Throughout the season of Lent, I’ll be sharing my Sunday messages on this blog. You can view the full service on the First Wayne Street UMC YouTube page.

In the 25th chapter of Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus gives us one of the clearest pictures of the Kingdom of God. The Son of Man gathers the nations. The sheep are separated from the goats, symbolizing those who will and those who will not inherit the Kingdom. And the dividing line is surprisingly simple. “I was hungry and you gave me food. I was thirsty and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger and you welcomed me. I was naked and you gave me clothing.”

What we see here is that our inheritance is closely tied to our treatment of the most vulnerable around us. While we do not earn our salvation, the fruit of our commitment to the way of Jesus should be evident in how we treat the hungry, thirsty and foreign among us. 

Today were focusing on the next line in Jesus’ teaching, “I was naked and you clothed me.” It sounds straightforward. Give someone a coat. Donate clothes. Drop off a bag at the shelter. And yes, that is part of it.

But Jesus is talking about something deeper than fabric and thread. He is talking about dignity.

Clothing in the ancient world was not simply fashion. Clothing communicated status, belonging, protection, and honor. To be without adequate clothing meant more than being cold. It meant vulnerability, exposure and shame. This isn’t so different today, is it? We often judge people based on their appearance. I mean, not the good Christian folk here at FWS because you would never judge others…but some people judge others based on their outer appearance. 

When Jesus says, “I was naked and you clothed me,” he is saying: When you restored dignity to someone who had been stripped of it, you cared for me.

Throughout scripture, nakedness often represents vulnerability. After Adam and Eve ate the fruit in Genesis, they suddenly realized they were naked. Not because their bodies changed, but because their awareness of shame and vulnerability changed.

Scripture shows us that to clothe someone is to restore dignity.

When Jesus talks about clothing the naked, he’s talking about responding to people who are exposed, whether physically, emotionally, spiritually, or economically. People who are exposed to hunger, addiction, homelessness, mental illness or systems that keep them struggling.

Clothing the naked is about seeing vulnerability and responding with compassion.

That’s why the words in James chapter 2 sound so direct. James writes: “If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill,’ and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? Faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.”

James is writing to a Christian community in the first century struggling with poverty and inequality. Wealthy landowners existed alongside day laborers who lived paycheck to paycheck or worse, day to day, hour to hour, minute by minute (by minute by minute, I keep holding on – the Doobie Brothers)

Apparently, in response to some of these needs, some people in the church were offering nice words instead of meaningful help. For James, that equals a dead faith.

They had grown comfortable with responding to need with saying, “Be warm….God bless you…you have my thoughts and prayers.” James says: That’s not faith. Faith that never leaves the sanctuary isn’t really faith. Faith gets dressed, rolls up its sleeves and puts compassion into action.

This week our staff at First Wayne Street were reflecting on these very words from James. We realized something important: James isn’t criticizing people for having faith. He’s reminding the church that real faith always shows up in tangible ways.

One of the things our staff talked about is how easy it can be to respond to suffering with compassion in our hearts but not always with tangible actions. We can feel deeply for someone who is struggling. We can pray sincerely. But James is reminding us that faith moves us beyond sympathy.

Thoughts and prayers are crucial. Prayer is vitally important. But, prayer should always lead to action. If our faith-filled prayers don’t lead to faith-filled actions, those prayers just might be empty. 

Real faith notices the person who is cold and asks, “What would restore dignity here?”

Sometimes that means clothing. Sometimes it means a meal. Sometimes it means helping someone navigate systems that feel impossible to navigate alone.

Meaningful, transformational ministry often begins with something very small: a pair of socks, a warm coat, a conversation where someone feels seen again. But those small acts are not small in the Kingdom of God. They are signs that faith is alive.

Because when faith is alive, it refuses to remain abstract. It becomes visible. It becomes practical. It becomes compassion we can touch.

When Jesus says “clothe the naked,” he’s not just talking about occasional charity. He’s pointing us toward something bigger because many people aren’t struggling simply because of personal choices. Many people are struggling because of systems.

Low wages. Lack of affordable housing. Inaccessible and expensive health care. Underfunded schools. Cycles of generational poverty. 

The United Methodist Church speaks directly to this in our Social Principles. “The Book of Discipline (¶163) reminds us that all wealth belongs to God and calls the church to active ministry with the poor. It commits us to working toward eradicating systemic poverty, promoting equal opportunity, ensuring living wages, and meeting basic human needs like food, health care, and education.”

In other words, Christians don’t just bandage wounds. We ask why people are bleeding in the first place.

Now if anyone in Methodist history had opinions about clothing, it was John Wesley.

In Sermon 88: On Dress, Wesley didn’t hold back. He warned against spending excessive money on clothing while others went without basic necessities. Wesley said something pretty blunt…Every shilling we unnecessarily spend on clothing, he said, could have been used to clothe the naked and relieve the suffering of the poor. He implied that Christians shouldn’t adorn themselves with expensive jewelry and clothing not only because the money could be used to relieve suffering, but also because it produces pride and promotes greed.

In other words: Our closets are spiritual matters.

Now Wesley wasn’t saying everyone must wear sackcloth. He was saying: our priorities are spiritual matters.

If our closets overflow while our neighbors go without basic necessities, something in the Kingdom economy is out of balance. It’s been said that if we want to know what matters most to us, check our calendar, our bank statement, our closet, our pantry – and we’ll see where our priorities lie. If you check my pantry right now, by the number of Cadbury eggs you discover, you’ll see that I have some misguided priorities – and some concerning dietary practices!

In my time as a professional Christian, I have found that clothing is a hot topic in church culture. People have strong opinions about what’s appropriate.

I knew a woman who was judging a guy for wearing jeans with holes in them to church. She thought it was disrespectful. She was so offended that she said some not so nice things to him about honoring God – as if what we wear is the most important aspect of loving God. 

What she didn’t know was that those were designer jeans that probably cost five hundred dollars. And that “inappropriately dressed” man happened to be one of the largest donors to the church.

Of course, not here, but in other places, there are people who regularly ask why pastors don’t wear robes or suits more often. Honestly, at this point I think most people have just settled for being grateful that I’m not wearing jeans and a Rage Against the Machine t-shirt on Sunday morning. 

The point is, we can too easily get focused on how people look. Jesus is focused on how people live.

Recently the Peace Family studied a message from Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. where he talked about love using the Greek word agape. Agape, he said, is the love of God working through human beings. It’s not sentimental. It’s not just liking people. It’s a love that seeks nothing in return. 

Dr. King said that when we rise to this level of love, we love people not because they are likable, but because God loves them.

When that kind of love lives in us, we refuse to participate in systems that harm people. We work to break the chains of injustice.

That’s the love behind Matthew 25. We feed the hungry. We give a drink to the thirsty. We welcome the stranger. We clothe the naked.

Not because it makes us feel good. But because God loves them.

So what does clothing the naked look like here in Fort Wayne? It might look like something simple.

First, go through our closets. If you haven’t worn something in a year, it may be time to let it bless someone else. Donations to places like Salvation Army can make a real difference. I have pants and shirts in my closets that I’m holding on to, just in case I manage to lose 20 pounds without dieting or exercising!

Second, buy new essentials for someone in need. Socks and underwear are some of the most needed items in shelters. Donations to places like the Fort Wayne Rescue Mission or the clothing bank serving Fort Wayne Community Schools help restore dignity for people starting over. Previous church I served – spoke with the superintendent and principal of the school closest to our church and asked, “what do you need?” Superintendent said, “crossing guards.” Principal said, “socks and underwear.” 

In that spirit, next week I’ll have a container out to receive donations of new socks and underwear. All sizes can be utilized. If you can’t give new socks or underwear, consider donating some items to the FWCS clothing bank, Salvation Army or Treasure House. 

Third, and this is the Wesley challenge, buy less so we can give more. Sometimes the most spiritual act in the mall is restraint.

But ultimately, clothing the naked isn’t just about coats and socks. It’s about dignity. It’s about telling people they are not forgotten. It’s about reminding people they belong.

And spiritually, it’s about something even deeper. The apostle Paul says in Galatians that those who are baptized into Christ have “clothed yourselves with Christ.”

Christ covers our shame. Christ restores our dignity. Christ welcomes us when we feel exposed and unworthy.

We were spiritually naked once…vulnerable, broken, lost. And Christ clothed us in grace.

In Matthew 25 the righteous are surprised. “Lord, when did we see you naked?”

They didn’t know. They weren’t calculating holiness. They were simply living lives shaped by compassion.

And Jesus says: Every time you restored dignity…Every time you met a need…Every time you loved someone others overlooked…You were clothing me.

Imagine the kind of community we could be.

A church where closets become ministries. A church where generosity becomes instinct. A church where dignity is restored every single day. A church where people experience the love of Christ not just in sermons—but in socks, coats, meals, and mercy.

Because when we clothe the naked, we are not just giving away clothes. We are revealing the Kingdom of God. And one day when we stand before Christ, maybe we will recognize his face. Because we have been serving him all along.

Throughout the season of Lent, I’ll be sharing my Sunday messages on this blog. You can view the full service on the First Wayne Street UMC YouTube page.

There are words of Jesus that comfort us. There are some words that confront us.

In the Gospel of Matthew 25, Jesus is not offering a vague spiritual metaphor. He is describing the heart of the Kingdom. The Son of Man gathers the nations. The sheep are separated from the goats. The dividing line is startlingly simple: “I was hungry and you fed me… I was thirsty and you gave me a drink… I was a stranger and you welcomed me.”

The Greek word for stranger is xenos: meaning stranger, foreigner, outsider. It’s where we get words like xenophobia, which is fear of the stranger. Jesus says the Kingdom of God is revealed in how we respond to the xenos. How we respond to the stranger, the foreigner, the outsider impacts our inheritance…it impacts whether we will be sheep or goats. 

In Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus teaches us that when we serve people on the margins, we are serving Him.: “When you did it to one of the least of these… you did it to me.”

In the ancient Near East, hospitality wasn’t optional kindness; it was a means of survival. There were no hotel chains, the inns of the day were notorious for being overcrowded and unsafe. An inn was a place to stay if you had no other options. There were no reliable public safety nets. Travelers depended on the mercy of strangers. 

Israel’s law repeatedly commanded care for the foreigner because Israel knew what it meant to be foreign:  Exodus 22:21 states, “Do not mistreat or oppress a foreigner, for you were foreigners in Egypt.” Deuteronomy 10:19 says, “You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in Egypt.” Leviticus 19:34 teaches that, “The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt.” 

By the first century, the Roman Empire was marked by sharp economic divides, mass displacement, and social suspicion. “Strangers” weren’t just travelers; they were refugees from war, labor migrants, the dispossessed poor, people hoping for a better future in a new land.

When Matthew’s community heard this teaching, they were a minority movement navigating hostility and exclusion. They knew what it felt like to be on the margins. And Jesus tells them: The test of faith is not correct doctrine alone. It is about embodied mercy.

From a United Methodist perspective, this fits squarely within our understanding of holiness. John Wesley insisted holiness is never merely personal, it is also social. Grace transforms hearts, but it also reshapes communities. The Kingdom we inherit is not a private afterlife; it is participation in God’s reign of justice and mercy now.

Hospitality in Scripture is not about entertaining friends. It is about disrupting social boundaries.

Romans 12:13 says, “Extend hospitality to strangers.” Some translations say. “pursue hospitality.”
Hebrews 13:2 reminds us, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.”

That line always stops me. The person we don’t want to welcome may be an angel. Even if they aren’t, they are a human being created in the image of God. They are someone Jesus deeply and radically loves. Jesus teaches that the way we treat them is the way we treat Him! What would our world look like if we began to view and treat everyone around us like they might be an angel?

With all this talk of welcoming the stranger, let’s name the tension in the room. Strangers, foreigners, immigrants, whatever word we use, it’s a hot button issue in our nation. While it is indeed a political issue, for followers of Jesus it is not just a political issue. It is a spiritual issue. It is an issue of faith. Jesus teaches us that our response isn’t just about today, but it’s about our Kingdom inheritance. 

As followers of Jesus, we can have differing views on immigration reform. Faithful Christians can disagree about border policy, visa systems, enforcement structures, and legislative solutions. Reasonable people can debate the complexities.

But here is where the Church must be clear: Regardless of immigration status, every person must be treated humanely. 

We may differ politically about ICE policies or federal enforcement strategies. But as followers of Christ, we cannot be indifferent to family separations, inhumane detention conditions, racial profiling, or rhetoric that dehumanizes. We have people, not just in our city, but right here in our congregation, who even though they are US citizens are carrying their passports and paperwork because of their nation of origin, the color of their skin, the way they’ve seen citizens and immigrants alike being treated. The city of Fort Wayne is calling on clergy to have a faithful witness on behalf of the xenos among us when ICE eventually shows up in force. 

Listen, I know is sounds political because it is in part political. But, listen, when the stranger is treated as less than human, the Church must remember Matthew 25 and Hebrews 13.

Jesus did not say, “I was a citizen and you welcomed me.” He said, “I was a stranger and you,” what? “Welcomed me.” The author of Hebrews said that stranger, that foreigner just might be angel. 

Our primary citizenship is in the Kingdom of God. Jon Guerra wrote a song called “Citizens” that reminds us, “Truly you said we were equal; Everyone’s heart is deceitful; Everyone born is illegal; When love is the law of the land; Coming to you for the hungry; Eating the scraps of this country; Didn’t you swear you would feed them; Tell me you won’t make them go; I need to know there is justice; That it will roll in abundance; And that you’re building a city; Where we arrive as immigrants; And you call us citizens; And you welcome us as children home.”

Now let’s bring this closer to home. In downtown Fort Wayne, who is the stranger?

It may be the refugee family navigating a new language.
It may be the unhoused neighbor sleeping in the alley behind the church.
It may be the person battling addiction who feels shame every time they walk into a room.
It may be the LGBT person who wonders if church is safe for them.
It may be the recently released from incarceration neighbor trying to rebuild a life.

The stranger is not just someone crossing a border. The stranger is anyone who feels unseen, unwanted, or unsafe.

Hospitality is not simply opening a door. It is creating belonging. It’s easy to say, “All are welcome.” It’s harder to rearrange the furniture to make room. It’s harder to make sure that all are actually wanted and included. 

Hospitality asks: Do our tables reflect the diversity of God’s Kingdom? Do our ministries offer dignity? Do we listen before we label? Do we create space for stories different from our own?

Again, Hebrews says some have entertained angels without knowing it. Imagine that. What if the person we’re tempted to avoid is carrying a message from God? What if the one who disrupts our comfort is the very one through whom Christ is coming to us? And even if they are not angels in disguise, they are bearers of the divine image and how we treat them matters deeply. 

United Methodist theology reminds us that prevenient grace is at work in every person. Before we act, before we believe correctly, before we belong God’s grace is already there. Which means when we meet the stranger, we are not bringing God to them. God is already there ahead of us.

So what does this look like?

It may mean partnering with refugee ministries.
It may mean advocating for humane policies.
It may mean carrying Narcan and compassion.
It may mean saying to an LGBTQ neighbor, “You are not a project. You are beloved.”
It may mean looking someone in the eyes who others avoid.

Hospitality is not sentiment. It is practice. It is eye contact. It is shared meals. It is refusing dehumanizing language. It is standing beside those on the margins even when it costs us comfort.

In Matthew 25, the righteous are surprised. “Lord, when did we see you?” They weren’t strategizing righteousness. They weren’t winning arguments. They were simply practicing mercy until it became instinct. And Jesus says: That is what the Kingdom looks like.

So let me speak plainly. If fear is shaping how we see the stranger more than faith is, something is spiritually out of alignment. If political loyalty outweighs Kingdom loyalty, something is out of order. If we can worship Jesus on Sunday but ignore Him in the hungry, the detained, the displaced, the addicted, the excluded, then we have misunderstood the Gospel.

Because Jesus has so thoroughly identified Himself with the vulnerable that to turn away from them is to turn away from Him.

This is not about partisan platforms. It is about spiritual formation. The Church does not exist to mirror the anxieties of the culture. The Church exists to model the mercy of Christ.

Mercy is not weak. Mercy is disruptive. Mercy rearranges tables. Mercy crosses social, political, economic, relational borders. Mercy refuses to let fear have the final word.

We were strangers once…whether we were spiritually displaced, morally lost, unable to secure our own belonging. Jesus did not debate our worthiness. He welcomed us.

He crossed the infinite distance between heaven and earth. He entered our vulnerability. He made room at His table. He called us citizens of a Kingdom we did not build and could not earn.

Now we must do the same. Not because it is easy. Not because it is politically convenient. But because it is faithful to the way of Jesus.

I grew up singing a couple of songs that make me wonder why Christians can support anything other than open hearts, open minds and open doors. I guess I was just foolish enough to believe the songs we sang growing up in church. I guess I’m still foolish enough to believe, Maybe they’ll be familiar to you. “He’s got the whole world in His hands…(he’s got you and me sister/brother/everybody here)” and “Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world (red, yellow, black, white).”

Let us be the kind of church where no refugee doubts their dignity. No unhoused neighbor doubts their humanity. No child doubts they are beloved. No addict doubts there is hope. No formerly incarcerated neighbor doubts they can begin again.

Let us be the kind of church that would rather err on the side of grace and mercy than on the side of exclusion. Because one day, according to Jesus, we will stand before the Son of Man. The question will not be, “Did you win the argument? Did you secure your comfort? Did you protect your tribe?”

The question will be, “Did you recognize Me in the hungry, in the stranger, in the least?”

May we live so awake, so courageous, so shaped by grace, that when that day comes, we will not be scrambling for explanations. We will simply recognize the face before us. Because we have been welcoming Him all along.

There is a particular kind of popular evangelical end-times theology that has done enormous damage to the Church’s witness. It thrives on charts and timelines. It fuels bestselling novels and “blockbuster” movies. It turns complex apocalyptic literature into a secret codebook for modern geopolitics. And it is, quite frankly, an adventure in missing the point.

The moment someone refers to “Revelations” as a roadmap for predicting current wars, identifying modern political figures as the Beast, or mapping military strategy onto Armageddon, I’ve already drawn a quiet conclusion: we are no longer dealing with careful biblical interpretation. We are dealing with projection.

In what may be shocking to some, the Book of Revelation was not written in or for twenty-first century America. It was written in the first century to seven very real churches living under the crushing weight of the Roman Empire. It was apocalyptic literature, which is a genre full of symbols, coded resistance, cosmic imagery, and prophetic imagination. It was written to suffering Christians tempted either to compromise with the empire or despair under its violence.

It was not written to help Americans decode the United Nations, modern microchips, or Middle Eastern military campaigns.

When we treat Revelation as a literal script for contemporary politics, we do violence to the text itself. We rip it from its historical and cultural context and force it to answer questions it was never asking or trying to answer.

Fear-based end-times theology has been profitable. It creates anxiety and fear. It sells books. It fills conferences. It generates clicks. But fear does not produce the fruits of the Spirit.

Instead, fear often produces suspicion, tribalism, and a dangerous “good vs. evil” narrative that flattens entire nations and turns people into caricatures. The irony is striking (well, at least to me)…in the name of fighting evil, Christians sometimes mirror the very characteristics Revelation warns against: coercion, domination, violence, idolatry.

Revelation is not primarily about predicting the end of the world. It is about unmasking the empire.

Rome claimed to be eternal. Rome claimed to bring peace through violence. Rome demanded allegiance. Revelation dares to say, “that is not the way of the Lamb.”

The central image of Revelation is not a war machine. It is a slaughtered Lamb.

One verse in one chapter of one book features one symbolic image that has helped elevate much of the fear-based theology surrounding Revelation…“Armageddon” (see Revelation 16:16).

Now political and military leaders claim their wars are prophetically necessary. Military aggression becomes “God’s plan.” Violence is sanctified. Entire populations are collateral damage in an apocalyptic script. And, if we are good Christians (and better Americans), we aren’t supposed to question it!

When Scripture is used to baptize war, we should tremble. When leaders speak of geopolitical conflict as divinely mandated, we should ask whether we are witnessing faithfulness or idolatry.

We should remember, Revelation was written to resist the empire, not to justify it.

In our current moment, we are watching something profoundly troubling. We are witnessing the hijacking of Christian faith by political idols. When national identity becomes synonymous with God’s purposes, we have crossed into idolatry.

Some strands of evangelical theology have elevated the modern nation-state of Israel into an untouchable prophetic centerpiece. This has led to near-blind political loyalty, where actions in places like Gaza and the West Bank are shielded from moral critique because of a particular reading of prophecy. But biblical Israel and a modern secular nation-state are not the same thing.

A theology that grants any nation unchecked moral immunity is not biblical. The prophets of Israel never gave Israel a free pass. They called them to justice, mercy, and humility. Why would modern political entities be exempt?

When theology removes our capacity to critique violence or injustice, it is no longer Christian theology. It is propaganda.

One of the great tragedies of shallow end-times theology is how easily it draws lines between “us” and “them.” History and Scripture remind us that evil rarely wears a name tag. Many who loudly claim to stand for “good” exhibit none of the fruit of the Spirit. Where is love? Where is kindness? Where is gentleness? Where is self-control?

If our theology excuses cruelty toward immigrants, shrugs at the suffering of civilians, demeans political opponents, or celebrates domination, then it is not shaped by the Lamb of Revelation. It is shaped by the Beast. And Revelation is crystal clear about which one wins.

A more faithful reading of Revelation sees it as a book of hope. It tells suffering believers that God sees and knows. The empire does not get the final word. In the end, it is the Lamb who reigns. 

The final vision is not annihilation. It is restoration. The ending vision is a new heaven and a new earth coming down. It speaks of God dwelling with humanity. Tears will be wiped away and death will be defeated.

Revelation is not an escape plan. It is a resistance manual wrapped in worship. It calls us to endure, to refuse allegiance to violent systems, to worship God alone, and to embody the way of the Lamb in the middle of empire.

That is profoundly different from using Revelation as a justification for militarism.

Years ago, I found myself in a heated debate among pastors from a variety of theological perspectives about premillennialism, postmillennialism, and amillennialism. People were referencing charts and timelines. Greek verbs were being dissected and voices were rising.

Then a wise elder, Eldon Morehouse, quietly ended the debate. He simply said, “You can argue all you want. But I believe in panism. It will all pan out in the end.”

Mic drop.

There is deep wisdom there. The Christian hope is not in getting the timeline right. It is in trusting that God is faithful.

When I read the headlines that US troops are being told that the war with Iran is “part of God’s plan” to “bring about biblical end times,” I found myself being reminded that lazy theology is not harmless.

When we read apocalyptic texts shallowly, we easily justify war. We excuse inhumane treatment of our neighbors. We sanctify political leaders who bear no resemblance to Christ. We numb ourselves to injustice because, well, “it’s all part of the plan.”

But the plan of God revealed in Jesus is not domination. It is self-giving love. The end of the story is not a Christian empire crushing its enemies. It is a Lamb who conquers by being slain. The question is not whether we can decode the timeline. The question is whether we will follow the Lamb now.

If Revelation teaches us anything, it is this: God is with us. God is for us. The empire will fall. Love will endure. In the end, God wins. Yes, Saint Eldon, it will all pan out!

As I continue to think through the Sunday message at First Wayne Street, I decided to share some additional thoughts here.

Somewhere along the way, we began to confuse conviction with contempt.

Political and religious differences are not new. The early church navigated empire, persecution, and deep internal disagreements. What feels different (to me) in this moment is the speed and scale of dehumanization. Social media rewards outrage. News cycles monetize division. Leadership at the highest levels model name-calling, belittling, and distortion (or flat out lies). As a result, we are being discipled into suspicion.

It is especially disheartening when those proclaiming the name of Jesus participate in mockery, dismissal, or cruelty. It is not Christlike to hate. It is not Christlike to belittle. It is not Christlike to bully. The One we follow told us plainly to love…even our enemies.

In the Gospel of Matthew 25, Jesus identifies himself with the thirsty, the vulnerable, the overlooked. “I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink.” In Romans 12, Paul stretches us further: “If your enemies are thirsty, give them something to drink…Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

That is not sentimental spirituality. In many ways, that is a call to moral resistance.

We have grown comfortable labeling those with whom we disagree as “the enemy.” We reduce people to voting records, theological stances, party affiliation, or even a single opinion. Once labeled, it’s easier to dismiss and ignore. It becomes easier to justify our hatred and contempt once someone is named an enemy.

I believe that contempt is corrosive. It doesn’t just wound its target; it reshapes the soul of the one who carries it.

Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. warned us about this. One of the principles of nonviolence he taught was simple and piercing: Attack forces of evil, not persons doing evil. Dr. King understood that the goal of justice is not humiliation but reconciliation. Dr. King encouraged us towards the creation of the beloved community.

Dr. Cornel West has said that justice is what love looks like in public. If that is true, then dehumanization is what fear looks like in public. And fear is a powerful political tool. Fear is often what political candidates and religious leaders alike use to get us to vote and believe as they do. 

The question for Christians is not whether we will resist injustice. As a follower of Jesus in the United Methodist tradition, my baptismal vows call me to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves. This is important work for all followers of Jesus. As we do this work, we are called to resist without surrendering to hatred. There is a difference between opposing harmful systems and despising human beings.

Some dismiss calls for civility as “being soft.” They argue that strong convictions require sharp rhetoric. But the gospel offers a different imagination.

Walter Brueggemann often spoke about the “prophetic imagination,” the capacity to envision a world beyond domination and fear. The prophets did not mince words about injustice, but their fire was directed at systems that crushed dignity, not at the denial of humanity itself.

Stanley Hauerwas has insisted that the church’s primary political task is to be the church. The Church should embody a different way, a better way of living together that tells the truth about Jesus. If our congregations mirror cable news hostility more than Christlike love, what story are we telling?

Civility is not pretending disagreements do not matter. It is choosing to treat the person in front of us as someone bearing the image of God, even when (or especially when) we believe they are deeply wrong.

The Gospel is not about winning arguments, it’s about love. Maybe the best witness of the Church isn’t how loud we can be regarding our strongly held convictions that are often more political than biblical. Maybe the best witness of the Church is in how faithfully we love God, neighbor and enemy. 

When Christians participate in ridicule and conspiracy, when we amplify false narratives, when we slander, the watching world notices. And not in the way we hope.

Jesus said the world would know us by our love. Not by our volume. Not by our dominance. Not by our ability to “own” someone online.

By our love.

Love is not passive. Love confronts injustice. Love tells the truth. Love protects the vulnerable. Love refuses to dehumanize.

In Romans 12, Paul writes, “If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.” Notice the realism: if it is possible. Not every conflict resolves. Not every relationship heals. But as far as it depends on us, we are not to let hatred dictate our character.

In a culture that monetizes outrage, civility is countercultural. In an environment addicted to mockery, kindness is disruptive. In a society that labels enemies quickly, refusing to reduce a person to their worst view is radical.

In Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus said that those who give a cup of water to those who thirst will be among those who inherit the Kingdom. Giving a cup of water to an enemy in the ancient world was not weakness; it was a refusal to let vengeance define you. Today, it might look like refusing to share demeaning memes; listening before reacting; verifying before amplifying; praying for someone whose worldview unsettles you; advocating for policies that protect even those you disagree with. This does not mean abandoning convictions. It means anchoring our convictions in love.

Lent asks us to examine our desires. Are we thirsty for righteousness or for being right? Are we seeking the flourishing of all or the humiliation of some?

When Jesus says, “I was thirsty,” perhaps he is also asking: What kind of people will you become in a dry and divided world? Will we allow political affiliations to shape our tone more than the way of Jesus? Will we let cable news discipleship trump Jesus? Or will we practice a deeper allegiance?

Returning to civility is not naïve nostalgia. I believe it is a faithful act of discipleship. It is choosing to see the image of God in every face. It is resisting evil without surrendering to contempt. It is remembering that Christ died not only for those who agree with us, but even for those we are tempted to label “enemies.”

Perhaps the call before us is simple and profound: become people who refuse to let hatred dry up compassion. Become communities where disagreement does not equal dehumanization. Become Christians whose public witness looks like Jesus.

In a culture of contempt, may we be the kind of people who offer a cup of water to our enemies.

Throughout the season of Lent, I’ll be sharing my Sunday messages on this blog. You can view the full service on the First Wayne Street UMC YouTube page.

In this Lenten series, Last Words, we are doing a deep dive into the final teachings of Jesus in the Gospel of Matthew 25. These are not casual remarks. They are words that reveal what matters most in the kingdom of God. Jesus is speaking about the inheritance of the Kingdom and how those who meet the needs of the vulnerable in practical ways will be the ones who receive the Kingdom – and those who ignore the needs of the vulnerable inherit an alternate ending. 

Today, we narrow in on one simple sentence: “I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink.”

It sounds so ordinary, so small, so trivial, so easy. A cup of water. While water seems basic, it is necessary and life-giving. 

In the ancient world, water was not a convenience, it was survival. In first-century Palestine, access to clean water meant the difference between life and death. This is still an unfortunate reality in places of our world today. In the first century, hospitality laws were strong because survival depended on mutual care. To refuse someone water in a dry climate was not just rude, it was dangerous as it threatened the well-being of one’s guest.

When Jesus says, “I was thirsty,” he is speaking about real bodies, real deprivation, real urgency. We also know that thirst is not only physical. There is thirst for dignity. Thirst for belonging. Thirst for justice. Thirst for peace in a violent and divided world.

In Matthew 25, Jesus does something unsettling. He identifies himself not with the powerful, not with the comfortable, not with those who already have full cups, but with “the least of these.” The thirsty one is Jesus. That alone stretches us. 

Then we turn to Romans 12:18–21, and things stretch even further. Paul writes to the church in Rome: “If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all…If your enemies are hungry, feed them; if they are thirsty, give them something to drink…Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” This is radical!

Paul is writing to a small, vulnerable Christian community living in the heart of the Roman Empire. Rome was not neutral ground. It was the center of imperial power, a system that enforced peace through domination, crucifixion, and fear.

The early Christians had no political power. They were misunderstood and sometimes persecuted.

Paul does not tell them to withdraw into safety. He does not tell them to retaliate. He does not tell them to “win.” He says: feed your enemies and give them something to drink.

That line comes directly from Proverbs 25. In Hebrew wisdom tradition, giving food or water to your enemy was not weakness, it was a refusal to let hatred define you. It was a radical act of moral resistance.

Paul says feeding our enemies and giving them something to drink will “Heap burning coals on their heads!” Whew! That’s pretty intense! But this was not an act of revenge, but a metaphor that displays the practical application of Jesus’ call to love God, love our neighbor and to love our enemies. In the ancient world, fire symbolized purification and conviction. In other words, kindness has the power to awaken conscience. Goodness exposes evil by refusing to mirror it. This is not passive faith. It is courageous faith. This is revolutionary discipleship. Our enemies expect us to utilize the same, or more extreme force, in retaliation to their actions – but Jesus and Paul call us towards love and goodness.

Here’s where Matthew 25 and Romans 12 meet. In Matthew 25, Jesus says we meet him in the thirsty stranger. In Romans 12, Paul says we give water not just to friends, but also to enemies. Put them together, and the call becomes clear: Our faith becomes real when we quench thirst beyond our comfort zones.

It is one thing to give water to someone who thinks like us, votes like us, worships like us. It is another thing to extend goodness toward someone who has hurt us. Or dismissed us. Or represents a system we oppose.

But this is where our United Methodist theology helps anchor us. John Wesley taught that holiness is not just personal, it is social. We do not grow in faith alone. Grace transforms both hearts and systems. Personal piety and social justice belong together.

We have a reputation as the water bottle church. When we hand out water bottles at the Barr Street Farmers Market every summer, we are not just being nice. We are participating in what Wesley would call works of mercy, those tangible expressions of grace.

But here’s the deeper question: Are we only offering water to those who feel safe? Or are we becoming people who refuse to let division dictate our compassion?

Romans 12:18 says, “If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.” Let’s notice what Paul does there. He is realistic. “If it is possible.” Not every conflict resolves. Not every relationship heals. There are times we must shake the dust from our sandals and move on. So Paul says as far as it depends on you. We cannot control the other person’s thirst. But we can control whether we withhold water.

Then comes the line that feels almost impossible: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

As United Methodists, we promise in our baptismal vows: To resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves.

Notice the object of resistance: Evil. Injustice. Oppression. Not people.

We resist systems that crush dignity. We resist policies that harm the vulnerable. We resist ideologies that dehumanize. But we do not surrender to hatred of human beings.

That distinction matters. Because in polarized times, it is very easy to blur the line. We tell ourselves we are fighting injustice. But sometimes we are just nurturing contempt. It’s much easier to belittle, demean, and call our perceived enemies names.

This is where the wisdom of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. becomes essential. One of the Kingian principles of nonviolence says: Attack forces of evil, not persons doing evil.

Dr. King understood something deeply essential to our Christian faith: People are often shaped by systems. Fear distorts judgment. Power corrupts imagination. Sin entangles. But no one is beyond the reach of grace.

King did not ignore injustice. He confronted it boldly, whether segregation, racist laws, or economic exploitation. But he refused to dehumanize those upholding those systems.

He believed the goal of nonviolence was not the humiliation of the opponent, but the creation of the beloved community.

And that is straight out of Romans 12. “Do not be overcome by evil.” Here is the danger: When we fight dehumanization with dehumanization, evil wins twice.

The Roman Empire overcame enemies with force. Scripture calls us to overcomes enemies with a cup of water. The cross itself is God’s refusal to retaliate. This is not naïve idealism. It is costly discipleship. So, what might this look like for us?

First, we continue to meet real, physical thirst. Support clean water initiatives. Advocate for equitable infrastructure. Show up this summer and hand out water bottles with joy. When we hand someone a bottle of water, we are saying: You matter. 

Second, and this may be harder: practice enemy-directed grace. Romans 12 does not ask us to pretend enemies don’t exist. Paul is not naïve. He knows harm is real. He knows injustice wounds real bodies. But he insists that evil does not get the last word in shaping who we become.

Here is where the gospel presses even deeper: When we look into the face of an enemy, we are not looking at a monster. We are looking at someone who is deeply and radically loved by Jesus. Someone for whom Christ died. Someone bearing the image of God, even if that image feels distorted. Someone who is, in ways we may not understand, our brother. Our sister.

This does not excuse harm. It does not erase accountability. It does not mean we stop resisting evil and injustice. As United Methodists, we are committed to renouncing evil and resisting injustice, oppression, and racism in whatever form they appear. We don’t stop that work. But viewing even our enemies as someone Jesus loves does mean we refuse to deny their humanity.

In Matthew 25, Jesus says, “When you did it to the least of these, you did it to me.” What if that includes the people we would rather avoid? What if Christ stands not only with those who suffer under injustice, but also with those trapped in systems of fear, misinformation, or hatred?

If Wesley was right that grace is always going before us, then even our enemies are already being pursued by God. If that is true, then when we give water, literal or metaphorical, we are cooperating with grace already at work.

To serve an enemy is to say: I will not reduce you to your worst action or opinion. I will not let the loudest division define your worth. I will not deny that you, too, are someone Christ loves.

That is not weakness. That is resurrection power. That is countercultural. That is radical. That is the opposite of what we see at the highest levels of leadership in our world today. As followers of Jesus, we recognize that evil thrives on dehumanization. The kingdom of this world thrives on recognition.

When we see our enemies as brothers and sisters, however estranged, we are not surrendering justice. We are anchoring justice in love. That is the only kind of justice that leads to peace.

We must refuse to dehumanize. Maybe it looks like refusing to mock someone online. Maybe it looks like listening before reacting. Maybe it looks like praying for someone whose worldview feels threatening. Maybe it looks like supporting policies that ensure even those we disagree with have access to healthcare, housing, clean water, and safety.

Matthew 25 whispers to us: The thirsty person might be Christ…and our enemy might be too. When we give water, we are not endorsing harm. We are embodying the kingdom. The kingdom looks like mercy, not domination; justice rooted in love, not vengeance.

Lent is a season of examining our thirst. Are we thirsty for being right? Or are we thirsty for righteousness? Are we thirsty for winning? Or are we thirsty for wholeness?

Jesus is still saying, “I was thirsty.” May we be a church that notices. May we be a church that gives. May we be a church that refuses to let hatred dry up our compassion. Because when we give water, even to an enemy, we are not just quenching thirst. We are participating in the life of Christ.