Scripture | Matthew 4:12-23

Reflection #1 | by Bethany Davey

I imagine most of us have seen–or at least heard about–the billboard sign on 71, between here and Cincinnati, that reads, “Hell is real.” The sign has become the butt of many jokes, the inspiration for memes and mocking.

I used to find this billboard offensive, a clumsy attempt to terrify onlookers into salvation, an evangelical effort to take seriously the Great Commission…even on the highway. I found it healing to poke fun at my fundamentalist background through this sign. Humor has provided comfort to my inner child, who is still a bit terrified of the idea of Hell as it was conveyed to me in my younger years.

But this week, when that billboard came to mind, it no longer felt quite as silly. When I read it instead as “Hell is real…on Earth,” something that once struck me as slightly ridiculous suddenly resonates. These days, hell on earth seems particularly real.

I am in the final semester of my Master of Divinity program, and two weeks ago, I participated in an intensive course focused on immigration advocacy and immigrant solidarity. Though the experience was supposed to take place in Arizona, at the US-Mexico border, unexpected circumstances led us instead to an immersion experience closer to our school, in the state of New Jersey. Initially disappointing, it was quickly apparent that this shift was essential: the border is now everywhere.

On one evening of our intensive, we went to Delaney Hall, a warehouse-made-detention center, run by the notorious Geo Group.

Our cohort joined local organizers outside the facility during Tuesday evening visiting hours. Waiting families, enduring personal and communal traumas, wait in an environment that reflects the overarching realities of carceral violence. Visitors must wait–sometimes for hours–in the biting cold until their loved one’s cell block…

Speaker: Anton Flores-Maisonet, our Winter Seminar Speaker, is a co-founder of an alternative community of housing and welcome for immigrants in Atlanta, Georgia and author of the recently published book, Welcome, Friends. 

Scripture: Revelation 21:1-5 and Luke 16:19-31

An adapted sermon, in conversation with Martin Luther King Jr.

I need not pause to say how very grateful I am to be here this morning, to have the opportunity of standing in this pulpit, among a people who have long sought to follow Jesus in the way of peace, justice, and costly discipleship. And I do want to express my deep personal appreciation to the leaders and members of Columbus Mennonite Church for extending this invitation.

It is always a rich and rewarding experience to take a brief break from our day-to-day demands and from the ongoing struggle for freedom and human dignity, and to reflect together on the issues involved in that struggle with concerned friends of goodwill. And certainly it is always a deep and meaningful experience to be in a worship service. And so, for many reasons, I am glad to be here today.

This sermon is offered explicitly in conversation with, and in deep gratitude for, Martin Luther King Jr.’s 1968 sermon, “Remaining Awake Through a Great Revolution.” I claim no originality here—only responsibility—to receive that witness, to tell the truth about our own time, and to ask what faithfulness requires of us now.

I would like to use as a subject from which to preach this morning: “Remaining Awake

Through a Great Revolution.”

The text for the morning is found in the book of Revelation, where we hear this promise:

“Behold, I am making all things new; former things have passed away.”

I am sure that most of you have read that arresting little story from the pen of Washington Irving entitled “Rip Van Winkle.” The one…

Text: Matthew 3:13-17

Speaker: Marty Troyer

The boundary between heaven and earth is thin.

Charles H. Spurgeon once said, “I am convinced that there is no great distance between heaven and earth, that the distance lies in our finite minds…”

As a hospice chaplain, I’ve become very comfortable in spiritual spaces. I can’t fully explain the mystery of it, but I witness it often—people near the end of life interacting with a world we cannot see.

Take Donna, for example. She was a former nun and a well-known psychologist. By the time I visited her, she hadn’t spoken, eaten, or had a drink in days. I sat quietly with her and her two cats, reading scripture and singing softly. Suddenly, Donna sat up. She reached her hands toward the ceiling, her eyes wide with wonder.

I asked, “Who do you see?”

With a huge smile, she said, “I see Jesus.” A few moments later, she lay back down. Within the hour, she was gone.

I see moments like this regularly. People reach out to hold invisible hands, wave goodbye, or speak with loved ones who passed years ago. To them, these visitors are as real as you or I. I don’t need to understand it to know this—it brings them deep comfort.

The boundary between heaven and earth is thin.

In Celtic Christianity, this idea is called “thin places.” These are moments when the spiritual and physical seem to overlap. They describe it as “a place in time where the space between heaven and earth grows thin and the Sacred and the secular seem to meet.” Or as the saying goes, “Heaven and earth are only three feet apart, but in thin places that distance is even shorter.”

Many of us experience this in nature—in mountains and rivers, in the sound of wind through trees. Or sometimes, through a cuddly dog…

Texts:

Psalm 72:1-7, 11-14

Isaiah 60: 1-6

Matthew 2:1-12

Ephesians 3:1-12

…

Text: Luke 2:8-20

Speaker: Mark Rupp

It was the night of the Winter Solstice back in the year 2020. On that longest night of the year, the staff at the Atlanta Friends Meeting House decided to invite the refugees that had been staying with them to pack into their van for a driving tour of the Christmas lights in the neighborhood. 

The meeting house had become a kind of sanctuary for refugees and immigrants making their way through the Atlanta area, a place where they could find a clean bed for a night or more, good food and hearty conversation around kitchen tables, and the open arms of hospitality in a strange place that so often looked at them with suspicion and fear. 

On that Winter Solstice evening, they packed their little interfaith, multilingual caravan and set out to enjoy the beauty of the season together. As part of this caravan, there were three young boys, and the leader of the group gave them an invitation. He told them, “At the end of the drive, tell me which house had your favorite lights.” 

They turned on some soft holiday music in the background and set out along the neighborhood streets. But the sounds from the van’s stereo were quickly overtaken by the chorus of exclamations from the backseat. The leader had told the boys to wait until the end to tell him which house had their favorite lights, but the youngest among them either didn’t hear that part or simply couldn’t hold back. 

The very first house they passed, the young man lit up with joy and yelled out “Oooo, my favorite!” This was the first full sentence the leaders of the Atlanta Friends Meeting had heard this boy say since he had arrived. And it was “not just a sentence, but a song. A proclamation….