The doors of the church are open. Good morning, Saints!
Beloved children of the sun, I want you to turn to your neighbor and say, “Neighbor… Jesus was a troublemaker.”
Because make no mistake about it, Saints… Jesus did not come to Earth to bless the comfortable. He did not come to pacify the powerful. He did not stroll in saying, “Can we all just get along?”
Ohhhh, y’all not for Rev. Dr. Staceypants’ preachin’ on this snowy morning in Amerikkka.
Black Jesus rattled cages. He shattered sacred silence. He walked straight into the places power said were “off limits” and he claimed them anyway. He put his body between the boot and the neck. He told the truth even when the truth had a price on its head. He loved the dispossessed so fiercely that Empire called him a threat. He confronted those who had built religion into a shield for injustice. Wherever there was hypocrisy, wherever there was bondage and wherever there was corruption, there was Jesus stirring up trouble.
Jesus was a preacher who pissed off priests. He scandalized the Pharisees. He made the rulers of Rome nervous. He was the kind of good trouble that makes the oppressed stand up and the oppressor shake! If peace comes from justice, then Jesus made trouble on purpose because he came to undo systems that keep human beings in chains.
And the Bible says in Luke, the fourth chapter, that when Jesus stood up in the synagogue and read from the prophet Isaiah, he didn’t choose a soft, comforting word. He chose a liberation text. Church he said, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because He has anointed me to preach good news to the poor, to proclaim release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, and to let the oppressed go free.”
Church, that was a declaration of war on every system built on domination! That was Jesus announcing, “I didn’t come to make you comfortable. I didn’t come to play y’all. I came to set folk free.”
And when he finished reading, the Bible says the people in church got so mad they tried to throw him off a cliff. Because liberation preaching always gets labeled “disruptive” by people who benefit from the chains.
Somebody say Amen.
Because Saints that story, ancient though it is, isn’t just a Gospel memory. It is a prophetic pattern we see lived out right here in our own country.
Last week in St. Paul, Minnesota, a group of protestors did somethin’ that made headlines across this nation. They walked into Cities Church and interrupted Sunday morning worship. They walk into the sanctuary to confront the pastor who is also serving in leadership for ICE, the very agency carrying out violent immigration enforcement and killing people in the Twin Cities.
Saints, the Bible has a word for ‘shepherds’ like Pastor David Easterwood
Jeremiah 23:1 says, “Woe to the shepherds who destroy and scatter the sheep of my pasture, says the Lord.”
Did y’all hear that, church? He didn’t say woe to the sheep. Not woe to the broken. Not woe to the protestors. WOE to the shepherds who use their position to aid in the scattering, the terrorizing, and the hunting of the flock.
And Jesus backs it up in Matthew 7:15 when he says, “Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravenous wolves.”
In other words, everybody who stands in a pulpit ain’t a pastor. Everybody who says “Lord, Lord” ain’t a shepherd. I’m a whole Black atheist and even I know that some folk look like they guardin’ the flock, but they’re workin’ for the wolves. Some folk wear a collar on Sunday and a badge on Monday. Some folk break bread in the sanctuary and help break families in the street. Some folk anoint with oil in the morning and enforce terror by night.
And Jesus says, “You will know them by their fruit.” Not by their sermons. Not by their seminary degrees. Not by their titles. But by their fruit. And if the fruit is fear… If the fruit is deportation… If the fruit is detention… If the fruit is breaking up families…If the fruit is detaining 5-year-old children … If the fruit is blood on the pavement… Then the Word of the Lord says, “WOE!”
And when the Bible says “woe,” that ain’t a polite church word. That’s not a gentle suggestion. “Woe” is divine smoke. “Woe” is some shit is ‘bout to pop off. “Woe” means god is ‘bout to flip the table.
“Woe” means judgment is locked and loaded. “Woe” means you done crossed from correction into consequence. “Woe” means the Lord has put your name on the docket. “Woe” means you’ve been weighed, measured, and found triflin’.
“Woe” is god saying, I see you. I’ve been watchin’ yo’ evil ass. And this ain’t gonna end the way you think it is.
So when Jeremiah says, “Woe to the shepherds who destroy and scatter the sheep,” that’s a warning shot across the bow. That’s god telling fake pastors, corrupt leaders, and holy-looking wolves in clerical collars: You might have a badge and gun on earth, but you ain’t got protection in heaven.
Beloved children of the sun, those protestors stepped into the sanctuary and raised their voices. They broke the script. They refused to let sacred silence hide the pain of the families whose loved ones have been hurt, terrorized, and killed by federal immigration agents. The church service was interrupted. The flow of worship was shattered. And the powers that be, the politicians, preachers, and pundits, they all said, “That was wrong. That was disruptive. That scared the children. That disturbed people trying to worship.”
And Saints, I stopped and said to myself …. “Now that sounds real familiar.”
Because every time god’s justice crosses a line that protects the powerful, somebody calls it disruption. Every time the cry of the oppressed speaks into a sacred space, somebody insists we maintain comfort. Every time truth walks down the aisle instead of tiptoeing around the pews, somebody says it’s out of order. Every time the Gospel names the sin of the state instead of soothing the conscience of the church, somebody says it’s political. Every time Jesus shows up as liberator instead of mascot for Empire, somebody says, That’s not the right Jesus.
Every time we refuse to separate worship from the world’s wounds, the same voices rise up to say, “Not here. Not like this. Not now.” And yet, just like Jesus, the Gospel always shows up where injustice hurts the least able to bear it.
Hallelujah.
But I came to tell you this morning, Jesus has never been in the business of protecting false peace. Jesus is not the chaplain of Empire. Jesus is not the mascot of respectability. Jesus is not the security guard for unjust systems. Jesus is not the PR agent for state violence. Jesus is not the quiet accomplice to suffering in the name of order. Jesus is not the decoration on the wall of a church that has made peace with oppression.
The Bible says in Matthew 21 that Jesus walked into the temple and drove them out. He didn’t ask them politely. He didn’t wait his turn. He didn’t fill out a complaint card.
Nahhh.
He overturned tables. He scattered coin. He shut down business as usual. He disrupted worship that had gotten comfortable with exploitation. And he said, “My Father’s house shall be called a house of prayer for all people, but you have made it a den of thieves.”
Church, Jesus was sayin’, you cannot sing hymns on stolen breath. You cannot shout hallelujah while collaborating with systems that crush the poor. You cannot wash your hands in holy water while your policies spill innocent blood. You cannot lay hands in blessing and then help put handcuffs on the vulnerable.
You cannot pray for peace while profiting from terror. You cannot quote scripture on Sunday and enforce suffering on Monday. You cannot preach “love thy neighbor” and then help build cages for your neighbor. You cannot call Jesus Lord while standing guard over a cross still being built. You cannot serve god and the state at the same time.
Now hear the irony. The same administration that shrugs when federal agents shoot and kill people, the same politicians who stay silent when immigrant families are terrorized, detained, and deported, suddenly found their moral voice when a church service got interrupted.
They weren’t outraged about blood in the street. They were outraged about noise in the sanctuary. They weren’t alarmed by people dying at the hands of ICE. They were alarmed that worship got uncomfortable.
But Jesus always stands where blood cries out. From Abel’s blood crying from the ground, to the Hebrew babies drowned by Pharaoh. To the bodies hanging from lynching trees. To the crucified Christ outside the city gate. To the people shot in American streets. God has never been confused. God has taken sides. The Bible says in Exodus, “I have heard the cry of my people, and I have come down to deliver them.” Not to lecture them. Not to pacify them. Not to tell them to wait their turn. I have come to deliver them.
So when folk say, “Jesus would never disrupt a church,” I say, “Read your Bible.” Jesus disrupted the temple. Jesus disrupted the economy. Jesus disrupted political power. Jesus disrupted false peace. Now imagine Jesus walking into that church in St. Paul. Not slipping into the back pew. Not waiting for the benediction. But walking straight down the center aisle, eyes steady, voice firm, spirit burning.
Imagine him standing before a pastor entangled with the machinery of deportation and detention. Imagine him saying what he always says to religious leaders who make peace with Empire: “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You give a tenth of your spices—mint, dill and cumin. But you have neglected the more important matters of the law—justice, mercy and faithfulness. You should have practiced the latter, without neglecting the former.”
And yes, saints, he would get loud. Loud like Amos crying, “Let justice roll down like waters.”
Loud like Isaiah saying, “Woe to those who make unjust laws.”
Loud like Jeremiah standing in the temple gates saying, “Do not trust in lying words while you oppress the foreigner, the fatherless, and the widow.”
Did Y’all hear that word? The foreigner. That’s Bible language for the immigrant, the migrant, the undocumented, the one without papers but not without god.
And now, in Minnesota, another man is dead. And the same system that demands silence from protesters offers no repentance for spilled blood. It offers lies. But Jesus does not bless a silence or the lies that protects Pharaoh. Jesus does not sanctify a peace built on fear. Jesus does not anoint a church that refuses to stand with the hunted.
And if worship cannot make room for the cries of the oppressed, then worship has become a performance for Pharaoh. So hear me, beloved children of the sun. Jesus would have walked into that sanctuary. He would have confronted the pastor. He would have exposed the hypocrisy. He would have declared, “My house shall be a house of prayer for all people.” Not just citizens. Not just the documented. Not just the comfortable. All people.
And he would have said to the church what he said to the rich young ruler: “Go and sell what you have, lay down your power, and follow me.” In other words, you cannot follow me and fund the systems that crucify my siblings.
And then, because Jesus never leaves us without hope, he would have turned to the weeping, the afraid, the undocumented, the grieving, the ones living under the shadow of raids and guns and detention centers, and he would have said, “Blessed are you who are poor. Blessed are you who are hunted. Blessed are you who are mourning. Blessed are you when they revile you and persecute you and say all manner of evil against you falsely for righteousness’ sake. For yours is the kingdom of god.” Not someday. Not in the sweet by-and-by. But now.
And saints, the question before the church is not whether protest is disruptive. The question is whether we will follow a disruptive Christ. The question is whether we will be a house of prayer for all people, or a sanctuary for Empire. The question is whether we will stand with the crucified or remain comfortable with the cross as decoration.
Because Jesus is still walking down aisles. Still flipping tables. Still calling out religious complicity. Still announcing release to the captives. Still standing where the state spills blood. And he is asking the church today what he asked Israel in Egypt, what he asked Judah in exile, what he asked the disciples in Caesarea Philippi: “Who do you say that I am?”
If he is Lord, then no border is above him. If he is Savior, then no badge outranks him. If he is King, then no empire gets the last word.
So let the church rise, not as chaplain to power, not as curator of comfort, but as the body of a crucified and resurrected Christ who still proclaims, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me… to set the oppressed free.” And if that disturbs the peace, then church, let peace be disturbed until justice rolls like mighty waters.
Let us pray.
God of the crushed and the captive, god of the hunted and the hemmed-in, god who heard the blood of Abel cry from the ground and still hears the blood crying out in Minnesota and across this nation, we come before you with trembling hearts and clenched fists.
We lift up the names of those killed by ICE. We lift up the sons, the daughters, the mothers, the fathers, the workers, the neighbors whose lives were cut down by the machinery of deportation and state violence. We lift up the families who woke up to sirens instead of good mornings, to court dates instead of birthday parties, to coffins instead of embraces.
Cover the victims with your justice. Cover their grieving with your comfort. Cover the terrified with your protection. Cover the protestors with your courage. And trouble the conscience of every system, every leader, every church, and every soul that has made peace with bloodshed.
Make us a church that does not whisper where you are roaring. Make us a people who do not bow where you are standing. Make us a body that follows the troublemaking Christ all the way to liberation.
In the name of the Black Jesus who flips tables, breaks chains, and still sets captives free, we pray.
And let the church say, Amen, Amen, and Amen.
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