Sermon: Anxiously awaiting a Savior (Nov. 29, 2020)

 Advent 1B

November 29, 2020

Isaiah 64:1-9, 1 Cor. 1:3-9, Mark 13: 24-37

Full service can be viewed here.

 

INTRODUCTION

         While our culture tells us that Advent is the start of counting down to Christmas, the first Sunday of Advent begins not with a note of Christmas-y joy, but one of despair (I know, not what any of us were looking for today!). Our readings today reflect a realization that humankind is at the end of its rope, that we cannot save ourselves by our own power, and that we are in desperate need of a savior – which, it turns out, is the perfect posture to have as we look toward the first coming of that savior on Christmas! Still, even as we prepare to celebrate that blessed event, we also grieve that the world has yet to be redeemed, and so in this season of Advent, we pray that Christ would come again – soon! –  to rule over God’s creation in power and justice.

         You will see both of these themes in our readings today – the despair and the hope. You will see the despair in Isaiah and the Psalm, especially that first line of Isaiah. You’ll hear the people’s longing for a savior, but notice especially on that word, “YET,” how Isaiah’s tone changes. Isaiah trusts God even when God seems absent. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians offers words of encouragement to a Church that is waiting for what they believed was the imminent return of Christ. And the passage from Mark, known as “Mark’s little apocalypse,” looks forward with both awe and thanksgiving (and perhaps a little terror!) to the coming of the Lord.

It’s a pretty anxious bunch of texts, all in all. So as you listen, just notice that anxiety, keeping in mind the unique anxiety of our own time, and hear how God speaks to it. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Unfiltered photo of San Francisco sky this summer

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

         Each year we think Advent will greet us with warm fuzzies. This year especially, if social media was any indication, people were really looking forward to some nice sparkly lights and greenery and our beautiful red banners to bring some cheer into this dark, anxious world. And while those decorations do help some, the readings today do not, at least not at first.

         “Oh, that you would tear open the heavens and come down!” Isaiah cries. Come down, already, God – where are you? Your people are suffering down here! We need you, right now! The Psalmist adds his plea, “Restore us, O God! Stir up your might, and come!” Our passage from Mark, the “little apocalypse,” describes a day that sounds a little too close to some days this year, in which “the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will fall from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken.” And by the way, we do not know the day or hour this will happen. We simply have to wait and watch and keep awake.

No, it’s not very “warm and fuzzy” is it? The first Sunday of Advent greets us not with an escape from our anxiety, but by meeting us right in the thick of it, and, giving us the words that polite society wishes we would just keep to ourselves. These texts give voice to the prayers we have prayed, and to the feeling we already know, that “the world is not okay, and the suffering and pain are not over yet.”

         But honestly, I think this recognition of pain and suffering is ultimately better than an escape, because it lets us deal with what is all too real to us. It brings us to recognize that we are still in desperate need of a savior. Our world is still so full of pain and brokenness and sadness and “not yet,” and no number of Christmas carols or lighted trees are going to fill that void like our God coming down from heaven can do. And that is why we plead, with Isaiah: we want God to tear open the heavens and come down right now. We want God to “stir up [his] power and come.” We want our God to come and be with us, and know us, and truly to see us, even and especially when we suffer.

         I came across a compelling definition of suffering this week, from Father Richard Rohr, who is known especially for his work with contemplative practices. He defines suffering as the feeling of “not being in control.” No wonder this year has been so hard, then, huh?! 2020 has been a planner’s nightmare. Every day we plan for today, maybe for a week or two in advance. Sure, there are tentative plans further out, but what if schools close again? What if the vaccines aren’t distributed as quickly or efficiently as we pray they will be? What if there isn’t a peaceful transfer of power in January? What if a civil war breaks out? There are so many unknowns and “what-ifs,” and the thought of making plans too often seems laughable. We feel we have no control, and we suffer for it.

I remember those first weeks of the pandemic, how I fought this inability to plan anything, and grieved the plans I had made that would no longer come about. I remember those internal wrestling matches and frustrations, all too well. But as the pandemic has dragged on, I have noticed something: I’ve started to get more comfortable with not having plans. Not comfortable, mind you, but more comfortable. I have found myself increasingly willing and able to let go of my need for control over what happens, and to take it all one day at a time, placing it all in God’s able hands. In other words: I have learned how it feels to trust God.

Or, to use Jesus’ words in the Gospel reading, I have started to really understand what it means to “keep awake” – to understand that command not just with my head, but with my heart. Constant vigilance, constant prayer, constant reminders to myself to let go of my need to control, and to place it all in God’s hands, trusting that whatever happens, God’s love never changes. That God is faithful.

In this way, our suffering, as Rohr defines it, is lessened. Not because we are more in control, and not because the cause of the suffering has gone away. Rather, suffering lessens because that lack of control no longer has the power to suck the life and hope out of us. Is it still frustrating? You bet! Which is why I’m also grateful for passages like we have today, that offer this from-the-gut shout at God. The suffering and pain are real, and we can’t ignore that. But then after that shout, a nice deep, cleansing breath… and finally, a prayer offering all that anxiety into God’s control. All of this goes a long way toward getting our heads above the tumultuous waves of our struggles.

This sort of struggle, and the act of attentive waiting for God to act, is nothing new to God’s people. This is precisely the context to which Paul is writing in his letter to the Corinthians that we heard this morning, and he offers some pointers on how to manage the interminable time we are currently experiencing. The first century Church believed that Christ would return any minute. Talk about the need for constant vigilance! And also, the constant disappointment and frustration. It’s like being 41 weeks pregnant and waking up each morning to realize, “Darn, still pregnant” – except it goes on for generations! Paul encourages the early Christians that during this time of waiting, they should strive to be spiritually prepared for the great day of transformation that Jesus would usher in. In other words, rather than digging in our heels and looking back to what was, we ought to be constantly open to the possibility of change and growth. But lest this constant vigilance get discouraging and exhausting (as we all know it can!), Paul reminds them that God has enriched them with every gift they need to endure this time. “In every way you have been enriched in him, in speech and knowledge of every kind,” he says, “so that you are not lacking in any spiritual gift as you wait for the revealing of our Lord Jesus Christ.” You have what you need. He assures them that God will strengthen them during this time of waiting and watching. And then comes perhaps the best news of all: “God is faithful.” No matter how long we have to wait, we will never be left alone, nor do we have to rely upon our own power to get through this. God is faithful to the end.

These are difficult weeks, my friends. What is often a season of joy and nostalgia is covered by a shroud of anxiety and disappointment this year. It is okay to be honest about that pain and suffering, like Isaiah. It is okay to pray for it to end, like the Psalmist. But as we lift up what weighs on our hearts, let us also remember God’s promises: that God can hold all of our pain and ultimately does have control, that God has provided us with all that we need while we wait, that God will strengthen us to the end no matter how long it takes, and above all, that God is faithful and trustworthy.

Let us pray… Faithful God, some days we long for your presence, and all we can do is raise a cry of desperation to you. Thank you for receiving it. Help us to trust you, to relinquish our own need for control into your able hands, and to keep watch each and every day for the ways that you are already coming down into our lives. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: A suffering king?! (Nov. 22, 2020)

 Full service can be viewed here. 

Christ the King (A)

November 22, 2020

Matthew 25:31-46

 

INTRODUCTION

Today we come to the end of the church liturgical year with a celebration of Christ the King Sunday, sometimes called “Reign of Christ Sunday.” Interestingly, this is a fairly recent addition to the western liturgical calendar. It was instituted in 1925 by Pope Pius XI. That was a world that was ravaged by World War I, and the hope was that by lifting up Jesus’ humble kingship, the Church and the world might find a needed alternative to empire, nationalism, consumerism, and secularism. Though our circumstances have changed in the past 95 years, the need for this alternative sort of reign certainly has not! We are still constantly reckoning with the goals and ways of earthly leaders versus the way that God rules.

So as you listen to today’s texts, just keep that question in mind: how is the leadership and rule being described in these readings different from the sort of leadership and rule we see from world leaders? Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

         Some time ago, I saw a meme on Facebook that was a picture of Jesus knocking on a door. Jesus was of course fair-skinned, brown hair and blue eyes, wearing his trademark spotless white robe with a blue sash over one shoulder. The caption read, “If Jesus knocked at your door, would you answer?” The person who posted it said, “Of course!” And who wouldn’t open the door to such a Jesus, who looks like the one on every Sunday School classroom wall? As a rule of thumb, I always open the door to anyone with a halo encircling a perfectly coiffed head.

         But today’s famous (or is it infamous?) gospel story challenges our certainty that we would open to the door if Jesus knocked. What if the person knocking was wearing an orange jumpsuit? What if her clothes were tattered and insufficient? What if you had just seen him standing by the offramp with a cardboard sign asking for help? What if she smelled of days in the hot sun with no shower, her hair matted, her a child in her arms, and when she opened her mouth a jumble of foreign sounds came out?

In other words: what if the person asking for help was hungry, thirsty, a stranger, naked, sick, or in prison? Would we be so quick then to open our hearts and our homes to this person?

I have a confession, my friends: I’m pretty sure I am a goat in this scenario.

But I’m also pretty sure we are all goats, at least some of the time. Because I would bet that each of us are convicted by this text in some way. I remember several years ago, I was on my way to church to lead a Bible study on this very text, and I found myself at a red light next to a man with a sign asking for help. And you know what I thought? “All I have is a $20.” And then for good measure I assured myself that if I gave him that $20, he’d probably just use it for drugs or something, so withholding it was probably in his best interest. Then off I drove to lead a Bible study on helping “the least of these.” I am ashamed of my hypocrisy that day (and the many other days something similar has happened), but I also have a hunch that you all get it – I suspect most if not all of us have had a similar thought at some point. And yet, here it is: “As you did not do it to the least of these members of my family, you did not do it to me.” Yes, I saw Jesus standing on the corner that day, asking for help, and I left him there.

Isn’t this a strange image for a king? Today, as I mentioned, is Christ the King Sunday. When we think of kings, we think of power and riches, wisdom and strength, glory and might! And in fact, these are words we use to describe God as well, when we think about Him crowned and on his heavenly throne. Yet in today’s Gospel about the last judgment, Jesus describes himself as the very opposite of those things – identifying with those we see as weak, helpless or in need.

For some, the possibility of Jesus being needy is downright offensive. In 2013, Canadian sculptor Timothy Schmalz debuted this sculpture in Toronto. [Show picture of “Homeless Jesus.”] At first, it looks like a non-descript homeless person, with face covered by a blanket. It’s quite realistic – in fact, someone famously called the police upon seeing it, thinking it was a real homeless person on a bench! But if you look closely at the feet, they give away the person’s identity – you can see on the feet the telltale scars from nails. The non-descript homeless person is Jesus. Schmalz’s sculpture was first offered to two different churches, both of which declined. Since it was installed, several other casts have been made and installed all over the world, including one in Buffalo, and reception has been mixed. Some have called it an “insulting depiction” of Jesus that “demeans the neighborhood.” Some have called it “creepy” and uncomfortable. On the other hand, people will often sit on the bench beside homeless Jesus, hand on his scarred feet, and pray. It appears Homeless Jesus is as appalling as he is compelling.

However you feel about the sculpture, the image Jesus paints of himself in today’s text has a similar effect: though we love this idea that when we serve the least of these, we serve Christ himself (at least I love it!), we also prefer not to associate Jesus with “those people” who make us uncomfortable. I want a Jesus who doesn’t make me squirm, who instead brings me comfort in my own affliction. I mean, I’m okay with him suffering no the cross, but only because it helps me to know that he understands my plight and brings about salvation, but in the end, I still prefer my Jesus to be powerful beyond measure, and able to bear all the burdens of the world – not sleeping under a blanket on a park bench.

Now: Jesus is that powerful, of course. But his power is not in spite of, but because of his willingness to suffer, to be so close to the suffering of this world that he is living it, right alongside those who suffer today. This is important, because there are so many who are suffering today. Heavy on our hearts right now is that Covid-19 cases are soaring across the country – a million new cases in the US just this past week. The dramatic spread is largely because millions of people are refusing to wear masks, and attending large gatherings, even indoors. This sort of behavior flies in the face of caring for “the least of these,” the very ones with whom Jesus identifies. We know now that following guidelines isn’t only about us and our own safety, it is about the safety of others, especially those in vulnerable populations. So in that way, balking at guidelines to satisfy our own needs and desires of the moment is a refusal to see and tend to our most vulnerable neighbors, and so also a refusal to see and tend to Jesus. Yes, it is our king Jesus who is lying in a hospital bed, struggling to breathe. Our Jesus lost his job during the first wave of the pandemic, and has struggled since to feed himself and his family. His kids are growing out of their clothes and he can’t afford to buy them new ones. Our king, our Jesus, is one of millions stuck in prison cells, feeling expendable as so few notice or care that the virus is ripping through jails and prisons at an unstoppable rate.

Yes, Jesus is in all those places. That is where our king chooses to be.

But it’s not just where God chooses to be. It is also in those places that God’s love is made most profoundly known. And so if we want to know Jesus, see Jesus, be with Jesus… if we want to, as that meme I mentioned said, open the door to Jesus, this is where we will find him: in the faces of the least, the lost, the broken and the wounded, in all of the un-pretty places of life.

Next week Advent begins, and we will we turn our hearts toward watching, waiting, and hoping for God to show up in the un-pretty place of a stable. We will remember that God has been showing us all along that his love is made known to us in the humble, creepy, demeaning places of the world: among the animals, with the strangers and outcasts, on a cross. We will see that kingship to God means presence with and love for us in these places. And we will see, as we see every day, that this is love God shows to us even when we are more goat than sheep. We are all goats, every one of us. Yet Jesus loves us still, is present with us still, and saves us still. Thanks be to God.

Let us pray… Suffering God, we thank you that you are present in all the places that need you the most. As we strive to love and serve our neighbor, open our eyes to see that we are serving you, and open our hearts to receive your love. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Trust and generosity (Nov 15, 2020)

Full service can be found  here and here (some technical issues today, had to restart the software!). Sermon in second link. 

Pentecost 24A

November 15, 2020

Matthew 25:14-30

 

INTRODUCTION

         Today we continue our jaunt through the end of the world. It should be a real blast today. Zephaniah offers us this very uplifting description of how the last days will look – it’s the sort of text, full of judgment and destruction, that makes you wonder if you really want to say, “thanks be to God” at the end! Texts like this were often drawn upon by New Testament writers in describing the end of the world. 1 Thessalonians offers a bit more hope, saying that while the coming of the Lord will be a dark and terrible time, and one that comes just when we thought we were safe and secure, we need not worry because we are children of the light. Paul implores us to keep living faithfully, always ready for the day of the Lord.

         The Gospel continues through chapter 25, which contains four parables about accountability and judgment (next week we’ll hear the fourth, the infamous parable about the sheep and the goats). Remember that in the overall narrative this is like, Wednesday of Holy Week, just before Jesus will die, so we know that the underlying question in all these parables is, “What are you gonna do when Jesus is no longer here in the flesh? When the going gets tough, how will you respond?” One textual point to keep in mind as you hear this parable of the talents: a talent in this case is a sum of money equal to 15-20 years wages, so no small amount. It is intentionally outrageous, to hit home the points Jesus is trying to make.

         As you listen to these texts, notice how they make you feel – anxious? Hopeful? Relieved? And keep in mind the question I mentioned above: when the going gets tough, how will you, as a Christ-follower, respond? Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

            Today’s parable, the Parable of the Talents, is in some ways a preacher’s dream, especially during a stewardship campaign! It is so rich, and there are so many angles to take. The biggest challenge, really, is not finding something to say, but rather, which thing to say! Pardon the pun, but it is an embarrassment of riches!

            Perhaps it is a parable about God’s providence. At the beginning, the Master gives the servants five, two, and one talent respectively. A talent, as I mentioned, is a currency equal to about 15-20 years of labor – a huge amount! If we think of God as the Master, then we can read this to mean that our God is one who entrusts to us exorbitant riches, charging us to use what God provides to us for good and for gain. That seems a reasonable interpretation, yes?

            Or, perhaps it is a parable about what we understand as “talents” – our particular gifts and skills – and being good stewards of these talents. This is a common reading of this text because it makes a lot of sense: God gives us many gifts, and good, faithful people will use those gifts to serve the world. Those who are willing to share their gifts with the world, especially for the purpose of serving God and neighbor, will find great return for their efforts. On the other hand, those who “bury” their gifts and never share them will be diminished, perhaps in the form of losing that skill they once had. Moral of the story: use it or lose it, and if you use it, God will be praised and pleased.

            Or thinking more metaphorically, perhaps the talent currency in this parable is actually a metaphor for faith and love. If we exercise our faith by reading our Bibles, praying, going to church, and serving our neighbor, and if we spread God’s love throughout the world, telling others about God’s saving grace, then faith and love will increase. If we don’t tend to it, it will diminish, and eventually, we will lose it. It’s like that song my mom taught her kindergarteners: “Love is something if you give it away – you end up having more!” That’s a very nice interpretation. After all, who could argue with the idea that love and faith are something to be shared?

            All three of these, though, get a little close for comfort to works righteousness – the idea that in the final judgment we will be judged based on what we do or don’t do with what God has given us. And Lutherans don’t believe that our actions determine our salvation – we believe God’s actions determine our salvation. God is a God of grace, and while I do think God cares about whether I get out there and live out my faith, or sit on my bum and do nothing, I don’t think that this, finally, will be what determines whether I am sent to heaven or to the outer darkness where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

            So what if this isn’t a parable about retribution (do this, don’t do that, and you will receive your reward accordingly)? What if it is a parable about trust in God, and about expectations?

            What makes me go there is the third servant’s explanation to the Master about why he buried the talent. He says, “I knew you were a harsh man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you did not scatter seed; so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground.” Traditionally Christians have read this parable allegorically, in which the Master is God… but this does not describe the God that I know! The God I know is gracious and merciful, full of compassion, and abounding in steadfast love – not harsh and greedy and overbearing. But you see, the third servant expected the Master to be harsh, greedy, and overbearing… and so that is what he was.

            Have you ever experienced that? Like, you expect someone to be one way (liberal, conservative, smart, not smart, etc.), and so everything they say and do you fit into that mold and it then becomes proof for your expectation? I see that so much in our increasingly divided country, in which we are quick to label people based on what we expect to be true of them. We even do it with our experiences – you expect a conflict to be awful and painful, and that is exactly what it is… or on the other hand, you see conflict as an opportunity to grow, and that is what it becomes. Our expectations about a person or a situation are very powerful, and can become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

            The problem is, this allows expectations to become a barrier to growth, a barrier to connection, and a barrier to relationship. And they can definitely become a barrier to trust. That is the real issue with this third servant. He does not trust. He assumes the Master is a certain way, and so he does not trust. Instead, he fears. He even says as much: “I was afraid,” he says.

            Now, fear is a great motivator. It can even motivate us to do acts that on the surface seem faithful – like go to church, or pray, or tithe. But is this truly faith, if you are acting out of fear? In my experience, fear seldom (or never!) motivates us to act in true faith or generosity. Only trust can do that – trust in a God who will take care of us, and bring us into God’s abounding joy.

            It’s quite telling that Jesus chooses a tale about money to make this point. I think he does so because he knows that money has the power to negatively affect our trust in God. That’s why he talks about money more than anything else in the Bible, apart from the kingdom of God itself. Money has a strong grip on us. Its wiles so often disguise themselves as honest and admirable – how good we are at justifying spending our money on selfish needs – and yet if you’re anything like me, my justifications and explanations mostly serve to mask the fact that I’m not always certain my management of my money is entirely faithful.

            As we think this month about stewardship, and prepare to make our commitments for the coming year, let me share a bit about my own stewardship journey. When I was first starting out as an adult with a job, I was a cheerful giver, glad to finally be making money so I could then give it away. But then my student loan deferment ended, and I got a mortgage, and with a cancer diagnosis my medical bills started accumulating, and then we had a couple babies and the daycare costs that go with them… and suddenly I was justifying hanging onto a little more of the money God had entrusted to me to offset those costs. And then the wily ways of money made their move – the more I hung onto, the more I felt I needed to hang onto, and the better I became at justifying my tight grip. And not coincidentally, the less joyful I felt about returning to God what has always been rightfully God’s. I regret to say that giving started becoming more of a burden then a joy.

            “I knew you were a harsh man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you did not scatter seed; so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground,” said the servant to the Master… and earlier I observed, and I hope you agreed, “But that’s not the God I believe in!” And yet, how quickly we slip into exactly that – believing that if we loosen our grip on our material gains, our God will no longer take care of us. How quickly we slip into not trusting the God who gave us our very lives. How quickly we slip into expecting that God will work the way that the world works.

            The third servant did not trust. That is why he saw the Master as harsh, over-bearing, and greedy. A trusting servant sees the Master as gracious and merciful, full of compassion and abounding in steadfast love. A trusting servant knows that God will provide. A trusting servant is able, then, to joyfully give their talents – in both senses of the word – toward God’s work in the world, because that servant knows that a God who would give his only son so that we would not perish but have eternal life, would also provide for us our every need.

            Let us pray… Gracious God, we know you to be a loving and merciful God, a God we can trust with all our heart. Help us, then, to trust, and to give our whole selves to you. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Wise, foolish, or human bridesmaids? (Nov. 8, 2020)

 View full service here. 

Pentecost 23A

November 8, 2020

Matthew 25:1-13

 

INTRODUCTION

         Did you know, that many centuries ago, the Advent season was not four weeks, but a full seven? At some point in the 12^th or 13^th century, a four-week Advent became the fashion in the western Church, though the Orthodox Church still observes the full seven weeks. Why am I talking about Advent? Because if we did still observe the seven-week Advent season, it would start today! So, happy Advent! It’s time to start preparing our hearts for the coming savior!

         And actually, even though we don’t really observe this practice, there is sort of a shift in the lectionary readings after All Saints Day that starts this heart-preparing process. Always in November, leading up to Advent, we hear a lot of end-of-the-world texts, texts about the second coming of Christ, or the Parousia, even as we prepare to remember the first coming (aka Christmas).

So you’ll see that in our texts today. In the Gospel, it is in a parable about bridesmaids waiting for the bridegroom to come (the bridegroom is pretty much always Jesus, with the Church as his bride). And in 1 Thessalonians, we hear this wonderful telling of what it will be like when Christ comes down from heaven, a trumpet blows, and we will all be caught up together with him in the clouds. (Our opening hymn this morning is based in part on this text.)

         People for whom these texts were written believed that the Parousia would happen any day… and yet here we are still waiting, 2000 years later! We’re no strangers to waiting for big news, especially this week! As you listen, hear these texts as someone who is, indeed, waiting for something life-changing. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

Well we’ve made it through the longest week of the longest year ever. Yesterday the world heard the news that Joe Biden has been elected president. As you can imagine in such a tight and highly emotional election as this, just over half of the country rejoiced, with the other half grieving. Emotions have been terribly high this week no matter who you voted for, and they remain so. I suspect we are all, for some reason or another, extremely exhausted – whether from the past four days, or the past four years, or the past 7 months, or the past whatever-challenges-you-face.

With this as the backdrop, enter the parable of the 10 bridesmaids. I’ve gotta say, this parable has always rubbed me the wrong way. I don’t much like it, because so much of it goes against what scripture teaches elsewhere. The “wise” bridesmaids hoard their oil, instead of “giving to one who begs from you,” as Jesus had specifically instructed in the Sermon on the Mount. They are worried about not having lamps lit, where in Revelation it says, “In the city of God, they will not need the light of a lamp, for the Lord God will give them light.” The prepared (but selfish) bridesmaids get to go in, and the unprepared ones get left outside, even though Jesus has said that the last will be first and the first will be last, and then the door is closed in their face, even though Jesus had rebuked the Pharisees for doing exactly that. So: what are we supposed to do with this??

Like so many of Jesus’ parables, sometimes we need to turn them and look from a different angle to get a better understanding. So, let’s think about this angle: what is the real mistake made by the bridesmaids? Jesus’ command at the end is “keep awake!” and if that’s the point, then none of them succeeded! They all fell asleep, wise and foolish alike. So then what is the real issue here?

I’d lift up one issue with the wise, and one issue with the foolish. First, the wise. I always assumed the wisdom here refers to their thinking to bring extra oil. Like a good scout, they are prepared. And I guess that is wise. Yet when they have the opportunity to help someone, to give out of their plenty, their wisdom is left wanting. Or rather, their wisdom is less like that of the kingdom of God, and more like the wisdom of the world. Right? “We don’t have enough,” they say. “We only have enough for ourselves, not for you.” That is the scarcity mindset of the world: to take care of ourselves first, and view what we have through a lens of scarcity, not abundance. Maybe they were right, that they would have run out if they shared. And so what if they did? Was the light of the bridegroom (Jesus) not enough to make up the difference? So their issue is that they did not trust that the bridegroom would provide, and so they hoarded what they had, and did not share with those in need. Wise bridesmaids? Maybe. But wise with the world’s wisdom, not God’s.

And how about the other five, the so-called “foolish bridesmaids”? What was their issue? Well, they were not overly prepared for the unanticipated long wait for the bridegroom, which is how they got their moniker. But their far greater mistake is… that they left. They believed the “wise” bridesmaids, that there was not enough and they needed more. They doubted the providence of the bridegroom, and they left.

Maybe the bridegroom would have turned them away at the door for not having lit lamps, but I doubt it. And honestly, I’m not sure the bridesmaids thought that, either. More likely is that they didn’t want to be caught with their lamps empty – and all the embarrassment and vulnerability that goes with that.

And this, this I totally resonate with, because my lamp has been feeling awfully empty these days, too. It was already running pretty low from pandemic fatigue and all that goes with that, plus election season fatigue. Then add the nerves and heightened anxiety this week of the election itself, and then the waiting, and the disappointment, and the waiting, and the obsessively checking the news, and the waiting… my oil was running very low. At one point on Wednesday, I sat in my car, near tears, having just yelled at my children in Wegmans over something that otherwise wouldn’t have bothered me, and I texted Michael, “I have run dry.” I was empty.

It doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t look good. I was mortified, as I spoke more sternly than I ever do with my children, as strangers walked by and looked at me. Surely, I thought, they are judging me, at one of my worst moments. Who wants to be caught empty? Who wants to be found in such a vulnerable, fragile position? Not the bridesmaids, and not me. And it isn’t foolish, necessarily. But it is human.

And so the bridesmaids leave. They leave for shame of being seen in that tender place, seen by the bridegroom or anyone. They leave in search of something of this world to fill their emptiness. They scramble to leave that place of darkness, as their lamps desperately flicker away, unable anymore to scatter the darkness of night.

What if they had instead trusted in the bridegroom’s deep and unconditional compassion? What if they had believed that the bridegroom had plenty of light and oil to spare? What if they had trusted and understood that what was more valuable to the bridegroom than their full lamps, was their presence – however messy and imperfect it may be? What if they had stayed in that dark, empty place, trusting that Christ, the bridegroom, would meet them there, filling them up and scattering the darkness of night with his own love and light?

         My friends, if you are weary from waiting – for a vaccine, for a result, for justice and peace, for rest – if you feel fearful as you watch your lamp sputtering to a finish, if you feel fragile, vulnerable, and empty in that dark place… be assured that our bridegroom will come. Indeed, he is already here. Do not be afraid of the darkness, and do not be afraid of emptiness. Remember that it was out of the dark, empty chaos that God first created the universe. Remember that it was from a dark tomb that God made new life and resurrection to come about. Such darkness and emptiness may not be comfortable, but it is a holy place, a place of both surrender and potential, and God will meet us there, light our path, and create us anew.

         Let us pray… Creating God, just as you created the universe out of nothing, enter into our own feelings of emptiness and fatigue, and create us anew for the work ahead. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

All Saints Day Sermon: Unexpected blessing (November 1, 2020)

 View full service here (it's lovely!).

All Saints Day (A)

November 1, 2020

Matthew 5:1-12

 

INTRODUCTION

         By way of introduction, I want to explain briefly the Lutheran understanding of “saint.” We usually think of a saint as someone who is extra faithful, or a really good person, but Luther says something different. He says that we all become saints when we are baptized – even as we remain sinners. We spend the rest of our lives after baptism striving to live into our saintly nature, to live a life of faith. We never achieve that fully, of course, until we enter into God’s eternal glory in our death, which we celebrate for 18 specific saints today. On All Saints Day, we remember and lift up this tension of being already-and-not-yet saintly, which we will see in our texts today. First in Revelation we see what it looks like to be in a state of constantly praising God with all the saints. The Psalm echoes that sentiment, saying that God’s praise will always be on our lips. The epistle reading recalls that we are all children of God – you may recognize that first line because it is what I say after each baptism I’ve ever done – and it reflects on the hope of this children-of-God status.

         Finally, in Matthew, we will hear the Beatitudes, outlining the various sorts of people who are “blessed” – though not all of their circumstances sound especially blessed! As an interesting aside, we last heard the Beatitudes read back in February of this year, just one month before everything shut down. As you listen to these texts today, hear the joy and the hope in them, but also notice how you may be hearing especially Matthew differently this time, in the midst of everything that has happened since we last heard it in February. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

         As I was preparing worship for today and writing this sermon, I felt, and I’m sure you’ll agree, that All Saints Day this year is a lot more weighty than previous years, at least any previous years that I have been preaching. I would bet that everyone watching knows someone who has had Covid-19, or maybe even died of it. If not that, perhaps someone close to you has died or suffered in some other way, and you either weren’t able to be with them, or you couldn’t properly say goodbye, or you are still waiting to have a funeral. Grief this year is complex and delayed, and that’s just the grief related to physical deaths. All of us are grieving something, whether it is the loss of the big birthday party we had hoped for, or missing far-away loved ones, or worshiping together, or going to school in a normal way, or more communally, the loss of democratic norms we’ve come to expect, or, or, or… you fill in the blank. This All Saints Day we each bring immense grief to the table, not only for the saints we named this morning, but for a world we once knew. Perhaps Jesus’ words, “Blessed are they that mourn,” sound hollow to us – “blessed” is not the word that comes to mind when we’re talking about this year!

         And yet here we are, singing triumphant hymns, hearing texts about eternal praise and worship of God. I notice this year more than ever before the tension of this day, as we hold in unison both the complexity of our grief, and the depth of our hope. It feels sometimes like emotional and spiritual whiplash.

         So first of all, I just want to name that out loud. I know a lot of us are barely hanging on by a thread some days as we hear the news and try to go about our days. In the last presidential debate, President Trump said about the virus, “We’re learning to live with it,” and Vice President Biden retorted, “No, we’re learning to die from it,” and honestly, they are both right. Yes, people are dying, and that is not okay, and it needs to be intentionally addressed. But we are also trying to keep living our lives, even in the midst of that reality, and that tension is an everyday challenge for us right now.

         The Beatitudes, the start of Jesus’ famous Sermon on the Mount, seem to acknowledge and articulate that tension. One by one, Jesus names the struggles of this life – aching hearts, grief over a world not as it should be, hunger and thirst, immense need for mercy, the challenge of seeking peace amidst such brokenness, the persecution experienced for seeking justice – all these struggles Jesus names, and then calls each one who endures them, “blessed.” I think often we read these as a sort of promise, that these folks will be blessed, that they will receive what they need. And while that is true, and Jesus does use the future tense to describe the ultimate fulfillment of that promise, he also speaks in the present tense. “Blessed ARE,” he says, again and again. Not blessed will be, but blessed are. Now. Even in the midst of the pain. In saying this, Jesus isn’t only assuring us of some future when everything will be better, but rather, he is shifting the way we see the world right now, and going forward, even as we remain in pain.

And in saying we are blessed now, Jesus is turning upside down everything we thought we knew about suffering. But that’s sort of Jesus’ M.O., isn’t it? Jesus is always turning everything on its head. We see it first thing, when the King of Kings is born to peasants in a stinky stable. We see it when he is raised in Nowheresville, Nazareth – what good can come out of there? We see it when he surrounds himself with lowlifes and sinners. And we see it most profoundly on the cross. Nothing about Jesus is how we would expect God to be.

And so maybe, just maybe, God is using these unlikely blessings to show us that God continually moves and acts where we least expect it. Not in the glorious places we’d think to look for God – in success and good health and notoriety, in places we normally associate with blessing – but rather, in the broken, in the aching, in the grieving. Luther calls this a “theology of the cross” – the idea that God is not to be found in the glorious places of the world so much as he has shown us that his love is made most profoundly known to us on the cross, and so we can be sure that in our own suffering, God will be there with us, too, kneeling beside us in our despair. And because God is there, with those who suffer, those who suffer are indeed blessed.

It can be hard to believe, can’t it? I know when I have been in my lowest places, it can feel not like God is with me, but the opposite – that God has abandoned me. Well even then, we’re in good company – that’s how Jesus felt on the cross when he cried out, “My God, why have you forsaken me?” And yet, we know that God was there on the cross, and we know that God then descended into hell to be present even there, and then that God broke the bonds of death and, bringing all of the saints with him, entered into new life, a life where we “will hunger no more, and thirst no more; the sun will not strike [us], nor any scorching heat; for the Lamb at the center of the throne will be [our] shepherd, and he will guide [us] to the springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from [our] eyes.” Blessed are we.

Today is the start of our stewardship campaign, which we are calling A Season of Gratitude. We often think of gratitude in November, as we look toward Thanksgiving, and it is especially important that we do that this year. The Psalmist today boldly proclaims, “I will bless the Lord at all times.” All times. Giving thanks to God is not just for when we are feeling good; it is arguably more important exactly when you are not feeling good. It is for when we are poor in spirit, when we mourn, when we hunger and thirst, when we are facing conflict head on, when we dig down deep to be merciful even to those who haven’t deserved mercy, when we are being persecuted for seeking justice – that is when we give thanks because it is during all those times when Jesus says we are blessed.

So my challenge to you during this month, during this stewardship season, is to seek out that blessing, to name it, to give thanks for it. Don’t look only at what is going well, but at what is not going well, and find God’s blessing there. Even give thanks for it.

Here’s an example from my life: this week, some colleagues and I had a conversation about how we can be confronting race issues. It was a tough conversation, and someone I love who is more affected by these issues than I am said something that really bothered me. I did not like it. It has been stirring in my heart all week, bothering me. Rather than shut it down and dismiss it, which would be easier, I’m trying to find the blessing in her words. I’m trying to notice where God is in my reaction to it. I’m trying to be thankful for it, because it has pushed me into deeper reflection that is needed (even if it isn’t especially wanted!). Jesus said that those who are poor in spirit, and those who are pure in heart, and those who hunger and thirst for righteousness are blessed, and I believe him, so there must be blessing in this… and I am thankful that I have been driven to find it.

I hope that you will join me in this challenge this month. Some days you may very well be grateful, and “bless the Lord,” for something beautiful, something that is typically associated with blessing. But I hope you will also seek to find ways to bless the Lord for some of the pain and grief as well. Where do you see God in it? God promised to be there, so he's gotta be - where is God in it? Where is our crucified Lord showing up for you, kneeling beside you in your grief, not to take it away but to be present with you in it? Where are you receiving God’s unexpected blessing? And then, what will you do with that blessing? How will it change you, and the way you give, to God and to the world?

         Let us pray… As we bring our pain and our sorrow to you, O God, help us to bring also our praise and thanksgiving. Help us to bless you at all times, and to see the ways you bless us even in our grief. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.