Blessed Community

Today’s gospel lesson is the Beatitudes.

It is part of the Sermon on the Mount.

The Sermon on the Mount is comprised of 3 chapters of the gospel according to Matthew.

Although the sermon is very compact in Scripture, it is widely believed to have been given over a longer period of time, sometimes to a large audience and sometimes just to Jesus’ disciples.

The sermon encapsulates Jesus’ teaching—the message he was trying to convey during his public ministry.

Many people read the Beatitudes and think it is Jesus’ musings on people with certain characteristics.

But it would be more accurate to say that the Beatitudes are a guide.

A guide to how we are meant to live in the world.

The thread that runs through all of today’s lessons is the Kin-dom of God.

In Micah, we read, “simply do justice, love kindness, and humbly walk with your God.”

In 1 Corinthians, Paul writes that our life in Christ is about wisdom, justice, sanctification, and redemption.

And the Beatitudes also talk about peace, mercy, and justice.

Each passage talks about ideal characteristics.

Characteristics of the Kin-dom.

Characteristics of a covenantal life.

A covenant between us and God and a covenant between each other.

A covenant that is timeless and transcends generations.

Although I haven’t counted for myself, I’ve read that Jesus mentions the Kin-dom of God over 100 times in the gospels.

That includes all the variations of kingdom or reign and God or heaven.

So, clearly, the Kin-dom is important to Jesus.

As his followers, it should be important to us as well.

The Kin-dom is important, not because it speaks of paradise and life after death.

The Kin-dom is important for us now—in our time.

The Kin-dom is a blueprint for how we are supposed to live together in community.

We can go through the Beatitudes one-by-one and see what they tell us about living in community.

The first one begins “Blessed are those who are poor in spirit.”

The poor in spirit is not concerned with wealth.

It’s not about faith.

Jewish New Testament scholar, Amy-Jill Levine says the poor in spirit are those who recognize their dependence on others and others dependence on them.

That may seem like a leap from what you have traditionally thought but she bases it on how the original text was worded in Greek and how it would have been heard by a first-century Jewish audience.

The poor in spirit are those who enjoy privilege and use it to help others without the same privilege.

In our context, the poor in spirit could be upper- and middle-class people who use their resources to help those who are struggling financially.

Or Americans who use their citizenship to protect immigrants from being persecuted.

The poor in spirit understand interdependence within the community.

The poor in spirit understand that we need one another.

And, to those people, belongs the Kin-dom of God.

The second Beatitude refers to “those who mourn.”

Mourning does not just mean grief over death.

We can mourn the loss of a job, a home, or a marriage.

We can mourn the rise of injustice, the departure from the ideals of the country we love, or the pain inflicted on a neighbor.

But in a community, that mourning is shared.

We console one another.

We bring food when the grief is too overwhelming to shop or cook.

We are Jesus—the Comforter—for each other in our pain.

The Beatitudes go on, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for justice.

Blessed are those who are merciful.

Blessed are those who work for peace.”

It’s important for us to recognize that each of those blessings is focused outward.

Justice, mercy, and peace have no meaning for individuals.

Justice, mercy, and peace exist only in community.

They are characteristics of relationships.

They refer to how we treat on another.

They are the properties of an ideal community.

God’s intent for us is to live in community.

Jesus modeled that community with his disciples.

They traveled together.

They ate together.

They taught and they healed and they served together.

But most important of all, they were united in love—love for Jesus and love for one another.

Early Jesus followers modeled the same kind of communal living.

The Apostle Paul also talks a lot about community.

He calls it the Body of Christ.

We are reading about Paul in Bible Study right now.

You may not know it but much of our Lutheran doctrine is based on Paul’s letters.

And all his letters—except one—were written to communities.

For Paul, the community is familial—we are part of the family of God.

That is why he often refers to people as brother or sister.

It’s the same reason that I say Kin-dom instead of Kingdom.

It is meant to reflect our relationship as siblings—united in love as children of God—in stark contrast to the hierarchical nature of Empire.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a Lutheran pastor who also happens to be one of my heroes, also wrote a lot about community, specifically the church community.

He says, “The church must participate in the worldly tasks of life in the community—not dominating but helping and serving.”

He clarifies that helping and serving is our Christian vocation—how we are to emulate Jesus.

But he cautions that the church must beware the vices of pride and envy as well as the worship of power.

They were the sins of the Reichskirche then and they are the sins of Christian Nationalism now.

Instead, the church must act with authenticity to build trust, faithfulness to remain true to God, and humility to acknowledge we are fallible.

For a long time, I’ve thought that it’s not all that important for people to come to church.

I know good, faithful people for whom church is just not necessary.

Maybe it doesn’t fit their schedule.

Maybe they were harmed by a past experience with a church.

Or maybe it is too structured for them to sit through.

But, while writing this sermon, I have come to realize that the church has an important role to play in building and maintaining community.

Church is where closed people can become open—where isolated people can become open to this idea of community

And that transformation—from closed to open—is the work of the Spirit.

Bonhoeffer says we may come to Jesus alone, but the Spirit calls us into community.

People in community not only exist with one another, but also for one another.

Living with one another means we experience each other’s pains and joys.

Living for one another means we pray on behalf of our neighbor and selflessly act on their behalf.

In a thriving church community, where people live not only with one another but also for one another, the Spirit transforms individuals into a cohesive assembly that takes care of one another.

If there was a silver lining to the pandemic, it is that it taught us how to be church outside the walls.

I’m going to ask you to go a step further—to think about our church community even more expansively.

Not only is this community not about the building, but it is also not just 25-30 people that come to church every Sunday.

We need to think about the church community in broader terms.

We need to cast a broader net.

For us, it’s not just the people that come to worship on Sunday.

It’s also the community members who come here for Vacation Bible School or Dia de Muertos or photos with Santa.

It’s also the folks in recovery who come here for meetings.

It’s also the people experiencing homelessness who go across the street for shelter.

Our church community is big, it’s diverse, and it’s messy.

But we are all connected.

I’d like to close with some Beatitudes of my own.

Blessed are the selfless; your reward is in your service to others.

Blessed are the kind and the compassionate; you will heal the wounded and that healing will make your own hearts full.

Blessed are the shelter monitors, the pantry workers, the recovery sponsors, the therapists, the social workers, and everyone that works in service to the community; you are God’s hands and feet in this world and we appreciate you.

Blessed are the migrants; you will find the better life that you seek.

Blessed are the trans people; you will find joy in your uniqueness—and teach others about authenticity in the process.

Blessed are the righteously angry; you will seek justice and nurture the seeds of the Kin-dom.

And blessed are the peacemakers; you remind us what we so often forget—we are all saint and sinner, capable of both good and evil.

I pray that we are each a blessing to one another.

That we understand that, as a community, we are interdependent.

Blessed are those who are a blessing to others.

And blessed are those who accept blessings from others.

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

Are You Living into Your Baptismal Vow?

This has been a really difficult week.

I am, by nature, an optimist.

I attribute that to my faith and an abiding belief that, although the Kin-dom is not yet, it is near.

I see my faith practice as a journey.

It is following the Way of Jesus.

It is a journey that brings us ever closer to the Kin-dom.

We may never reach that destination in this lifetime.

But that doesn’t really matter.

Because that is our faith practice.

Following Jesus is dynamic.

It requires action.

That is why Jesus said, “Follow me”.

We humans are imperfect beings.

We make mistakes.

We ignore and misinterpret scripture, and it distances us from God.

We take detours, dead ends, and sometimes even backtrack on our journey with Jesus.

But, as faithful people, we hope that the progress forward always exceeds the detours backward.

When we distance ourselves from God, we pray that it is temporary.

That we come to our senses and repent.

That we remember we are beloved children of God, endowed with the image of God.

That we are loved unconditionally by our Creator and nothing we do can separate us from the love of God.

I never thought that we would live in times where people would take that as a challenge.

Where there would be people who say, “You think nothing can separate me from the love of God? Here, hold my beer.”

I take very seriously Jesus’ command to love my neighbor—and not just the people who I like and think like me, but ALL my neighbors.

I am far from perfect but, generally speaking, I think I do a pretty good job of it.

But good God almighty, I confess that this week it has been hard.

I said to Tiina earlier in the week that I’m not in the right frame of mind to preach.

I’m too discouraged and too angry.

But then I remembered the story of Esther and how she was told by Mordecai that she was made “for just such a time as this”.

And how she went on to save her people.

We don’t get to choose the times that we live in.

We don’t get to curl up into the fetal position when things get tough, as much as we might like to.

I was called to preach the word of God.

Some of you like the way that I do it.

Some of you don’t.

Some of you believe that politics have no place in the pulpit.

There, we will have to agree to disagree.

Partisanship—favoring one political party over another—has no place in the pulpit.

But politics has its root in governing the community and Scripture, particularly the Gospel, has a lot to say about how we are supposed to treat the community.

We can distill the message of the gospel to two simple commands: love God and love your neighbor.

When the government violates either of those two commands, it is our duty, as followers of Jesus, to call it out.

Similarly, to fulfill my ordination vows, it is my responsibility to say, “This is wrong. This is not what God intends for us.”

Today, we commemorate the baptism of Jesus.

It marks the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry.

The beginning of Jesus ministry—to our knowledge, he had not yet done anything remarkable.

And yet, the sky opens up and God says, “This is my Own, my Beloved, on whom my favor rests.”

It is a reminder to us that we don’t need to do anything to be loved by God.

We receive God’s love, not because of who are or what we do, but because of who God is.

The nature of God is to love us—unconditionally and without measure.

And because we possess the image of God, we also possess that capacity.

So, for me, that begs the question, “then why is there so much hate in the world?”

Lutheran theologian and seminary professor Craig Koester says, “evil can seem so pervasive as to be unstoppable.

And watching the evening news would seem to support that idea.”

He goes on to say, “evil rages on earth not because it is so powerful, but because it is so vulnerable.

Evil rages on earth because it has already lost and it is desperate.”

Helpless is exactly how evil wants us to feel.

Discouraged and paralyzed by our anger is the point.

The forces of evil are desperate.

Because Jesus has already won.

He defeated Satan in the desert.

He overcame death and the grave.

Darkness cannot win against the light of the world.

I’m guessing most of you don’t remember your baptism.

If you’re like me, you grew up in a time when babies didn’t even leave the house until they were baptized.

That practice is based on the dogma that babies that weren’t baptized couldn’t go to heaven.

It has no scriptural foundation and isn’t part of our current doctrine.

But nevertheless, baptism was important to all Christian families, whether they were actively practicing or not.

Even if you don’t remember your own baptism, you undoubtedly remember the baptism of a child, whether your own or the child of a family member, friend, or fellow congregant.

During the ceremony, the baptismal sponsor is asked, “Do you renounce all the forces that defy God, the powers of this world that rebel against God, and the ways of sin that draw you from God?”

They respond, not only for themselves, but on behalf of the child.

They are the promises that the child makes for themselves at their confirmation.

Our baptismal vow is to renounce all the forces that defy God, the powers of this world that rebel against God, and the ways of sin that draw us from God.

We also promise to proclaim Christ through word and deed, to care for others and the world God made, and to work for justice and peace.

So, I ask you children of God:

Do you renounce all the forces that defy God?

Do you renounce the powers of this world that rebel against God?

Do you renounce the ways of sin that draw us from God?

Do you proclaim Christ through word and deed?

Do you care for others and the world God made?

Do you work for justice and peace?

Our denomination recognizes two sacraments: baptism and holy communion.

Our baptism is a covenant—it is reciprocal.

We make promises to God and God makes promises to us.

The prophet Isaiah calls us “a covenant people, a light to the nations: to open the eyes of the blind, to free captives from prison, and those who sit in darkness from the dungeon”.

He says we are endowed by God with the Spirit “that we may bring true justice to the nations”

He goes on to say, “faithfully we will bring forth true justice. We will neither waver nor be crushed until justice is established on earth.”

That justice is the Kin-dom.

Where mothers don’t get shot and killed in the street.

Where our black and brown neighbors are not profiled, detained, separated from their families, and deported.

Where people don’t die because they are denied food, shelter, and healthcare.

We must not waver or be crushed.

We are a covenant people.

We have made promises to God.

Promises that we need to keep.

You have been baptized by water and the Spirit.

You are the beloved of God.

Open yourself to the presence of God and allow yourself to BE LOVED.

And when that love has filled you to overflowing, reflect it out into the world and BE LOVE.

Let us pray.

O God, because we feel your presence when we are suffering or in pain, we call you Comforter.

Because beyond our pain lies your promise of all things made new, we call you Hope.

Because you are the way to freedom, we call you Deliverer.

Because you have chosen to come among us, making impossible choices, suffering and dying; because you rose victorious, bringing the promise of new life, we call you Redeemer.

Give us strength to reject the powers of oppression in this world, the systems that marginalize and degrade human beings, and the cultural norms that are at odds with your Way.

Help us to recommit to the covenant of baptized life, the cost and joy of discipleship, and the community of the Body of Christ

We are your beloved.

We are baptized.

We pray that we always remember.

We pray that we will always live into that promise.

Amen.

Will You Be Light?

On the first Sunday in Advent, we began Year A in the Revised Common Lectionary.

What that means is that the majority of gospel readings this year will be from the book of Matthew.

You may have heard me say that Matthew is not my favorite.

The reason is that Matthew talks about a lot about judgment and exclusion from the Kin-dom, using the phrase there will be “weeping and gnashing of teeth” five times.

Personally, I just prefer my Bible to be a little more grace-filled.

Also, the book of Matthew, although considered the most “Jewish” of the gospels, has been used to justify persecution of Jews throughout the Christian era.

What I hadn’t heard before I began preparing for this sermon is that Matthew is also considered the “Gospel of the Outsider”.

When I thought about it, of course it made sense.

After all, Matthew was a tax collector—a Roman collaborator who was ostracized from the Jewish community.

But Jesus gathered him as one of his disciples.

It gave me a new appreciation for Matthew and what he had to overcome as a follower of Jesus.

Which brings me to the Magi.

They were also outsiders.

They were Gentile astrologers.

They were not faithful Jews, but they were educated in the Hebrew scriptures.

They didn’t use prayer or prophesy to find the Messiah.

They used a star.

Despite being outsiders, they play a part in Jesus’ story.

Just like the tax collectors, sinners, and outcasts that were his followers.

I don’t know about you, but I take great comfort in that.

You see, being church isn't about everyone believing exactly the same thing.

It’s not about everyone following the same path.

It’s about us all being part of the same story—Jesus’ story.

You see, Jesus was a teacher.

And the lesson he wanted his followers to understand is there is another way of being.

A way that is not tainted by our human weaknesses—not corrupted by greed or anger or pride or hate.

It’s the way that is grounded in our divine essence—it springs out of hope and peace and joy and love.

It is the way to the Kin-dom

Today’s first lesson from Isaiah talks about darkness—"darkness still covers the earth and dense clouds enshroud the peoples”.

Have you ever been in total darkness?

Darkness so extreme that it didn’t matter if your eyes were open or closed, you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face?

It doesn’t just affect your vision; it affects your whole sense of being.

It affects your ability to orient yourself to the world.

And it doesn’t take much light to make a difference.

Just a tiny pinprick of light can dispel darkness.

Many people living in first-century Israel were living in metaphorical darkness.

All were living under the oppression of Roman occupation.

For everyone but the client kings and tax collectors who collaborated with their authoritarian occupiers, it was a hard, subsistence life.

For those on the margins—widows, orphans, the physically and mentally ill, sinners, and foreigners—life was even harder.

Jesus is the light that dispelled their darkness.

And his isn’t a tiny pinprick of light.

Jesus is a shining beacon to those who were living in the darkness of oppression.

That is why we call him the light of the world.

The story of the Magi—whether you think of them as literal or metaphorical characters in Jesus’ story—is a story about light.

They followed a star—a bright light in the dark sky.

And it led them to Jesus—God’s light made human in a helpless baby.

Jesus brought hope to people living in despair.

He preached about peace and truth and justice.

He offered us a better way of being.

He challenged us to also be light.

Although John wrote that Jesus said, “I am the light of the world”, Matthew wrote that Jesus said, “YOU are the light of the world”.

He challenged his disciples to be light.

And, as followers of Jesus, I believe we are also challenged to be light.

There are many ways for us to be light.

We are light when we demonstrate God’s love to others through our ministries.

We are light when we exhibit our love for creation by recycling, by caring for animals, and by advocating for better stewardship of our natural resources.

We are light when we share our faith—and our doubt; when we open ourselves up to others and witness how we are part of Jesus’ story.

We are light when we show compassion for others, especially when we share personal stories of our own trials and weaknesses.

We are light when we allow our gifts to shine, especially when it is in service to others.

And remember, it only takes a tiny bit of light to dispel the darkness.

And we each have within us the light of Jesus just waiting to burst forth.

So much about being light is about sharing.

Sharing God’s love with others.

Sharing bits of ourselves.

But I also believe that part of being light is calling out darkness.

Much the same way that Jesus challenged the status quo.

He challenged cultural norms of exclusion.

He challenged patriarchy.

He flipped tables—both literally and metaphorically.

So, if you accept this idea that the story of the Magi is about light, I think it begs the question: do we accept Jesus’ challenge to the “the light of the world”?

Do we accept the challenge to be part of his story?

To be better? To lay a foundation of truth and justice for the building of the Kin-dom?

Do we accept his challenge to hope? To console those who despair?

Do we accept his challenge to love? Not only those who are like us but also those who we might consider our enemies.

Do we accept his challenge to call out darkness when we see it? To flip the tables that need flipping?

The Magi were trailblazers.

We don’t need to be so bold.

We only need to follow the path that Jesus has set before us.

The world began with, “Let there be light”.

Let it begin anew with, “You will be light”.

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

Amen.

Don’t Let the World Diminish Your Joy

I love Christmas—I always have.

As a child, I was captivated by the wonder of Christmas.

The Christmas lights, the music, the TV specials—it all evoked a sense of joy that lasted throughout the season.

A part of me will always be a child at heart, especially at this time of year.

That includes an abiding belief in Santa and the spirit of gratitude and joy that he embodies.

I had the great joy of playing Santa for a bunch of children on Sunday.

It was one of my life’s ambitions fulfilled.

Each child that sat on my lap reminded me to be grateful for the many gifts I have and for the profound privilege I had to share a bit of that Christmas wonder that I know so well.

Each child that hugged me filled my heart with an indescribable sense of joy.

By the end of the day, I had seen over 200 children.

My heart was absolutely overflowing with gratitude, joy, and love.

But it didn’t last.

Events stole my joy.

I guess that’s the price we pay for growing up.

The prophet Isaiah talks about “people walking in darkness” and “those who dwell in a land of deep shadows”.

We live in a complex world.

Very few things are cut and dried or black and white.

Both/and is a reality that we Lutherans are supposed to embrace.

Although our faith provides hope, we acknowledge there is also despair.

Although God grants us peace, we often face conflict.

Although the birth of Jesus brings us great joy, sometimes the world brings us sorrow.

Although we are commanded to love, we often fall short.

On Monday, I joined some of my clergy colleagues at Delaney Hall for a prayer vigil.

If you are unaware, Delaney Hall is the ICE detention center in Newark.

Regardless of what your political views are on immigration, I would hope we could agree that the moral foundation of this country prohibits us from violating human rights.

It pains me that in these divisive times, I have to qualify what I am going to say with, “I hope we could at least agree on that”.

Because I grew up in a country that welcomed refugees.

I grew up in a country that was a beacon of freedom for people living under dictators.

I grew up in a country that called out human rights violations when we saw them.

And yet, we are living in times when people are being disappeared by masked government agents.

And those people are being denied legal counsel.

Their families are being denied visitation.

The government is playing a shell game with human beings to prevent their families and their lawyers from finding them.

Not criminals.

Innocent people.

Over 800 people were transferred from Delaney Hall in the past few days.

Civil rights organizations are fearful that the movement of detainees is to make room for planned raids.

Massive sweeps in immigrant communities as families gather for Christmas.

And there are no longer protections for sensitive locations like schools, hospitals, and churches.

So, those raids may target the very locations where people gather to worship—to celebrate the birth of the Christ child.

For those of you who think I’m being paranoid or unnecessarily alarmist, I honestly and truly hope that I am.

But there was an ICE agent photographing the clergy assembled to offer prayers—myself among them.

The media is documenting people without criminal records being detained and deported.

They are reporting the government using deceptive practices to capture people—picking them up at immigration court appointments and food pantries as well as lying and using invalid warrants to gain access to residences and businesses.

Watch organizations are documenting human rights violations in detention centers here in the United States—never mind the state-run torture facilities that we now use through contracts with other countries.

Is it any wonder that I say events have stolen my joy?

Merry Christmas, indeed.

I am forced to remind myself that the baby Jesus was born into an occupied country.

A country without justice for its citizens, especially the poor and the marginalized.

A country where peace was maintained through violence.

A country where the powerful were so determined to maintain their grip on authority, that they threatened the life of a newborn.

Forcing his family to flee to another country.

Where they were refugees.

We know precious little about Jesus’ childhood.

But we can be fairly certain it was difficult.

Mary, Joseph, and Jesus were strangers in a strange land.

Removed from their families and their community.

Separated from the seat of their faith.

And yet, that faith sustained them.

What we know about Mary and Joseph is that they were people of great faith.

Mary’s faithfulness led her to bear God’s child.

Joseph’s faithfulness led him to stand by Mary, despite his own fear and confusion.

He stood by her to protect and provide for her and her child.

Together they raised Jesus to adulthood—raised him to be a faithful Jew.

To love God and love his neighbor.

They raised him to be a brilliant light to people walking in darkness and to those who dwell in a land of deep shadows.

The raised him to be Wonderful Counselor, the Strength of God, Eternal Protector, Champion of Peace.

They raised him to provide hope, peace, joy, and love to the world.

And there, my friends, is the both/and.

Despite being born into poverty in an occupied land, Jesus was born to be the light of the world.

Despite being forced into exile by a violent despot, Jesus was born to be the Champion of Peace.

Despite being beaten and crucified for the crime of proclaiming the Kin-dom, Jesus was born to be the Strength of God.

Both/and.

Jesus is hope amidst despair.

Peace amidst conflict.

Joy amidst grief.

And love amidst hate.

We live in a complicated world.

No matter how deep our faith is, it is hard to always live in hope, peace, joy, and love.

Because we live in a both/and world.

The Kin-dom is both now and not yet.

So, when you feel despair, remember that hope is of God.

Despair is fleeting but hope endures.

When you are feeling unsettled, remember that shalom is of God.

That inner feeling of discord is temporary but the wholeness we receive from God is permanent.

When grief is overwhelming, remember that joy is of God.

It is human to grieve but we carry within us that divine image in which there is joy.

And when the hatred of this broken world makes you want to cry out, remember that tiny baby born in a stable two millennia ago.

A helpless infant born into a harsh world.

God’s unconditional love enfleshed.

Come to live among us as our Redeemer.

For unto us a child is born, unto us a Son is given!

Hallelujah! Glory be to God!

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

Amen.

Love Transforms Us

The last Sunday in Advent is about love.

Of course, the incarnation—God becoming human in Jesus—is the most obvious demonstration of God’s unconditional love for us.

God coming to earth is one more instance of something that happens over and over again in the Hebrew Bible—God always comes to us.

God doesn’t wait for us to be prepared or perfect.

God comes to us where we are.

And that is often lost, broken, and afraid.

But God comes to us still—even though we often resist or are just unaware of God’s presence.

And God demonstrates God’s special love for those on the margins—those who are overlooked or even oppressed.

Because God comes as a defenseless child—a brown-skinned child born into poverty in an occupied nation.

But that divine love is not the only kind of love we see in today’s gospel.

Even before Joseph is visited by the angel, he intends to quietly divorce her.

He doesn’t want to embarrass her, subject her to being ostracized by the community, or perhaps even risk potential violence against her.

He could have made a stink.

He could have told everyone that Mary was pregnant with a baby that wasn’t his.

In the patriarchal context of first-century Israel, it would have been his right.

But he doesn’t.

He protects her.

He shows love for her, even though he is probably hurt and confused—or perhaps even angry.

And together, Mary and Joseph demonstrate their love for God.

Joseph listens to the words of the angel.

They get married—ensuring Jesus suffers no stigma in the community.

They name him Jesus.

And they raise him together.

They show a faithfulness to God’s plan for them.

But the amazing thing about love isn’t the many different kinds of love—or myriad ways that love is demonstrated.

The amazing thing about love is its power to transform us.

When we are young and naïve, we change ourselves to earn love.

We lose weight.

I’ve heard some people even try to gain weight.

We change our looks—get a new hairstyle or change the way we dress.

We pretend to like things we don’t—or dislike things that we do.

But those are superficial changes, not transformation.

The world can be an ugly place.

Most of us experienced trauma of one kind or another.

Trauma causes pain.

But it’s what we do with that pain that matters.

Some people transmit their pain.

They lash out in anger.

They do mean things because they want everyone to feel as bad as they do.

Others turn that pain inward.

They sabotage their relationships.

They abuse drugs or alcohol.

They overeat or starve themselves.

They cut themselves or attempt suicide.

But rather than transmitting pain, love can allow us to transform it into action.

Sometimes, it is our love for ourselves that transforms us.

Sometimes, it is the love of others.

Still others, it is the love of God.

Some of you know that I was unchurched for a time.

I had been an active member of the Lutheran church in my town, where I was active in their youth ministry.

I was scheduled to be a chaperone for a Youth Gathering in Washington, DC.

The night before the retreat, I got a call from the pastor.

Someone in the congregation had outed me.

The pastor asked me, “are you gay?”

I never hid who I was, but this was the mid-90’s.

It was before Will and Grace, before effective treatment of HIV was commonplace, and way before marriage equality seemed possible.

Although I never hid being gay, it also wasn’t something that I broadcast.

It was one facet of who I was, and I only shared with people who I became close enough to for it to be relevant.

But, since he asked and I was by no means ashamed, I answered, “yes”.

He responded that I could not chaperone the Washington trip and I could no longer do youth ministry.

I was devastated.

I tried to stay but eventually it was a wound that wouldn’t heal so I left.

That was a traumatic event.

It caused me pain.

I could have let that pain consume me.

I could have lashed out at the pastor or the person that outed me.

I could have closed the door on organized religion forever.

But I still loved myself.

And I still loved God—and knew God loved me.

And eventually I found my way to another church where people loved me.

And all that love—love of self, love of God, and love of others—was transformative.

It changed me.

And it transformed my pain.

It turned my pain into action.

It called me to ministry.

It brought me to seminary.

It gave me mission.

Mission to help others who have been harmed by the church to heal.

Mission to serve others who have been pushed aside, silenced, or oppressed.

Mission to free those who are captive to their own hate and prejudice.

Mission to reform the church.

I am a radically different person than I was back when I was ousted from youth ministry.

The fundamentals of who I am was there.

But I could not do back then what I can do now.

I had not yet been transformed—transformed by the power of love.

Some of you may find me too radical—too anxious to reject the status quo and embrace change.

Others may find me not radical enough.

For those that find me too radical, it may disturb you to know that I actually hold myself back.

As someone who enjoys a lot of privilege as a white, middle-class, educated, cis-gender male, I try to hang back and let others with less privilege lead.

For those of you that think I am not radical enough, speak up.

Know that I will support you—especially if you lack the privilege that I benefit from.

And know that I will use my privilege to magnify your voice.

But, whether you think I am too radical, not radical enough, or just right, know that Jesus was way more radical than I am.

I just follow his example.

And he didn’t have to be transformed.

He was radical from the start.

The passage in Matthew before today’s gospel lesson contains Jesus’ genealogy.

And it contains 5 women: Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, Bathsheba, and Mary.

And each of those women were countercultural in some way.

Not to mention that, in a patriarchal society like Jesus’, including women in a genealogy was countercultural in itself.

So, Jesus was radical from birth.

Jesus loved without expecting anything in return.

He forgave his enemies.

He led by serving.

He rejected wealth and power.

Each one of those characteristics were radical and countercultural for his time.

And they all have their foundation in love.

A love so intense that God came to live with us on earth.

A love so intense that Jesus wanted to show us a better way of being.

Through his words and through his actions, he tried to show us how to love.

How to love God and feel God’s presence always.

How to love our neighbors and see the divine image in them that we all share.

And how to be transformed by that love.

Transformed into the Body of Christ.

Transformed into citizens of the Kin-dom.

Let us pray:

Good and gracious God, send your Holy Spirit to open our hearts to your divine presence.

Fill us with your unconditional love, transforming our pains and our traumas into acts of compassion.

We love you.

Help us to demonstrate that love by loving our neighbors as radically as Jesus showed us to do.

As we celebrate the coming of the Christ child—your divine light in our darkness—may our actions reflect that light into the world and be a beacon of your hope, peace, joy, and love for all.

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

Amen.

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.