Not a Shakespearean King (Reflections on Christ the King 2025)

 

There was also an inscription over him, “This is the King of the Jews.” (Luke 23:38)

Did you have to read Shakespeare in high school? Most American high school students are required to attain at least a passing familiarity with the Bard, and legions of English teachers have heroically campaigned through the years to cram the poetic verbiage of the most accomplished playwright in our common language into the skulls of youngsters weaned on Instagram, addicted to Tic Toc, and possessing the attention span of a squirrel with a concussion.

It must’ve been a little easier back in my high school days. You know—in those bleak, prehistoric times before the internet and the cell phone, back when we actually read books. Having been a survivor of a Missouri Synod Lutheran Sunday school where our only Bible was the King James Version, I took to Shakespeare like Travis took to Taylor. For a guy who lived 400 years ago, William Shakespeare really understood what made people tick, and that’s why we’re still fascinated by the characters he created. He could get under the skin of real people while giving them some pretty fancy words to say.

I think of Shakespeare on the Feast of Christ the King as so many of his plays involved kings and kingly ambition—an ambition which Shakespeare almost always paints with a very dark brush. Throughout his history plays and even in some of the great tragedies like Julius Caesar, Hamlet, Macbeth, and King Lear. he shows us men (and sometimes women) who have an unconquerable thirst for power, position, and control. They all seem to be asking the same questions: Who do I have to eliminate in order to be king? Who do I have to eliminate in order to keep being king? The ruthless quest for dominance always leads to copious bloodletting and paranoia.

My particular favorite of Shakespeare’s kings is Richard II. Here’s a guy wallowing in the medieval assumption that he’s king because God wants him to be king. He says,

“Not all the water in the rough rude sea

Can wash the balm off from an anointed king;

The breath of worldly men cannot depose

The deputy elected by the Lord…”

 

The trouble is, this particular deputy sucks at his job, and there’s another guy just itching to knock him off his throne and take over the operation himself. Not long after proclaiming his divine right to rule the kingdom, Richard gets a kick in the pants on the battlefield and has to come to terms with the idea he’s not so divine after all. Changing his tune to a minor key, he declares,

“…within the hollow crown

That rounds the mortal temples of a king

Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,

Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,

Allowing him a breath, a little scene,

To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks,

Infusing him with self and vain conceit,

As if this flesh which walls about our life,

Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus

Comes at the last and with a little pin

Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!

Cover your heads and mock not flesh and blood

With solemn reverence: throw away respect,

Tradition, form and ceremonious duty,

For you have but mistook me all this while:

I live with bread like you, feel want,

Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,

How can you say to me, I am a king[i]?

 

How can we say to Jesus he is a king? Our gospel lesson[ii] for this feast depicts Jesus in a scene more dramatic and tragic than even Shakespeare could’ve imagined. The so-called king is less than a peasant. He’s a condemned criminal, executed for a crime—wanting to be king—which he didn’t even commit. He is beaten, abandoned, alone, reviled, ridiculed by the highest and the lowest in his society alike. He’s become a nothing, and, impaled on a piece of wood as an object of scorn and horror, he can’t even wipe the blood from his own eyes.

What kind of king is this?

There is no triumphant majesty in this king. No gorgeous palace lined with gold, no army to command, no household cavalry or legion of courtiers. This king is not in regal robes. He’s naked, in pain, helpless, and dying. That’s what makes Christ the King different from all others who would wear the crown and place themselves above their fellow mortals. This king, with all the glory and power of the Heavenly Father, has chosen to forsake it all. He doesn’t fear the loss of power—he willingly relinquishes it. He does not rise above us. He comes down to be with us, to know us in our worst, most brittle, fragile, lost, and lonely moments. This king loves us so much that, with his dying breath, he bestows grace and forgiveness on those who would be his enemies and reaches out in comfort to the lowest of the low.

What kind of king is this? The kind we should follow, because all others are just mortals with no divine right to their authority. Their victories and achievements are and have always been temporary. Yet the king who died on the cross lives within us, teaches us compassion, mercy, and humility. He teaches us—or at least, has tried to teach us—gratitude for our shared humanity, a humanity he loved enough to embrace himself. For this we offer him our respect, tradition, form and ceremonious duty.

May we all be worthy subjects of this king. God bless you, and thank you for reading my blog this week.

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[i] William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of King Richard II (Act 3, Sc 2), courtesy of OpenSourceShakespeare.org.

[ii] Luke 23:33-43

Big Buildings and False Prophecies (Reflections on Pentecost 23, Year C 2025)

 

When some were speaking about the temple, how it was adorned with beautiful stones and gifts dedicated to God, he said, “As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.” (Luke 21:5-6)

Sometime around 20 BCE King Herod, the tool of the Roman Empire which had been occupying and oppressing the people of the Promised Land for about forty years, decided he’d make a name for himself. The temple of Jerusalem, the place where pious Jews were supposed to make pilgrimage and offer sacrifices, seemed a little too shabby for a king as magnificent as Herod imagined himself to be. Even though this structure had been the Jews’ place of worship for the last 500 years—ever since their ancestors had returned from captivity in Babylon—Herod just wasn’t impressed. I guess he figured there were more awesome buildings back in Rome, and, wanting to be one of the cool kids, he decided to take the backhoe to the temple and rebuild it bigger and gaudier, making it a titanic reflection of his own titanic ego[i].

Have you noticed how despots love to build gargantuan buildings to celebrate themselves? Hitler planned to build a gigantic domed hall in the center of Berlin which would be so huge it would have its own climate. Of course, he decided to invade Poland instead, and I believe you know the rest. Even if old Adolf had actually constructed this behemoth, it would doubtlessly have been bombed into a giant pile of rubble, ending up not unlike Herod’s great temple which was destroyed by the Romans in the war 70 CE.

In our gospel lesson for Pentecost 23 in the Revised Common Lectionary (Luke 21:5-9), Jesus’ disciples are marveling at Herod’s humongous masterpiece, but Jesus isn’t about to gush over this collection of stones and mortar. He knows that the real temple—the real place of worship—is in the heart of the believer. He also knows that trouble is coming and, however grand this temple might be, it wouldn’t take too much for the Roman army to knock it all to the ground.

This observation rather naturally causes some alarm for the disciples. You can’t blame them for wanting a little bit of a heads up if there’s going to be a massively destructive war on the homefront. Like everyone else, they want to be able to read the tea leaves and predict exactly when and how the future will play out.  But Jesus isn’t going to play that game. What does he tell them? The truth. Bad stuff will happen. You know: Like wars and famines and plagues. But this stuff always happens. One disaster won’t necessarily spell the end of time. Nevertheless, there will always be some loud-mouthed bozos who will claim total annihilation is bearing down and will destroy life as we know it unless we follow their inspired lead. Don’t believe those guys.

Interpreting biblical prophecy seems to be a cottage industry in the U.S. For over fifty years we’ve been told by many that we are living in the End Times. “The Rapture is coming,” they say. “Biblical prophecies are unfolding as we speak!” [ii]

If you want to crack the code of Bible prophecy, there’s something important you should know. There is no code. Any coded language used by the Bible writers was meant to be understood by the audiences to whom they wrote and the situations in which those folks found themselves. Some of that message may be permanently lost to antiquity, and we can only speculate on its meaning.

Now imagine Shakespeare saying, “I’m going to write this play called Hamlet. People will think it’s total rubbish, but 400 years from now they’ll understand the secret message in it and it will be a smash!” He’d have been a doofus to have done that. No. He wrote for his own audience in his own day. So did the authors of the Bible. The beauty in our scriptures lies in the fact the wisdom inherent in these stories transcends time, place, and culture and can still speak to us. But the Bible is not a crystal ball for divining the future. To use it as such is disrespectful to the scriptures themselves.

The message about the future in this gospel passage is pretty clear. Jesus tells us that bad stuff will always happen, and that we cannot predict when it all will hit the fan. Nevertheless, we are to persevere in faith. We are to trust God will give us the wisdom we need to withstand everything this unpredictable world wants to throw our way. We’ve made it this far. We can go farther. Buildings and empires crumble. God doesn’t.

Today pious Jews still gather in Jerusalem at the only remaining section of Herod’s massive temple complex, a section of the western wall called the Wailing Wall. One has to wonder why this site causes wailing. Rather than lament for what has been destroyed, wouldn’t it be so much better to rejoice over the faith which has endured? I’m just asking.

It means a lot to me that you came by to visit this week. Leave me a message, copy this post, and have blessed week. See you next time.

 

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[i] If you’re into this sort of thing, you might want to know the original temple built by King Solomon around 960 BCE was less than the size of a football field. Herod’s temple complex covered 30 acres.

[ii] The whole doctrine of the rapture (if you can dignify it enough to call it a doctrine) is quite specious. It’s based on a 19^th century heresy called dispensationalism. I always recommend you check out The Rapture Exposed: The Message of Hope in the Book of Revelation by Barbara Rossing (Westview Press, 2004).

Their Best Side (Reflection on All Saints 2025)

 

“Do to others as you would have them do to you.” (Luke 6:31)

One of my favorite pieces of literature is Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood. Thomas wrote it as a radio play. It’s about a small seaside village in Wales in the early part of the twentieth century. The town pastor, the Reverend Eli Jenkins, dreams of winning the Welsh national poetry contest the Eisteddfod. Reciting a little evening prayer he’s composed in verse, the good parson says,

“We are not wholly bad or good

Who live our lives under Milk Wood;

And Thou, I know, wilt be the first

To see our best side, not our worst.[i]” 

 

But all of us have a best side and a worst, don’t we? Luther would say we are all, at the same time, both saint and sinner. On All Saints/All Souls Day we remember our loved ones who have gone, and I like to think we remember them as the Reverend Jenkins feels God sees them—loving them as beloved children marked with the cross of Christ while overlooking their shortcomings.

In our gospel text we see Jesus facing a crowd of his followers. All saints and sinners. Some of them were true disciples, some had come to be healed of diseases and infirmities, some I would bet just came for the novelty of seeing this new rabbi/faith healer in action. They were a mixed bag of people from different locations and income levels. They wanted Jesus to touch them so they could feel the healing power which came out of him. I can almost imagine Jesus laying hands on the sick, praying for each one, and then calling, “Next!” Finally, no one else came forward. So, Jesus looked at this whole, rag-tag, assorted group—this whole gang of peasants and working stiffs—and he told them they were blessed. I’ll bet they never heard anyone tell them that before.

Jesus told them they were beloved of the Father even if they were poor or sad or felt themselves marginalized. Of course, he also warned the ones who smugly reveled in the things of the world that their situation could easily change. And he gave all of them a little crash course in discipleship: Love your enemies. Forgive them, pray for them, and be compassionate. Avoid violence.  Be generous and do to others as you’d want them to do to you.

Simple, right?

When we light the candles on this holy festival in memory of the saints, we remember with gratitude the way they tried to live out Jesus’ instructions. Maybe some were more successful in that endeavor than others, but all of them have been forgiven by God and welcomed into the eternal home. We see their best side, not their worst, and pray others may remember the things of Christ they saw in us when our time has run out.

There are three names on the All Saints list at Faith Lutheran of Philadelphia which I want to single out.

Ruth Hansen was the sweetest little lady you’d ever want to meet. There was something in her utterly guileless nature that just charmed people. The nurses who looked in on her in her last days were delighted by her cheerfulness and courtesy and gratitude for their services. She was faithful in worship even in her 90’s when mobility became an issue. She raised two children, John and Ruth. John predeceased his mother, which, if you ask me, is one of the worst tragedies we can ever suffer. Ruth told me, however, that she had a vivid dream in which her late son came to her and assured her he was with Jesus in Heaven. This gave her a great deal of strength, and her secure faith was inspiring.

Joanne Maier was a long-time member of our congregation. I’d known her for over a quarter of a century and never knew until after she’d passed that she’d been born in Germany. She came to the U.S. as an immigrant but had a successful career in the nursing profession—a career she inspired her daughter to pursue. Like Ruth, she also endured the tragedy of losing an adult child. Like Ruth, her faith was never shaken. My fondest memory of Joanne was the day she came to me and insisted I do something to get her grandchildren into Sunday school. I wrote a letter to her daughter-in-law, and grandson Stephen was soon enrolled in Confirmation class. Although she relocated out of the immediate neighborhood after her husband’s passing, Joanne faithfully commuted to Philadelphia from North Wales, PA—a twenty-mile, 45-minute drive—every Sunday to attend an 8:15 mass at Faith.

Karl Hommen was pastor of Faith for almost 14 years. I always felt a little bad for Pastor Karl because he had the misfortune to be pastor at a time when the last of the Baby Boomers made their Confirmation. That’s when the pews started to empty out. I imagine those who remained blamed the sudden exodus on the pastor, never realizing the same phenomenon was occurring everywhere across all denominational lines. But Pastor Karl stuck it out, battling his way through contentious council meetings and dealing with a misunderstanding between the congregation and the City of Philadelphia over the payment of city wage taxes. It couldn’t have been much fun, but I will remember Karl as a humble, conscientious man who served Faith to the best of his ability for a very long time, mentored four seminarians, and ended his ministry as a chaplain at Bucks County Hospital where he told me, “It’s nice just to be able to be a pastor.”

God, the generations rise and pass before away before you. You are the strength of those who labor; you are the rest of the blessed dead. We rejoice in the company of your saints. We remember all who have lived in faith, and all who have died, and especially those most dear to us who rest in you. Give us in time our portion with those who have trusted in you and have striven to do your holy will[ii].

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[i] For all the splendid, poetic, convoluted dialogue in Thomas’ play, the Rev. Jenkins’ prayer/poem is the least sophisticated. I think Thomas intentionally wanted it to sound like it was written by an amateur poet with a good heart. The whole poem has been set to music, and you can hear the great Welsh bass-baritone Sir Bryn Terfel sing it by clicking Eli Jenkins Prayer.

[ii] This prayer is from the Occasional Service (Minneapolis: Augsburg Publishing. 1982)

The Days are Surely Coming (Reflections on Reformation Sunday 2025)

 

The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah. (Jeremiah 31:31)

Happy Reformation Sunday, everybody!

October is almost over and it’s time again to get out the red paraments and sing a rousing chorus of “A Mighty Fortress is Our God” as we celebrate that most Lutheran of holy days—the day in 1517 when Martin Luther nailed his 95 Theses to the door of the Castle Church in Wittenburg, Germany and kicked off one big, hairy hullabaloo with the Roman Catholic Church.[i]

I must confess I really love this celebration. It’s not because I’m thinking, “Ain’t we Lutherans the coolest ever,” but because I really need to be reminded of God’s loving, faithful grace. Plus, I love knowing that a little defiance can go a really long way—and a little defiance is in order these days, don’t you think?

Our lectionary starts us off with a that defiant, in-your-face-speak-truth-to-power guy, the prophet Jeremiah (Jeremiah 31:31-34). Jeremiah knows his country, Judah, has really screwed the pooch. He’s tried to warn the leadership that their neglect of the poor and reliance on military power is about to lead them to catastrophe. The phrase, “The days are surely coming” pops up about 14 times in this prophetic book, and it almost always comes before some prognostication of extremely bad stuff happening. When Jerry uses it in our Reformation Sunday reading, however, he’s letting his people know that—although really, really bad stuff is going to happen—on the other side of it will come a time when God will do something new with God’s repentant people. Things will be bleak for a while, but God in God’s mercy will surely revive the nation with a new and sustaining insight.

Martin Luther and Jeremiah had a lot in common. Both could be pretty strident, and neither of the two had any trouble calling out the leadership of their respective societies for incompetence and corruption. Subtlety was not their strong point. But both of these feisty guys saw possibilities ahead. Luther looked at a church in which popes and bishops were more concerned with secular power than they were with the souls and wellbeing of their flocks. He saw ignorant priests frightening and bribing the peasantry, and ignorant Christians who hoped their good deeds would make God love and forgive them. Luther understood we can’t do good works to make God love us. We do good works because God already loves us.

One of my favorite mental games is wondering what Luther or Jeremiah would tell us if they could come back and confront the American church today. We’ve been in a panic for a while about plummeting church attendance and the increasing number of “nones” in our society—people who claim to have no religious affiliation at all. We can always blame the changing times and say it’s the secular media or the internet or whatever. But we’d be remiss if we didn’t look at our own contribution to the emptying of the pews. Maybe Dr. Martin would take us to task for

·         Assuming Christianity is genetic, and all we have to do is get our kids baptized and confirmed with no need ever to explain to them our own spiritual path or relationship with our faith.

·         The church’s intolerance of the LGBTQ+ community.

·         Covering up clergy misdeeds instead of confronting them.

·         Christian nationalism, which is both unconstitutional and unbiblical.

·         Obsessing over made-up End Times scenarios which have no genuine biblical basis but have real world consequences for the environment and our foreign policy.

·         Emphasizing individual salvation or institutional survival but not nurturing discipleship.

Yeah, the church has to take a good share of the blame for her own demise. We’ve been guilty of all of this.

BUT! The days are surely coming when God will do a new thing, and a new church will emerge. Dr. Martin would remind us, ecclesia semper reformand est—the church is always reforming. The days are surely coming when we can get along without huge, money-devouring buildings. The church’s real estate holdings can be used to start new missions. We can form new, smaller communities led by dedicated bi-vocational pastors who won’t require expensive salary and benefit packages. We can place our emphasis on the way these communities work to heal their neighborhoods, and we can see the Gospel as Christ’s inspiration instead of the church’s dogma. These changes might sound far-fetched, but they are already happening[ii].

As the spirit of God’s love, forgiveness and amazing grace becomes real to us, we’ll see more and more collaborations between Christian denominations and between Christians and non-Christians. I believe the days are surely coming when a new, younger generation of Christians will take the reins and start shaking things up. I hope they would be inspired by that radical, counter-cultural rabble rouser, Martin Luther, who was himself inspired by that radical, counter-cultural rabble rouser, Jesus Christ. Yes, the next few years will be a little rocky, but the days are surely coming when we will see a new reformation inspired by scripture, faith, and God’s magnificent grace.

Hang in there, and let the peace of God which  passes our understanding keep your heart and mind in Christ Jesus. Oh! And come back and see me again!

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[i] Actually, it is now doubtful that the posting of the 95 Theses was done by Luther himself. October 31 seems like a good day to post a controversial announcement in a Catholic Christian community as it’s Halloween—the day before All Saints Day—and many folks n Wittenburg might’ve gone to the Castle Church to make confession so they could receive communion at the All Saints mass the next day. The church door was like the town bulletin board, so folks would be likely to see Luther’s proposals. Nevertheless, all we know for sure is that it was around October 31, 1517 that Luther sent a copy of the Theses to Archbishop Albert of Mainz, possibly not suspecting the archbishop was in on the whole “get-out-of-Hell-free” indulgence scam himself.

[ii] Check out this cool video about a Lutheran Church in Minneapolis.

Wear 'Em Down (Reflections on Pentecost 19, Year C 2025)

 

“And will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night? Will he delay long in helping them? I tell you, he will quickly grant justice to them. And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?” (Luke 18:7-8)

We talk a lot about justice lately. You can’t turn on broadcast TV in the United States without seeing commercials for law firms, most of whom would qualify for the moniker of “ambulance chasers.” You’ve heard them. They all go something like this:

“Injured? We’ll get you justice and a HUGE CASH SETTLEMENT!! Just call the law offices of Wiedluff, Toscroom, and Goode. We’ll sue ‘em down to their boxer shorts and get you the BIGGEST PAYOUT the law allows.”

I have to wonder what is more important to these TV lawyers—justice or money?            

Of course, any settlement depends on the opinion of a judge. Jesus suggests in the parable assigned for our Gospel Lesson for Pentecost 19 Year C (Luke 18:1-8) that there may have been some judges in his day who weren’t exactly on the up and up. In fact, the judge in his story admits to having no fear of God or respect for anyone (v.4). Sound familiar? I guess some things never change.

Naturally, we’d love to believe that every jurist who has donned the black robe will be a paragon of wisdom, logic, fairness, and impartiality. Nevertheless, I’ve heard it said by more than one Philadelphian that, since our judges are elected and reliant on the goodwill of certain unions or other monied interests, it’s entirely possible their judgements might be a trifle skewed in favor of one party over another[i]. Am I out of line here?

Doubting the proclivities of the folks in our legal system has a real downside. It’s pretty easy to get jaundiced, to believe the game is rigged against us, and simply let ourselves sink into the lake of hopelessness and drown without even trying to swim. But the little widow lady in Jesus’ story isn’t going to go under quite so easily. She knows the judge who hears her case is bent like an Amish pretzel, but she’s not going to let him get away with injustice. No sir. She’s going to raise holy hell until this guy caves and does the right thing. In the end, it turns out she has more power than he does. Jesus says nothing about the merits of her case. He praises her for her persistence.

And this is how our Lord tells us to pray—with persistence. I can understand why people would ask what the point of prayer is. After all, if God is going to do what God does anyway, why bother? But there’s power always in our prayers. We can pray prayers of praise, prayers of intercession for our fellow saints, and prayers of petition for our own needs, fears, wants, and whatever. Our prayers may not change God, but they will always change us. Prayer is the necessary medicine for the sickness of cynicism and disillusionment. To be in constant prayer is to affect your whole view of the world and your outlook on life. It changes you.

Prayers of praise keep us focused on how good God has already been to us. In The Small Catechism, Martin Luther included a morning blessing, an evening blessing, and a table blessing, instructing the faithful to begin and end each day with a word of thanks, and to give praise to God for every meal. The discipline of praise reminds us that we’re not as totally screwed as we may think we are. In fact, the crappiest day we’ll ever spend on this earth will be full of more blessings than we can count. If you’re reading this and you’re not in Gaza right now, you’re having a pretty blessed day. If you’re not living on the street, you’re doing pretty okay. If you turned on your tap this morning and drinkable water came out, you’re ahead of the game. As we say in the consecration of the mass:

It is indeed right, our duty and our joy that we should at all times and in all places give thanks and praise to you, Almighty Father, through our Savior Jesus Christ[ii].

Our prayers for others (prayers of intercession) are equally essential. When our friend gets a cancer diagnosis, our prayers for their healing keep their circumstances before us. We continually practice empathy and compassion, and such empathy and compassion will lead us to action. Whether our prayers for a loved one encourage us to visit them or undertake some task they can’t do for themselves, or if our prayers for peace on earth lead us to social action, volunteerism, or protest, the prayers we pray have an effect.

Our personal prayers before God, the longings and pleadings of our hearts, aren’t just a matter of bathing in our own depression and disappointment. Prayer is our guide. It’s our hope. If hope is dead, faith will follow it to the grave. Like the widow in the parable, we are called to “pray without ceasing.[iii]” Even if one avenue appears to be closed, our constant prayer of hope will lead us down another path. Despair is not an option.

We pray our earthly judges will all be fair and impartial and seek that which is best for all concerned. We can be thankful that our Heavenly Judge is merciful and always partial to the needs of his children.

God bless you for reading this week. Please leave me a comment if you are so inclined—and keep praying even if you’re not inclined!

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[i] Don’t even get me started on the United States Supreme Court, of which six of the nine members have been the darlings of the ultra-conservative Federalist Society.

[ii] From Evangelical Lutheran Worship (Minneapolis; Augsburg Fortress, 2006)

[iii] See 1 Thessalonians 5:15-18.

Faith Enough! (Reflections on Pentecost 17, Year c 2025 and the Feast of St. Francis)

 

5 The apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!” 6 The Lord replied, “If you had faith the size of a[a] mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you. 7 “Who among you would say to your slave who has just come in from plowing or tending sheep in the field, ‘Come here at once and take your place at the table’? 8 Would you not rather say to him, ‘Prepare supper for me; put on your apron and serve me while I eat and drink; later you may eat and drink’? 9 Do you thank the slave for doing what was commanded? 10 So you also, when you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, ‘We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done!’ ” (Luke 17:5-10)

Every time I read this passage, I think of my old boss at the shoe store where I worked one summer when I was an undergraduate. Whenever one of the employees would whine, “Hey Boss! Can I take my break?” He’d snarl back, “I gave you a break when I hired you.”

The message is pretty clear. You don’t get any special treatment or extra pay for doing what you’re supposed to be doing anyway. When the apostles ask Jesus for more faith, he’s quick to let them know they already have enough to get the job done. Before they start asking for an increase, they should take a look at the blessings from God they currently possess.

St. Francis of Assisi, whose feast day is celebrated on October 4[i] by Christians of many denominations, is a great example of taking a mustard seed’s worth of faith and using it to change the course of Christian history. This guy is probably the most popular canonized saint in history next to Saint Nicolas (It’s hard to beat Santa!). As a young man Francis had everything going for him. He came from a rich family and was in line to inherit his dad’s lucrative commercial silk business. But, to his old man’s great displeasure, Francis gave up the family money and the prospect of becoming a big shot silk merchant and embarked on a life in service to the gospel without a penny to his name. He became a beggar so he could minister to other beggars, which, if you ask me, would require a heck of a lot more faith than I can boast of.

But Francis did what he thought he ought to do—live a life in imitation of Jesus Christ. Jesus didn’t have a bank account either. Jesus hung out with the poor and the sick, so Francis did the same. Jesus trusted in the Father’s goodness, and so did Francis. The result was that Christians were attracted to the poor missionary’s Christ-like simplicity and sincerity. Men and women joined the religious order Francis created, wanting nothing but to be faithful servants who made others fall in love with the goodness of God.

Francis never criticized the wealth and power of the church, but neither did he share in those things. He was no Joel Osteen or Franklin Graham. Although his fame spread throughout his lifetime, he continued to live in poverty, finding joy in the word of God and the world God had made, being the “worthless slave” who did only what he ought to have done.

Because of his love for the earth and all living things, Francis is known as the patron saint of animals, and it’s become traditional to bless animals on his feast day (or, in some cases, on the Sunday which falls closest to his feast day). I don’t know about you, but I have a great love of animals (even though I may eat some of them). Being a city boy, I’m particularly fond of dogs, cats, and horses (although horses, as a general rule, do not make the most practical domestic pets as they take up a good deal of space, eat a lot, and are notoriously difficult to housebreak). Of course, farm animals like pigs, chickens, cows, and mules certainly have their charm, and many folks find joy in the company of rodents, birds, fish, and reptiles. If you happen to share your living space with a domestic pet, you’re certainly aware of how much pleasure their company can give you. I like to think that an adoring pair of eyes and a wagging tail greeting you as you return home from a trip of any duration will be a reminder of God’s unconditional love. I hope that we, like Francis, would feel the wonder and the mystery of God in all living things—plant or animal—about us, and grow in true love, respect, and admiration for the blessed gift of this earth.

Some years ago, a neighbor of mine experienced one of those tiny, faith-affirming miracles which, in honor of St. Francis, I’d like to share with you. My neighbor’s name is Francisco, the Spanish form of Francis. He’s retired and, as such, likes to play a lot of golf. One day he was out on the links and began to feel unexpectedly fatigued. Although he hated to leave the green without completing all eighteen holes, he felt he’d better go home and lie down. His wife was at work, so he stretched out on the sofa feeling strangely crappy. No sooner had he reached this position of repose than his little Yorkshire terrier Sasha jumped on his chest and began licking his face, preventing him from going to sleep. Francisco didn’t know why he felt so lousy, but, apparently, Sasha did. Francisco sat up, feeling short of breath and sweaty. Being a sensible man, he deduced he might be having a heart attack. He grabbed his phone and called 911. The paramedics arrived a few minutes later and, just as Francisco opened the door for them, he coded and collapsed on the floor. The paramedics revived him, took him to hospital, and he’s been pretty okay ever since.

Sasha, alas, has since gone on to his Doggie Reward, but this caring interaction between human and animal serves for me as a reminder that the Spirit of God is in all things around us—the sky, the trees, the clouds, flowers, and our little “fur babies” who bring us so much joy. God is with us and so abundantly good to us. Why would we need to ask for more?

Good and gracious God, today we give you thanks for the animals who share our lives and have done so in the past. We thank you for the joy and comfort they have given us. We humbly ask you to protect them from illness and injury and grant them long, happy lives. May they, through our hands, feel the love you have for all you have created, and may we, through their selfless love and companionship, be ever reminded of your constant presence, love, and care for us. We ask this in Jesus’ name. Amen.

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[i] Saints’ days are often assigned on the day of the individual’s death. In St. Francis’ case this was in the year 1226.

Not a Game of Monopoly (Reflections on Pentecost 16, Year C 2025)

 

“…and the revelry of the loungers shall pass away.” (Amos 6:7b)

When I was a kid I had two great pals—Scott and John. These were the dark, prehistoric olden days before the advent of video games. Our competitive recreation took the form of the board game Monopoly. I recently learned this antique pastime was invented back in 1903 by a lady named Lizzie Magie as a way to teach young people about the dangers of concentrated wealth and the virtues of a just system of taxation. Ms. Magie created the game with two sets of rules. In one version there was no taxation or shared wealth, and in the other was an anti-monopolist system in which all players were rewarded when wealth was created.[i] For most of it’s existence, however, the good folks at Parker Brothers and later Hasbro, the toy companies which now own the rights to the game, have offered only one version. Scott and John and I, like millions of other American kids of our generation, grew up playing Monopoly and learning its lessons of ruthless, rapacious greed.

As I look at American society today, I get a queasy feeling that we’re turning into one giant game of Monopoly. We’re like the rich man and Lazarus whom our Lord describes in the parable the Revised Common Lectionary has chosen for Pentecost 16, Year C (Luke 16:19-31). There’s a great chasm fixed between the haves and the have nots, and it’s growing wider every day. Some folks are passing “GO” at cyclonic speed while the rest of us can’t even find “FREE PARKING.” And don’t get me started on the cost of rent, utilities, and transportation.

Of course, American capitalism has one basic difference from a game of Monopoly: In Monopoly, everyone starts out equal. Not so in real life. Some of us inherit money. Some have better ideas. Some live in more favorable locations and are in the right place at the right time. Some work harder, some are smarter, some are more physically able. And some of us are disabled, historically marginalized, are undereducated, oar have limited opportunities. The American economy never starts out like a game of Monopoly, but, if we don’t course correct, it will surely end like one—with someone having all and all others having nothing.

Our Gospel lesson for Pentecost 16 is a stern warning. Unlike the ambiguous parable of the previous week (Luke 16:1-13), Jesus is being a lot more direct in his messaging. I don’t think he’s trying to tell us that rich people are all going to go to Hell. Wealth in and of itself is not necessarily evil; nevertheless, it is the insatiable desire for accumulation which brings about God’s wrath, and woe to us if we fail to recognize this.

The rich man in the parable knows Lazarus by name. He can’t plead ignorance. He’s known there’s a poor man at his gate, but he doesn’t care at all about this man’s hunger—even though he has the means to assuage it. Is Lazarus even human to him? Even while roasting in the flames of his eternal punishment, this self-absorbed plutocrat still sees Lazarus as an underling. “Send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue” he says to Abraham. He seems incapable of recognizing Lazarus as a brother. It’s his indifference to Lazarus’ suffering which has brought about his condemnation.

The rich man also has enough to feed Lazarus. Lazarus could feast from the scraps which fall from the rich man’s table. This is excessive consumption. Why would anyone amass more provisions than he needs? Some have classified this appetite for excessive wealth as a form of addiction. It’s almost a pathological need to acquire more and more. If you just can’t seem to get rich enough, you have no appreciation for the resources you already possess. The rich man isn’t condemned merely for a lack of compassion. He is also condemned for an arrogant lack of gratitude.

The proper response to all of this, of course, would be empathy and appreciation. We might not be able to fix the world’s problems on our own, but we need to be aware such problems exist. We are called upon to love our neighbor and reach out in whatever way we feel able to the ones outside the gate. Almsgiving is a spiritual discipline—not just for individuals but for the Church as an institution. If we become obsessed with hoarding for survival, we are missing the point of why the Church should exist at all.

Faith teaches all of us to be aware of the continuous blessings of God. We can always afford to be generous when we consider how God has provided. Faith creates gratitude, and gratitude creates joy, and joy creates a generous spirit.

This parable is a warning. We have Moses and the prophets and even a Savior who did rise from the dead. They’ve told us how we should live and how we should regard the resources entrusted to us. Simply, we are all our brother’s keepers. We are called to keep watchful eyes out for how wealth is viewed and used in our society. In the end, this isn’t a game, and we can’t be passively submissive to the roll of the dice.

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[i] See the Wikipedia article on the game here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monopoly_(game)#History