LET LOVE DISTURB: A WORD FOR 1/7/2026

In the season after Epiphany, the identity of Jesus “shines forth” from the selected readings; this identity that reveals to us our other way home. Our way home to a new life that we promise to live in our baptism—ceasing one way of being and committing to another. 

But truth be told, the interpretation of this other way of being—how to live out our Christian faith—varies. Not just denominationally, but there are versions going by the name of Christianity that are completely foreign to the Christianity of the ELCA and the Christianity of the Episcopal Church, and frankly, completely foreign to the Christ. 

In the reading from the Acts of the Apostles, I hear the tension that we feel in those two juxtaposed and oppositional versions of Christianity. At the start of the reading we hear “God shows no partiality.”  But then further on, we hear the writer say: “but God raised him [Jesus] on the third day and allowed him to appear, not to all the people but to us who were chosen by God as witnesses….”  Sounds a bit partial to me. At least at first glance or first hearing. But then, of course, we know that as committed followers of Jesus that whenever we want to understand conflicting or confusing scripture we must use the lens of Jesus’ ministry: his life, his actions, his words, and Jesus’ message to us via his death on the cross, in order to come to some understanding and clarity, to be able to interpret that line from the Acts of the Apostles. To know if God shows no partiality or if God is truly only for some people, not all people.

So, let’s do that. Let’s put on our Jesus Lens and see what we learn about the identity of Jesus in today’s Gospel.  From the digital ministry of St. Martin of the Fields Church in London and its rector, the Rev. Samuel Wells, I share this reflection of Jesus’ baptism to get us started: “At the very beginning of Jesus’ public life  –  before he teaches a single parable, before he heals anyone, before he challenges religious or political power  –  Jesus goes down into the water of the Jordan River. Matthew’s gospel is careful not to turn this into a spectacle. Jesus does not arrive as a figure apart, haloed and triumphant. He does not stride to the front. He queues. He waits. He steps into the same river as everyone else…..This is where Jesus chooses to begin  –  not above humanity, but fully within it.”

The story of Jesus’ baptism shows us that the identity of Christ is solidarity with humanity. All of humanity. And through the rest of his life: the miracles, the healings, the sermon on the mount — Jesus makes it clear that this solidarity is especially strong and leans toward those who are on the edges and margins of life: the poor, the outcast, the marginalized. As the reflection from St. Martin’s goes on to say: “A line of ordinary people carrying regret and hope, confusion and longing. And Jesus is there, in queue, with them. Jesus begins not by standing out, but by standing with. He chooses solidarity before significance.

To be a Christian is to be in solidarity with all of humanity — particularly those on the margins of life, like immigrants and refugees—those without safety and shelter.

But, Beloved, there are still some who profess to follow Christ, who wear the name Christian, who seem to think otherwise and who make outrageous claims in the name of Christ. These past few weeks have been so hard. These past months and this past year, truthfully. So much cruelty and violence with complete disregard for human life and for the life of this planet earth, our island home. An Episcopal priest, Ken Howard, recently posted a very telling and scary statement made by an evangelical Christian following the murder of Renee Macklin Good in Minneapolis. The woman Ken Howard quoted said: “She [meaning Renee Macklin Good] broke the law. She was shot and killed. Punishing evildoers – it’s the Christian way.”

Beloved, I need to make something clear: to stand in solidarity with those who commit cruel and violent acts upon humanity means that you have broken your solidarity with Christ. It means you are no longer following Christ. To stand in solidarity with the killing of Renee Macklin Good means that you no longer stand in solidarity with Christ. I cannot make that any clearer. For this is the Christ who said: Whatever you do to the least of these, you do also to me. Which also means we cannot stand in solidarity with cruelty and violence because it suits our wallet and investments or because it suits our comfort or because it suits our own prejudices. To do so is to abandon the Christ; it is to abandon our truest selves. 

We are living in an inflection point—a time when we must make a stand and be clear of what it means when we name ourselves as Christian. After Jesus was baptized, Matthew’s Gospel tells us the heavens were opened.  This doesn’t mean there was a split in the sky. This means that where God lives,  how God lives and moves and has God’s being, was opened, was revealed. By the yes of Baptism.  It’s not about God intervening from some far away place, but it is about God, who is Love,  refusing any distance between God and humanity all together. This is God’s identity; this God who chooses presence over separation, nearness over control, accompaniment over command. (heartedge.com)

 Our yes in baptism is simultaneously our no to cruelty and violence. And our no to standing with those who are committing cruelty and violence—no matter their office, their title, their power or status.

Jesus was born and baptized not to change how God sees us, but to change how we see and know God. To show us that there are no God-made or God-given obstacles between us and God, our life and God’s life. To follow the Christ isn’t something to be kept to Sundays; it is meant to infect, to influence and to translate every moment of every day, every breath, every word, every choice. Before Jesus accomplished anything on earth, before any miracle or healing or parable, Jesus was baptized and God said: this is my Beloved in whom I delight. Before any accomplishment. Because it isn’t because of what you accomplish or achieve that makes God love you. Or everyone else. God loves because that is who and what God is. And that is the mindset, the heart, the way of Living with which the Christ looks us in the eye and says: Come and follow. Come and do. Come and be. In solidarity with all of humanity, even if the cost is power, wealth, status or comfort. 

Because this God of ours has named you Beloved. Before you ever did anything. Your worth is not conditional. And neither is the worth of any immigrant, any refugee, any brown or black skinned sibling.  Neither is the worth of our trans and bi, gay and queer siblings.  God delights in them. God’s love for them and for us is not measured by what you accomplish or your certainty or your religious fervor. You belong to God and God belongs to you. This also means you belong to humanity and all humanity belongs to you. No. Matter. What. Radical, radical love. Baptism, after all, is really about being radicalized by Love. So that you can do no other. You are God’s Beloved. God delights in you. Marinate in that, be changed by that, and then go—-and live that truth with every fiber of your being. Just like we saw Renee Nicole Macklin Good do on Wednesday, January 7th; standing in solidarity with humanity against cruelty and violence.

Rev Mark Sandlin mashed up the Prayer of St. Francis with the Reverse St. Francis prayer and ended up with:

A Prayer for the Kind of Peace That Doesn’t Behave

Good and queering* God,

We were taught to pray for peace.

For calm.

For things to settle down.

And honestly,

sometimes that’s what we want too.

But Love keeps showing up

right where things are messy.

Right where nothing is settled.

Right where silence would be easier.

Love keeps reminding us

that peace isn’t the same thing as quiet.

And harmony isn’t faithful

if it only works for the people already comfortable.

So today,

we pray a little differently.

Where there is hatred,

don’t let us rush past it

with nice words or nervous smiles.

Help us stay.

Help us tell the truth.

Help us refuse to look away.

Let Love disturb us.

Where there is injury,

teach us how to tend wounds gently,

and also how to ask

why those wounds keep happening

over and over again.

Let Love disturb us.

Where there is despair,

give us hope that doesn’t flinch.

Hope that doesn’t disappear

when things get awkward or costly.

Hope that stays.

And where there is darkness,

give us light;

not the kind that makes everything feel better,

but the kind that shows us

what we’d rather not see.

Let Love disturb us.

Where we’ve grown numb,

shake us awake.

Where we’ve gone along to get along,

interrupt us.

Where tradition matters more to us

than actual human lives,

and we benefit from that,

even quietly,

don’t let us pretend we don’t notice.

Love keeps whispering,

and sometimes shouting,

that gentleness isn’t weakness,

that kindness isn’t passivity,

and that silence is not peace.

Because peace without justice

isn’t peace.

It’s just harm

with better manners.

Let Love disturb us.

Disturb our comfort.

Disturb the excuses we make

so we can sleep at night.

Disturb the ways we call convenience “faith.”

Mess with our calendars.

Mess with our money.

Mess with the tables where we decide

who gets a seat

and who doesn’t.

Let Love disturb us.

Help us want more

than being understood.

Help us want understanding.

Help us want more

than being liked.

Help us want to love

in ways that actually cost us something.

Not just talking about justice,

but practicing it.

With our bodies.

With our choices.

With our lives.

Move us closer

to those pushed to the edges.

Teach us how to love

without fixing,

without saving,

without standing at a safe distance.

Make us channels,

not just of peace,

but of disruption.

Let Love disturb us.

Until Love refuses to settle

for the world as it is.

Amen

.