Sermon: Turning tombs into wombs (Easter 2016)

Easter Sunday

March 27, 2016

Luke 24:1-12

            Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia! Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Risen Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

            One of my summer jobs when I was in college was to be a camp counselor at a music camp. The camp was located at Donner Mine, an old gold mine in the Sierra Nevadas. It was a tradition of the counselors that, one night during camp, we would sneak off campus out to one of the mine entrances. Walking along the rails that carts used to schlep debris out, we would go so far into the cave that, once we turned off our flashlights, it was utterly pitch black. The darkness was oppressive, the sort that could almost be felt physically, the sort that feels like it is sucking all the life and hope from you. And then, into that thick darkness, we would begin to raise our voices in beautiful harmony, hearing the notes echo and fill that dark space with beauty.

            I often remember this cave when I read about the cave that Jesus was laid in after his death. We’ve seen a lot of that hopeless darkness this past week – in last Sunday’s passion drama, we heard how when Jesus died the whole land was dark for 3 hours. On Friday, we read the passion story again, snuffing out candles as we went along, until the shadows were greater than the light. And then Jesus was put into a cave, which was sealed off with a large stone. So much darkness, and all so hopeless.

            Did the women still feel that hopelessness as they made their way to the tomb that early dawn? As they stood in the cave, perplexed by the absence of the body, did they feel the crushing hopelessness of death and darkness pressing in on them?

            You know, even though this story happened so very long ago and may seem far removed from our normal lives here in the 21^st century, I think there actually are a lot of entry points for us – and this moment in the darkness of the cave is one of them. It is a moment so many of us have experienced – not necessarily in a literal cave, like at my music camp, but in the various types of metaphorical darkness we endure in the journey of our lives: depression, loneliness, addiction, being faced with difficult decisions, life-changing diagnoses, broken relationships, job losses, bullying… the list goes on. Any of these can feel like a cave, like a tomb, and we are sealed in by a large stone, and it is very dark and seems hopeless.

            The question that has been nagging me about this Easter story, though, is not so much what caves and tombs we may find ourselves in, but rather, what are the stones that are keeping us there? We’ve heard a lot about stones this Lent, haven’t we? Six weeks ago, we handed out stones to carry with us on our Lenten pilgrimage. Last Sunday I invited you to bring those stones and leave them at the foot of the cross, in essence leaving whatever burdens you may be carrying with Jesus, to take with him to the grave. He did: our stones – our sins, our burdens – sealed him into that cave tomb of his. He died for those sins, our sins.

            But they couldn’t keep him there. What a sight, when the women arrived that early dawn, to see that that big ol’ stone of sin rolled away! As if Jesus said, “Yeah, that’s not enough to keep me in this death hole forever. I’m just going to move that aside, roll it over, and walk out into resurrected life.” No mere stone could be more powerful than God’s plan for life!

            A stone could not keep Jesus in the tomb. But what about us? What stones are keeping us in our dark caves, whatever they may be? What needs to be cast aside? What is preventing us from walking out of death and into new and abundant life?

            I think they are some of the very same stones that held back the disciples. The women’s first response to the incredible news of Jesus’ resurrection is a feeling with which we are all familiar: they are terrified. Fear is so powerful in holding us back. Fear makes us blame others. Fear makes us exclude others, and judge others, even hate others. Fear is often used as a defense, which keeps us from having to do the hard work of examining our own hearts to find our own brokenness and seek healing. But one thing fear has never done is helped people to grow toward life. Yes, fear is very often the stone that keeps us trapped in the tomb, keeps us from walking out into new life.

            Another stone we might find at the entrance of the tomb is the stone of unmet expectations. When the women go to tell the disciples what they had learned, the disciples refuse to believe it, calling it an “idle tale.” They had an expectation about how the world works – namely, that the dead stay dead – and could not open their minds and hearts to the possibility that God might do something new and amazing. As a result, they almost missed that new thing entirely. Unmet expectations can be crippling for us, too. We have held out hope before and been burned. We have never seen positive change before, so why would we now? We don’t dare hope that things will get better, because we will probably be disappointed at best, and deeply hurt at worst. Easier just to stay in the darkness of the cave.

            Another stone, which isn’t stated explicitly by Luke but is certainly an undercurrent is that of clinging to our past, and the need for forgiveness. If you recall, the disciples have not been their best selves the last few days. Judas betrayed, Peter denied, the rest deserted. The only ones who hung around were the women. So when those women come to tell the disciples Jesus isn’t dead after all, I wonder if a part of their quickness to dismiss their story as an idle tale is that they are disappointed with themselves, and have not forgiven themselves, or maybe, they have not forgiven each other. This stone we understand all too well: being ruled by past events, either being unwilling to forgive someone who has hurt you, or bearing the burden of knowing that someone you have wronged has not forgiven you. We carry with us so much baggage from the past, baggage that taints our vision of the present and our hope for the future. This one is also tied up with all those unmet expectations we talked about before. And so our past also acts as a stone, sealing us into the tomb where death rules, rather than letting us out into where new life can begin.

            But here is the moment where the Easter story is truly remarkable and meaningful for us today: it was in that darkness, while sealed in by a stone, where Jesus defeated death. Even while it

was still dark, Jesus turned that tomb from a place of death, into a womb, a place where new life prepared to emerge. Then that stone that would have kept Christ sealed in death forever was moved aside, and he emerged, bringing into the world the promise of new life for all of us, too, as he stepped out of that dark cave and into the morning light.

            God will not leave those encapsulating stones in our lives; God will move them aside to deliver on the promise of new life, the great gift of the resurrection. As the stone was moved aside and Christ emerged from the tomb that morning, he showed us that no death or darkness can win the day. He showed us that tombs – those places that are so dark and hopeless – can, by God’s power, be turned into wombs, birthing us into new life. Like harmonious music echoing off the walls of a dark, old gold mine, God fills the darkness of our lives with hope and possibility. God moves aside what would keep us in despair, and beckons us into the morning dawn. God turns all of our deaths into new life.

            Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ is risen, indeed! Alleluia!

Let us pray… Resurrected God, we sometimes find ourselves trapped in the darkness of the tomb. Just as you rolled away the stone to bring about new life, roll away from our caves all that would keep us from growth and life, so that we might step out into the morning dawn and feel the light of new birth. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Maundy Thursday: Jesus wants to put his hands on our stinky feet

Maundy Thursday

March 24, 2016

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

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

            Since Pope Francis became the Pope, we have become used to him making the news for all the surprising ways he has not done things as they have always been done. But I remember one news story in particular, back in 2013, when he still new to his office. Traditionally on Maundy Thursday, the Pope will choose 12 priests to represent the 12 apostles, and in a grand basilica in Rome, he washes their feet. It’s a re-enactment of the story we just heard from John, in which the rabbi Jesus stoops down to wash the feet of his disciples – a job usually reserved for servants – as a way of showing them what it means to love one another. But Pope Francis, instead of choosing

12 male priests, went even further to show the table-turning love of Jesus, by carrying out this ritual in a women’s detention center: instead of priests, prisoners; instead of a gorgeous sacred space, a prison; instead of men, women. He broke all expectations! Why did he do it? He explained, “This [foot-washing ritual] is a symbol, it is a sign. Washing feet means I am at your service.” And who needs to hear that message – that Christ’s representative is at your service, despite your sins and wrong-doings – than this particular crowd of young, female prisoners?

Last week, when our confirmation class learned about each of the Holy Week services and why we enact them the way we do, we talked about foot-washing, and I read them this story about the Pope. Then I asked the class: what would you think if the Pope wanted to wash your feet? How would that feel? Would you let him? Being dutiful students eager to give the right answer, they said, “Yes, of course. I would be very touched if the Pope wanted to wash my feet.”

            Well, they changed their tune when I then invited them into the sanctuary, filled a basin with water, and invited them to come and have their feet washed by me. Some giggled uncomfortably. Some claimed their feet were far too smelly, and by refusing to participate, they were really just sparing me from discomfort. Some actually just got up and walked away. I sat and waited, watching

their various reactions, until finally, one brave soul agreed to come forward to be the first. Eventually, they all did – and every one of them was uncomfortable with it.

            Of course, middle school kids are not the only ones who find the possibility of foot-washing uncomfortable. Most people gets a bit squeamish at the thought of having someone – whether the Pope, the pastor, or even your best friend – get all up close and personal with the most embarrassing and smelly part of the body. And yet, Jesus says, clear as can be, “If I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.” The mandate is clear! Of course, we rationalize, he says this in the context of what he calls “a new commandment, to love one another as I have loved you.” So surely he meant this whole smelly feet thing as a metaphor, right? He just means we should love one another. And I’ve totally got that – I can love others without having anyone touch my smelly feet except my shower floor.

            But as I have reflected on this passage, I’ve started to wonder: can we love one another, and metaphorically wash one another’s feet, unless we have had our own feet washed? Because being the helper, the love-er, the washer, puts you in a more powerful position than the one receiving that service, right? You have what you need, the other person doesn’t. You have skills that the other person doesn’t. You have some sort of advantage that the other person doesn’t. You’re in charge, and the other person is making him or herself vulnerable to be helped by you. How can we truly understand how to help the other person unless we have been in the less powerful position, the one in need? How can we serve unless we have some sense of what it feels like to be served – indeed to be touched, in the most embarrassing, vulnerable way?

            My Mom’s book group at home just started reading the wonderful book by Brene Brown, Daring Greatly. She asked if she could borrow my copy while she’s here this week, so I pulled it out, and have been reminded of all the wonderful and difficult gifts it offers. For those not familiar with this book (and I highly recommend it, if you’re not!), it is written by a researcher of shame and vulnerability. In it, she observes that vulnerability is not, as society would tell us, a sign of weakness. Rather, one’s willingness to be vulnerable is a sign of true courage. It is when we are courageous enough to bare our hearts – or you might say, to bare our feet – that we open ourselves up to connection, love, compassion, and belonging.

            Oh, but vulnerability is hard. Whether it is in the form of letting someone near your smelly, knobby, strange-looking feet, or admitting that you were wrong about something, or that you don’t know something – vulnerability is a relinquishing of power, an admittance that you don’t have it all together, that you are, in fact, a broken and bruised person in need of love, grace, and compassion yourself.

            That is what makes foot-washing such a powerful ritual of the church – one I wish we enacted and talked about more than once a year on Maundy Thursday. It is an opportunity not just to watch Jesus put his hands on others’ dirty feet, but to let him put his hands on our own feet, our own

Français : Lavement des pieds de Saint Pierre par Jésus.
https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/61/FootWashing.jpg

insecurities, our own vulnerabilities, our own areas in need of healing. We must be willing not only to touch others, to help others, but to be touched, just as we are, smelly feet and all.

            You know, we have walked a long way on our Lenten journey. We made the goal to walk to Jerusalem, nearly 6000 miles. Well, we didn’t quite make it. We have a ways to go. But maybe that’s even better. Because our spiritual journey isn’t over, either. When we dropped our burdens at the foot of the cross on Sunday after hearing the Passion story, I found, as I searched my heart, that I have a ways yet to go, a lot of baggage yet to leave behind, a lot of soul-searching to do and repentance to practice. But I think an important stop on our journey is here, at Christ’s basin, to open our hearts and be willing to examine what grime needs to be washed, not only from our sore and dirty feet, which are so weary from carrying us along our difficult journey, but also from our hearts. As we have our feet washed, may we also find that what keeps us from a right relationship with Christ and with our neighbor is washed away, leaving our feet and our hearts both ready to walk to Golgatha tomorrow, to the empty tomb on Sunday morning, and finally, into everlasting life.

            Let us pray… Serving God, we bring our tired feet, as well as our tired hearts, to you. Give us the courage to be vulnerable enough to let you touch both our feet and our hearts, removing all that keeps us from right relationship with you, so that we might be strengthened for the journey to the cross. As you love and serve us, equip us also to love and serve one another. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: The smell of genuine connection (Mar. 13, 2016)

Lent 5C
March 13, 2016

John 12:1-8

            I have a love-hate relationship with social media. I love it because it is a great way to stay connected, however superficially, with my many loved ones who live all over the country. I hate it because it has this way of sucking me in and not letting go. I have so many interesting friends on Facebook, you see, who are always posting things I want to read. Before I know it, an embarrassing amount of time has passed, and especially after reading so many articles about our current political culture, I am left discouraged, disenchanted, or downright distraught by the time I can finally pull my head out.

Well, as one of my Lenten disciplines this year, I’m taking time to reflect on what was life-giving for me each day and what was not, and I realized that getting sucked into Facebook was not life-giving for me. Go figure. So one Friday, when I knew I could avoid my computer, I took a Facebook fast. I didn’t look at it all day. And you know what? I spent the day hanging out with Grace and working on the Easter dress I’m making for her, and I felt more connected than I had all week. And it felt great.

            We crave genuine connection, don’t we? There are so many ways to superficially connect with people – whether on social media or cursory conversations at the grocery store or whatever – that we might not notice how disconnected we actually feel. And sometimes the most profound disconnection we feel is the one we have with God. 

            Let me ask you: when was the last time you felt a real connection with God? I mean, not just going through the motions, I mean a real, deep and meaningful connection? When was the last time you had an experience with God that left you feeling satisfied, joyful, content, or at peace? What do you think it takes for us to find that connection?

            I wonder if it might take us not being quite so careful and measured in our faith, and instead taking some risks – like Mary in our Gospel lesson today. Mary is a loving, devout woman, a dear friend of Jesus – and she breaks all the rules. Here they are, having a nice dinner party, and then Mary comes up with this jar of expensive and very fragrant perfume. Then it gets weird: first of all, she lets down her hair, which is a big no-no in the presence of all those men who aren’t her husband. In Judaism, see, a woman’s hair is seen as evocative, so it would be today’s equivalent or her, say, taking off her shirt in front of everyone. Then she takes this perfume, which cost as much as a full

year’s wages, and uses the entire jar of it on Jesus. And she doesn’t do it in the normal way, anointing his head – no instead, she anoints his feet. And to top off the weirdness and rule-breaking, she uses her own hair, this part of her that is so private and personal that only her husband is supposed to see it, to wipe Jesus’ feet.

Whoa. Talk about an intimate connection with God. Talk about scandalous! She doesn’t follow any of the social norms, and really puts herself in a position to be embarrassed and ashamed. I can just hear the stunned silence in the room as this is happening: “Is she really doing this??” Until finally Judas speaks up: “What a waste. We could have sold that perfume and given the money to the poor.” That was the right answer. It was a good answer (especially if it had been faithfully offered). And yet it was Mary and her rule-breaking who was applauded. Mary, who risked embarrassment and scandal in order to seek that personal and intimate connection with her Lord. Not a waste at all. Risky, yes. But not wasteful.

            So what sort of risks are we to make, in order to feel that intimacy with Christ? Perhaps the risks need not be quite so public, but more personal. I think the biggest risk we need to take in order to feel that connection is the risk of being vulnerable – with one another, and with God. One thing the Catholic tradition encourages that has fallen away in Lutheran practice is personal confession. Luther actually placed deep importance on personal confession, so I’m not sure why we don’t do it – instead, we do a communal confession at the beginning of worship, a time of silence when we are all to examine our hearts and confess silently to God. But I sort of wish we still had personal confession, because it is a time where you must not only face your sins and your shortcomings, but also speak them aloud to another person. In theory, that is what we should be doing during that silence at the beginning of worship. But for me, it feels insufficient, because what really requires vulnerability and coming to terms with my sins is actually speaking them aloud.

But we would rather hide our vulnerabilities in whatever way possible. And so, we say we’re fine when we’re not, we pretend things are going well when they aren’t, and even when we come to church, we feel it necessary to leave at the door whatever is weighing on our hearts. We aren’t honest about the doubts and questions we have, or about some time in our lives that we regret, and we’re afraid that someone will find out about it and then not allow us back to church. The acceptable answer, we know, is to do the right thing – to sell the expensive perfume and give the money to the poor. But the one in this story who makes a connection with Christ is the one who put aside the possibility of being embarrassed or ashamed, risked it all and put herself on the line in order to find that deep connection.

            A few years ago at a clergy gathering, we had then-bishop, Marie Jerge, with us, and she presided over our celebration of communion. There was a moment during communion where her voice wavered a little bit, then she pulled herself together and kept going. Later, she reflected on it, saying, “I was so moved, I almost lost it up there.” One of my colleagues responded, “No, I think you almost found it.” What a beautiful way to spin that! Because it truly was in that moment of weakness and vulnerability, that moment when she almost cried in public, at a time when she “should” have been the strong leader among us, that she almost found that deep connection, that deep communion with God.

Frederich Beuchner has this to say about tears: “Whenever you find tears in your eyes, especially unexpected tears, it is well to pay the closest attention. They are not only telling you

Wall Street Journal Photo of the Day:
http://blogs.wsj.com/photojournal/2011/11/17/photos-of-the-day-nov-17/

something about the secret of who you are, but more often than not God is speaking to you through them of the mystery of where you have come from and is summoning you to where, if your soul is to be saved, you should go to next.”

            Could our tears, our vulnerability, our seeking a genuine connection with God, be the very thing that propels us along on our pilgrimage? Could they be the very thing that leads us out of the wilderness and into the Promised Land? How, then, do we learn to follow those tears, and like Mary, to be so vulnerable with God?

Perhaps it starts when you walk in that door, by walking in as exactly who you are, and not feeling like you need to check your issues at the church door. By being honest about your doubts and fears. By being aware that you bring with you different ideas and perspectives on life, and that is okay. By trusting that the things that happen in our lives outside of church are okay to bring with you to church, where we can hold them up to God and say, “Here. Help me.”

And just as you bring those things to church with you, you can bring God’s grace out with you. You can bring the hope and promise that God provides in God’s Word and in the sacraments, and apply that to you lives. Church and worship and following Jesus is not and should not be separate from the rest of our lives, and does not happen a mere one hour a week.

Mary risked it all to be close to Jesus. Indeed, the whole house was filled with the fragrance of what should have or could have been her shame, but what was really her deep devotion. That smell – the smell of extravagant love, both Mary’s for Jesus and his for Mary – must have clung to the clothes of everyone there to witness it, following them out the door and into the world. They could not go anywhere that day without carrying with them the smell of that extravagant love. May we, as we leave this place today and every week, leave with the stench of God’s love and grace clinging to our clothes, reminding us at every moment that seeking a profound connection with God is worth every risk.

Let us pray… Extravagant God, we crave a connection with you, but are often unwilling to be vulnerable enough to find it. Make us brave in our vulnerability, and send us out with your love and grace clinging to us in all that we do. In the name of the Father and Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Plenty in a deserted place

Plenty in a deserted place (Midweek 4, 2016)

Luke 9:10-17

¹⁰ On their return the apostles told Jesus all they had done. He took them with him and withdrew privately to a city called Bethsaida. ¹¹ When the crowds found out about it, they followed him; and he welcomed them, and spoke to them about the kingdom of God, and healed those who needed to be cured.

¹² The day was drawing to a close, and the twelve came to him and said, “Send the crowd away, so that they may go into the surrounding villages and countryside, to lodge and get provisions; for we are here in a deserted place.”¹³ But he said to them, “You give them something to eat.” They said, “We have no more than five loaves and two fish—unless we are to go and buy food for all these people.” ¹⁴ For there were about five thousand men. And he said to his disciples, “Make them sit down in groups of about fifty each.” ¹⁵ They did so and made them all sit down. ¹⁶ And taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke them, and gave them to the disciples to set before the crowd. ¹⁷ And all ate and were filled. What was left over was gathered up, twelve baskets of broken pieces.

~~~

            Yesterday I was getting ready for the day, and feeling like I was pretty on top of things. I had to be at a clergy gathering at 9:30, and I had already taken care of several things that morning, including a nice long walk. As I took a leisurely shower, I thought, “Before I leave, I’ll cut my nails, make breakfast, fold the laundry, feed Grace, and put the dishes away.” [All things I had been putting off for too long!] “In order to get Grace to daycare and get to ministerium on time,” I thought, “I’ll plan to leave a bit after 9.” Oh yes, everything was right on track… until I got out of the shower and saw that it was already 9:05. Out went my ambitious to-do list, as I scrambled to just get out the door as fast as possible.

            That’s always how I feel at about this point in Lent. We’ve been chugging along on our journey, and feeling pretty good about our progress. Many of us have kept up on our Daily Bible readings, and gotten a walk in each day. Maybe you have started planning a splendid Easter day with your family. The warmer weather has kept us all perky and moving right along… and then suddenly Easter is only a couple weeks away and there is so much to do and oh my goodness where did the time go?! Then in the rush to plan and pray and visit and read, all of my discipline starts to make its way swiftly out the window.

And what I am left with, I find, is a feeling of hunger.

            Hunger for what? I don’t know exactly. Maybe, hunger for the way I felt in my leisurely shower, when I was blissfully unaware of time and responsibility. Or, hunger for the chance to sit and just be with God. Hunger to spend time doing what feeds me. In short, I suppose it is a hunger for God.

            “The day was drawing to a close,” Luke tells us, when the disciples suddenly realized, after a long day of ministry, healing, and teaching, that Jesus needed to send this hungry crowd back into the city to find food and lodging. They were out in the wilderness, in a deserted place, where they would never find enough provisions to satisfy this large crowd. The disciples are smart, I think, to send the people out of the wilderness and into a place where they can get what they need, but no: Jesus says, “You give them something to eat.”

Of course, they protest: “We can’t do that, Jesus,” they say. “There’s not nearly enough out here in this deserted place to feed all these people! There is too much need, and not enough resources. We can’t do it.”

I think this is often my complaint, and I think many of us have that complaint. There is too much need, and not enough resources. We stretch ourselves too thin. We take on too much to leave any time doing what truly feeds us. We look around us and see only lack, rather than potential.

Nowhere is this more true than in a deserted place. Deserted places have a way of sucking the hope and possibility right out of you. They are places that lack: lack the people we want in our lives, or the time we wish we had, or the resources or energy we never can muster. The wilderness is like that – a deserted place if ever there was one.

But Jesus won’t entertain the disciples’ concerns; he just proceeds with his plan to take these limited resources, and feed the people. For Jesus, there is no place that is so deserted that there is not enough to be fed with what is needed. Where the disciples see “not enough,” Jesus sees plenty – that is, if they work together. He has the disciples sit everyone down and organize them. Then he takes the food, says a prayer of blessing and thanksgiving, and voila, everyone is fed, with plenty to spare. It is one of the most famous miracles in the Bible, and one that appears several times, at least once in each of the first three Gospels.

But where does this leave us – those of us who still feel like we are in a deserted place, still waiting for that miracle that turns our hunger into fullness? Right now, we are still in the wilderness of our pilgrimage journey. We are still searching. We are still seeking. But what are we seeking, and how? Are we broadly searching the horizon, like the father in the Prodigal Son that we heard about on Sunday? Are we identifying the smallest details of what is right before us, like I did when I saw my first flower of the season on my walk on Monday – a little bunch of purple growing right on the edge of someone’s lawn? Are we sitting still and just listening – to the birds, finally singing their song again, or the wind blowing through the yet empty branches, or the sound of people and dogs once again walking outside – and hoping that in the sounds of life, we will find life of our own?

One of the challenges of parenting a baby is that every need she has, she needs someone to take care of it for her, but she lacks any meaningful language. So every cry she makes is a puzzle: what is her need right now? We go through the checklist – is she hungry? Tired? Needing a change? Hot? Cold? Lonely? Bored? Once we figure out her particular need, her literal or metaphorical hunger, we can feed her, give her what will fill her up, satisfy her. It’s pretty gratifying, to see your child go from screaming, to completely content, just as soon as she gets the precise thing that she needs.

If only it were so easy for us complex adults – to be able to identify exactly what we need, and then to have that thing and be satisfied. (Hungry? Tired? Needing a change? Hot? Cold? Lonely? Bored?)

Whatever it is, Jesus has that thing, that thing that we need. Or at least – if we work together – he can help us get it. That is what this journey is all about – both our Lenten pilgrimage journey, and our life’s journey. Will we doubt, and get stuck in our mindset of there not being enough in this deserted place to satisfy the need around us and in us? Or will we trust that Christ can always make plenty out of what we perceive as scarce?

Let us pray…  God of plenty, you have filled the hungry with wondrous things, even when all we can see is a deserted place. Help us discern what hunger we have, and guide us to a place where that hunger can be filled, so that we might know your abundance. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.