"I Have Heard My People's Cry"

Texts: Exodus 3:1-15, Matthew 16:21-28

 

So, I had lunch with the Aberdeen police chief this past week, along with Pastor Marc from next door. On my way there, Pastor Marc joked; “I hope they don’t arrest you!” They didn’t, of course. Actually, we had a really good conversation about poverty in Aberdeen.

But Marc’s comment reminded me that, sometimes, it can be dangerous to follow Jesus. Now, I have no particular intention of being arrested and I doubt the Aberdeen police department has any intention of arresting me.

But, these past few weeks, others have been in harm’s way. An African American Baptist pastor, who I knew of when I was in Boston, Rev. Osagyefo Sekou, has been in harm’s way this past month. I was particularly drawn to his story because he also grew up in a rural area and also ended up in Boston. He spent his teen years in St Louis County and this past month, he decided, like me, to go home. He went home, of course, at the worst possible time—since we all have seen the news in Ferguson. The place Michael Brown was shot by police.

He’s been posting on facebook regularly, as he has stood with the young black men and women of Ferguson and listened to them, listened to their pain, listened to the pain of a community. Now I know that Ferguson seems very far away from us. A whole world and a whole culture away. We see little news snippets here and there, but it still seems pretty far away. I was struck as Rev Sekou talked about the situation in Ferguson, particularly because the economic situation in Ferguson is almost exactly the same as it is here on the harbor, in Aberdeen. Both towns have the same poverty rate—25%. Both have similar rates of unemployment, the same median income (36,000), and the same atmosphere of hopelessness and violence, especially for young people. We might have more in common than we think with our brothers and sisters in Ferguson.

I’ve been struck especially because Rev. Sekou has put himself in a lot of danger; he talks about facing violence and the fear of having guns pointed at him and his community. He had a radio conversation this past week where he said; “We want to celebrate these young people who will not bow down. I and the clergy here will defend them, even with our lives.” In other words, Rev. Sekou loves his people, loves his town enough to risk his life on the streets to stand with and work for the healing of his people.

That is the message Jesus confronts his disciples with in our text this morning. It comes at a turning point in Jesus’ ministry. He has ministered in Galilee—the place he grew up—the home of his people. He has preached good news to the poor and he has healed the sick and he has proclaimed the coming kingdom of God.  Now, he makes the decision to go up to Jerusalem, along with his Galilean followers for Passover.

He knows what that means. He knows what he is up against. And he begins gently preparing his disciples for it. Peter is clearly terrified.

Jesus knows that, when he enters Jerusalem, the center of power, the center of Roman authority in the region, he will be arrested. And everyone knows what happens next to revolutionary Galileans. As Jesus contemplates Jerusalem, he sees in his mind’s eye what every single Galilean would have known at that time. There were times when the roads leading from Galilee to Jerusalem were lined with crosses. Jesus knows he is going to die.

When Peter begs him to reconsider, begs him to be safe, begs him to take care for his own life—Jesus turns to him and tells him; “Actually, if you are going to follow me, if you want to see this all the way to the end, you’re going to have to be ready to “take up your cross” too.”

Now, when you hear “take up your cross”, what do you think? It has become popular in Christian circles to say “take up your cross” and bear your suffering. That to take up your cross is to be patient and deal with hard stuff in life.

That is not what Jesus is saying at all. Every single person who heard him would have immediately thought—darn, Jesus is asking us to be ready to die. Jesus is saying—be ready to die.

We live in a world, Jesus says, where people who are powerless are dying all the time. Rome kills our people, my people all the time. If I am going to join them, if I am going to stand on their side, I will have to be willing to die as well.

We live in a world where kids like Michael Brown die all the time on the streets of our towns and cities. On the streets of Grays Harbor, I listen to stories of death all the time—high suicide rates, people dying far too young because they don’t have access to medical care, so much death.

Why is Jesus willing to die? Jesus is willing to die because Jesus loves his people. Loves us.

Were you listening to our first reading? Moses is visited by God who tells him; “I have heard my people’s cry.” I have seen their suffering. I have seen their slavery. I have heard their cry. And I am sending you to risk your life, to set my people free.

Jesus, God in human flesh, God with us, comes to us and he hears our cry. Jesus is God’s response to the cry of God’s people.

He hears the cry of the Galileans who suffer under Rome. He hears the cry of desperate and heartbroken people in Ferguson. He hears the cry of a world suffering so much.

I want to tell you a little about the cries that I hear on the streets of Aberdeen and the harbor, in my ministry. I sat down with a group of folks, telling them that I was meeting with the police chief and was there something they wanted me to say. To a person, they said; “We just want a home. Where are we supposed to go?” I spoke to a young man who spoke of his longing for a job so that he could keep his housing and build a stable life. I spoke to an elderly man who cried over all of the people in his family who have died young—of desperation or despair or untreated health issues.

Over and over, people say; “We once helped build this community; we once had jobs here. But now all of these buildings and homes stand empty and we camp along the river.” Over and over, people say; “How can I help? How can I find work so that I can pay for electricity and running water in my apartment?”

And God has heard their cry. Because I believe the gospel, because I believe in the God of liberation and freedom, I believe that God has heard their cry.    

And so our calling is to stand with them. To stand together as a community. To listen to each other’s cries. Our cries for healing and for belonging and for love. Our cries for community and homes and stability. Our cries for hope and for a future.

We all cry to God at one point or another. As we face health problems or the loss of those we love. As we face job loss or can’t find a job. As we face all of the things that this world throws at us.

And God hears our cries, my brothers and sisters. And Jesus loves us. Loves us enough to die for us. Loves us enough to put his body, his life on the line for us.

And this is how we show love for one another.

Because, when we come together, when we stand together, when we cry out together—liberation is a coming, my brothers and sisters.

When we cry out together, God hears, and we find hope and a future. Hope for our lives, hope for our kids and grandkids, hope for our land, hope for our towns, hope for the harbor.

Jesus—willing to die on behalf of his people—calling us to be willing to die for each other, this is how freedom comes. And we dream, my brothers and sisters, we dream—of people having enough to eat, of streams in the desert and our land coming alive again—we dream of beautiful homes and enough work, we dream of healed people. We dream because Jesus says that, if we are willing to lose our lives for the ones we love, we will truly find LIFE together. We will LIVE.

What Does the Cross Say to Law Enforcement?

I grew up warily respecting cops in a family that respected and feared the police. I was a white kid in a mostly white, working class suburb before I was a white kid in a white rural town. Both my grandfathers were police officers and I remember the occasional story, though neither of them glorified their jobs any more than they did their military experience.

My sister’s now in law enforcement too. And I hate that she is ever in danger.

And then there is Ferguson. And the stories of black kids and teens and adults all over the country telling the same story: black kids are dying in our streets and many of them are dying at the hands of cops.

And then there are the stories I hear all the time on the streets of almost every city I have been in—being roughed up by the police, targeted by the police, for being homeless, for being poor, for looking the wrong way or living on the wrong side of town.

When we talked about Ferguson in Aberdeen, people told their own stories.

When Ferguson happens, we want to frame it into a manageable narrative. We want to make it about a black teen and his good or bad character and a white cop and his good or bad decisions. Two people. Let’s wait and see what the “real story” is.

But that is not what this is about. Not really.

Its about a system where poor people, and especially poor people of color, are not considered human beings. Not given respect or dignity. Where they are roughed up and beat up and arrested and caged and, yes, killed by people trained to believe that they “serve and protect.” All the time. Whether they have guns or knives or not, whether they are polite or rude, whether they have stolen a candy bar or sat in the wrong place.

Being a priest, my mind runs immediately to the gospels, set in a time when Rome oppressed Galilee and Palestine, in a time when John the Baptist and Jesus and their people were robbed, oppressed, and murdered by those who served and protected the empire. And I think particularly of a group of soldiers, the Roman equivalent of a domestic military force, who came to John in Luke 3, asking what they should do. And John tells them to stop extorting people.

John gets that they are trying to make a living. John gets that they are human beings. John gets that they are scared in their line of work. But he gives them a choice. If you want to be part of the kingdom of God, then you cannot join in the oppression of the community. You cannot rob people of dignity and life.

It’s simple, really.

It’s the same message Oscar Romero preached to the members of the Salvadoran police and military:

“I would like to make a special appeal to the men of the army, and specifically to the ranks of the National Guard, the police and the military. Brothers, you come from our own people. You are killing your own brother peasants when any human order to kill must be subordinate to the law of God which says, “Thou shalt not kill.” No soldier is obliged to obey an order contrary to the law of God... It is high time you recovered your consciences and obeyed your consciences rather than a sinful order… In the name of God, in the name of this suffering people whose cries rise to heaven more loudly each day, I implore you, I beg you, I order you in the name of God: stop the repression.”

Today, as well, the members of our police and law enforcement have the same choice. To choose between the people of this nation or upholding a status quo that systematically and deliberately controls and persecutes an increasing number of struggling people. To serve and join with the people of this country, black and brown and white, but especially black and brown because these communities were never meant to be protected by our law enforcement, or to serve and protect our systems of power and control.

There is that poignant final scene at the site of the crucifixion. As Jesus lets out his final, dying scream, a man cries out; “Truly, this man was the son of God.” The man who said those words was the man who put Jesus there, who drove nails into his flesh, who killed him, who was just doing his job, who was just following protocol, who was just following orders. A man who, in the eyes of the law, did nothing wrong and everything right. And, in a blinding flash, he recognizes the enormity of what he has done and falls at the feet of the dead man.

Will the police of Ferguson fall at the feet of the dead man, of Michael Brown, the kid left dead in the street for hours, and say; “Truly, this man was a child of God”?

Will the officers of Aberdeen or of Seattle or of the myriad of other cities who are charged with enforcing anti-vagrancy laws and criminalizing homelessness—will they fall at the feet of their brothers and sisters and say; “Truly, they are children of God”?

That is the call of the gospel.

In the name of God, in the name of this suffering people whose cries rise to heaven more loudly each day, I implore you, I beg you, I order you in the name of God: stop the repression.

What does Gaza City and Fergeson Have to Do with Aberdeen?

In the face of so much bad news, I have struggled to say what is on my heart. Struggled to form words around horrific acts of violence and war. Two events, particularly, have captured my attention in the past few weeks. A whole people utterly cut off from economic possibility and bombed, as the world watched nearly 2,000 people die in Gaza, watched children bury children. And a young black man shot by police, triggering night after night of protest in the American town of Fergeson.



Something caught my attention last night. People in Palestine were sending tweets to protesters in Fergeson, MO advising them how to deal with tear gas. Two peoples, for a moment in cyberspace, united in a struggle for life.

Everywhere, all over the world, poor and oppressed and angry people are demanding life. They are refusing to lay down and die.

And, yet, I struggle for words.

I struggle because I grew up white and working class and what that means is that my people, so often, have believed so many lies. I grew up taught that black communities were violent and I grew up with racist slurs and deep prejudice. I grew up with Christian Zionism, a distorted belief that both unconditionally supported Israel and still believed Jews were going to hell, a macabre anti-Semitism married to political support for the state they believed would bring in Armageddon. I grew up, especially post 9-11, taught that Muslims and “Arabs” (because, all people in the Middle East were Arab) were dangerous terrorists who deserved bombing and death.

And there is nothing unique in that. Lots of white, rural, working class people have been taught the same.

I struggle because this breaks my heart. It breaks my heart that my people—that rural white people don’t realize that they have so very much in common with the protestors in Fergeson and the people of Gaza. More and more, the communities I come from are struggling to survive—struggling for life—struggling because they can’t get jobs or health care or decent housing, struggling because they too fill our jails and prisons, they too are at the end of their rope. They are not bombed, but the conditions of life are not so very different.

Yet, as always, we are isolated in our struggle, isolated because we believe what we have been told. About Gaza. About black people. About immigrants.

And about us.

We are told that our poverty is a result of our lack of initiative and hard work, our lack of good planning and good choices. We believe our poverty is our fault. And that belief holds us captive. The best way to enslave people is to convince them they deserve it.

At least in Gaza, at least in Fergeson, people know what they are up against. At least they know their suffering is not their fault. 

I dream of a day when towns like Aberdeen recognize common cause with struggling people all over the world—when Aberdeen joins Fergeson and joins Gaza City and joins the millions of people around the world struggling for life. When people in Aberdeen tweet people in Fergeson and Gaza City, demanding freedom and life and peace and wholeness together.

The Fisherman's Pentecost

Texts: I Kings 19:9-18 and Matthew 14:22-33

So, I have a confession to make. I don’t know much about fishing or being on a boat. Which is a little sad, since my family has a history of maritime adventures—my grandfather served in the merchant marines during WWII, my dad built ships after he got out of the Coast Guard and my aunt spent 15 years living on a boat and running a seafood business. Me? I’ve never been on anything bigger than a canoe or a little motor boat on a very small, very quiet lake.

I’ve never been in a storm on a boat.

 Did you notice that all of our texts this morning are in the middle of storms/ Elijah stands on a lonely mountain, hiding for his life, in the middle of a storm and an earthquake. And Jesus, Jesus, is walking on water in the middle of a storm.

We haven’t had much stormy weather lately. Except that our world is full of it. I cannot but notice that the news these past few weeks is full of dire news. I feel bombarded with stories of death and tragedy and war. In Aberdeen, in my ministry, I hear stories of tragedy constantly. I hear about missing children and suicide, desperation and loss—the storm of being caught between lack of adequate jobs and deep, grinding poverty. I toured Olympia yesterday and heard the same stories of people struggling to survive in our communities.

And, this past few weeks, we hear of hundreds, thousands dead in Gaza—caught between a powerful army and overcrowded desperation. Because I have worked in many immigrant congregations, I can’t help but hear the stories of the thousands of children fleeing across our southern borders —caught between economic devastation, the intense violence of their homelands, and US border policy.  Everywhere, there are storms. Everywhere, the clouds seem ready to block out the sun, and we see pain and despair and struggle of people forced to flee, forced to live in economic struggle, forced to watch loved ones die. Forced to do so by those more powerful than they are. Unable to stand up against a world where jobs are hard to find, or armies are powerful, or gangs have taken over.

Did you notice something else about our texts? Into each of the storms in our text, God walks in. Elijah stands in the desert on his lonely mountain, sent into hiding for speaking the truth. He is grieving the deaths of those killed by the king of Israel. Ahab was an abusive king, a man who robbed the people of Israel of land and life. Elijah is at the end of his rope. He is vaguely suicidal—only a few verses before, he begs God to let him die. The storms are too much.

And God comes to him in a still small voice. And gives him hope and courage and a promise for the future.

And Jesus. Our text begins as Jesus sits alone on a hillside, praying. Grieving too; he has just received word that Herod has executed John the Baptizer. In a drunken party, the king had ordered John’s death. John had spoken truth to power too and now he was dead. Perhaps Jesus was thinking about himself too—he must have known that his ministry will not end well or peacefully either. He must have known that he too might die quite soon. I imagine Jesus too was grieving. And it was in his own grief, he walks out on the storm of the Sea of Galilee.

The disciples see Jesus walking on water and they imagine he is a ghost, some thing of legend or folklore.

God walks in as the storm threatens to overwhelm his people. It is the disciple’s baptism. Or, as Irene Martin says, this is the Fisherman’s Pentecost—the time when the Spirit is revealed to them in power and they see God in power.

It is a demonstration of power.

Power over the sea, power greater than Rome, than Herod, power greater than the worst enemy his disciples can imagine.

It is that power that gives God’s people hope.

It is that same power that rescues Noah and his family in the ark and rescues the ancient people of Israel from Egypt and from slavery when they cross the Red Sea. That same power that gives freedom and liberation.

It is that power that gives us hope. Today, in the middle of the Pentecost season, it is our Pentecost.

How many storms have you endured in your life? Or are you in the middle of a storm right now? Of loss of those you love? of ill health, of trying to find a job or pay the rent, of dealing with a loved one you just can’t quite reach, or of confronting injustice? Are you looking for Pentecost, for the coming of the Spirit of God in your life and your community?

Today, when I think of the children on the border, or in Gaza, or in Aberdeen, I shudder at how powerless they are. How powerless we find ourselves so often. How powerless our communities can be, as I look at so many storms in our world, storms that threaten to break us apart, storms that kill so many—from Aberdeen to Gaza, from Honduras to Lacey and Olympia.

And I think too of Peter, amazed to find Jesus on the water, who jumps out of the boat. Now, I might not have too much experience in these matters, but jumping out of the boat in the middle of a storm really, really does not seem like the smartest move. I mean, Peter has fished his whole life, right? And now he jumps OUT of the boat?

The moment that strikes me the most, however, is when Peter, realizing his monumental mistake, reaches out for Jesus’ hand.

The hand of his grieving, tired, wounded healer. And they get into the boat together.

In the middle of our storms, we still take Jesus’ hand and we face down, together as a community, a world that seems to grow more dangerous and more uncertain and more difficult.

As I toured Olympia yesterday, I was privileged to visit Quixote Village. Back when I was a student here in Olympia Quixote was a tent city, moving from church parking lot to church parking lot. Now, this community has designed about 30 homes in community. The folks I met yesterday were eager to give me a tour of the homes they designed and the flowers and the gardens they have planted. As I looked around and heard these stories, I could not help but think—this is Pentecost. That they, together, as a community, have faced down the powerful forces against them—job loss, homelessness, an economic crisis, and a world that does not value them. They have claimed the power of the Spirit of God. This is Pentecost.

We may not always be saved from the difficulties and storms of life. But we can claim the power of Jesus, the power of Pentecost and live in light of that. In the face of Ahab, in the face of Herod, in the face of Caesar, in the face of Hamas and Israel, in the face of the Honduran federal police and their gangs, in the face of all that threatens to overwhelm and destroy God’s people.

We can claim the power that Jesus gives us—the power that lets Peter, if only for a moment, walk on water, holding Jesus’ hand.

When we feel powerless, we can hold on to Jesus’ hand, we can remember a promised kingdom, where justice is found.

I remember that old hymn that I sung all the time as a kid;

Precious Lord, take my hand

Lead me on, let me stand

I am tired, I am weary, I am worn.

Through the storm, through the night

Lead me on, to the light.

Take my hand, Precious Lord, lead me home.

Home to God, home to the kingdom of God, home to a safe shore, home where all are loved and protected, home where Gazans and Hondurans, Mexicans and Aberdonians, Olympians and Laceyites, were all the oppressed and the tired and the powerless find freedom together in the kingdom Jesus promises…

That, my friends, is the call of the Fisherman’s Pentecost.

Rejecting the Shame

 So, I talk a lot about the need for the church to both recognize its working class and poor members and to actively build worshipping community in working class and poor communities. I always root this call in personal experience, as a person who grew up in and remains deeply connected to working class and poor communities.

Today, however, I’m going to get a little more personal. I talk every day to people who are struggling. Who are living with parents or kicked out by parents or couch surfing with family members. Who are living on the streets or sleeping in cars. Who have lost jobs and end up losing homes. Who have never worked a steady job because they have grown up in a community where steady jobs are hard to find.

I talk a lot about that.

But I don’t always talk about me. My life. My experience.

Partly because I don’t want to appear as if I am begging for sympathy. I’m not. I’m not sorry for myself that I’ve experienced poverty and I don’t want you to be either.

The other reason, though—is more insidious. It is shame.

If I admit that almost all the jobs I have ever worked have paid minimum wage, will you think I am unambitious?

If I admit that I have lived with family members for several years of my adult life, will you think less of me? Will you think of me as a failure?

If I tell about my years in seminary, when I’d skip more meals than I could count (especially if my meal card was getting low) and visit academic book signings just for the free food, will you laugh?

If I mention that my shoes often wore out before I had money to replace them—will you think of me as “poor white trash”?

If I tell you I finally quit my multiple jobs in seminary because I got myself so sick I could hardly stay awake, will you call me lazy? I still got great grades. But I nearly destroyed my health—mental and physical.

Some of these stories are still tender.

I write about this, because I want to write about shame. I want to fling my story in the face of shame.

I’ve got funny stories too. The apartment I rented dirt cheap. I came home from my diaconal ordination to a sink overflowing with sewage. Because, apparently, the cheap apartment plumbing was such that when my neighbor turned on their garbage disposal, it forced sewage up my pipes. I was mad as hell then, but I laugh now. Then there was the kindly church custodian who would let me sneak in the church after hours when I didn’t have anywhere to stay. I’d always be up and gone (after washing my hair in the sink) before anyone caught me. Man, people, I have stories!

I also have family members who have been homeless. I have friends and family who have spent years couch surfing or have moved back with parents or been foreclosed on or who can’t find a decent job (by this I mean I job that will actually pay enough to cover food, shelter, and clothing).

It sucks being poor.

Our culture teaches us to turn that inward. Its my fault. I didn’t work hard enough, I didn’t plan well for the future, I did something wrong.

If we turn our anger inward, if we allow ourselves to be ashamed, then that keeps us from seeking—from claiming our collective liberation.

So, all you out there who are 25 and 30 and 40 and have moved back home. Who have lost your home. Who have lost your job. Who have to go back to work after retirement because you can't afford not to work. Who don't make enough money to buy the good food or rent a decent place. Who are too tired after working multiple jobs to do anything but watch TV. Who are angry with yourself for not being able to work that third job and still take care of the kids. Who are trying to go to college and to work and to still scrape enough money to feed yourself at McDonalds. Who cringe when you stand in line with food stamps or WIC vouchers. Who live in that damn trailer parked in your friend’s driveway.

Stop. The. Shame. Stop blaming yourselves. Stop asking over and over what you did wrong.

The reasons that more and more of us our poor has nothing to do with our lack of work ethic or our poor planning.

We are in this together. And if anything is going to change in this nation of ours or this world of ours, it is going to be because all of us come together and reject the shame. And instead claim our dignity and our worth. And fight for it.

Thoughts on a Parable

Matthew 13:34-30, 36-43
The Parable of the Weeds and Wheat

I am fascinated by the Bible’s reflections on the land. This is partly true because I grew up on a small farm here in the northwest and I learned very early to love and to respect the land. I think that is true for a lot of us, whether or not we farm, here in the Northwest. This is a land of great beauty and, whether we have lived here for a long time or for a sort time, I think most of us feel deeply connected to creation here, to this place.

Jesus, too, in the parables that we are reading in this section of the lectionary, speaks often about the land and the people who work it. His stories are all about planting and harvesting, buying fields, and fishing. Jesus wanders through Galilee, the place he grew up, preaching from village to village to a bunch of farmers and fisherfolk about the kingdom of God.

In our gospel this morning, Jesus is continuing his series of parables. This chapter, chapter 13, in Matthew, is sometimes referred to as the Sermon by the Lake, because Jesus sits in a little boat on the sea of Galilee and preaches to the crowd that has gathered on the shore. Telling a series of stories.

He tells a story of a landowner whose slaves plant a field and tend to it, and then they find that weeds are growing up along with the wheat in great abundance. Finding that a rival has ruined his field, has ruined his crop, the man orders his slaves to wait until the harvest. He tells them to salvage what he can and burn the rest.

It is important when reading this story, to recognize the social context in which Jesus is speaking.

Under the Roman Empire, the old Jewish law of land distribution was no longer in effect. Land that once belonged to the people, once were small family farms, was taken over by the empire. They did this in several ways: Through conquest and heavy taxation, which would lead to debt slavery (for example, during the time of Jesus, Herod the Great collected 30% of the grain crop and 50% of the fruit and grapes), the majority of the land becomes the property of an elite group of slave owners and landholders. One of the deepest roots of injustice in Galilee was this—people went hungry, people were forced to sell themselves or their children into debt slavery, people were deeply impoverished, in a land of plenty.

Most of the people listening to Jesus probably worked as tenant farmers—sharecroppers—or even as debt slaves of this small elite group. So they knew what Jesus was talking about when he told this story. Jesus himself is a poor artisan, a craftsman—he also would not have access to land.

Now, Jesus has already proclaimed his opposition to this system of landholding that was so prevalent. Jesus is speaking in a long tradition of Hebrew prophets like 1^st Isaiah, like Jeremiah, who talk about using the land justly, and in a long tradition of Jewish teaching. During the time of Jesus, there were many people talking about the Kingdom of God and what it meant. There are a series of books written about the time of Jesus called the books of Enoch that talk in great depth about the kingdom of God and the judgment of God on these landholders, and on the religious and political leaders that made this system possible. Jesus, in the Sermon on the Mount, makes this stunning statement; “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land.” That is, in God’s kingdom, the land belongs to you—the slaves, the poor, the peasant sharecroppers. In Luke, as he quotes the prophet Isaiah in Luke 4, he proclaims that part of his mission will be freeing debt slaves.

Jesus represents himself as the sower of the seed in this passage; he is not quite clear, but he might even be representing himself as one of the slaves that sows the seed. But he also claims the title Son of Man, a messianic title. He is the judge and speaks for the God who truly owns all land. And all the causes of sin and all those who oppress God’s people—against these things, Jesus enters into judgment. This is not some parable where Jesus says if you don’t believe the right thing or behave a certain way, you will go to hell. Not at all. It is simply Jesus promising the struggling men and women of Galilee that the kingdom of the world, that the Roman empire, would end—even if it felt that it never would— and God would judge those who enslaved them.