Marching for Justice

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to join with over 3000 faith leaders from several faiths, and a number of lay people, to march from the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial to the Department of Justice, to make our voices heard about the need for racial justice, economic justice, voting rights, and healthcare. These are all issues the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. addressed in his I Have a Dream speech in the original March on Washington, which happened exactly 54 years before, and are all still issues today.

I was eager to be a part of something bigger than my local congregation, or even the Lutheran Church. I was eager to feel and be a part of the energy of so many devoted faith leaders, as well as to make a very public statement that other Christians and people of other faiths do not join the Christian Evangelicals in supporting what is currently going on in Washington, nor of various social issues. (When I say I am pro-life, I mean pro-life across the board - including providing prenatal care, parental leave, and healthcare, immigrant and refugee rights, environmental justice, LGBT rights, education, addressing mass incarceration and other race-related issue... not just pro-birth.) I was eager to hear dynamic speakers, to glean insights from them, to come back energized, refreshed, and motivated.

In addition to all of that, my grandparents, Dick and June Solberg, marched with Dr. King in the original March on Washington, and were there to hear his epic speech. Before I left for Washington, I read about it in my grandpa's memoirs. He had recently been hired as the new dean of Thiel College, and marched with my grandma as a representative of the American Lutheran Church (a predecessor body of my own ELCA). I have long looked to my grandparents as models of faith, life, and ministry, and here I had an opportunity to walk in their footsteps, so to speak. The fact that the 1000 Ministers March for Justice took place on the anniversary of my ordination (and, my baptism!) sealed the deal. I was going!

There were so many dynamic speakers and moments, from people of so many different faiths and backgrounds, and every one of them had something important to say. I wanted to include a few highlights:

* One person held a sign that said, "Who benefits from the decisions you make?" I love this question. Sometimes we need to make decisions that benefit ourselves (like, saving money for retirement, or eating healthy food, or taking a vacation). That's okay. But when we are considering the decisions before us that have real effects on other people, especially other people who are less privileged than ourselves, this is a good reality check. Am I voting this way because it directly benefits me? Does a benefit to me mean that someone else suffers in some way? Who, and how? As Dietrich Bonheffer says, "When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die." Or as Jesus says, "Take up your cross and follow me." Nothing about Christian life says that we choose the best course for ourselves; it is always to choose what is best for your neighbor - especially your neighbor who is suffering.

* One speaker elaborated on that theme, saying that love is best expressed through sacrifice. We know that by looking at Jesus, who of course sacrificed everything for our sake, and who told us that true love means laying down your life for another. This speaker (sorry, can't remember names!) went on to say, "You want justice? Fine. What are you willing to sacrifice for it?" Boy, that made me think. I talk a big talk about justice, and am even willing to admit my own white privilege and the ways I have benefited from it. But am I willing to give it up? Am I willing to actively work against my best interest (even if just in the short term), if that is what it takes to achieve justice for all? And if I'm not - who am I to preach it? ("Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere." MLK)

* I wish I could remember the exact words of this next one, but it was basically that loving your neighbor means not only directly serving them, but also not being ambivalent about your neighbor in need. I think this is a problem for Christians of privilege. Though of course we can't help everyone all the time, and have to make choices about where to exert our energy, I think so often we say, "Well, that's not my problem," or, "That doesn't affect me or anyone I care about," and we ignore the needs of others. ("Yeah, I know that black people are discriminated against, but is it really such a big deal? Or are they just making it a big deal?" So easy to justify our lack of care...)

* One rabbi had a line I just loved: he said it was all well and good we were marching today, but his people, the Jewish people, started marching 5000 years ago. 5000 years ago, they marched out of Egypt, out of their oppression, and celebrated the freedom God had granted them. This is such a central story for Judaism, which we just so happen to be starting in our lectionary readings. On Sunday, we heard about how the Hebrew women resisted Pharaoh's decree that all Hebrew boys should be killed because they were getting too numerous and strong. The midwives (who feared God, the text tells us) first said that the Hebrew women were so vigorous, they were giving birth before the midwives even got there. And God rewarded the women for resisting Pharaoh by giving them families. So Pharaoh made a harsher decree, telling everyone to kill the Hebrew boys. Still, some Hebrew women resisted, by hiding a baby, then sending him down the river where Pharaoh's daughter would find him. She adopted him, and Miriam, the baby's sister, managed to arrange for him to be nursed by his biological mother. That baby, of course, was Moses; the women's resistance to Pharaoh made it possible for Moses to then resist Pharaoh even further, and ultimately lead God's people out of slavery and into freedom. What a story for our times!

* Speaking of the Jewish community that was present, one representative from the Jewish Cantors Association got the whole crowd of us singing, "Lord, prepare me to be a sanctuary, pure and holy, tried and true. With thanksgiving, I'll be a living sanctuary for you." Then we all sang it in Hebrew, with him feeding us the words! The women right behind us were Jewish, and singing their hearts out with grins on their faces during the Hebrew.

* Finally, one of our last speakers was Otis Moss III, and called the Church to repentance: of our exclusion of LGBTQ brothers and sisters, of our racism, our oppression of the First Nations (if we want to talk about taking back our country, he said, let's talk to the First Nations!), and of our silence - so that we can be the Body of Christ more fully in the world and with all the beautiful diversity that God has made in creation. This really resonated with me, because this is exactly where I have found myself in my own journey, especially since Charlottesville. To quote Dietrich Bonheffer again, "Silence in the face of evil is itself evil: God will not hold us guiltless." I have been compelled to do some serious self examination to discover where I have participated in these various sins, where I have been complacent or just negligent.

And the more I think about it, the more I think this is necessary - for all sides - if we want to find healing in this country. We need to all be able to recognize our role in causing division, and in disregarding those in need, and in placing our own safety and comfort above that of others, and in assuming our hopes and goals are the highest hopes and goals. No one will ever convince anyone else; we will only come together if we are willing to be vulnerable and self-reflective with each other. That is, if we are able to see in ourselves and in each other our common humanity. And repentance is such an important part of that.

All in all, it was a pretty moving experience. I was touched by our ability to appreciate the voices of different faiths, to speak in ways with which we could all resonate, regardless of background, to call out evil (rarely people, but rather, people's actions) but to otherwise lift each other up. It was a very spirit-filled event, that I was proud to be a part of. I'm so grateful I could be!

My marching companions from Upstate NY Synod

Sermon: Facing our racism (Aug. 20, 2017)

Pentecost 11A

August 20, 2017

Matthew 15:10-28

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

            Tomorrow, as you likely know, we will have the chance to witness a once-in-a-lifetime event: a total eclipse of the sun. Well, not quite here in New York, where it will only be partial, but in parts of our country, the moon will entirely cover the sun in the middle of the day, bringing darkness over the land for as long as two and a half minutes. It’s an extraordinary event, and a reminder of just how magnificent are the cosmos that our God has created.

            But I also can’t help but notice the irony – that this moon-shadow that will be cast upon our country corresponds with the shadow already cast by a resurgence of some of the most hateful history of our nation. After what happened in Charlottesville last weekend, it already seems like there is a shadow cast upon this land. Like many of you, I looked at images of the event – hundreds of white men (and some women) carrying torches, weapons and shields, and chanting about their superiority over anyone who doesn’t look or believe like them – and I felt sick to my stomach. I didn’t know, or at least wasn’t willing to believe, that such people still existed in this country in such large numbers, and that they were willing to make themselves known. Even in the Klan meetings of yesteryear, members wore hoods over their faces – but these men in Charlottesville were emboldened to spew hate right out in the open! When faced with counter-protesters, things turned violent, even resulting in injury and death. It was a stark realization that the sin of racism did not die in America with the Civil War, or the end of Jim Crow laws, or the election of a black president. It is still very much a reality that can no longer be ignored.

            I couldn’t help but think of those white nationalists, spewing hateful words, as I read today’s Gospel lesson. “It is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person,” Jesus says, “but it is what comes out of the mouth that defiles it.” Well yeah, here was a pretty stark example of defiling things coming out of mouths! I think Jesus’ observation makes a lot sense, to be honest! But then the disciples tell Jesus, “Hey, Jesus, just so you know, what you said back there offended the Pharisees.” Ah, the Pharisees. The Pharisees, you may remember, are teachers of Jewish law. They are respected, and they are educated, and they really know their stuff. But they are often called out by Jesus, because in their hard-nosed following of the law, they often lost sight of the big picture, and especially the imperative to love their neighbor. Today is one example of that: the Pharisees are on people’s case about properly washing hands before eating. A good practice, to be sure, but their insistence on it has blinded them to the larger concern of how people are speaking to and about one another. So Jesus calls them out on it. And, the Pharisees are offended.

Why so offended, you ask? Well, because they had some deeply held and well-informed convictions about how things should be (and they were good, faithful people, so their opinion about how things should be was really, pretty valid). But then Jesus comes along and says, in essence, “You’re wrong. This thing that you hold so dear – it’s totally off mark. In fact, it doesn’t matter at all.” Now, I don’t care much about hand-washing, aside from its obvious health benefits, but I do know how it feels to believe passionately about something, or even just to hold it as a truth, and be told – even by Jesus – that I am off the mark, that my viewpoint needs to change. There are times when I read something Jesus says that challenges my belief or my way or life, and I think, “But… but… but… I don’t want to change my views about that! My view makes me feel safer, or it is fun, or it is more convenient for me.” In fact, sometimes when this happens to me, I’m inclined to feel offended by what Jesus says – just like the Pharisees.

It’s good to notice that. It’s good to recognize when God’s Word, when the words of Jesus, rub up against our beliefs or our ways of life, and show us that we still have some growing and reflecting to do. When we are willing to read God’s Word and examine our hearts, and then maybe even change our ways in response – that is what it called a life of faith and a relationship with the living God. Because I don’t know about you, but I don’t come to church each week to hear, “You’re doing it right! Keep it up!” I come to learn and grow and be changed!

This need to re-examine and grow becomes even clearer in the next part of the story. Jesus leaves that place and heads on to the next place, and a Canaanite woman approaches him, begging for help for her daughter. Canaanites are not

Christ and the Canaanite woman,
Drouais, Jean-Germain, 1763-1788
http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=55923

Jewish, not a part of the house of Israel. They are “the other” – a different race. When she first starts asking for help, Jesus ignores her. The disciples ask him to send her away – she is annoying them. “She keeps shouting at us,” they say. “But she’s not even one of us. She’s different, and we don’t really care about her issues right now. She is claiming that Canaanite lives matter as much as ours, but we’d rather just focus on our needs right now. Israel’s lives matter more.” To the shock of the reader, Jesus seems to agree with them! He finally responds, saying he didn’t come to help her kind. He came to help the lost sheep of the house of Israel. But she persists. She begs him to help. “The life of my daughter matters,” she says. “Canaanite lives matter, at least enough to catch some crumbs from the table.” And finally Jesus says, “Yes, you’re right. Great is your faith!” and he heals her daughter.

Now, I don’t know if Jesus was just being a little more human here than we might prefer, and this woman helped him see he needed to broaden his mission, or if maybe he was just testing her and those watching to show the importance of persisting in faith, but either way – Jesus’ response here bothers me. Maybe it even offends me, just like he offended the Pharisees a few verses back. And here’s why: What I want from Jesus is immediate response to a person in need, no matter that she is a woman, a Canaanite, or even, as Jesus himself says, a “dog.” Jesus should care about all the people! Right??

And that moment when Jesus doesn’t seem to care is offensive to me – because that moment leaves space for me to have to notice the times when I don’t or won’t take notice of those people who may be different from me, who are begging for help. In that moment when Jesus leaves this woman begging, I realize how often I see someone who is in need and I think, “Not my problem.” Or how I can just turn off the news when it becomes too much, because I have the privilege of not having to care, because it doesn’t affect me or my loved ones. Or how sometimes, in my most sinful moments, I convince myself, even unconsciously for a brief moment, that this person is in need by their own fault, and oh, what a shame it is.

Now, Jesus may not have been thinking any those things when he ignores and dismisses the woman, but the hard truth is: I know that I am. I know that I often ignore the needs of my neighbors who are people of color, or Jewish or Muslim, or don’t even make the effort to discover what those needs are in the first place. I know that I am able to ignore or dismiss others because their reality is not mine, and I can go about my life relatively unaffected by systemic racism or anti-Semitism. I know that as a white woman, I am afforded a lot of privileges that I did nothing to earn – things as simple as being able to find a flesh-colored band-aid that is the color of my flesh, and things more significant like being able to shop in a store without being followed or questioned, or get out of a speeding ticket when I was clearly at fault. I know that I can enjoy those privileges while others cannot, but I am willing to accept things as they are, because I benefit from it.

Brothers and sisters, sometimes a story in the Bible is offensive to us, because it shows us a great big mirror that forces us to look at our own hearts and find the sin therein. This is one of them, especially in light of the persisting reality of racism of which our country has become unequivocally aware. Even if we weren’t the ones carrying torches across the University of Virginia campus, that does not mean we don’t have a role in the system that has brought that to the fore. And it certainly doesn’t mean we can shirk our responsibility to respond to it. As God-fearing Christians who proclaim the death and resurrection of Christ, we must respond to it, somehow.

My suggestion, as I wrote in a letter to you this week, is that we begin with prayerful repentance, by looking in the mirror. We begin by examining where we have benefitted from or participated in systemic racism, by checking ourselves and our reactions in our interactions with people of color, by taking note of when we are offended by something and asking, “Why does that offend me?” and being open to the possibility that God is trying to tell you something in your reaction. We begin by listening to and taking seriously the nagging voice of the Canaanite woman, telling us that her life and her story matter. We begin by praying that God would not only reveal our sin, but also turn out hearts back toward the loving grace of Jesus Christ.

I’m hoping to catch at least a part of the eclipse tomorrow. As the sky starts to darken, around 1:30, I invite you to join me in praying for victims of racism, and for those who espouse hate. It’s appropriate that 1:30 is also the time when

Heather Heyer, a peaceful counter-protester to hate, was struck and killed by a car driven by someone associated with the white supremacists, so I will be praying for her and her family. At the peak of the eclipse, the darkest moment, 2:34, let us pray that God would reveal to us our own prejudices, and ask forgiveness. And as the sky brightens again throughout the rest of the afternoon, let us give thanks, that God never leaves us in our sin, that God sent his only Son to die for us and rise again, and invited us to join him in the new life he gives. Let us pray that by God’s forgiveness, by the gift of new life that we receive in our baptism, and by the nourishment we receive in the holy sacrament, we would be equipped and empowered to work for peace and justice, to stand by our brothers and sisters of different race and creed, and to bring God’s love to all whom we meet.

Let us pray… God of all creation, open our eyes, our ears, and our hearts to the needs of those among us begging for help. Help us to see and to confess our prejudice, and turn our hearts toward you. Encourage us to participate in the pursuit of peace and justice for all. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: When "nothing" is something (Aug 6, 2017)

Pentecost 9A

August 6, 2017

Matthew 14:13-21

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

            Jesus was tired. Not just physically tired – he was the sort of bone tired you get when you have been working hard, and then, you are faced with an unimaginable tragedy. You see, he had just found out that his friend, relative, and co-worker in the gospel, John the Baptist, had been beheaded as a part of some rich people’s party gone awry. It was so unnecessary, so senseless, purely an act of hatred and fear… and Jesus was grieving. Even in the midst of his pain, I have to wonder if Jesus also feared a little for himself – if Herod and his cronies would behead John, maybe he was next!

            Jesus understandably needed to get away from it all for a bit, to sort out what had just happened, and talk to his Dad about it. We have all been there, haven’t we? You just need a little “you time,” where no one else is demanding your attention, and you can find some rest for your soul and for your body, and some time for prayer, so you’ll be equipped to get back to your daily work refreshed and energized. I feel you, Jesus. You hop in that boat and head somewhere deserted, re-fuel, and we’ll see you on the flip side.

But no, it was not to be. A crowd follows him out there – 5000 men plus women and children, all of them in need of something: healing of body or spirit, love, guidance, and, we would come to find out, food. Their needs are various and they are many. And those, let’s call it 10,000 people are all hammering on Jesus’ proverbial door, asking for help. And so Jesus, being Jesus, doesn’t just turn his back and say, “Just give me a minute!” No, he has compassion on the crowd. And he brings them the healing that they crave.

"Loaves and Fishes" by Helen Moloney
http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/diglib-fulldisplay.pl?SID=
20170820155975341&code=act&RC=55894&Row=13

It’s been a long day for Jesus. He was emotionally drained from the beginning, as he was grieving his cousin. He was running on empty. And now he has spent the whole afternoon healing thousands of hurting, hungry people. But now evening is drawing near. The disciples, always eager to be helpful but so often missing the mark, point out to Jesus that they are smack in the middle of Nowheresville, where there is nothing to eat for several thousand hungry people, and it was getting dark. He needed to send them away so they could get themselves some food. How rational, even considerate of the disciples: if these folks are going to be able to help themselves, they say, we need to send them on their way. But Jesus is rarely rational. He says, “Nah, they don’t need to go anywhere. You give them something to eat.” I can just picture the disciples looking at each other, exchanging that glance that says, “Has he lost it? Has he seen the crowd size?” Again, being their rational selves, they point out, “We have nothing here but fives loaves and two fish.” Certainly not enough to feed 10,000 people!

I am really caught by their statement here… because it is a statement I have made myself so many times. It starts by minimizing your gifts. “We have nothing…” they say. We have no money. We have no ideas. We have no goals or direction. We have no people to lead the effort. We have no talent. It is a statement of scarcity, which begins by noticing how little, how not-enough there is available. It is often a refrain heard around church council tables: We’d like to start that ministry, but we have no time or resources. We’d like to grow our Sunday School, but we have no teachers. We’d like to fix our building, but we have no money. We’d like to feed the crowd, but we have nothing. So, we won’t do anything.

Pastor Molly Baskette tells a story of when she was talking to a church consultant about her efforts to revive her small church. She laments, “If only we didn’t have 35 people and a crumbling building!” The consultant looks at her and says, “Do you know how many mission congregations [who start with a pastor and only a few people] would love to have 35 people and a crumbling building?” What a perspective shift!

And that’s what happens in the next part of the disciples’ statement. “We have nothing… but five loaves and two fish.” Well! I guess they didn’t have “nothing” after all! Five loaves and two fish are very much something – certainly enough for the God who created the universe out of literally nothing to feed a few thousand people! And so in a culture not even accustomed to eating until they are full, every last one of those hungry people ate until they were satisfied, and there was even a little more.

This is a story about so many things – it’s no wonder it is the only miracle of Jesus that appears in all four of the Gospels – but what we can see in it today is how God turns our “nothing” into an abundance. Jesus takes his drained, tired, grieving self, and turns it into healing for others. Jesus takes the disciples’ doubt, and turns it into hope. And most impressively, Jesus takes “only” five loaves and two fishes, and turns it into a remarkable feast for 10,000 people.

This is a story we need to hear. Because those conversations that go on around church council tables – about how we don’t have the leaders, or the volunteers, or the money to balance the budget – these conversations happen also in our personal lives. And probably nowhere more obviously than in how we manage our money. I think we often approach our money habits the same way as the disciples in this story: we look at things very reasonably, look at the situation, what makes practical sense, and go with it. “We have nothing,” we say, “but what we need to pay the bills, put some in savings, and have a little extra.” But just like with the disciples, that is quite a bit more than nothing, isn’t it! And to categorize it with such a limiting word as “nothing” is not to leave space for our loving, compassionate God to do God’s life-giving work!

Now, I know that Jesus isn’t typically coming into our bank accounts and multiplying the dollars to the tune of 5000 times of what we had. But when we give to God from our hearts, out of faith, and with our trust, presenting our proverbial “five loaves and two fishes” not with a descriptor of “nothing,” but rather as, “something I have to offer,” God multiplies it in different ways. It is multiplied in gratitude and joy – research even supports that the more the generous you are, the more grateful and joyful. It is multiplied in prayer – for each dollar you give to the church gets soaked in prayer, immediately here during worship, and every other step along the way as it goes to do God’s work. It is multiplied in love – as it goes on to help and serve those whom God loves, you and the people it serves become connected in a way that only love can do.

So when you give to God, your money does very much get multiplied! Because this is how our God works. Our God makes big things out of no-things. Our God makes compassion out of fatigue, healing out of a desert, a feast out of five loaves and two fishes, and grace and salvation out of death on a cross. Our God makes belonging and everlasting life out of a pool of water, and forgiveness out of a piece of bread and a sip of wine. If we truly believe that, that our God is capable of all these things, then why do we look at our finances, our churches, our lives, and say, “We have nothing”? We have so little, we must keep it for ourselves lest we lose everything! We don’t have nothing – we have everything, because we have the love, grace and power of our God, who continually multiplies, and brings everything out of no-thing.

Let us pray… God of everything, when we try to tell you or ourselves that we have nothing, show us the abundance around us. Show us how you turn nothing into everything we could possibly need, and more. Give us generous hearts, hearts that trust in your providence, and your abundance. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Dear Klaus, thank you

The day I got Klaus

August 1, 2017

Dear Klaus,

I am sitting here next to you, and giving thanks. These past weeks and months, we have watched your age catch up to you, as your health has declined. You have been such a trooper, putting up with a couple babies poking and pulling on you (and in Grace's case, trying to ride you), being patient with how often you get kicked as we run around trying to take care of those two babies, never barking or biting but warming when appropriate, and remaining ever the cuddliest buddy.

But, my dear friend, we have come to the end. We had hoped against hope that you might recover, but it is increasingly clear that you won't. And so today, as I enjoy one last day with my little furry love, I want to remember all the things you have been.

You were my first dog. Sure, my parents had had dogs that I loved and considered my own, but I had

His first birthday (9yrs old!) with me

never had my very own dog. At the time I got you, it didn't make a lot of sense for me to get a dog. I first met you between my first two cancer surgeries. I went out to your house, and amidst a bunch of barking dogs, one little guy came right up and put his wee paws on my shins. "This one?" I asked, and she said yes. I hung out and watched you for a little while - watched you cuddle, and strut, and chew on your own ear (??), and follow a toddler around for dropped food - and got a sense of who you would be. It seemed like fate, and so I went for it. I am so glad I did. It was a rocky start (my oboe case still smells like pee), but you were exactly what I needed when I needed it. Thank you for being my good dog.

You were my nurse. The day your previous owner dropped you off at my apartment (October 31, 2012), I was home recovering from my second surgery. You were understandably a little uncertain of why you were in this new place, but after a short time, you were crawling up on

Comic relief, aka "flying nun"

me and licking my face. We were fast friends. And you quickly became my nurse, cuddling with me and helping me heal from four surgeries. When anxiety was high, you were there to stroke. When tears flowed, you offered hugs and kisses. You wiggled your way into every emotion and brought calm, and sometimes, comic relief. You always knew just what was needed, and gave it. Thank you for taking care of me.

You were our first "child." Michael suddenly lost his dog, Daisy, the day after my third (and first major) surgery. As Michael and I prepared to be married three months after that, he shifted all his dog love to you. You quickly became not mine, but ours. This is documented by probably thousands of pictures, including one of you as a

The Rehbaums!

groomsdog at our wedding, with your yellow bow-tie. (You ate your heart out at that event, patrolling the perimeter to pick up all dropped food, and boy, you felt it that night!) You came with us to pick out a Christmas tree. You were in our church directory photo. You were as much a Rehbaum as anyone else! Klaus Rehbaum the Dachshund, German dog! Thank you for being a part of our family.

You were our daughter's first friend. When Grace came along, our attention necessarily shifted to her and her needs, but you were no less a part of the family. You watched over her, checking in on her, guarding her, sitting with her when she cried. You had a little sibling rivalry, vying as you did for lap space, but overall, she was quite enamored with you (whom she calls "Lau"), and you were quite protective of her, and have been for Isaac, as well. Two mornings ago, as you stood whimpering under the table, Grace looked at me with worried eyes and asked, "Lau okay?" I said no, you weren't,

Grace and Klaus

that you were very sick. She said, "Oh..." and proceeded to try to give you food. That night, even in your disorientation, you stood guard by their door for an hour after we went to sleep. Yesterday, when Grace was trying to move you so she could get her bike through, she accidentally pulled off your collar. She looked at it, and starting reading the tag (interspersing "Lau" with various other babble). Then she held it up for me, pointing to your name tag, and said, "See? Lau!" She loves you, little dog. Thank you for your care of our children, and your friendship.

You were my constant. Since I moved to Rochester, my life has gone through several major changes: new job, two cancers, five surgeries, wedding, new house, two babies. Through all of that, you have been my constant. You have been my steadfast little friend. You have adapted, and cuddled, and made us laugh, and always loved with all that you could. Thank you for grounding me.

Klaus and "IronKlaus"

I couldn't have asked for a better dog - you patient, tolerant, gentle, kind, stubborn, spunky, friendly, loving boy. As Michael said yesterday, if we could be half as good humans as you are a dog, we would be doing all right. Thank you for your cuddles. Thank you for your fish breath-scented kisses. Thank you for all the sermon illustrations. Thank you for loving our babies. Thank you for winning us both over for small dogs. Thank you for showing us what unconditional love and affection looks like. Thank you for being in my life.

Love,

Your forever Mama

Sermon: Never separate from love (July 30, 2017)

Pentecost 8A

July 30, 2017

Romans 8:26-39

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

            Some years ago my mom and I traveled from California to Portland. At the time, my parents were taking care of my grandmother, visiting her every day in a nursing home as she fell deeper into the grips of Alzheimer’s. My grandpa had died a few years before, but my mom had been unable really to grieve his death, because she immediately threw herself into loving and caring for her mom. As my parents started dealing with my grandparents’ estate, one collection of items that they went through was my grandma’s jewelry. Among many beautiful pieces was my great-grandma Nita’s diamond ring. It fit my mom perfectly, and as she wore it, she felt close not only to her grandmother, but also to her own mom, even as her mom – her brilliance, her compassion, her eloquence – was slipping rapidly away.

            On our way home from our trip north, my mom packed all her valuables in her carry-on, not wanting to lose them should something happen to the checked luggage. This included her jewelry – and Grandma Nita’s diamond ring. Everything went smoothly as we picked up baggage and loaded it in the car… but when we arrived home from the airport, my mom realized she was missing her carry-on. She knew she had taken it off the plane. Did anyone remember putting it in the car? No one did. We called the airport, and nothing had been turned in. My mom’s carry-on – including that diamond ring that tied her to her grandmother and her mother in a time when she daily watched her slip further away – was gone for good.

            It wasn’t so much the loss of the diamond that was devastating. We all know that things can be replaced. No, the real loss was felt in all that the ring represented. Her grandma was gone. Her dad was gone. Her mom was slipping away. If you have lost someone or something important to you, you know – when you endure a loss, it is not long before you start to feel a little lost yourself. You feel lost, and you may even start to feel alone and disconnected.

             And genuine connection is what we social, emotional beings crave, perhaps more than anything else – connection with friends, with a partner, with family, with God. That is why this last line we heard today from Paul’s letter to the Romans is so meaningful to us: “I am convinced,” he says, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” It’s a passage often read at funerals, during a time when we are feeling an acute loss, but it is good news for us any

time we are feeling any sort of loss, isn’t it? It is a comfort. It is a solace. It feels good to our hearts, because what is more devastating than loss, or to feel lost, or to feel alone? And here, we are promised: we are never alone.

            Perhaps you have a story from your past, or even from your present, in which you needed to hear that promise of enduring connection. There are plenty of causes for it. Paul even lists a few: “Who will separate us from the love of Christ?” he asks. “Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?” These words no doubt meant everything to the audience for which he was writing – for the first century Romans reading his letter, these all hit remarkably close to home. For us, they may not carry the same impact. So, what if we substituted some more modern situations to make Paul’s sentiment come alive for us today, in 2017? How about this: “What can separate us from the love of Christ? Will divorce, or unemployment, or secularism, or mental illness, or sexuality, or ISIS, or hate crimes, or cancer, or miscarriage, or infertility, or guns, or bullying?”

            Suddenly, Paul’s next statement hits with a much harder punch: “No! In all these things, we are more than conquerors!” In all of these everyday realities that threaten us, that threaten our safety and our views and our self-image and our dreams and our way of being in the world – in all these things, we are more than conquerors. The Greek there is the same word from which we get the English “hyper” – so, we are hyper-winners! The winningest of winners! Notice, he does not say we are conquerors over these things, but rather, conquerors in these things. Paul is not saying, “If we are faithful enough, or pray hard enough, we will not have to endure these things.” He isn’t promising that challenges will not come our way, but rather, that when they do, we still have victory in Jesus Christ, because we still have the love and grace of Jesus Christ. In all these things, we are more than conquerors.

            Still, we may not always feel much like conquerors. As Paul notes, we may feel more like sheep lined up to be slaughtered – standing up for counter-cultural ideals, living in a way different from how the world would have us live, loving our neighbors of all stripes, standing up for the poor and marginalized and disenfranchised, like Jesus did and like he commanded. This is not an easy job. It was not easy in the first century, and it isn’t easy now. It would be much easier to be socially acceptable, to watch out for number one, to seek our own good instead of the good of the poor or the other. We do sometimes feel as if we are sheep to be slaughtered by this harsh world.

            Yet Paul responds to each sheep as he or she asks his or her most pained question, fearful of the backlash, and instead receives a grace-full, pastoral response. A man riddled with tumors asks, “Does my cancer separate me from the love of Christ?” No! A recently widowed woman who is so overcome by grief she can barely leave the house asks, “Does my grief separate me from the love of Christ?” No! A man who is unable to be as kind and loving to his family as he should be, because he struggles with depression and anxiety, asks, “Does my mental illness separate me from the love of Christ?” No! A woman who has endured a sexual assault comes, broken and ashamed, and asks, “Does my brokenness separate me from the love of Christ?” No! A person who was born male, but has always identified more as a woman, asks, “Does my gender confusion separate me from the love of Christ?” No! A man who cannot shake his dependence on alcohol to get through each day asks, “Does my addiction separate me from the love of Christ?” No!

            Finally Paul stops them all and says, “Listen up, everyone! There is nothing in all creation that can separate you from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Nothing! That covers everyone, everything, every conceivable situation you could ask me about.” Whatever our brokenness, whatever our pain, whatever our sordid pasts – we are never, ever separate from the love of God.

            And so we are more than conquerors. No matter the failures and struggles we face, we have this love, and we have the assurance that the Spirit intercedes on our behalf to pray when we don’t know how, and we have the enduring promise that, because Christ died for us, and rose again, and brought us with him into eternal life, we need not fear the grave. Let us cling to that promise, brothers and sisters. Let us rejoice in our victory, knowing that it does not save us from having to face hardship, but that it promises that in all we face, we are never alone, and never without the life-changing love of God.

            Let us pray… God of love, when we face hardship, distress, persecution, hunger, vulnerability, danger, or violence, and when we feel so very alone in our struggles, remind us that we can trust that your love is always with us. Help us to see others, too, as people who also possess the assurance that they are your beloved children. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.