Epiphany 4

         I’ve always loved public speech — you know what I mean:  the most inspiring thoughts, expressed in evocative, poetic words, with phrasing and rhythm so compelling you can hear it in your head from the written word on the page, or carved in marble or cast in iron on the wall, just like it was being spoken from a pulpit, or a podium — or a plain — or even a mountain, like Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, as today’s gospel is commonly known. The Sermon on the Mount, or the Beatitudes, are public speech that some public thinkers and writers over time — notably Kurt Vonnegut — have argued we should recite in church instead of the Nicene Creed, which, with apologies and affection to my dear friend Ben Wyatt, a contemporary Nicene Creed scholar, is primarily a theological accord, not a call to faithful action. I’m talking about the kind of phrases and ideas that summon our very best selves, lifting up and defining our character, who we are in community, how we interact with one another, and what values we share, as a matter of common belief.   

           These uplifting, redirecting, galvanizing words call upon the better angels of our nature, as the very master of inspiring public writing, President Abraham Lincoln, said in his 1861 inaugural address, stirring moral rather than transactional motivations, urging the pursuit of justice and moving us to become better versions of ourselves. Or Martin Luther King, Jr.’s I have a dream speech that is now imbedded in our very bones, or King’s inspiring call to beloved community that Bishop Knisely preached at confirmation two weeks ago. From the fairly recent past, I think of presidential speechwriters like Ted Sorensen (JFK) and Peggy Noonan (Reagan), or for my money, Aaron Sorkin, who wrote President Bartlet’s speeches in The West Wing for the speechwriter character Toby Ziegler, or Barbara Hall, who wrote Elizabeth McCord’s speeches in Madam Secretary for character Matt Mahoney. 

           One of my very favorite public writers, conservative columnist David Brooks, wrote his farewell op/ed piece for The New York Times Friday, and I commend it to your attention.  Brooks is headed back into academia at Yale, he says in the piece. I tried semester after semester during divinity school to get into one of his classes, but never drew the golden ticket. Lucky Yalies now. In this farewell, this valediction to his role as a New York Times columnist, Brooks talks about some of the things we’ve noticed and highlighted at Emmanuel — social isolation, loss of community, and the resulting political and social ills, and proposes deepening community to relieve the loneliness, suspicion of difference, tribalism, and other forms of extremism that come from the erosion of our common ground. 

           I’m not saying that we have all the answers, but I do think we’re on the right track with our questions. Remember the work we did with last year’s Lenten program — Church Saves Lives — coordinated through RENEWport with Harvard social scientist Robert Putnam, whose work is all about reconnecting our communities for our mutual thriving. We know that strong communities are not only the antidote to the depression, anxiety, substance abuse, political radicalism, and other more serious forms of self-harm that come from social isolation, they also improve physical health with lower cortisol levels, quicker recovery after surgery and accidental injury, and better overall cardio-vascular health.  Brooks goes deeper, asking of our low social cohesion,

How can we reverse this pervasive loss of faith in one another, in our future and in our shared ideals? I do not believe that most people can flourish in a meaningless, nihilistic universe. Despite what the cynics say, I still believe we’re driven not only by the selfish motivations but also by the moral ones — the desire to pursue some good, the desire to cooperate, to care for one another and to belong.

That’s our project at Emmanuel. We are connecting, deepening our community, and working together with God to lift spirits, nurture empathy, and respect the dignity of every human being, both the ones who root for the Patriots and the ones who are Seahawks fans — even if they watch different news channels than we do. 

           This week, I stumbled across the blog of another of my favorite public writers, Nadia Bolz-Weber, author, Lutheran minister, public theologian, former standup comic, and founder of The Church of All Sinners and All Saints in Denver, a safe space for those who fell outside the church’s usual census list. Bolz-Weber, I should note, is a great friend of our friend Maggi Dawn, and studied Maggi’s cafe-style services and settings for a broader welcome as she began her own ministry. Bolz-Weber’s blog speaks straight into our gospel today, translating into our common vernacular — how belonging to God and to each other — saves our lives and makes us whole. 

Blessed are the agnostics, she writes. Blessed are they who doubt. Those who aren’t sure, who can still be surprised. Blessed are they who are spiritually impoverished and therefore not so certain about everything that they no longer take in new information. Blessed are those who have nothing to offer. … Blessed are they for whom death is not an abstraction. Blessed are they who have loved enough to know what loss feels like. … Blessed are they who don’t have the luxury of taking things for granted anymore. 

Bolz-Weber’s contemporary take on the Beatitudes helps make sense of these tough, counter-intuitive proclamations of blessing on times in our lives that feel way more like woe for our 2026 ears. She upends our expectations with an improbable assertion, especially in a church context — blessed are those who doubt with the surprising observation that doubters’ lack of certainty leaves them open to the community, ready to learn something new or change their minds. Bolz-Weber’s Beatitudes bring forward the connection and consolation that come from community, console loss, and heal isolation. 



           These counterintuitive blessings can be hard to hear. How can it be that God blesses us with poverty, hunger, or isolation? It’s just the way community works. These desolations of body and spirit inspire our humanity, stir our empathy, and engage us in common values, drawing us close to console and comfort — knitting together the body of Christ — the community that sustains us. Blessed are you who came to church today with questions, mixed feelings, or worried about the coming snow.  The Beatitudes tell us that God’s blessing is with us as we come together in community and work for things to be better. As we head into the Annual Meeting with an eye on the weather, we trust that God calls this imperfect, sometimes anxious community blessed simply because we show up and stay at the table together. Blessed are the agnostics and doubters, because they keep us honest. They are the ones who can ask whether we’re really doing our best. Blessed are we, whatever we bring to the table, in trusting God will knit us more closely into the body of Christ in this place.  Amen