Author: cjwhitt

Another Way to Think About Eternal Life

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John 17:1-11

This passage is part of the prayer that Jesus prays for the disciples at the end of the Farewell Discourse. The Farewell Discourse is John’s recollection of Jesus’ final instructions just before he’s arrested. His instructions to his disciples begin with the foot washing in chapter 13 and continue through chapter 16; all of chapter 17 is his closing prayer before he leaves for the garden, where he’s immediately arrested (John 18:1-12). In these verses, Jesus is still sitting at the table with his disciples. He knows what lies ahead and he knows that this is his last opportunity to teach them what is most important.

In a nutshell, his prayer says, “I’ve taught them everything I know, God, everything that you showed me. Now these disciples who have been mine are yours. They have been one with me; now they are one with you.” The verses are filled with the plea that God “glorify” Jesus. As David Lose writes, it’s “a lot of glory talk,” especially for contemporary ears. We tend to identify glory with strength, victory, triumph, success, and adulation. About the only place I run into the word “glory” apart from vague, churchy hymns is in the context of war or sporting events. Jesus, however, seeks glory in servanthood, suffering, vulnerability, and loss. Somehow, God is glorified in these things in Jesus. Does that mean Christ’s followers should seek out suffering and loss? Definitely not, and the danger is that these verses could be interpreted as promoting or recommending if not exalting suffering. That isn’t the point. But perhaps it should tell us that God isn’t glorified in what we normally define as success, particularly where that success comes at the expense of justice and shalom for God’s creation.

Then Jesus refers to “eternal life.” He says, “…glorify your Son so that the Son may glorify you, since you have given him authority over all people, to give eternal life to all whom you have given him. And this is eternal life, that they may know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent.”

This is eternal life: that they may know the one true God and Jesus Christ.

Hmmmm. Nothing about heaven or any kind of afterlife; not even any reference to time. This is very different from contemporary ideas about what “eternal life” means. Here, eternal life is “knowing;” knowing God and Christ, which implies an interactive, two-way relationship.

Commentator Cody Sanders quotes Mary Coloe: “As Son, [Jesus] reveals God’s love for the world and God’s desire to draw all into God’s own eternity life, which is to participate in the very being of God” (emphasis added). Coloe uses the phrase “eternity life” to emphasize a different quality of life, rather than simply the elongation of it. Sanders also quotes David Ford: “I have read the whole Gospel as an invitation to enter into a relationship of trusting Jesus, with continuing ‘life in his name’ involving an ongoing drama of desiring, learning, praying, and loving in community, for the sake of God’s love for the world.”

This connects with the glory talk in this way: As Brian D. McLaren writes, “In Christ, we see an image of God who is armed not with lightning bolts but with basin and towel…” (see John 13:1-10). McLaren continues, “In Christ, God is supreme, but not in the old, discredited paradigm of supremacy: God is the supreme healer, the supreme friend, the supreme lover, the supreme life-giver who self-empties in gracious love for all.” Catherine LaCugna puts it this way: “The very nature of God … is to seek out the deepest possible communion and friendship with every last creature on this earth.”

If we worship and follow that God, the God that Jesus tried to show us – not dominating, nonviolent, supreme in service, and self-giving – then we will be living “eternity life,” a different quality of life, now. Not in the future after we die, but now.

As Diana Butler Bass puts it, Christianity has long been an “elevator religion” focused on getting people up, up, and away from this troubled earth to heaven. By keeping us focused on heaven and life after death, elevator Christianity has kept us from noticing or taking seriously what’s happening around us: growing economic inequality, the climate catastrophe, expanding militarization and weaponization, and scapegoating people on the margins. What Jesus points us toward here, and what we so desperately need, is to switch from elevator Christianity, a religion organized for self-preservation, privilege, and the hereafter to a religion that knows and participates in the very being of our loving God, that seeks out the deepest possible communion with every creature, a religion organizing for the common good of this world that God so loves (John 3:16).

In other words, a religion that’s a movement. A movement for “eternity life,” or as McLaren translates it, “life of the ages,” or “life to the full.”

© Joanne Whitt 2026 all rights reserved.

Resources:
Cody J. Sanders, https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/seventh-sunday-of-easter/commentary-on-john-171-11-7
Mary L. Coloe, John 1–10, Wisdom Commentary (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2021).
David F. Ford, The Gospel of John: A Theological Commentary (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2021).
Brian D. McLaren, The Great Spiritual Migration: How the World’s Largest Religion Is Seeking a Better Way to Be Christian (New York: Convergent Books, 2016).
McLaren, Faith After Doubt: Why Your Beliefs Stopped Working and What to Do About It (New York: St. Martin’s Essentials, 2021).
McLaren, Everything Must Change: Jesus, Global Crisis, and a Revolution of Hope (Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson, 2007).
https://brianmclaren.net/if-youve-never-discovered/

The Power to Love

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John 14:15-21

This passage from Jesus’ Farewell Discourse begins and ends with love. “If you love me, you will keep my commandments,” says Jesus. “What commandments?” you might ask? In John’s gospel, Jesus gives only a single commandment, and it occurs in the chapter just before this one: “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” (John 13:14-35). He repeats this in the chapter that follows this one: “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. (John 15:12-13). 

“Love, love, love,” as Lennon and McCartney wrote; “All you need is love.” What does this love look like?  Jesus shows us: It looks like serving others humbly without concern for status or station (John 13:1-17). It looks like healing the sick (John 4:43-54, 5:1-14), giving sight to the blind (John 9:1-41), raising the dead (John 11:1-43), conversing with outcasts in a way that grants them dignity as God’s children (John 4:1-28), standing up for what is right in the face of power (John 2:13-19), feeding the hungry (John 6:1-14), and laying down his life for those he loves.     

Love one another.  If Jesus is our model, that’s a tall order. No one can hope to love others as Jesus did without help, and so Jesus promises that help. He will not leave his disciples orphaned (John 14:18). He will send the Spirit.  John uses the Greek word parakletos, or, in English, Paraclete. The word literally means one who comes along side you. It has been translated as comforter, helper, counselor, and encourager; the New Revised Standard Version translates it as “advocate,” the one who pleads your case, who takes your side, who intercedes for you, and who stands up for you. Note that Jesus refers to the Holy Spirit not as “the Paraclete,” but as “Another Paraclete.” Jesus was the first, which explains why this Paraclete will come only after Jesus himself departs. 

There have been Christian traditions that interpreted the Spirit’s advocacy role as interceding for us before God like a lawyer in a courtroom before a judge. In this interpretation, the Spirit is one who pleads our case that, though we have sinned, because of Jesus and his sacrifice we deserve to be forgiven. The picture of God that this implies – God as needing to be persuaded to love and forgive us – doesn’t fit with John’s confession that “God so loved the world that God gave the only Son…” (John 3:16).  David Lose writes, “So perhaps it’s actually the other way around. Perhaps it is the Spirit who intercedes on God’s behalf before us. That is, perhaps the Spirit is the one who comes to remind us of our identity as children of God, as sheep who recognize the voice of our shepherd, those for whom the good shepherd lays down his life. Because, Lord knows, that can be a hard identity to hold onto, a hard identity to believe is really ours, especially when we are stressed or frightened, unsure about our future and it feels like everything has been turned upside down.”

It is that very advocacy, that comfort, that encouragement that we need in order to keep Jesus’ commandments – in order to love one another. “We love because [God] first loved us” (1 John 4:19).  Jaime Clark-Soles writes, “What appeared to be bad news to the disciples, namely Jesus’ departure from them, turned out to be the best of news for both them and us. While Jesus walked the earth, his ministry was limited to one locale and one person, himself. Upon his departure, his disciples are given the Spirit and moved from apprentices to full, mature revealers of God’s love. And this happens not just to the first disciples, but all those who would come later, those who never saw the historical Jesus. You see, the evangelist [that is, the author of the Gospel of John] insists that present believers have no disadvantage in comparison to the first believers. Everything they were taught and they experienced is available to the same degree and with equally rich texture to us.”

Available to the same degree.  This is stunning, when you think about it. Jesus says, “In a little while the world will no longer see me, but you will see me; because I live, you also will live. On that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you” (John 14:18-19). Wrap your head around that: Jesus is in God, and we are in him, and he is in us. We are included in him and in his ministry. Clark-Soles coined the word “Quattrinity” to describe John’s view of Christ’s believers: “In John, Jesus insists that the intimate relationship that exists between him, God, and the Spirit also includes believers. The believer does not stand close by admiring the majesty of the Trinity; rather, she is an equal part of it. John tries to push at this by grabbing hold of a number of terms and repeating them: abide, love, the language of being “in” (14:17 and 20), and later in the Discourse, an emphasis on “one-ness” (cf. 17:21-23). Johannine believers don’t ‘imitate’ Jesus; they participate in him wholly.”

In a couple of weeks, on Pentecost Sunday, the Church celebrates the Holy Spirit, our Advocate, our Helper, the one who helps us love by assuring us that we are fully loved.  In the Book of Acts, the Spirit comes after Jesus has ascended to God (Acts 2).  In John’s Gospel, the disciples receive the Holy Spirit directly from Jesus that first Easter night (John 20:21).  What matters is not how or when but our experience that the power of God’s love for us in turn empowers us to love.

© Joanne Whitt 2025 all rights reserved.

Resources:

David Lose, https://www.davidlose.net/2020/05/easter-6-a-spirit-work/   

Jaime Clark-Soles, https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/sixth-sunday-of-easter/commentary-on-john-1415-21-2

Refuge and Refugees

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Psalm 31: 1-5, 15-16

Commentator Joel LeMon puts it simply and bluntly: “This psalmist is a refugee.” He adds that the entire Psalter is refugee literature, written by refugees for refugees, giving voice to those who yearn for safety and protection. Though scholars disagree on exactly what date the psalm was written, this part of the book of Psalms is typically viewed as a response to Israel’s experience of exile.

“In you, LORD, I take refuge. … rescue me speedily. Be a rock of refuge for me, a strong fortress to save me.” Certainly, nearly everyone at some point longs for refuge and deliverance. This psalm speaks to us and for us in those moments. “I need your help, God. Rescue me; deliver me.” But LeMon reminds us that there are those for whom this is not a mere moment, a temporary crisis. There are those who live this psalm for months, years, even decades.

There is 7-year-old Alia, who fled her home in Aleppo, Syria and is currently living in Damour, Lebanon, and there is Bizimana, who fled his home in Rwanda and is now living in Nairobi, Kenya.

There are Wictoria, Vova, and their son, Sasha, who fled their home in Kyiv, Ukraine.

There is 75-year-old Achan, who fled her home in Pajok, South Sudan and is currently living in a refugee camp in Lamwo District, Uganda, and there is 24-year-old Fouzia, who fled her home in Kabul, Afghanistan, and lived for 14 years in Tajikistan,.

There are Noorkin and her son Yacob, who fled their home in Myanmar when Myanmar’s military and Buddhist extremist groups started clearance operations against Rohingya people. Noorkin is 40-years-old and Yacob is 10, and they’re living in Bangladesh.

The United Nations reports that as of the end of June 2025, 117.3 million people had been forced to flee their homes globally due to persecution, conflict, violence, human rights violations or events seriously disturbing public order. Among them were nearly 42.5 million refugees along with 67.8 million people displaced within the borders of their own countries and 8.42 million asylum-seekers. Incredibly, more than 1 in every 70 people on Earth has been forced to flee their home.

This psalm provides a stark reminder of the plight of refugees in every age. Though the identities and threats change, the experience of refugees remains consistent. They exist at the dangerous periphery of society. They are afraid, but they are also feared by the communities where they land. In 2025, the U.S. Government indefinitely suspended immigrant visa processing from 75 countries (see the full list, below). The common denominators appear to be poverty and/or countries populated largely by Muslims and people of color. The only more or less European country on the list is Russia.

The reason given for these exclusions is keeping the United States safe from terror. As Marci Glass points out, there is a risk in welcoming people to the U.S. “because people are people. We harm each other. We are not always kind. We have differing levels of mental health and stability. We have complicated family relationships and different understandings of how to live together. … We humans are a risky business.” But the real issue is the nature of that risk. Our fears – or at least, the administration’s fears – are not rational. A meme circulating the internet a while back illustrates the problem: “Muslims make up 1% of the population, commit .5% of the mass shootings, and account for 10% of U.S. doctors. So if you’re ever at the wrong place at the wrong time and get shot by a Christian, don’t worry. There’s probably a Muslim that can help.” Statistics show that we have a far greater chance of dying by being hit by a bus or falling out of bed than we do of dying by terror from a refugee from one of the countries listed on the ban.

This psalm reminds us of God’s fundamental identity as refuge. Again and again Psalm 31, like so many other psalms, portrays God as the place of protection for those seeking refuge. So what does that mean for Christians? Doesn’t it define Christian ministry as a ministry of and for refugees? Perhaps it invites us to recognize that people don’t become refugees by choice. As Marci Glass writes, “When your village is bombed, you flee. When ISIS invades your area, you flee. When famine or war make living in your home unsafe, you flee.” Perhaps it invites us to make an effort to meet some refugees and hear their stories.

Perhaps it invites us to join in the holy work of being a refuge.

© Joanne Whitt 2026 all rights reserved.

Resources:
The list of countries banned from partially or completely banned from U.S. immigration:
Afghanistan, Albania, Algeria, Antigua and Barbuda, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Bahamas, Bangladesh, Barbados, Belarus, Belize, Bhutan, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Brazil, Myanmar, Cambodia, Cameroon, Cape Verde, Colombia, Côte d’Ivoire, Cuba, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Dominica, Egypt, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Fiji, The Gambia, Georgia, Ghana, Grenada, Guatemala, Guinea, Haiti, Iran, Iraq, Jamaica, Jordan, Kazakhstan, Kosovo, Kuwait, Kyrgyzstan, Laos, Lebanon, Liberia, Libya, North Macedonia, Moldova, Mongolia, Montenegro, Morocco, Nepal, Nicaragua, Nigeria, Pakistan, Republic of the Congo, Russia, Rwanda, St Kitts and Nevis, St Lucia, St Vincent and the Grenadines, Senegal, Sierra Leone, Somalia, South Sudan, Sudan, Syria, Tanzania, Thailand, Togo, Tunisia, Uganda, Uruguay, Uzbekistan, Yemen.
https://www.whitehouse.gov/presidential-actions/2025/12/restricting-and-limiting-the-entry-of-foreign-nationals-to-protect-the-security-of-the-united-states/

Joel LeMon, https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/fifth-sunday-of-easter/commentary-on-psalm-311-5-15-16-5
https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2026/jan/14/full-list-75-countries-visa-processing-suspended
Marci Glass, https://marciglass.com/2017/02/01/risk-and-refugees/, February 1, 2017.
https://www.globalgiving.org/learn/listicle/13-powerful-refugee-stories/
https://www.unhcr.org/about-unhcr/overview/figures-glance

Abundant Life

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John 10:1-10

It’s an occupational hazard of being a Christian that there are other Christians who think you don’t measure up. One of my favorite cartoons is one of Wiley Miller’s “Non Sequitur” strips in which a man and woman are standing in front of a church, looking at the church sign. The sign says, “The Church of We’re Absolutely Right and Everyone Else Is Wrong.” The man says to the woman, “…And ironically, it’s non-denominational.”

This narrow view of who owns the truth – of who’s in and who’s out with God – has driven many people away from organized religion all together. In Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible, a precocious child named Adah muses, “According to my … Sunday-school teachers, a child is denied entrance to heaven merely for being born in the Congo rather than, say, north Georgia, where she could attend church regularly… This was a sticking point in my own little march to salvation: admission to heaven is gained by the luck of the draw. At age of five I raised my … hand in Sunday school to point out this problem to Miss Betty Nagy. Getting born within earshot of a preacher, I reasoned, is entirely up to chance. Would Our Lord be such a hit-or-miss kind of Savior as that? Would he really condemn some children to eternal suffering just for the accident of a heathen birth, and reward others for a privilege they did nothing to earn? … Miss Betty sent me to the corner for the rest of the hour to pray for my own soul while kneeling on grains of uncooked rice. When I finally got up with sharp grains imbedded in my knees I found, to my surprise, that I no longer believed in God.”

This passage from Chapter 10 of John’s Gospel seems at first glance to be one of those “I am the only way” texts that people have relied upon to set Jesus up as a hit-or-miss savior. “I am the gate,” says Jesus. “If anyone enters through me, he shall be saved and shall find pasture.” This is pretty unequivocal. Christ is the gate. I think what’s important about this statement, and all of Jesus’ statements to this effect in the Gospels, is just that: HE is the gate. Christ is the gate. We, on the other hand, are not the gate, nor are we the gatekeepers. Back in the ‘80’s there was a nightclub in Manhattan called Studio 54. It was famous in part because bouncers stood by the door with a clipboard, looking over the crowd outside to decide who looked cool enough to be admitted. When it comes to salvation, we are not like the bouncers at Studio 54. It is Christ’s job to decide who is saved and on what basis, and for what reasons. It is not our job. If you don’t remember anything else about this passage, remember that it isn’t our job, it isn’t the job of any human being or group of human beings, to decide or even to worry about who is or isn’t saved.

Perhaps more importantly, though, Jesus doesn’t say what he means by “saved.” The traditional assumption, like Adah’s assumption in The Poisonwood Bible, is that he’s referring to an afterlife; that those who are “saved” go to heaven after they die, and those who are not, well, something else happens. But Jesus isn’t talking about heaven here. In Greek and Roman politics of Jesus’ day, kings and emperors were described as “good shepherds” who promote and provide a life of security and abundance for the empire’s subjects. John consistently presents Jesus as an opponent to imperial rule, so much so that he is killed for his opposition to Caesar. Biblical scholar Warren Carter writes that this description of Jesus in John 10 mirrors the role of the emperor as a ruler who keeps secure borders, a warrior who saves the people from attack or economic harm, and a benefactor who offers provision and even abundance. But unlike the emperor, Jesus is a true good shepherd, one who genuinely seeks to protect human lives from the thieves and bandits in imperial leadership. In the Roman world where 70 to 80 percent of the population was food insecure, protection from theft and the image of a green pasture was a poignant promise. So John’s Jesus offers not heaven in an afterlife, but a critique of the Roman Empire, which claimed (as reported in the writings of Philo, Josephus, Tacitus, and others) to bring wholeness and wellbeing to society, while its structures actually brought sickness and poverty to most of its subjects.

In other words, Jesus means it quite literally when he says, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly” (John 10:10). When imagining Jesus as “the gate” (John 10:7, 9), it’s easy to think of the gate as penning in the sheep and restricting their movements. However, the purpose of the gate is to protect the sheep from those death-dealing forces in the Roman world, and to provides access for the sheep to the pasture (John 10:9). Rather than a hit-or-miss savior obsessed with our eternal souls, this passage shows us a savior concerned with our well-being: our health, our wholeness, our shalom. Not after we die, but here and now, in this life.

© Joanne Whitt 2026 all rights reserved.

Resources:
Wiley Miller, “Non Sequitur,” in the San Francisco Chronicle, March 15 (year unknown).
Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible (New York: HarperPerenniel, 1998).
Warren Carter, “Jesus the Good Shepherd: John 10 as Political Rhetoric,” in Come and Read: Interpretive Approaches to the Gospel of John, ed. Alicia Myers and Lindsey S. Jodrey (Lanham, MD: Fortress Academic, 2020).
Laura Holmes, https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/fourth-sunday-of-easter/commentary-on-john-101-10-7
Lindsey Scott, https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/fourth-sunday-of-easter/commentary-on-john-101-10-5

Cut to the Heart

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Acts 2:14a, 36-41

    This passage in Acts reports that three thousand people joined the Christian movement as a result of one sermon – a very humbling statistic for any preacher.  In contrast, where I live, if you confess to being a Christian you’re likely to get funny looks.  Recently I learned there are people describing themselves as Christians who say empathy is toxic, a means of manipulating people’s emotions to accomplish a “liberal” agenda. Yikes. No wonder we get funny looks.

    At first blush, it seems that the words of Peter’s Pentecost sermon would be the last thing we’d say to people who already think we Christians are curiosities at best, loathsome at worst.  “Repent, and be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ so that your sins may be forgiven … Save yourselves from this corrupt generation,” preaches Peter.  It isn’t only our un-churched friends and neighbors who are uncomfortable with that kind of language. A pastoral intern I worked with called words like these – repent, sins, save – “stained-glass words.”  They are churchy words, words that have been trivialized in our culture, shrunken into something simple and even punitive when they have a deeper, richer, more life-affirming and more hopeful meaning than most people outside the faith, and many within it, assume.

    Sin might be the scariest of these words.  Maybe it’s easiest to think about sin in the context of another of these stained-glass words, repent.  In Scripture, repent is not feeling really sorry for what you’ve done, nor is it feeling ashamed of the horrible person you are.  In the Hebrew Bible, to repent means to return to God, to reconnect with God.  According to this definition of repent, sin is being disconnected from God.  This disconnection happens when, individually and corporately, we ignore God, turn from God, don’t take God into account.  Which we all do, at least some of the time. 

    Repent has the same meaning in the New Testament, with one nuance.  The Greek roots of the word combine to mean “go beyond the mind that you have.”  Go beyond the mind shaped by culture to the mind that you have in Christ.  In the New Testament, repentance is the path of reconnection, the path of transformation.

    Salvation simply means to be saved from our predicament.  What is our predicament?  Peter says we need to be saved from this corrupt or crooked generation.  These words have a hellfire and brimstone sound to them, but what they require us to do is look at sin as something that surrounds us.  Sin isn’t just personal peccadillos but is pervasive in the structures and systems of society.  When Peter says to the crowd, “this Jesus whom you crucified,” he isn’t talking to the people who hammered the nails into Jesus’ hands, or even to the crowd who shouted, “Crucify him!”  He’s not looking for particular people to blame.  He’s referring to this systemic aspect of sin.  We are not all equally blameworthy for the systems of violence, injustice, and death that surround our personal lives, our society, and our world.  But we are all caught up in vicious cycles of violence and injustice, whether as victims or victimizers or some of both.

    That is our predicament.  This predicament looks different for different people.  We can look around us and see victims of obvious violence and oppression: victims of war, punitive immigration policies, racism or sexism or homophobia, and we can say, yes, those people are in a predicament.  Those people need to be saved.  But for others, the predicament might feel like something’s missing or wrong or broken.  Your daughter is getting a divorce.  Your son is trapped in an addiction.  You’re in debt, you hate your job, your relationships give you more pain than joy.  You can’t get off the hamster wheel of getting ahead or spending or worrying.  You’re afraid that this is all there is.

    Peter’s listeners are “cut to the heart.”  Perhaps the story of the crucifixion has opened their eyes to their predicament and to their need for rescue from all that led to the crucifixion: empire, domination, injustice, the fear of losing privilege and power.  Or perhaps they’re overwhelmed with the good news of great joy that God is willing to die at the hands of God’s people and then come back again, not to make them pay, but to give them more love. 

    It turns out it isn’t Peter’s preaching that saves three thousand people.  What saves them, what saves all of us, is the story itself.  A better translation of “save yourselves” is “let yourselves be saved.”  Salvation is an experience more than a doctrine; it is that moment when you feel cut to the heart, and you have a clarity about God’s love that both reveals your predicament and empowers you to address it.  When the people ask Peter what they should do next, it isn’t to get step-by-step instructions for salvation – it’s to respond to what they have already received by the grace of God through Christ and the power of the Holy Spirit.  Peter says, “Be baptized.”  Baptism is just the symbol of that new power and new life.

    Grace, baptism, the power of the Holy Spirit.  More stained-glass words.  This story in Acts is about God’s mission in Christ to us as well as to Peter’s First Century audience.  We are included in the promise he proclaims: “For the promise is for you, for your children, and for all who are far away, everyone whom the Lord our God calls.”  But it is also about God’s mission through us. As Christ’s disciples, we are given the task of spreading the Good News of the promise we have received – the promise, as Frederick Buechner put it, “that Jesus lives on among us not just as another haunting memory, but as the outlandish, holy and invisible power of God working not just through the sacraments [of baptism and the Lord’s Supper] but in countless hidden ways to make even slobs like us loving and whole beyond anything we could conceivably pull off ourselves.” 

    That is the Good News.  How do we spread it?  How do we do that in a culture that not only doesn’t like the word salvation, but much of the time, is oblivious to any predicament calling for it?  A culture that often seems to be actively working to maintain our predicament, even to the extent of treating empathy as toxic – unless, of course, that empathy is directed toward people in their own group, and toward efforts that support the structures that privilege that group and deny the humanity of other groups?

    At a church I served, carved into the wood on the inside of the pulpit where no one but the preacher could see it was a verse from John’s gospel: “Sir, we would see Jesus” (John 12:21).  That reminder is not just for preachers.  It is for all of us.  Individually but even more, as the church, the body of Christ in the world, it is our job to show people Jesus. To show them the loving, empathetic, compassionate Jesus who relentlessly sided with outsiders and the downtrodden, who forgave sinners and preached peace, who stood up to empire rather than collaborating with it, whose cross tells us how far God’s love will go to bring us back to God. Who “lives on among us not just as another haunting memory, but as the outlandish, holy and invisible power of God working … in countless hidden ways to make even slobs like us loving and whole beyond anything we could conceivably pull off ourselves.”   

    When George Buttrick was the chaplain at Harvard, a student came to his office and announced that he didn’t believe in God.  Buttrick responded, “Sit down and tell me what kind of God you don’t believe in.  I probably don’t believe in that God either.”  I wonder what I’d hear if I asked one of my neighbors who is likely to give me a funny look, “Tell me what it is you think Christians believe and do that is so threatening.  I probably don’t believe those things either.  Tell me what kind of church you mistrust.  I’m willing to bet that I don’t go to that kind of church.  Tell me.”

© Joanne Whitt 2026 all rights reserved.   

Resources:

Marcus J. Borg, The Heart of Christianity (San Francisco, CA: HarperSanFrancico, 2003).

Daniel L. Migliore, Faith Seeking Understanding (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans, 1991).

Debbie Blue, “Reflections on the Lectionary,” in The Christian Century, March 25, 2008.

William H. Willimon, Interpretation: Acts (Louisville, KY: John Knox Press, 1988).

Philip Yancey, The Jesus I Never Knew (New York: Walker and Co., 1995).

The Easter Laugh

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John 20:19-31

I served a church in Marin County for nearly 15 years, and for nine of those years, we celebrated the Sunday after Easter as Holy Humor Sunday. Holy Humor Sunday is the revival of an old Easter custom begun in the early centuries of Christianity known as “Risus paschalis,” the “Easter laugh.” The custom was rooted in the musings of early church theologians, including Augustine, Gregory of Nyssa, and John Chrysostom, that God played a practical joke on the devil by raising Jesus from the dead. For centuries in Eastern Orthodox, Catholic and Protestant countries, the Sunday after Easter was known as Bright Sunday, and the week following Easter Sunday was observed by the faithful as days of joy and laughter with parties and picnics to celebrate Jesus’ resurrection.

I’m not sure when this fell out of fashion. Was it with the Puritans, or during the Victorian Era? Was it during the 20th century with its own brand of Puritanism? Somehow, the celebration of Jesus’ resurrection with joy and laughter became sorely neglected. Let’s face it: laughing in church hasn’t been encouraged. Many of us learned at an early age that giggling or laughing in church would earn us an angry “Shush!”

The custom of the Easter laugh has been recovered and reclaimed in recent decades, and I think it’s about time. I for one can’t imagine that the disciples didn’t laugh with surprise and joy at seeing Jesus, hearing his voice, maybe even giving him a hug, once they were past the fear stage. They knew the joke was on them, because they hadn’t believed what he told them. And far from being somber, I suspect Jesus himself was grinning from ear to ear.

It’s odd, when you think about it, that we assume that Jesus always spoke with a serious if not disapproving tone and a cross expression. Given the descriptions of his willingness to break bread with outsiders and the accusation that he was a glutton and a drunkard (Matthew 11:19; Luke 7:24), I suspect that Jesus often spoke with a twinkle in his eye, maybe even with a chuckle or a belly laugh. Why is it that we insist Jesus was harsh and humorless? I believe that says more about us than about Jesus.

Take the speech he delivers to poor Thomas, the only disciple who was missing when Jesus showed up at their hideout that first Easter night. When Thomas finally shows up, he only asks to see what everyone else had already seen, and yet he’s known as “Doubting Thomas,” as though somehow his request proves his faith is inferior to the other disciples. But what if, rather than condemning or chastising Thomas, Jesus speaks not only with compassion but with humor. I invite you to imagine that when Jesus spoke to Thomas, he was laughing – not mocking him but chuckling with humor and tenderness. “Oh, Thomas, thank God you’re here at last! You have some serious catching up to do. And bless all those, all the coming generations of my disciples who will doubt, and question, but whose trust in me will nevertheless change who they are, and what they do with their lives.” And then he claps Thomas on the back, and they all share a good laugh.

As Reinhold Niebuhr once said, “Humor is, in fact, a prelude to faith; and laughter is the beginning of prayer.”

© Joanne Whitt 2026 all rights reserved.

We Rise

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Matthew 28:1-10

I heard a true story about a priest at an Easter morning mass. He went to the pulpit and said, “You’ve heard the story. Think about it.” And then he sat down.

It’s tempting. How do you explain a story that defies explanation? The question on many minds Easter morning is, “Did the resurrection really happen?” I get it. Even though we shout, “Christ is risen!” in our calls to worship and sing, “Jesus Christ is Risen today…”, if I had asked my congregation to be as honest as possible in answering the question, “Do you believe in the resurrection?” I’d have heard about 250 different answers on a spectrum ranging from, “Yes, absolutely,” to “No way.”

Of all the Gospels, Matthew’s version might win the prize for “least believable.” Only Matthew describes an earthquake, a bookend to the earthquake at the time of Jesus’ death (Matthew 27:50-54). The earthquake announces the angel, whose appearance is “like lightening” – I picture him sort of sizzling and popping with power, radiating danger; I’d cast Chris Hemsworth in the role, so just picture Thor in dazzling white clothing. In the other gospels, the tomb was already open when the women arrive, but this buff angel rolls back the stone as the women look on. Jesus is gone; apparently, the stone was no obstacle. The angel sits on the stone, crossing his angelic arms, and glances over at the security guards – only Matthew mentions these guards (Matthew 27:62-66) – who are in some sort of terror-induced coma. You see the irony: the living look dead and the dead are alive? The angel doesn’t speak to the guards. His assurances are only for the women: “You don’t need to be afraid.”

The angel says Jesus has been raised, just as he said he would. Jesus predicted his resurrection three times in Matthew’s gospel (Matthew 16:21, 17:9, 20:17-19). The angel then says, “Go tell the disciples. Jesus is going ahead of you to Galilee.” The women take off and run headlong into Jesus. In awe and surprise, they grab onto him and Jesus echoes the angel: “You have nothing to fear. Go tell my brothers I’ll meet them in Galilee.” Matthew doesn’t explain how all this works, or even what it all means. Like the priest, he tells the story and sits down.

The Gospels don’t spell out what resurrection means. They do show us a lot about the person who was raised – about Jesus. As a child, he was a refugee (Matthew 2:13-15). As an adult, he had no place to lay his head (Matthew 8:20). He broke the rules about holiness. He spoke out against the government (Matthew 22:15-22). He insisted that mercy triumphs over judgment (Matthew 5:7, 9:13). He chose to love and live among religious and political outcasts and called them beloved children of God – and that made him an outcast, as well (Matthew 9:10-13). He called proper, upstanding people hypocrites (Matthew 23:1-36) and said that love was more important than money, power, status, everything (Matthew 22:36-40) – so important that we need to love even our enemies (Matthew 5:43-48) – our enemies, for God’s sake. That’s why he was killed. As someone put it, Good Friday is not a celebration of religion; it’s a warning to religion.

That’s who Jesus was and that’s who was raised. That’s who God chose to raise. It wasn’t just shocking; it was positively scandalous. So what does that tell us about God? What does it tell us about us?

The New Testament has an unusual way of describing Jesus after the resurrection. He’s “the firstborn of the dead” (Colossians 1:18; Revelation 1:5), or the “firstborn of all creation” (Colossians 1:15); the firstborn “of many brothers [and sisters]’ (Romans 8:29); the pioneer of faith (Hebrews 12:2), leading the way into a new day, a new era, a new way of life, a new creation. So it makes sense that the risen Jesus calls the disciples his brothers.

Easter doesn’t celebrate that one man rose from the dead. Easter celebrates new resurrection life for all of us. For all of us, now. Jesus was just the first, but all humanity can rise from what is deadly – deadly to us, and deadly to our whole world. Not sometime in the future, but now. The Gospel writers call Jesus “the son of man,” an enigmatic title that one of my seminary professors translated as the “the new human being.” We tend to skip over this “son of man” talk because it’s confusing, but maybe the gospel writers used it all the time because it matters. Maybe what they’re trying to tell us is that Jesus is the first of a new generation of humanity; Humanity 2.0, we might say. Resurrection invites us to join him in Humanity 2.0, in “resurrection life.” Resurrection life says, “You don’t have to wait for some distant future to start practicing compassion, nonviolence, reconciliation, reverence, joy, hope, and peace. You can leave the old humanity behind and start practicing Humanity 2.0 now.” We can join the resurrection, now. We can rise. Now.

“Did it happen?” is the wrong question. The right question is, “Is it happening?” The promise of the resurrection is not simply what God has done, but what God is still doing. Brian McLaren writes, “As the sun rises Easter morning, everything changes. The emphasis shifts from what lies behind to what lies ahead of us, from what we have done to what God is doing, from what we have been to what we shall become.”

© Joanne Whitt 2026 all rights reserved.

Resources:
Herman C. Waetjen, The Origin and Destiny of Humanness (San Rafael, CA: Crystal Press, 1976).
Brian D. McLaren, “Joining the Resurrection,” April 8, 2012, http://www.patheos.com/Progressive-Christian/Joining-the-Resurrection-Brian-McLaren-04-09-2012

Palms, Passion, or Bagpipes?

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Matthew 21:1-11
Matthew 26:14 – 27:66

The two Matthew passages in this Sunday’s lectionary are designated “Liturgy of the Palms” (Matthew 21:1-11) and “Liturgy of the Passion” (Matthew 26:14-27:66). If you’re a preacher, do you choose one or the other, or both? Choosing one feels like skipping an important part of the story. Choosing both is a lot. As I sifted through these passages, I realized there are many, perhaps too many, possible points of contact: How do we honor the One who comes in the name of the Lord? What do we mean when we shout, “Hosanna!” which means “Save us!”? What would happen if we stood up to power, however peacefully? How are we complicit in injustice? Do we blame others and wash our hands of the matter as though we’re powerless? Do we disappear when the going gets tough, as the disciples seem to have done? Who are the innocent victims in our world today? Can love overcome violence? Is there such a thing as redemptive suffering? These passages explore betrayal, ritual and sacrament, friendship, crowd dynamics, remaining silent in the face of accusations, corrupting power, Jesus’ identification with every person who ever felt God-forsaken, and Jesus’ and therefore God’s experiencing rejection and suffering. And this is far from an exhaustive list.

As one commentator notes, “This story is not a documentary; it is also not a fiction. Instead, it is a proclamation of faith.” It is a proclamation of faith that these events happened and even more, that these events have meaning for us. We know Mark, Luke, and John tell the story slightly (and at times widely) differently. In all the Gospels, however, we see humanity at its worst and God’s answer of abiding, forgiving love that conquers death. So, must we decide which fragment of this story ought to be the focus in worship? How do I know what the person in the pew needs to hear this weekend? How can I guess which verse hits you where you live, or offers you the solace you desperately need?

I’m grateful to Brian Maas, who writes, “There is something about the wail of a bagpipe that just seems especially appropriate to the nexus of experiences and meanings that takes place on Palm/Passion Sunday.” He describes a practice in churches he has served in which the palm procession is accompanied by a bagpipe. Maas writes, “The piper bears an instrument ideal for the day and its colliding narratives and competing themes. No matter what they play, some will hear celebration, some militancy, some somberness. Whatever the notes, the meaning belongs not to the piper but to those who hear them.”

Maas continues, “The preacher too is an instrument of proclamation on Palm/Passion Sunday, and needs to be given permission – encouragement – not to try to address all that’s happening as Holy Week commences. It is enough to speak the truth, to repeat the stories of the day, and to let each listener hear what they need for the moment. In merely proclaiming (not explaining or reconciling) the triumph and the threat, the nobility and the betrayal, the preacher will make it possible for each listener to hear what they need of the Gospel – be it the hope of a coming king, the acknowledgement of a prophet in conflict with injustice, or the empathic compassion of a suffering servant.”

Holy Week offers a huge buffet for the grieving and the guilty, for the battered and the bruised, for the heart-sick and the hopeful, for those seeking justice and those seeking peace. Offer the whole story. Offer music, because it speaks to the heart. Even offer a bagpipe.

© Joanne Whitt 2026 all rights reserved.

Resources:
Melinda Quivik, https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/sunday-of-the-passion-palm-sunday/commentary-on-matthew-2711-54-4
Brian Maas, “There is something about the wail of a bagpipe that seems especially appropriate this Sunday,” in The Christian Century, March 31, 2023, https://www.christiancentury.org/sunday-s-coming/palms-passion-preachers-and-pipes-matthew-21-1-11-26-14-27-66

Lazarus

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John 11:1-45

“Lord, if you had been here, my brother wouldn’t have died,” say the dead man Lazarus’ sisters, Mary and Martha, to Jesus. It is a familiar pang, a familiar feeling during times of grief or tragedy, or when we’re overwhelmed by monumental problems: “God, where are you?” “God, couldn’t you have done something to prevent this?” “God, why did this happen?” “God, I feel so helpless.”

The story of Lazarus is highly symbolic, full of meaning, and full of questions. Jesus says and does all sorts of things that not even the people right there with him understand, not to mention those of us trying to figure it out two thousand years later. Why did Jesus lollygag? Why is he so extremely disturbed – the Greek word for “greatly disturbed” is very strong here – when it appears that he could have arrived in time to heal Lazarus? For whom does he weep? Is it for Lazarus? For humanity? Or for himself, because in John’s Gospel, this episode turns out to be the match that lights the fuse of the plot to arrest and kill him?

The miracle itself is the most spectacular moment in the story, but the miracle dramatizes the central point, revealed in the conversation when Martha questions Jesus about his delayed arrival and Jesus assures her, in turn, that her brother will rise again. Martha agrees and recites the belief that at the end of time all the dead will rise from the grave. This is the correct religious response, and yet Jesus pushes her beyond this, or more accurately, he pulls her back from the distant future into the immediate and concrete present. “I am the resurrection,” Jesus says, “and the life.” “I AM.” The meaning and consequences of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection have immediate implications. And then, Jesus shows us this symbolically with the raising of Lazarus – not after Easter, not after his own death and resurrection or at the end of time, but right then and there.

The promises of God are not only about life eternal with God after we die or something that kicks in at the end of time. Rather, the Gospel should make a real, concrete difference now, make things possible now, open up opportunities and options now, transform relationships now. The promises of God are present tense, not just future.

In the dramatic scene by the tomb, Jesus asks the mourners who surround the sisters to roll away the stone. Then he calls Lazarus by name. Lazarus hears and emerges from the tomb, but in order for him to be truly free from death, the by-standers need to unbind him from his burial cloths. They help Lazarus into the new life Jesus offers. Both in rolling away the stone and in this unbinding, we see that Jesus’ power over death, his power to give us life, is passed along to the community. The community, in other words, is to participate in God’s action, to join in completing God’s redemptive act.

The Greek word for church is ekklesia. The word literally means, “the called out ones.” Like Lazarus, those in the Church are called out. We are called out from that which is death-dealing to that which is life-giving. As God’s called out ones, we are to call out others, and to do the dirty work of removing the wrappings that bind people to a living death, that hold them back from the life of love and belonging and connection that God wants for all. One way we are called out is to be community for each other. Community all by itself is life-giving and death defying; we see this in the close friendship of Jesus with Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. A church community, in particular, is life-giving in the way it welcomes people, enjoys fellowship, and seeks to respond to people in crisis. A life-giving church community does these things not just because the people like each other but because we are called out – called out to defy death, and community defies death. We are the ones to whom Jesus can say, “Unbind him. Let her go.”

Lazarus will die again, but the community empowered to unbind and set loose has endured, persisting through the centuries in works of courage and mercy. None of the changes in worship or music style, leadership, buildings, technology, or even cultural changes like secularism, post-modernism, and pluralism can stop the power of the Holy Spirit working through communities to make a difference in God’s world right here, right now.

© Joanne Whitt 2026 all rights reserved.

Resources:
David Lose, “Present-tense Salvation,” April 2, 2014, http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=3135
Gail R. O’Day, “John,” in The Women’s Bible Commentary, Carol A. Newsom and Sharon H. Ringe, eds. (Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1992).
Elisabeth Johnson, http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1924
Herman C. Waetjen, The Gospel of the Beloved Disciple (New York: T & T Clark International, 2005).

I Will Fear No Evil

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Psalm 23

“I will fear no evil.” I long for these words to be true for me. Sometimes they are true. Other times they are a hope. Not that I wish I were never, ever afraid. There really is such a thing as healthy fear, as every parent of teenagers wishes kids would remember. Fear helps keep us safe, and we are hard-wired for self-preservation.

But fear can also be unhealthy and unreasonable. Freud said it’s reasonable for a person to be afraid of snakes in the heart of the jungle, but it’s not reasonable to be afraid of snakes under the carpet in your apartment. Unhealthy fears can paralyze us, rob us of joy, make us hide our true selves, and live a diminished life. Fear can also cause us to try to control or dominate others, develop hatreds and prejudices, build up armies, start wars, commit acts of terrorism, and fail to stand up for what we know is right. Rather than preserve us, these fears poison us.

So when the psalmist says, “I will fear no evil,” it’s these fears to which he refers. It’s these fears that not only do not preserve us but actually threaten our safety and the safety of the world. In response to a terrorist attack a few years ago, public theologian and author Brian D. McLaren wrote, “As a first step in protecting our values and safety, we must know who and where our greatest enemy is. Our greatest enemy is not the enemy out there or over there. Our greatest enemy is the invisible army that lives inside each of us and therefore among all of us, camouflaged, hidden, subtle. Within us hide terror cells of fear that tempt us to react in folly rather than act in wisdom.” This enemy within tempts us to respond to evil with evil, rather than seeking to overcome evil with good. It tempts us to build power bases among “some of us” by building fear and prejudice against “others of us.” The ringleader of all these inner enemies, writes McLaren, is pride, both personal and national, that tells us we are better than others and so we deserve special privileges or special exemptions.

How do we figure out which fears are really the enemy inside us? Which are the snakes under the carpet? Martin Luther King, Jr. wrote that more often than not, fear involves the misuse of the imagination. So perhaps a place to begin is with an honest look at our fears. What is true? What is folly? Maybe all our fears have both a degree of truth and a degree of ridiculousness, and the trick is figuring out what’s ridiculous, and then treating it that way. For example, there was a meme making its way around the Internet a while back that said, “Muslims make up 1% of the population, commit .5% of the mass shootings, and account for 10% of U.S. doctors. So if you’re ever at the wrong place at the wrong time and get shot by a Christian, don’t worry. There’s probably a Muslim that can help.”

How do we deal with those fears that have more truth than ridiculousness? The psalmist tells us, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me.” In The Message, Eugene Peterson translates this verse, “Even when the way goes through Death Valley, I’m not afraid when you walk at my side.” The temptation, I think, is to rely on platitudes about God’s presence. God’s presence with us is profoundly true, but how does that become real for us when we’re afraid? We know the psalmist doesn’t mean there’s nothing to be afraid of. The Lord is not a shepherd who makes all the bad and scary parts of life go away. This is a psalm that says there are green pastures but also dark valleys and enemies. It says we can get lost, and sometimes we do. It doesn’t say there’s no evil, or that evil will never touch our lives. It doesn’t say God will intervene to protect us, as much as we wish that were true.

And yet, says the psalmist, in the face of evil, he will not fear. Walter Brueggemann writes, “It is God’s companionship that transforms every situation.” But what good does God’s companionship do when bombs land on a girls’ school or ICE agents murder protesters? I can imagine the response of some might be, “You can keep your God; give me an assault rifle. Or an M-1 Abrams tank.” But then, is that standing up to evil? Or is it capitulating to it? Isn’t that what fearing evil looks like? I agree with William Sloane Coffin, who wrote, “Frankly, nothing scares me like scared people, unless it’s a scared nation.”

Rabbi Kushner, author of When Bad Things Happen to Good People, said, “The Twenty-third Psalm is the answer to the question, ‘How do you live in a dangerous, unpredictable, frightening world?’” That sounds like a lot to ask from a psalm, even a comforting and familiar psalm. But there’s more to it than comfort and familiarity. Besides addressing fear, the psalm talks about revenge. If our first impulse in the face of evil is fear, our second impulse is vengeance. “You spread a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil. My cup overflows,” writes the psalmist. The psalmist doesn’t ignore the cold, hard fact that there are people in the world who mean him harm. But as soon as the psalmist mentions his enemies and confesses his frankly petty desire to make them jealous by eating a sumptuous feast right in front of them while they look on with their mouths watering, he moves into a more important confession. He confesses the goodness of God and the bounty with which he has been blessed. The movement in the psalmist’s thinking goes like this: “I have enemies. Man, I would really love to rub their noses in the fact that God has blessed me. Wow, God has blessed me! Surely goodness and mercy will follow me.” And it’s that last thought that carries the day. His impulse to take revenge is short-circuited by the deep awareness of God’s grace and love. The energy he would have spent on retribution is transformed into joyful thanksgiving.

It’s a different way of approaching a threat, isn’t it? Pausing to reflect on God’s love and grace before reacting in fear and revenge? It opens up the possibility of transformation, which might even include the enemy.

It is love and only love that transforms us from people who live in fear and seek revenge into people who choose to end the cycle of fear, hatred, and revenge. It always has been. It always will be. John’s first letter tells us, “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love. We love because God first loved us” (1 John 4:1819). Martin Luther King, Jr., again, wrote: “Hate is rooted in fear, and the only cure for fear-hate is love. … We say that war is a consequence of hate, but close scrutiny reveals this sequence: first fear, then hate, then war, and finally, deeper hatred.” The same sequence causes the hatred we call prejudice. It’s fear – the fear of loss of economic privilege or social status – that leads to the hatred that leads to dehumanizing treatment and even violence, which in turn create more fear and hatred.

We love because God first loved us. This transforming kind of love comes from God, and it takes prayer and practice and community and time – maybe a lifetime – to let God’s limitless love come alive in us. That’s why theologian Karl Barth said, “Courage is fear that has said its prayers.”

This poem by Michael Leunig speaks to our time, and perhaps to all time:
There are only two feelings. Love and fear.
There are only two languages. Love and fear.
There are only two activities. Love and fear.
There are only two motives, two procedures,
two frameworks, two results. Love and fear.
Love and fear.

© Joanne Whitt 2026 all rights reserved.

Resources:

F. Emelia Sam, “3 Reasons Why Fear Is Actually a Good Thing,” October 8, 2015, http://www.huffingtonpost.com/dr-f-emelia-sam/why-fear-is-a-good-thing_b_8258746.html.
Brian D. McLaren, https://medium.com/@amprog/we-protect-our-nation-s-values-and-safety-by-continuing-to-strive-to-live-up-to-our-ideals-d0ab27b8896e
Timothy F. Simpson, “The 23rd Psalm in an Age of Terror: A Pastoral Response to Boston,”
April 16, 2013, http://www.politicaltheology.com/blog/the-23rd-psalm-in-an-age-of-terror-a-pastoral-response-to-boston/
Martin Luther King, Jr., “Antidotes to Fear,” in Strength to Love (Harper and Row, 1963; reprinted as a gift edition by Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2010).
William Sloane Coffin, “Loving Your Enemy,” February 6, 1983, in The Collected Sermons of William Sloane Coffin: The Riverside Years, Volume 2 (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008).
PBS Interview with Harold Kushner, November 26, 2004, http://www.pbs.org/wnet/religionandethics/episodes/november-26-2004/harold-kushner/15271/
Michael Leunig, https://mail.leunig.com.au/works/prayers