Douglass Church - Douglass Blvd Christian Church

I don't know what the coming year is going to hold. None of us do.

But I do know this: there'll be moments when the costs are rising, the pressure’s building, and somebody near us gets exposed, and we'll have a choice to make.

We can be righteous in a way that doesn't cost us anything. Or we can be righteous the way Joseph was righteous, which means stepping into the line of fire and attaching our names to the people the world would rather shame. And then trusting that Emmanuel is with us in exactly that place.

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The church's job is painfully simple and painfully hard. We have to learn to read the signs differently. We have to stop treating the category “criminal” as if it tells us everything we need to know about a person.

We have to stop assuming the people with microphones are the ones whose authority matters most.

We have to get suspicious of our own instinct to label people for our convenience. Because Jesus is a terrible respecter of society's signage.

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Remember: the cross is what happens when you tell the truth about power. But resurrection is God's answer to the cross. And we live between the two, in this time when the old age is dying and the new age is being born, and we have to decide which age we belong to.

We have to decide whether we're going to use people as props for our comfort or see them as children of God.

Whether we're going to accept a world where people are fuel for machines or build communities of resurrection.

Whether we're going to stay silent while fascism rises, or speak truth, practice resistance, and embody the reign of God right here, right now.

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Love your enemies. Do good to those who hate you. Bless those who curse you. Pray for those who abuse you. Turn the other cheek. Give to everyone who begs. Do to others as you would have them do to you.

These aren't impossible riddles for religious overachievers. They're the habits of a people who know they've been welcomed while they were still a long way off. They're what belonging looks like in work boots.

If I know my life has been called blessed before I could prove anything, then I can stop guarding my worth like a secret.

I can risk forgiveness because I'm not paying for my seat at the table.

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But abiding teaches us a few stubborn questions: Does this freedom hold when the empire gets mad at us? Does it make more room at the table? Can it make it through Good Friday and still show up on Sunday?

Jesus' freedom can. It walked through death and came out holding the keys to the jail.

It taught Galilean fishermen to lay down nets and pick up neighbors.

It taught a tax collector to give the money back and still feel welcome at the supper table.

It teaches frightened congregations to stop asking "Who's my patron?" and start praying "Our Father, who art right here in the middle of this mess with the rest of us."

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This table today, set by God, is its own bridge that crosses every chasm. We come to the bread and the cup as people who need help, as well as the people who can help.

We come to remember Jesus, who crossed a greater chasm than any we've built, and who returns to find whether we've learned what he's been trying to teach us.

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Following Jesus costs a great deal more than we’re able to afford on our own. Let’s not kid ourselves, there are crosses with our names on them, just waiting for us.

And to be clear: in Luke, “take up your cross” isn’t code for generic misery, like “my bunions are acting up.” The cross is the predictable blowback you get for aligning publicly with Jesus and his upside-down reign in a world organized to keep the powerful comfortable. It’s the social shame and concrete political and economic risk that come when you side with the people Jesus sides with.

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So what would it look like if we lived this out?

It’d look like neighborhoods where homeowners invite renters. Schools where kids who get free lunch sit at the head table. Churches where people on the margins don't just get charity, they get justice.

I think it'd look like budgets that stop hunting for quarters in the couch cushions when it comes to feeding the hungry, while writing blank checks for weapons and tax breaks for the folks who need them least.

It'd look like communities where the poor aren't a problem to solve but guests of honor at the feast.

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And we’re the key. We need to make sure this room isn’t welcoming to indifference.

We need to advocate that meetings halt until anonymous faces have names. We need to fight for budgets that carry a compass and know when they’ve strayed from their true direction. We need our prayers to have hands and feet.

We need to straighten what’s gotten crooked—not because we can solve everything, but because we refuse to keep the ox watered while a daughter stays bent.

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We live in a world where so many go to bed terrified—parents for their children’s safety, and children for their parents, that they won’t be targeted and rounded up just because of the color of their skin; but Jesus announces a world where everyone has a place to go to feel safe from harm, a sanctuary from the hatred and violence.

We live in a world that feels like it needs the fire of God’s transformation, a new way of living together.

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