Joy is of God

The third week of Advent is about JOY.

The connection to today’s gospel may seem a bit elusive.

I mean I’m sure that there was joy amongst all those people that Jesus healed.

The blind recovered their sight.

Those who could not walk were able to walk again.

Those with leprosy were cured.

Those who were deaf could hear again.

And the dead were raised to life.

HALLELUJAH!

I’ve no doubt that there was joy among all those people who Jesus touched and healed.

But, other than being happy for them, how does that bring us joy?

Today’s gospel begins with John the Baptizer in prison.

John, a prophet ordained by God, is expressing doubt—doubt that Jesus is the Messiah.

Now, you and I, we experience doubt all the time.

But John was raised to prepare the way for the Messiah.

By all accounts, John never doubted his mission.

His parents raised him for it.

He preached boldly and confidently, even calling religious leaders a pack of snakes.

Doubt just doesn’t appear to be part of his DNA.

And yet, he asks Jesus, “are you the One?”

Jesus’ reply isn’t a direct response—as he often likes to do.

His response is, “report to John what you see and hear”.

What John’s disciples report back to him is, “‘Those who are blind recover their sight.

Those who cannot walk are able to walk.

Those with leprosy are cured.

Those who are deaf hear.

The dead are raised to life.

And the anawim—the “have-nots”—have the Good News preached to them.”

These are glimpses of the Kin-dom.

It is God breaking into the world.

It is Jesus being Emanuel—God with us.

Meeting us where we are—broken, hurting, and afraid.

And therein, I believe, is the joy.

It’s God breaking into the world.

God doesn’t wait for us to come to God.

God always makes the first move.

God comes to us—just as you expect a loving parent to do.

Sometimes, God comes Godself, like when the Christ child was born in Bethlehem.

Other times, God works through us.

I’d like to share a few of my experiences of God breaking through.

My mom spent the last couple of days of her life in a coma.

By that point, she had been on and off hospice 3 times.

We had gotten so used to her bouncing back, we expected her to do it again.

Her name was Kathleen, but she went by Kitty and we started to joke that she really must have 9 lives.

Anyway, when we realized that she wasn’t going to pull through again, we took her off the medications that were artificially elevating her blood pressure.

On the last night of her life, I sent everyone home.

I was the oldest and I was always closest to my mom.

So, it was something that I wanted to do—to be with her in these final hours.

I spent the night talking to her, reading the Bible to her, and praying with her.

She never responded.

She was in the interstitial space—the in-between place—between life and death.

Scientists say that hearing is the last sense to fail.

I don’t know how they know that but that’s what they say.

So, I’m pretty sure that my mom heard me.

I was a voice in the darkness of that space between life and death.

God used me to break through into her world.

And, although there was certainly grief, there was also joy in knowing that I was God’s instrument in those moments.

Many of you know that shortly after I started here at Emanuel, a good friend of mine nearly died.

I drove Jim to the hospital for what was supposed to be minor outpatient surgery.

Unfortunately, he had a severe reaction to a medication he was given.

His heart and breathing never stopped but his blood pressure got so precipitously low that his brain was deprived of oxygen.

He was in a medically-induced coma for a day.

When he regained consciousness, it was clear that something was wrong.

He couldn’t see.

We later learned that his eyes were perfectly fine, but his brain no longer knew how to interpret the signals it was getting.

One of his arms was paralyzed.

He couldn’t walk.

He could speak but he couldn’t think clearly.

I became Jim’s medical advocate.

For weeks, I fed him and I helped him go to the bathroom.

He denied help from others, preferring to wait for me.

I was Jim’s hands when his wouldn’t work.

God used me to break through into his world.

And, although I felt a great weigh in those days, there was also joy—a great joy, in fact—knowing that I was God’s loving hands in those weeks.

few weeks ago, I organized a candlelight vigil to commemorate Transgender Day of Remembrance.

Doing the research to prepare for it was brutal.

Reading the stories of people whose lives were cut short by violence—for having the audacity to want to live as their authentic selves—made me both sad and angry.

But seeing a group of trans women at the vigil, I was struck by their bravery.

I admired their strength to be who they are—despite the hateful things that get directed at them.

Despite the constant risk of violence from ignorant people who fear what they don’t understand.

We read the names of the trans people who were murdered in the US.

People from the community shouted out the names of others who were lost.

We lit candles.

And God broke through.

God was light in the darkness of hate and violence.

And there was joy in that light.

There was joy in the Gay Men’s Chorus singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”.

And it occurred to me while I was writing this sermon that somewhere over the rainbow is the Kin-dom.

Where the dreams that we dare to dream really do come true.

Dreams like the prophesies of Isaiah that we heard in today’s first lesson.

Dreams like the signs and wonders Jesus was performing in today’s gospel.

Dreams of God breaking through and giving us a glimpse of the Kin-dom.

You see, God always come to us—breaks through into the world.

And, while it might be tinged with grief or sadness, there is joy in that presence of God—if only we are open to being aware of it

We can experience joy in the most challenging of circumstances.

Despite his incarceration, I have no doubt that John experienced joy on hearing the reports of Jesus’ signs and wonders.

Reports that gave John a glimpse of the Kin-dom and dispelled his doubts about whether Jesus was the Messiah.

Despite the grief of my mother’s passing, there was joy in accompanying her through that sacred transition.

Despite the weight of being Jim’s primary caregiver, there was joy in being his lifeline and serving God’s purpose for me at that time.

Despite the sadness of lives cut short by violence, there was joy in a community bravely carrying on, honoring the memory of victims, and shining the light of hope for the world to see.

Grief cannot overcome joy.

Neither can sadness or anger or doubt or any of the myriad emotions that we experience.

Because joy is of God.

We experience joy because that is God’s intent for us.

It is a gift of the Spirit.

We experience joy when God breaks into the world to give us a glimpse of the Kin-dom.

Joy because God breaking through is a fulfillment of God’s promise.

Joy because God breaking through is a demonstration of God’s unconditional love for us.

God breaking through truly is “Joy to the World”.

May this contemplation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus.

Amen.

True Peace (Shalom) Requires Change

It’s interesting that this second Sunday of Advent is about Peace and the gospel is about John the Baptizer antagonizing the Pharisees and Sadducees.

I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t expect calling a group of people a “pack of snakes” to be a precursor to Peace.

In fact, I’d imagine that that might rile those people up a bit.

And, to no one’s surprise, it does.

But that is John’s role in the New Testament.

He is an agitator.

His role is to prepare the way for the Messiah.

Change rarely happens without conflict.

Because most humans resist change.

They prefer consistency.

But John understood that change was necessary.

He understood that they needed to change the way they thought about the world.

They needed to change the way they thought about their relationship with God.

They needed to “change their hearts and minds” in order to prepare for the Messiah.

John’s practice of agitating—his propensity for “poking the bear”—was precisely about peace.

The source of our confusion is that we misunderstand what peace means.

In our cultural context, peace means the absence of conflict.

However, in a biblical context, “peace” actually has its roots in shalom.

And shalom has a richer meaning with broader implications.

Our understanding of peace is the absence of conflict.

It is the work of humans and is almost always temporary.

Shalom, on the other hand, is not just the absence of conflict but it is also a deep sense of wellbeing and wholeness.

It is a permanent frame of mind and has a divine association with it.

It implies being in right relationship with God.

So, viewed in that context, John’s actions were about the shalom kind of peace.

He didn’t care about creating some temporary conflict because the end game was welcoming the Messiah and the coming of God’s Kin-dom.

Change was necessary.

Humans needed to change their hearts and minds to get in right relationship with God.

And change creates conflict.

Because people don’t like change.

It can be uncomfortable.

It upsets our normal routine.

But John knew—he understood—that the one who was coming after him—Jesus—would bring about the Kin-dom of God.

And the Kin-dom of God means true shalom—everlasting peace and authentic wholeness.

In corporate speak, John was a change agent—as was Jesus.

For those of you that have been watching The Chosen with me, you know Jesus often says, “Get used to different”.

It means that not only that they did not fear and resist change but also that they celebrated and implemented it.

I am also one of those odd people that likes change.

And back when I was an executive in corporate America, I too was called a change agent.

In fact, one of the biggest adjustments I’ve had to make as a pastor is that not everyone is as comfortable with change as I am.

Although I haven’t called out anyone as a pack of snakes, I imagine I’ve made a few people upset.

Changing how we do communion.

Introducing a new hymnal and new music to our services.

Speaking a language during worship that some of you don’t understand.

Now, I don’t mean to imply that those things are on the same level as what the Baptizer was doing in the Judean wilderness.

But there is a parallel.

Several times, I have shared this quote that’s been attributed to St. Augustine, “Without God, we cannot; without us, God will not.”

I believe it has particular relevance for us today.

True peace—of the shalom variety—can only exist in the Kin-dom.

While it may be true that the Kin-dom will only be realized in the Second Coming, we can work towards the Kin-dom now.

But it takes change.

I would even say that it takes becoming comfortable with change—or at least more comfortable.

In Isaiah, we read, “Forget the events of the past, ignore the things of long ago! Look, I am doing something new! Now it springs forth—can’t you see it? I’m making a road in the desert and setting rivers to flow in the wasteland.”

And again, in Romans, we read, “Don’t conform yourselves to this age, but be transformed by the renewal of your minds, so that you can judge what God’s will is—what is good, pleasing and perfect.”

I don’t know what changes lie ahead for us.

All I know for certain is that there will be change—and probably many of them.

Because who we are today is not sustainable.

That’s the bad news.

The good news is that the opportunities before us are unlimited.

We are embracing the people in the neighborhoods around this church.

We are emulating Jesus and living out his message of good news to the oppressed and marginalized.

We are loving our neighbors as Jesus first loved us by welcoming people and inviting them to make Emanuel their faith home.

That is WONDERFUL!

We are also investigating possibilities for converting unused or underused spaces in our church buildings into affordable housing.

We are trying to become better stewards of the many gifts that God has provided to this congregation by making sure all of our spaces are efficiently utilized.

We are heeding Jesus’ command to feed his sheep by helping some of our neighbors into more stable living arrangements.

We cannot solve homelessness, but there is freedom in knowing we don’t have to do it all.

That freedom will enable us to do this one small thing.

And maybe follow it up with an even larger thing across the street.

It will be an incomplete solution, but it is a beginning—a step along the way and an opportunity for God's grace to enter and do the rest.

The good news for us today is that our Emanuel family is a vibrant community.

The opportunities before us are unlimited.

But seizing those opportunities will require change.

And with change comes discomfort and, sometimes, even conflict.

Our determination to preserve tradition can be very strong.

There are strong emotional ties to tradition—happy memories of childhood or our younger selves and longing for friends and family members who have moved away or passed on.

But what holds this church family together is not tradition.

It is the love we have for God and for one another.

That is what will carry us forward.

That is what will help us weather the challenges ahead.

John the Baptizer said, “Change your hearts and minds, for the reign of heaven is about to break in upon you!”

I’m going to say the same to you.

Don’t fear change.

Change is inevitable.

While you may never be able to embrace change, at least do your best not to resist it.

Maintaining the status quo—trying to preserve things they way they always were—does not move us along the path to the Kin-dom.

Keeping things the same is about us—and our comfort level.

Helping God co-create the Kin-dom—that is about our neighbor.

That is about feeding Jesus’ sheep.

We cannot become the Kin-dom without change.

Because we aren’t there yet.

The Kin-dom is a community of truth and justice, where “the wolf will dwell with the lamb, and the leopard will lie down with the young goat; the calf and the lion cub will graze together, and a little child will lead them.

The cow will feed with the bear; their young will lie down together.

The lion will eat hay like the ox.

The baby will play next to the den of the cobra, and the toddler will dance over the viper’s nest.

There will be no harm, no destruction anywhere in God’s holy mountain; for as water fills the sea, so the land will be filled with knowledge of YHWH.”

And, in that Kin-dom, we shall find the peace that passes all understanding.

The shalom promised to us by God.

The peace that is not only an absence of conflict but also an innate sense of wholeness.

The peace that comes from knowing we are always in the presence of God.

The wholeness that comes from knowing we are loved unconditionally by the One who created us.

May this contemplation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus.

Amen.

What it Means to Hope

Today is the first Sunday in Advent.

I remember being told that Advent was a season of preparation—preparation for the coming of the Christ child—much like Lent is the season of preparation for Holy Week and Easter.

But Advent is actually more than that.

Advent is, above all else, a call to full awareness.

That is why we sang, “Awake, Awake and greet the new morn” this morning.

Because, as Christians, we live in a time of perpetual Advent.

Only now, we’re not waiting for the coming of the Christ child.

We await the second coming of Christ.

That is what the gospel lesson for today is about.

It may seem an odd passage for Advent.

But, in this parallel context of waiting for the Christ child and waiting for the second coming, it fits.

So, we are called to be awake—and if you’ll forgive the alliteration—aware, attentive, and alert.

Awake to the injustices that are occurring around us.

Aware of signs and wonders we are witness to every day.

Attentive to the words of Jesus and the example that he set.

And alert to the Hope that this season of Advent brings.

The Hope of the Messiah fulfilled in the first coming of Christ.

Mary, the mother of Jesus, said, “For you, the Almighty, have done great things for me, and holy is your Name.

Your mercy reaches from age to age for those who fear you.

You have shown strength with your arm; you have scattered the proud in their conceit; you have deposed the mighty from their thrones and raised the lowly to high places.

You have filled the hungry with good things, while you have sent the rich away empty.”

She was speaking about promises to the Jewish people, fulfilled by YHWH.

We can also say it as promises kept to us, as followers of Jesus.

But this season of Advent is also about the Hope of the second coming of the Messiah.

We live in this time of waiting—waiting for the second coming of Jesus.

Where the Kin-dom is both already and not yet.

Where we are called to have hope—hope in the face of events that sometimes appear hopeless.

Hope that is not based in blind optimism.

But rather, hope that is based in faith and trust in God.

Hope that is sometimes juxtaposed against despair.

Because the Kin-dom is both now and not yet.

So, I would like to try to shed some light on this duality by sharing a few of my despairs and hopes.

I despair that churches care more about tradition than relevance and, in a staggering display of hypocrisy, care more about political power than adherence to the words of the One they claim to follow.

And yet, those same churches all lament the loss of young people.

However, I find hope in the group of 80 young people who gathered at the Synod Youth Retreat to explore their faith rather than play Minecraft or binge watch TikTok videos.

I despair that young people are being denied gender-affirming care, despite every major medical association saying it is “suicide prevention”.

But I find hope in the brave children who say, “My pronouns are ‘they’ and I am exactly who God intended me to be.”

I despair that “smash and grab” is no longer about criminals breaking a showcase to steal jewelry.

“Smash and grab” has become about breaking car windows to snatch, detain, and deport brown people.

But I find hope in the group of Midwestern pastors who are organizing a nationwide Palm Sunday action to drive change in the country—to mirror Jesus’ radical procession into Jerusalem and reclaim what it means to be Christian.

I despair that Spanish-speaking immigrant children are not going to school because they fear their parents won’t be there when they get home.

My heart breaks with the knowledge that this gap in their education will have a lasting impact on their entire lives.

But I find hope in the group of nine New Jersey pastors who throw their egos and their comfort levels to the wind to learn Spanish so they can communicate with their neighbors and serve them better.

I despair that, in the past year, 240 transgender people were murdered, 25 of them in the United States.

I lament that both numbers are undoubtedly an undercount and don’t include the those who died by suicide or those whose lives were forever changed by nonfatal violence.

But I find hope in the group of 40 people who huddled against the cold while we lit candles and read the names murdered transgender people out loud.

I despair that transgender servicemembers are being told they are not worthy to serve in the armed forces.

I despair that some who have already served are being denied their retirement benefits.

But I find hope in the twelve transgender young people who came to our Name Change Clinic and said, “no one gets to define me but me. I will be my authentic self whether you like it or not.”

I despair that our military is being used to attack boats in international waters without authorization from congress or transparency to the public.

I despair that we have become a nation that kills survivors of an attack instead of rescuing them and taking them into custody.

But I find hope in the six veteran members of Congress who stood up to remind service members that their duty is to the Constitution, not to administrations, and it is not only their right, but their duty, to refuse illegal orders.

I despair that babies are dying from whooping cough and measles because their government is pushing misinformation about vaccines.

And yet, I continue to have hope.

My hope lies in a love so deep that God became incarnate—as a helpless brown baby—born into poverty in an occupied nation.

My hope lies in the resurrection of Jesus—and the promise of his second coming.

My hope lies in the knowledge that God never disappoints—God’s promises are always fulfilled.

Hope reminds us that there is nothing in life we have not faced that we did not, through God’s grace, survive.

Hope is our collective memory of good in the past.

That is the foundation of our expectation of good in the future.

Regardless of how troubling—or how hopeless—the present might seem.

Hope sifts through the pieces of our broken hearts to find those memories of God’s promises fulfilled.

To those times when God miraculously brought good out of evil—brought joy out of grief.

That is the foundation of our hope for the future.

Our hope for the Kin-dom.

When the Kin-dom is no longer “not yet”.

When the Kin-dom is a promise fulfilled.

And we can say, “Awake, awake and greet the new morn” with brand new meaning.

And sing out for joy that the Kin-dom is here!

May this contemplation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus.

Amen.

Let us be Grateful as well as Thankful

Today is Volunteer Appreciation Sunday so I’m going to focus my sermon on that, instead of the lectionary.

I am truly grateful to all those people that contribute to making this a vibrant and productive community.

I say “grateful” intentionally.

Because it is important to make a distinction between thankfulness and gratitude.

Gratitude is the realization that our lives—and every aspect of them—are a gift of God’s grace.

Etymologically, "gratitude" and "grace" have the same root.

It makes sense, doesn’t it?

Grace is the gift of forgiveness that we receive from God.

We cannot earn it.

It is the gift we receive because of God’s unconditional love for us.

Gratitude is the response that we are supposed to have to God’s grace.

In contrast, thankfulness is generally quid pro quo.

We usually say “thank you” for the things people do.

It is task-oriented.

I am thankful for whoever set up Communion for this morning.

Whereas gratitude is more of an attitude—it’s a way of thinking.

I am grateful for the dedication of the altar guild and the traditions at Emanuel that guide our worship.

I am grateful that people understand that, if I forget to break the big wafer, it is not the end of the world.

God is still present.

We are still beloved.

Our sins are still forgiven.

That is not to say that we shouldn’t be thankful for all the good work that is done here.

In the book of James we read, “My siblings, what good is it to profess faith without practicing it?

Such faith has no power to save.

If any are in need of clothes and have no food to live on, and one of you says to them, “Goodbye and good luck. Stay warm and well-fed,” without giving them the bare necessities of life, then what good is this?

So it is with faith.

If good deeds don’t go with it, faith is dead.

Some of you will say that you have faith, while I have deeds.

Fine: I’ll prove to you that I have faith by showing you my good deeds.

Now you prove to me that you have faith without any good deeds to show.

You believe in the One God.

Fine.

But even the demons have the same belief, and they tremble with fear.

Don’t you realize, you idiots, that faith without good deeds is useless?

Be assured, then, that faith without works is as dead as a body without a spirit.

Good works are important.

They are a faith practice.

It is one of the ways that we put our faith in action.

I am thankful for all the donations of warm clothing that we have received.

But I am grateful that, as a congregation, we are lucky enough to have excess clothes that we can share.

I am grateful that we have partners at United Methodist Church and Elijah’s Promise that can distribute what we collect to those in need.

I am grateful that we have opportunities to be God’s hands and feet in the world.

To feed the hungry.

To clothe the naked.

To give comfort to those who feel forgotten or unloved.

To feed Jesus’ sheep as he asked us to do.

If you remember a couple of weeks ago, the gospel lesson talked about a Pharisee that said, “I give you thanks, O God, that I’m not like others—greedy, crooked, adulterous”.

He was thankful, but he was not grateful.

Theologian and author Marcus Borg wrote, “Gratitude is a virtue with ethical consequences. When we feel most grateful, it is impossible to be cruel or callous, brutal or indifferent. And gratitude as the awareness that life is a gift precludes the hard-heartedness that often accompanies the ideology of "the self-made person." The latter often leads to, "God, I thank you that I am not like other people."

That resonates.

Gratitude is deeper and more spiritual than simple thankfulness.

Gratitude is often transformational.

The experience of being deeply grateful can change us.

That is the message of A Christmas Carol.

Scrooge learns gratitude.

The spirits show him the things he should be grateful for.

They shift his thinking from transactional thankfulness to deep gratitude.

He is change—transformed.

He becomes a new man.

Sometimes gratitude is the product of transformation.

I’ve talked before about Richard Rohr’s two halves of life concept.

The first half is about “stuff”—relationships, job, security.

The second half is about meaning.

Often, the first half of life is centered around thankfulness.

But, age, wisdom, or some life event transforms us and we begin the second half of life.

We become more centered around gratitude.

Grateful people understand that our life is a gift.

It is not about holding on to what we have.

It’s not about seeking even more.

It is about living as grateful people.

It’s about being joyful about this gift of life.

Yesterday, a man named Joseman gave us a taste of Taizé.

He drove all the way from Williamstown to be here.

His van was loaded to the gills with all sorts of things to transform the sanctuary into a reflection of a monastery in central France.

It took us 2 hours to set up and another hour and a half to take down.

For 11 people.

Some would’ve been annoyed.

Some would’ve thought it was a waste of their time, energy, and money.

But Josemon only said, “when we do it next year, more will come”.

Because he lives in gratitude.

His faith is huge.

And he is grateful that he can share with others a style of worship that is deeply meaningful to him.

He is grateful for the opportunity to invite others to experience God in a new way.

Today, we recognize and celebrate all the people who contribute to the life of this church.

Let us be thankful for all that they do.

It is right that we should do so.

But let us also be grateful for this Body of Christ.

For this assembly of faithful people that do their best to heed those words of Jesus: Feed my sheep.

Let us be thankful for the time, talent, and treasure that people donate to our ministries.

But let us also be grateful for this family—imperfect though it may be.

For the myriad ways that we try to live out the gospel:

“For I was hungry and you fed me; I was thirsty and you gave me drink.

I was a stranger and you welcomed me; naked and you clothed me.

I was ill and you comforted me; in prison and you came to visit me.”

May we always remember to be grateful as well as thankful because both are important.

It is important to recognize and lift up good deeds done.

But it is gratitude that changes us.

Makes us holier.

Not so we receive grace.

But because we already have it.

May this contemplation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus.

Amen.

Worry Less About Heaven and Be More Present

I thought about skipping the lectionary this week because the gospel is problematic.

It is a discussion about the Jewish tradition of levirate marriage, this idea that it a man’s responsibility to marry his brother’s childless widow in order to produce an heir.

It’s very patriarchal and highlights the first-century cultural idea of women as property.

The woman in the gospel had no say in this arrangement.

She was passed from brother to brother like a hand-me-down.

But, as I have said before, we can’t just ignore Scriptural passages that we don’t like.

It’s important for us to talk about them.

And, as he often does, Jesus tries to guide his students—or, in this case, religious leaders trying to trap him—into thinking about things differently.

He doesn’t tell them they have incorrectly interpreted the Law.

But he redirects them.

He tells them, in the age of resurrection, this hypothetical situation is irrelevant.

In our tradition, Luther talks about right-hand and left-hand kingdoms.

The left-hand kingdom is the secular or earthly realm which is governed by law and authority.

Where questions about who you marry matter.

The right-hand kingdom is the heavenly realm which is governed by grace.

Where only spiritual things matter.

In Lutheran terms, Jesus is telling the Sadducees that left-hand kingdom problems are not relevant in the right-hand kingdom.

Because we live in the left-hand kingdom and we have limited capability to understand the right-hand kingdom, this passage is confusing.

Reading something we don’t understand is uncomfortable—especially where our faith is concerned.

We’d much rather things were black and white.

Unfortunately, in matters of faith, there is ALOT of gray.

Worrying what heaven will be like is a useless endeavor.

Because we cannot compare this life to resurrected life.

Most of you know that I like to read.

When I’m reading for pleasure, I will often read Stephen King or Dean Koontz.

Dean Koontz wrote a series of books about a character called Odd Thomas.

Odd is able to see dead people.

Odd’s soulmate is a woman named Stormy Llewellyn.

Stormy refers to this life as “boot camp” because it prepares us for what is next.

But just like the boot camp that prepares soldiers for war, the preparation is incomplete.

Boot camp gives survival skills to soldiers.

But it cannot prepare them for the sights, sounds, and psychological trauma of war.

Similarly, this life can only do so much to help us understand resurrection.

Jesus says in the age of resurrection, we can no longer die.

But so much of our life is defined by our mortality.

It is nearly impossible for us to comprehend what it will be like to no longer die.

Our lives are defined by our finiteness.

We are born, we live, and we die.

In the age of resurrection, we can longer die.

We become infinite, existing outside of time as we know it.

And our human minds cannot grasp all that that entails.

Because finite minds are incapable of understanding infinity.

What we know about the age of resurrection is that it will be wonderful beyond our imagining.

In Revelation, we read “Then I saw new heavens and a new earth. The former heavens and the former earth had passed away, and the sea existed no longer. I also saw a new Jerusalem, the holy city, coming down out of heaven from God, beautiful as a bride and groom on their wedding day. And I heard a loud voice calling from the throne, ‘Look! God’s Tabernacle is among humankind! God will live with them; they will be God’s people, and God will be fully present among them. The Most High will wipe away every tear from their eyes. And death, mourning, crying and pain will be no more, for the old order has fallen.’”

God will be fully present among us.

We will be immersed in divine presence.

And, although we believe in God’s presence is all around us now, we are frequently unaware of it.

The difference is, in the age of resurrection, we will be aware of God’s presence—ALWAYS.

We will revel in it, and it will be like a celebration that never ends.

And death, mourning, crying and pain will be no more.

In the age of resurrection, the thing that can so often dominates our lives—our mortality—no longer exists.

There will be no death—not our own and not our loved ones’.

No mourning our losses.

No pain—physical or emotional.

Only the joy of being in God’s presence.

And we will finally be able to understand the enormity of God’s love for us. 

Now there are some—perhaps even some here—that may be troubled by Jesus’ response.

We want to be with our loved ones in the age of resurrection.

Our idea about resurrection is that we will have all the good things of this life and none of the bad.

I’m not going to stand up here and tell you that you won’t.

All I am saying—all the text is saying—is that the age of resurrection will be different.

We cannot grasp WHAT WILL BE from the perspective of this life and WHAT IS.

And it is futile for us to try to.

I think the real danger in spending time wondering what resurrection will be like is we risk missing the here and now.

I am a planner.

It is hard for me to be in the moment.

Michael is a Disney fanatic and I guess it’s fair to say that he turned me into one as well.

We’ve easily been to WDW over 30 times, sometimes going more than once a year.

Until I met Michael, I was never really a parade person.

But he introduced me to the Disney parades.

I can remember the first one we saw together.

It was called “Mickey Mania”.

In addition to the usual character floats, there were skateboarders and cast members on scooter doing all sorts of acrobatics.

It was quite a spectacle.

Now, I love Disney parades.

I appreciate the creativity and the performance.

But because I am a planner, I have trouble being in the moment.

As much as I enjoy the parade, I’m thinking about the next ride we’re going to go on.

Or where we have dinner reservations that night.

I think worrying about heaven can be like that.

If we spend too much time worrying about what it’s going to be like and who is going to be there, we risk missing out on the present.

Our life in this world is a miracle.

We are witness to the wonders of creation every single day.

But many of us miss them.

We get wrapped up in the minutiae of the day.

So, I challenge you, as I have before, to try to live in the moment.

Don’t spend too much time planning for the future.

It’s not bad to plan but it can become a distraction—or even an obsession.

Be grateful for everything that you have.

Trust that God will provide your daily bread—physical, emotional, and spiritual—everything that you need.

And revel in God’s presence now—in the creation all around us and in our human siblings.

See the divine image in them.

Love them—as God loves you—unconditionally and beyond measure.

And know that, as wonderful as this life can be, the resurrection will be better.

Because when we are God’s people and God is fully present with us—when we are so immersed in the divine presence that we are always aware of God’s presence—we will experience joy beyond our comprehension.

May this contemplation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus.

Amen.

We Are the Saints of the Present

Today, I’m going to try to do something that I rarely do.

I’m going to try to weave together all three readings and connect them to this All Saints’ Day.

I usually focus entirely on the gospel.

It is, after all, the good news that we come to hear.

Today, we have a lesson from Habakkuk, a book we rarely read.

Technically speaking, we wouldn’t have had one today either, but I decided to go with the alternate reading.

Habakkuk is one of the so-called minor prophets.

The tradition comes, not from Israel in exile like many of the prophetic writings, but from a time when Israel was a sovereign nation.

Habakkuk is wrestling with a question we can all identify with: why does God allow evil and injustice in the world?

Habakkuk laments about oppression, injustice, and tyranny.

He shouts, “Outrage and violence—this is all I see!”

Sound familiar?

God’s response is that the Kin-dom is coming.

God says, “If it is slow in coming, wait for it—for come it will, without fail”.

It is a promise that we hear Jesus echo in Matthew 4:17, “Change your hearts and minds, for the Kin-dom of heaven is at hand!”

We trust in that promise but that doesn’t mean that we don’t lament what is almost but not yet.

We lament that children will go hungry because SNAP benefits are discontinued.

We lament that attacks on our transgender siblings continue to mount.

We lament that some of our neighbors are being harassed, beaten, detained, and deported—not because they are criminals but simply because they are black- or brown-skinned. We have learned that some are even citizens but that hasn’t been enough to protect them.

We lament that our military is being used to police civilians and commit criminal acts in international waters.

We lament that environmental protections are being rolled back to generate profits for corporations.

We lament that a resumption of nuclear weapons testing is being considered.

God, have mercy.

Christ, have mercy.

Say it with me. Dilo conmigo.

Dios, ten piedad.

Cristo, ten piedad.

We trust in God.

That is our faith.

But, God have mercy, sometimes it is hard.

It can be hard for us to carry on in the face of so much despair.

So how do we do it?

We rejoice in being beloved children of God.

That seems counterintuitive but we have to find joy, despite the despair.

We have to seize the unconditional love that we receive from God.

We have to let that love fill us up to overflowing.

And we have to reflect that love out into the world—share it with all of our human siblings.

Somos hijos amados de Dios.

Necesitamos reconocer nuestro amor.

Necesitamos dejar que el amor de Dios nos llene por completo.

Y entonces, necesitamos compartir ese amor con el mundo.

In today’s second reading, the author tells us that as our faith grows, our love for each other increases.

That sums up our Christian mission in the world.

As we grow in faith, we claim our belovedness.

We open ourselves up to God’s presence in the world.

We acknowledge the belovedness of our human siblings.

We open ourselves up to the divine presence in our siblings.

Our love for the world increases.

And our willingness to accept pain and cruelty decreases.

The author of 2 Thessalonians says that God will make us worthy of God’s call to do the work of the Kin-dom.

God will fulfill our desires for goodness, lifting our despair about the evil and injustice in the world.

And God will empower to do the work that is needed.

So, what has this to do with Zacchaeus?

Zacchaeus was a tax collector—a Roman collaborator, traitor to his people, and universally hated.

Well, almost universally.

Jesus saw this short man, easy to overlook.

He saw the tax collector, hated and ostracized by his community.

Zacchaeus climbed a tree, desperate to see this great teacher that he had heard so much about.

But the important part of this story is not Zacchaeus seeing Jesus.

It’s Jesus seeing Zacchaeus.

Despite his stature, despite his collaboration with the oppressors, despite his being an outcast, Jesus saw him.

And not only saw him but invited him.

He invited Zacchaeus to be his host.

There is a lesson in there for us.

When we struggle to claim our belovedness—that knowledge that we are loved by God unconditionally.

Called by name and claimed as God’s own.

When we are overcome by the evil in the world and the cruelty we inflict on one another, remember Zacchaeus¬—a hated tax collector who was excluded from his community.

Zacchaeus—who Jesus saw and welcomed in.

Zacchaeus—whose salvation Jesus proclaimed.

Because we are Zacchaeus.

It doesn’t matter if we’re overlooked.

It doesn’t matter if we are disliked.

It doesn’t matter if our community doesn’t accept us.

Because Jesus sees us.

Jesus loves us.

Jesus calls us by name and claims us as his own.

Jesús nos ama.

Jesús nos llama por nuestro nombre y nos reclama como suyos.

Jesus challenges us to do the work of the Kin-dom.

To love one another.

To feed people who are hungry.

To welcome the stranger.

To help every person that feels excluded or doubts their worth—to help them to claim and embrace their belovedness.

On All Saints’ Day, we tend to focus our attention on the saints that have gone before us—all the faithful people who have done the work of the Kin-dom and now rest from their labors.

In our Lutheran tradition, the “great cloud of witnesses” includes all saints: past, present, and future.

Recordamos y honramos a los santos del pasado.

Pero debemos asumir nuestro papel como santos del presente.

Dios nos ha llamado dignos.

Dios nos ha capacitado para realizar la obra del Reino.

We remember and honor the saints of the past.

And, although we are also sinners, we must step up and into our role as saints of the present.

God has called us worthy.

God has empowered us to do the work of the Kin-dom

To love one another.

To include those who have been excluded.

To let the love of God fill us up to overflowing.

And then to share that love with the world.

Gratefully.

Joyfully.

And may our example—with the work of the Spirit—help us to form the saints of the future.

Amen.

May this contemplation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus.

Amen.

We Are Beloved

Today’s gospel seems pretty straightforward.

There’s only 2 people in Jesus’ parable.

One is a Pharisee—a devout Jew, who has dedicated his life to following Torah—God’s Law.

The other is a tax collector—a Roman collaborator—a traitor who cooperates in the oppression of his own people.

In Jesus’ first-century context, there are fewer clearcut examples of good guy versus bad guy.

Pharisees, if not loved, they were at least respected.

Tax collectors were universally hated.

But, in a twist from the audience’s expectation, the bad guy comes out looking better than the good guy.

How does that happen?

The simplest explanation is that being judgmental casts us in a bad light.

It’s not that the Pharisee is wrong.

He is a righteous man.

He does the things he is supposed to.

He follows the law.

He fasts.

He tithes.

But he also judges.

And judgment is reserved for God.

So, in judging the tax collector, he assumes the role of God and that hubris offsets his righteousness.

It prevents him from being in right relationship with God.

The tax collector, in contrast, is humble before God.

He acknowledges his sinfulness and asks for mercy.

And, in so doing, he returns home in right relationship with God.

So, the simplest interpretation is that we should not judge, and we should be humble.

But, if we’ve learned anything about parables, it‘s that simple interpretations are rarely the only ones.

If the only message we take away from the parable is that we shouldn’t judge and we should be humble before God, we are prone falling into the same trap as the Pharisee.

If we hear the parable and say, “Thank God, I’m not judgmental like that Pharisee”—guess what?

We’re like that Pharisee.

If we mentally tick off all the wonderful things that we do that make us better than others—we’re like that Pharisee.

You see, if we take the lesson that we’re not to judge others to heart—that the responsibility for judgment rests solely with God—then we can’t say to ourselves, “Thank God I’m not like that Pharisee” because as soon as we do, guess what?

We’re just like the Pharisee.

There is also a subliminal message in the Pharisee’s dialog that is important for us to acknowledge.

The Pharisee talks about fasting and tithing.

He implies that our right relationship with God depends on what we do.

To be sure, fasting and tithing are good.

They are things that we should be doing.

But being in right relationship with God—our redemption and our reconciliation—depends solely on God’s grace.

Jesus did not die in order for us to be loved by God.

Jesus died BECAUSE we are loved by God.

And we are not loved for WHAT we do.

We are loved because of WHO WE ARE.

We are beloved children of God.

Children who God calls by name.

And children who God claims as God’s own.

The other problem in the Pharisee’s dialog is that he sets himself apart from the tax collector.

When we set ourselves apart—when we compare ourselves to others—our value becomes relative.

Think of all the ways we do this on a day-to-day basis.

I go to church every week.

I volunteer two days a week at the food pantry.

I went to the No Kings demonstration.

I support marriage equality.

I donate to Lutheran Disaster Relief.

Those statements all sound simple.

But whether we say it out loud or just think it, there is an implied comparison.

I go to church and he doesn’t.

I volunteer and she doesn’t.

I donate and they don’t.

And that comparison is a trap.

You see, someone can always do more or give more.

When our value is relative, we can always be outdone.

But because God’s love for us is unconditional and infinite—in God’s eyes—our value is absolute.

We are beloved—full stop.

No comparison is necessary—or even possible.

The final point about today’s parable is that the Pharisee leaves the story the same as he enters it.

He was righteous and law-abiding going in.

And he was righteous and law-abiding going out.

But Jesus said when he went home, he was not right with God.

The tax collector, though—the tax collector is changed.

He came in a sinner.

He humbled himself before God and asked for mercy.

And, in so doing, Jesus says that he is raised up—he is exalted.

The tax collector came in as a sinner, and he went home right with God.

That is a life-changing transformation.

We talk a lot about the transformational power of faith—the ability for us to be changed by our relationship with God.

When we are in right relationship with God, our actions in the world are BECAUSE we are recipients of God’s unconditional love.

We react in gratitude.

We love because we are loved.

When we are not in right relationship with God, our actions in the world are FOR God’s love.

We are trying to earn something that is already ours.

We are already beloved.

If we act in anticipation of reward, our hearts are not open to transformation.

When we act out of love—the love that we first received from God—then, we will find ourselves changed.

We will know what it means to be blessed to be a blessing.

So, what does this all mean in relation to Reformation Sunday and our welcoming a new member into this congregation?

How this applies to the Reformation is fairly simple.

One of the issues Martin Luther raised in the 95 Theses was the sale of indulgences.

An indulgence was a grant that people could purchase to offset their sins or the sin of a family member.

The church was telling people that there was something they could DO to become right with God.

If you really want to force the metaphor, the pope was like the Pharisee.

The pope said, “if you buy this indulgence, you will be right with God”—similar to the Pharisee thinking that his fasting and his tithing could do that.

Martin Luther was saying, “no, we need to be like the tax collector—humble before God and asking for mercy”

We receive mercy, not because of anything WE can do, but because of who God is.

And because we are beloved.

Today, we welcome James and Fernando as members of this congregation.

The idea of membership may seem counter to the point of the parable.

Because, by making someone a member, we are setting them apart, right?

We are saying that they are a member and other people are not.

I confess, until I was writing this sermon, I thought about it that way.

But that is not how we should think about membership.

Membership is not about setting apart.

Membership is about welcoming in.

It is not about singling out.

It is about including in the whole.

By becoming members, we are saying James and Fernando are parts of this Body of Christ.

With all their gifts—and their imperfections.

We are saying we recognize their gifts—and their imperfections.

As we ask them to recognize ours.

And in that recognition, we acknowledge the image of God in one another.

We say to one another, “your value is absolute—no more or less than anyone else’s”.

We are children of God—beloved by our creator—warts and all.

God calls us each by name and claims us for God’s own.

And isn’t that just a miracle?

We are beloved.

And we are forgiven.

Thanks be to God!

May this contemplation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus. Amen.

Wrestle the Questions

One of the things we talk about frequently in Bible Study is how Scripture came into being.

All of Scripture started as oral tradition—stories told around tables and campfires.

At some point—decades or centuries after the events happened—those stories were written down.

In the case of the Hebrew Bible—the preferred language for what was formerly known as the Old Testament—it was written down in Hebrew or Aramaic.

In the case of the New Testament, it was written down in Greek.

Then those written words were translated into Latin, German, and English—as well as every other language imaginable.

That is part of the reason why Lutherans are not Biblical literalists.

Because, like the children’s game of telephone, there are lots of opportunities for the stories to change.

On top of the stories being passed down from generation to generation and then being translated from one language to another, there is the impact of bias.

Every Bible story has a historical and cultural context.

For example, women and children were viewed as property in ancient Israel.

Our current culture does not hold that same view so we must be careful when interpreting storis involving women and children because our context differs greatly from the context in which those stories were first told.

Every Bible story also contains the bias of the author.

Paul was a Pharisee that had an experience of Jesus that profoundly affected his life.

All his writings reflect that.

And we, as readers, bring our own biases.

Some read the story of Abraham nearly sacrificing his son Isaac as an inspirational story about faithfulness and obedience to God.

Others read it as a disturbing example of the dangers of blindly following orders.

The point is that, while we believe that the Bible is the divinely inspired word of God, there are many layers of human understanding that have been superimposed on it.

Now, the reason I started out with that mini-lesson on biblical interpretation, is partly because the Bible Study group thought it was worth sharing on a Sunday morning.

Because understanding why we aren’t biblical literalists is important.

And, recognizing that simply by reading Scripture, we bring our own biases to the text, is also important.

This morning’s first lesson is about Jacob wrestling with God.

It’s an interesting story.

But I believe it becomes more relevant and speaks more to our current experience when we think about it more abstractly.

We are constantly wrestling.

We wrestle with our faith.

Particularly when faced with Scripture that conflicts with our worldview, we ask ourselves, “what do I really believe?”

When it comes to faith, most people prefer absolutes.

Absolutes are easy.

You don’t have to wrestle with messy issues and look at them from a variety of perspectives.

We want easy answers.

Not complex solutions that require investigation and soul searching.

That doesn’t make us bad people.

It just makes us human.

We wrestle with what it means to be a Christian in these times.

To be Christ-like, we have to dive deeply into our own feelings about property and stewardship.

We say we understand that all we have is a gift from God, given to us to steward.

But if we really believed that we would constantly be asking ourselves, “what would God want me to spend my time, talent, and treasure on?”

To be Christ-like, we have to dive deeply into our own feelings about who is our neighbor.

Because too often, if we’re being really honest with ourselves, our definition of neighbor is about proximity.

It’s about who is in our community.

But Jesus’ definition of neighbor is much broader.

Jesus defines neighbor through a moral lens.

Our neighbors are the widow and the orphan and the stranger.

Our neighbors are the people who need us most.

Our neighbors are the oppressed and the marginalized.

Our neighbors are the people who are poor and low-income.

People who are hungry.

People who don’t have stable housing.

We all know that the need is greater than our capability, so the wrestling continues.

Are we doing enough?

Are we prioritizing the right ministries?

And perhaps the toughest issue that we wrestle with: “how do we remain hopeful during dark times?”

Fortunately, for that, we actually have an answer.

Because, for us Christians, hope is not about blind optimism.

Hope is about faith—and trust in God.

In today’s gospel, the widow keeps petitioning the judge until she prevails.

Traditionally, the parable has been interpreted as the importance of persistence in prayer.

That is certainly an important lesson—and the prelude to the parable tells us as much.

But as you all ought to know by now, I like to twist and turn parables to try to uncover hidden meaning.

Instead of looking at the judge as God, what if we looked at the widow?

Don’t we often find God guiding us to do something, but we resist?

God tells us over and over—through Scripture and through Jesus—to love our neighbor.

But we resist.

We don’t listen.

We make excuses.

But God is not deterred.

Like the widow, God is seeking justice.

The prophet Amos tell us, “let justice roll down like water and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

God seeks justice—for everyone.

But especially those who are poor and marginalized and oppressed.

God keeps coming at us—will keep coming at us—urging us toward justice.

Until we relent.

Until we love our neighbors as ourselves.

Until we welcome God’s justice.

Until we embrace the Kin-dom.

So, as you go about your business this week, do your own wrestling.

Ask yourself the hard questions.

What is God’s justice?

What am I being called to do?

Am I loving my neighbor?

And not just the person next door but all the people that Jesus would say is our neighbor.

Am I showing my love for God by obeying the command to love my neighbor?

Am I doing enough?

These are personal question that I can’t answer for you.

I have to answer them for myself.

And YOU need to wrestle with those issues YOURself.

And may that wrestling be fruitful.

Because faith is like a muscle.

And wrestling is exercise.

As we wrestle with complex issues is difficult times, may our faith grow stronger.

May this contemplation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus. Amen.

Loving the Outcast Back into Community

Today’s lessons include two stories about lepers.

I think it’s somewhat difficult for us to understand what it was like for lepers in biblical times.

First, because we have a better understanding of the causes of disease and routes of transmission.

And second, we have, to a certain extent, abandoned the concept of ritual purity and the need to banish people designated as “unclean”.

Because of this, we might miss the fact that leprosy was more than just a painful and disfiguring disease.

It also removed people from their communities.

Naaman appears to be somewhat immune to isolation, presumably because of his power and his standing in the community.

But, for the vast majority of lepers, the disease meant not only illness but also exile.

So, being healed of leprosy meant not only a physical elimination of disease but also a restoration to community.

Even the significance of that is hard for us to understand because we are culturally conditioned to value the individual over the community.

I think we can get a flavor of it by thinking back to the height of the pandemic when we were socially isolating.

We wanted to be with each other in church, but we were forced to stay in our homes.

Some of us gathered online.

But others didn’t—or couldn’t.

But, for most of us, the online worship experience paled in comparison to being together in person.

Magnify that feeling of disappointment until it is heartache and we can begin to understand the feeling of being ostracized.

So, leprosy was not only a disease of the body.

It touched the mind and the spirit.

And being healed of leprosy, not only cured the body but also restored the mind and the spirit.

Everyone knows that St. Francis had a love of animals.

We talked about it last week.

Our blessing of the animals coincides with the feast of St. Francis.

There are garden statues of St. Francis surrounded by animals as well as St. Francis bird baths and bird feeders.

But there is a lesser-known story about St. Francis—and that is that he had an affinity for lepers.

The story goes that St. Francis had a fear and abhorrence of lepers.

However, one day, he met a man afflicted with leprosy while riding his horse near Assisi.

Though the sight of the leper filled him with horror and disgust, Francis got off his horse and kissed him.

Then the leper put out his hand, hoping to receive something.

Out of compassion, Francis gave money to the leper.

But when Francis mounted his horse again and looked all around, he could not see the leper anywhere.

It dawned on him that it was Jesus whom he had just kissed.

Francis had an experience of what Jesus said in chapter 25 of the gospel of Matthew:

“The truth is, every time you did this for the least of my siblings, you did it for me.”

While Francis didn’t cure the disease, he did soothe the leper’s mind and spirit.

Francis recognized the image of God in the leper.

He acknowledged his sibling—a fellow child of God.

And thus began the ministry of Franciscans to lepers

While today’s lessons are powerful stories about miraculous healing and experiences of the divine, I believe that it may be more useful for us to look at them as metaphorical.

In our context, I believe it is valuable to look at lepers—a community that we thankfully no longer have—as some of the marginalized groups that we do have.

On this Indigenous Peoples Sunday, it seems appropriate to consider indigenous people.

White European settlers committed genocide.

That’s an ugly truth many would prefer not to face.

And the indigenous people that we didn’t kill—we pushed out of their ancestral homes and exiled to reservations.

To this day, indigenous people confined to reservations experience the highest rates of unemployment, substance abuse, domestic violence, and suicide.

In the current political climate, it also seems appropriate to look at the treatment of immigrants and trans people.

White Christian Nationalists vilify them—blame them for every ill of society.

And now, immigrants are being rounded up—without due process, separated from their families, detained under inhumane conditions, and deported—sometimes into dangerous situations in countries to which they have no connection.

Transgender people are being threatened with being characterized as Nihilistic Violent Extremists.

There are already states where they cannot access gender-affirming healthcare.

They are feeling increasingly unsafe in their own country, and many are developing exit strategies—emergency plans to leave the country quickly should the risk to their families suddenly increase.

If ever there was a time for us to ask ourselves, “what would Jesus do?”, this has to be it.

Good God almighty is there any doubt amongst you that Jesus would opt for compassion?

For recognizing the image of God in every human being?

For including, rather than excluding?

For restoring people to their families and their communities?

The sad truth my friends is that we can almost excuse first century Jews for excluding lepers because they didn’t know how the disease was transmitted.

Excluding lepers from society was seen as a way to protect the community—to prevent the spread of a disease for which there was no known cure.

It was ignorant but it wasn’t malicious.

Committing genocide, exiling indigenous people, deporting innocent immigrants, and painting trans people as dangerous is evil.

They are the actions of empire—pure and simple.

The actions of a powerful minority trying desperately to maintain status quo.

They are not actions that bring us any closer to the Kin-dom—quite the opposite.

They are actions wholly inconsistent with the Way of Jesus.

So, where do we go from here?

What does looking at the two stories about lepers have to tell us about our world and our time?

Earlier, I mentioned St. Francis and his affinity for lepers.

In his Testament, Francis wrote, “When I was in sin, the sight of lepers nauseated me beyond measure; but then God himself led me into their company, and I had pity on them.

When I became acquainted with them, what had previously nauseated me became the source of spiritual and physical consolation for me.”

St. Francis repented of his fear and his hatred.

He had compassion.

Because he saw the image of God in the lepers.

Because he knew Jesus told us, “every time you do for the least of these, you do for me.”

Because loving the lepers became a spiritual practice for him.

It became how he journeyed on the Way of Jesus.

That, I believe is the lesson for us today.

We are called by God to let go of our fear and our hatred.

And, for those of us who the ones being feared and hated—who think we have nothing to let go of—think again.

Every oppressor is themselves oppressed.

They are oppressed by their fear and their hatred.

We can hate their actions and their behavior and their rhetoric.

But they too are beloved children of God—as hard as that may be for us to admit.

No one is beyond redemption.

Everyone is a recipient of God’s abundant grace.

Because every human being is loved unconditionally by God.

Called by name.

And claimed as God’s own.

While loving someone that spews hate or commits evil is hard, it is the example set for us by Jesus.

There is a popular meme floating around the internet that says, “The test of being Christian isn’t loving Jesus, it’s loving Judas.”

There’s so much truth in that.

The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars.

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.

Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.”

Those are words of wisdom for us.

May we always fight for justice in our pursuit of the Kin-dom.

But ALWAYS with love in our hearts.

Because love is the ultimate power.

And only love can drive out hate.

Only love can achieve true justice.

Only love can provide shalom—the wholeness and abiding peace promised to us by God.

May this contemplation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus. Amen.

The Many Gifts of Creation

Today winds up the Season of Creation.

So, I thought I’d spend this time weaving together three themes.

First, how creation is a precious gift, especially those animals with whom we share our hearts and our homes.

Second, how caring for creation is a sacred responsibility.

And third, how stewardship of creation relates to the second of my Franciscan vows: Chastity.

Today’s first lesson is the story of creation from Genesis.

It’s a beautiful story told from two perspectives.

In the first, the spirit of God moves over the face of the waters.

God speaks creation into being.

It is the version that today’s first lesson comes from.

It is an example of the theological concept of God’s transcendence—that God is supernatural and exists outside our world.

In the second version, from Gensis chapter 2, God gets God’s hands dirty.

God forms the “adam”—Hebrew for “of the earth”—from the ground.

And then God breathes life into the mud creature.

In chapter 3, God walks in the garden, looking for the man and his wife.

This is an example of the theological concept of God’s immanence—that God is present in creation and exists in our world.

Creation is a gift because it helps us to understand this dual nature of God.

This idea of transcendence and immanence may not seem important.

It may seem like something that only theologians care about.

But it’s actually critical to our understanding of not only God, but also our sacraments.

Transcendence explains why God is often hidden to us—why God is beyond our perception.

Transcendence also explains why God is not limited by the physical constraints of the universe.

Immanence explains those times when we experience God—whether it is feeling God’s presence in creation or feeling Jesus holding your hand in the hospital before major surgery.

Immanence explains why God chose to become incarnate in Jesus—to live among us and experience what it is to be human.

Immanence takes the abstract concept of a deity and makes it real for us.

And that duality of transcendence and immanence extends to the sacraments.

Take Communion.

The bread and the wine are immanent.

They are tangible.

We can experience them with our senses.

We can see and touch and taste them.

The body and blood are transcendent.

Their presence is supernatural.

They exist “in, with, and under” the bread and the wine.

The bread and the wine are of creation.

The body and blood are of God.

Immanent and transcendent—both/and.

Without the immanence of the bread and the wine, we couldn’t experience Communion.

Without the transcendence of the body and blood, Communion would be just another ritual—devoid of the supreme significance that we assign to it.

So, creation is a gift because it helps us to understand the nature of God.

But creation is also a gift because it enhances our lives.

Creation inspires us with beauty and with hope.

Yesterday, we had our first Divine Encounter at Davidson’s Mill Pond Park.

Earlier in the week, I walked a few trails in the park to scout the location.

As I was walking, I came upon this area of woods where there was a very large and very noisy flock of grackles.

I imagine it is a sound that would have driven Tippi Hedren to madness—if you don’t get the reference, ask me about it after church.

But it wasn’t the grackles that caught my attention.

It was the undercurrent that was beneath the cacophony.

It was the knock, knock of a red-bellied woodpecker searching for a meal in a dead tree.

It was the screech of a blue jay.

It was the occasional soft thud of an acorn hitting the ground—seeking soil with the promise of a mighty oak contained within its hard shell.

The word that best describes my experience is glorious.

God was present in those woods, and I basked in God’s immanence.

And our pets are a very special part of creation.

They are animals that we open our hearts and our homes to.

Our pets also teach us something about the nature of God.

Although Michael and I have had a couple of cats, we are partial to dogs.

Over the 30-plus years that we’ve been together, we have had 6 dogs.

Each has had its own personality, but we have cherished them all.

I can think of no better teacher about unconditional love than a dog.

Whether you have been away on a business trip for a week or come in the door two minutes after you left because you forgot your keys, you get the same greeting.

You get unbridled joy.

“Oh, thank heavens you’re back! I missed you so much!”

Our dog Montra whines with excitement.

She brings you a favorite toy.

And she wags her tail so vigorously, you think it may fall off.

That is the nature of God’s love for us.

Of course, God’s love is more expansive.

And more deliberate.

But God’s love is unconditional—just like the love of our beloved pets.

And, when we go away, God is joyful when we return.

And that joy that Montra demonstrates when we come home is infectious.

Her joy incites joy in us.

How could it not?

Similarly, we should feel joy in the knowledge that God loves us.

What I want you to take away from this analogy is not that God’s love is like a dog’s.

The takeaway is that the unconditional love that dogs show us and the joy that they experience when we return, those things give us a sense of the magnitude of God’s love—which is infinite—and so, we are able on a certain level to comprehend something that is incomprehensible.

And maybe—just maybe—we can pause in those times when we feel God’s presence and let joy fill us up because we know that presence we feel is because God loves us unconditionally and wants us to know God’s presence.

In so many ways, creation is a gift.

Like all things in our lives—family, friends, possessions—are a gift.

And, as we should with every gift, we give thanks.

We offer up prayers of thanksgiving.

We care for all the things of value that we have received from God.

We are good stewards—understanding that nothing we have is ours.

That all we have, we have by the grace of God.

So, we love, protect, and care for our family and our friends.

We safeguard and maintain our possessions.

And we care for creation.

We preserve our natural environment.

We conserve our natural resources.

We revel in its beauty.

We rejoice in God’s presence.

All these things are our sacred responsibility.

For many, stewardship has come to mean financial support for the church.

But stewardship is so much bigger than that.

It’s not only supporting the church financially—it’s also supporting the church with your time and your talents.

It’s not only supporting the church—it’s also supporting the community.

So much of our call as Christians is about how we live in community.

How we live in community is the central message of the Sermon on the Mount.

And stewardship is not supposed to just be something that we do.

Stewardship is supposed to be part of our faith practice.

We need to make it part of who we are—an integral part of our being.

Which brings me to my vow of chastity.

Now, let me first dispel a common misconception.

Chastity is NOT celibacy.

Traditionally, chastity has been associated with sexual purity.

But, for Lutheran Franciscans, chastity is a vow to “love all, without distinction”.

It is a vow to love as Jesus loves—to emulate his unconditional love.

It is a vow to see the image of God in our fellow human beings and to love them as siblings.

It is a vow to see God in all of creation and to love and care for creation.

It is a vow of fidelity in our relationship with God.

It is a vow that says that our care for one another and our care for creation are acts of faithfulness to our relationship with God.

Creation is a miracle of God’s love.

It is both gift and responsibility.

Creation can help our finite minds understand infinite concepts.

It can inspire awe and fill us with the presence of God.

The ebb and flow of creation is indicative of not only creation, but also re-creation.

It’s a reminder that God is not finished with us yet.

As the Apostle Paul writes in today’s third lesson, “we wait for our bodies to be set free—for God’s glory to be revealed in us.”

Humankind is God’s greatest creation and yet, as we are, we are an unfinished masterpiece, waiting to reveal God’s glory in God’s Kin-dom.

So, as we go about our day-to-day lives, I give you a challenge.

Take a moment each day to pause and really experience creation.

Think about how creation gives us insight into the nature of God.

Consider how the wonders of creation fill us with the presence of God.

Revel in the joy that our pets bring us and how they too can give us some understanding about God’s love.

Appreciate the beauty of creation and how it is our sacred duty to protect and care for it.

And make that care for creation a part of your faith practice—an enduring symbol of the fidelity to your relationship with God.

Let us close this Season of Creation with a special prayer:

Creator God, lover of life and of everything, help us to love in our very small way what you love infinitely and everywhere.

We thank you for showing us that everything and everyone is connected.

Nothing and no one stands alone.

To pray for one part is to pray for the whole.

Help us each day to stand for love, for healing, and for good.

Help us to revel in the diversity of the Body of Christ and all creation.

We thank you for your magnificent creation.

It is all we ever need.

On those days when we feel overwhelmed with the events of the world, let us ground ourselves in the natural lives we were created to live.

Let us spend some extra time in creation to better understand you and receive the shalom—the peace and the wholeness—that only you can provide.

We offer up these prayers together with all the holy names that you are known by.

In Jesus’ blessed name we pray. Amen

“Bridging the Great Chasm” a sermon by Rich Novak

Good morning church!

We have a unique situation today where all three readings complement and reinforce each other around a common theme. However, just like hitting that underhand softball pitch that seems so simple, but is not, these readings seem simple but they are not. And they have often been misquoted and misinterpreted.

In the first reading, Amos, an 8th-century BCE prophet, spoke during a time of wealth and expansion in Israel under Jeroboam II. The nation was prosperous, but social injustice, complacency, and religious corruption were rampant. These verses are part of his “woe oracles,” warning the elites of impending judgment. The issue was not that people were wealthy or comfortable, but they ignored the suffering of their people and he called them out on their complacency and indifference in the face of need. It is too simplistic to say that Amos is railing against the wealth or comfort of Israel.

In the second reading, the author who writes in a Pauline voice (most scholars don’t think Paul actually wrote this) writes to Timothy about how believers, especially leaders, should live in a world where wealth and status tempt them away from faithfulness. The writer reminds us that true wealth is not found in money but in a life rooted in God. “Godliness with contentment is great gain,” he writes, because possessions are temporary; we came into this world with nothing and will leave it the same way. The danger is not money itself, but the love of money—the restless desire to have more—which can pierce the soul and pull us away from faith.

Finally, today’s Gospel is one of Jesus’ most sobering parables. It tells the story of a rich man and a poor man named Lazarus. Note – this is not Lazarus, the friend of Jesus, whom Jesus called forth from the tomb. The name means “God helps”. It’s not a comfortable story, but it is a necessary one. It shakes us awake. It reminds us that how we live our lives here and now—how we treat others, how we use what God has entrusted to us—has eternal consequences. This is not a parable that says Money is Evil, but rather Love of Money is Evil because it distracts us from keeping our eyes on Christ.

This parable is not merely about wealth and poverty; it is about blindness and awareness, hardness of heart and compassion, selfishness and discipleship. It’s about how followers of Jesus are called to see differently, to act differently, and to live differently.

1. Two Men, Two Realities

Jesus paints a vivid contrast. On one side is the rich man: dressed in purple and fine linen, feasting sumptuously every day. He has more than enough, and he surrounds himself with comfort. At his very gate lies Lazarus, covered in sores, hungry for crumbs, with dogs as his only companions.

Notice: the rich man is not condemned simply because he is wealthy. Lazarus is not rewarded simply because he is poor. What condemns the rich man is his blindness—his indifference to the suffering at his doorstep. He stepped over Lazarus day after day. He saw him, but he did not really see him.

As followers of Christ, we are called to open our eyes. Who is lying at our gate? Who is being ignored in our neighborhood, our community, our society? Do we see the Palestinians who are suffering in Gaza as people, as children of God, or as expendable to the aims of a Zionist campaign? This Gospel reminds us that discipleship begins with seeing the people God places in our path.

2. Death Reveals the Truth

Both men die, as we all must. Lazarus is carried by angels to Abraham’s side—a place of comfort, dignity, and belonging. The rich man finds himself in torment, separated by a great chasm.

The reversal is stark. What was hidden in this life is revealed in eternity. The rich man’s wealth could not follow him; his comforts evaporated. But the mercy of God lifts Lazarus, who had been cast aside in life, into eternal embrace.

This is not meant to scare us with visions of fire. It is meant to remind us that the choices we make in life matter. Our faith is not abstract. It is lived in daily decisions: how we treat others, how we spend our time, how we use our resources, how we notice—or ignore—the needs around us. Rich and poor both die. That’s a fact. For all his billions, Elon Musk will not take his earthly wealth with him, nor will he avoid death.

3. The Great Chasm

One of the most haunting lines in the parable is this: “Between you and us a great chasm has been fixed.”

That chasm was not created at death. It was created during life. Every day the rich man ignored Lazarus, the chasm between them grew wider. Every time he feasted while Lazarus starved, the distance deepened. By the time death came, the separation was complete.

As followers of Jesus, our calling is to bridge those chasms here and now—chasm between rich and poor, powerful and powerless, insider and outsider. We bridge them not with words alone but with presence, compassion, and action. To follow Christ is to be a bridge-builder, to close the gap between ourselves and those in need.

4. Listening to Moses, the Prophets, and Christ

The rich man begs Abraham to send Lazarus back from the dead to warn his brothers. Abraham’s reply is striking: “They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.”

In other words: the message has already been given. God’s word is clear. The Law and the Prophets cry out for justice, mercy, and compassion. We don’t need extraordinary signs to know what God expects of us.

And yet, Abraham’s words point to an even greater truth: “Neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.” How prophetic! Jesus Himself would rise from the dead, and still many would not believe.

As disciples, we do not wait for spectacular miracles to guide us. We already have Scripture, the witness of the Church, and the risen Christ Himself. The question is: will we listen? Will we let His word shape our lives?

(if time – story about the person who ignored the warnings, the rescue boat, the helicopter and then blamed God)

5. Living as Followers of Jesus Christ

So, what does this mean for us today? How are we to live as followers of Jesus in light of this parable?

- First, we are called to see. See the Lazaruses at our gates: the lonely neighbor, the struggling co-worker, the hungry child, the forgotten elderly, the marginalized in society, the Palestinians suffering in Gaza, the children in Ukraine. Discipleship begins with awareness.
- Second, we are called to act. Love is not passive. Following Jesus means responding with compassion—sharing what we have, speaking up for those who have no voice, offering time, presence, and care.
- Third, we are called to listen. We have Moses, the prophets, the Gospels, and the living witness of Christ. His words are not suggestions; they are invitations to a new way of life. We have had modern day prophets – Martin Luther King Jr., John Lewis, Scott Rush. Will we let His word reorder our priorities?
- Finally, we are called to hope. This parable ends with warning, but also with hope. Lazarus is lifted up. God’s justice prevails. And for us, the good news is this: it is never too late to change. The rich man ignored Lazarus until death—but we are still alive. We still have time to see, to act, to love.

6. Following Christ Daily

Following Jesus is not about occasional acts of charity or moments of generosity. It is about a way of life. It is about carrying our cross daily, practicing mercy daily, offering forgiveness daily, and letting Christ reshape our hearts day by day.

The saints of the Church did not become holy overnight. They became holy by following Christ one choice at a time. So too with us. Every day is an opportunity to close the chasm, to build the bridge, to follow the One who has already crossed the ultimate chasm between heaven and earth to save us.

Conclusion

Friends, the parable of the rich man and Lazarus is not a story about “them.” It is a story about us. Each of us is faced with the choice: will we live with eyes open or closed? Hearts soft or hardened? Will we build bridges or widen chasms?

As followers of Jesus Christ, let us live in such a way that when our own lives come to an end, we too will be carried by angels—not because of wealth or poverty, but because of mercy lived, compassion shown, and love made real.

So let us go forth and see, act, listen, and hope—living our lives as true disciples of Jesus Christ.

Amen.

The Joy of Being Found

TIt’s important for us to acknowledge how today’s gospel opens.

Tax collectors and sinners were among those who came to listen to Jesus—and he ate with them.

That may not seem like a big deal, but we need to give this some first-century context.

First of all, tax collectors were reviled.

They were collaborators—people who cooperated with Rome in the oppression of the Jewish people.

They were traitors.

Sinners, on the other hand, is a catchall for people who violated Torah—people who were not living a righteous life.

Eating with tax collectors and sinners was subversive.

It ignored cultural norms and violated societal hierarchy.

And because of that, it ticked off some people.

Most notably, the people in power.

The people who benefitted the most from maintaining the status quo.

Jesus had no interest in maintaining the status quo.

Jesus was all about the Kin-dom.

And God’s Kin-dom is not about power.

It’s not about hierarchy, status, or position.

God’s Kin-dom is about justice.

Jesus wanted to see hungry people fed.

He wanted to see sick and injured people healed.

He wanted to see the lost and the lonely made whole again.

In other words, he wanted to see the brokenness of the world repaired.

One of the interesting things about today’s gospel is that it comes from a trilogy of parables.

The last one isn’t part of today’s reading, but I think it’s important to point out the two from today are part of a larger set.

The first is the Parable of the Lost Sheep.

The second is the Parable of the Lost Coin.

Those two make up today’s gospel lesson.

The last is the Parable of the Lost Son—most of us are used to calling it the Parable of the Prodigal Son.

The reason I think it’s important to point out the trilogy is the theme in all three parables is the same: something that was lost is found.

That we hear the same theme three times in different settings says to me—as it should to you too—that Jesus is telling us something important.

There is a message that he wants to make sure that we get.

And, as is so often the case, it’s a message in two parts.

The first part is that God always seeks us out.

When we stray—when we are lost—God comes after us.

God doesn’t wait for us to come to God.

God comes to us.

That is the result of God’s unconditional love for us.

God comes to us.

God calls us by name.

Unfortunately, we don’t always listen.

Sometimes, God calls our name, and we don’t hear.

Pain or pride or anger makes us deaf to God’s voice.

But God still comes to us.

And God stays with us—despite whatever human frailty is keeping us separated from God.

Isn’t it interesting how, whenever we are separated from God, it’s never because God has left us.

God never abandons us.

It’s aways we who get lost.

There was a time when I was unchurched.

Some of you have heard my story.

I was injured by the church I was attending.

I was asked to resign from youth ministry because I was outed as a gay man.

It was heartbreaking and the hurt forced me to leave the church.

To be clear, I never felt abandoned by God.

It was the institution that I was disillusioned with.

But I was still lost—if not to God, at least to the love and community of a congregation.

But God remained.

The Spirit kept me connected to the divine through music.

And, when I had healed from the injury, the Spirit inspired me to seek.

Sophia gave me the wisdom to understand that I could not fully experience God without community.

And, eventually, I found—just as God promises all seekers.

I went to a new church.

It wasn’t the first one I tried.

But the first Sunday I went there, the pastor preached about letting go.

Letting go is such an important lesson for all of us.

Letting go is about giving up the hurt that burdens us.

Letting go is about giving up the fear that limits us.

Letting go is trusting that God is with you.

That God is always with you—and will never abandon you.

Letting go is about being found.

It’s about returning from the dark place where you were lost.

The second part of today’s message is about joy.

There is joy in being found.

The shepherd rejoiced at finding his lost sheep.

The woman rejoiced at finding her lost coin.

The father rejoiced at finding his lost son.

And God rejoices every time someone who has been separated from God is reunited with God.

In fact, Jesus says, when that happens, all of heaven rejoices.

And that joy is reciprocal, isn’t it?

We experience joy at being found.

We need God in our lives.

When we are separated from God, we know that something is missing.

And we need community.

We may enjoy some time to ourselves—but we do need community.

Human contact is one of our basic needs.

It’s programmed into our DNA.

Human contact is necessary for our health and our emotional wellbeing.

Human contact is also important for our spiritual wellbeing.

We cannot be Christians in isolation.

Our faith practice requires community.

So, when we have been lost—separated from God or separated from community—we rejoice at being found again.

When we hear God call our name, our heart leaps.

When we know that God claims us as God’s own—as one of God’s beloved children—it fills our heart with joy.

When I joined that new church, I was surprised at the joy I felt.

I don’t think I fully realized what a void being unchurched had made in my life.

And, even though you may not be technically “lost” or “separated” from the community, I imagine that there is a measure of joy that you all experience when you walk into this sanctuary on Sunday morning and see your church family again.

And that feeling of joy—whether it is upon hearing God’s voice or being restored to community—that joy is yet another glimpse of the Kin-dom.

So, in that spirit, let us pray:

Good and gracious God,

May that joy—that glimpse of the Kin-dom—encourage us to continue seeking you.

May it encourage us to restore relationships that are lost to us.

May it encourage us to be a beacon of your love for those who are lost.

And may it encourage us to continue working towards your Kin-dom.

In Jesus’ name we pray.

Amen.

See Every Sibling and Invite Them In

There is a thread of the Kin-dom that runs through all three lessons today.

The Psalm talks about God’s mercy and compassion.

We’re told that good people are generous; they give to the poor, doing justice always and forever.

The reading from Hebrews talks about showing hospitality to strangers and caring for those in prison.

It goes on to say how good works and sharing resources are the sacrifices that please God.

Then, the Gospel has this parable about a wedding party, seats of honor, and the invitation list.

The connection to the Kin-dom is a little less clear so let me give it some historical context.

In first-century Israel, wedding parties were banquets.

A wedding party was a big deal because the majority of first-century Jews—living under the oppression of Roman occupation—were living in poverty.

And eating—a basic necessity—was not always a given.

Hunger was pervasive.

And a banquet was not just a meal; it was an extravagant meal.

And it was a celebration.

So, it’s no wonder that the Kin-dom of God is represented by a banquet.

OK, so we have this thread of the Kin-dom running through all of today’s lessons.

But what good news are we supposed to take away from it?

We know the lesson Jesus has for us in in the form of a parable.

And we know parables are meant to be twisted and turned to reveal their hidden meaning.

So, let’s twist and turn the parable a bit and see if we can make the message clearer.

One of the things that can shed light on the meaning of a parable is to look at it from different perspectives.

Typically, I think we tend to hear this parable from the perspective of the host or perhaps, a guest.

But let’s look at it from the perspective of the uninvited—the ones who are typically overlooked—the ones Jesus said we should invite.

All the people Jesus mentions— “those who are poor or have physical infirmities or are blind”—lived on the margins of society.

If they were not outcasts, they were certainly overlooked.

But Jesus sees them.

And he encourages us to see them too.

And not only see them but invite them in.

Looking at Jesus’ command from the perspective of those who would not typically be invited, we can imagine their feeling of joy.

Joy at being included.

Joy at being able to say “oh, I see—THIS is what the Kin-dom of God is like.”

It’s a place where I am seen.

It’s a place where I am recognized as a child of God.

It’s a place where people know that I also possess the divine image of God.

The other characteristic of first-century banquets is that they were opportunities to improve one’s social standing.

But those who are poor or who have physical infirmities or who are blind, they had nothing to offer in terms of networking, relationship building, or status improvement.

Yes, that’s an awful thing to say.

And that’s a very utilitarian way of looking at people.

But remember that we’re talking about a first-century perspective.

How would have Jesus’ command sounded those people?

Shocking, no doubt.

And again, I imagine there would be joy amongst the marginalized.

Joy at being valued.

Not because of anything they could offer.

But simply because they were included.

Seen as a child of God.

And recognized as possessing the same divine image of God.

You see, the table that Jesus invites us to is a table of grace.

A table of unconditional welcome.

At my internship site, we had a man who was a frequent visitor.

He had some kind of developmental disability.

He was high-functioning but he had a hard time holding down a job.

He couldn’t afford an apartment, so he lived in his car.

He had a membership at the local Planet Fitness so he could shower.

When he came to church, sometimes he sat in the narthex and just listened.

When he did come into the sanctuary, he always sat alone.

He would come to coffee hour to get something to eat but he would usually take it to go.

He never socialized, even though he was greeted by many people and encouraged to join in.

You see, he didn’t feel Jesus’ unconditional welcome.

Not because of anything the congregation did—or didn’t do.

We loved him and cared for him.

The congregation paid for his car insurance, so he didn’t lose his only source of shelter.

We always packed food from coffee hour for him to take away.

I gave him a sub-zero sleeping bag, so he didn’t freeze to death in the winter.

But years of living on the margins—of being overlooked and unseen—made him unable to accept being seen.

Unable to see that we were offering him a glimpse of the Kin-dom.

That we saw him as a child of God and recognized the divine image that we shared with him.

And that is how we know the Kin-dom is near, but it is not yet.

Because try as we did, we could not get him to see it.

The table that Jesus invites us to is also a table of humility.

Jesus says, “what you should do is go and sit in the lowest place”.

In other words, you should assume a position of humility.

Humility was not a first-century virtue—at least not in Greco-Roman society.

Honor was the virtue.

Judaism, on the other hand, valued humility but primarily in the context of humbleness before God.

But Jesus’ teaching goes a step further.

It emphasizes humility.

In today’s Gospel, he says, “For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

And again, in the Beatitudes, he says, “The meek shall inherit the earth”.

Humility was a cornerstone of Jesus’ teaching.

It is a characteristic of The Way—the faith practice of Jesus followers.

As a Franciscan, humility has special meaning for me.

It is related to our vow of obedience.

Humility is a joyful surrender to God’s will.

Humility is a joyful surrender of self-importance.

And that surrender of self-importance is a commitment to the service of others, especially those who are poor.

Humility is also a joyful surrender to being formed by others—to growing in faith with those who we gather around us in community.

I’d like to think that those three things—surrender to God’s will, surrender of self-importance, and surrender of self-importance—is giving oneself up to the Kin-dom—what God has ordained for us.

And it’s important to note that our Franciscan surrender must be joyful because, if it isn’t joyful, it doesn’t count.

¬The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.—and Howard Thurman before him—talked about the “beloved community”.

It’s their term for the Kin-dom on earth.

When talking about his movement, Dr. King said, “Our goal is to create a beloved community, and this will require a qualitative change in our souls as well as a quantitative change in our lives.”

The qualitative change in our souls is the ability to see each other as children of God, each of us—ALL of us—possessing the divine image of God.

And the quantitative changes are that the people who are overlooked become seen and are invited in.

Those who are poor, have physical infirmities, or are blind are valued.

And people like the man who was homeless at my internship site see the value in themselves and can receive love and acceptance from others.

In short, God’s justice—what Jesus calls us to—reigns.

So let us close with a prayer for the Kin-dom:

Good and gracious God:

We are not satisfied with the world as it is.

There is still too little of the Kin-dom.

Show us your light.

Help us to understand that we are all your children and that your image in us makes us more alike than any category we have created for each other.

Guide us to always work for your justice—which is the birthright of every human being.

Make us more loving—the unconditional love that Jesus modeled for us—because only that kind of love can overcome hate.

Make us more forgiving—as you forgive us over and over again.

And, Holy One, keep showing us glimpses of your Kin-dom so we never tire of working towards it.

In Jesus’ blessed name we pray.

Amen.

Be Like Jesus … See One Another

The traditional themes for today’s readings are the sabbath—the importance of taking time to rest—and how we interpret the law—what I would frame as the letter of the law versus the spirit of the law.

In the interest of keeping this relatively short so we can get on with the picnic, I would like to focus on a single phrase in today’s gospel:

“Jesus saw her”.

Now, there’s a lot going on in today’s gospel so you may be asking yourself, “why that phrase?”

And that’s a legitimate question.

You see, I have a mental picture of this story.

I think we all tend to do that—visualize the story that we’re reading.

When I read this story, I see the woman, bent over at the waist for almost 2 decades.

She’s unable to look directly at anyone, except maybe small children.

And they are likely afraid of her.

She sees only legs, feet, and sandals.

But Jesus sees her.

Even though she is bent over and probably lost in the crowd, Jesus sees her.

There is nothing in the text to indicate that she sought Jesus out.

But he sees her anyway.

Just as God saw Hagar in the desert, Jesus sees her.

Jesus is the God who sees.

And just as God gave Hagar comfort and hope, Jesus does the same for the afflicted woman.

And in my mind’s eye, when Jesus speaks to the woman, he crouches down to her level—to speak to her face-to-face.

That is the Jesus that we know and love.

Amidst a crowd of people, he singles out the one who has been marginalized.

The one who has been overlooked and outcast.

The one who is most in need of his help.

The one who is most in need of his love.

He does not wait for her to come to him.And he doesn’t just heal her—he FREES her.

I think this idea of seeing and being seen is central to what it means to be a follower of Jesus.

All too often, we go through life with blinders on—seeing only what we choose to see.

And, more importantly, WHO we want to see.

We may see hungry people in our own community who come to the UMC soup kitchen for food, but we choose not to see the women and children starving in Gaza.

We may see the LGBTQ+ folks that are our friends and family members, but we choose not to see the ones that are too flamboyant, too “in your face”, or that we just don’t understand.

We may see the mom with postpartum depression and the teen with anxiety but we choose not to see Deborah Terrell—a senior with mental illness¬—who was killed by New Brunswick police 2 weeks ago.

We CHOOSE who we see.

But Jesus sees us all.

Jesus commanded us to love one another.

I believe that loving one another starts with seeing one another.

And not just seeing a sanitized version of the world—but the world we actually live in.

Because the world that we live in is not the Kin-dom.

The Kin-dom is near, but it is not yet.

Some parts of this world are beautiful.

Other parts are unpleasant—scary even.

But we need to see all of it.

Because, if we don’t see the unpleasant and scary parts, we cannot work to change them.

If we don’t see children starving in Gaza, we won’t ask our representatives to vote for policies that call for a ceasefire and demand that aid gets into Gaza.

If we don’t see the Deborah Terrells of the world, we won’t fight for mental health quick response teams to de-escalate tense situations.

Like most people nowadays, I have a smart phone.

And I often relax by scrolling through social media.

Lately, I have been fascinated by videos of this guy who sings to animals and their reaction to his singing.

There are dozens of these videos.

He’s either French or perhaps French Canadian.

It’s just him and his guitar singing for animals.

I’ve watched him sing for every kind of animal imaginable—parrots, cows, horses, penguins, sea lions, giraffes, elephants, raccoons, and lemurs.

And, in every instance, the animals are drawn to him—or at least to his music.

I’d venture to say that, had he not played music, the animals would have just ignored him.

They wouldn’t have seen him.

But the music draws them.

Maybe it’s curiosity, but I believe that it’s something deeper.

There is something about music that connects us—people to people, people to God, and people to animals.

I might even go so far as to say that music—our ability to create music—is a gift of our divine image.

In a few minutes, this service will be over, and we will enjoy a picnic together.

Many of you have known each other for decades.

But there is something very different about sitting next to each other in a pew and sharing stories over a cheeseburger.

Sharing a meal together is something integral to the practice of our Lutheran faith.

We even joke about it.

“You know you might be Lutheran if potluck dinner is your favorite indoor sport” or

“You know you might be Lutheran if you count coffee hour as one of the sacraments”.

But the reason it is so important to us is that breaking bread together changes relationships.

It deepens our connection.

It helps us to see each other differently.

I would argue that it also makes us see each other more fully.

So that’s the thought I’d like to leave you with.

Just like music draws animals to see the man, let see—truly see—one another.

Just as we see each other more completely over a shared meal, let us see ALL our siblings—even the ones we might prefer not to see.

And, just as God saw Hagar and Jesus saw the afflicted woman, let us not only see our siblings in distress, but let us also offer them comfort and hope.

Because the divine image that we share binds us.

And the beacon of that image draws us together.

May this meditation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus. Amen.

We are Bound Together as Children of God

This is one of those gospel lessons where a pastor debates skipping the lectionary for a week.

Jesus lighting the earth on fire and pitting family members against one another doesn’t really evoke the Prince of Peace now does it?

But diving into a hard or troublesome text is necessary.

I would argue that the best place to do it is in small group Bible study with open discussion, but this Sunday sermon is the best we can do at the moment.

So, let’s talk about today’s gospel and try to wring some good news out of it.

First off, the opening lines were not intended to be taken literally.

Jesus did not come to earth to set it on fire.

Maybe some of you are saying that’s obvious but I want to be clear.

There was a footnote in some of the commentaries I read that said “setting the earth on fire” was a common idiom of Jesus’ time that used the image of lighting an outdoor earthen oven to mean getting things started.

So, Jesus is talking about getting things rolling.

He is anxious to get on with it.

The “baptism he must still receive” refers to his passion, death, and resurrection.

Of course it’s causing him “great distress”.

I mean how would you like having that hanging over your head?

Next comes this weird question: “Do you think I’m here to bring peace on earth?”

Like us, the disciples were probably thinking, “yeah dude!

All you’ve been talking about is the Kin-dom of God—how great it is, how justice will reign, and all people will have enough!

You mean to tell us that there isn’t peace in the Kin-dom?”

But that’s just it.

There is peace in the Kin-dom.

But the Kin-dom is only near.

It is not yet.

So, all this talk about division is about building the Kin-dom.

Because the Kin-dom is something new.

The Kin-dom requires change—and not minor change.

Significant change.

Societal upheaval even.

And guess what?

That kind of change creates division.

Division in communities, for sure.

And even division in families.

Some of you may remember that my brother and sister-in-law were here a few weeks ago.

Dan came because he was scheduled for surgery that week and he thought coming to the church where his brother preached would provide him with an extra bit of grace.

I don’t believe that’s the way grace works but I wasn’t going to argue with him.

I was glad that they came.

It was the Sunday that I preached about HR1, the bill that made the tax cuts to corporations and billionaires permanent.

The bill that greatly increased the budget for ICE.

All at the expense of healthcare and food assistance for poor and low-income folks.

The people Jesus called “the least of these”.

I knew my brother and sister-in-law would not agree with what I had to say.

A few weeks later, at a family party, Laurie said something about my having drunk the Kool-Aid.

Of course, I might have made the same comment about her.

I would have said that my Kool-Aid—if that’s what you want to call it—came from the gospel.

Whereas hers came from idealogues who were only interested in creating fear and sowing division.

But there’s one example of the division that Jesus was talking about.

Brother against brother divided by their hopes or expectations for the future.

I imagine many of you have similar divisions within your own families.

I wrestle with the dilemma of should I speak my truth or should I maintain peace within the family?

More often than not, I opt for peace.

But I do worry that makes me a bit of a hypocrite.

How do I preach the truth of the gospel on Sunday morning and then opt to hold my tongue at a family gathering?

My hope lies in the words of Richard Rohr, a Franciscan priest and prolific author.

He maintains that there must be division before there can be true unity.

He says this because even good people will have differences of opinion.

Even good people will hurt one another.

He goes on to say that overcoming our differences—that is what brings the peace of Christ.

And letting go of the hurt—that is what brings the healing of the Spirit.

I confess that I would be a lot happier if I thought that all my friends and family held the same beliefs as I do.

It is difficult when people you love hold beliefs that are diametrically opposed to your own.

What makes it even more difficult is knowing that discussion is futile.

That the political rhetoric in this country has created such deeply entrenched positions that constructive dialog is not possible.

I confess that it pains me.

It pains me because my political views are defined by my morality.

And my morality has been formed by the love of God.

My love FOR God—imperfect as it may be.

And God’s love for me—that unconditional, inexhaustible love that keeps challenging me to be more like Jesus.

That keeps challenging me to keep working with God to build the Kin-dom.

I know I will never see it in my lifetime.

But I’m going to keep laying bricks one-by-one.

And I’m going to keep spreading mortar.

Because that is what I am called to do.

And that, my friends, are what you are called to do as well.

So, I guess that question for me becomes, “how do we deal with this division while we’re waiting for the Kin-dom?”

Some if us may even be asking ourselves, “how do we not only deal with the division but also the fear—the frustration—that it seems like we’re moving further away from the Kin-dom?”

That’s a good question and I’m not sure I have a good answer but I’m going to give it a shot.

I think the answer lies buried in this strange passage about Jesus coming to bring division.

All this talk about division between father and son, mother and daughter, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law—it’s all pointing us to the reality that it is not our earthly family that is important.

Jesus is trying to focus us on our divine family.

Jesus is reminding us that we are beloved children of God.

Possessing the divine image of God.

Called by name and claimed as God’s own.

That is our true identity.

That is the path to ending division.

That is the path to ending unkindness and cruelty.

That is the path to the peace of Christ.

And that is the path to the healing of the Spirit.

The path to the Kin-dom will not be uncovered by winning arguments.

The path to the Kin-dom will not be uncovered by showing that we are right and they are wrong.

The path to the Kin-dom cannot be uncovered through domination.

The path to the Kin-dom can only be uncovered by acknowledging that we are the same.

We are beloved children of God—each and every one of us.

We all possess the divine image of God—each and every one of us.

We have all been called by name and claimed as God’s own—each and every one of us.

That is Jesus’ message for us.

That is what he is hoping will be as obvious to us as the weather when we look out the window.

We are beloved of God.

And we are all siblings—alike in a way that trumps any differences.

Because we all possess the divine image of our Creator.

May this meditation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus. Amen.

Avoiding Greed by Becoming Rich in God

So, for those of you that are not aware, I was away last week to attend the Annual Chapter of the Order of Lutheran Franciscans.

The Lutheran Franciscans were founded in 2011 and is the only recognized religious order in the ELCA.

I have been involved with the Order for about 5 years, and I was attracted to them because their foundations are service to the poor, care for creation, interreligious dialog, and rebuilding the church.

All four of these topics are important to me and are integral to my call to ministry.

This past Monday, I took vows of Obedience, Chastity, and Poverty as a novice in the Order.

I now begin a 5-year program of study and discernment, after which, I can become a Life-Professed member of the Order.

So, a few points of clarification:

First, this does not change my call to ministry at Emanuel.

My participation in the Order is a separate, although related, call to service that is integral to my spiritual development.

Second, as a novice, I can use the title of Brother.

I will use it in certain circumstances, when it seems appropriate.

All my Franciscan siblings will refer to me as Brother Scott.

You can call me Pastor Scott, Brother Scott, or Scott, whichever is most comfortable for you.

I will answer to any of them.

Third, the habit of novices in the Order is a Tau cross.

You will notice that I wear it every day.

I also have the brown robe that most people associate with Franciscans.

I will only wear it at OLF functions, like Annual Chapter, and for certain events that are related to my vows.

For most of you, you will likely only see it for the Blessing of the Animals service that we will have in October that also commemorates St. Francis.

Now, I share all this because I thought some of you might be curious.

I am certainly happy to talk at length about the Order and my formation experience as a novice, if anyone is interested.

I may even take an Adult Forum session to explain the foundations and vows in greater detail.

But, for the purposes of today, I thought we might take a look at the readings through the lens of the Franciscan vow of poverty.

Greed is the central message of all three lessons today.

We live in a consumer society.

We are culturally conditioned to want things.

The media we are continually exposed to is inundated with advertising whose sole purpose is to sell us things.

With the advent of social media, there are now algorithms—little computer programs—that track what we look at and even listen in on our conversations to predict the things that will interest us.

Products are designed with built-in obsolescence so, rather than repairing things, we have to replace them.

All these commercial tactics—advertising, algorithms, and obsolescence—are crafted to make us WANT things.

We are actively being programmed, not to be grateful and good stewards of what we have.

We are actively being programmed to be envious of “new and improved”.

We are being conditioned to believe that what we have is never enough.

That, my friends, is greed.

One of God’s greatest gifts to us is creation.

We were not given creation to do whatever we want with it.

We were given creation as stewards—to protect and care for it.

But what have we done?

We have depleted natural resources.

We have upset the natural balance of things and created a climate crisis.

We have driven entire species of animals to extinction.

Our consumer culture creates such massive amounts of trash that we have run out of places to put it.

So, we dump it in the ocean.

Did you know that the great Pacific garbage patch is more than twice the size of Texas?

That, my friends, is greed.

Jesus said, “Avoid greed in all its forms.”

It’s an interesting phrase, isn’t it?

Because we typically look at greed as being all about money and possessions.

But Jesus is talking about greed very expansively.

So, what are the forms of greed?

Ungratefulness.

Attachment to material things.

Consumerism.

Coveting other people’s possessions.

Abusing creation.

The “isms” and phobias that plague our society—racism, classism, sexism, homophobia, and xenophobia—are born out of fear.

And that fear has its roots in greed.

We fear that someone that we perceive to be different from us will take something that is ours.

We fear that rights gained by another group of people will diminish our own rights.

But the perception that any of our human siblings are not like us is delusion.

Because the fact that we all possess the divine image of God trumps any differences we may have.

The counterpoint to greed what Jesus called being “rich in God”.

What does that mean?

I believe “being rich in God” starts with gratitude—gratitude for all that we have.

Because all that we have is a gift from God—given to us to steward.

Stewardship is a church word that isn’t always understood.

A steward does not own.

A steward takes care of.

When we are grateful for what we have—when we see our possessions as gifts from God, given to us to take care of—we are less likely to covet the things that we don’t.

When we are grateful for God’s many blessings, we learn to trust in God.

We trust that God will provide all that we need.

That doesn’t mean we get to sit back and rely on manna from heaven.

Today’s Psalm warns about those who “trust only in their money” because “their prosperity cannot keep them from death”.

We put our trust in God, because “God so loved the world as to give the Only Begotten One, that whoever believes may not die, but have eternal life.

God sent the Only Begotten into the world not to condemn the world, but that through the Only Begotten the world might be saved.”

We trust in God because of the covenant we have with God through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus—the covenant that promises us eternal life.

God became incarnate in Jesus because God wanted a closer relationship with us.

A relationship that was only possible by becoming human and living among us.

In Colossians, we read, “put on a new self, one that grows in knowledge as it is formed anew in the image of its Creator.

And in that image, there is no Greek or Hebrew; no Jew or Gentile; no barbarian or Scythian; no slave or citizen.

There is only Christ, who is all in all.”

That is what it means to be in relationship with God:

To be re-formed and re-created in the divine image of God.

To recognize that divinity in all our human siblings.

And to recognize that that divinity is more defining of who we are than any of the categories that we’ve invented for each other.

That is the foundation of loving one another.

We are all children of God—each and every one of us—possessing the divine image of God.

When we see that—when we acknowledge it—how could we not love one another?

Jesus tells us that we should “avoid greed in all its forms”?

That is the lesson that we need to bring home with us today.

So, how do we “avoid greed in all its forms”?

We do it by living simply and avoiding attachment to material things.

We describe people that we like and admire as someone who “would give you the shirt off their back”.

I haven’t known many people for whom that was actually true, but I’ve known a few.

People who have little and are still grateful.

People who have little and still find ways to share what they have.

People who give, not out of their abundance, but out of their scarcity.

People like the widow in the gospels of Mark and Luke, who gave the last two coins in her possession.

Jesus also said we need to be “rich in God”.

We are “rich in God” when we are grateful—understanding that everything we have is a gift from God.

And we are given those gifts to steward—not to own, but to care for.

We are “rich in God” when we trust in God—in our covenant with God through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus.

When we trust that our wealth is not in material things, but in the love of God—the love of God for us and our love for God.

And we are “rich in God” when we are in relationship with God.

When we show our love for God through prayer and worship.

When we show our love for God by loving for our human siblings—when we recognize the divine image of God that we share with each and every one of them.

Franciscans avoid greed in all its forms by taking a vow of poverty.

Because St. Francis said, “For poverty is that heavenly virtue by which all earthy and transitory things are trodden under foot, and by which every obstacle is removed from the soul so that it may freely enter into union with the eternal Lord God. It is also the virtue which makes the soul, while still here on earth, converse with the angels in Heaven.”

I pray that we each learn to follow the example of Francis.

That we are liberated from greed in all its forms.

That every obstacle is removed from our relationship with God.

And that our souls are freed to converse with the angels in heaven.

May this meditation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus. Amen.

Feeding & Being Fed as Spiritual Practice

Today’s gospel is an interesting one.

I say that because it is a story of two sisters, faced with a choice, and they each chose differently.

And I think traditionally, we are quick to judge Martha unfairly and say she chose poorly.

But hospitality is important, and meals don’t just prepare themselves, right?

Jesus and his followers had to eat.

So, Martha was doing something important—vital even.

The problem with Martha’s reasoning is that she thought her work was the most important thing.

But Jesus gently corrected her and pointed out that Mary’s listening to him teach was important—in fact, “the better part”.

And that’s what I think makes this passage so interesting.

Because we’re faced with choices all the time, aren’t we?

And, generally speaking, we tend to be very task-oriented.

What can I accomplish today?

How many things can I cross off my list?

And sometimes, we forget to ask ourselves, “am I doing the important thing?”

“Have I chosen the better part?”

“Or am I getting so bogged down in minutia or that I’m not listening to the words of Jesus?”

I think those are all good questions to ask ourselves.

There are many things that I love about our Lutheran faith and its traditions.

Paramount to our faith is the idea of grace.

Grace tells us that, as children of God, we are all beneficiaries of God’s grace.

Despite our imperfection—despite all the ways that we find to disappoint God—we are all loved unconditionally.

And we are all forgiven—over and over again.

Day in and day out.

Another thing I love is the importance of context.

We believe that we cannot fully understand Scripture without understanding the historical and cultural context in which it was written.

But the thing that I love that is particularly relevant here is the concept of both/and.

We are often faced with what we perceive to be either/or choices.

But many times, the choices are not so clear cut.

Listening to Jesus teach was important.

So, it’s easy to say that Mary choose wisely.

But feeding Jesus was also important.

Both Mary’s task and Martha’s task were important.

Martha’s error was in perceiving that her choice was either/or.

I think this story is so relevant to our faith life.

We so often face this dilemma: do I listen at the feet of Jesus or do I do something?

And the answer is not a simple one.

Going to church on Sunday is important.

Reading the Bible or going to Bible Study is important.

Having a good prayer life is important.

But so is going outside this community and serving people in need—the ones Jesus called “the least of these”.

On the flip side, working at the mobile shower deployments is important.

Volunteering your time at a food pantry or a soup kitchen is important.

Protesting injustice is important.

But so is being the Body of Christ in this community.

It’s not an either/or choice.

It’s a both/and.

Our faith—listening at the feet of Jesus—inspires us to do something.

It inspires us to pick up that mantle of shepherd that Jesus passed on to us.

And, if you’ll indulge me a little further, I’d like to continue my defense of Martha.

Because I can’t help but hear the echo of Jesus’ words, “Feed my sheep”.

Feeding people is part of my love language so “feed my sheep” resonates strongly with me.

Feeding people—breaking bread together—can be a spiritual experience.

And when I really thought about it, I was amazed at how many times in the past couple of weeks a shared meal became the work of Jesus.

At the closing ceremony of Vacation Bible School, we fed the families of our day campers.

We sat side-by-side and became family.

Language was not a barrier.

We shared love and admiration for children who learned a few songs and put their hearts and souls into singing them.

We were entertained.

We laughed.

Our hearts were filled with the Spirit.

And not one person left that celebration who wasn’t elevated by being there.

Last week, we worshipped with the African community at the United Methodist Church at New Brunswick.

We sat side-by-side with them and we were welcomed as family.

Language was not a barrier.

Neither was culture.

We were swept up in their joy and their gratitude.

We were uplifted by prayer and song and dance.

And then we were fed.

On Friday night, a group of us gathered at Tiina and Arnie’s for a Potluck Dinner.

We all already knew one another.

But there is something about sharing a meal together that draws you closer.

There is something about sharing something you made—something you made with love in your heart.

There’s something about that that binds you.

We talked.

We listened.

And we ate.

And, in the process, we grew closer.

And, in a moment, we will share the most important meal together.

It is a meal we share not only with each other but also with Jesus.

It is a meal we share not only with each other but also with all the saints that came before us and all the saints that will come after us.

It is a meal that binds us as a community of faith.

It is a meal that provides spiritual nourishment.

It is a meal that strengthens us as the family of God’s children.

There is a common thread in all those events.

And I could add others.

You see, by saying, “Feed my sheep”, Jesus made feeding something sacred.

And by sharing a table with the oppressed and the marginalized—outcasts of society—he made something equally sacred about sharing a meal.

So maybe we should cut Martha a little slack.

She was doing important work.

She was doing the sacred act of feeding.

And maybe—in our busy lives, where we are trying to be as productive as humanly possible—we try to remember to pause and ask, “am I doing the important thing?”

“Have I chosen the better part?”

And maybe also remember that not every choice is either/or.

Sometimes, the right choice is both/and.

And, my friends, I beg you to always remember that Jesus said, “feed my sheep”.

And how that makes feeding a sacred task.

And how sharing a meal binds us to one another in community and as a family.

Thanks be to God!

May this meditation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus. Amen.

We Are Shepherds

I stand before you very conflicted.

You see, I am angry—really angry.

And I am wounded.

Wounded because I know the harm that is coming to some of my siblings.

Because of the cuts to SNAP, I know my poor and low-income siblings—many of them children—will go hungry.

Because of cuts to Medicaid, I know my poor and low-income siblings will go without essential medical care and prescriptions.

I know elder care facilities will close—leaving some seniors homeless.

I know rural hospitals will close—leaving people in sparsely populated areas without essential medical care.

And I know the continued assault on immigrants will separate families, deport tens of thousands of hardworking, taxpaying people, and will do nothing to make this country safer.

One of my seminary professors once told me, we never preach from our wounds; we should only preach from our scars.

My wounds are far too fresh—they have not had time to heal.

So, this morning, I stand before you and I can only preach from my wounds.

I debated saying, “I am wounded and, therefore, I cannot preach”.

But that would’ve been dishonest.

I can preach—and I will preach.

But, I’ll say up front, it is from a raw place.

There are those who would say that talking about HR 1—I can’t bring myself to call it the “One Big Beautiful Bill”—is politics and doesn’t belong in the pulpit.

They are certainly entitled to that opinion.

But I would counter that by saying a budget—or, in this case, a spending plan—is a moral document.

It defines what we value—what we believe in.

And morality, values, beliefs—those are certainly the purview of our faith.

HR 1 says we value individual wealth more than feeding children.

HR 1 says tax breaks for corporations are more important than the health and wellbeing of poor people and seniors.

HR 1 says we believe that some people are better than others.

That only the right people deserve due process.

That rounding up people with brown skin—not criminals, but people looking for work at Home Depots, people picking fruits and vegetables in the fields, and people working in meatpacking plants—rounding up and deporting those people is more important than feeding people and making sure they have medical care.

HR 1 has increased funding for ICE to the point that their budget is now greater than the FBI, ATF, DEA, and Federal Bureau of Prisons COMBINED!

HR 1, as a moral document, says that we, as a country, are morally bankrupt.

And that saddens me.

Because I love this country—I truly do.

But this morning I am ashamed—ashamed of what we have become.

Now, that may make some of you mad—or at least uncomfortable.

You may be thinking I should stick to the gospel.

I, of course, would argue that’s precisely what I’m doing but we may just have to agree to disagree on that point.

Some of you may be thinking that I’m being negative and that I should just focus on what I am for.

Fair point.

So, here is what I am for—and, for today, I’ll confine myself to three things.

First, feeding people who are hungry—no conditions, no stipulations.

We live in the wealthiest country in the world—no one should go hungry.

Second, healthcare for all.

We have one of the highest infant mortality rates among industrialized nations—babies dying due to inadequate medical care is an absolute travesty.

And no one should have to choose between taking their prescription medications and paying their rent or feeding their children.

Third, equal treatment under the law.

No one is above the law.

And everyone is entitled to due process.

That’s MY moral document—feed people who are hungry, healthcare for all, and equal treatment under the law.

When we fail at it—be forewarned—I’m gonna preach about it.

And I’ll preach about it with the full confidence that I am doing so in alignment with the teachings and the example of Jesus.

Now, I did have a sermon mostly prepared before HR 1 passed.

And I think it aligns pretty well with what I’ve been saying.

So, I’ve pared it down a bit and will continue with it here.

Today’s second reading and gospel are both about how we live out our faith.

In the second reading, Paul is advising the community of Jesus followers that he planted how to live as the Body of Christ.

In the gospel, Jesus sends out 72 of his followers to bring good news to the surrounding communities.

The stories are different, but they have a common thread.

So, first, let’s talk about the lesson from Galatians.

Paul planted the faith community in Galatia and then he went away.

He continued on his missionary journey.

And people came in behind Paul claiming to have authority to preach to the community.

And those teachers said that Gentiles—non-Jews—must get circumcised to follow Jesus.

Paul’s letter disputes that.

Paul says that what is important is faith in Jesus.

And the living out of that faith is in community.

A united community that cares for one another.

Not a community that is divided by who is circumcised and who is not.

And that community cares for each other by “bearing each other’s burdens”.

Paul says, “Never grow tired of doing good.”

We know how early Christian communities were living from the description in The Acts of the Apostles.

In chapter 2, we read, “Those who believed lived together, shared all things in common; they would sell their property and goods, sharing the proceeds with one another as each had need. They met in the Temple and they broke bread together in their homes every day.”

That was the model.

“Those who believed lived together, sharing all things in common.”

Their belief in Jesus bound them together in community—as the Body of Christ.

It did not matter whether they were Gentile or Jew before their encounter with Jesus changed them forever.

There is a lesson for us in that unity.

In Galatia, the issue was circumcised or uncircumcised.

For us, it is rich or poor.

Black or white.

Gay or straight.

Cisgender or transgender.

Immigrant or citizen.

These are all arbitrary categories made irrelevant by the love of God and our experience of Jesus.

We are meant to love one another—to bear each other’s burdens.

Just as Jesus did—without exception.

Loving one another is an act of faith.

When we sow love, we reap love.

In today’s gospel, Jesus sends out his followers to towns that he is planning to visit.

He tells them, “Don’t carry a walking stick or knapsack; wear no sandals.”

God sends us out all the time to serve people whose needs exceed our capacity.

We serve people experiencing homelessness—even though we have no permanent shelter to offer them.

We serve people who are hungry—even though we don’t have enough for everyone.

We serve people who are sick or lonely or grieving—even though we can only offer them temporary respite.

We serve them anyway because that is what we are called to do.

We bring them a measure of God’s peace—a portion of the shalom that we have from our relationship with Jesus.

We remind those we serve that the Kin-dom of God is near—that, although the peace we offer may be temporary, the peace of God is eternal.

Jesus also said, “I am sending you as lambs in the midst of wolves.”

I will say that this week, I have never felt more like a lamb in the midst of wolves.

I listened to the Director of Elijah’s Promise lament what the future holds for people who are food insecure.

Because, despite all the great work that Elijah’s Promise does and all the generous food pantries in our community, the truth is that for every meal that those great organizations provide, SNAP provides nine.

Or at least it did.

And no amount of fundraising and hard work on the part feeding ministries can make up that deficit.

I listened to colleagues in the Interfaith Alliance and at the city’s Human & Community Services Partners Breakfast lament that people were not accessing services they desperately need because they know ICE is operating in our community and they are afraid.

I listened to community nonprofit leaders and parents of our VBS campers say that children are suffering from anxiety—they are living in a state of fear that their parents will disappear.

I hear all those voices—all that lament—so, as wounded as I am, I will keep on keeping on.

Because, although I have moments when I feel like a lamb, I am also a shepherd.

Jesus made me one.

Jesus said, “feed my sheep”.

Jesus said, “tend my sheep”.

And, God help me, that is what I intend to do.

And I pray, my siblings in Christ, that you will be shepherds at my side.

And may the wolves beware.

May this meditation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus. Amen.

We Are All Connected by God’s Love

Today’s first lesson tells us that wisdom and understanding existed before the creation of the world.

In fact, wisdom and understanding were God’s tools in creation.

To me, that begs the question: why then are wisdom and understanding so elusive to us now?

We consistently lack the wisdom to understand that God considers every human being one of God’s children.

We lack the wisdom to know that it is God’s will that we love one another.

And yet, God’s wisdom is infused throughout creation.

There are no mistakes in creation.

Not in the black hole or the supernova.

Not in the dodo bird or the platypus.

Not in the wide array of hues that our human siblings come in.

Not in all queer variations on our gender, sexuality, and romantic expression.

We are all equally loved by God—cherished, in fact.

And we are commanded by God to likewise love one another.

So why is that so hard for us to do?

In theological circles, we talk a lot about intersectionality.

Intersectionality refers to the interconnectedness of all the categories we have fabricated for ourselves—like race, class, gender, sexuality, even religion.

No human is a monolith.

We are each a combination of those categories.

And because we have diversity within ourselves, you would think it would help us to understand each other better.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t—at least, not always.

But the real lesson of intersectionality is not our interconnectedness—although that is certainly important.

The real lesson is our interdependence.

I think one of the things we can do to live into God’s command to love one another is to look into ourselves.

Is there something about the diversity within ourselves that can help us to accept the differences in another person?

Is there some common experience that we share?

Now—a word of caution.

When we talk about shared experience it is important that we not do it comparatively—as if it were a contest.

Starting from a position of “my suffering was worse” or “you had it easy”—that is the path to division, not connection.

We’re looking for things about each other or experiences we share that might be a foundation for understanding.

A foundation for relationship.

A foundation not only for interconnectedness, but also for interdependence.

A foundation for love.

I am a white, middle-class, gay, Christian man.

Because I am gay, I understand something about oppression.

But, as much as I might like to, I will never fully understand what it is like to grow up black in this country.

To suffer from systemic racism.

To fear being pulled over by a police officer because I’m driving while black.

I depend on my black siblings to share their experience of affliction.

And how that affliction produced perseverance.

And how that perseverance resulted in character.

And how that character provides them with hope.

Because that hope binds us and makes us both stronger.

Because I am gay, I understand something about marginalization.

But, as much as I might like to, I will never fully understand what is like to be a woman in this country.

To be underpaid and underappreciated in the workplace.

To have my healthcare threatened and denied.

I depend on my female and trans woman siblings to share their experience of affliction.

And how that affliction produced perseverance.

And how that perseverance resulted in character.

And how that character provides them with hope.

Because that hope binds us and makes us both stronger.

Because I am gay, I understand something about injustice.

But, as much as I might like to, I will never fully understand what it is like to be an immigrant in this country.

To be denigrated as dirty and a criminal.

To be afraid that I might be abducted by masked government agents and separated from my family.

I depend on my immigrant siblings to share their experience of affliction.

And how that affliction produced perseverance.

And how that perseverance resulted in character.

And how that character provides them with hope.

Because that hope binds us and makes us both stronger.

Being gay is just one facet of who I am.

And it gives me some insight into the experience of siblings in other social categories.

But that insight is imperfect because my struggles are not the same as the struggles of others.

We do not react to the struggles we encounter in the same way.

We do not process the lessons from those struggles the same.

And perhaps, most important of all, my personal trauma is not intergenerational.

It is not a trauma that has been suffered by my ancestors.

But it is a connection and a starting point for relationship and bridge-building.

I had the honor of officiating at the renewal of wedding vows for a lovely couple on Wednesday evening.

Robin and Frank are a straight couple who have been married for 36 years.

They heard about the Marriage Equality Celebration we were sponsoring, and they wanted to participate.

You see they have a lot of diversity in their family.

They understand how important love and support are.

They celebrate the diversity in their family.

It’s a beautiful thing to behold.

Their love for each other is so strong that it was important for them to stand up in visible support of Marriage Equality.

Even when they found out they were going to be front and center as the only couple because they were kind of hoping that they could stand up but still blend into the background.

They stood up because they understand that every human being is one of God’s children.

They stood up because they understand that it is God’s will that we love one another—and they do exactly that.

They love one another.

And they love all their human siblings

Which brings me to today’s gospel.

I confess, when I first read it, what stuck out to me was “Everything that Abba God has belongs to me.”

It’s because I was hearing it with human ears.

It reminded me of the seagulls in “Finding Nemo” or a two-year-old with a toy.

“Mine … mine … mine!”

But ownership—belonging to someone—is not always about possession.

That idea is the result of our cultural conditioning.

It is rooted in our greed and our imperfection—our sinful nature.

So hearing Jesus say, “Everything that Abba God has belongs to me.” sounded, for me in the moment, decidedly un-Christlike.

Those words didn’t sound like the Jesus I know because the Spirit had not yet spoken to me.

She had not revealed it to me.

So, I dwelled on those words and waited for the Spirit to speak to me—and finally, she did.

Belonging isn’t always about possession.

Belonging is also about love.

Belonging is also about acceptance.

Belonging is also about family and community.

So, with that new realization, I asked myself, “what belongs to God?”

What is God’s favorite creation?

What is the only creation that God called “very good”?

We are!

Each and every one of us—without exception.

Black, white, red, yellow, or brown.

Male, female, intersex, or trans.

Christian, Muslim, Jew, Hindu, agnostic, or atheist.

God love us all.

God claims each of us as God’s own.

God calls us by name.

God loves us unconditionally.

And God asks us—commands us—to love one another.

The way God loves us—without exception.

In today’s second lesson, the Apostle Paul writes, “we confidently and joyfully look forward to the day on which we will become all that God has intended.”

It’s clear to me that God intended for us to love one another.

God intended us to live in a harmonious community together.

As the family of God’s children.

In all our glorious diversity.

Let us be confident that God’s Wisdom and Understanding will imbue us with the will to live into what God intends for us.

Let us revel in the diversity of our human siblings and the many gifts that diversity brings.

And may we rejoice in God’s Kin-dom come.

May this meditation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus. Amen.

Community Makes Us Better

In today’s gospel, Jesus heals the Gerasene demoniac.

It’s a miracle.

He wields his divine power to defeat evil.

Now, there are a lot of subtexts here.

We could talk about why the demoniac sought out Jesus when he hid from the townspeople.

We could talk about Luke’s choice in naming the demons Legion.

We could talk about why the townspeople were afraid.

Or why the demons asked to enter the pigs and then killed themselves.

But what I would like to talk about is how, in healing the demoniac, Jesus not only ended his torment but also restored him to community.

I think I talk a lot about community.

About how important community is.

About how God intended us to be in community.

About how this church family is a community.

And about how our worship, the various ways we learn and growth in faith together, and the way we share Holy Communion forms us as community.

About how our breaking bread together—whether it is at a coffee hour, a potluck meal, or a Lenten soup supper—binds us as a community.

In Matthew 18:20, we read, “Where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there in their midst.”

What that means is that the bond we share in community is not only with each other, but also with Jesus.

So, when we talk about community, I hope that you keep that in mind.

Maybe you’re asking yourself why all this focus on community?

The simple answer is that we were created for community.

Community makes us stronger.

Community makes us better.

It is God’s intent for us.

But our political discourse—if you can even call it discourse—has become so inflammatory, it is dividing communities.

And people whose views differ from the majority of their community are feeling isolated and alone—not unlike the possessed man living amongst the tombs in today’s gospel.

And if we accept that community is God’s intent for us, well then, isolation cannot be.

Division is not what God intends for us.

Nadia Bolz Weber, author and Lutheran pastor, says, “Every time we draw a line between us and others, Jesus is always on the other side of it.”

And that’s where it gets confusing, doesn’t it?

Because we want to set ourselves apart as the righteous.

We want to declare ourselves as sheep and those with whom we disagree as goats.

But demonizing our human siblings is not what God intends for us.

By healing the possessed man, Jesus has freed him from the label of “demoniac”.

He is no longer set apart from the community.

How many labels do we have for ourselves?

Trumper.

Woke.

MAGAts.

Liberal.

Fascist.

Snowflake.

Name-calling divides communities.

It prevents us from having honest conversation.

It stops us from ever finding common ground.

And we already have common ground—our faith.

We believe in the gospel of Jesus.

We believe that Jesus came to “bring Good News to those who are poor, to proclaim liberty to those held captive, recovery of sight to those who are blind, and release to those in prison. To proclaim the year of our God’s favor.”

The rub is in how we interpret those words.

There will be differing opinions—because we are each a unique creation—a unique expression of God’s image.

Our uniqueness, coupled with the differences in our life experiences, makes us hear those words differently.

And we need to make allowances for differences in opinion.

Because we revel in the diversity of God’s creation.

And we are called to love not only our human siblings, but also that which makes each of them exceptional.

To be clear, that does not mean we have to be morally ambivalent to get along.

If an opinion causes harm—like one rooted in racism—then we need to call it out.

Not disrespectfully.

Not hurtfully.

But calmly—and with moral clarity.

There are some moral imperatives that will always be clear.

Bombing innocent people will always be wrong.

Allowing people to starve will always be wrong.

Separating children from their loving, caring parents will always be wrong.

But, when the issue is not so cut-and-dried, we allow for difference of opinion.

Jesus’ miracles of healing—which always includes a restoration to community—are a call to us.

A call to heal divisions.

A call to step outside our comfort zones and have tough conversations.

And, when we disagree, we seek to find common ground where we can agree.

The common ground starts with Jesus’ commandments to love God and love our neighbor.

That’s the foundation.

And then we build on it through conversation.

Honest conversation with an open heart and mind.

And when we say or do things that are hurtful to another—whether we mean to or not, we ask for forgiveness.

And when we are hurt or angry, we forgive.

And, as Jesus told us, “not seven times, but seventy times seven.”

We forgive—not because we’re weak or we’re pushovers.

We forgive because we follow the Way of Jesus.

We forgive because we are forgiven—every day—through the abundant grace of God.

This congregation proclaims to the world that we are a welcoming community.

That welcome can’t only be for people of different races, different sexuality, and different genders.

Jesus’ example calls us to invite people who are at different places in their faith journey—whether they are lifelong believers, agnostics, atheists, or someone from another faith tradition.

It calls us to invite people of differing political views.

Our welcome is guided by the example of Jesus—who welcomed all.

Even those who were marginalized.

Even those who were outcast by society.

Even those who were isolated, alone, and living amongst tombs.

In closing, let us remember that Jesus said, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you; but the kind of peace I give you is not like the world’s peace.”

Let us live into Jesus’ peace.

Let us always seek unity over division.

Conversation over name-calling.

Forgiveness over condemnation.

Because we are all children of God.

The divisions we have established, the boxes we have put ourselves into—they are creations of our own sinfulness.

Our own egos.

We are all one in Christ Jesus, who loves us all.

May this meditation on God’s word keep our hearts and minds on Christ Jesus. Amen.