Sermon: Party on! (Mar. 27, 2022)

Full service can be viewed HERE. Gospel reading begins at about 36 min.

Lent 4C
March 27, 2022
Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

INTRODUCTION

Last week, we talked about “ground zero,” those places of loss and devastation, and God’s presence in it. This week, the lectionary brings us to a very different place – readings all about reconciliation, homecoming, and even a party! Let’s look at some context.

First, Joshua. You may remember that at this point in the story, the Israelites have been wandering in the wilderness for 40 years, a journey that began right after their Exodus from slavery in Egypt. This was a period of divine punishment for their faithlessness – faithlessness even though God had dramatically freed them from slavery! But now, they have arrived once again in the land promised to Abraham and his descendants. It is a joyous return, and there they celebrate the Passover feast for the very first time in their home. You might say, they are home for the holidays! They call the place “Gilgal” which refers to how God has “rolled away” the disgrace of their unfaithfulness, and kept his promise. 

Speaking of disgrace, and rolling it away, we will also hear the story of the Prodigal Son, about a wayward son who brings shame on his family, but then returns and is restored. You’ll notice there are some missing verses – we’ll start by naming the diverse crowd there to listen to Jesus (which includes both notorious sinners and rule-abiding Pharisees), then we’ll skip over two parables. Those two parables are the lost sheep (the one about leaving the 99 to find the one) and the lost coin (where a woman searches everywhere for her one lost coin). In both of those stories, and the one we will hear about a lost son, the story ends with a lavish party, which will echo the celebration happening in heaven when one who was lost has been found. 

These readings are about arriving home, to be sure, but we cannot appreciate that fact unless we also remember what came before. So as you listen, recall some time when you found yourself in a transitional period, and the feeling of joy you felt upon finally arriving. Let’s listen. 

[READ]

By Otto S., age 9 1/2 

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

This year we solicited some of the kids of the congregation to provide us with art for our bulletin covers and the livestream. I’m always delighted when we’ve done this to see what the kids come up with, what part of the story sparks their interest enough to recreate it with their wonderful kid imagination. When I received the art for today’s story, the Prodigal Son, I had to smile, because young Otto decided to depict the moment in the pig pen, and that is the very same moment to which I was drawn this year. So much art based on this story is centered on the reunion, the happy homecoming when the father embraces his wayward son – and I can see why! That’s the moment of lavish grace, the home that we all crave in our lives. 

Yet as I think about the different places in this story, and which place to focus on this week, I find myself drawn not to home, but to the many in-between places. The moments of transition. The liminal places where things are no longer as they were, but they aren’t yet how they will be. Like, the father daily scanning the horizon for his son. The years of wondering if he is okay. At the other end of the story, the conversation between the father and the older son, where the older son is not yet willing to cross the threshold to join the party. And yes, that moment in the pig pen, when the younger son realizes that something has got to change. 

Our lives are full of these moments, right? In fact, I can think of very few moments when I really felt across the board like I had arrived. Much more often, I am in the midst of some transition or another. Even when I have arrived at a dream or hoped-for destination – I am thinking of the first time I held my daughter, for example, or the first time I presided over communion after my ordination – there was still a sense of being in-between. Like, I have arrived at my lifelong dream of motherhood, but… now what the heck am I supposed to do this beautiful, crying thing in my arms? Who am I, now that I am also “Mom”? Or, mere days after that glorious moment of presiding at the table for the first time, I was planning a cross-country move, and figuring out how to live into my new role as pastor. How quickly we move from “here!” back into transition!

So that is the place I am drawn to this week: the liminal place, the in-between place. Because such spaces are constantly all around us: As we anxiously watch news from Eastern Europe. As we anticipate beginning a new job, or engage in a hiring process. As we enjoy this period of being mask-free, even as we watch Covid numbers rising again. As we work our tails off to heal, or to forgive, or to restore, or to find equilibrium. So much liminality. 

Maybe it would help if we better understood what happens in these liminal places. What do we know about them? We know it is a space between times, or even between two physical places (like the Israelites, wandering between Egypt and the Promised Land, or like the younger son, traveling from pig pen to home). It is a place of tension, already and not yet. And perhaps it is because of that tension, that it becomes a place where transformation can happen. So when you look back on these times, you may remember them as terribly difficult, but also necessary, and when someone asks you, “Was it good or bad? Was God faithful or unfaithful? If you could go back, would you do it again?” – we don’t know how to answer. Because we come out of these liminal times different people than we entered them, right? You can be sure the younger son was changed by his time in the pig pen, by his “dissolute living” and the wretched realization of where his choices have brought him. You can be sure the Israelites were changed for their 40 years in the wilderness. But would they have traded that time if they also had to trade the transformation they brought about? I doubt it! I sure wouldn’t trade any of my own experiences that brought upon meaningful transformation!

And that is how we know, that even in those liminal places – the pig pens and wildernesses and long roads home that we experience – that’s how we know that God is there. Because God is undoubtedly in the business of transformation. As Paul exclaims to the fledgling church in Corinth, “So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!” You see, God never intends for us to stay the same. God is always doing a new thing. So if we see a new thing happening in our lives – that is a good sign that God is up to something!

But it’s exhausting, right? I know (believe me, I know!) that the liminal time that results from God doing a new thing is so wearing. We all know that, from living through 2 years of a pandemic, and all its fear and uncertainty, a communal place between “how things were” and whatever new reality will exist as a result of it. It’s exhausting. Liminal places are supposed to be between two places, not our permanent location, because we cannot endure for too long in the in-between. At some point, we need to find our new home, the location of that new thing God is doing. So, what can the parable of the Prodigal Son teach us about surviving in the in-between, until we once again arrive home? 

Let’s look at the title of our Lenten theme: You Are Here. God is here. Yes, even in the liminal space, even in the pig pen, even on that long walk between two places, God is here. And as long as God is there, there is reason to celebrate. Sometimes it is hard to see, hard to coax ourselves out of the discomfort of liminality to do something joyful. But what this story can teach us, is that sometimes, we may have to seek out the reasons to celebrate. Sometimes we have to put aside the insistent sense of transitioning, and carve out a place to sit, or even better, a place to dance – to dance and celebrate that God is with us all along the way, transforming us from death to life. “Strike up the band!” says the father to his servants. “Light up the grill! Put on your dancing shoes, because it is time for a celebration! I know, there is much to be dealt with tomorrow. I know that this son of mine won’t slip unnoticed back into our daily patterns, and this arrival home will mean some reordering of our routine. I know that the relationships in this family have taken a hit, and that especially my two beloved sons have some work to do to renew trust. I know all that. But tonight – tonight we celebrate. Because my son was lost, and now is found. He was dead – and he is alive! So party on!”

This is a lesson I know I need to hear! I can get so bogged down by all the things going wrong, all the fatigue liminality brings, all the weariness of uncertainty. All the pig poo I’m having to shovel. But if God is there – and God is! – then there is always something to celebrate. And just as surely as God will meet us in the pig poo, and run out to meet us on the road, God will be with us in those celebrations, bringing along the angels in heaven as guests, and even urging us to join the party. And so, my siblings in Christ, party on!

Let us pray… God in the pig pen, God on the road, God in all our transitions and liminal places: you meet us wherever we are. When we are overcome with fatigue for all the in-between places in which we are living, open our eyes to find there something to celebrate. And then crank up the music, Lord, and keep urging us to party on. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: From ground zero to Easter (Mar. 20, 2022)

Full service can be viewed HERE.

Lent 3C
March 20, 2022
Luke 13:1-9

INTRODUCTION

“Repent or perish.” This is the heading you will see in you look up today’s Gospel reading in your Bible. It is not the most comfortable message for us to hear, yet here we are, halfway through Lent, and we are told today in no uncertain terms that it is an important one. Repent, or perish.

If you don’t like that message, you might be drawn, as I am, to some of the more comforting images in the readings we’re about to hear. Isaiah offers an abundant feast, freely given by a gracious God. The Psalm reflects in beautiful poetry on finding sustenance and safety in the shadow of God’s wings – not unlike the mother hen image for God that we heard last week. Paul reminds us in Corinthians of all the times God has brought God’s people safely through danger, adding that “God is faithful!” Yes, these are all images I prefer!

And yet in each of these readings, we will also hear that same refrain: repent or perish. Turn away from that which does not give life, and turn toward that which does: that same faithful, comforting, sheltering, providing God. So as tempting as it may be to listen for the most comforting images, I urge you as you listen today, to listen for that “repent or perish” theme, the words in Scripture that are urging us not to stay the way we are, but to change our ways so that we might have life. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

The world has been horrified to see the images coming out of Ukraine these past weeks. Leveled buildings, destroyed hospitals, millions of refugees flooding to nearby countries. Not to mention the words and threats floating around: “chemical weapons,” “war crimes,” “nuclear war,” “World War III.” It is all horrifying and devastating. Even my young children have asked, “Why is this happening? Why would someone do that?”

With this backdrop, we hear a Gospel reading that shows us how inexplicable tragedy, and the heart-wrenching questions that follow it, have always been a part of human experience. We don’t know much about the tragedies the people bring up to Jesus, but we don’t really have to. Our minds easily swap them out for similar tragedies of our day – the atrocities in Ukraine, or mass shootings in churches or schools, or guilt-less events like hurricanes or buildings collapsing. We are familiar with them all, and each one brings up those same feelings of, “But why?” We are desperate for reasons, for someone to blame, for explanations, because as long as there is purposeless tragedy, our hearts remain troubled by the ground zero these tragedies leave behind. 

The first time I ever heard that phrase, “ground zero,” was after 9/11, which happened when I was a freshman in college. Ground zero – it feels like a void in my gut, the negative space left there tugging at my heart. Nothing built. Nothing growing. Just the wreckage of something that once was, and a reminder of the loss. Ground zero. It begs the same questions the people ask in today’s text: “Why did this happen? Surely someone did something to deserve it. So, what did they do, so that we can condemn it, and move on with our lives?”

We are talking this Lent about finding God in whatever places we find ourselves. And sometimes, we find ourselves at ground zero. Maybe it is the ground zero in New York City, or the location of some other tragedy. But it could just as well be a ground zero in your own life, your own tragedy. It could be the half empty bed after your partner leaves you, by choice or by death. It could be the rejection letter that puts an end to your dream. It could be the suffocating darkness of grief, or yet another negative pregnancy test, or the positive biopsy report. All of these feel like ground zero. 

But if God is also there (and yes, God is!) – then how might we understand such places and experiences differently?

I said before that this image of ground zero feels like negative space that tugs at our hearts. But I wonder – is this necessarily a bad thing? Yes, ground zero changes everything... but said another way, ground zero changes everything! It also has the potential to reorder our lives, even our identities, and calls us to reexamine the priorities of society. That, I think, is what can happen when God is there, at our ground zeros. God is continually about bringing life out of death, right, doing a new thing, bringing resurrection to places of loss and devastation. So if God is at ground zero… could this also become a place of resurrection?

When the people bring Jesus these tragedies of the day, Jesus doesn’t give them the black and white answers they (and we!) crave. He could have used this as an opportunity to address suffering head on, to put our minds at ease about the reason and purpose of it. Wouldn’t that have been nice? But he doesn’t. Instead of giving in to their binaries, he responds with a story. Why? Because black and white answers to black and white questions cut off the conversation. They allow us to put the issue aside, and go about our lives ignoring it until it rears its head again. They allow us to keep our distance from those suffering. If the suffering is ours, it allows us to keep from entering too deeply into it until, again, it rears its head down the road (which grief and pain not dealt with always do!).

So Jesus doesn’t go there, to that binary place. Instead, he offers a story. Because unlike answers, stories invite us in. They open possibility. They have the power to unmake us, and then transform us.

And that’s exactly what this strange parable of a fruitless fig tree does for us. The fig tree is planted in a vineyard, and is unproductive. An impatient landowner wants it gone, to take an already struggling tree and make its situation even worse, into a lifeless stump. But the gardener intercedes on the tree’s behalf – where the landowner sees waste, the gardener sees potential for growth. With patience, sympathy, advocacy and love, the gardener sets his attention upon bringing new life to the fig tree. 

Where do you see yourself, your own story, in this parable? The beautiful thing about a story is that you may see yourself in a different place each time. There is no black and white answer to how to interpret this parable – you may find yourself in a position to nurture another child of God in their own pain and doubt and struggle, like the gardener. You may be the one who is out of their element (a fig tree in a vineyard) and on the brink of being destroyed, the one who needs loving care, nourishment, and a new direction. You may be the one issuing impatient judgment upon someone struggling to contribute to the world, like the landowner. You may even be the bird who has made her home in the unfruitful fig tree’s branches, an overlooked casualty in the potential devastation of the tree. (For, don’t the ripples of tragedy affect many unnamed others?)

But my guess is that you are, or at least have been at some point, all of these things! We see ourselves all over this parable! Suddenly, as we see reflections of ourselves in all the characters of this story, our hearts can begin to soften. We look at the dangers and tragedies of our lives and begin to see the nuance. We no longer see the need for clear answers to our questions of “why this, why now?” and instead, we see a different way. Our priorities shift, our perspective changes, and lo and behold something new begins to grow. A resurrection begins.

When we hear Jesus talk about how we must repent or perish, we may first hear that as threatening. I sure do! But think of this: the Greek word translated here as “repent” also means, “change one’s mind.” And this, scary as it can be, is also hopeful and life-giving. Change your mind – away from needing clear-cut, black and white answers. Change your mind – away from inclinations to cut off rather than engage. Change your mind – away from judgment and hopelessness, and toward potential and hope and newness of life. 

“Unless you repent, you will perish just as they did,” says Jesus. Unless you change your mind, and turn toward the new life God is offering, you will perish, falling victim to your insistence on black and white answers to questions that have no answers. And that insistence, that desire, can indeed drag us under, can’t it? It leads to cut off and despair, not life! What if instead, we followed Jesus’ example, and told a story – a story about how at our ground zero, in our moment of despair and brokenness and pain and grief, God is there, interceding on our behalf. God is there, desiring to nourish us. God is there, gently reminding us that after Good Friday comes Easter, and that indeed Easter cannot come about without Good Friday. Resurrection can only come after death.

This is not to minimize the depth of sadness and grief that come from tragedy. It is only to assure you: that God knows this grief. And so God is there with you in it. God is rooting for you, nourishing you there, and transforming your heart so that you might make it through Good Friday and into the joy of Easter morning. Repent – and you will find life.

Let us pray… God, when we are struggling and in despair, at ground zero, you find us there. Nourish and intercede for us so that we might change our hearts – away from the need for answers, and toward finding ourselves in your story of resurrection and new life. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

A-dressing Joy: The Surprising Joy of Wearing the Same Dress for 100 Days

 This piece first appeared on the Christian Minimalism blog on March 14. You can view it HERE. 

Joy: Our Natural State

For weeks, I had been working with my spiritual director to identify joy in my life. I was going through a rough patch in life, during which joy was difficult to find, but I’d finally had something of a breakthrough. 

“I felt some joy!” I exclaimed in my session. She asked me to describe how the joy felt in my body. “It feels light,” I said. “Unburdened. Free.” 

She looked me in the eye and said, “That joy is your natural state. It is God’s intention for you. Follow that joy.”

That was a turning point for me. As I continued to reflect on joy, and notice how my body experienced it, I noticed how intertwined these feelings are for me: joy, peace, unburdened, free. And so, I watched for those feelings – and I also watched for when their opposites crept into my life and my heart. 

Soon enough, I realized that I consistently felt burdened each morning when I got dressed. The decision fatigue, especially in the midst of a pandemic that was so full of difficult decisions, was wearing on me. I realized daily that while I didn’t dislike my wardrobe, it also didn’t really delight me. And so, every single day, I was beginning my day by doing something that brought me little joy, and made me feel burdened. 

“I came that they may have life,” Jesus said, “and have it abundantly.” (John 10:10) I wondered, what is abundant about a life that feels burdened? 

“That joy is God’s intention for you,” my spiritual director had said. Abundant, joyful life is God’s intention. 

So, what could I do to snap myself out of the daily burden of getting dressed, and step into that abundant life that Jesus promises?

Reset

Enter the 100 Day Dress Challenge. I had a few friends who had participated in this quirky challenge, which is put out by a specific company who claims their dresses are durable and versatile enough that they can be worn for 100 days straight. I had considered trying it, but for various reasons, I had put the idea aside. 

But now, in my realization of how much joy and abundant life I was losing out on from my daily chore of getting dressed, I recognized the urgings of the Spirit for what they were, and decided it was time for a reset. I took the plunge. I bought the dress.

I was not prepared for the real joy I would find in doing this challenge. Knowing each day what I would put on released me from that burden I had discerned. On days when I felt like being creative, I was, wearing an assortment of layers and scarves – which was fun and made me happy. On days when I didn’t have that energy to give, I wore whatever leggings were closest and a jean jacket. I let go of the worries and shoulds that plague my days and stifle my joy, and enjoyed the simplicity of the task of getting dressed. 

A smattering of looks from the 100 days

Since I Lay My Burden Down

An old spiritual repeatedly declares, “Glory, glory, hallelujah, since I lay my burdens down!” And isn’t that true? Who doesn’t want to lay down those burdens that keep us from joy, and proclaim a hearty, “Glory, hallelujah!” Indeed, that has been God’s hope for humanity from the beginning. Since the Exodus, God has desired to break the yoke of captivity and free us from our burdens. As God prepares Moses for the task of leading the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt, God gives Moses this message for the Israelites, “I will take you as my people, and I will be your God. You shall know that I am the Lord your God, who has freed you from the burdens of the Egyptians” (Exodus 6:7, emphasis mine). Sure enough, God leads the Israelites out of slavery, across the Red Sea, and into freedom. 

Fast forward to Jesus, and once again, we hear about the freedom God promises – now, it is freedom from the captivity to sin and death. “So if the Son makes you free, you will be free indeed,” Jesus assures us (John 8:36). And he does make us free – breaking the bonds of death and the fear that comes with it, to bring us to life abundant. 

Ah! There it is! That life abundant I have craved! It seems silly that I might catch a glimpse of this from minimizing my routine and wearing a single dress for 100 days straight, but that is what happened. Freed from the weight of that one decision for just over three months, my body and heart began to learn better what unburdened joy could feel like. I began to shed my burden, and spend that energy instead on growing closer to God. During this 100 days, I also found energy to begin a meditation practice, and get back to journaling. I sought out other ways to release more burdens, knowing now how good it felt. I “followed the joy,” as my spiritual director had advised. This one simple practice to start each day was enough to open my eyes to other ways I could focus on the joy God intends and desires for me, instead of getting bogged down by all the emotional and physical stuff around me.  

And that feels very much like a resurrection. Glory, glory! Hallelujah! 

Sermon: Stronghold (Mar. 13, 2022)

Full service can be viewed HERE. Sermon at 35:45.

 Lent 2C
March 13, 2022
Psalm 27;
Luke 13:31-35

INTRODUCTION

Today, in our exploration of how God is with us in whatever place we find ourselves, we are reflecting on God as our stronghold. The image comes from the first verse of our Psalm (“The Lord is the stronghold of my life; whom then shall I fear?”), but it is apparent in the other readings as well. The Genesis text comes at a time when Abraham (who is still going by Abram at this point) is getting pretty discouraged that the promises God has made to him for land and descendants has not yet materialized. But here, God assures Abram, and invites him to reclaim God, not the imperial powers he has encountered, as his stronghold – and Abram does. Paul in Philippians encourages us to “stand firm in the Lord” – our stronghold!

The Gospel text offers an image of an unlikely image for a stronghold. The word might evoke images of a fortress or tower, but here, Jesus will talk about himself not as a fortress, but as a mother hen – a mother hen whose chicks reject her protection. It is a convicting image! Why wouldn’t we flock to Christ’s protective wings? But the truth is, we often don’t. As you listen, consider where you do seek safety and protection, and from what, and what may cause you to stray from God as your stronghold. Let’s listen. 

[READ]

"Hen and chicks" by Finnegan (age 6)

Grace to you and peace from God our Mother who gave us birth, and our Lord and mother hen, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Back in January, there was a story in the news about a group of moms who gathered on a football field in Boston, to let out a collective, primal scream to get out some of the deep emotion they were carrying around due to the continuing pandemic. The event was organized by a licensed therapist, who understands the real, psychological benefits of releasing emotion in this bodily way. Several days after the scream, she was interviewed on The Today Show and said she was personally still feeling the benefits, both of the scream itself, and of having done it in community. “I feel lighter!” she said. 

I thought of this story this week as I read those words in the Psalm, “The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” As I mentioned, this week, the “place” we are focusing on is God as our stronghold, and as I imagined what that stronghold might look and feel like, not just spiritually but practically speaking, it was this image of 20 moms on a football field letting out a primal scream that came to my mind! It is certainly different from our usual image of a stronghold – perhaps we picture a mighty fortress as our God, or maybe the rock to which we cling in the storm, as another hymn describes. And yet, the thought of that collective scream makes me feel… seen, held, not alone, and safe to let out my deeply held anguish, fear and pain. And no castle or rock can do that for me – but God sure can!

Stronghold. It’s really a gorgeous name for God. It’s an image of protection. Of safety. Of steadfastness. And boy oh boy, that is exactly what I need and desire, and in particular what I desire from my God! 

And yet, even though God is right with us and always eager to be the sheltering wings we run to, God’s people have a history of turning elsewhere for comfort. And that’s what we see in our Gospel reading today. In this scene, Jesus is addressing the city of Jerusalem as if it is its own character – a character with a history of retreating into fear rather than trusting in divine guidance. He laments, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those whom God has sent to it!” – even, we’ll come to see, kills Jesus himself! The city was itself meant to be a stronghold for the faithful, yet it continually falls to forces both within and from the outside – including plenty of foreign enemies, but perhaps even more poignantly and devastatingly, she falls victim to the fears of her own people. Jesus’ lament continues, “How often I have desired to gather your (Jerusalem’s) children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!” I can hear the sadness in his voice – Jesus wants to be their protector and defender, their safe place, and yet, how can a hen shelter unwilling, defiant chicks who are always looking elsewhere – looking even toward the very things that will cause them harm?

And yet, that is what we human still often do. Rather than find our shelter in the protective steadfastness of God, we become hyper focused on our fears – physical, spiritual, emotional, even imagined – and let the very things that cause us to fear have power over us. And in doing so, it is the things we fear that become our stronghold, to which we regularly return.

The Lutheran musical duo, Lost and Found, speaks to this reality in their song, “Rachel Racinda.” The lyrics talk about Rachel’s small sister, who is desperately seeking Hope, but the more dearly she wants it, the more tightly she locks herself “inside her house where her life could be sure.” In the penultimate verse, we hear, 

No matter how Hope begged her please to come out, 

she valued her fears and she trusted her doubt, 

and soon even she couldn’t open the lock, 

or break out the window or turn back the clock, 

or let Hope come inside and show her his care. 

Her house was too solid. Her house was despair. 

And Rachel Racinda’s small sister Melindas 

grew used to her life, and stayed there.” 

As I listened to the song, I kept hoping for some redemption at the end, but it never came. Melindas stays there, locked away from Hope, locked away from the life that could have been. And unfortunately, this is too common a story – we value our fears and trust our doubts, not finding shelter in the shadow of God’s wings, but in the valley of the shadow of death. That is, indeed, a story that does not lead to life.

Why do we put our trust in false promises? We build these fortresses and place our trust in them – and all the while, our divine Mother Hen is beckoning and inviting us to find shelter under her wings. I just love that image of a Mother Hen. I admit I don’t know much about hens, but I watched some videos this week of mother hens protecting their chicks. And if you had in your mind an image of a cuddly, gently clucking, passive creature, then let go of it! Mother hens will relentlessly protect their young. They make themselves big, and chase away the would-be predator. They peck, if needed, and claw. In fact, mother hens will protect their young at all cost, yes, even to the point of self-sacrifice. Yes, she will put her whole body on the line if needed. 

Sound like someone else we know? 

I love how the Gospel text starts today, with the Pharisees issuing death threats to Jesus: “You’ve gotta get out here – Herod wants you dead!” And Jesus is unfazed. “Tell that fox,” he says (and he does not mean that as a compliment!), “that no death threats will keep me from fiercely bringing healing and restoration to the world.” They don’t know – but we do! – that Jesus is Life itself, that no threat or reality of death will be enough to stop him from doing everything he can to bring life and salvation to his people, his brood, putting himself between us and a predator, even putting his whole body on the line for our protection. Wow!

So this is all well and good, right, but you may still be thinking, “Ok, pastor, so we’re supposed to find a stronghold in God, in the wings of this divine mother hen. Okay. But how do we do this, practically speaking? Unless there is some giant chicken with a halo somewhere I’m supposed to find?” Yes, I feel you. We need to find practical ways to turn toward God, to find that life-giving shelter in the tumult of our daily life. 

And for this, I’m still thinking about the primal scream I mentioned. I said I thought of it because it struck me as a place where I would feel seen, held, not alone, and safe to let out my deeply held anguish, fear and pain. That is what a stronghold means to me, what it provides for me. So think with me for a moment – what are the other places that bring you and your heart, your spirit, that sense of real protection, safety and steadfastness? 

God provides such places for us all the time in our daily life. Of course you might find such a place in prayer, or in Bible study, or right here during worship – and I hope you do. But God can be all sorts of places, making us feel safe and held. Perhaps you find a stronghold in staying in your car that few extra moments after getting home from work, so you can have a few still moments to yourself before entering the chaos that awaits inside. Or maybe it’s in a walk in the fresh air, apart from all that is causing you stress, where you can simply breathe in the Spirit. Maybe your stronghold is the text chain you have with some fellow believers which has, over the years, become a prayer group, where you share your joys and fears, and know they are safely held. Or perhaps, it is in the arms of your beloved.

Stronghold. Each of these, and so many other moments in our lives, have the capacity to be a stronghold for us. And each of these places is also a place where God meets us. God is our stronghold – not in some castle on a hill far away, but right here where we are. Right here where such a stronghold is needed, in the midst of so many stressors and fears. “The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?”

Let us pray… Lord Jesus, how often you have desired to gather us, your children, together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and we were not willing. Make us willing, Lord, that we would turn to you as our stronghold. In the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Staying in the wilderness place (Mar 6, 2022)

 Full service HERE.

Lent 1C
March 6, 2022
Luke 4:1-13

INTRODUCTION

We have officially begun the season of Lent! Often we talk about this season as a “journey” – as we travel with Jesus toward the cross and of course out of the tomb on Easter. It’s traditionally a penitential season, and often one in which people prepare to be baptized, usually at the Easter Vigil, the eve of Easter. All of that is very much a journey.

It’s wonderful and useful imagery. But the writers of our Lenten series this year, entitled, You Are Here, noticed something else in the assigned readings for Lent this year: that in addition to the journey imagery, there is a strong sense of place throughout our Lenten readings. Yes, today Jesus is drawn out into the wilderness by the Spirit (journey), but then he stays in that place for 40 days, and God is there. Yes, the Israelites wander through the wilderness (journey) but then they find the Promised Land (place). Today’s Psalm has all kinds of place-related words: dwell, abide, inhabit. And Romans begins with the bold declaration that “the word is near you, on your lips and in your heart” – God is just about as close as he can get! Often we are so busy moving, that we don’t take the time to just stay still and notice how God is with us in this place, in whatever place we find ourselves. So, as you listen today – notice that! See how many times you notice God meeting us and all God’s people right where we are. Let’s listen.

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Artist: Grace Rehbaum, age 6

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

I’m already enjoying the way our Lenten focus on place, rather than journey, has made me see our assigned Lenten text differently. For example, while I may have otherwise focused on the way the Spirit leads Jesus into the wilderness, the desert, and seen this as an essential point on a larger journey… instead, I’m really noticing and appreciating the place of the wilderness. I’m noticing the importance of simply dwelling right where you are, finding God there, and from that place, gaining the gifts that it has to offer. Yes, even a place like the wilderness has many gifts to offer, if we have eyes to see, ears to hear, and hearts to understand. 

The wilderness theme is a prominent one in the Bible – and just to be clear, when we talk about wilderness in the Bible, we’re not talking about a rejuvenating camping trip in the mountains. We’re talking desert, a desolate place. The most obvious places the wilderness theme appears are in the stories of the Israelites wandering for 40 years in the wilderness before entering the Promised Land (we heard part of that this morning), and this story about Jesus being tempted in the wilderness after 40 days of fasting. In both cases, the wilderness is a place of self-discovery. It is a place of lack, a place without usual comforts, and that very lack is what brings about the discovery – discovery of the source of our true sustenance, God. 

Of course we all have our own wilderness experiences. I have imagined these past two pandemic years as a sort of wilderness, a time without many of our usual patterns and comforts. That’s an obvious experience we largely share, but such a wilderness can come about in our lives in any number of forms – any time we are lacking in understanding, or comfort, or in the ability to have our physical or emotional needs met. In fact, the three temptations Jesus faces can show us some of the ways such a place can look. 

The first attack the devil makes on Jesus is his hunger. And what human has not known hunger? I’m not thinking of those familiar grumblings in our tummies, but rather – haven’t we all felt a sense of being empty? Several weeks ago, with the story of the wedding at Cana, I talked about how I felt like those six empty jars, especially after two years of a pandemic that has left many of feeling unsatisfied and over-stressed. I have many times, since preaching that sermon, thought about those empty jars again! Most of us have, at some point, felt emptiness in our tummies, yes, but also in our relationships, in our work, in our sense of purpose. 

In Jesus’ case, he could easily have cheated his way out of his hunger, as the devil suggests. And I suppose we try to do that, too. We are forever seeking to fill our emptiness with distractions, or addictions, or some new and interesting thing to occupy our minds and time. We push through, ignoring and thus missing what that emptiness, that hunger, is trying to teach us. You see, that is what our focus on place is showing me this week – that Jesus may not have chosen to be led to that wilderness place (the Spirit did that), but he did choose to stay there, and learn and receive the gifts it had to offer. What could we receive, if we learned to dwell in our hunger? We may learn that we can be hungry and loved at the same time. We can be both hurting and hopeful. Jesus points to the word of God as that which will feed us – and indeed, while it may not feed us in the way we imagined, nor as quickly as we hoped, we can trust that when God feeds us from God’s own hand, we will be nourished.

 Next, the devil goes after Jesus’ ego, and this is something we know all too much about. We all want to be admired, to be liked, to be appreciated for who we are and what we have to offer. And that sneaky snake promises this to Jesus: “You see all these kingdoms of the world? I can have them falling at your feet in praise. You just worship me, and all of these will worship you.” 

Now I’m under no illusion that whole kingdoms will ever worship me, nor do I want that. But, I suspect I’m not alone in that I really want people to like me! And notice, affirm, and praise my good work! It begs the question: how important to us is it, to get that from people? What would we do to make it happen? What would we be willing to sacrifice? Time with our families? Time with God? Our prayer life? Rest? Over what do we wish to maintain control, even to the detriment of our relationships or well-being, in order to be liked, praised, and noticed?

But Jesus unequivocally says no amount of prestige or accolades are worth turning our devotion away from God. And that is the lesson we learn by staying in this wilderness place of egotistical desire: that God must always be the one we worship – not our position, not our success, not our reputation, not even our families. Worship the Lord your God and serve him only – all the rest flows from there. After all, God is the one who loves us even in our sinfulness, so why should anyone else’s opinion of us matter?

Finally, in this place already marked by discomfort, the devil takes a swing at Jesus’ sense of safety – just how much will Jesus trust God with this most basic human need? “You sound pretty confident,” the devil says. “Okay then, show me just how confident you really are, and throw yourself off this peak. After all, the very scripture you’ve been quoting to me says that God will protect you. So, prove it!” Again, I’m not likely to test God this extremely, but I can think of times when I’ve been in that wilderness place – uncertain, fearful, and yes, feeling a certain lack of safety – when I have tested God in my own ways, making an assumption that if I am truly loved and cared for by God, then God won’t let bad things happen to me. “I’m a good person,” I think, “and beloved by God, so God will keep me safe from Covid if I go to this event, or from a car accident if I speed, or from some other tragedy.” We all want to believe that! 

Once again, Jesus could easily have shut the devil right up and proven God’s power, and absolutely justified that choice! But Jesus doesn’t. Again, he stays in the wilderness place, and puts his trust in God’s hands, not tests. Jesus has no need to prove his belovedness; he already knows it! And this is the gift he receives in this wilderness: the awareness that God loves us not apart from the vulnerability of our humanity, or the suffering we sometimes endure because of it, but even as we are in it. Even as we suffer, God is there, loving us, upholding us. After all, God’s power is made perfect in weakness.

Jesus’ time in the wilderness – the time that he chooses to remain in that place – is full of the lessons that can only come about when we don’t rush to get out of a place of pain, liminality, and struggle. Our natural inclination may be to distract, escape, appear stronger than we are to hide our fears, maintain control to give us a sense of safety or competence, or maybe even make ourselves smaller to avoid attention. But what Jesus shows us during his own time in the wilderness, is the gifts we can get from remaining in place for a time, looking around, and listening to the Spirit of love who led us there for a purpose. There, in the wilderness, we do as the Psalmist says: we “make the Lord [our] refuge and stronghold.” When you do that, the Psalmist goes on, “no evil will be befall you, nor shall affliction come near your dwelling.”

This first place we encounter during this Lent, the wilderness, may at first seem like a place to get out of quickly. But it is also a holy place, a place of self-discovery. And because God is there, it can serve as a place of new creation, where we can discern God’s hope and will for us. In Jesus’ time in the wilderness, he chooses emptiness over fullness, obscurity over honor, and vulnerability over rescue – gifts he would go on to use to bring about our salvation by dying on a cross, the most empty, obscure, and vulnerable place imaginable. And from there, from that place, he brings new life for all.

Are we willing to stay in our own wilderness, look around, and see what gifts God might be bestowing on us there – and even, to be redeemed?

Let us pray… Incarnate God, you did not shy away from experiencing our humanity fully with us, spending time in the desert and being tempted by the same struggles we face ourselves. Thank you for bringing redemption even to those places. Help us to trust this is true also for us. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: You are here (Ash Wednesday)

 Full service HERE.

Ash Wednesday 2022

March 2, 2022

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

I have a colleague who has hanging in her office a large poster of the whole galaxy. There is an arrow pointing to one tiny speck in particular, with the words, “You are here.” She feels it is important to have in her office, because it is a daily reminder that in God’s vast universe, we are but specks – beloved specks, but specks, nonetheless. 

You are here. This is the title of our Lenten series this year. As I’ve reflected upon those three words, I have realized how many different emotions they bring up. For example, if you’re trying to find your way in a large park or on a hiking trail, finding that map and locating the red dot with those words, “you are here,” can be a great relief, especially for someone prone to getting lost, like me! It grounds us, makes us feel found, and gives direction for where to go next. It calms the unsettled feelings. Often on these large maps, the spot is no longer a red dot, but rather an area worn away by thousands of people trying to find their way, and finding rootedness in placing their finger on that comforting spot, and from there finding their bearings. You are here.

The marked spot on my friend’s space poster brings up different feelings for me. Though there is some comfort in recognizing our speck-ness in a vast universe, and with it the fleeting existence that is so starkly articulated on Ash Wednesday with those words, “You are dust, and to dust you shall return” – well that sometimes makes me want to toss up my hands and say, “Then why bother? Who am I, anyway? I’m nobody, in the grand scheme of things!” It’s not a comfortable realization, when what so many of us want, is to be somebody! To matter!

But here’s something else I can feel coming up with those words, “You are here.” It is a recognition that this is my reality, our reality. You are here – in a world at war, in relationships that are strained, in the near constant battle of good and evil trying to win over your heart and the world, in a story you may not much like being in. You are here, in this broken world. To some extent, these words invite us to face and accept that reality and not ignore it. They invite us also to recognize where exactly we are in it – both how we may be participating in the brokenness, and also what our role might be in healing it. 

In all three cases, I think, these words remind us of our need to, as Joel implores us, “Return to the Lord your God.” You are here. Now, return to the Lord.

That is why we come here on this day, this Ash Wednesday. Lent is often a season where we take an inventory of our hearts and our relationship with God. It is when we locate ourselves on the map of faith, touch it with our finger and say, “I am here.” We do that especially through confession. Call me Lutheran, but the lengthy confession we engage in on this day is my favorite part of this service – not because I enjoy it, but because it puts words to so many things that my heart and I have tried to ignore. Like searching for an address on Google Maps, it zooms in on my location: “You are here.” Here, where our love for God and neighbor has not always been consistent. Here, where we have withheld forgiveness of others. Here, where pride, envy, hypocrisy and apathy have infected our lives. Here, in our negligence of prayer and worship, in our exploitation of other people, in our pollution of creation, in our self-indulgence. You are here. 

And then we come forward and in one, painfully direct yet confusing ritual, ashes remind us, “You’re gonna die,” and the tracing of our baptismal cross on our forehead reminds us, “You are beloved, you are forgiven, you are saved, you are mine.”

Is there any other day in the church year that is as honest and humbling as Ash Wednesday? Any other day when we identify more clearly: you, in all your sinfulness and belovedness, you are here? 

And so from here, from that worn spot on the map of our relationship with God, from here we offer these ancient pleas and prayers:

“Return to the Lord your God for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.”

“Create in me a clean heart, O God. Renew a right spirit within me.”

“Be reconciled to God.”

“Have mercy on us, O God.”

With our hearts stripped bare, we enter into this season – not shouting from a street corner, not posting on social media about our experience fasting, but with all the vulnerability and nakedness normally seen only in the privacy of our bedroom. Is that what Jesus meant when he told us to pray not as the hypocrites do on the streets and in the synagogue, but secretly in our rooms? I admit that bit always bothered me, because prayer is so powerful when it is done with others! It shouldn’t be kept secret! I don’t want us to do it only privately in our rooms! But now I can see the gift: for it is only in our spiritual bedroom where we feel safe enough to divulge our brokenness to a God who promises repeatedly to love us. It is only in that brave place of spiritual exposure – whether it is in your literal bedroom or kneeling here before the altar or some other place where you feel close to God – that we can risk being fully authentic and honest with God about the place we find ourselves in.

And from that worn spot – the spot on the map of our lives, the spot where God touched our brows – from that spot, we can once again orient ourselves toward an abundant life with God. At the end of Lent, we will celebrate resurrection. For the next six weeks, we will dwell in our need for it. But whether you are here, or there, or somewhere in between, we can trust that God is here… and here… and here… [point to self, table, font, cross, congregation] and wherever we are, hearing our prayers, loving us in our brokenness and confusion, and promising us life. 

Let us pray… God, Emmanuel, you are here – with us in our broken realities, with us on the worn maps of our lives, with us even in your vast universe. Thank you for dwelling with us in whatever place we find ourselves. Now direct us always toward you. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.