“Let me make one final plea, Mr. President. Millions have put their trust in you, and as you told the nation yesterday, you have felt the providential hand of a loving God. In the name of our God, I ask you to have mercy upon the people in our country who are scared now. There are gay, lesbian, and transgender children in Democratic, Republican, and independent families, some who fear for their lives. The people who pick our crops and clean our office buildings, who labor in poultry farms and meatpacking plants, who wash the dishes after we eat in restaurants and work the night shifts in hospitals, they may not be citizens or have the proper documentation, but the vast majority of immigrants are not criminals. They pay taxes and are good neighbors. They are faithful members of our churches and mosques, synagogues, gurdwara, and temples.
I ask you to have mercy, Mr. President, on those in our communities whose children fear their parents will be taken away, and that you help those who are fleeing war zones and persecution in their own lands to find compassion and welcome here. Our God teaches us that we are to be merciful to the stranger, for we were all once strangers in this land. May God grant us the strength and courage to honor the dignity of every human being, to speak the truth to one another in love, and walk humbly with each other and our God, for the good of all people, the good of all people in this nation and the world. Amen.”
xxxxx
From Yachats Community Presbyterian Church Facebook page:
To all my friends who are hurting.
I couldn’t bring myself to watch the inauguration—couldn’t bear to listen to the inaugural address. But I couldn’t avoid the fallout either: the pain and anguish radiating from so many people I love. So many who heard their President say they don’t matter. That they don’t belong. That they must retreat into the shadows.
And I asked myself: Where do we even begin?
We begin with love.
We start with the unshakeable, pulsating truth that every human being—every immigrant, every trans person, every soul on the margins—bears the imprint of the Divine.
This is our foundation.
This is our starting point.
As we stand here, in the wake of an inaugural address that chose division over inclusion, fear over empathy, rejection over embrace, let us remember…
Words matter.
It hurts to see them used like weapons against those already vulnerable—because words shape how we see ourselves, how we see others, and how we understand what is real, what is possible in this world.
Some of us heard that address and felt the sting of condemnation, watching neighbors, friends, and loved ones singled out as scapegoats—labeled “threats” or “others.” Some of us sat in disbelief, hearts breaking at the harshness of it all.
I can’t imagine the pain.
And I wish that I could take it away.
But I can’t.
But please hear this… although at times, it may feel that way, you are not alone.
There is a love that holds all things together, transcending borders and boundaries, infinitely larger and more creative than any limiting words we heard. A love that never demands you squeeze yourself into someone else’s narrow definition of worthiness.
We cannot ignore the images of people denied opportunities simply because of where they were born. We cannot turn away from trans siblings stripped of their dignity by another’s insistence on who they ought to be. These are our neighbors, our friends, our families. Your stories matter. Your voices matter. Your flourishing matters.
Jesus spoke of a Kingdom—a new creation—where the hungry are fed, the oppressed are liberated, and the stranger is welcomed. Today, we might say: It’s a place where trans folks are celebrated, where immigrants find home and hope, and where no one is forced to hide in the shadows.
This is God’s dream for humanity, as ancient and alive as the breath in your lungs. If we claim to follow Jesus, we are called to help bring that Kingdom to life right here, right now.
So, when those in power speak words meant to slam doors and erect walls, we respond by opening our hearts even wider. When they try to silence or shame, we lift up the voices at the margins. When they want to label, exclude, and divide, we form circles of compassion—welcoming, celebrating, protecting.
Why? Because love compels us. Because fear has had the microphone for far too long. Because it is both our sacred responsibility and our deepest joy to insist on a world where everyone is drawn into the ever-widening circle of God’s grace.
May you refuse to let harsh words define you—or your neighbor. May you stay wide awake to love, grounded in the holy truth that everyone belongs at the table. And may we, together, usher in a new day where no one stands outside the beloved community.
Grace and peace.
pastor bob
xxxxx
From I'm Not That Kind of Christian Facebook page.
A Plea for Compassion
One final plea…
“Mr. President, millions have put their trust in you. And as you told the nation yesterday, you have felt the providential hand of a loving God. In the name of our God, I ask you to have mercy upon the people in our country who are scared now.”
In a world that often feels divided and tumultuous, the words of The Right Rev. Mariann Budde resonate deeply within our hearts. As the Episcopal bishop of Washington, D.C., she has been a steadfast voice for justice, compassion, and unity. Her recent sermon serves as a powerful reminder of our shared humanity and the teachings of Jesus.
A plea for marginalized communities…
"There are gay, lesbian and transgender children in Democratic, Republican and Independent families — some who fear for their lives."
Bishop Budde's work has consistently focused on advocating for the marginalized and promoting social justice. Her leadership within the Episcopal Church has been marked by a commitment to inclusivity and a dedication to addressing the pressing issues of our time. In her sermons, she often draws upon the teachings of Jesus, emphasizing the importance of love, mercy, and compassion.
A plea for the stranger…
"They may not be citizens or have the proper documentation, but the vast majority of immigrants are not criminals. They pay taxes and are good neighbors. They are faithful members of our churches, mosques, gurdwara and temples."
While she was directly addressing the President, the plea for mercy in her sermon is a call to action for all Christians. It is a reminder that in times of fear and uncertainty, we must turn to the teachings of Jesus for guidance. Jesus taught us to love our neighbors as ourselves, to show kindness to the stranger, and to offer comfort to those in distress. In the face of adversity, we are called to embody these principles and extend a hand of compassion to those who are suffering.
Bishop Budde's words echo the sentiments found in the book of Hosea, where God says, "For I desire mercy, not sacrifice, and acknowledgment of God rather than burnt offerings" (Hosea 6:6). Jesus Himself quotes this passage in the Gospel of Matthew, saying, "But go and learn what this means: 'I desire mercy, not sacrifice.' For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners" (Matthew 9:13). This verse underscores the priority of mercy and love in our actions over ritualistic or sacrificial practices. It reminds us that mercy is not just a passive feeling but an active expression of our faith. It is through acts of mercy that we can bring healing and hope to a world in need.
"Our God teaches us that we are to be merciful to the stranger, for we were all once strangers in this land."
As Christians, we are called to be the light in the darkness, to offer hope where there is despair, and to be a source of strength for those who are scared. Bishop Budde's sermon challenges us to rise above our fears and to be instruments of God's love and mercy. It is a call to live out our faith in tangible ways, to stand in solidarity with the oppressed, and to work towards a more just and compassionate world.
Let us be the hands and feet of Jesus, bringing mercy and hope to a world in need.
🤟 Royce
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