Dove Sermons

Sermon based on Luke 15:1-10

There’s a song that some of you may know, one that gets played on Christian radio. It’s called Reckless Love. The chorus has a line that goes, “Oh, the overwhelming, never-ending, reckless love of God… He leaves the ninety-nine.”

I recently read a story about a church member who works in dental care. This church member told a story about a patient of theirs who asked him if he knew about “the tree with 99 leaves in the Bible.” The church member was confused — no tree like that exists in Scripture. It turned out the patient had misheard the song lyric. He thought the “leaves the ninety-nine” line was talking about a special tree. Once the church member realized what he meant, they laughed together and started talking about the parable of the lost sheep.

That little misunderstanding highlights something important: perspective. Depending on how you hear it, the same phrase can take on a completely different meaning.

And that’s really the issue at the heart of Luke 15: how do we hear these parables? What perspective are we listening from? The Pharisees and scribes hear Jesus eating with tax collectors and sinners, and they grumble. The so-called sinners hear Jesus eating with them, and they draw near, eager to listen. Same action, two radically different perspectives.

And so Jesus tells stories, not lectures, not rules, not theological announcements… but stories. Stories about being lost and being found. Stories about joy and parties. Stories that help us see God’s perspective.

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Luke sets the scene with a contrast: “Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, ‘This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.’”

This isn’t the first time Luke has shown us Jesus eating with unexpected company. Earlier in Luke’s gospel, Jesus dines at Levi’s house with tax collectors (Luke 5). He lets a “sinful woman” anoint his feet with tears at a Pharisee’s dinner party (Luke 7). He shares a meal with Zacchaeus, the tax collector, in Jericho (Luke 19). In each case, Pharisees criticize, not because Jesus healed on the wrong day or broke purity laws, but because of who he eats with.

In the ancient world, meals were not casual affairs. They were statements of identity, relationship, and honor. To eat with someone was to align yourself with them. Birds of a feather flock together. That’s why the Pharisees grumble. They assume Jesus’ table fellowship compromises his holiness.

But Jesus flips the script. The very people others reject, he embraces. And he doesn’t just embrace them; he throws a party with them.

So when the Pharisees mutter their critique, Jesus responds with parables. He doesn’t defend himself with an argument. He invites them, and us, into a new perspective.

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“Which one of you,” Jesus begins, “having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it?”

On the surface, it sounds obvious. Of course a good shepherd goes after the lost sheep. But if you slow down, the question is more complicated. What shepherd would risk leaving ninety-nine vulnerable sheep in the wilderness, with predators, cliffs, and thieves,  just to chase one wanderer? From a practical standpoint, it doesn’t make sense. You cut your losses. You protect the majority.

But Jesus isn’t telling us about “good business” or “safe strategy.” He’s telling us about God. A God who searches for the one even if it seems impractical, even if it looks foolish, even if it risks the ninety-nine.

And when that sheep is found? The shepherd doesn’t scold it. He doesn’t drag it back in anger. He puts it on his shoulders, rejoices, and calls his friends and neighbors to celebrate. The parable ends not with efficiency but with joy.

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The second parable makes the point even more vividly. A woman has ten silver coins and loses one. She lights a lamp, sweeps the house, searches carefully until she finds it. Again, the search takes effort. Maybe hours of turning over furniture and shaking out rugs. And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors to rejoice with her.

The coin itself can’t repent. It can’t walk home or say it’s sorry. The coin is passive. The whole action belongs to the woman. She lights, she sweeps, she searches, she finds, she calls. And the celebration seems extravagant. Does the cost of the party outweigh the value of the coin? Maybe. But again, the point isn’t economics. The point is joy.

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Both parables emphasize the same rhythm: something is lost, someone searches relentlessly, the thing is found, and there is rejoicing.

Notice what is missing: the lost sheep doesn’t repent. The lost coin doesn’t change its ways. Repentance, in these parables, isn’t about guilt trips or moral clean-up. It’s about being found. It’s about turning toward the joy of being restored.

The Greek word for repentance, metanoia, literally means a change of mind, a change of perspective. When God finds us, our perception of the world shifts. We see differently. We live differently. But the initiative starts with God, the seeker.

That’s what Luke wants us to see: God is a relentless seeker. God is the shepherd who won’t quit, the woman who won’t give up. God’s orientation is toward finding, restoring, rejoicing.

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Now here’s where the parables have their hook. Would a shepherd really throw a party over a sheep? Would a woman really call her neighbors to celebrate a coin? It seems excessive.

But that excess is the point. God’s joy over one sinner found is extravagant. It looks reckless, even wasteful. It looks like throwing a party that costs more than the sheep or the coin is worth.

And isn’t that how grace often feels? Reckless. Wasteful. Lavish.

In heaven, Jesus says, “there will be more joy over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.” Not because God doesn’t love the ninety-nine, but because God refuses to let the one go.

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Here’s the question that unsettles us: who is the “lost one”?

We often identify with the sheep, the coin, the sinner. That’s the perspective in the song I mentioned,  Reckless Love. And it can be deeply comforting to know that God comes searching for us when we wander.

But Jesus originally told these parables to the Pharisees, to the religious leaders. He starts with, “Which one of you…?” He places them in the role of the shepherd. And that’s uncomfortable. Because if they are the shepherds, then they’ve failed to go searching. They’ve stayed with the ninety-nine while God’s mission is with the one.

So the parable cuts two ways: it comforts the lost and it challenges the leaders.

And if we’re honest, most of us in church today are not the lost ones on the margins. We’re the ninety-nine. We’re the ones already in the fold. Which raises a difficult question: are we okay with God’s focus on the one who’s missing? Do we celebrate when someone returns, or do we grumble that attention was spent elsewhere?

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That question lands especially hard in today’s churches. Many congregations have worked tirelessly through years of pandemic, upheaval, and change. The faithful core kept the lights on, paid the bills, ran the ministries. And sometimes it feels exhausting.

When leaders hear, “Go chase the lost,” it can sound like one more burden. Meanwhile, the ninety-nine who stayed might feel overlooked, even resentful. Why should all the energy go toward those who drifted away?

But remember: the parables don’t say the burden is ours alone. God is the seeker. Our role is to rejoice. Our work is to prepare a community ready to celebrate when the lost return. To make sure there’s space at the table, not to shoulder the whole search ourselves.

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Another tension is the question of worthiness. The Pharisees grumble because they see tax collectors and sinners as unworthy. Tax collectors were collaborators with Rome, profiting off their neighbors’ suffering. Sinners were people who lived outside God’s ways.

But Jesus reframes the issue. Worthiness isn’t the question. God seeks because each person bears the imprint of the Creator. To lose one sinner is to lose part of God’s image in the world. To find that person is to restore God’s own reflection.

That’s why the joy is so great. Because what was lost was not just a sheep or a coin. It was an image-bearer of God.

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We should pause on that word repentance. In English it often sounds like remorse, guilt, beating yourself up. But in the Greek, metanoia is about transformation. It’s about a new way of seeing and living.

When the shepherd finds the sheep, when the woman finds the coin, the transformation isn’t in the object but in the celebration. Repentance is not about proving our worth. It’s about stepping into the joy of being found.

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And notice how these parables end: with meals. The shepherd calls his friends. The woman calls her neighbors. Rejoicing in the ancient world meant eating together.

Which brings us back to the Pharisees’ complaint: “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.” Jesus’ meals with sinners weren’t just social events. They were enactments of God’s kingdom. They were glimpses of the heavenly feast where the lost are restored and the rejected are welcomed.

That’s why Luke ties so many stories of redemption to meals — Levi’s banquet, Zacchaeus’ dinner, the sinful woman’s anointing, even the Last Supper. To eat with sinners is to take sides with them. It’s to embody God’s radical welcome.

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And so we face the question: who are the “sinners” in our world, the people our society labels as unworthy, the ones scapegoated in public debates?

In Jesus’ time, it was tax collectors and prostitutes. In our time, it may be immigrants, or people struggling with addiction, or those living on the streets. It may be people our culture dismisses as failures, or those shamed for their past mistakes.

To welcome them, to eat with them, is risky. It blurs boundaries. It makes the respectable grumble. But it also makes heaven rejoice.

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So what do these parables call us to today?

1. To trust that God is the seeker. The burden of finding the lost doesn’t rest on us. God is at work. Our call is to be ready to rejoice.
2. To embrace God’s perspective. Instead of clinging to the safety of the ninety-nine, we are invited to celebrate the one. Instead of resenting the attention given to others, we’re called to join the party.
3. To set the table. Hospitality is the mark of God’s kingdom. It’s not enough to say we welcome people. We need to make room, share meals, build relationships.
4. To name today’s “sinners.” Not in a spirit of condemnation, but in honesty about who our society excludes. And then to take sides with them, as Jesus did.

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Several years ago, a certain church discovered that a group of unhoused people were sleeping in their parking lot at night. The church leaders debated what to do. Some worried about liability, safety, image. Others felt compassion. Finally, they decided to open the fellowship hall at night so people could sleep inside.

It wasn’t easy. It caused tension in the congregation. But one night, one of the men staying there told the pastor, “I’ve been lost for years. But here, I feel found again.”

That’s the parable lived out. Not efficient. Not safe. Maybe even reckless. But full of joy.

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Jesus’ parables of the lost sheep and lost coin are not about logic or efficiency. They are about God’s relentless search and God’s extravagant joy.

The Pharisees grumbled. The sinners rejoiced. And the question for us is: which side are we on?

Do we stand with the grumblers, worried about worthiness and fairness? Or do we join the celebration, rejoicing that what was lost is found?

The invitation of Luke 15 is clear: come to the party. Rejoice with heaven. Celebrate the reckless, overwhelming love of God.

Because in the end, nothing — not one sheep, not one coin, not one person — is insignificant to God.

And that is good news worth celebrating.

Sermon by: Rev. Dave Wasson

Sermon based on Luke 14:25-33

There’s a moment I remember from a few years ago when I was on a long road trip. I was driving from Phoenix to Fort Worth, and after passing a small gas station on the I-40, a road sign came into view: Next services, 52 miles. I see a sign like that and immediately check the gas gauge, the water bottles, the snacks. I think about whether I’m prepared for the stretch ahead.

I think that’s what Jesus is doing here in Luke 14. He’s essentially saying to the crowds, Check your tank. Look at your supplies. Count the cost before you follow me down this road.

The context matters. Just before this story, Jesus was inside a Pharisee’s home at a dinner party. He taught about humility, about taking the low seat, about inviting the poor and the forgotten to the feast. Then he steps outside, back on the road to Jerusalem, and suddenly there are large crowds following him. It’s easy to imagine the energy of it all—the buzz of people amazed by his healings, astonished at his words, curious about what he might do next. The crowd is big. They’re excited. They’re caught up in the movement.

And that’s when Jesus says something so startling, it must have brought the whole parade to a grinding halt: “Whoever comes to me and doesn’t hate father and mother, spouse and children, and brothers and sisters—yes, even one’s own life—cannot be my disciple. Whoever doesn’t carry their own cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.”

Talk about a mood shift.

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The word “hate” in our ears is jarring. It feels incompatible with Jesus, who elsewhere tells us to love our enemies, bless those who curse us, do good to those who hate us. Hate doesn’t sound like a fruit of the Spirit. So what’s going on?

This is hyperbole—an exaggeration meant to shake us awake. Luke often gives us the harder edge of Jesus’ sayings, while Matthew smooths them out. Where Matthew writes, “Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me,” Luke gives us the stark “hate.” But the point is the same: allegiance to Jesus comes before all other allegiances.

In Hebrew thought, “hate” could mean something like “to love less” or “to prefer less.” In Genesis 29, Leah is said to be “hated” because Jacob loved Rachel more. In Deuteronomy, the wife who is “hated” is simply less favored. Jesus is saying that even the most sacred ties of family and self-preservation must not outrank our commitment to him.

And that makes sense in the larger story of Luke. Jesus has already said, “My mother and brothers are those who hear the word of God and do it” (Luke 8:21). He has already warned that his message will divide households (Luke 12:51–53). Following him creates a new household, a new family, where allegiance to God’s reign reorders every other loyalty.

But that doesn’t make the saying any easier to swallow.

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To drive it home, Jesus tells two quick parables. One about a man building a tower. One about a king heading into battle. Both involve pausing to calculate before you act. Nobody wants to end up with a half-finished tower and everyone laughing at you. Nobody wants to lead soldiers into a slaughter because they didn’t do the math.

And then Jesus brings it back around to discipleship: “In the same way, none of you who are unwilling to give up all of your possessions can be my disciple.”

This is not a sales pitch. Jesus is not lowering the bar to get as many sign-ups as possible. He’s raising it, almost daring people to walk away. This is not a movement of easy, cheap, feel-good spirituality. It’s not an add-on hobby for your spare time. It’s costly. It’s ultimate.

Theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer famously called this the difference between “cheap grace” and “costly grace.” Cheap grace is forgiveness without discipleship, baptism without discipline, communion without confession. Costly grace calls you to leave nets on the shore, walk into an unknown future, and carry a cross.

And Jesus is clear: if you want to come along, you need to know what you’re signing up for.

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We have to remember: Jesus is on the way to Jerusalem. Back in chapter 9, Luke told us he had “set his face” toward that city. And we know what waits there—betrayal, arrest, crucifixion. When he talks about carrying the cross, he’s not speaking metaphorically. For anyone listening in that crowd, the cross wasn’t a symbol for personal inconvenience. It was a Roman instrument of state-sponsored terror. It was execution on public display.

So when Jesus says, “Take up your cross and follow me,” he’s describing the literal path he is on. The road behind him leads not to power or safety, but to Golgotha.

No wonder he presses the crowd to count the cost. No wonder he wants them to think twice before they keep walking.

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Let’s pause for a moment on the three big demands Jesus names:

1. Family. In the first-century world, family wasn’t just about affection. It was survival. Your family was your social safety net, your labor force, your status. To say “hate father and mother, wife and children” meant loosening your grip on the very structures that kept you secure.
2. Life itself. Jesus says we must hate even our own lives. Again, hyperbole, but the meaning is real: you have to be willing to lose your life for Jesus’ sake. If survival is your highest goal, you won’t follow Jesus very far.
3. Possessions. Finally, Jesus says you can’t be his disciple unless you give up all your possessions. Not just money, but all the things we cling to for stability and control.

Together, these three—family, life, possessions—represent the pillars of security in that world. And Jesus is saying, I want your trust more than those things. I want your allegiance before all of it.

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There’s a temptation in preaching to soften this. To say, “Well, Jesus didn’t really mean hate. He just meant love less.” Or, “Giving up possessions doesn’t mean all possessions, just don’t be greedy.” But if we soften too much, we miss the offense of the gospel.

The crowd that day may have been swept up in excitement. They had seen healings, exorcisms, miracles. Maybe they thought following Jesus would bring blessing, healing, freedom. And it does—but not without the cross.

What offends us today might not be the same as what offended them then. For us, maybe it’s the challenge to our consumer culture, where faith is too often marketed as another product on the shelf—low risk, low cost, high reward. Jesus won’t let us treat discipleship like that. He insists it will cost us something.

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So, what does it cost us?

For some, discipleship might mean literal estrangement from family. I’ve sat with people who were rejected by their families because they chose to follow Jesus in ways their parents couldn’t accept.

For others, it may mean giving up status, wealth, or comfort. It might mean refusing to participate in systems that exploit others, even if it costs us financially.

For still others, it may mean taking up a cross of vulnerability, walking into places where our safety and privilege no longer protect us.

And for all of us, it means reorienting our loves. It means saying Jesus is first, not just when it’s easy, but when it’s costly.

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One detail unique to Luke is that when Jesus first talked about the cross back in chapter 9, he added one little phrase: “Take up your cross daily.” That word—daily—changes everything. It’s not about a single heroic sacrifice. It’s about daily faithfulness, daily surrender, daily courage.

It’s the parent who chooses patience and presence every day, even when exhausted.
It’s the worker who resists cutting corners or cheating others, even when no one would notice.
It’s the student who refuses to bully or exclude others, even if it costs popularity.
It’s the believer who keeps showing up to worship, to prayer, to service, even when enthusiasm has faded.

The cross is daily. The cost is daily.

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History gives us inspiring examples. Simon of Cyrene, pressed into carrying Jesus’ cross, models what it looks like—literally—to take up the cross and follow. The martyrs of the early church, who faced lions and fire rather than renounce Christ. Saints like Francis of Assisi, who gave up wealth to live among the poor. Modern figures like Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who opposed the Nazi regime and paid with his life. Or Martin Luther King Jr., who bore the cross of public scorn, jail, and ultimately assassination for the sake of justice.

But costly discipleship isn’t just for the famous. It’s lived quietly by countless believers who choose faithfulness over convenience, generosity over greed, forgiveness over revenge.

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Here’s the paradox. Jesus doesn’t lower the bar to make discipleship easy. He raises it. He says, This will cost you everything. But he also promises that what we gain is infinitely more.

Because on the other side of Jerusalem is not only the cross. It’s resurrection. It’s new life. It’s the Spirit poured out. Discipleship is costly, yes. But it is also gift. It is life abundant.

Luke doesn’t let us forget that the kingdom is good news for the poor, release for the captives, sight for the blind, freedom for the oppressed. That’s the vision. That’s the gift. And that’s why people in the crowd kept following—even after Jesus warned them. Something about him was worth more than family, life, possessions. Something about him was worth it all.

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So what does this mean for us, here, now?

It means discipleship is not an extracurricular activity. It’s not a side project. It’s not just another thing we add to our already full lives. It is life itself. It’s ultimate.

It means we need to ask: What are we clinging to? What allegiances compete with our allegiance to Jesus? Where do we need to loosen our grip?

It means we need to count the cost—but also trust the gift.

Because the one who calls us to carry the cross is also the one who carried it first. He doesn’t ask us to go anywhere he hasn’t already gone. He doesn’t ask us to give up anything he hasn’t already surrendered. And he promises that in losing our lives for his sake, we will find them.

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When I think back to that highway road sign—Next services, 52 miles—I realize Jesus’ words function the same way. They are not meant to scare us off, but to prepare us. To remind us this journey is serious. To help us check our tank, fill our bottles, and commit to the road ahead.

Jesus doesn’t want half-finished towers or disciples who turn back at the first sign of trouble. He wants followers who know the cost and walk with him anyway.

So maybe the question for us today is simple:
What do we need to lay down, what do we need to surrender, what do we need to let go of, so that we can walk with him all the way to Jerusalem?

Amen.

By: Rev. Dave Wasson

Sermon based on Luke 13:10-17

She had gotten used to looking at people out of the corner of her eye. After eighteen years, she could hardly remember any other way of seeing the world. Her spine bent, her back locked, she lived in a posture that forced her down toward the ground. Imagine what that does to someone’s spirit. Always looking at people’s feet. Only catching glimpses of faces when they leaned into her field of vision.

Maybe she had learned to measure kindness by the shoes she saw in front of her. Sturdy sandals worn thin by labor. The embroidered slippers of the well-off. Dusty feet of children darting by. She never saw the expressions people made when they looked at her. She just had to guess.

Luke tells us she had been this way for eighteen years. Long enough for her condition to become part of her identity. Long enough for people in town to say, “Oh, you know her, the “bent-over” woman.” That’s how life works sometimes. A wound, an illness, a season of grief, a reputation, and it becomes the whole way people recognize you.

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On this Sabbath day, she enters the synagogue like she always does. She shows up faithfully. She’s not hiding. She still comes to worship, still takes her place in the assembly. Luke makes a point to note that she was there. And Jesus notices her.

That’s the first miracle. Before any healing, before a word is spoken, Jesus sees her. Out of the crowd, out of all the faces, he notices the one who has been overlooked for almost two decades.

And here’s something remarkable: Jesus doesn’t wait for her to approach him. She doesn’t plead, doesn’t even ask. Jesus calls her forward. He interrupts his own teaching to draw her out of the shadows.

There’s something profoundly liberating just in that moment. When someone finally sees you, not for your condition or your label, but as a daughter of Abraham. A person with dignity. A beloved child of God.

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Then comes the word. Not a dramatic ritual. Not some theatrical display. Just a word:

“Woman, you are set free from your sickness.”

And that’s it. Jesus lays his hands on her, and immediately she stands up straight.

Luke doesn’t linger on the mechanics of the healing. This miracle isn’t about spectacle. It’s about freedom. Luke even phrases it in the divine passive: “She was straightened up.” God is the agent here. The power isn’t in Jesus putting on a show; it’s in God’s mercy breaking through in this ordinary synagogue on an ordinary Sabbath.

And when she stands tall for the first time in eighteen years, her first instinct is praise. She doesn’t make it about herself. She doesn’t launch into a testimony about her faith. She praises God. That’s what liberation looks like: the weight lifted, the spine uncurved, the vision cleared,  and suddenly, praise bursts out.

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But not everyone is clapping.

The synagogue leader sees what’s happened and goes straight into rule-keeping mode. He doesn’t even address Jesus directly; he lectures the crowd. “There are six days during which work is permitted. Come and be healed on those days, not on the Sabbath day.”

This man isn’t cruel. He’s not a cartoon villain. He’s a synagogue leader trying to preserve the sanctity of the Sabbath. His reasoning has roots in the Torah. Work is forbidden on the seventh day. Healing, to him, counts as work. And so his complaint isn’t out of malice but out of devotion to the law.

And let’s be honest, we understand this instinct. Rules help us know who we are. Traditions help us hold life together. When someone challenges those traditions, it can feel threatening, even if what’s happening is good.

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But Jesus answers the synagogue leader with a piercing logic: “Hypocrites! Don’t each of you on the Sabbath untie your ox or donkey from its stall and lead it out to get a drink? Then isn’t it necessary that this woman, a daughter of Abraham, bound by Satan for eighteen long years, be set free from her bondage on the Sabbath day?”

Notice what he’s doing. He’s not abolishing the Sabbath. He’s not saying the synagogue leader is wrong to honor it. He’s re-centering its purpose. Sabbath, after all, is about freedom. In the Old Testament Deuteronomy 5 roots Sabbath in the liberation from Egypt: “Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the Lord your God brought you out … therefore the Lord your God commanded you to keep the sabbath day.”

The Sabbath command isn’t just “don’t work.” It’s “remember that God set you free.”

So when Jesus heals this woman on the Sabbath, he’s not breaking it. He’s fulfilling it. What better day to release someone from bondage than the very day that celebrates God’s deliverance?

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And then comes that beautiful phrase, one we don’t hear anywhere else in Scripture: “Daughter of Abraham.”

In a world where lineage mattered, where being a son of Abraham was a mark of covenant identity, Jesus lifts this woman into that same lineage. He names her as fully part of God’s family, not defined by her affliction, not sidelined by her condition.

Think about what that did for her. For eighteen years, she had been identified by her ailment. Now Jesus identifies her by her belonging. She is a daughter of Abraham. That’s who she really is.

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Luke places this story right before two tiny parables: the mustard seed and the yeast. Something small, overlooked, insignificant, that’s what the kingdom of God is like.

Isn’t that exactly what happens here? A woman bent over, invisible, considered insignificant. And in her healing, the kingdom of God breaks in. Something small turns into rejoicing for the whole community.

The crowd, Luke says, was delighted at all the wonderful things Jesus was doing. The community sees her now, not as “the bent-over woman” but as a fellow worshiper praising God. Her restoration is their restoration too.

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But let’s not sanitize the conflict. This story is not only about a personal healing. It’s about what happens when God’s liberating work collides with our settled traditions.

The synagogue leader wasn’t trying to be cruel. He was trying to be faithful. Yet in his zeal to protect the law, he missed the heart of the law. How often do we do the same?

How often do churches cling to traditions that keep people out rather than bring people in? How often do we use our rules as shields to protect us from God’s disruptive grace?

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One of the most striking parts of the story is the word Jesus uses: edei, which can mean “ought to, or isn’t it necessary”

“isn’t it necessary that this woman, a daughter of Abraham, bound by Satan for eighteen long years, be set free from her bondage on the Sabbath day?”

Not tomorrow. Not after the appropriate waiting period. Not when the timing feels less controversial. Now.

When God’s liberating power is at hand, there is no waiting for a more convenient day. Grace doesn’t run on our schedule. Healing can’t be postponed to protect propriety.

We live in a world that tells us to wait. Wait until the budget is stable. Wait until the right leader is in place. Wait until the community is ready. But Jesus won’t wait. When the kingdom breaks in, it demands urgency. It demands now.

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This raises the question Luke wants us to wrestle with: What kind of community do we want to be?

Do we want to be the kind of community that protects rules at the expense of people? Or the kind of community that risks disruption for the sake of liberation?

Because every community has its “bent-over daughters of Abraham.” People carrying burdens for years. People who’ve grown accustomed to being overlooked. People waiting for someone to notice them.

And the question is whether we will create a space where Jesus’ liberating word can be spoken to them.

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Think about how this plays out in our time.

• A young adult who grew up in church but carries deep religious trauma, wondering if they’ll ever belong again.
• A veteran with PTSD who walks into worship carrying invisible chains.
• A single parent stretched thin, bent under the weight of responsibilities.
• A teenager wrestling with their identity, hearing mixed messages about whether they are fully loved.

What happens when they come through our doors? Do they find a community bound by rules? Or do they hear Jesus’ voice saying, “Come here. You are set free.”

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One of the quiet miracles in this story is vision. For eighteen years, the woman’s gaze was fixed on the ground. She couldn’t look people in the eye. And the community couldn’t see her fully either.

But when Jesus straightens her, vision is restored, hers and theirs. She sees them face-to-face. They see her as more than her condition.

That’s what liberation does: it restores our vision. We start seeing people we’d ignored. We start noticing mustard seeds that can grow into shelter. We start recognizing the yeast that can transform the whole loaf.

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Of course, not everyone rejoices. Luke tells us the crowd was delighted, but the opponents were put to shame. Whenever liberation happens, there’s always resistance. Systems don’t like to be disrupted. Leaders don’t like to be shamed. Traditions don’t like to be unsettled.

This story isn’t neat and tidy. The woman is healed, yes. But Jesus has also created tension, drawn lines, exposed fault lines in the community. That’s what happens when the kingdom breaks in. It doesn’t just make individuals whole. It shakes up the whole system.

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And let’s not forget the woman herself. After eighteen years of silence, of invisibility, she gets the last word. She praises God.

Luke doesn’t record her exact words. Maybe she shouted. Maybe she sang. Maybe she whispered through tears. Whatever it sounded like, her voice joins the chorus of Mary, Zechariah, Simeon, and all the others in Luke who erupt in praise when God’s mercy breaks in.

Her praise reverberates with the crowd’s rejoicing. That’s the sound of liberation.

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So what does this mean for us?

It means we’re invited to stop waiting for a more convenient time to bring healing. It means we’re called to see the ones who’ve been bent low and name them as daughters and sons of Abraham. It means we’re challenged to let our traditions serve liberation rather than hinder it.

Most of all, it means we’re invited to praise. To stand tall in the mercy of God and rejoice at the life-changing things Jesus is still doing.

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The woman came into the synagogue looking at the ground. She left looking at God’s people face-to-face. She came bent low. She walked away standing tall. She came anonymous. She left named as a daughter of Abraham.

That’s what happens when Jesus shows up. That’s what happens when the kingdom of God breaks in.

The question for us is simple: What kind of community will we be?

Will we cling to rules that keep people bent low? Or will we join the bent-over woman in standing tall, praising God, and rejoicing at the wonderful things he is still doing?

By: Rev. Dave Wasson

Sermon based on Luke 12:49-56

There’s a moment in some conversations when someone says the thing no one wants to say.

It’s the awkward truth that hangs in the air like smoke after a candle is blown out.
And everyone knows, you can’t unhear it.

That’s what today’s passage feels like.

Jesus says:
“I came to cast fire upon the earth. How I wish that it was already ablaze!  … Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, I have come instead to bring division.”

This is not the kind of verse we frame in cursive embroidery or put on a coffee mug.
It’s not the sweet lullaby Jesus we sing about at Christmas.
It’s the Jesus who leans across the table, looks you in the eye, and says something you can’t shake.

And I’ll be honest… part of me wants to flip the page.
I want to find something safer. Gentler. Something about lilies of the field and birds of the air.

But Luke doesn’t give us that option here. And maybe that’s the point.

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The first word that hits us is “fire.”

For many of us, fire feels like danger. Destruction. We think of forest fires, of homes lost, of landscapes turned to ash.

And yet in Scripture, fire is never just one thing.

It’s the pillar that leads Israel through the wilderness.
It’s the burning bush that refuses to be consumed.
It’s the flame on the heads of the disciples at Pentecost.

Yes, fire can destroy… but it also refines, purifies, transforms.

John the Baptist had already said this about Jesus in Luke 3:16: “He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire.”

And it’s not a fire of punishment for punishment’s sake, but a fire that burns away what cannot stay. A fire that clears the ground so new life can grow.

We forget that in certain ecosystems, fire is essential.
Some seeds will never open unless heat cracks them first.
The flames prepare the soil for something new.

That’s the kind of fire Jesus longs to kindle.
Not a fire to scorch the earth in rage, but to burn away what keeps God’s kingdom from flourishing.

Oppression. Greed. Idolatry. Exploitation.
The illusions we build for our own comfort that keep others in chains.

When Jesus says, “how I wish it were already ablaze,” it’s the longing of someone who sees the suffering of the world and is desperate for the healing to begin.

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That’s why this fire, as fierce as it sounds, is actually good news, at least if you hear it from the underside of history.

Mary’s song in Luke 1 has already told us the shape of God’s reign:
“He has brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty.”

That’s not polite poetry. That’s a revolution.

Zechariah’s prophecy in Luke 1:79 promised that God’s salvation would “guide our feet into the way of peace”, but that peace wasn’t the quiet of an unjust status quo.
It was the deep, risky peace that comes when wrongs are set right.

So when Jesus talks about fire, he’s talking about that same kingdom Mary and Zechariah foresaw, a kingdom that can’t coexist with injustice, and therefore, a kingdom that will inevitably be disruptive.

If you’re comfortable in the world as it is, that fire will feel threatening.
If you’re crushed by the way things are, that fire is hope.

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And then Jesus talks about his baptism.

This isn’t the baptism in the Jordan with a dove and a voice descending from heaven.
This is the baptism still to come, the cross.

He calls it a baptism because it will immerse him completely.
Not in water, but in rejection, suffering, death.

And Luke lets us hear the strain in his voice:
“How I am distressed until it’s completed!”

The Greek translation of Jesus’ words here paints a picture of being pressed in on from all sides.
Hemmed in. Surrounded.

We don’t often think about Jesus feeling that way, but here he’s showing us the weight of what’s ahead. He knows what it will cost him. And still, he moves toward it.

And in this baptism, he’s not just doing something for us, he’s showing us the shape of the life we’re baptized into.

Our baptism is joy, yes, but not because it promises an easy life. It’s joy because we’ve been claimed by God in a way that even pain and death cannot undo.

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Then comes the part that makes us squirm: “I came not to bring peace, but division.”

How do we reconcile this with the angel’s song at Christmas, “Peace on earth, goodwill to all”?

Here’s the thing: The opposite of peace in this passage isn’t war, it’s division.
And that division isn’t about petty arguments or Facebook comment threads.

It’s the division that happens when someone’s allegiance shifts to God’s kingdom, and others around them are still loyal to the kingdoms of this world.

In the first-century world of Luke’s audience, following Jesus could literally divide families.
It could mean rejection from your synagogue. It could mean losing your safety under the Roman peace, the Pax Romana, because you now followed someone Rome had crucified.

That’s not just theoretical. That’s real loss.

Luke’s readers knew this from experience.
Some had been cut off from family. Others from their livelihoods.

And while we may not face that same cost in the modern Western church, many of us know what it feels like to have our faith put us at odds with people we love.

Maybe your convictions about justice, mercy, or truth don’t align with your family’s expectations. Maybe your understanding of the gospel makes you feel like a stranger in your own community.

The division Jesus speaks of isn’t the goal, but it’s often the consequence of living in alignment with God’s kingdom.

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Here’s the uncomfortable truth:
Sometimes what we call “peace” is just avoidance.

It’s the so called “peace” of never bringing up that one subject at the family table.
The “peace” of looking the other way when a coworker is treated unfairly.
The “peace” of churches deciding that unity is more important than confronting abuse or injustice.

Jesus refuses that kind of peace. The peace he offers comes through truth, not the denial of it.

And truth, when it challenges entrenched power or cherished illusions, often divides.

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Then Jesus turns to the crowd and says:
“You know how to interpret conditions on earth and in the sky. How is it that you don’t know how to interpret the present time?”

It’s a jab at our selective vision.
We can see clouds and predict rain.
We can feel a warm wind and know the heat is coming.

But when it comes to recognizing the signs of God’s kingdom breaking in, we miss it.

Why?

Because it’s not what we expect.
Because we’ve grown comfortable in the systems that God’s kingdom will upend.
Because we prefer peace-as-complacency to peace-as-transformation.

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That’s the uncomfortable part of this text. It forces us to ask: What am I pretending not to see?

What injustices do I look past because they don’t touch me?
Where do I cling to unity when what’s needed is truth-telling?
Or where do I cut people off when what’s needed is the hard work of reconciliation?

Because division, like fire, is not inherently good or bad.
It depends on its source.

Division that comes from pride, ego, or control is toxic.
Division that comes from God’s refining fire, the kind that calls us deeper into justice, mercy, humility, is life-giving, even if it hurts.

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I can’t help but notice Jesus’ honesty about his own stress here.
And I wonder if some of us need permission to name our own.

We live in a world that often feels like it’s on fire, politically, socially, environmentally.
And in that kind of heat, stress can make us impatient. Reactive. Even apocalyptic in our own way, wishing destruction on the people we see as the cause of our pain.

But Jesus’ fire is different.
It’s not fueled by resentment.
It’s fueled by love so fierce it refuses to let injustice stand.

And his baptism, the suffering he will endure, is not to protect his own comfort, but to stand in solidarity with a hurting world.

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Luke shaped his telling of Jesus’ story with the needs of his community in mind.
We, too, have to take this passage and ask: What does it mean for us, here, now?

What signs in our “present time” reveal the need for God’s refining fire?

• The way wealth shields some from consequences while others pay the full cost.
• The fear that keeps us from acting on behalf of the vulnerable.
• The subtle and not-so-subtle hierarchies we cling to in our communities and churches.

If those are the clouds on the horizon, we know what kind of storm is coming.

Maybe that’s why Jesus’ words are so urgent.
Because we don’t have forever to get ready.
The time to turn toward God’s kingdom is now.

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The poet Mary Oliver wrote, “Be ignited, or be gone.”
It’s blunt, and it could have been a line in today’s gospel.

Jesus is not offering us a cozy hearth fire to keep our personal lives warm.
He’s offering us a wildfire that will burn away what doesn’t belong in God’s kingdom.

And here’s the risk:
We can resist that fire.
We can try to control it, contain it, keep it safe.

But when we do, we lose the very life it’s meant to bring.

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The good news is that Jesus has already walked this road.
He’s already undergone his baptism.
He’s already faced the fire.

And he leads us not with a sword in hand, but with scars on his body.
Not by avoiding division at all costs, but by loving people enough to tell the truth.

So we follow him, not because it’s easy, not because it will keep everyone happy, but because his way leads to life.

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So here’s where we end this reflection, with the question Jesus might ask if he were standing here:

You know how to interpret the weather.
But do you know how to interpret your life right now?

What is God trying to burn away?
What is God trying to make new?

And will you let the match be struck?

Amen.

By: Rev. Dave Wasson

Sermon based on Luke 12:32-40

Do not be afraid, little flock…

That’s how Jesus introduces this new teaching, with a word of encouragement.

Do not be afraid.

And maybe you’ve heard a phrase like that so often that it no longer registers. Maybe it feels like a spiritual slogan, more “Hang in there” than holy ground. But in this passage, Jesus isn’t offering comfort as an afterthought. He’s starting there because everything that follows depends on us hearing those words: Do not be afraid.

Because what comes next is not light fare.

Jesus tells his audience to sell their possessions.
Give their stuff away.
Stay ready.
They are told to keep their lamps lit.
Be alert like servants waiting up for their master—or like a homeowner watching for a thief.

A thief!

What a curveball. Jesus goes from “Fear not, little flock,” to “I’m coming like a thief in the night.” Just when you think you’ve pinned him down as gentle shepherd, he reappears as divine burglar. Slipping through metaphors, shapeshifting from one identity to another—Master, Servant, Shepherd, Thief.

The question is not just “Who is Jesus here?”
It’s also “Who are we?”

Are we sheep? Servants? Householders? Treasure-hoarders? Accomplices in a holy heist?

I think the answer to all those questions is yes.

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Let’s start at the beginning, because the beginning is a blessing.

“Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”

Not sell you the kingdom.
Not rent you the kingdom with conditions and hidden fees.
Not loan you the kingdom for good behavior.

Give.

That line alone could be a sermon. It is a sentence that holds grace and promise, tenderness and joy. God is not a stingy cosmic landlord. God is not running a spiritual meritocracy. God is not waiting for you to earn your place.

It is God’s good pleasure to give.

But give what, exactly?

The kingdom.

And that word, kingdom, is a loaded word. When we talk about the Kingdom of God, we aren’t talking about a castle in the clouds, but a way of being. A whole new order for life. A reality where peace replaces fear, generosity eclipses greed, and community outshines competition. A world that runs not on dominance but on love. A world turned upside-down, or maybe finally turned right-side-up.

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So why the fear?

Why does Jesus need to say “Do not be afraid” in the first place?

Because fear is always the first barrier. It’s what keeps us clutching our stuff. It’s what keeps us from opening the door. It’s what keeps us from seeing Jesus when he shows up dressed as the poor, the hungry, the stranger.

And fear is sneaky. It doesn’t just show up as panic or anxiety. Sometimes it looks like obsession with productivity. Sometimes it sounds like a voice in your head that says, “You better earn your keep.” Sometimes it disguises itself as wisdom: “Don’t be too generous—you might need that someday.”

Fear also has a way of distorting vocation—our true calling.

We end up building walls instead of relationships.
We protect our assets instead of sharing them.
We hoard time, treasure, and attention because we think there’s not enough to go around.

But Jesus exposes the lie:
There is enough.
God is enough.
The kingdom is already yours.

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Jesus tells the crowd,

“Sell your possessions and give to those in need.”
“Make wallets that don’t wear out.”
“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

This isn’t just about charity.
It’s about orientation. The orientation of our lives.

Jesus is telling us that money isn’t neutral. Our treasure shapes our hearts. And wherever we keep putting our money, our time, our energy—our hearts will follow.

If we pour ourselves into accumulation, our hearts will live in anxiety.
If we pour ourselves into generosity, our hearts will find rest.

And it’s not about checking a box. It’s not “Give to charity and God will be pleased.” It’s more elemental than that. It’s about discovering that in giving, we become more human. We align ourselves with God’s dream for the world. We begin to give as God has given, like Christ has given, like the Holy Spirit has given, and in doing so, we become more of what God dreams for us.

In Luke’s Gospel, giving to those in need isn’t just a moral obligation. It’s a spiritual practice. A holy defiance. A declaration that says, “I won’t let fear decide the value of my life.” It’s a refusal to let the logic of scarcity run the show. It’s solidarity—not from a safe distance, but shoulder to shoulder with those the world tries to forget.

Jesus isn’t interested in a transactional world. He’s not asking the rich to throw scraps to the poor. He’s calling all of us to dismantle the very systems that keep some at the bottom. And that begins when we ask not just what we’re giving—but what we’re clinging to.

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Then Jesus pivots next to a set of strange instructions.

“Be dressed for action and have your lamps lit.”
“Be like servants waiting for their master.”
“Stay ready. Stay awake.”

It’s less about punctuality and more about posture.

Jesus isn’t telling us to sit by the window like kids waiting for Santa. He’s saying: live alert. Keep your heart open. Stay dressed in compassion. Keep your lamp fueled with kindness.

Because the moment you don’t expect him?

That’s the moment he arrives.

Maybe not in clouds and glory.
Maybe not in lightning and trumpets.

But, maybe he shows up in the neighbor who knocks at your door late at night.
Maybe he’s the nurse who sits at the bedside of the dying patient.
Maybe he’s the one who annoys you in the church pew—the one you keep avoiding.
Maybe he’s the Holy Thief who breaks through your defenses and says, “You don’t need to live like this anymore.”

This readiness isn’t passive. It’s participatory. It’s not “wait and see,” it’s “live as if.”
Live as if the kingdom is already here.
Live as if grace has the last word.
Live as if Christ could be hidden in the person right in front of you.

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Now for the image we’d rather skip.

The thief.

“If the owner of the house had known when the thief was coming…”

It’s not warm or comforting. It’s unnerving.

But maybe it should be.
Maybe we need a Jesus who can shake us up.
A Jesus who breaks in, not to take, but to liberate.

There’s a tradition, going back centuries, of describing Jesus as a holy thief. A burglar who sneaks past our security systems to steal what we should have let go of a long time ago: our illusions of control, our idols of certainty, our justifications for apathy.

He doesn’t take our stuff.
He takes our false priorities.

Maybe the Holy Thief doesn’t just steal our fear. Maybe he steals our carefully constructed identities—the ones we build through titles, achievements, and image management. Maybe he sneaks into our certainty and replaces it with curiosity. Maybe he dismantles our theological scaffolding and leaves behind wonder. And maybe that’s what salvation looks like—not being protected from disruption, but being freed by it. The thief doesn’t leave with valuables. He leaves with the lies we thought were keeping us safe.

Writer Alyce McKenzie calls Jesus, “a burglar who returns to steal our false priorities and overturn our unjust structures.” Because if he doesn’t? We’ll keep clinging to treasures that can’t last, building walls to keep the world at bay, numbing ourselves to injustice, and forgetting who we are.

But when Jesus breaks in—when he startles us awake—something holy happens. We remember.
We remember who we are.
We remember what matters.
We remember that we are not owners but stewards, not survivors but servants, not prisoners of fear but heirs of the kingdom.

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So what does all this mean?

What does readiness look like in a world like ours?

It doesn’t mean paranoia.
It doesn’t mean predicting the end of the world.
It doesn’t mean selling everything and living in a hut.

It means trust. It means living in faith.

It means letting go of fear and grabbing hold of grace.
It means taking Sabbath seriously.
It means giving something away—not because it earns you points, but because it sets your heart free.
It means living as though Jesus might show up in the break room, at the food bank, in the child who needs your patience, or the elder who needs your presence.

It means staying alert—not out of fear, but out of anticipation.

Like a servant with a lamp in the window.
Like a sheep who trusts the shepherd.
Like a conspirator in a holy heist, helping the Thief overturn the world as it is.

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There is no tidy bow for this passage.

Jesus ends with: “The Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.”

No timeline. No formula. No GPS tracker on the divine.

Just a call to readiness. To wakefulness.

And here’s the mystery:

When the master returns, he does the unthinkable.

He serves the servants.

He puts on the apron and sets the table. He tends the tired. He feeds the faithful. It is not just a reversal of roles. It’s a revelation of God’s heart.

That’s what this strange, shifting passage is really about.

A God who gives freely.
A Savior who steals fear.
A Master who becomes servant.
A Thief who leaves behind grace.

So light your lamp.
Wake your heart.
And live like the kingdom is already yours.

Because it is.

So what about you?
Where’s your treasure?
What fears are holding you back from generosity, from presence, from love?
What would it look like to live this week with your lamp lit and your hands open—not clenched in fear, but extended in grace?

What would it take for you… to be ready?

Amen.

By: Rev. Dave Wasson