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Living Awake: Romans 13 and Faithful Resistance

Posted on by Fr. Peter / 0 Comment

For the last year, Romans 13 has been a hot topic amongst Evangelical Christians who believe Americans are required to just obey the law. After Renee Nicole Good was shot and killed by masked agents of the federal government, Evangelical influencers took to social media saying, “If she had only obeyed, she would probably still be alive.” As an aid to the argument, they will add, “Romans 13:1” to the end.

Romans 13 has long been read as a command to unquestioningly obey civil authority. It is often invoked in moments of social tension to quiet dissent, discourage protest, or sanctify the status quo. But this elementary reading is not only incomplete, it is deeply at odds with both the broader witness of Scripture and Paul’s own life.

Paul begins this chapter by acknowledging the role of government in maintaining order. Social structures matter. Chaos does not serve the common good, and Scripture does not romanticize anarchy. But Paul does not endorse every law or every ruler. He is describing how authority should function, serving justice, restraining harm, and promoting the well-being of the community.

Paul was no stranger to resistance and the brutality that unchecked authority can cause. He was imprisoned, beaten, and ultimately executed by the authorities he names. Paul also proclaimed that “we must obey God rather than human authorities” when conflicts arise (Acts 5:29). Scripture cannot be divided against itself. Any reading of Romans 13 that demands uncritical obedience ignores the larger biblical story.

Romans 13 is not about unquestioning obedience, but conscience. Paul writes that submission to authority is not motivated by fear of punishment, but by an awareness of what is right. The standard is not just what is legal, but also what is morally responsible. For followers of Jesus, authority is legitimate only if that authority aligns with God’s purpose for life.

Paul makes that purpose clear: “Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.” Love, not law, is the final measure. Any civil command that violates love, any policy that harms the vulnerable, denies dignity, or embeds injustice, fails the test that Paul establishes.

Romans 13 is not black-and-white; it profoundly challenges the reader. Paul does not invite passive compliance; he calls believers to moral discernment. For the follower of Jesus to live faithfully is to ask hard questions: Does this law protect life or diminish it? Does it foster justice or reinforce inequality? Does it serve the common good, or does it give privilege to the powerful at the expense of the powerless?

There is a sense of urgency in Paul’s writing that sharpens the challenge: “You know what time it is… now is the moment to wake from sleep.” To be awake is to refuse the comfort of moral laziness. Doing nothing is easy. But Paul asks us to recognize that neutrality often sides with injustice, and silence can become a form of consent.

Throughout its complicated history, the church has used this passage not to justify obedience, but to inspire courage. Those who opposed slavery, resisted fascism, marched for civil rights, and sheltered refugees often did so in direct violation of civil law, but in faithful obedience to the law of love. These patriots understood what Paul understood: authority exists for the sake of justice, not justice for the sake of authority. And without an authority based on morality and love, there is no justice.

Romans 13 does not require followers of Jesus to sanctify every law. It demands that we take responsibility for how we live within, and sometimes against, them. Paul’s vision is not of quiet submission but of awakened lives shaped by integrity, compassion, and courage. Romans 13 demands that we ask the hard questions and hold those in authority accountable when they wield their power unjustly.

Romans 13 requires followers of Jesus to act when we see injustice, for silence equals consent.

If we are to live “as people of the day,” we must live visibly, ethically, and intentionally. It is to clothe ourselves not in fear or compliance, but in hope and responsibility. It is to trust that love is not only our calling, but our highest allegiance.

Romans 13 does not ask us to surrender our conscience or morality; it asks us to sharpen it.

And in a world where power often confuses itself with righteousness, that may be one of the most faithful acts of all.

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What Is Liberal Catholic Theology? An Incarnational, Sacramental, and Critical Tradition

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Now, before you stop reading because I said the word ” liberal, let me explain what that word means from a theological perspective. It begins by, in a sense, separating the partisan political meaning from the theological.

The English word liberal derives from the Latin liber, meaning ‘free’. From a theological perspective, liberalism is about freedom of inquiry, the freedom to ask questions, wrestle with doubt, and allow faith to grow rather than remain fixed. At its heart, religious liberalism trusts that faith deepens through engagement, not through fear. Allowing God’s voice to continue to speak in and through the Church is a primary action of the Liberal Theological Position.

Liberal catholic Theology is more of a posture than a single system. Rooted in the Anglican/Catholic and sacramental tradition, Liberal Catholic Theology remains open to historical development, critical inquiry, and the lived experience of humanity. Liberal Catholic Theology seeks to remain faithful to the core of the Christian faith while leaving space for honest intellectual discovery and pastoral sensibilities with confidence in the ongoing work of the Holy Spirit.

The central belief of Liberal Catholic Theology is that God is truly revealed in Jesus Christ, genuinely present in the sacraments, and actively at work within history, culture, and human reason.

Rather than using strict doctrinal boundaries to define positions, Liberal Catholic Theology is best understood through its method, sources, and aims.

Theological Method: Faith Seeking Understanding

Liberal Catholic Theology fits within the classical Christian conviction that faith and reason are not opposed to one another. It shares Anselm’s conviction that theology is fides quaerens intellectum, faith seeking understanding, but also states that doctrine is not static or immune from historical context.

Archbishop William Temple (Archbishop of Canterbury 1942-1944) stated this approach clearly when he wrote, “Theology is the effort to understand the revelation which has been given, and to express that understanding in terms of the thought of the age.” (Nature, Man and God, 1934)

Liberal Catholic Theology does not reject advancements in biblical scholarship, historical criticism, philosophy, and the natural sciences, and does not perceive those advancements as threats to faith but as tools for deeper comprehension.

Keeping intellectual honesty at the heart of theological discovery distinguishes Liberal Catholic theology from both ends of theological inquiry, rigid dogmatism and doctrinal minimalism. Tradition is neither dismissed nor idolized. Doctrine is respected as the accumulated wisdom of the Church, but is always interpreted through the lens of its historical formation and pastoral purpose.

Sources of Authority: Scripture, Tradition, Reason, and Experience

Liberal Catholic theology finds itself within a broad understanding of authority, Scripture, Tradition, Reason, and Experience, often called the “Wesleyan Quadrilateral.” The Anglo-Catholic view understands authority from the perspective of Scripture, Tradition, and Reason. Wesley, and therefore Liberal Catholic Theology, added the point of view of Experience and how the Church has experienced authority.

Scripture is understood as being inspired and authoritative, but is read critically and in context. Scripture was written at a particular time in history to a particular group of people, having a particular experience. Understanding who, what, when, where, and why helps to better understand what is written.

Bishop Charles Gore wrote, “The Bible is not itself the revelation, but the record of the revelation.” (The Reconstruction of Belief) Liberal Catholic Theology is able, then, to affirm biblical authority without denying historical development, literary diversity, or ethical complexity.

Tradition is the living memory of the Church, particularly as expressed in the early ecumenical councils, the Church Fathers, and the sacramental life. As Yves Congar later phrased it, tradition is “the living transmission of the Gospel in the Church,” not mere repetition of past formulas.

Reason and experience function in competition with revelation but as ways in which revelation is received, tested, and embodied. Liberal Catholic theology assumes that truth is coherent and that God’s self-disclosure cannot contradict the realities of the created world.

This brings me to a definition of Liberal Catholic theology:

A sacramental and incarnational approach to Christian faith that affirms the historic catholic tradition while engaging critically with history, reason, and experience, understanding doctrine as living truth ordered toward communion, healing, and participation in the life of God.

Liberal Catholic Theology is catholic without being rigid, liberal without being relativistic, and faithful without being fearful.

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God Calls, God Creates, God Entrusts

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Matthew 3:13-17

In the passage from Matthew’s Gospel we heard this morning, Jesus comes to the Jordan River to be baptized by John. John hesitates. John knows that something holy is unfolding and is unsure whether he is worthy to participate. But Jesus insists. He steps into the water, not above it, not apart from it, but fully within it.

And in that moment, the heavens open. The Spirit descends like a dove. A voice declares, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

This is not just about Jesus’ personal spirituality. This is a revelation about who God is and how God chooses to act in the world. God does not save humanity from a distance. God does not bypass the waters of human life. God enters them.

This moment on the banks of the Jordan belongs alongside the words of our Statement of Faith: “He calls the worlds into being, creates man in his own image, and sets before him the ways of life and death.” In Jesus’ baptism, we see all three truths embodied at once. Creation itself participates: the river, the sky, the dove. Humanity is affirmed, the Beloved stands in solidarity with all who come seeking repentance and renewal. And a choice is made, not toward power or separation, but toward life shared with the vulnerable.

In Jesus’ baptism, we see that the image of God is not found in distance or domination, but in solidarity. It tells us that choosing life means stepping into the waters of the world as it is, its pain, its injustice, its hope, and trusting that God is present there. When the voice from heaven speaks delight over Jesus, it is also a word spoken over humanity itself: You are beloved.

If Jesus’ baptism shows us anything, it is that God’s work begins not with escape from the world, but with engagement in it. From the waters of the Jordan, Jesus does not retreat into safety or silence; he steps forward into ministry, into conflict, into the full complexity of human life. In the same way, our Statement of Faith does not begin with doctrine for doctrine’s sake, but with action, with a God who calls the worlds into being. Creation itself is God’s first act of love, and it is into that living, breathing world that we are called to respond. To understand what it means to choose life, we must begin where God begins: with the call that brings all things into existence.

The Statement of Faith gives us words that are both simple and profound: “He calls the worlds into being, creates man in his own image, and sets before him the ways of life and death.” Three clauses, three truths. Three invitations. And yet, they call us into a lifetime of reflection and action.

I hear in these words a God who refuses to be distant. A God who calls, creates, and entrusts us with the profound responsibility of life itself. This is not a God who dictates in rigid rules or abstracts our existence into moral formulas. This is a God who calls us to notice, to respond, and to participate in the ongoing work of creation, reconciliation, and justice. I hear a God who does it all with us.

Today, we must also consider the reality of our world, the ways we encounter violence, oppression, and brokenness. The Incarnation teaches us that God enters our fragile, human life. And in this light, our choices, our commitments, and our actions are sacred.

The first clause is cosmic: “He calls the worlds into being.” God speaks, and life responds. God calls the stars into formation, the oceans into motion, and the earth into balance. God calls life itself, and we, as part of that life, respond.

Creation is not a mechanism, a chain of cause and effect. It is an ongoing act of invitation. When God calls the worlds into being, God affirms that life is not inert matter but living, sacred, and relational. Each of us, as part of creation, is invited to co-create, to participate in life, to respond to God’s call.

This call is not abstract. It is incarnational. It comes to us in flesh and blood, in the life of Jesus Christ, in our neighbors, and in the needs of the world. Every act of justice, every effort to care for the vulnerable, every movement for ecological stewardship is a response to this divine call.

The second clause moves from the cosmos to the human heart: “Creates man in his own image.” Being made in God’s image is not a license for pride or domination. It is an invitation to reflect God’s love, mercy, and justice.

This was a profound revelation to me. Think about it. In the creation story, God spoke, and things happened, but when it came to creating humanity, God got their hands dirty.

Genesis tells us that God formed humanity from the dust of the earth, but that is not the most profound part. The most profound part is that after God created humanity, God breathed God’s breath into humanity. Imagine, the very breath we breathe, the first breath we take as newborns, is God’s breath.

God is present in every human being from the moment we take that first breath.

Every human being, regardless of race, gender, immigration status, or social standing, bears this image and breath. And when we fail to see it, to honor it, or to protect it, we distort creation itself.

In Minneapolis, in recent tragedies, communities have experienced the denial of this divine image, acts of violence that remind us that life is fragile, that some bodies are treated as expendable, that our systems sometimes fail the people they were designed to protect.

Being made in God’s image demands that we stand with those whose humanity is denied. It calls us to advocacy: supporting criminal justice reform, ensuring fair treatment for immigrants, protecting children from hunger and neglect, and affirming the dignity of all lives threatened by violence or discrimination.

Former Connecticut Conference Minister Rev. Ken Salidi recently said, “The UCC was not founded to be respectable. We were founded to be dangerous to injustice.”

And yet, it also calls us inward. To see God’s image in ourselves, our biases, our fears, and our impulses to harm or neglect. We all have them, I have them, and those are the things we need to bring to confession. To live faithfully is to notice, to name, and to align ourselves with the ways of life God sets before us. We cannot stand by and watch; just like God, we must get our hands dirty.

The third clause is a profound statement of human freedom and responsibility: “He sets before him the ways of life and death.” God does not coerce. God does not dictate outcomes. God sets before us the paths that bring flourishing and those that bring destruction.

Life is a gift, but it comes with a sacred responsibility. We are entrusted with choices that affect not only ourselves but our communities, our neighbors, and creation itself.

Yesterday, Nicky and I met with a woman from the local watershed association. Our house is built on a hill and, as you know, water runs downhill. We talked about ways to mitigate water by moving it around our house, and we also discussed creating rain gardens.

Rain gardens collect and filter water that falls off roofs, driveways, lawns, and other impermeable surfaces. As the water moves, it collects all the stuff we leave behind. If I spray chemicals on my lawn, they will end up in our drinking water. If my car leaks oil or gas, those products will find their way into our drinking water. The decision I made to spray my lawn could have an impact, downstream, on people I do not know.

Mayor Jacob Frey captured something essential when he said, “This is our moment to face a whole lot of hate with a whole lot of love.” Love is not passive. Love is active. Love means standing against systems of violence, speaking truth to power, advocating for the oppressed, and protecting the vulnerable. Love is being aware and asking the question, How will this decision affect others?

My theological lens emphasizes that God does not remain apart from the world. In Jesus Christ, God fully enters human life. God suffers with us, grieves with us, and calls us into participation in God’s reconciling work.

When we witness violence, oppression, or environmental devastation, the Incarnation calls us not only to lament but to act. It is a theological principle: God took on human flesh so that human life is sacred, so that our bodies, our communities, and our choices matter.

Choosing life, and by that I don’t just mean being anti-abortion, but life all across the spectrum, this choice is not optional. It is a moral, spiritual, and incarnational vocation. Whether we advocate for justice in our courts, feed the hungry, protect the planet, or speak out against violence, we participate in God’s work of creation, healing, and reconciliation.

Because I like to always offer practical ways our faith applies to our lives, here are a few ways we can live out this call.

Engage the community, support local organizations that fight violence, poverty, and systemic injustice. Show up. Speak out. Educate yourself on what is going on in the world.

Advocate for public policy that values life, all life, equity, and environmental stewardship. It is okay for your faith to engage with your politics.

Practice daily reflection, notice where your own actions either honor or harm the divine image in others. At the end of the day, ask yourself what have I done to others through my actions, or my inactions, and how will I try to do better.

Commit to reconciliation, seek forgiveness, and offer it where relationships have been fractured. For me, this is key in our spirituality. Offering forgiveness when harm has taken place is central to our spiritual life. As a reminder, hanging on the cross, Jesus asked God to forgive those who had done this to him.

Live sacramentally, recognize God’s presence in ordinary acts of care and in our communal worship. God is present in all of creation, including the people we do not like. Every choice, every effort, every act of love affirms the sacredness of life.

God calls the worlds into being. God creates us in God’s own image. God sets before us the ways of life and death.

We are free, and we are responsible. In a world marked by violence, fear, and injustice, the call to choose life is urgent and costly, but it is also deeply faithful. Choosing life means choosing justice, reconciliation, and love. It means seeing God in every human being and responding with courage, compassion, and integrity.

My prayer today is that we answer God’s call faithfully. May we embody the divine image in all our actions. May we face hate with love, darkness with light, and death with life. And may our lives, in word and deed, bear witness to the God who calls, creates, and invites us into the sacred work of living fully.

Amen.

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An Incarnational Call to Truth, Accountability, and Peace

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It has taken me a few days to put into words what I am feeling at this moment. Knowing myself as I do, I needed to wait a few days for my emotions to settle a bit, but I have found that settling my emotions at this time is impossible. Government-sponsored violence seems to be the new norm, whether it is bombing Iran, invading Venezuela, or the killing of Renee Nicole Good on the streets in Minneapolis. I will not and I cannot allow this violence to become the new normal. So, it is at times like these that I turn to faith.

My faith proclaims that God does not remain distant from human suffering. In the Incarnation, God takes on human flesh in Jesus Christ, declaring every human life sacred, worthy of dignity, and deserving of protection. Bodies matter. Lives matter. What God assumes, God honors.

That truth compels us to speak plainly today as we continue to grieve the heinous shooting in Minneapolis and the death of Renee Nicole Good. When violence is carried out, especially by agents of authority, it demands more than prayers alone. It demands truth, accountability, and a sober reckoning with how power is exercised in our common life.

Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey said it clearly: “This is our moment to face a whole lot of hate with a whole lot of love.” For people shaped by the Incarnation, love is not silence, avoidance, or denial. Love insists that every life be treated with dignity. Love demands transparency, restraint, and justice. Love refuses to allow fear or hatred to determine whose lives are protected and whose are placed at risk. Love takes to the streets and demands!

The Incarnation stands in judgment over systems and practices that normalize violence or excuse it as inevitable. God-with-us does not hover above human pain; God stands with the wounded, the grieving, and those who cry out for and demand change. In Jesus Christ, God knows what it is to be overpowered by the machinery of human fear and control and exposes it for what it is.

At the same time, the Incarnation calls us toward hope and responsibility. We are not condemned to repeat this cycle. We are called to build a community where accountability is real, where human dignity is non-negotiable, and where the use of force is never detached from moral restraint. We are called to form God’s kingdom here on earth.

As a people of faith, we grieve, we pray, we speak, and we act. We commit ourselves to facing hatred with love that seeks justice, truth, and peace, not as abstractions, but as concrete, lived realities. “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” That truth demands more of us now.

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La Befana – A Legend of Sacred Wisdom

Posted on by Fr. Peter

There is a legend of a witch that dates to Pagan times and is an integral part of Italian folklore. The legend of La Befana draws together Pagan and Christian theology in celebration of the Epiphany that speaks to us today with her sacred wisdom.

The origin of the name Befana comes from the Greek word Epiphaneia, meaning “manifestation” or “appearance,” and refers to the visit of the Magi to Mary, Joseph, and Jesus. Over centuries, Epifania became Befania, then Befana in popular speech.

In Roman and pre-Roman times, figures resembling La Befana have appeared in agricultural traditions. La Befana is linked to ancient fertility goddesses and earth mothers who represent the earth’s cycles.

In Roman Times, La Befana made appearances at festivals around the solstice and would be included in rituals honoring the spirits, ensuring the fertility of the coming year. La Befana, often depicted as an old woman, would fly through the night symbolizing the passing of the old year.

As Christianity began to spread, La Befana became part of the Epiphany story. While journeying to see the Christ Child, the Magi stopped at the home of La Befana, where she offered them food and shelter but declined to join them.

She later regretted her decision not to join the Magi, and so she gathered gifts she could bring to the Child and set off, flying through the night in search of the Magi and the Child. Unable to find the child, La Befana gave the gifts to the children she did find in the hopes that one of them might be Jesus.

Today, the legend has it that La Befana visits children on the night of January 5th, leaving candy and presents for the good children and coal for the, well, not-so-good. She is depicted as an old woman flying on a broom, part grandmother, part witch, and part holy pilgrim. There are major celebrations in Rome that combine religious observance with folk festivals.

There is a tremendous amount of symbolic meaning in La Befana. The legend combines the folk with the theological, the Pagan with the Christian, in such a way that shows how traditions can come together to tell a story. La Befana shows the wisdom of age rather than youthful beauty. La Befana points towards the truth that one is never too old to seek the things that are holy. And most importantly, La Befana shows that we do not have to be perfect; she is flawed, human, and still beloved.

And there is a deep, theological symbolism to La Befana as she reminds us that those on the margins carry sacred wisdom, a reminder that God’s revelation is not just for the rich and powerful but for everyone, and La Befana reminds us to continue to search even after missing opportunities.

La Befana is not merely an Italian “Christmas witch,” but a rich symbol of memory, repentance, generosity, hospitality, hope, and second chances standing at the crossroads of ancient ritual and Christian faith.

Let us Pray:

Holy God of wandering stars and open doors, you met the Magi on the road and you meet us in moments we almost miss.

We remember the one who stayed behind, who hesitated, who later went searching, carrying gifts, hope, and regret in her hands.

Forgive us when we delay love, when fear or comfort keeps us from the journey. Bless our second chances, our late beginnings, our imperfect faith.

Teach us to recognize Christ in every child we meet, in every stranger we welcome, in every door we dare to open.

As La Befana shared her gifts along the way, may we give freely, not only from certainty, but from longing and compassion.

Sweep away what no longer gives life. Make room for wonder. Lead us by your light, even when the road is long and the hour is late.

For it is never too late to seek the Holy One. Amen.

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When God Flees

Posted on by Fr. Peter

Matthew 2:13–15, 19–23

We do not often hear this part of the story, but Matthew tells a part of the Christmas story that rarely appears on greeting cards.

In today’s passage from Matthew, there are no angels singing here. No shepherds. No serene manger scenes. Everyone has gone home, and Mary, Joseph, and their son are left alone.

At a time when there should be happiness, there is fear. There is violence. There is flight.

After the Magi leave, Matthew tells us that an angel appears to Joseph in a dream and says, “Get up. Take the child and his mother and flee to Egypt and remain there until I tell you.” And Joseph does exactly that. Joseph trusts this angel, who has never steered him wrong.

Joseph wakes from his dream, and he gets up in the middle of the night. He gathers Mary, the child, and everything and anything they can carry, and they become refugees. Out into the cold night. Out into the cruel world.

We hear that phrase-“they fled in the night”-and it can sound almost poetic.

But we know what that really looks like. It looks like parents packing only what they can carry. It looks like children who don’t understand why they can’t go back home. It looks like phones held up to catch one last signal before crossing a border.

We have seen it on the news. Families leaving Ukraine with a single suitcase. Parents walking through deserts at our southern border. Children sleeping in detention centers, wrapped in foil blankets that crinkle every time they move.

And if we’re honest, we don’t usually imagine Jesus in those images.

But Matthew insists that we do. Because the Holy Family does not flee from the human story. They flee inside it. This is how the story continues.

We are sometimes tempted to sanitize the gospel stories, to make them safe, tidy, and reassuring. We do not like to dwell on the bits of scripture that we do not like. But Matthew refuses to do that. Matthew draws us in and forces us to face reality.

Matthew insists that, from the very beginning, Jesus’ life is shaped not only by wonder but also by threat. The Christmas story did not end with the manger; it began there and continues from there.

Herod is afraid. He does not know what all of this means, he does not know what is happening, and he does not like how this makes him feel. And when powerful people are afraid, children suffer.

Herod is not just a historical figure. Herod is any system that chooses control over compassion. Any leader who trades truth for fear. Any policy that sacrifices the vulnerable to protect power. Herod is alive whenever children are harmed to preserve adult certainty.

Matthew reminds us that the gospel is not neutral in the face of that kind of fear. God does not bless it. God escapes it.

So, God does something astonishing. God runs.

God does not send armies. God does not overthrow Herod. God does not protect the child with force. God does not pass legislation to force people to do what he wants. God entrusts the future of salvation to a frightened family crossing a border.

That alone should stop us in our tracks.

Matthew is not subtle when he tells us that the family flees to Egypt. Egypt is not just a place on a map. Egypt is memory. Egypt is trauma. Egypt is the place from which Israel once fled. And now, God’s own Son flees to Egypt.

Matthew quotes the prophet Hosea: “Out of Egypt I have called my son.” This is not prediction. It is interpretation.

By quoting Hosea, Matthew is saying that God is doing something familiar yet completely new. Liberation is being rewritten, not as a single dramatic escape, but as a long, uncertain survival.

My theology insists that incarnation matters. The Word becoming flesh is not just a nice story; it really matters. Jesus does not float above history. He was born into it. He is part of it.

That means Jesus knows displacement, not as metaphor, but as lived reality. He knows what it is to leave home in fear. He knows what it is to depend on the kindness of strangers. He knows what it is to be marked as “other” in a foreign land.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth: If Jesus were born today, many Christians would argue about whether he belongs here.

If Jesus were born today, the debate would not be theological first; unfortunately, it would be political.

People would ask, Do they have papers? Are they documented? Did they cross legally? Who is paying for this? I guess all of these are legitimate political questions, but the God who requires us to love everyone, feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and welcome the stranger would tell us to take care of the people first, then ask the questions.

Because standing right in front of us, in the middle of all the political noise, a frightened family would still just be trying to survive.

This story forces us to ask a hard question, not about immigration policy, but about discipleship. Can we recognize Christ when he arrives with dust on his shoes and fear in his eyes?

This story does not allow us to spiritualize away the real suffering of real people. God’s salvation story runs directly through the lives of the vulnerable.

And then, quietly, the story moves on. Herod dies.

History often moves like that. The powerful die, but the damage remains.

The Angel returns, and Joseph dreams again. Another instruction is given. Another journey is about to begin. It is now safe, and they can return, but not to where they started.

Joseph plans to return to Judea, but he is afraid; he is afraid for his wife and his young son. And again, fear is not dismissed. Fear is honored. So, the family settles in Nazareth. Nazareth, small, unimpressive, overlooked.

Nothing in the prophets says clearly, “He will be called a Nazarene.” Matthew stretches here, the way preachers sometimes do, because he is trying to say something deeper.

Jesus grows up on the margins, poor, struggling, and afraid. He is not in Jerusalem or near the seat of power. He learns faith in a small-town synagogue, not in the religious center, not in the Temple. God’s presence chooses obscurity over power and prestige.

What does all this mean for us? What lesson is Matthew trying to teach with this story of fear and uncertainty?

In this text, Matthew is not teaching about geography alone, but about what kind of God we worship. We worship a God who chooses vulnerability over dominance. A God who enters history through risk. A God who trusts human courage more than divine force.

My theology refuses to turn this story into abstract doctrine. It asks what this story reveals about God’s priorities. And the answer is clear.

God’s concern is not first for control, but for life. Not for certainty, but for faithfulness. Not for power, but for presence.

But friends, the lesson does not end there, for this story also reminds us that revelation does not stop at the safe verses. God speaks in dreams. God speaks through fear. God speaks through movement and change. And sometimes, God speaks by saying, “Do not stay where you are.”

The Holy Family survives not by standing their ground, but by moving when the moment demands it. That is a word the church still needs to hear.

The story not only reminds us that God is still speaking, but also that God is still moving.

Faithfulness does not always look like staying put. Sometimes it looks like leaving what is familiar. Sometimes it looks like choosing the safer road rather than the braver-sounding one. Sometimes it looks like trusting that God is present even when the path is unclear.

Joseph never speaks in this story. But his faith is loud. He listens. He moves. He protects life.

Epiphany is about revelation. And here is the revelation Matthew shows us that God is found not in Herod’s palace, but on the road to Egypt. Not in certainty, but in trust. Not in dominance, but in care.

Jesus is revealed not as a conquering king, but as a child who survives because others choose compassion over fear.

So, the question this story leaves us with is not simply, do we believe this happened?

The question is: Would we recognize the Holy Family if they showed up here? Not dressed in holiness. Not speaking our language. Not fitting our expectations. Would we see them, or would we ask them to move along?

Matthew doesn’t answer that question for us. He leaves it with the church.

Amen.

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Thank You and Happy New Year

Posted on by Fr. Peter

Greetings,

I wanted to take a few moments to say thank you for all your support this past year. Thanks to your generosity, I was able to expand this ministry to TikTok, and it has been an amazing experience.

My goal has always been to bring the transformative message of love to as wide an audience as possible, and with the addition of TikTok to the roster, I can now reach a combined audience of almost 20 thousand people on a regular basis, and this is in no small part due to the support you have shown me.

If you would like to support this mission, please see the link and “Buy me a Coffee.”

For many of us, me included, this has not been an easy year. As we stand at the open door of another year, I asked ChatGPT what I should leave behind in 2026, and this was the answer.

That’s a holy question to ask at the threshold of a new year.

Here are some things that many faithful, thoughtful leaders, especially those who carry responsibility for others, may be invited to leave behind as 2026 opens. Take what resonates; leave the rest.

1. The belief that everything depends on you

You have been faithful, diligent, and present. But the world is not saved by your exhaustion. Leave behind the quiet lie that rest is a luxury or that stepping back is failure. God’s work continues even when you sleep.

2. Old griefs that you keep rehearsing

Not the grief itself, that deserves tenderness, but the habit of replaying what cannot be undone. What has been lost does not need to be carried as punishment. Leave behind the voice that says, “If I keep remembering, I can control the pain.”

3. The need to be endlessly strong

Strength that never bends becomes brittle. Leave behind the armor you no longer need. Vulnerability is not a weakness; it is a doorway for grace to enter more honestly.

4. Guilt over boundaries you had to set

Some seasons required you to say no, to protect your spirit, your family, or your integrity. Leave behind the guilt that whispers you should have given more when you had already given enough.

5. Versions of yourself that no longer fit

You are not who you were ten years ago, or even last year. Leave behind the pressure to perform an older identity just because others are comfortable with it. God is still shaping you.

6. Cynicism disguised as wisdom

You’ve seen enough to be cautious, but don’t let that harden into disbelief. Leave behind the temptation to expect disappointment as a form of self-protection. Hope is still an act of courage.

7. The urgency to have everything figured out

Leave behind the demand for clarity before obedience. Faith often moves forward with a lantern, not a floodlight. Enough light for the next step is enough.

So, as we move into 2026, I invite you to pause and release those things from the past year that weigh you down so you may step across the threshold of the new year lighter.

Let us pray:

Holy and faithful God, you have carried me through this year, through joy and weariness, through faithfulness and doubt. As I stand at this threshold, I ask for the courage to release what no longer gives life.

God of new beginnings, teach me to walk lightly into the coming year, not unburdened by love, but unburdened by fear. Give me enough light for the next step, enough strength for today, and enough grace to trust you. Amen.

Blog

In the Beginning Was Reconciliation

Posted on by Fr. Peter

Christmas Eve – John 1:1–4

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God… What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people.”

On Christmas Eve, we hear the familiar story that begins in Bethlehem, with angels and shepherds, with a child wrapped in cloth and laid in a manger. But the Gospel of John refuses to start there. John takes us further back. All the way back. Back before stables and stars. Back before creation itself.

“In the beginning was the Word.”

Before there was anything to fix, God was already speaking. Before there was anything broken, God was already present. Before there was division, estrangement, or fear, there was relationship, Word with God, Word as God.

This matters, especially on a night like this. Because Christmas is not God’s last-minute rescue plan. It is not God finally deciding to get involved with a world gone wrong. Christmas is the revelation of what God has always been doing: holding the world together in love and moving it toward wholeness.

John tells us that all things came into being through the Word. Not some things. Not just the good and beautiful parts. All things. Which means that the world God comes to reconcile is the same world God first called into being. The world God loves is not an abstraction. It is this world, fragile, wounded, divided, beautiful, aching for healing.

Reconciliation begins not with judgment, but with life.

“What has come into being in him was life.”

Before God confronts sin, God gives life. Before God addresses brokenness, God offers light. The light does not come to shame the darkness, but to dwell within it. That is the miracle of Christmas: God does not reconcile the world from a distance. God reconciles the world by entering it.

The Word becomes flesh. Eternal life takes on human breath. Divine light steps into human vulnerability.

And notice where John places reconciliation, not first in forgiveness, not first in the cross, but here, at the beginning, in the gift of life itself. God reconciles the world by refusing to abandon it. By insisting that what God has made is worth staying with. Worth redeeming. Worth loving all the way through.

That is good news for a weary world.

Because we come to this night carrying a lot. Some of us are joyful. Some of us are grieving. Some of us are relieved just to have made it here. We come from a world still torn by violence, inequality, and fear. We come from lives where relationships are strained, hopes are fragile, and peace feels elusive.

And into that world, into those lives, God does not send an explanation. God sends the Word. God sends life. God sends light.

The light of Christ does not erase the darkness all at once. John is honest about that. But the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it. Not because the darkness isn’t real, but because it is not ultimate.

Reconciliation is not instant harmony. It is God’s persistent commitment to restore what has been broken. It is God saying, again and again, “I am still here. I am not done with you. I am not done with this world.”

On Christmas Eve, reconciliation looks small and fragile, a child, a flickering candle, a promise spoken softly. But do not mistake its gentleness for weakness. This is the power that created the world. This is the life that holds all things together. This is the light that refuses to go out.

Tonight, we are invited not just to admire the light, but to trust it. To let it shine into our own broken places. To believe that God’s reconciling work includes us, and calls us to be part of it.

Because if the Word is still speaking, then reconciliation is still possible. In families. In communities. In a divided world. And even in us.

This is the gift of Christmas:

God with us.
Life among us.
Light for all people.

Thanks be to God.

Blog

Love that chooses to stay

Posted on by Fr. Peter

Isaiah 7:10–17 and Matthew 1:18–21

We have made it, well, almost. We have lit the fourth candle, the halls are decked, the meal has been prepared, the shopping is, hopefully, done, and Mary and Joseph are on their way to Bethlehem.

I do love this time of year, it is the most wonderful time of the year! I believe that Christmas is more important than Easter, and if you want to hear why, you will have to come to the 6pm service on Christmas Eve. Because we are not there yet.

In our fast-paced world, we want to skip over the boring parts and get right to the end of the story. I mean, we know how it is all going to end, right? We have heard the story thousands of times, and it always ends the same way. But if we skip over things, the things we don’t really like, we miss the really good stuff.

The Fourth Sunday of Advent brings us right to the edge of the story. Today, we name what has been quietly building all along: love. But Advent love is not sentimental. It is not soft-focus or safe. It’s not the idyllic scene we see on Hallmark cards. No, Advent love disrupts. Advent love risks. Advent love shows up in places where fear already has a strong grip.

Isaiah speaks into a moment of deep political anxiety. Judah is caught between empires. King Ahaz is afraid. Power feels fragile. The future is uncertain. God invites Ahaz to ask for a sign, some assurance that God is present, but Ahaz refuses. Not out of humility, but out of fear disguised as faith. So, God does what God does and gives the king a sign anyway. Not some roadside light display, not some cheery Christmas card picture we can hang on the wall, not some sanitized version of birth. Though the prophet God simply says, “A young woman is with child… and shall name him Immanuel.” God-with-us.

This is how love works in scripture. God does not wait for courage or clarity. God does not withdraw when leaders hedge their bets or hide behind religious language. God does not smite those God disagrees with. God does not send storms and other calamities to cause terror. God sends love, and God’s Love insists on presence.

Now, here is the part we sometimes miss. Immanuel is not a promise that everything will be fixed. It is not a promise that everything is going to be ok. It is a promise that God will not abandon people living under fear, violence, and unjust power.

That promise carries us directly into Matthew’s Gospel.

Joseph is facing his own crisis. The woman he loves is pregnant, and the story does not make sense. Think about it, I mean. Put yourself in Joseph’s place. I am a believer and all, but I think I would struggle a bit with the story he has just heard.

The law gives Joseph options, legal, public, devastating options. He has power. And Matthew tells us Joseph is righteous. But righteousness here is not rule-keeping. It is restraint. It is compassion. It is refusing to weaponize morality against someone more vulnerable than yourself.

Joseph plans to dismiss Mary quietly. Even before he understands what God is doing, he chooses mercy. Joseph wants to spare Mary and her family a lot of trouble, and his heart is hurting.

Then the angel speaks, and the same angel that came to Mary, the same angel that spoke to Zachariah, and the same one that will come to him later. This angel is busy. The angel comes to Joseph and simply says, “Do not be afraid.”

Those words appear so often in scripture because fear is not imaginary; it is real. Fear thrives when love threatens the status quo. Joseph is invited into a love that will cost him reputation, certainty, and safety. And before we rush past that moment, we need to linger with Mary.

Mary’s yes was not gentle or safe. I need you to keep in mind that, in our terms, Mary was a child. Tradition tells us she was a teenager, and on the young side of teenager. Some believe she was the ripe old age of 14 when this story took place.

Mary’s yes was spoken into a world where her body did not belong to her, where her future could and would be decided by others, where pregnancy outside of permission carried real consequences, shame, abandonment, violence, and even death. And Mary knew this.

When Mary said yes to God, she was not agreeing to a beautiful Christmas scene. She was risking her future. She was risking Joseph’s love before she ever knew whether he would stay. Her yes did not protect her; it exposed her.

Mary was not naïve. She was courageous. God did not remove the danger. God entered it. We try to dismiss the strength this young girl had with sappy songs that ask, “Mary did you know?” Patriarchy and revisionist history are fully displayed in that disgusting attempt to mansplain to Mary what was happening.

That is the kind of love Advent proclaims.

But let’s not forget about Joseph. History has all but forgotten about him. Joseph risked it all as well. He was a simple carpenter from a place no one had heard of, and he risked it all.

Joseph’s yes matters because it meets Mary’s risk with presence. He chooses relationship over reputation. Love over fear. And in that choice, Immanuel—God-with-us—takes flesh.

This is not ancient history. This kind of love is still risky.

Not long ago, I read a story about a high school teacher who found themselves in a similar moment of decision. A student came out as transgender, and almost immediately, the pressure began. Parents complained. Emails circulated about “neutrality” and “policy.” The system made it clear: staying silent would be safer.

But the teacher made a different choice. This teacher learned the student’s chosen name. They used the correct pronouns. They corrected classmates gently but consistently. They treated their student as a human being, not something to become a punchline or something we throw away and dismiss.

The actions of this teacher didn’t fix everything. In fact, it cost them. Complaints followed. Their reputation shifted. When asked why they didn’t just stay quiet, the teacher said, “Because love doesn’t mean pretending someone doesn’t exist.”

That is Advent love.

Like Joseph, the teacher could have protected themselves. They could have followed procedure, hidden behind the rules, and avoided risk. Instead, they chose presence over neutrality. Relationship over reputation.

Love is never neutral. Love takes sides. Love aligns itself with the vulnerable. Love shows up where systems of fear and shame are already at work.

Mary, Joseph, that teacher, all of them teach us the same truth: love does not guarantee safety. But love makes God visible.

As we light the candle of love today, we are reminded that love is not fragile. Love is brave. Love interrupts schedules, disrupts systems, and refuses to look away.

Immanuel—God-with-us—is not a slogan for a song, card, or t-shirt; it is a commitment. It is a commitment to stay. A commitment to risk compassion. A commitment to embody love in a world still shaped by fear.

This Advent, may we choose that kind of love. The kind that trusts God more than respectability. The kind that risks everything. The kind that stands where God stands.

Because that is how God comes into the world. And that is how God is still coming now. Thanks be to God.

Amen

Blog

Yes, Mary Did Know

Posted on by Fr. Peter

Luke 1:46–55

I appreciate all forms of music.  Well, that’s not really true. I appreciate most forms of music. What I appreciate most is the story that music tells through its lyrics and melody. Church music, even contemporary Church music, can help to shape one’s understanding of difficult theological topics and paint a picture through words and music.

However, for that music to paint that picture, the theology needs to be accurate. Just because the song has a nice tune and catchy lyrics does not make it theologically correct.  Just because your favorite artist sings a particular song does not mean that the theological position of the writer of the words is orthodox in their theological understanding.

Every Advent, a familiar song finds its way into our Churches, our playlists, and our psyche. “Mary, Did You Know?” is a tender, reverent song full of wonder and bad theology. And it attempts to minimize Mary’s role and her understanding not only of what she is being asked to do, but also of who Jesus is and will become. The lyrics ask questions that many of us have heard so often that it almost feels like part of the biblical story itself.

Mary, did you know your baby boy would one day walk on water?
Did you know he would save our sons and daughters?
Did you know he would calm the storm, give sight to the blind, and conquer the grave?

These certainly are interesting questions, but when we listen carefully to today’s Gospel and hear Mary’s response, the answer becomes clear.

Yes. Mary did know.

She may not have known every detail. She did not have a timeline, a theological treatise, or a clear roadmap of what lies ahead. But Mary knew something far deeper and far more dangerous than the song allows.

She knew this child would change the world. She knew her yes would change the world.

Luke tells us that Mary’s response to God’s astonishing invitation is not confusion, not silence, not even fear, but a song. And this song, the Magnificat, is not soft or sentimental. It is bold. It is defiant. It is revolutionary. Coming from the lips of a young woman who, in her day, was told to sit down and shut up.

“My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.”

This is the joy of the Third Sunday of Advent, not shallow happiness, but courageous joy. The kind of joy that speaks out loud about what God is doing, even when the world has not yet caught up.

Mary knows exactly what kind of God she is dealing with.

“He has brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted up the lowly.”

Mary did know.

She knew that empires tremble when God enters the world as a child. She knew that power does not get the final word. She knew that God’s justice does not favor the comfortable but reaches for the forgotten.

This is not the song of a naïve girl unaware of the consequences. This is the song of a woman who understands the cost of her yes and sings anyway.

Mary knew that her yes would put her at risk. She knew her reputation would be questioned. She did know that Rome would not welcome this child. She did know that power never surrenders quietly.

And still she sings.

The song asks, “Did you know your baby boy would give sight to the blind?”
Mary answers, “He has filled the hungry with good things.”

The song asks, “Did you know your baby boy would calm the storm?”
Mary answers, “He has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.”

The song asks, “Did you know your baby boy is Lord of all creation?”
Mary answers, “Holy is his name… from generation to generation.”

Mary’s joy is rooted not in ignorance, but in trust. She knows that God is faithful to promises made long before her, promises to Abraham, to Sarah, to a people who had waited centuries for liberation. She knows this child is the embodiment of God’s mercy breaking into history.

And this is where Advent speaks to us.

We often ask Mary’s question of ourselves:

Do we know what it means to welcome Jesus? Do we know what it costs to say yes to God’s future? Do we know that following Jesus is not simply comforting, but disruptive?

Because if Mary knew, and she did, then her song is not just her testimony. It is our calling.

Advent joy does not come from pretending everything is fine. It comes from trusting that God is at work even when the world feels upside down. It comes from believing that the lowly will be lifted, the hungry filled, the proud humbled, not someday in the abstract, but in the real world we inhabit.

Mary’s song reminds us that God does not enter the world quietly, leaving it unchanged. God enters boldly, vulnerably, and decisively, to reorder our priorities, challenge our systems, and call us to live differently.

Friends, this Third Sunday of Advent, as we light the candle of joy, let us retire the question and embrace the truth:

Mary did know.

She knew enough to sing. She knew enough to trust. She knew enough to risk everything on God’s promise.

And the deeper question becomes this:

Do we know? Do we know that joy is found not in safety, but in faithfulness? Do we know that God’s mercy still overturns unjust thrones? Do we know that saying yes to Christ still has consequences and still brings life?

May we, like Mary, know enough to sing God’s future into being.

May our souls magnify the Lord. May our spirits rejoice in God our Savior. And may our lives, like hers, proclaim that God is already at work, turning the world upside down with love.

Amen.

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