Zealots

In the musical and film versions of Jesus Christ Superstar, there is a dramatic song-and-dance number in the first act called “Simon Zealotes.” This follows “Hosanna” (the triumphal entry into Jerusalem) and is immediately followed by “Poor Jerusalem.” “Simon Zealotes” is a very energetic song with catchy lyrics, but most of us don’t have enough historical context to understand why Simon’s proposal is a problem. On the surface, and without the details, Simon sings of the crowd’s intense devotion to Jesus:

“Christ, you know I love you / Did you see, I waved / I believe in you and God / So tell me that I'm saved.”

Whether acknowledging Jesus in the triumphal entry via a wave should count as belief is a whole other essay. Simon is hyped up by the people's enthusiasm for Jesus. He goes on:

“There must be over 50,000 (50,000) / Screaming love and more for you (Love, love, love) / And every one of 50,000 / Would do whatever you asked them to (Ever and ever).”

Is there actually a problem so far? Maybe. Maybe not. What problems could ever come from an over-enthusiastic disciple of Jesus? (Highest of eyebrow raises.)

In the Norman Jewison film, this dance number is coordinated and fast. People move quickly, and the pacing of the music picks up significantly from the fairly sedate “Hosanna” that came before. The composer, Andrew Lloyd Webber, demonstrates through musical rhythms the multiple viewpoints of the people around Jesus: the deep, methodical singing of the temple officials; the parade chorus of the crowd; and the frenetic energy of the disciples—especially Simon the Zealot (Luke 6:15; Acts 1:13).

Simon goes on to sing:

“Keep them yelling their devotion / But add a touch of hate at Rome / You will rise to a greater power / We will win ourselves a home.”

And there it is: the hope that Jesus’ power will be the political power that the Zealot wants. Here is the whiff of magical thinking that was part of the crowd from the beginning and still lingers. Surely Jesus hates whom I hate. Surely Jesus loves my country best. Surely my will is God’s will. I am about to leave several topics on the table: Who were the Zealots as a sect in the first century? Is theocracy actually bad? Why would Jesus have included a Zealot among the twelve, and was Simon actually a “Zealot Zealot” as opposed to just being “full of zeal”?

Those are good questions. My point in bringing this up today is this: there is a lot of conversation circulating about “holy wars,” war as a sign of the “end times,” and wars intended to kickstart the “end times.”

Point the first: If you think that people can do a thing to make God do a thing, you may be misunderstanding who is people and who is God.

Point the second: We may indeed, in the course of human events, be called upon to take actions that seem necessary for the well-being of others—for freedom, for provision, for aid. It is always important to stop first, however, and ask ourselves (and those with the power to make decisions) whom we are choosing to help and why.

There is suffering everywhere. There are rogue leaders everywhere. There are threats everywhere. These are not reasons to take no action; these are reasons for significant moral and ethical deliberation and truth-telling about the costs: money, lives, land, water, non-human animals, and generational memory. Again, sometimes actions must be taken, but “adding a touch of hate” is not a sufficient reason.

Point the third: “Did you see I waved?” Waving at Jesus with one’s words is not the same as faithful action in concert with the will of God. Name-dropping the Savior does not automatically convey divine blessing on events we cannot be sure the Holy One condones. That God has permitted something does not mean God has approved it.

I frequently say, “I could be wrong.” A beloved school administrator at my seminary once told me, “We can’t attribute to God things that God did not cause.”

Humility is a necessary Christian virtue. It rarely exists in the same space as a zealot. Caught up in the frenetic dance of self-assured and self-justifying faith, the zealous ones keep flailing, unconcerned with who might get hit or hurt. They wave at Jesus while continuing to misinterpret His power and glory as their own, counting on Him to eventually hate those whom they despise.

There’s a reason Jesus sings a lament after “Simon Zealotes.” He may be singing it yet.

 

A Political Gospel (Sermon)

Transfiguration Sunday: Year A: Exodus 24:12-18; Psalm 99; 2 Peter 1:16-21; Matthew 17:1-9

I know, and you know, that people do not like sermons they perceive to be "political." Many come to church hoping for a break from the endless news cycle and its doom, gloom, and overwhelming encroachment on peace of mind. Desperate for good news, they implore the pastor: "Stay away from politics... just preach the gospel."

But what is that gospel, exactly? Does it mean hearing the story of Jesus on the mountain today as a mere special effects show, with no assessment of why the Law and the Prophets—represented by Moses and Elijah—stand there with him?

We know that when people say "the sermon was too political," they often mean "I heard something that made me uncomfortable." The reality of biblical preaching is a focus on people and the situations that affect them. We cannot avoid how the written word of God has life and breath and shapes the world.

Consider our reading from Exodus 24. In that text, Moses isn't just taking a hike; he is entering a cloud of glory that looks like a "devouring fire" to the people below. He is there to receive the Law—the very blueprint for how a liberated people should treat one another, how they should handle property, and how they should protect the vulnerable. The very cloud that is the "glory of the Lord" is delivering the "justice of the Lord"—affecting not only the freed Israelites but also anyone else who lives with or near them.

Psalm 99 reiterates the theme. The psalmist declares that our God is holy, yes, but also specifically praises a ruler who "loves justice" and has "established equity." To praise the holiness of the Divine while ignoring the Divine demand for equity is to read only half the page.

When people ask for an "apolitical" gospel, they are often asking for a safe, spiritualized myth. But in 2 Peter 1, the apostle is adamant: "We did not follow cleverly devised myths." He is talking about the Transfiguration. He’s saying, "I was there. I heard the voice from the Majestic Glory." Peter insists on the reliability of this message. Why? Because the early Christians were living in an Empire that claimed the Emperor was the "Son of God." For Peter to stand up and say, "No, I saw the real King on a mountain, and his name is Jesus," was the most politically subversive thing he could do. It was a declaration that the current power structures were not ultimate.

In Matthew 17, we see Jesus transfigured—his face shining like the sun. But look at who is with him: Moses, who stood up to Pharaoh, and Elijah, who stood up to King Ahab and Queen Jezebel. They are not talking about "spiritual" abstractions. In the broader context of the Transfiguration story, they are discussing his "exodus"—his departure which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.

The original Exodus story featured a despotic ruler, a hardened heart, and a struggle for freedom. By standing with Moses and Elijah, Jesus is signaling that his mission is a similar type of exodus. He is focused on the freedom that comes from being in relationship with the God of released captives. To appreciate the fullness of the Incarnation, we must recognize that Jesus pursued justice throughout his life. The truth that makes us free is political because it affects people. We cannot ignore it.

If we are to pretend there are no politics in scripture, we must ignore the cloud that overshadows Peter, James, and John. We must ignore the fact that Peter’s first instinct was to build "dwellings"—to institutionalize the moment, to stay safe on the mountain.

But the voice from the cloud interrupts him: "Listen to him!"

Listening to Jesus means following him down the mountain. It means following him into the valleys where people are sick, where children are afraid, and where the "powers that be" are crushing those without the power or platform to be heard. To strip the Transfiguration of its political implication, we must water down the command to "Listen to him" into a mere suggestion for private meditation.

Here we stand on Transfiguration Sunday, about to enter Lent. We are on a mountain peak with Jesus, and while we can see the empty cross from here, we are compelled by the Holy Spirit to proceed into a season of reflection and repentance.

In the Christmas carol O Little Town of Bethlehem, we sing about the will of God becoming flesh and resting in a manger. We sing: "The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight"—"thee" being both the town and the infant Jesus.

Those hopes and fears are not just "spiritual" anxieties; they are the concrete fears of people living under occupation, the hopes of those who hunger for justice. They were the realities for the people of the first Exodus, the Temple congregation singing the psalm, the crowds who followed Jesus, and the people who received the epistle from Peter in hope.

Our faith cannot be untangled from the political realities of our day, nor from our prayer that God’s "will be done on earth as in heaven." Each time we say those words, we are asking God for the courage to be part of accomplishing that will.

Let it be our hearts and minds which are transfigured today. Let it be our spirits which shed the fear of "being political" in favor of the courage to be biblical. Let it be our lives, transformed by the grace which has met all our hopes and fears, that compel others to seek a Divine will of love and justice—in the mundane and in the political.

Amen.

 

You Know What's Right

Years ago, my dad used to say, “You know what’s right- do it.” These were usually his parting words before I left on a trip or to be gone for a while.

As I grew older. My dad and I sometimes differed on the exact nature of what was “right”, but I
never lost sight of the heart of what I knew he meant about respecting others, sticking up for people, speaking out, and being generous with what you have.

Telling the truth and being willing to apologize and make amends were among the things that were “right”.

Humiliating memes, AI lies and slop (fake news and pics), and blaming underlings are all things I’ve seen in the past 24 hours across the internet- from my hometown to the highest office in the land.

It’s not right. It’s not excusable. And it has to stop.

And blaming the bots or staffers or saying that it was just a video or a story is unacceptable.

I’m not putting a Bible verse here because a person can find a verse to support just about anything and I will not weaponize scripture.

Instead, I’ll hit you with my dad:

You know what’s right. Do it.

Chairs and Foolishness (Sermon)

Famously, pastors are trained to preach with the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other. Even if we do not directly refer to the latter, the Spirit reminds us of what is happening in the world around us. The call to discipleship always has a context- a time, a place, and fruits of the Spirit that are needed in action. 

When the Civil War in the United States broke out, the Episcopal churches in the seceded states of the South formed the Protestant Episcopal Church in the Confederate States of America. While some historians argue that the split was pragmatic since it would be hard to govern a church across two warring nations, the reality is that the splinter denomination did support the institution of chattel slavery. They tolerated the perverted teaching of “Christian slavery”- claiming care and concern for the enslaved people who were legally, socially, and spiritually considered property. 

In 1862, the Episcopal General Convention met in New York City. The war was raging and the states and institutions of the Union were under immense pressure. The leadership of the Northern church made a radical decision to continue with their convention with an eye toward unity in Christ, even knowing that their Southern siblings had broken faith with that unity. 

During the roll call of the states, the Secretary of the Convention called out the names of the Southern dioceses (Alabama, Florida, Georgia, etc.) just as he did for the Northern ones. On the floor of the convention, empty chairs were placed for the Southern bishops and deputies. By refusing to remove the chairs, the Northern church was signaling that the South was not "gone" or "excommunicated"—they were simply "absent." The leadership of the 1862 convention held a radical, stubborn hope:: "We are not two churches; we are one church with some members who are currently unable to attend."

The real drama occurred in October 1865, just months after the war ended. The General Convention met in Philadelphia. The atmosphere in the country was toxic and vengeful, yet the Episcopal leadership sent word to the Southern bishops that their "seats were waiting." No one was sure what would happen. No one was entirely sure what should happen. 

Here is what did happen on the first day as recounted in a sermon by the Reverend Morgan Dix, delivered just weeks later: 

When the Convention assembled in St. Luke's Church, for the opening service, one of the southern Bishops was there. He came alone, and took a seat among the congregation: he looked like a stranger. That was a sight which his brethren in the Apostolic Episcopate could not bear. They saw him; they became uneasy. At last they sent a dignified messenger to tell him that he must come to them. Then he hesitated no longer; he arose, and just as he was, with no vestment or robe of office, passed up to the chancel and went to his brethren. I was told that there was not a dry eye in that august company at that moment. Men felt that GOD was giving answer to the question whether this Church could be one again. (https://anglicanhistory.org/usa/mdix/convention1865.html)

People remembered the passionate singing of hymns during that convention, giving God the glory. Did the moment of reunion and welcome fix everything? No, there remained historical pain, work to be done, changes to make, but the hope of unity kept the chairs out, kept the names on the rolls, kept the prayers going, kept the invitations ready to be sent. That moment of restoration could never have happened if at least one side had not remained attuned to the Spirit’s urging- even during the bleakest hours. 

In today’s reading from 1 Corinthians, Paul writes to a church that is obsessed with "branding." They are divided into fan clubs. "I belong to Paul," says one group. "I belong to Apollos," says another. "I belong to Cephas (Peter)." And then there’s the ultra-spiritual group that says, "I belong to Christ," which is always code for "I’m better than all of you."

Paul does not write a soft prayer for peace. He asks a pointed question: "Has Christ been divided?"

The Greek word Paul uses for "divisions" is schismata. It’s where we get our word schism. It literally means a tear or a rip in a garment. Paul looks at the church and sees people tearing the fabric apart because they want to claim the larger or better piece. This fractured faithlessness is not only harming the body of Christ, it is fundamentally damaging the witness of that body to a world that needs a message of liberation, wholeness, and hope. 

For Paul, the message of the cross is foolishness because its message seems useless to a world that needs to know who is on top, who has the most power, who has the best stuff. And if those are your priorities, says Paul to the divided Corinthians, then you might as well be dying. On the other hand, he writes, if we trust the message of the cross, we are saved by its power. That power is the outstretched arms of Christ, a message of forgiveness, a message of the not being forsaken. 

When Jesus invited people to follow him, he called fishermen and people who were mending nets, people who were single and lived with their parents, people who were married, a tax collector employed by the Roman occupation, and at least one zealot who wanted to overthrow the Roman occupation. He was followed by people with questions, women with money, and at least one boy with a hefty lunch.

Each of these people followed the Spirit’s urging, whether they recognized it as such or whether they knew it as curiosity or a desire to follow a crowd or just a need for something different. The choice to follow meant setting aside what was known and familiar for this new thing. It is easy for us to assume we would have done the same, but would you have left the family business or your good paying government job or the comforts of your home to follow an itinerant teacher and healer? 

In a world filled with the music of Rome, Rome’s power, idols to Rome’s gods, would you sing the song of Jesus? Would you embrace the foolishness of the cross? Would you set out the chairs and issue invitations to people who had cut themselves off from fellowship and unity and who rejected the full humanity of others? 

Things are going to get worse before they get better. 

For those of us who considered ourselves “being saved”, for those of us who call ourselves followers of Jesus, for those of us who want to continue to have hope...

We have to figure out how to keep some chairs out for those we disagree with.

We must be prepared to welcome those who wish to pursue unity, togetherness, and work in community for the sake of others.

We have to be ready to leave our nets—our safety, our tribe, our certainty—to follow a wandering teacher into a future we can't control. 

That is the discipleship, the baptism, the faithfulness that heals. And it is possible. 

Unity is not a feeling; it is an empty chair maintained in the middle of a war. It is the foolish, stubborn refusal to let the fabric stay torn. Isaiah says the people walked in darkness, but Matthew says they sat in darkness. By Matthew’s time, the sense of oppression, political and spiritual, made it almost impossible to move. 

It can feel that way, but in lives shaped by Christ’s cross, movement is always possible. Even in the sitting, there is a way forward.

I have a song to sing in the night, and so do you. I have a little light to shine, and so do you. I have chairs to set out. And so do you. Amen. 

 

 

Through the Door Into Something New

Text: John 1:29-42

The season of Epiphany, which we are in right now, can get a little lost in the church year. Coming between Christmas and Lent, it is a curious, transition space with John the Baptizer, the call of the disciples, and early teaching and miracles. In this season, we are asked to look at the same world we’ve always known and see something entirely different.

That need for epiphany- a new way of seeing happens for the people in today’s gospel. John, son of Zechariah, is standing by the Jordan, at the edge of the wilderness. He’s doing his thing: wearing odd clothes, eating strange food, preaching repentance, dunking people in the muddy water, challenging the status quo. People are coming to see him because he is interesting, but they know what to expect as they come. One day, John looks up and sees Jesus walking toward him.

John doesn’t just say, "Hey, there’s my cousin." He says something that would have greatly surprised his listeners: "Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world."

To understand why this was such a shock, and why it signaled a massive "something new" was happening, we must look backward. When John calls Jesus the "Lamb," he is invoking one of the deepest, oldest memories of the Jewish people: the Passover.

Recall the shape of the Exodus story. The Israelites were enslaved in Egypt. They were stuck in a cycle of generational trauma, forced labor, and hopelessness. Through Moses, God promised freedom. Freedom, liberation, a new beginning requires a marking—a boundary between the old life of slavery and the new life of the wilderness.

In that first Passover, the role of the lamb was specific and visceral:

Each family took a lamb, "without blemish." It was an asset, a sign of their livelihood. After killing the lamb, they were told to take the blood of that lamb and smear it on the doorposts of their homes. That blood was a sign. It identified who belonged to the God of life, to the covenant of life. When the plague of death passed over Egypt, those marked by the lamb were spared.

 

The lamb was the bridge. It was the price of the exit ramp from Egypt. Without the lamb, there was no exodus. Without the lamb, they remained slaves.

So, when John points at Jesus and says, "There is the Lamb," he is telling the crowd: The exit ramp is here. The time of enslavement to your old ways, your old habits, and your old systems is over. God is once again trying to lead you into freedom, into a new way of being, into a bondage of mercy and justice.

The hardest part of faith—and frankly, the hardest part of being human—is recognizing when one way has served its purpose and is no longer doing what it was meant to do.  In that time, we often cast about and resist change, even when we know in our heart that it is time to be open to something different and, even, new. 

The Baptizer is the ultimate model for this. John had a successful ministry! He had disciples. People were coming to him, and he was pointing them to a new way of living in and for God.  But the moment he sees Jesus, he points away from himself. He realizes his role was to prepare, not to possess.

How do we know when it’s time to do something new? How do we recognize our own "Lamb of God" moments?

In the text, two of John’s disciples hear him speak and they immediately start following Jesus. They don’t wait for a three-year strategic plan. They feel a tug. Usually, when God is calling us to something new, there is a holy restlessness. The old "Egypt", the old addiction, the old habit, the old way of relating to friends, family, or neighbors, starts to feel cramped. The space becomes tight because your capacity is bigger.

When Jesus realizes he’s being followed, he turns around and asks a question to anyone who would follow him: "What are you looking for?" 

He doesn’t ask, "What do you want to do?" or "Where do you want to be in five years?” He asks about the hunger of their hearts. To do something new, you have to be honest about what you are actually seeking. Are you seeking comfort? Or do you want to be in the company of the "Lamb" who changes everything?

The disciples answer with a question: "Where are you staying?" And Jesus gives them the only answer that matters: "Come and see." Newness rarely comes with a map. It comes with an invitation to walk. You don't get the clarity beforeyou start moving; you get the clarity while you are in motion. The disciples stayed with him that day. They sat in his space. They listened to his breath. They didn’t learn everything in the first day, but they gained enough wisdom and clarity to stay for a second day and so on. Learning the shape of something new takes time and trust.  

There is a beautiful, quiet detail at the end of this passage. Andrew, one of those two disciples, goes and finds his brother, Simon Peter. He tells him, "We have found the Messiah."

Think about the courage that took. Andrew had to leave John —his teacher, his mentor, his "safe" religious home—to follow a carpenter from Nazareth. Andrew had to trust that this Lamb was indeed a doorpost to pass through for life, for freedom, for God’s future of hope for the world.

We each must ask ourselves: what is my Egypt? What is the thing that is keeping you from the new place to which God is calling? Is it a grudge you’ve held for years? Is it your judgment of people whose lives do not look like yours? Is it the idea that the church or the town or the community should always be the same? Imagine what it would have meant for the enslaved Israelites to have been more afraid of the unknown than they were of Pharaoh or the horror of his rule.

John stood at the edge of the water and had the grace to say, "He must increase, but I must decrease." He recognized that the Lamb had arrived to take the sin of the world—including our corporate sin of resisting the call of the will of God.

The Lamb of the first Passover was about protection for a night in order to make the journey to freedom. The Lamb of God that John points to is about liberation for a lifetime. Jesus remains on the move, speaking to us and asking, "What are you looking for?"

If we indeed want to follow where he goes, if we indeed want to be like Jesus, then when he says, “Come and see”- like Andrew and Peter before us, we go. The blood is on the doorpost. The way is open. The new thing has already begun.

Amen

 

 

There Is No "I" in Baptism

When we read the story of Jesus standing in the Jordan River, we often focus on the divine "I." We hear that voice from the heavens breaking through the clouds like a thunderclap: "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased." It is a moment of profound, individual identity. It’s the ultimate "I see you."

And if we aren’t careful, we stop there. Baptism becomes our personal insurance, a moment between "me and my God," rather than the instant that changes and shapes our whole life. The water of the Jordan was what was known as “living water,” meaning it moved as opposed to being stagnant or still. It flows. It connects the mountaintop to the sea.

We are called to use fresh water, lots of it, and to pour it generously when we baptize to recall this living and moving water. The act and the call of baptism is never just about an "I"; it is the radical, difficult, and beautiful transition into a "we."

In our liturgies, we tend to use both singular and plural possessives interchangeably. In the creed, we say, “I believe in,” but we say it together and we mean it together. Even if we pray the Lord’s Prayer alone, we speak, “Our Father,” because we are praying in concert with all people, across time and space, who use those words to call upon the Divine.

We sing, “This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior all the day long,” when we know that we share the story of the mercy of God and the saving hope of Jesus with an uncountable number of people in the world today and throughout history. We sing, “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty, early in the morning our song shall rise to thee,” even when we sing alone.

Since we use the words and the concepts interchangeably, maybe it is not that important to emphasize that our baptisms make us a “we.” After all, it seems to be a thing we understand. Understanding only becomes evident, though, when we are living as baptized people, as the body of Christ, in the mission field of the world.

In the gospels, Jesus doesn’t just show up to the river alone for a private ceremony. He is standing in the mud with the tax collectors, the soldiers, the seekers, and the skeptics. Even when John, recognizing who Jesus is, would have refused, Jesus insists—the act of righteousness, or making things right, means he is where the people are and he does what the people do.

To be baptized "into Christ" is to be baptized into his body. And a body doesn’t function as a collection of isolated organs competing for resources. A body is the ultimate "we." When the hand is cold, the heart pumps harder. When the feet are tired, the rest of the frame leans in. Even when a limb is amputated, the rest of the body remembers, even as it compensates for what is lost.

The shift from "I" to "we" is where justice begins. In a world that screams at us to "get yours," to "protect your own," and to view our success as a solo achievement, what we believe and teach about baptism is counter-cultural. The worst parts of history have happened when people divided into “us versus them.” Horrors happen when people, including and especially Christian people, have lost any sense of “we” with our neighbors who are also children of God.

If we are one body in Christ, then a "justice issue" isn't something that happens "over there" to "those people." It is a wound on our own skin; it is a wound to the body of Christ. In living as a "we," the question is no longer "How does this affect me?" The question becomes, "How does this affect us? The most vulnerable among us? The aching among us? The fearful and pushed aside among us?"

Baptismal justice says: I cannot be "well" if you are thirsty. Baptismal justice says: The God who claims me as a child also claims you. Baptismal justice says: The water that touched my forehead is the same water that quenches thirst, brings health, shapes communities, and is needed by all.

It is true that right after being baptized, the Spirit sent Jesus into the wilderness. Even there, though, he wasn’t alone. There were wild animals, angels, the Spirit, and the tempter. Even in our silent time, there is no "I"—there remains a “we” with the God who does not abandon us.

Our baptismal vows call us to a life that imitates Christ. We promise, in response to God’s grace, both to the individual acts of studying scripture and prayer, together with the communal acts of being at the Table together and supporting one another. We commit, again in response to God’s grace, to the mission work of being the body of Christ, pursuing divine justice and peace in the world.

Our baptisms are critical, memorable moments demonstrating how we belong to God. Part of the reason we also teach that baptism is a public act, not a private one, is because God has made us to belong to each other. We are the body of Christ. We are the ones called and equipped by God. We are the "we" that God is using to mend the world.

The waters of baptism do not dry up. They remain living water. They soak in and yet remain a flood that presses us forward, beyond any constraining banks we might try to construct. There is no “I” in baptism. Well, I guess technically there is, but you know exactly what I mean.

We are washed together. We are fed together. We are sent together. Not for some “them” or against some “they,” but for the fullness of the “we” that is God’s whole beloved creation. This is the day that the Lord has made. This is the way that the Lord has made. These are the Lord’s waters in which we wade. Let us rejoice and be glad in it and go forth to live in response to the grace we have received.

Amen.

There is Always Room Somewhere

Bethlehem means “House of Bread”. I am going to come back to this later, but it is a thing you need to know from the start. From the Hebrew, “Beit” (house) and “lehem” (bread), the little community had that name for more than a thousand years before Jesus. 

Next fun fact: when Luke tells us about the place where there was no room, he uses the Greek word kataluma. We have become used to the idea of “no room in the inn”, like a Motel 6 or the Lazy J putting out a “no vacancy” sign. A kataluma, however, was not a roadside inn or shelter. Luke had a different word for that kind of establishment, pandocheion, which is the word used in the story of the Samaritan who stopped. This is a place where you could pay someone for a room and board. 

Since we know Luke has a word for a commercial inn and he chooses not to use it here, we need to ask what a kataluma is. It is the same word used later when Jesus sends the disciples to find a "guest room" to celebrate the Passover.

Picture this: in the time of Jesus’ birth, most houses in Bethlehem were built into hillsides or over caves. The main room of the house was the heart of the home—the place where cooking, family activity, and sleeping happened. The cave portion or a slightly lower level was the space where the family animals were brought in for the night—maybe a milk cow or a few sheep or goats to keep them safe and provide warmth.

This type of house would have had a kataluma or guest room, usually attached to the side or prepared on the roof. In a culture that emphasized hospitality as a sacred duty, people naturally had space for travelers. The fact that there was no room in the kataluma means the houses all around were already full of family and other travelers who were there for the same reason as Mary and Joseph—the census.

Thus, when the time came for Mary to give birth, the only space available was the dugout space or cave area where the family animals would have normally stayed. Jesus was born into a crowded home. Mary likely had the support of other women for the birth. And there were probably other men around to give Joseph something to do or at least to help him through his own worries. 

Jesus born in this way moves us from imagining the Holy Family being turned away by a cold innkeeper. Instead, we see the Son of God coming into crowded lives. Full houses. Limited space. People already stretched thin by census demands, obligations, traditions, and expectations. And into that very relatable human fullness, God arrived in the flesh.

By the early 300s, Christians were already venerating a specific cave in Bethlehem as Jesus’ birthplace. When Emperor Constantine made Christianity the religion of the Roman Empire, he built the Church of the Nativity directly over that cave, which is still there today. Eastern forms of Christianity have preserved this tradition, and their nativity sets show the birth of our Lord happening in a cave or grotto.

In the Christianity that grew in western and northern Europe, animals were usually kept in a separate building from the main house. This gave rise to the interpretation of Jesus being born in a stable. After all, we usually picture what we know. Since he was born in a place apart from the house, the space where there was no room was no longer imagined as a guest room, but rather as a commercial inn.

Why am I telling you all this? Even if you find it interesting, why does it matter? 

Stay with me. 

This fall, a Savior born in the House of Bread became a stumbling block for me. For the first time in my adult life, I was in a church service with other Lutherans and I couldn’t take communion. One of the discoveries of myriad medical tests I underwent this fall was that I have celiac disease. My body cannot process wheat, barley, or rye. It’s a bummer. 

In November, I was at a gathering with fellow Lutheran clergy. More than thirty of us were gathered for conversation and our time together closed with Holy Communion. I noticed there was only one type of wafer. When I quietly asked the hosting pastor if the bread was gluten-free, which is hard to request, he didn’t know for sure. We were also dipping, or intincting, the wafers into the chalice of wine, so I couldn’t drink that either. I stood in the circle as we prayed together, and everyone communed but me. 

I didn’t feel particularly left out because I knew what was happening and I have great trust in God’s inclusive love. I did think a lot, however, about people who would have felt left out or forgotten. For whom a failure to include would feel like specific exclusion. 

I thought about what it feels like to not be able to participate in the meal of the table of our Savior who was born in the “House of Bread”. 

And this is why the truth about the kataluma matters. 

Sometimes the space we’ve made as human beings just doesn’t have enough room for everyone. Even our best intentions go awry. And, let’s face it, sometimes we don’t even have the best intentions. The most faithful of us, the most knowledgeable, the most experienced in life can still come to a place where there is no room for us in the kataluma, in the space that we’re supposed to be able to count on. 

But God’s work goes beyond intention. God doesn’t intend to… God does. 

When Jesus is born in an unexpected place, surrounded by people who might have had other plans for the day, found by shepherds who were otherwise occupied, in an empire obsessed with its own power (like they all are) – when all of this occurs, God is at work.

God’s presence in our world doesn’t happen remotely or accidentally, apart from daily life. It doesn’t happen in a sterile place, perfectly set up. It rarely happens in the expected way or the planned for way. 

The birth of Jesus happens where there was no way, no space, and not even expectation for how it would happen. Yet, in spite of all that, God’s love is born into the world in the middle of all the things, everything all at once. It draws in and welcomes everyone, even the ones who hang back. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you shepherds, you unexpected parents, you with households full of chaos. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you who feel left out, you with big questions, you with broken and grieving hearts. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you who believe Jesus was born in a stable, you who celebrate a Savior born in a cave, you who have never given it that much thought. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you who are aching in body, you with a divided family, you who no longer believe. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you who must eat gluten free, you who are struggling with addiction, you who are still seeking a diagnosis. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you whose house is not perfect, you whose gift will come late, you who just want me to wrap this up and bring it all home. 

Unto us, in the House of Bread, is born a Savior. Born into a busy world of people full of their own concerns. Born to remove the fear of being separated from God. Born to love and show love, to grant mercy, to heal, and to give hope to all. 

Unto us, in the House of Bread, is born a Savior. In stable, in a cave, in the manger of our hearts. 

And where he is, there is the bread of life, born, broken, and given at a table with room for us all. 

Merry Christmas.