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

[READ]

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.

[READ]

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. 

Sermon: It is not good to be alone (Oct. 6, 2024)

Pentecost 20B
October 6, 2024
Genesis 2:18-24, Mark 10:2-16

INTRODUCTION

Today’s texts are a doozie: Jesus tackles marriage and divorce. The Genesis and the Mark texts have been used to cause a lot of pain for Christians over the centuries, keeping people in abusive marriages, shaming people for getting divorced, limiting gender identity and marriage equality. In short, they have been used to bring about hate and rejection of other children of God, rather than love and compassion. 

As you listen to them today, as well as the beautiful texts from Psalms and Hebrews celebrating creation and God’s marvelous power, try to hear not only the centuries of pain, but also the beauty in them. For even as they remind us of human brokenness, they also paint a picture of how human relationship can be. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

The first commentary I read this week on the Mark text began with three words: “Beware these texts.” Yikes. Yes, this is a difficult one, on a topic, divorce, that affects every single person here today, whether directly or through someone you know and love. So, what are we to do with a text like this, in a society in which half of marriages end in divorce? 

Well, the first thing to understand is that this exchange is spoken into a very different system and institution than what we currently live in. Marriage in the first century was more about economics and lineage, while today in western cultures at least, it is more about seeking mutual fulfillment with a loving partner. Observing that is not to give this passage more or less credibility, but is just to say that in some ways we are dealing with apples and oranges here. 

Still, we should take Jesus’ words seriously, and wrestle with it, especially because both this text and the Genesis text it is paired with have caused so much pain to generations of Christians. So let us use this as an opportunity to think spiritually about marriage, divorce, and more generally, covenantal partnership. 

Let’s start with the Genesis text, a text that has been used against people in the LGBTQ+ community because of its binary gender language and assumption that marriage must always be between a man and a woman. More essential here, though, is this: that the first human was lonely, and the second human was made to be a “fitting partner” for the first human. After a whole chapter of God saying creation was “good,” now God has seen that it is not good for the human to be alone. After a period of trial-and-error, bringing various animals to the human, God finally decides to make another human literally out of the same stuff as the first human, taking it out of adam’s side. Adam is delighted with the result. “At last!” he exclaims. “Finally, a partner who is bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh.” Humans from then on would leave their families of origin to find that partner, that other being who is made of the same stuff and complements them, so that their flesh would be reunited, not to be separated again. 

It’s a marvelous dream, isn’t it? The possibility that there is someone out there who is a fitting partner, who, bound in covenantal marriage, becomes one flesh with you, never again to be separated. With this partner you become, like those first humans, a community characterized by empathy, equality, mutuality, and generosity of spirit. And maybe it would have worked… if not for that sneaky snake, the enticing fruit, and the sin and brokenness that would follow. As they bit into that fruit, so was broken the ability to live in this perfect covenant. As they sewed together those fig leaves, their hearts were hardened. Their freewill had led to their downfall. Today, the difficulty and pain of human relationship is all too familiar to us.

Jump ahead to Jesus, and the Pharisees’ trap. Notice they don’t come with goodwill or curiosity. They make divorce into a legal question – “is it lawful?” they ask. But we know today that while the legal issues around divorce are expensive and difficult, it is not the legal aspect that is most painful. Much more than who gets the house or the KitchenAid mixer, the deep and lasting concern for us today is the spiritual and emotional impact of the experience on us and those involved, the brokenness and perhaps shame we feel, the pain we must endure.

            Jesus is also concerned about that spiritual brokenness. Notice how when the Pharisees ask him their legalistic question, Jesus turns it into a spiritual one, referring to the text from Genesis, thus harkening God’s dream for a “fitting” partnership between humans, marked by mutuality, tenderness, devotion, compassion, and care. That is the intention, the hope, for marriage.

            In fact, at its best, marriage can mirror our covenantal relationship with God, which is also marked by those same qualities – tenderness, compassion, devotion and care. That is what happens in our baptism, when God, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, brings us into the dance of the Trinity, the relationship of the One-in-Three and Three-in-One, and makes us a part of the one Body of Christ. In our baptism, God makes a covenant with us, just as God has made covenants with God’s people all throughout time. God makes a promise, a covenant, a vow, to be with us always, to the end of the earth, to love us always, to forgive us always. God promises in our baptism to have and to hold us, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. This is God’s solemn vow to us, in baptism.

            So, the gift of the marriage covenant, in this way, is one deeply profound way for us to experience in an earthly relationship the covenant that God has made with us. In marriage, we make a promise to someone, to have them and hold them, for better, for worse, in sickness and health, for rich or poor, until death parts us. And in making that promise to another human, we have the chance to more deeply understand what a Big Deal it is that God makes that promise to us! Because anyone who has been married longer than 2 minutes can tell you that marriage is really hard, that we (and our partner!) are not always loveable, that our hardness of heart is often showing. And yet God loves us anyway. Ideally, our “fitting partner” can say the same, loving us and committing to us even when our hearts are hard, and our words are harsh, when we are sick in body or mind, when we are poor in spirit or money, when we are at our best, or at our worst.

God wants that sort of depth of relationship for us. Covenant is God’s intention for humanity. That is made very clear throughout the witness of the Old Testament, starting with what we heard in Genesis a moment ago. “It is not good for the human to be alone,” God observes, and so God provides a companion, a relationship, for that first human. That is what God wants for us: for us not to be alone, and for us to be in relationship with one another, as well as in relationship with Him.

            Marriage isn’t the only way to experience God’s desire for relationship and community, of course. We may experience it in our families of origin, or with our spouse, children, nieces, or nephews. We may experience it through friendship. We certainly can experience it here in the church. As I said, God assured us of that in our baptism, and we experience it every time we come forward to this table, like grains of wheat once scattered on a hill, now come together to become one bread. No matter how you slice it, our God is one who desires community for us and with us.

            And so, our God is grieved when that community, or relationship, or covenant, is broken – when there is conflict in the church, when families refuse to speak, when marriages fall apart. Just like God is grieved when our relationship with God is broken. And we do have a history of breaking God’s covenant! You can read all about that too throughout the Old Testament, not to mention the entire history of Christianity since that babe was born in Bethlehem. We fallen human beings are not all that great at keeping covenants. Relationships are a great gift, and marriage can be one of the greatest gifts of all, but they can also be terribly hard to maintain. They can turn destructive, even dangerous. Sometimes they do need to end, because that very relationship that would have brought us life is instead a barrier to the life that God desires for us. Covenants do sometimes get broken, and even though it does grieve God, it is also sometimes necessary to bring about future life.

            But here’s the good news: even as we endure the pain that comes with a broken relationship, we can rest secure in knowing that even when our covenants fail, God’s never does. When we fail at our vows, God’s gracious vow to keep us in this holy family called the Church will still stand, will still hold us upright. And while breaking the covenant of marriage, or any covenant, is not God’s hope or intention for us, it is also not unforgivable. Despite whatever brokenness we manage to participate in, God’s grace always manages to wiggle its way into the cracks and work a new thing. Our sin, our shortcomings, our propensity to see other’s faults before recognizing our own… none of that is too big for our God, who promises us in our baptism, and every day since then, and every time we come to this table, that we are beautiful, loved, and forgiven children of God, and that nothing can ever change that. Thanks be to God!

            Let us pray… God of the Covenant, you desire community for us, and your heart is as grieved as ours when our relationships are broken. Grant us endurance to persevere in your vision for humanity, and wisdom to know when a relationship is keeping us from the life you desire for us. Heal and soften our hardened hearts. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Cutting things off for life (September 29, 2024)

Pentecost 19B
Sept. 29, 2024
Mark 9:38-50

INTRODUCTION

In two of our texts this week, Numbers and Mark, we get stories about one group of people judging another because they don’t act or believe the right way. That’s nothing we know anything about, right? Haha, right! We are all too familiar with having strong feelings about how something should be done, and who should be doing it, just like the Israelites and the disciples. These texts show us that, as Jesus says, “Whoever is not against us is for us.” We all want the same thing and have the same goal, so have some grace for one another along the way. James will show us what the Church could look like instead – praying for the suffering, celebrating with the joyful, confessing when you’ve done wrong. It’s all so simple to say, but difficult to do when our pride and deeply held convictions are at stake! 

As you listen today, think about the ways you have, even with good intentions, tried to bring others down a notch, or tried to get them to see things your way (that is, of course, the right way), or accused them of something before recognizing the behavior also in yourself. We have all done these things. Notice how humans have done them all along, and what God has to say about it. Let’s listen.

[READ]

May the words of my mouth and the mediations of our hearts be acceptable to you, O God, our Strength and our Redeemer. Amen.

A couple of weeks ago, we had the first of our series of monthly evening prayer services this fall. The idea with this series, every 3rd Thursday, is that we come together mid-week, to escape from the relentless demands of life, and connect with God and with one another, first through communal prayer, and then over a simple meal and guided conversation on a meaningful topic. For the first gathering, the topic I settled on was: anger. Specifically, how do we speak to one another in love, even when we feel angry?

I decided to start there partly because I have been doing a lot of work in the past years on my own anger. I am not an outwardly angry person, generally speaking. My default, rather, is to bottle it up, making it into a simmering resentment, until one day someone throws some salt on it, and I boil over and explode. Sounds super fun, right? But of course, I don’t want to be that way. And so, I have been working on learning to identify when I feel angry, notice what triggers it, and how it feels in my body, so that I can express it more peacefully before it gets to the boiling point. 

That effort is what I thought of when I read this last line of our Gospel reading: Be at peace with one another. Easier said than done sometimes, right? Because some people are just infuriating. Some people make it really difficult to be kind and peaceful. Some people make us feel like yelling, because they need to be put in their place. Some people! 

Of course, the truth is… you and I are “some people” as well. We are all the “some people” who make it difficult to “be at peace with one another” for someone. Sometimes, we are the problem. 

Jesus points this out to us, albeit in language that can be difficult to take in. “If you cause someone to stumble in faith, tie a big rock around your neck and be thrown into the sea. That would be better for everyone. If your hand or leg or eye causes you to sin, cut them off and burn ‘em up. That would be better than burning in hell with both eyes and hands and legs.” Oof. Makes me wonder if Jesus maybe never took a class in pastoral care, ya know? 

Now let me just get this out there right away: Jesus is using hyperbole here. He is not literally advocating we cut off our own limbs or drown ourselves – nothing else he says could be used to support that interpretation. The exaggeration here is SO great as to make it obvious he is using these extremes to make a point. So you can unclutch your pearls and put down your smelling salts. 

But. Just because it is not meant to be taken literally does not mean it shouldn’t be taken seriously. It is shocking, yes, but shocking for a purpose, and that purpose is this: to understand the dangers of sin, and the ways it is affecting our relationships with God and neighbor, and how we act out our faith in the world.

For example, thinking about my anger example from before: I spent a lot of years (maybe you can relate) blaming my anger on other people who were making me mad by, say, not keeping commitments, not making an effort, lacking compassion, lacking integrity, being dishonest – all things that rubbed against my core values. The anger I was keeping inside was poisoning my heart, making it hard to view “those people” with the compassion and love with which Jesus views me, for instance, a first-rate sinner. And when the anger finally exploded, I said hurtful things to people I cared about. I found that my anger at people sinning against me or someone else, was turning me into the very kind of sinner I despised, someone lacking compassion, saying things I didn’t mean, not keeping my own integrity, etc. And living in that reality, in turn, caused me to hurt, to suffer.

Enter Jesus: “If your… anger… causes you to sin, cut it off. It is better for you to enter life without that defense mechanism, that self-protection, that mode of operation, then to keep holding it close to you and suffering as a result for the rest of your life.” We all have certain reactions, inclinations, or habits that have become our default, and we have told ourselves, even since childhood, that we need them in order to get something we need (safety, love, whatever). But what worked for us as children, is no longer serving us; indeed it is causing us to sin. Maybe these patterns have become so much a part of us that they feel like a body part. And when they get cut off, well, that can feel very much like losing a part of us! And there is an adjustment period. Without that leg, now we may stumble a little while we walk, as we figure out how to replace that old habit with a new, healthier one. Without that arm, we have to operate differently in the world. Without that eye, we can’t always see as clearly at first which way to go. 

I have a dear friend who has done a lot of work trying to understand his mental illness, and the unhealthy ways he has learned over time to deal with it. As he pulls back the layers, he said, he finds it is difficult to know how to replace his old unhealthy patterns with new, healthy ones. “I always did [this thing] because it made me feel safe,” he said. “And now I feel vulnerable without it, but I’m not yet sure what to do in its place, or if I even need something in its place. Everything is different, and it’s scary and unsettling.” Yeah, it is! This sermon of Jesus’ is scary and unsettling, because it calls for us to take a deep look at what is our way of operating in the world – even patterns we developed as children or young adults to get what we needed – and discern whether they are now in fact causing us to sin, whether they are causing a rift between us and the closer relationship with God and our neighbor that we crave. 

Maybe your issue is also anger. Lord knows, it’s hard not to be angry at something or someone these days, isn’t it? Or maybe it is apathy, or a tendency to withdraw from the world or your loved ones when they express emotions you don’t know what to do with. Maybe it’s addiction, or perfectionism, or a need to be needed, or to be affirmed by others. Maybe it’s always running away from pain, rather than facing it and dealing with it. There are so many stumbling blocks that would keep us from the life-giving relationships that would fill us and inspire us, so many tripping hazards that would keep us from being the people God calls us to be. 

The work to cut those things off is indeed work. But the payoff is great. When we can do this, Jesus says, we can “be at peace with one another.” Doesn’t that sound great, in this current climate, in which everyone has an opinion about how other people should act or speak or vote? I have heard people say, “You can’t be a Christian and vote for a Democrat,” and I have heard, “You can’t be a Christian and vote for a Republican.” The other person is always doing it wrong, right? If it’s not my way, it’s the wrong way! That’s what we see even in the Gospel, and in the Numbers text. “Some people over there are doing a thing, and trying to accomplish the same thing we are, but they are not doing it the same way we are.” That sort of thinking has been around a long time. 

But what does Jesus say? “If they aren’t against us, they are for us.” If they aren’t putting stumbling blocks in our way, tripping us up, then let them do what is needed to bring about the kingdom of God on earth. If they support a policy you think is terrible, but they are spending their weekends volunteering at the homeless shelter, celebrate that. If they are voting for the wrong person, but they donate thousands of dollars to help vulnerable people, celebrate that! Find values that we share, and even if we have different ideas of how to get to our shared goal, recognize that we at least care about the same things, and find and celebrate the ways we can work together toward our shared kingdom goals. 

This is all so hard, friends. I know that I am not alone in my frustration and discouragement about the division and demonizing and unwillingness to open eyes and hearts to listen to another perspective. I know I am frustrated with my own struggle in doing that! And I’m worried about the high stakes of it all. I certainly don’t want to make light of those real experiences. I believe there is a time and a place for prophetic speech, and righteous anger, and calling an evil what it is, though I still think these tasks can be done with love and compassion for the one who differs from us. 

But what I think Jesus is saying here is that we are in no place to be tattling on how someone else is “doing it wrong,” until we have done the work, with the help of God’s convicting Word and loving presence, of determining and cutting off our own offending limbs. This will show us the way toward the eternal life that Jesus is offering to us, a life of being at peace with one another, and of being freed from sin and death, of being in an intimate and fulfilling relationship with the God of life.

Let us pray… Compassionate God, you call us to be at peace with one another, but that is really, really hard sometimes. Soften our hearts, so that we can both see what in us needs to change, and also see the one who differs from us as another beloved sinner of your flock, just like we are. In the name if the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen.

Sermon: Who do you say that I am? (Sept. 15, 2024)

Pentecost 17B
September 15, 2024
Mark 8:27-38

INTRODUCTION

Isaiah begins today’s reading with, “The Lord has given me the tongue of a teacher, that I may know how to sustain the weary with a word.” But I might call today’s readings more wearying than sustaining. Isaiah goes on to describe what is known as “the suffering servant,” a description some Christians believe foretells Jesus and his ministry. James has some tough words for us about the dangers of an unbridled tongue – something that should hit where it hurts anyone who has ever said something that has hurt or caused harm, or that they later regret.

But the most difficult reading comes from Mark, in which Jesus will ask his disciples that famous question, “Who do you say that I am?” Peter will give an answer that’s partly right, but from there, Jesus will fill in what he missed – about his need to suffer and die – and well, that doesn’t go as well for Peter. Turns out the life of discipleship might be tougher and require less obvious victory and domination than the disciples first imagined. This conversation happens in a significant location, as well, which I’ll get into in my sermon – but for now you should know that Caesarea Philippi is a city that oozes Roman imperialism. And for Peter to call Jesus the Messiah in this place is an overtly political statement, that expresses a hope that Jesus will overturn this government and reinstate the throne of David. So: you might say, this is tense.

As you listen today, think about the question that Jesus poses: who do you say that Jesus is? Who do you want him to be, and how does he actually show up for you? Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

When I was interviewing for placement for my first call out of seminary, those of us who were assigned to this region, region 7, had what we called “bishop speed dating.” In the course of one day, we interviewed with as many bishops from as many synods as time would allow, and then the bishops and their staff got together and placed all of us. No pressure, right? I interviewed with three synods, and looking back, the whole thing is now a blur except for one moment that stays with me. When I interviewed with the Upstate NY Synod, the bishop asked me, “Who is Jesus? I don’t want your seminary answer; I want an answer in everyday language that people in the pews would understand. Who is Jesus?” I don’t remember everything I said, but I do remember that by the end of my answer, several of us around the table (especially the then-bishop and myself) were in tears. 

This is a question that matters deeply. And as I’m sure you noticed, today’s text is where it comes from. The location of this conversation is everything: they are walking into Caesarea Philippi. You see, this was a very politically charged place. Once a place of great significance to the Israelites, it was now occupied by the Romans. It is the epitome of Roman imperialism. When King Philip gained power in 4 BC, he named the place “Caesarea” to flatter his patron, Caesar Augustus, and Philippi to acknowledge himself (so basically, Philip’s Caesarville). Caesar Augustus, by the way, had given himself another title: divi fillius, son of the divine. He liked this self-appointed title so much that he had it engraved on the coin that bore his image: “Caesar Augustus, son of God.”

And now here, in this place of idolatry and imperialism, this place named for the Roman oppressor’s hero, Jesus asks the disciples, “Who do you say that I am?” And Peter gives a shocking answer: “You are the Messiah.”

Now, today we might not feel the full impact of this. Yes of course he’s the Messiah, we think. For some of us, it has rolled off our tongues since childhood. Jesus Christ, Jesus the Messiah, Jesus the anointed one. But this was an incredibly loaded title. You see, in the ancient world, among the Jews were those who were waiting expectantly for the Messiah to come – a messiah, who would be a great deliverer! It was generally thought this messiah, this anointed one, would be a king, who would come with military might, to deliver the people from bondage – at this particular time, someone who would liberate Israel from Roman occupation. This king would come in glory as a military conqueror, and restore the throne to the rightful line of King David (who was also called the anointed one, by the way, the messiah, and was a military conqueror under whom Israel was at its strongest). 

Based on what happens after Peter’s declaration, it was very likely that this violent, glorious vision of the Messiah was what Peter had in mind when he called Jesus by that name. He was expressing his deep hope that Jesus was there to restore the Davidic line, to deliver them, to liberate them from Roman oppression – and even, to use military might to do it. 

But Jesus has something else in mind. Jesus does not intend, as Peter expected, to lead them marching into Caesarea Philippi as weapon-bearing conquerors. In fact, Jesus says, it would be the opposite of that. He chooses this moment to introduce his most difficult and counter-intuitive teaching of all: that he, Jesus, must undergo suffering, be rejected, and be killed, and in three days rise again. This teaching is so important, that Jesus will repeat it in chapter 9, and once more in chapter 10. 

Imagine how Peter must feel, hearing this! This is not at all what Peter hoped for! How could Jesus be the conqueror, the winner, the restorer of Israel, if he was going to suffer and die? This was no Messiah, at least no Messiah that Peter was interested in getting behind.

Now, what would you do, if you had put all your hope in someone, in some specific outcome – indeed that you had dropped everything to pursue that hope – and you were told by that person that something very different would happen? If I really and truly believed in that thing, I would stay and fight for it. “No, no,” I’d say. “That isn’t right. That is not how this is supposed to go! Listen, let me tell you how it really is.” And that is just what Peter does. Mark tells us, that Peter took him aside (he didn’t want to embarrass his friend, I suspect!) and began to rebuke him. “Jesus,” I imagine him saying, “This is no good. If you’re the Messiah, you can’t be talking about suffering and dying. That’s not good messaging. No one will want to get behind that.” Really, it was the kind thing to do, the thing that could save the mission, and keep people from turning away.

But Jesus flips the script, rebuking Peter instead. “No, Pete,” he responds. “No, you need to get behind me, get behind this message. You are trying to push me in the opposite direction of the way I now must travel. Get out of my way, and get behind me. This is the way we are going.”

And then Jesus calls them all together – because everyone needs to hear this next part. And there, within view of that temple of empire and domination, Caesarea Philippi, Jesus describes his vision. “If you’re here for a violent campaign,” he says, “if you’re here for domination or triumph, then you can turn back now. That’s not who I am, or what I’m about. We’re not here in this place to conquer this temple. We are heading all the way to Jerusalem, and then on, to conquer the cross, that weapon of imperial terror. From the cross, we’ll head to the tomb, but then into new life, and then beyond that into a new community that is characterized not by violence and domination, but by love, gentleness, and justice. This is not a movement based on self-centered grasping for power; that is the way of Caesar. My way, is to let go of all that, to give it up, for the sake of the gospel of love and justice. We are not going to seek out suffering, but we must be willing to endure it, to take up the cross, because suffering is often along the way toward this radical gospel of love. Violence and attack are the easy way. Love, is the way of life.”

“If you want to come,” Jesus goes on, “then take up your cross and come on. Let’s move together toward justice and love and humility and kindness and compassion – those things that may seem weak or fragile but are stronger and more impactful than anything the empire has to offer. They are things that can heal this hurting world. But have no illusions. This will not be a triumphant march. Like all movements of love, kindness, and justice, there will be suffering along the way. There will be crosses to bear. But far more than that, there will be resurrection and new life. So take up your cross, and follow me.”

The Roman empire has long since fallen. But the problem of empire is still very much a part of our reality. We are always faced with the choice to choose love over fear, and justice over complacency, and compassion over anger. We always have the choice to seek domination and self-serving, or, building each other up. We can approach life with hands clenched into fists, ready to cling to our own way, or punch down someone else, or we can open our hands in generosity and strength – and be ready to faithfully and gratefully receive the gifts of God.

We all want to be saved from something, just like Peter. But rather than grasp for power, let’s “lose our lives,” as Jesus says, and focus instead on turning toward our neighbor, even toward our enemies, in love and generosity, knowing that we will no doubt encounter suffering, but we’ll encounter resurrection and new life, all the more.

Let us pray… Jesus Messiah, we often crave power, crave winning. But yours is a way of compassion, humility and love. Give us the courage to follow your way. Sustain us when we suffer for the cause of love. And open our fisted hands so we are ready to serve one another, and receive your mercy. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Being opened (Sept. 8, 2024)

Pentecost 16B
September 8, 2024 – Rally Day
Isaiah 35:4-7a; James 2:1-17; Mark 7:24-37

INTRODUCTION

In my page in the St. Paul’s newsletter that went out last week, I printed the core values that came out of the visioning work we’ve been doing the past several months. They are also on the back of your bulletin –I’d love to hear your response! One of the values that we considered aspirational (meaning, we do it kind of, but would like to grow in this area) was the one around welcome and inclusivity. 

So I was delighted when I read the readings for today, traditionally the first Sunday of the new church program year, and I saw throughout, this theme of openness and inclusivity, showing no partiality, reaching beyond natural and cultural barriers. What a great set up for our year! We’ll see this explicitly in the words of James. Isaiah and the Psalm talk about opening the eyes of the blind and the ears of the deaf, and generally eliminating anything that would keep us from being together in relationship with God. 

We also see it in Mark, as Jesus ventures into Gentile territory. Gentiles are people outside of the Jewish community. In Mark’s Gospel, Jesus often takes great effort to venture into these non-Jewish areas, these places populated by those who are “other” to, or even, in some cases, enemies of the Jewish people. So today he takes a journey to Tyre, a place far from his home in Galilee, where he encounters a Syrophoenician woman (so, she is Greek, and descended from people of Syria, and Phoenicia, two historic enemies of Jews). His encounter with this woman changes, or rather, opens up the scope of his ministry, and he continues onto another largely Gentile (non-Jewish) region to continue his ministry with this whole new segment of society. So, today’s story is an important turning point in Jesus’ ministry, from focusing on Jewish people, to opening his mission up to non-Jews.

All of these readings are full of life-giving words for those desperately in need of that news… even as they are challenging words for those of us accustomed to feeling comfortable in our faith and our lives. Notice how they make you feel. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

Is it just me, or does Jesus seem a little… off, in today’s Gospel reading? I mean, we usually picture him as the very embodiment of compassion, care, and availability, right, but today, he first enters a town and doesn’t want anyone to know it, wants to hide away for a while. And then, when someone comes to him for help, what does he do but insult her! “Can’t help you now,” he says. “Gotta help the children of Israel first. I’m not gonna throw their portion to the dogs!” Did he just… did he just call this woman a dog, and refuse to help her daughter? What?? This is not the Jesus we know and love!

It is one of the more puzzling interactions Jesus has, for sure. Interpreters have spilled much ink trying to figure this one out. Is this just an example of how Mark paints a much more human picture of Jesus? Throughout the Gospel of Mark, we see Jesus exhibit more emotions, as well as more human frailty, even lack of knowledge at times, than we do in the other Gospels. So maybe Mark is saying that Jesus was tired, and a little bit irritable, snarky, and dismissive? I mean, we get that, right? We’ve all been there! But… does Jesus get snarky and dismissive? It opens a complex theological can of worms.

Or maybe, is Jesus testing the woman’s faith? Yeah, standing as the wise teacher who is seeing how bold she will be in her declaration, always with the intention of giving her what she asks, and letting her win the argument. That seems to fit better with our understanding of Jesus – even though I don’t especially like the idea of a God who tests our faith for sport, while our loved one lies in pain!

It’s a tricky one, and it can be very easy to get caught in the weeds of this question – I know I have spent a fair amount of time there. 

But in the end, that’s not the point of the story, and not what really matters to me. What matters more than why Jesus responded to this woman the way he did, is that the woman, who is an ethnic, religious, social “other” from Jesus, has the opportunity to proclaim, even to us, the truth: that Jesus is there for her, too. That her life, and the life of her daughter, matter, and should matter even to this Jewish teacher, even to this God. That she is worthy of God’s care, compassion, and love. This woman boldly proclaims that truth.

We have a complicated relationship with the truth these days, don’t we? There has always been a fair amount of fuzziness around the truth in politics, but it has gone off the rails in the past decade – well past a creative reframing of the facts, and fully into easily verifiable lies. That, along with evidence of foreign interference, and the rise of AI and easily altered visual media, and the result is that the folks trying to keep up at home just don’t know who or what can be trusted anymore. What really is the truth, and what is only some version of the truth, cherry-picked, or conveniently twisted or edited to support one viewpoint or disprove another? In the words of Pontius Pilate, “What is truth?”

Yet here, this woman of Syrophoenician origin, boldly proclaims a very important truth, and one that can absolutely be trusted: that she matters, and that her daughter matters, and that they are worthy of God’s attention and care. 

But even when a truth, like this, is indisputable, that does not always mean it is easy to hear. Jesus seems to receive it readily enough, but for us? We sometimes have a hard time receiving the truth, especially when it rubs up in a bad way against something we believe and hold dear, when it challenges our viewpoint. Once we have decided what is the truth, I think a lot of us tend to close our minds and our hearts to anything that doesn’t fit with what we believe. 

Perhaps that is why I am particularly drawn to what Jesus says in his next interaction with a Gentile, the man who is deaf and mute. Jesus doesn’t just lay hands on this man to heal him. He says to him, “Be opened.” 

“Be opened.” This is message I know I need to hear, and one I think we could all stand to hear and take to heart. Be opened. Be opened to the movement of the Spirit. Be opened to learning something, even something that at first makes you uncomfortable. Be opened to the gifts of others, even others whom you don’t like. Be opened.

I remember once sitting in the office of my college band director. He was leaning back in his chair, with his arms crossed tightly across his chest, when he started to reflect, as he often did. He said, “You know, I’ve been told you should never sit this way, arms crossed, when talking to someone. My teacher used to say, ‘Closed body, closed mind.’ But I don’t know – I think I have an open mind, but I just think it is comfy to sit this way!” Well yeah, it is also comfy to sit in our opinions and never let them be challenged. It is also comfortable to stay right where we feel safe, and know how things work. It is comfortable not to rock the boat, not to speak up when we know something is wrong. But I wouldn’t say any of those things are necessarily open, nor faithful! (That said, I do think my band director had a pretty open mind, and was very faithful, despite his crossed arms!)

Be opened. Be opened to the truth, even uncomfortable truth. Be opened to ideas, even ideas you think would never work. Be opened to the possibility that you might be wrong, and someone else is right. Be opened to change, even if you love where and how things are. Be opened.

I think this is a valuable word for us today, on Rally Day, as we begin a new program year. We have some exciting things on the horizon. In the September newsletter, as I mentioned, I printed the core values that emerged out of the visioning process we’ve been working on. Some are values we already live into effectively, and some are aspirational, things we need to work on. In the coming two weeks, the Keymel committee and the council will start making some decisions about how we will spend the bequest we received earlier this year – keeping in mind how we can use this gift to help us better live into our values, including and especially the more aspirational ones. 

Some of what will happen in these next months is objectively exciting, and will be easily received. Some might require some risk. Some might require some patience, as we work through the inevitable tough spots. All of it requires for us to “be opened” – to listen to one another and our broader community, to be kind and responsive, to entertain the possibility of sitting in a position that might not be as comfortable at first, but one which will absolutely make us grow stronger in mission and in faith. 

All of what will happen in the coming months, I hope, will equip and empower us to boldly proclaim the truth: That ours is a God who loves, who cares, who heals, who brings life, both to those on the inside, and those who are “other,” who are different from us, like the Gentile woman and her daughter, and the deaf, mute man. That ours is a God who never promised that we would be comfortable, but rather, who always invites us to move, to change, and to grow. I hope we will be empowered to proclaim that ours is a God who listens to our needs, who equips us to boldly share our stories of how God has been active in our lives, and who bids that we “be opened” to the possibilities of new life that God places before us. 

And so let us “be opened,” my friends. As we enter into this new, exciting year of ministry, let us be opened and responsive to the ways that God will move within, among, and around us.

Let us pray... Active God, you make the eyes of the blind be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped. Make it so also with us, dear Lord. Make us bold to listen, to be opened, and to proclaim your truth. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: To whom shall we go? (August 25, 2024)

 Pentecost 14B
August 25, 2024
John 6:56-69

INTRODUCTION

Today’s texts all share a very prominent theme: that of faithfulness to the one true God, even in the midst of struggles and temptations. They are texts as convicting as they are encouraging. They fill me with hope in the power of faith, and with hopelessness at my inevitable failure always to keep that faith. In other words: they do exactly what the gospel, the living Word of God, sets out to do: comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.

In the reading from Joshua, Joshua asks the Israelites which god they will serve: Yahweh, or the various false idols they have in their possession. The people give an unequivocal “yes!” to Yahweh. In Ephesians, Paul talks about the devil and the forces of evil that are among us, working their woe, and how we must prepare to defend against them by putting on the armor of God. And in John, you remember we have just come to the end of Jesus’ long Bread of Life discourse. Anyone remember the difficult teaching Jesus offered them last week? The one about how they must eat his flesh and drink his blood in order to abide in him and have eternal life? It’s a difficult teaching all right, one which, as we’ll see, causes many to turn their backs on this compelling teacher. Yet when faced with the decision as to whether to leave Jesus’ side, Peter utters the words now memorialized in our Gospel acclamation: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.” 

Faithfulness and commitment. It is a gift and a challenge as old as time. Let us feast upon these stories of faith, as we reflect also on our own journeys that have taken us to the edge of doubt, and back again. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

This week the kids and I were looking at a book of conversation-starters for families. One of the questions was, “If you could meet anyone in history, who would it be and why?” My immediate answer was, “Jesus, because I wanna see for myself. I wanna know what it was like to watch him in action.”

Well today we get a glimpse of what it was like. Often when Jesus says or does something stunning, the response is, “And they were all amazed!” Not so today. Today, the crowd’s first response is: “This teaching is difficult. Who can accept it?” That’s a very human reaction, isn’t it, especially in today’s world, in which we pride ourselves on our autonomy and good sense: we make our own decisions and believe what we want to believe and do what we want to do. So when we hear this difficult teaching from Jesus, it is natural to think: This is weird, it goes against my logic, I can’t accept it. I can’t understand it, so I will not abide by it. 

And it’s true, it is difficult. But you know… This is not the only of Jesus’ teachings that are difficult. Here are a few other difficult teachings that come to mind: 

• “Go, sell your possessions, and give the money to the poor…; then come, follow me.” Really? ALL of my possessions? But can’t I keep just these few things? They mean so much to me. Can’t I keep something for myself?

• “Then Peter came and said to him, ‘Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?’ Jesus said to him, ‘Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.’” 77?? I sometimes have trouble with one! 77 is a lot, Jesus. What if what they did was really bad, or a repeated offense?

• “If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also.” Wait, I can’t fight back, not even with my words? But what if this person is a real jerk and needs to be set straight? Or what if turning the other cheek just encourages them to continue being mean and hurting others?

You see? Jesus’ teachings are difficult, no two ways about it. They often go against what our culture tells us to do, which makes them even harder. This one about the flesh and blood – it’s hard, too. But the fact is, living the life of a Christian, and walking the way of Christ, is difficult. There’s a wonderful Maya Angelou quote: “I’m trying to be a Christian,” she says. “I’m working at it, and I’m amazed when people walk up to me and say, ‘I’m a Christian.’ I think, Already? Wow!” This faith business is something we need to work at! It’s a process. And it’s difficult. Can we accept it?

Which brings us to the next part of the reaction to Jesus’ bread of life teaching. John tells us that “because of this [teaching], many of his disciples turned back and no longer went about with him.” We’re not talking some folks who just happened to be hanging around. These aren’t your Christmas and Easter Christians. These are Jesus’ disciples, people who had been following him, who had already invested something in him. They were folks who sat on council, who led Bible studies, who set up for coffee hour. And when asked, “Who can accept it?” they decided, “I can’t. This is too much.” And I expect that seeing these faithful people turn around and walk away would make it even harder for others, who might have stayed, to accept this teaching.

In my home synod in CA, we had a bishop some years back who, some time after his term as bishop, became an atheist. He no longer found he had any faith at all. When he died, at his funeral, there was no mention of the resurrection, no word of Christian hope. And that is hard, to see someone you looked up to as a model of faith (a bishop!), suddenly reject that faith. This teaching is difficult. If even Jesus’ disciples struggle to accept it, how can I?

         And then perhaps what is for me the toughest reaction of all: when Jesus turns to the twelve, those followers who were closest to him, and asks them, “Do you also wish to go away?” Whether this was asked as a challenge, or out of sadness, or simply out of fatigue and discouragement, this is the question that gets in my craw. “Do you also wish to go away?” Sometimes I feel like it is directed right at me. This teaching is difficult, Johanna. Do you wish to go away? This life is a hard one to live, Johanna. Wouldn’t it be easier just to go away? How does your faith understand this tragic event, or this difficult time, Johanna? Do you wish to go away?

         Sometimes… the answer is yes. That would be easier, I think, easier than upholding all these difficult teachings. Easier than seeing the evil, brokenness, and sadness in this world and trying to understand it through the lens of what is supposed to be a God of love. Easier than trying to be true to my Christian beliefs in the context of an increasingly pluralistic society. …Do you also sometimes wish to go away?

         When I had just begun my year serving as a missionary in Slovakia, I learned of a horrific tragedy back home, something that shook my very foundations and caused me to lose faith in the God who I believed had called me to Slovakia in the first place. I had already been on somewhat shaky ground with my faith, because the month and a half I had been in Slovakia had not gone very smoothly, but now, this event, made me doubt the existence of God at all – how could a God of love allow this to happen? For days, I lived in fear and darkness. I was scared of everything, and I lived in a fog where nothing could turn my mourning into dancing. In those days, I did wish to go away. Having faith in this God – it was too difficult for me. I could not accept it.

         But then, after experiencing this darkness, after living several days in fear, I had a moment like Peter had in response to Jesus’ question. “Lord, to whom shall we go?” Peter asks. “You have the words of eternal life.” Where else can we possibly go? That October in Slovakia, I, too, was faced with these two possibilities: continue to reject a God who had let something horrible happen to someone I loved, and with that continue to live in darkness; or, cling to the hope that is promised through the resurrection, as difficult to accept as that may be in that moment. And my answer was the same as Peter’s: “What else am I supposed to do? Where else can I go?” Angry, disappointed, and hurting as I was in that moment, I couldn’t imagine living without this God. Without Christ, there are no words of eternal life. There is no hope. Lord, to whom shall we go? Difficult as following you may be, you have the words of eternal life that offer me hope in the midst of my despair.

The teaching is difficult. It can be hard to accept it. It can be even harder to live it, to receive, through no merit of our own, God’s immense grace and love, the forgiveness of sins, the promise of everlasting life… and then, having accepted and embraced that grace, to go out and actually live the life that Christ calls us to: a life that cares more about the poor, the immigrant, the lost and dejected, the broken, the weak, the morbidly obese, the drug-addicted, the imprisoned – to care about all of them at least as much as we do about ourselves. A life that shares the love of Christ with everyone we meet, even people we don’t like, or with whom we disagree, or who did something to hurt us, or who are just really annoying.

But here’s the good news: this teaching is difficult, but we’re not in this alone. Jesus promises us that. And we receive that promise every time we wake up in the morning, every time we splash water on our faces and remember we are baptized. We receive it every time we hear the words of eternal life, every time we are forgiven, and every time we come to this table and feast on the body and blood of Christ, where we receive the strength and nourishment we need to live this life Christ calls us to. This teaching is difficult, but to whom else could we possibly go?

Let us pray… Christ, our Bread of Life, following your teachings is difficult, and sometimes hard to accept. By your strength and patience, help us to follow you anyway, trusting that you do have the words of eternal life that can carry us through all things. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Full service can be viewed HERE.

Sermon: Taste and see! (August 11, 2024)

Pentecost 11B
August 11, 2024 (week 3 of bread discourse)
1 Kings 19:4-8
Psalm 34:1-8
John 6:35, 41-51

INTRODUCTION

This is week three of the bread of life series, so let’s first recall where we are in this discourse. For these few weeks we are working through John 6, which begins with Jesus feeding 5000 people with five loaves and two fish, and continues with explaining what this sign means. Today we get into more of the theology of it, as the crowd continues to be dubious about what Jesus means by calling himself the bread of life.

The Old Testament story paired with this portion of the discourse is about the prophet Elijah, who is also fed miraculously in the wilderness. Here’s the context: Elijah has just killed a bunch of false prophets (prophets of Ba-al), and Queen Jezebel has consequently vowed to have him killed. He is running for his life, and at the beginning of today’s reading, he has just collapsed in exhaustion. And here, in this moment of exhaustion and hopelessness, God provides. The Psalm, which liturgically is always meant to be a reflection on the Old Testament reading, recalls how God meets us in our desolation and delivers us – just like with Elijah, just like with David who wrote this Psalm, and just like with us today.

As you listen to these readings, notice the words of life and sustenance spoken into feelings of despair. God does provide for us all that we need. Let’s listen. 

[READ]

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

Twelve years ago this month, I was undergoing medical testing for what turned out to be breast cancer. I’d had test upon test, and each had led us to something else we needed to check out. In the midst of this mess, I decided I needed something that would bring me life and joy, so I suggested to my music director at the time that I could sing something in worship, in particular a beloved setting of today’s Psalm that I’d learned in seminary – the very same one that Helena will sing for us as the offertory today. The refrain goes, “Taste and see, taste and see, the goodness of the Lord!” I was excited to be able to use music to help me escape for a moment what I was going through.

Well, it seemed like a good idea. But turned out, it wasn’t much of an escape. As I rehearsed it with the music director, the impact of these words suddenly hit me in a way they never had before. “I will bless the Lord at all times, his praise shall always be on my lips… I called the Lord who answered me… from all my troubles I was set free…” As I sang, visions of doctor’s offices and MRI machines came to mind, but so did visions of my family and friends surrounding me, and congregation members who had rallied around me, and memories of boob jokes my doctors and I had enjoyed sharing back and forth, and my steadfast then-boyfriend by my side all along, accompanying me to appointments, and doing all he could to support me through this. “Taste and see the goodness of the Lord!” I sang… 

And friends, as I sang, I completely lost it. First the telltale voice wobble. Then the sound just stopped coming out. And then all the tears started. I stood there in the sanctuary openly weeping over the goodness of the Lord, and the already-and-not-yet of this Psalm in my life at that moment. The organist, herself a breast cancer survivor, and someone with whom I’d had a somewhat rocky relationship, stopped playing and came over to me, unsure what to do with this sobbing young pastor before her. And suddenly I was throwing my arms around her, and continuing to cry into her shoulder. In so many ways, this Psalm was “not-yet” for me. A couple weeks later, I would be officially diagnosed, and undergo surgery. And then another surgery. And then 6 months later, two days after my bridal shower, cancer would show up again and I would have three more surgeries before all was said and done. Plenty of other health and personal challenges would come up along the way as well. So how could I stand there and sing, “Taste and see the goodness of the Lord!”? How could I possibly “bless the Lord at all times,” even in this trying time that threatened to take so much from me? How could I proclaim that the Lord had saved me from all my troubles, when really, my troubles were all just beginning?

And yet… I believed it. I checked in with my heart in the midst of all this, wondering if these tears were sadness, fear, or joy, and I’ve thought about it many times since, and I determined that the tears were, well, all three of those, but definitely mostly joy! Even in that dark moment in my personal story, I truly could taste and see that the Lord is good. 

I guess it is no surprise, then, that not only is this Psalm connected to a narrative in my own life, but its original writing was also imbedded in a narrative. In particular, a part of (the future King) David’s story. You may know that David wrote many of the Psalms. This particular one was written after he was running for his life from a wrathful monarch (not unlike our buddy Elijah!). The jealous King Saul, the first king of Israel, wanted to kill him. Saul’s son and David’s dear friend Jonathan helped David escape Saul’s wrath, making Saul even madder. David had taken refuge among the Philistines, but, you may recall that after David had, as a child, slaughtered their hero, Goliath, he was not on great terms with the Philistines. So, for his own safety, David faked his own insanity, so that they wouldn’t recognize him or perceive him as a threat. (This is the stuff of daytime television!) And it worked! And in gratitude for his safety, David wrote this Psalm. 

My own experience, and this biblical backstory, can help us see this Psalm’s power to guide our piety and devotion. I invite you to walk with me through it.

The Psalm begins with this bold declaration: “I will bless the Lord at all times. His praise shall always be on my lips.” This sentiment is not so hard to grasp when things are going well, when you’ve already been saved. But how do we do that when we are still in the pit? Well, here’s the thing about the Psalms: sometimes they are reflections back – for David, that was the case. But some are reminders that direct us forward toward a faithful life, even when the burdens of this life would threaten to drag us down. That’s how I experienced it in my own story: not as a memory, but as a desire and a prayer: “I will bless the Lord at all times. His praise will be on my lips. God, I know you can make it so! I know you can bring me to that place! Help me to see reasons to praise, even from this current darkness!” 

To be clear, I’m not suggesting we engage in what is sometimes called “toxic positivity” – an insistence to spin everything into a positive light, no matter what. I’m a firm believer in the importance of expressing all the emotions, even and especially the less nice ones, because if we don’t, they will eventually come out sideways, harming us or people we love. Identifying and expressing those feelings is the only way to process them and move past them. But. There is still a way to praise, even in the midst of those less nice emotions. The Psalmist does not say, “Praise God for everything.” Rather, there is something for which to praise God in everything. In my story, on the cusp of a cancer diagnosis, I could praise God that I had landed in Rochester for my first call, with its excellent medical care. I could praise God for a good-humored doctor who kept me giggling and laughed at my jokes. I could praise God for the immense grace my congregation extended as I sorted out my health just one year into my ministry with them. God’s praise could always be on my lips and in my heart, even as I was facing a deadly disease.

Jumping ahead now to verse 4: “I sought the Lord, who answered me, and delivered me from all my terrors.” For David, this verse reads as a thanksgiving for a specific event from which he was saved. In my story, I had not yet been delivered from the particular terror I faced. But I had been before. So in my reading, my experience of this Psalm in my particular time and place, this verse served as an invitation to remember all the times that I had been delivered, all the times I had sought the Lord and he answered me. And friends, there are many! Many in my personal life, many in the lives of my close family and my ancestors, and many throughout the generations of faith, as far back as David and well beyond. This verse, in short, is a reminder that God is faithful. God answers when we call. God delivers us from troubles. That is God’s M.O., from the story of the Exodus, to Elijah being fed in the desert, to Jesus overcoming the grave, to our own redemption from our troubles. Not always in the way or timing we imagine, but ultimately, every time. We seek the Lord, who answers us, and delivers us from our terrors.

And finally verse 8: “Taste and see that the Lord is good.” In Hebrew, that word “taste” means, “try it and experience it yourself.” And so this, too, is an invitation, urging us to imagine for a moment that this is all true, that God does deliver, that God is good… try it for yourself, and live into that reality. Truly believe it and believe in it. What freedom that faith and trust bring!

I have another poignant memory of this Psalm. It is from my grandfather’s funeral. My mom’s family has a wonderful store of German canons that they sing together, that they learned when they lived and worked in war-torn Germany in the 40s and 50s. They still love to sing them whenever they’re together. My favorite is based on this Psalm: “Ich will den Herrn loben alle zeit. Sein Lob soll immer darin meine Munde sein.” I will bless the Lord at all times, his praise shall always be in my mouth. We decided to sing that particular canon at the very end of Grandpa’s funeral, after the casket had been wheeled out but just before the postlude. We stood in the back and sang as a family, “I will bless the Lord always!” 

I admit that I thought at the time it was a weird choice. Yet, standing there, it was exactly right. We were praising the Lord, not for having lost my grandfather, but for the gift of his life, his long and fruitful years of ministry all over the world, and his love of the Lord. We were praising God for our certainty that Grandpa was now with his savior, basking in the light and life of Jesus like he had wanted all his life. 

And isn’t that exactly what a life of faith looks like? We do praise the Lord at all times, because we are assured that this joy is our ending: that political turmoil, and cancer, and loss and grief, and all the troubles that we face – all of it will end with us basking in Jesus’ enduring light and peace, living in the eternal life we are promised. And so, I will bless the Lord at all times. His praise shall always be on my lips.

Sing Ich will den Herrn loben…

Let us pray… God of all goodness, when we are lost, or sad, or in despair, you invite us to taste and see your goodness. Grant us the faith to bless you at all times, and to remember always your faithfulness. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

View full service HERE (including several bits that were sung during the sermon...).