Sermon: Waste vs. costly love (April 6, 2025)

Lent 5C
April 6, 2025
John 12:1-8

INTRODUCTION

Things are really heating up in the Jesus story – you can practically hear suspenseful music telling us, “Something is afoot!” Right before today’s story, Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead. This event was so shocking that, according to John, it was the impetus for wanting to kill both Jesus and Lazarus. Lazarus is the brother of Mary and Martha, in whose house we find ourselves today. Just after this story, just as in our church year, John takes us to Palm Sunday, and Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, and not long after that will be Maundy Thursday, when Jesus will be the one kneeling at the disciples’ feet, washing them and wiping them with the towel around his waist. Mary’s actions today, anointing Jesus’ feet, foreshadow this event – and just as Jesus’ act of foot-washing is an act of love for neighbor, Mary’s is an act of love for Jesus. Context is everything for this story!

The other readings are lovely, and I’ll just let them speak for themselves today. As you listen to all the readings, notice the ways they celebrate the abundant love and generosity God has shown to us, especially as we draw closer to Holy Week and the time when we remember the ultimate act of self-giving love. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

Bad news: for the second week in a row, I find myself resonating more with the guy who appears to be the villain in the story than with the hero. Last week, it was the elder brother in the Prodigal Son parable – and his simmering resentment that his deadbeat little brother squandered his inheritance and then got a party anyway. This week, it is Judas who says aloud what I am thinking. In response to Mary’s tender, generous act of love and devotion toward Jesus, Judas scoffs, “That oil was worth a year’s wages! Shouldn’t it have been sold and the proceeds given to the poor?” Um… yeah, Jesus, shouldn’t it? I mean, isn’t that kind of what you’re all about? And honestly, Jesus’ response doesn’t make me feel much better: “The poor you will always have with you,” he says, “but you will not always have me.” What are we to make of that? Jesus couldn’t possibly care more about himself than the poor, right?

This line is one frequently taken out of context and misinterpreted. And yet at this time, when so many of the services that help and support the poor and vulnerable people of our country are seeing cuts in the name of government efficiency, it feels all the more important for us to understand what this statement means – what Jesus meant when he said it, and what it means for us in 2025. 

First, what it meant in Jesus’ context. Often, what Jesus says is not original to him. Remember, he is a rabbi, a teacher of the law, the Torah, and so often he is quoting the sacred scripture of his people. And so, to understand what he is getting at, we need to look at what text and context he is referencing. This is one such case. The idea that “the poor you will always have with you” comes from Deuteronomy 15. In this chapter, Moses is giving a speech to the Israelites as they prepare finally, after 40 years of wandering in the wilderness, to enter the Promised Land. Moses describes what life will be like in this place of abundance, and how a society formed by God’s word should function. One guideline for this society is that every so often, every seven years, there should be what is called a “sabbatical year,” in which all debts are forgiven and debt slaves are released. It was meant to be a way to sort of reset the economy and keep the wealth somewhat evenly distributed. Still, even with this, Moses explains, there will remain some people in need. So Israel should never cease being generous. Even if they are in year 5 or 6, nearing that seventh year of debt forgiveness, do not get stingy, he says. “Do not be hard-hearted or tight-fisted toward your needy neighbor.” 

Yet even with communal systems in place to safeguard against mass poverty, there will remain some who are needier than others. And so, Moses says, “Since there will never cease to be some in need on the earth, I therefore command you, ‘Open your hand to the poor and needy neighbor in your land.’” 

That is the line and the context to which Jesus alludes in his rebuke to Judas. It is not that Judas or any of us should not care about the poor; we absolutely should. Generosity and care for our needy neighbor is a fundamental part of the practice of faith, and it always will be. That will never change.

Ok, so, what about this other bit, about how “you will not always have me”? Well, we know, even if they haven’t yet figured it out, that Jesus is a short timer. He’s got about a week left with them in his fleshly, incarnated form. So, he’s simply saying what is true: “If you want to help the poor – and you should – you will have every opportunity to do so. Take it. But in this case, Mary has chosen to show love and generosity to me, because she will not have that chance much longer.” He is about to die, and he lifts up Mary for her faithfulness, tenderness, generosity and devotion in this sacred hour nearing his death. He has pointed out her commitment to costly love.

And yet to Judas, and perhaps to us, Mary’s act of love seems wasteful. In fact, we might see any extravagant act of love that does not yield a tangible result as wasteful. How can we tell the difference between what is waste, and what is costly love?

This brings us to how this text speaks to us in 2025. Goodness knows, the concept of “waste” has been very much in our awareness these weeks, as the Department for Government Efficiency has been looking through our government spending to determine what they deem to be “wasteful,” and cutting it – including many programs that specifically serve lower-income Americans. But this encounter between Jesus and Mary calls into question what is considered waste, versus what is better described as costly love. John points out that even things that seem like prudent financial decisions (selling the perfume and giving the proceeds to the poor) can in fact have a sinister underbelly (the possibility of stealing from the common purse such that money intended for the poor goes into someone else’s pocket instead). So, in the end, what really is “waste,” and what is “costly love,” and how do we know the difference?

Given Jesus’ reference to Deuteronomy 15, not to mention countless other references throughout scripture, both Old and New Testaments, giving to the poor is never a waste – at least not when that money is, in fact, going to the poor and not into the purse of a thief like Judas! But this story of tender generosity and devotion also shows us that any act of love is not a waste, costly though it may be. Any time we love our neighbor as ourselves, it is not a waste. Any time we put aside our own self-interest, and focus on the need of another, or the greater good, it is not a waste. Indeed, it is what our faith calls us to.

So, how does costly love look today, then? 

It might look like giving a record-breaking 25-hour speech on the Senate floor, in which you tell real stories of real Americans in need, and quote scripture, and call upon your colleagues to rise to this moral moment and do the right thing.

It might look like joining millions of people around the country to show up to a public action even when you’d rather not go out in the rain, all to say, “We care about what happens to people who depend upon the government spending that is being decried as wasteful. We care about people’s rights and safety. We care about the poor and vulnerable, and it is not a waste to feed people, and provide them safe housing, and healthcare, and libraries.”

Costly love might be literally costly – a large donation, even one slightly beyond your usual level of comfort, to someone who needs it more than you do. As one stewardship expert says, “Don’t give until it hurts. Give until it feels good.”

But costly love could also look quieter and more private than that: It also might look like listening to your child or spouse or friend talk about something important to them, even though you are so tired you can hardly stand it. It might look like reading a book by or about a different life experience from your own, for the sole purpose of getting out of your comfort zone and seeing the world through the eyes of another. It might look like praying for your enemy, for Judas, or for whoever it is that is stealing from those in need or working against your best interest.

Of course, Jesus doesn’t ask more of us than what he himself is about to do. After this loving encounter with Mary, who gives everything she has to kneel at his feet and show him her love, Jesus will enter Jerusalem on a donkey to cries of Hosanna! He will kneel at his disciples’ feet, even Judas, and wash them, saying, “I give you a new commandment, to love one another as I have loved you.” He will willingly give himself up to the authorities, imploring Peter as he does not to respond with violence, because such behavior is of this world, not God’s kingdom. He will give himself up to die, on our behalf, and hang from a cross – still smelling of that perfume that Mary poured so generously on his feet to show her devotion. And then Jesus will rise again, to show us that nothing, not even death, will ever keep us from God’s love in Christ Jesus. This act is the costliest of love. And it is exactly what enables us to give our own costly love in service to our neighbor in need. How will we give generously, tenderly, to show our love to our neighbor, and to this world God loves so much?

Let us pray… Gracious God, we so often count the cost, not wanting to give more than is absolutely necessary. But you, Lord, gave it all. Give us hearts like Mary’s, ready to pour out whatever costly love will serve and heal the world. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: You might be wrong. (March 30, 2025)

Lent 4C
March 30, 2025
Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

INTRODUCTION

Today’s readings are about wandering and finding our way back home – and they leave us with a strong sense that seeking reconciliation, and God’s surprising grace, might play a significant role in that effort. 

Here’s some context. The reading from Joshua marks the end of 40 years of the Israelites wandering in the wilderness. Forty years was long enough to let the old generation die before starting fresh with a new generation in a new land, the Promised Land of Canaan. In today’s reading, for the first time, the Israelites will eat food from the land of Canaan, rather than eating the manna God has been providing for the past 40 years. It is a new and exciting moment in their life! 

In Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, he speaks to a new Christian community that has some serious infighting, and he tells them a bit about what it can look like to be reconciled – which is its own sort of homecoming. 

And we will also hear the famous parable of the so-called Prodigal Son, the tale of a son who literally wandered away from his home and his father, and his brother who stayed, but with a troubled spirit. This parable is the third in a series of “lost” parables, in which something is lost and then found: first the lost sheep, then the lost coin, and now the lost son (or you could argue, lost sons). In each one, the finder celebrates in an extravagant and frankly ridiculous way – the same way that God behaves when we sinners find our own way back to God’s loving embrace. 

These all have a sense of homecoming and reconciliation. As you listen, think about what it takes truly to be reconciled, and how it feels once you’ve made it to that point. Let’s listen. 

[READ]

https://johnaugustswanson.com/catalog/story-of-the-prodigal-son/

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

In the past couple of years, I have gotten into reading murder mysteries. The series that got me into this genre is Louise Penny’s Chief Inspector Gamache books. Inspector Gamache is wise, thoughtful, and patient, and he is on my list of literary characters with whom I would love to sit down and have a conversation. In the first book of the series, Still Life, he is teaching a young agent about this work of investigation, and investigating murders in particular. “There are four things that lead to wisdom,” he tells her. “Four sentences we learn to say, and mean: I don’t know. I need help. I’m sorry. I was wrong.” 

I don’t know. I need help. I’m sorry. I was wrong. They are, each one, simple to say, but difficult to mean. And yet Gamache is right – they do lead to wisdom, if we take them seriously! I can think of important moments of personal growth that came from each one of these statements. But at this point in Lent, and in life, I am especially drawn to the fourth one: I was wrong. (Bonus wisdom on this from Inspector Gamache!)

Anyone here like admitting you were wrong? Yeah, me neither. I am more willing to say, “You were right,” because it still leaves some room for me to have been partially right, even if I was mostly wrong. Like, “Well, when I checked yesterday we had plenty of milk, so I didn’t buy any – someone must have drunk it in the meantime.” We do love to save face when we can, right? 

That’s a small example. Of course, in our important relationships, and especially in our volatile political climate, it feels all the more risky to admit when we are wrong. We’ve spent so long digging in our heels on something, investing our time, our energy and our resources, that to admit we were wrong feels like giving up a piece of who we are. It’s embarrassing. We would sooner ignore the facts, or tell them differently, or just go on the attack, than dare to face the truth that we put our eggs in the wrong basket.

On the other hand, we have much less trouble pointing out when someone else is wrong, right? When we are (or want to be) in the right, it is so easy to see others’ shortcomings! 

We see this play out so clearly in the character of the older brother in today’s parable. He sees himself as above reproach – he has stayed home and done his duty, never asked for anything in return, played the role of the Good Son, and played it well. But, he has a list of things his family members have done wrong:

• His deadbeat brother squandered his inheritance, and then came crawling back.

• His spineless father should never have welcomed him back, let alone celebrated him.

• His father is also unappreciative – he should have rewarded him, the elder son, for his years of loyalty and dedication to the family.

• Really, this whole situation isn’t fair. It isn’t right, or good. It is wrong.

So… he’s pretty good at noticing when others are wrong! (I’m pretty good at that too, if I do say so myself.) But let me ask you this: did the older brother do anything wrong? He sure doesn’t think so… but, do you? Was he wrong, in any way? 

How about… he was closed-hearted and unforgiving of his brother. He lacked grace and mercy. He made assumptions about both his brother and his father. He was judgmental of both his brother and his father. He squandered an opportunity for and an invitation into joy.

Now, I am sure he had really good reasons for all these thoughts and actions. (We usually do have justifications for what we think and do, and to spare!) But… did any of his good reasons lead to life? Did any of them bring him closer to God, or to his neighbor? Did any of them look like the life that God wants for us?

If you always do the by-the-book “right thing,” but it doesn’t lead to life or joy, or mend relationships…. Is it right? If it’s not right, does that make it wrong?

I’m sorry, but, I don’t know the answer – not for myself, and certainly not for all of you! But the asking does lead us into the next painful and important question: what are YOU wrong about? Or what have you been wrong about in the past? When did you say or do the wrong thing, fail to say or do the right thing, or even just get so caught up in pointing out what everyone else was doing wrong that you missed seeing your own mistakes or shortsightedness?

Lent is a time that calls us into this deep reflection, when we are repeatedly confronted with the reality that we are, in fact, wrong a fair amount of the time. We make mistakes, say the wrong thing, go down the wrong path and suffer the consequences. And we would do well to say so now and then, and, as Inspector Gamache instructs, also to mean it.

We’ve got a few weeks left of Lent, so I encourage you: try it. Try noticing, even just one time each day, even just one small thing, a time when you were wrong. Try saying it aloud: “I was wrong.” Try writing it down, or even telling a close friend. See how that practice changes you, how it changes your heart, how it changes your relationships. Perhaps this regular acknowledgment is enough to exercise your “I was wrong” muscles, strengthening them on some small things until you are ready to use them on the bigger things – the things that will allow for the longed-for reconciliation, for the restoration of an important relationship, for transformation of your heart – and maybe even the peace that we all crave so deeply. Eventually, our ability to admit when we are wrong will, I believe, bring us closer to healing ourselves, our relationships, and the world.

It's hard, and it can be really painful and discouraging. And so also, in the meantime, know this: that there is no amount of being wrong that will burn the bridge between God and God’s beloved children, no amount of wrong that will be too much for God’s mercy to reach you. There is no depth into which you can dig your heels that will keep you from God’s love. That’s the real message of this story. And more, God’s love and mercy do not even depend upon you first realizing you were wrong. God’s grace comes first. The Father goes running to his younger son to embrace him before the son has said anything. The Father invites his older son to the banquet while he is still mired in resentment and judgment. In God’s reality, grace comes first, and that grace is what softens our hearts, and leads to the possibility of transformation. 

So go ahead: admit you were wrong. It may hurt in the moment, or for a while after. It may bruise your ego a bit, or take you down a notch. But it will never, ever, keep our loving God from running with reckless abandon toward the horizon to meet us on the way, to embrace us, and to celebrate that we are not lost; we are home.

Let us pray… Merciful God, we love to be right, and we sure hate to be wrong. Grant us humble hearts that are ready and willing to see things with clarity, and grant us courage to admit when we are wrong. Finally, show us the way forward toward peace and reconciliation, with you and with our neighbor. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: This is urgent! Act now! (March 23, 2025)

Lent 3C
March 23, 2025
Luke 13:1-9

INTRODUCTION

“Repent or perish.” This is the heading you will see if you look up today’s Gospel reading in your Bible. It is not the most comfortable message for us to hear, yet here we are, halfway through Lent, and we are told today in no uncertain terms that it is an important one. Repent or perish.

If you don’t like that message, you might be drawn, as I am, to some of the more comforting images in the readings we’re about to hear. Isaiah offers an abundant feast, freely given by a gracious God. He is speaking to the Israelites who have been in exile for 70 years, and now are finally returning home. The Psalm reflects in beautiful poetry on finding sustenance and safety in the shadow of God’s wings – not unlike the mother hen image for God that we heard last week. Paul reminds us in Corinthians of all the times God has brought God’s people safely through danger, adding that “God is faithful!” Yes, these are all images I prefer!

And yet in each of these readings, we will also hear that same refrain: repent or perish. Turn away from that which does not give life, and turn toward that which does: that same faithful, comforting, sheltering, providing God. So as tempting as it may be to listen for just the most comforting images, I urge you as you listen today, to listen for that “repent or perish” theme, the words in Scripture that are urging us not to stay the way we are, but to change our ways so that we might have life. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

There is certainly no shortage of devastating headlines in the news. This past Tuesday was, I read, the deadliest day yet in the war in Gaza – more than 400 people killed. In other news, according to internal USAID memos, recent cuts to these programs will result in millions of deaths every year due to lack of access to vaccinations and life-saving treatment, not to mention starvation. Already over 25,000 have died as a result of these cuts. So much tragedy.

So let me ask you this: do you think these people suffered and died because they were worse offenders than anyone else living in Gaza, or Africa, or the world?

I hope this question horrifies you, as it does me! It horrifies me when modern commentators use this logic to explain why a hurricane struck where it did, or why a mass shooting happened, or why a woman was assaulted. “They must have been worse sinners than the rest of us.” Neat and tidy, right? But also icky. I’m grateful Jesus swiftly shoots it down, when applying it to a couple of local tragedies in his own context. No, he tells us, people do not suffer and die as divine punishment for wrong-doing. 

But. 

Yes, Jesus had to include a “but,” so don’t get too comfortable just yet. “But, unless you repent, you will suffer as they did.” It seems to contradict what he just said, right? 

You know that feeling you get when you stretch a sore muscle and it just hurts so good? That is how I feel reading today’s Gospel reading. It is so convicting, and yet strangely comforting, because I know it is pushing us in a direction that feels stiff and painful, but we know is so good for us. Let’s break this down a little bit and see how we can make this stretch one that prevents, rather than causes, injury. 

First thing to know is that this passage comes at the end of a cascade of teachings about the urgency of the coming dawn of God’s kingdom. It’s a rhetorical tactic, like, "To what shall I compare the urgency of repentance as we look toward the dawn of a new era? It’s like this… and like this… and like this.” Each one of these illustrations, which begin early in the previous chapter, shows us a piece of the story, but are really meant to be taken as a whole, like a painting. His culminating image is to use these two recent tragedies as illustrations of the urgency of repentance, as if to say, “Life is short, and precious, and there is no time to waste. Repent now, change your ways, before it is too late.”

Second: it is easy, as I pointed out before, to hear Jesus’ “but” as a direct contradiction to what he said before, that is, that these people’s suffering was not divine punishment. But really, what he is saying here is, “The way you are living, the path you are walking, is not the path that leads to life. So don’t continue down that path. Repent, change direction, and do it now, or you will perish having never known the fullness of life with God.” You see, when we are living lives that are marked not by love and justice, but rather by greed and self-preservation and pride and any number of other sins, we are already suffering. That life is not true life. Instead, Jesus says, live a life that seeks the values of God’s kingdom, that bears fruits of love, justice, and compassion. 

Which brings us to this funny little parable about the fig tree. This tree, planted in a vineyard, is not bearing fruit, to the great discouragement of the landowner. The owner accuses it of being an inefficient use of soil and resources, a waste, and he suggests taking a chainsaw to the thing and cutting it down completely. But the gardener sees its potential. “No,” he urges, “I think this tree can do better. Let’s take a look at what it needs to improve, let’s give it the attention and nourishment it needs, and see if we can help it to bear fruit. Give it a little more time, and we’ll re-evaluate in a year.” 

There is grace in this plea. It is not too late for the tree. The tree still has time; it can yet bear fruit. But there is also urgency: it can do better, but there is not a moment to waste. As John the Baptist said back at the beginning of Luke’s gospel, “Even now, the ax is lying at the root of the trees; therefore every tree that does not bear good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire.” (Luke 3:9) 

You see, Luke has been clear from the beginning of the story that while God is gracious and merciful, and Jesus is the Savior of the world, this does not give us a pass on living fruitful lives, lives that serve the needy and vulnerable among us. When we live lives of greed, pride, complacency and indifference, not only do we suffer, but the world suffers. This is not a path that brings life. When we bear fruit, then we see God’s kingdom in action – not only in some afterlife, but here and now. Luke’s Gospel is especially insistent that God’s salvation is happening here and now, in this world and this life, and that we are a part of it.

So what does it mean, then, to bear fruit? How does that look in today’s world?

The fig tree can teach us about this. The first lesson the fig tree can teach us is to grow where we are planted. Did you notice that this fig tree is planted in a vineyard? So it is surrounded by plants very different from itself. And of course, a fig tree, which has a deep and complex root system, cannot easily be dug up and moved; it must grow in the spot where it finds itself. So we, too, must grow where we are planted. The fig tree teaches us, to look out at the world around us: what are the needs you see? Where in your proximity is in need of the fruit of the spirit – love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control? Look around, and see the need that is there.

The second lesson from the fig tree is: bear fruit according to who you are. The fig tree is surrounded by grapes, but it cannot grow grapes. It grows figs. What fruit are you uniquely able to grow? What gifts do you bring that can meet the needs you see in the world around you? I read this week that sometimes fig trees are planted in vineyards as protection from birds. The birds are drawn to the larger fruit of the figs, and they leave the more delicate grapes alone. Fig trees also sometimes can be used as a sort of trellis to support the grape vines, offering them literal support. In both cases, the fig tree is able to protect, keep safe, and support the more vulnerable. That is the fruit it bears. What fruit can you bear? What can that fruit offer to the needs of the world? If you aren’t sure, pray about it, and ask the people who know you best: “What are the particular gifts you see in me, that could serve the needs of the world around me? What fruit can I bear, in this time and place?” 

Now, deep down, I suspect you already know what fruit God uniquely created you to bear. But perhaps something has kept you from it. And this is the third lesson the fig tree can teach us. The tree was unable to bear fruit because it lacked the proper nourishment. The wise gardener knew that a tree that doesn’t bear fruit is lacking what it needs to thrive. It prompts the question: what is keeping you from bearing fruit? Are you feeling inadequately nourished in body or spirit? What do you need, in order to serve the world with your gifts? How can you get that? Will it come from time with God, in prayer or scripture study? Will it come from intentional, restorative rest? Will it come from turning your anxiety into action, shaking off your malaise by putting boots on the ground and making a concrete difference? I suggest starting with prayer, and discerning what it is that would keep you from bearing the fruit you know you are, with God’s help, capable of bearing. And then, go to the Divine Gardener to find what you need in order to be nourished for the work of the kingdom.

Whatever it is: do not delay! Now is the time to repent, to change our direction – away from apathy, or greed, or selfishness, or despair, and toward the way that bears the fruits of love, justice, and compassion. The situation is urgent, and while we are not yet out of time, “the ax is lying at the root of the tree,” and there is no time to waste. 

We were created to bear fruit, my friends: to take an active part in God’s redemption of our broken world; to turn off of the paths that lead to corrosion and death; to orient ourselves instead toward faithfulness, restoration, and life. Let’s do it now!

Let us pray… Divine Gardener, you have planted us with intention. Help us to bear the fruit you know we can, fruit that will serve those in need, that will help to redeem our aching world, all for your love’s sake. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Lament leads to hope (March 16, 2025)

Lent 2C
March 16, 2025
Luke 13:31-35

INTRODUCTION

On this second Sunday in Lent, we will hear a bit about lament. Lament is not a word we use terribly often these days, it’s kind of a churchy word, but it is a word I have come to love. How would you define it? … So, in our Genesis reading, we will encounter a longing and impatient Abram (later, Abraham), whom God has promised to make the father of a great nation, and yet his wife, Sarai (later, Sarah) remains barren. So when God comes to him to tell him once again, “I’m going to give you great things!” his response will be not gratitude, but lament: “But God, look at what I don’t have.” The Psalm will start off cheerfully enough, but after the first few verses, it too slips into that lamenting place, asking God for help. And in our Gospel lesson, we will hear about an encounter Jesus has while he is in route from Galilee to Jerusalem, to what he knows will be his death. This is one of the two times that Jesus will lament over the city of Jerusalem, expressing his sadness at how far Jerusalem has fallen. 

Lament is a powerful thing, so as you listen, try to do so with empathy, remembering a time when you, too, felt the need to lament – when you didn’t get what you felt you needed, when you longed for an awareness of God’s presence in the midst of trouble, when you needed a word of hope, when things had gone horribly awry and disappointed you greatly. Remember that time, and see if you can enter into the story with that feeling in your heart. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from God our Mother who gave us birth, and our Lord and mother hen, Jesus Christ. Amen.

My husband and I have enjoyed watching the show, Parks and Rec – anyone watch that one? It’s hilarious and charming. Toward the end of the series, one of the characters gets pregnant, and she is miserable, and her partner, who is a busy-body and a health nut, wants so badly to make things better for her. So he cooks, and makes her special smoothies, and massages her feet, and does everything he can think of to ease her pain, but she only gets grumpier, telling people, “He totally doesn’t get it!” Finally someone talks to him, and says, “All you have to say is, ‘That stinks.’ You don’t need to fix it or make it better. Just let her know you care that she’s miserable.” The next time he is sitting on the couch with her and she grumbles about everything that is wrong, he starts to fix it, then stops himself and says, “That stinks.” She looks at him gratefully and says, “Yes! It does!” She goes on and tells him more, and he says, “That really stinks.” She smiles and nestles into his shoulder, happy as can be.

I always think of this scene when I think about lament. A lament might be a cry for help, for fixing, but it isn’t always. More than that, the purpose of a lament is simply to get it out there, to put into words, or cries, or sighs, or whatever, that your heart is heavy, that things are not as you wish they were. And yes, usually we eventually want those things fixed, we want the pain and its cause to go away, but the very first step toward healing is simply to voice our pain, and to know that someone hears it and cares.

Before we get any further, let’s spend some time thinking about what sorts of things we lament. Certainly loss is one of them – lament is a sort of grief, a sadness that we have lost something or someone we care about it. But I think if we distill it down to its real essence: we lament over things that do not turn out as we had hoped they would. One of Jesus’ post-resurrection appearances is along the road to Emmaus. The resurrected Jesus joins two men as they walk toward Emmaus, but they do not recognize him. When Jesus asks what they are so sad about, they describe the events of his crucifixion, adding, “We had hoped he would be the Messiah.” I have a dear friend who gave birth to a stillborn son. Following that tragic event, she and her husband resonated with those words of the disciples. They said, “’We had hoped’ are the three saddest words in all the Bible.” We had hoped…. They contain all the grief and loss and disappointment of dreams unrealized and hopes dashed. In other words, they contain a deep lament. We had hoped.

I hear that sort of lament in our readings today. Abram is told he will father a great nation, and he responds, “I had hoped I’d have an heir by now. Right now, it’s looking like a slave in my house is going to be the closest thing I have to an heir.” Dreams unrealized. As Jesus talks about Jerusalem, the city whose name means peace but who kills prophets, he says, “I had hoped for more from this city, home of God’s temple, the nexus where heaven meets earth. How I had desired to gather you under my wings like a hen gathers her chicks, and you were not willing. Oh, how I had hoped…” 

And I hear laments like this today. We lament division in our nation, and political unrest – both in the United States, and globally. As a society, we lament things like hunger, and racism, and violence in our communities. This is not how we had hoped the world would be, not how God hoped it would be. We lament tragic events – mass shootings, and natural disasters, and acts of unspeakable hatred. We lament each individual loss, but also the cycle in which hatred and violence begets more hatred and violence, and our seeming inability to break that cycle. With the Psalmist, we lift our prayers, asking, “How long, O Lord? Show us your face!”

And of course there are our individual laments as well. We lament when our kids whom we raised in faith grew up and never set foot in the church again; when the children or grandchildren we dreamed of never come; we lament when we discover that a hobby we had always loved is no longer in our capabilities; when someone we love turns toward drugs and we can’t seem to pull them back; we lament when we see how much cancer, addiction, or mental illness have taken from our lives. 

Yes, there is plenty in this life and this world to lament. And, this may come as a surprise, there is also value in doing so. When we lament, we voice a recognition that we need God’s help, that we can’t do this alone. We acknowledge our own brokenness, our insufficiency, and our utter reliance on God’s grace and providence. This is not a comfortable message for those of us who enjoy autonomy and the idea that we can do anything we put our mind to. But at the same time, it is also freeing, allowing us to put our problems into the hands of the One who really can do anything. As one Bible professor put it, lament makes our problems into God’s problems. We don’t give up responsibility and agency, but we also no longer have to hold them alone.

And so, lament becomes the first step out of that place of despair. Once we have voiced our pain, and acknowledged our need for God, we can start to have our needs met. Like the character I mentioned in Parks and Rec – she needed someone to hear her pain, but she did also need a foot massage and a healthy dinner. But help and solutions don’t always come readily or obviously. So, where might lament lead us?

In Abram’s case, his lament led him into prayer. That’s what I imagine that night waiting for God looked like. He has a conversation with God, in which he voices his concerns, and listens to God’s response – the very definition of prayer! And then he waits all night for God to show him how seriously God has taken his pleas. This, too, is a sort of prayer. We usually think of prayer as talking to God, but it is (or at least should be!) as much listening as it is talking! After vigilantly and actively listening for quite some time, God does, eventually, speak to Abraham, making what is now known as the Abrahamic covenant. 

Another example of lament leading us into prayer is in our Psalm. After the first few verses, the Psalmist turns from praising to pleading. And I love this line: “My heart speaks your message: seek my face. Your face, O Lord, I will seek.” It is easy to see God’s face in the times when things are going well. But lament shows us that God is all the more present in the muck. This is perhaps the most important prayer we can engage in – the simple effort to seek God’s face in our daily happenings, to see how God speaks to the desires or our heart, and to our deepest laments. 

As our lament draws us into prayer, it may very well lead from there to confession. The theme echoing through each Lenten season is, “create in me a clean heart,” and confession takes a step in that direction. This helps us see how God is using the recognition of our pain to point us toward a different way of being, seeing, or living. Not to say we are somehow the cause of our own pain (though I suppose sometimes we may have a role). But a lament may still draw out of us a recognition for how we can change our ways as far as how we love and serve one another, and seek peace and justice in the world – which, in the end, also helps us to better live into our baptismal promises and God’s mission for us.

And that is what Jesus’ lament over Jerusalem did: it was a step on the path for him fulfilling his mission, and what he was sent to do. It gave him resolve to keep moving forward, to keep heading toward Jerusalem, where he would be crucified on our behalf, and rise again from what should have been the ultimate lament, thus proving that God does, indeed, have final power over all sadness and brokenness.

And that, ultimately, is what Jesus’ continuing path toward Jerusalem means for us: it is what allows us also to be pulled out of our lamenting place. Our lament knocks us down a notch, so that we realize we cannot do this alone. It shows us our human limitations. It demands that we look beyond ourselves, to the power that can only be found in Christ. And Jesus’ fulfilling of his mission – to go to Jerusalem, to die and to rise again – that mission provides our ultimate hope: that God will triumph, over all our laments and woes and sadness, and bring us finally into eternal life.

Let us pray… Lamenting God, our hearts are heavy with all the sadness and unfulfilled hopes in our lives and in this world. Grant us the courage to voice our pain to you, so that you might carry it with us, and lead us from there into new life. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.  

Sermon: Resisting the quick fix (March 9, 2025)

Lent 1C
March 9, 2025
Luke 4:1-13

INTRODUCTION

On this first Sunday in Lent, we always hear the story of Jesus’ temptation in the desert. I always imagined the assignment of this text to this Sunday was aimed at those of us who undertake Lenten disciplines, to help us stay the course and not give in to temptation. Now, of course, I realize that temptations threaten us whether we’ve given up chocolate or not! 

So really, the temptation story, and all of our readings, are less about helping us avoid temptation, and more about strengthening and nourishing us for staying steadfast in faith. The story from Deuteronomy reminds us to give thanks, for what we have today and for what God has provided for us throughout the story of our ancestors, and to do this by giving away our first fruits to those who have little. Paul’s letter to the Romans reminds us to keep our focus not on our differences, but on God’s word. And the story of Jesus’ temptation in the desert from Luke reminds us of the wily ways of the devil, who comes to us in our weakest moments and tries to entice us away from the One who gives us life. 

As you listen, consider how these texts can guard you against those forces that would try to steer you away from God and God’s word. And try to find specific words or phrases that you can cling to in order to stay the course, even in the midst of the myriad temptations of this world that would turn us from God. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

Michael and I have been in the midst of a long-overdue home make-over. Nothing too major yet – mostly cosmetic, with new paint, new carpet, and new furniture. As I have been poring over Pinterest and various ads, trying to get a sense of our options, I start to imagine not only how something will look, but what any given item can mean for my life. I see a picture of a lovely and comfortable living room, featuring a beautiful coffee table in the middle. The table is surrounded by a smiling family, enjoying a family game night. Everyone is having such fun, and there is not a bit of clutter in sight. And I find myself thinking, “If I had that coffee table, my family would suddenly enjoy game nights! And there wouldn’t be any clutter on the surfaces! And no spills! No tears! All I’ve needed all along was… this coffee table!” I can picture what my life could look like, if only I had that table… 

Who knew it could be so quick and easy to solve the challenges of childrearing and family relationships?!

         We love a quick, easy fix, right? We long for our lives to be just exactly like we envision them, without any clutter or stains on the carpet, without tears over a loss, without the broken relationships, the pain and human frailty, the broken-heartedness. And if that coffee table can do that for me in some way, however small, well, that seems a heck of a lot easier and faster than any other option. And it’s on sale. Give me the quick fix, am I right? 

Of course, I’m being sort of silly about the coffee table. But our temptation to pursue quick fixes is a very real and serious one. We would rather keep taking pain meds, than undergo the surgery with a long recovery. We would rather grab a bottle of wine to take the edge off our big feelings, than go to therapy and dredge up the past in order to actually deal with those feelings. We will sooner tell our friend who is struggling that “everything is going to be all right,” rather than sit with them in their difficult place and not know what to say. 

Why is that, do you think? Why are we more willing to pursue a short-term fix that we know won’t last, than we are to pursue a lasting and meaningful change? I suppose it is because playing the long game – months of recovery from surgery, years of therapy, the deep work of listening to the pain and needs of another – can feel intimidating, and it lacks the immediate satisfaction. That feels exhausting. We’d rather escape the more unfortunate realities of being human just as quickly as we possibly can.

In the story of Jesus’ testing in the wilderness, though, Jesus shows us a different way. Where we might give in to the quick fix, he resists this temptation, choosing instead the long game of struggling through the challenges set before him, with the promises of God holding him up.

First, Luke tells us that Jesus is famished. The devil offers him a quick fix: turn these stones into bread. Seems harmless enough… except that he is relying on himself, rather than God. So, Jesus declines.

Next, the devil offers Jesus power – all the power in the world. Jesus knows that the mission before him is a difficult one. With this quick fix, he could bring about his mission by force, like an authoritarian dictator who doesn’t have to worry about people’s rights or feelings. All for the low, low price of… worshiping the devil. Again, Jesus resists, citing the word of God, and declines.

Finally, the devil offers Jesus certainty – who has not been tempted by this? With so much uncertainty ahead, wouldn’t it give Jesus confidence to know in this concrete way that God has his back? And here, the devil even sweetens the quick-fix deal by adding some scripture. (Kind of unnerving, isn’t it, that even the devil can quote scripture for his own purpose!). But, yet again, Jesus resists the quick fix, refusing to put God to the test.

Every time. Every time, Jesus resists the temptation of a quick fix, especially one not aligned with God’s will, and instead he stays in the wilderness – that vast place of wondering, and wrestling, and waiting, and lack – and he chooses to play the long game. 

Why would he do that? Why not get what he needs and wants as quickly and efficiently as possible? Why would we?

First of all, in doing this, Jesus puts his trust in the right place: in God, in God’s promises. It is easy, especially when we are desperate, to trust in earthly promises, in things that are right in front of us – whether that is the perfect coffee table, or a strong and forceful ruler, or even our own wits or abilities. But these earthly powers will always let us down in the end. Our trust is rightly put with God, and the promises of scripture.

Second, Jesus stays in the literal wilderness because he knows the value of the metaphorical wilderness as a place of growth, preparation, and transformation. Out there in the wilderness, where we don’t have our usual comforts and defenses, we have no choice but to face the hard things, to reckon with them, to let them teach us. It is a terribly vulnerable and often uncomfortable place to be, and so no wonder we want out as soon as possible. Yet we will never grow if we never allow ourselves to admit where growth is needed. On the other hand, if we face these things, trusting God, we will eventually come out of the wilderness transformed and ready for whatever challenges await us on the other side of this trial. 

Finally, in Jesus’ commitment to stay in the wilderness through his own temptations and testing, he is showing us that he will be with us in ours, too. The wilderness of the long game is hard. We are drawn into self-reflection that requires us to face parts of ourselves that we would rather not. We have to endure tough realities. We have to recognize that the spills and stains and clutter and tears will not go away with the perfect coffee table or whatever other quick fix we may try to pursue. But we will not do any of this alone. We will do it with Christ, who has endured it all himself, who knows that pain, whom Isaiah describes as “a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief.” He is exactly the sort of person you want in the wilderness with you, exactly the one who will provide what you need to get through the long game and come out transformed.

Jesus does not offer us quick solutions. But he does offer this enduring presence. And even more, he reminds us that our story will not end in the wilderness, as much as it may feel at times like it will. Because our story is wrapped up in the story of resurrection, the ultimate story of liberation and transformation from death into life. At the end of the day, whatever we face in the wilderness cannot win. These troubles cannot win the day, because Christ is the one who wins the day – more powerful than sin, death, or anything the wilderness can throw at us. 

So trust that we will endure, my friends, because Christ endured. He is with us in our yearning for something better. He walks with us when we long for a reprieve, for a fix. He will not leave us in this place, and we can trust in his promise of new life.

Let us pray… Enduring God, we resist the wilderness and its relentless revelation of our human frailty. Help us to know that you are present with us there in that place, assuring us that a fuller life awaits us on the other side. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Confronting death leads to life (Ash Wednesday)

Ash Wednesday Sermon
March 5, 2025

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

Two days ago, I officiated for a funeral of a community member. Pat, the deceased, who died last week of metastatic breast cancer, was for many years an administrator at the Breast Cancer Coalition of Rochester (BCCR), and she ran a lot of the programs, some of which I personally benefitted from when I was going through cancer treatments (which is why I was asked to officiate). One of the speakers at the funeral was former director of BCCR, Holly Anderson. Among the programs she mentioned that Pat was involved in was something called Death Café. Death Cafés happen all over the world, and their goal is to be a place where people can come and eat cake and drink tea, and just talk openly about Death. At a place like BCCR that works with people with cancer, some of whom have terminal disease, this feels especially important, and indeed these programs are some of the best-attended of all of BCCR’s offerings. But of course, cancer or not, we are all dying. It is perhaps the one thing all humans share: we will all die someday. 

One thing Holly said at the funeral about this program that stuck with me was that our inclination, when someone is fighting a deadly disease, even one they know will eventually kill them, is to say, “Don’t give up! Keep fighting! You’ve got this!” But she said, “Don’t do this. It puts so much pressure on a person. People need to be able to find peace with their reality, their mortality, not fight against it.” Once you can willingly confront the conversation, she told me later, and find that peace, the conversation can turn instead to how we live, with the time we have. 

It occurred to me that this is exactly what Ash Wednesday does for us, too. It compels us to face liturgically two stark realities we all share: that we are captive to sin and cannot free ourselves, and that we will all die someday. On this day, we get together, face the fact of sin, and rub ashes on our faces with the words, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” 

But also, and this is important, when we do this as a church community, we remember that, scary though the inevitability of sin and death may be, we are not alone in that reality. We have God by our side, as well as this community of believers.

That is why we journey through these 40 days communally, worshiping and praying and studying together. We face our mortality together. As Kate Bowler says, who, along with her team, wrote our devotional this year, “For 40 days we stop pretending things will suddenly get better and face the truth: life is fragile, and so are we…. To be human is to carry the weight of our own mortality….” Or, as she quips in the first line of our devotional, “There is no cure for being human.”

So what can we do about this? It can feel very helpless, which I suspect is why people don’t want to talk about it. Who wants to confront something that feels so mysterious and unknown, and over which we have no control? Can’t we just ignore those long-term realities and focus on any number of things that bring us short-term satisfaction? 

Well, I suppose there is some both-and here. I recently read, for example, that one important way to resist an authoritarian (whether on a large political scale, or in a personal relationship) is to maintain a personal sense of joy. As long as they can’t take your joy, they can’t have control over you. So, seeking out joy and dwelling there is definitely something to pursue, perhaps especially when sin and death are knocking at your door! So Lent doesn’t have to be depressing – we can feel joy, too.

But we must, at some point, face the reality of sin and death, and Ash Wednesday and the season of Lent give us a space to do this. It starts at this stark midweek service, in which we face head-on our mortality, remembering that we are dust, and that we shall return to dust. In confronting the truth of sin and the grave, we find ourselves laid bare, and thus able to face and address the most important questions in our lives – and this in turn gives us hope, a new perspective, a way forward. This reminder of the inevitable will, in turn, teach us how to live. 

So, how do we live? What do we do with the time between now and then, the time when we still are living in our human condition, in which things and systems and hearts break, and life feels very much out of our control?

This is where the disciplines of Lent are a useful tool. Jesus talks about them in our Gospel reading for Ash Wednesday; they are almsgiving, prayer, and fasting. 

Why these practices? And how do they help us face our human frailty? 

Generally speaking, the simple answer is that they provide intention, direction, a framework – all very useful in the midst of things we cannot understand! Lent, when we enter into it wholeheartedly, can be an opportunity to reorient our hearts toward God, and from that relationship comes joy and a fuller life. These disciplines offer some concrete ways to pursue that.

Take almsgiving, that is, giving things away to the poor: what are the spiritual benefits? When we let go of something, like money, that we might deem to be ours, it reminds us that our trust belongs with God, not with things. Things will always let us down. Letting go diminishes the myths of self-sufficiency and invincibility, the belief that we can personally solve any problem that comes our way. Instead, when we trust, we become co-workers with God in the gospel, giving to the poor what God first gave to us: our selves, our time and our possessions. (On that note, I am planning this year to give alms in the form of time, making time each day to make phone calls to my legislators on various issues, to advocate for those in need. If you want to know more about how I’m doing that, let me know!)

The next practice is prayer. Surely, prayer can take many forms! We could start today with praying for… guidance on how to pray during this season! Or, a couple Sundays ago, Jesus told us to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us. How about that for a Lenten discipline, to pray daily for someone you don’t like? How might that change our hearts, reorient them toward God, and maybe even change the world a little bit for the better? And if that seems too hard, go back to the message around which this day is centered: you are dust, and will return to dust, so… what have you got to lose? Go ahead: pray for your enemies.

Finally, fasting. This can take many forms. Fasting from food could bring you into solidarity with the less fortunate, and could, each time you feel a pang, serve as a physical reminder to pray. This act of self-discipline itself can help you to focus your attention on God, and those for whom God cares especially deeply, the poor. These are all valuable outcomes of fasting. And, there are also other kinds of fasts, other ways to refrain from a substance or practice in order to draw closer to God and closer to the poor. Fasting from patronizing unethical businesses, for example, would draw you into solidarity with the poor, and with people negatively impacted by oppressive business practices. (Example here.) Or fasting from doomscrolling could free up some time to pray or read scripture or a devotional, and would at the very least clear a pathway to joy, rather than despair. (See this about a social media fast.) What sorts of habits do you have that put a barrier between you and God, or that suck life out of you, rather than bring you joy? Fast from those, and see how that fast affects your heart, how it might help to create a clean heart and a right spirit within you. 

Jesus was for sure on to something with these three – almsgiving, prayer, and fasting. Tradition has also added study to the list of Lenten disciplines – setting aside some time to dwell in scripture, or learn about something that deepens your faith. You could do this each Sunday by coming to our class on the creeds. Or you could read a theology book (let me know if you want suggestions!). Or you could commit to learning more about an issue that affects the poor, and how you can get involved in some action that helps the most vulnerable among us. Study is a powerful way to change hearts and lives. 

I started this sermon by talking about Death Cafés, and the reality of sin and death. But the point is that this reminder, which we receive so poignantly on Ash Wednesday, ultimately leads us to the question, how then shall we live? How shall we live lives worthy of the Gospel, guided by God’s loving and life-giving hand, centered on Christ, infused with the Spirit? I pray that this season of Lent will be for you an opportunity to pursue this question, such that by the time we celebrate Christ’s resurrection and defeat of sin and death, we will have gained a deeper sense of what that new life can look like for us here and now.

Let us pray… Life-giving God, we often resist facing the scarier aspects of our reality. Give us courage to admit and accept what is inevitable, and then to let it guide us in how we live this life to your glory. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: It is good for us to be here (March 2, 2025)

Transfiguration C
March 2, 2025
Luke 9:28-43a

INTRODUCTION

Through the season of Epiphany, we’ve been trucking along through Luke’s Gospel and hearing all about the beginning of Jesus’ ministry. But today we will jump ahead, and hear about the Transfiguration. This is the last big event before Jesus “turns his face to Jerusalem,” heads down the mountain, and makes his way toward the cross and his inevitable death (and, spoiler alert, his resurrection). 

On this last Sunday of the season of Epiphany, when we’ve been hearing a lot about light, we get the grand finale of light: the Transfiguration of our Lord on a mountaintop! Our first two readings will set that story up for us. To do this, we hear a bit about veils, and how they have functioned in faith, and how Jesus changes all that. We’ll hear about the veil Moses had to wear after he beheld the face of God and his face shone so brightly no one could even look at him. And then Paul will tell us about how, until Christ came along, we could not see God’s story clearly, as if we had a veil over our eyes.

As you listen, think about what veil is over your face that keeps you from seeing God or getting too close to God, or maybe that keeps others from seeing God in you. Let’s listen. 

[READ]

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

Anyone who has had kids knows that the Big Important Questions often come out during bedtime. Here, in the intimacy and safety of darkness and a favorite blanket, kids feel safe to offer up the fears and questions of their hearts. Grace has taken to warning me when she knows she’ll want to talk about something (which I appreciate, because it tells me I should use the bathroom before I go in to say goodnight!). 

The timing can be frustrating, I admit. Everyone is tired, and grown-ups are often antsy to get some adult-time with their spouse before they head to bed themselves. Yet these moments also feel holy. They are special, and I know I will blink and suddenly be longing for these intimate moments when my kids see me as their most wise and trusted and safe person to ask the big questions. In times when I might want to rush through, I try to remind myself, “It is good for us to be here.”

This has always been my favorite line in this story of the Transfiguration that we hear every year on the Sunday before Ash Wednesday and the season of Lent. I love these words, of course, when it truly is a joyful and exciting – or even glorious! – moment, when we are celebrating. It is good for us to be here! Who could argue with that? But I also try to remember these words when that goodness is less obvious. Like standing on the bottom rung of a loft bed ladder, trying to get back downstairs. Like, sitting with a grieving family as they share memories of their loved one. Like, when I’m having a difficult conversation with someone and can feel myself literally shaking. It is good for us to be here, too. These words sound different in these different situations! But I believe that they are no less true. 

Jesus shining on a mountaintop is decidedly a “good for us to be here” moment. I mean, just picture this scene! Can you imagine? By now the disciples have seen a lot of wow-worthy stuff, as they’ve been following Jesus around for a couple of years, seeing him heal the sick, feed the hungry, and preach some mind-blowing sermons. It is no wonder the disciples are weighed down with sleep – I, too, would be exhausted by this time (as I often am, in my nighttime convos with the kids!). The disciples have earned some rest! But suddenly, before they can drop off completely into dreamland, a brightness shines in their eyes. Their teacher has become dazzling white, face shining! And Moses and Elijah, two giants of the faith, have suddenly appeared and started a conversation with Jesus! Like, WHOA. And while Peter has a reputation for sticking his foot in his mouth (and he will, later), his first response here is just right: “It is good for us to be here!” This, he recognizes, is a moment, a moment simply to be entered into, to be present in, to be experienced. 

Of course, Peter and the others can’t stay there, as much as they’d like to. Peter even offers to build some dwellings for everyone to stay comfortably and happily on the mountaintop, like one big, glorious family. But it is not to be. With a cloud’s rumbling reminder to everyone to “Listen to [my son, my Chosen!]” suddenly, the overtly glorious atmosphere dissipates. Jesus is found alone. Everything (and everyone) is silent. 

But, my friends, it is still good for them to be there. Together, sharing in that experience. That presence together, with Jesus is good. And then the next day when they walk down the mountain back into the valley – that is also good, for the call to discipleship is not a call to sit on a mountain and pray and never do anything more. Discipleship, after all, means action, and movement. That’s good! When they encounter a desperate father, pleading for his son – it is good for them to be there, too. When Jesus heals that suffering child – it is good for them to be there, too. And as they continue along with Jesus, whose sight is now set for Jerusalem, and what will be his suffering and his death – it is good for them to be there, too.  

It was easy for Peter, as it is for us, to say how “good” things are on the mountaintop, when God's glory is obvious, when things are going well. But is that statement any less true at the base of the mountain, where there are suffering children and desperate fathers? Does God cease to be glorious there, down amongst the suffering? 

Of course not. And we know this because we know that there is nowhere that God is more fully revealed than when he is beaten and bloodied and hanging on a cross. There, in that suffering place, is where God accomplishes the greatest act of love in all of history, in which Christ dies in order to liberate us from power of sin and death, and ultimately rises to give us new life. That is where God shows us the extent of His love for us: that He would give absolutely everything to free us and give us life. That is, indeed, glorious! 

And so, it is good for us to be here, even in the suffering – in the pain and fear at the base of the mountain, in the agony of the cross, in whatever sufferings of this world that we are currently enduring. It is good for us to be here, not because it is good to suffer, but because in the suffering is where Christ is, where he promises to be, where his glory is most profoundly revealed. 

And, here, in the suffering, is also where we can be Christ's presence, where we can show Christ’s loving presence through our presence. How easy it is to turn away from the suffering, to ignore it, since it doesn’t affect us anyway. To let someone else deal with it. But this is not the way of Christ, and it is not the way of a Christ-follower. No, we are drawn into the ministry of presence even with those at the foot of the mountain. As Paul says in our second reading today, “It is by God's mercy that we are engaged in this ministry [and] we do not lose heart.” I know, it is so much easier and tempting to look away – but don't do it! Don't cover it up, as with a veil! See the suffering, know that Christ is there, and then to the best of your ability, be Christ's hands and feet and heart, IN that suffering. 

It is good for us to be here, my friends, in whatever way we are able. It is good to see Christ’s light shining through the broken places. It is good to BE Christ’s light, shining among the suffering. It is good to stumble forward, just doing the best we can do to manifest God’s glory in service to the poor. So do not lose heart. It is good for us to be here.

Let us pray… Radiant God, we love the glorious moments we get to spend in your presence. Help us also to love the moments you are present in suffering. Be with us as we journey down the mountain and to the valley, that we might be a part of shining your glorious light into a world in need. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.