sermon: twenty-second sunday after pentecost, Luke: 20:27-38

November 9, 2025 
Faith-La Fe Lutheran Church
Pastora Veronica Alvarez

 There are moments when it feels like hope itself is on the run.

When the systems that should protect people instead target them. When those who have the least are left with even less, families losing food assistance, parents skipping meals so their children can eat, people terrified to leave their homes because ICE is circling the neighborhoods again. It’s hard to talk about resurrection when the world keeps crushing people’s spirits. But this is exactly when we must talk about it.
Because resurrection is not just about life after death. It’s about life refusing to die, right now, right here.

Job said, in the middle of his pain and loss, “I know that my Redeemer lives.” He said it not because everything got better, but because he refused to believe that suffering had the last word.
Job’s declaration was an act of rebellion a protest against despair. And that same defiant hope runs through Paul’s words to the Thessalonians and through Jesus’ conversation with the Sadducees.  All of them speak to people who are afraid, confused, and losing trust in what’s real.  They remind us: God is not done; God’s story is not finished.

And our faith is not some fragile illusion; it is the stubborn heartbeat of life when everything else looks like death. Paul writes to a community shaken by fear, surrounded by lies, unsure of what’s true anymore.

Sound familiar?

He tells them: “Stand firm. Hold on to the traditions you were taught.”
Not because the past will save them, but because God’s promises still hold, promises stronger than fear, stronger than corrupt powers, stronger than death.  Paul tells them to remember who they are and whose they are.

That’s the same word we need today.  Because this moment, with ICE breaking families apart and people going hungry while others waste food, this moment is trying to tell us we are powerless.
It’s trying to convince us that compassion doesn’t matter, that faith can’t change anything.

But that’s a lie.

Faith is not denial, it’s resistance.
Faith says, We will not stop feeding people.

 We will not stop welcoming the stranger.

 We will not stop showing up even when the world tells us it’s useless.

And we’ve seen it, in our own community. When a family lost everything and still brought food to share. When volunteers stood outside the food line in the rain because no one should go home empty-handed. When people prayed together in fear and still laughed afterward, because joy itself is resistance.   These are not small things. They are resurrection in real time

Some days, even I struggle to believe it, when the news is heavy and my heart is tired.  But then I see the faces in this room. I see the faith that refuses to quit.  And I remember: resurrection is not a story we just tell. It’s a story we live, together

When Jesus speaks to the Sadducees, they come to trap him with a trick question about the resurrection.  They don’t believe in it, they think death is the end, and they want to prove it.  But Jesus flips the question and tells them,  “God is not God of the dead, but of the living, for to him all are alive.”

That means every person, every soul torn from their home, every mother at the border, every child whose food benefits were cut, they are seen by God, held by God, alive in God’s care.

Death does not get the last word.
Neither does hunger.
Neither does fear.
Neither does the system that tries to erase the image of God in our neighbors.

The truth is, resurrection is not just a promise for the end of time,  it’s a power that breaks into this world now.

Every time we show mercy when others show indifference,

 every time we share food when others hoard it,

 every time we choose love instead of hatred, resurrection happens.

It happens in church kitchens where meals are served, in homes where prayers are whispered in Spanish and English, in sanctuary spaces where undocumented families find refuge.  It happens every time someone says, No más, no more fear, no more silence, no more turning away.

 Our congregation, Faith–La Fe, carries both names for a reason.

Faith: The trust in what we cannot yet see.

La Fe: The lived courage of a people who have been through too much and still say “Sí, Dios está aquí.” “yes God is here”  That’s who we are. 

And this moment, this hard, unjust, cruel moment, needs exactly that kind of faith.  Not the faith that hides in comfort, but the faith that steps into the chaos and says:

 God is still God. God’s people still rise.

So today, as we come to the Lord’s Table, we remember: This is not a table of privilege. It’s not a table for the powerful.

It’s a table for the hungry, the physically hungry, the spiritually hungry, the weary and the scared.
It’s a table where the world’s divisions fall apart and the Body of Christ is made whole again.
It’s a table that says, “You belong. You are seen. You are fed.”

When we break the bread and lift the cup, we proclaim resurrection. A truth stronger than any border wall, stronger than any government policy, stronger than despair itself.

Because here, Christ’s body is given for all, without conditions, without fear.  Here, God feeds the people the world forgets. Here, we taste a kingdom where no one is deported, no one is hungry, and no one is forgotten.

So yes, the world is cruel right now.
Yes, there’s reason to grieve and rage and lament.
But there’s also this:

 a Redeemer who lives.
A Christ who rises.
A Spirit that still moves through us.
And a faith, our faith, that refuses to die.

So when you come to the table today, come hungry, not just for bread, but for courage.  Come thirsty, not just for wine, but for the strength to keep believing. Because this meal is proof that hope is not gone. It’s right here, breaking bread with us. Amen.