What Caesar Can’t Have: Sermon for October 16, 2016

Note: This is the third and final installment of a sermon series on “Faithful Citizenship”. Please see the previous two posts for the whole series.

pabloA couple of weeks ago I read the story of a town in Germany called Bamberg. In the 1400’s the people really wanted to build a town hall. The king of the region, fearing what it might mean if the citizens started talking to one another about town issues, refused to allow it. But finally, he relented. He told them, “you can build a town hall on any land that I do not own.”

But here’s the catch: under the law, the king owned all the land. The town hall idea was essentially shot down.

I’ll come back to that story, but I share it because it reminded me a little of the Biblical passage we are looking at today. Today is the third and last sermon in our “Faithful Citizenship” series. And today we are looking at story where Jesus says something that is often quoted, and often misunderstood: “Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s”.

I’ve heard that used to try to explain our duties to God and country. Some say that to “give to Caesar what is Caesar’s” means to just pay your taxes. Others say it means that there should be a complete separation between the institutions of church and state, an idea I support. But others say it also means that our values don’t matter when we are thinking about who we are as a country. That means we can act in our lives as citizens in ways that are contrary to what our faith asks from us. That idea I don’t support.

Overall, like so many other Bible passages, this one phrase can be debated and twisted to justify or condemn so much. Which is why I think it’s so important that we look at the context.

Jesus was teaching and some people came to him to ask a question about the religious person’s duty to Caesar. Caesar was the Roman Emperor who was oppressing the region, and ruling over the people, and there was an uneasy truce between the religious authorities and the Romans. And taxes were a huge part of this. The people were being taxes to support the empire. Tax collectors are talked about in the Bible as outcasts because they were Jewish people who were working for the Romans, the oppressors.

But the religious authorities who were starting to fear Jesus saw an opening here. They knew that if there was one thing the Romans didn’t tolerate, it was people not paying taxes. And so, they decided to set Jesus up. They sent people to ask him about taxes, hoping that Jesus would say “don’t pay them”. If he said that, they could then go tell the Romans who would do what the religious leaders were too scared to do: they’d arrest him and maybe even crucify him.

But Jesus knows what’s up pretty quickly. And so he uses the moment to teach an even deeper lesson. He asks for a coin, and he asks whose head is on it. The people say “Caesar’s”. And so Jesus tells them, “give to Caesar what is Caesars, but give to God what is God’s.”

It was a brilliant answer. They couldn’t turn Jesus in because he hadn’t said anything against the emperor. On the face of it, he said “pay your taxes”. But, on the other hand, he hadn’t left God out of the equation either. He said “give to God what is God’s”. And if you were just listening to Jesus as someone who was trying to trick him, that was all there was to it.

But Jesus is saying something far more subversive here, something that his disciples could hear and take to heart. Something that, if the religious leaders and Romans understood it, would have scared them far more.

You see, Jesus didn’t think much of the money. He picked it up and sort of looked at it and saw the face of a mortal man on it. Money was, and is, fleeting. And the empire it belonged to, strong as it was, would not last. You can almost hear him saying, “eh, let Caesar have it”.

The truly subversive part of it is this: give to God what is God’s.

What Jesus was really saying was this: there are things that Caesar can’t have. For all of the Roman power, for all of the money, for all the fear that they instill in our people, at the end of the day, the better things will never belong to them. Because those things, because you yourself, belong not to Rome, but to God.

That was a revelation to me when I first started to understand it. I’ve told you about growing up in a family where everyone served in the government or military, or was married to someone who did. I saw that service as honorable, and I still do.

But in my mind, at a young age, I conflated faith and country. I thought that God loved this country more than any others, that God loved Americans the most, and that because of that we could never do anything wrong. We were always the good guys, and we were always right, because we had God on our side.

That’s dangerous thinking, and not only is it un-Christian. It’s also un-American. It’s un-American to believe that we are so perfect that we will ever do the wrong thing. We have always been a country that works towards a “more perfect union”, and not one that believes we are already perfect.

But beyond that, for the Christian, we have to keep our loyalties in perspective. We can love our country deeply. We can serve it. We can work for its betterment. We can vote for the person we believe will do the best job leading it. But at the end of the day, we have to remember this: we can give to Caesar what is Caesars, but there are some things that Caesar can never have.

14695591_10101342086230278_4939264485415979914_nThat begins with our very souls, and the values that guide us. Last week we talked about some of those values: justice, kindness, and humility. There are so many others too. We each have to examine our consciences, pray for wisdom, and then ask God for the strength to not compromise those values, even in times when it feels like we are compelled to do otherwise.

And I was reminded of that this week when reading the story of a World War II solider named Private Desmond Doss. Private Doss was raised in a branch of the Christian faith that prohibits its members from taking up arms. Doss agreed with that, but the same time, Doss felt a strong call to serve his country. And so he enlisted in the Army.

When he got to basic training, he refused to pick up a weapon. He was berated by his instructors, called a coward and beaten by his colleagues, and threatened with prison. But he was finally allowed to become a medic, a non-combatant, and he deployed to the war with no sidearm, and no way to defend himself.

In the Pacific in 1945 he was caught in a fierce battle. That day, choosing time and again to but himself at risk, he personally saved the lives of over 75 men. And at the end of the day, he became the first conscientious objector to be awarded the Medal of Honor, this country’s highest military decoration. All without firing a shot. All without compromising his understanding of the Christian faith. All without giving to Caesar what he believed to be God’s.

Whether you agree with Private Doss’ understanding of the faith or not, you have to admire his integrity. It’s a reminder that we are called by God to work for the good of our communities and country, because God has given us gifts that can be used there. But we can never forget that our true citizenship is in a higher place.

Balancing the two can be tricky. But it’s not impossible.

I began by telling you the story of the Bamberg, Germany town hall, and the king who believed he had outsmarted the people, and forever stopped their building project. But the thing about Caesars is that eventually someone figures out that they don’t really own everything.

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Creative Commons image, T A McGath

One night the villagers in Bamberg went down to the river, and in the darkness they pushed 90 wooden pilings into the middle. They built their own island, one on which they could build their town hall. It wasn’t the king’s land, after all, and at the end of the day he found no way to stop them. That’s how the people of Bamberg let Caesar have what was Caesar’s.

In our earthly lives we have to deal with a lot of Caesars. We may well feel like the king holds all the cards, and we have no power to make the choices we know we should make. But that’s not true. There is always another way with God. It may require us to build something completely new, it may require us to take great risks, but it is always possible.

We are citizens. And that is a holy calling, one that we must embrace and use for good. But before anything else, we are beloved children of God. And so is every other person on this earth, not matter what borders surround them.

As we live our lives, as we work for good, and even as we cast our votes, we can never give to Caesar what should be God’s. Instead, we can only use all that God has given us to ensure that slowly but surely we are making life on this earth a little closer to as it is in heaven. Not just for us, but for all who belong to God. Amen?

The People of the City on a Hill: Sermon for October 9, 2016

Note: this is the second in a three part sermon series on “Prayerful Citizenship”. To read the first sermon, please click here: https://emilycheath.com/2016/10/02/when-all-is-not-well-where-you-live-sermon-for-october-2-2016/

In 1630, John Winthrop stood aboard the ship Arbella and addressed the people of the ships that would become known as the Winthrop Fleet. They were Puritans, arriving ten years after the Pilgrims of the Plymouth Colony, to form the Massachusetts Bay Colony.

Before they went ashore, Winthrop preached a sermon to them about what they were about to do. He told them that the new community they would form would be a like a City on a Hill, one that would be looked at by the whole world. He saidpablo that because of that they needed to be careful that the whole experiment not end in what he called a “shipwreck”.

Today we would say “train wreck”, but they didn’t have trains back then, but you get the idea. In other words, “don’t mess this up because everyone is looking at us”.

No pressure.

Nearly 400 years later Americans talk about how we are called to be a shining city on the hill, or an example of what a good society can look like. And 400 years is a long time for an idea to live. But it’s not even a quarter as long as the idea of the “City on a Hill” has been around. For that you have to go all the way back to Jesus Christ himself.

And so, as we begin this second week in our sermon series on “Faithful Citizenship”, that’s where we are heading. Jesus was giving what became known as his Sermon on the Mount, and he had just finished teaching the Beatitudes: Blessed are the peacemakers, blessed are you who are persecuted, and so on.

He immediately tells the people, “you are the salt of the earth”. Salt was rare and highly valued in those days, so this was high praise. Then he tells them, “you are the light of the world and a city built on a hill cannot be hidden”. Just like that old song we sing sometimes, “this little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine”, he tells them that they cannot but a basket over their light and hide it. They have to let their light shine, not so that they would be praised, but so God will be praised.

This is the passage that John Winthrop was talking about when he preached that sermon. They were about to go ashore, not so far from here, and build a city that the whole world would be watching. And so, using Jesus words, he told them “don’t hide your light”; make sure that this place we are going to build together will shine so brightly that people can’t help but see it.

All these centuries later, in an era of global 24 hour news and the internet, the country that grew from that City on a Hill cannot help but be noticed. We live in one of only a handful of countries that is consistently on the global radar, perhaps more than any other. We are watched, and analyzed, and both loved and hated. And at our best, we are a country that shines our light for good. We are a place of hope and freedom. One that still draws immigrants to our shores because of those promises.

But that doesn’t mean that our light is always shining. This country has had times when that light has been obscured by the baskets that we ourselves have put over it. Baskets like hatred, inequality, violence, systemic poverty, and more. In our worst moments, we are a shining example of what not to do. That’s what we talked about last week, when we admitted that sometimes not all is well where we live. We have to tell the truth about that before anything can change.

The good news, though, is that by telling that truth, we have a chance to kick over the baskets that hide the light, to change the story, and to make this City on the Hill shine as it never has before.

But that starts with us. Because that City on the Hill must be filled with People on the Hill. And the city will only be as good as the people who build it. And so, like Jesus said, we need to become like the salt of the earth. And for those of us who are Christians, that means we need to draw upon our best values, the ones given to us by our faith, and use those things to inform the way we will be citizens in our country.

John Winthrop himself had an idea of where to look for those values. In his sermon that day he quoted an Old Testament prophet, Micah, whose words we read before the sermon. Speaking to a city in distress, one that had lost its way and was trying to get back on track, Micah asked rhetorically, “What does God require of you?” And the answer wasn’t burnt offerings or sacrifices or anything like that. Instead if was just these three things: do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God.

csp_zhgwiaepitiDo justice. Love kindness. Walk humbly. It almost sounds too simple. But it is harder than it looks.

Because what would it look like if we all demanded those three things of ourselves in our daily lives? How would we do justice? Would we seek to be more fair to the people we deal with in our businesses? Would we look at people who weren’t treated as equals and advocate for them? Would we speak up when we hear someone use words that demean others?

And what about kindness? This same word is sometimes also translated as “mercy”, so would we be kind and merciful? Would we hold the door open? Would we let that person merge in traffic? Or, more seriously, would we stop withholding words that would heal? Would we look at those who suffer, and choose mercy over words of blame?

And what about humility? By this I mean real humility, which is understanding that none of us is any more or less beloved by God’s than others. If we walked through the world with that kind of humility, how would it change us? Would we be less judgmental of differences? Would we be more apt to value character over celebrity? Would we be more aware about what was good for all, and not just good for us?

Micah gave us a prescription for what ails us. He told us clearly how to get better. But as much as those three things sound as simple as an episode of Mr. Rogers, that is hard medicine. Justice, kindness, and humility are wonderful things…and they all take work. Every day we have to recommit to them. And every day we have to use them to kick aside the baskets that cover our light.

But more than that, if we want to be a City on the Hill, it is not enough that we ourselves commit to these things. We must also demand them from our leaders. “Christian values” is a phrase that gets tossed around a lot in election years. It often comes to mean a very specific set of beliefs and priorities, one with which only some Christians agree. But what would our national political stage look like if we took this bedrock of our faith, these real Christian values, and demanded them of our leaders? What would happen if we refused anything less than real justice, real kindness, and real humility?

That may sound naive, especially in a year like this, but if enough of us demanded it, things would start to change. And so would our leaders.

I’ll close with this. I’ve talked a lot about John Winthrop in this sermon. He would go on to be the Governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, and a very powerful man. He would also become one who didn’t always live up to Micah’s call to justice, kindness, and humility. Because of that, real people’s lives were affected for the worse.

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Rev. John Wheelwright, who was not beloved by John Winthrop

One of those people was a Rev. John Wheelwright. You may have heard of him, because in 1638 he founded our church and the town of Exeter. He had crossed Governor Winthrop, and he was banished from Massachusetts into what was then the frontier of New Hampshire. (His sister in law, Ann Hutchinson, was banished to what would become Rhode Island, by the way.) We’re here today, in a real way, because John Winthrop got it wrong.

A lot of our leaders get it wrong sometimes. And in the face of that, it is easy to feel powerless. I’m sure that John Wheelwright did. But we are not powerless. We have the ability to continue to build up our City on the Hill, and to transform it for good. We have the ability to become the servant leaders who make sure that light shines, even when others would obscure it. To be a Christian and a citizen is to never be without hope, and to never be without responsibility.

When I think of the man who founded this church, and this town, I remember that. 378 years later, I hope when people look at us as a church and as a town they see light. And I hope that we, as Christians and as citizens, will only do the things that would help that light to shine, here in our city, and far beyond. Amen?

When All is Not Well Where You Live: Sermon for October 2, 2016

The following is the first in a three part sermon series on Faithful Citizenship.

Lamentations 1:1-6
1:1 How lonely sits the city that once was full of people! How like a widow she has become, she that was great among the nations! She that was a princess among the provinces has become a vassal.

1:2 She weeps bitterly in the night, with tears on her cheeks; among all her lovers she has no one to comfort her; all her friends have dealt treacherously with her, they have become her enemies.

1:3 Judah has gone into exile with suffering and hard servitude; she lives now among the nations, and finds no resting place; her pursuers have all overtaken her in the midst of her distress.

1:4 The roads to Zion mourn, for no one comes to the festivals; all her gates are desolate, her priests groan; her young girls grieve, and her lot is bitter.

1:5 Her foes have become the masters, her enemies prosper, because the LORD has made her suffer for the multitude of her transgressions; her children have gone away, captives before the foe.

1:6 From daughter Zion has departed all her majesty. Her princes have become like stags that find no pasture; they fled without strength before the pursuer.

I grew up in a rather patriotic family. Most of my family members had either served longterm in the military or government, or married someone who did. And so my parents flew an American flag for all the federal holidays, they taught us about the patriotic symbols of this country, and when we were old enough they took us to Washington, where my dad grew up, to see Congress, the Museum of American History, and all the monuments.

The idea of America was important to my parents. And they always taught that if you did nothing to make it better, you weren’t allowed to complain. And they were especially adamant about voting. The way they saw it, if you didn’t vote, you shouldn’t be allowed to say a word about anything political issue whatsoever.

I’ve been thinking about their example this fall because, as you cannot have helped noticing, we are in the midst of election season. And this year it is particularly nasty. There’s always a sense of vitriol that comes out in particular election years, but in this one in particular there is an exceptional bitterness.

It’s in this atmosphere that today we start a new sermon series on what it means to be a faithful citizen. And I want to assure you upfront that this is not about how you should vote. It is never the place of churches to endorse candidates or parties, and I’m not about to start now. But when I asked about sermon series for this fall, this was the one that generated the most interest, and I don’t think that’s so surprising given what’s happening around us.

And so, over the next three weeks I want to talk about what it means for a Christian to be a good citizen. This week I’m going to be talking about living in a divided country. Next week I’m going to talk about how to make it better. And the last week I’ll talk about what it means to give your ultimate allegiance not to the state, but to God.

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Today we begin by reading this text from the book of Lamentations. As the name implies, this is a book of laments, full of sad poems. What happened was that Jerusalem, the promised land, the place where everything was supposed to be great, had been devastated. The city had been ransacked by King Nebuchadnezzar, the Temple, the holiest place in town, had been destroyed, and most of the people had been taken from the city to Babylon to live in exile.

The writer says that the city is like a lonely widow who “weeps bitterly in the night” and “has no one to comfort her”.

And as I was reading the text this week, I thought about how this was written about Jerusalem, but how for many in our country today, the word “exile” might just describe how they feel about things. Because all is not well in our country. There is pain and anger and hopelessness on every side. And it doesn’t matter how you phrase that disillusionment, at the bottom line all of it means that you believe this country is in some way broken.

And if you believe we are broken, then you also believe that we are somehow in exile. This may not be a literal exile, the way that the people of Jerusalem were physically taken from their land and moved to another one. But this can be exile nonetheless. Because when you believe that your country should be one thing, but it is another, then you are talking about an exile from the place where you are meant to live.

The only thing is, unlike Jerusalem, that perfect place has never existed. At least not yet. Or, at least not for all of us.

I believe America is a good country. But I know that it is an imperfect one too, and one in which justice and equality are still evolving. I knew that four years ago when I was just married and I was completing my taxes for the year. I remember looking at my wedding ring, but then having to check “single” on my federal income tax return because my marriage was not yet recognized by the government. I remember feeling confused by this country that my family had taught me to love, the same one whose flag was sewn onto the sleeve of my firefighter’s uniform. It didn’t feel right. It felt like exile.

But that’s minor compared to other exiles. When I was in Atlanta last week I went to two national historic sites. One was the Kennesaw Mountain Battlefield, and the other the Martin Luther King, Jr. historic site. And in the first place I thought about this country that had been torn in half, and the two sides who were then literally killing one another. And in the second place I thought about how over 100 years later, that war was in real ways still being fought. And how it’s still being fought today.

I thought about how I can love my Jerusalem, because I’ve made it to the city. But there are others who never made it in their lifetimes.

And then I thought about lament. That is what this text is about, after all. It’s about speaking words of sadness and pain. It’s about telling the truth about division and disunity. It’s about being honest, and saying that the Jerusalem you know is broken.

That’s not unpatriotic. That’s faithful. That’s faithful to the fact that the Jerusalem you know is not the city it could be yet. And that’s faithful to God’s will that all of God’s children would find a home and a welcome in that city.

But before that happens, we have to tell the truth.

In a real way, that’s the job of Christians as citizens. We have to look around, see what is broken and who is excluded, and tell the truth about it. We have to learn to use our voices, and yes our votes, to advocate for the healing of a place that is in exile from its best ideas. And we have to use our prayers, and our hearts and hands, in order to do the work of building and rebuilding our own Jerusalem.

The first role of the Christian is to tell the truth about what is broken in order to know how to fix it. And the second is to be invested in our neighborhoods, and country, and world enough that we can join in that work. Not every four years, but every year, and every day. There is no such thing as a Christian who lives in exile from their community. A Christian must be planted in the place where they live, and must work for the good of all of their neighbors, everywhere. That’s Christ’s clear commission to us when he tells us to love our neighbors. We’ll be talking a little more about that next week.

But as I wrap up, I want to return to that story about my parents from the beginning, and how they talked about being good citizens. From the way I described them, you might think that they shared a lot of political opinions, too. But the reality is that if you ever saw their ballots, you’d find that they generally aren’t voting the same way. But somehow, for 56 years now, they’ve made it work.

In a time when this Jerusalem where we live is so divided, it’s small examples like that that give me hope. We don’t all have to agree in order to want better for our country.

We began worship this morning by reading the words of the Gettysburg Address by Abraham Lincoln. This country, this Jerusalem, was never more exiled from itself than in the days of the Civil War. This very church is said by some to have been the site of the first meeting of the Republican Party, which was first organized to work for the abolition of slavery. Meanwhile, down South families like mine sent sons off to war dressed in gray.

150 years later, in this sanctuary sit people with Rs on their voter registration cards, and people with Ds. And plenty of Is too. There are descendants of Union soldiers here, and descendants of Confederates. And together we see clearly the evil of slavery for what it was. That would be pretty remarkable to the people who sat in these pews 150 years ago.

But at the time, it was that small group who gathered here as people of faith, and decided the time had come to push the issue of abolition, that saw clearly when others couldn’t. It should never be lost on us that they were acting in the public arena because their faith compelled them to not be silent. And thank God they were not.

150 years from now, when the people sitting in the pews look back, will they remember this time in our history, and will they ask “What did the people in these pews back then do?” For the sake of our memories, but more importantly, for the sake of our own Jerusalem, I pray that God compels us all to do the right thing. Amen?

Marching Orders: Where Citizenship Meets Discipleship

The following was originally preached as a sermon at the Congregational Church in Exeter on July 3, 2016.

I’ve talked before about how much I love genealogy. I also really love American history, and for me researching my family tree is a way of finding where my family’s story intersects with the larger American story.

And so this week I was reading the stories of two men from here in Rockingham County; Isaac Hills and Edward Stevens. Isaac and Edward were from Chester and Brentwood respectively, and they were my 5th great-grandfathers. And I was reading about a document that they had both signed 240 years ago, in 1776. It read:

[Provincial and state papers]“In Consequence of the above Resolution of the Hon. Continental Congress, and to shew our Determination in joining our American Brethren in defending the Lives, Liberties and Property of the inhabitants of the United Colonies : We, the Subscribers, do hereby solemnly engage and promise, that we will, to the utmost in our Power, at the Risque of our Lives and Fortunes, with Arms, oppose the Hostile Proceedings of the British Fleets and Armies against the United American Colonies.”

Unique to New Hampshire, in the days after the Declaration of Independence had made its way here, every man of voting age was asked to sign on to this statement, which was called an Association Test. The idea was to figure out, in the face of a revolution that could cost everything, who was in and who was out.

I take pride in the fact that my family signed. But about now, you might be wondering why I’m talking about it on a Sunday morning, when I’m supposed to be preaching about Jesus, and his commission to the disciples. Jesus told them to go out into the world, two by two, and do the work of spreading his Gospel. He tells them that they will go out with tremendous power, and they will have the power to change the world and proclaim a new way. This passage is essentially Jesus giving his disciples their marching orders.

So, what does text about an entirely different context, long before America was even an idea, have to do with the founding of this country?

It’s a good question. I always hesitate to equate the Gospel with patriotism. I get queasy when I preach around big patriotic holidays. That’s not because I don’t love this country. I grew up in a family with a lot of patriotic spirit and generations of veterans and public servants. But as a Christian, I’m called to remember that God’s creation, and God’s salvation, are far bigger than this country.

That’s one reason why we have to continually emphasize that our ultimate loyalty is to God. We cannot fall into the trap of idolatry and worship anything in the place of God. That’s why we respect the American flag, but do not put it in our sanctuary. It’s why we remember days like the Fourth of July or Veteran’s Day, but we do not make them the focus of our worship. Our ultimate faith is in Christ. Not country.
And yet, this is where we live. It’s part of who we are. And, while the Gospel is not about America, we would not be faithful to the Gospel if we did not try to make this place better. And we would not be Christians if we did not try to improve the lives of our neighbors.

And that’s where citizenship matters. Because while we must never confuse our American citizenship as superior to our citizenship in God’s kingdom, we must also never leave our higher values out of our understanding of what it means to live in this country. We are called by our faith to citizenship.

Let me pause there to say this is not just a Christian calling. This is a pluralistic country and our faith gives us no greater claim on the American name than those any other faith, or those of no faith at all. But, it does influence how we are called to live here.

In fact, John Calvin, the founder of the Reformed tradition from which we descended, went so far as to say that the highest calling a Christian can aspire to was not preaching the Gospel or any other religious pursuit. Instead, it was government service. Our highest calling is to make where we live better.

We are called to citizenship. But, just as Jesus said in this passage, the harvest is plentiful, workers are few.

I often bristle when I see politicians talking about Christian faith. Usually the Christian faith they are talking about seems to have little to do with Christ’s teachings. Especially in election years. And I’m not talking about politics here in the sense of telling you how to vote. There are good Christians in this congregation voting for every candidate who is running.

But I am saying that as Christians, we can change the story. Our faith can make us better citizens, and make better decisions. It can help us change the dialogue. And in a time when talking heads debate “Christian values”, it can help to shift the national conversation away from sound bites, and towards real Christian values.

What would it be like if we held up Jesus’ commandment that we love our neighbors as ourselves as a baseline of how we treated one another? What if we looked at our candidates and held them up against those fruits of the Spirit we talked about last week? What if we looked for those things: love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. What if we demanded better of our country, our leaders, and ourselves?

I think that is possible. But I don’t think it’s possible to do it alone.

Jesus knew what he was talking about when he sent his disciples out two by two. He knew they were going to face resistance. He knew they needed one another. And he knew that they would preach a Gospel that would cause them to be rejected.
That’s true even today. And that’s true where we live. In a time where polarization has led those who disagree with one another to the point of outright violence, we need a return to thoughtful citizenship. And in a time where fear is too often defining our dialogue, we have to choose another way.

And sometimes, that is going to mean speaking a hard truth about hatred, or oppression, or evil. Even when we find ourselves speaking that truth to hostile ears.

Jesus said to his disciples that they would be rejected, and that sometimes they would have to shake the dust of the places that rejected him off of their feet. Often Christians live in times and places where people get it wrong. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, in the Second World War, lived in one of those places. A German, he decided instead to follow Christ, and he shook the dust of Nazi hatred off of his feet, even as he lost his own life. We hold his story up as an example of choosing the harder right against an easy wrong.

But we would be wrong to think that this is something only those in other countries face. Because sometimes the most faithful thing you can do as a Christian, and the most patriotic thing you can do as an American, is to shake the dust of sinful policies and practices off of your feet.

When Dr. King clashed with law enforcement to walk across the Selma bridge, he was shaking the dust of racism off his feet. When Susan B. Anthony cast a ballot in the presidential election of 1872, and was arrested, she was shaking the dust of second-class citizenship for women off of hers. And when the conductors on the Underground Railroad stashed those escaping slavery in their barns and basements, they were shaking the dust of a country that condoned enslaving others from theirs.

Even as they broke the law of the land, they upheld a higher law. They upheld God’s law, and they upheld Christ’s call. And every one of them was condemned in their own time by those who called them un-Christian, and un-American. But they did it anyway.

Christ calls us to nothing less. This is not a perfect country. We have a long way to go. It never has been perfect, though. I think of 1776, and that document my 5th great-grandfathers signed for instance. They were banding together to say there was a better way. But even then, I can’t help but notice that no one cared much what my 5th great-grandmothers thought about it.

But the thing about this country is that things change. And things change because good people refuse to lapse into nihilism but instead work together to get them changed. That’s why seven generations later, I can vote in this country. And I can get married in this country. And I can stand in this pulpit in this church and preach this sermon.

Jesus sent his followers out into the world, and he sent us together. And some of ended up here.
As Christians, we are called to make it better, not just for ourselves, but for others. But we can’t do it alone. And so, won’t you come with me. Let us shake the dust of whatever is holding us back off of our feet, and let us transform this little part of God’s creation where we live into a more perfect union. Amen?