Sermon: Cherish the wound (April 13, 2024)

Easter 3B
April 14, 2024
Luke 24:36b-48

INTRODUCTION

Each of our readings today reflects the arc of death to life that is so central to this Easter season. Peter’s speech in Acts immediately follows a miraculous healing, in Jesus’ name, of a man who can’t walk. People are understandably amazed, and Peter responds basically, “Well duh! That’s what God can do! God brings life and wholeness!”

1 John gives a sense of how we are always moving away from sin and toward what we shall become, because we are children of God. I love to quote this first verse when I do baptisms, because that is the trajectory of our baptized life, always moving from death into life. 

Today’s Gospel reading is about what happens right after the wonderful story about the Road to Emmaus. You remember that one? I’ll review it in my sermon; for now, know that this story happens Easter evening, when the only evidence of the resurrection that they have to go on is the women’s story. Now Jesus has begun appearing to people, and it is a highly emotional time. They are just starting to figure out what is happening when Jesus suddenly appears to the whole group, and that is what we will hear today. 

A phrase you will hear in two of our readings today is, “You are witnesses.” A witness, of course, is someone who sees something, and tells others about it. The telling part is important, but you can’t tell something you don’t see. So as you listen, also watch – watch for ways you see Christ, see restoration and transformation, and think about where you are still seeing Christ restore and redeem in your life today. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia! 

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesu Christ. Amen. 

Each spring, our Dorcas Rachel Women’s Group reads a book together and discusses it. This year’s book, which we discussed this past Thursday, was called The Choice: Embrace the Possible, by Dr. Edith Eger. Dr. Eger is an Auschwitz survivor who, after the war, came as a refugee to the United States, and eventually got her doctorate and become a renowned psychologist. The memoir is a story of survival and healing – first we see the resilience to survive a death camp, then her journey toward healing and wholeness following this traumatic experience. When she is first liberated from the camp and tries to get on with her life, she does everything she can to shove away all the memories of her past that cause her such pain. She does not tell her own children that she survived Auschwitz, and gets physically ill when her young daughter discovers this on her own. She is plagued by migraines and debilitating flashbacks and panic attacks. One day a young man hands her Viktor Frankl’s book, Man’s Search for Meaning, and her life changes. In reading Frankl’s own experience in death camps, she comes to realize that there is healing to be found in sharing our stories, rather than keeping them silent. As she observes later, “You can’t heal what you won’t feel.” You cannot erase the pain you have felt; you can only accept who you are and what has happened or been done to you, and then move on. She was liberated from the physical camp by a US soldier, but she was liberated from the prison she had made for herself by this realization. She then devotes her life to seeking out healing for herself and others by giving space to tell our stories, feel our emotions, and bear witness to others.

It’s a remarkable story, full of life-giving insights, and I recommend it! And, because I spent a lot of time reading it this week, I saw similar themes in today’s Gospel reading. First, recall the context of this story from Luke: this is the evening of Easter. According to Luke, the women at the tomb saw that it was empty and went to tell the disciples, most of whom dismissed their story as “an idle tale.” That was the morning. Now it is evening, and just before this, we have walked alongside two men, Cleopas and his friend, on the way to Emmaus. Jesus walks with them, but they don’t recognize him. At Jesus’ prompting, they tell him about this crazy few days they have just had – about Jesus’ ministry, his death, and his alleged resurrection, the women’s “idle tale.” In response Jesus “opens to them the holy scriptures,” and their hearts “burn within” them. They stop for a meal, and when Jesus breaks bread, voila, they suddenly recognize him! But as soon as they realize their companion’s identity, Jesus (poof) vanishes. They run back to Jerusalem to find the others, to share what they have seen, and they learn from the 11 that Peter, too, has seen the risen Lord.

Our Gospel today begins with, “While they were talking about this” – all this is what it refers to. This is the context. You can imagine the emotions are crazy right about now. Disbelief, alarm, joy, amazement, wonder – Luke names them for us. What he doesn’t name is that there is still lingering grief. These disciples have experienced a serious trauma. Watching Jesus die was certainly part of it. But also, can you imagine the regret they feel? The shame? They abandoned him! And now, if Jesus is back… will he call them out on that? Will they have to face those regrets, that guilt and shame over their actions? And what if this isn’t real – can they risk letting their hearts be hopeful, only to have them slammed again by a crushing reality? What if Jesus only came back spiritually? What if all these people only had visions of him? Can they really risk their hearts?

And into all of this mess of joy, shame, wonder, disbelief, regret, and amazement… Jesus shows up. And he doesn’t accuse, or lecture, or chastise. He offers those life-giving if also unbelievable words: “Peace be with you.” The words give a sense of health and well-being, that untroubled state of being forgiven. 

I love these words, and I love how often Jesus utters them in those first post-resurrection appearances because they are an immediate salve to the pain the disciples must be feeling. But what caught my attention this week, and what made me connect it with Edith Eger’s story, is the next bit, where Jesus invites them to, “Look at my hands and feet and see that it is I myself. Touch me and see.” Touch my wounds, my scars – which are not only physical remnants of Jesus’ suffering and death, but memories of Jesus’ broken heart, and triggers of the regret and shame the disciples must feel. Touch them, he says, so that there may be no mistake that they do exist. Touch them and see; do not avoid or look away. 

When Edith comes to America with her husband and daughter, she has every intention of leaving behind her old life and starting a new one. “We are American now,” she says, “and we will do as Americans do.” She closes the book on her past – on the pain of her memories, the trauma of the camp, the grief for those she has lost, the regret she has for the choices she made that she fears resulted in loss, the immense survivor’s guilt. She does not want to look at it or see it. She does not want to touch it. She wants a new life.

And yet, the irony she finds is that she cannot live fully into her new life unless she looks directly at all that stuff she had locked up and left behind. She cannot find peace as long as her pain remains hidden; she cannot find healing as long as it is ignored. She must feel the emotions – because as she says, “You can’t heal if you won’t feel.” 

The rest of the book describes Dr. Eger’s journey toward becoming a psychologist, and the many people she helps to find healing. As she walks alongside her patients, she also continues her own journey of healing. In one incredibly moving encounter with a Vietnam veteran, she observes, “To heal is to cherish the wound.” To heal is to cherish the wound – not love that it happened, not continue to dwell in it or be pulled into its pain… but to see it, accept it as something that happened to you, recognize its role in making you who you are, and then move on. 

I hear this and I think of Jesus, saying to his emotional disciples, “Look at my hands and my feet. Touch me and see.” Cherish this wound, and you will heal. Cherish it, and you will find life. Acknowledge what happened – the devastation it brought, the guilt, shame and regret it left behind – and see it for what it is. Touch and see. And then, then, step forward into the new life that comes as a result. 

I personally have over 20 physical scars of various sizes. They are mostly from cancer-related surgeries, but also from injuries mostly from my childhood. I used to hate them, as they reminded me of some of the most challenging times of my life, times when I was broken. But over time I’ve started to cherish them, as Dr. Eger urges. I cherish them because they are reminders of my survival, of times I suffered, yes, but also lived through pain, and by God’s help I came out the other side. But my favorite marks are five small tattoos I received when I got radiation treatments as a teenager for Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. They are small blue dots here…[point]. When taken together, they make the sign of the cross, a profound reminder that through all those wounds, Christ was with me, his cross marked not only invisibly on my brown, but permanently in blue ink across my heart, my core. I can (and do!) touch them, touch him, and see that he is really, truly there with me. 

Even without the tattoos, of course, Christ is with you, too. In this emotionally fraught story, and in our own, he shows up – in a conversation, at a meal, in the operating room, in the lawyer’s office, at a bedside. He cares for us in our woundedness, because he is, himself, wounded. He is present for us in our regret and shame, urging us to look at the wound, to touch it, and then, having found healing, to step into new life.

Let us pray… Wounded Healer, we bear the pain and sometimes even the physical marks of our past trauma and struggles, and often would prefer not to look at it. Yet you come to us in our grief and invite us to touch and see – so that we would also see and know that you can take brokenness and turn it into new life and liberation from that which would bind us. Grant us the courage to do it! In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Full service can be viewed HERE.

Easter Sermon: That big ol' stone (March 31, 2024)

Easter Sunday
March 31, 2024
Mark 16

Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia!

by Natalie Cincotta, 2021

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and risen Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

I am a planner, and a lover of lists. Any other list-lovers and planners out there? Jenna, our office administrator, and I share this love of lists. In the past months, Jenna and I have been working on developing a better system for keeping track of our shared and respective lists, so that no details fall through the cracks – especially at busy times of year like Holy Week and Easter! We’ve tried a white board, and post-its, and planners, and various online tools. Thankfully there is no lack of organizational aids out there!

You know, I was thinking the women who went to the tomb that first Easter morning could have really benefitted from some of these tools, because they forget some pretty important details. Some things they remember: Mary Magdalene acquires the myrrh, and Salome the aloes. Mary the mother of James decides when and where they will meet, and they are on their way to do the job they hadn’t been able to do when Jesus died, because it was the sabbath. Check, check, check, they’re good to go, right? As they are walking along by the dim light of the rising sun, Mary Magdalene suddenly turns to the other Mary and says, “You figured out the stone situation, right?”

Mary looks startled. “What, you mean how we’re moving it? Um, no, that was Salome’s job.” Salome says, “No, no, I ground the aloe and mixed it with the myrrh. I was not on stone duty.” Mary Magdalene says, “Well it wasn’t on my list!” Salome, always one to strive for excellence, but admittedly fragile because of the grief of the past days, begins to fret, tearing up. “Well, what are we going to do, then? Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?” Mary, mother of James agrees: “That stone is very large, and surely too heavy for us to move ourselves!” Mary Magdalene, always eager to solve a problem, is also finding the emotion of the past days to overwhelm her. But she scans her brain for something, anything, that might help them know what to do. How could they have let this detail in their planning for this morning fall through the cracks?? This is not good.

Suddenly, Mary stops. Salome, blinded by her tears, runs into Mary’s back, and the other Mary gasps. There, before them is the tomb, and that big ol’ stone that had caused them to fret. But their worry is for naught, for the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back.

I just love this detail, which only Mark includes in his telling of the resurrection. “[The women] had been saying to one another, ‘Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?’” Maybe I love it because this is exactly the sort of thing I’m always trying to prevent – letting some major detail fall through the cracks. I get it, ladies. I feel you. Add to it the load of grief that they are carrying – remember, these women stayed with Jesus to the bitter end on Friday, all the way to seeing where he was laid. They had followed him and provided for him in Galilee and traveled with him to Jerusalem. They were devoted disciples who refused to leave him, and I can’t imagine their raw grief on that morning. It’s no wonder they forgot to figure out about the stone…

During the Lenten season, we have been engaging with the theme, A Seed of Joy. I admit, I don’t see a lot of joy in Mark’s Easter story! There is grief, and worry, and alarm, and astonishment, and terror and amazement… but no joy. In fact, Mark ends his Gospel by telling us that the women didn’t even tell anyone what they had seen, because they were so afraid! We don’t even get to see the risen Christ in this story! So, where is the joy?

Maybe that is also why I’m so drawn in by that large, seemingly immovable stone. After six weeks of daily and intentional prayer and reflection about joy… I still sometimes feel like joy is blocked, indeed like a large stone that I can’t possibly move myself no matter how much planning I do is holding back joy, and it can’t find a way out. We might as well ask ourselves: “Who will move that big stone – that stone that would keep us in a joyless place of death, that would keep us from the new life that Jesus promises and died to give us? Who will unblock my joy?”

And here, my friends, is where I think Mark does give us some joy. Because the women fretted, and worried, and wondered how that stone could ever be moved, and what did they find? That they needn’t worry, because they were not in charge of moving that stone all by themselves. In faithfulness and devotion, they showed up to find that God could do that work. Indeed, that God had done that work. 

So I ask you on this Easter Sunday: do you resonate with this? Do you, too, find something heavy or large blocking your ability to experience joy, and new life? Do you feel like the task of moving that thing is insurmountable, even out of your control or ability?

And then this: is it possible that God could do that, or is doing it for you?

Well, I’m sure you know what I think: the answer is yes, God could, and is! Yet it can be hard to see or even believe it sometimes. It is kind of an unbelievable story, isn’t it – this story we come here each year to proclaim and hear about a man who loved and taught even the weak and the outcasts, who then suffered and died at the hands of a hostile government, who was buried, but, who refused to stay dead, who left behind him an empty tomb and a promise for a future of newness and life. Even the women who witnessed it firsthand had a hard time wrapping their heads around it.

And yet… unbelievable as it is, have we not seen it happen ourselves, in our own lives? Not with these exact details, of course, but do we not all have stories of times we struggled and worked and tried all by ourselves to make something happen, all to no avail, and it was only when we stepped back and let God intervene that we found that rock moved, and a new opportunity emerge? I know I have fought like the hell of those three days in the tomb to make things happen, things I thought were right. I know I have wept bitter tears when I couldn’t bring it about myself. And, I know I have been amazed when God gently came beside me in these moments and said, “Here, let me,” and moved aside that big ol’ stone, and showed me a different way, something I wouldn’t have believed in my grief, a way that did bring about a newness of life which that ol’ stone wouldn’t let me see. God doesn’t let us off the hook, mind you – we are a part of this story of resurrection and new life, and partners with God, who equips us for the work ahead – but the responsibility to bring about this hopeful future is not ours alone. God does that with and for us.

It doesn’t always happen in the way we hoped or imagined – in fact, it seldom does. But then again, who would have expected God’s own Son, the Messiah, to be murdered and then risen from the dead? Even though Jesus said explicitly three different times that this would happen, they still didn’t expect or believe it! But I reckon, if we could put away our fret about how we will move aside those big stones, even put aside our careful planning for a moment (with apologies to my fellow list-lovers) and let God step in, we might just find an unexpected pathway to hope, to joy, and to a new life we couldn’t possibly have expected or accomplished on our own. 

Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Let us pray… God of resurrection and new life, we get so concerned with the stones, the barriers that block our way, thinking we have to move them ourselves. Embolden us to trust that you can make a way out of no way, possibility out of endings, and even life out of death. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

View the service HERE. 

Sermon: How do we love? (Maundy Thursday)

 Maundy Thursday
March 28, 2024
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
1 Corinthians 11:23-26

John August Swanson

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

“I give you a new commandment, to love one another as I have loved you.” These words Jesus that offers to his disciples on the night of his betrayal, after washing their feet, are as stunning as they are simple. On the one hand, they are nothing new – the command to love one another is all over the Old Testament, and Jesus has been saying it all along in his ministry. They already know that loving one another is a pretty central part of faith.

And yet they are stunning, partly because it turns out, loving one another is not particularly easy, especially when people are, shall we say, not very lovable. But what makes them particularly stunning is the context of this night. Keep in mind what is happening: this is not only the night of Jesus’ betrayal, but the very moment. Right after he washes everyone’s feet, during those missing verses, Judas leaves the room to betray Jesus – and Jesus knows it. Right after he gives the love commandment, Jesus goes on to predict Peter’s three-fold denial of him. And the next day, the rest of the disciples will desert him as he heads to the cross. Jesus knows all of this, and still he loves them. Still, he washes their feet. As I said, stunning.

So, what can we take from this? Well, our world has no shortage of difficult people to love, no lack of brokenness and division, no dearth of betrayal in our personal and public lives (and much of this seems especially inflated in an election year!). Even though the details are different, Jesus’ remarkable act and teaching here applies to our lives. So the question becomes, looking at this story from John, what does it look like for us to “love one another,” in today’s broken world?

First, it looks like humility. Love is a willingness to kneel at someone’s feet, to become the lesser, to put someone else ahead of you. It is the teacher becoming the servant. 

How might this translate into our particular pains and world-weariness? I find when I am in pain, and maybe this is your experience as well, I want to make sure my needs are known. It’s basic human instinct, right? When we hurt, we seek to have our needs met, whether physical or emotional! But loving someone with humility might mean listening to someone else’s needs and story before sharing your own. It might mean making an effort even to “try on” someone else’s opinion or viewpoint for a while, to really consider it, before putting your own on the table. 

There’s a show on Netflix called Designated Survivor. In the first episode, a massive explosion takes out the entire US government during the State of the Union Address, leaving the “designated survivor” – the one person kept off premises just in case such a thing should happen – as the president. The show, then, is about how the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, a really good guy who had no interest in being president, rebuilds the government and tries to win the trust and respect of a country who would never have voted for him. In a recent episode, “President Kirkman” holds a town hall to address questions about his new agenda. In his preparations for that, it becomes clear he is not a natural in this format: his staff tells him he is too aloof and impersonal. They urge him, in an effort to build trust and rapport with the people, that “This is about them, not you. Connect with them.” So when a former factory worker stands up and expresses his concern about losing his job at age 55, the president first responds, “My dad and grandpa were factory workers…” But then he pauses, chuckles, and turns to the man, saying, “But this time isn’t about me. It’s about you.” And he goes on to acknowledge the real and deep fears this man is feeling. It is a moving moment where we can see this shift, where he actually connects with not only this man, but the America people who are going through a deeply fearful moment together. In that moment, he becomes their president, and healing can begin.

It was beautifully portrayed on the screen, but – oh, is this sort of connection ever difficult! When we have conversations, we want to relate! We want to connect to our own life, and talk about ourselves. It takes a lot of energy to dwell completely in the needs of another, without adding your own two cents. This sort of connection takes a lot of humility, but this humble connection that Jesus demonstrates is what heals our divisions and our pain, wherever in our life they occur.

Even as “love one another” looks like the effort to humbly see another, it also looks like vulnerability – a willingness to be truly seen. It is letting another see not just the shiny exterior we work so hard to make look presentable and acceptable to the world, but also the dark, embarrassing parts – our dirty feet, as well as our broken hearts. In regard to our particular world weariness, that might mean admitting to someone that you are wrong, or at least that someone else is right. It might mean doing the hard work of looking at a conflict and considering our own role in that conflict – whether your role was active or merely complicit (did you or could you do anything to stop the pain from occurring?). It might mean being brave enough to say something important into a group where you know others disagree. It might mean admitting you don’t have the answers. 

This runs so much against our grain when we are feeling hurt – once again, our instinct is to protect our hearts, not to bare them! We may seek that protection by hiding, or by lashing out, but it is not generally our first instinct to respond to pain by opening our hearts to the possibility of more pain. Peter shows us this when he insists Jesus not wash his feet. He is horrified that Jesus would be so close and personal with his smelly, dirty feet. But, as Jesus points out, this sort of exposure and vulnerability is required to have a close and meaningful share in a relationship with Christ.

Finally, “love one another” looks like selflessness – that is, a willingness to put aside your pain, and still care deeply about another, even, and this is the kicker, the one who caused your pain. Jesus knew about Judas’s betrayal, and Peter’s denial, and everyone else’s abandonment. And yet, even though he knew this would happen, Jesus still washes all their feet. He still breaks bread with them. He still dies for them, and for all those who would in the future betray or deny someone they love, or who loves them. 

Maybe the magnitude of this is lost on us, because this is Jesus and all. But just think of this: Jesus looks out at this group of disciples, knows that one is about to turn him over to have him killed, another is going to deny – three times! – that he even knows him, and the rest will desert him in his hour of need. If you knew someone was about to do those things to you, what would you do?  How would you treat them? Would you kneel down to serve them in the most intimate way imaginable? Would you sit down to a meal with them and tell them how much you love them? Would you throw yourself in harm’s way to save their life? I think most of us, in this situation, would have a hard time even looking that person in the eye. Initiating a conversation with them to find some understanding might even seem impossible – let alone any of these things Jesus does for Peter, Judas, and all the rest. Indeed, what Jesus does for us. Yet this is the sort of love Jesus calls us to: “love one another as I have loved you.”

Loving one another with humility, vulnerability, and selflessness – these are tall orders, each one. Loving and serving friends or even strangers is one thing, but on this night, Jesus calls us into loving relationship, even with those who have hurt, betrayed, denied and deserted us, those who have acted as we wish they hadn’t, those who make us angry. 

This is the task and the call of the Church. And nowhere is this love more profoundly experienced than in the Lord’s Supper, in which we remember Jesus’ self-giving on our behalf. We see that bread that is his body, broken before our eyes, and remember that Christ knows and understands our own brokenness, and loves us still. We come forward, hands outstretched, to receive this humble, vulnerable, selfless love of Christ, indeed to receive concretely the grace and forgiveness of God. We come forward, carrying with us all of our brokenness, all of our pain, and that of our world, and receive that morsel with those words, “given for you.” For you, Jesus says, I have loved the world. For you, I have shown that love. For you, I have died, so that you might find in me life eternal. 

And as we receive Jesus’ brokenness for our own wholeness, we remember how Jesus calls us, too, into this sort of love, even as we are empowered to follow that command: to love one another as Christ loved us. May we find in this sacrament both command and empowerment to live out this command in our families, our churches, and our world.

Let us pray… Lord Christ, on the night in which you were betrayed, you showed us the profound way you call us to love one another: with humility, vulnerability, and selflessness. As we receive the sacrament tonight, and as we walk with you through these Three Days and into eternal life, make us willing servants, equipped and empowered to follow your command in our world. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Full service can be viewed HERE.

Sermon: Life growing in the void (Mar. 17, 2024)

Lent 5B
March 17, 2024
John 12:20-33

INTRODUCTION

This week’s theme is vocational joy. While vocation is something we normally associate with doing something, like a job, today’s texts will show us how we might find vocational joy instead through loss.

First, from Jeremiah, a prophet normally known for his doom and gloom. And yet here, he gives us beautiful words of hope – which is a real surprise, because his situation is anything but hopeful! The Israelites have just endured a disaster: military defeat, the destruction of Jerusalem, and the exile of the Israelites to Babylon. And yet, into this, Jeremiah offers this covenant: that although they have lost everything from their lives, everything they thought made them who they were, God has not left them. Indeed, God has given them what they need the most and written it on their hearts, where it can never be taken from them or destroyed.

The passage we hear today from John is on the other side of disaster – this occurs right before John moves into the Passion narrative of Jesus’ suffering and death. Yet John does not see this as a disastrous event. Rather, Jesus says, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified!” In other words, “This is it, folks! My whole purpose is about to come about, and it’s gonna be awesome!” Yet surprisingly, he uses an image of death and loss to declare this: a seed, falling into the earth and dying in order then to bear much fruit. Death and loss, he says, are essential to get to the life that follows – for seeds, for him, and also for us. 

As you listen to these texts, look for signs of new life. Look for the ways God enters into the places or fear, pain and loss, and does a new, life-filled thing. Let’s listen. 

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

Tensions are high. Jesus is now in Jerusalem, having just raised Lazarus from the dead. This final sign is the last straw for the authorities, who are now actively scheming a way to arrest Jesus and take him down. Jesus knows he is a hunted man, and is not long for this world. Word of his ministry and miracles has spread widely – even a couple of Greeks, out-of-towners, have heard about Jesus and are looking for him: “Sir,” they say to the disciples, “we wish to see Jesus.” 

In response, Jesus launches into his final public discourse before we turn toward the Passion story. Responding to their wish to see him, Jesus tells them what, exactly, they will see: “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies,” he says, “it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life.” Whoa, maybe that’s more than those Greeks had bargained for! 

I have been captivated this week by that image of a seed dying and bearing much fruit. It is such a simple image, really, but powerful in its simplicity. In short: sometimes things have to die, be lost, in order for life and goodness to be borne. It seems contrary to logic – I mean, death is death, right? The ultimate end? And yet that’s not how it works in nature. In nature, a seed must die for the plant to grow. It is planted, buried, and then life breaks out and sprouts, leaving behind the shell in order to grow and bear fruit. 

What a fascinating, painful, and exciting metaphor for our lives. In theory, I love the idea of new life, and growth, and bearing fruit. Sounds great; I’m here for it! But, when you think over your life and the moments of the most growth and change… were they not also accompanied by loss? Or perhaps a significant loss is what spurred the growth in the first place. Something that shook your very foundations even, and maybe even your self-concept. A job loss or retirement, a marriage or new baby, a major move, the end of a significant relationship… even just going to counseling and digging into your patterns and ways of being in the world to discover why you are the way you are or believe and act the way you do… With any of this, it can feel very much like a death, the loss of a previous way of being, a previous self-understanding, a previous vision of your future.

It can happen communally, too. Just look at the ways the world has changed since the pandemic! From fashion trends to how we work to how we worship and practice faith to how we parent and educate – so many things changed as a result of the immense loss we experienced as a global community. Everything functioned differently for over a year, and we all did some evaluation of ourselves, our values, and the way we operate, and when life began to sprout again, it looked different. 

Now, it can be easy to focus on the loss part, but I’m particularly interested this week in the life that sprouts as a result – that is where our theme of vocational joy comes in. Theologian and author Frederick Buechner, in writing about how we discern our vocation writes, “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” Where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet. It’s so beautiful, isn’t it? That intersection is the place where we bear much fruit, as Jesus says, where our joy is able to burst out of that shell and push through the dirt to bring something meaningful and useful to the world. 

And yet… it can be so hard to discern where that intersection is, because of all the stuff all around us. I don’t just mean physical stuff, but all the baggage and busy-ness and emotional and spiritual junk we haul around. It all seems immensely important, and yet it keeps us from life, from joy – from that discovering and living into the “deep gladness” Buechner writes about.

Suddenly, the possibility of death and loss takes a new form, something productive. Imagine that the very thing you thought was so important suddenly disappears, dies – a relationship you’ve been fighting for in vain, a hope or expectation that has not panned out like you envisioned, a job that paid well but left little free time, a commitment that takes more than it gives. At first, it is shocking, even devastating. That thing was important to you, after all. Maybe you even felt it defined you and gave you purpose. And now it is gone, dead – and now what will you do? What will happen to that void it left behind? That grief is very real.

But then, from that dead shell… life starts to emerge. Into that void creeps the possibility of something you hadn’t before had the space to imagine. It feels… lighter, even joyful. It feels like life, new life. Without that thing clinging to your shoulders, you are able to look out, and up, and recognize the world’s deep hunger, and the way that this new sprout, emerging out of the devasting void, might meet that hunger, in ways you had not before considered. And suddenly, you find… a vocation. You find vocational joy. 

It is not usually an easy process. The death part is hard, no two ways about it. We might scream and cry for the thing that died to come back. We can’t imagine life without it. It kept us safe. It was familiar. We loved it. 

It can seem impossible in that moment of grief to imagine that new life might emerge. It can even feel unfaithful to the thing that we have loved and lost, that we had been clinging to. But Jesus’ remarkable words here won’t let us dwell in our grief forever. He assures us instead that a seed planted and dead is a seed with potential – to grow and bear fruit. He says that when we are able, finally, to let go of, to lose, those things we thought we needed, those things we thought defined us, we will not be left stuck in the mud and muck, but will instead discover true life – perhaps the place where our deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet, perhaps the place where we can truly see Jesus, perhaps a place to rest and listen to where Jesus calls us next. Whatever it looks like, this place is not only the deathplace, but the birthplace, the place from which we can, with God’s help, bear much fruit, and even to find joy.

Let us pray… Loving, life-giving God, you call us to that place where the world’s deep hunger, and our own deep gladness meet. Sometimes to find that place, something else needs to die. When we face loss, show us also the new growth you are bringing about, so that we might find vocational joy. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Full service can be viewed HERE - this week on YouTube!

Sermon: Snakes and transformational joy (Mar. 10, 2024)

Lent 4B
March 10, 2024
Numbers 21:4-9; John 3:14-21

INTRODUCTION

This week’s theme, as a part of our overall Lenten theme, A Seed of Joy, is “transformational joy.” We will see that in a dynamic set of texts which include one of the most Lutheran passages in all of scripture (Ephesians); one of the most quoted verses in all of scripture (John 3:16); and, one of the weirdest stories in all of scripture (from Numbers).

Let’s start there, with the Israelites in the wilderness. Remember that the Israelites wandered in the wilderness for 40 years, and this time is a sort of Faithfulness Boot Camp, in which they learn what it means to be God’s faithful people. The 10 Commandments we heard about last week gave a good foundation, but there is yet much to learn. Throughout this boot camp, the Israelites famously complain. Today their complaints are followed by the arrival of deadly, venomous snakes (it’s no wonder this is the final complaint story – lesson learned!), and God will respond by transforming the very cause of their pain into an agent of healing. 

In our Gospel reading, Jesus refers to this strange incident with the snakes. What we hear today is actually just a part of a much larger story, in which the Pharisee Nicodemus comes to Jesus by night with some questions, and Jesus tells him he must be born again, born of the Spirit. What we hear today is a part of Jesus’ explanation about what that means. The reference to the snake story will set up the verse we all know and love: John 3:16.

All three texts show us the unexpected ways that God transforms brokenness into life – snake bites into healing, being dead in sin to being alive in Christ (by way of grace), darkness into light. As you listen, watch for signs of that transformation, all the ways God promises and delivers new life. Let’s listen.

[READ]

This is Beauty. She is a ball python, not a spicy noodle.
She is sweet, and belongs to my goddaughter. :) 

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

My husband used to be deathly afraid of snakes, but he finally decided he wanted to get over it, and that he would do this by exposure. Recently he has been following a “what is this snake” sub-reddit online, where every day he sees pictures of all manner of snakes in various situations, all in an effort to desensitize himself and chip away at his fear of these fascinating creatures. He’s also learned some funny internet names for snakes along the way. If you are afraid of snakes, you call them, “nope ropes.” If a nope rope is also venomous, that is called a “danger noodle,” or if you prefer, “hazard spaghetti,” “spicy noodle,” or “caution ramen.” Thank you, Internet. 

I know Michael isn’t the only one who is afraid of danger noodles, or even just your everyday, non-venomous nope ropes. They certainly get a bad rap. And thanks to Genesis, readers of the Bible might even associate these slithery noodles with sin itself! But that is actually not the prevailing view of snakes throughout history and culture. In ancient cultures, the snake was a symbol of both death and life. They often represented fertility. A snake winds around the staff of the ancient Greek god of medicine, Asclepius, an image we still use as a medical symbol. Though snake bites can kill, snakes also shed their skin, a symbol of renewal, and dare I say, transformation.

It seems that people have long had a complicated view of snakes! And knowing that makes this story from Numbers all the more fascinating and complex. No doubt some of these varied perceptions of snakes were in the minds of those who first told, heard, and recorded this story. The very thing that causes the pain is what brings about the renewal. The thing that causes death also brings life. Lots of common themes here.

Now, I love this story, like a lot. But I admit there are a lot of things about it not to love. So let’s go through and try to understand and reconcile some of those things.

  First, a tip: like many of the stories in the Bible, and especially the Old Testament, it can be easy to get caught up in the details. How did Moses make a snake out of bronze out there in the wilderness? It was a large camp, so how did people get quickly enough to the bronze snake before they died of snake bites? Why did God send poisonous snakes in the first place if God is supposed to be loving and merciful, and why didn’t he just remove them when asked? But let’s not get caught up in these spicy-noodle-infested weeds. It’s important to remember that ancient cultures did not tell stories like this to record factual accounts. That’s a post-enlightenment way of reading and recording history. Rather, stories like this are told to make a point – in this case, about God, and Israel’s relationship with God. That doesn’t make the story untrue. It just needs to be read differently.

Now, let’s recall what is happening in the larger narrative. The Israelites have been wandering in the wilderness for a few decades by this point. They are weary. The Hebrew tells us that their very souls are weary – and wouldn’t you be? To be in-between for so long, eating the same old food, waiting and wanting to get to this alleged Promised Land, even as the generation who first made that dramatic exodus out of Egypt are dying away. And so they complain – a lot. And every time they complain, God provides just what they need. Hungry? Here’s manna, bread from heaven. Thirsty? Here’s water. Water is too bitter? Here, now it is better. Need protein? Here are some quails. God has shown again and again that he is trustworthy.

And yet… even though the number one commandment is to trust God above all things, Israel is struggling to do that. Instead, they complain. They have no food, they hate the miserable food. Just as they are supposed to be learning to love and trust God above all, they are instead turning in on themselves. They do not trust. 

Numbers tells us that in response to this round of complaining, “God sent poisonous snakes.” I know, it is easy to get caught up on this. It brings up all kinds of big questions like, “Does God punish? Are we not allowed to bring our concerns to God without fear of being plagued with venomous serpents? Where is the mercy and compassion?” But remember, that the definition of theology is “faith seeking understanding,” and that is what this story is doing: it reflects a faithful people seeking understanding about their unfortunate lot. To the Israelites, it no doubt felt like God was punishing them and sending the snakes. We do the same thing: “Did God strike me with cancer or send this tragedy because I’ve been sinful? What did I do to deserve this?” So, I’m hesitant to say with certainty that God actively sent this plague in order to teach Israel a lesson. That’s a human way of acting, and I don’t think God works that way. I’m more willing to say that Israel is experiencing a natural consequence of their ego, navel-gazing, and lack of trust. As one commentator writes, “When we spend too long worshiping our own wisdom, we start poisoning ourselves and harming the vulnerable in our communities.”

So rather than dwelling on whether or not God actively sent the danger noodles, notice that God responds to their cries for help… even if not the way we hoped or expected. I think they and we were probably hoping God would just remove the source of their anguish. No more spicy noodles! And while this might be yet another thing not to love about this story, I think it is important, because it is so much more like real life. God does not always remove what causes us pain. Instead, God shows us a way to live and thrive even amid the struggles. And the path he shows, strange as it sounds to us, is exactly what we need to hear.

“Make a poisonous serpent of bronze,” God tells Moses, “and set it on a pole. And everyone who is bitten and looks upon it shall live.” How unlikely, that God would suggest looking at a likeness of the very thing bringing death and suffering upon them… as a means toward healing and life! Wouldn’t we prefer to look away from our pain? Away from even the memory of grief and brokenness? Wouldn’t we rather ignore it, put it behind us, move on? And yet here God says, “Nope. (Rope.) You have to face it. Face the nope rope. But don’t look down anymore at what is poisoning you. Don’t look toward your own navel. Instead, look up – up toward me, up toward the source of life. Face what has harmed you, because that is the only way you can deal with it. But, as you face it, make sure that you see that I am there with you in it.”

In our Gospel reading today, Jesus refers to this story. “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the son of man be lifted up, so that all who believe in him may have eternal life.” You see, Jesus does the same thing with the cross as God did with the serpent: he transforms this instrument of death into a pathway toward life. But with Jesus, looking upon it is not only for survival. The cross is not only a means to get through this one trial, this one struggle. The son of man, lifted up on the cross, becomes the way toward eternal life. He becomes the way to know God, and be in relationship with him. 

And so, we do just as the Israelites in the wilderness: we lift up this instrument of suffering and death, knowing that what Christ did for us there brings us life. Through that cross, our pain and brokenness is transformed into joy. Through that which would have brought the worst kind of death, we are saved, brought into relationship with God – not by our own doing, but as a gift of God. “By grace [we] have been saved.” And we are given a new chance to live and be the people God has called us to be: “created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand to be our way of life.”

Let us pray… God, your ways are mysterious, strange and confusing, and yet you find a way to turn the very thing that meant us harm into a way toward new life. Open our eyes and lift our heads, so that we might always see you working in and among us, even in our struggles. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

View full service HERE.

Sermon: Liberating Boundaries (Mar. 3, 2024)

Lent 3B – Liberating Joy
March 3, 2024
Exodus 20:1-17

INTRODUCTION

This week’s theme in our series, A Seed of Joy, is “liberating joy.” The first reading is the 10 commandments, which may not at first sound very liberating. I’m sure you’re familiar with at least some of the commandments, but here is where they fall in the biblical narrative: Moses has just led the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt and they are now in the wilderness, finding their way to the Promised Land. As they wander through the wilderness, God provides these “10 words” as guidelines about what it means to live as God’s faithful people. The reading is a bit dry, but it’s actually quite a dramatic moment: God has made sure the people will all stay safely at the foot of the mountain, and then there is thunder and smoke and fire, and a trumpet blast, the whole mountain shakes violently, and Moses talks to God. God makes it very clear this is a big deal! 

The 10 words God speaks seem simple and straightforward enough – yet God’s people have struggled to keep them even to today, as we strive to live according to God’s wisdom, not our foolishness. Now, rules don’t normally bring to mind the idea of freedom. So as you listen to this one, think about how the law, and specifically God’s law, can provide a path toward liberating joy. More later.

Our Gospel reading is John’s version of the famous story in which Jesus overturns the money-changers tables in the Temple. There are a few things that are different in John’s version compared with the other Gospels, most notably that it happens at the beginning of his ministry, not the end. You see, Jesus is making the point right off the bat that things like animal sacrifice and even the Temple itself are no longer necessary to worship and be close to God – because now, through Jesus, God is dwelling right there among them, among us. In this encounter, Jesus declares a sort of spiritual freedom to Israel and to us – freedom to worship God wherever we are. As you listen to this one, consider how knowing that God dwells with us provides a sense of freedom. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

I have long been a proud rule-follower. I like to know what is expected of me, and I feel very comfortable within a clear set of guidelines. My son, Isaac, and I share this. Isaac frequently reports on kids in his classes who are “not good listeners” or “don’t do what the teacher said.” He and I also share a love of board games, and the security of knowing there is a right way to play. That way, everyone can have fun. 

Michael and Grace are… not this way. For Michael, the value in knowing the rules is so you know how best to get away with breaking them. Grace bristles when anyone tells her how something should be done. Not surprisingly, neither of them are huge fans of board games – Michael tends not to play at all, and if Grace plays, she prefers to add her own rules to the mix. Or just go make art instead, where there are no rules. Consequently, Isaac and I play a lot of two-player games.

It takes all kinds, and there is certainly value to both ways of living. The Isaacs and Johannas of the world provide order and structure and keep people accountable to doing their job. The Graces and Michaels of the world help us have some fun, to think outside the box, and make the world beautiful. 

But here’s my question. Our theme today is “liberating joy.” Which family members do you think experience more liberating joy: the rule followers, or the rule benders? Can rules, the law, be liberating? Or is the law constraining and a buzzkill? We know that God’s grace is liberating – freeing us from the rigors of the law and assuring us of salvation even when we cannot keep God’s law. But is it possible that God’s law can also be liberating?

Spoiler alert: yes, the law absolutely can be liberating. 

In our first reading, we hear the 10 Commandments, the most famous and mainstream of God’s covenants. These come to Moses and Israel at a key moment in their formation: right after the Exodus from slavery in Egypt. (Already we see that this is liberating - it is counter to the experience of slavery.) The Exodus event is an absolutely central one for God’s people. In fact, some of the language in the crossing of the Red Sea moment recalls the creation story in Genesis, giving the sense that the Exodus is the creation of God’s people as a people. It’s their birth narrative. They have been gestating all these years, all through Genesis, and now they have been born of water. Now they embark upon a journey, walking through the wilderness to find the land of Canaan, the land “promised to Abraham and his children forever.” 

1yo Grace explores her boundaries
as the dog looks on.

Anyone who has raised a child knows that those first few years, the toddler years, when children start to travel by their own power and volition require the parent to set some boundaries. In some cases, these are physical – baby gates and whatnot. But it is also softer boundaries, aka rules, rituals, and routines: we do not drink out of the dog’s bowl, we do not throw food, we do go in the potty and wash our hands after, we say please and thank you, we pray before going to sleep. Some rules are universal (I don’t know anyone who lets their child drink from the dog’s bowl, for instance). And, each house has their own, unique rules and rituals. Such boundaries help a child develop their autonomy, even as they also grow into understanding their own identity as a member of this family. For example, one ritual we have is we have prayed with and blessed our children each night since before they can remember, and this is so ingrained that when one parent is out of town, they videochat in for this ritual, and neither child wants to go to sleep until we “God-bless” them. That is a part of their unique Rehbaum identity they have developed from the boundaries and rituals we have put in place as their loving parents.

This is what the 10 Commandments provide for the Israelites in their toddlerhood as a people, and what they continue to provide for the descendants of Abraham, including Christians, to this day. Some of the commandments, like the ones about murder, lying and stealing, are fairly universal, included in our secular laws. And some are particular to the household of God – like the one about idols, or remembering the Sabbath. Some (the first three) are directed at the people’s relationship with God, and some (the rest) are meant to order our lives with respect to our neighbor. Love the Lord your God, and your neighbor as yourself.

But every last one of them is meant not to restrain or limit us, but to liberate us. To show us how to live together and love one another. 

Think again about a toddler. All the parenting books will tell you: kids crave boundaries. They long to know what is expected of them. A kid who understands their limits may still push those limits, but it is all in service of trying to understand where the limits are. When those boundaries are clear to the child, the child can play and explore and adventure freely and with a sense of safety. They feel secure enough to build relationships, to learn what it is to live and to love and to be loved. 

I remember during the pandemic, when I was home with my then 3- and 4-year-old, and Michael was deployed for three months. The days were long and fuzzy, chaotic in their looseness without the structure of going to preschool or work. One day, the kids and I sat down and made ourselves a schedule, which included meals, learning time, quiet time, let-mom-work time, outdoor/wiggle time, mom-play-with-kids time. We hung it on the wall so we could refer easily to it. Our lives completely changed. Suddenly each day seemed more manageable, and if a day was manageable, so was a week. In fact, we were able to find a lot more joy in our days! We didn’t follow it to the letter, but the structure saved our lives in those fearful early months of the pandemic. In fact, my kids still remember it. “Remember when we made that schedule during the pandemic and hung it on the wall?” they ask. “That was good.” Yes. Yes, it was.

You see it isn’t just kids. We all do better when we know what is expected of us. And that is why these 10 words, these 10 commandments from God, are a gift to us, indeed, a means of liberation. They are the baby gates and household rules in the house of God, which guide us and keep us on track, and give us a sense of identity, and show us how God wants us to live in relationship with God and with our neighbor. They offer us a means of accountability, yes, but also, within those boundaries, they grant us space to dare to adventure and be brave, knowing that we are in a safe place, and that God’s grace will catch us when we fall. 

Next week after worship, we will have a chance to dare to adventure and be brave in our ministry, as we begin to brainstorm about what we will do with our recent bequest of $4 million. We will be guided in our discernment by things like our values and vision as a congregation, but going further back, we will be guided by God’s law, the first covenant God made with His people in which God told us how we are expected to act: that is, lovingly toward both God and neighbor, just as Jesus also taught. Knowing that God’s law, lovingly given, is what guides us, we can be brave and liberated in our imagining how $4 million can best be used to love and serve both God and neighbor. And, we can be sure that if and when we don’t quite stay within the limits God has set, grace will catch us, and set us back on our feet, and let us try again.

Thanks be to God for the loving and liberating boundaries that allow and call us to venture and to dare, and for the abundant grace of God that guards our lives from birth to death!

Let us pray… God of covenant and law, you gave us guidelines to make it safe for us to venture and to dare. Liberate us to be brave in how we love you and how we love our neighbor, trusting that your grace will always be there when we fall short. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.  

View the full service HERE.

Sermon: Belonging to Christ (February 25, 2024)

Lent 2B
February 19, 2024
Mark 8:31-38

INTRODUCTION

Today’s series theme is “Expectant Joy.” What I hear in that, just below the surface is, “Joy is coming, but it’s not yet fully here.” There is excitement and hope in that, but also some growing pains in the waiting, and we will see that in our readings. 

We’ll hear the Abrahamic covenant today, in which God tells Abraham, who is 99 years old, that he and his spritely 90-year-old wife, Sarah, will be father and mother of a great nation, even though they have until now been barren. Paul will tell us in our reading from Romans how remarkable Abraham’s faith in this covenant is. 

Our Gospel reading benefits from a bit of context. Just before this, Jesus has asked his disciples to declare who they believe him to be. Peter rightly responds, “You’re the Messiah.” This is a powerful title: the Messiah, the anointed one, was expected to be a kingly ruler who would overcome the current political powers, beat back the oppressive Empire, and restore Israel. Yet back at the beginning of Mark, Mark told us that Jesus is not only Messiah, but also the Son of God – and that latter title implies a necessary path of suffering. See, Peter only got it half right… and when Jesus goes on, in today’s part of the story, to describe the son of God part, Peter feels pretty freaked out by that (what kind of Messiah suffers??). Peter wanted the joy at the end, but the journey to get there was less appealing! (Which I can totally understand!)

As you listen, recall a time when you experienced expectant joy – you knew something better was coming, but that the road getting there would be difficult – and find what good news there might be here for such a time. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

Last week, those who stayed after worship got to hear Pastor Imani Olear present the results of our Congregational Vitality Assessment. If you couldn’t be there, I hope you had a chance to look at the results, or better yet, watch the recording of the presentation, both of which were linked in the Monday email this past week.

The gist was that we are strong and vibrant in a lot of areas, which is great! But, there were also a lot of areas in which people answered more apathetically, checking the box (usually the second listed answer, if you remember filling it out) that basically says, “Yeah, we kind of do that.” Not bad, just not a lot of excitement about it. Several of these areas, Pastor Imani pointed out, had to do with a sense of belonging and participation and a feeling of mutual ownership of our ministry together. She asked some questions like, “What creates a sense of belonging? How did Jesus create belonging? How do you establish connection, and create trust?”

I have been mulling over these questions all week, and that word, belonging, has been especially loud in my mind. I love the work of Brené Brown, who is a researcher on shame, vulnerability, connection, and courage. She distinguishes between belonging and fitting in. In her wonderful book, Daring Greatly, she writes, “Fitting in and belonging are not the same thing. In fact, fitting in is one of the greatest barriers to belonging. Fitting in is about assessing a situation and becoming who you need to be in order to be accepted. Belonging, on the other hand, doesn’t require us to change who we are; it requires us to be who we are.” I’ll say that last part again: belonging doesn’t require us to change who we are; it requires us to be who we are. 

In a world so full of expectations, there are not a lot of places that allow the gift of true belonging. Hopefully our families, though not always. Perhaps a few close friends. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, if church, and specifically this church, were one of those places of belonging – not just for you or me, but for anyone who walks through the door? If people could walk in and feel like wherever they are in their understanding of God, or their knowledge of the Bible, whatever messiness is going on or has gone in their lives, however disruptive their kids are, or what they are wearing… no matter what, that they, you, we, and all the brokenness and gifts we bring, belong in this place? Is this a place where people feel not only welcomed, but also known, included, supported, and connected?

With all this still buzzing in my mind, I took a look at this week’s texts. At first look, I admit, this passage from Mark does not say “belonging” to me. The opposite, in fact – it sounds exclusive, setting the bar impossibly high for discipleship. “Deny yourself,” Jesus says, “And take up your cross. Lose your life if you want to keep it. Don’t set your mind on human things, but divine things.” That’s a tall order! 

And yet, I believe in my heart that belonging is something so foundational to the Gospel. God says it in Isaiah: “I love you. You are mine.” Jesus identifies himself as the shepherd, and we as the sheep who belong to his flock. Paul says we are all members of one body. And we say it in baptism: “you belong to Christ.” And so surely Jesus’ statement here – one of his most famous teachings – cannot be contrary to all that! 

So let’s look at this difficult teaching and see what we can make of it. The most problematic bit for me is this: “deny yourself.” At face value, that sounds like the opposite of Brené Brown’s definition, that to belong means to be entirely yourself, and still be accepted. But what if what Jesus says here is not to deny who you truly are, but to deny the “self” that we put out to the world. To lay aside our masks. To be real, raw, and authentic, so that we can be truly known and make meaningful connections, and so we might then be ready to receive God’s grace, mercy, and love? Deny that self, that armor – lose it, in fact – and follow Jesus. 

Michael and I are watching a drama-comedy on Netflix called Loudermilk, about an addiction counselor who’s got a brash style, and yet manages to create this quirky, beautiful community of recovering addicts. The viewer gets to drop in on their meetings each episode, as well as see some of the struggles some of them deal with in between. There is a real beauty in it – these broken individuals, sharing their broken hearts with each other, and holding each other accountable with honesty and understanding (if not always kindness!), and even finding some joy in each other’s presence. They come exactly as they are, raw and messed up, deeply desiring a change and yet unsure exactly how to get there. When someone new comes to the group, they are greeted, welcomed, shown a seat, given coffee, invited to share, and found a sponsor to walk with them on their journey. Honestly, the church could learn a thing or two from this kind of community!

Not that it is an easy path, of course, which the show portrays well. If there is expectant joy in this room of addicts, it is definitely more expectant than joy at this point – there is no glossing over the hard work of recovery! But their efforts show that the process of recovery is a process of denying themselves – denying those destructive patterns and mindsets, and their habitual coverup of them – in order to find new life. And yet, wherever they are in their process, they are accepted – welcomed, known, included, supported and connected. In short, each person who walks in the door belongs, and is encouraged in their journey toward a new way of living.

Just because we belong somewhere, you see, that doesn’t mean that we are off the hook and can just stay the same. It means we recognize the current reality for what it is, even as we hold and support one another in our mutual effort to be the best we can be. This is another thing you see in recovery programs: the first important step toward turning away from destruction and toward new life is accepting that you have a problem that needs addressing – that there is something that needs to be lost, needs to die, in order for new life to be found. Or in Christian terms, something we need to leave behind if we want to follow Jesus’ difficult but life-giving path. And, we are absolutely loved, cared for, supported, and connected as we make those difficult changes. That is what it is to belong – to a church community, yes, but more broadly, to Christ. 

And difficult though that path may be, there is expectant joy in it, because we know the path leads ultimately to resurrection. Jesus’ suffering and death, that he describes and Peter rebukes, must happen to break the power of sin and death. Expectant joy comes from the assurance of the resurrection that follows. It cannot come without the suffering; in order to rise, Jesus must first fall. In order to resurrect, he must first die.

Resist it though we may, this is also true for us. Something in us must die. The expectant joy of that experience, is to look toward the resurrection to come. The new life – sobriety, restored relationships, hope, peace, opportunity, safety. These are the “divine things” we cannot fathom as long as we continue to walk in the “human things” of our old, destructive ways. 

So let us, then, deny ourselves, my friends. Let us walk the difficult path, leaving behind our baggage, our guilt, our regrets. Empowered by the expectant joy Christ has promised and shown us, let us walk together in newness of life, for we do belong to one another, and to God. 

Let us pray… God of expectant joy, we wish we could get to the joy part without having to go through the loss part. Yet you have shown us that after death comes life. Encourage us, that we could deny our false selves, lose our lives, and follow you. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Full service can be viewed HERE.