WHERE TWO OR THREE

Taking care of the least is a major theme in Matthew’s Gospel. Matthew 18 makes this especially clear. Jesus places a child in the midst of the disciples and warns against causing “little ones” to stumble. He speaks of the shepherd who searches for one lost sheep. He then teaches the community how to respond when one member sins against another. His teaching echoes Deuteronomy 19:15.

Children are God's “little ones.” When a child is abused, neglected, bullied, exploited, or silenced, the child is not merely a problem to be managed. The child is the very person Jesus places at the center. The child is the one the community is commanded to protect.

This changes how we understand Jesus’ teaching about confronting sin. When someone is harmed, the burden should not fall on the wounded person. The offender is given opportunities to listen, repent, make amends, and change. First, one person speaks. Then two or three. Finally, the whole community becomes involved. The movement is toward truth, restoration, and justice—but never, ever, at the expense of the vulnerable.

This is where the church must refuse false neutrality. When a child says, “I have been hurt,” our first response cannot be, “Are you sure?” “Maybe you misunderstood.” "You are over-reacting." "It was only a joke." “Think of his family.” “Think of the Church.” Such responses silence the child and protect the powerful.

Unfortunately, the church and its institutions, including seminaries, have a history of protecting the powerful and the privileged.

We listen to men more than we do women. We reserve the best spaces for the rich rather than the poor. We believe adults more than we do children. Many times, we protect the oppressor instead of the oppressed. More often than not we take the side of the offender over the offended. 

In reality, we are the two or three or more who gang up on the little ones to force them to withdraw their complaints in order to protect the integrity of our institutions. Many times we are the two or three who force the victims to forgive their oppressors because their oppressors have already asked God for forgiveness. 

Recent studies on teen pregnancies in the Philippines show that adult men are responsible for pregnancies of girls 10-14 years old. Under the law this is considered statutory rape. 

Jesus calls us to become the “two or three” who stand beside the little ones. To listen. To believe. To seek truth. To establish safety. To hold offenders accountable. To create spaces where children can speak without fear and where adults understand that authority is a responsibility, never a license to harm. Or a perk of entitlement. 

Jesus goes after the lost sheep. He welcomes the little ones. He binds and loosens for the sake of a community transformed by justice and mercy.

So let us take a stand. Let us be the second and third person who makes “two or three”—and then many more. Let us stand against abuse, exploitation, discrimination, harassment, rape, violence, and every culture of impunity. 

Where the vulnerable are cared for, Jesus is present. Where two or three gather to protect the little ones, Jesus is always present. 

*image from heartlightdotorg.

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GET THEE BEHIND ME, PETER!

Many of us know what it is like to ride a jeepney. The road is crowded and noisy. The ride is equally crowded and noisy. Along the way, we hear voices. A lot of voices. People call out directions, stops, warnings, and advice. Some want the ride to go slower. Some want to take a safer route.

In this Sunday's Gospel Reading, Peter is one of those voices. He loves Jesus and does not want him to suffer. He tells Jesus to avoid the dangerous road to Jerusalem. Yet Jesus calls him “Satan,” not because Peter is evil, but because he has become a roadblock. He stands in the way of God's journey.

Jeepney hermeneutics teaches us to read Scripture from the streets, where ordinary people struggle for dignity, justice, and hope. The road Jesus takes is the same road traveled by the poor, the forgotten, and the oppressed. It is a road marked by risk, danger, and sacrifice.

Often the people who block our way are not enemies. They are family, friends, and loved ones who fear for our safety. Like Peter, they want to protect us. Yet discipleship sometimes requires moving forward despite loving resistance.

Friends, in every journey we undertake, we must discern which voices to heed and which ones to leave behind. Not every warning is God's direction. Sometimes courage means continuing the journey despite fear, uncertainty, and opposition.

Jesus tells Peter, “Get behind me.” The journey must continue. Like a jeepney moving through crowded streets, God's mission presses on toward justice, compassion, and abundant life for all. And like Peter, those who resist today may one day become companions and witnesses on the road of costly love.

Amen!

*Art, "Get Thee Behind Me, Satan!" by James Tissot (1836-1902), from the vanderbilt divinity library digital archives.

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WHO DO YOU SAY I AM?

Close your eyes. Imagine Jesus.

Not the handsome Jesus of Hollywood, ivory icons, and stained-glass windows. Not the distant Christ who reigns above history. Not Trump and MAGA's Constantinian Lord. 

Imagine Jesus riding with us in a jeepney: squeezed between workers rushing to a construction site, vendors carrying baskets to market, students counting coins for fare, farmers wondering if the harvest will be enough.

In Sunday's Gospel Reading, Jesus asks, "Who do people say I am?" The disciples answer: John the Baptist, Elijah, Jeremiah, one of the prophets. They name people who spoke truth to power and carried the burdens of their communities. Prophets did not stand above the people. They stood among them.

Through the lens of jeepney hermeneutics, Jesus is not found in comfort but in companionship, in solidarity. Jesus rides where the poor ride; waits where the unemployed wait; listens where the forgotten speak.

Like Miriam, who sang liberation at the sea, and like the prophets of old who challenged kings, Jesus announces God's dream for a world where dignity is not a privilege of the few. His question is not only "Who do people say I am?" but also "Which Jesus are you following?"

The Jesus of privilege and entitlement who blesses the status quo? Or the Jesus who stands with the dispossessed, who calls the rich to sell everything they have and to give all the proceeds to the poor, who insists that love of God cannot be separated from justice for the oppressed?

If Jesus were riding our jeepneys today, would we recognize him? Or would we pass him by because he looks too ordinary, too poor, too political, too much like the people whose struggles we would rather not see?

Perhaps the first step of discipleship is to open our eyes and find the Prophet from Nazareth among the least of our siblings. Where he has always been. And where he is waiting for us to join him.

*Art, based on the work of Tom McElligott for the Episcopal Ad Project. Updated 2018 by Rev. Emmy Kegler

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THE LITTLE BITCH WHO TAUGHT JESUS A LESSON

Sunday's Gospel Reading presents us with a Canaanite woman who refuses to stay in the place assigned to her. She crosses borders, interrupts Jesus' journey, challenges a dismissive response, and insists that her daughter deserves life. Whether one translates Jesus' words as "dog," "little dog," or more provocatively as "little bitch," the sting of exclusion remains.

Her courage transforms the encounter. She exposes the limits of ethnic and religious boundaries and reveals that God's mercy cannot--and must not--be contained by prejudice or privilege.

Jeepney Hermeneutics reminds us that Scripture is encountered from below—from the voices of those who have long been dismissed, colonized, or silenced. 

The woman's resistance echoes the struggles of Filipinos confronting poverty, Palestinians seeking dignity, Indigenous Peoples defending ancestral lands, migrants crossing borders, and mothers protecting their children from violence and hunger. Their stories become lenses through which the gospel is heard anew.

The miracle, then, is not only the healing of a child but the widening of God's table. The road of God's kingdom becomes more like a jeepney than a private carriage: crowded, noisy, uncomfortable, yet radically open. Those once treated as outsiders become indispensable teachers.

Like the Canaanite woman, they continue to challenge the church to make room, cross boundaries, and discover that God's compassion always travels farther than our prejudices.

*Art, "The Canaanite Woman asks for healing for her Daughter" by Bazzi Rahib, Ilyas Basim Khuri (from the vanderbilt divinity library digital archives).

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FACING THE AI STORM

The Gospel of Matthew begins with a promise: “They shall name him Immanuel,” which means “God is with us” (Matt. 1:23). It ends with another promise: “I am with you always” (Matt. 28:20). Between these two promises unfolds the story of Jesus, the living presence of God among ordinary people. The question Matthew continually asks is not simply, “Where is God?” but “How can we participate in God's presence in the world?”

 

Through the lens of jeepney hermeneutics, we see faith not as a private journey but as a shared ride. A jeepney carries the 70% who depend on the cheapest mode of public transportation: peasants and daily wage workers, students and minimum wage earners, the weary but also the hopeful. It is crowded, noisy, and oftentimes uncomfortable, yet it moves because people make space for one another. In many ways, it resembles the church and the human community navigating life's roads together.

 

The unprecedented expansion and adoption of AI in practically all aspects of life have often been compared to a raging storm. Some say we are all in the same boat in the midst of a storm beyond anyone’s control. 

 

But we are not in the same boat. The privileged and the propertied travel in luxury liners, many are packed like sardines in fragile boats, while the majority struggle in the water with nothing to hold on to. Like the disciples in Sunday's Gospel Reading from Matthew 14:22-33, we instinctively want to remain inside the boat where it feels safe. 

 

Yet the gospel challenges us with a startling truth: Jesus is not always found where comfort and security reside. He is often out in the storm, among the fearful, the grieving, the hungry, the most vulnerable, and the forgotten.

 

Peter's courage was not that he mastered the waves. It was that he stepped toward Jesus. Let us never forget in defiance of systems and structures of exploitation and extraction, Jesus challenged his followers to be SALT and LIGHT. Jesus's followers are the original AI: Asin at Ilaw.** We are supposed to embody God's alternative to Pax Romana, to Pax Sinica, to Pax Dei, to Pax Britannica, to Pax Americana, to Pax Silica... We are supposed to be God’s material alternative to Pax Imperia!

 

Jeepney faith asks the same of us. Will we leave the safety of our own seat, reach out to a fellow passenger, and help carry another's burden? To experience Immanuel is not only to know that God is with us, but to become God's presence in somebody else's life. In the midst of the AI storm that prioritizes profit over people and planet, that may be the greatest act of faith.

 

My friends, the best way to experience God's presence in one's life is to be God's presence in someone else's life. 

 

Immanuel.

*art, "Walking on Water" by Peter Koenig (from the vanderbilt divinity library digital archives).

**Asin (Salt) and Ilaw (Light).

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FEEDING THE 5000

Reading this Sunday's Gospel Reading through Jeepney Hermeneutics means refusing to read the story from the comfort of the rich man's storehouses or his air-conditioned SUVs. Instead, we read it from inside a crowded jeepney, alongside workers, vendors, farmers, students, and the unemployed who know what hunger feels like. It insists that the Bible sounds different when heard from the perspective of the poor and marginalized rather than the propertied and privileged. 

From that vantage point, the disciples' excuses sound painfully familiar: "Send them away." "Let them fend for themselves." "We do not have enough." These are the arguments of a world organized around scarcity, exclusion, xenophobia, and self-preservation.

Yet Jesus refuses to dismiss the crowd.

What is even more striking is that the miracle does not begin with the disciples, the wealthy, or the powerful. In John's Gospel, it begins with a poor child carrying five barley loaves and two fish. Barley was the bread of the poor, not the wheat of the rich. The multitude is fed because a poor, hungry child shares the little he has with other poor, hungry people.

Inside the jeepney, this is not a story about charity flowing downward from the rich to the poor. It is a story about God's abundance emerging from the solidarity of the poor themselves. The child becomes the first disciple. He trusts that what little he has can become enough in the hands of God.

Jeepney Hermeneutics reminds us that God's liberating acts often begin not in palaces, boardrooms, or religious institutions, but among those whom society overlooks. The kingdom breaks in when one unexpected person takes a courageous step of faith.

Friends, the question remains: in a hungry world, will we join the disciples in making excuses, or will we join the child who offered his barley loaves and fish and helped unleash the abundance of God?

art, "Jesus multiplies the loaves and fish," (JESUS MAFA, Cameroon 1973) from vanderbilt divinity library digital archives

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PEARLS AND TREASURES

Reading Sunday's twin parables through Jeepney Hermeneutics means listening to them not from the comfort of an air-conditioned SUV, but from inside a crowded jeepney filled with workers, vendors, students, drivers, and the unemployed. We are asked to read from the perspective of those who know what it means to risk everything for survival and hope.

The merchant and the treasure hunter are often portrayed as wealthy investors making clever business decisions. But from inside the jeepney, the emphasis falls elsewhere. The shocking part of the story is not what they found. The shocking part is that they "sold everything they had". They emptied themselves because they discovered something worth more than riches, security, status, or possessions.

This echoes Jesus' command to the rich young ruler: “Sell everything you have.” The tragedy of that story is that the young man could not imagine a world beyond his wealth. He went away sad. The merchant and the treasure hunter on the other hand surrender everything, but they go away joyful. The difference is not the cost. The difference is the kingdom.

In a society where many jeepney passengers already live with economic uncertainty, these parables are not an invitation to romanticize poverty. Rather, they expose the illusion that possessions can save us. The kingdom of God is the treasure that relativizes every other treasure. It is a community where value is measured not by accumulation but by solidarity, justice, and participation in God's reign.

Friends, the challenge Jesus gives to the rich has not changed. The kingdom still demands everything from those who have everything. Yet the gospel insists that what is gained is infinitely greater than what is surrendered. Those who cling to wealth leave sorrowful. Those who discover the treasure of God's reign give freely and, like the merchant and treasure hunter, go away rejoicing.

*Art: “The Hidden Treasure,” JESUS MAFA, Cameroon, 1973 (from the Vanderbilt Divinity Library digital collection) 

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WHEAT AND BASTARD WHEAT

Most of us have heard this parable interpreted as a challenge to become good wheat. But for Sunday's Gospel Reading, let us focus on the weeds—masamang damo—the tares that look so much like wheat that some still call them "bastard wheat."

Like the parable of the sheep and goats, it is about judgment. And the central message is simple: God is the judge, not us.

The servants want to pull out the weeds immediately. They want a clean field. They want certainty about who belongs and who does not. But the landowner says, "No." Why? Because wheat and weeds look so much alike that pulling up one may destroy the other.

Reading this parable through Jeepney Hermeneutics, we are reminded that the kingdom of God looks less like a gated community and more like a crowded jeepney. The construction worker sits beside the student. The vendor sits beside the office employee. The grandmother sits beside the teenage parent. The churchgoer sits beside the person everyone else has already judged.

That is our problem. We are often eager to separate people into categories: good and bad, worthy and unworthy, us and them, wheat and weeds. Yet Jesus refuses to hand us the sickle.

Friends, history shows that whenever people become too certain that they are the wheat, they quickly label others as bastard wheat.

But God is a God of surprises. The people we dismiss may turn out to be God's beloved. The people who think themselves righteous will discover that judgment belongs to God alone.

And perhaps we should remember: Jesus himself was treated as unwanted, rejected, and illegitimate—the bastard son of Mary, according to his critics.

So let the field be. Let God be God.

The harvest will come in God's time.

In the name of the Crucified and Risen One, whom we call Lord and Savior. 

Amen.

*Image from Bernat Casero.

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THE SOWERS OF LUPANG RAMOS

When we hear the Parable of the Sower, we are often taught to focus on the soil of our hearts. Are we receptive? Are we faithful? Do we bear fruit?

But what if we listened to this parable from a jeepney crowded with farmers, workers, vendors, students, and day laborers en route to another day of survival? What if we listened not from the perspective of those who own the land, but from those who have spent generations struggling to live on and off it?

Jeepney hermeneutics begins on the road. It begins with ordinary people navigating potholes, traffic, uncertainty, and the daily labor of making a life. It asks not only, "What does this text mean?" but also, "Who is telling the story, and who among us is living it today?

In  Sunday's Gospel Reading, the sower scatters seed everywhere. Along the path. On rocky ground. Among thorns. Only some reaches good soil.  Conventional readings often portray the sower as careless or the soil as a metaphor for individual spirituality.

Yet for the peasants who first heard Jesus, the image may have been painfully concrete. The problem was not the farmer. The problem was access to land. The problem was a world where those who worked the soil often did not own it.

The people of Lupang Ramos--and peasant communities like it--know something about such realities. They know what it means to live under the shadow of displacement, to worry whether the place one calls home today will still be home tomorrow. They know the exhausting labor of building a community while powerful interests decide the value of land in terms of profit rather than people.

Friends, maybe the seed falling on the path is like the dreams of families constantly pushed aside by circumstances beyond their control. Their hopes are consumed before they can take root. The seed among rocks resembles communities trying to flourish despite insecurity and instability. Life appears for a moment, but the harsh realities of poverty, rising costs, and uncertainty scorch what little growth emerges. The seed among thorns is choked by systems that suffocate life: debt, precarious work, development aggression, and policies that favor wealth over human dignity. And what of the good soil?

Too often, we imagine good soil as a reward for virtue. But in Jesus' world, good soil was frequently controlled by those with power. The harvest was abundant, but abundance did not always mean justice. A hundredfold, sixtyfold, thirtyfold—these are staggering yields. The question is: who benefits from them? Who gets to eat this bountiful harvest?

Yet Jesus' story is not a surrender to despair.

The sower keeps sowing. Not because the conditions are ideal, but because hope is an act of resistance. God is not standing with the owners of the land and its harvest counting their profits. God is with the sowers, with the tenants, with the displaced, with the communities struggling to remain rooted. God is present wherever people refuse to abandon one another.

The good news of Matthew 13, then, is not that some individuals become better soil. The good news is that despite the rocks, despite the thorns, despite the systems that deny life, the seeds of God's future continue to be scattered among the poor. And whenever communities like Lupang Ramos struggle together for land, dignity, justice, and belonging, those seeds are already beginning to grow.

Art, "Parable of the Sower," JESUS MAFA, 1973 (Cameroon), from the Vanderbilt Divinity Library digital collection.

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GRACE IS ON THE MOVE

Jeepney Hermeneutics imagines scripture not from a place of comfort, but from the cramped, noisy, everyday journey of ordinary people — especially the poor. The jeepney becomes a moving space of survival, negotiation, and shared struggle. It is there, among passengers holding coins not bills, bodies pressed together, and destinations diverse, that the Word of God speaks in a particular way.

In Sunday's Gospel from Matthew 11, Jesus describes a generation that cannot be satisfied:  

“We played the flute for you, but you did not dance; we sang a dirge, but you did not mourn.”  

Seen from the jeepney, this sounds familiar. The poor are often criticized no matter what they do. If they protest, they are called unruly. Troublemakers. Even red-tagged. If they endure silently, they are ignored. Like passengers blamed for the system’s failures, they carry burdens not of their own making.

Jesus thanks the Father for revealing truth not to the “wise and learned,” but to the “little ones.” In the jeepney, the little ones are not abstract—they are the workers, vendors, mothers, students, drivers. Those who know hunger, long queues, and uncertainty. They may not have power, but they have a deeper knowledge of life’s weight. They understand what it means to trust, to hope, and to survive together.

And then comes the heart of the message:  

“Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened… and I will give you rest.”

From a jeepney lens, this is not simply spiritual comfort—it is an invitation spoken directly to those already carrying too much:  

- The fare that is barely enough  

- The long work hours without security  

- The daily struggle to be seen and heard  

Jesus does not deny their burden. He recognizes it. And he offers not escape, but companionship: “Take my yoke upon you… for I am gentle and humble of heart.” Solidarity. 

In the jeepney, a yoke might feel like another load added—but Jesus’ yoke is different. It is shared. It is light because it is carried together. It is a call to a community where suffering is not ignored, and where dignity is restored.

Friends, this Gospel invites us to ask:  

- Who are the “little ones” riding beside us whom society overlooks?  

- How do we, as followers of Christ, make their burdens lighter—not heavier?  

- Can we become part of that gentle, humble presence that Christ offers?

The kingdom of God is not revealed from above—but experienced from within the crowded, struggling journey of the poor. Like a jeepney ride, it may be uncomfortable and unpredictable—but it is there, in shared humanity, in the daily quest for peace based on justice, that grace is already moving.

*Art by Zee-m Tiempo (2017). Cover for Reading the Parables of Jesus inside a Jeepney. 

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THE ECONOMY OF A GLASS OF WATER

Friends, we often look for God in the grand, catastrophic, and spectacular moments of life. We look for a booming voice from the heavens or a massive, history-altering miracle. 

But as Jesus closes his great missionary instructions in the Gospel of Matthew, he redirects our gaze entirely. He pulls our attention away from the grand stages of the world and points it toward the ground. He points it toward the details.

In first-century Palestine, the "little ones" Jesus speaks of were the absolute nobodies of society. They were the orphaned children, the passing strangers, and the desperately poor. They possessed zero social status, zero legal protection, and no safety net. Their only hope was God. And Jesus, revealing his fierce bias for the vulnerable, makes these exact people the gatekeepers of the Kingdom of Heaven.

Jesus reminds us today that caring for others does not require grand, performative acts of generosity. The Kingdom of God is built on a different economy—the economy of a cup of cold water. A cup of water costs nothing to the wealthy, but it means survival to a parched stranger. It is a micro-act of compassion. A piece of barley loaf. A listening ear. A door held open. Love, in the economy of Christ, is always found in the smallest details.

This text strikes a beautiful, resonant chord in the great hymn of Immanuel—God-with-us—that permeates the entire Gospel of Matthew. We often complain that we cannot feel God’s presence, or we wonder where God is in a broken world. But we forget a fundamental truth: the best way to experience God’s presence in our own lives is to be God’s presence in someone else’s life.

When you extend welcome to the stranger, you welcome Christ. When you offer a cup of water to the vulnerable, the divine presence becomes tangible. God is not hiding; God is waiting to be discovered in our simple, everyday transactions of human and non-human compassion. Go out today and look for the details. Be the presence of Immanuel to a world parched for love.

*Art, "Jesus welcomes All" mural in Sudan. Artist, anonymous. From the vanderbilt divinity library digital collection. 

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NOT ALL PEACE IS REAL PEACE

 

In Sunday's Gospel Reading, Jesus says something unsettling: “I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.” At first, it sounds wrong. Is not Jesus the Prince of Peace? But here, he reveals a deeper truth—not all peace is real peace.

There is a kind of peace that is only quiet because the weak have been silenced. A peace that exists because injustice is tolerated. A peace that keeps everything “in order,” but only for those already comfortable. It was Pax Romana then; it is Pax Americana now. This is the false peace Jesus refuses to bless.

Think of our daily life—like riding a crowded jeepney. Everyone adjusts, squeezes in, keeps moving. It works, but not always fairly. Some are burdened more, others benefit more, yet we call it normal. We learn to live with it. We keep the ride smooth, even if it is unjust. Jesus interrupts that ride.

His “sword” is not violence—it is truth that cuts through illusions. It exposes what we have grown used to: inequality, silence, fear. It challenges even our closest relationships when they are built on domination or control. “I have come to set a man against his father,” he says—not to destroy families, but to break patterns of injustice that hide within them.

To follow Jesus, then, is not simply to keep the peace. It is to seek true peace—a peace rooted in justice, dignity, and truth. A peace that empires can never birth. And that kind of peace often begins with disturbance.

Friends, the question for us today is simple but challenging: Will we settle for a quiet life that ignores injustice, or will we allow Christ to disturb us—so that a deeper, truer peace may be born?

Because oftentimes, the way to real peace is through holy disruption.

*Image, "The Time Jesus Started a Riot," copyright, Brendan Powell Smith, from Reboot (WordPress).

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FAITH AND FEAR

Jesus moves through towns and villages like a jeepney on a hard and dusty route. Not above the people, but among them, close enough to see the weary faces, close enough to feel how fear sits inside their bodies.  

In Sunday's Gospel Reading, Jesus sees the crowds as harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd and then sends others into that same wounded world. 

This is not a distant mission for heroes or experts. It is a roadside calling, born in ordinary struggle, read from the margins, and shaped by the lived realities of those who carry fear, poverty, and hope together. Jeepney hermeneutics insists that interpretation begins with local experiences and that even borrowed or imperial tools can be transformed into vehicles of liberation. 

And so this passage speaks sharply to our own fearful time. Fear is real. Fear paralyses. Fear makes people hide, deny, flee, or fall silent. The world of Jesus knew that fear well: empires rule not only by swords and laws, but by terror. To be sent out “as sheep among wolves” is not a romantic image. It is dangerous. It names the cost of discipleship honestly.  

Yet the Gospel does not ask us to pretend we are fearless. It asks us to go anyway. Sometimes our own faith is thin, trembling, and tired. Sometimes it is not enough for the road ahead. But grace also arrives communally: my faith can carry your fear, and your faith can carry mine. Like passengers making room for one another in a crowded jeepney, we are held by a courage that is shared.  

This is why the mission of Jesus is never solitary. Meaning, like travel, is communal. We do not journey alone; we read, hope, and resist together. What seems insufficient becomes enough when everyone brings what they can. 

So my friends, when fear rises and faith falters, let us remember: the harvest is still plentiful, compassion is still holy, and the road is still open. Jesus is still found in the crowded places, among the ordinary, sending fragile people to heal, to proclaim peace, and to freely give what they have freely received. And when our own faith feels too small, there is still mercy in this: someone else’s faith may be enough to carry us until we can stand again.  

*Art, "Christ teaching the Disciples," Painting, Panel (Walters Art Museum), Baltimore, MD, United States (from the vanderbilt divinity library digital collection).

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