Sermon – Jesus at a Distance

(I preached this sermon on Sunday, February 8, 2026 at Christ Lutheran Church in Harrisburg, PA. The sermon is in response to John 4:46-54. You can listen to the audio by going to this link.)

There are moments when Scripture stops feeling ancient and starts feeling immediate.

This week was one of those moments.

At the so-called National Prayer Breakfast, the name of Jesus was spoken repeatedly in a room filled with political power and institutional influence. Praise was offered. Blessings were invoked. One prominent and influential religious leader declared that no president in modern history, perhaps in all history, had done more to protect religious liberty. That statement was delivered without hesitation, without reflection, and without visible struggle.  

That’s not a one off either.  In August of last year this same so-called religious leader was quoted as saying that “to say no to President Trump would be saying no to God.”  That’s blatant idolatry. 

Back at the National Prayer Breakfast farce this week, the president of El Salvador was honored. A leader whose governance is defined by authoritarian control, mass incarceration practices, and prison conditions that have devastated countless human lives.  

Jesus’ name was present.  Those close to power love to use and abuse Jesus for their own empowerment.  
But Jesus’ way was not present.  The lowly were kept low, while the powerful were lifted higher.  

This is not new. This is what happens when faith stands too close to power. Vision narrows. Moral imagination shrinks. Loyalty replaces discernment. We begin mistaking access for righteousness.

The Gospels warn us about this repeatedly.

The closer people are to power, the harder it is for them to recognize Jesus.
The farther people are pushed from it, the clearer he becomes.

In the wilderness Jesus rejects authority over kingdoms. He refuses domination. He refuses control as salvation. He understands what power does to the human heart. It reshapes desire. It convinces us survival matters more than compassion. It trains us to measure worth by victory.

Power teaches lies.

It teaches that powerful systems value people.
In reality they calculate usefulness.
It tells us proximity protects us.
It tells us consequences belong somewhere else.

Eventually though, everyone becomes expendable. History confirms this with ruthless consistency.

Jesus rejects that framework. And that rejection makes him dangerous.

In John’s Gospel he walks into the Temple and interrupts exploitation. He does not negotiate. He does not soften critique. He confronts harm masquerading as holiness.

Later he heals and is watched.
He speaks truth and is targeted.
He restores life and becomes marked for death.

Jesus exposes what power hides. Exposure threatens control. Power prefers shadows because the shadows protect the narrative.  They offer a dim picture that prevents us from seeing all the ugliness.  

We see the mechanics of that around us.

After the shootings of Alex Pretti and Renee Good, messaging shifted toward justification and containment.  We heard about how the perpetrator was the real victim. 
After racist imagery circulated from official channels, responses attempted to minimized harm and refram intent.  An anonymous staffer was blamed because someone had to be scapegoated.  
Detention expansion for immigration enforcement near York is described with language meant to pacify, not reveal.  

We are asked repeatedly to doubt what we see.
To accept explanation over reality.
To normalize what should disturb the soul.

This is how power maintains itself.

Jesus increases the light instead.

He leaves Judea and goes to Galilee. Away from the center. And there a royal official approaches him.

This man knows hierarchy. He benefits from structure. He has access others do not. But his child is dying. Authority does nothing for him. Influence cannot negotiate with mortality.

Power can destroy.
It can command fear.
It can compel silence.

It cannot heal.
It cannot restore what is broken.
It cannot generate life.

So he travels desperate. Stripped of illusion. Vulnerable in ways his status never allowed before.

And vulnerability opens recognition.

Jesus offers no spectacle. Just words.

Go. Your son will live.

The man trusts and walks away. That is faith stripped down to its core. Trust that moves before proof arrives.

Look carefully across Scripture and history. Recognition of Christ comes most often among those without a cushion or a soft landing. Those harmed by systems. Those who understand fragility because they live with it. They see life when it appears because they know what its absence feels like.

Power recedes.
Vulnerability clarifies.

This disrupts a myth that saturates our culture. Walter Wink described it well. The myth that violence saves. That force restores order. That domination protects.

It does not.

Empires declare permanence and yet they fall.
Militarization multiplies the grief it promises to prevent.
Economic might expands while communities fracture.

Salvation does not come through domination.
It emerges through embodied love.
Nothing else has sustained humanity through catastrophe.

Now let’s name something honestly.

Anger is everywhere right now. It is justified more often than not. Violence. Racism. Dehumanization. Policy choices that harm real bodies. These realities should disturb us. Indifference would signal something broken within us.

But anger seduces. It produces adrenaline. It creates the sensation of strength. Sit inside it long enough and it reshapes us. Compassion erodes. Listening shrinks. We become what we oppose.

I wrote this week about how racism rarely appears as an isolated incident. It reveals patterns. It exposes systems designed to passively accept it as normal. Moments dismissed as one-offs often sit atop structures designed to maintain hierarchy. If we only react emotionally, we miss the deeper machinery at work.

Anger alone cannot dismantle that machinery.
Anger cannot heal those wounded by it.
Anger cannot build beloved community.

We need something deeper.

This week I saw signs of that deeper power.

At the Peace Pilgrimage in Harrisburg. People walking together when division would be easier. Patience embodied in public space.  Scripture and prayers that spoke the reality of our world and yet offered hope and a path to a better world.

In a clinic waiting room. A mother asking for prayer as she searched for housing. Quiet strength. No platform. Just persistence.

At the healthcare panel. People seeking collaboration. Wanting to invest in healing rather than visibility.

Christ is present there. Clearly. Obviously.

And today we welcome a new member. That moment matters because church is not alignment with influence. It is covenant with community. Shared vulnerability. Shared trust. Shared work of healing.

So I ask again.

Where do you see Jesus this week?

Look honestly.

Not in public performances.
Not near dominance and power.
Not where image management replaces truth.

Look where healing struggles forward with persistence.
Look where dignity refuses to be erased.
Look where hope remains stubborn and vocal.

Christ is there.

Still speaking life.
Still rebuilding community.
Still restoring what power abandons.

And hear this deeply.

When the news exhausts you.
When anger feels easier than hope.
When injustice feels immovable.

Remember this.

Jesus walked away from the throne.
He walked toward the wounded.
He trusted love knowing domination would kill him.

And life rose anyway.

That is our promise.
That is our calling.

Go.
Life will come.

Thanks be to God.