Reimagining Jesus’ Teachings: From Knowledge to Action

Published on by The Rev. Jason A BurnsLeave a comment

From Hearing the Teachings to Living the Truth

Jesus’s teachings are many, and in this case he opens the conversation by asking, “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” (Matthew 16:13-20) The disciples list the popular answers: John the Baptist, Elijah, Jeremiah, or one of the prophets. It is safe, easy, and culturally acceptable to talk about who others think Jesus is, but is it safe to share your own thoughts on the matter?

The crowds following Jesus respected him. They elevated him to the status of a great teacher or prophet of old, but they stopped short of recognizing him as their king. Why might that be? Is it because they are afraid of being wrong? Are they afraid of what the Roman or Temple authorities might do to them? Or do they just want to keep their options open? That temptation is familiar to many of us.

Knowing facts about Jesus or surrounding yourself with religious chatter can feel like faith, but it remains strictly intellectual and spectator-based. The crowds knew something about Jesus, but they stopped short of recognizing him as king. Words and admiration are not the same as allegiance.

Person reading a book beside a lit fireplace with tea and notebooks thinking about the teachings of Jesus.
A reader enjoys a warm, peaceful evening with books, tea, and a glowing fire.

I think that many of us fall for the illusion that we know Jesus, when truly we don’t. We know of him, we know some things he likely said, but we don’t actually know him, in many respects we are observing him from a distance and likely waiting for the thumbs up as a sign it is time to fully commit, which is one of the many reasons why living a life of faith and love is so difficult. We place our trust in someone we have not learned to encounter personally, and therefore treat faith as a spectator sport.

Many people live off the theological residue of their parents, pastors, or Christian culture without ever taking ownership of these convictions. Some attend Christmas and Easter services, seek out a church service for a loved one when they die or ask to be married and have their children baptized because that is what their families have always done.

A few years ago, I agreed to assist with a funeral on a Sunday afternoon. A few years earlier, the family had held their mother’s funeral at the church because she and her husband had joined the parish. They felt the service was so moving that when their father died, they decided to do the same, even though they were not religious at all. The church was packed with friends and family and the service was a classic episcopal funeral, but it was also one of the most awkward experiences of my life. No one participated except the priest, me, and the acolyte. No one stood, knelt, sang, or anything. They were purely there because it was what their father would have wanted. The family was honoring the theological residue of their father, but I am not sure how meaningful it actually was for them. They said it was very lovely and they appreciated our willingness to do it. I believe God was present in that room because love was present. Even though the experience felt awkward, perhaps that presence of love was what mattered most.

I am left wondering where in our lives we have settled for knowing about Jesus rather than knowing Him personally. I am not afraid to admit that I have never felt a personal connection to Jesus. The Holy Spirit feels far more present to me because I believe the Spirit resides within us, nudging us to seek God in all things and follow Jesus’s teachings as best we can, like the little angel on our shoulder you sued to see in cartoons.

I think many of us miss a critical step in knowing Jesus: allowing his parables to move from stories we interpret to teachings we practice. The parable of the Good Samaritan, for example, does not simply ask us to admire compassion. It asks us to notice the person we would rather pass by, cross the road toward them, and make their need our concern. We know the stories, we can probably explain or even tell them, but that is not the same as internalizing them. When we internalize a teaching, it becomes more than information we can repeat. It begins to guide our instincts: we forgive when resentment would be easier, serve when no one is watching, and make room for the person we would rather avoid. Knowing the parables matters, but internalizing their teachings shows that we understand them and allows them to shape how we live.

When Jesus asks his friends who they believe he is, Simon answers “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” To which Jesus responds, “For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you but my Father in heaven. And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock, I will build my church…” he is praising Simon for understanding that Jesus is the one sent by God to help rescue them, but he is also saying much more. In this retelling, we are witnessing the moment Simon understands who Jesus is. Simon is not merely identifying Jesus correctly, he is beginning to know him by recognizing that the stories and parables are not just stories, but the foundation for a different kind of life. To know Jesus is to let his teachings gradually become visible in us, not simply admired from a distance. We will not live them perfectly, but they should begin to change what we notice, choose, and do.

The question, then, is not only who do people say Jesus is, but who is he becoming in us? The faith we inherit may give us words, rituals, and stories, but it cannot answer for us. At some point, theological residue must either become a living conviction or remain only the trace of someone else’s faith. Where do his teachings challenge our instincts? Whom are they asking us to see, forgive, or love? And when we answer who Jesus is, will we speak from our own encounter with him, or only from what others have left behind?

Culture of Authentic Fellowship: Replacing isolated convenience with deep community connection.

Published on by The Rev. Jason A BurnsLeave a comment

How reclaiming the dinner table counters the loneliness and hyper-convenience of modern American culture.

Friends sharing a festive dinner around a table in a warmly lit home counters loneliness and builds culture and community.

Reclaiming the dinner table offers a practical response to the loneliness and hyper-convenience of modern American culture because shared meals create regular opportunities for attention, gratitude, and belonging.

Nearly every Friday my wife and I gather for dinner with friends. We always go to the same restaurant and every week, without fail, they have our table waiting for us — even though they don’t actually take reservations.

I did not grow up in a household that ate dinner together. There were only my mother and me, and I think she was often too tired to prepare a shared meal. Over the years, however, I have grown to love the times when my family and friends gather around the table to share food, play games, and laugh. There is something both magical and healing about the experience.

Unfortunately, the data show that fewer and fewer families eat dinner together regularly. According to YouGov, only 29% of families report eating together every day. The reasons vary widely, but I think one of the most important is that many of us do not understand how important it is to sit down and eat together.

According to The Messy Bite Podcast, having a structured meal time for your family is incredibly important to raising healthy eaters and supporting long-term good mental health. While not an expert, my experience every Friday night confirms for me the importance of having a meal routine on mental health. I look forward to our time together and try to keep Friday evenings as free as possible.

Eating together is one of the most basic forms of community building and has been a staple of faith communities since time immemorial. In many Christian denominations, a central part of worship is Communion, or the Eucharist. The term comes from the Greek eucharisteō, meaning “to give thanks”. Theologically, there is much debate about what it means and what happens during the ritual, but what they all agree on is that the purpose of eucharist is to bring people together to give thanks to God.

Of course with church attendance dropping, fewer and fewer people are participating in this ritual. Perhaps because they don’t believe it worth their time, perhaps because they don’t believe in God, or perhaps because they don’t fully understand its meaning.

The communion table is first and foremost a banquet table, it is a table where people gather to sing, eat, drink, and most importantly be with each other. Although the ritual has become highly formalized, its communal meaning is still present. However, churches rarely explain that meaning, and I think this silence significantly affects both those who participate and those who do not.

I have met many people who approach communion with what appears to be reverent fear. They seem to know it is important, but not understand what it is all about and I find that to be a significant issue for two reasons. First, as a teacher I believe it is important that we understand things we choose to interact with, especially cultural practices. Second, I believe that by not fully understanding what they are participating in they are not able to reap the full benefits of it. This is, of course, no fault of their own. The church has often done a poor job of explaining its practices. In some cases, it has barely explained them at all.

When Jesus established the Eucharist at the Last Supper (see Mark 14:22–25, Matthew 26:26-28, Luke 22:19–20), he was not merely creating a way for his followers to remember him. He was establishing the heart of what it means to be a Christian: as followers of Jesus, we are all members of his body. This is a metaphorical way of saying that we are members of the church, a community that belongs to the Lord.

I can see your eyes glazing over—bear with me. Communion is a tool for building community. The purpose of the eucharist is not only to remember Jesus, but to bring people together, symbolically and physically, around a shared table. The bread and wine matter, but so does the act itself: sitting beside one another, receiving the same gifts, and recognizing that faith is not meant to be practiced in isolation.

That same truth is present in the ordinary meals we share at home. A family dinner may not look like communion, but it carries a similar invitation. We pause our separate routines, put down our phones, pass food around the table, and make room for one another. The meal gives us more than nourishment. It gives us time to listen, laugh, and notice who is struggling. Around the table, community is built through repeated, ordinary acts of presence.

This is what can get lost in a DoorDash culture. The convenience of having food delivered is not the problem. The problem comes when convenience replaces gathering altogether. We receive the meal, but miss the table. We satisfy our hunger, but lose the unplanned conversation, the shared laughter, and the simple reminder that our lives are connected.

Before the communion table became a place of formal worship, it was a banquet table, a place where people gathered to eat. That history matters. The communion table reminds us that nourishment is both physical and relational. We need food, but we also need one another. Reclaiming shared meals, whether around a family table, with friends at a restaurant, or within a church community, is one small way to resist the isolation of modern life. It is hospitality in its most ordinary form: making room, sharing what we have, and staying long enough to become a community.

The purpose of the Eucharist is not only to remember Jesus, but to bring people together, symbolically and physically, around a shared table. The bread and wine matter, but so does the act itself: sitting beside one another, receiving the same gifts, and recognizing that faith is not meant to be practiced in isolation.

That same communal truth extends beyond the church: ordinary meals can also interrupt our separate routines and give us a physical practice of belonging. A family dinner may not look like communion, but it carries a similar invitation. We pause our separate routines, put down our phones, pass food around the table, and make room for one another. The meal gives us more than nourishment. It gives us time to listen, to laugh, to notice who is struggling, and to remember that we belong to something larger than ourselves.

Before the communion table became a place of formal worship, it was a banquet table, a place where people gathered to eat. Perhaps that is why shared meals still have the power to restore something in us. They turn strangers into companions, families into communities, and a collection of individuals into a people.

Reclaiming shared meals does not require a perfect family, an elaborate recipe, or a spotless dining room. It may begin with inviting a friend to dinner, keeping one evening free each week, or simply lingering at the table a little longer. These ordinary choices resist the isolation of modern life. They remind us that hospitality is not mainly about what we serve. It is about making room, sharing what we have, and staying long enough to become a community.

For more thoughts on community check out Sheep form Community, so should we and Finding peace through Community and the Holy Spirit.

Jesus, Faith and Fear: The Triumph of trust

Published on by The Rev. Jason A BurnsLeave a comment

Lessons from Jesus Walking on Water

Jesus walking on water 1
Jesus walking on water Matthew 14:22-23

Could Jesus walk on water? Probably. But if that is where our fascination with this story begins and ends, we have missed the point of the narrative entirely.

The story of Jesus walking on water, recorded in the Gospel of Matthew, is one of the most famous passages in the New Testament. Yet, it is also one of the most thoroughly misunderstood. For centuries, modern readers have treated this account as a display of divine gymnastics, a spectacle designed to prove that Jesus possesses supernatural powers that defy physics. 

The problem with this framing is that the language Matthew originally used loses a tremendous amount of nuance in English translation.

First, consider how the voyage begins. Matthew notes that Jesus ordered the disciples into the boat. It was not a casual suggestion or a polite request; it was an imperative command. Jesus intentionally sent His closest followers directly into the dark, toward a journey He knew would prove perilous.

Second, consider the storm itself. Most English translations say that as night fell, the disciples’ boat was “battered by the waves.” That phrasing paints a picture of bad weather. But “battered” falls far short of Matthew’s actual intent. The Greek word Matthew chooses here is basanizomenon (Bah-sah-nee-ZOM-eh-non) It is the same word used elsewhere in the Gospels to describe torment, agony, severe distress, and demonic affliction. So Matthew was not writing a weather report. He was using language that denoted a deep, spiritual, and psychological anguish. This was an internal storm, a chaos so violent and overwhelming that no human skill or rowing technique could control it.

When we read the text through this original lens, the passage transforms from a story about physical buoyancy into a commentary on the human condition and the power of God to meet us in our internal hells. The moment Jesus climbs into the boat alongside Peter, the torment ends. It is at that exact moment, not when Jesus is hovering above the water, but when He enters their shared space of terror, that the disciples declare for the very first time in Matthew’s Gospel: “Truly you are the Son of God.”

So, if this story is ultimately about the reader’s internal and spiritual life, why does Matthew bother including such dramatic elements as walking on water?

The likely answer is that Matthew knew his audience. Human beings need something tangible to grasp intangible spiritual truths. Concrete imagery gives our minds an anchor. Unfortunately, over centuries of translation and institutional repetition, we have clung tightly to the physical anchor, the water walking, while completely abandoning the profound internal reality it was meant to illustrate. We inevitably focus our attention on the wrong message.

Matthew is attempting to do something far more radical with his Gospel than merely hand us a warm, sentimental reassurance. He is showing us what happens when our fear becomes more real to us than our faith; when the internal struggle grows so deafeningly loud that we can no longer see the help standing directly in front of us.

The point is not simply that Jesus can stride across a body of water without sinking. The point is that God actively enters the storm, stretches a hand toward those who are drowning in terror, and invites them to trust that they do not have to overcome the agony alone.

Notice what happens next in Matthew’s account. Peter does not remain safely inside the wooden walls of the boat. He sees Jesus walking through the dark, and instead of staying put, he steps over the edge directly into the raging water.

Peter’s faith is far from perfect. Almost immediately, he panics, loses his focus, and begins to sink into the deep. But his failure does not render his attempt meaningless. In his panic, he reaches his hand into the dark for help, and Jesus instantly reaches back to grab him. The Gospel presents Peter as an ordinary, terrified human being who was nevertheless willing to move toward God while still afraid.

That is precisely what faith asks of us today. Faith does not demand that we sit back and wait for God to erase war, eradicate poverty, or heal every broken body. It asks that we refuse to accept these horrors as inevitable.

We may not possess the power to calm every storm on the planet, but we possess the power to decide whether we will leave our fellow human beings to face those storms alone. We can feed a person who is hungry, shield someone who is vulnerable, challenge systems that cause suffering, and extend our hands when another human being begins to sink beneath the weight of life.

Maybe God does not enter the physical world by bending natural laws from on high. Maybe God enters the world through human beings who refuse to look away from suffering. The miracle is not always that the wind stops blowing. Sometimes, the true miracle is that, in the middle of the tempest, human beings become willing to reach for one another.

This brings us back to the ultimate declaration made by the disciples: “Truly, this is the Son of God.”

They did not make this confession simply because Jesus performed a miraculous stunt on the water. They declared it after witnessing Jesus meet their absolute terror with personal compassion, climbing into their battered vessel rather than abandoning them to the deep. They recognized something far more profound than raw physical power. They recognized a God who refuses to remain distant from human suffering.

The story of the storm does not promise that every trial will disappear the moment we ask God to make it stop. Instead, it tells us that God is deeply present in the struggle, that rescue often comes in forms we never expected, and that true faith will inevitably require us to step outside the safety of our boats. When we reach toward those who are drowning and refuse to abandon one another to despair, we finally begin to understand what those weary disciples realized in the dark so long ago: Truly, God is in this place.