Tag: preaching

Sermon: The Days of a Tree – Labor Not in Vain

Honea Path, resurrection, and the work whose meaning exceeds visible success

Yesterday afternoon, a remarkable thunderstorm moved across Spartanburg as we gathered for the UCC Progressive Christian service at the Unitarian Universalist Church. Rain fell hard enough to make driving difficult, while thunder rolled over the sanctuary, and lightning kept plenty of sensible people at home. The congregation in the room was small. Another, more sizable congregation gathered through the livestream.

In a strange way, the weather belonged to the service. We had come to speak about labor and Sabbath, land and water, and what it means to trust that work given to the life of the world is never finally empty. Outside, water moved over roofs, parking lots, red clay, and roots. Inside, the call to worship named rest as both gift and justice: belonging, renewal, fair wages, and Sabbaths that everyone deserves.

September 6 also marked the ninety-second anniversary of the Chiquola Mill massacre at Honea Path. On that morning in 1934, seven striking textile workers were killed while seeking better wages and hours, union recognition, and relief from the “stretch-out” that forced fewer people to tend faster machinery. When local churches would not open their doors for the funerals, around ten thousand people gathered in a field.

That history became the difficult center of the meditation. Paul’s assurance that “in the Lord your labor is not in vain” can become another pious instruction to keep working, especially when it is separated from the resurrection argument that precedes it. Honea Path will not permit that easy reading. What can Paul’s words mean when the workers were killed, the strike was broken, the union disappeared, and the churches refused to make room?

Isaiah 65 gave us another way of imagining the promise. The prophet describes renewed creation through houses people are allowed to inhabit, vineyards whose planters eat the fruit, and lives that endure “like the days of a tree.” Justice appears as the closing of the distance between our hands and our bread. Paul places that creaturely hope within resurrection. Resurrection keeps the losses honest while refusing to grant violence, exploitation, or death authority over the final meaning of a life.

The service moved from a call to Sabbath through Psalm 90, Isaiah 65, and 1 Corinthians 15; from “God of Grace and God of Glory” and “Come, Ye Thankful People, Come” to “Come, Labor On”; from the sermon to an open table and finally Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come” (one of my favs that has found its way into a good many services with my sermons over the last decade). That final song carried us out with longing instead of easy triumph.

The full service is below, beginning at the point linked in the video (though I encourage you to watch all of it, as the music and Merianna’s meditations are incredible. The prepared meditation text follows.

The Days of a Tree

“Labor Not in Vain”
UCC Progressive Christian Service · Unitarian Universalist Church of Spartanburg
September 6, 2026

Isaiah 65:17–25 · 1 Corinthians 15:51–58

Six miles east of here, Lawson’s Fork drops over the old dam at Glendale and runs on toward the Pacolet. Brick towers and smokestacks remain from the cotton mill begun there in the 1830s. The machinery stopped in 1961, and a fire took most of the building in 2004. Now hardwood roots work down among bricks laid by human hands.

Before we say anything about labor that is not in vain, I want us to stand somewhere specific, on a particular morning, with particular people.

About an hour southwest of Glendale, the Chiquola Mill stood at the center of Honea Path. On September 6, 1934, ninety-two years ago today, roughly three hundred workers gathered outside its gate. They were part of the largest textile strike in American history, seeking better wages and hours, union recognition, and relief from the “stretch-out,” which required fewer people to tend faster machinery.

The mill superintendent was Dan Beacham. He was also the mayor and exercised the authority of a local magistrate. The mill, the town, and the law had gathered into the hands of one man.

When the governor declined Beacham’s request for the National Guard, more than a hundred local men and anti-union mill workers were deputized and armed. A First World War machine gun was placed on the mill roof. When a scuffle broke out at the gate, gunfire came from the mill. The machine gun jammed, yet the rifles did not.

Six workers died that day. A seventh died from his wounds soon afterward. Most were shot from behind as they fled. Around thirty more people were wounded, including women. Eleven strikebreakers were charged with murder. No one was convicted.

Workers who supported the strike were fired and evicted from company houses. The strike ended with few tangible gains, and union organizing in Honea Path never recovered.

Survivors remembered that the churches would not open their doors for the funerals. About ten thousand people gathered in a field instead. One man later said, “It just tore the churches up.”

A memorial was finally placed in Dogwood Park in 1995. These are the names cut into it:

Claude Cannon
E. M. Knight
Lee Crawford
Maxie Peterson
Ira Davis
C. L. Rucker
Thomas Yarborough

The words above them read: “They Died for the Rights of the Working Man.”

We have called this service Labor Not in Vain. Those seven names make the phrase difficult, and they should.

The strike was broken. The dead left families behind. Their neighbors mourned them in a field because the churches were afraid to make room. The mill eventually closed, and the town carried its silence for generations.

What can “labor not in vain” possibly mean in front of a history like that?

We could turn Paul’s words into a religious version of “work harder.” Employers have always been happy for preachers to praise the endurance of exhausted people. Honea Path closes off that easy reading. If Paul’s claim has any truth, it must be true where work failed by every measurement the world knows how to take.

Scripture has no fear of that question. Ecclesiastes asks, “What do people gain from all the toil at which they toil under the sun?” The word repeated through the book is hevel. Our Bibles often translate it as “vanity.” It means vapor, mist, breath on a cold morning. It is entirely real, and you cannot make it stay.

Qoheleth has watched people build what someone else will own and plant what someone else will eat. He refuses to lie about the arithmetic. Labor can be wasted and stolen. Some work wounds the worker, exhausts the land, and enriches people who never touch either one.

Paul offers no blessing for every demand placed upon a human body. Human dignity comes before productivity. The Sabbath declares that people, animals, and land possess value beyond what can be extracted from them. Even God rests. Faithful labor includes refusing arrangements that consume people and call that consumption necessary.

Then Isaiah gives us a picture of the world such work seeks.

Isaiah speaks to people trying to make a life among ruins. He describes renewed creation through ordinary things. People build houses and live in them. They plant vineyards and eat their fruit. Labor and life belong together again.

Growing up in my Southern Baptist church in the Pee Dee, I heard passages like this directed toward heaven. Isaiah puts the vision on the ground: “They shall not build and another inhabit; they shall not plant and another eat.” The hands that build are allowed to dwell. The hands that plant are allowed to harvest.

And then Isaiah says, “For like the days of a tree shall the days of my people be.”

I have a black walnut in my backyard, and lately I’ve begun keeping a deliberate journal of time spent beneath it. This summer it began dropping walnuts in late July, earlier than I expected. The tree was carrying our dry weather in ways I was only beginning to notice.

The walnut was there before we came, and it will likely remain after we are gone. Its roots reach into soil I cannot see. It makes walnuts it will never gather. It works in a time I do not control and cannot complete.

When Isaiah imagines people released from futile labor, he reaches for the life of a tree. Justice takes arboreal time. It means remaining long enough to inhabit what your hands have made while giving yourself to a future whose harvest you may never see.

The next verse says, “They shall not labor in vain.” Its ancient Greek words come remarkably close to Paul’s language in First Corinthians. Whether Paul intended the echo or whether we simply hear the passages together, Isaiah gives Paul’s promise houses, vineyards, children, and trees.

Paul places that creaturely hope inside resurrection.

That is why the first word of Paul’s conclusion matters so much: “Therefore.”

Paul has spent the chapter talking about bodies raised, creation changed, and death swallowed up in victory. Therefore, he says, be steadfast, because your labor is not in vain. The word he uses for labor carries toil and weariness within it. Paul can say that such labor is not empty because resurrection grounds the claim.

Resurrection leaves the losses honest. The strike still broke. The families still grieved. The church doors remained shut. The violence never becomes useful or secretly good.

Then resurrection makes a claim beyond the reach of any mill owner, mayor, market, or gun. The powers that break a life do not possess its final meaning.

Dan Beacham could close the gates. He could fire workers and remove families from company houses. He could help keep their bodies outside the churches of their own town. He could not decide what their lives were worth.

Their deaths were never a price that had to be paid for progress. Their lives possessed a worth no defeat could cancel. Resurrection refuses to surrender that worth to the people who killed them or to the silence that followed.

This story belongs to 1934. The question it asks belongs to us.

Here in Spartanburg, we are living through another rearrangement of labor, land, water, and power. A data center is taking shape at the former Kohler site on South Pine Street. It will require immense amounts of electricity and water while employing a fraction of the people the old mills employed. Three days from now, County Council’s Public Safety Committee will hold a special hearing about data centers.

I have written about that project, and I do not stand outside it. I use these technologies. My research, writing, and daily life move through servers somewhere. The electricity and water serve me too. It is easier to see the machine gun on the roof from ninety-two years away than to see whose labor, land, air, and water support the convenience in my own hand.

Isaiah gives us questions for Wednesday’s hearing. Do those whose lives bear the cost share in the good being built? Can the worker inhabit the house? Can the planter eat the fruit? Will children inherit a place in which they can live?

The machinery changes. The moral stakes remain recognizable.

So I want to leave us with the tree.

The promise of resurrection offers no guarantee that we will finish the work, control the outcome, or live to see the harvest. Isaiah’s first hearers still knew ruins. Paul was executed by an empire. Seven workers at Honea Path received a field instead of a sanctuary, and their families inherited decades of silence.

The promise is arboreal: “Like the days of a tree shall the days of my people be.”

One of my heroes, Wendell Berry, died this week. In his “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front,” he wrote:

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.

Faithful work enters a life larger than our own. We cannot command its fruit. We can give ourselves to the life within it. The God who raises the dead holds its meaning beyond the mill, the market, visible success, and the silence afterward.

And one more thing.

Ninety-two years ago, the churches of Honea Path would not make room for the bodies of seven workers.

This morning, on September 6, in a Unitarian Universalist sanctuary, at a progressive Christian service, with a Baptist standing before you, we have spoken their names beneath a church roof.

This is a small act. It comes very late. It cannot repair what happened in that field.

It can break the inherited silence.

Claude Cannon.
E. M. Knight.
Lee Crawford.
Maxie Peterson.
Ira Davis.
C. L. Rucker.
Thomas Yarborough.

“Therefore, my beloved, be steadfast, immovable, always excelling in the work of the Lord, because you know that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.”

Amen.

Sources and Further Reading

Home Ground: Two Sundays at the UU Church of Spartanburg

At the Unitarian Universalist Church of Spartanburg, what I would ordinarily call a sermon is called a meditation. That turned out to be the right word for what I was invited to offer there over two Sundays this August.

Their Minister, the incredible Scott Neely, asked me to think with the congregation about home. I had been writing for much of the summer about watersheds, attention, Edith Stein, and the moral life of a place, so I began with the most ordinary piece of ground I know: the slope behind our house in Spartanburg, where rain leaves the roof, crosses the yard beneath a black walnut, and begins its long movement toward Fairforest Creek, the Pacolet, the Broad, the Congaree, the Santee, and finally the Atlantic.

The two meditations became a small series called Home Ground: Watershed, Attention, and the Life We Hold in Common. The first asked where the water goes. The second asked what we demand of it while it is here. Between those questions is much of what I have been trying to understand in my academic work and my writing at Carolina Ecology: how attention reveals a world already shared, how empathy corrects the assumption that my own position is the center of that world, and how those discoveries become obligations within the places where we actually live.

The First Home Is a Watershed

The first meditation began with a roof and a claim that has stayed with me: every house in this county sits on a slope, and the slope decides where the water goes.

That sentence sounds like hydrology because it is simple hydrology (which I loved teaching in my years as a Middle School Science teacher!). It also unsettles many of our usual ways of describing home. A deed tells me where my property ends. Water crosses that line without consulting it. A street address places our house within a human system of roads and mail routes. The watershed gives us another address entirely. It tells us that we are downstream of someone and upstream of someone else, receiving what has already passed through another place and sending something onward in turn.

This is where Edith Stein’s account of empathy entered the meditation. Stein describes the lived body as the zero point of orientation, the here around which every there arranges itself. Encounter with another person reveals another center, another here from which I appear as a there. The encounter does not erase the difference between us. It discloses a common world that neither of us invented and neither of us owns.

I have come to think that a watershed can teach something similar. The water won’t let my yard remain the center. It leaves. It carries the material history of one place into another. It gives the abstract claim that we are related a direction, a gradient, and sometimes a muddy pair of shoes.

The meditation also returned to the black walnut in our backyard, where I sit most mornings before the children wake and the day becomes noisy. After enough mornings, a tree ceases to be scenery. It becomes a tutor in the discipline of attention. That tree has been holding a corner of our slope together, shading our children, feeding squirrels, and keeping the red clay from leaving for the creek. The ground has been keeping us all along.

The full service is below. The video begins at the start of the meditation, though the music, readings, and life of the congregation are worth hearing too.

The meditation begins at 25:24.

The complete text is available at Carolina Ecology: The First Home Is a Watershed.

What We Ask of the Water

The first Sunday moved from hydrology toward relation. The second had to ask what relation costs.

That week the question became unavoidably local. On South Pine Street, at the former Kohler factory site, a large data center project was moving forward. At a county fact-finding meeting, Spartanburg Water estimated that the facility would use roughly 459,000 gallons of water each day, an amount comparable to the use of more than two thousand single-family homes. County Council had also delayed the final reading of a proposed data center moratorium until September.

Those facts placed an old prophetic text inside the county calendar. Amos speaks to a society that is prosperous, religious, and convinced of its own order. He calls for justice to roll down like water and righteousness like an enduring stream. The Hebrew image is stronger and stranger than the familiar English rendering sometimes allows. Amos imagines a seasonal watercourse that keeps running, a torrent that cannot be waited out or crossed on foot.

The important question was larger than whether the water system has the technical capacity to serve one more customer. Engineers can answer that question, and their answer matters. Another question stands behind it: Who belongs to the “we” making the request? Who is present when the cost is assessed? How far downstream does the moral community extend?

Here, Stein’s account of empathy became political. A public hearing, at its best, is a civic practice for shifting the zero point. It brings other centers of experience into the room and reveals that the official account of a place is partial. A person who wakes to the sound of construction at three in the morning knows something a permit does not contain. A longtime water customer knows something that cannot be reduced to projected capacity. Lawson’s Fork, the Pacolet, and the Broad hold claims that our procedures still have difficulty hearing.

I also wanted to say plainly that I am implicated in the demand. I use the cloud every day. My doctoral work, this website, Carolina Ecology, and the sermon itself depend upon machines housed in buildings like the one being built on South Pine Street. Innocence would be a false position from which to speak. The more useful work is to ask whether the arrangements among us are right, whether the public has genuinely been allowed to appear, and whether the water will leave the encounter diminished.

The full service is below. Once again, the recording begins at the meditation, and once again I recommend the whole service. TJ Turner’s music, including Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi” and Marvin Gaye’s “Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology),” made its own argument more eloquently than I could.

The meditation begins at 33:40.

The complete text is available at Carolina Ecology: What We Ask of the Water.

A Common World

I am deeply grateful to Scott and Anne, Erin and Kimberly, TJ and Clemson, Janice, and the staff and tech team at UUCS for their hospitality and trust. I am especially grateful to the congregation. The conversations after both services continued the meditations in ways I could never have written beforehand. Several people gave me new questions about the proposed ordinance, the history of this county, and the responsibilities carried by people who depend upon the same systems they are trying to examine.

That experience clarified something about the relationship between my academic work and public theology. I have been using the phrase ecological intentionality to describe a form of attention adequate to a world of living relations. In a seminar paper, that can remain a conceptual problem. In a sanctuary, with a bowl of water rippling near the chalice and a county decision approaching on the calendar, the idea has to touch the ground.

These two Sundays helped me see the movement more clearly. Attention teaches us where we are. Empathy reveals that our view from here is one view among others. A watershed gives that common world a material form. Public life asks whether we will organize our decisions as though any of this were true.

The map shows ownership. The slope shows relation. We need both kinds of knowledge. Only one of them tells us where the water is already going.

From Clockwork to Communion: Preaching Process Ecology for a Planet in Crisis

I posted this ~10 min podcast yesterday on Carolina Ecology and thought I’d share here as well!

From Clockwork to Communion: Preaching Process Ecology for a Planet in Crisis:

I’m always surprised by how poorly we “preach” ecology in church settings. I don’t mean that in terms of just formal sermons from a Minister during Sunday Service (although I’ve heard some rough ones over the years, particularly dealing with ecology), but instead the type of preaching that we do in Sunday School discussions or Children’s Sermons.

So, I offer these ten minutes with thoughts on a few influential thinkers and how they have helped shape my own conceptions of God, Communion, Ecology, and even “Events,” and how that might impact other ministries.

Sermon: “Reimagining Sacred Spaces: The Ecological Call in 1 Kings”

I was honored to be asked to preach today at Garden of Grace UCC in Columbia, SC by my favorite pastor, Rev. Merianna Harrelson. I gave a little backstory about my interest and studies in ecology and religion (and why that’s such a fascinating topic) before bringing in our passage from 1 Kings (my favorite biblical book for many reasons). Here’s that passage if you’d like to read along with the sermon text here:

Introduction:

Good morning, Church. It’s a blessing to be with you today in our Garden of Grace as we gather to worship and reflect on God’s presence in our lives. 

I have a seemingly strange background. My background as a classroom teacher is about the interactions of things and how things move. That led to the chance to teach AP Physics, Environmental Science, Life Science, and Earth and Space Science over the years. These are all classes about topics I am deeply fascinated with because of the connections. The other half of my background is theological and spiritual, also focused on connections. 

One of the questions that always seemed to have popped up after a few weeks in the classroom with a new set of students was, “Mr. Harrelson, do you believe in aliens if you are religious and study science?” It’s a great question, and I’d usually use the famous astronomer Carl Sagan’s point that if we’re all alone, it’s a mighty big waste of … space. 

But I’m here to tell you today that we are not alone. We have never been alone. I’m not talking about aliens, but I’m talking about the research that modern science, philosophy, and theology are showing about our concept of intelligence and consciousness. This isn’t just about dolphins, puppies, and whales. We’re seeing data from everywhere that creatures once thought to be non-intelligent are actually intelligent. Plants, trees, bacteria, ants, insects…, and even “non-living” entities are showing surprising data. Water? Could water be “intelligent?”

No, we are not alone. We have just created self-imposed cages around ourselves to make us feel alone. We have hidden behind screens to hide ourselves away from the connection to each other and the Creation. And that’s just how the powers that be want us to be… trapped and ready to buy on demand and stream our health away to fuel systems of spiritual oppression.

Today’s scripture from 1 Kings is a powerful reminder of the sacred spaces that connect us to God and how to overcome this spiritual oppression. As I’ve been preparing this sermon, I’ve been reflecting on how this passage resonates with my current work in ecological theology. As some of you know, I’ve been delving deeply into the intersection of spirituality and ecology. I believe there’s a profound message for us here today, especially as we consider the beauty and challenges of our own environment here in South Carolina.

The passage we read from 1 Kings 8:22-30, 41-43, is part of Solomon’s prayer of dedication for the Temple. This Temple was not just a building; it was the heart of Israel’s spiritual life, a place where the presence of God was believed to dwell among the people. As we think about the significance of this Temple, I invite us to consider the sacred spaces in our own lives—both the ones we build and the ones that have been gifted to us by creation.

I. The Temple as a Sacred Space (1 Kings 8:22-30)

Let’s start by reflecting on the Temple itself. In Solomon’s time, this was a monumental achievement, a physical space where heaven and earth met. The people of Israel believed that God’s presence was uniquely manifest in this place, and they came to it with reverence and awe.

But what makes a space sacred? Is it the stones and the gold, the grandeur of the architecture? Or is it something more? Theologians and scholars have long debated this, but there’s a simple truth that transcends these discussions: a space becomes sacred when it is recognized as a place where God’s presence is honored and felt.

Throughout history, many cultures have recognized natural landscapes as sacred spaces—forests, rivers, mountains—as places where the divine presence is felt. In South Carolina, we are blessed with an abundance of such spaces. Think of the Congaree National Park, with its towering trees and rich biodiversity. Or the peaceful marshlands along our coast, teeming with life. These places, too, are sacred, not because we have built something there, but because they are part of God’s creation, where life thrives, and where we can feel a deep connection to the divine.

As we reflect on Solomon’s Temple, I invite you to consider how we can recognize and honor the sacred spaces in our own environment. How can we approach these natural places with the same reverence that the Israelites brought to the Temple?

II. The Role of the Stranger (1 Kings 8:41-43)

In the second part of our reading, Solomon prays for the foreigner—the stranger—who comes to the Temple. He asks that God hears the prayers of those who are not part of Israel so that “all the peoples of the earth may know your name and fear you.”

This is a radical inclusivity in worship, recognizing that the presence of God is not confined to one people or one place. It’s a powerful reminder that God’s love and presence are for all, and that we are called to welcome the stranger, to extend our care and compassion beyond our immediate community.

There is a deep ecological parallel here. Just as Solomon prays for the foreigner, we must extend our care for creation beyond our immediate environment. The challenges we face—climate change, species loss, pollution—are not confined to one region or one people. They are global challenges that connect us to a larger, global community.

Let me share a story that highlights this connection. In the 13th century, St. Francis of Assisi, a figure well-known for his love of all creatures, referred to the sun, moon, and even death as his “brothers” and “sisters.” He saw all of creation as part of one family, interconnected and equally loved by God. In his famous Canticle of the Sun, he praises God for the elements of creation, recognizing their value not just for humanity but for all life.

Closer to home, we can look to the Gullah/Geechee communities along the South Carolina coast. These communities have long understood the importance of living in harmony with the land and the sea. They’ve worked to protect their environment, recognizing that their culture and spirituality are deeply intertwined with the health of the ecosystems around them.

As we think about the stranger, the foreigner, and the interconnectedness of all creation, let’s ask ourselves: How can we extend our care for the environment to those places and creatures we may never see, but whose well-being is connected to our own?

III. The Call to Reimagine Our Relationship with Creation

This brings us to a crucial point: the call to reimagine our relationship with creation. My own journey in studying ecological theology has led me to explore how ancient and medieval understandings of ecology can inform our current approach to environmental stewardship.

In these earlier times, people often viewed themselves as part of a larger, living world, not separate from it. They understood that their well-being was directly tied to the health of the environment. They saw themselves as participants in creation, not just consumers of it.

In South Carolina, we have a unique opportunity to reimagine our relationship with the natural world. From the urban green spaces here in Columbia to the conservation efforts in our rural areas, we can take steps to protect and restore the environment, not just for our own sake but for the sake of future generations.

One practical way we can do this is by participating in local environmental initiatives. For example, the Congaree Riverkeeper is doing vital work to protect and preserve our rivers. Or consider supporting sustainable agriculture projects that not only provide healthy food but also care for the land.

Another concept that has emerged in my studies is the idea of an “ecological sabbath”—a time to disconnect from the busyness of life and reconnect with nature. This could be as simple as setting aside a few hours each week to spend time outdoors, to walk in the woods, to listen to the birds, and to reflect on our place in the web of life.

IV. Practical Applications: Living Out Our Ecological Spirituality

As we move towards the conclusion of our time together, I want to encourage each of you to think about how you can live out this ecological spirituality in your own lives. Here are a few steps we can take:

  • Explore Natural Areas with Reverence: Spend time in the natural areas around Columbia and South Carolina with a sense of reverence and stewardship. Recognize these spaces as sacred and approach them with care and respect.
  • Support Local Environmental Organizations: Consider getting involved with or supporting local organizations that are working to protect our environment. Groups like the Congaree Riverkeeper or the South Carolina Wildlife Federation are doing important work that we can all support.
  • Practice an Ecological Sabbath: Make time to disconnect from the noise of everyday life and reconnect with nature. Use this time to reflect on your relationship with creation and to seek God’s presence in the natural world. Even here in the scorching heat of Columbia in the Summer, there is God to be found amidst the humidity!

Psalm 84 says, “How lovely is your dwelling place, O Lord of hosts!” This verse reminds us that all of creation is a dwelling place for God, worthy of our respect and care. Whether it’s the towering trees of the Congaree, the rolling hills of the Piedmont, or the quiet marshes of the Lowcountry, these places are all part of God’s creation, and they are all sacred.

Conclusion:

As we close, I want to leave you with this thought: The Temple that Solomon built was a place where heaven and earth met, a place where people could come to feel the presence of God. But we are not limited to finding God’s presence in buildings. The entire earth is a sacred space, a place where we can encounter the divine.

Let us go forth with a renewed commitment to care for the earth as an act of faith, recognizing the sacredness in every part of creation. Let us see ourselves as participants in this beautiful, intricate web of life that God has created, and let us work together to protect and restore the world around us.

Closing Prayer:

Loving God, we thank you for the gift of creation, for the beauty of the earth, and the abundance of life that surrounds us. Help us to see all spaces, both built and natural, as sacred. Guide us in our stewardship of the earth, give us wisdom in our ecological decisions, and deepen our sense of connection to you and to all creation. May we go forth with hearts open to your presence in every corner of the world, committed to caring for your creation as an act of love and worship. In Your holy name, we pray. Amen.

The Architecture of Life Sermon

I preached today at Garden of Grace UCC in Columbia, SC (where Rev. Merianna Harrelson is the Pastor). The main thread of the sermon and the service was a rumination on Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King’s talk at Barratt Jr. High School in Philadelphia in 1967. The video of his words was feared lost for decades until they were recovered and then posted here on YouTube. I have listened to many of MLK’s sermons available in various formats over the years, but this talk/lesson/sermon always resonates with me, given that I’m a teacher.

The basic idea is that we are all working on our life’s blueprint. That’s especially true for young people in school who need to hear this message. Good blueprints create good life patterns, whatever our age. What’s required is 1) deep belief in your own dignity, 2) determination to achieve excellence and 3) commitment to the eternal principles of beauty, love, and justice.

King distills so much wisdom and insight in these 20 short minutes. I highly suggest you watch it.

I’ve also attached the presentation from our worship service this morning with our Scripture from Deuteronomy and the accompanying liturgy.

Fear and Preaching in Sin City

It is possible — even essential — to take a stand against things that are morally wrong without taking sides between Republicans and Democrats. We are currently hamstrung by the myth that to work against things like racism and sexism and mistreatment of refugees is to take sides on politics. There are some things to which there are not two sides — things the church must condemn as morally wrong whether they are advocated by Republicans, Democrats or independents. To speak against these evils only condemns a political party if that entire party chooses to embrace what is evil.

— Read on baptistnews.com/article/what-the-church-could-learn-from-abc/

Wrestling With the Text

I’ll be preaching on Genesis 32:22-31 (Jacob wrestles God / Angel / River Demon / Jungian Archetype … depending on your persuasion) at First Christian Church Columbia, SC on August 6. This is probably my favorite text in the entire Bible and I’m excited that it comes up in the lectionary next week.

I always wonder how others read this story. Leave me a comment here or on Facebook, Twitter, email etc and let me know.

I’ll post the sermon when I’m done, but maybe you can impact in how that turns out.

“The same night he got up and took his two wives, his two maids, and his eleven children, and crossed the ford of the Jabbok. He took them and sent them across the stream, and likewise everything that he had. Jacob was left alone; and a man wrestled with him until daybreak.

When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he struck him on the hip socket; and Jacob’s hip was put out of joint as he wrestled with him. Then he said, ‘Let me go, for the day is breaking.’ But Jacob said, ‘I will not let you go, unless you bless me.’

So he said to him, ‘What is your name?’ And he said, ‘Jacob.’ Then the man said, ‘You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with humans, and have prevailed.’ Then Jacob asked him, ‘Please tell me your name.’ But he said, ‘Why is it that you ask my name?’ And there he blessed him.

So Jacob called the place Peniel, saying, ‘For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life is preserved.’ The sun rose upon him as he passed Penuel, limping because of his hip.”