If you were to ask me to describe the core, the heart,

of Christian theology, this is what I would say: our

faith is rooted in the story of a transcendent and

relational God who comes close to humankind,

who becomes Emmanuel, God with us in Jesus

Christ, incarnate, living among us. As the eminent

theologian Willie Jennings has written, ours is “the

story of a people created by God and called to God’s

self.” In Jesus Christ, God entered our lives in a way

that has radically transformed us. We are shaped by

his story. At least, we ought to be.

Like the Old Testament Prophets in whose tradition

it stands, the letter of James confronts us with

the sinful distance between God’s call and our

response, the gap between our words and our work.

Earlier, in the second chapter, his example hits close

to home. James critiques the way members of the

church welcome wealthy guests with great formality

and give them the best seats in the sanctuary,

while the poor are disregarded and made to stand

in the back. Their pious posturing creates a kind of

spiritual self-importance, a belief that belonging to a

Christian community is a badge of honor to be worn

rather than a call to serve to be lived.

James has no patience for elegant performances,

elaborate propositions, or eloquent proclamations

that do not serve the needs of neighbors. His point

here is utterly unambiguous. We can understand

and believe all the intricacies and technicalities

of Christian theology. We can have all the warm

feelings and deep convictions. We can memorize

and quote chapter and verse of scripture and shelter

ourselves in the smug satisfaction that we are God’s

favorite children. But unless our faith leads to action,

we are condemned by the very Gospel we preach.

Faith without works is dead. A church with no

mission is doomed.

And so, I am grateful to be part of a congregation

of disciples who are so passionate about finding a

variety of ways to serve. You know that the clearest

demonstration of what we believe is the way we live.

And so, in your own life as disciples of Jesus Christ,

you reach out with acts of extreme generosity,

compassion, and kindness. And I, your pastor, am a

witness to these actions on a daily basis. I see and

hear and know how faithful you are.

But I also know that not far from here, there are

neighbors who lack even the most basic necessities

for sustainable or flourishing life, and we have been

called to serve.

I also know that right here among us, there are

those who have given up hope that anyone will

notice them today, and we have been called to care.

I also know that not far from us, there are those who

live in constant fear of violence, and we have been

called to act.

I also know that not far from us, there are those who

are systematically left behind and shut out, and we

have been called to speak up.

I also know that not far from us, there are those

whose power can be better used for the common

good, and we have been called to confront.

I also know that not far from us, there are those

whose lives lack deep purpose even as they are

surrounded by many things, and we have been

called to bear witness.

Yes, not far from us, there are those who need what

we have to give, and those who have what we need

to receive. And we, the body of Jesus Christ alive

in the world, have an unmistakable, inescapable,

undeniable call to put our faith in action, to embody

the transformation that the story of Jesus makes

possible.

And hear this, Second Church: that transformation

begins right here, in this sacred, beautiful space.

Why? Because our worship is the source of our

service. Consider this: faith without works is dead,

but works without faith are fleeting and short-lived.

We must be grounded in the story of salvation that

makes our service sustainable and sturdy.

Jesus described his purpose this way: the Son of

Man did not come to be served, but to serve. And

so it is with those who follow him. When all is said

and done, this is why we were given the gift of life in

the first place—to offer it back in service to others.

Last Sunday, you might remember, we anchored

ourselves in the act of listening well to the voices

and stories of others. Today, we are charged to

serve. And both of these essential acts—listening

well and serving—require humility, compassion, and

relationship.

A couple of years ago, Bryan Stevenson spoke for

the Faith in Action forum hosted at Butler University.

Several of us had the opportunity to go and hear

him. Stevenson founded and leads the Equal Justice

Initiative in Montgomery, Alabama. In his book Just

Mercy, he describes growing up poor in a racially

segregated community in Delaware. The seminal

moment, the turning point in his life, came when

his grandmother sat him down and said, “You can’t

understand most of the important things from a

distance, Bryan. You have to get close.”

You have to get close. He calls it the power of

proximity. It changes us.

Last week, I voiced my concern about the

destructive and corrosive impact of contempt. One

of contempt’s particularly pernicious powers is how

it distances us from each other—how contempt

for those around us gives us a pass to ignore their

suffering, or even to blame the suffering when their

needs make us uncomfortable or uneasy.

Proximity renders contempt indefensible. Put

another way, you cannot dismiss or despise any

person whose voice you have heard and whose life

you have witnessed firsthand. Getting close changes

the way we read statistics and listen to stories.

Proximity renders contempt indefensible.

A brief testimony. On Maundy Thursday, I found

myself in desperate need of a haircut. It was lastminute and spring break week, and so I did a quick,

frantic search for barbers in the area. After a couple

of failed attempts, I found a salon that is part of a

large national chain (with over $1 billion in revenue

in 2019). When I walked in, I was warmly greeted

and immediately taken to my chair. And as the stylist

began, she placed her hands on my shoulders, and

she said, “You are stressed.”

“Why so tense?” she asked. I patiently explained

that I was a pastor, and it was a busy week. The

barber responded, “You’re a pastor. Well, that’s a

blessing. Now, relax. For just a few minutes, let your

worries go.” I looked at my watch. I did not have a

few minutes. But there I was, stuck in that chair. So,

I took a deep breath, and then I noticed that there

was a picture on her mirror in front of us. Two young

boys playing outside. They appeared to be about

the ages of my own sons, and so I asked her about

them. We talked about our children. We laughed

together about the precocious things they say and

do. And when the haircut was over and she was

walking me to the counter to pay, she asked me

where that church I pastored was. When I told her,

tears appeared in her eyes. She said, “From my boys

and me, I want to thank you for having a food pantry.

Your church has been there for my family when we

needed help. Nobody over there judged us. Thank

you, Pastor.” I stumbled out of the salon, barely

making it to my car before breaking down.

Now, like you, I know the statistics about the

working hungry—those who work full time jobs

and still cannot afford food for their families and

stable housing. I had read all the stories. I had seen

the documentary. And like many of you, I could

diagnosis the problem from a distance that enabled

my disinterest. But that day, I was standing faceto-face with a human being whose life was now

connected to my life. I know her name, the names

and ages of her sons. Coming close changes us.

Proximity renders contempt indefensible.

Or, listen to James: words without actions lack all

life. They’re dead. When you know someone, it

changes the way you think about them. When the

violence in the headlines touches your family, your

school, your neighborhood, it changes the way you

think about what ought to be done to stop it. When

you see faces and hear voices, you cannot be still

and you will not be silent.

And now, research is finding what James knew

intuitively—that this proximity has the capacity to

lift those in need. I heard it again this week from a

social worker at a local elementary school when I

asked her about what separated those who found

a way out of poverty from those who could not. Her

answer was: connections, relationships. Proximity

renders contempt indefensible.

So, in the months ahead, we at Second are going to

be diving more deeply into the kinds of relationships

that might offer mutual transformation, if only we

trust each other enough to be vulnerable. We are

going to welcome firsthand the power of proximity,

listening to neighbors whose lives may feel distant

from our own, and we are going to find that this

distance is a myth—a lie.

What we will find instead is that our fulfillment is

entirely bound to the flourishing of our neighbors.

We will find that all of us are harmed when any of us

suffers. We will find that our deepest purpose can

only be discovered when we invest our lives in what

matters most, discovering the truth of Jesus’ words:

that those who give their lives away in service to

others will find a more lasting joy than all who live

small lives of self-interest and preservation.

We are a people formed by the story of a

transcendent God who chose proximity over power.

And we can do the same.

Actually, that’s not quite right. We must do the same,

for so much depends on this. Amen.