Sermon: What is Christmas joy? (Christmas Eve, 2022)

 Watch the full service (which is lovely, if I do say so myself!) HERE.

Christmas Eve 2022

One of the best things, in my opinion, about being a pastor, is that I get a hefty say in what Christmas carols we sing at our Christmas services. So, we always sing my favorites, and seldom sing my least favorites. And so this year, I was pleased to place Joy to the World, long in my top three Christmas hymns, as the sermon hymn tonight. 

Yes, I have always loved this one. But this year I have been thinking of it in a new way, because I have for the past year or two, been doing some deeper reflection on what joy really is. We throw that word around a lot this time of year, but I’m not convinced we really know what it means, or how we get it, or what difference it makes. When we proclaim in a moment, “Joy to the world! The Lord is come!” are those just words? Or what will that really mean for us?

I know what it doesn’t mean. It doesn’t mean, “It’s Christmas and I’m happy about it!” I mean, sort of – but it is more than that. Joy is deeper than that, deeper than happiness. It also doesn’t simply mean, we got all the presents bought and wrapped, dinner didn’t burn, and the cat or the toddler didn’t destroy our Christmas tree. Those are good things, too, but there is certainly more to joy than that! 

So, what does it mean? I suspect we might all answer that a little differently, and I think I could preach 10 sermons on this topic and still have more to say. On this Christmas night, though, I’d like to share just a few thoughts on what joy means in the context of Christmas, and what difference it makes for us.

First: joy is intrinsically related to peace. Just look at this climactic moment in Luke’s telling of the story. The angel appears to the shepherds in the field, and declares, “I bring you good news of great joy,” and then in almost the next breath (if angels do, indeed breathe), “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace among those whom He favors.” You see – the good, joyful news here is that Jesus is born, and because of that, peace. News of great joy --> peace.

Once I recognized that relationship, I began to notice it in my life, too. Maybe you can relate: I sometimes get myself so tied up in a bundle of shoulds and anxiety, especially at this busy time of year, that there is little room left to actually enjoy it. But then, if I let go for a minute, let myself share a belly laugh with my kids, or fall into a good book, or I put my phone down and am fully present to a good friend as she shares something true… then all those tangles fall away for a moment, and I feel more settled, more peaceful. And that feeling of peace enables joy to enter in, and then the joy in turn brings me even more peace. The joy and the peace – they feed off of each other, helping me to go deeper into each. Joy is related to peace.

Second observation about joy: as I have sought to identify the moments in life when I have felt the deepest, most genuine joy, I have noticed again and again that a sure pathway toward joy is through connection. That belly laugh with my kids that I mentioned, or being fully present to a friend in need, or even going for a walk, or taking time for prayer – what all of these share is that they facilitate connection, with another person, or with nature, or with ourselves even, or especially with God. And when we find connection, we don’t necessarily find happiness, but we find joy.

Elliot Kone tells of a night in December of 1944, when he was a young sergeant stationed in France, shortly before the Battle of the Bulge. While they waited for their delayed orders to come through, he and another soldier, a private, went into a nearby village in search of food. The village they found was completely deserted; even the road signs had been taken, probably by retreating German soldiers. The only open building was a church, which they entered to escape the winter chill for a while. 

Sergeant Kone could play the organ by ear, and had often been drafted by various army chaplains to play for religious services. He knew quite a lot about the instrument, and so when he saw this church’s organ, he was eager to take a look at it. It was beautiful and well-made, but in poor shape, and no sound could be coaxed from it. He got an idea: “I think we could fix this if we had the tools,” he told his friend. “It would be a wonderful surprise for the villagers when they return.” His friend agreed, and since they had little else to do while they awaited orders, they went back to get the needed tools, and got to work. 

It was a labor of love, but soon enough, the instrument was echoing lovely tones through the church as the sun rose. Kone played a Hebrew lullaby from his childhood, then Faith of our Fathers, at his friend’s request, then several carols that he knew from memory. They imagined the faces of the people who would enter the church to see their organ up and running. They wanted to stay so they could witness that moment themselves, but they knew they had to get back to camp. By the time they returned, orders had come, and they were leaving imminently for the front.

Later, Kone wrote that imagining the faces of those villagers upon seeing their restored organ, tempered the dread of battle. He thought of them many times in the years following, thinking of those unknown villagers as his brothers and sisters, a bond he shared with them even in the face of adversity. The experience forever connected him to them, and, he hoped, them to him, though they could never know it was a Jewish sergeant and a Protestant private who had repaired the organ in their Catholic church.

There is joy in connection – the sort of joy that can fend off fear and carry us through battle, that can connect us across nationality, across enemy lines, across time. 

And isn’t that joy in connection just exactly what God seeks to accomplish by coming to earth to become one of us, by being fully present with us? To go on walks with us, and to be in the midst of belly laughs, and to sit with us in prayer? Did not God come to us so that we would feel that seemingly impossible connection, and be able to find the resulting joy even in difference and in adversity, even as we face our daily fears and battles? 

And that is the last point I want to make tonight about joy: that joy can and does co-exist with pain. In fact, I’d argue that deep pain and deep joy are in many ways not so different from each other: both are vulnerable, both can come upon us when we are not expecting it, both can completely overwhelm us and make us feel out of control, both can change our lives. 

Pastor Norman Vincent Peale tells a story of a Christmas Eve early in his ministry. He was feeling happy, just leaving a wonderful visit with some parishioners, when he looked across the street and saw a house with not one, but two wreaths, side by side. One had the traditional red bow, bright and festive. But the other had a ribbon of somber black, the symbol of a death in the family, a funeral wreath. This unexpected juxtaposition of joy and sorrow had a strange impression on him, and he asked his parishioner about it. The parishioner explained that this was a young family with small children, new to the neighborhood, but that was all he knew.

Peale started to leave, but then decided to approach the house, and he knocked on the young family’s door. “It is Christmas Eve,” he thought, “and if there is joy or suffering to be shared, my calling is to share it.” When a young man opened the door, and the pastor introduced himself and offered his sympathy, the man invited him in. The death, he learned, was their 6-year-old daughter, and was quite recent. In fact, her coffin still sat in their parlor, as was the custom then. Peale was so moved he could barely speak. As if reading his thoughts, the father offered, “It’s all right. She’s with the Lord, you know.” He took the young pastor to meet his wife, who was reading to their two younger sons. Her face, he said, was lovely – sad, but serene.

Peale writes of the encounter, “Suddenly I knew why this little family had been able to hang two wreaths on the door, one signifying life, the other death. They had been able to do it because they knew it was all one process, all part of God’s wonderful and merciful and perfect plan for all of us. They heard the great promise that underlies Christmas: ‘Because I live, ye shall live also.’ They had heard it and they believed it. That was why they could move forward together with love and dignity, courage and acceptance.”

I know that many here tonight carry with them two wreaths – your festive outfits and smiles cover up some sorrow or pain that you feel. Hear me when I say, there is room in the Christmas story for both wreaths, both the joy and the sorrow. To sing “joy to the world… and heav’n and nature sing!” is not to deny the sorrow in the world. We know all too well that that still exists. Rather, singing these words is to say, with defiance, that we believe that this sorrow does not get the final word. It is to say that our pain does not have to be hidden or denied, and more, it will not keep God from coming to us this night, even still. Because God knew what he was getting into, that he was coming into a world of pain, a world with two wreaths: a red one looking toward love and joy, and a black one still in pain and sorrow. Christ comes there, into the joy, yes, and also into the darkness of night. And Christ brings to that place the joy that the world cannot give: the joy that brings peace, the joy of meaningful connection, and the joy that can exist even in the pain, shining into the shadows a light that will not, in the end, be overcome.

May we all find true joy – peace, connection, love and light – on this mysterious night, when God comes to us to make his blessings flow, and to rule the world with grace and truth. Joy to the world – the Lord is come!

In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Looking for life (in all the wrong places) (Dec. 11, 2022)

Advent 3A
December 11, 2022
Matthew 11:2-11
Isaiah 35:1-10

INTRODUCTION

The third Sunday of Advent is known as Gaudete Sunday, or “Rejoice!” Sunday. It offers us a bit of respite from all these difficult, end-times-y texts. Hooray! And so where does the Gospel reading drop us? In prison, obviously, with a doubting John the Baptist. 

Last week’s confidence has apparently waned: since we last saw John in the wilderness, he has gotten himself arrested for criticizing King Herod’s marriage practices. And he is starting to wonder why things aren’t looking the way he thought they would. But Jesus’ words, we hope, will set him back on track.

Isaiah is far more joyful. Last week’s reading from Isaiah was from before the exile, as the Assyrians are about to attack. Today’s text is written while the Israelites are in exile, in Babylon, and offers them a vision of healing and restoration – a joyous procession out of Babylon through the blooming desert, and back to Jerusalem and the land promised to their ancestors. It is a truly beautiful text. 

Today’s Psalm, you will notice, is not from Psalms, but is from Luke’s Gospel. This is the text known as the Magnificat: it is the song that Mary sings when she visits her cousin Elizabeth to tell her she is pregnant with God. Much of Luke’s Gospel gives the message that Jesus’ presence on earth means a total reversal of the ways of the world, and this song really sets that up: the low are brought high and the high low, the hungry are filled and the rich sent away empty. It is radical! And also, so very beautiful. Our choir will be singing that for us.

Lots going on in these texts. Take them all in, and listen for a word that will speak joy to whatever ails your heart this day. Let’s listen. 

[READ]

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

Several years ago, a video came out that claimed to test people’s awareness. Thinking of myself as a pretty aware person, I clicked on it. “This is an awareness test,” it begins. Two basketball teams are standing there, one dressed in white, the other in black. “How many passes does the white team make?” asks the voiceover. I watched carefully as both teams weaved in and out, passing the ball in a careful choreography. I counted 13. “The answer is 13 passes,” says the voiceover. (“Yes!” I thought, smugly!) “But,” he goes on, “did you notice the moonwalking bear?” Wait, what? I was stunned. A moonwalking bear? How could I miss something like that? Maybe it was just very subtle. But the video rewinds and plays again, and this time, sure enough, a 6ft man dressed as a bear saunters into the middle of the basketball passing, busts a little move, then moonwalks off the screen. At the end of the video, white texts appears against a black background, “It’s easy to miss something you’re not looking for.” 

I thought of this moonwalking bear this week when I read this story about John the Baptist. Here John sits in prison, and he is struggling – not because he is in prison (though surely also that), but because he is doubting. He has given his life to preparing the way for the messiah. With roots in the prophet Malachi, in particular the idea that the one who prepares the way for the Lord’s coming will refine and purify the people with both soap and fire (3:11), John has preached a message that is heavy on the judgment. And he likely expected that the long-awaited Messiah would be a person to be reckoned with, perhaps a military power like King David, who would defeat Israel’s enemies with strength and might. In fact, that’s what everyone expected, what everyone was looking for, and what John no doubt had in mind when he identified Jesus as the one they were waiting for. 

But Jesus has not fit that mold. No, instead of coming with an army, ready to defeat, he comes with love, compassion, and mercy. Instead of judgment, Jesus seeks out “the other,” reaching out to the margins to bring in those who would have been forgotten. Instead of military power, Jesus shares meals with tax collectors and notorious sinners. It’s not what anyone was looking for or expecting.

And so John begins to doubt. And this is where we find him in today’s reading: in prison for saying the right thing at the wrong time about King Herod’s marriage, and now waiting for his death. And he is wondering, “If Jesus is the real deal, why is everything still so broken? Why am I in prison? Why is he eating dinner with sinners and tax collectors, instead of over-throwing the oppressive government?” This is not how he expected things to go. And so he sends a message to Jesus, asking, “Are you the one we’ve been waiting for? Or are we still waiting for someone else?” 

As always, Jesus’ answer flips the question on its head. “Go and tell John what you see and hear,” he tells the messenger. “Those who lacked understanding are finding clarity. Those who were crippled are able to walk. Those who were ill are healed, those who couldn’t receive the good news have their hearts opened, those whose lives were ending are finding new life. The poor have good news brought to them.” In other words, help John to turn his attention away from what he expects to see, and tell him what you see happening. Stop counting the passes. Watch instead for the moonwalking bear. Because it is easy to miss something you’re not looking for.

Now, I don’t want to get down on John. He was doing the job he was called to do, and doing a biblical job of it, fulfilling the scriptures. Yet he was so focused on the judgment, that he missed what Jesus was really doing, not with strength, but with love: bringing life, healing, and restoration. Like what Isaiah describes in our first reading today – the desert in full blossom, strengthening of the weak, understanding to the perplexed, a song of rejoicing for those who had no song to sing, a highway where there was previously no way. Jesus’ work may be less obvious or glamorous than some impressive battle that puts all the bad guys in their place and delivers a win for the good guys. But his is the work of peace, of mercy, and of lasting life.

Now, if John the Baptist, the forerunner of Jesus, can miss what’s going on, what Jesus is doing, I have to wonder if it can and does happen to us – that is, do we get so caught up in what we think we are looking for that we miss the true life that God is offering to us?

Further, I wonder if we even know what the thing we’re looking for looks like? What does life look like? That’s not to say we aren’t looking for it. I think we are all looking for life, for people and activities and being that truly fill us with life. But I also think we are looking for life in all the wrong places. We think life comes from feeling we have the power in a situation, but exerting our power hinders the opportunity for connection. Or maybe we think life comes from cramming our days full of Very Important Activities, and constant movement, but these activities, rather than filling us up leave us feeling depleted. Or maybe we think life looks like mindless escape through social media or TV or exercise, but these are only that, an escape from the very things that are sucking our life from us. 

But none of that’s not what Jesus is about! So what are we looking for? What would, or what does life really look like, feel like, to you? This is an awareness test: what form of life is moonwalking through your game of daily living, and are you noticing it?

For me, what I recognize as true life, the sort of life that Jesus brings, always comes with joy. And by joy I don’t mean the feeling of happiness, which is so often fleeting and circumstantial. I mean the deep and lasting state of joy, that feeling we get when we feel a genuine and even vulnerable connection with another (whether through a shared laugh or even a shared cry), or perhaps a connection with nature, or certainly a with God. Joy comes with connection, and with joy comes life.

At our last Mom Group gathering, we talked a bit about this. In this season that is so full of “joy,” we sometimes work ourselves to the bone trying to make that joy happen – with lights, and cookies, and ALL the special traditions and memory-making activities. But all that manufactured joy can be so exhausting that it has the opposite effect! It doesn’t give life; it sucks the life out of us. So in our Mom Group, we committed first, to make sure we found some time just to play – whether with our kids or alone – to do something that was purely for the fun of it. 

And second, we committed to be willing to let go of some “shoulds.” This second one is especially difficult, at least for me. But it is also so important. Because giving ourselves space – not space that we immediately fill with something else, but that we actually keep free – is what leaves our hearts open to God surprising us with those life-giving signs that God is working, in and around us and the world. Those open spaces are what free us up not to count the 13 passes, but to see the moonwalking bear, strutting into our hearts and busting a move. Those open spaces allow us to see the Messiah bringing sight to the blind, healing to the crippled, good news to the poor. They allow us to see and be a part of the kingdom work of healing and restoration. They allow the dead, those whose life and joy have drained out of them, to feel once again alive – not by their own power, but by the power of the one who will come and save us.

Let us pray… Life-giving God, it is easy to miss something we’re not looking for, even when that thing is exactly what will bring us life. Open our eyes and our hearts, and help us to leave them open, so that there would be space to receive all the ways you are giving us the life and joy that we crave. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Full service can be viewed HERE.

Sermon: A shoot of hope (Dec. 4, 2022)

Advent 2A
December 4, 2022
Isaiah 11:1-10

INTRODUCTION

If you were hoping we might get some warm fuzzies this second week of Advent where they were lacking last week… I’m sorry to disappoint. Actually, we will get some warm fuzzies, in our first reading from Isaiah. This is a classic Advent text: the image of the peaceable kingdom, where the wolf lies with the lamb, and other predators live in peace with their prey, and a little child shall lead them. It is what we hope for and picture when those angels sing to the shepherds in the fields, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace among those whom he favors.” And that description of a peaceful kingdom was very good news for Isaiah’s audience – I’ll be getting into the context in my sermon, so I won’t spoil it for you here… stay tuned!

As for the Gospel… this second Sunday of Advent we encounter John the Baptist in the wilderness and his cries for all to “repent!” You won’t see John in any of the nativities we bless after worship today, but he truly is a centerpiece of the Advent season. Difficult as his message of repentance is to hear, it is a necessary one in the preparation of our hearts. Today he says so quite extremely, saying that the ax is at the root of the tree, ready to cut down everything that doesn’t bear fruit (or maybe it already has begun its chopping – it’s unclear). Either way: yikes. 

I don’t love these stump images during this season, but they, too, are important, and even hopeful ones, to aid in our preparation for Christ’s coming. And yes, the God who comes to us “out of the blue” can come to us even in a stump. As you listen, recall some of the dead ends you have encountered, and how they ultimately directed you down the path of new life. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Peace, by William Strutt

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

When I was a kid, my parents had a wonderful picture above our piano that I loved. It is a work called simply, “Peace,” by artist William Strut, and is his depiction of today’s reading from Isaiah: a child in a white dress is at the center, and she is surrounded by all kinds of animals – a cow, a lion, a wolf, a lamb. I loved it because of the child, because seeing that made me, as a child, feel important. I was also smart enough to know that it was strange for all these animals to be together, and the possibility that they could be was simply captivating. 

Now as someone who knows more about the Bible than I did as a child, I have an even greater appreciation for this image. It continues to be a beautiful and captivating one. But now what I find so compelling about it comes from this part of the passage that precedes the description of the Peaceable Kingdom, because that part gives some context for why that image is so important. 

“A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.” To understand the magnitude of this opening sentence, the first thing we need to know is, who is Jesse? Jesse is the father of King David. You may remember David from such stories as, David and Goliath, or more scandalously, David and Bathsheba. (Side note: if you don’t know that second story, be sure to come to Bible study today, as that is the story we’ll be learning about!) David didn’t start off famous; he was a shepherd, born in a little town called Bethlehem, but then became the third king of Israel, and the greatest. He’s a complex character, not without his faults and sins, but overall is considered a great and righteous king of Israel. What is significant about him for today, and for the season of Advent, is that Hebrew scripture says that the messiah promised by God to the Israelites would be from the House of David, a direct descendant of King David (a.k.a. Jesse’s son). 

Everyone with me so far? Okay, now, fast forward a couple hundred years to the 8th century BCE, when Isaiah is writing the text we hear today. Since David, the Israelites have had a string of bad kings. Their current king, Ahaz, was making some terrible choices. The Northern Kingdom of Israel has likely already been destroyed at this point, and now the Assyrian army is in position to decimate Judah, the Southern Kingdom as well, and with it, Jerusalem. And here comes this prophet to make some sense out of what was happening. “God is using the Assyrians,” he explains, “to decimate this unfaithful people, until there is only a mere remnant remaining.” (You know, real cheery stuff.) He tells them this by means of a metaphor, comparing the proud of Jerusalem (all those bad kings) to a forest of trees that will be chopped down. “He will hack down the thickets of the forest with an ax, and Lebanon with its majestic trees will fall.” Merry Christmas, everyone! You can imagine how the Israelites might be feeling right about now: enemies attacking, and no sign of the Davidic messiah they have so longed for. They are, no doubt, feeling pretty hopeless.

Let’s just stop here for a minute and let that sink in. Even though this all happened centuries ago, hopelessness is not something in any way foreign to us. That feeling of being at the end of your rope, with nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. You’re out of ideas. You’re out of energy. You’re out of time. Hopeless. It is such a precarious place to be. It can look sad and alone, it can feel chaotic and overwhelming. It can feel like the brink between win and lose, between yes and no, even between life and death. However it looks, hopelessness is hard, and a state we will do anything to avoid. 

Back to our story – that hopeless state is where the Israelites are: under enemy attack, with no trust in their short-sighted leader, with no sign that a Messiah might ever come to save them, and surrounded by the stumps of so many failed leaders. 

And that is when they hear these words from Isaiah: “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.” Here, in the midst of war, they hear a word of hope: the savior promised to you will come. Jesse’s family tree, the line that you thought was dead, is not dead. There is life in it. There is hope sprouting out of it.

Have you ever seen that in nature? A little piece of life sprouting out from somewhere you would otherwise think life is impossible? A dandelion pushing through the pavement, perhaps? Or a tree growing out of a rock? 

There was a couple in my first call, who shared a wonderful story about new life sprouting. When they first moved to Webster some 50 years ago, they planted four trees, one for each member of the family. The tree planted for their son Mike was a beautiful, flowering crabapple tree, with twin trunks that blossomed each year. As a young adult, Mike became very ill and eventually he died from a brain tumor. At the same time, his tree, too, started to get diseased. Some time after Mike’s passing, during a wind storm, one of the twin trunks was broken… But then to their surprise, they began to see a new shoot growing out of that broken trunk, as if it was a sign that Mike was still very much alive, living a new sort of life. That shoot grew for a couple more years. Then, one day, when that couple was preparing to move from Webster to Boston, they heard a loud crack. They went outside to see that the entire diseased part of the tree had blown over, and all that was left was that one, new shoot, still standing strongly, and reminding them of the new life that their son was living. 

Stories like this – they have a profound ability to bring hope to a previously hopeless situation. One ray of light in the midst of darkness. One beginning in the midst of endings. One yes in the midst of so many nos. One sprout in the midst of hopelessness.

And at this, Isaiah goes on to describe who and what that sprout will be, what hope he brings, and the resulting Peaceable Kingdom, the image that so captivated me as a child: a place where lambs and wolves lie down beside each other, where babies and snakes, enemies since creation, can enjoy tummy-time together, where bears and cattle graze side-by-side, and where a little, innocent child, can lead them all. Where no one is attacking anyone else, physically or emotionally, where people no longer hunger, and where everyone lives in the righteousness of God. A place where there is, in a word, peace. This peaceable kingdom, Isaiah says, will be possible. 

And is it? Do you believe it is? Have you ever seen a glimpse of this kingdom? A kind word from a notoriously nasty co-worker? A shared laugh with a friend, that has the effect of lifting some of the weight from your shoulders? A chance to spend quality time with someone you know won’t be around forever? Glimpses like these can’t always make the pain go away. But they can provide just that little bit of hope we need to continue on, and if they cannot take the pain away, at least that hope can bring us some sense of peace in our hearts. 

Fast-forward another 800 years. The emperor at the time, Caesar Augustus, put out a decree that everyone should go to his hometown to be registered. There was a man named Joseph, who was engaged to be married to a young woman named Mary, who was with child. Since Joseph was a descendant of David, he had to travel with his pregnant fiancé to Bethlehem, the birthplace of his ancestor, David. And while they were there in Bethlehem, Mary gave birth to a son, and they named him Jesus, Emmanuel, which means, “God is with us.”

Let us pray. God of all the ages, there are so many things that would try to steal our hope and leave us in despair. When we start to slip into hopelessness, give us glimpses of you, like a shoot growing from a stump, to remind us that you are Emmanuel, God-with-us. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Full service can be viewed HERE.

Sermon: God the thief (Nov. 27, 2022)

 Advent 1 (A)
November 27, 2022
Matthew 24:36-44

INTRODUCTION

Always on this first Sunday of Advent and the new church year, we get a lot of, “Pay attention, and look at this new thing that God is doing! Don’t miss it!” We’ll see that theme very strongly in both Paul’s letter to the Romans and in the Gospel reading. In Isaiah, we get a glimpse of what that new thing might mean for our broken world – it could be a world in which all people will gather on God’s holy mountain, and there will be no more weapons or war. This comes as good news to a nation that is, in the 8th century BCE, being pummeled by the army of the Assyrian Empire; Isaiah speaks these words of hope and new life into a context of suffering, anxiety, and imminent imperial conquest. 

The Psalm also reflects on this world of peace. And in all four readings, we’ll see bits of the persistent Advent themes we think about every year: we wait, we watch, we hope, even as we anticipate the light of God breaking into the darkness of our lives.

This year, our Advent theme is “Out of the Blue,” about the ways God shows up, sometimes where we least expect it, and pulls us into the future of hope and promise – even if it wasn’t a part of our original plan. So as you listen today, watch for those surprising moments in the texts, words or themes of the unexpected – and think about the ways God has shown up in your life in unexpected ways. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

Several years ago now, when our kids were babies, we had an apparent break-in at our home. It was winter, and we had noticed as we were sitting in the living room that it felt very drafty. Sure enough we found a window open that leads into the back porch. The window frame was slightly bent, and upon further exploration, we also saw footsteps out in the snow leading to the porch door. We were surprised – nothing seemed amiss other than this, and we hadn’t noticed anything missing, but now we went to take a look. Michael had had a wad of cash in his dresser drawer from some recent Craigslist sales that was gone, as well as a jewelry box in that same drawer that had some cufflinks, and also a single laptop we seldom used was missing – though not my MacBook or any of my far more valuable jewelry. We had had a young man who we knew and was looking to earn some money painting our bedroom that week. He would have had easy access to the house and our bedroom – had he stolen these things while on the job, and then staged a break-in as a cover? He swore his innocence. The police were no help. To this day, we don’t know what happened, or when the theft even occurred – though we are pretty sure it was someone we know. But whether it was an unknown intruder, or this young man, or someone else who had access to our home, the fact remains: we felt violated. Both our space and our trust had been invaded and taken. 

This incident came to mind this week as I read our Gospel lesson. “Keep awake therefore,” Jesus advises, “for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming. But understand this: if the owner of the house had known in what part of the night the thief was coming, he would have stayed awake and would not have let his house be broken into.” It is such an unsettling image, isn’t it – thinking of God breaking into our homes, our safe havens that hold our memories, our photos, our cherished possessions, and creeping about in stocking feet without us even knowing. It’s creepy, but it’s also, like my story, violating. Right? Our homes are our safe place, where there are plenty of things, stories, and behaviors we might like to keep hidden from the outside world. But without warning to first clean up our act, God comes right on in and sees the sink full of dishes, the stack of unopened mail, the stains on the carpet. He sees the empty wine bottles, and the candy wrappers. He sees the piles of clutter, things you never should have bought in the first place, and the embarrassing prescription drugs you take. He sees it all, and just when your defenses are down. He creepily comes like a thief in the night, and sees all those things you would rather have kept hidden – from God, and from the world. 

Yup, it is definitely an unsettling image for God. I don’t like it nearly so much as say, the mother hen, who promises to gather and protect her chicks. Because protection – now that is something we very much like, isn’t it? It’s why we spend so much energy seeking it out. Certainly in physical ways, like our homes and our super safe cars, but also emotionally and spiritually. We don’t let people too far into our hearts, lest we get hurt. We don’t let down our guard, lest we get judged. We don’t let go of the illusion that we can do it ourselves, lest we dare trust another person or even God, and are disappointed once again. 

And yet, if the season of Advent tells us anything, it is that God doesn’t want to be removed from our mess – the one in our homes nor the one in our hearts. God wants to be in it with us, so much that God chooses to come to earth, even in the least expected way imaginable. And so, given that, is it any surprise that the Lord comes to us like a thief in the night? If God sent us a letter saying, “Hello, beloved child of mine, I have intentions to arrive at your home on Thursday at 3pm. I have some life-changing matters to discuss with you,” then what would be our response? 

I can think of two possible responses. One is that I would be too darn busy. “Oo, Thursday at 3 isn’t great for me. I have a haircut scheduled then. Could we look at the following week? I think I can squeeze you in there.” Squeezing God in, especially during this busy season, is all too often our reality, is it not? 

The other possible response, assuming I can indeed squeeze it in, is I would for sure clean the house, at least shove the clutter in a closet and tidy the couch cushions. I’d make sure all my ducks were in a row. I’d make sure my hair was combed, teeth brushed, clean dress on. I would definitely not want God to see the mess that I am behind closed doors! And so, I would put my best face forward to prepare for God’s arrival! 

This doesn’t sound so bad, right? We talk a lot about bringing our best to God – and we should do that! But if God only ever wanted to see us at our best, then why would God come to us at an unexpected hour, when we don’t have the notice we need to prepare, to wash our faces and clean the house? I think it is because while we do want to bring our best to God, we also need to be willing to let God see us at our not-best. Are we willing to let God see us exactly where and how we are when we are not trying to present to the world something that is polished and put-together? 

Preacher and author Barbara Brown Taylor has a wonderful sermon on this text called “The Beloved Thief.” In it, she describes Jesus as a thief who sneaks into our homes at night, when we are least prepared, when our defenses are down, when he can truly come in and see us and be with us at our most vulnerable. She writes, “Like any other thief, this one is after your valuables, but unlike any other, this one knows what they really are: not your silver and your stereo but your heart, your soul, your mind. Those are the treasures this thief’s own heart is set on, at no small risk to his life.” 

You see, if we, the homeowner, had known what time the thief was coming, we would not have let the house be broken into – and then that beloved thief, Jesus himself, would not have had access to our hearts, souls and minds. Jesus would have been kept out. We would have guarded those things, kept them hidden, kept them safe, and put forward only what we want the world and even God to see. 

But that’s not all that God wants to see. God wants all of us, our true selves. That is what this Advent season of waiting and watching, and the joyous gift we celebrate at the end of it, is all about: It is about God wanting so badly to be let in, let into our truest, least protected, messiest, and most vulnerable selves, that God becomes one of us, becomes vulnerable and powerless like us. If we will not let down our guard enough to receive him, then he will still find a way – by coming as a thief in the night, without warning so that we can’t make sure the security alarm is set. We can’t keep him out. He will come to us. He will come at an unexpected hour, probably when we most need it. He is not an adversary or a villain, but he will come to steal our hearts, souls and minds, to make them his. 

So prepare yours hearts, dear friends, for his unexpected entry. Prepare them by leaving the door unlocked, so that the beloved thief may enter freely. For by entering our waiting hearts, he is coming to set us free.

Let us pray… Unexpected God, our hearts and our homes are messy as all get out. We would rather keep our mess protected, even from you. Unlock the doors that would try to keep you out – and enter in, bringing your love, your peace, your grace, and the hope of your promise. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Full service HERE. 

Sermon: Trusting God in the "not yet" (Nov. 20, 2022)

 Christ the King/Reign of Christ, C

November 20, 2022

Jeremiah 23:1-6

Luke 23:33-43

INTRODUCTION

On this last Sunday of the church year, we celebrate Christ the King Sunday, sometimes called Reign of Christ. Interestingly, this is a fairly new addition to the church year, instituted by Pope Pius XI in 1925 (and adopted by Lutherans some 50 years later). In a world then ravaged by World War I, and the emergence of communism in Russia, secularism in the west, and fascism in Spain and Italy (with Germany close behind), it was hoped that raising up Christ’s humble kingship would offer a counter, a needed alternative to these scary regimes. Now almost 100 years later our circumstances have changed, but the need for this alternative sort of reign has certainly not! We are still constantly reckoning with the goals and ways of earthly leaders versus the way that God rules.

Today’s texts offer us some different pictures of what a godly rule looks like. You will see a God who protects, and gathers together, and rescues, and reconciles, and forgives – even, we will see in our Gospel reading which takes us to Jesus’ crucifixion, forgives criminals with his last breath. Ours is certainly a remarkable king! As you listen to these texts, listen for what else you notice about the nature of our king, and what his nature says about what we are called to be and do. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

It is 600 years before Christ’s birth. God had given Israel some very clear directives on how to live in right relationship with God: namely, love your neighbor, care for the vulnerable, and live in holiness, so that God can bless the whole world through them. If not easy, at least straightforward, right? But they have fallen far short. The worst offenders have been the kings and leaders, who were supposed to be a divine representative on earth, but instead, despite numerous warnings from God’s prophets, they have chosen over and over again to pursue wealth, fame, power, and short-term status and security over God. And God has had it with these wayward kings!

So, at this point in the history of Israel, here’s where things stand: the people of Judah are living in a vassal state under Babylonian rule – in other words, the Babylonian Empire is in charge, but has allowed the people of Judah to stay on their land as a vassal state, as long as they are loyal to Babylon. But, they weren’t. They tried to rebel against Babylon, and Babylon was not impressed. So now, the conquering Babylonian army is at their doorstep, ready to deport them far, far away, and for a long time. That is, the Israelites are about to be scattered into what we now call, “The Babylonian exile,” or, “the diaspora.” 

It's a scary time! So naturally, the people cry out to God to save them! They had a habit, you see, of having little interest in God until they needed help, needed something from God – something that isn’t altogether unfamiliar to many people of faith today. And, well, this time? God doesn’t save them. At least, not in the way they envisioned or expected. 

And that’s where today’s reading from Jeremiah comes in. God calls those bad kings and leaders – the bad shepherds – to task. “This is your fault,” God says. “You are the ones who have scattered my people. You have not taken care of my sheep,” and then, God adds, menacingly, “So I will take care of you.” It’s like a God as mafia boss vibe. 

Yeah, it’s not looking great for Israel right about now. This is not the response they were hoping for from God. They were hoping for salvation right now, a defeat of the enemy army. Instead, God observes the broken nature of God’s people. They are scattered, and it is their own doing.

It’s a situation that may seem familiar to us. This is the result that bad leadership can bring about – bad leaders turn us against one another, and create division. They do not seek righteousness and reconciliation. Their interest is in their own power, not the well-being of the sheep, the people they’ve been charged to lead and care for. And the result is pain, fear, and separation from God. The community is dis-membered.

Of course, God doesn’t leave them there forever. We know that – but that likely doesn’t bring the Israelites in Babylon much comfort at that moment! God offers a promise, but speaks to them in the far future tense: “I will gather the remnant of my flock, [whatever’s left of them after all this,] and I will bring them back to their fold. I will raise up shepherds over them who will shepherd them, and they shall not fear any longer.” That’s all very hopeful – but it doesn’t come for at least 70 years! And the shepherd king they are really waiting for, the righteous Branch of David, won’t come for another 600 years! 

Now, safely in a place of knowing the end of the story, I actually love this moment of tension, because it is something I can relate to. I see my own experience echoed in this story – of asking for help, and getting the response, “Yep, you got yourself into a bit of a mess… and I will help you, save you… but not yet.” And as much as I hate getting “not yet” as an answer, I also know that sometimes that answer must come because if the trouble is removed prematurely, then I will not have the opportunity to learn how to trust God. I will too quickly return to trusting myself. Now, we want to trust ourselves to some extent, of course – to trust that God has equipped us with the particular gifts and skills we need to endure the challenges life brings – but ultimately, it is God’s providence that we are trusting, not our own. God will give us what we need, in God’s own way and God’s own time. 

As we draw closer to the end of the year, we are talking once again about stewardship. There are so many approaches a preacher can take to discuss stewardship in a congregation, but the one that resonates with me most each year, and especially as we imagine a world in which Christ is indeed our king, is stewardship as an act of trust. Because giving away money, even large sums of money each year to God through the church, is often the most trusting act we can do. It is a very concrete way of saying, “I truly believe that Christ is the shepherd king who was promised to us. I believe he will gather us, and attend to us, and care for all our needs. I believe he is my salvation. I believe that his reign will be better than anything else I can imagine. And so, I will let go of this bit of my property that tries to promise my security, and put my trust in God.” 

And, if we do, really and truly believe that, then we must also be drawn into asking ourselves, “In what ways am I finding protection by my own means? What ways am I living my life that show that I may trust God… but not completely?” For me, this shows up fairly consistently in the way I view money. Every time the budget gets tight, or we need a little extra to pay a large bill that came up, it flits through my brain, “Well, I could decrease my offering this month, so we have a little more cash.” To be clear – I don’t do that, at least not intentionally (though it has happened on accident), but I almost always consider it. And then I try to use that fleeting thought as a heart check, asking, “Why was one of my first inclinations to trust God less?”

Now, mathematically speaking, I know why. There is money there that can be used differently, and simple arithmetic tells me I can cover this expense with that money. But spiritually, it is way off. Because when times are such that we need a little more, that is exactly the time when we are called to trust God more fully, not less! And while there are many ways we can live into trusting God, how we use our money is one very concrete way that we can. 

I have sometimes wondered, what would happen if, next time I am worried about something, instead of thinking to decrease my giving by a few bucks, I tried doubling it. It would probably hurt at first, I’ll be honest, but I have a sneaking suspicion that this would go a long way toward reorienting my heart in the direction of trust, rather than worry. Increasing my giving by a few dollars won’t do much to change my heart, but doubling it? That’s enough to feel a change! 

Speaking of worry… how does our story here end? God’s “not yet” to the people of Israel is difficult for them to hear, no doubt. It is a clear sign that in Christ’s rule, things don’t work as we would expect them to. Sometimes being saved from something means we have to go through it, rather than around it. Sometimes being fruitful and multiplying means first decreasing and reducing in some areas, so that fruitfulness can follow. Sometimes “with Christ all things are possible” means that even the unthinkable is possible – not because God will spare us from difficulty, but because God will bring us through it. You see, the reign of Christ turns all our expectations on their head, just the way God has always done, throughout salvation history, and most especially with the birth of God’s son, who is born to peasants, without military power, and serves the poorest and weakest, rather than catering to the powers that be. This is how our shepherd chooses to lead, to gather us and bring us back together, to re-member us. 

And so we pray, with the criminal on the cross, “Jesus, re-member me, when you come into your kingdom.” And Jesus’ response is, “It is already the case. You are re-membered, and one with me in paradise, on this very day.” We already can trust in God with all that we have. We already can step out in faith to serve the vulnerable, love the neighbor, and live in holiness for the sake of the world. Today, we will be with Jesus in paradise.

Let us pray… Reigning God, help us to trust you fully, so that our hearts would be reoriented toward your kingdom. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

View the full service HERE.

Sermon: When temples are falling (Nov. 13, 2022)

Pentecost 23C
November 13, 2022
Luke 21:5-19

INTRODUCTION

Always on this last Sunday before Christ the King Sunday, we hear texts about the end of the world. The idea here is that this week we hear about how the end is coming, then next week we hear about Christ’s second coming, when the King will come and reign over all, and then the next week we begin traditional Advent, when we turn our hearts toward remembering Christ’s first coming, even as we still wait in hopeful expectation for that day when the Prince of Peace will come again. Cool, right? Lectionary for the win.

Our first reading today comes from Malachi, the very last book of the Old Testament. After Malachi’s prophecy, there is a 400-year gap before Jesus (aka the Sun of Righteousness) comes to save us from our sins. Our reading from Thessalonians takes us to just after the resurrection, when believers expected Jesus to return at any moment. As a result, they had ceased to work or do anything, thinking, what was the point anyway, if Jesus was coming back soon? Paul tells them this is the wrong attitude; instead, they should always strive to do the right thing, whether Jesus comes in 5 minutes, or 5000 years. 

In our Gospel lesson, Jesus warns the disciples about the end of the world, and the signs that will make clear this is about to happen. Some of the signs sound uncomfortably like what we can see looking around the world today. But, Jesus assures them, even in this, God has a purpose, so trust in that.

It’s not a particularly warm-fuzzy message, from any of these texts, but then again, neither is life always full of warm fuzzies. As you listen, remember a time in your life (or it may be right now!), where it felt like life as you knew it was crumbling around you, and consider: where did God show up, or where did God’s purpose become clear in that? Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

These end of the world texts we always get in November are always so unnerving. Every single year, I read them and look around and think, “it could be describing today!” And you know what? Every generation has felt that way. Every generation has had its own tragedy that they are sure is worse than any other generation’s. Remember, Luke was writing actually a bit after the events he is describing, after the Temple fell in the year 70 – that surely felt like the end times to that generation! And since then, every time period has had wars and insurrections and signs from heaven, and charismatic people claiming to be the one who knows “just what God is saying by this act!” and so people across time have thought, “This must be the end times!” Well so far, no one has been right. But it doesn’t keep these texts from feeling very unnerving.

So, what do we do then with texts like these? Ignore them? Stick our heads in the proverbial sand? Last week we talked about what happens at the end of our personal, earthly lives, but the end of humanity as we know it is, well, a much bigger concern, one that I know I have a very hard time wrapping my head around. And so yeah, I’d sometimes rather just shrug it off, turn the other way, and ignore it. But I don’t think that is faithful. So instead, let’s lean in, because there is something important to take from these end times texts; Luke’s account of Jesus’ words to a traumatized first century audience speak also to us in our own context. 

Let’s start with the first move Jesus makes. After he describes the destruction that will happen, the disciples immediately want more information: “When? How will we know? Explain this to us!” We get that, right? Especially in very emotional times, as tragedy always is, we want more information, believing that if we could just know more things, that will help us understand and move past it. But Jesus doesn’t let them stay there in that false belief. “Beware that you are not led astray,” he goes on, “by those who promise to know everything.” Hmm. I know I am susceptible to following whatever or whomever will give me what I most crave at the time, and in times of immense pain or uncertainty, what I most crave is almost always understanding. Though if I’m honest, more understanding seldom actually helps. In these times, it can be all too easy to fall into despair, into feeling helpless in the face of something so much bigger than us. 

But Jesus changes the question: he instead moves the disciples not to think, “When, why, and how?” but rather, “What does this struggle mean for my life of faith?” 

And this is where we can find a way to move from falling into despair, to moving toward life. Since the end of the world is such a huge topic, let’s make it more personal: imagine with me that the destruction of the Temple, the loss of this consistent beacon of God’s presence with us, is a sort of metaphor for the ways our own hopes and visions for how we expected life would be sometimes crumble. With that image, a couple of questions come to mind: 

First, are we willing to sit with the fact that sometimes things we had planned and counted on and trusted in… fall apart? I doubt there is a person in the world who can say, “I made a plan for my life, and everything has fallen exactly into place and turned out how I planned it.” Right? Even if you eventually get to where you hoped you would, undoubtedly the path had some unexpected twists and turns. Plans falling apart is a part of life, always. And yet if you’re anything like me, you fight against it when it happens, trying desperately to force things once again down the path you had previously laid out so thoughtfully and carefully. 

So, what would happen if, instead of looking always to understand and fix, we were willing just to sit with this unexpected reality, and accept that sometimes things do fall apart… and consider that maybe God is using that to put us on the path we need to be on? If ours is a God whose purpose is to show us that death leads to life, then it seems pretty consistent with God’s character that things falling apart might be a necessary step toward building something new. 

The other question that comes to mind is, can we accept and even embrace this journey of faith, this one that includes rubble, ruin, and even failure? Can we embrace that sometimes faith means saying, “I thought I had this figured out, but I don’t,” and then putting our trust not in our own skills and understanding, but in God’s own providence and wisdom? 

If the answer to each of these questions is, “Yes, I can accept that. I can embrace that ruin and failure and plans fallen apart are a part of living a life of faith,” if we can admit that our carefully made plans are not always aligned with God’s plans… then we experience a little apocalypse. I don’t mean the world ends – though it may feel that way! “Apocalypse” does not mean “the end of the world,” so much as it means, “the end of the world as we have known it.” An apocalypse is an unveiling, a pulling back of the veil to reveal what was hidden beneath. And yes, sometimes, this process is incredibly painful. It shatters our perceptions, sets us off our balance, changes how we see everything. It disillusions us. But disillusion is not, finally, a bad thing. To be disillusioned is to be freed from an illusion, freed from a false truth that was doing more damage to us than good. An apocalypse frees us from these lies, and places our trust squarely where it belongs: in the one who always brings us truth, hope, and life, Jesus Christ our Lord.

What’s tricky about this is that sometimes, the illusions from which we need to be freed are the very behaviors that we thought were keeping us safe and doing us good. They are the coping mechanisms and approaches to life that we developed even as children to get through the difficult things life throws at us. For example, maybe you have told yourself that if you can always crack a joke and find the fun in any situation, then you can avoid pain indefinitely, and eventually the pain will just disappear. Or you’ve told yourself that if you strive always to be good, and do the right thing, and finish everything on your list, then you will find peace. Or that if you always put your needs aside in favor of serving others, you will be loved. Or that if you are prepared for every possible scenario, then you will feel safe. 

Now, safety, and love, and peace, and lack of pain – these are not bad outcomes. But the stories we are telling about how to achieve them? These are, in the end, lies we are telling ourselves. They are – illusions. And living those lies will not bring us what we most dearly crave. Maybe sometimes, for a short time, but more often, they will cause us to suffer all the more in the long term, because – and we know this – we will never get what we need by our own devices. And as soon as we can recognize that the stories God wants us to live are stories of grace, stories in which God loves us and provides us exactly what we need – even when temples are falling – the sooner we can rest in the peace, love, and safety Jesus promises us. 

I know from personal experience that when those stories we tell ourselves begin to crumble and fall, it can be painful and disorienting. It does feel apocalyptic! I’m sure you know it too, from your own experience. But it is also, finally, life-giving! That is the story of our faith – that whatever our temples are, they will fall. Our carefully made plans will crumble around us. And, that likely will shake us, even to our core. We will feel disillusioned and maybe even abandoned. 

But know this: we are not abandoned. The Sun of Righteousness will arise with healing in his wings, and not a hair of your head will perish. Even when we sit in the midst of the ruin of our hopes, the shards of our broken stories, Emmanuel, God-with-us, shows up, weeps with us, and then takes us by the hand, and shows us the new life that exists just beyond the veil.

Let us pray… God of grace, when life is falling apart, when things no longer make any sense, when we are faced with uncomfortable truths, make us certain that with you as our God, not a hair of our heads will perish. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen

Full service can be viewed HERE. 

Sermon: On the incomprehensibility of life after death (All Saints, Nov 6, 2022)

Pentecost 22C (All Saints Day)
November 6, 2022
Luke 20:27-38

INTRODUCTION

All of our readings today deal with the question of resurrection, of life after death, salvation after suffering, of the newness that follows endings – all very appropriate themes for All Saints Sunday! 

I’m going to focus on our Gospel lesson, which requires some background to fully understand what’s going on. It begins with the Sadducees trying to trick Jesus. The Sadducees, as Luke will tell us, are an elite sect of Judaism that does not believe in the resurrection. And so, they are trying to trap Jesus by describing a scenario and carrying it to its logical and absurd conclusion, thus disproving resurrection. The scenario uses levirate marriage as the premise, so let me explain first what that is. In some patriarchal societies (such as 1st century Judaism and some still today), the levirate law says that if a woman’s husband dies childless, she should marry her husband’s brother. At its best, this is a practice that protects the vulnerable widow, because she cannot support herself and this law requires the family to take her in and provide for her. But it is also a property issue because it keeps the wealth in the family, allows for the possibility of heirs, and keeps the blood line going. The scenario the Sadducees describe pushes this law to its max, imagining seven brothers who all die childless. In this case, they ask, to whom does the women belong in the resurrection? It’s a clever question, but Jesus of course has an even more clever response. 

The question of resurrection, what happens when we die, and what this all means for life right now, is a question central to the life of faith. So as you listen, think about how you would answer that question: what does all this resurrection talk mean for your life right now? Maybe our readings will offer you some insight. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

I’ve thought a lot about death this week. Between Halloween on Monday, the novel I just finished about beings who don’t know they are dead and stuck in an in-between place, and multiple visits with people at the end of their life, I can’t seem to get away from thinking about what happens when we die.

But the end-of-life moment that was particularly meaningful to me this week was when I heard from Michael’s cousin, asking if I would Facetime with her mom, Michael’s beloved aunt, who was very near the end of her life. We chatted, and I sang to her, “Shall We Gather at the River,” including these beautiful words in the final verse: “Soon we’ll reach the shining river / soon our pilgrimage will cease / soon our happy hearts will quiver / with the melody of peace.” And indeed, I could see peace fall upon her beautiful face. She entered life eternal just over 48 hours later; we lit a candle for her this morning.

Each year on All Saints Day, we face the reality of death – this mysterious thing that is at once foreign to us, and also all too familiar. This day is a gift, really – a chance to confront this inevitable part of life at a time when we are not, at least usually, in the throes of grief, and able to see with broader vision what part death plays in the story of our life and faith. 

Humans have always been fascinated, intrigued, if not also fearful, of what happens when we die in our bodily form, and it has long been the cause of theological debate. We see it in our Gospel reading today. Some Sadducees approach Jesus, with the intent to expose the absurdity of all his talk of resurrection. At this point in Jesus’ story, he has just entered Jerusalem and is in the last week of his life, and the authorities are trying to bring Jesus down. So they present this question to trap him: a possibly hypothetical woman marries a man, but he dies before having any offspring. According to levirate law, this widow is then given to the man’s brother, for the purpose of producing an heir. But this man, too, dies childless. And so it goes, for all seven brothers. When the woman herself dies, whose wife will she be in the resurrection? In other words, if there is a life after death, as the resurrection promises, this woman can’t possibly be the wife of all seven brothers; therefore, the belief in resurrection makes no logical sense. 

Now, you might be surprised by what I say next here: but I agree with the Sadducees! The resurrection does not make any logical sense. We are not the first generation of humans to be sophisticated enough to find life after death implausible. The resurrection has never made sense in human terms! It’s odd, and unlikely, and frankly, bizarre. Where the Sadducees point out here the discrepancies between resurrection and the laws around marriage, our generation points out the discrepancies between resurrection and the laws of biology and physics. Easter morning is baffling for someone who believes in science, and as good as it sounds that death is not the end, that there is a hope beyond the finality of death, our concrete, fact-based brains have a hard time grasping this possibility. This struggle is nothing new for humans! 

Jesus gets that. Notice, he is not angry with the Sadducees. He engages their questions, and challenges them not to change their views, but to think about it differently. He invites them to think beyond the entrenched categories of what is possible and impossible. Because in the end, nothing is impossible with God!

I find this a comfort. And I love that Jesus’ response is to meet them right where they are. “You are right,” he acknowledges, “that this is how it works in this age. People marry and are given in marriage. That is how things work. These are the laws we follow. But,” he goes on, “that is not how things work in that age.” In other words, we cannot try to understand the resurrection, or the afterlife, or heaven, or eternal life, or whatever you call it – we cannot try to understand it within the same constraints and systems that we use to understand this world. Things like the laws of marriage, or biology, or physics – they help us make sense of things in this earthly realm. They’re important. They might even get us part of the way to a spiritual realm. I remember studying physics in high school and being drawn into theological reflection by the things I was learning, asking, “What does this law or revelation mean for my understanding of God and God’s action in the world?” But in the end, trying to understand the resurrection, eternal life, using the same laws and systems we use to understand this world – it might be interesting, but will ultimately get you nowhere.

My clergy study group had a lively discussion about this topic this week. We shared some of the questions and assumptions we have encountered about heaven over the course of our respective ministries. Whether or not pets will be in heaven is a common question, as is the question of who gets in. One wondered if heaven would be like a bunch of golf courses, while another said adamantly, “That doesn’t sound like heaven to me!” Most people want a chance to ask God all their pressing questions, most of which start with, “Why?” Everyone wants to be reunited with loved ones, something that is very much on our minds today. 

The truth is that my answer to every question I’ve ever gotten about the specifics of heaven or eternal life is: I don’t know. We don’t, and can’t, know or comprehend the fullness of the resurrection, nor the joys and blessings of life eternal. 

What we do know is this: 

God knows. 

And God is love.

And God loves us. 

And God promised us, in our baptism, life everlasting. 

To me, as much as I’d like to know more, it is a relief to let go of this need to know more, and just to trust Jesus on this one. And in my more peaceful moments, it is enough for me simply to accept what Jesus says today to the Sadducess: that the part of eternal life that comes after our pilgrimage on earth has ceased is quite apart from human, earthly laws. Indeed it transcends them. But we can trust that those who have gone before us in faith – Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and all those we named this morning, and countless more – they are alive in the resurrection. Because “God is God not of the dead, but of the living; for to him all of them are alive” – alive, and basking in the loving glow and joy and peace of Christ’s shining light. That, my friends, is all we need to know.

Let us pray… God of light and peace, we want so badly to understand your ways, to grasp the truth of eternal life for ourselves and our loved ones. Make us content to trust you, to trust that whatever the case, you are the God of the living, and that all of your children are alive in you. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Full service can be viewed HERE.