…be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others…
writes Paul to the Philippians.
As a former English teacher and editor, I dread typos, but occasionally a typo happens that I don’t want to correct.
When I was making notes for this week’s sermon, I was typing a phrase from the Gospel: the tax collectors and the prostitutes believed him.
I missed a letter or two and my laptop substituted the word it thought I was after – instead of the word “believed,” the word “beloved” appeared on the screen. The tax collectors and the prostitutes, beloved…
And that was a typo I didn’t want to correct, one of those times when the word we didn’t intend to write or say and accidentally did anyway is a word of truth, just as important, or perhaps even more important, than what was originally intended. The tax collectors and the prostitutes – beloved.
And yes, as Matthew writes, the tax collectors and the prostitutes believed.
Specifically, they believed John the Baptist, Jesus’ cousin and friend, who went out into the desert to proclaim that someone greater than he was on the way, someone who would shake up the world, startle it into a new way of thinking and seeing – and believing, and loving.
The prostitutes and the tax collectors knew Jesus for who he was, and he loved them for who they were – those who were shunned by society, courageous enough to believe in a teacher who was the enemy of the state, and Jesus believed in them back. Think of the bravery of their conviction – the honesty of their belief – and the hope they must have felt, a hope they might not ever have known until Jesus came, teaching and modeling another way of being human, being in relationship with each other, with compassion, with love, with respect.
Paul writes this morning to the church in Philippi – Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves – and that was the life that Jesus lived, being born in human likeness, humbling himself, sharing our sorrows and joys and weaknesses and hopes.
For me, for some reason this week, story after story and conversation after conversation has echoed themes of courageous belief, honesty and hope – not least in the stories that Staunton is celebrating this weekend, Harry Potter and Hogwarts – stories of compassion, goodness, about protecting the most vulnerable and the ones who don’t quite fit in.
This past Wednesday, for instance, the Church celebrated the feast day of a saint who traveled with Paul. Her name was Thecla[1]. She was born around 30 A.D. to a wealthy family. She would have been just a few years old when Jesus was crucified as a criminal by Rome. Some years later, she was engaged to be married, in obedience to the expectations placed on her by her social class and her family – and then Paul came to town.
It’s said that for three days and three nights, Thecla sat by her open window, listening to Paul teach in a house nearby, and then she decided to devote herself not to a future husband, but to Christ and to the poor.
Her fiancee was angry. Paul was seen as a bad influence – first imprisoned and then banished from the town – and Thecla was sentenced to death. Her family was so angry because of her disobedience her parents didn’t step in to stop it. But by a miracle, as often happens with saints, she survived – it’s said that a storm blew up and prevented the fire from burning her. She then ran away with Paul, traveling, teaching, gathering other women monastics, and ticking off men who wanted her to marry and stop spreading the dangerous gospel of a man who died as a notorious criminal just a few decades ago, insisting that all people were beloved.
Once again, Thecla was arrested, imprisoned and sentenced to death by wild beasts – and – this is my favorite Thecla story – when she was sent into the arena, the female beasts protected her from the male beasts.
Eventually, Thecla died, elderly, a hermit living in a cave.
Think of the bravery of her faith, the honesty of the life she lived, and the hope she saw grow as she helped spread the good news of Jesus. She believed, and was beloved.
This past Thursday, I learned another story of another woman of conviction, a woman who lived more than 1,800 years after St. Thecla. Her name was Emma Lazarus, and she was a poet, known in particular for her poem, “The New Colossus,” which is excerpted on the Statue of Liberty – give me your tired, your poor. Father AJ, the rector of Trinity, Staunton, and I, and five other clergy – Episcopal, Lutheran, Presbyterian, AME, Catholic and Jewish – gathered for the first of four meetings that are part of a project called Faith250. We, like other groups of clergy around the country, are reading and reflecting on four or more texts – texts that are not specifically religious, but are sacred to us as American citizens. Our group will also be reading and discussing the Declaration of Independence, the lyrics to America the Beautiful, and Frederick Douglass’ essay “What to the Slave is the Fourth of July?”
Rabbi Randi Nagel, of Temple House of Israel in Staunton, had prepared for the meeting by doing some research on Emma Lazarus, was a Jewish woman and, like St. Thecla, was born into a family of privilege and wealth. She was known as a talented poet and essayist and translator and activist. She wrote her most famous poem at the age of 34, and died just four years later, in 1887, of cancer, at the age of 38. The poem was published, but not well known until 16 years after her death, when it was rediscovered and then carved on pedestal of the Statue of Liberty – a sculpture given to the U.S. by France after the end of the Civil War and the end of slavery.
Emma Lazarus, like Thecla, chose to give her life, her resources and wealth, to helping others. As a writer she protested antisemitism, and she worked to help other Jewish immigrants – especially those who were fleeing violent pogroms in Russia, and faced prejudice when they came to America.
It’s not often we hear Emma Lazarus’ full poem. I invite you to listen to her words:
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
Keep your storied pomp, Lazarus wrote – she was saying, don’t send us your wealthy and powerful people – send your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, your wretched refuse – those who have been discarded, who are pushed aside and shunned – I will shelter them.
The prostitutes and the tax collectors believed. The prostitutes and the tax collectors, beloved. The tired, the poor, the masses, the wretched, the women, the least powerful and least valued in society – it wasn’t the chief priests and the elders who heard John’s message or Jesus’ message and followed, but the downtrodden, the sinners, those who seemed to be without hope. Jesus named them beloved. Jesus broke bread with them, and lived with them.
We remember Thecla, Emma, the prostitutes and tax collectors, the children, the wizards and the words of Paul, and – most of all – the compassionate life of Jesus. Give us the courage of the saints, the honesty of the sinners and the hope of the poets. For no one is above another – we are all tired and wretched, and we are all believing and beloved. Amen.
[1] https://www.lectionarypage.net/LesserFF/Sep/Thecla.html
— Preached by Rev. Cara, September 28, 2026
