Sermon: When you're the one who is wrong (Oct. 23, 2016)

Pentecost 23C

October 23, 2016

Luke 18:9-14

            I know that many of us have been very discouraged by this election cycle, perhaps the nastiest in recent history, and it only gets worse with each passing day. The accusations, the criticisms, the threats, the name-calling, the picking on every mistake anyone has ever made and blowing it out of proportion… it is all sickening. Most of us just want to hear about the issues that matter to us, so we know who to vote for, and who will better lead this country.

            All of these things have been discouraging or even infuriating to me at some point along the way, but one thing that is consistently discouraging for me is everyone’s resistance to admitting wrong. “Mistakes were made,” we hear. Or, “That may be true, BUT…” There is always a level of removal from any wrong-doing, or a shift of the blame. I know, no one wants to admit they are wrong, especially someone who is running for president who wants to at least appear like they are powerful and in control and always make good choices. But how refreshing it would be to hear someone say, “I was wrong. I take responsibility for that. I made a bad choice. And I’m taking active steps to improve and make better choices in the future.” No excuses, no blame shifting, just good old fashioned taking responsibility.

            Of course it is easy for us to say this about two people who are so far removed from our personal lives. But for me, at least, I think what makes this so frustrating on this world stage, is that it is also a frustration on the smaller stages of day-to-day life. We all know people who refuse to admit when they are wrong. Maybe you are married to such a person, or maybe you work with or for one. Maybe… you are one! Ok, let’s all just admit for a moment: we are all people like that! Anyone notice what happened there? As I started to explain, I first pointed toward all the other people in life who possess this undesirable trait of blaming others before calling themselves out? Because it is always the other, isn’t it? No one, no one likes to admit when they are the one who is wrong!

            In reality, a lot of us can probably identify more closely than we’d like to admit with the Pharisee in Jesus’ parable today. The one who stands alone and thanks God that he is not as bad as everyone else. How blessed he is, how righteous, how lucky to be such a good person – not like all

Pharisee and the publican

those other schmucks out there! A couple weeks ago, I invited you to try to be thankful for even the situations and people in your life by or from whom you feel divided, in an effort to heal that divide. When I tried to do that myself, I found it difficult not to slip into the ways of the Pharisee – being grateful that I am not like that person or situation I dislike!

            Of course a prayer like that, like the Pharisee’s, as the parable shows us, only makes our divisions worse. That is what the Pharisee is doing, after all – he puts distance between himself and all those thieves, rogues, adulterers, and that icky tax collector over there in the corner. He stands apart, and boasts about his own righteousness, as compared to anyone else, but this boasting he dresses up as a pious prayer. Well, he may have intended piety, but what he actually does is damage any possibility of being in meaningful relationship with these other children of God.

            Now, I stand by what I said a couple weeks ago, that practicing humble gratitude is important in healing divides. But today’s parable suggests another route toward healing, and that is the route we see not from the Pharisee, but from the tax collector: the route of confession.

            Confession is a strong antidote for self-righteousness. Luke lays it out for us in the introduction to this parable, in which he says, “[Jesus] told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt.” That’s an accurate description of self-righteousness, isn’t it? When we are self-righteous, we can’t help but do as the Pharisee: look at all of our attributes, and all the things we do right, and all the ways we are right, and compare them to all the people who are not right, who are, in fact, wrong. And when someone else is wrong, well, then it is not a far leap to do as Luke says, “regard them with contempt.” Soon enough, we are not only judging others’ actions or their behavior, but judging them, their very character and person.

            So, enter here the practice of confession, which we see in the tax collector. He has no sense of self-righteousness. No, he sees himself as scum. “God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” he prays. His is one of the oldest Christian prayers, known as “The Jesus Prayer”: it is a simple acknowledgement that we are sinners in need in Christ. Or as Martin Luther put it in his last written words, scrawled out on a scrap of paper, “We are beggars. This is true.” Our human reality is just that: that we are sinners, beggars, unable to do anything to get ourselves out of the muck except to pray to God and depend upon God’s gracious response. Practicing confession is a powerful way for us to recognize what the Pharisee doesn’t seem to: that as self-righteous as we may be, as quick to judge others, as resistant to admitting we are wrong, at the end of the day, “We are beggars. This is true.”

Now, the tax collector doesn’t name his sins specifically in this parable – for the sake of the message of the parable, it is enough that he simply acknowledges his standing: not as someone who follows all the laws and so should be lifted up and admired by those around him, but rather, as someone who could never hope to earn God’s love and forgiveness, and depends entirely upon God’s fatherly and divine mercy. For us, however, I think naming our sins is even more powerful. Alcoholics Anonymous is really onto something by making the first step of the program to admit that

you have a problem. To confess a sin is to admit that you have a problem, that you have done something that was not what God would have had you do. In naming that, we make it more real, and we have a better shot both at addressing this instance, and also not repeating the behavior in the future.

Has anyone here ever participated in an individual confession, in which you actually tell another person how you have sinned, and received words of forgiveness in return? This is common in the Catholic Church, of course, and Lutherans do actually have a rite for it as well. I have done it once – it’s really hard! To admit to yourself and aloud to another person that you were wrong, that you messed up – youch! But then to hear those words of absolution, the words that say, “God forgives you!” is all the more powerful.

Those words are the beginning of healing in our own hearts. But they also move us toward healing in our relationships. Having admitted before God that we were wrong in some way takes away a layer of self-righteousness. Suddenly it allows us to see others not as less than, not with the contempt with which the Pharisee views the tax collector, but as a fellow beggar-in-Christ, a fellow human being who is just trying to make some sense of this world and its problems, a fellow child of God.

Indeed, those divine words, “I forgive you,” those words we long to hear – are they not the entire reason we cling to Christ and practice this faith? We cannot spend our whole lives in the corner with the tax collector, beating our breast and praying to God, “Have mercy on me, a sinner,” any more than we can spend our lives standing tall and looking down on everyone around us like the Pharisee. As Jesus says at the end of the parable, the one who exalts himself will be humbled, and the one who humbles himself will be exalted. The one who genuinely looks at her life and says, “God, I have fallen short here, please help me,” will indeed be helped. The one who says, “Have mercy on me, a sinner,” will indeed be justified and forgiven. The one who is willing to admit, “We are beggars, this is true,” will be offered the relentless grace of God, will be exalted, will be brought into a whole and healthy relationship – with Christ, and finally, with those with whom we are in relationship here on earth.

Will we see this in our presidential candidates? Unfortunately, not likely. But we can, and do, see it in our personal relationships. Because, from our confession and God’s forgiveness, we then have a shot at reconciling with each other, at coming to an understanding of one another. And it is this practice of regular confession – whether that is sharing with a friend, family member, or even a professional, or writing it down in a prayer journal for only your eyes and God’s – this regular practice of confession will bring healing, will restore relationship, and will help us to see, not only in the moments that bring us joy, but also the ones that bring division, that the hand of God is very active in all of our lives and our relationships. Thanks be to God.

Let us pray… Forgiving God, we are sometimes prone to self-righteousness, refusing to admit we are wrong. Grant us humble hearts, and a willingness and ability to view those around us not with contempt, but with mercy and compassion, as fellow sinners, and fellow children of God. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen

Sermon: Injured by grace (Oct. 16, 2016)

Pentecost 22C

October 16, 2016

Genesis 32:22-31

            There is no one in the Bible who is at once so beloved and such a scoundrel as Jacob. Jacob, whose very name means, “Supplanter. Trickster.” He has spent his life, from the moment he came out of the womb, trying to cheat other people in order to get what he wanted. And yet, as we get a hint of in today’s reading from Genesis, God chooses him to be the namesake of what would become the whole nation of Israel.

            Before we dig into his story, let me set the scene for you. Jacob, the grandson of Father Abraham has, as I said, spent his whole life cheating people, beginning with his twin brother, Esau. At this point in the story, Jacob is traveling home with all his family and possessions, when he finds out his livid older brother is after him with an army of 400 men. Jacob is, rightfully, afraid that he is finally going to get his comeuppance for a lifetime of cheating people. He sends his wives and children across the river, and then sits on the beach of the Jabbok, alone and awaiting what comes next.

            As many times as I have read this story, I am always struck by that line, “Jacob was left alone.” When I read it, I am filled with a deep loneliness myself – who of us has not felt this way at some point? Alone and afraid. Alone and knowing that danger lurks. Alone and regretful. I am among the best ruminators I know – so when I am alone, I usually spend that time ruminating over all the problems in my life, replaying events that didn’t go as I wish they had, having imaginary conversations with people I’ll probably never actually have, considering all the ways I wish things had gone differently. Those alone times are never really alone, are they? We are alone with our thoughts, with our fears, with our regrets. And none of these make for very good company. When I imagine Jacob sitting there, alone, I wonder if he, too, felt and heard the noise of his fears and his regrets for being such a scoundrel throughout his life.

            Indeed, it isn’t long that he is alone in that darkness of night, when suddenly he is very much not alone – a being comes and begins to wrestle with him. The text says it was “a man.” The prophet Hosea later comments on the story, calling it an angel. At the end, it becomes apparent that this being was God Himself. Jacob wrestled that night with God.

            I just love this image of wrestling with God, because it so beautifully puts words to my own experience of faith. I have never walked away from my faith entirely, but there have been plenty of times for me, and perhaps also for you, when I certainly felt like I was in a wrestling match with God. The match is usually punctuated by prayers such as, “Why this, God? Why now?” and, “Seriously, God??” and, “If you’re going to let stuff like this happen, I’m not sure I want to be in this relationship anymore.” Sometimes, in our more charitable matches, my prayer has been, “I know you always use things for good – would you please show me the point of this, then, and quickly? What am I supposed to learn here?” Indeed, I have, like Jacob, felt like I’m wrestling with God for a blessing: “I’ve put up with enough already, God! You had better make this worth it in the end!”

            I think a lot of times we think that wrestling with God isn’t okay for a person of faith, that having doubts or struggles somehow means we are no longer faithful. I know of a pastor who had a heart attack, and he later told his congregation that as he rode in that ambulance to the hospital, he wasn’t scared at all, because of his faith. Well that’s all well and good, but my response to that is not to admire his faith, but rather, to wonder if maybe mine is not be sufficient, because I have had plenty of wrestling matches with God, plenty of times when I have struggled and feared and questioned God.

I prefer the story of Mother Theresa. Some years ago, some journals of this now saint were found and published in a book called, Mother Theresa: Come By My Light. The book created quite a stir, because some of her journal entries expressed not the pure, unchanging faith we had all imagined of this servant of God, but rather, of the many doubts and struggles she faced from day to day.

Though many were upset by this, I found it to be rather a comfort. To know that someone of such immense and imitable faith also struggled and doubted, just like me, gave me hope for my own faith, and the various wrestling matches it faces. Indeed, we can see in Mother Theresa’s writings that it was her struggles that strengthened her faith, and made her able to continue the difficult work she was doing in Calcutta.

You see, strength of faith comes when that faith faces challenges, when it goes through struggles, when we have to question, wrestle, even doubt or maybe even rebel for a bit, but not give up. Faith matures and strengthens as it goes through times of struggle. Perhaps, Jacob needed to have that wrestling match with God that night in order to strengthen and prepare him for becoming the namesake of the great nation of Israel.

The wrestling match in this story possesses significant fodder for conversation about faith… but the grace comes with their exchange at the end. Throughout the match, Jacob seems to be doing pretty well, until finally this divine being touches his hip socket, wrenching it out of joint. This is the last straw for Jacob, and he demands a blessing. After all this, he says, “I will not let you go until you bless me!” After an exchange and change of names – an incredibly rich part of this story that warrants an entirely other sermon on some other day! – Jacob does walk away from this encounter with God having received a blessing. That in itself is remarkable, and gracious – that after that long, dark, lonely night of wrestling with God, Jacob does walk away changed. His name is something new, something that reflects a God that is on his side, his identity has changed, his faith has strengthened. He has surely been blessed for this next, difficult part of his journey as God’s servant.

But a blessing isn’t all that he leaves with. Almost as an afterthought, the story ends with this line: “The sun rose upon him as he passed Penuel, limping because of his hip.” Jacob has indeed been changed – personally, spiritually, and physically. He will never take another step in his life of faith without remembering that on that dark, lonely, fearful night, he was touched by God, that he was blessed by God, that he received God’s grace. And he has the limp to prove it.

That’s how it is when we wrestle with God. So often we face a challenge, a struggle, and desperately long for things to go back to the way they were before – before the fight, before the diagnosis, before the loss. Indeed, we hold onto the hope that things will go back to the way they once were, back when we were happy, or at least happier, with life. But as the adage goes, “God loves us too much to let us stay the same,” and any meaningful encounter with God will always result in a change. We will walk differently, but we will walk differently because we have been touched by God, touched by blessing, touched by grace. Such a change will take some getting used to – I’m certain Jacob’s life was never the same after that encounter. But in the end, faith is a matter of trust – of trusting that God can take even a man’s struggle on the cross and turn it into new life for us, of trusting that God will lead us wherever it is time for us to go, of trusting that as we walk into the new day, God walks with us, and God’s face shines upon us.

Let us pray… Faithful God, we sometimes find ourselves drawn into a wrestling match with you as we try to understand what you are doing in our lives. Give us faith to trust you even as we wrestle, and to believe that while we will inevitably walk away different than we were before, that this, too, is a part of your magnificent plan for us. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Gratitude to heal the divide (Oct. 9, 2016)

Pentecost 21C

October 9, 2016

Luke 17:11-19

            Brainstorm with me a moment: on any given day, what emotions might you feel? ...

            Now, think with me again (this time, you don’t need to shout it out): of all of those emotions you may feel on any given day, or during any given week or month… which are you the most likely to give voice to? Which are you most likely to acknowledge yourself, or to talk about with someone else?

            Speaking personally, I’m generally a pretty happy person – I know I have a really good life, and am surrounded by blessings, and I’m very grateful for it. But, I find that when someone asks me the question, “How are you?” and the situation is such that I might elaborate on the obligatory, “I’m fine,” my elaboration is more likely to be on all the things going wrong. “I’m all right, but tired. Didn’t get much sleep last night.” or, “Well, I’m okay, but feeling stressed and overwhelmed. Lots going on.” Occasionally, I’ll eagerly list all the good things going on, everything I’m grateful for, but I think a lot of times, we focus so much on all that is weighing us down, that this is the first thing that leaps to mind. Can you relate? Sometimes we just really want to get stuff off our chest.

            Our Gospel reading today is one that always gets us thinking about gratitude – in fact, it is the assigned text for Thanksgiving worship every three years. And why not? Ten lepers are healed, and of those, only one turns back to thank Jesus for the healing. And we think, “Gosh, we really ought to be more grateful. We are often so entitled, and take so much for granted. Let us all be more thankful for

our many gifts.” It’s a good message, nothing at all wrong with that. As we used to say in preaching class in seminary, “That’ll preach.” But like so much of Jesus’ life and teaching, there is much more to it than that.

            So first, let’s just notice a few things about this story, because I think it is one that is familiar to many of us, so we might miss some of the nuance. First of all, let’s notice that the other nine lepers did nothing wrong. In fact, they are doing exactly what Jesus told them to do – “go to the Temple to show yourselves to the priest.” In this culture, they would not be considered officially clean until the priest said so, so I imagine they were pretty eager to be scooting off to the priest just as soon as possible! And there’s nothing to say they weren’t thanking God all along the way, just that they didn’t turn back and voice that gratitude to Jesus. So maybe the point is not that some were thankful and some weren’t, but rather, one took the time to say it aloud, and others didn’t.

Second, let’s remember a few things about leprosy. In Jesus’ time, leprosy was really any skin disease that was contagious. And so, lepers were generally kept excluded from society – perhaps even veiled and covered – so that there was no risk of it spreading. They were outcast, excluded from the community. On the flip side, to be healed of their leprosy meant not only healing of the physical disease, but also it presented the possibility of being able to go back home to their families, to be restored once again to their community. It was the gift of health, yes, but also of restored life.

This point actually stopped me in my tracks a bit this week, because it brings up a question very heavy on the hearts of many Americans lately, and that is, “What is required to restore community?” In fact, it was one of the questions in the first presidential debate a couple weeks ago, particularly in regard to race. The question to the candidates was, “Race has been a big issue in this

campaign, and one of you is going to have to bridge a very wide and bitter gap. So how do you heal the divide?” And then the laughable tag, “You have two minutes.” Ha! Two minutes to tell us how to heal a divide that has been there over 200 years, to restore the community, to explain how you will bring understanding, healing, and reconciliation to this complex issue… and oh, by the way also the numerous other world issues, ranging from immigration and refugees, to jobs and the economy, to homeland security – and that was only in the first debate! And these are only the issues we face on a national or international level, to say nothing of the division and brokenness we experience in our families, with our friends, in our workplaces. So much of the pain in the world at large and in our particular worlds comes back to that question, “How will we heal the divide? How will we restore community?” Not to minimize the magnitude of 1^st century leprosy – exclusion from family and community are no small pains – but the way this story reads, all it took was a word from Jesus and they were healed and good to go. So what can we take from this story for our own various situations of division and brokenness?

Perhaps one step toward an answer comes in the final detail I want to point out. Luke makes a point of telling us about the thankful leper, “…and he was a Samaritan.” To our modern ear, this doesn’t have the weight it did for the original audience. When we hear “Samaritan” we think of the “Good Samaritan,” the nice, helpful, caring guy. Not so for first century Jews! To them, Samaritans were not nice. They were dirty foreigners who worshipped wrong, believed wrong, and had no business being involved in the lives of the more godly, obedient, and upstanding Jews. So to really understand the weight of that statement, “He was a Samaritan,” substitute the category of people that disgust or scare you the most. (He was a criminal. He was a drug dealer. He was a liberal. He was a conservative. He was gay. He was a Muslim…)

Luke makes a point of telling us that this one, who was openly thankful, putting his own agenda and desires on hold in order to express gratitude to Jesus, was indeed a despised member of society. And the result is to make us consider the possibility that lessons in faith, in love, in joy, in bridging the gap, might in fact come from the one from whom we least expect it, even, from someone we hate. That in itself is a tough pill to swallow – after all, wouldn’t we rather learn about faith from people we love and respect?

But in this case, the lesson, the gift, the grace, though the deliverer may not have been our first choice, is one fairly simple to latch onto and maybe even to apply, and that lesson is: gratitude first.

I asked you at the beginning of this sermon which of your myriad emotions throughout the day are easiest to put voice to. What if we worked at making gratitude our most commonly expressed emotion? I heard of someone recently who always answers the question, “How are you?” with, “I’m grateful.” It’s just enough to catch your attention, isn’t it? What a lovely reminder – to yourself and to the one who asked – to put gratitude before whatever else may be weighing on you at this moment.

Now, that might take some work. Someone may ask you in return, “Oh yeah? For what are you grateful?” and it might be difficult to come up with something, especially when you are in a tough place in life, or when you are grieving a difficult loss. Those feelings should not be disregarded – they, too, are important to acknowledge and to articulate. But what if we really worked every day at finding something – or three somethings, or five – for which we are grateful, even beyond the obvious (food, shelter, family)?

I wondered if we might try it right now. Grab a pencil, and take a moment to write down somewhere on your bulletin something you are thankful for right now… Would anyone like to share? … Whatever it is you wrote down, hold onto that thing, and try to find some others. Find things every day for which you are grateful – and when you strengthen those gratitude muscles, try to find more,

and different things.

Then, when you are really strong in gratitude, try this: find things on the other side of whatever divide you are facing for which you can express your gratitude. What are you grateful for in whatever in your life are the Samaritans – those who are different, despised, or somehow not up to your standards? What are you grateful for in someone who has made you angry? What are you grateful for in someone who believes differently from you? What are you grateful for in some situation that seems incredibly unfair?

Gratitude is a practice, something to be repeated again and again so that we get better and stronger at it. In today’s Gospel, we see how difficult it must have been for a Samaritan to turn around, in a place where he knew he was despised, and offer a word of gratitude to his healer. In his small act, we are reminded of the grace and hope God continually offers us no matter what our shortcomings or our more despicable characteristics are. We are given the opportunity to see that hope and faith can be revealed even in unexpected places and from unexpected people. And we are shown the immense healing and restorative powers within that simple act of gratitude.

Let us pray… Unexpected God, you show yourself and your promise of hope even in places we don’t think to look. Help us to follow the Samaritan leper’s lead, and take the time to articulate that for which we are grateful, and give us the wisdom to seek gratitude before division, so that community might be restored. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: The wait of faith (Oct. 2, 2016)

Pentecost 20C – BLC

October 2, 2016

Habakkuk 1:1-4; 2:1-4

2 Timothy 1:1-14

Luke 17:5-10

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

            Here’s some fun St. Martin trivia: on this Sunday three years ago, St. Martin celebrated her 60^th anniversary, remembering our forebears who had a vision for a Lutheran church in West Webster. We also, you may recall, burned our mortgage that day, which we had paid off in a capitol campaign driven by hope for the future of this congregation. It seems appropriate, then, that today, we have two events that show how our prayers on that day in 2013 – for our past and for our future – are coming to fruition. First, we will celebrate a baptism. Paige is the granddaughter of Bernie, a longtime member, and her daddy, Scott, grew up at St. Martin. After the baptism, the rest of Paige’s family will also join as members, as well as Thelma, who is mother to Cindy, and whose grandchildren grew up here, and the Moore family – Katie is daughter of Nancy and sister to Amie. There’s this wonderful line in our reading from 2 Timothy today: “I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you.” The way all these events have collided today has made so clear how beautiful and

Three generations of faithful women in my family

important it is to pass down the faith, and also gives us reason to celebrate all the generations that have committed their lives to living amongst the Body of Christ.

            It’s a beautiful thing to see how the faith is passed on from generation to generation, whether through baptism of children and grandchildren, or through family members moving home and rejoining the church where they grew up, or so many other ways. It is one of the warm-fuzzy things about especially a small church, in which everyone knows each other and grew up together, to see these generations of faith all come together.

            It’s warm and fuzzy, yes, but… the thing about faith is that it is not always so warm and fuzzy. Because even as we find so many occasions to celebrate together, so many joyous events, faith also carries us through our dark times – illness, death, job loss, divorce, and more. We frequently get prayer requests asking for prayerful support during the dark times of our members’ lives. This, too, is a part of being a family of faith that passes that faith down through the generations.

            But sometimes, faith gets even harder than that. As in any family, sometimes conflict arises in our family of faith. In families, people disagree, and sometimes things escalate and people get hurt. I know this has happened in my family, and I’m sure it has happened at some point in yours, and so it is no surprise that it also happens in our faith families.

            So therein lies the real question that arises for me as I read today’s texts: how do we, as a family of faith, confront together not only the joyous events, but also the inevitable conflicts and struggles we face together?

            Our texts today have a lot to say about this. First, we hear from Habakkuk, as he desperately cries out to God, “O Lord, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not listen?” Habakkuk is writing during one of the most challenging times of Israel’s history: the years just before all of Israel and Judah were sent into exile in Babylon. Leading up to that deportation, there was violence,

The prophet Habakkuk

attacks, destruction of the city of Jerusalem and of the Temple that was the center of their faith. It was an incredibly painful time in their history, and Habakkuk’s cry echoed that of many of the Israelites. It is a cry that echoes many of our own cries. Though most of us have never experienced the death and destruction Habakkuk was seeing, we have all experienced loss of home, loss of faith, loss of purpose, loss of trust. If we haven’t seen our church building destroyed, we have all at least experienced emotional destruction and hopelessness. We experience them on a personal level, in our families, in our communities, and sometimes, yes, even in our churches. And we can relate to Habakkuk’s cry, “O Lord, how long? Aren’t you listening?”

            God’s response to Habakkuk is so often the response we get: “There is still a vision for the appointed time… If it seems to tarry, wait for it; it will surely come.” In other words: “Just hold on, and wait. God is listening, and it seems like this is taking forever, but keep waiting. God’s vision will surely come.”

So much of faith is a waiting game, right?? It seems like God’s answer is always “wait,” and you know, waiting gets really old sometimes! But we see in the story of Israel, and in Habakkuk’s response to it, that this waiting is a part of faith. It, too, is part of the faith we pass down to our children and grandchildren: faith sometimes means waiting. It sometimes means patience. And it always means that even in the midst of waiting, we must trust God’s vision, which will come at the appointed time. “If it seems to tarry, wait for it. It will surely come.”

            I love that word, “tarry.” It means “to delay, or stay longer than intended.” It always makes me think of my college band director, Dr. Nimmo. As he worked with us to draw the music out of notes on a page, he would sometimes point to a note and say, “I want you to tarry on this note. Hold it just a moment longer.” And when we did – oh, how the music came alive! That short, tarrying moment increased the tension for the listener, as they longed for the resolution of the chord. But

Gustavus Wind Orchestra, Dr. Nimmo
at the helm (there I am, front row, far left!)

because of that tarry, that patient delay, the resolution was so much sweeter, so much more satisfying. When we all tarried together, the result was that we made something so moving and beautiful together. “If it seems to tarry, wait for it. It will surely come.”

            Our reading from 2 Timothy, after the lovely line about the matriarchs of Timothy’s family, goes on to describe the faith that was passed from Grandma Lois to Mama Eunice to Timothy. Paul assures Timothy that through the struggles we will face for the sake of the gospel, we can trust the Lord. “God did not give us a spirit of cowardice,” he writes, “but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.” He reminds Timothy that we must “[rely] on the power of God, who saved us and called us with a holy calling, not according to our works but according to his own purpose and grace.” God gives us what it takes to work through the challenges of this faith that we so joyfully pass down. With these gifts, Paul assures Timothy that our faith will carry us through, telling him, “Hold fast to [sound teaching]… in the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. Guard the good treasure entrusted to you, with the help of the Holy Spirit living in us.”

            And that’s really the bottom line. No matter what we may face in our lives of faith – either as individuals or as many generations of a church family of faith – and no matter what joys or struggles or conflicts, no matter how much tension and waiting we must endure, doing it in faith means we are never doing it alone. We have the help of the Holy Spirit living in us. We have the promises God made to those who have gone before us, and that God now makes to us. And we have the enduring knowledge that it is by grace that we are saved, and that our failings and struggles have no bearing on the power of God in Christ.

            And so with that hope and promise in mind, brothers and sisters in Christ, let us pray… Lord, increase our faith. Grant us a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline, a spirit of wisdom and understanding, a spirit of patience with each other, and patience with you as we wait for your appointed vision to become a reality. Help us to remember that a part of faith is living in tension, and trusting you in the midst of it. Guide and strengthen us to pass this vision on to our children and grandchildren with confidence. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.