Have you ever had a moment where you experienced something that felt deeply meaningful to you? Only to realize that someone else didn’t see it the same way? Not because they dismissed you or didn’t care, but simply because they didn’t see what you saw or shared the same understanding? 

There’s an episode of the hit TV series 'Glee' called “Grilled Cheesus”, that plays with this idea. In it, a character sees the face of Jesus in a grilled cheese sandwich and becomes convinced it means something important. For him, it’s real, personal, even sacred. (regardless of how transactional his relationship to the Divine may be.)  But others around him aren’t so sure. They don’t see what he sees or understand it in the same way. What unfolds isn’t really about proving or disproving his experience; it’s more about how people make meaning, and how recognizing something sacred can look very different from one person to another.

The post-resurrection Easter appearance stories feel a lot like this. They aren’t neat or straightforward. They are filled with surprise, fear, uncertainty, and moments of gradual understanding. The disciples are gathered behind closed doors, afraid, unsure of what comes next. And then, suddenly, Jesus is there among them. What’s striking isn’t just that he appears, it’s how he responds. He doesn’t shame them for hiding. He doesn’t scold them for their fear. And when one of them, Thomas, needs something more tangible, when recognizing isn’t easy or immediate, he doesn’t shame that either. He meets them exactly where they are, offering peace, offering grace, and offering his presence.

​As we sit with these post-resurrection stories, we begin to notice that recognition doesn’t happen the same way for everyone. Some people understand right away. Others take time. Some recognize through feeling, others through questioning, and some through the need to see or touch. In every case, though, people are met where they are, in their fear, in their wondering, in their questions. The writer of the Gospel of John tells us that these stories were written so that we might find meaning and connection, that we might be comforted in our very human need to understand. And yet, we’re also told that not everything has been written down. The story isn’t finished.  

Maybe that’s because the recognition of the sacred isn’t just something that happened then, it’s something that continues now. It’s something we discover over time, often in unexpected ways. It shows up in moments of peace, in acts of grace, in the quiet presence of love between people.  Sometimes it’s clear, and sometimes it takes a while to understand. And sometimes, what feels deeply meaningful to us might not look the same to someone else.

So perhaps the question isn’t whether we can prove what we’ve seen or experienced. Maybe the better question is where we are noticing something sacred in our own lives, and how we are coming to recognize it. And just as importantly, how others might come to recognize it in us.

 The story begins in the street.
There are palms in the air, voices rising, a crowd gathering with energy and urgency. People are shouting, “Hosanna!” Save us!  It feels like a parade, but it is more than that. It is a collective public moment. A unified cry. A movement filled with hope.

Palm Sunday was not only a celebration. It was a confrontation. A protest. A disruption. It was a moment when hope got loud, and the systems of power began to push back.  And then… the story turned. The cheers quieted. The urgency slowed. The journey Jesus began in the streets leads us into the garden, a place of fear, prayer, and hard choices. Here, everything begins to change.

This is why a Sunday of Palms to Passion matters.  Because we are not choosing to skip from parade to resurrection.  We are choosing to sit in the tension.   
The question these stories ask of us is not only what happened back then, or what they did in that moment.  The question is: what happened next, and what do we do now?  How do we respond?

Holy Week unfolds like a kind of choreography, or a symphony, with distinct movements that carry us from one emotional landscape to another. It begins with “Hosanna in the highest!” but it does not stay there. The story keeps moving into uncertainty, into intimacy, into fear, into betrayal, into grief.
From “Surely not I, Lord?” to “Take, eat; this is my body.” to “Let this cup pass from me.” to
“I do not know the man.” to “Let him be crucified.” to “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
And finally, after all of it:   “He is not here.”

This is not a simple story. It is an encapsulated journey.  It is a story full of emotion, full of change, full of movement. And today, let us resist the temptation to rush past the hard parts in order to get to the good news. Instead, let's practice staying with the story, even when it becomes uncomfortable, even when it asks something of us.  

Because this isn't' just an inspiring parade story from long ago.  It encourages everyone march. To begin a movement. Of people choosing love, justice, and peace. People willing to raise their voices, to embody hope, and to keep going even when the road becomes difficult.  Palm Sunday reminds us that faith is not passive. It is participatory. It is the first act that calls us into the story.  

Palm Sunday is only where the story begins.  The story is still unfolding.  And we are witness to it and a part of it now. 

A Prayer for Palm Sunday written by Rev. Sarah Speed
Holy One, 
Give us the strength to live like the crowds that day in Jerusalem.
Where they held palm branches,
may we hold a hand out to our neighbor.
Where they cried 'Hosanna,'
May we cry out for justice.  May we cry out with joy. 
Where they laid down their coats,
may we lay down our resources
our energy, our creativity, and our time,
so that we can build your promised day here and now.
We do not want to simply talk about our faith.
We want to act on it, so may this prayer be the first step.  Amen

Are you more of a wayward person or more rooted? 
I am definitely a rooted person.  I have lived within a very small radius for most of my life.  I can't imagine packing up, moving, and leaving the familiar place I call home.   I am certainly not adventurous or seeking out places to begin again.  

What does it mean to be wayward?  Think about GPS.  We travel now without always knowing exactly where we are. A calm voice tells us where to turn, when to merge, and when to continue straight ahead. Our sense of identity is often shaped by how we locate ourselves in the world.  By how we name where we are.  To be wayward is to trust that, even without perfect clarity, you will get where you are going.

But what does it mean to be rooted?
In ancient Hebrew tradition, human beings are understood as soil that is divinely animated. We are creatures of earth and breath. Rooted beings who find place, identity, and purpose in the land where we settle.   Rootedness gives us belonging.  It grounds our story in a particular place.

But what happens when we have to begin again? What happens when rooted people are called, or forced, to become wayward?

Right now, across our world, many people are uprooted. They carry what they can: medicine, technology, documents, the essential tools for survival.  Anything that might help sustain life on the journey ahead.  Their lives are packed into what can be carried across borders.

Our scripture (Genesis 12:1-4) tells the story of Abram, whose beginning again looks a bit different.
Abram was wealthy.  He was called, not forced.  He traveled with an entourage of family, servants, livestock, and all that sustained his household.  He traveled with a tribe. 

Still, I find myself wondering what path did they take? What did they carry across the borders they crossed?  Did they bring tools for navigation? Knowledge of the stars and shadows?  What did they bring that would help them re-root themselves? What did it mean for Abram to leave what was known and begin again?    And what does it mean for us?

Faith formation is, in many ways, learning to listen through the haze, through clouded realities and uncertain paths for the quiet call of God.    A call to begin again, to navigate, to adjust course, to persevere, to become a blessing where we take root. 

God’s promises were expansive at the first awakening of faith, and they remain expansive still.  They unfurl before us whenever and wherever God calls us forward.  To begin again is to respond to the wayward call and to trust in being rooted again.

The colors of the liturgical calendar quietly and gently tell a story.
Green speaks of hope and growth.  The steady rhythm of Ordinary Time, that season of faithfully counting the days.  Purple carries the depth of royalty and justice, the holy weight of Lent, when the days lengthen, and our hearts are invited to do the same.   Together, green and purple mirror the movement we are making right now, from Ordinary Time into Lent.  If we are paying attention, the liturgical calendar is always guiding us. Color becomes a gentle signal for the soul, preparing us for the season we are entering before a single word is spoken.  The rhythm of the liturgical colors are a visual signal of a seasons mood.  

In some sense, our Lenten journey does not begin in the ashes. It begins on the mountain.  On Transfiguration Sunday, we witnessed Jesus radiant, standing fully in his power, recognized and named as Beloved by God.  It is easy to want to stay there.  In the brightness. In the wonder. In the warmth of belovedness shining. But the way of Jesus does not end on the mountaintop.  Lent begins the moment we choose to walk with him back down into the valley.

Long before the mountain, our human story began in another place of beauty and holy threshold. The garden.  Eden was at first, a place of deep comfort and curiosity. It also required a first step into the unknown.  The pattern is both ancient and familiar with these colors and stories.  
Green to purple.  Mountain to valley. Garden to the unknown.
Faith has always been a journey of movement.  Not away from God, but more deeply within God.

Lent begins with holy noticing.  This season quietly asks:
Where am I being called?
Who am I listening to?
Where is God still walking beside me?
Because even in the valley or the wilderness or the unknown, a sacred whisper remains:
You are beloved.  Not only on the mountain.  Not only in the garden. But on every step of the valley road.   Faith formation is not only about what we know or believe.  It is about how we walk.  How we move from comfort toward courage. From clarity toward trust.  From the familiar into the faithful unknown.  As the colors shift, as the season turns, and as Lent gently unfolds before us…
How will I walk?   How will you? ​

The Book of Psalms is like a book of life’s exclamations. The Psalms are understood to me as a collection of prayer songs that reflect different times and experiences throughout Israel’s existence. The Psalms tell us about the people of Israel’s relationship with God and can encourage us to pursue our own collective and individual relationships with God through praying and exploring the Psalms. 
The Psalms are helpful examples of praying and praising in all seasons of life. They offer pathways to expressing through awe and wonder, in pain and letting go, in joy and praise, and with compassion and justice. 


​I appreciate what fourth-century philosopher St. Augustine said about the Psalms: 
“If the psalm prays, you pray. If the psalm laments, you lament. If the psalm exalts, you rejoice. If it hopes, you hope. If it fears, you fear. Everything written here is a mirror for us.” 
 (Augustine, The Confessions, Book IX)

When I turn to the Psalms, I can read and hear how to pray and praise in every season of life, whether rejoicing with those who rejoice, mourning with those who mourn, or languishing with those who languish. I read and hear Psalm 30 as a song of thanksgiving and praise based on the receiving of God’s mercy. A lamenting praise, penned by someone who’s been through some stuff and written through the voice of an individual. Psalm 30 reads to me as a song of praise that has faith, in a hope that has already been realized.

Psalm 30 Remix: A Psalm of Praise for a Hope Already Realized  

I thank you, O God, for your quiet presence in my life.
   Because of You, my anxieties do not completely consume me.
When I have called out for help, I have felt your touch of comfort.
   You have breathed new life into me and made me aware.
I gleefully dance in gladness and praise,
   and sink deeply into joy.
My emotional anxieties and nervousness fade, 
    Love is expansive and unending.
I may have silent tears late in the night, 
   But clarity and joy rise with the sun.
When all was well and easy in my life, I ignored You,
   You did not disrupt my self-contentment.
When I sought you, 
      I fumbled around and lost my way.
What use is it to acquire all the world’s alluring treasures,
    If I have no spiritual anchor in the depths?
You heard my cry and, like manna, sprinkled my path with breadcrumbs to call me home.
    You reached out and guided me through my mind's disorienting darkness. 
My hope in You is realized not just in fleeting moments, 
    But lingers like a song in the air. 
My heart sings, my spirit dances,
    And my soul gives thanks.

We’ve seen the signs at protests.
​We've made the signs! 
Spray-painted on cardboard.
Black marker, bold letters:
NO KINGS!
It’s more than just a rejection of authoritarian monarchy.
It’s a cry against domination.
Against systems that hoard power, demand obedience, and try to enforce and claim peace based on someone else’s silence.
And here’s the wild, subversive truth:
I believe Jesus would’ve carried that sign.
When Pilate asked him, “Are you a king?”
Jesus didn’t play the game.
He didn’t deny it, but he refused to answer on Empire’s terms.
“My kingdom does not belong to this world,” he said.
Not because it’s a kingdom in the clouds.
But because it doesn't work like the kingdoms we know.
No thrones. No weapons. No walls.
Just tables. Just healing. Just welcome.
Jesus didn’t come to replace one ruler with another.
He came to reinvent or even end the rigged game entirely.
To dismantle power built on fear.
To call the poor blessed.
To flip the tables.
To wash the feet of those the world would rather ignore.
So when we say “Jesus is Lord,” we are not crowning a new tyrant.
We’re announcing a new reality:
No kings. Only kin.
No Kingdoms. Only Kin-doms. 
A movement, not a monarchy.
A beloved community, not a holy hierarchy.
That’s the kin-dom. That’s the protest.
That’s the Way of Jesus.

A Prayer for June 14th, 2025 No Kings!
Jesus,
you stood before empire and didn’t flinch.
You redefined power, not by ruling, but by serving.
Not by fear, but by love.
You didn’t seek a throne, but a table where all are welcome.
You didn’t demand loyalty but called us into kinship.
Let us rise up to face this urgent time.
Let us walk in your way disrupting what harms, healing what’s broken,
and building a world where no one is above another, and everyone belongs.
No kings. Only kin.
Amen.
​
Find your local protest gathering:  https://www.nokings.org/

Make your safety plan: https://www.hrc.org/resources/tips-for-preparedness-peaceful-protesting-and-safety

This past Sunday was Pentecost Sunday in our Christian Tradition.  A few years ago, in a blog post, I imagined what a modern-day depiction of this story could be like. I tried to imagine the loyal and beloved friends of Jesus, the disciples, gathered together in a room during the celebration of the Jewish Feast of Shavuot.   (Shavuot meaning 'weeks' and the celebration happens 7 weeks/50 days after Passover.)  The familiar narrative, set this time in 2025.  What would that look like, and feel like, and sound like now?   I took that blog post and recreated it as a first-person account, asked our
NextGen group to edit it, and then they read it aloud in worship this past Sunday.   It was a powerful retelling of an ancient tale made relevant for today.  Below is the final reading.  
​___________________________________________________________________________________________________

It's June 8th, 2025. We are a group of young adults—ages 16 to 35—gathered in the upstairs flat of what some activists call a “safe house.” We huddle together, not just out of loyalty to our beloved Jesus, but out of fear. Fear of being targeted, profiled, detained, deported, or simply erased, because of who we follow, who we love, how we identify, or where we were born.

It’s been fifty days since the trauma and execution of Jesus, our teacher, healer, justice-worker, and friend. The grief still clings to us. The risks still linger. And still, we are here. Together.

Some of us are organizers. Some are seekers. Some undocumented. Some queer. Some nonbinary. Some disabled. Some of us are bone-tired from fighting for insulin, therapy, or shelter. But all of us? We are dreamers of a world that reflects the Way of Jesus.

And then it happens. We don’t know how to explain it. The air shifts. A roaring sound fills the room, like wind tearing through the walls. Heat rises. Movement pulses through our bodies. We don’t see fire, but we feel it, burning from the inside out. We start to speak, rapid, bold, fearless. Our voices are not just our own, they are everyone’s.  And somehow, people outside hear it too.

Out on the street, the city stops. People look up. “What is this?” they ask. “Some kind of Pride Month street theater? Are they high? Are they drunk on cheap wine?”
And maybe we are.
Drunk on love.
Drunk on justice.
High on dreams that feel dangerously possible.
Drunk on the Spirit that says we are more than pawns in someone else’s empire.
They’ll say we’re just 120 people. But if you’ve ever been in a protest that stirred your soul, you know the number doesn’t matter. This isn’t a flash mob. This is a movement being born.

And maybe--
This is the day we stop wondering if we all carry the Spirit.
The day we stop waiting for permission.
The day we stop asking for a seat at the table.
The day we start flipping the tables.
The day we say, “Enough,” and rise up.
We rise up and dance in the streets for trans rights.
We rise up and flow into the clinics for every uninsured neighbor.
We rise up and march at the border, holding signs and holding one another.
We rise up and stand in our churches and say, “We’re here. We’ve always been here.”

Why are we here?
What is the point of Church if we don’t open the windows wide to the winds of justice?
What’s the point if we don’t move—in spirit and in body—toward those on the margins?
Pentecost is not a ritual we observe.
It’s an uprising we join.
It is holy chaos.
It is defiant joy.
It is the refusal to let grief have the final word.
It is choosing to care before anyone gives us permission.
It is creating something new.
It is learning the languages of solidarity, equity, and compassion.
It is the dance we do when we realize:
God is already in the streets, waiting for us to show up.
Pentecost is not a moment, it is a movement.
It is the refusal to sit still in a room that was always meant to shake us awake.
It is our sacred, fierce participation in the Spirit’s holy disruption.
And we are part of it.

"When Pentecost Day arrived, they were all together in one place. Suddenly a sound from heaven like the howling of a fierce wind filled the entire house where they were sitting. They saw what seemed to be individual flames of fire alighting on each one of them. They were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages as the Spirit enabled them to speak.  They were all surprised and bewildered.  Some asked each other, 'What does this mean?'"  Acts 2:1-4,12 (CEB)
 

What spiritual practice of faith formation can we learn from the Magi? We may need to explore what it means to journey towards an unknown destination and embrace the uncertainty that comes with it. 

How about a good old-fashioned Coddiwomple? Coddiwomple: to travel purposefully toward an unknown or vaguely defined destination, possibly meandering along the way.

In our society, we tend to be very goal-oriented—whether in work, school, hobbies, or life in general.
Every summer, my family vacations in Whistler, BC. It’s beautiful in the summer, and I am always in awe of the mountains, trees, rocks, wildflowers, and waterways. Despite some assumptions, I love hiking the trails. However, I often struggle with impatience because I focus on the trail app to track where I’m going, rather than just taking it one step at a time.   I watch myself, the moving blue dot dutifully flowing the green trail outline on the screen of my iPhone.  My thoughts racing: Where am I going? How long until I get there? What elevation are we at now? Did we pass that landmark? 
I get bogged down in reaching the trail's end as the destination itself. While this isn’t inherently bad, I realize that by focusing solely on the end of the trail, I miss out on the journey and all that it has to offer.  I don't allow for the journey to unfold in front of me in each step.  I predict the journey's end before the destination truly unfolds before me. 

Perhaps it’s the struggle with uncertainty that heightens my anxiety to track the trail.   For me, uncertainty triggers an instinct to control information.  The feeling of not being in control or not knowing what comes next makes me want to learn more, while also trying to control the information, in an attempt to manage the anxiety-inducing situations that arise. Uncertainty feels ominously uncomfortable to me. How I perceive the nature and texture of uncertainties—whether it’s internal or external—seems to control me, rather than me being guided by it.   I think being uncertain in my uncertainty and finding meaning in the chaos is the way forward.  

The spiritual practice I might need to learn is to "coddiwomple," to meander, to saunter along the trails.  To saunter, commonly meaning to stroll, to muse, to wonder.  Interestingly, the word "saunter" is thought to come from the phrase 'à la Sainte Terre,' meaning "to the Holy Land" in French—a la Sainte Terre is essentially, a pilgrimage.  A journey of sacred purpose. 

Mountaineer, John Muir speaks of the term in this way: 
"I don't like either the word hike or the thing. People ought to saunter in the mountains - not hike!
Do you know the origin of that word 'saunter?' It's a beautiful word. Away back in the Middle Ages people used to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and when people in the villages through which they passed asked where they were going, they would reply, "A la sainte terre,' 'To the Holy Land.' And so they became known as sainte-terre-ers or saunterers. Now these mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not 'hike' through them."  -John Muir

John Muir truly lived into his own philosophy. He was often the last to arrive at a camp, never in a rush. He took his time, stopping to connect with the trees along his path, to marvel at nature's cathedral.  He would greet fellow travelers, encouraging them to kneel down and marvel at the delicate beauty of tiny, almost invisible flowers. By the time he reached camp, he would often have wildflowers tucked into his hat and a sprig of balsam fir in his buttonhole.

What is the purpose of a journey or pilgrimage? What was the purpose for the Magi?
I believe the journey of the Magi was likely a form of coddiwomple-ing.  A meandering, sauntering pilgrimage with a sacred purpose.  They didn’t look down; they looked up.  Although their journey may have felt uncertain, elusive, and even rebellious at times, it ultimately led them to a wonderful and profound discovery.  What that discovery was for the Magi, and what it may be for us, sometimes requires us to set aside rigid goals, engage our uncertainties as mysteries with active curiosity, and instead practice meaningful meandering until the destination reveals itself. 

How much more fulfilling it would be to "saunter" along the journey of life, measuring it by beauty, love, and compassion. How much richer it is to take the time to truly know and understand the people we meet, to pause and allow the sun's warmth to fill our soul, to listen to the whispers of the trees and the melodies of the birds, and to admire the delicate flowers that bloom along the path. 

The next time I set out on the trails, I will practice laying down the need to control the uncertainties, and simply let the trail and it's destination reveal herself.    A La Sainte Terre, to the Holy Land!

The Name Jar, by Yangsook Choi:
Story synopsis: 
Being the new kid in school is hard enough, but what about when nobody can pronounce your name? Having just moved from Korea, Unhei is anxious that American kids will like her. So instead of introducing herself on the first day of school, she tells the class that she will choose a name by the following week. Her new classmates are fascinated by this no-name girl and decide to help out by filling a glass jar with names for her to pick from. But while Unhei practices being a Suzy, Laura, or Amanda, one of her classmates comes to her neighborhood and discovers her real name and its special meaning. On the day of her name choosing, the name jar has mysteriously disappeared. Encouraged by her new friends, Unhei chooses her own Korean name and helps everyone learn to pronounce it.

I love a dining table set with place cards, written with your name and where to sit. One reason I love place cards at the dining table is that it feels fancy.  Place cards take away the confusion, allows one to sit without the awkwardness, and allows for your name to be known and claimed.  

Our names don't just do the job of signaling things about ourselves to other people; our names can also be a vital expression of your own individual identity, representing a connection to our family, our culture, your language, our community and our religious practice.    Some people claim a given birth names and some claim a chosen name. 

Chosen names are more common than ever in our society today and need to be recognized.  It is especially important to those within the gender expansive and transgender community.   Honoring someone's chosen name and pronouns is a practice.   The following are some definitions, intentional language, and a practice: 

Dead name: the birth name of a transgender person who has changed their name as part of their gender transition. 

Deadnaming: is the act of referring to a transgender or non-binary person by a name (including pronouns) that they used before transitioning, such as their given birth name. Done intentionally,  deadnaming is a way to invalidate or mock someone's gender identity and expression. Schools are just beginning to identify deadnaming as a form of harassment.   

Often though, deadnaming it’s unintentional.  Tip: when someone corrects you with their chosen name say,  ‘thank you’ not ‘I’m’ sorry', then try again using the chosen name.

Names are important. We all have a name.  Imagine if a dining table had place cards with just the labels that are given to people. A place card for immigrant, or outsider, or homeless, or youth or uncircumcised, or someone’s dead name.

Learning, knowing, understanding and calling someone by their name, including cultural names that are hard to pronounce (such as in Unhei's story,) and using chosen names not dead names, are what demolishes barriers between us and creates an expansive table to make room for diverse backgrounds, cultures, the sharing of meaningful foods, vulnerable stories, laughter, and ultimately intimate and trusting connections.    

Unhei (Yoon-Hey)  Unhei learns the significance of her name from her mother and the friendly Korean grocer in her neighborhood. Her name, which means “graceful” in Korean, was chosen for her by a name master sought out by her mother and grandmother.   And 'Chingu'...in Korean means friend. 

The Name Jar, author and illustrator, Yangsook Choi, Dragonfly Books, 2003 

One of the most nerve-wracking and anxiety-inducing places is for sure, the Jr. High School cafeteria. Most of us remember what it was like in the school lunchroom. After you get your lunch you scan the room for a table where you will feel welcome and accepted.  Often the same table where your friends wave to you.  But when your besties aren't there, it becomes a room full of uncertainty.  When sitting alone somehow feels better than not fitting in.  Fitting in is a fear of not being accepted. 

Springtide Research Institute recently compiled a report about Gen Alpha and their faith:  Thirteen, A First Look at Gen Alpha.  What do 8th graders, 13-year-olds, Gen Alpha, know about the differences between fitting in and belonging?  Here are some answers from our youth at RBCC: 

• Belonging is about being somewhere you want to be, and they want you. 
• Fitting in is about being somewhere you want to be, and no one cares. 
• Belonging is being accepted for you. 
• Fitting in is being accepted for trying to be like everyone else. 
• If I get to be me, then I belong. 
• If I get to be like you, then I am only fitting in. 

Not belonging at school is heartbreakingly hard, but it is nothing compared to not feeling you belong in the place you call home.   To feel you don't belong in your own family.  What 8th graders say not belonging at home feels like: 

• Not living up to parents expectations for my life. 
• Not being as cool, or as popular, or as athletic or as smart as your parents want you to be. 
• Not being as good at the same things your parents were good at when they were young. 
• No being accepted for your true self and expression of self. 

The familiar story of the Prodigal Son, is a story of a family, and all is complications of acceptance and belonging.  I can imagine the prodigal son story taking place in a Jr. High school cafeteria.   To be willing to look up from our lunches and notice everyone entering the room.  Learning to recognize and understand differences, then accepting those differences, and then celebrating belonging together. 

Would you have been the one or are you going to be the one…to scooch over at the lunch table
(or regularly claimed and familiar church pew) for the stranger in the doorway, the outcast in the room, the unpopular one in the room, the one who has the unpopular opinions, the one you perceive as annoying or to blame?  Because based on the stories Jesus tells, he treats all those people like family!  All worthy of acceptance and celebration. 

 “His father said to him, ‘Look, dear son, you have always stayed by me, and everything I have is yours. We had to celebrate this happy day. For your brother was dead and has come back to life! He was lost, but now he is found!’”   Luke 15:32