Sermon transcript:
There are certain moments in life when we become especially aware of how careful we are with our words—sitting around a table with people we don’t know well, meeting someone for the first time, or finding our place in a new community. In those moments, we tend to choose our topics gently. We look for common ground. We try not to say too much, too soon. We avoid the big four: money, sex, religion, and politics.
Not because they are unimportant, but because they are deeply personal. They touch on who we are, what we value, and how we see the world. There is some wisdom in that. These are revealing subjects; they need trust, respect, and relationship. You do not bring them up at the dinner table your first Christmas with the in-laws.
And yet, over time, I wonder if that caution can turn into silence. Not just politeness, but avoidance. I feel that tension myself—especially in the church—where these very real and human parts of life can remain unspoken. Which is striking, because when we turn to Scripture, we find that money, sex, religion, and politics are precisely the areas it does not shy away from.
Just consider today’s scripture from the Song of Solomon, one of the most unusual books in the Bible. Unlike most of the Hebrew scriptures, it does not tell the story of Israel or its covenant with God. In fact, it is one of the only books that never directly mentions God at all. Instead, it gives us poetry—intimate, embodied, and unapologetically sensual. It is the only book in Scripture where a woman’s voice dominates, speaking on her own terms. It is a celebration of love, desire, longing, and commitment.
Before it was scripture, it was simply a love poem—which raises an important question: how does a love poem become scripture? Those who gathered these texts must have recognized something more. They discerned that this poem, in all its intimacy and desire, revealed something true about God and about human relationship with the sacred. Because that is what Scripture does: it reveals God to us. Listen again to its language: “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth; for your love is better than wine.” Or “I am my beloved’s, and his desire is for me.” This is not abstract theology. It is embodied, relational, even erotic.
And somehow, this, too, is holy. The inclusion of the Song of Solomon is not accidental. It is a declaration: love, intimacy, desire, pleasure—these are not outside of God. They are part of the goodness of creation. They, too, can reveal the sacred. And that leads to a larger truth: there is nothing in all creation that cannot reveal God. Nothing is outside the reach of the sacred. Nowhere is off-limits.
In seminary, I learned this through theological reflection. Each week, we would take an ordinary moment and ask: where was God in this? Over time, it reshaped how we saw the world. One colleague put it this way: “I can’t even buy a bag of frozen peas without wondering where God is in it.” That is the invitation of faith—not to confine God to certain spaces, but to recognize God everywhere. It might be worthwhile asking, “Where in my life do I tend to separate what I consider ‘sacred’ from what I consider ‘ordinary’?” What might it mean to see those places differently?
When we divide life into compartments—sacred and secular, church and world, faith and everything else—we shrink God. We begin to see people not as sacred, but as useful or threatening—either a drain or a value to the economy or a friend or threat to our livelihood or culture. We let fear, ego, or ideology shape our faith. We stop asking where God is present and start deciding where God is allowed to be and who God is allowed to love. We might ask, when I meet others, do I find myself seeing them as burdens, threats, or categories—or as people who bear something sacred?
At its worst, this leads us to use God to justify ourselves, rather than allowing God to transform us. But to live with an awareness of the sacred is to live differently. It is to live as Jesus lived: to be fully in the world yet not bound by its narrow vision. It is to see beyond appearances into the heart of things.
A few weeks ago, my colleague Rev. Hoeun Lee from First United invited me to join him at Pride in the Park, offering what he called “glitter blessings.” For those who were open to it, we traced a cross or a heart on their forehead or hand and said, “You are created in the image of God, you are God’s beloved child.” My first instinct, as an introvert, was hesitation. But in Hoeun’s invitation, I sensed a nudge of the Spirit—an invitation to take part in something holy. So, we went. And we stood there, offering blessings to people who, for generations, have too often been told they are outside the reach of God, beyond the bounds of the sacred. It became one of the most profound moments of my ministry. I was struck by how many people said yes. I was humbled by their gratitude. And I was deeply moved—especially by those who received the blessing with tears.
I’m grateful to Hoeun for inviting me to join him in publicly rejecting the lie that any part of life is beyond God’s reach. Perhaps that is why the Song of Solomon, this love poem, is part of our scriptures. Scripture does not invite us to avoid life—it calls us to enter it more deeply. To become open to the holy in people and places we think or assume are beyond God’s reach. What would it look like, this week, to live with a deeper awareness that God is present in all things? To live knowing that nothing and no one is excluded, that everything can become a place of holy encounter? For in that truth, there is grace. In that vision, there is hope.
Rev. Joe Gaspar