Christmas Eve Sermon: Persistent Light

 Christmas Eve 2024

With bellies full from our shared meal, we gather in the living room, and turn off the lights. All that illumines the faces of those gathered is a single candle, flickering behind a transparency, a paper cutout of a silhouette of the holy family with the words, written above it, “The light shines in the darkness.” One by one, people take the flame from that one candle and light other candles that have been placed around the room, candles which illuminate angels, stars, or other scenes from the beloved story of Jesus’ birth. As they light candles, people share their stories, their prayers, their hopes for this season, and together we hold these offerings, and sing a carol, pointing us ever toward Emmanuel, God-with-us. As time passes, the darkness that once shrouded the room, has been scattered by the flickering flames of people’s hopes, prayers, and memories. A light indeed shines in the darkness.

I’ve just described a beloved family tradition from my mom’s side of the family. My mom remembers that her older brother, when they used to do this as kids, would always choose the darkest corner he could find, and light that candle, desiring as he did to bring light into the darkest corners of the living room, and the world. 

This memory came to mind when I came across a poem this year by Jan Richardson, called “How the Light Comes.” She writes, 

I cannot tell you

how the light comes.

What I know

is that it is more ancient

than imagining.

That it travels

across an astounding expanse

to reach us.

That it loves

searching out

what is hidden,

what is lost,

what is forgotten

or in peril

or in pain.

Imagine that – a Light that loves searching out what is hidden, lost, forgotten, in peril, or in pain. It seems to me there is a lot of those things, in this life, and we often feel it more profoundly at the holidays. I think of a friend whose husband recently lost his battle with cancer, and another friend who fears this could be her last Christmas with her dad, who is battling ALS. I think of those who are fearful of what the new year will bring, and those who do not feel they can live authentic lives, for fear of their safety. I think of those who are estranged from family, or who lack sufficient work or reliable housing, or who are far from home. Of course, there are also many here tonight and everywhere whose hearts are filled to bursting with joy, and what a blessing that is! But the truth is, while there is plenty of joy and hope and love to go around this season, there is also sadness and pain for past losses, or for current realities, and there is anxiety and fear for the future. Ignoring that won’t make it go away.

That is why I am so drawn to Richardson’s beautiful claim that the ancient Light that “travels across an astounding expanse to reach us,” loves to seek out these places we may keep hidden beneath a mask of “everything’s fine,” places with peril or pain for body or spirit. Like my uncle, a boy lighting a candle in the darkest corner, the Light searches for the darkest corner of the room, and goes to it, illuminating what would have stayed in darkness and never seen the light of hope. 

That’s what it was like that first Christmas night. We have sanitized this story over time, making it more sweet than fearful, more cute than painful. It is easy to miss or overlook why this light shining in the darkness, this babe born in a manger, was so important. But remember, Israel was at this time an occupied territory, and Roman occupation was often more peril than picnic. They had been waiting for hundreds of years to hear a word of hope from God, but instead they felt abandoned, lost, forgotten. The year that Emmanuel, God-with-us, was born, the earth was more than ready for a savior. They were living in a land of deep darkness, just like the people in our reading this evening from Isaiah. They longed to see a great light. They longed for that light to, as Richardson writes, search out what is hidden, what is lost, what is forgotten, or in peril, or in pain. 

And we still feel that longing for the light, albeit now for different reasons. It is part of why we love going out to look at Christmas lights displays, why we love to light candles as the days grow darker through December. We long for brightness to dispel the darkness! It is also why we practice acts of generosity during this season, why we love to hear and watch heartwarming stories that restore our faith in humanity, and make us feel hopeful. We are yearning for that ancient light, that searches out the darkest corners of the room and our hearts.

I heard one such story this season, that took place in Toledo, Ohio in December of 2018. At a large intersection in town was a huge weed that had pushed through the concrete and managed to avoid getting cut down. It was a giant, persistent eye sore. As a joke one day, someone hung some tinsel on the weed, making it into something of a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. The next day, someone added an ornament, as well as a sign saying, “The Christmas Weed.” The day after that, people started leaving gifts by the tree – free gifts for anyone to take! By now, this ugly thing at a busy intersection was really getting some traction – someone made a Facebook page for it. 10,000 people started following, and as the days went on, more gifts were added. Before long, there were lawn reindeer, a costumed Santa waving to the cars passing by, and people started taking their families to sing carols at the Christmas Weed. Hats, scarves, and blankets appeared, free to whoever needed them. This organic effort, begun by a tiny piece of reflective plastic tinsel, was the light of the town! 

But then, two days before Christmas Eve, someone came and took everything, and destroyed the weed, snuffing out that light. Yet still, the Christmas Weed, and the light, persisted. There appeared on the spot a potted weed, very similar to the one that was taken. Within hours there was more there than had been there before. A nearby Walgreens put out bins for the influx of items. They provided hot chocolate and opened their parking lot for visitors. Police directed traffic so people could safely visit the Weed. Local agencies took turns picking up donations. One pastor serving in Toledo said, “The Christmas Weed was the light and hope the town needed [that year].” Another resident commented, “May every town be blessed with such a Weed.” 

You see – the Light loves searching out what is hidden, lost, forgotten, in peril or in pain. The Light searches out the weeds – the unwanted, unsightly intruders, and brightens them with hope. The Light pursues the darkest corners, where we try to hide the things that hurt, and as Richardson’s poem goes on, it “works its way / into the deepest dark / that enfolds you, / though it may seem / long ages in coming / or arrive in a shape / you did not foresee” – like the shape of an ungainly Christmas Weed, or a single flame in the darkest corner of the room, or a babe born to peasants in a stable in a backwater town. 

The people who walk in darkness have seen a great light. It is the light that persists like a weed. It is the light that will not allow us to feel alone in our sadness. It is the light that, in the words of Howard Thurman that our choir will sing tonight, brings “hope where despair keeps watch… courage for fears ever present… peace for tempest-tossed days… grace to ease heavy burdens… [and] love to inspire all [our] living.” 

Let us turn toward this Light, this Christmas, opening ourselves to it, ready to receive what it offers. May the light shining in the darkness, that shown from a lowly manger and brightened the night, shine also in our hearts. Amen. 

Sermon: Extraordinary Emmanuel (Dec. 22, 2024)

Advent 4C
December 22, 2024
Luke 1:39-55

INTRODUCTION

Finally, on this 4th Sunday of Advent, we get some texts that sound Christmasy. Micah will announce the importance of that little town of Bethlehem, which is the same town from which King David came. Hebrews will tell us why the coming of Jesus is important. But the really Christmasy text will be the Gospel, which tells the story of Mary’s visitation to Elizabeth and Mary’s song of praise. Let me situate you: Just before the part of the Gospel we’ll hear today is the Annunciation, when the angel Gabriel comes to Mary to tell her that she will be the mother of God. When Mary is, understandably, perplexed by this news, Gabriel adds that in fact, Mary’s aging cousin Elizabeth is also with child, and “it is the 6th month for she who was said to be barren, for nothing is impossible with God.” (You may remember Elizabeth, wife of Zechariah, from two weeks ago when we heard Zechariah’s song as our Psalm. So, Elizabeth is pregnant with John the Baptist.) Then the angel departs from Mary, and that’s where our Gospel reading will pick up, with Mary leaving “with haste” to go see the cousin the angel mentioned. Upon hearing Elizabeth’s greeting, Mary will respond by singing what is now known as the Magnificat, so named because of the first Latin word (“My soul magnifies the Lord”). 

The Magnificat is beloved, but has also been seen through history as a dangerous text. Just notice how very revolutionary it is, describing a major reversal in the usual order. As one paraphrase of this song in our hymnal says, “[God] is turning the world around.” This is not mild stuff here! So, watch in our readings and hymns today, for phrases and imagery of the ways God is turning, changing your world, or the whole world. Let’s listen. 

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from the one who is and who was and who is to come. Amen.

After worship today, we will hold our annual Christmas pageant. (It’s gonna be “the best” – really, please plan to stay for it!) Pageants like this are a beloved part of the Christmas season, because the mysterious and wonderful story of that first Christmas is one that captivates the imaginations of people of all ages. What is it that draws us in so? The angels? The animals? The kings and shepherds? The Son of God in a feeding trough, of all places?

Personally, I think it is the mystery of it all, and the unexpected bringing together of all those things, ordinary and divine. Though the story is so familiar to us, depicted on neighborhood lawns and greeting cards, and retold in countless children’s picture books, it remains an absolutely mysterious event in which the ordinary and extraordinary are held together in ways both comforting and challenging, both familiar and baffling. It is a mysterious paradox. 

We know this about the night of Jesus’ birth. But I was struck by the same impression in the part of the story we hear today, about Mary’s response to the news of this divine conception, in which ordinary and miraculous come together. Let’s take a look, and as I tell this story, notice how the ordinary and the extraordinary are woven together. 

…

Gabriel has just returned to heaven, and Mary is now standing alone once again in her humble home in Nazareth. Her whole body seems to be vibrating as phrases the angel said continue running through her head: “You will bear a son… He will reign over the house of Jacob forever… he will be called Son of God… the Holy Spirit will come upon you.” Her heart is pounding, and her mind is racing with questions. Will Joseph leave her? What will her parents say? What will the townspeople say – she is unwed, after all, and who will believe this outlandish story about an angel? Mary’s breathing speeds up and her skin begins to feel hot and prickly.

But then, another phrase floats into her consciousness: “Your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son…. For nothing will be impossible with God.” All at once, Mary knows: she must go to Elizabeth, to her relative. She must form this small community of women who know in their literal beings what it is to be touched by God. It will be a difficult and dangerous journey to get there – it is 70 miles from Nazareth, and young Mary, no more than 15 years old, will be taking it alone and on foot. It is a downright foolish idea, but she also knows it is right. With fierceness and conviction, and without overthinking it, Mary quickly leaves for the hill country. 

…

Elizabeth is in her 6th month, and her aging body is feeling the ache of moving into the third trimester of her pregnancy. Grateful though she is for this miracle, she must admit that the miraculous nature of her status is not at the forefront of her mind, with her back and hips constantly sore. She would benefit from a full night’s sleep without having to get up to relieve herself every hour. She is also fearful of the ever-looming prospect of labor, especially as she is such an old woman. She knows this pregnancy is a blessing, and something very incredible indeed, and she is grateful… but she is also acutely aware that even God’s miracles don’t come easy.

Elizabeth is out doing her daily chores one day, the relentless sun causing beads of sweat to dampen her forehead. Zechariah is inside, having dozed off while studying Torah. Elizabeth sighs, and reaches up to wipe her brow and stretch her aching back, and… she squints at the horizon. Someone is approaching their home. With a gasp, she realizes it is her young cousin, Mary, looking grateful and exhausted as she approaches. Elizabeth laughs, astonished and delighted. At that moment, the Holy Spirit enters Elizabeth like a breath. Her hand moves to her belly – she feels baby John leap in her womb, already prophesying and pointing, Elizabeth somehow knows, toward the Messiah. The two women come together, embracing, both weary and jubilant, laughing in joy and relief. Elizabeth’s swollen belly bumps up against Mary’s still flat one, and Elizabeth says into Mary’s hair, “Blessed are you among women! Blessed is the fruit of your womb!” Soon, both women are weeping, shedding the tears they have kept bottled up but now feel safe to release. The power of this community overcomes them – here they can let down their guard, and be their authentic selves. Here, they can share together in joy and fear, they can celebrate, and listen, and cry, and simply be together. Here they experience the gift of incarnate community. 

Elizabeth hurries Mary inside for a seat and a drink of water, and they begin to talk in the eager tones of two women who have missed each other and need to catch up, and have incredible news to share. Mary shares her fears along with her certainty of God’s plan, and Elizabeth bears witness, holds it all, and showers Mary with words of blessing. “Do you know what, my dear Mary?” she asks. She tenderly touches her belly again. “Even as you were arriving, my little John knew something marvelous was happening. I felt him leap for joy in my womb!” Mary laughs through her tears, wiping her nose. Elizabeth goes on, looking Mary deep in the eyes, and says, “Blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.” Mary feels the impact of her cousin’s statement, absorbing its truth. There would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord. She remembers the angel’s words, the words that had become her mantra, carrying her the 70 miles to Elizabeth’s home, “Nothing is impossible with God.” 

Suddenly, Mary doesn’t feel fear anymore. God would fulfill what he had spoken to her. God would fulfill all that he had promised throughout the ages, to Abraham and his descendants forever, she believed that. Before she knows what has come over her, Mary is singing – singing her own version of the song of Hannah, who had longed for a child, and of all the women of faith who have guided Mary all her life. Singing a song of revolution and trust and assurance in God. Taking the posture of a prophet, she sings of God’s promises as if they have already been fulfilled: “God has scattered the proud! He has brought down the powerful and lifted up the lowly! He has filled the hungry with good things!” Delighted, Elizabeth joins in, and the two women, this first Christian community to gather in celebration of Jesus Christ, sing a holy duet, praising God with defiance and faith. 

… 

I love imagining this story this way, in some ways so ordinary and in others, so extraordinary. I love imagining that Elizabeth and Mary both experienced the same pains and fears we still understand, those that go with pregnancy and with an uncertain future, and that in the midst of those pains and fears they still found ways to praise God, to proclaim their blessedness to each other and to the world for generations to come. I love that they come together in community – an inclination so utterly human that even a baby knows to pursue it. I love the mind-boggling pairing of things so familiar and completely unknowable, and somehow, it works! 

The hymn we will sing in a moment captures this: “In a momentary meeting of eternity and time, Mary learned that she would carry both the mortal and divine.” That momentary meeting of eternity and time – that is the essence of the incarnation. That the ineffable, omniscient, omnipotent God of the universe would, for a time, choose to become contained in flesh and bones, grow inside a woman, and know what it is to have an earthly existence, and all its joys and pains, and to assure us of his presence with us in all of it. 

I love that this story is so ordinary that I can picture it vividly, that it makes me think of times in my own life in which I gathered with a dear friend or relative and shared the joy of an unexpected miracle. And, I love that this story is so extraordinary that it continues to captivate listeners many generations later. In a couple days we will hear the rest of the story of God’s birth among us, but that won’t be the end. God will continue to be present with us in all the ordinary moments – doing chores, traveling, coming together in community, sharing joys and fears. God is Extraordinary Emmanuel, God-with-us, in all of our ordinary lives. And we are blessed for it!

Let us pray… Emmanuel, you desire to be with us in all things. Open our eyes to see you in all of our ordinary moments, so we will always know what it is to be blessed. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Photo: 

Pittman, Lauren Wright. Mary and Elizabeth, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=57086 [retrieved December 23, 2024]. Original source: Lauren Wright Pittman, http://www.lewpstudio.com/.

Sermon: Listening for a new story (December 8, 2024)

Advent 2C
December 8, 2024
Luke 1:68-70
Luke 3:1-6

INTRODUCTION

Here is some Pastor Johanna trivia for you: My favorite Gospel is… the Gospel of Luke. One reason for this is that, as you know, I love music, and packed into these first two chapters are no fewer than four gorgeous canticles, or scriptural songs: there is Zechariah’s song, which we hear today; and Mary’s song, which we’ll hear in two weeks; the Gloria, which we will hear the angels sing on Christmas; and finally Simeon’s song, which we will hear in February on the day of the “Presentation of our Lord.” In fact, so beautiful are these songs, that they have been incorporated into the Church’s liturgies since liturgies existed, and you can find them throughout our hymnal. I included in the bulletin a guide for where you can find them all – have a look!

Today, as I said, we will hear Zechariah’s song as our Psalm, and we will be using the version that is a part of our Lutheran Morning Prayer liturgy. Just a quick note on that – after the choir introduces the refrain, you are invited to sing the whole thing (in harmony, if you are so moved!), but if you find that too confusing, then just sing the refrain whenever it comes up, and follow along with the verses. 

So that’s the Psalm, but it connects directly to our Gospel reading, which features John the Baptist, who always shows up this 2nd Sunday of Advent. John, you may recall, is a relative of Jesus, the son of Mary’s cousin Elizabeth and Zechariah (of canticle fame!). I will tell you more of that story in my sermon, but for now, I want you to know that John was also a person specially selected by God since his conception. The song Zechariah sings, that we will sing as the Psalm, is a prophetic one that his dad sings on the day John is presented in the Temple. He declares: “And you, child, shall be called the prophet of the Most High, for you will go before the Lord to prepare the way, to give God’s people knowledge of salvation by the forgiveness of their sins.” And that is what the Baptist will do in our reading today from Luke.

Ah, I just love how the Advent texts all connect – it is so obvious in Advent because this moment for which we wait, when Christ comes, is the fulfillment of promises made from the beginning. And Advent is when we see all the pieces falling into place. As you listen, watch for those connections (between readings and with our various hymns and prayers), even as you consider how those connections extend to us still today. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from the one who is and who was and who is to come. Amen.

We are all pretty familiar with the story of Jesus’ birth – the angel Gabriel coming to Mary to tell her she would bear God’s son, Mary and Joseph traveling to Bethlehem and Jesus born in a manger, an angel choir singing praise. Maybe you also remember that before going to Bethlehem, Mary traveled while pregnant to see her relative Elizabeth, who was also miraculously pregnant in her old age. But there is a lot more than that to Elizabeth’s story, which is woven all throughout the Mary story, and today it takes center stage. 

Allow me to fill in the gaps. At the start of Luke’s Gospel, after a brief introduction, Luke tells us about an elderly couple, Zechariah and Elizabeth. Both are devout Jews, both from priestly families. But, to their dismay, Elizabeth has been unable to conceive, and they are childless. One day, Zechariah is selected to be the priest who gets to go all the way into the Holy of Holies, the very center of the Temple where God was thought to dwell. While he is in there, who should show up but the angel Gabriel! Zechariah is terrified – angels are not like the sweet cherubs that hang from Christmas trees and adorn shop window displays. There is a reason they always begin their messages with, “Do not be afraid,” and this was no exception. Gabriel goes on to tell him that he and Elizabeth are going to have a baby. Zechariah is understandably stunned by this news, and says as much. “But how? I’m old, and my wife is no spring chicken either!” Gabriel has no time for such nonsense. “Dude,” he says (and I’m paraphrasing the Greek here), “I’m Gabriel. You think I’d make this up? You know what? Since you didn’t believe me, how about this: you will be mute, unable to speak, until the day these things occur.” And so, when Zechariah comes out of the sanctuary to an impatient crowd wondering what took him so long in there, he can only flap his arms about, but no sound comes out.

Why didn’t Zechariah believe Gabriel’s good news? 

Perhaps it’s because Zechariah was so stuck in his own story, or his own version of his story, that his ears and heart were already closed to the possibility that God might have a different story in mind for him. He may not have liked his reality, but still, he was so comfortable in what he told himself, and what others told him, that he struggled to be open to the story that God wanted to tell with Zechariah’s life. 

I don’t blame him at all for this. I think we all fall victim to this from time to time! Even if we pray and pray for something to change, when the possibility of a different story is put right in front of us, we find ourselves unable to perceive or accept it. The old story is just so familiar and worn in, like an old pair of shoes, and stepping into new shoes is so uncomfortable. 

Maybe that’s why God imposed a nine-month silence upon Zechariah! Nine months for him to just keep his mouth shut, and listen to what God is doing. For nine months, his wife’s belly grew, and he couldn’t talk, but could only receive that gift. When Mary came to visit, announcing her own miraculous pregnancy, and when his own child leapt in his wife’s womb, he could only receive. As a new era, and two Spirit-filled boys, gestated in these two unlikely wombs, an elderly woman and an unwed teenager, Zechariah could not add his own words to the story – he could only receive it. 

Could this be an invitation to us, too? To keep our mouths shut, and just listen not to the story we tell ourselves, but to the story that God is trying to tell us? To listen to God’s new story, or perhaps a whole new way of understanding the old one?

What old stories am I talking about? Perhaps it is the one about your string of co-dependent relationships, a pattern that you have unwillingly taken on yourself because that’s what you saw in your own parents. Or, the story where you assume something must be terribly wrong with you because of your sexuality or your abilities or your past, and so you believe yourself to be unworthy of love. Or, the one where you can’t show any vulnerability because that would be admitting you are weak, or worse, not in control. Or the story where your faith isn’t enough, your gifts aren’t enough, you aren’t enough. These, and so many others, are the old, worn stories I’m talking about. 

So what would happen if we could put aside our pride, or expectations, or assumptions about what we deserve or not, and instead took a page out of Zechariah’s book, stopped talking for a while, and sat in the quiet of this Advent time, and just listened for the chance that something else, a new story, might be possible? Might we hear of something new waiting to be born? Or something needing to die? Might we hear something resembling the birth, life, death and resurrection of Christ himself?

That’s really the essence of the Jesus story, and all its various characters: it is the story of God telling the world, in no uncertain terms, that a different story, a new life, is possible. That new birth is possible where there was none. That hope is possible where there was only despair. That love is possible where there was only hate and fear. That relationship is possible even when we have done everything in our power to break it. And these are new stories that we can perceive if we just shut up for a while, and let God’s telling of our story gestate in our beings, and grow into something that becomes so much our own, that it becomes the story that bursts forth from our own mouths.

That’s what happens to Zechariah. Eight days after John is born, he is brought to the Temple, as was the custom, to be circumcised and named. Elizabeth says he is John, but they want to name him Zechariah after his father. Zechariah, still unable to speak, scrawls onto a writing tablet, “His name is John,” and suddenly the story that has taken root in his heart and mind these nine months bursts forth in the form of praise – and he sings this new song, now memorialized in our liturgies, the Benedictus. “Blessed be the Lord God of Israel. He has come to his people and set them free!” Free from their old stories that bore no fruit. Free from that which held us back from being the people God made us to be. Free from “the hands of our enemies.” “Free to worship God without fear” – fear that we were not good enough, not faithful enough. God’s story for us, you see, is a story of freedom.

This is God’s tender compassion for us: that things do not have to stay how they were. That we do not have to be victims of our old stories, in which we have to do something to earn God’s love or favor. This is the dawn from on high that breaks upon us, shining on those of us who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, unable to see a way out. This story, God’s story, is the one that guides our feet into the way of peace.

Let us pray… God of newness and life, we sometimes get so stuck in our own, old stories that we cannot see a way out. Enter into our stories, that the dawn would break upon us, free us from all that holds us bound, and guide our feet into the way of peace. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: How to have hope when the sky is falling (December 1, 2024)

Advent 1C: How to have hope when the sky is falling
December 1, 2024
Jeremiah 33:14-16
Luke 21:25-36

INTRODUCTION

If you were hoping to catch a glimpse of the babe in a manger today, on this first Sunday of Advent, I have bad news for you! Each year in Advent, we start not with the first coming, but with the second coming, and the scary signs that it may be upon us. We will see this in Luke, as Jesus warns his disciples to keep alert, to be on guard against all the things that would try to distract us from seeing God’s kingdom coming among us. Honestly, it is a helpful reminder, in a season full of busyness and distraction, to stay focused on what Christ actually came for: to give hope to a world in despair, and to draw our attention toward the God who saves.

And that is what we will see in our readings today. We’ll hear a bit from Jeremiah, normally known for his doom and gloom, but today he takes a break from that, in the part of the book known as the Book of Consolation. Even in the midst of the devastation of Jerusalem by Babylon, and Israel’s exile, Jeremiah promises here that this worst possible scenario does not last forever. Salvation and safety are coming, justice and righteousness are coming. 

Both the Psalm and Thessalonians are full of hope and joy in a God who keeps promises. 

And in Luke, Jesus does not shy away from naming the challenges ahead, but also gives some helpful guidance on staying focused on the God who saves. The original audiences of these texts were all enduring difficult times, and we know a thing or two about that, too. So as you listen, hear these words of hope and consolation both as being honest about reality, and drawing us ever toward seeing how God is breaking into our difficult realities all the time. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from the one who is and who was and who is to come. Amen.

How do you respond when disaster strikes? 

Do you start breathing fast, heart racing? Do you cry? Do you get very calm and calculating, in order to get through the crisis at hand, and deal with the emotions later? Do you sink into a depression, unable to process all the emotion? 

Or maybe the better question is, what do you need when disaster strikes? We talked about this last week in our confirmation class. We had a guest speaker, who is a chaplain at Strong Hospital. He talked about how he cares for patients, families and staff when they are dealing with perhaps the worst thing that has ever happened to them. Mostly, he said, people don’t need platitudes or promises we can’t keep about how “everything will be okay.” What they do need is to know they aren’t alone, and to know that their feelings matter. The chaplain’s role is to give suffering people a space to name their feelings, and then to hold those feelings with them.

There is a sense of relief that comes from just naming a thing what it is, without rushing away from it. It is a real gift to have someone in our lives who can cry with us, who can name the pain and not be so afraid of it that they need to move us past it just as quickly as possible.

That is what we get, this first Sunday in Advent. Our Gospel reading does not shy away from naming the difficulty of this life, and the struggles that may very well lie ahead. It may seem a strange way to start this season, when the world around us has a literal sheen on it, all dressed up with holiday cheer, sparkling lights, and cheerful music. Is that why we love this holiday season so much? Because it masks so well all the things that are wrong, or at least takes our mind away from them for a while? Well, there is a certain an appeal to that, but we don’t get off so easy in the Church. No, we start the season instead by staring those things straight in the face: “Things are rough, and they are going to get rougher.” And the implied question, “So, what are you going to do about it?” What do you do, what do you need, when disaster strikes?

If naming the struggle is the challenge of Advent, the gift of Advent is its focus on hope, and living in the hope of what is to come. No matter how bad it looks, don't give up the faith. Hang in there, because God is in control. Fear happens; this is inevitable. Life is full of the unknown, the frustrating, the scary, the devastating, and things can turn for the worse in an instant. But in that, we have a hope we can cling to, an interruption that is louder and more powerful than anything life can serve us, and that is the hope that comes along with that babe in a manger. This is the salvation that Jeremiah promises in our first lesson today. It is the salvation we experience right now. And it is the salvation for which we still wait, as we await Christ’s second coming. That is why we call Jesus the one who is and who was and who is to come. He is God-with-us, every step of the way.

That’s all well and good, but how, with so many competing forces, do we keep our eyes and hearts focused on the possibility of that hopeful interruption? Jesus gives us three ideas. First, he says, “don’t let your hearts be weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of life.” That can be a pretty tall order, because there are so very many worries of life! At our evening prayer service last week, we talked about finding ways to give thanks in everything, even if we don’t give thanks for everything. When we can do this, our hearts can be opened to seeing God working in those things. In all things, even the most annoying or frustrating, there is the possibility for a gift, for a glimpse of God’s grace. As for dissipation and drunkenness… well, think of these behaviors not only literally, but as representative of all the distractions of life in general, and this season in particular. One of my personal goals this Advent is to start each day with a moment of mindfulness, some quiet time for me to focus and not feel rushed, and be fully present in my body without getting carried away by my thoughts. What’s a practice that would help you to do that this season?

The next thing Jesus urges us to do is to “be alert at all times.” Even as we strive to find some time to ourselves for peace and focus, we never stop paying attention. Remember that Christ is the one who is and who was and who is to come – that means that Christ is already among us! He points us today toward a fig tree, how we see the leaves start to sprout and we know summer is near. So we, too, can see glimpses of Christ’s kingdom in such ordinary things – a kind smile from a stranger, a parent comforting their child, even in things that might normally have annoyed us! What if we shift our perspective, so that instead of looking for things that are wrong, we look for ways Christ is showing up? When we look for something, after all, we tend to find it. So, let’s look for glimpses of God’s kingdom, in all things! 

And finally, Jesus tells us to pray. Pray for strength, for endurance, for patience as we wait for salvation. Really, this should be the first thing – for how can we do anything without the power of prayer to fuel us? Maybe you can pray during that time you’ve set apart for yourself. Maybe in your car between errands, or at red lights. Maybe you could pray through setting up your nativity set, or whatever other Advent and Christmas themed décor you have in your house. Find God in these ordinary things, too, and let them inspire you to prayer.

We’re still several weeks away from the Peace that is born in a stable, that angels will sing and that will bring shepherds and kings alike to their knees. And while we wait – not only for our celebration of the first coming, but also for the second coming – we will encounter many things that are decidedly not peaceful. During this time, this Advent season, we are given a great gift: an interruption that at once acknowledges our fears, and promises that salvation is coming, an interruption that claims that hope is possible, and can be found even in the most ordinary of moments. Let us cling to this hope, this season, and every season, as we await the coming of our Lord.

Let us pray… Lord of Hope, you are the one who is and who was and who is to come. Help us to notice the blessings you bring, to be alert and ready for your presence among us, to pray for strength as we wait, and to live in the hope that is our Lord Jesus Christ. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: What God's kingdom on earth look like (November 24, 2024)

Christ the King Sunday (B)
November 25, 2018
John 18:33-37 

INTRODUCTION

On this Sunday of the church year, the week before Advent, we celebrate Christ the King Sunday – remembering with thanksgiving that Christ is the ruler of the universe and of our lives, more powerful than any earthly power. The texts for Christ the King present us with some strange, end-times imagery, looking forward to the time when Christ will return to sit on the throne and visibly rule over heaven and earth, even as they recall that Christ has always done this. It’s a day of tension, being both ominous, and thrilling. Really, it’s the perfect way to end the church year, and prepare ourselves to start thinking about Advent, and the first coming of God into our midst as a babe in a manger.  

I also want to say a quick word about our Gospel reading, because today we jump from Mark back into the Gospel of John. This short reading places us in the midst of Jesus’ passion story, in the middle of his trial before Pilate. Pontius Pilate, you may remember, was an incredibly violent and brutal ruler, known for his extreme punishments, which makes it all the stranger that in this text he seems to be trying to find a way to let Jesus off the hook! But Jesus is resolute, as he is throughout John’s Gospel, that he is exactly where he needs to be, doing what he needs to do. Their argument today is, appropriately, about whether or not Jesus is, in fact, a king, and what that kingship looks like. As many things with Jesus, it is not what the world might have thought or expected! Let’s listen and learn about what it means for Christ to be our King.

[READ] 

Photo: Icon written by Alexey Akindinov: "Jesus Christ, the Savior of the World," 2018-2019.
Released into the public domain by Alexey Akindinov, via Wikimedia Commons under CCA-SA 4.0 International. 

Grace to you and peace from the one who is, and who was, and who is to come. Amen. 

Christ the King Sunday is an overtly political festival. We are calling Jesus by a political title, after all, a king – implying that he, and not any of our earthly rulers, is the most sovereign, the most powerful, the most lasting of all rulers. In fact, that was the whole point of the festival. Christ the King Sunday is a fairly new festival on the church calendar, started in 1925, 99 years ago. After World War I, Europe was in a state of economic uncertainty. Facism was rising in Italy and Spain (harbingers of the Nazi movement that soon took over Germany), and communism in Russia, and secularism in the west. In the face of such uncertainty, people were putting their trust in anything they could find that promised to rescue them. More and more, this was not religion, but politicians and political parties. In response, Pope Pius the 11th instigated an annual Sunday feast to celebrate and assert the “Kingship of our Savior” – a claim that opposed the totalitarian claims of the ideologies that were rising to power. This would be a day when knees would bend and homage would be paid to Christ, in order to witness to the day when every knee in heaven and on earth and under the earth would bow to Christ and confess him as Lord.

Nearly 100 years later, it is still a day when we reflect upon what that means, to have Christ as our ruler, and what that reign looks like, especially compared to the reigns and rulers of the world today. Jesus tells Pilate in today’s text that, “My kingdom is not from this world,” and really, that’s pretty good news! I would hope that God’s kingdom is something entirely different than this world, with all its tears, loss, pain, and sadness. But what exactly does that mean, for his kingdom not to be from this world? If not that, then what? 

Well, I’ll tell you what I don’t think it is. I don’t think the kingdom Jesus is referring to is an afterlife, or what we often call “heaven,” and here’s why: because from the very beginning, Jesus was the one who brought God’s light and life into the darkness of this world. God’s world and this world were not separate – God’s light was brought into this world. Throughout John, Jesus has been the light of the world, dwelling in and overcoming darkness – that’s what we celebrate each year at Christmas. By being that light in the darkness, Jesus brings God’s kingdom to earth, even as God’s kingdom remains something distinct from the ways of this world. And so, I think when he refers to his “kingdom,” he is referring not to some different, far-off location, but to a way of life – right now – that is of God. A way of life that is a light shining in darkness. 

I also don’t think Jesus’ “not from this world” kingdom looks like Christian Nationalism, like forcing Christianity and what those in power believe are Christian values upon the entire populace. I’ll tell you, my friends, this has never worked before, and generally leads to violence. It is contrary to our constitution, on the political side, and on the religious side, it treads dangerously into idolatry –  idolizing power, fear and violence. Jesus is specifically against all of these idols. So no, while I want people to worship Jesus, I don’t think using power to force entire populations to do so is the right path, nor does it look anything like God’s kingdom as described in John’s Gospel. 

But the question still remains: what does Jesus’ kingdom, in which Jesus is king, look like? I’m going to venture three suggestions as to what God’s kingdom on earth looks like. 

First, God’s kingdom looks like an abiding relationship with God. Through John’s Gospel, Jesus has made clear that living as a part of God’s kingdom means being in a relationship with God. That means, first of all, trusting that God does abide in us, and second, living by God’s commandment. It means regularly checking in with God through prayer and scripture study and faithful conversation with other Christians. We are so prone, aren’t we, to listen to the ways of the world, and let them be our guide. We want to fit in, or we want to let the world’s ways of fear and scarcity convince us to make choices or take stands that we know, in our hearts, are not what Jesus would have us do. Abiding with God is not always the easiest road, because it means letting go of some control, and sometimes even some good sense, and instead listening to where and how the Spirit might be blowing in our lives. When Christ truly reigns, we let him guide and be present in all that we do, even when it is not something our human, worldly inclinations would have chosen. 

Second, living in God’s kingdom means seeking peace. I am so intrigued by Jesus’ comment to Pilate that, “If my kingdom were of this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over.” And yet just moments before this, Peter did exactly that, when Jesus was arrested. He pulled a sword, willing to fight the legion of soldiers who came for Jesus – and Jesus told him to put the sword away. So what Jesus must be saying here is not that his followers should have been fighting for him, but rather, that a true follower would not resort to such violence, but rather, seek a more peaceful resistance to evil. 

Ah, but it can be so much easier and more immediately satisfying just to fight, can’t it?? Especially in our divided society, where judgment of the other abounds. When someone says something awful or misguided, doesn’t it feel so good to come back with something snappy to put them in their place? Isn’t it good to fight for what we believe in, at whatever cost? And yet, Jesus’ kingdom demands a different way: not simply to avoid one another, nor to “agree to disagree,” but rather, to actively seek peace with the other. God’s kingdom requires that we seek to know and understand one another, to have compassion for one another, to be in relationship with one another, to love one another. 

And that’s the real kicker for those who are citizens of God’s kingdom: we love one another. In John’s telling of Jesus’ story, right before this scene, Jesus washes his disciples’ feet, and he gives them a new commandment: to love one another, just as God has loved us. 

So simple to say; so difficult to live out! Not always, of course. Some people are very loveable. But it can be awfully hard to love people who have hurt us personally, or people who scare us, or whose ideologies are a threat to us, or whose mere presence threatens our way of life, or even just people in whom we simply aren’t that invested. 

At this time of year, we often hear the catchy slogan, “Keep Christ in Christmas.” I appreciate the meme I often see in response, that says, “Want to keep Christ in Christmas? Feed the hungry, clothe the naked, forgive the guilty, welcome the stranger and the immigrant, care for the ill, love your enemies.” Because those are the things Christ is about! And those are the things that citizens of Christ’s kingdom are called to be about, too. Those are the ways we love one another. Love one another – those you do like and those you don’t, those who are kind to you and those who scare you, those who look and act like you, and those who bring with them a host of unknowns. 

It sure isn’t easy. And when it isn’t, that is when we can lean on God’s own, perfect love – both to show us the way and to catch us when we fail. For God so loved the dark and sinful world, Jesus tells us, that he sent his only Son, so that we would not perish, so that we would not fall into the abyss that is all that world can promise us, but would instead have the promise of eternal life – eternal life living in the light and life of Christ. Eternal life living in Christ’s kingdom. 

Let us pray... Christ our King, in this ever-changing world, you and your love and your reign remain our constant. Even as we continue living in this earthly kingdom, keep us focused on living into your kingdom, trusting that your love will guide and support us all along. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. 

Sermon: Grasping for a savior (November 17, 2024)

Pentecost 26B
November 17, 2024
Mark 13:1-8

INTRODCUTION

Each fall, as our church year moves toward the end of the lectionary cycle and into Advent, we have a couple weeks of hearing what we call apocalyptic texts. We often associate that word, “apocalypse,” with the book of Revelation, with its strange creatures and death and destruction and the end of the world as we know it – and finally, Jesus’ reign. Revelation is indeed one of the apocalyptic books in the Bible, but it is not the only one! Daniel, which we will hear from in a moment, is quite apocalyptic as well. And so is our gospel reading today from Mark 13 – the chapter known to all students of the Bible as “Mark’s little apocalypse.” Jesus is not making up a new genre here. He is following the model of apocalyptic prophets, like Daniel, who have gone before him.

So, as we gear up for these texts, let me offer some insight on what that word, apocalypse, actually means. It comes from a Greek word that means “revelation,” something being revealed, “an unveiling or unfolding of things not previously known and which could not be known apart from the unveiling.” While that word “apocalypse” is kind of terrifying, I actually find this definition much more helpful, because it brings with it the sense of greater understanding. It is a revealing of things that were there all along, but we either couldn’t or wouldn’t see or acknowledge them. Once they are made visible, it can be terrifying at first, but then, once they are in the light, these previously hidden evils and threats can be dealt with. 

So, hang onto your hats, folks, as we enter a few weeks of unveiling and seeing things for what they are. While these texts were written for a very particular historical context, you will find plenty, I think, that is relatable to whatever uncovering, unveiling, or revealing is happening in your own life and the world around us. Let’s listen.  [READ]

Model of the 2nd Jerusalem Temple

Grace to you and peace from the one who is and who was and who is to come. Amen.

A couple weeks ago, I had the chance to go to a two-day event with one of my favorite preaching and Bible scholars. In one of the sessions, she asked us to share what sermons are the hardest ones for us to preach. I said, “The Sundays in November with all the apocalyptic texts.” Someone else said, “The ones that feel too close to home.” Well today, friends, I offer you: both!

Truth is, part of the reason I don’t like preaching on these Sundays in November with apocalyptic texts is precisely because they feel so close to home! Being in November, they often fall after an election, so at least half the country is mad or worried about something. There is always some major conflict or natural disaster happening somewhere in the world. There is always bad news circulating, making us wonder, “Is this the end? Are these the wars and famines and earthquakes that Jesus talked about? Is this, in fact, the end of the world?”

I’m not sure if this is a comfort or not, but the reality is that this is always how it has been. Mark’s context was certainly a time of great fear and violence. Mark’s Gospel was written either right during or right after the disastrous Jewish revolt against Roman imperial occupation in Palestine, which took place in the years 66 through 70, with the Temple finally falling to the Romans in 70. Mark’s audience was shaken to its core – the Temple, with its impressively large stones, was, for Jews, the sacred heart of the world, a wonder to behold, and the center of their faith and connection to God. Josephus, a 1st century historian, estimated that one million Jews were killed during this revolt – a genocide! It certainly felt to them like the end of the world. How could this be happening? Where was God? Where could hope possibly be found?

It is not a far reach for us to read this apocalyptic passage in Mark with a similar sense of doom, and a desperate need for hope. We have all had such questions about something, and many if not all of us have them about something right now. But terrifying as Jesus’ words today might be on first reading, I also think that they can provide us some of the hope that we long for.

There are three lines in particular that stand out to me as guidance not only for Mark’s community, but for our current moment in time. 

The first is the disciples’ awe at the sheer size of the Temple. “Look what large stones, and what large buildings!” They are impressed by this human marvel – as they should be! The stones they refer to were 35 feet long, 18 feet deep, and 12 feet tall! And yet their awe speaks to something deeper: our human inclination to put our trust in temporal things, those physical and earthly things that are right before us. We imagine that these temporal things are permanent and trustworthy. Yet Jesus’ swift reply is, “This isn’t going to last. Not one stone will be left upon another. All will be torn down.” 

It is shocking! Just look how big this Temple is, after all. But it is the first layer Jesus’ peels away in this great revealing, this apocalypse: the people, places, and systems in which we have put your trust are not forever. No ruler can rule forever, no government can keep control, no building is safe from destruction. All of it will be torn down. And the hopeful bit between the lines there says, “So don’t bother putting your trust in these temporal things. They won’t deliver. But God will. God alone provides us with eternal hope that cannot be destroyed.”

The next line that can speak to us is Jesus’ warning: “Beware that no one leads you astray. Many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and they will lead many astray.” How striking that Jesus begins this, his apocalyptic discourse, with warnings about deception. In this post-truth era in which we live, this feels very relevant and important! Our current era is characterized by not only misinformation, but disinformation, defined as “false information that is intended to mislead,” a.k.a., lead us astray. Jesus’ warning shows us that he knew our susceptibility to such things. That’s not to say humans are stupid or easily duped. Rather, that when we are desperate, or afraid, we are more ready to believe anything that promises to make our lives better. We long for a savior – just like Mark’s audience, who is experiencing daily death and violence and the destruction of their cities and the Temple. When disaster strikes (whether that is in the form of natural calamity, or political strife, or economic downfall), when disaster strikes, people will wonder where God is, and grasp at whatever promises to fix their problems. And so, Jesus warns his audience here, and us as well, to ask the questions, “Is this really the truth? Is this really Jesus? Is this who we are, as Jesus-followers?” 

Now, unfortunately, Jesus is not in the quick-fix business, which makes us all the more susceptible to falling for a false claim. If that guy over there is saying, “I can fix it immediately!” while Jesus is saying, “Come, walk the hard path of discipleship, and find your hope in eternal life,” well it seems obvious which way is more appealing! And so, Jesus offers a warning against that quick-fix offer (because spoiler: quick-fixes to complex problems don’t usually work). 

But he also offers this enigmatic line: “This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.” I admit that at first this comes off as pretty ominous. It speaks to a long journey of pain that lies ahead. I remember birth pangs, how they started off pretty manageable, but as time went on they grew more and more severe until I got to the point of crying out that I simply couldn’t do it anymore! Some women die in childbirth. I have friends who nearly did. This is not the easy process promised by those who would come “in Jesus’ name” and try to deceive us. 

Yet, I appreciate Jesus’ frankness about this. Apocalypse isn’t easy. It reveals things that have been kept hidden all this time for a reason – we don’t want to have to deal with them! We don’t want to have to deal with what these threats bring up in us. And when they are finally brought out into the open, and we can see what we are really dealing with, the work to heal is indeed difficult work. There are no quick-fixes for it. But that difficult labor, and the at times excruciating pain that comes with it, is all for a godly purpose: to bring about a new life. 

And that is the real hope we find in these apocalyptic texts. It is first the hope that though he may be difficult to see, Christ is with us in the pain, and we know that because only Christ could turn a struggle, a death, a tomb… into a womb, a new life, into hope. Getting there is a messy process, to be sure. And throughout it we must hold each other up, and proclaim God’s promise to one another: that God will never let us go, and that new life will be on the other side. 

The work of the Church is to remind one another of these things. And so, my friends, in the words of Hebrews, “Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who has promised is faithful. And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching.”

Let us pray… Revealing God, the world can be a fearful place, and we are prone to grasp at whatever savior promises us quick relief. Encourage us to put our trust in you and your promises, not the false promises trying to lead us astray, so that we would be drawn into the new life that only you can bring. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Empathy is Love (All Saint's, Nov. 3, 2024)

All Saints (B)
November 3, 2024
John 11:32-44
Revelation 21:1-6a

INTRODUCTION

            I love All Saints’ Day. I love the hymns, I love the texts, I love the memories. Every pastor I know says they’d rather preach a funeral than a wedding, because we get to preach the hope of resurrection – and All Saints Day is sort of a big, annual funeral, because it is all about the life and comfort we find in the resurrection promise, especially in the midst of the various losses we experience.

            Just look at these texts. Each is written to and for a community experiencing a difficult time, and each of them holds in tension the extremes of human emotion: the deep sadness, grief, and fear we feel when we’ve lost, or are losing, someone or something important to us, and the hope we find in a God who keeps promises. As you listen to each one, listen for those emotions. As these texts mention death, think not only about the ultimate sort of death, but also about the mundane deaths that we experience every day – people moving away, job change or loss, losing your faculties and abilities, realizing you can’t be as active anymore as you once were, any sort of meaningful change to what you have come to understand as “normal,” whether the change is good or bad. Recall the feelings you have in those experiences of death and change, and listen in these texts to God’s words of hope and new life for you. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from the one who is and who was and who is to come. Amen.

            As I read through the texts for today, I noticed a common image across all three: tears. Both Isaiah and Revelation talk about God wiping away tears from the eyes of people who are surrounded by death, grief and fear. And the Gospel text, this famous story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead, is full of mourning and sadness, even expressed by Jesus himself, whom John tells us is “greatly disturbed in spirit,” “deeply moved,” and openly weeping. So much pain. So much grief. So many tears.

I’ll tell you, I really needed these emotive texts this week. Anxiety and fear, mixed with cautious hope, are everywhere in our country right now, this week, as we look toward the election in just two days. What makes you anxious, and what you hope for, may differ from the person next to you, or it may be the same, but man alive, are emotions big these days for every American who has been paying attention to this election cycle. 

And so yes, I really needed to see a set of scripture texts this week that acknowledge that these big emotions are a part of being human, and always have been. Humans have always, always, felt things: we have felt fear, and anxiety; we have felt rage and discouragement, like Mary confronting Jesus; we have felt hope, even against all odds; and yes, like Jesus in this story about the raising of Lazarus, we have felt grief, grief that is sometimes so deep that we feel it in our very guts, crawling up and down our skin, and in every fiber of our being. When we can see all that play out in scripture, it feels to me like permission, from a loving God who cares enough about human emotions to become one of us and feel them himself. These texts give permission to acknowledge those feelings, to feel them, and to give ourselves space for lament.

            Lament. It is a central but all-too-often overlooked piece of the biblical narrative, but one I find so helpful. Lament is the expression of deep sorrow or grief about something or someone, like the loss of a person or ideal. It is the Psalmist’s cry in Psalm 22, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” It is the Israelites who sat down and wept by the waters of Babylon, because they could not find it in themselves to sing their song of faith while they were forced to live in a strange land. Lament is the “sighs too deep for words,” that Paul refers to in Romans. It is the deep sadness of Mary weeping inside the empty tomb on Easter morning, believing as she did that they had taken away her lord’s body. Lament.

            I have lamented. Recently, I have lamented for our country, and also for the loss of some of the people for whom we lit candles this morning, and also at many other times over the course of my life. I resonate with those in the Bible who have also lamented. And so that is why I am so drawn to the tears in our passages today, and in particular, to Jesus’ tears. I find it remarkable that he cries. After all, he knows how the story ends. He knows that he will raise Lazarus. He knows that he himself will die soon, and that he will be raised. He knows that death itself will no longer have the final word, and that he, and Lazarus, and all of us will inherit eternal life with God. He knows the end of the story – but still, he weeps, gut-wrenching sobs and real tears, along with his friends.

            Why does Jesus cry? Of course, we can’t make assumptions about Jesus’ psychological state or inner emotional workings. But I can observe why it is important to me that he cries, and that is that in this moment of expressed, shared emotion, Jesus makes known his capacity for empathy, and he validates the very real grief people are feeling. In his willingness to cry for the death of Lazarus, Jesus in essence says to Lazarus’ grieving sisters, “Your brother is worth grieving for. You are worth grieving for.” He doesn’t jump to paint a silver lining around it, or say, “Who are you talking to here? I can fix this for you!” Though he does eventually say, “Didn’t I say you would see the glory of God?” he doesn’t go there first. The first thing he does, is lament with them. He weeps. He lets himself feel their pain, and he cries with them.

            That can be incredibly healing in times of lament! I can think of times in my life when I have been having a really rough time, and I keep trying to tell myself, “It’s not so bad, Johanna. Get over it. Things could be so much worse.” And then when I complain to someone else, and they say, “Boy, that’s really rough,” I feel relieved! “Yes! Yes, it is rough! Thank you for saying that, and making it okay for me to feel cruddy about it!” In times when this has happened, that mere acknowledgement of my pain always feels like a step toward healing.

            I have found this in my interactions with other people, too. In my early life and early adulthood, when someone would express a concern to me, I would jump to saying, “Let me break this down with you and show you why this is not something to be concerned about. I think if you just understand, you’ll feel better.” Anyone ever try that on you? Turns out, that approach seldom works to diffuse conflict or heal hearts. Maybe eventually it’s needed, yes, but not at first. Because what people want most of all when they’re in pain is to be heard, to know that their feelings are valid, to feel like they are not alone. Once we have taken the time to lament together, to empathize, to sit together in the pain for a little while – only then can healing begin. Only then are we in a place where we can see and hear the good news of the resurrection.

When Jesus cries, the bystanders say, “See how he loved him!” I think it would be more accurate to say, “See how he loves us!” Because empathy is an act of love. Lamenting together is an act of love. It puts aside pretense and judgment and policy and even our own fears and baggage, and dwells for a moment in the heart and needs and longings of another. To do that, is to love.

This ability to lament together is the first step toward hope and healing, and ultimately, transformation. Right after Jesus weeps with his friends, they get their first glimpse of resurrection and new life, as Lazarus is raised. And right after that, the last of Jesus’ miracles, he walks his own agonizing path to the cross, and then, into resurrected glory.

That is the pattern of faith: from pain and sorrow and lament, to hope and healing and transformation. Over and over again we see this cycle – lament to hope to new life, lament to hope to new life. And every time, we can see that the God who came to dwell among us, also cries with us, and laments with us in our pain… and then, God wipes away our tears and his own, takes our hand, and assures us of what comes next: we see the glory of God. We see new life come about. Indeed, like the people standing there to whom Jesus said, “Unbind him and let him go,” we are invited into the work of bringing about that new life – unbinding the dead, releasing the world from the trappings of death. We are invited into the work of the resurrection. We don’t forget about the pain we felt, and neither does God, but we are assured that with Christ, that pain and death is never the last thing. Because God is always the last thing, the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. God always wins.

Let us pray… Abiding God, when we are lost, rejected, suffering and afflicted, we thank you for being with us, crying empathetic tears. Make us aware of your presence, and bring us into the everlasting hope made possible by your Son Jesus Christ our Lord. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: What must we cast aside? (October 27, 2024)

Pentecost 23B (Reformation Sunday)
October 27, 2024
Mark 10:46-52

INTRODUCTION

Usually on Reformation Day, we get two sets of texts to choose from: the regular lectionary texts, or the Reformation themed texts. I chose a little of each – the first two readings and Psalm are from the Reformation set. They talk about Christian freedom and grace and all those things Lutherans love to talk about. But I stuck with the Gospel reading from Mark, which provides some closure to the series of gospel readings we’ve been hearing these past weeks.

Here's why: it has to do with an important part of Mark’s structure. This Gospel is sort of in two acts, with a hinge in the middle. The first half, is all about healing and teaching. The last six chapters are the Passion story, which for Mark is the point of this whole story. And in the middle, we get this hinge, chapters 8-10, which are really at the heart of saying who Jesus is. These three chapters include Jesus’ three passion predictions, and several difficult teachings about discipleship, which the disciples misunderstand every time. We’ve been working through these chapters the past 6 weeks or so.

Bookending this centerpiece hinge, are two stories in which Jesus heals a blind man. In the first, it’s a bit of a false start (the guy says, “I see people, but they look like trees walking.”). In contrast, the second, which we’ll hear today, Bartimaeus immediately understands and springs up to follow Jesus. Immediately following this story, Jesus will walk triumphantly into Jerusalem, as Mark begins telling the story of Jesus’ Passion. 

Though recovery from blindness can be a problematic metaphor, it is also a powerful one. The point of these bookending stories is that Jesus has, over these weeks, brought clarity to his mission and to the role of discipleship. And we will see today, not only in the story of Bartimaeus but in all of our readings, that such clarity brings restoration, renewal, understanding, healing, and hope. 

Blind Bartimaeus hears Jesus coming – as you listen today, listen for Jesus’ hope and renewal for you. Restored Bartimaeus springs up to follow Jesus – as you listen today, consider how you will approach Jesus, the source of life. Let’s listen. 

"Bartimaeus," by Gurdon Brewster. http://www.gurdonbrewster.com/gbbartimaeus.html

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

“Throwing off his cloak, Bartimaeus sprang up and came to Jesus.” 

I have been geeking out about this short story all week, but this is the line that keeps capturing my attention. It’s really a fascinating story, serving as both a bookend to this section of Mark in which we learn some important things about who Jesus is, and as a gateway into Part 2 of Mark’s Gospel (the passion narrator). In the very next scene, Jesus will enter Jerusalem, and everyone will be throwing aside their cloaks onto the roadway, and calling Jesus “son of David” just like Bartimaeus does. There’s all kinds of neat scholarship around his name – he is the only person Jesus heals who is named, and his name is said twice, since Bartimaeus means “son of Timaeus.” (See one interpretation HERE.) Bartimaeus also has parallels to characters all throughout the Gospel – the blind man who started this section back in chapter 8 who did not immediately regain his sight, the rich man from a couple weeks ago (more on the later), James and John from last week (to whom Jesus asks the same question, “What do you want me to do for you?” and they get it wrong), the naked man who runs away during Jesus’ walk to Golgatha, and some scholars even believe the angel clothed in white who meets the women at the tomb is Bartimaeus, now fully clothed once again in a baptismal garment. I mean trust me, this story is a Bible nerd’s dream.

Yet I keep coming back to this strange little detail Mark includes: “throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus.” Why would Mark, known for his brevity and rapid-fire storytelling style, pause to give us this detail?

I think Bartimaeus’s cloak can tell us a lot, both about stewardship, as we are now just over halfway through our fall stewardship campaign, and about our celebration of Reformation Day, and about a life of faith more generally. Come along, let’s explore!

First, let’s go back to earlier in this chapter, the story we heard a couple of weeks ago: the story of Jesus and the rich man. The man comes to Jesus asking what he must do to inherit eternal life, and do you remember what Jesus told him? He tells him to sell everything he owns and give the proceeds to the poor. And the man’s response to this difficult teaching? Mark tells us “he went away grieving, for he had many possessions.” Now here at the end of that same chapter, we have another man who is the opposite: he is poor, a beggar, he is blind, and he has a single possession to his name – this cloak, which serves as his warmth, his bed, and the place where he gathers money, so, his livelihood. It is everything. And he’s opposite in another way: where the rich man has so much he can’t bear to give it up, Bartimaeus doesn’t just “leave” is sole possession, he “throws it aside.” He is eager. He sees (or rather, hears) someone who can give him the life he longs for. The rich man asked Jesus how to get the life he wanted, but Bartimaeus knows before he asks: life is with Jesus, not the cloak. 

I don’t know about you, but I’m a lot more like the rich man in this comparison. I’m much more likely to depend upon my possessions to satisfy me. I’m more likely to put my trust in things I can see concretely right before me – my bank account, my property, certain people. But maybe that’s the difference between me and Bartimaeus – I rely on what I can see… but he can’t see. He isn’t distracted by all the things demanding his attention. So he relies on the Jesus he hears, the Jesus he feels, who is active around him, the Jesus who promises him life, who makes him whole. 

Now, I can’t (and don’t want to) give up my sight, but there are other things I can do to actively put my trust in Jesus, and one of them is what this stewardship season is all about: generosity! Letting go! And it’s why we ask you to state your intent for giving: the statement of intent form for how much you will give to the church does help us, practically speaking, but it is also a way to make a promise to God, a way to say, “I do trust you. I trust you so much that I’m willing to throw aside this bit of security, and perhaps, give a little more than I originally planned, even a little more than is comfortable at first, so that I will put my trust in you, instead.” In pledging to give to God through St. Paul’s, we are, in this way, throwing our cloaks, our visible security, aside, in favor of trusting Jesus. 

Of course, this metaphor applies in more ways than just money, and we would do well to reflect on this Reformation Day on some of those ways. Mark’s Gospel often uses the cloak as symbolic of a dramatic shift, often toward a new way of life. Maybe that shift is or needs to be a financial one – thinking differently about where we find our security, and placing our treasure where we want to see our heart go, and see, in turn, how our heart changes or reorients. This is certainly a powerful shift, and a concrete one, and it is why financial generosity is such an essential spiritual practice. 

Or perhaps the cloak that needs to be cast aside, is in a perspective or belief about something controversial. As the election nears and voting begins, people are digging their heels in on their opinions, but what would happen if we simply listened to why someone believes the way they do? It likely won’t change our opinion, but it could at least help us understand where they are coming from and grow compassion in our hearts. 

Or maybe we need to cast aside the cloak of judgment, whether that judgment is of ourselves, or of others, or of our circumstances. That judging voice we all know so well, that labels things as stupid, or silly, or bad – it is the cause of so much stress, and it would happily stifle our joy if we let it! Maybe it is time to cast that voice aside, by recognizing it in action, naming it, and then taking a different route.

What cloak do you as an individual need to cast aside? What cloak do we as a congregation, or even as a whole Church, need to cast aside? 

Bartimaeus knew that Jesus would bring him abundant life. On this Reformation Day, let us consider what old ways we need to leave behind, so that we, too, could walk toward that new and abundant life with the eagerness of a blind man about to be made whole.

Let us pray… Reforming God, we cling to what we believe will provide our security, sometimes missing the ways you are calling us toward something new. Give us the courage of Bartimaeus, that we might spring up, cast aside our cloaks, and come to you. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: The world's power vs. Jesus' power (Oct. 20, 2024)

 Pentecost 22B – Confirmation Sunday
October 20, 2024
Mark 10:35-45

INTRODUCTION

For the past few weeks, we have been following Jesus on his journey to Jerusalem – a journey which he knows, and we know, will culminate with suffering and death on the cross. All along this journey, Jesus has been offering some very difficult teachings, to which we have been privy over the past month or so of Sundays. Teachings like, sell everything you own and give it to the poor, and cut off your limbs if they cause you to stumble, and be prepared to leave everything, even your families, and some tough teachings on divorce. Week after week, we’ve been squirming in our seats! Week after week we have been confronted with how difficult it is to be a disciple of Christ!

This week is no exception. Directly before this passage, Jesus has predicted his suffering and death on the cross for a third time, and then we will see James and John respond by completely missing the point (for the third time), and asking Jesus if they can sit by his side in his glory. Little do they know what they are asking! And so Jesus will put them in their place, telling them that his glory looks a lot less like what the world says power is, and a lot more like serving others. 

All of our readings today show us something about what discipleship looks like – like trusting in the creator of the universe, in Job, and in Romans, like living into the arch of death to life into which we were baptized. As you listen, consider what aspects of discipleship are most difficult for you. Let’s listen.

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

Last weekend, my husband and I saw the new movie called, The Apprentice. It is about a young Donald Trump, beginning on the day he meets Roy Cohn, the famously cut-throat lawyer willing to do whatever it takes to win, and who played a significant role in making Trump into the man he is. Cohn takes him under his wing, and teaches him the three rules of success: 1) Attack, attack, attack. 2) Admit nothing, deny everything, and 3) Never admit defeat. The rest of the movie shows the young protégé trying (and sometimes failing) to embrace and live into these guidelines, and ultimately becoming, by the end of the movie, the New York City real estate mogul we knew long before he entered politics. 

Now, I know movies take artistic license and sometimes sensationalize things for effect. But from everything I have read about this film, the depiction of Roy Cohn is spot on. Cohn would do anything to win, to gain power. 

I have been mulling this over ever since. Honestly, this approach sounds consistent to what I have observed among those in power or who want power, whether in business or politics or even in personal relationships: we so often default to believing that power looks like strength or forcefulness, like being right, like not backing down, like winning, and so if you want to be in power, you should do everything you can to put that image forth into the world.  

Of course, this perception of power did not originate with Roy Cohn – this is also how it was in ancient Rome. The Roman Empire understood greatness in terms of brute force and tyranny. To be powerful was to sit in a seat of honor, near to someone else who was in power. So it is no surprise, I suppose, that this is what James and John ask of Jesus in our Gospel reading today. “We want you to do for us whatever we ask of you,” they begin, already asserting themselves as powerful people who can demand what they want and expect to receive it. Jesus humors them. “And what is it that you want?” he asks. They answer, “Say that we can sit at your right hand and your left, in your glory.” In other words, “We know that you are powerful, and we want to be associated with you and your power in a very visual and obvious way, so that we, too, would be viewed as powerful.” Jesus tells them what this will entail – drinking of his same cup (the very same one he prays would pass from him in the Garden on the night of his betrayal), being baptized with his baptism. “Are you able?” he asks. “Yup,” they respond. “We are able,” stating again for the jury that they believe themselves to be Powerful People. 

Now, I want to give these guys the benefit of the doubt here. Perhaps they want that power because they want to use it for good! They must know by now that Jesus’ way is a way of love, and they want to have the power to bring that love to more people. Right? Well even so, they have gone about it all wrong. Because that, Jesus tells them, is not what power looks like in his way of life. Sure, they can be baptized with his baptism, and drink from his cup, but it is not going to look like the power of the Romans, like the power of those who would come by that power through force and craftiness and insistence on their own way and their own rightness. That is not the way of Jesus.

Jesus sees how important it is to get this message through not only to James and John, but to all the disciples. So he calls them all together and explains: “You know that among the Gentiles (that is, the Romans), those whom they recognize as rulers lord it over them, throwing their weight around. Their rulers are tyrants! But that’s not what we’re doing here. Power and glory look different for us. Whoever wishes to become great must become a servant to the others, and whoever wishes to be the top dog among you must be slave of all. That’s what the Son of Man came to do: not to be served by a bunch of people he considers less powerful and glorious than himself. No, he came to serve others; indeed, to give his life for them.”

Oof, this is so counter to what they think of as greatness and power! And it is so different from what we often think of as greatness today. Greatness and power, we think, come from being in control, not giving up control, not being subservient. Greatness and power come from being self-sufficient, and assertive, and not having to rely on anyone other than ourselves and our wits. Power is found in those words James and John say to Jesus with such conviction: “We are able.”

But that’s not the way of Jesus. That’s not to say we can’t be capable if we are Christians – of course we can. Jesus is not calling us to be helpless, incapable doormats. He is calling us to be servants, willing to put ourselves, and our own best interests aside for the sake of the other. He is calling us to love, even if loving someone puts us in harm’s way, even if it doesn’t move us up a rung on the ladder or result in a larger paycheck or a bigger tax break. Sometimes, he is calling us to use whatever power we may have due to our position or station in life, to the benefit of those less privileged, those whose voice is not always listened to or taken seriously. In short, he is calling us to serve and to love.

Our combined children and adult choir will sing in a moment a setting of a lovely hymn called “Will You Let Me Be Your Servant.” Throughout the hymn, servanthood is defined in some less obvious ways: walking together to bear the load, weeping and laughing together, sharing joy and sorrow, speaking words of peace. The first and last verses speak to mutual servanthood: “Will you let me be your servant, let me be as Christ to you? Pray that I may have the grace to let you be my servant, too.” Because that is another part of power, isn’t it – to admit that we need one another, that sometimes we need to be served, to be helped, because though we may prefer to say, “We are able!” the truth is, we are not, always. And there is great power in acknowledging that.

Today four young men who have completed their confirmation studies, will affirm their faith, and the promises made at their baptism. In preparation for this day, I spent some time talking with them about what it means to be an adult in the Church. Well, my friends, this is a part of what it means: it means selflessly giving what you have to give for the sake of the other – whether that means financial giving, or giving of time and talents, or best of all, all three, since they all serve different purposes both for our own spiritual growth and for service of the world! It means a willingness to serve, and also to be served, because being the Church means we hold each other up, so that when I am strong, I help you, and when you are strong and I need help, you are there for me. And there is real power in that. That is the sort of community of love that Jesus preached and calls us to. It is not all lollypops and sunshine, living a life of faith. It can be very hard – sometimes it leads to the cross. But always it leads to new life. That was promised to us in our baptism, when we were baptized into a death like Jesus’, we were also baptized into a resurrection, a life like his, a life that lasts well beyond our time on earth. 

As Chris, Landon, Jackson, and Derek are confirmed today, I hope you will use this as an opportunity to pray for them, as they commit to this life of love and servanthood. But also use it to pray for one another. Lord knows we all need it. Pray that we would be renewed in our baptismal call to love and serve one another selflessly, considering the needs of the weak and sick and vulnerable in all that we do. And pray that we would always know that the life of faith, though difficult, never stops at the cross, but also continues into the new life promised to us in our baptism.

Let us pray… Glorious God, we can sometimes be a bit full of ourselves and our own abilities. Change our hearts, so that instead we are full of you – so full of you that we are compelled to serve others in your name, and let them serve us, so that we all might experience a glimpse of your kingdom, and the new life you offer. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.