In college I took a philosophy class that was based entirely on The Grand Inquisitor, which was a single chapter in Dostoevsky’s novel, The Brothers Karamazov. The professor was a kind and soft-spoken man, but also anxious. He had a heavy Hungarian accent, and he didn’t look particularly well—he was very pale, sort of grey in complexion. During one class, in discussing ethics, he gave an example of someone who really, really needed a pack of cigarettes, but who didn’t have any money, so, wasn’t it, really, ok that he stole a pack of cigarettes from the Star Market? Sort of a modern-day Jean Valjean, I guess. In a later class, he said, “You know, once I really, really needed a pack of cigarettes, but I didn’t have any money. So I stole a pack from the Star Market.”

He ended up taking a medical leave halfway through the course. I don’t know entirely what was going on with my professor, but I believe at least one thing that was going on was a persistent, unshakeable sense of guilt, or maybe shame. He had unfinished business of some kind…

I’m standing in the doorway of the house, looking out at my father and my brother. They are standing at the edge of the field—my brother covered in sweat, because he’s just come in from working all day, alongside the paid laborers. I can see that my father is pleading with him, leaning in towards him, reaching out his hands to gently touch him. But my brother pulls away. He is standing, stiff as a cut board. Every so often he glances over at the house. He glances over at me. His face is a map of misery.

But here I stand, a purple linen robe over my torn and tattered tunic; my father’s own heavy silver ring on my right hand, a red stone shining in the torchlight; soft calfskin slippers on my dirty feet; and a goblet of wine in my hand. It is, as yet, untouched.

My brother is flashing with anger. I am not surprised. In fact, this is the first thing that has not surprised me in the hour since I trudged up the hill to our house. My brother. I am home, and he is not pleased…

Image: P. Raube copyright 2025

That was then; this is now. This is how our passage begins. “From now on…” In other words, something happened, and it changed everything. There was a before, and there was an after.

Our lives as human beings are filled with befores and afters. Before and after we learned to drive. Before and after we met the person we decided was “the one.” Before and after the diagnosis. Sometimes, the befores were better; sometimes the afters were better! How many of these befores and afters truly marked our souls? How many of them were painful? Or joyful? How many of them resulted in a kind of wisdom for which, now, we are grateful?

Both joy and suffering can be our teachers, though I think we tend to assume difficulties will impart more wisdom than our successes. Our parents told us that, that the tough parts of life would give us character. My mother liked to quote Nietzsche, “That which doesn’t kill me makes me strong.” Pain and sorrow can give us wisdom. They can give us a new view on life. Marshall McLuhan said, “I don’t know who discovered water, but I know it wasn’t a fish.” Rabbi Steve Leder explained it this way:

Because a fish is born in water, lives in water, dies in water… ironically, the fish is the idiot that doesn't know it's in water…Look, we are like that fish and…when does a fish discover water? When it's jerked out of it, wriggling at the end of a hook, gasping for breath. That's when a fish discovers water, and it is only pain and disruption that can do that for us…Disruption is the only thing that teaches us anything. It can provide us with some of the deepest wisdom of our lives.

Image: Copyright Kate Bowler, 2025.

Yesterday I read this invitation to reflect. As I read it to you now, I invite you to listen and reflect on the questions it asks.

Imagine yourself when you were 6 years old. Do you remember what you were going through when you turned 10? Remember how you felt at 16? Do you remember your dreams at 21? All those versions of who you used to be are still inside of you. Your 7-year-old self still gets excited when you remember the joy of that day. Your 35-year-old self still wants to cry when remembering the pain of that year. Like a nesting doll, every version of you has been a part of you becoming who you are today. Some versions of you went through some terrible and painful experiences and some felt great joy. But all versions of you were held by God.

I did yesterday what I just invited you to do now. Some of my memories were quite vivid. Other years had so many associations with them it was hard to find a single, real connection. For age 6, I remembered a long-forgotten bulky blue cardigan that someone had knitted for me, and also my sudden fierce need for pierced ears. Also Davy Jones. He was part of the picture somehow.

The most striking thing here, though, is the truth that each of is still all these people—the 6-year-old in the blue sweater, the 10-year-old who has changed schools, the 16-year-old playing Grandma Tzeitel in “Fiddler on the Roof.” They are all the same person who gave birth at ages 26 and 31, who graduated from seminary at 42, and who stands in front of you now at… the age I am now. Each of those moments informed the person I was to become in small ways and large, and each of you can say the same of your 6-year-old and 10-year-old and your every-age selves.

And so it goes with communities…

Image: Copyright © 2025 Kate Bowler, All rights reserved.

…Tonight I’m sharing that just about one third of Jesus’ teachings in the gospels are in the form of parables. Parables are usually short stories, but some are longer. But they are memorable. They are pithy. And they tell stories based on the real lives of the people who are standing or sitting in front of Jesus, listening. Jesus tells stories about yeast, and about seeds. He speaks of working in vineyards—which were plentiful in Judea, they were everywhere. He talks of lost coins—who hasn’t lost something valuable to them? He talks of sheep, which were also plentiful in most of the regions he addressed. And in all these parables, Jesus, generally, leaves interpretation to the listeners—thought not always. Parables are a lot like Zen koans—short statements that confound the brain, but stay with you, and keep you thinking, what IS the sound of one hand clapping?

Tonight’s parable is about a fig tree…

Image: P. Raube, copyright 2025.

When have you engaged in lament? By which I mean, when have you sat down with God for a conversation in which you told God exactly what you think of some terrible thing that has happened?

Notice I didn’t ask, “Have you?” I asked, “When have you?” because, I think we do this, knowingly or not. We read the news and say, “How can this be?” and whether we’re aware of it or not, we are asking God that question. Or we collapse on the couch and ask, “Why is this happening to me?” after we have been fired, or transferred hundreds of miles away, or left by someone we loved. Or we weep on the pillow after we turn the lights out and ask, “How am I going to get through this?” after we’ve heard a diagnosis we did not want to hear.

When have you engaged in lament?

Image: Copyright © 2025 Kate Bowler, All rights reserved.

Let’s start with a breath prayer. This is a prayer you will pray inwardly, because it follows your breath.

On the inhale: Spirit of God…
On the exhale: Guide my prayer…

Let’s do that several times, eyes closed or lowered. Relax. This is for all of us.  

Image: Copyright 2025 P. Raube.

Here’s the funny thing about the wilderness: It can be terrible, and it can be beautiful. And it can be both at the same time. If I’m honest, most of my life I’ve only been wilderness-adjacent. By which I mean, I’ve seen the Grand Tetons up close, and they’re gloriously beautiful, but I’ve never climbed a mountain. I love the idea of hiking in the wilderness, but I’ve only hiked in safe places, with paths I could easily follow and my cell phone in my pocket. I haven’t really experienced all the beauty and terribleness of the wilderness.

The other kind of wilderness, though. I’ve definitely been there, as I’m guessing most all of us have been. The pain of losing relationships that were dear to me. Chronic physical pain. Grief for loved ones who have died. Think of the wilderness of the hurricane-ravaged Black Mountains of North Carolina. Think of the wilderness of the burned out neighborhoods of Los Angeles. Some wildernesses are more terrible than they can ever be beautiful.

Throughout scripture, wilderness experiences are so potent and memorable, they’re practically characters. The wilderness to which Hagar and her son Ishmael were exiled. The wilderness where the Hebrews wandered for forty years. And this wilderness, the wilderness of Jesus’ time of testing.

Jesus has just come from a beautiful experience—a heavenly one, really. His baptism in the Jordan, after which the Spirit has led him to the wilderness for testing. But first things first: In any story, it’s important to get your cast of characters right. Our characters here are the wilderness, Jesus, and the devil…

Image: Copyright Kate Bowler, KateBowler.com, 2025. Used with permission.

Recently I read this description of a visit to Scotland by psychologist Andrew Tix. He writes,

Several years ago, my family and I had the opportunity to travel to the Isle of Skye, an island near the coast of northwest Scotland. Because it was dark when we arrived, I didn’t have any sense for the landscape. When I went for a walk the next morning, I was surprised to find myself surrounded by five stunning mountain peaks. There was a thick, Scottish mist in the air that seemed to affect the quality of the light coming from the sunrise. The wind gusted and blew dark, low clouds quickly by me. As I walked, I felt a tinge of fear and stopped. I suddenly became aware that I felt completely overwhelmed by the glory around me. I looked up and saw the moon. At that moment, I realized in a fresh way that the majesty I observed is only a small part of the grandeur of the entire universe.[i]

Andrew Tix is writing about awe. He goes on to share how this single experience of awe changed his life and his outlook on faith. Imagine how the three disciples, Peter, John, and James, were changed by their experience of awe on the mountain with Jesus…

Image: Hochhalter, Cara B.. Transfiguration, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=59300 [retrieved January 24, 2025]. Original source: Cara B. Hochhalter.

When I was young my parents had a coffee table book of photographs from, I believe it was, the past 50 years. There was a whole section addressing the social crises of the 1960’s, including the protest movement against the war in Viet Nam. This photograph, by photographer Bernie Boston, was in that book.

As a child I stared at it in wonder. It was terrifying, and also thrilling. It was taken during the 1967 march on the Pentagon, a protest of about 100,000 people. They gathered for a rally at the Lincoln Memorial and then marched across a bridge that spanned the Potomac. When they got there, they were met by the 503rd Airborne Military Police Battalion. The young man is placing a carnation in the barrel of an M-14 rifle. All I could think looking at the photo—which I did, again, and again—was, What happened next?

The title of the photo is “Flower Power,” and it ran in the next edition of the Washington Star, a paper that no longer exists. It’s named for a movement started by Beat Generation poet Alan Ginsburg who, “in his November 1965 essay How to Make a March/Spectacle, promoted the use of ‘masses of flowers’ to hand to policemen, press, politicians and spectators to fight violence with peace…”

Image: “Flower Power” by Bernie Boston, Fair Use (Non-Profit)

This week the wealthiest man in the world tweeted a photo of an attractive blonde woman smiling broadly, along with the caption:

“Watching [the administration] slash Federal programs, knowing it doesn’t affect you because you’re not a member of the Parasite Class.”

In other words, the woman is not poor. Here, “Parasite Class” is referring to those who are poor, and therefore, who need the assistance provided by Federal programs such as Medicaid and the Child Health Protection Act.

Vilification of the poor is not new. Poverty has a stigma attached to it that helps to perpetuate it across generations. It’s easier to blame people for living in poverty than to do the work of understanding the systems that benefit the haves and penalize the have-nots. People living in poverty tend to have lower self-esteem, struggle to hang onto a sense of dignity and self-worth, and can experience feelings of shame—all of which contribute to the cycle of poverty, as they can cause crises of mental and physical health.

As of 2024, the United States was the ninth wealthiest country in the world, according to our gross domestic product, but our levels of poverty over the past forty years remain basically consistent, making up between 11 and 15 percent of our population. Currently, 37.9 million Americans live in poverty, and roughly half of that number live in deep poverty, meaning they are striving to live on income 50% or more below the poverty line. And poverty isn’t experienced equally across races. In the U.S., while our overall poverty rate stands at about 11%, more than 25% of Black and Hispanic people experience poverty.

And this week, someone who has enormous influence over government programs called these people, these human beings made in God’s image, the Parasite Class.

Today, Jesus has something to say about poverty…

Image: JESUS MAFA. The Sermon on the Mount, Cameroon, painting, 1973, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=48284 [retrieved January 21, 2025]. Original source: http://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr (contact page: https://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr/contact).

…Simon knows the waters of Lake Genessaret, when they are ready to yield a catch and when they are content to leave the fisherman frustrated. He explains the up-all-night situation to Jesus. But he also speaks to him with the respectful title “Master” or “Lord,” depending on your translation. And he says, “If you say so.” I wonder what Simon heard while noodling the oars around that caused him to think, “maybe;” that caused him to let go of knowing better and instead, yield to this interesting preacher who, after all, everyone was talking about.

 If Simon knows nature, it stands to reason that he also knows what is clearly supernatural. So many fish the nets are breaking—such weight that even when a second boat joins the effort, the boats are sinking. How many times in Simon’s many years in and around the boats has this sort of thing happened? Perhaps never…

Image: Koenig, Peter. Draft of Fishes,  20th century painting, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=58852 [retrieved January 21, 2025]. Original source: Peter Winfried (Canisius) Koenig, https://www.pwkoenig.co.uk/.

Paul begins by mentioning some of those spiritual gifts we’ve been talking about—speaking in tongues, uttering prophecy, even faith—and says, if I have an astonishing amount of these gifts, but don’t have the one thing that matters—I am nothing. I have nothing. Love is the one thing that matters.

Then come the words that I believe are the heart of the whole passage:

Love is patient. Love is kind.

Image: P. Raube, Canva

…And so, Paul hit on the remarkable metaphor of the body. Last week he was talking about Spiritual gifts. He was working to persuade the Corinthians that their gifts didn’t make them superior to others in their congregation, because all gifts were from the Holy Spirit. He goes on to say: “For in the one Spirit we were all baptized into one body—Jews or Greeks, slaves or free—and we were all made to drink of one Spirit.” 

All you have to do to understand this metaphor is to remember the last time something really hurt. You broke your toe. You had a screaming headache. You had to have a dental procedure. All these parts of our body are absolutely connected, you know how we can tell? Because when something hurts, we can’t get away from it. I’m not referring to the efficacy of pain relievers, but the reality that pain in one place makes us hurt, period. As Paul says, “If one member suffers, all suffer together with it…”

Image: Leonardo da Vinci, Uomo Vitruviano (The Vitruvian Man), ink on paper 1492, Milan, Italy. Public Domain, courtesy of Wikiart.

The first thing you need to know is that church in Corinth was a hot mess. This may come as a shock. The passage we’ll read in two weeks—the one about love—has become the most famous passage in this letter, and for good reason: it is both practical and lyrical, filled with beautiful language and good sense. Out of context, it has been used in countless weddings, because it’s  about love! But the reason Paul wrote it—and everything else in this epistle—is that, the Corinthians were at one another’s throats…

Image: Anonymous. Spirit with Sevenfold Gifts, 19th Century stained glass, St. Mary’s Iffley, Oxford, UK, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=55828[retrieved January 17, 2025]. Original source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/paullew/5827717752/.

…And then the one who’s coming shows up, ready to be baptized himself, which, itself is strange and wondrous. In those days, if you baptized someone, they became your follower. But John has already said he isn’t worthy to untie Jesus’ sandals—by which he means, he isn’t worthy to be Jesus’ slave. And yet, here the men stand, face to face, and now the awe is in John’s eyes, as he sees that the one he has been preparing for wants to be baptized by HIM.

And into the water he goes. Some of you in this room were baptized by immersion. I had water sprinkled on me when I was just four weeks old, and I confess to having just a little immersion jealousy, and not only for the reason that I love a swim. It is also because that is how our Lord was baptized, and there is something wild and beautiful in the vulnerability of falling backwards into the water, trusting that you will be caught, and raised up out of the water still breathing…

Image: Lauren Wright Pittman, “Beloved,” Inspired by Luke 3:21-22, Digital painting and collage, A Sanctified Art | @sanctifiedart.

…We don’t know precisely how many of these wise astrologers came to visit Herod. We know that they brought three gifts, but there may have been two magi, or there may have been ten, or even more. They may have been all men, or there may have been women among them; women also participated in the art and science and mystic revelations of the stars.

However many they were, the magi came to Herod for directions. How could they find Jesus? They were asking about the birth of a child whom, in their minds, he surely must have known about. After all, their reading of the newly risen star told them that this child was the King of the Jews.

But Herod did not know. And Herod believed that he was the King of the Jews. And so, he was afraid. One thing I’ve learned about human nature is that fear and anger often go hand in hand. So, when we read in verse 3, that King Herod was frightened “and all Jerusalem with him,” we might have a good idea why that is. When the King is afraid, that fear is bound to spill out onto innocent bystanders, and it might just look like anger. In this story, that is exactly what happens….

Image: "Journey of the Magi," from an illuminated manuscript, 1120-1145, Church of St. Godehard, Hildesheim, Germany; from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=56279 [retrieved December 31, 2024]. Original source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Albanipsalter_DreiKoenige.jpg.

…Why does this matter? It matters because the gospel writer wants to make sure we understand the humble nature of the birthplace of Christ.[ii] Hailed as king by angels and, later, by traveling astronomers, he was not born in a palace. He was not born in a mansion. He wasn’t even born in a borrowed bedroom. He was born in a cave that was part of a home. He was taken in by kin. He was taken in, because, even in all the chaos of the city’s population swelling from fewer than 3,000 people to who knows how many, Jesus’s expectant parents were nevertheless surrounded by family, and not relegated to the stable of an inn…

Image: "Angels Worship the Christ Child," detail from a carved retable, Artist Unknown
St. Giles Cathedral, Edinburgh, United Kingdom.
Courtesy of Art in the Christian Tradition, Vanderbilt University

…Every word in the Bible exists in at least three timelines. Let’s take the gospels. The first timeline is the one in which Jesus is walking the earth. Well, for a while, he’s being carried around, since he does come as a baby. But you understand me. The second timeline, and one just as important to the story, is the timeline in which the gospel is being written down—when the oral tradition is set down upon the page so that it can be shared more and more widely. The events of that timeline inevitably find their way into the telling of the story. And the third timeline, of course, is our timeline—more specifically the timeline of the readers and hearers of the gospel. What is happening in our world. We can’t hear the gospel without applying its insights, events, and promises to the world we are living in, right now. For instance, for clarity’s sake, please know that, in a sermon, if I am using the word “Israel,” I’m referring to covenant people descended from Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and not to the modern-day political entity, the state of Israel, unless I say so, specifically.

These three timelines are so present for us in the songs we are hearing today. The first two chapters of the gospel according to Luke are filled with music. Today we are tuning in to two of the four songs that appear there, the two songs we find in Luke, chapter 1…

Image: “Magnificat” by Ben Wildflower. Used by Permission, per benwildflower.com.

I believe that is the God John encountered. Immersed in scripture from the time he was young, immersed in a wild and challenging terrain as his home, and trained for his calling to be a holy and wise person in society, John let God in. John was from a reasonably comfortable background and likely never knew hunger or want or neglect as the cherished late-in-life child he was. John had the ability, the space within, to open himself, not only to God, but to the world as it was, in all its beauty and all its pain. John allowed himself to be amazed by all of it.

Today we live in a world in which the Hubble telescope can show us images that are billions of light years away. We live in a world in which each of us can log onto a website on and be in touch with as many people as we like, old friends and new, watch their videos, see their pictures from the other side of the planet. We live in a world in which we can carry powerful computers with access to seemingly limitless information in our pockets, and, oh, by the way, we can call and order pizza with them, too. Is there anything left that can amaze us? Can we still be amazed?