Easter Sermon: Which is the "idle tale"?

Easter 2013 (C)

March 31, 2013

Luke 24:1-12

Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Grace to you and peace from our Risen Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

         “Returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them.”

Kind of a let down, right? We’re all caught up in the women’s story – they’ve just seen these men in dazzling clothes, these angels, who have reminded them that what Jesus said would happen did, in fact, happen, and they are urgent and eager to share this news, to preach the first sermon, and to a crowd who is ripe to hear this news, who indeed craves this news. But then, “these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe it.” Ouch.

That phrase, “idle tale,” is sort of the G-rated version of the story. The Greek word Luke uses there, leros, is the root of our English word, “delirious.”  So, the men thought that the women were completely off their rockers, insane, and that their story was a load of garbage. All of the accounts of the resurrection have some element of disbelief, but Luke’s it seems is the most blatant about it. They didn’t just not believe it. They thought the women delivering the message belonged in a loony bin.

And really, why shouldn’t they think that? For those of us who grew up hearing this story, perhaps you’ve come to take for granted. We have heard it so many times that it no longer shocks us. But hearing it for the first time? I think I’d be with the eleven! If you don’t think the story of the resurrection is a hard one to get a hold of, well, then I’m not sure you’re giving it enough thought!

So why is it that those who heard that first Easter sermon had trouble believing it? And by extension, why do we? Maybe, it is just too good to be true. These people were Jesus’ closest friends and followers, and surely they wanted him not to have died at all, and the possibility that he could come back was too far-fetched. Thomas Long tells a story about his friend’s son, who was a great fan of both Captain Kangaroo and Mister Rogers. The boy loved both of their television shows, and one day it was announced that Mister Rogers would be appearing on the Captain Kangaroo show. The boy was beside himself. Both of his heroes, together on the same show! When the day of the show arrived, the whole family gathered around the television. There they were, Mister Rogers and Captain Kangaroo together! To everyone’s surprise, the boy watched for a minute, but then got up and wandered from the room. “What is it, son?” his father asked. “Is anything wrong?” “It’s too good," the boy replied. “It’s just too good.” [Christian Century, 4/4/01]

To believe something like that – I mean that Jesus would come back, not that Mr. Rogers would appear on Capt. Kangaroo! – is exciting, but it is a lot to take in! Furthermore, it really opens up the possibility of being hurt, doesn’t it? You get your hopes up too high, and you will inevitably be disappointed. We don’t want to put ourselves in that scary place, where disappointment becomes such a real possibility.

Or maybe the reason they didn’t want to believe that Jesus could have come back was that they had already accepted his death. Grief is a difficult thing, but at least it provides some closure. You can, finally, accept your loss and move on. But now these women are coming with their crazy story and reopening the wound! I’m reading a book right now called Unbroken, a true story about an Olympic runner turned WW2 bombardier, whose plane gets shot down over the Pacific. After a month and a half drifting across the Pacific in an inflatable raft, he gets picked up by the Japanese and sent to several different camps, but is never able to alert his family that he is alive. Finally, some two years later, the US government declares him dead, but later that same week, the Japanese allow him to be interviewed on a radio show and greet his family. Well, what is the family supposed to believe? It did sound like him, but could that be possible? Or was it a trick? They had already started to grieve – did they dare believe that he might still be alive? This sort of back and forth is hard on the heart!

Maybe there was even some sense of relief for the disciples about continuing to believe that Jesus was gone. As much as they loved Jesus, following him was no cakewalk. He was always upsetting the authorities and saying and doing strange things and putting forth a new kind of law. It was exhilarating, but also probably a little embarrassing. Even loyal friend Peter denied knowing Jesus at all in those last hours of Jesus’ life. So maybe there was some relief to closing that door and moving on back to normal life. But when this “idle tale” comes along… they no longer even have the closure that grief offers.

But perhaps the biggest hurdle for the disciples – and let’s face it, for us, too – is that this story just does not fit into our understanding of reality. We’ve been taught that the only things that are certain in this world are death and taxes. We may not like that reality, but at least we know it. But if the dead aren’t staying dead… then what can we count on anymore?

Did you know: there was a time when the Earth was the center of the universe? No, really, it’s true! The earth was at the center, and the sun moved around it. People knew this, because they could see it – the sun moved across the sky each day, and the earth stayed in one place. Anybody could see that, but also science proved it – models were developed showing the paths that stars took as they circled the earth. Even religion agreed: if God made humanity in God’s image, then of course the planet on which humanity dwells would be the center of the universe. It showed how much God loves us. And this understanding of the way life works was pretty much accepted … Until it wasn’t. Until Copernicus came along and said, “No, actually, the sun is stationary, and we move around that.” But these words seemed to the world an idle tale, and they did not believe them. Hundreds of years of science told them otherwise. Their daily observations told them otherwise. The Church told them otherwise! There was no way that the sun was stationary and the earth was moving around it: that did not fit into their understanding of reality. If the very way the universe functions changes, then what can we count on anymore? Where does it stop? It was no wonder the world was so resistant to accepting that new reality. If that changed… everything changed. The previous reality made sense, and had stood the test of time, but what do we make of this?

So, too, with the disciples on that first Easter morning. They have a stake in preserving the reality they have always known… but in doing so, in dismissing the resurrection as a mere “idle tale,” they miss, we miss, this amazing thing that God has done. We miss the fact that after the resurrection, reality as we knew it is gone. Death is no longer ultimate. Fear no longer dominates us. The pain, confusion, frustration and lostness of the old reality no longer needs to bring us down, because God in Christ has offered us something better: life, and love, and freedom. The old reality becomes the “idle tale,” and the one that the women present when they come running from the tomb is the story of life and newness that Jesus invites us into.

If this could be possible, if resurrection could be possible… then indeed, where does it stop? What else could be possible, that you would otherwise have never dreamed? What could happen in this new reality that Jesus offers us? It’s a risk to believe it – faith can be risky. And it seems incomprehensible, I know. But we don't have to understand it. We only need to trust it, and, even though it may scare us, even “terrify” us as it did the women at the tomb – we can trust that God has this under control. Fear no longer has to be our guiding force, because now, after the resurrection, LIFE is what guides us.

Let us pray… God of life, faith in you is not always easy, and sometimes, it is downright scary. Even still, grant us hearts willing to hear your Gospel, so that we will find ourselves able to embrace and participate in your new reality. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit, Amen.

Maundy Thursday: You got served.

Maundy Thursday 2013

March 28, 2013

St. Martin Lutheran Church

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

         Each year, I have to fill out some reports for the synod – one for each church, and one for myself. One question on the pastor report is about how many hours I’ve spent doing continuing education, and what I have learned from it. One question is, “What is the most important learning from continuing education this year?” As I looked back on the year, I had trouble answering this – not because I didn’t learn a lot from the various classes and workshops I attended, but because the most important learning I did this year was from you, my congregation. And probably the single most important lesson I learned this year (and I said this) was, “It’s okay to let people take care of you.” When I was anticipating and recovering from surgery, you did all you could to take care of me, from covering extra duties at church to bringing me meals at my home. A lot of learning happens when you let your parishioners see you in sweatpants, unshowered, and on painkillers. A lot of learning happens when you cry in the pulpit. A lot of learning happens when you have to admit, several times, “I just can’t do that.” It is humbling to have to reveal your need, your hunger, to people before whom you’d like to appear strong.

         We’ve talked a lot about hunger during this Lenten season, and in Sunday sermons, the focus has been on spiritual hungers. Spiritual hunger is a slippery creature, isn’t it? When we asked people to contribute to our hunger-themed devotional, we said they could write about an experience with either physical or spiritual hunger. One of our astute confirmation students, in her devotion, wrote that spiritual hunger can be much worse than physical… and in some ways, I would agree. It is difficult to name those hungers, and even if we can discern it and name it, we may not know what will fill it, or how to find it. It’s hard to know where to start, and we are too proud to ask for guidance, or even to receive help when it is offered. And so we continue down our path, unfed.

         It is human nature to resist receiving help. Just talk to Simon Peter about it. Poor Peter, ever eager to please, to be a good friend and a faithful follower of Jesus. But in the story we’re about to hear, when Jesus gets down on his knees before Peter and tries to serve him, to wash his feet, Peter responds like I’m sure many of us would: “No, no, you’ll never wash my feet, Lord!” No, I couldn’t possibly let you do that. No, I’ve got this under control, I don’t need help. You don’t need to serve me, and in fact, you shouldn’t.

         Why is being served or receiving help so hard for us? I suppose there are lots of reasons. One is that, especially as Christians, we see our role as the ones who do the serving. “So if I have washed your feet,” Jesus says, “You should wash one another’s feet” – and we’re really good at that! Let’s get out and serve! It may be hard work, but at the end of the day, it feels good, it’s satisfying, we like it. But beneath the surface of that, of course, is that when we are the ones doing the helping or the serving, we are in charge. We have control over the situation, and are in the dominant position. Being the one with the ability and resources to help someone else is a very comfortable position to be in, especially for us Americans, who so value our independence and self-sufficiency.

Another reason we prefer to be the ones serving, which is related to that, is that when we are the ones being helped, it means we have admitted to needing help – tacitly if not explicitly. Being served implies that you have some weakness, something you can’t do on your own. Even if you could have done it on your own – if you receive help, it looks like you couldn’t. When I was sick, and you asked me what you could do to help, there was a part of me that wanted to say, “Nothing!” so that I could prove to you and to myself that I was strong enough to handle this all on my own. I could make my own meals, or order out, if I needed to. But putting that aside and letting someone else serve me looked a whole lot – I feared – like, “I can’t handle this. I’m not strong enough.” And who wants to admit that?

Have any of you ever participated in a foot-washing? I have a few times. To be honest, I don’t like it much and find it uncomfortable. Well, I should clarify – when I say I don’t like it much, what I really mean is that I don’t much like having my feet washed. I don’t mind at all washing someone else’s feet, and actually think it is very cool. I would much sooner play the role of Jesus in the story, getting down and putting my face right up close to someone else’s smelly feet, than I would play the part of the disciples, exposing my own smelly feet to someone else. Seeing other people’s pain and insecurities is something I am very comfortable with. Comes up a lot as a pastor. But letting down my own guard and baring my own insecurities and inabilities is much more difficult. And I know I’m not alone in this, because pretty much everyone I’ve talked to about foot-washing would rather wash someone else’s feet than let anyone near their own. We would much rather serve and help others than ever have to make ourselves vulnerable.

To me, the powerful image in the foot-washing story is not so much that Jesus sits himself down and puts his face right down in people’s smelly feet… but that Peter doesn’t want him to. And that Jesus tells him he must, if he wants to be a part of what Jesus is doing. The command that follows, to wash others’ feet like Jesus did for his disciples, and to love one another as God has loved us – we’re all on board with that. But Jesus tells us that we cannot be part of that, it cannot be possible, until we have made ourselves vulnerable enough to acknowledge our own need, our own hunger, and to let someone into our hearts and serve us – not lazily or selfishly, but humbly and gratefully. Only then will we possess the humility we need to serve others with a willing and compassionate heart.

And it is with that humility that we enter these three days, in which we remember the extremes to which our God has gone to love and serve us. And our resistance, like Peter’s, to being served is part of what makes the story that will unfold in the next few days so uncomfortable. Sure, the beating and mocking and death against an innocent man are troubling. But to think that all that is for us? For me? If it is uncomfortable to let someone else provide a meal, offer to help, or wash your feet, how much more uncomfortable is this! A body broken and blood spilt, all on our behalf, for our sins, offered freely and willingly without our even knowing to ask for it. And yet: Christ’s body is broken and blood is shed for you.

At the end of worship tonight, we will strip the altar. This is an historic practice in the church that is both practical and deeply symbolic. As the altar is stripped, and everything emptied from the sanctuary, and our altar is left bare and exposed, we are reminded how Christ was stripped and left bare and exposed for us. Jesus went to the absolute extreme of love and service for us. And yes, we should do the same – Jesus says that. Love one another as God has loved you. And we will. But on this night, let us humble ourselves enough just to receive that love and service, with grateful and willing hearts. Tonight, as the altar is stripped, may we let our own hearts be stripped and left bare and vulnerable and ready to receive help. Tonight, let us be ready to receive: the body and blood of Christ, given for you.

         In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

That darn fear...

I'm currently in the throes of Holy Week preparation. I think every pastor I know absolutely loves Holy Week. This is the whole reason for what we do, the holiest time of the year (aptly named then, huh?), the time when we dramatically remember the spectacular love that God has for humanity, that God would make such a personal sacrifice on our behalf... It truly is extraordinary, and I love every bit of it.

But I also think every pastor I know can't wait for it to be Easter. Because for all the wonder and amazement and holiness of Holy Week, the lead up and the week of are really super exhausting, and that day after Easter is such a welcome relief.

This year is a little different for me. I am looking forward to Easter and the day after Easter, definitely, not just for the above reasons but also because Easter Monday is the day we ended up scheduling my bridal shower (the only day my best friend, my mom, and my aunt who is hosting were all available - believe it or not, my schedule was the most flexible!). May sound strange, but I can't think of a better way to spend the day after my most exhausting couple of weeks than having a party with some of my favorite people!

But I'm also sort of dreading that day, because in the morning of April 1, I have my first follow-up MRI, my first 6-month check up. First of all MRIs are terrible, and lonely, and they are in the dark basement of the hospital, and I spend a lot of time waiting in a waiting room where my friends/family can't come, and I have to fast before (gah, right after I will have finished Lenten fasting!), and last time the IV was really hard to get in and left a bruise, and last time I had an MRI it led to a cancer diagnosis. Beyond the Monday MRI, I also have a mammogram (and maybe an ultra sound?) the following Wednesday, and an appointment with the nurse practitioner. And although I love my doctors, and will look forward to giving them a save-the-date and inviting them all to our Rochester wedding celebration, I am absolutely dreading this.

Why? I have done more cancer follow-up appointments than I can count. I went in every 3 months for a couple years after Hodgkin's, and that was an hour drive, so much worse. I continued annual appointments for 13 years, and while they weren't my favorite thing to do, I was never worried about it. I did fine at my 3 month appointment this time around. What's different now?

It's what I said above: "I was never worried about it." I never had reason to worry. Hodgkin's has such a high cure rate, I was never worried about these appointments - they were just a chance to pop in to the infusion room and say hello to the nurses, to see the funny guy named Heino who did my pulminary function tests, to greet Dr. West (my oncologist) and update him on my life. At my 3-month appointment this year, it was too soon after everything else to really feel like it was a follow-up, or to fear that anything more could have developed. I was never worried about it.

But now, I'm worried about it. A couple reasons for this. One is that I have been feeling pain in my affected breast. My fears about this were relieved somewhat when I talked to another young survivor who said her lumpectomy site still hurts two years later, and at unpredictable times. But feeling a pretty regular pain, and much worse pain when it is touched (like when Klaus stations himself right on top of me when I'm on the couch or in bed), does not keep this relief away for long.

The other reason is that the stakes are just so much higher now. Back when I was making decisions about mastectomy or not, you may remember, I sort of "decided not to decided," but what I really decided was to hope nothing more would happen, and if it did, then we would take care of it. That is, if this happened twice, I would be convinced to get the mastectomy. Meanwhile, I could certainly get married and maybe even have a kid or two before I would have to think seriously about cutting off my boobs. Confident in my ability to take good care of myself and keep cancer away (like I've been so good at this in the past... my record sucks, frankly), this seemed like a sensible path to take, and one that could very well result in keeping my body intact for the rest of my life. I was secure in that.

Then last night I had a dream. Somehow I had decided that I would get a mastectomy - maybe because cancer had appeared again? I'm not sure. The only part of the dream I remember very clearly was being on the operating table, having the last few words with the doctors before surgery begins, and then I was sobbing, absolutely sobbing and begging them not to take my breast. (It was only one side in the dream.) They questioned me and I just kept saying, "I can't do it! Don't do it!" Then I fell asleep (in the dream) and woke up to find that they didn't do it, citing my unstable mental/emotional state as the reason for postponing surgery. And I remember they were very disappointed in me for this immature and cowardly display. And I felt terrible. That was the end.

Needless to say, this has not calmed me down at all about my appointments the week after Easter.

Sermon: Hungering for connection (Mar. 17, 2013)

Lent 5C

John 12:1-11

         This past week, our bishop, Bishop Marie Jerge, came to our monthly gathering of Lutheran pastors – she does this every year, as a chance to connect with each conference, or each area of the Upstate NY Synod, and hear how people are doing. After we’d gotten out of the way some business matters, she asked us to share something with her: when was a time recently, she asked, when we had experienced Sabbath? She defined Sabbath as a time when we had felt a connection to God, a time we had found rest in God, a time when we had been rejuvenated by the Spirit. Several people shared experiences – some had to do with exercise, others with conversations… Mine was recalling working on a recent project: a friend and I are working together to create an Advent stole for another friend of ours who is about to graduate from seminary. The friend who is to receive the stole just had a surgery about which she was feeling pretty scared. So on the eve of her surgery, I worked on her stole, and I prayed for her and her health and her ministry, stitching my prayers into the stole she will wear during the time of the church year that we focus on hope. It truly was a God moment, a time when I felt a peaceful presence, a connection.

         Ours is a world that is full of connection – particularly through the explosion of social media. Millions of people around the world are only a phone call, a text, a tweet, or a post away. I have nearly 700 Facebook friends, with almost all of whom I have also shared some personal connection, and I constantly get notifications throughout the day that one of them has posted something I might be interested in. We are a connected culture, to be sure.

         And yet… are we? In terms of social media and technology, sure! Personal connections – the kind where you actually sit down and talk face-to-face with someone – are fewer, but still present. Even as technology has allowed for more and faster connections, one symptom of that is that those connections are often more trivial and less intimate. But even so, many of us do still get together to quilt or scrapbook, to prepare a meal, to have a cup of coffee, to work on a project, to come to church, and we make more personal connections that way. If I asked you when was the last time you had a conversation with someone, it would probably not have been all that long ago.

         But what if I posed the same question to you that the bishop posed to us pastors: when was the last time you felt a connection with God? When was the last time you had an experience with God that left you feeling satisfied, content, or at peace? My guess is that this sort of connection is less prevalent in our lives, maybe even because we have fooled ourselves into thinking we are connected by other means. And so the result is that even though we live in an enormously connected world, I would guess that many of us still hunger for connection – for genuine, meaningful connection, whether that is to God, or to the people around you.

         Why is that, I wonder? I think part of it is that we think we should behave ourselves, and in doing so, we keep ourselves hidden from the possibility of deep connection. I was just talking to someone about children’s sermons. One of my favorite parts of doing children’s sermons is that I can ask the kids questions and ask them to do silly stuff, and they respond, even though a room full of adults are watching! A few weeks ago I taught the children Father Abraham and had them being silly, dancing around, sticking their tongues out, and everyone had a great time. Would you have so willingly done that, if I asked you to stand up here in front of everyone? Maybe some of you, but probably not all, because adults are just so much more careful. We don’t want to look foolish, or sound stupid, or embarrass ourselves, or offend someone else, or most of all, we don’t want to do anything that is outside of the rules that society has told us are appropriate behavior.

         This has always been the case. And that is one of the things that is so striking about our Gospel lesson today. Mary is a loving, devout woman, a dear friend of Jesus – and she breaks all the rules. Check this out: They are having a nice dinner party, and then Mary comes up with this jar of expensive and very fragrant oil. Then it gets weird: first of all, she lets down her hair, which is a big no-no in the presence of all those men who aren’t her husband. In Judaism, a woman’s hair is seen as evocative, so it would be today’s equivalent or her, say, taking off her shirt in front of everyone. Then she takes this perfume, which cost as much as a full year’s wages, and uses the entire jar of it on Jesus. And she doesn’t do it in the normal way, anointing his head – no instead, she anoints his feet. And to top off the weirdness and rule-breaking, she uses her own hair, this part of her that is so private and personal that only her husband is supposed to see it, to wipe Jesus’ feet.

Whoa. Talk about an intimate connection with God. Talk about scandalous! She doesn’t follow any of the social norms, and really puts herself in a position to be embarrassed and ashamed. I can just hear the stunned silence in the room as this is happening: “Is she really doing this??” 

Until finally Judas speaks up: “What a waste. We could have sold that perfume and given the money to the poor.” That was the right answer. It was a good answer (especially if it had been genuinely offered). But it was Mary and her rule-breaking that was applauded. Mary, who risked embarrassment and scandal in order to seek that personal and intimate connection with her Lord. Not a waste at all.

Is that sort of wasteful extravagance what it takes to fulfill our hunger for connection? No, not necessarily. But it may take the same gumption and guts as Mary had, the same willingness to take risks and break the rules imposed upon us my societal norms. Because one of our biggest barriers to finding that deep, genuine connection – whether with God or with others – is our fear or unwillingness of being vulnerable. We say we’re fine when we’re not, we pretend things are going well when they aren’t, and even when we come to church, we feel it necessary to leave at the door whatever is weighing on our hearts. We aren’t honest about the doubts and questions we have, or about some time in our lives that we regret, and we’re afraid that someone will find out about it and then not allow us back to church. The acceptable answer, we know, is to do the right thing – to sell the expensive perfume and give the money to the poor. But the one in this story who makes a connection with Christ is the one who put aside the possibility of being embarrassed or ashamed, risked it all in order to find that deep connection.

Before our conversation with the bishop this week, we all had the chance to worship together. As a part of worship, we took communion, and the bishop presided. At one point, her voice wavered a little. Later, she said, “During communion today, I was so moved, that I almost lost it!” One of my colleagues gently suggested, “No, I think you almost found it.” It was in that moment of weakness and vulnerability, see, that moment when she almost cried in public, at a time when she should have been the strong leader among us, that she almost found that deep connection, that deep communion with God.

Have you ever been there? Have you been on the verge of finding it, of letting down your guard and being willing to spend an entire pound of expensive perfume on someone’s feet, and wipe it up with your hair? Have you been willing to speak so honestly with someone that they are able to see you for all your insecurities? Sometimes when I have very serious conversations with people, in which I really bare my soul, I find myself shaking, not because I’m cold, but because I’m exposed, as if I have been striped bare of all protection. Have you ever felt so bare, and so intimate?

Mary has. And Jesus certainly has – striped, mocked, beaten and hung on a cross so that we might have a closer relationship with God. Risen from the dead so that we might also have a taste of victory over the fear of death, and a whiff of God’s extravagant love.

Have you ever noticed the posture we take when we receive communion – we put our hands out like this [hands outstretched]. It is practical, ready to receive, but it is also a gesture of offering. It is as if we come forward, offering to God our fears, our questions, our mistakes, our regrets, our opinions, our values – all those things that make us who we are, those people that God loves so much, those people with whom God, too, hungers to connect. And God takes them from us, and in their place offers us extravagant grace, Christ’s body and blood, feeding us in body, mind, and spirit, and offering us the most intimate and genuine communion.

Please pray with me. Extravagant God, we want to keep ourselves safe from embarrassment and judgment from others, but in doing that, we also prevent ourselves from finding the connection with you that we crave. Help us to put aside all barriers, and be ready to receive your grace. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Seeking sabbath: sewing and laughter

Once a year or so, the bishop of my synod makes the rounds to the different conferences and connects with the pastors at ministerium (fancy word meaning basically a bunch of pastors), and then invites lay people to have dinner with her and ask her questions about whatever strikes their fancy. Today was that day, so our time at ministerium was spent checking in with our bishop. She just finished a sabbatical, so her question to us was, "When have you experienced sabbath?" In other words, when have you found a time to experience God's presence, to be rejuvenated by the Spirit?

I came up with a couple - remarkable, given how frantically busy I have felt lately - and I wanted to share them with you.

The first one is concerning the hobby I am currently trying to cultivate: sewing. I have a couple projects in the works, one of which is a stole for my friend's graduation present. This is actually a joint project, by another seminary friend (Victoria) and myself. We designed together an Advent stole, and picked out the fabric, then she cut out the pieces and created a pattern, and sent it to me and I was to assemble it. I was afraid for a couple weeks - afraid I would mess it up, sew the wrong pieces together, mess up the margins, and generally make it look bad so that my friend would wear it only because she felt obligated but would dread Advent each year because she had to wear this stole that was so terribly assembled by her inept friend. In the midst of my silly fears, my friend, who was having some thyroid issues, found out that her thyroid in fact had developed pre-cancer. Well, that was all too familiar. (She is also planning a wedding, being married only a week after I am, so we have been following each other's paths in more ways than one!) A couple weeks ago, she had a thyroidectomy, and I decided that now was the time to put my silly fears aside and work on the stole. And so, on the eve of her surgery, I sewed, and I prayed. I prayed for her health, for her ministry, for peace and calm in her heart, for capable doctors, and I gave thanks for the many gifts she has to share, as a beautiful person and as a pastor. Because Victoria had already so ably cut the pieces, I didn't have to worry about what is for me the most stressful part of sewing. Instead, I felt I also was sewing Victoria's prayers into this stole, this stole that will be worn during the part of the church year that we focus on hope and the coming Savior. It was a lovely way to finish a busy Monday, and truly a communion with God. (By the way, the surgery went well! Thank you God!)

The other one is about communion. I have often thought about how somber people sometimes are coming to communion, and how much it fills my heart when people smile when they come forward. (Often smiles are a result of a kid doing an adorable thing, like one toddler who usually says her own "amen" after I bless her - melts my heart!) This is supposed to be a sacrament of thanksgiving, and in my experience, people usually smile when they are giving thanks! We are receiving here a sacrament of great joy - so why do we so rarely look like we are? Well. A few weeks ago at a special Lenten service, we had communion with real bread. I had invited the 20 or so people present to come gather around the altar. Many had fasted that day, as a part of our Lenten hunger series, so I was giving large pieces of bread so people could really feel that they were being fed in this sacrament. Good idea. But as a result, when it came to my turn (last), it took me forever to chew my piece, and everyone was watching for probably a minute as I was trying to down this huge hunk of host. People chuckled and haven't let me forget it. Then this past weekend, we had a special women's worship service, followed by a brunch. Again, I had them gather around the altar. As I started to hand out bread, the first person (who had been my assistant in the previous incident) whispered to me, "Smaller pieces!" I remembered for a moment something I'd recently read about the spirituality of large pieces (what I mentioned before), as well as the practicality - more to hold onto when dipping. I handed her a small piece and moved on, then heard her say, "Oh..." She had accidentally dropped the whole piece in the cup of wine, and looked at me very sheepishly, but smiling. I burst out laughing, and so did everyone else. And for the rest of the distribution, and even afterward, everyone was grinning. There was so much JOY in that celebration of the Eucharist! And it truly did feel like God was smiling with us.


After several people had shared their stories of sabbath, the bishop pointed out that nearly everyone's countenance had changed: we were almost all smiling, having shared these stories. I suppose sabbath can have that effect on people!

Sermon: Hungering for Forgiveness (Mar. 10, 2013)

Lent 4C

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

         Ah, the Prodigal Son. Ralph Waldo Emerson called this story the best story ever written, in the Bible or out of it. Indeed it is well-loved and well-known, rich in meaning, and continually challenging. What makes it so well-loved, I think, is that it is easy for us to place ourselves in the story. Many of us have been the younger son, eager to get out and take risks, to try our hand at the world, even if it may mean leaving behind those who are important to us. And of course, whether or not we ever went as far as the younger son in the parable, who of us has not longed to be welcomed back, to return home to an open and forgiving embrace. We’ve all made mistakes, and we all have wanted to put those mistakes behind us – we all hunger for forgiveness.

         Maybe you’ve seen yourself in the place of the father – as someone who has been hurt or wronged by someone you love, and who longs to have that loved one come back to you and be in your life again. You’ve put past wrongs and hurt behind you, and you’re ready to move on, to share in the deep love you still feel, and to offer forgiveness. This hunger for forgiveness is different – it is a hunger to forgive, rather than to be forgiven. I suspect many of us have felt that as well.

         But perhaps the most compelling character of all is the older brother – and he, too, is certainly one to whom we can relate. We talked about this parable in confirmation class a few weeks ago. Both students in the class are older sisters, and they immediately identified with the older brother in the story. “That’s exactly what it’s like being the older sibling,” they agreed, where your younger brother or sister can do no wrong, and you ask for one little thing and you get nothing. They both had several stories to prove the point! The older brother in this story did everything right: he was responsible and obedient, he stayed home, he helped his father, he waited for the proper time to collect his inheritance rather than asking for it in advance, and now that his irresponsible little brother is back, and getting the royal treatment no less, he is resentful because he has never gotten any sort of special treatment for his righteous behavior. It isn’t fair, he feels (and I think most of us would agree!).

         You know, even though this parable is famously named for the younger, “prodigal” son, it’s really about both sons, isn’t it? Jesus could have left it at, “The son came back and there was much rejoicing,” but he goes on, goes on to tell about the response of the older son, thus urging us to consider both.

So if we’re going to consider both sons, let’s ask: what is each son’s issue? The sins of the younger son are easy to identify – he took his father’s money that should not have been his until his father’s death, he went and squandered it on who knows what, and he ended up in the most disgusting of jobs, feeding and cleaning up after pigs, hungry and without a soul to care about him. Having made his mistakes, he hits rock bottom, realizes where he is, repents, and returns. Happy story, easy to get a hold of. He did wrong, he realized it, he made it right. Yay.

On the other hand, the elder son is without sin – at least in his own eyes. He stayed home and did everything he was supposed to, he was obedient and hard-working, he was probably admired and respected by their friends and neighbors, even a model son. On the outside, he was flawless. But is it true? Has he really done no wrong? Look at the state of his heart. When he witnesses his father’s joy at the return of the younger son, he is filled with resentment. Suddenly, his self-righteousness boils to the surface, and instead of the model son, we see a prideful, selfish man. He is unable to forgive his foolish yet repentant younger brother. He is unable to join in the joy his father feels for having found something he thought to be lost and dead. He is unable to get outside of his own belly button – rather than gratitude, he feels resentment that he has never had any special treatment. And because he is so stuck on his self-righteousness, he is also unable to see that he, too, needs forgiveness, just as much as the younger son.

We are not so different from the older son sometimes, are we? But how much harder it is for him and for us to see our own hunger for forgiveness when we can only see ourselves as a victim, or, as the one who stuck around and did the right thing while other people did wrong. Henri Nouwen writes about this story, “Both [sons] needed healing and forgiveness. Both needed to come home. Both needed the embrace of a forgiving father. But from the story itself… it is clear that the hardest conversion to go through is the conversion of the one who stayed home.” When you think you are the righteous one, you see, it becomes difficult to see any need for your own forgiveness.

I was recently able to attend worship at my home congregation in CA for my dad’s final worship service as the pastor of that church before he retired. As a part of a pastor leaving, there is a sort of rite of release you can do. In one part of it, my dad, the pastor, asks for forgiveness for any way that he has wronged anyone in the congregation, known or unknown. The congregation forgives him. And then the congregation says the same words back to him, asking him for forgiveness for any way that they have wronged him. And the pastor also says, “I forgive you.” What a humbling and beautiful way to part ways, having mutually admitted to sins known and unknown, and been granted forgiveness enough to cover the last 29 years!

Those of you who have been Lutherans for a while may have noticed that the confession we used this morning is a tweaked version of the LBW. This is what I grew up with, and I know it by heart. But through the lens of this story, I hear it with new ears. “If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. But if we confess our sins, God who is faithful and just will forgive our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness” – or for the “elder sons” among us, cleanse us from all self-righteousness. Cleanse us from believing that we are without fault, that we contributed nothing to this or that problem, that we have nothing we need to confess or apologize for.

And then that prayer of confession, inscribed on so many of our hearts: “We confess that we have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done, and by what we have left undone.” As I said, I prayed this prayer every week as a kid, and one day, I asked my dad, “What does that even mean? Why would I have to confess something I didn’t do?” – things left undone. His answer was appropriate for his studious daughter: “Sometimes we don’t do things that we should,” he said, “like your homework.” I, of course, always did my homework… which is why I understood the magnitude of this! So what did the elder son in this famous story leave undone? For what might he need forgiveness?

And more importantly, what about for us? What about for the “elder sons” among us? What was a time in your life when you felt the other was in the wrong? Was there something in that situation that you “left undone”? Perhaps you didn’t take a moment to step into the other person’s shoes, to honestly and non-judgmentally see the situation from their perspective. Or, you didn’t try to notice that you might have done something to provoke their anger. Or, when they tried to apologize, you didn’t accept it.

“If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us.” Hard words to swallow. But among the many things the Parable of the Prodigal Son shows us is that even when we believe we are righteous, we still need to do some self-reflection, take some inventory on the state of our hearts. Because righteousness can quickly turn to self-righteousness, obedience can quickly turn to harbored resentment, and diligent work can quickly turn to selfish navel-gazing.

And this is why we all seek the loving, forgiving embrace of the Father. This is why we ask for God to “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” This is why we hunger for those words of forgiveness that we hear each week in worship. It isn’t fair that God should forgive us, just as it isn’t really fair that the younger son should get a celebration when the older son has never gotten even a young goat. It also isn’t fair that Jesus should have been beaten and hung on a cross because of our sins. It isn’t fair… but it IS grace. Like the father in the story, God repeatedly offers us abundant and even totally nonsensical grace, so that we won’t ever be stuck in the muck with a bunch of dirty pigs, but instead are able to come home to love, no matter what we’ve done. That’s the gospel, friends. That’s God’s good news for us. It doesn’t make sense. It isn’t comfortable. It isn’t fair. But it is grace, over and over again.

Let us pray. Our Father in heaven, forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us. Help us to see the state of our hearts, even and especially when we feel we are the ones who have been wronged. Help us to seek forgiveness for things done and things left undone. Save us from the need to be right, so that instead, we can be in right relationship – with you and with our neighbors. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen

** Rembrandt's famous "Return of the Prodigal Son." Check out Henri Nouwen's book by the same title, a lovely reflection on this famous story through the lens of this painting.

Sermon: Hungering for understanding (Mar. 3, 2013)

Lent 3C

Luke 13:1-9

         You may have noticed that as our Lenten series on hunger continues, I have been doing a sermon series on spiritual hungers. First week was hungering for fulfillment, and we talked about the temptation to seek out earthly things that we think will satisfy our longings. Last week was hungering for safety, and we talked about how God keeps us from letting doubt and our spiritual enemies have power over us. So this week, in hopes keeping with this theme, I set off to figure out what spiritual hunger was apparent in our texts… and I have over two pages of notes full of different ideas, including: hungering for the Word, for God, for repentance, for goodness, for food that isn’t real, for food that is real, for change… and then finally one morning, exasperated that I couldn’t seem to make heads or tails of these passages, I thought, “I’m hungering for understanding!” Aha. There it is. Hungering for understanding.

         This is certainly a hunger we have felt lately, especially in Webster. How can it be, we wonder, that 20 children were shot and killed while at school? How can it be that first responders were attacked while coming to people’s aid? How can it be that so many have lost their homes – to fires, to super storms, and so on? How can it be that there is just so much tragedy in the world? These are questions that have come up on almost every home visit I have made in the past two months. People just cannot understand why the world is like this.

         And they are the very same sorts of questions Jesus’ first followers had. Luke tells us that some people approached Jesus as he was teaching, and tell him about a recent tragedy in Jerusalem. Some Galileans had been worshipping and offering sacrifice, and while they were doing this, Pilate had them murdered, such that their own blood mingled with that of the animals they were sacrificing. They were just doing their jobs, and they were brutally killed. A truly horrific event! And Jesus asks the question they were probably all wondering: were these people somehow worse sinners than anyone else, and that’s why this happened to them? Jesus brings up another recent tragedy – 18 people were standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, and when the Tower of Siloam fell, it fell right on top of them, and they were killed. Why would this happen? Was God punishing them for something bad they had done?

         No, Jesus tells us. They were not worse sinners than anyone else. The God we love and trust does not punish in this way. Our God is a loving God, who doesn’t cause evil, but rather, promises to be with us when evil happens. We know this, and can usually remember it in our better moments… but in the midst of tragedy or conflict, it is easy to forget, isn’t it?

         We hunger for understanding in these situations. But there is no understanding! And so in our desperate attempts to come to grips with difficult situations, our tendency is to resort to the blame game. It’s the liberals’ fault! It’s the conservatives! It’s the Muslims! It’s the fundamentalists! It’s video games! It’s the media! It must be someone’s fault, because if it is someone’s fault, if we can place the blame somewhere, then the problem can be fixed.

         Sometimes, when there is nowhere else to go, we even resort to putting the blame on ourselves. One chaplain tells a story about a woman she met in the hospital waiting room. The woman’s young daughter had a terrible headache, then loss of eyesight… then the diagnosis of a brain tumor, and surgery as soon as possible. As the chaplain approached the woman, she was in a daze. Finally, the woman started to talk. “It’s my punishment,” she said, “for smoking these cigarettes. God couldn’t get my attention any other way, so he made my baby sick.” Then she started crying so hard that what she said next came out like a siren: “Now I’m supposed to stop, but I can’t stop. I’m going to kill my own child!”

         Why do we blame ourselves? For the same reason that we blame anyone else: because if blame can be neatly fastened to something, anything, even ourselves, then we can come to grips with the situation. We can understand it. And maybe, just maybe, we can do something about it, and then we don’t feel quite so helpless.

         Jesus suggests we seek help in a different way. “No, these people’s sin was not greater than anyone else’s,” he says. Phew! “But,” he goes on, “unless you repent, you will all perish like they did.” Wait, what? That doesn’t sound like very good news, does it?! In fact, it sounds like exactly the opposite of what he just said! So which is it, Jesus? Bad things don’t happen because you’re bad? Or, repent or else??

         At face value, “repent or perish” does seem very fire and brimstone. But let’s look more carefully at what is implied, especially in that word, “repent,” and especially how it differs from self-blame. First, some things about blame: Blame is easy, it is quick, but it is ultimately unproductive. It allows us to keep a problem at arm’s length, because it doesn’t require any personal investment. It becomes its own end – once the blame is affixed, we can let it just sit there and fester, and even as blame falsely promises that a solution can follow, in reality, it only eats away at us, offering us nothing nourishing. It leads to false understanding, and ultimately, to self-hatred.

         Repentance is different. Where blame is easy, repentance is hard, like a tough piece of meat that is difficult to chew and hard going down, but ultimately nourishing. Where blame is quick, repentance can take weeks, even years, because it is a process that requires deep, personal, and intentional reflection, and doesn’t allow us to keep a problem at arm’s length, but rather, forces us to face it head on and come to terms with it. Where blame is unproductive, repentance leads to growth, restoration, and a deepening of relationship with God and with each other. It requires, in short, a change, a turning of our hearts away from ourselves and toward God. But we can only reach that point if we are prepared for a healthy dose of humility, self-awareness, and vulnerability – prepared, that is, to allow a space without walls of false protection for God to enter into us, and turn out hearts toward Him.

         Perhaps the question that still lingers for you is, “But if you’re saying not to blame ourselves for bad things that happen in our lives, then why do we even need to repent? If we haven’t done anything wrong, what’s to repent?” It’s a great question. I’m glad you asked. J Let’s look at the woman in the story I just told you, the woman in the waiting room. She is blaming herself for her daughter’s illness, because she smokes. Tell me: is this blame fairly or helpfully placed? … Do you think her smoking caused her daughter’s tumor? … Can anything productive come from her blaming herself?

         Now, what if instead of blaming herself, she repented? For what might she repent? … Well, she might still repent for smoking. Even if it isn’t the cause of her daughter’s tumor, it isn’t good for her daughter, or her, and she knows it. She has not taken care of her body. She obviously has known for a long time that she needed to quit smoking – that’s why she jumped so quickly to that habit as the cause of the tumor. It is her own insecurity about her lifestyle. She knows she has to change. She knows she has to turn her heart toward more godly living, and take better care of herself. She knows she has to… you got it, repent.

         And that is what Jesus is getting at. No, these evils were not caused by people’s sin. But that doesn’t mean they can’t serve as a catalyst for repentance. They give us pause, give us a reason to look into our hearts and admit those things we know have to change about ourselves, things that have kept us from being in a close relationship with God – even if, at the end of the day, they have little or nothing to do with the tragedy or conflict itself. God wants our hearts to repent. God wants to offer healing balm for our pain. God wants to feed us with abundant food when we are hungry, and drink when we’re in a dry and weary land with no water. And while repentance doesn’t always lead to understanding, at least not immediately, when we are willing to open ourselves up to the fragility, vulnerability, and opportunity of repentance, God is able to provide us with so much more than blame ever could, so much more than we could ever find on our own.

         Let us pray. Abundant, forgiving God: We face many difficulties in this life, and our first tendency always seems to be to blame ourselves or others. Help us to use these challenges as opportunities to reflect on the state of our hearts, so that we might be led out of ourselves, and toward you and your life-giving ways. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.