Tag: church

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?

Jesus, Faith and Fear: The Triumph of trust

Published on by The Rev. Jason A BurnsLeave a comment

Lessons from Jesus Walking on Water

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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.

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Abiding in God: Navigating Trauma with Faith

Published on by The Rev. Jason A BurnsLeave a comment

As with the entire lectionary, the gospel passage for today is taken out of context. One might think that it comes after the resurrection since it is the 7th Sunday after Easter, but chronologically Jesus is still seated at the table with his disciples the night before he died. He is preparing them for his departure, yet he speaks as if it has already happened. The language of this passage switches back and forth between future and past tense as if time has no meaning—and truthfully, it doesn’t. In this moment, Jesus is standing firmly in the room with them, yet talking as though he has already left the world.

The primary theme of this passage is eternal life, but we need to let go of our definition of that term. We almost always think of eternal life within the context of death and resurrection, which is linear thinking. We treat it as something we experience far in the future, stretching out after we die, like a prize we win after we cross the finish line of death. But it isn’t in the future, and it also isn’t in the past; it is always. Eternal life is not a reference to what will be, it is a reference to what is. God is eternal, creation is eternal, and we are eternal; not in the sense that our physical bodies will live forever, but that our existence is not limited or defined by the short time we exist on earth. When Jesus says, “This is eternal life: that they may know you,” he is using the present tense. It is an immediate reality, a current state of being that we are invited into right now, right in the middle of our messy lives.

Throughout the gospel of John, we hear terms like “abiding” and “dwelling.” In the original language, both of these words denote patiently waiting, living permanently within a space, and thinking about something at length rather than rushing past it. It means refusing to run away when things get uncomfortable. All of these definitions combined still do not fully capture what it means to live eternally with God, but it is as close as we can come with our limited human understanding. These terms aren’t meant to be theological puzzles; they are meant to convey a tangible sense of calm, comfort, connectedness, and most importantly, inclusion. To abide means to rest in the certainty that you belong permanently and safely in the heart of God, no matter how chaotic the external world becomes.

Yesterday, some of us attended a seminar on trauma and the church’s role in addressing it, and the concepts there fit beautifully with this idea of abiding. We learned about a concept called the “window of tolerance.” This is a psychological state of being in which we are able to experience joy, compassion, connection, and curiosity, precisely because our nervous system is not overly taxed or triggered by trauma. When we are in this window, we are mentally, emotionally, and physically present. In a very real way, being inside this window is the real-world equivalent of what John calls abiding.

This is, of course, a state that is fluid. We can very easily slip out of this window into an altered state where it becomes difficult for us to function. On one side, when we are overwhelmed, we might shoot up into the “fight or flight” response where we become overly agitated, anxious, or angry. On the other side, we might drop down into the “freeze” response where we shut down, numb out, dissociate, and feel completely exhausted or disconnected.

When the trauma and stress of the world pull us out of our window of tolerance, we lose our capacity for connection and curiosity. We can’t “abide” because our bodies are stuck in survival mode, convinced we are under attack. Jesus knew the trauma his disciples were about to endure the very next day, which is exactly why he prayed so deeply for their protection and their unity. He knew they would need each other to stay grounded.

This is where the church’s role becomes so vital, when the church stops being just a social club or a lecture hall and becomes a sanctuary for holy regulation. When Jesus invites us to abide in him, he is inviting us back into that safe, regulated space. And when the church understands trauma, we can become a community that helps widen each other’s windows of tolerance. By offering a space that mimics God’s character—one of calm, predictability, safety, and unconditional inclusion—we help soothe each other’s overtaxed nervous systems. We pull people out of the isolation of shutdown, and we calm the panic of hyper-arousal. In doing so, we create a sanctuary where people can step out of the chaos of linear time, drop their defenses, and return to the quiet, grounding truth that they are already safely held in the eternal life of God.

Long story short, our liturgy is the thing that provides the predictability. It helps us provide a sense of calm, it is in this space that we need to leg go of the things from the outside world. We need to let go of the anger, we need to let go of things like bulletins not being printed correctly. We need to let go of other people’s opinions or what we think about them. And we just need to be present for each other and abide in God’s love, which is why we are here. Amen