospitality to God! That’s what Jesus teaches his disciples. The acts of hospitality don’t have to be fancy. They can be as simple as offering a cup of cold water to a weary desert wanderer.

Cold water isn’t as scarce in our world as it was in Jesus’ world, when the arid climate of the Middle East could only be survived through access to rare natural springs, deep wells, or carefully guarded cisterns. But it’s worth asking: what resources do need to be shared in order for us to live out Christ’s vision of hospitality right now? To what do people need access in order to survive in our world? Sufficient pay? Safe housing? Affordable healthcare? Adequate education?

And what are the small acts, the cups of cold water, that each of us can offer to help move our society in that direction? A cup of cold water could look like donated diapers or laundry detergent. Welcome could look like wearing a mask or staying home. Hospitality could look like showing up for a neighborhood meeting. We offer what we can to whom we can whenever we can.

To be clear, though, Jesus doesn’t only call his followers to offer hospitality; he calls them to receive hospitality as well. He doesn’t just say, “When you welcome others, you welcome me.” He says, “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me.” He says this to his disciples as he sends them out into the community to proclaim the message of the Gospel. Whoever welcomes you welcomes me and therefore welcomes God.

Scripture is adamant that those who love God are called to love neighbor: to give generously, to resist escalating violence, to protect the most vulnerable. But here, in this teaching, Jesus emphasizes that sometimes Christ-followers will themselves be the ones in need of welcome. Sometimes they will be the ones thirsty and exhausted, reaching out for a mercifully offered cup of cold water.

Earlier, Jesus told the disciples that when they go out into the world to proclaim the good news, they should intentionally go empty-handed. Don’t take any extra supplies, he said. No money, no extra clothes (Matthew 10:7-10). The disciples would be dependent on the generosity and hospitality of others. That will make them vulnerable. Jesus even uses the term “little ones” to describe the position this will put them in (Matthew 10:42). It will make them like children, in need of care from others.

That’s the thing about real hospitality: it requires vulnerability. Both sides have to take a risk. It’s risky to offer hospitality: to welcome others to your home, your table, your heart. It’s also risky to receive hospitality: to entrust your wellbeing, even your life, to others.

And Jesus harbors no illusions. He warns the disciples: Sometimes you will not be welcomed and cared for. Sometimes you’ll be rejected and mistreated, as Jesus himself was. That’s the inherent risk of vulnerability: you might get hurt. The message of the Gospel can be countercultural, even subversive. Walking the way of Jesus isn’t always going to make you popular. Actually, Jesus pretty much guarantees that it will cause tension in even the most intimate of relationships. Jesus uses uncomfortable language about dividing families and households (Matthew 10:35-37). To bear the Gospel is to bear the cross.

But the vulnerability also creates the opportunity for deeper relationships.

The relationship created by authentic hospitality is not transactional. It can’t be. When you invite someone into your home for a meal, you don’t expect them to pay you for it. They can pay it forward, but they can’t pay it back. It’s offered freely, out of joy. It’s received freely, with gratitude. Otherwise it isn’t hospitality.

This is why the work of actively dismantling systems of oppression is part of the Christian vocation.

When we say that there cannot be peace without justice, we are saying that equity is the foundation for authentic community. Creating a community in which everyone can flourish will require sacrifice and risk. Relationships of mutual vulnerability are foundational: Every person able to receive hospitality, and every person able to offer hospitality. Enough cold water to go around.

Womanist theologian Emilie Townes puts it this way: “With compassionate welcome, Jesus calls us to put our love in jeopardy so that its blessings are made manifest in our lives and in the lives of others.” This can add a new set of questions to your considerations of how to be community in these unusual times: How are you practicing the vulnerability of both offering and receiving hospitality? How are you putting your love in jeopardy, taking risks in order to build relationships of mutuality?

They aren’t easy questions and they won’t yield easy answers. But here’s the good news: the risk is worth it.

The way of vulnerable love is the way of life! We know that because we see that in Jesus Christ, who shows us the face of God. Jesus Christ, who was willing to give up everything for the sake of love, even his life. And somehow, miraculously and mysteriously, through that sacrificial death comes new life. Not easy life; not painless life. But real, lasting life.

When you practice loving others with vulnerable, sacrificial love, you are following in the way of Christ. You are taking up the cross. You are bearing the Gospel. You are fulfilling the vocation sealed by the Holy Spirit at your baptism – a baptism that baptized you into Christ’s suffering and death and also into Christ’s resurrection and life. In Christ you are freed by the love of God, for the love of neighbor.

There is enough cold water to go around. We live from a spirit of abundance and thanksgiving, not of scarcity and fear. We proclaim, as our ancestor Abraham did, that God will provide (Genesis 22:14). We rejoice, as the Psalmist did, that God has dealt bountifully with us (Psalm 13:6).

And if God has given us such bounty, it is our work to actively, intentionally, courageously share that bounty with others. It is our work to tear down barriers that prevent anyone from living into the flourishing God intends for them. It is our work to build the relationships of mutual trust that are needed for a just community. So take the risk to be Christ’s love in the world, and trust that others will also be Christ’s love to you.

Amen.

We are called to die in our baptism to all that keeps us from hearing Ishmael’s cries, to all that leads us to disregard others in the family, and in Christ’s resurrection we are given the life to do this.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Third Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 12 A
Texts: Genesis 21:8-21; Romans 6:1b-11; Matthew 10:24-39

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

Ishmael laughed.

That was his “crime.” He laughed, exactly like Sarah. He laughed, the same word as his brother Isaac’s name. Ishmael laughed. And Sarah, now finally able to laugh with a promised son, and Abraham, the father of both boys, drove Ishmael and his mother into the wilderness.

Both Jewish and Christian tradition often claim Ishmael’s laughter mocked Isaac. But the text doesn’t support that. The verb with the “mocking” sense is similar, but not the same, to the word used here that’s always translated “laughing.”

Ishmael’s crime was his existence. Now that Isaac was born, Ishmael was a threat to his inheritance. Maybe he wouldn’t challenge Isaac inheriting all. Maybe he would. But this child of a slave is thrown out of the only family he’d ever known, sent to die in the wilderness.

That’s the important truth in this story.

Yes, God blesses Ishmael, saves him and his mother. Makes him a great nation in his own right. But that doesn’t change that he was thrown away from his family.

Maybe Sarah was worried about Ishmael’s influence on Isaac; she admits she was worried about the inheritance. But that doesn’t change that she cut off her son from his life.

Sure, Abraham sent water and bread with Hagar. But that doesn’t change that he rejected his first-born son, and justified it by saying God was OK with it.

When George Floyd’s life was being choked out in those eight minutes and 46 seconds of horror, near the end he cried out for his mother. It’s unbearable. In the wilderness, when the water and bread ran out, Hagar put Ishmael under a bush and walked away to sit. She couldn’t bear to watch the death of her child.

That’s the true story here: one child is loved and favored, and one child is trash to be thrown away, where only his mother cares whether he lives or he dies. And God.

We can’t judge Sarah and Abraham. But we must learn from this for our own lives.

That the tradition justifies throwing Ishmael and Hagar away should be a warning to us how easily we justify our beliefs and our actions, even when they harm another. Seeing the actual, horrible truth of Ishmael’s story as the Bible reveals it, is the only honest way to see this story.

And the same is true today. We need to clearly see the truth of our world and our part in it. That in the United States nearly 1,000 people are killed by police every year, compared to ten or fewer a year in other Western countries. That unarmed people who are black are killed by police in the United States at a rate four times that of unarmed people who are white. That the voices of Ishmael in our society cry out in anger and frustration and grief at yet another death, day after day, week after week. Parents of children, sons of mothers, brothers, husbands, are killed with impunity, cast out from the family into the wilderness to die.

We need to see this. We need to hear this. But it will take the death of some things in us.

This is what Paul needs the Romans to understand.

He tells them that in baptism they were buried with Christ, that their baptism is into Christ’s death. There is something in them that needs to die for them to live as Christ, to walk in “newness of life.”

The Roman churches had Jewish Christians and Gentile Christians at odds with each other, not eating together, breaking fellowship. Both sides knew they were right and the other side wrong. But Paul says, you are one in Christ, the only identity that matters.

So go ahead, Gentile Christians, Paul says, don’t keep kosher, and freely eat meat that might have been offered to idols. But your belief that you’re right and your siblings are wrong, your looking down on them for what you see as ignorance, your willingness to break this community: that needs to die in Christ.

And go ahead, Jewish Christians, Paul says, follow the laws of Moses and keep kosher. But your belief that you’re right and your siblings are wrong, your looking down on them for what you see as unfaithfulness, your willingness to break this community: that needs to die in Christ.

Your baptism into Christ’s death and resurrection, Paul says, means the death of all that keeps you from seeing and treating others as family – even in your diverse differences.

Now you also see why Jesus says what he does today.

Jesus knows that following him, taking up your cross, being willing to die to what in you is not of Christ will mean dying to important things. It might separate you from others, even close relationships. Matthew’s community lived this, experienced the rupture of families over following Christ, and needed these words of encouragement by Jesus in their Gospel.

And that’s our hard discernment ahead. What does God need to die in us so that we can walk in newness of life and see and treat all God’s children as family? Today it’s more than just the body of Christ at stake. We can’t break family ties with any of God’s children. Will we take up our cross even if that dying costs us whatever it costs us? Loss of being right, loss of having the answers, loss of a comfortable existence? Loss of income? What are we willing to let die to ensure all in the family are kept alive and well?

What this will mean for Mount Olive is hard to fully know right now.

But we can’t just go on letting our siblings of color die week after week with no answer or no commitment to change. We can’t turn away as Ishmael grieves every day in the wilderness, dying while we laugh with our families.

We’ll have to be willing to let go of our need to make ourselves feel better – even our need to help in ways that might not be what our siblings need. We’ll have to take hard looks at how we use language, how we live as a community, to see the pieces of white supremacy that exist in our life together. That sounds harsh, but as we listen to our neighbors, that’s what we hear. That this society is built to endorse and support white people at the expense of others, and that this is even in our community of faith.

There is much we need to learn together. But many in our midst can help.

For those of us who are like me, white, identifying as male, and straight, we must be silent and listen. Every door has opened for us all our lives, and most of us haven’t been thrown out into the wilderness. But many of our community have, and can help. Those of us who are women, you know what it is to be discriminated against, to be objectified and threatened, to be paid less for the same work, to be mansplained by someone less smart than you. You can help us all hear and see Ishmael now, too.

Those of us who are LGBTQ, you know what it is to be marginalized, thrown out of families, even have your life threatened or treated as trash. The Pulse nightclub shooting was only four years ago this week, and even though you can now be married and the Supreme Court made an important ruling this week, you know the pain of the wilderness. You can help us all hear and see Ishmael now, too.

And those of us of our community whose skin isn’t white, you know firsthand what it is to fear and to grieve, you, most of all, can help us all hear  and see Ishmael’s cries in the wilderness right now.

Because that’s what’s missing in the story from Genesis today, Ishmael’s voice. We hear Sarah and Abraham, Hagar, even God. But we don’t hear Ishmael as he’s thrown out of his family and left to die.

We need to hear him, and together we will.

Ishmael laughed. And God heard.

Ishmael means “God hears,” so God heard the one named “God hears” and saved him. God still hears Ishmael’s voice. God doesn’t throw anybody out of the family.

And following Christ, taking up our cross, means we learn to hear what God hears, see as God sees. We see and hear the Ishmaels who cry out as brothers, sisters, family. We listen together for what needs to die in us so that all might remain in the family, loved and safe.

And the good news is that this is all possible because of Christ’s resurrection. Resurrection life is poured into us in baptism, so as the old dies, the new is able to come. Paul says Christ is raised so that we all might walk in newness of life right now. For the sake of Ishmael. For the sake of the world.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

God’s promised justice, mercy, and peace will surely come to pass, and today it is you and I who are sent to be a part of it.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Second Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 11 A
Texts: Genesis 18:1-15, 21:1-7; Matthew 9:35 – 10:8

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

Sarah laughed.

She wasn’t supposed to be listening, but what she heard was so ridiculous she couldn’t hold it in. She, ninety years old, would become pregnant by hundred-year-old Abraham?

But was her laughter amused? Or was it bitter? The promise God made to them decades before was so ancient now, her body bent and dry, her bones aching, this was laughable even to talk about. But not very funny. If God had meant to give her a baby with Abraham, God would have done it.

God heard her laughter, and understood. But God said, “yet surely I will do this.” Laugh if you must. Disbelieve. Say, now it’s too late. But I will be back to visit you, and at that time you will have a son.

Sarah laughed, but we don’t.

This earth has waited so long for God’s promised justice and mercy and peace, it’s not funny. The idea of a ninety year old woman having a baby is more realistic to us some days than the thought that what we see in our city and in our country could change, could be transformed.

So instead of laughing, we lament at the pain and suffering we see and hear in our city, the systems of oppression that crush people of color in our society, systems that seem unassailable. And those of us in our Mount Olive community who are white also lament our sinful part in this suffering of others, that we have not always heard this pain, pain caused by systems that benefit those of us who are white.

God hears the cries of God’s children as certainly as God heard Sarah’s laughter, and understands. But God says, “yet surely I will do this.” Say it’s been too long, and it’s too late. Disbelieve that I can do this if you must. But my justice and mercy and peace will come to this earth.

God’s promise has a long timeline, true. But at each step, hope is found.

Baby Isaac does arrive, and is given the name “laughter.” Now Sarah’s laughter is joyful, because God did the unbelievable. It took her whole life to see God’s promise, but see it she did.

But Isaac is more than a baby for a longing mother. Isaac is another step in God’s long plan leading directly to today. Without Isaac, there is no Israel, no Jesus, no Incarnation in our human flesh as we know it. This baby is the start of God coming to be with us.

Jesus’ coming is also just a step in the plan. An enormous, God-sized step, as Jesus is the face of the Triune God for the world. But not to instantly create a world of justice and mercy and peace for all. In the wisdom of the Trinity, the only path to God’s promise is to grow it in the hearts of each of God’s children, one by one, until all live in God’s way. And each time one steps into this way, hope is found.

Today, right now, it’s our turn to take that one step of hope toward God’s promise.

What we do in our city, in our world, today, and tomorrow, from our perspective might seem very small. But like Isaac’s birth, what we do as Christ is advance God’s promised justice and mercy and peace a step further into God’s world.

There’s a huge shift between verses 1 and 2 of Matthew 10 today. In verse one, Matthew says Jesus called out twelve of his disciples and gave them authority to cast out demons and heal the sick. In verse two, Matthew says, “these are the names of the twelve apostles.” In a few words, the disciples – followers – are changed into apostles – ones who are sent.

That’s the move Christ needs in you. To move from following Christ to going out as Christ. To do, as these initial twelve did, the work of Christ in the world. That’s how God’s justice and mercy and peace will eventually reign in this world.

Like the twelve, you and I are sent, Jesus says, “to proclaim the good news, that the reign of heaven has come near.”

The reign of heaven, God’s promised justice and mercy and peace, has come near. Is here. Is happening. Even if it’s hard to see.

And right now, in these days, being Christ, proclaiming that the reign of heaven has come near means walking with our siblings in pain. For those of us who are white, it means listening to how we’re a part of the problem. Offering our love and our ears, and our commitment to be a part of the solution. That’s living the reign of God on earth as in heaven. And in our compassionate listening as a whole community together, honoring all suffering, honestly searching our own hearts for where God needs us to change, we are signs of God’s reign coming near. And another step toward God’s promise.

“When Jesus saw the crowds,” Matthew says, “he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.”

As you might know, the word translated “compassion” is literally, “torn up in your guts.” Jesus’ guts are torn up over his flock, over their harassment and helplessness, their lack of a shepherd.

And that gut-wrenching compassion of the Triune God now laments over the suffering of God’s children in our city and in our world.

But it is that gut-wrenching compassion of God that is the hope of the world. It drives God’s plan for justice and mercy and peace. It leads God to inhabit all God’s children, to make the promise a reality.

You are no longer just a follower. You are an apostle. A sent one. The Triune God’s life in you fills you with the same gut-wrenching compassion God has, and gives you the courage and strength to walk with all who are in pain and, as signs of God’s reign coming near, partner with all to bring about today’s step toward God’s promised justice and mercy and peace.

But know this: God surely will do this. And then all creatures will be able to laugh with joy.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

Trinity reveals to us the God who is relationship. We are created in the image of relationship, baptized in the name of relationship, and sent out to invite others into relationship.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Holy Trinity, year A
Texts: Genesis 1:1-2:4a; Matthew 28:16-20

Beloved in Christ, grace and peace to you in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

It’s been a week since we celebrated Pentecost, with its wind and fire and tongues. This week has felt incredibly long, but the flame of the Holy Spirit is still igniting in our hearts, still spurring us to let Spirit speak through us. Across the world, in all languages, voices are being raised to cry out for justice, to name the human siblings whose lives have been ended by the violence of systemic racism.

It’s been a week since we celebrated Pentecost, and really, it’s been a week. Although the fires burning in our local communities have been extinguished, the anger at repeated instances of police violence still burns. People are still in the streets, demanding real, lasting change.

But anger isn’t the only force that’s still burning this week. There is a tremendous amount of compassion, generosity, and courage that is blazing through our communities. It is, as they say, spreading like wildfire.

People are protecting their neighborhoods, donating supplies and money, and calling their elected officials. People are helping to house and feed those who have been displaced by unrest. Along Lake Street, there have been hundreds of people out with brooms and dustpans helping clean. In the Longfellow and Powderhorn neighborhoods, street art is covering buildings and sidewalks, and food distribution sites are popping up on corners – even in our own parking lot at Mount Olive.

Down on Chicago Avenue, at the site where George Floyd was killed, there are people handing out free chips, popsicles, and hotdogs. They’re making sure that those who come there to witness, to grieve, to pray are sustained for the long haul. It’s not just the food that sustains, but the community, the being together. Even in the midst of a pandemic, when we can’t get as close as we’d like, we’re still getting as close as we can.

It’s been a week since we celebrated Pentecost, since we told the story of the wild and holy spirit of God coming into the world like a noisy wind, kindling divine power within each person like a flame, and bursting into beautiful expression like a diversity of tongues. And because– even in this time when a week feels like a year and a moment all at once – our liturgical rhythm still accompanies us, this week has brought us to Trinity Sunday. Today, we proclaim that the one holy God is three – Father, Son, and Spirit.

When we declare that God is Trinity, we declare that God is relational. Like parent and child, like a body and breath. More than declaring that God is relational, we declare that God is relationship. God is communal and connected, interdependent and interactive. God is a dynamic dance.

And, as the Genesis creation story makes clear, every person that lives is created in the image of that God, created in the image of that relationship. To be human is to be made in relationship. And that is, as God says, very good.

That’s why we call George Floyd our brother, because he was human, created in God’s image. That’s why we lament the breaking of relationship that results from systemic racism. To deny another’s dignity and rights, to fail to see the divine image in another human being, is sin. God grieves such sin, and so do we. In this season, the grief of that sin feels so great that it is almost overwhelming.

But don’t let that grief stop you from living into the relationship for which you were created. Don’t turn your eyes away from seeing the realities of racism in our society. Don’t turn your ears away from hearing the cries for justice. Don’t turn your back on your human siblings who need you to show up for them, in whatever way you can.

If you’re feeling doubtful – doubtful that you can make a difference, doubtful that you know the right words or actions to take, doubtful that anything will ever really change – if you’re feeling doubtful, then scripture has a word for you today.

Our Gospel reading is from the end of the book of Matthew, when the risen Jesus appears to the disciples. They recently watched Jesus, their teacher, friend, and savior, be crucified. They’ve witnessed and experienced violence. They’re beleaguered, terrified, grieving, and exhausted. And the text tells us that when they saw the risen Christ, they fell down in worship, “but some doubted.”

It’s not hard to imagine why they might have been feeling doubtful – doubtful of the reality of the resurrection, doubtful of their own commitment to Jesus, doubtful of their ability to carry on the ministry in his absence.

But no matter why they’re feeling doubtful, Jesus still calls them into mission. “Go out into the world,” he says, “and invite others into the relationship that is God. Teach people about the life-giving way you have learned from me. Walk with people as fellow disciples. And when you mark their transformation with the practice of baptism, seal them in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; seal them in relationship.” This is what Jesus tells the disciples.

Despite their fear, despite their grief, despite their exhaustion, despite their doubt, they’re called into mission. They’re sent out to bear the good news that has changed their lives.

And despite their doubt, or maybe even because of their doubt, Jesus still gives them a promise: “I am with you always.” Jesus keeps that promise, always – to those disciples, and to you.

You are the inheritors of this mission and this promise. Take seriously your calling to be the bear the good news of Christ into the world, even when you’re worn down and scared and filled with doubt. And take seriously the real presence of the Triune God that is with you, always. God is present in the world, even during a week like this. God is here.

It is especially hard to remember this when you’re separated from your sacred space and normal liturgical practices, when you can’t worship together in person or receive the sacraments, those signs of God’s gracious presence.

Some of the volunteers who came to help distribute food from Mount Olive’s parking lot on Thursday told me that this was the closest they’d been to the church in months. I know others are grieving that they aren’t able to safely come even that close to the sanctuary and neighborhood they love so much.

But the Lutheran tradition emphasizes that church is not a place but an event; it is something that happens. Martin Luther understood church more as a verb than a noun. Church happens because God is active in the world, in you.

And often, when and where and how God acts is a surprise! Church shows up in ways you least expect. You can see signs of it, but you can’t summon it or own it or control it. You can’t pin church down for a photo opp. The church isn’t a building, even when that building is full of people and certainly not when that building is empty.

There will be a time when you can gather again in the beautiful nave to worship together. And in the meantime, God is still acting so church is still happening. Where do you see signs of it? Where do you see evidence of the grace of Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit? In your homes? On the streets? In shared food and colorful art? Keep watching for it and participating in it.

The God who is relationship is up to something in the world, and in you, always. The God who is relationship connects, heals, uplifts, transforms because that’s what healthy, loving relationship does. You were created in the image of that relationship, you were baptized in the name of that relationship, and you are sent out to invite others into that relationship. And that is, as God says, very good.

Amen.

God’s Spirit is poured out on all flesh, all people. That is our challenge to embrace and to end where this truth is denied. It is also the only hope for our world.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Day of Pentecost, year A
Texts: Numbers 11:24-30; Acts 2:1-21; Psalm 104: 24-34, 35b

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

God spoke through the prophet Joel, saying, “I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh.”

That’s what’s happening here, Peter proclaimed at Pentecost. The psalmist sings today, “the eyes of all look to you, O God, . . . you send forth your Spirit, and they are created, and so you renew the face of the earth.”

Meanwhile, when God desires to help Moses bear the burden of leadership, sending the Spirit upon seventy elders, something goes wrong. 68 do as they’re told, and gather at the Tabernacle. Two remain in the camp. God’s Spirit pours out on all 70, and the two in the camp prophesy there, instead of at the Tabernacle with the others. Joshua urges Moses to shut them down. Moses speaks well before Joel, before the Psalmist, before Simon Peter, and longs for what they all claim: “Would that all God’s people were prophets,” Moses says, “and that God would put the Spirit on all of them!”

Moses longs for it; Joel declares it; the Psalmist celebrates it; Peter witnesses to it: the Holy Spirit of the one, true God is poured out on all people, all flesh, all God’s children. Without exception. Every single person breathes in and out with the Spirit of God.

So the horror we have seen this week asks this: how can one who breathes the Holy Spirit choke the breath out of another who breathes the Holy Spirit?

How did Derek not see a brother in George? How did he not recognize the God-given breath they both shared, and how could he, minute after terrifying minute, squeeze it from his brother? Cain stopped seeing Abel as his brother, and so was able to kill him.

When I wrote to you Wednesday about George’s murder, the email came in the form we use when one of our community has died. I called George our brother, without qualification or explanation. Some of you were confused by this, because you’ve reached out to me, asking “was he a member of Mount Olive?”

But that’s our problem. If I call him our brother, but say, “he wasn’t a member,” I separate him from me, from you. I don’t know what his faith was. But the identity that matters to Moses, to Joel, to the Psalmist, to Peter, and to the loving and Triune God, is that George and I are are filled with God’s Holy Spirit. God breathed life into George’s body and into mine. Into yours. He is our brother in the only way that matters.

But the society we’ve built, the structures we’ve created, systematically exclude many of God’s Spirit-filled children from breathing freely and justly.

Our society kills people of color with impunity and all are not equal. Our city is burning outside these very windows as proof of this, led by agitators, including white supremacy groups, many from outside our state, who seek to stop any reform or change that will allow all to live and breathe with justice in our city. Every group protesting George’s murder has decried the violence and destruction (which has harmed our most marginalized neighbors more than any) and pled for peaceful, non-violent protests to bring about change. But the resistance to true justice is deep and hateful. Denying Spirit-filled children of God the right to live and breathe freely with justice is embedded in our structures and systems.

Pentecost’s grace and the Scripture’s witness give us only one option: to see God’s Spirit in everyone.

This is not saying, “God doesn’t see color,” or “all lives matter,” hoping to make this not about the racism that it is. This is all about color, and all lives don’t matter in our society.

God sees color. God loves color – look at the rich diversity of skin tones among God’s human creatures! Then look at the rest of the resplendent, kaleidoscopic creation. Diversity isn’t God’s problem, it is God’s joy.

Diversity is our problem. We live in a culture and a society that systematically work to kill God’s delightful diversity. George’s murder was no accident, nor was it isolated. For four hundred years people of color in our country have been tortured, maimed, lynched, often with the participation and support of law enforcement.

And this is only the beginning of the list. We have so many Spirit-filled siblings who also are systematically denied the ability to breathe freely as God’s children: women – all our sisters, and those whose gender isn’t either male or female, those who have immigrated here for a better life and look and speak differently from white people, those who are poor and work their lives to the bone and can’t earn enough to feed their family or keep a roof over their heads, and so many more. The identity that matters in all of these to God and to all God’s witnesses today is that the Spirit of God is in all of our siblings.

Will you see this? Not reluctantly, like Joshua, but longingly, like Moses? And seek to live as you see?

Joshua was concerned about controlling who was authorized to be Spirit-filled. Moses listened. He heard Eldad and Medad prophesying in the camp. He recognized God’s Spirit in them, and sighed deeply his hope that all would receive this gift.

Those of us who are white cannot imagine we know what our siblings of color experience or need changed. We need to ask, listen, and then act as they invite, not believe we have answers.

And if in our siblings we encounter anger, impatience with delay, frustration, grief, we must find the empathy of Christ to love our Spirit-filled siblings in their pain.

God said: “I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh.”

This is the great hope of Pentecost for the world, that the Spirit breathes in every single child of God on this earth. Because if God’s Spirit is indeed in all of God’s children, then the Spirit is with us in our dialogue, and we also know what our prayer needs to be:

“Holy Spirit, stir in us, in all of your children, every person on this planet, and change what needs to be changed so all your children breathe freely and justly. Be in our dialogue. Give us ears to listen and humble hearts to receive. Give birth in each of us to the longing and courage to be a part of God’s life and justice and hope for all.”

Amen