Sermon: Justice and the Kingdom of God (UMC)
I recently had the opportunity to preach on the topic of Jesus’s teachings at Buena Vista United Methodist Church in Alameda.
Drawing from the last Bishop Mortimer Arias, the sermon focused on the question of what Jesus taught about, and the congregation’s distinctively faithful “Buena Vista way”.
This sermon considers the question, “what does justice work have to do with following Jesus?”
Sermon recording link »
(Here are the transcription and original manuscript of the sermon. I prefer the transcription, since it’s more representative of the actual sermon as delivered)
Transcription:
(See below for the original written manuscript)
Justice and the Kingdom of God
Buena Vista UMC — May 2026 Luke 15
I grew up on the Bible. I grew up in a small town — Marysville, California. Anybody hear of it? Whoa, the hand went up. I'm so curious. All right. So I grew up in Marysville, California, up north, during what was in some ways a peak of American Christian popularity. When I grew up, everybody went to church. That was the belief at least. We discussed the nature of Jesus in the lunchlines. We all had the WWJD — what would Jesus do? — bracelets. And I personally did love it. I love the stories of the Bible, even the weird ones. I love the prophets, even the weird ones. I loved reading the heck out of Paul. Kind of a newer guy, also troubling. Still love it, and I still do.
But growing up in an environment with so many Christians meant that I got to encounter a lot of different ways of being with the Bible, and a lot of them I really still hold dear. The Bible is the story of the salvation of humanity through Christ, or the Bible is instructions for being in community, and the Bible is our story of our spiritual ancestry. And also I've seen and experienced the Bible in other ways. The Bible as a way to win. You know, the Bible is a way to win arguments, to win wars — verse against verse, argument against argument. Whoever gets to quote the Bible most convincingly wins the argument.
And after a while, I stopped reading it. And not because I stopped loving it, but because I wasn't interested in the fight. And when you're using the Bible to prove your points, it's a very limited Bible. It's limited to your points. So I stopped being interested in using the Bible so much, and I hadn't really gotten myself to a point of being moved by the Bible.
And let's be honest — I'm not looking at you close enough to know who's nodding along, but let's be honest. I don't think I'm alone in losing touch with the Bible. A lot of us value and respect the scripture and even use the scripture well, but how many of us open up the Bible and feel genuine love for the stories of Jesus? So I stopped reading.
Ironically, while I was kind of losing touch with the Bible, I did go to seminary. I went to ministry school. And I encountered a book — it's a really important book for me — by a man called Bishop Mortimer Arias. Mortimer Arias was born in Uruguay and was active as a Methodist bishop in Bolivia in the 1970s. And the book that I read is called Announcing the Reign of God. And when I read it, something happened — like Jesus came alive to me. Not like, you know, like whoa Jesus, but it was an engaging story. It brought life. It brought me into this experience. And there's something specific about how the late Bishop Arias spoke about Jesus, because he asked this very simple question: what did Jesus actually spend his time talking about?
And the answer, over and over — dozens, hundreds of times in the gospels — is that Jesus talks about the kingdom of God. "The kingdom of God has come near." "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done." "Seek ye first the kingdom of God." "The kingdom of God is like a seed." "The kingdom of God is like a banquet." Over and over. And Arias points out something really cool. The Greek word that usually gets used for kingdom is basileia. And it has a few different meanings. Basileia can literally mean a territory, but it also means an authority or a power. And that's how we come to use "kingdom" somewhat interchangeably with "realm" and "reign" and other expressions of God's will.
So something I really want to point out — besides signaling that I know it — I bring up this Greek word because I want to point out that it's a very active noun. It's not just a static thing. A basileia is what the one in power is doing. So the kingdom of God isn't necessarily defined by things like borders and passports. There's something different.
But to be more specific — to make it less about speculation about which version of basileia and more about what Jesus's focus was — I want to focus on what Jesus seems to mean by the kingdom of God. And Arias asks this question: how does Jesus actually talk about the kingdom of God? How does Jesus seem to define this realm thing?
And Arias points out that when Jesus is confronted, he could have taught primarily through laws or rules. Jesus seems to know laws and rules and he could have argued those. But in fact, in today's reading in Luke 15, there are these particular Pharisees — they're a rather critical bunch of teachers — and they come to Jesus with a complaint. They're troubled because Jesus seems to be eating with the wrong people. And they're inviting an argument, and he could have argued back, and he knew the law as well as they did, but he didn't argue. Instead he tells three stories — less about winning, more about inviting. Instead of debating the law, Jesus makes it personal and alive by telling these three stories: the parable of the lost sheep, the parable of the lost coin, and the parable of the prodigal son. We didn't read it today — I think most of us have a familiarity with it, and it works.
So while Jesus respected the laws of the time, when it came to the kingdom of God — again, again — he chose stories. Stories about things like seeds, about widows, about lost animals and money. Stories where ordinary people refuse to let loss be final. And as you think about that as a pattern — the loss being refused to be final — you can start to read the parables in a new light. Particularly in Luke 15, parables tend to begin with separation, then refusal, then transformation.
So the first step of a given parable tends to be loss and separation. Y'all with me on this? You can fact check me later. Please push back. But I think this is pretty evident in scripture. The shepherd loses a sheep. A woman loses a coin. The prodigal family loses each other. And we notice that each story begins with something precious slipping out of relationship. There's a terror in the ordinary fabric of life.
And in each story, after the separation, after the isolation, comes step two: someone refuses to accept the loss as final. The shepherd leaves the 99 and goes looking. The woman lights a lamp and turns the whole house upside down. The father, when his son returns, runs to embrace him before the apology is even attempted.
And notice — by this happening through different stories, we can see that the refusal of isolation isn't the same every time. Sometimes refusal looks like searching. Sometimes it looks like sweeping. Sometimes it looks like just waiting on the porch with the door unlocked. But it's the same refusal of isolation.
And then something unexpected happens. And that's step three. I actually mean — step three is: something unexpected happens. After the refusal comes the transformation. And it's not a return to how things have been. It's not the status quo all over again. It's something new. The shepherd gathers neighbors into celebration. The woman's small house fills with joy. And the prodigal family, which couldn't possibly return to how it had been before, becomes something new — a family that knows mercy firsthand, together.
And notice — Amy pointed this out today, and I promise I didn't pay her to say this — but after all this, it's the "rejoice with me." Rejoice with me. The shepherd says, "Rejoice with me." The woman says... The prodigal's father — by the way, we don't know if anybody is to blame for the prodigal family. Hurt people hurt people. Trauma goes forward. But they're here together and they're rejoicing with. So that's the pattern in Luke 15 and other parables. There's a refusal to accept loss as final, and then there's something unexpected.
So the parables, as we think about what might be the kingdom of God — the parables offer this.
The kingdom of God is not reducible to a set of rules. The kingdom of God is not about deciding who's right and wrong. The kingdom of God is not everybody signing up for our religion. And the kingdom of God is not just in the afterlife. In these parables, the kingdom of God is here and now when separation transforms into connection. The kingdom of God is here and now when despair is rejected and something new emerges.
And so the kingdom of God can't be explained by rules or instructions or descriptions alone, because rules and instructions and descriptions alone are insufficient to move a human heart from separation through grace into new connection.
So that's what the kingdom of God is like. That experience of connection that happens when separation is transformed. That moment after separation when a new connection is formed — that moment is a glimpse of the kingdom of God here on earth.
And if we work with that definition — there are so many definitions, but if we work with that very Jesus-focused definition of the basileia — it changes how we get to speak about justice. Because if the kingdom of God is what God is doing, and what God is doing in these stories is closing the distance that separation creates, then the work of justice isn't just a side project. It's the same movement. It's joining in what God is already doing. Justice is not only about rules or punishment or even fairness, although fairness certainly matters. But justice in the gospel often begins when someone refuses to let someone else disappear. A person. A neighbor. Someone the world is learning to treat as expendable. And when enough people refuse separation together, that refusal can become our systems. The way our family works globally.
I'm going to acknowledge — you probably wonder how much longer is this sermon going? This is a good sermon, I hope — but how much longer? And let me tell you, it's not a short one. I am leaving in July. And I love you. So we've got a little bit more. And I really appreciate you all being here with me on this.
Now, the kingdom of God — sure, it may use separation. It may use injustice. But let's be clear that the kingdom of God doesn't excuse injustice. The kingdom of God doesn't necessitate injustice for it to happen. And yet in this hurting world, it's from the cracks that the light shines through the brightest.
Now, a few weeks ago, a man named Ashraf Jaraysah — yeah, I get a head nod — worshiped here with us. Ashraf is a carpenter from Bethlehem. I'm not being metaphorical. He is a literal carpenter from literal Bethlehem. And during his visit, our pastor Vathanak asked Ashraf — the question was, "How do we follow Jesus? How do we take up the burden of carrying our cross?" And Ashraf said something that really struck me.
Ashraf said, quote: "For us, the cross means love also. When you have a cross — when you have a problem, a need in your home — your heart is open. And when you have a special need in your home, you open up your heart to the other. And this is a gift for us. When you have everything, you don't think for the other. But when you have a problem, you stop and think for your friend and brother and sister everywhere." End quote.
And I take that to mean that to be in need can be a blessing, because when you need help, you ask hopefully. And when you ask, a connection becomes possible. And a connection becomes the gift. Not because suffering is good, but because vulnerability opens the door to new relationship.
And it seems to me that what Ashraf was describing is something that the parables describe too — the truth that grace often appears through relationships formed in the middle of vulnerability.
So whether it be through the multiplying of loaves and fishes and the vulnerability of hunger, or restoring the sight to the blind, or showing up at ICE check-ins, organizing pilgrimages and walking tours — where there is despair, and the despair is resisted, this is the work of the kingdom of God.
And this congregation, I think, really lives this kingdom thing firsthand. The separation, the refusal, the something new. And we know what it's like to be isolated. This church still remembers the exile of Japanese Americans in the 1940s. This is a community that in the bones remembers forced separation — a community that understands that alienation is a wound that lasts for generations forward. And we're also a community who passes forward the gift of enduring sanctuary that we were afforded at that time.
The concentration of Japanese Americans of our family here was not holy or godly or worth excusing. But there was holiness anyways. There was grace, anyways.
Here are the words spoken by Rev. Shimada during the farewell service in February 1942. Rev. Shimada shared, quote:
"Let us meet all suffering face to face and endure the coming tribulations patiently. Let us not give up hope. Whatever our trial may be, I assure you that a new, better world will be born through our suffering, just as a new life is born through the sacrifice and suffering of a mother who gives birth to a child. Remember, you are all Christians and you are all citizens of the kingdom of God. The Issei — the Japanese immigrant people — are called enemy aliens. And unfortunately, the Nisei — the second generation — are treated as aliens as well. However, we must not become enemy aliens of God. Please behave as children of God wherever you may go and whatever your situation may be." End quote.
Now, according to Densho records, when the church was emptied in 1942, a couple from a nearby congregation — J.B. Cobb and his wife — former missionaries to Japan — moved into the building and lived here through the incarceration period. And they guarded the belongings that the families had to leave behind here. And they kept the building tended. And they were not saviors. They were custodians of connection — people refusing to let abandonment become complete — because they had faith that Buena Vista Methodist Church would return.
And when the war ended — I promise I did not pay Auntie Judy to say this either — but when the war ended, the first church member back was Norichika Akamatsu. And he immediately began to prepare the church to serve as a hostel, a home for other families.
And so I bring this up because the work of justice isn't just a trend for Buena Vista. It's our inheritance. So what we do now — our distinctive justice-oriented Buena Vista way — is the third movement. We're the ones passing forward what was tended for us. And it's a deeply Christian form of gratitude. It's an honoring of the blessing that happened amidst the separation.
So even now, the work of the bazaar — which is fun and stressful — and the work of the coming picnic, which you're all going to be at on the second Sunday of July, are acts of rejoicing with, and it keeps the work moving forward.
So I think after four years of being here that Buena Vista's way isn't really about partisan agendas and culture wars. I think it's about the kingdom of God coming near, here on earth as it is in heaven. It's about looking at every possible separation, every possible estrangement, and saying, "No — the Buena Vista way, our Christian faith, it shows up everywhere across art and prayers and politics. The Buena Vista way has many goals and tasks. We respond to seasons." But I think it's something that runs deeper than any agenda or version of Christianity. So binding us all, the kingdom pattern that we see in today's reading is about creating new life from isolation — because that's the tradition of our ancestors, that's what's true in our hearts, and that's how we say with our bodies. Okay. That's how we say I am because of you.
Amen.
Original written Manuscript
I grew up on the Bible.
I grew up in a small town,
during what was in some ways,
the peak of american christian popularity.
everybody went to church every week.
we discussed the nature of Jesus
in the school lunch lines.
And I loved the stories.
I loved the prophets.
I loved reading the heck out of Paul. and i still do.
But growing up in an environment
with so many christians
meant i encountered a lot of different ways
of reading the bible.
the Bible as the story of salvation,
the bible as instructions for being in community,
The Bible as our spiritual ancestry.
but also, sometimes I’ve seen
the Bible used as a way to win
a way to win arguments
a way to win wars
Verse against verse.
Argument against argument.
whoever can quote the bible strongest
wins the fight.
And after a while,
I stopped reading it.
Not because I stopped caring,
but because I wasn’t interested in the fight.
I stopped being interested in using the bible,
and i hadn’t gotten to the point
of being moved by the bible, so i lost touch.
Let’s be honest, I don’t think I’m alone in this.
A lot of us value and respect the Bible
and even use the Bible,
but how many of us can open up the bible
and feel genuine love from the stories of Jesus.
So for a while I stopped reading.
Then in seminary,
I encountered a book
by a man called Bishop Mortimer Arias —
Mortimer Arias was born in Uruguay,
and was active as a Methodist Bishop in Bolivia
in the 1970s.
The book is called “Announcing the Reign of God.”
And suddenly Jesus became alive to me again. There’s something special about
how the late Bishop Arias wrote about Jesus.
There’s something energizing, motivating,
about Jesus from Arias’s perspective.
Because Arias, a Methodist Bishop,
asked a very simple question:
what did Jesus actually spend his time
talking about?
And the answer,
again and again,
is the Kingdom of God.
“The Kingdom of God has come near.”
“thy Kingdom come, thy will be done.”
“Seek first the Kingdom of God.”
“the kingdom of god is like a seed.”
“the kingdom of god is like a banquet.”
Over and over.
And Arias points out something cool.
The word translated “Kingdom” —
basileia —
Has a few different meanings
It can literally mean a territory
but also the authority or power.
which is how we can interchangeably
use words like Realm, Reign, and Sovereignty,
as equally valid translations.
But something I want to point out,
is that basileia
it’s also a very active noun.
It’s what the One in Power is Doing.
So the kingdom of God
isn’t necessarily defined by something like,
borders or passports.
It can mean different things.
So to be more specific
and to focus in on what Jesus means
by the Kingdom of God,
Arias asks the question,
How does Jesus actually talk
about The Kingdom of God?
How does Jesus define the Realm,
the Kingdom of God?
Arias points out that when Jesus is confronted,
Jesus could have taught primarily
through laws or rules.
He could have argued.
In fact, in today’s reading from Luke 15,
these particular Pharisees,
a rather critical bunch of teachers:
come at him with a complaint —
they’re troubled because
Jesus is eating with sinners.
They’re inviting an argument.
And he could have argued back.
He knew the law as well as they did.
But he doesn’t argue.
He tells three stories instead —
the move from argument to story,
from winning to inviting.
Instead of debating the law,
Jesus makes it personal and alive
by telling three stories:
The parable of the lost sheep
The parable of the lost coin
and then the parable of the prodigal son.
While he respected the laws of his time,
when it came to the kingdom of god,
again and again,
he chose stories.
Stories about meals.
Seeds.
Widows.
Lost animals.
Lost money.
Stories where ordinary people
refuse to let loss become final.
And once you notice that pattern,
You can notice the parables in a new light.
Particularly in Luke 15
but throughout the gospels,
parables begin with separation, then refusal,
then transformation.
The first step of a given parable
tends to be with loss and separation:
A shepherd loses a sheep.
A woman loses a coin.
Then in the following passage,
the prodigal or wasteful son leaves home.
And so we can notice
that each story begins the same way:
something precious
has slipped out of relationship.
Something is missing.
Someone is absent.
There is a tear in the fabric of ordinary life.
And then,
in each story,
after the separation, after the isolation,
comes step 2,
someone refuses to accept the loss as final.
The shepherd leaves the ninety-nine
and goes looking.
The woman lights a lamp
and turns the whole house upside down.
The father, when his son returns,
runs to embrace him —
before the apology is even finished.
And notice — the refusals don’t all look the same.
Sometimes refusal looks like searching.
Sometimes it looks like sweeping.
Sometimes it looks like
waiting on the porch with the door unlocked.
Different specifics for different situations,
but the same refusal to stop with isolation.
The same refusal to give in to despair.
And then something unexpected happens.
that’s step three.
after the separation
and after the refusal,
comes the transformation.
Not restoration back to normal.
Not a return to the way things have always been.
Something new.
The shepherd gathers neighbors into celebration.
The woman’s small house fills with joy.
And the prodigal family —
which cannot possibly return to what it once was
becomes something else:
a family that now knows mercy firsthand.
God’s Will, from Christ, through human hearts.
Notice — the joy is not just personal relief.
“Rejoice with me,” the shepherd says.
“Rejoice with me,” the woman says.
The prodigal’s father
throws a feast for the whole household.
Every story ends with the joy being shared.
The joy is collective.
The joy is ‘rejoicing with.’
So that’s a pattern in Luke 15 and other parables.
Loss.
Refusal to accept the loss as final.
Unexpected communion.
That is the shape of these stories.
And so the parables offer this:
the kingdom of god is not reducible
to a set of laws.
the kingdom of god is more than
deciding who’s right and who’s wrong.
the kingdom of god is not
everybody signing up for our religion.
the kingdom of god is not just in the afterlife.
the kingdom of god is here and now,
when separation transforms into connection.
the kingdom of god is here
when despair is rejected
and something new emerges.
and so
the kingdom of god
can’t be explained through
rules or instructions or descriptions alone
because rules and instructions and descriptions are insufficient
to move a heart
from separation
through grace,
into connection.
that’s what the kingdom of God is like
that experience
Of connection
that happens
after the separation is transformed.
That moment, after the separation,
when a new connection is formed,
that moment, is the kingdom of god on earth.
And that changes how we can talk about justice.
Because if the Kingdom is what God is doing,
and what God is doing in these stories
is closing the distance that separation creates,
then justice work
isn’t a side project of faith.
It’s the same movement.
It’s joining what God is already doing.
Justice is not only about rules,
or punishment,
or even fairness —
though fairness matters.
Justice, in the gospel,
often begins when someone
refuses to let another person disappear.
A person.
A neighbor.
Someone the world is learning to treat
as expendable.
And when enough people refuse together,
that refusal can begin to shape
laws and systems too.
The Kingdom of God doesn’t excuse injustice.
The kingdom of God doesn’t necessitate injustice.
and yet, in this hurting world,
it’s from the cracks
does the light shine through brightest.
In this hurting world,
the cracks
are where the light shines brightest.
A few weeks ago,
a man named Ashraf Jaraysah
worshiped with us here.
He’s a carpenter from Bethlehem.
And during his visit,
Pastor Vathanak asked him:
“How do we follow Jesus?
How do we take up the burden
of carrying our cross?”
And Ashraf said something
that really struck me.
Ashraf said — quote
“for us, the cross means love also.
When you have a cross,
when you have a problem, a need in your home, your heart is open.
When you have a special need in your home
you open up your heart to the other.
This is a gift for us. When you have everything, you don’t think for the other,
but when you have a problem,
you stop and think for your friend and brother and sister everywhere.”
endquote
I take that to mean,
to be in need, can become a blessing.
Because when you need help,
you ask.
And when you ask,
a connection becomes possible.
And the connection becomes the gift.
Not because suffering is good.
But because vulnerability
can open the door to relationship.
and it seems to me that
Ashraf was describing something
that the parables describe too:
The truth that
that grace often appears
through relationships formed in the middle of vulnerability.
Grace often appears
through relationships formed in the middle of vulnerability.
And the connection itself is the gift.
So whether it be through
the multiplying of loaves and fishes
or
restoring sight to the blind
or
showing up at ICE check-ins
or
organizing pilgrimages and walking tours.
Where there is despair,
and the despair is resisted,
This is the work of the Kingdom.
And this congregation has lived
all three of the Kingdom movements firsthand.
The separation.
The refusal.
then, something new.
We know what it’s like to be isolated.
This church still remembers
the exile of Japanese Americans in the 1940s.
this is a community that remembers
forced separation,
a community that understands that alienation
is a wound that lasts for generations afterward.
we are also a community who passes forward
the gift of enduring sanctuary
that we were afforded at that time.
The concentration of japanese americans was not holy or godly or worth excusing.
but there was holiness anyways.
There was grace, anyway.
Here are the words, spoken by Rev. Shimada during the farewell service in February 1942.
Rev Shimada shared, quote
Let us meet all suffering face to face
and endure the coming tribulations patiently.
Let us not give up hope,
whatever our trial may be.
I assure you that a new,
better world will be born
through our suffering just as a new life born
through the sacrifice and suffering
of a mother who gives birth to a child.
Remember, you are all Christians
and you are all citizens of the kingdom of God.
The Isei (Japanese immigrant) people are called enemy aliens,
and unfortunately the Neisei
(the second generation)
are treated like aliens as well.
However,
we must not become enemy aliens of God.
Please behave as children of God
wherever you may go
and whatever your situation may be.” End quote.
Now according to densho records,
When the church was emptied in May of 1942,
a couple from a nearby congregation —
J.B. Cobb and his wife,
former missionaries to Japan —
moved into the building and lived here
through the entire incarceration period.
they guarded the belongings
that families had to leave behind.
they kept the building tended.
they were not saviors.
they were custodians of connection.
people refusing to let abandonment
become complete.
and they had faith
that Buena Vista Methodist Church would return.
and when the war ended,
the first church member back
was Norichika Akamatsu,
And he immediately began
to prepare this church to serve as a hostel
for other families coming home.
the work of Justice isn’t just a trend for us,
it’s our inheritance.
and so what we do now —
the distinctive justice-oriented buena vista way —
is the third movement.
We’re the ones passing forward
what was tended for us.
It’s a deeply christian form of gratitude.
it’s an honoring of the blessing that happened amidst the separation,
even the work and joy of the bazaar
and the coming Picnic worship service,
the act of rejoicing with,
it keeps the work moving forward.
Buena vista’s way isn’t about
partisan agendas or culture wars,
it’s about the kingdom of god coming near,
here on earth as it is in heaven.
it’s about looking at every possible separation, every possible estrangement,
and saying “no” to isolation.
The Buena Vista way, our christian faith,
shows up everywhere
across art and prayer and politics
The Buena Vista way has many tasks and goals,
We respond to the seasons,
but i think it’s something that runs deeper than any agenda or version of Christianity.
But binding them all,
the Kingdom pattern of creating new life,
new connection from isolation,
because that’s the tradition of our ancestors, that’s what’s true in our hearts,
and that’s how we say, Okage Sama De.
So why do we keep on caring about the other?
Why do we keep trying to fix the world?
Why are we so determined
to experience the Kingdom of God
on earth as it is in heaven?
Because that’s how we say “I am, because of you”.
Amen.
