Sermon: Exceeding abundance beyond everything (July 25, 2021)

 Watch the full service HERE.

Pentecost 9B
July 25, 2021
John 6:1-21

INTRODUCTION

            The past six weeks we have been hearing from Mark’s Gospel; before that we were in John’s Gospel. Today we return to John for a few weeks, as we “feast” upon the “bread of life” discourse. Today we’ll hear about two “signs” (what John calls Jesus’ miracles) – the feeding of the 5000, and Jesus walking on water. And over the next few weeks we’ll get into the discourse that always follows a sign, which will explain why the sign matters. In both of the signs and in today’s other readings, we will see a few characteristics of God become apparent: God is in relationship with us, God is an abundant provider, and God is life.

One other thing to listen for that might not be obvious in this translation: another feature of John’s Gospel is that Jesus identifies himself throughout as I AM. Do you remember where else we have heard that name, “I AM”? Moses at the burning bush – when God tells Moses that God’s name is, “I AM.” In coming weeks, Jesus will identify himself as, “I am the bread of life.” But he also identifies himself as I AM today, when he approaches the disciples on the boat. The rendering in English is, “It is I,” but the word is the same: he is identifying himself as God. 

            In the following weeks, we will hear a lot of theological explanation, but today’s readings are more about experience. So as you listen, enter into that experience as best you can, considering how your different senses would encounter it. Let’s listen.

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Vie de Jesus Mafa was an initiative undertaken in the 1970s to help teach the gospel in Northern Cameroon. This image is archived here: http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=48287

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

            One difference we have noticed between our kids, since they were very small, is that Grace is more likely to jump into something pretty fearlessly, where Isaac is much more cautious. Oh he’ll get there eventually, but he is, as I call him, a “toe-dipper,” trying things out a little at a time until he feels comfortable enough to try some more. I admit I’m very grateful for this trait in him. As much as I admire Grace’s adventurous spirit, knowing that Isaac has that little bit of fear in him eases my own mama fear a bit. I’m fine with him being cautious! A little bit of healthy fear is good for keeping us safe, no?

            Of course, too much fear isn’t a good thing either. Fear can be crippling. It can hold us back and keep us from living into who God is calling us to be. It can destroy relationships. It can cause us to act cruelly or hatefully toward one another in an effort to keep ourselves safe, emotionally or intellectually. While a little fear can be a good thing, great fear can also be a very bad thing.

I’ve been thinking about fear, because I see it in both of these signs Jesus performs today. Well, not in the signs themselves, but in people’s reactions to them. In the walking-on-water story, it is obvious. Not that I blame the disciples for being afraid – not only was it stormy, but I’d also be pretty terrified to see my friend walking toward me on top of the water! Their fear is so great that Jesus has to remind them of who he is (I AM – God with you), and then tell them, “Don’t be afraid!”

But I think there is also some less obvious fear in the feeding story that precedes the storm. The disciples are afraid they won’t have enough food to feed all those people. They are afraid of their scarcity. Philip immediately looks at their budget and sees this will not work – “Six months wages wouldn’t be enough!” Numbers don’t lie; there is not enough. Andrew tries to think out of the box a little bit, looking at what other resources and assets they have beyond money – maybe someone here has something to share? And, turns out, someone does: a young boy, willing to share his lunch with Jesus and the crowd. But still, for so many people, it is clearly not enough.

Whenever we get in that mindset of “not enough,” there is, underlying it, that pesky emotion: fear.

            Fear of not enough – it is such an ordinary fear, really. It is not usually debilitating, but it is a fear we regularly face, sometimes on a daily basis. For middle class folks, it’s not usually about lack of food like in the story, but it often rears its head in financial matters: Will I have enough money to retire when I want to? Will I have enough to send my kids to college? Do I have enough to risk being generous with my financial giving to my church? And so we look at the numbers, like Philip, and make what we discern to be savvy decisions, in hopes that we will, in fact, have enough. Now this is not a judgment – it is also good stewardship of resources, don’t get me wrong. But there are plenty of times that I have heard fear of scarcity creep into the conversation about money, whether in my own life or at a council meeting.

            Of course, the question of enough also comes to us in other forms, often in the form of self-esteem. When I applied to seminary, several people told me to apply to Yale, my dad’s alma mater, and my first thought of course was, “I’m not smart or accomplished enough to go to Yale.” Women, especially, though also men, are often plagued by the worry that their bodies are not enough: not skinny enough or curvy enough or strong enough. Some of us are shy to meet new people because we’re afraid we won’t be interesting enough, or clever enough, or good-looking enough to make a good impression. You see, everywhere we look we see this fear of “not enough” – just like the disciples. How often this perception of life deters us from gratitude for what we do have!

And, how often our preoccupation with “enough” deters us from the opportunity to serve others. I read a story from a woman who served as a pastor in Nairobi, Kenya. One day, three young men came into her office. They were ragged and dirty, but had smiles on their faces. They asked if they could sing for her. She said of course, and they sang the most beautiful a cappella rendition of Amazing Grace, in their native language. She said it was like angel music, the kind that gives you goose bumps.

Then they shared with her their story. They were refugees from Rwanda. They had been university students, but when war broke out, they left the country with only the clothes on their backs and the song in their hearts. They didn’t know where their families were. They had often barely had enough to eat. They had learned to be grateful for their lives each day, and though they could never find the words for the prayer they wanted to offer to God, they could always sing Amazing Grace, and they knew God would understand their prayer. They had come that day seeking assistance – they had found a room to rent for $8/month. They had no furniture, but would gladly sleep on the floor. Could the church help by paying the $8, plus a little extra for food - $12 a month?

            The pastor brought the opportunity to the church leaders. They were interested in the idea, until someone, looking at the numbers, said, “$12 doesn’t seem like a lot, until you multiply it by 12 months. $150 is a lot!” Someone else wondered if this would set a precedent – what if word got out that they were willing to pay people’s rent, and then all the homeless refugees came to them?

            Soon, this opportunity to serve in a wonderful way turned into a litany of “not enoughs.” The pastor writes, “As I listened to my church leaders, I learned so much about the myth of limited resources. We often think there’s just enough for some of us. Some have to go without. We’re worried we’ll run out, but guess what? God’s world has enough for all of us. Someone has put it well, saying, ‘There is enough for all our need, but there is not enough for all our greed.’”[1]

            Individuals, churches, even countries can suffer from a fear of not-enough. I see it in our country’s immigration debate. One of the most frequent arguments I hear for limiting immigration, or taking in fewer refugees, is that there are not enough jobs to go around. We have too many hungry people here already. There are not enough resources as it is. We need to take care of our own, take care of American citizens who are already living here legally, before we accept anyone else into our care. We have only five loaves and two fish, and there is no way we will be able to feed so many people with so little. Sure, Jesus told us to feed the hungry and welcome the stranger, but surely he didn’t mean like this. There is not enough.

            It seems what we have here – in all three examples – is a lack of trust. Philip and his buddies, the Kenyan congregation, and modern America – all three examples exhibit a lack of trust that God will provide just exactly what is needed. Each is also rooted strongly in logic and good sense, which are also valuable. But none are rooted in trust of God. That, you see, is the danger of fear – it leads us to a lack of trust, or perhaps, it leads us to trust mostly in ourselves, or to trust in scarcity instead of trust in the promise of abundance. It causes us to miss the fact that God, the Great I AM, will always walk out into the storm, and say, “Don’t be afraid. I am here.”

            That is why we prayerfully put our trust in God, the God who not only assures us of his presence in the midst of the storm, but also promises us abundance. Remember what Luther writes in the Small Catechism? “God provides me with food and clothing, home and family, daily work, and all I need from day to day.” God provides all those things! We can worry and fear all we want, but in the end, God provides all we need from day to day, from the air that fills our lungs, to our food, to our beating hearts, to the capacity to love and serve one another.

            I love this line in our reading from Ephesians: “[God] is able to accomplish abundantly far more than we can ask or imagine.” That’s very nice, but I like the way the King James Version puts it: “God is able to do exceeding abundantly beyond everything.” God’s abundance is so abundant, that it’s hard to capture it in words! It is exceeding abundantly beyond everything! God gives us far more than we could ever imagine.

            And with that recognition comes freedom – freedom from worrying about whether there will be enough. Freedom from fretting about running out. Freedom to be more generous with our time, our money, our resources, our hospitality, and our love and care for others. Freedom to trust the one who gives us “food and clothing, home and family, daily work, and all we need from day to day.”

            “Therefore,” the catechism goes on, “we surely ought to thank and praise, serve and obey him. This is most certainly true.”

            Let us pray… Generous God, your providence exceeds abundantly beyond everything. Make us grateful for what you give, not fearful for what we don’t have, so that we would feel freedom to love and serve without fear. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: God hears your needs (July 18, 2021)

 Full service can be viewed HERE. Gospel reading at 38 min, sermon follows.

Pentecost 8B
July 18, 2021
Mark 6:30-34, 53056

INTRODUCTION

Remember two weeks ago, when Jesus sent out the disciples to heal and share the good news about the kingdom of God? And then last week we had this gory interlude about the beheading of John the Baptist? Well today we come back to the story of the apostles, and now they are returning, but we must also not forget that gory beheading story (I know we’d all like to!), because it shows us what bad leadership looks like, and Jesus will show us the opposite. Today’s gospel text is two transitional moments – you’ll notice there are some missing verses, which tell the story of the feeding of the 5000. What we will hear is on either side of that story, and they reveal something about the day-to-day life of Jesus. The reading includes this wonderful line about Jesus seeing the needs of the crowd, “and he had compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd.” Beautiful!

The other texts pick up that shepherd theme. Jeremiah describes the bad shepherds (an image for the rulers of the time) and the way they don’t take care of the people, making a contrast with who we come to understand as Jesus. And naturally, we will hear the 23rd Psalm, “The Lord is my shepherd.” That shepherding image is a common one throughout scripture. And Ephesians reflects on how it can look when we are indeed all sheep of the same flock, with Christ as our shepherd. 

Hold that image of Christ as the care-taking, self-sacrificing shepherd of the sheep as you listen today. Consider how such a role makes you feel, as one of the sheep. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

I have a wonderful little resource I love to share with people, a single sheet entitled, “Needs Inventory.” I often share it with people who come to me with their challenges and struggles, and every time I bring it out, I am struck again by how useful it is. It is simple: it’s just a categorized list of both physical and emotional needs people often have. Things like, acceptance, respect, safety, laughter, sleep, order, wholeness. When I am feeling overwhelmed by life, stymied by a conflict, or just unable to articulate what is wrong, I can look at this list, and seeing the words all listed there it is much easier to just point and say, “Yes, that one. And this one. Oh, and I need this, too!” There is immense power in being able to articulate our own needs, yet I think many of us are not very good at it! I know I am much better at telling you what everyone else needs to do for my benefit (like, “I need for you to pick up your socks!”), rather than identify what lack I am feeling within myself (like, “I need order.”). And yet, if we can’t even identify what our own needs are, then how will they ever be filled?

As I read this week’s Gospel lesson, here’s what I notice: that in these somewhat mundane moments of Jesus’ ministry, he consistently responds to people’s needs, known and unknown. Jesus of course is a man who embodies compassion, and I think the way that compassion is made apparent to us here is in Jesus’ willingness and ability to see and understand the deepest needs around him, both physical and emotional, and to tend to those needs. 

That sort of compassion is something often lacking in our lives, right? And I think part of the reason for it is that, again, we don’t very often take the time really to notice the true needs around us, let alone name the deepest needs and heart’s desires that we have ourselves. We see the symptoms of the need, but not the need itself. We’d rather keep it on the surface, treat those symptoms, and feel that we are satisfying our emotional needs with concrete, simple fixes. I’m sad, so I will buy myself a new toy. I’m scared, so I will buy a new outfit that makes me feel confident. I’m hurting, so I will pour myself a drink and escape from my pain. Quick, simple fixes. We do that because facing our true needs requires deep reflection and facing our emotions, and emotions can be so very complicated and make us feel so vulnerable and even inadequate. It is easier just to cover up the need with something else that may help in the short term, even if it doesn’t really address the root cause, the true need we have, the need we might not even know we have because we haven’t taken the time to consider it before slapping a band-aid on it, or just dismissing it as not all that important anyway. 

But Jesus does it differently. Jesus sees the needs of those around him, and he tends directly to them. Jesus is compassionate. Jesus shows the disciples and the crowds what compassion looks like. And if we read this account with hearts open, we, too, can see how Jesus meets the true needs of those in the story.

There are numerous examples. The disciples are exhausted and need rest; Jesus invites them. Many need healing; Jesus heals. Others need guidance, and connection; Jesus teaches them many things. 

But here’s the one I notice that is maybe less obvious than the other needs, and it is right there in the first verse. The disciples have just returned from a journey – remember, just a couple weeks ago, we heard how Jesus had sent them out to heal and cast out demons and share the good news. Now they are back, and I’m sure they are exhausted, but they also have had this incredible experience. Their eyes are opened, and their lives changed, and they are eager to share. In this case, their deep need, that is so easy to gloss over, is to be heard, to have someone actively listen to their story. 

Oh, I encounter this need so often, both as the listener in my pastoral visits and as a personal need. So often when we listen to someone share their feelings or their situation, we want to try and fix it, right? To make it better. But sometimes all the person needs is just to know that someone cares enough to listen to their story, without distraction, and without doing anything to fix it. They need to be heard.

Michael and I enjoy the TV show, Parks and Rec. In one episode, Ann is very pregnant and very miserable, and Chris, a health nut and the baby’s daddy, bends over backwards to fix all of Ann’s problem – with shea butter, or a dietary supplement, or a foot massage. You’d think the weary mommy-to-be would appreciate his efforts, but instead, Ann is repeatedly frustrated by the fact that Chris always has a solution to every problem. She doesn’t want to be fixed. She wants just to grumble about the pains of late-term pregnancy, and know that Chris cares about her woes, cares enough to listen first, without jumping to make the problem go away. For his part, Chris is discouraged because he can’t understand why Ann is so grumpy when he’s doing so much to help. But relief from the physical pain isn’t what she wants help with. What she needs is relief from her emotional pain. She needs companionship. Chris’s friends give him the advice not to fix anything, which seems counter-intuitive to him, but still he tries. That night, as Ann laments about her sore body and long day, Chris starts to fix it, then takes a deep breath and simply says, “That sucks.” Ann looks at him wide-eyed, says, “Yes, it does!” and goes on to tell him more. This time he responds, “That really sucks.” Ann smiles contentedly, and leans into him, finally heard, finally at peace. 

You see, compassionate listening has the power to heal our hearts – more than any dietary supplement or foot massage, or new gadget or outfit. And this is the compassion Jesus provides to his disciples: he hears their stories, he strives to understand how they are feeling. He joins them right where they are, feels with them, and invites them to come with him to a restful place.

There are so many needs apparent in this text, and the value of this is that texts like this can give us permission to start to reflect honestly on what our own needs are. When was the last time you really reflected deeply on your needs? It is such hard work, and soft work without an immediate result – plus, who has time for that, when so many quick fixes are so much more efficient at treating the symptoms of our needs? But it is so important to know our own hearts well enough to know what needs we have, and how they might be fulfilled. As you think about your needs, think about it in positive, not negative ways. So instead of, “I need to not worry,” or, “I need you to act differently,” think instead, “I need to feel safe. I need to find peace with this. I need to find forgiveness. I need relief from this burden.” You hear the difference? The latter are needs apart from other people’s actions, and these positive statements give better direction for you, for your own heart – a way to move forward.

And then once you’ve identified your need – I’m sure you can guess where I’m going with this – bring that need to Jesus. Offer it in prayer, naming it, and asking Jesus to sit in that need with you. You might even try responding to his next invitation, and go to a deserted place with Jesus to sit together in that need and know first that it is heard by God and that God cares about it. Let me say that again: God cares about your need, even if it seems no one else does. 

Simply knowing that might be enough for now. Sure, there are other steps to take to have that need filled, but most importantly, knowing that God sees you, hears you, has compassion for you, and is present with you in your need is enough to start to bring healing, to move you toward the abundant life God wants for you. May we all live and experience that life-giving compassion.

Let us pray… Compassionate God, you know our needs even when we don’t. Help us to be vulnerable enough to try to understand our own needs, and then willing to let you tend to them, so that we will be cared for and nurtured enough to be able to serve your world with full and generous hearts. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Jesus doesn't stay in his lane (July 4, 2021)

 Full service can be viewed HERE. 

Pentecost 6B

July 4, 2021

Mark 6:1-13

INTRODUCTION

I have a friend who has four kids. One of their family mottos is, “We can do hard things.” I think this is a good motto to get us through today’s readings. In Ezekiel, we’ll hear that prophet’s call story. Basically, God will say, “I’m sending you to a particular difficult group of people, and they’ve been difficult for generations.” They will be unwilling to hear the message, God says, but of course, God also equips Ezekiel to do the job – he can do hard things. In Corinthians, Paul talks about a “thorn in his side” that keeps him humble, and he frames this annoyance as a spiritual gift, a reminder that God’s grace is sufficient for him, that “power is made perfect in weakness.” Paul can do hard things. And finally in Mark, we will see that sometimes the hardest place of all to do God’s will is right in our hometown, where this story takes place. These hometown folks reject Jesus, and consequently Jesus has less power there. But Jesus, too, can do hard things, and so can his followers – he sends them out in twos to share the good news, commanding them to depend entirely upon the generosity of strangers, and when they are rejected (and they will be), Jesus’ advice is basically: get over it. Move on. You can do hard things.

As you listen, think of some of the hard things you have had to do, and the ways God has been with you in and through them. And hear what encouragement God is giving you today. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

As many of you know, my husband serves in the NY State Guard. His roles, which are in both recruiting and public affairs, both have a lot of overlap with the Guard’s technology needs – and technology happens to be his civilian job, but it is also someone’s military job. When he encounters that overlap, he worries about overstepping into this other role, because in the military, he says, it is really important that you follow the proper protocols, don’t do someone else’s job, respect the structure – in short, there is an expectation that you stay in your lane.

Reading today’s Gospel reading, we can see that expecting people to stay in their lane is not unique to the military, nor to our time and place. Here’s the scenario: After what has already been an impressive ministry of healing and miracles, Jesus visits his hometown. At first, the townspeople are impressed. “Astounded,” Mark says, by his wisdom and his deeds of power. But then, something changes, and they start to get suspicious. “Wait a minute… isn’t this guy a carpenter? He’s no better than any of us!” They mention his mother, Mary, but no father – thus implying that Jesus is of questionable parentage, another way to discredit him. They mention his brothers, and his sisters – implying that he should be making a living and supporting especially these sisters, not showing off in the synagogue! “You’ve gotten too big for your britches,” they seem to be saying. “You’re a commoner like the rest of us. You’re a carpenter, with responsibilities, and not all that special. You’re just showing off. Stay in your lane, Jesus.” 

Consequently, Mark tells us, Jesus is not able to do the deeds of power in that place that he normally would. The people are set in their expectations about who Jesus is and in what lane he belongs, and so they cannot receive his power. Remember last week, the hemorrhaging women believed so fully that even just touching Jesus’ clothes would heal her, and Jesus in turn tells her that her faith is what made her well? Yeah, it seems that faith is pretty important for being able to receive Jesus’ power! And these hometown folks just don’t have it. They expect Jesus to stay in his lane, and be who they assume and expect him to be. 

I’d like to think I’m more like the hemorrhaging woman, but the truth is, I wonder if I am more like these hometown folks. Truthfully, I wonder if many of us are: we have some idea in our head about what exactly Jesus can or should be or do for us; we believe, in theory, that he can do anything, but in our heart of hearts we have our doubts; we want Jesus there for us when we want him, but we’d rather he keep his nose out of our other business; or, we pick and choose the parts of Jesus we like and can get on board with, but prefer to ignore the parts that challenge our status quo or beliefs, that make us uncomfortable, that would urge us to look into our hearts and realize, “Oh… something here needs to change.” To be honest, I’d often much rather Jesus just “stay in his lane,” you know? And let me just live the life I’m comfortable with! I’m a pretty good person, after all! I pay my taxes and love my country, I say my prayers and go to church, I do good work, I greet my neighbors with a smile, I am kind to others, I’m a good mom. I’m living a pretty good life, so just let me be, Jesus. Stay in your lane, and I’ll stay in mine, and I’ll let you know when I need you.

That is all very safe. 

But at what cost? 

What happens when we live this way, when we put God in a certain box, a certain lane, and expect God to stay there? What experiences of the sacred do we miss? What deeply felt joy do we miss? What patterns or behaviors are keeping us bound, keeping us from experiencing life in the fullest, when we sequester God only to certain places and certain ways of being? Are we, in our effort to stay where it’s comfortable and keep our status quo, missing the ways that God is challenging us and calling us into a different way, a way of love, life, hope, and joy? 

In this story of Jesus visiting his hometown, Jesus offends people. He offends them! This is not the Jesus we normally think of, all meek and mild and there for us when we seek comfort. Here, he makes people uncomfortable. Turns out, he does that quite a lot! Something I know is true about myself and I think is likely pretty universal, is when I am offended by something, it is often because it triggers something in me that I know is true but that I am not yet ready to face. That is, it often has more to do with me than with the offender. When this happens, it is much, much easier to go on the attack, seeking perhaps to defend myself but also to reveal the offender’s weakness. “Who do you think you are? Aren’t you only … a carpenter, born out of wedlock, some commoner who should be doing his duty and not acting like a hot shot in the synagogue?” In truth, what needs to happen when we feel this way is not to attack, but to look inward, to look at what has been poked and stimulated in us that has pushed us to attack in this way. What we may find is that God is revealing something sacred. It might be some new thing God is doing in and for us. It might be something that is the start of months or years of work, but that work is holy and good and will lead to life, for ourselves and those we love. 

In times like that, it is a really good thing that Jesus is not one to stay in his lane! Times like that, we need him to come into our hearts despite our resistance. Good thing that’s Jesus’ M.O. After all, he didn’t stay in his lane when he healed on the sabbath. He didn’t stay in his lane when he ate with prostitutes and tax collectors. He definitely didn’t stay in his lane when he came back to life after being crucified! 

Nope, once again, our Jesus is a boundary-breaker, challenging our assumptions, telling us truths we would rather not hear, pushing us to be more welcoming even of people who make us uncomfortable (and, to be willing to receive radical welcome from them), and exceeding all the limits we would put on him. This is really good news for us! Because even when we are more like the skeptical hometown folks than we are like the faithful hemorrhaging woman, even when our faith falters or is not where it could be, even when we are scared in the storms of life – Jesus still breaks down the barriers we’ve set up and comes to us, never giving up on us, and bringing new life and freedom to our captivities. Thanks be to the God who never stays in his lane!

Let us pray… Barrier-breaking God, we sometimes prefer you would mind your own business and stay in your lane. Thank you that you don’t. Thank you that you come to us, at times offending us, and always nudging and urging and drawing us into a more abundant life. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: The courage to be human (June 27, 2021)

Full service is HERE. Sermon begins at 35 min. 

Pentecost 5B

June 27, 2021

Mark 5:21-43

 

INTRODUCTION

         All of our texts today speak hope and joy into the grief and despair life sometimes throws our way. The book of Lamentations, as you might guess from its name, is almost all lament, in particular over the fall of Jerusalem to the Babylonians and the subsequent exile. But this one chapter is a light shining into that darkness. I’m always caught by the parenthetical statement halfway through: “There may yet be hope!” It is emblematic of all our stories today.

         The Gospel reading is a classic example of one of Mark’s narrative tactics: the Markan sandwich. He starts telling one story, interrupts it to tell another, then gets back to the first, and the reader knows that these two stories are meant to interpret each other. In this sandwich, we also see more of the boundary-crossing I mentioned last week, but rather than a physical boundary like a lake, today’s boundaries are more social and religious. Both the hemorrhaging woman and the girl who dies would be seen by Jewish law as unclean – the woman because she is menstruating and the girl because she is dead – and anyone who touches someone unclean becomes unclean themselves. Yet Jesus touches them both. They are stories about how nothing will stop God from reaching out to us in relationship, healing and love.

As you listen, notice how that line in Lamentations plays out in today’s readings: “There may yet be hope!” Let’s listen.

[READ]

Mural in the Encounter Chapel of the Duc in Altum Spiritual Center,
Magdala, Israel.

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

         “It takes a lot of courage to be a human being.” This is the assertion of Barbara Brown Taylor in her essay, “One Step at a Time.” “Year after year,” she writes, “we add to our experience of the world, pushing against our limits to find out what will budge and what will not, and gradually we gain a sense of our own power. We find that we can make certain things happen and we can prevent other things from happening; we can make friends and we can make enemies; we can say yes, and we can say no.”

         It’s true – all this learning about how to be a human being DOES take a lot of courage! We start innocently enough as babies. Then we grow up a little, we go to school, and learn that sometimes people are mean, that “we can’t always get what we want,” and that some things are too hot, too sharp, too noisy, or too difficult. But we pull ourselves up each time we fall, and we keep going, wiser for the wear. We proceed into adulthood, and our problems get more complex – relationships, jobs, loss, growing families, moving, compromise, mortgage payments… Still, we power through, convincing ourselves that we can keep control over our lives. We can handle this. We can make career plans, and save money, and organize a schedule. We can have control….

         Until, we can’t. Until something happens that completely knocks over the perception that we ever had control: a spot shows up on the X-ray, or the school principal called you again about your child, a global pandemic changes everything, or you find yourself in an automobile that has lost control and all you can do is sit there, strapped into the vehicle, and pray… and realize, “I have lost control of my life.”

         That aspect of the human condition is not unique to our time and place. Just have a look at Jairus. Jairus was a man of power, a respected man in his community, a leader in the synagogue. You know he’s important because Mark gives him a name – not just anyone gets a name in the Bible! But Jairus – he is worth that. He’s educated, and strong, and respected… and completely at his wit’s end because his 12-year-old daughter is sick to the point of death. If ever there is a time to feel completely and utterly helpless, it is when your child is severely ill. And Jairus is desperate. So desperate, that he goes to this man, this folk healer, Jesus, whom many of his colleagues despise. He works in the synagogue, remember – where the scribes and Pharisees hang out. But what else is he supposed to do? He is desperate!

         Or, look at the woman with the hemorrhage. The possibility of losing control in our lives does not discriminate based on social status or income. This woman is the opposite of Jairus. She has no name; she is known only by her ailment. She is an outcast, because the ailment she has lived with for 12 years has made her ritually unclean. By law, she is untouchable. Perhaps she once had a chance at a prosperous life, but she was struck with this ailment that has not only rendered her unclean and untouchable, a fringe member of her community, but also unable to bear children, which was the primary responsibility of women in the first century. She is worthless to society, and without anyone to advocate for her. She has spent every cent she had on shoddy health care that has made her worse instead of better, and left her with no money to her name. She has completely lost control of her life. All she can do is reach out and touch the garment of this man she just knows can heal her. “If I but touch his clothes,” she thinks, “I will be made well.” (There may yet be hope!)

         Who has not felt like these people? I’m at the end of my rope. I don’t know where else to turn, what else to do. If only I could do X, Y, or Z, everything would be better. If only I were more like that, and less like this, I could get out of this mess. Perhaps we, like Jairus and the woman with the hemorrhage, turn to Jesus in times like this. Prayer is always a good place to turn! But when I’m especially desperate, I find my prayer often becomes, “God, make this struggle go away, so I can regain control over my life.” And that is not quite the prayer we want to be praying, and not what these stories are about.

         The responses of the characters in both of these stories are worth examining, but I’m particularly struck by the woman’s. After she touches his cloak, Jesus feels the power go out from him – in itself, remarkable, given the density of the crowd around him. And when he calls out for her, she actually responds! How easy it would have been to slip away unnoticed. She was, after all, rejected by most of society, and really should not have been in public at all, given that she was unclean. But when Jesus calls out to her, she cannot stay hidden. It takes a lot of courage to be a human being, and she certainly calls on that courage here! “Knowing what had happened to her,” Mark tells us, the woman “came in fear and trembling, fell down before him, and told him the whole truth.”

         What do you think that means – “the whole truth”? Did she tell him merely that she was the one who touched him and why? Or did she tell him all about the 12 years she had endured an embarrassing ailment, faulty treatment, and social isolation? Did she tell him how she felt during that 12 years? Did she tell him all the times she had doubted, all the times she wanted to disappear, all the times that the suffering became too much for her to bear? Did she tell him of the terrified joy she had felt when the power went out of him and into her and healed her?

         The whole truth. That’s something we have trouble with, isn’t it? It’s a part of that desire for control that we have – being so honest as to tell the whole truth puts us in a very vulnerable position. It shows people that we don’t know it all, that we can’t handle everything, that we have doubts and fears and concerns and shortcomings, and we risk baring all those warts to everyone.

Or perhaps even worse, in telling the whole truth, we risk baring all those warts to ourselves. 

         It takes a lot of courage to be a human being, and it takes a lot of courage to tell the whole truth and make yourself so vulnerable. I think of myself as a pretty honest person – honest with myself and honest with others. I sometimes think I am TOO honest for my own good! But still, this notion of the “whole truth” catches me off guard sometimes. Even during confession, like we did at the beginning of this service. During that time of silence, when we are all reflecting on our sins and speaking them aloud to God in our hearts… I sometimes find myself naming something, and then my blasted human nature starts trying to justify itself! “Well, I don’t know that that was really a sin, Johanna. You don’t really need to confess that.” As if I could ever be anything less than wholly truthful with God. (If you recall, that didn’t work out so well for Adam and Eve!)

         And that is what the woman who is cured of her hemorrhage has to teach us. She didn’t have to come forward. She could have just slipped away into the crowd, and never have to face Jesus – God – face to face. There were so many people there; who would ever know? But she knew what had happened to her. She knew the grace she had received. She felt in her body the restoration – the restoration of her body, but also the restoration she would feel in her community, having returned to a neutral status, no longer unclean. She felt that gratitude so deeply that she had no choice but to approach Jesus with fear and trembling, and tell him the whole truth. It takes a lot of courage to be a human being. It takes a lot of courage to be touched by God!

         Did you know that the root of the word “courage” is the Latin word for heart – “cour”? So to have courage, then, is to be heart-full, to find the ability to tell your story with your whole heart. To let go of who you think you should be, in order to be the beautiful creature God made you to be – and God did make you this way on purpose! To have courage is to allow yourself to be in a vulnerable position, a position where you don’t have complete control over your life, trusting that indeed God is the one who always had control, not you. To make yourself willing to invest yourself in things that may or may not work out, to take risks in your personal life and in your faith.

Because hear this: God loves you, even with all your warts. God knows your most vulnerable self, and loves that self, dearly. God loves you for exactly who you are so much that God would send His own Son to take away the sins of the world, to bring us into eternal life, to restore relationship with us. If God loves us that much, then we ought to let ourselves be seen, deeply seen, vulnerably seen, for all that we are and for all that we aren’t, and to love one another with our whole, courageous hearts.

Let us pray… Loving God, we want so badly to have control of our lives, and to keep certain parts of our truth hidden from you and others. Make us courageous to share our whole truth with you, and to trust that you love us dearly anyway. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Storms in the in-between (June 20, 2021)

View full service HERE.  Sermon begins at 34 minutes.

Pentecost 4B 

June 20, 2021

Mark 4:35-41

 

INTRODUCTION

         So, how many of you have ever faced a trial or hardship in your life? Anyone? Then this Sunday’s readings are for you! We begin with the classic story of overcoming suffering: Job. In case you aren’t familiar with Job’s story, Job is a righteous man who falls victim to a dirty trick by the devil, who tries to convince God that Job isn’t so righteous. Job endures many trials – death of his whole family and livestock, sores and boils, big stuff – and his friends try to comfort him by explaining the pain, but to no avail. Job gets frustrated, but remains faithful. Finally, God speaks – that’s what we will hear today – and God doesn’t try to explain anything. Instead, God gives Job reason to trust Him.

         The Apostle Paul will likewise recount some of the sufferings the Corinthian community has endured, finally assuring them that God is always working for our salvation.

         And finally, the story of the stilling of the storm in Mark. You may remember me telling you way back before Lent that Mark’s Gospel is all about how Jesus is breaking down barriers and crossing thresholds, and today’s story is definitely that. Jesus begins by saying, “Let’s go to the other side,” in this case, away from the relatively safe land of Israelite country, to the Gentile territory across the lake. And in that liminal space between, they encounter a storm – as we so often do in liminal spaces! Yet here, too, Jesus proves he can be trusted.

         And that’s really the overarching theme of today’s texts: that God is trustworthy, whatever trials we may be facing. As you listen, think about what storms you are facing right now, or what in-between spaces you are living in, and hear God’s Word reminding you to trust, and commanding your heart to have peace and be still. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

         This week, New York state set off fireworks all across the state in celebration of reaching the 70% threshold – 70% of eligible people are vaccinated, meaning we are pretty darn close to herd immunity. Almost all restrictions were lifted. And there was much rejoicing.

         And… there was also not much rejoicing. After over a year of caution and isolation, and the trauma of so much loss, coming out of hiding is not easy or immediate or comfortable for many. As I have spoken with some of my colleagues this week, we have all agreed: it was easier to be in full lock-down. Then, though it was fearful and difficult, we at least knew exactly what we needed to do. Now, no matter what decisions are made, someone feels uneasy about it. Our leadership is constantly questioning and requestioning every decision as we strive to be faithful, compassionate, and safe in leading our congregation. We are all too aware that while some are ready to leave the graveclothes behind and jump with both feet into this new life the vaccine has given us, others (especially those with young children who cannot yet be vaccinated, or who are immunocompromised) are still cautiously peeking round the door, uncertain whether they are quite ready to head whole hog into the next phase. Still others feel physically safe, but, having spent the past year being in proximity to so few people, are feeling some social anxiety – as my friend put it, “I’m anxious about people-ing again.” And still others may be feeling all of those things at the very same time!

         For us to live in community together, friends, we need to recognize that we are all at different points in this journey. We got on the pandemic train at one point last year, and we are being dropped off at different points. We can’t assume we know best what others should be doing and why. Instead, we must strive to have compassion for one another, wherever we may be along this track.

         For moments like this, I just love this story in Mark about Jesus stilling the storm. I sometimes ask people if there are certain Bible stories that they especially resonate with as they walk through this life of faith, and for me, this is one, especially when I find myself in a liminal place – between the familiarity of my docking point and the unfamiliarity of my destination. Because what Jesus and his disciples’ experience on the sea of Galilee is so reflective of those liminal, in-between spaces in life. Let’s see how.

         First, there is the storm. Liminal places can often feel stormy. For me right now, that storm feels like constantly questioning all my decisions, and holding everyone’s pandemic-related concerns. It’s the monkey-brain and overthinking that goes along with making important decisions. Liminal storms often feel like not knowing how to handle simultaneously feeling the extremes of emotion – for example, excited and anxious. Sometimes storms look like the fighting and tension that often happens when a major life change comes about – a move, a new job, a death, a shift in the family system. Oh, how we long, in these moments, to go back to shore, or to quickly get across, or do anything but stay in the uncertainty of the chaotic waters in-between! In the disciples’ case, that emotional storm is also a physical one, as waves come crashing down on them. It is almost better that way, isn’t it, to have this physical thing to which to tie the fears and anxiety.

         And so they call out, “Hey Jesus, what are you doing?? Don’t you care that we are perishing?” This, too, is such a familiar cry! Blinded by the waves crashing down and the rocking floor beneath us, we cannot always sense Jesus with us. And in our desperation, the prayer isn’t, “Show yourself, Jesus,” it is, “Don’t you even care??” We feel lost and alone in the storm.

         But of course, we aren’t alone. Jesus is there. In his non-anxious way, he stares down what troubles us – whether the waves of the storm, or more likely, the storminess of our hearts and the doubts that blind us – and he rebukes them: “Peace! Be still!”

This is my favorite moment of the whole story. And it is certainly meant to be climactic. Throughout Scripture, water often represents chaos. In Genesis, we read that God’s Spirit moved over the waters, the chaos, the lack of order in the universe, and God began to bring order and meaning to it. In the flood story, the chaotic waters overcome the evil of the world, but God reigns above. The Psalms often draw upon that image of God ruling the waters, and we see it very strongly and beautifully described in Job: “Who shut in the sea with doors when it burst forth from the womb?” God asks. Who tamed these wild waters? God, and God alone. No wonder the disciples are amazed: even the wind and the sea obey Jesus, and they know that God alone has the power to tame the wind and sea!

But the reason it is meaningful to me is this: if God can tame the stormy and chaotic waters of the world, God can also tame the storms and chaos of my heart. “Peace, be still!” Jesus commands the sea, and so also these words can command my heart. I have used these words as my prayer, asking Jesus to use them on my own storminess. I find great comfort in knowing that, whatever storms may rattle my being, Jesus has the power to calm them with a very word, if I would but have ears to hear. “Peace. Be still!”

But the next part is also particularly meaningful for us these days. “There was a dead calm,” Mark tells us. To me, that doesn’t feel like a peaceful image. It feels like an eerie, still cautious image, as if they can’t quite believe they are safe. Jesus names it: “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” And Mark adds that the disciples were filled with great awe, a word which is often translated as terror. You see, they were not yet to the peace. Peace did not come immediately. Even though the storm was gone, they still had residual feelings of awe and fear.

Which brings me back to where we are, nearing but not yet to the end of a pandemic. Just because the storm of the past 16 months has quieted does not mean that our feelings about it suddenly disappear. Many still feel cautious and anxious. And all of us will be processing its emotional impact for years to come.

And that is okay. Relief in a liminal place doesn’t come immediately. It takes time. We are wise to recognize and name that it is okay not to be okay yet. And it is also okay if you are okay! But wherever you find yourself in the in-between-ness of these days, know that Jesus is with you in it. He’s right in your boat with you, ready to rebuke the storms. And he is trustworthy. The God who first brought order to the chaotic waters, and who, in our baptism, turned those waters into a source of life, continually brings life and order, peace, and stillness to our chaos. We stand in awe and disbelief… even as we cling to our living and powerful God, who will not let us perish.

Let us pray… God of the wind and the sea, the in-between places we find ourselves in can feel stormy and uncertain. Speak peace and stillness to the storminess of our hearts, and help us to trust you always. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Welcoming all birds into our branches (June 13, 2021)

Full service can be viewed HERE.  

Pentecost 3B
June 13, 2021
Mark 4:26-34

 

INTRODUCTION

         A lot of people in biblical times were intimately familiar with farming and growing things, so it is no surprise that such images appears as often as they do – we will see it today. The comparison of God’s kingdom to a cedar tree, as in Ezekiel, was a familiar image – cedars are grand and dignified, after all! But then along comes Jesus, who instead will compare the kingdom of God to the scruffy, invasive mustard bush. No wonder the disciples are confused! As you listen, hear the humor and confusion in that. Imagine how dumbfounded the listeners must have been. And in general, notice all the different growing imagery in our texts today – with what would you compare the kingdom of God? Let’s listen.

[READ]

Middle eastern mustard bush

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

         Have you ever tried to explain something to someone that you know and understand so well, yet you cannot figure out how to explain it to someone else? This happens regularly if you have small children – we are often having to explain things like, the correct way to use air quotes, or why you can’t turn off the sun. It’s so intuitive for us, and yet… how do you explain that?

         That’s what I imagine as we watch Jesus try to explain the kingdom of God, something he knows intimately, to a bunch of disciples who totally don’t get it. You can imagine him using this parable about the sower, satisfied with his attempt… and they all stare blankly back at him, blinking. Jesus looks around, realizes his explanation fell flat, and tries again. “Ok, let me see, what other comparison or analogy can I use to explain this… Ah, okay, how about this. The kingdom of God is like a mustard seed, which, when sown on the ground…” But he’s already lost them again, because they are now laughing at the sheer absurdity of sowing mustard seeds. Why would anyone want to sow mustard seeds? Mustard bushes are ugly, scruffy, a far cry from the dignified cedar typically used to describe royalty. They’re also invasive, and will take over everything. And while those birds in the branches may sound like a lovely image to us, in truth, while some birds are good for crops, many kinds of birds wreak havoc on crops, making a mess and eating seed and fruit. Mustard bushes and birds are the last things you would want in your garden or farm! Yes, it is an absurd prospect! And yet, this is how Jesus describes the kingdom of God, so, absurd or not, we must try to understand why.

         The beauty of Jesus’ parables, or any story, is that there are so many entry points. That’s why Jesus uses so many stories in his teaching – they are rich, they offer opportunity for connection, and they invite deeper reflection than would simply saying, “These are the facts about how it is.” God transcends mere facts!

The power of stories is why we are currently working on developing a story of St. Paul’s, because a story is something people can enter into. So, speaking of that work writing our story, here is something else that has come up in the work we’ve done so far: St. Paul’s, we observed, is a congregation that is welcoming and accepting of people wherever and however they are. This is beautiful, and exactly what every church should be!

I believe that is true about St. Paul’s, and at the same time, I want to push us to think more deeply about this claim, especially as we start returning to in-person worship and activities – and I want to do that using the parable of the mustard seed. Jesus’ description of the kingdom of God as an undignified mustard bush with branches and shade for the peskiest pests tells us that when we are part of that invasive, scruffy kingdom, we, too, are welcoming to all manner of people and situations, even those that may require some accommodation on our part, or may require us to approach a situation differently in order to make them truly feel accepted and welcomed. Do we offer that sort of welcome and acceptance here? Is it enough to plaster “All are welcome!” on our website and our publications, and call it a day? What does it look like to welcome and accept one another, no matter what we might have gone through since we were last together, or where the pandemic has dropped us off in terms of our mental and emotional health? And, beyond that, how will we welcome and accept those whom we don’t yet know, who may yet walk through our doors in search of… something.

Maybe we should start by asking: what people are either not here, or at least are not as well or openly represented, at our table, in our pews, logged into our livestream, and what do we imagine are the barriers for them? What would show them we are ready for them to take up residence in our branches?

Let’s look at some specific groups who might struggle somewhat to feel welcome and accepted in a congregation like ours. The month of June is Pride month, a time when we are invited to think more intentionally about our siblings in Christ who identify as gay, lesbian, transgender, bi-sexual, or otherwise “queer.” June is also a month when we think a lot about the African American experience in this country, because of the 100^th anniversary of the Tulsa Race Massacre June 1^st, and Juneteenth next week. What would it take for people of color, or people who identify as LGBTQ, to feel welcome and accepted in these branches? Is it enough to say, “I don’t see color!” or adopt a sort of church version of “don’t ask, don’t tell”? I can’t speak for either of these groups, since I don’t share their experience, but I think both of those approaches fall short because they sound an awful lot like, “I don’t see, or don’t want to see, or would prefer to ignore this significant part of who you are. I will choose only to see the things that don’t make me feel uncomfortable. As long as you ‘fit in’ here, and look and act like what is ‘normal’ to me, you are welcome!” But that is the opposite of accepting, isn’t it? Asking someone to “fit in” is not accepting them or loving them for the wholeness of who they are. Fitting in is different from belonging. Fitting in implicitly asks someone to be or act different, or tone down who they are, for our own comfort. Now, I’m not saying St. Paul’s members do that or would do that… but it is certainly a very human temptation to want someone else to be or act a certain way for our own comfort. I know I am sometimes guilty of that, and most times I probably don’t even notice that I’m doing it. It takes a lot of self-awareness, not to mention humility, to recognize that sort of thing in ourselves.

So, how could we do better? One of my favorite observations about welcome actually spoke specifically to a third group I haven’t mentioned – families with young, potentially disruptive children – but it says something important about welcome in general. One Sunday when then 3yo Grace had been especially interested in being up front with me, one visiting young family told me, “I loved seeing your daughter up there. It made me feel welcome to be here with my young children.” Powerful! You see, people feel welcome when they see a piece of themselves reflected, when they can see how their unique story could become a part of the story they see here.

So, let’s apply that to the other groups I mentioned: Do people of color see themselves reflected, if not in our people, then in our art and music, or do they mostly see a white Jesus and European music? Is there space where stories that challenge our status quo can be safely shared and believed? Do we value the experience and perspective of LGBTQ people as different but beautiful? Do we talk to or about them in the way they self-identify, rather than the way with which we are most comfortable? Do we expect the people who come through our doors to look and act a certain way, a way that looks pretty similar to how many of us look and act?

These are not political issues, my friends; they are human issues. I have no agenda here beyond the gospel, I’m just asking the questions. But part of welcoming and accepting all the birds into the branches of this mustard bush that is God’s kingdom, is welcoming and accepting people for who they are, not for who we want them to be. Of course, there is always room for growth, for all humans – we all want to be the best version of ourselves, to be growing ever closer to God’s hope for us – but we must start with loving others exactly where they are, even as we trust that God loves all of us exactly where we are.

I will say again, I think St. Paul’s does welcome pretty well in a lot of ways. We are handicap accessible. We have good signage. Jonathan strives to feature a diversity of composers in the music he chooses, and I try to lift up different voices and perspectives in my preaching – though we are both always trying to do better. We all readily offer smiles, and like to make connections with people. That’s all great. Keep up the good work! As we start to come back to more and more things happening in person, it will be all the more important to be both compassionate and intentional about our welcome and acceptance of each other, and those we don’t yet know. Because even though it seems like we should be able to slip right back into where we were in March 2020, we have all been through a trauma, and everything looks a little different now. And of this, too, we need to be accepting, receiving people wherever they’re at. We are all in different places with our mental and emotional health. We all crave different things, and sometimes we don’t even know what it is we are longing for! This transition time will require much patience, for ourselves and for each other.

But know this: the kingdom of God is like a big, ol’ invasive bush that grows whether we want it to or not, and in ways we can’t even understand or figure out. And in that big bush, there is room enough for whatever kind of pest wants to be there – even pests like you and me. Because every one of us, with our strengths and our shortcomings, our wisdom and our ignorance, is claimed, marked, and beloved by God. So bring your uncertainty and questions, your emotional baggage, your childhood trauma, your pandemic trauma… bring it all, and make yourself a home in the invasive, messy, not always pretty but always life-giving kingdom of God. There is room for you here. There is love for you here. Here in God’s kingdom is a place to rest, a place not to “fit in” but to belong, a place where who and how you are is dearly beloved by our God.

Let us pray… Compassionate God, you love and accept us no matter what pain, suffering, or shortcomings we approach you with, and you welcome us into your kingdom. Help us to do the same for all of your children. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Life over self-protection (June 6, 2021)

 Full service HERE.

Pentecost 2B

June 6, 2021

Genesis 3:8-15; Mark 3:20-35

 

INTRODUCTION

         Today begins the season of Pentecost, a season without any big festivals or events but that focuses instead on the sort of day-to-day teachings and ministry of Jesus. We’ll hear lots of stories this summer that can guide us in our lives as humans trying to be faithful. And today, today we’ll see some of the most very human-ish of humans! We begin with the story of the fall from Genesis, as Adam and Eve are confronted with their Big Mistake of believing the serpent in the Garden of Eden when he said they could know as much as God. We’ll see the consequences of pride, and how quick humans have always been to point fingers and avoid taking the blame. In 2^nd Corinthians, Paul reflects on the condition of being stuck in this flesh that is wasting away, living in this broken world, even as we await the renewal of our inner nature by Christ.

         If Genesis shows us our human tendency to cast blame elsewhere, and how this behavior damages even our most important relationships, our Gospel reading does the same. We will see how quick we are to dismiss that which would challenge our beliefs, that would dare reveal something different from what we believe to be true. We see this as Jesus’ adversaries are so put off by him and his teachings that they say he is possessed by the devil himself. As you listen, as painful as this might be, try to see yourself in these stories, and hear how God’s Word can help guide our lives of faith. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

         From the beginning of time, humans have pointed fingers, dismissed each other’s pain, and been divided. Since the very first humans, we have hidden ourselves from one another and from God, hoping that no one else will have to see our insecurities, that if we put up a strong front and deflect any blame, then we can continue to hold onto our beliefs, no matter how misguided they may be.

         I have always loved and also hated this scene in Genesis, where the insecure Adam and Eve hide themselves from God, and as soon as they are called out on their shenanigans, they point fingers anywhere else to keep themselves safe. I love it because I can relate to it… and I hate it because I can relate to it! I, too, am prone to deflect blame and accusations, to keep myself safe. But don’t we all want to feel safe? Physically safe, of course, but I mean, emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually safe. We don’t want our deeply held beliefs to be challenged, we don’t like to admit that someone else could be right, and we definitely don’t want to admit that we were wrong, or that we messed up, especially not in front of anyone else. We’ve padded our various unhealthy patterns with layers and layers of reasoning and stories we tell ourselves, justifying why we act the way we do, and we do not like for those layers to be pulled away. And so, we blame, blame, blame, even if it means throwing someone else under the bus, and we cast people’s attention anywhere else to discredit the thing that might accuse us.

We see the same thing happen in the Gospel story, when Jesus comes along doing things differently from how they expected, differently from how it’s always been done before. When their ways are challenged by Jesus, they do just as Adam and Eve did and more: they hide from the truth and instead offer false information. “He’s crazy,” they say. “He’s lost his mind. He’s clearly possessed by the devil.” Discredit, dismiss, do whatever they need to do in order to protect their understanding of the world, no matter how misguided it may be, from being challenged. Hm.

Jesus’ response to this is a very logical one: “a house divided cannot stand,” he says. Basically, how could he be using the spirit of Satan to cast out Satan? Why would Satan work against himself? It doesn’t make sense.

And yet, the irony in his response is that working against ourselves is exactly what we humans do all the time. We often choose what does not bring us life. We let the voice of the devil convince us we are unlovable, even though we know ours is a God of love. We drive wedges between ourselves and other children of God by casting blame on one another, labeling and dismissing each other, making assumptions about each other, and clinging to false truths that make us feel safe. When we feel the movement of the Holy Spirit blowing us in a way that scares us, or that requires us to let go of a belief that does not bring life but does provide us a false sense of safety, we shut it down, and convince ourselves that we know better than the Spirit.

         Why do we keep doing this if it does not bring us life? What are we so afraid of?

         A couple weeks ago, as I mentioned in my sermon last week, we began working on telling St. Paul’s story about who we are and who God is calling us to be. (If you want to know more, check out last week’s sermon!) One thing we noticed in our conversation so far was that we sometimes struggle to find and name how God is acting even in the mundane moments of our lives. The big moments are easier – births, deaths, near-death experiences, we can see God there. But what about our day-to-day struggles: times like these Adam and Eve moments, when we are quick to blame others, when the protection we have built up around ourselves to make us feel safe is being chipped away, and we are confronted with the possibility that what we previously held true might in fact be wrong, or at least not completely right. Could we find God acting even in those moments? How might that look?

Any time you want to start searching for God in your story, you can start with recalling the foundational story of our faith: our shared faith story is one of freedom from captivity. It is one that is rooted in death but does not stay there. The story of our faith is one in which earthly powers put to death a man who challenged what they held dear, thinking that this would put him out of sight and mind, that it would keep safe their beliefs and way of life. But it didn’t work. Instead, Jesus rose from the dead and showed the world once and for all that trying to stifle God’s Word of life would get us nowhere, that no human actions can stop God from being a God of freedom and of life, a God of new life that emerges out of death and captivity. We can’t stop it!

This story is the central one of our faith, and it plays out in different ways over and over again in our lives. So, if we look, how do we see it playing out when we find ourselves acting like Adam and Eve, or like the authorities in Mark?

Well, in my experience, recognizing I am wrong can feel very much like a death – it is death to something I hold dear, something even that I thought was protecting me but was in fact only holding me back, holding me captive. And this is a death I have experienced many times in my life! When those old patterns are threatened, my inclination is to cling to them for self-protection – that is, I blame, deflect, discredit, and dismiss, so that I can continue holding onto my previously held beliefs, the ones that make me feel safe. Anyone else do that?

So what if instead of staying in death and captivity, we looked to the possibility of new life, by taking a moment to ask ourselves, “Where is God in this? What is God trying to show me here? What in me might need to die so new life can come about? What belief or story of mine is being threatened, and why do I insist on holding to it even more tightly, even at the expense of my relationships? Where is life trying to spring forth here? And if I loosen my grip a little, could I step into that life?” Suddenly, what had felt like a death – releasing the defense mechanisms we have depended upon – has turned into an opportunity for resurrection. Suddenly, we have the chance to step instead into freedom and new life.

It is vulnerable to do this. We might even feel naked, like Adam and Eve, standing before God with only a fig leaf. But friends, we were never hiding our unhealthy patterns from God – just as God knew exactly where Adam and Eve were and what they had done, God knows exactly who and how we are. We’re not fooling God with our fig leaves. But God does give us the chance to notice and name it ourselves, to come to God with broken hearts exposed and to say, “I’m doing this thing that doesn’t feel like life. I don’t want to be afraid and ashamed anymore. Bring me into life, Lord!” And God does. It may not happen immediately, and it may take lots of hard work. But ultimately, ours is a God of life, who longs to be in relationship with us, who desires for us to be free. Are we willing to seek God here? Are we willing to take the risk?

Let us pray… God of life, we are quick to discredit and dismiss people and ideas that challenge our patterns and beliefs. Yet we also know you are at work in everything, taking what feels to us like a death, and turning it into life. Help us to seek you in all things, to search for the ways you are bringing about new life. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.