Sermon: Telling about signs of the living God (Nov. 9, 2025)

Pentecost 22C
November 9, 2025
Job 19:23-27a; Luke 20:27-38

INTRODUCTION

You may have noticed we are only doing a couple of the assigned readings for today. That’s because I wanted to leave some extra time for the sharing that will happen later: during the sermon, I will be letting you do some of the work, sharing stories either from yesterday’s day of service, or any time recently that you have seen God’s work among us. Consider yourself warned!

Meanwhile, let me give you some background info on these two readings we will hear. The first is Job. Job was a blameless and upright man who had it all… until the devil made a deal with God that he could get Job to curse God to his face. God says, “Game on.” What follows is a sort of thought experiment about the suffering of innocents, as Job endures all manner of suffering, losing all his property, his family, his health. Job’s well-intentioned friends come to him and try to comfort him by trying to explain his suffering. Job is frustrated and discouraged, but remains faithful. The passage we will hear comes from this part of the story. Finally, Job gets an audience with God, and the gist is basically this: the cause of suffering is more complex than we can possibly understand, and for all that we cannot understand, we must trust in God.

Over in Luke now, we’ll get a group of Sadducees trying to trap Jesus. They ask him about something called levirate law, which says that if a woman’s husband dies childless, then the woman marries her husband’s brother, to keep the family blood line going. But the Sadducees take this to an extreme hypothetical – if a woman marries all seven brothers and remains childless, then to whom does she belong in the resurrection? (They are trying to reveal the logical fallacy of an afterlife.) As always, Jesus will cleverly find his way out of the trap – I’ll let you listen to how he does it.

Ok, there’s the context. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

One part of being a pastor that I am so grateful for is that every week I am forced to articulate my faith – for sermons, of course, and myriad other ways. I sometimes wonder what state my faith would be in now, in my 40s, if I hadn’t practiced putting my faith into words for so many years. If I had just let my faith sit there, unspoken outside of the Sunday liturgy. Would I have remained as faithful? I’d like to think so, but the statistics on church membership among people in my generation don’t support that assumption. 

Again and again, I see research that says that an important sign of a healthy and vibrant congregation is that the members can articulate their faith. For all of the wonderful things about Lutherans, talking about faith is not something we excel at. We prefer to keep our thoughts and feelings held close, perhaps due to our largely German and Scandinavian heritage, and not impose too much on others. As a result, we don’t get much practice at telling the story of our faith: those instances when we felt God so closely, or when we were deeply moved by the way God turned an ending into a beginning, or when God showed up in an unexpected way. When was the last time you shared a story like that, a story about God moving in your life?

Job’s words today point us toward a different way. “O, that my words were written down!” he cries. “[O, that] they were engraved on a rock forever!” You see, Job knows the power of testimony. His cry here is not for God to fix everything. No, he wants his faith story preserved. Even before Job believes in redemption, he believes in the power of testimony. And boy, does he give it, in these powerful lines that follow: “I know that my Redeemer lives! …After my skin has been destroyed, then in my flesh I shall see God!”

So how can we learn to do as Job does? 

There is a line in our Gospel reading that can help guide us. Jesus tells the Sadducees, who don’t believe in the resurrection, that God “is God not of the dead but of the living.” In other words, the promise of resurrection is not for later, after death, but rather, is alive and at work right here, right now, among the living. And so, if we want to find stories to tell of God’s redeeming work among us, to tell the stories, share the testimonies, engrave the words of faith right here, today, in this world, we need look no further than: places where there is life. The God of the living goes to places of death and despair, and brings to them life and hope. To tell the story of the living God, we share the glimpses we catch even now of the resurrection.

That’s where you come in. I warned you that I’d be asking you to share some stories today! I want you to tell some stories about the God of the living, the Redeemer, the one who makes all things new – stories of resurrection life breaking into our world today. Many of us participated yesterday in service projects. Maybe you’d like to share a story from that – a moment you saw God at work, a relationship you made, a moment when you saw or experienced hope. Maybe you’d like to share about a time from any day when forgiveness released shame, or when an act of great courage helped someone else. A time when death didn’t have the final word. All of these are resurrection moments, when we, like Job, see that our Redeemer lives, and in telling them, we all see God!

I’m going to give you some time now to think about a story to tell, and then we’ll take some time to tell them. You can write it down and read it, or bring it up here and I will read it for you (please write legibly!). Or you can just speak from the heart. It doesn’t need to be long – even a sentence will do! Whether or not you share, I encourage you to participate in some way, because it is in the telling of faith that our faith grows deeper and stronger. 

[Time to write and share]

I finished our time by sharing this quote from the Pope’s first Apostolic Declaration:

Let us pray… Redeemer, God of the living, thank you for being alive among us today, and every day, for showing up in our lives in ways we expect, and ways we don’t. Keep showing up, God. Open our eyes to see you, and hearts and mouths to tell about it. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

To watch the service, and hear some of the stories that were shared, watch the livestream on YouTube (sermon starts around 21 min):

Sermon: The vulnerability of sainthood (Nov. 2, 2025)

All Saints Day (C)
November 2, 2025
Luke 6:20-31

INTRODUCTION

The Festival of All Saints is a beautiful day on the liturgical calendar in which we not only remember those who have died in the past year, and those who were baptized, but also think more generally about the promise of everlasting life, even as we continue to struggle in this life. Our readings reflect this. I’ll be preaching on Luke and giving some insight into his Sermon on a Level Place (not to be confused with Matthew’s version, the Sermon on the Mount), but in this time I want to say a bit about the strange passage we’re about to hear from Daniel. 

This passage, as Daniel will tell us, is a vision. So, it is full of symbolism and in its weirdness, it also gives great hope to a suffering people. If you don’t think it is weird, and you want a little post-Halloween scare, go ahead and find it in the Bible so you can read those missing verses. It describes some truly terrifying beasts, which, we’ll come to find out, represent four political rulers who arise and bring fear to the people. The promise in this passage is: earthly kings will come and go. They may be really, truly terrifying and awful. But they are not the end of the story. God’s kingdom will reign in the end, and God will win! How’s that for a good word??

As you listen, think about what gives you hope when life is difficult. Is it the faithfulness of the people we remember today for All Saints? The strong, life-giving word of God? Both? Something else? Let’s listen today for the hope.

 [READ]

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

The lectionary leaves out the set-up for Jesus’ sermon today, so I want to read it for you. As I read, I invite you to close your eyes and try to imagine the scene: the sights, the smells, the feeling, the mood. Fair warning, I’m going to ask you to share with a neighbor after. Ok, listen: “[Jesus had just been on a mountain, praying with his 12 apostles, but now] he came down and stood on a level place, with a great crowd of his disciples and a great multitude of people from all Judea, Jerusalem, and the coast of Tyre and Sidon. They had come to hear him and to be healed of their diseases; and those who were troubled with unclean spirits were cured. And everyone in the crowd was trying to touch him, for power came out from him and healed all of them. Then Jesus looked up at his disciples, [the crowd gathered,] and he started to speak.” 

What do you notice about this scene, as you imagine it? Turn to someone sitting near you and tell them something about what you noticed…

Here are a couple things that I notice. First, it’s chaotic. Did you notice that too? I hadn’t really thought of that before, but the crowd is huge, and they are all in need of something. They are desperate, they are broken, they are longing for healing. I also notice that it is close – the people are all touching Jesus, grasping for his power and healing, and he is right there with them, close enough to touch. 

So, then I wonder: why do these things strike me? 

I think it’s because when I imagine the Sermon on the Mount, Matthew’s version of this sermon, I guess I always imagined Jesus as up, away, ready to help even as he is sort of a safe distance from the needs of the crowd, but Luke does not let us go there. In Luke, Jesus is accessible, he is in it with them, in it with us. 

And I guess this is both a comfort and a bit unnerving. It’s a comfort because of course we want Jesus to be accessible to us. That was the whole point of the incarnation, of God becoming human, so that God would be close to us and we to God, and we would know that love more profoundly than we ever had before. But it is also unnerving because if Jesus is accessible to me… then that means I am accessible to Jesus. And there are parts of me that I’d rather keep hidden – from you, from Jesus, even from myself. Having Jesus quite so close as this makes me feel a bit vulnerable.

Vulnerability. It’s not a warm fuzzy word, is it? To be vulnerable is to be exposed and unprotected against getting hurt. It is admitting we don’t have it all together. It is recognizing in ourselves where there is pain and brokenness, and then letting that be seen by someone else. And while I am an absolute proponent of vulnerability and authenticity and making genuine connection with one another… vulnerability is still just a scary word. 

Yet I wonder if it is what we are called to explore on this All Saints Day, for a couple reasons. The first is that, based on the sermon Jesus preaches to this crowd, it seems that vulnerability might be a part of what it means to be a saint. Usually when we think of saints, we think of people who have been particularly faithful. But in fact, in the Lutheran tradition, we believe that everyone who is baptized in Christ Jesus is a saint (even as we remain sinners), because we are all claimed and loved by God, and promised forgiveness and eternal life, and we are all, in our baptism, called into a life of faithful living. 

Faithful living means a lot of things. It means some of those things Jesus mentions in the second part of his sermon today – about loving your enemies, turning the other cheek, etc. It means reading scripture, and spending time in prayer, and study, and in fellowship with other Christians. It means being generous of heart and resources.

But another part of faithful, saintly living is recognizing our need for God’s grace and mercy. It is acknowledging that while we may put on a happy face and nice suit or sweater, we don’t really have it all together. It is coming into God’s presence not to prove to God, ourselves and everyone that we are good, but rather to say, “I’m not, and I need God’s mercy.” And that is what Jesus is getting at in his sermon on the plain. Blessed are you who are hungry, poor, grieving, accused, he says, because it is only when we are so physically, mentally, and emotionally compromised that we are able to recognize and receive God’s grace and mercy. As one preacher asks, “What is the promise of mercy to those who are not weak, forgiveness to those who have not sinned, grace to those who do not need it, or life to those not dead? It is at best meaningless, and more likely downright offensive.” You see, we can only truly appreciate the blessing Jesus offers, when we truly need it.

The woes go on to seal the deal. Woe to you who don’t have these needs, because as long as you are surrounded in comforts, you cannot receive what God has to offer. It is not until we are vulnerable, and recognize our brokenness that we will turn to God and be in a place to receive mercy. Now, comforts aren’t a bad thing, inherently, but Jesus’ sermon, especially those woes, the warnings, push us to ask ourselves: what if the things in my life, the very things I thought of as blessings, are actually diminishing my capacity to know God and receive his grace and mercy with a truly grateful heart? Maybe they aren’t getting in the way – but Jesus asks us today to take a good hard look to make sure of that!

There’s another reason I think vulnerability is a good thing to talk about today, on All Saints Day. Each year on this day, we remember those saints who have gone before us, who have died in the faith. So each year we remember together the ultimate vulnerability that we all share: we all will die. We all have or will experience someone we love dying. It’s a fact we desperately try to avoid or deny. Yet on this day, we celebrate that this ultimate vulnerability, the one we dread, is not to be feared, because Jesus showed us that death leads to life. When we are baptized, you see, when we become saints, we are baptized into Christ’s death and also into his resurrection, so, as Paul writes, “If we have been united with him in a death like his, we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.” 

That’s a lot of churchy language – what it comes down to is this: when Jesus rose from the dead, he showed us that the ultimate vulnerability that many of us fear the most, death itself, is not to be feared. Not only is it not to be feared, but it is the very means by which God’s promise of new life comes to be. For the saints we celebrate today, and for us eventually, that looks like their entry into eternal life. For us day to day, as we still walk this earth and live this life, this ultimate promise gives us the courage we need to be vulnerable right now, in the more mundane things of our daily lives, to be real about our need for God’s grace and mercy in all those things we face. This sort of vulnerability leads to meaningful connection, with God and others, and that sort of connection gives us life. 

All Saints Day is not just a day we look backward, remembering the saints whom we have lost. It is also a day for looking forward, toward the hope of new life that is promised to humanity in the resurrection, and to each of us when we are baptized into that promise. Thanks be to God!

Let us pray… Eternal God, we don’t like to admit when we are broken, even though you have told us and shown us that where there is pain and brokenness, there also is Christ. Make us courageous in our authenticity and vulnerability, so that our hearts would be ready to receive your grace and mercy. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Sometimes faith is like this. (October 19, 2025)

Pentecost 19C
October 19, 2025 (Confirmation Day)
Genesis 32, Luke 18, Psalm 121

INTRODUCTION

Luke will tell us at the beginning of our Gospel reading today that the parable Jesus tells is about “the need to pray always and not to lose heart.” But I think this story, and all our texts, are about much more than prayer – they are about the joys and challenges of living a life of faith, and the many different forms our prayer – that is, our relationship with God – can take!

Though I’ll be touching on several readings in my sermon, I want to give you some context for our first reading in particular, because it is such a richer story when you know what’s happening here. Here’s what you should know: since Jacob was a baby, he has been a trickster, one who has been especially hard on his twin brother, Esau. In fact, his brother was so mad that Jacob stole his birthright and blessing right out from under him, that he threatened to kill Jacob. So Jacob had to run off to family in a different town, where he acquired two wives, two handmaids, 12 children, and a bunch of livestock. But now Jacob has angered that family, too, and is heading back to his family of origin, hoping that Esau will receive and forgive him. Terrified and alone, in today’s story Jacob will encounter some unidentified being who it seems might be God, and, as Old Testament scholar Rachel Wrenn comments, the ensuing wrestling match is “perhaps the best description of the life of faith in the entire Bible.” This encounter sets us up well to hear from 2 Timothy, and the danger of false teachings, and from Luke, about a widow so persistent she will not stop asking for justice until it comes.

As you listen, recall some of the more challenging moments in your own life of faith, as well as some of the rewarding ones. Where did you see God, both in the challenges and in the rewards? Let’s listen.

 [READ]

Paul Granlund's portrayal of Jacob wrestling,
at Gustavus Adolphus College in St. Peter, MN

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

What does a life of faith look like? 

Today, four young people in our congregation will stand before you and affirm the promises made in baptism, essentially saying, “Yes, now that I can think, act, and believe for myself, I am here to say that I believe those things that were promised at my baptism, and I promise, with God’s help, to keep living into the covenant of baptism and this life of faith to the best of my ability.” It is an opportunity for all of us to recall those promises for ourselves, and to reflect on this question: what does it look like to live a life of faith? 

Sometimes faith is easy and satisfying. In one-on-one sessions with each of these fine young people, I asked them to describe their faith to me, and tell me when and where they notice it. They thoughtfully talked about Jesus as a friend, a companion, like a big brother who can be counted on. They said they lean on God especially when they are struggling and need support during hard times. They said they feel God’s presence especially in community, and when they feel close to nature, for example at camp at LCLC. Yes! All of this makes my pastor heart sing, to hear that they know this faith will be there for them in all of these times.

But I have to tell you also – while faith in Christ is a comfort during hard times, it does not always make us feel good in the moment. Sometimes, faith is like a wrestling match – which is why I love this story about Jacob wrestling with God through the night. Sometimes faith is reading a passage in scripture and saying, “Wait, what? This doesn’t sit right,” and wrestling with it until we can find some grace in there. Sometimes faith is praying our hearts out in the wee hours of the morning, and waiting for a response, and getting nothing, but coming back the next day to pray again. It is asking, “Why, God? Why this? Why now? Please help!” and not getting the answer we want right away, or ever. Yes, sometimes faith is a wrestling match, and one we’d rather not be a part of.

But often in faith, and also like Jacob, this wrestling match with God becomes a blessing. We don’t always see that in the midst of the match, but as the sun begins to peek over the horizon, and day begins to break, we can look around and say, “Where is the blessing here?” and lo and behold, we see it. I have told these kids about one of my own wrestling matches when I was their age and I was diagnosed with cancer for the first time. It is not easy to see blessing under the shadow of cancer, but through that experience, I can see now that I was immensely blessed, because I learned so much about myself, about being a part of a church community and youth group, and about God. And the thing about wrestling is that it cannot be done without being contact with the one with whom you are wrestling; through that dark night of the soul, when he was afraid and alone, Jacob never lost contact with God. And he left the encounter changed – a changed name, a limp, and a heart humbled and ready to encounter his brother in the next scene. Sometimes, faith is like that.

How else does faith look? Sometimes, faith looks like a call to seek justice for the oppressed and vulnerable, and speaking truth to power, like in this parable from Luke. In fact, this is explicitly one of the promises our confirmands will make today, and that their parents made on their behalf over a decade ago: “to strive for justice and peace in all the earth.” Yes, justice-seeking is such an important part of faith, it is mentioned right there in the baptismal liturgy! But what does it mean?

First of all, this sort of justice is not the vengeance, “they got what they deserve” sort. That sort of justice is in God’s hands, not ours. No, this sort of justice is the sort that goes hand-in-hand with peace: a state in which everyone has what they need. And when everyone has what they need, then we can experience peace. Know justice, know peace. And this widow in Jesus’ parable knows what it takes. It takes standing up to powerful people to demand it, even if you have comparatively less power. Who is weaker and more vulnerable than a widow? (At least this is true in biblical times, when women required a man for security and income.) Yet this woman asks and asks, even knowing how powerful and unjust this judge is. And to be clear, this is no demure widow. The word that is translated here as “coming to wear me out”? The first definition listed for that Greek word is, “to beat black and blue, to smite so as to cause bruises and livid spots.” Even the second, less graphic definition shows her scrappiness: “to give one intolerable annoyance.” That is what it means to “strive for justice and peace.” It is relentlessly calling and visiting the people in power, even and especially the unjust ones, until they hear you. It is repeating yourself over and over again. It is punching in the face the very idea of injustice. That is how baptismal faith looks. And, Luke tells us, that is sometimes how prayer looks – not just folding your hands before bed in the safety of your bedroom, but like action, like doing something to bring about what you know is right. 

The Rev. Dr. Barbara Lundblad preached a powerful sermon on this text at the Festival of Homiletics in 2019. She asserted that if we pray without also working for justice, our prayers are empty. If we work for justice without prayer, we will think it all depends on us. If we pray and work for justice, but without faith, we will fall into despair when justice isn't done. Prayer and justice and faith: what Jesus had joined together, let no one set asunder. [as paraphrased on Pulpit Fiction podcast] 

Which brings me to the last thing I’ll offer today about what a life of faith looks like: it looks like trust. In other words, while our baptism calls us into wrestling with God in difficult times, and participating with God in bringing about God’s kingdom here on earth, in the end we trust that God has this under control. As the Psalmist beautifully articulates, “I lift up my eyes to the hills; from where is my help to come? My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth.” The promise of that help is why we can be so bold as to baptize our children, and why these young people can stand before you today and recommit to living into their baptismal promises. It is because we trust that God will watch over us as we sleep, and be the shade at our right hand. We trust that God will preserve us from all evil, and keep our life. We trust that God will watch over our going out and our coming in, from this time – whether baptism, or confirmation, or while we are praying or wrestling or punching injustice in the face, or even on some random, uneventful Tuesday – God will watch over us from this time forth forevermore.

I pray for each of these incredible, faithful young people – for Noah, Alice, Nate, and Max – as they embrace and step more fully into these promises today. And I pray for all of us, that as we wrestle and pray and strive for justice and peace in all the earth, that we would always believe in our hearts and know deep in our bones that God walks right beside us, all along the way, assuring us that eventually the morning will dawn, the blessing will be given, and justice, peace, and new life will come.

Let us pray… God of justice and peace, it is not always easy to be faithful. Give us the courage to do it anyway: to wrestle, to pray, to stand up against injustice, and to trust you through it all. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.  

Sermon: How to restore community (October 12, 2025)

Pentecost 18C
October 12, 2025
Luke 17:11-19

INTRODUCTION

Today we have pretty strong themes of healing, mercy, and thanksgiving. We’ll hear two stories about God healing the leprosy of a foreigner: first the wonderful story of Naaman, the Aramean warrior (that is, an enemy of Israel) who gets a lesson in humility when first, he listens to the advice of a slave girl, and then listens to his servants, and then listens to the advice of a Jewish prophet to wash in the dirty Jordan river. Sure enough, his willingness to listen (however initially hesitant) brings about his healing, and his declaration of God’s power. 

This story sets up well the Gospel reading. Again, we’ll hear a story of God healing a skin disease for an “other” – in this case, a Samaritan, the contemporary adversary of the Jews. A large rift existed between Jews and Samaritans, but the main issue is regarding where one should worship. How remarkable, then, that the one Samaritan leper’s response will be one of worship – he worships Jesus, and Jesus will commend him for it. It would be unexpected for a Jewish audience! In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus is always flipping the narrative and blurring the lines of who is in and who is out. 

As you listen today, just… be grateful. Remember the ways God has been good to you, and listen with a heart full of gratitude. Let’s listen.

[READ]

JESUS MAFA. Healing of the ten lepers, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=48295 [retrieved October 14, 2025]. Original source: http://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr (contact page: https://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr/contact).

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

“What is required to restore community?”

This question was asked as a part of one of the presidential debates back in 2019 (a lifetime ago!). It feels all the more important now, 6 years later. How do we heal the divide and restore community?  

It is a question I know is heavy on the hearts of many Americans. And our faith, and our study of God’s good Word, can help us answer it because turns out Jesus was all about restoring community. Today’s Gospel reading is one example. In this story of the ten lepers being healed, these men are literally restored to community (with their disease, they were likely cut off to some extent from society and healing allows them to reenter). But the story can also give us some insight into restoring our own communities.

The first guidance comes from a seemingly insignificant detail: the location of the story. The story is set, “between Samaria and Galilee.” In other words, this encounter doesn’t happen on anyone’s home turf. It happens in an in-between place, which in the Bible traditionally indicates a place of uncertainty and the danger that comes with that – but also it is a place of encounter and the possibilities that come with that. So that’s our first clue for restoring community: restoration of community requires us to venture out of our comfort zones, out of our siloes of familiarity and like-minded people. That could happen any number of ways – what media we consume, whom we spend time with, how and where we travel, etc. Point is: as long as we stay in our safe zone, it will be difficult to restore community, because we are too stuck in that place. Seek out some of those in-between, less stable places, where your heart will be more ready for transformation.

The second lesson this story can teach us is: to see the “other,” even an enemy, not as an adversary, but as a teacher. In Luke’s telling in these few verses, he makes sure we know just how other this fellow is. First, he has a highly contagious skin disease that has left him on the literal margins. All ten of these guys were hanging out in that in-between place, between Galilee and Samaria, probably because there was no place for them in the city itself. They are physically outsiders. Then, after the one returns to thank Jesus, Luke ominously tells us, “And he was a Samaritan,” a statement that would have been accompanied by dramatic music if this were a movie. Samaritans and Jews had a centuries-long enmity, dating back to the Babylonian exile, when some of the Jews who were left in Israel after the mass deportation by the Assyrian army, intermarried with the Assyrians who settled in Israel. Consequently, though they shared roots with Jews, these Samaritans were racially impure, and the practice of their faith had evolved into something different from Jews. “Samaritan” had become synonymous with “apostate” and “adversary.” So when Luke says, “And he was a Samaritan,” that is bad news bears.

And then, in case it wasn’t already clear enough, when Jesus commends this Samaritan for returning to give thanks and praise to God, Jesus says, “Did none of them return to give glory to God except this foreigner?” This foreigner. This outsider. This guy who, I’m sure you all noticed but I’m saying it again just to be sure, looks, lives, and acts in a strange way, differently from you, who doesn’t belong here. Yet he is the one who shows us all what it looks like to love, praise, and thank God, the giver of all blessing. Not any of you insiders; this outsider.

That is a common theme throughout Luke’s Gospel. He brought it up as a part of Jesus’ first sermon in chapter 4, in which Jesus mentions the faithfulness of outsiders and foreigners – that upset the folks in his hometown so much, they tried to throw him off a cliff! He did it again in chapter 10 when Jesus told a parable about another Samaritan, a good one, who was the only one who helped a man beaten on the side of the road when a couple of religious Jewish authorities had passed right on by. This Samaritan, he said, has shown us what it looks like to love your neighbor: showing mercy. And now, another Samaritan, this one not just a story but a real flesh and blood one, is teaching all those insiders traveling with Jesus, what it looks like to love your God with heart and soul and mind and strength. It looks like worship, thanks, and praise.

Can this insight help us to restore community? Absolutely! Because so much of our division is due to our differences. Certainly race is an issue, like in this story, and also country of origin – immigrants, migrants, and refugees are very much under attack in our country right now, both in the rhetoric used against them and physically, as those with darker skin and/or accented English are rounded up and detained or deported. But could these foreigners actually be teachers placed by God into our midst? What could they be teaching us about God? 

But even beyond differences in race and nationality – how about those who are foreign to us ideologically? Politically? Religiously? What would happen if we saw these others – these people who are foreigners to our way of thinking and being – not as adversaries, but as people who can teach us something, even something holy? You don’t have to agree with someone on everything to learn something from them. When we see them this way, we see them not as adversaries, but as fellow humans, as beloved, as valuable – rather than as enemies who need to be punished, mocked, or eliminated.

And finally, Jesus teaches us in this story by his celebration of this foreigner, who “turned back, praising God with a loud voice. He prostrated himself at Jesus’ feet, and thanked him.” That wasn’t what the law required of this man – he was supposed to show himself to the priest, as Jesus said, because that was what was done in those days to be declared clean. And he could have, and he still would have been healed, like the other nine. He could have gone quietly on his way, and gone about his life. But no, this man instead puts praise and thanks first. He puts God first. He orients himself and his sight toward the God from whom all blessings flow. 

And this, too, helps us in restoring community. Because humans are, sad to say, naturally pretty selfish and prideful beings. There is a reason Genesis identifies pride as the first sin, why pride is considered the worst of the seven deadly sins, and why Martin Luther defined sin as being turned in on ourselves, more focused on our own desires than anything else. But this guy shows us how to pull ourselves out of our own navels and look outside of ourselves, and toward God – as the provider, the healer, the divine giver. In this way, praise and thanksgiving is an antidote to pride, because it orients us outward and upward, rather than inward. When we are oriented toward God, then neighbor love and care for community is a natural consequence and expression of that. That orientation toward God and community is an essential step in restoring community.

None of it is easy. It can be fun, and exciting, don’t get me wrong, but it can also be scary and disruptive. We’re so tired, after all, and it is a lot easier to just keep along our same path, grumbling and shaking our heads at “those people,” assuming they are wrong and we are right. I can tell you, I know how tempting that is. I sure hate being out of my comfort zone! Sometimes it is more fun just to cast stones from the safety of my living room, rather than allow my heart to be moved and changed. But God never promised that the work of restoration would be easy. It surely didn’t come easily for God; indeed it cost the ultimate price! But the reward was great – reconciliation of community, redemption, and new life. New life, which won’t be without its own challenges, but in which we are, just the same, assured of abundant and eternal life with Christ, and the peace and joy that this brings. 

Let us pray… God, you are worthy to be praised. Orient our hearts toward you, so that we would see all of your children through the light of your eyes. Open us to be learners, to be taught by that which is different, and always to return to you with thanks and praise. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Compassionate wealth (Sept. 28, 2025)

Pentecost 16C
September 28, 2025
Luke 16:19-31

INTRODUCTION

Back at the beginning of Luke, when Mary first found out she was pregnant with Jesus, she sang this beautiful song known as the Magnificat. In it, she states all the ways that this child, Jesus, would bring about a great reversal of the world as she knew it. “The mighty will be thrown down and the lowly lifted high,” she sang. “The hungry will be filled and the rich sent away empty.” These themes have proven strong ones in Luke’s Gospel, and today’s passage is one explicit example: the story of Lazarus and the rich man. Where last week’s parable of the dishonest manager is difficult because it is confusing, this week’s is difficult because it is clear: the rich, lover of wealth ends up tormented in Hades after his death, and Lazarus, the poor man at his gate, enjoys comfort and the company of angels for all eternity. Paired with Amos, who also rails against those who care more about their riches than about the poor, and Timothy, who warns us that the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil… we have a very convicting line-up for today! 

But don’t feel condemned too quickly. None of these texts say that wealth, by itself, is a bad thing. Each of them compel us to look around us at those who suffer, and to use our resources – be that wealth, or talents, and position, or power – to bring about God’s vision as expressed in Mary’s song: to fill the hungry, lift up the lowly, and, as Paul writes to Timothy, “pursue righteousness, godliness, love, endurance and gentleness.” Easy-peasy, right?

As you listen, notice when you feel convicted. You might even have a pencil ready and just circle those parts. And then, just sit with that. Let those convicting parts work in your heart, reflect on why you feel convicted, and listen for what God might be trying to say to you through them. Let’s listen. 

[READ]

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

We live in Irondequoit, and so we often use 104 to get where we need to go. Pretty routinely, there is someone at our exit, whether coming or going, who stands at the stoplight, holding a sign written on a piece of cardboard – you know the type – and it says some version of, “Need work. Please help. God bless.”

Occasionally I’ll pass something through the window – a buck or two, or maybe an apple or granola bar – but often traffic doesn’t allow it, or I don’t have anything to give that I can get to safely. I also, of course, have many softer reasons for not doing more – because I’m scared to, or because he’ll probably take advantage of me if I reach out, or because he’ll probably use my generosity to buy booze, or because one granola bar or even $10 isn’t going to help because what he needs is a steady income, and I can’t help him with that. You see, there are really so many reasons not to help, but most of them boil down to: I’m too lazy, I’m too fearful, or I’m too cynical. 

But I do find myself wondering about him. Does he have a family? A home? A spouse who works? What got him in this situation? What sort of work would he be able to do? What was that day like, the day he decided that he needed to stand on the corner of an exit off 104 at rush hour, and beg people for help? What made him finish his written request with, “God bless”? Does he believe in God? Does he believe in Jesus?

Do you think his name is Lazarus?

The parable Jesus tells us today, the story about the rich man and Lazarus, has not helped my guilt about that man on the corner and others like him, my very own Lazarus, if not at my gate, at least at my exit. And frankly, none of the readings today instill much more than guilt in me. Take Amos, for example, who admonishes those who relish in their riches at the exclusion of the poor: those who live like they are entitled to their wealth, with their beautiful beds, and their juicy steak and veal, and their large glasses of wine, who sit around playing music, and use fancy soaps, and hardly even consider the ruin of so many people around them. I mean, Amos basically just described my weekend! 

And then Timothy, who reminds us that we came into this world penniless, and will leave it penniless – after all, you never see a hearse towing a U-Haul! Because of this, we should be content just to have food and clothing enough to survive. Any more than that, he says, and our wealth will start to tempt us. “Those who want to be rich,” he says, “fall into temptation and are trapped by many senseless and harmful desires that plunge people into ruin and destruction.” And then that famous line: “For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evils.” Youch!

And then if you weren’t feeling guilty and threatened enough, the parable of the rich man and Lazarus seals the deal, as we see the beggar Lazarus end up in heaven, and the rich man in Hades. It’s that reversal theme so prevalent in Luke. Now, Lazarus, who could scarcely find a scrap to eat and had only dogs for friends, is feasting in heaven, while the rich man, who feasted sumptuously every day, is being tormented in Hades. And Father Abraham’s chastisement: you should have listened to Moses and the prophets – prophets like Amos – and then you would have known this would happen!

I don’t know about you, but all three of these readings make my stomach turn. Is a glass of wine after a long day really a sin? Should I not be sleeping in such a nice bed? Do I love money too much? Is my avoidance of the man at my exit off of 104 going to send me straight to Hades?

As is so often the case with Jesus’ parables, this one is not meant to be taken literally – that is, it is not so much saying that if you are well-off, you are going to Hades for eternity. Rather, it is a description of how God calls us to live in this life. So we can ask ourselves, what is the rich man’s sin, and how shall we avoid it? 

Is his sin that he is rich? No, I don’t think so. After all, we have seen that money can be used for many godly purposes. Just last week, the shrewd manager showed us how money can be used to help people and build relationships. Warren Buffet recently gave $6 billion toward alleviating world hunger. Money in itself is not a bad thing, and can be a very good thing.

Is his sin, then, that he has no compassion for Lazarus, there on his doorstep day after day, and the rich man doesn’t even give him scraps from the table? Well, I’d say we’re getting closer, but I still don’t think that is quite the whole story.

Really, I think the rich man’s sin is a combination of the two: that his wealth prevents him from having compassion, from seeing human need. His sin is his preference for money over anything else, over God and his neighbor. That’s what Amos admonishes, when he points out all these people enjoying their riches while those around them are in ruins. That’s what Timothy means when he says not that money is the root of all kinds of evil, but rather that the love of money is. In all three cases, the problem is that money has become an idol, something to be achieved in itself, something that insulates us from the needs of those around us. 

And when we isolate ourselves from others’ needs, and hence from the natural human tendency toward compassion, do we not also isolate ourselves from God? Because if we have so much money, and we are numbed to the needs of our neighbor, what’s to keep us from believing that we have no needs, that money can satisfy anything we need or desire, that we are sufficient unto ourselves? Suddenly, we no longer need God, or grace, or the salvation promised to us by Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection. Who needs God’s grace and mercy if you’ve got hard work, and a little luck, and a healthy bank account? 

Since the phrase “in God we trust” first appeared on our American coins in 1864, its presence there has been controversial. I don’t have a strong opinion about this constitutionally speaking, but as a Christian, I find it extremely helpful to see “In God we trust” on my money. I wish my checks and credit cards said it, too. What a wonderful reminder to always ask myself, “Do I spend or use my money in a way that reflects that I trust God?” Does it show my care and compassion for God’s children?  Or do I use it to isolate myself from the human need around me – by buying a house in a safe neighborhood, and driving my own car to avoid public transportation, and staying out of downtown if I can help it? Do my spending and giving habits reflect my trust of and utter dependence on God? Or do I use it to further my desire for self-sufficiency and autonomy? Should my money say, “In God we trust,” or would I rather it say, “In myself I trust?”

What would have happened, I wonder, if the rich man had reached out to Lazarus? We can’t know, of course. But we do know a little bit about what happens when we reach out to others in service. And by service, I don’t just mean help – “help” implies that one person has something that the other doesn’t, that one person is there to fix and the other only to receive. By service, I mean those times when we open our hearts with a willingness to be vulnerable, to be present with another person, to hear their story, without judgment or expectation. When we are willing to do that, we not only perceive another person’s need, we also become aware of our own need – our need for God and for God’s grace. We become more aware of our own humanity, our own longings and insufficiencies, and we therefore appreciate God’s grace in Christ, who took on our need, our humanity, so that we could see the depth of God’s profound love for each of us. This truly is something we can trust.

Let us pray. God of grace and compassion, we often overlook the needs of others and even our own needs, preferring to think that we can manage life completely on our own and don’t owe anything to anyone. Help us to put our trust in you, so that everything we do and everything we are might reflect that trust. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Make friends by dishonest wealth (Sept. 21, 2025)

Pentecost 15C
September 21, 2025
Luke 16:1-13

INTRODUCTION

The section of Luke we hear from today and next week are both concerned with our relationship with money or wealth. Amos addresses it, too – the prophet rails against those who can’t wait to get past the sabbath so they can start making money again, and not just making money, but doing so in a way that takes advantage of the poor by messing with the standard currencies. Amos warns us that the Lord will not forget this deceitfulness!

But Luke will give us a different view, in what is probably Jesus’ most challenging parable: the dishonest, or shrewd, manager. In this parable, the manager of a rich man’s property will squander that property, and then try to salvage his reputation by dishonest means… only to then be commended by the rich man! The difference in Amos and Luke is that in one, the poor are taken advantage of, and in the other, they are helped. 

One more comment about our readings, about Timothy. You have probably noticed that we often pray aloud in the prayers of intercession for our president. Though I won’t be preaching on it, the passage we will hear today from Timothy is the reason we do that. I’m happy to talk more about that if you’d like.

Ok, as you listen: both Amos and Luke deal with the messiness of human relationships and emotions, especially in relation to wealth, so as you listen, think about your own relationship with money, and how that affects your relationships with God and with people, those you know and those you don’t know. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

This week I heard someone say, “God’s word is black and white.” Hm. One need only to read today’s parable to see that the Bible is, at times, far from that clear! Every single commentary I read or listened to this week (and I’m talking maybe 10 different ones) started with something to the tune of, “This parable is hard,” or, “This one has baffled interpreters for centuries,” or even, “Oh no, not this one…” It seems to leave us with more questions than answers. 

But then I listened to a sermon from Pastor Brian McLaren, in which he described some of the cultural and historical context behind this parable, and things became a lot clearer. So journey with me, if you would, back to first century Palestine, which is at this time under Roman occupation. As occupiers, the Romans exploited natural resources as well as the labor of the people. This was primarily done through taxation: they developed a system in which the poor were heavily taxed, and the very wealthy got off without paying much or any tax at all. (Hard to imagine such a system, I know.) 

Here’s how they did it. The Romans and the wealthiest Jews lived in the south, in Judea, near the Capitol, Jerusalem. The small farmers (a.k.a. the poor) lived more in the north, in Galilee, where much of Jesus’ ministry centered. Now, the poor farmers had something the Romans wanted: namely, olive oil and wheat. Seems like a great opportunity for the farmers to make bank, right? But no, instead, the Romans taxed the small farmers more than they could afford to pay. So, then the rich people – even some fellow Jews – would come up north and say, “Hey, we see you’re in a tough spot. How about we will pay your taxes for you, and you give us the deed for your property? Everyone wins! But don’t worry, you can still live on the property and tend to it as tenant farmers. All this for the low, low price of giving us a percentage each year of your wheat and olive oil.” These wheat and oil taxes would then be sold for events serving the Romans, turning a profit, and thereby making the rich guys in the south even richer, and the poor farmers in the north even poorer, and the cycle continued. For this reason, the farmers understandably hated the rich landowners. And so, when it came time to collect the taxes, the landowners wouldn’t want to go collect it themselves and face the anger of the farmers, so they would send a steward or manager to do their dirty work. 

So now we have met the two characters in the parable – the rich southern landowner and the manager. And we understand the background of what their roles were and why. 

Now, hear this story again: a rich, southern landowner owned some farms up north, and had a manager who would collect taxes from the tenant farmers. But it comes to the rich man’s attention that this manager has been squandering “his” property – that is, he is not squeezing the farmers for every penny they have, and not getting as much return as the rich man wants. So the rich landowner decides to fire the manager. “Get the books and give me an account. Why am I not richer than this?” Now remember, the manager doesn’t have much wealth or power here. He’s a middle-class guy who is just trying to get by, caught in the middle between rich and poor. And he’s having a bit of a reckoning as he realizes, “Man, I have aligned myself with the rich all these years and done their bidding, and it turns out I’m expendable to them! He’s throwing me out! What am I going to do now?” 

So this “dishonest” manager decides it is time to switch sides, to align himself instead with the poor. He makes friends with the poor (a phrase in Greek that indicates putting himself on the same level) by cutting their taxes. He still gets some return that he can pass back to his boss, but he is also giving a break to the poor – which, as we can see in Amos this morning and in other Old Testament texts, caring for the poor was kind of a central tenet of Jewish faith. So he’s being dishonest in regard to the Roman expectation of him, but he’s aligned himself with God’s expectation. It’s a bit of civil disobedience, in order to realign the economic system.

Make more sense? Here’s what we need to see here: the so-called “dishonest manager” is not evil and terrible. Rather, he has seen through the injustice of the economic system, and he makes the decision to work for the poor, not the rich. The dishonest manager – but let’s call him now “shrewd” or clever, as some other translations do – the shrewd manager is using what power he has, small though it may be, to bring justice to the poor, to overturn this unjust system, to care for the needy and give people (or let them keep) what is due to them. Sure, it may benefit him by making him some friends, but he is also losing and risking a lot by his actions. Sure, it is dishonest by Roman law. But it is just by God’s law. He has put God’s law and relationships with God’s people above money and his personal security.

With this in mind, Jesus’ next words make more sense. “Make friends for yourself by means of dishonest wealth” – that is, prioritize a commitment to right and just relationship with God’s people over money, even if it means you have to break a civil law to do it. Money, Jesus is saying, isn’t the ultimate measure of all things. Use that money instead in service of relationship with God and neighbor. Because “you cannot serve both God and wealth.”

Boy, those are tough words. I’m not sure I’d be brave enough to say them if Jesus hadn’t said them first. I’m barely brave enough to believe them. “You cannot have two masters – God and money. You will either hate one and love the other, or you will be devoted to one and despise the other.” And isn’t that true. Just the suggestion that I, too, might at times put a value on money over God makes me want to resist, which shows just how deeply the lure money has its hooks in me. That’s not to say that money is bad – please hear me on this. We all need it; it’s what allows us to survive in this world, and to help others in need. But if we aren’t careful, we can slip quickly into believing the false promises of wealth, and let it make us value things that are not God more than we value God and God’s vision for the world. We become devoted to one, and not the other. 

I described the economic system of first century Israel under Roman occupation. The kingdom of God also has an economic system. It requires us to let go of the system that says, “Let the rich do what they want, and let the crumbs from the table trickle down to the poor.” That is the way of the world – it was in the first century, and it still is today. God’s kingdom economics say instead to put God at the top, not the wealthy. To the rich, you are expendable, like the manager was to the rich landowner. The poor are certainly expendable. But you are not expendable to God. God loves you, exactly who and how you are. You matter to God. And not only that. When you love God above all things, everything else gets reoriented. We will see everyone and everything in a new values system. With God on top, you aren’t the only one who matters. Everyone matters; no one is expendable. We are a community together, each with our own unique and invaluable gifts to offer the world. And that is how God wants it. That is how we live out the greatest commandment: to love the Lord your God with all your heart and mind and soul and strength and your neighbor as yourself. That is the picture of God’s economy that this difficult parable paints.

And honestly, knowing the meaning of this parable does not make it any easier. The message remains difficult, but when we can live into it, it is also liberating. The love of money is a never-ending treadmill in which we never have enough to make us feel fulfilled and valuable. But that is not so in God’s economy. When we can orient our world view to putting God, and not wealth, at the top, we free ourselves from that treadmill, and find ourselves instead living in a world governed by love, by justice, and by God’s immense grace and compassion.

Let us pray… God of love and justice, it is so easy for us to turn to money and wealth as the thing that will save us. Turn us instead toward you, that we would put you at the top, so that we would see all of creation as valued and beloved. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Note: this sermon draws heavily from Brian McLaren’s sermon on this text at the 2019 Festival of Homiletics. 

Sermon: The God who seeks the lost (Sept. 14, 2025)

Pentecost 14C
September 14, 2025
Luke 15:1-10

INTRODUCTION:

Today we hear some texts about what it is like to be lost, and to be found once again. The first story we will hear is a part of the story you may know as “the golden calf.” Here’s the set-up: Moses, having already delivered the 10 Commandments, has been back up on Mount Sinai, talking to God. In the absence of their leader, the Israelites are starting to feel a bit lost, shall we say, and so they melt together all of their metal and create a golden calf, which, when Moses returns from the mountain, he finds them worshipping. In this idol, they find something to bring them together, to focus their efforts. But, it’s a big no-no, as they should know, since the 10 Commandments say very clearly: you shall have no idols, and worship nothing besides the one true God. Well, God is pretty miffed by this, and, well, I’ll let you listen to hear what happens next. 

The Psalm is a cry of lament and repentance, the song of someone who knows he has wandered away from God and toward evil. It’s what David writes after he commits adultery with Bathsheba and then has her husband murdered. He begs God to find him and accept him once again into God’s mercy.

Then in the Gospel we will hear two beloved parables: the lost sheep and the lost coin, in which the subjects (a shepherd in the first and a woman in the second) search tirelessly for something that is lost, and then throw a celebration party when it is found. These are told in the context of the Pharisees grumbling that Jesus spends his time with notorious sinners – those who are lost, you might say – and the stories indicate that no one is lost beyond God’s care.

As you listen, think about a time when you have felt lost, physically, emotionally, or spiritually – perhaps following a job loss, or a death, or a move. If that time resulted in feeling found, how did that feel, and what was your response? Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

Whenever these parables about things lost and found come up, I find myself grappling with the questions: what is it to be lost? And what is it to be found?

I mean, I know what those things mean when we’re talking about literal coins and sheep. But more metaphorically – who is lost? What causes someone to be lost? And what then changes that status from lost to found? What does it take to be found? Are these categories clear cut (“I once was lost, but now am found,” as a beloved hymn says)? Or are they more fluid, even to the point that one could be simultaneously lost and found? (If you’re wondering, by the way – yes, I have lost sleep this week thinking about all this!)

These questions came into sharp focus for me this week after learning on Wednesday of yet another awful act of violence against a political activist, followed immediately by yet another school shooting, the 100th one this year. The act of political violence especially has blown up the news and social media as everyone, right, left and in between, has tried to make sense of what happened and why and who and how we should respond. I want to say that, no matter who he was or what he believed, political violence is un-democratic and un-Christian. No child of God, who is made in God’s image, “deserves” to die a violent death, full stop. I’m grateful that I have seen many statements from people across the political spectrum condemn the violence. But, unfortunately I have also seen the same vitriol that has become all too normal in our country as of late. 

So yes, this all brought the questions of lostness and found-ness into sharp focus for me this week. Who, in this case is lost? The shooter, who would think it fine to take another human being’s life? The one who was shot – who, yes, was beloved by many, but whose rhetoric also did real world harm to many children of God, especially minorities? Are his followers lost (especially now, as they grieve), or are the people who were harmed by his words and rhetoric lost? Is it our country as a whole that is lost? Can Americans agree that we have lost our way as a country, that we are not living as the best version of ourselves right now? Even if we disagree on what the right way is, do we agree that this is not it? And finally, in what ways are we ourselves lost – in the midst of yet another shooting, yet another act of political violence and the vitriol that follows, yet another terrifying day in the news – and all this the week we remembered 9/11? 

The truth is, that the answer to all of those questions about who is lost is: yes. Yes, all of those people and groups are lost, to different places and for different reasons. And so are we. We are lost – lost in grief, in pain, in despair. Lost in rage. Lost in sinfulness, in which our hearts may recognize an evil when we see it, but our minds try to convince us that this evil is fine, just as long as it aligns with my viewpoint. As St. Paul says, we know the right thing to do, but still we do the very thing we hate. We are lost.

So, I suppose my real question here is: Where is God in this?

Here is where these simple stories, about a shepherd and a woman seeking things they have loved and lost, offer us some good news, some pure grace. Where is God? God is the one seeking the lost. God is the one climbing over ledges and crossing ditches, in rain or shine, trying to find his lost sheep. God is the one searching through the night, lighting a lamp and sweeping every corner of the house, trying to find her one missing coin – so small, yet so precious to her. God is always, always the one who is seeking the lost. Seeking you. Seeking me. Seeking us, until we are found.

So what, then, does it mean to be “found”? 

Well, when we are looking for a lost item, for those of us who rely on our sense of sight, we know that item is found when we finally see it again. And so, could the path to found-ness be empathy – being seen by another? When our pain truly matters to someone else... doesn't that feel like being found? When someone sees us, pain and all, without our masks on? 

I have been playing this week with this idea that empathy is what leads to being found – not only when someone has empathy for us, but when we do the work to have empathy for another. And it is work - empathy requires us to find a similar feeling in our own experience, and relate it to the one in pain. That can be hard! That's how empathy is different from sympathy. Sympathy is, “Oh, I feel so bad for you,” but keeps the one in pain at a distance. As researcher and storyteller Brene Brown describes, sympathy is looking down at someone who’s in a dark hole, who is saying, “I’m stuck! It’s dark! I’m overwhelmed!” and responding, “Ooo, that’s rough.” Empathy, on the other hand, is climbing down into the hole with the person, and saying, “I know what it’s like down here, and you’re not alone.” Empathy doesn’t try to fix anything, but simply communicates that their pain matters, and even that you are willing to feel some of that pain with them. “Empathy fuels connection,” Brown says. “Sympathy drives disconnection.” 

And connection – that is the way to being found. Through empathy we find one another’s humanity, we find each other’s child-of-God-ness, and our own. To be clear, having empathy does not mean we have to like that person, nor agree with them. It does not give people a pass for bad behavior, or hurtful rhetoric. Empathy can and should exist alongside accountability and justice. And, especially when you are the one who has been hurt by another, you do not have to rush to empathize with the one who causes you harm. We can trust that God’s grace is big enough for them, even if our own hearts are not, or aren’t yet. 

Still, empathy is worth the effort. God has promised to seek out the lost (those in particular need), and so when we connect our hearts to theirs through empathy, that is when and where we will find God. We find God with the poor, the sick, the abused, the oppressed. We find God with starving children in Gaza, and with bullied kids in America. We find God with immigrants living in fear of arrest or deportation, and with people who are homeless, and with people fear losing their healthcare. We find God with those who grieve. And when we find God, we discover that God also finds us. We are found. And for God, that is cause for celebration!

I don’t know the solution to whatever it is that has caused so much physical and verbal violence to dominate our news and discourse. Surely it is multi-faceted, and no one person or party or group’s fault. But I’m pretty sure striving for this empathy is a step along the path from being lost to being found. It requires us to acknowledge our own pain, and allows us to see one another in our lostness, to be in the dark hole together. And there, in that shared space, we find God – the God who is abundantly loving, patiently and stubbornly gracious, and committed to finding us wherever we are, to bring us from that dark place, into new life. 

Let us pray… Persistent God, you care about each of your children, and would do anything to find us when we are lost. Thank you. Keep our eyes open to watch for you among the lost, so that we, too, could be found. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: You're a Christian - so what? (Sept. 7, 2025)

Pentecost 13C
September 7, 2025 – Rally Day
Deuteronomy 30:15-20
Luke 14:25-33

INTRODUCTION

A bit of context for our first reading today from Deuteronomy: As you may also recall, the Israelites, after Moses led them out of slavery in Egypt, spent 40 years wandering in the wilderness in search of the Promised Land. Today’s reading is at the end of that period, as they are about to enter Canaan. Moses knows he is about to die, and is giving them some last instructions and words of wisdom before entering this land, which is already occupied, by people who do not worship the God of Israel. This is the climax of Moses’ big speech, and, contextual as it is, his words are still so valuable for us today! “Choose life!” he says. I heard one commentator say this week, “If there is one verse on which to hang your entire theology, this is it!” I quite agree – in all your decisions as a person of faith, “choose life,” choose the thing that will bring the greatest and richest life to those most in need of life.

For the Philemon text, I encourage you to read the little contextual blurb in the bulletin, which will make this short letter (we’ll hear almost the whole thing!) more meaningful.

And then the Gospel… oof. It’s a doozie. Keep in mind, that this is still the part of Jesus’ life where he is traveling to Jerusalem to what he knows will be his death. Many are following him, and he will lay out for them what it means to be a disciple. Warning: it isn’t easy! So, here we go – let’s listen!

[READ]

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

After reading this week’s assigned lectionary readings, the question that has been nagging at me all week is: What difference does it make in your life that you are a Christian? Or asked another way, how do you live your life differently than you would if you were not a Christian?

The Gospel reading is the one that especially brings this up for me. These are pretty steep demands from Jesus for being a disciple. Give up all your possessions, carry your cross, hate your closest family members. This is not a successful formula for church growth! Now to be fair, the way we read this in English in 21st century America lands differently than it would in 1st century Palestine. For example, the word translated as “hate” likely means something more like, “place at a lower priority,” as in, “if it’s between your spouse and Jesus, choose Jesus.” It’s slightly better, but still a big ask. No doubt about it – Jesus is outlining some severe demands for discipleship.

And so, I ask again: even if you have prioritized your family over Jesus (say, going to your kid’s tournament instead of worship, or staying home instead of feeding the hungry), even if you have kept most of you possessions and keep acquiring more, even if you have no intention of taking up a cross of any kind – do you still find that your commitment to Jesus, to being a follower of Christ, affects the way you live your day to day life? And if so, how? 

I’ll be honest, especially in light of texts like this, I often feel like a not-good-enough Christian. Even though I have devoted my life to serving Christ’s Church in his name, I think fairly often that I could or should be doing more to live out my faith. I think I should be giving away more money. I should spend more hours volunteering to help the sorts of people Jesus prioritized (generally, the most vulnerable). I should buy less, own less, and pray more. I should forgive more easily, and be less judgmental. I should work harder for justice, and be more willing to put myself on the line to do so. But then I think, “Well, my kids need me, or my spouse, or my aging parents…” Oops, there I go again, prioritizing my family over Jesus! 

Now, I know, it isn’t so clear cut as this. Caring for my family sometimes is a part of the way I live out the gospel and follow Jesus. It’s not black and white, and I think in this case Jesus is talking more about if your family members are at odds with your will to live out the gospel, then choose the Jesus route. But the point here is: Jesus’ demands here are difficult. He makes it very clear that the cost of discipleship is high. The payoff is fantastic, but we don’t always experience that payoff right away, so we are more inclined toward the things that pay off right now. 

Today is Rally Day, a day when we try to draw people back into the life of the Church and start up some programs that took a summer hiatus. It is also God’s Work, Our Hands Day, a day when we intentionally look outward toward some ways that we can lean into a more active faith, by serving our community. You can do that today by donating food or money to Loop Ministries, or by signing a letter that urges legislators to support programs that address food insecurity. This is all good stuff! But I urge you also to think today about this question I’ve been posing: how does your commitment to Jesus affect how you live your life? And then perhaps take it a step further: if you are like me, and often think of ways your life could better reflect Christ’s hope for us, could better live into his demands for a life of discipleship… then what is one way that could happen? 

Could you not only donate to Loop today, but also find ways to volunteer, either there or at another food pantry, especially as we focus this year on addressing food insecurity? 

Could you join a Bible Huddle, and let a more intentional approach to God’s Word guide you in your daily decisions?

If you are someone who comes to worship and then slips out quickly, could you make a habit of staying for coffee hour and talking to new people, so you develop more and deeper relationships with other people of faith, so you can support each other in this effort? 

If you can’t give away all your possessions, could you at least increase your giving to support our ministry here, or your donations to other organizations who are aligned with our mission?

What else could you do to follow Jesus more closely, to let your identity as a Christian play a larger role in the way you live your life?

What Jesus describes here for the life of a disciple is pretty radical, and a lot to take in all at once. But as I often tell my kids when it is time to clean a messy room: don’t look at the whole room at once. Focus on one thing (like, cleaning up the trash, or putting clothes in the laundry), and do that. “Chunking it,” it’s called. Make the chunk smaller until it feels manageable. 

We can do this in faith, too. Focus on one area where you could be living more fully into a life of discipleship – “hating” things that keep you from following Jesus and prioritizing things that do; giving up possessions (whether they are things, money, or even mindsets) that hinder rather than help your faith; or taking up your cross and being willing to step out courageously on behalf of people in need, even if it puts you out of your comfort zone. Focus on one area, and make a goal to do it, to accept that cost of discipleship, to strive to let the fact that you are a Christian, a follower of Jesus, affect your life and the way you live a little more than it does already.

Friends, this effort may not go smoothly. Change is hard, and we all fall short of being the people and the Christians we want to be. So know also this: that God’s grace for you, and God’s love for you are not contingent on any of this. Though we may see ourselves as not-enough, God always sees us as enough. God’s salvation for us was promised to us in our baptism, and it stands, even if you do prioritize your kids, or your spouse, or your other family members, even if you don’t take up a cross. But it is also precisely because of this immense grace, this unearned gift of salvation, that we are compelled to be the best, most faithful version of ourselves. And so may God be with us as we try, and fail, and try again, trusting always that Christ is there with us all along the way.

Let us pray… Gracious God, you have given us everything, though we do not deserve it. Strengthen and encourage us to see you more clearly, love you more dearly, and follow you more nearly, day by day. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: On welcoming strangers (Aug. 31, 2025)

Pentecost 12C (Proper 14)

September 1, 2019

Luke 14:1, 7-14; Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16

 

INTRODUCTION

Today is one of those times when all four of the readings really complement each other, lifting up very similar themes. Their combined purpose could be summarized by the first line from our reading from Hebrews: “Let mutual love continue.” All four readings will describe some of the specific ways we can live in mutual love as Christians: for example, by practicing humility, selflessness, concern for the other even over yourself, generosity, and hospitality toward strangers –especially, Jesus will tell us, toward strangers and those without means who have nothing concrete to offer you in return. 

They all seem like nice enough things, and some even joyful… but not a-one of them is easy! And so as you listen, watch for some of those ideals of Christian love, and consider what they each look like, practically or metaphorically, in your life – your personal life, your church life, your life as a citizen. Think about how some of these ideals enacted or embodied as a community, a nation, and as a global neighbor. My sermon will be focus on hospitality and welcome, so think especially about that ideal. Okay, let’s listen.

[READ]

St. Paul's received a replica of this sculpture after giving a financial gift to
Rochester Refugee Resettlement Services.
It lives in our Grand Foyer as a reminder to welcome.

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

My grandparents lived in Germany for several years after World War II. They were sent there by the national Lutheran church as a part of what became Lutheran World Relief. They helped rebuild the Church there after the war, and reunite families who had been separated. During their time in Germany, and throughout their 60+ years of marriage, they kept a guest book – or rather, several books. Every guest they had at their home – whether a German dignitary or a refugee child – every guest was asked to sign their book, and perhaps leave a note about their time there. What resulted was volumes and volumes of records of strangers and friends to whom they had shown hospitality over the course of their lives. Really, those guest books are a record of one of the many ways my grandparents very actively lived out their faith, and the books’ very existence cemented hospitality as one of our deeply rooted family values.

When my brother and I each got married, my parents gave us each a guestbook, too, and inscribed in the front is this verse we heard from Hebrews: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for in doing so some have entertained angels without knowing it.” It’s a lovely verse, isn’t it? I look to my grandparents as models of faith, and want so dearly to follow in their footsteps in the way they welcomed so many strangers into their lives and their home, and in doing so showed them the love of Christ. This is, in fact, one of my favorite verses for this very reason, that it makes me feel connected to my grandparents.

At this point in Michael’s and my life, most of the visitors we have in our home are under the age of 10. Our home has become something of a hub for our kids’ friends, who are always popping in for a snack or a drink or a game of hide and seek, and often end up inviting themselves over for dinner (which we generally don’t mind!). It’s kind of fun, though it has been admittedly hard on our furniture! But none of these kids are strangers. They are our neighbors, our kids’ classmates. And all of the people who have signed our beautiful guest book are friends and family. It turns out that showing hospitality to actual strangers can be… well, risky, scary, vulnerable. Because you just don’t know what you’re getting, with a stranger. Yes, they may turn out to be angels, but… what if they don’t? 

This is not just a concern for us on a personal level. Whether or not to welcome strangers is a pretty huge national issue right now as well (as it has been for years). There is so much fear stirred up around strangers, foreigners, especially those who speak with an accent or have darker skin. They are assumed to be gang members. They are called a drain on society. They are called, not “humans,” but “illegals,” as if their legal status usurps their status as human beings and fellow children of God. And they are being rounded up by the thousands and detained or sent away – some for violent crimes, which is appropriate, but only 10% of those detained have been convicted of violent crimes, and some 70% have no criminal conviction at all. Some are even citizens, or legal residents, or are in the process of becoming so. And as far as welcoming any new “strangers,” there is currently an indefinite refugee ban with few exceptions. Those who are admitted must demonstrate that they have or will contribute something useful to America, and exhibit “strong moral character.” This is how this country currently shows hospitality to strangers.

What a contrast this is to Jesus’ parable: “Invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind,” he says. “And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you.” It’s tricky, right? Because of course we don’t want to let criminals into our country, and having systems in place to prevent that is important. Of course we want to be good stewards of our resources so that we can adequately care for those already here. But how do we balance those concerns with what Jesus says explicitly: that it is precisely those who have lots of need but nothing to offer who we should be inviting, first of all? It would be easier if Jesus had said, “Welcome those who have lots to offer in return, and extend hospitality to your friends and people who appear safe.” But he didn’t. 

No, as usual, Jesus’ teachings are so counter to how society works! Ours is a society in which, rather than letting mutual love continue, we let mutual backscratching continue. We seek to make connections, to swap favors, to help each other out mostly or especially when we know it will ultimately be to our advantage. What am I going to get out of this? Thinking again on a national scale, it has been expressly stated that we’re happy to let strangers, immigrants, in, if they can contribute something valuable to our country. Merit-based immigration, it’s called. But here Jesus tells us, “No, don’t reach out to your rich friends or your family. Don’t do things because you know they will come back to benefit you. Serve others just for the sake of serving others, for the sake of letting mutual love continue (as the author of Hebrews would say). Serve those who really need it – the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind. Call in all the neediest strangers, and love them, feed them, and serve them.”

This is the call Jesus issues, and boy, is it difficult! If we’re honest, it may not be sound federal policy! It may put us at risk, whether as individuals or as a country! We may be blessed in the long run, “at the resurrection of the righteous,” as Jesus says, but what about now? Don’t we want to do things to benefit ourselves now, today? Why would Jesus ask of us something so difficult, even impractical? 

But here’s the thing: we shouldn’t do this – invite and welcome strangers with no promise of immediate return – we shouldn’t do this because Jesus told us to do it. We extend hospitality to strangers and welcome them because God already did it and does it for us. Yes, it is true – God welcomes us as strangers, even potentially dangerous ones, welcomes us to his bountiful banquet, not because we can do anything to pay God back, but simply because God dearly loves us. When we are the poor in spirit, poor in faith and trust, poor in riches, God welcomes us. When we are crippled by pain, by doubt, by fear, God welcomes us. When we are lame in our walk of faith, turning our faces away from the pain and brokenness of the world, negligent in tending to our relationship with God, God welcomes us. When we are blind to our own sinful ways, God still welcomes us to the feast of love that God prepares for us.

We certainly don’t deserve, nor do we do anything to earn this gift. Yet still, God invites and welcomes us each to this table, and gives us love, grace, belonging, and salvation. God provides us all that we need, and even when we greedily take it with hardly a thank you, even when we imagine only that we are entitled to these things and overlook the gracious gift that they are, even when we totally squander that gift… God still gives us more the next day. God gives and gives though we could never repay that gift. 

So let us go now to the banquet, brothers and sisters. God invited us, after all, and welcomes us with open arms. And then, nourished by this feast of love, let us go out to proclaim Christ’s Gospel of radical welcome of the stranger, in word and deed, trusting that God’s promises to us are true, and that we will indeed be blessed, perhaps by the angels we encounter, and most certainly in the resurrection of the righteous. 

Let us pray… Welcoming God, our instinct with strangers is often mistrust and fear. Make us bold to extend hospitality to strangers, trusting that in doing so, we might just find ourselves entertaining angels. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

(Side note: I also played oboe in this service! You can hear it starting in the 51st minute. Please excuse the fact that one of my keys was sticking, ugh.)