by Eron Henry | Apr 1, 2025 | Lent 2025
In the shadow of imperial Rome, where Caesar claimed titles like “Lord,” “Savior,” and “Son of God,” the early Christian proclamation that “Jesus Christ is Lord” constituted nothing less than a revolutionary political theology. Paul’s declaration to the Philippian church represents one of the most audacious counter-imperial statements in the New Testament, challenging the very foundations of Roman political ideology.
The historical and geographical context of this proclamation amplifies its subversive nature. Philippi was no ordinary Roman colony, but a special settlement established for veterans of Rome’s civil wars. As a Roman military colony, it maintained strong imperial allegiance and Roman cultural identity. The city literally embodied Roman imperial victory, with the defeat of Brutus and Cassius by Octavian and Mark Antony in 42 BC occurring on its doorstep. This battle marked the decisive shift from republican to imperial Rome.
Into this distinctly Roman environment—where imperial cult worship flourished and loyalty to Caesar was expected—Paul writes of a crucified Jewish teacher who has been exalted above every earthly power. The language of Philippians 2:9-11 deliberately echoes Isaiah 45:23, where YHWH declares that every knee will bow to Him alone. By applying this text to Jesus, Paul makes the extraordinary claim that Jesus shares in divine identity and authority.
The political implications were unmistakable. When Paul proclaimed that “every knee should bow” to Jesus, his first-century audience would have immediately recognized the parallel to imperial ceremonies where subjects demonstrated submission to Caesar. The confession that “Jesus Christ is Lord” directly challenged the loyalty oath to Caesar as lord. The Philippian Christians were effectively pledging allegiance to an executed enemy of the state over the living emperor.
What makes this proclamation even more remarkable is that it appears within the “Christ hymn” (Philippians 2:5-11), which describes Christ’s self-emptying and humiliation before His exaltation. Unlike Caesar, who grasped at divine honors, Christ willingly surrendered status and power, embracing the shameful death of a slave. Paul presents a radically different model of authority based not on domination but on self-giving love.
This alternative political theology had implications for the Philippian community. If Christ rather than Caesar is Lord, then the community’s primary allegiance and source of identity shifted from the empire to the ecclesia. Their “citizenship” (politeuomai) was now in heaven (Philippians 3:20), creating an alternative political community amid the Roman colony.
The message remains equally challenging today. In contexts where political, economic, or cultural powers demand ultimate allegiance, the confession “Jesus is Lord” continues to function as a boundary-setting claim that relativizes all other loyalties. Christ’s lordship calls Christians to evaluate every system, ideology, and institution against the measure of the crucified and risen one who emptied Himself for the sake of others.
Paul’s letter to the Philippians reminds us that authentic Christian faith can never be fully accommodated to any earthly power structure. It always maintains a critical edge, calling every authority to account before the one to whom, ultimately, every knee will bow.
Prayer
Sovereign Lord Jesus,
In a world of competing powers and principalities, we declare again what the Philippian church boldly proclaimed: That You alone are Lord, above every authority, every system, every empire.
When earthly powers demand our ultimate allegiance, remind us of Your exaltation to the highest place, not through force or domination, but through the path of humble service and self-emptying love.
Like those first believers in Philippi, who confessed Your lordship in the shadow of imperial might, may we too find courage to live as citizens of heaven while still journeying through the empires of this world.
Forgive us when we bend our knees too readily before other lords, before wealth and comfort, before national identity and political ideology, before all powers that promise security through strength rather than sacrifice.
Help us to embody a different kind of community, where status comes through service, where greatness is measured by generosity, where power is expressed in love.
May our lives together become a living witness to the subversive truth that the crucified one is Lord, that the way of the cross supersedes the way of the sword, that Your kingdom relativizes all earthly kingdoms.
Until that day when every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.
Amen.
by Eron Henry | Mar 31, 2025 | Lent 2025
When we examine the Gospel narratives closely, we discover Jesus operated within a highly charged political environment where Roman occupation, religious sectarianism, and social stratification created a complex web of tensions. Jesus’ ministry unfolded against this backdrop, and He was repeatedly drawn into the political and social debates of His day.
The Gospel accounts reveal numerous attempts to entrap Jesus through politically loaded questions. When asked about paying taxes to Caesar (Mark 12:13-17), Jesus was confronted with a perfect dilemma: support the Roman tax and alienate his followers, or oppose it and risk charges of sedition. His nuanced response—”Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s”—transcended the binary options while subtly questioning the legitimacy of imperial claims.
Similarly, when presented with the woman caught in adultery (John 8:1-11), Jesus faced another trap. Affirming Mosaic law would position Him against Roman authority (which reserved capital punishment for itself), while rejecting it would undermine His credibility as a teacher of Israel. Again, Jesus found a third way that exposed the hypocrisy of the religious establishment while preserving both justice and mercy.
Jesus also engaged with existing theological-political debates among Jewish leaders. The questions about Sabbath observance, ritual purity, and association with “sinners” were not merely religious matters but involved competing visions of Jewish identity under Roman rule. The Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes, and Zealots represented different political strategies—accommodation, collaboration, withdrawal, or resistance. Jesus’ practices and teachings implicitly challenged each of these approaches.
What distinguishes Jesus’ political engagement, however, is that He refused to be contained within existing categories. When questioned about the greatest commandment—a live debate among schools of Jewish thought—Jesus combined two separate commandments (love of God and neighbor), effectively reframing the entire discussion. When asked about divorce, tribute money, or resurrection, Jesus consistently transcended partisan positions to offer transformative perspectives.
This pattern reveals something significant about Jesus’ approach to political engagement. He neither withdrew from political questions nor allowed Himself to be co-opted by any faction. Instead, he engaged these issues on His own terms, often exposing the inadequate assumptions underlying the debates themselves. His responses consistently prioritized human dignity, challenged systems of exclusion, and pointed toward the in-breaking of God’s kingdom as the ultimate context for all political questions.
For Christians navigating polarized political landscapes, Jesus’ example offers neither simple answers nor permission to disengage. Rather, it calls us to a more demanding approach: engaging political questions from a stance rooted in kingdom values, refusing false dichotomies, and maintaining primary allegiance to God’s reign even as we participate in earthly politics. Like Jesus, we are called not to escape political realities but to transform them through prophetic witness to a higher order.
Prayer
Lord Jesus,
You who walked the politically charged pathways of occupied Judea, grant us wisdom to navigate our own complex political landscape.
When we are tempted to withdraw from difficult social issues, remind us how You engaged the questions of Your day. When others try to force us into simplistic categories, show us how to transcend false dichotomies as You did.
Give us discernment to see beyond the traps laid in political discourse, to recognize when questions themselves contain faulty assumptions. Help us to respond not with partisan reflexes, but with the revolutionary wisdom that places human dignity at the center.
May we likewise engage without being co-opted, speak truth without becoming pawns in power games, and maintain our primary allegiance to Your Kingdom while still serving the common good in our earthly cities.
In a world of political tribalism, make us agents of Your boundary-crossing love. In spaces of polarization, help us create room for transformative dialogue. Where others seek to entrap and divide, let us, like You, find the unexpected third way that opens possibilities for justice and peace.
We pray in your name, You who refused both the throne and the sword, yet challenged the powers of Your day through the revolutionary politics of Your coming Kingdom.
Amen.
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.
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