by Eron Henry | Mar 30, 2025 | Lent 2025
In a world dominated by competing powers and principalities, genuine worship represents one of the most profound acts of protest available to believers. While worship is often domesticated as merely a devotional practice or relegated to the realm of personal piety, its true nature is far more subversive and politically charged than commonly recognized.
When the ancient Israelites gathered to worship YHWH, they were making a radical declaration that Pharaoh, Nebuchadnezzar, or Caesar was not ultimate. Their liturgical proclamation “The Lord reigns” constituted a direct challenge to the claims of earthly powers. This was no mere religious sentiment but a counter-imperial announcement of an alternative sovereignty. Moses’ demand to Pharaoh—”Let my people go that they may worship me”—frames worship itself as liberation from oppressive systems.
The early Christian confession “Jesus is Lord” similarly functioned as protest language in a context where “Caesar is Lord” was the required political allegiance. By transferring ultimate loyalty to Christ, early worshippers were engaging in what political theorists might call delegitimization, the withdrawal of consent from ruling powers and the recognition of an alternative authority.
Worship protests not just political powers but the fundamental idolatries of every age. When we proclaim God’s sufficiency in a consumer culture that tells us we never have enough, we engage in economic protest. When we confess human dignity as image-bearers in societies that reduce people to their utility or productivity, we enact anthropological protest. When we celebrate Sabbath in a world of relentless productivity, we participate in temporal protest.
The prophetic tradition consistently links authentic worship with justice, suggesting that liturgical practices divorced from ethical action become hollow performances rather than true worship. Amos thunders God’s rejection of religious festivals and offerings when they exist alongside oppression: “But let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream” (Amos 5:24). This prophetic critique suggests that worship that fails to protest injustice fails to truly honor God.
Jesus’ cleansing of the temple represents worship-as-protest in action. His disruption of the temple economy challenged religious systems that exploited the poor and excluded the marginalized. His action declared that worship spaces must embody the justice they proclaim or lose their sacred purpose.
To recover worship as protest requires moving beyond viewing it as merely a weekend activity or emotional experience. It calls us to understand liturgical practices as formation for resistance, training that shapes us into people capable of imagining and embodying alternatives to the dominant powers of our age. In this light, worship becomes not an escape from the world’s struggles but a revolutionary practice that nurtures the moral imagination and collective courage needed to challenge unjust systems.
In an age of commodified religion and privatized faith, reclaiming worship’s inherently protest-oriented nature may be one of the most important tasks before us.
Prayer
Sovereign God,
As we gather in worship, make us aware that our songs and prayers are not mere religious exercises but radical declarations that You alone are Lord.
When earthly powers claim ultimate authority, may our worship be a holy resistance. When systems of oppression demand our compliance, may our liturgy be an act of liberation.
Forgive us for domesticating worship into comfortable ritual, for separating our Sunday proclamations from Monday’s lived reality, for singing of justice while remaining silent in its absence.
Like Moses before Pharaoh, embolden us to demand freedom for worship. Like the prophets, teach us to connect our prayers with our practices. Like Jesus in the temple, give us courage to disrupt the economies of exploitation.
When we declare “God reigns” in a world of competing powers, let it be more than words, let it be our witness. When we proclaim human dignity in societies that devalue life, let it shape how we treat every person we encounter.
May our worship form us into people of holy protest, not merely singing about the world to come, but embodying its values in the world that is.
As we lift our voices, may we also raise our courage. As we bend our knees, may we also strengthen our resolve. As we open our hearts to You, may we open our lives to Your justice.
We pray in the name of Jesus Christ, whose lordship challenges every false authority, and whose kingdom subverts every unjust power.
Amen.
by Eron Henry | Mar 29, 2025 | Lent 2025
One of the most insidious forms of sin is not what we actively do, but what we fail to do. Christian tradition distinguishes between sins of commission—active wrongdoing—and sins of omission, failing to perform acts of mercy, justice, and love. Scripture and tradition suggest that this latter category, the sin of doing nothing, often represents a more pervasive and dangerous temptation.
Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan highlights this reality. The priest and Levite committed no active harm against the wounded traveler; their sin was simply walking past. Their inaction stemmed not from malice but from concerns that seemed reasonable, ritual purity, personal safety, busy schedules. Yet Jesus frames their passive response as the moral failure in the story. Similarly, in Matthew 25, those condemned at the final judgment are not indicted for active evil but for neglecting to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, or visit the imprisoned.
The prophet Amos thundered against Israel not primarily for idol worship but for their complacent indifference to suffering: “They sell the righteous for silver, and the needy for a pair of sandals, they who trample the head of the poor into the dust of the earth” (Amos 2:6-7). The sin wasn’t always active exploitation but the comfortable acceptance of unjust systems that benefited them.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer captured this dynamic powerfully when confronting German Christians during Nazi rule. “Silence in the face of evil is itself evil,” he wrote. “Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act.” He recognized that inaction in the face of injustice constitutes a moral choice with spiritual consequences.
Why is the sin of doing nothing so tempting? Unlike active wrongdoing, which often triggers moral alarms in our conscience, inaction can be rationalized through countless justifications. We can claim ignorance, defer responsibility to others, or convince ourselves that small actions won’t matter. Inaction rarely feels sinful in the moment. There’s no dramatic crossing of a moral line, only a gradual drift into complacency.
Moreover, doing nothing requires no courage. As Edmund Burke observed, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” Confronting injustice, speaking truth to power, or sacrificing comfort to meet others’ needs demands moral courage that inaction does not require.
The spiritual antidote to this temptation is cultivating what the prophet Micah called for: “to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God” (Micah 6:8). This active orientation toward justice and compassion refuses the comfortable passivity that characterizes so much of contemporary spiritual life.
In a world of systemic injustice, environmental degradation, and widespread suffering, the greatest spiritual danger may not be that we will choose to do wrong, but that we will simply do nothing at all.
Prayer
God of justice and compassion,
Forgive us for the comfortable silences we have chosen, for the injustices we have witnessed without protest, for the suffering we have walked past like the priest and Levite on that ancient road.
Stir within us a holy discomfort with inaction. When we are tempted to look away, direct our gaze. When we are inclined to remain silent, give voice to our convictions. When we hesitate at the threshold of action, grant us courage for the first step.
Save us from the subtle rationalizations that make peace with injustice: That someone else will help, that one person cannot make a difference, that our comfort matters more than others’ suffering.
Forgive us for mistaking passive religiosity for faithful discipleship. Remind us that You call us not merely to abstain from evil, but to actively pursue justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with You.
Give us eyes to see the wounded traveler on our path, ears to hear the cries that others ignore, hands ready to serve where service is needed, and feet willing to walk where righteousness leads.
May we be known not only by what we refuse to do, but by what we actively pursue in Your name.
We pray in the name of Jesus, who never passed by suffering, who never chose comfort over compassion, and who calls us to follow the same path of costly love.
Amen.
by Eron Henry | Mar 28, 2025 | Lent 2025
Displacement has reached unprecedented scales. Millions find themselves forcibly uprooted—refugees crossing borders to escape persecution, internally displaced persons seeking safety within their own nations, asylum seekers awaiting legal protection, exiles banished for political or religious convictions, and deportees expelled from places they once called home.
The scale and complexity of today’s displacement differs dramatically from biblical times. Modern warfare displaces entire populations overnight. Climate change renders regions uninhabitable. Economic systems collapse, forcing migration for survival. Technology documents displacement in real-time while borders become increasingly militarized. Yet despite these differences, the questions remain strikingly similar: Where is God in the midst of forced migration? What does faithfulness look like for the displaced? How should communities respond to the stranger?
Scripture offers a framework for understanding modern displacement. The God who accompanied Israel through wilderness wanderings remains present with today’s refugees navigating treacherous journeys. The divine command to “love the stranger, for you were strangers in Egypt” (Deuteronomy 10:19) speaks directly to contemporary communities facing immigration debates. Jesus’ experience as a refugee challenges His followers to recognize His presence in those seeking asylum today.
The trauma of modern displacement—the loss of home, community, cultural identity, and often loved ones—finds resonance in biblical laments. The psalmist’s cry, “By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down and wept when we remembered Zion” (Psalm 137:1), articulates the grief many refugees experience. This biblical tradition of lament validates the anger, sorrow, and disorientation of displacement without rushing to premature resolution.
Yet displacement, while devastating, can also become a site of revelation. Many displaced communities report deepened faith through their ordeal. Like Jacob wrestling at Peniel, they emerge with both wounds and blessing. Their testimonies challenge comfortable assumptions and reveal God’s presence in unexpected places—detention centers, refugee camps, and border crossings.
For faith communities, the global displacement crisis presents not just humanitarian challenges but spiritual opportunities. It invites us to recover ancient traditions of hospitality as sacred practice. It challenges nationalist theologies that equate divine blessing with territorial boundaries. It calls us to reexamine how economic systems we benefit from contribute to forced migration.
In the faces of today’s displaced millions, we encounter both a mirror reflecting our common vulnerability and a window into God’s particular concern for the uprooted. Their journeys remind us that all humanity shares a fundamental displacement. Strangers and sojourners on earth, seeking the city whose builder and maker is God.
Prayer
God of the refugee and the exile, You who walk alongside those forced to flee, we bring before You the millions of displaced people in our world today.
For refugees crossing borders in search of safety, for internally displaced persons seeking shelter within their homelands, for asylum seekers waiting in uncertainty, for exiles longing for the countries they were forced to leave, for deportees rebuilding lives in unfamiliar places: Be their shelter when all other shelter is gone.
We acknowledge the trauma of displacement. The homes abandoned, the possessions left behind, the communities scattered, the loved ones lost, the identities questioned, the futures uncertain. Where there is grief, grant the space to lament; where there is anger, provide paths toward healing; where there is despair, kindle sparks of hope.
Transform our communities into places of welcome. When we are tempted by fear, remind us of Your commands to love the stranger. When we benefit from systems that cause displacement, grant us courage to seek justice. When we encounter the displaced, help us recognize Your image and Your presence.
May detention centers become sites of dignity, may refugee camps foster community rather than dependency, may border crossings be places of compassion rather than cruelty, may the journeys of the displaced reveal Your accompanying presence.
Until that day when no one is forced from home, when all can live without fear of persecution or violence, we pray in the name of Jesus, who had nowhere to lay His head, and who promises a place for all in His Father’s house.
Amen.
by Eron Henry | Mar 27, 2025 | Lent 2025
Scripture consistently presents the displaced not merely as objects of compassion but as bearers of divine blessing to the world. This radical inversion—where those pushed to society’s margins become sources of revelation and renewal—represents one of the Bible’s most countercultural insights.
The story of Joseph exemplifies this pattern. Forcibly displaced through slavery and imprisonment, Joseph ultimately becomes Egypt’s savior and declares to his brothers, “God sent me before you to preserve life” (Genesis 45:5). His displacement becomes the very channel through which God’s redemptive purposes unfold. The outsider perspective Joseph gained through his forced migration enabled him to see possibilities invisible to those embedded within Egypt’s systems.
Ruth’s narrative similarly illustrates how a displaced person brings unexpected blessing. As a Moabite widow migrating to Bethlehem, Ruth initially appears vulnerable and dependent. Yet her faithfulness and determination not only secure her family’s future but place her in the lineage of King David and ultimately Christ Himself. Her story suggests that displaced persons often carry traditions, values, and perspectives that can enrich and even renew the communities that receive them.
The Babylonian exile, while traumatic, generated some of Judaism’s most incisive theological developments. Separated from temple worship, the exilic community deepened practices of Sabbath observance, Scripture study, and prayer that would sustain Jewish identity through centuries of diaspora. Their displacement catalyzed spiritual innovations that continue to bless the world.
Jesus embraced displacement as central to His ministry, “having nowhere to lay His head” (Matthew 8:20). This voluntary homelessness positioned Him to cross boundaries and engage diverse communities. His teachings consistently elevated those on society’s margins as bearers of spiritual insight—the Samaritan who understood neighborliness, the Syrophoenician woman whose faith challenged His mission’s scope.
The early church, scattered by persecution, spread the gospel throughout the Mediterranean world precisely because of their displacement. Acts recounts how dispersed believers established new communities that transcended ethnic and cultural boundaries. Their forced migration became the mechanism for Christianity’s expansion.
These biblical patterns speak powerfully to our contemporary context. They challenge us to recognize displaced persons not as problems to be solved but as potential sources of renewal, carrying perspectives that might help us reimagine our common life. They remind us that hospitality to strangers is not merely an ethical obligation but an opportunity to encounter God in unexpected guises. As Hebrews 13:2 reminds us, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”
Prayer
God of Joseph and Ruth, You who work through the journeys of the displaced, open our eyes to recognize the gifts carried by those who come from afar.
Where we see only need, help us discover blessing. Where we perceive burden, reveal to us opportunity. Where we focus on difference, show us the enrichment diversity brings.
Thank You for the wisdom that comes through displacement, for perspectives that challenge our assumptions, for stories that expand our understanding, for traditions that deepen our faith.
Forgive us when we have missed Your angels in disguise, when we have failed to receive the strangers You have sent as gifts, when we have seen only what displaced people lack rather than all they bring.
Help us to remember Joseph, whose displacement saved nations, Ruth, whose migration renewed a community’s hope, the exiles, whose dislocation birthed new expressions of faith, and Jesus, whose homelessness created space for all to belong.
Teach us true hospitality that recognizes the sacred exchange; not just offering shelter, but receiving insight; not just providing for needs, but welcoming transformation; not just extending charity, but embracing mutuality.
May we build communities where the displaced find not only refuge but opportunity to share their gifts, wisdom, and vision.
Until Your Kingdom comes in fullness, when no one shall be uprooted or excluded, we pray in the name of Christ who makes His home among us.
Amen.
by Eron Henry | Mar 26, 2025 | Lent 2025
Throughout Scripture, displacement emerges as a recurring motif. Far from being incidental, these experiences of forced migration, exile, and refugee status reveal truths about God’s character and commitment to the dislocated.
The biblical story begins with displacement—Adam and Eve expelled from Eden—and continues with Abraham’s call to leave his homeland for an unknown destination. Abraham’s identity as a “wandering Aramean” (Deuteronomy 26:5) establishes a pattern where divine purpose unfolds through geographic dislocation. His journey reminds us that displacement, while disorienting, can be the very context where divine promises take root.
Israel’s formative experience as slaves in Egypt further deepens this theme. God explicitly identifies with their displaced condition: “I have surely seen the affliction of my people… and have heard their cry” (Exodus 3:7). This divine attentiveness to the suffering of the displaced becomes a cornerstone of Israel’s understanding of God. The exodus narrative teaches that God not only sees displacement but actively intervenes to bring liberation and restoration.
The Babylonian exile represents another pivotal moment of displacement. Through prophets like Jeremiah, God instructs the exiles to “seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you” (Jeremiah 29:7) while simultaneously promising eventual return. This tension between present engagement and future restoration offers wisdom for navigating prolonged displacement with both realistic acceptance and enduring hope.
The Gospel narratives continue this theme when the infant Jesus becomes a refugee in Egypt, fleeing Herod’s violence. Matthew’s account deliberately connects Jesus to Israel’s exodus, suggesting that in Christ, God not only accompanies the displaced but becomes displaced. The incarnation itself represents divine solidarity with human dislocation.
Early Christians, described as “strangers and exiles on the earth” (Hebrews 11:13), transformed their experience of displacement into a theological identity. They understood themselves as citizens of a heavenly kingdom whose values often placed them at odds with dominant culture. Their displacement became not just a circumstance to endure but a witness to an alternative social reality.
These biblical narratives offer comfort and orientation for the displaced today. They reveal a God who consistently accompanies the uprooted, validates their suffering, promises restoration, and transforms displacement into the very soil where new communities and identities can flourish. In a world where displacement continues to define millions of lives, these ancient stories speak with renewed relevance and hope.
Prayer
God of Abraham, Moses, and Jesus, You who have witnessed every forced journey and heard every exile’s cry, we bring before You the displaced peoples of our world.
For those torn from their homelands by violence, persecution, and disaster, be as You were for Israel in Egypt, the God who sees affliction and hears suffering. For families crossing borders with nothing but hope and heartache, be as You were for the infant Jesus, providing refuge and protection in strange lands.
When displacement breeds despair, remind Your people that You travel with them. When borders seem impenetrable, recall for us how You have always made ways through wilderness. When the journey feels endless, whisper the promise of restoration that You spoke through the prophets.
Grant to the displaced not just survival but flourishing, not just tolerance but welcome, not just assistance but justice.
Give wisdom to those in places of temporary refuge, as You counseled the exiles in Babylon, to seek the welfare of the places where they dwell while holding their hope of return.
Remind Your church of our identity as strangers and pilgrims, that we might recognize Christ in the face of every displaced person, and build communities where the uprooted can find belonging.
Until that day when all can dwell securely under their own vines and fig trees, be the constant companion of those who journey far from home.
In the name of Jesus, who had nowhere to lay His head.
Amen.
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