Sermon: Let mutual love continue (August 28, 2016)

Pentecost 15C

August 28, 2016

Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16

Luke 14:1, 7-14

            Five years ago today, I was ordained into the ministry of Word and Sacrament. It happened in the church I grew up in, where my dad was pastor for nearly 30 years. My mom’s brother Daniel, also a pastor, was there as well – he was the assisting minister for the service – and he wore the red stole that belonged to my Grandpa Dick. The big moment in an ordination service is the laying on of hands, where all the ordained clergy gathered lay hands on this new ordinand while the congregation sings a song summoning the Holy Spirit, and the bishop says a prayer over this new pastor. My dad’s hands were there, and my uncle’s, and just beyond this sphere, my grandpa’s, and my two great-grandpas, also pastors, and my great-grandmother’s, who was a deaconess. A couple weeks ago we

"Surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses..."

heard in Hebrews this wonderful verse, “Since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us…” It’s one of my favorites, and always makes me think of the cloud of witnesses that laid hands on me on my ordination day.

            Today in Hebrews, we hear another of my favorite verses: “Let mutual love continue.” Especially on this fifth anniversary of my ordination, I have been thinking a lot about what these words mean and look like, both in my life as an ordained person, and in my life as a baptized Christian. I think these four words state the hardest thing about being a Christian. In fact, I think the author of Hebrews is very optimistic to say, “Let mutual love continue” – it implies we already are doing it, and to keep up the good work! Well, I sometimes find loving others to be very easy – and what a joy it is when that happens! – but it is just as often very hard, indeed. Living a life of mutual love is certainly the most challenging aspect of life as a Christian, even as it is also the most rewarding.

What makes it so hard? Well, let’s ask it this way: what is required to “let mutual love continue”? I think a big part of it is one of the major themes in our Gospel reading today, and that is humility. In the Gospel story, Jesus advises not to assume you deserve the highest seat, but rather, sit at the lowest seat and wait to be asked to move up. It’s sort of simplistic advice to our modern ears, and taken literally it isn’t very often applicable to our lives like it would have been to the original audience. But thinking of it more broadly in terms of our relationships with others, especially our Christian, mutually loving relationships with others, it becomes much more poignant and convicting.

Now, it wouldn’t be convicting, if living in Christian community were all rainbows and sunshine all the time. But the thing about living in Christian community is that it is an awful lot like living in a family – and we all know that families, well… don’t always get along. People disagree, or get annoyed with one another, or disappoint each other, or don’t meet each other’s expectations. When that happens, when conflict erupts, fighting often follows, and it is in those moments that Jesus’ advice about humility becomes very difficult to hear. Think, if you are gearing up to fight, whether you fight with actions or with words, what is good strategy? Generally, you want to find yourself in the more powerful position, right? Even animals do this – the hair on their back goes up,

This is how big my Dachshund thinks he is.

or their feathers fluff, or their tails wag high and fast. Just ask my Dachshund: twelve pounds, and he thinks he’s the biggest dog in the neighborhood! We want to look and act bigger and more powerful than we are. We want to do the opposite of Jesus’ suggestion to “take the lowest place,” because that sort of humility is exactly what will cause you to lose the fight! So when faced with a conflict, we will be inclined to: insist our way is right, disregard others’ opinions and perspectives while we puff up and applaud our own, put others down, resist admitting to being wrong, whatever we need to do in order to stay in that higher, more powerful position, and be sure that we win the fight.

Humility won’t help that effort at all. No, humility has no place in winning a fight.

But remember, we are not talking about winning a fight. We are talking about living in community, and letting mutual love continue in that community. With that as our goal, we can’t look for a winner, because if there is a winner there is also a loser, and having winners and losers is not the way to remain in community with one another. That is not the way to let mutual love continue.

This is where humility comes in. What if, instead of trying to get to that highest seat at the banquet, we took Jesus’ advice, and sat in a lower seat? What if we listened to the concerns of the other, to what is true for them, and even “tried on” their ideas before disregarding their perspective? What if instead of looking for points about which to say, “You’re wrong!” we looked for ways to say, “I agree with you on that”? What if we made the effort to consider where our own perspectives might not encompass the whole truth? What if we asked for forgiveness when we realize we were wrong?

Suddenly Jesus’ advice isn’t nearly so simplistic. Suddenly it is very challenging. It is not just swallowing our pride and waiting to be invited up to a higher seat, it is actively working at loving someone, at honoring them and their opinions, at viewing them not as a stranger or outsider or enemy, but as an angel whom God placed in your path to show you something about what it means, what it takes, what it and looks like to live in a mutually loving community. Have you had people in your life fulfill that role? I know I have.

And that brings me to the second thing that is necessary if we want to “let mutual love continue.” GRACE. Certainly, it is grace for ourselves, because putting ourselves in such a humble position is very vulnerable, very dangerous. You could very well be trampled, especially if both parties don’t agree to be similarly humble with each other. And because we are animals, we often resort to those basic animal “fight or flight” instincts, and we don’t behave like we intended, like God would have liked us to behave. We need to acknowledge that reality, and trust that God will forgive us for those times.

We also must have grace for the other, because it is just as hard for them: we are all humans, after all, and we all make mistakes, we all fall short of the glory of God, we all are captive to sin and cannot free ourselves, no matter how hard we try.

But above all, what is required to “let mutual love continue,” is the very grace of God. And this has been, for these past five years of ordained ministry, my most frequent thanksgiving: that in all the ways I fall short of this strange and wondrous calling, all the missteps I take, all the times I didn’t live up to expectations of God, myself, or others – I still walk in the grace of God. Jesus still died for me, for this sinner. Jesus still defeated fear and death for me. Jesus still claimed me in baptism, 33

years ago today. I still come to worship and get to hear someone say, as they hand me that sacred meal, “The body of Christ, given for you.” For me! For you! God’s grace is given for us!

And with this, God’s amazing grace, I believe that we can let mutual love continue. It still won’t be easy, and it still might be messy at times, and it still requires the hard work of humility and vulnerability and loving honesty, with ourselves and with each other. But we can do it, because God’s grace makes it possible. As we continue down this road of ministry, whether it is ordained or lay ministry, that grace of God is all that keeps us afloat. Let us cling to that gift with all that we have and all that we are.

Let us pray… Gracious God, you call us to let mutual love continue, and to be humble in our relationships with others. This is hard work, God! But we give you thanks that you have entrusted this task to us, even as you have given us the grace to work at it. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Ministry anniversaries: baptism and ordination!

Today I celebrated the fifth anniversary of my ordination, and the 33rd anniversary of my baptism (yes, same day!). I wrote the following for our church newsletter in honor of the occasion.

“But we have this treasure in clay jars…” (2 Cor. 4:7)

            On August 28, 2016, I celebrated (with all of you!) the fifth anniversary of my ordination. This day is extra special to me, because on it I also celebrated the 33^rd anniversary of my baptism! The significance of this correlation is not lost of me; I have always found it immensely meaningful. And so, on this fifth anniversary of this event, I wanted to reflect a bit on that with you.

Me with Pastor Dad

            My dad preached at my ordination – one of the special gifts of having a pastor dad! He has preached the gospel to me my whole life, and it seemed only right that he would do so on this special day as well. The sermon focused especially on the epistle lesson for the day: Paul’s metaphor of God’s people as clay jars. After describing the beauty of the gospel in which God shines light into the darkness through Jesus Christ, Paul adds, “But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us.” There was one moment in particular from that sermon that still sticks with me, drawing on a line just before this metaphor: “’We do not lose heart,’” Pastor Johnson said. “Yes, I’m here to tell you that’s a part of the challenge. [Paul] goes on to recite some of the realities of ministry—and really, the realities of the Christian life: affliction, perplexity, persecution. That’s what Johanna has signed up for, you know. She signed up for a life that sometimes makes one lose heart.” As he spoke these words, I could feel a pit in my stomach. Dad, what you are doing? I thought. This is supposed to be a joyous day! Why are you freaking me out? I thought about the moving truck already making its way across the country with all my earthly belongings, and the two churches in western New York who had called this wet-behind-the-ears young woman to lead them, and started to wonder if maybe this was all a mistake.

            But then he went on. “Yes, that’s what she signed up for—twenty-eight years ago, when she was baptized!” And a larger picture became beautifully clear. He was right: my call to ministry had come long before what I told my candidacy committee (which was that I had received said call while serving as a missionary in Slovakia). It came that Sunday morning at Clovis United Methodist

Baptism day, Grandpa Dick, Mom, Dad, and baby Johanna

Church, on August 28, 1983, on which my Grandpa Dick poured water over my head and said I was baptized in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit – that moment in which I was named and claimed by God as God’s daughter, in which I was given the gifts for ministry. It was not until 20-some years later that I realized those gifts for ministry included the gifts for the particular ministry of Word and Sacrament.

            I have held onto that these five years of serving as your pastor. I have held onto the deeply held belief that each of us is immensely gifted for different sorts of ministry, each so important. I have held onto the knowledge that pastors are not “set above” anyone else, so much as “set apart” for the particular ministry to which they are called. And I have been grateful to see the ways you bunch of baptized ministers have shown me this truth over and over.

            Perhaps most of all, I have held onto it each time I am reminded of my clay pot-ness: the brokenness and vulnerability that I share with every other human being on earth. Another quote from that ordination sermon: “[Being a clay pot] means, of course, that we human beings are weak and frail, subject to being broken, chipped, cracked. We aren’t even called ‘fine china’—just earthen vessels, nothing too attractive, nothing too special, just ordinary people with ordinary talents and ordinary longings and ordinary pains and troubles. That doesn’t change when you are ordained. We are, all of us, clay pots.”

            As a pastor stands to make her ordination vows, she offers the same answer to each of four questions: “I will, and I ask God to help me.” This has been my prayer each day I have served you: God, help me fulfill the hopes and expectations of this strange and wondrous calling. God, help me be the servant you have equipped. God, help me to love when it is hard to love, help me to hear your Word when the sounds of the world are so loud, help me to see Christ in all people. I will do my best to fulfill this calling, and I ask you, God, to help me.”

"I will and I ask God to help me."

            May this be the prayer of every minister of God, every baptized believer, every called member of the Body of Christ. I know it will continue to be mine, as I walk further along this remarkable road of ordained ministry. Thank you for accompanying me this far, and thank God for you!

                                                                                    God’s baptized child,

                                                                                    Pastor Johanna

Sermon: Freedom with head lifted high (Aug 21, 2016)

Pentecost 14C

August, 21, 2016

Luke 13:10-17

  

Imagine this: you’re in church, listening to a sermon. You always come to church on Sunday, because God tells you to, in the 10 commandments. Remember the Sabbath, to keep in holy. Also because you like to come and see your friends, and to worship God, and to be filled up for the week, yes, but you also get a certain satisfaction in knowing that this commandment, about the Sabbath, you’re doing your part to keep.

So the sermon is getting going, getting to the part where you squirm a little in your seat, and you think, “Oh yeah, I needed to hear this this week. This speaks right to a situation I’m dealing with right now.” And suddenly, the preacher stops, and starts walking down the aisle. You turn around to see he’s walking to meet a strange woman who has just walked in. She’s sort of bent over, maybe osteoporosis. You overhear the pastor talking to the woman, as she explains she’s had this condition quite a few years now. The pastor decides now is the time to go find a phone number for a good doctor, to help this lady out.

You feel for her, you really do, but man! The sermon was just getting to the good part, the part you needed to hear! You can’t help but feel a bit annoyed. This lady has been dealing with this thing a long time already. Maybe she could just have waited it out until the end of worship and dealt with it then? (There was even communion that day, which you love and really needed today!) Why did she have to interrupt worship? Apparently the council president feels the same way, and she stands up to say something about it: “Can’t this wait until we’re done? There are 23 other hours in the day to get help!” You secretly agree with her. And the pastor says, “This woman is a child of God, who is in need right now, and has been for a long time. Isn’t during worship the perfect time to set her free

from this bondage she has endured?”

Does the pastor have a point? In the first century version of this story that we just heard, the crowd thought so! When Jesus stands up to the leader of the synagogue’s insistence that this is the Sabbath and certain things shouldn’t be done on the Sabbath, Luke tells us that the crowd gathered was delighted! Rejoicing at what he was doing!

The story of the bent over woman: an unassuming woman who probably was just going to synagogue like she had many times before, probably a devout woman seeking to experience God that day. Being so bent over, she likely didn’t see much of the world – if you imagine her posture, what do you think she saw most of? Her own belly button! But she trudged to synagogue each week, as the commandments told her. And on this particular day, she experienced an encounter with God she had not anticipated!

Keeping the Sabbath is such a fascinating commandment. So many of the commandments appear to be for others’ benefit – don’t steal, don’t murder, don’t lie. Even the first couple: “put God first, don’t have idols.” But the Sabbath is something different. Let’s consider this a moment. First, a little quiz: do you remember what is the rationale behind keeping the Sabbath? [God rested on the 7^th day.] Right, God did it, so we should too. It’s a day of rest, a day we don’t work. That’s what Genesis and Exodus tell us. BUT, for a bonus point: the commandments also appear in Deuteronomy. Do you remember what the rationale is there? The explanation there says, “Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the Lord your God brought you out of there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore the Lord your God commanded you to keep the Sabbath day.” Here, the Sabbath isn’t so much about rest as it is about redemption, about freedom. “Remember that I am the God who frees you from what holds you captive,” God says, and implied then is, “On the Sabbath, use this time to remember how I free you.”

I bet “free” is one word that bent over woman would use to describe how she felt that morning! 18 years she had dealt with this condition, 18 years of being so bent over she couldn’t see anything but her own navel, 18 years she could barely participate in society because she couldn’t even walk straight. This past week, my mom had eye surgery to correct something that has obstructed her vision for several months, maybe more. On Wednesday was the moment of truth: she got the eye patch off to see if it worked. On Facebook appeared the exuberant post in all caps: “I CAN SEE!! WHEEEE!!!” She dealt with a condition not nearly so debilitating, and for much less time, but the recognition of it being fixed was such a relief, such a sense of freedom! Just imagine how this bent over woman felt!

Some of us deal or have dealt with such debilitating illnesses as the bent over woman, some currently are. But even those of us who mercifully haven’t, the sentiment is still applicable. So many things hold us captive, not just illnesses. So many things, even, cause us to feel bent over, physically

or emotionally. For example, if you have a horrible stomach cramp, what do you do? You bend over. Pain in heart or body makes us bend over. If you’re standing near a soccer field and you hear, “Watch out!” what do you do? Duck and cover your head. Feeling unsafe makes us bend over. If you are overwhelmed by life and can’t bear one more thing, what do you do? If you’re like me, you curl up in the fetal position on the couch or in bed and cover your head with a blanket! We bend over! We bend over to protect ourselves from the struggles of the world.

But when we do this, we have the same problem as the bent over woman in Luke: we can’t see. Sometimes, when we can only see ourselves, we find it difficult to look outside ourselves for help. Martin Luther has a wonderful phrase for this: incurvatus in se. It’s Latin for “curved in on yourself,” and it’s his definition for sin. When we are curved in on ourselves, we see only our needs, our wants, our perspectives. We are slaves to these things, and so neglect the needs and the offerings of what is outside of ourselves – our neighbors, and of course, God.

Grace, my daughter, is almost one year old now (!), and it has been so fun to watch her learn to walk. She’s so close! At first, we showed her how to stand by holding onto something. She would stand there with her head hanging, looking down at her feet, unsure about this new posture. Eventually, she would just crumble into a seated position and crawl around instead. Now, she looks up. Holding her head up high, she looks around for what she wants or needs, and uses her feet and our furniture to get to it, laughing all the way. With her head up, she is full of delight and rejoicing. The next step, of course (no pun intended), is to walk without the aid of furniture. At this point, she stands and we hold our arms out inviting her over. She looks at those hands, keeps her eye on what will keep her safe. She’s yet to jump out of the nest, though. Sometimes she gets scared and curls in on herself again, crumbling into a seated position. But sometime soon, she will trust those arms

Grace, enjoying her erect freedom

reaching out to her, and go to them.

Jesus holds these arms out to us. Jesus sees us, even when we don’t see him, when our heads are too bent down from our suffering, our pain, our captivity, too bent down to see him offering his healing, love and grace. Jesus sees us, and Jesus reaches out to us, offering us the very essence of the Sabbath: the knowledge that God frees us from sin, frees us from captivity, frees us from all that would keep us bound.

And an amazing thing happens when we are free, when our heads are lifted and our backs straightened out: suddenly, we can see the world around us through the eyes of our freedom. Thinking again of my little Grace: her raised head and the resulting mobility has allowed her to experience the world in a more profound way. The other day I was so upset, I came home and sat on the couch weeping, head in hands. I was bent over in pain and sadness. Grace toddled over to me carefully, holding the furniture, and gently touched me. I looked at her and she grinned at me and said something in her baby language, and engaged me in a game. Suddenly, my head was up, and I was laughing. This small human, with her head held high, was able to extend the most basic form of empathy, of compassion, to someone in need. When she wasn’t captive to her hands and knees and her hanging head, she could reach out to love and serve.

This is the amazing thing about the freedom the Sabbath offers us, the freedom the gospel offers us, the freedom that God through Christ offers us. No longer bound by our ailments, we can lift up our heads, look around the world, and be the servants that God has called us to be, loving and serving the world. Thanks be to God.

Let us pray… Redeeming God, the weight of the world causes us to spend too much time bent over, stuck in our own navels. Thank you for seeing us, for lifting us up, for showing us the freedom you offer, so that we might share that freedom with others. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Life out of fire (Aug. 14, 2016)

Pentecost 13C

August 11, 2016

Luke 12:49-56

         Sometimes when I read the appointed texts for an upcoming Sunday, I think, “Oh, I love this one!” and a zillion sermon ideas rush to mind. Sometimes I read them and think, “Oh, this one is difficult, but exactly what I needed to hear this week.” But sometimes, I read them, and it is as if God anticipated exactly what would be heaviest on my heart, exactly what I wanted to avoid this week, and then smacks me in the face with it, and I think, “Please, God, please don’t make me preach on this text right now,” and the Holy Spirit answers, “Sorry, Jo. This is what you need to do this week.”

         That’s what happened this week. “I came to bring fire to the earth,” Jesus says, “and how I wish it were already kindled! … Do you think I have come to bring peace to earth? No, I tell you, but rather division!” I don’t know about you, but I really needed Jesus to be the Prince of Peace for me this week. There is so much division, all around, and all the fear, sadness, hurt, and disappointment that goes with it. Even as we celebrate the Olympics, and the coming together of the world in this

wonderful sporting event, it is still impossible to ignore all the division in the world, national, local, and of course, personal level. And it hurts. Division is angering, but most of all, it hurts.

And just when we need a comfort, here comes Jesus, talking about fire, and turning households against each other, and division between family members. This is not a comfortable Jesus, not the guy at whose feet I want to sit and listen and learn. What are we to make of this Jesus, who spits out these words about fire and division?

Yes, there is plenty in this passage to be uneasy about. First, the fire. Fire is not something most of us welcome. Especially out west, where I’m from, fire is an ever-present danger in the summer. Like many of you, I grew up listening to Smoky the Bear tell me that, “Only YOU can prevent forest fires.” We learned that fire is dangerous. It’s destructive. People who fight fires are some of the most respected heroes in society.      

Then there is all the elaboration on division – father against son, son against father, and so on. Family dynamics can be very difficult, whether we’re talking about biological families, friend families, or church families. So why is Jesus advocating for conflict and division between family members? Who can read that without squirming in their seat?

It’s safe to say that most people try to avoid conflict if they can, whether in our personal relationships or at work or even in the church. I have a friend who interviewed for a pastoral internship, one of the requirements for ordination. His would-be supervisor told him that this congregation was divided about some big issues, and he said, “If you feel called to conflict management, this is a great internship site for you.” Yikes! While I know there are some who do feel called to the ministry of conflict resolution and healing, that certainly sent my friend running!

But these words from Jesus make us think differently about conflict, and about fire (whether metaphorical or physical). If Jesus says he came to kindle fire among us, and to cause division, then that must be a part of God’s plan for the world – but how?

Redwood National Park

One of the prides of my home state of California is the magnificent giant sequoias: mammoth trees, the largest living things on earth, and some of the oldest – some of them have been around since Jesus walked the earth!  Part of what allows them to live so long is not only that they have thick bark that protects them from fire, but also that fire is actually essential for their reproduction. First, the fire clears out some the less durable species around the redwood, plants which would otherwise crowd out the little sequoia seedlings and prevent them from thriving. Second, fire dries out the cones, which allows the seeds to escape and germinate – that is, fire is necessary for new life to thrive. Fire is so essential to the survival of these giant trees, in fact, that our diligent attempts at fire prevention have actually threatened the trees’ survival, and now the National Park Service has had to begin controlled burns, starting fires, forcing it to rip through the forest and cause the necessary damage, so that the necessary growth can follow.

With that in mind, the fire that Jesus talks about starts to look a little less threatening. In a forest of redwoods, fire cleanses, and it brings new life. This is what we expect from a relationship with Jesus, is it not? Jesus’ fire, his “baptism,” as he calls it, destroys that stuff in our lives that keeps us from having a close relationship with Christ. It clears out the rubbish and helps us focus on God. And, of course, it brings us new life – transformation in this life, as well as the promise of everlasting life.

Yet, even with that good news, the fire that Jesus is trying to kindle is really no less scary, no less disruptive, no less dangerous. As he says, this fire will cause division. This gets into the conflict piece, that conflict that we humans so desperately try to avoid. We avoid it by telling white lies (or even lies that aren’t really so white), or by flat out ignoring it and bottling it up, or by internalizing it and trying to make it our own fault (which makes it possible for us to change it without having to talk to anyone else), or by placing the blame elsewhere, so that we can relinquish all responsibility for it. Sometimes we even avoid one conflict that we don’t want to deal with by starting another one that we do know how to deal with – I can’t fix the issue at my workplace, but I can yell at my husband for leaving his socks on the floor. Oh, we humans are very clever about avoiding conflict, are we not?

And yet, Jesus tells us that he has come to bring about that conflict, that division. When she was serving as the assistant to the bishop, Jessica Crist, now Bishop of the Montana Synod, reflected on her work in the synod office. A large part of that position is what she calls “putting out fires” in the church, something she fancied herself to be pretty good at. But then upon reading this text, she

A divided church

realized: Jesus is the one setting some of those fires in the church! She writes, “Talk about a disconnect! I guess that I am probably as guilty as the next person of making God in my own image, of designing a Jesus whom I can fully comprehend. A Jesus who puts out fires sounds pretty sweet to me, pretty compatible, pretty comfortable, pretty useful. But that’s not the Jesus of the Gospel.”

So who is the Jesus of the Gospel? Again, at first reading, this stressed out, judgmental, fire wielding Jesus that suddenly appears in Luke chapter 12 may seem to come out of nowhere. But if we look elsewhere in Luke, we will see that he has been there all along.

Back in chapter 4, in his very first sermon, Jesus says, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” Sounds fine, until you realize: release of the captives is likely to upset some folks! Are they not in captivity for a reason? Letting the oppressed go free is great for the oppressed, but what about those who have benefited from their oppression – like those of us who buy clothes made in sweatshops because they are cheap? Jesus’ mission brings about change and conflict in our safe, comfortable, often self-serving lives. With Jesus’ fire on the loose, we cannot maintain a status quo in which people remain hungry, or live in the midst of constant war, or endure bullying. But in order for those things to change, people are going to get upset. There will be conflict. There will be division. There has to be. But after that conflict and division – that is the time that true peace can be realized.

We see this in our own lives, when built up tension finally explodes, and it’s terrible, but afterward everyone feels relieved. It happens with friends, with families, and even in church families. Some years ago, St. Martin had such an experience, a huge conflict. Many people left the church. They nearly closed their doors. A conflict and healing team came in to help sort things out. What remained was a core of people dedicated to the gospel, to loving each other, to serving God through St. Martin. They joined with Bethlehem in a covenant, recognizing that we are better and stronger together. And you know what? A few years later, our numbers started increasing. In fact, we are the fastest growing church in the conference. (Bethlehem by the way, is the second fastest!) Out of the fire storm and conflict and division came new life, new growth, new little sequoias making their presence known in this divided world.

But are we really surprised by this? After all, our savior was beaten, mocked, flogged, stripped, and crucified before he was finally resurrected to bring us all new life. Did we really expect that new life would come without first walking through the valley of the shadow of death? Jesus’ death and resurrection did not happen to keep us from experiencing our own struggles. It happened to show us that those struggles do not have the last word, that at the end of them comes life and resurrection.

Conflict is necessary to find peace and life. Discomfort and division are often a step in the journey toward better life. A forest fire clears away the roughage and offers new seedlings a chance to survive, giving new life to the trees. Conflict, division, and fire: these things are necessary for change, for transformation, for development – and if there is one thing that Scripture and experience teach us, it is that God loves us too much to let us stay the same.

Let us pray: God of peace, of division, of transformation and of love: We avoid conflicts and fires in our lives because they can be very painful. Grant us the courage to face them, and through them bring to the world and to each of us the hope of transformation and new life. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.