October 26, 2025 - Looking forward to Reformation Sunday: After a "No Kings" Weekend

Reading: 1 Kings 5:1–5; 8:1–13

In 1 Kings 5, Solomon begins building a temple “for the name of the Lord my God.” It is a project of immense ambition, stone by stone, cedar by cedar, the dream of a permanent dwelling for the Holy One who journeyed with Israel through wilderness and exile. 

Yet when the temple is finally complete and the Ark is brought inside (1 Kings 8), a cloud descends. The priests cannot stand to minister, for the glory of God fills the house. The moment of triumph is also a moment of holy interruption. The presence of God eclipses the power of kings.

This text meets our own moment with piercing clarity. Don't we always desire a king? When we find a leader we want to follow, isn't the temptation to think of him as king?

 For Christians, we want to make Jesus a king. Even though, starting with John 6:15, when the crowd wants to “take him by force to make him king,” Jesus withdraws to a mountain alone. And in Luke 17:20, when asked about the kingdom, he says, “The kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed… For, in fact, the kingdom of God is among you.” Also in Mark 10:42-45 he tells his disciples, “The rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them… but it shall not be so among you. Whoever wishes to be first must be a slave of all.” 

In Portland, protesters gather beneath the banner “No Kings.” The cry is not anarchic; it is theological. It names the truth that divine presence cannot be possessed by empire or enthroned in human institutions. When the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals considers the Trump administration’s attempt to deploy the National Guard to our city this week, it is not merely a legal action. It is, in its own way, a moral pause, a reminder that peace cannot be manufactured through militarization, and that the rule of law must bend toward the rule of justice.

As to God dwells in the cloud that descends, when the winds rise and the sky darkens, our first instinct is often to seek shelter, to run from the storm. Yet in Scripture, dark clouds and the storm are sometimes the very place where God chooses to speak.

When Job demanded answers, God’s voice came out of the whirlwind (Job 38:1). When Moses met the Holy One on Sinai, the mountain shook, cloaked in cloud and thunder (Exodus 19). The God of the storm is not a destroyer, but a revealer. In the whirlwind, old certainties are swept away. In the thunder, false gods of power and control are drowned out. The dark cloud becomes both veil and revelation, hiding what we cannot bear, revealing what we most need to know: that God is not absent in darkness and turmoil, but deeply, fiercely present.

Our scriptures remind us that the line between temple and throne has always been fragile. Solomon built a house for God, but the monarchy that surrounded it grew corrupt. Power hardened into entitlement, and worship became ceremony without compassion. The prophets would later cry out that God desired mercy, not sacrifice, that the living God was not contained in any house of cedar or system of control.

The “No Kings” protest echoes those prophetic cries. It refuses to bow before the idols of nationalism and cruelty disguised as order. It insists that true authority belongs to the God who sides with the poor, who shelters the unhoused, and who weeps in the tear gas of Portland’s streets.

Sixteen days into a government shutdown, the air is thick with blame and despair. Those with power wield cruelty as policy and call it governance. Yet as Paul Tillich reminds us, the opposite of faith is not doubt, it is despair. To have faith in this season is to refuse despair’s logic. It is to claim the courage to be, to act, to speak, to love, to protest, as though another world is possible.

The theologian Dorothee Sölle called that courage “suffering with”, standing in deep solidarity with those who bear the brunt of systemic violence. God is not distant from such suffering. God is in the breadlines and jail cells, in the parks and protest marches, in the hearts of those who dare to say “No Kings” because they believe in a kingdom of justice and peace.

We are being asked now: Will we be content to worship in temples built by fear and fortified by force? Or will we, like Solomon before the cloud, fall silent before a presence that refuses to be contained, a presence that calls us out of comfort and into communion?

The Spirit still fills the house, but not the house of kings. The Spirit fills the house of the people, those who hunger for mercy, who work for justice, who stand against cruelty as a matter of faith.

To believe in God, in this moment, is to believe that what we do for the least among us matters infinitely.

While celebrating this Reformation Sunday, let's remember not only Luther’s hammer and theses but also the Spirit’s ongoing protest in our own time. Let us remember that “reformation” is not a day in October but a posture of the soul, open to repentance, resistance, and renewal. I keep in mind that every act of mercy, every march for justice, every refusal to bow to tyranny is a confession of faith:  
 

The presence still moves while the "cloud" still descends. The reign of God inevitably has no king.

October 22, 2025 - This Week's "Life Together" Reading & Trump’s Confession as an Unexpected Cracking of the Mask

Bonhoeffer on Confession: The Truth that Frees

In Life Together, Bonhoeffer insists that confession is not a private, sentimental ritual but a radical act of truth-telling, “the breaking through to community.” For him, sin isolates us, and secrecy keeps us alone. True confession means coming into the light, where grace can finally do its work. Bonhoeffer writes:

“In confession, the breakthrough to community takes place. Sin demands to have a man by himself. It withdraws him from the community. The more isolated a person is, the more destructive will be the power of sin over him.”

Bonhoeffer sees confession as the opposite of performance. It is not an act of pious display but of surrender. We do not justify ourselves before others or God; we simply stand in truth and receive mercy. In that mutual humility, community becomes real, not based on shared image or ideology, but on shared grace.

When Donald Trump says he is not sure whether he will go to heaven, it is startling. The man who once claimed he doesn’t “bring God into that picture” and said he had never asked for forgiveness admits uncertainty about his ultimate standing before God.

In one sense, this may be a rare, even grace-filled moment: a crack in the facade of self-assurance. Bonhoeffer might recognize this as the first movement toward truth, a painful but necessary awareness that we cannot secure our own righteousness.

But Bonhoeffer would also warn that confession cannot stop at vague unease. To confess “I am not sure I’ll go to heaven” without also confessing why, without naming sin, without seeking grace, without opening oneself to accountability, remains incomplete. It is awareness without transformation, self-consciousness without surrender.

Bonhoeffer’s vision calls the Christian community to a very different posture than our celebrity-driven culture. The church’s task is not to judge or to gawk at confession, but to become the place where truth can be spoken safely, where even the powerful can kneel without humiliation, and even the forgotten can rise without shame.

If Trump’s admission were met not with mockery or political commentary but with the genuine invitation to confession, it could be the beginning of something real, not only for him, but for a nation addicted to image and denial. Bonhoeffer would say: only when we cease pretending to be righteous can we truly be healed together.

Trump's honesty that he does not feel heaven-bound highlights something I felt about confession when I was reading and reflecting on this chapter. I do not have a background in confession other than the public confession in suburban Lutheran liturgies. Bonhoeffer advocates for confessing partners to personalize confession. There are components he mentions that intrigue me, although I can imagine the struggle with piety he outlines, together with the fear and reluctance to reveal too much.   

Bonhoeffer closes Life Together with communion, the shared meal that follows honest confession. It is the sign that grace has triumphed over secrecy. The table is where the forgiven gather, not the flawless.

Trump’s uncertainty about heaven echoes something all of us must face: that assurance is not found in self-confidence or moral score-keeping, but in the mercy of God made known in community.

To stand before God, uncertain yet honest, may be closer to the kingdom than to stand self-assured and untouched by grace.

“He who is alone with his sin is utterly alone,” Bonhoeffer wrote. But he also knew:“He who confesses his sin in the presence of a brother knows that he is no longer alone; he experiences the presence of God in the reality of the other person.”

October 19, 2025 - Anointed Hearts: The Call of David and Heaven Touching Earth

Reading: 1 Samuel 16:1–13 and the Meaning of Anointing

Sermon 

When Samuel goes to Bethlehem to anoint a new king, he enters a moment of divine subversion. Saul still sits on the throne, but God is already moving in a new direction. Samuel expects majesty, stature, and strength. Namely, the visible signs of leadership. Yet each of Jesse’s impressive sons passes before him, and God whispers, “Not this one.”

Then comes David, the youngest, forgotten, still smelling of sheep and sunlight. No royal bearing, no pedigree of power. Yet this is the one. Samuel pours out the oil, and the Spirit of the Lord moves. The kingdom’s future begins not in the palace, but in the pasture.

That act of anointing, a simple gesture of oil on the forehead, links David’s story to a deeper, ancient rhythm of God’s presence. From the beginning, oil has been a sign of life and Spirit intertwined. In Eden, God’s breath filled the human with divine life. In the wilderness, Jacob anointed a stone where Heaven and Earth met. In the tabernacle, Moses anointed the tent to mark it as a dwelling of God’s presence. Each act of anointing declared: Here, Heaven touches Earth.

When Samuel anointed David, he marked a human being as a living meeting place of Heaven and Earth. This young shepherd became the vessel of divine wisdom and compassion in a time when earthly power had lost its way. Yet like Israel’s priests and kings who came before him, even David’s anointing would ultimately point beyond itself, to a greater hope.

That hope is fulfilled literally in Jesus, the Christ, “the Anointed One.” He is not merely touched by oil but filled with the fullness of God’s Spirit. He is Heaven’s life come to dwell among us, revealing a new kind of kingship, one rooted not in dominance but in love, not in spectacle but in self-giving. Through him, the ancient river of anointing flows outward into all creation.

And when Jesus rose from the dead, that Spirit, once poured on prophets, priests, and kings, was poured out on all who follow him. We, too, become “anointed ones,” and can make bridges between Heaven and Earth, carrying the fragrance of divine life into ordinary places.

So when God looks upon the heart, as with David, God sees not outward status or success but the capacity for Spirit, the openness to become a living vessel of grace. To be anointed today is to allow our hearts, our compassion, our courage, to be the oil through which Heaven still seeps into the world.

The story of David’s anointing, then, is not just about one young shepherd; it’s about the ongoing, quiet revolution of God’s Spirit. It’s about a world being anointed anew, one act of love at a time, until more and more of Earth is filled with the life of Heaven.

Jesus was anointed depending on your perspective:

Type of Anointing	When It Happened	Meaning
By the Spirit	At His Baptism (Luke 3:21–22)	Empowerment for ministry; divine appointment
Public Declaration	In the Nazareth synagogue (Luke 4:18–21)	Announcement of His anointed mission
By Mary at Bethany	Before His Passion (John 12:1–8)	Preparation for burial; acknowledgment of His messianic kingship

When Peter declares, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God,” he gives voice to the Church’s first clear confession of faith. It is the moment when words catch up to revelation, when a fisherman sees, not merely a rabbi or a wonder-worker, but the Anointed One whom Israel has long awaited. Peter’s recognition comes in the light of Galilee, far from Jerusalem’s shadows. It is a revelation of glory, of divine identity unveiled in the midst of human history.

But the meaning of “Christ”, the Anointed One, may not be complete until Bethany. In a house scented with perfume and grief, Mary of Bethany pours costly nard upon Jesus’ feet. What Peter names, Mary enacts. What Peter professes by faith, Mary embodies in love. Her anointing is not political or triumphant; it is tender, extravagant, and prophetic. Jesus says, “She has anointed me for my burial.”

Between Peter’s confession and Mary’s anointing lies the whole mystery of the Gospel: the Christ who reigns by serving, who saves by suffering, who is crowned not by gold but by thorns.

Peter’s insight shows that Jesus is the Christ;
Mary’s devotion reveals what kind of Christ He is:one who is glorified through self-giving love.

Together, their recognitions form the heart of Christian discipleship:
faith that names Jesus as Lord, and love that pours itself out for Him.
To truly recognize Christ, then, is to hold both moments together, the bold confession of the lips and the quiet offering of the heart.

October 14, 2025 - Reading Bonhoeffer's "Life Together": Chapter 4 and a Homily of Pope Leo XIV

The Humility of the Heavens, the Courage of Compassion

“When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you have established; what are human beings that you are mindful of them?”  Psalm 8:3–4

Under the vastness of the night sky, the psalmist feels small, yet deeply known. This is not humiliation, but holy humility: the awareness that our lives are held within something infinitely larger and more sacred than our own designs. It is this humility that anchors authentic faith and true community.

Bonhoeffer called such humility the foundation of all ministry. In Life Together, he urged believers to “place oneself beneath the other,” to listen before speaking, to serve before teaching, to bear burdens without pride or judgment. It is a discipline of presence, a way of making space for Christ to move through us rather than around us. Ministry, in this sense, is not about self-assertion but self-offering, the quiet miracle of making room for another’s dignity.

Pope Leo XIV, speaking nearly a century later at St. Peter’s Square, echoed this same truth in a global key. He called the Church to remain, to stay near to those who suffer, to accompany the migrant, to honor the sacred journey of every displaced and disregarded soul. Mission, he said, is not conquest but compassion; not departure, but presence. The seas and deserts, the borders and shelters, are all sacred ground when love abides there.

But humility and compassion are not virtues safely kept inside sanctuaries. They are forms of resistance in an age when faith is too easily seduced by spectacle and power. When political leaders wrap cruelty in ceremony and call fear holy, the Church must remember who it is, not the chaplain of empire, but the conscience of love. Bonhoeffer knew this in the shadow of tyranny: when the state becomes god, discipleship becomes defiance.

The psalmist’s awe, Bonhoeffer’s humility, and Pope Leo’s compassion converge here, in a vision of faith that kneels before the Creator and stands beside the oppressed. It is the same awe that sees in every human being, even the stranger, a reflection of divine light. It is the same courage that refuses to mistake sirens for sanctity or flags for faith.

Every empire will fall, but the heavens endure.
Every ideology will fade, but the image of God in each person remains.
And when the Church remembers this, when it listens before it speaks, welcomes before it preaches, and serves before it judges, then it becomes again what it was always meant to be:
a community of presence,
a sanctuary of justice,
a people through whom the light of the stars meets the suffering of the world in love.

October 12, 2025 - Speak, Lord, for Your Servant Is Listening

Reading 1 Samuel 3:1–21

Sermon 

We move from Exodus into Samuel.  In the stillness of the night, the young Samuel lies down in the temple, unaware that his world is about to open.

Scripture says, “The word of the Lord was rare in those days; visions were not widespread.” What a haunting line. It describes not only Samuel’s world but often ours, a time when revelation feels dim, when the sacred voice seems drowned out by the noise of power, fear, and exhaustion. What does God's message sound like today? How do we recognize it? Where do we trust we can hear that word?

In Samuel's time, there was a scarcity of Scripture for most people. This was true both in the Old and New Testament eras. This scarcity was due to a mix of practical, cultural, and historical factors: All Scripture, whether Torah scrolls, prophetic writings, or early Christian letters, had to be hand-copied by scribes, often on expensive materials like parchment or papyrus. Each copy took weeks or months to produce. Scrolls or codices were costly and usually owned by synagogues, temples, or wealthy patrons, not individuals.  

Coupled with the haunting line, there is a hopeful observation in the passage, "The lamp of God had not yet gone out." Again, this describes not only Samuel’s world but ours. Many do not treasure God's word, particularly through scripture.  

But God has not gone silent. Divine speech often begins quietly, in forgotten corners and with unexpected people. Samuel was a child, apprenticed to Eli, an old priest whose eyesight was failing. Yet in that very dimness, both literal and spiritual, the lamp of God had not gone out. It flickered in the dark, as if to say: hope remains.

The call comes gently: “Samuel!” He thinks it’s Eli. Three times he runs, ready to serve the human voice he knows, until Eli perceives the truth that it is God calling the boy. And so he teaches Samuel a new posture for hearing: “Go, lie down; and if he calls you, you shall say, ‘Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.’”

This exchange is more than a lesson in prayer. It’s a radical transformation of power. The aging religious leader teaches the child how to listen to God directly. Eli does not hoard authority; he passes it on. He recognizes that revelation belongs to the next generation. In a world that often silences the young, this is holy humility.

When Samuel finally listens, he hears a difficult word. This is a word of accountability for Eli’s household, for the corruption that has taken root in the sanctuary. Samuel’s first prophetic act is to speak truth that unsettles the status quo. God’s call, it turns out, is not simply for comfort, but for courage.

For those of us who long for justice, this story is both an invitation and a challenge. Listening is not passive. It means being ready to hear what disrupts our comfort. It means receiving the voice of God wherever it may arise, in the child, in the refugee, in the earth herself, groaning for renewal.

In our own time, the word of the Lord may seem rare again. But perhaps it is not absent, only unheard. The Spirit still calls out in the night, through liberation movements, through cries for ecological healing, through the brave whisper of conscience that says, “Another world is possible.”

Samuel reminds us that the future of faith depends on people who can say, even in uncertainty, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.” Not to the loudest or the most powerful, but to the still, small voice calling for justice, truth, and love.

God calls to Samuel in the stillness, and at first he mistakes the voice for Eli’s. Three times he runs to the old priest, until Eli perceives that it is God calling the boy. Then Eli, in an act of humility rare for his age and power, teaches Samuel how to listen:

This is not a story about quiet piety. It is a story about courageous listening, about hearing the voice that unsettles us. Samuel’s first message is not one of comfort but of judgment, a word of accountability for the corruption that has taken root in the house of God. The call of God, it turns out, demands both compassion and courage.

Again, in our own day, perhaps the word of the Lord feels rare. The sacred voice seems drowned out by the noise of vengeance, nationalism, and despair. But maybe, like in Samuel’s night, this voice has not gone silent, only unheard. The lamp of God has not yet gone out. It still flickers in the cries of those we would rather not hear: the hostages and the prisoners of the world, the soldier and the protester, the bereaved mother and the orphaned child.

The call of God may come not to the powerful, but to those still capable of listening, those willing to receive God's truth, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”

Listening in such a time is an act of resistance. It refuses the numbness of propaganda and the paralysis of despair. It opens us again to the radical truth that every life is sacred, every voice worthy of hearing.

Once again, a close reading of Bonhoeffer's Life Together is woven together with this scripture passage. 

May we keep the lamp burning.
May we listen deeply.
And may we have the courage, like Samuel, to answer when the night calls our name.

October 7, 2025 - Reading Bonhoeffer's "Life Together": Chapter 3

Trump is claiming Portland is war-ravaged and burning to the ground, and yet there is no fire even on the ICE building block. Quoting the Temporary Restraing Order,Judge Immergut wrote this week, “This is a nation of Constitutional law, not martial law." 

At first glance, Bonhoeffer’s reflections on solitude, community, and the inner life might seem remote from the current events happening in Portland, Oregon, particularly the Trump-Oregon court case about military deployment. Still, for me, deeply, surprising resonances emerged between Life Together (Ch. 3) and the political-constitutional moment in Oregon.

Let me briefly summarize my most pertinent takeaways from Chapter 3, and then explore their possible analogical resonance:

1. The Necessity of Solitude and Listening to God
   Bonhoeffer argues that every Christian must cultivate a “day alone,” a time to face God’s Word, to hear truth within, to be exposed to one’s own inner condition, and thus to enter community (or public engagement) from a place of integrity rather than compulsion.

2. The Danger of Retreat as Pride or Escapism
   He warns that solitude that becomes mere withdrawal or spiritual elitism is corrupt; true solitude leads us back in humility into responsible relationships and communal responsibility.

3. Freedom from Domination, Need, or Coercion
   One fruit of spiritual solitude is a mode of relating to others that is non-demanding, non-manipulative — one is free to enter into fellowship or serve, not to dominate or coerce.

The legal confrontation over deploying federal troops in Portland embodies, in a very real and public way, tensions between centers of power and centers of moral and civic conscience. While Bonhoeffer’s domain is spiritual and ecclesial, his way of thinking can offer salutary insight into what it means to act justly, humbly, and with inner rootedness in public life. Here are several reflections:

In a fraught moment like the Trump-Oregon court case, decision-makers (judges, governors, executives) are under enormous pressure from public opinion, political forces, media, and the weight of institutional expectations. Bonhoeffer would invite them to have their “day alone,” to not be immediately swayed by the loudest voices or populist demands, but to listen for deeper truth and conscience. I'm not seeing evidence of that with the current administration so much as trying to claim presidential power.

I believe Portland leaders have had their "day alone": The judge issuing the temporary restraining order (Judge Immergut) frames her decision in constitutional principle, not raw political expedience: The judge wrote, “This is a nation of Constitutional law, not martial law."  I wonder how she, in her deliberation, inhabited her kind of “day alone” resisting clamors to yield to power or to abandon principle under pressure..

The state of Oregon and the City of Portland did not merely hide behind procedural objections; they brought a lawsuit, grounded in constitutional checks (10th Amendment, Posse Comitatus, separation of powers) and factual argument about the conditions on the ground. Their posture is not flight from conflict but an attempt to engage conflict within legal and moral boundaries. "Consitutional solitude" did not lead to political passivity. Bonhoeffer would likely say that a properly disciplined solitude enables courage and clarity in public resistance.

The deployment of military forces into a civic setting is the extreme form of domination: transferring coercive power into the realm of civil governance. The TRO’s insistence that the protests did not justify military intervention pushes back, in constitutional terms, against coercive overreach.

The court’s decision signals that public order cannot simply be achieved by the threat or presence of force beyond what is justified; the civic order must preserve the dignity and constitutional rights of persons. Overuse of military power in domestic settings risks degrading community life, substituting fear and dominance for real dialogue and accountability.

A final reflection: Bonhoeffer’s discipline of solitude is ultimately about aligning one’s inner life with God’s truth. But in politics and law, there are structural forces, institutional pressures, and collective dynamics that cannot be mastered by one individual’s solitude alone. The struggle is always between the inner and the institutional. The court’s decision is a provisional check (a temporary restraining order) it doesn’t settle everything. Institutions will push back; higher courts, appeals, and political maneuvering lie ahead.

We talked in our last class this week about whether mediating for a half hour a day was reasonable. Most of us in my small group thought it was dependent on what you considered meditation. The Narrative Lectionary scripture was God calling Samuel. Eli teaches Samuel a new posture for hearing: “Go, lie down; and if he calls you, you shall say, ‘Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.’”

 Is this posture meditation, as Bonhoeffer defines it?

The contrast is stark: Bonhoeffer’s solitude is a secure grounding (in God) that enables a person to act with integrity even when institutions fail; but in civic life, that inner grounding must be translated into robust alliances, legal argument, procedural discipline, and public accountability. The Christian (or any conscientious citizen) must live in both spheres: the solitude of moral center and the complexity of public structures.

Obviously, Bonhoeffer’s text is spiritual, not political; it won't assume political authority is illegitimate per se. The case over troop deployment involves complex constitutional, statutory, and factual questions (federalism, war powers, domestic use of force) Bonhoeffer does not directly address in "Life Together."

Yet, bringing Bonhoeffer and a high-stakes constitutional case together is not about drawing literal one-to-one correspondences, but about how spiritual vision can inform our civic imagination. We are reminded that public actors (judges, officials, citizens) need the discipline of inner solitude to resist the pressures of power, noise, and ideological urgency. We learn that resistance must not become withdrawal. We see that a healthy polity resists domination, even (especially) when masked in the name of “law and order.”

I can't help but meditate on how much more complex Bonhoeffer's "day alone" discipline is within an environment dominated by social media and, what many now see as, Martin Luther King Jr.'s justice demand to be addressed in the "fierce urgency of now." 

Finally, perhaps this moment in Portland (and Oregon) calls not just for legal rulings but for deeper civic conversion: a public ethos in which power is held in check, moral witness is cultivated, and community is fostered rather than coerced.

October 5, 2025 - Trusting that God Provides Manna for All

 

Reading: Exodus 16:1-18 

Sermon 

The story of manna in the wilderness is not simply about food. Manna is the product of God's teaching a liberated people how to live differently. This weekend, as I write, this reading is a well-timed lesson for Portland, Oregon. The Oregon National Guard has been deployed. Who knows what will happen by the time this coming Sunday rolls around?

The Israelites, newly freed from Pharaoh, find themselves in the desert, hungry and afraid. Freedom is not as easy as they imagined. Their first instinct is to long for the past, even for the days of slavery, because at least then the bread and safety seemed certain.

Fear always makes what happened in the past look safer and more stable than it was. I understand how this is attractive. I want a past where I felt safer. I dread escalating clashes during the night more than I did before this weekend. And I certainly can understand and empathize with the frustration of those who live near ICE facilities, where noise remains a persistent issue. However, even they know that sending troops here will not solve the noise disturbances.

Dramatic threats of "providing troops authorized to use full force" that stoke national divisions will not finally stop future confrontations between ICE and ICE protesters.  The last time I am aware of a protester threatening ICE officers or the building was in June, and that was handled by local law enforcement. 

I truly believe that the government's best response to any challenge, like God's, is not answered by exerting unilateral, unwanted control, but rather offering the "bread" of cooperation, coordination, and continued conversation. Helping Manna rains down, not in excess, not as luxury, but as sufficiency. Each day’s gift is enough, no more and no less. God’s lesson is profound: liberation is not only escaping Pharaoh, but unlearning Pharaoh’s economy of hoarding, anxiety, and exploitation. God shapes the people toward an economy of enough for everyone. 

Creator is currently modeling this economy on a small scale with the thriving Farmland Produce Distribution Project garden on Creator’s property. We are also engaging with the diversity, support, and prayers we are currently sharing with our current neighbors, the Madres.

This vision of sufficiency and sharing contrasts sharply with the voices of fear and division in our own world. We hear leaders describe cities, like ours, as “war-ravaged” and “out of control,” invoking images of scarcity, danger, and chaos. Such rhetoric is not far from the Israelites’ cry: “If only we had died in Egypt, when we ate our fill of bread!” It is the language of fear, telling us that safety must lie in control, in force, in protecting what we imagine is ours from those we imagine are threats.

But the manna story refuses this narrative. God’s answer to fear is not domination but provision. God does not send battalions to patrol the wilderness; God sends bread that all can gather equally. The divine pattern is not “full force if necessary,” but shared sufficiency. In God’s economy, no one hoards at another’s expense, no one is left hungry, and rest itself is sacred.

In the manna story, sufficiency is not only about daily bread but also about sacred rest. On the seventh day, no manna fell, and no one needed to gather. God built Sabbath into the pattern of provision, reminding the people that freedom also means freedom from endless work and anxiety. Some say this has been years in the making. Overall, describing Portland as war-ravaged is simply an inaccurate mischaracterization to fit into some "insurrection" narrative. It does not currently apply to this city.  

In our time, any deployed troops are currently a radical and a temporary corrective. We are told repeatedly that resources are scarce, that enemies are everywhere, that we must cling tightly to what we have and defend it with force. Yet manna whispers a different truth: abundance comes when we trust God’s provision and live in solidarity. True security does not come from militarization or fear of our neighbors. A loving, long-lasting response comes from ensuring that every neighbor has bread in their hands.

The manna story, then, is not a nostalgic myth but a radical vision. God’s justice looks like daily bread shared freely, enough for each, with no one left out and no one left wanting. Against the voices that call for fear, division, and force, manna invites us into God’s alternative economy: sufficiency, equality, and rest.

I am listening to and trusting in this coming Sunday's scripture.