Reign of Christ (Year C, RCL)

Luke's text for Reign of Christ Sunday is a searing critique of leaders who are powerful but not vulnerable.

All living things are touched by divine grace—and caught up together in movement toward union with God.

Luke's Gospel gives us some wondrous glimpses into the life of John the Baptist. We have the compelling story of how his father, Zechariah, heard he'd soon be a daddy, disbelieved that revelation, and spent the entire pregnancy unable to speak.

But when he is finally able to speak, he speaks!

A preacher's nightmare is to be in front of an eager congregation and realize your notes are missing. No wonder one of my favorite Bible stories is about a clergyperson who's rendered speechless.

People do not float through life in the bubble that is their skin. We are grounded, dependent beings that live through the lives and deaths of others.

Most nights, my bedtime prayer with our two oldest boys begins like this:

Be still and know that I am God.

My radiation treatment meant I'd lose my voice for six weeks, and our church couldn't afford pulpit supply. So the people decided to be my voice.

When Jeanne Bishop learned of her sister's murder, she found herself saying aloud, "I don't want to hate anybody."

Shortly after my most recent move, my long-time boyfriend and I ended our relationship. The next week, I was scheduled to preach. 

I'm part of a multi-pastor church, and my colleagues graciously offered to step in and preach in my place. But I was stubborn. I decided that I wanted—no, needed—to preach.

We began our business meeting in the chapel with dimmed lights. I led the board through several calming prayers, noticing our breath and heartbeats.

We will not fear even if the very foundations of the earth are shaken. So says the psalmist. Rarely do I live as though it were true. I wonder how many people do.

This week my Century lectionary column focused on the text from Luke. Here are several threads I found useful but could not weave into the final piece.

We are instructed to love our enemies—not necessarily to forgive them.

God's "consuming fire" is the fire of holy love. It doesn't await sinners in the future; it burns up sin itself.

For the healing we need, we cannot do better than to rely on the ancient assurances of Zechariah's hymn. Written in a time of occupation and economic disarray that eclipses our own in its uncertainty, the hymn proclaims that we are indeed free, whatever our brokenness, to worship God without fear.