Sermon: Blessed like the saints (Nov. 5, 2017)

All Saints Day A (and the Rite of Confirmation)

November 5, 2017

Matthew 5:1-13

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

            The Beatitudes, our Gospel lesson today, is one of those texts in the Bible that is so well known, that I usually approach it thinking, “Oh, I know just what to say about this one,” and yet every time, I find I am surprised by something new. It always speaks to me differently depending on what is going on in my world at the time.

            Maybe I am in the midst of a conflict with friends, and so that line, “blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God” is what speaks to me. Maybe I am watching on the news as people protest and cry for justice for some group or another, and I think, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled!” Maybe I have just met with a parishioner who is in the hospital, yet demonstrating such deep faith in the midst of struggle, that my prayer becomes, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.” Or maybe, like several here today, I am mourning a loss of a loved one, and am comforted by those words, “Blessed are those who mourn.” Yes, there seems to be something in there for everyone!

            Yet even as one can find comforting words here for various situations, I’m not always sure how to read the text as a whole. Our first inclination might be to read it as sort of, instructions for a life of faith. Especially today, on All Saints Day, as we not only remember those who have died in the faith, and those who have served as models for us, but also recognize that all of us were promised sainthood in our baptism (yes, we are ALL saints!), it becomes tempting to see this text as something to aspire to. Like, this is what the life of a saint looks like: to hunger for righteousness, to speak boldly on Christ’s account even in the face of persecution, to be peace-seekers.

However, we can’t really say, “Be like these people Jesus is saying are blessed!” and call it a day. The cases I just mentioned make sense, but it doesn’t make much sense to say, “Hey, you should find more opportunity to mourn!” or, “Do something to get yourself persecuted now and then, would ya?” So seeing these as “rules for a life of faith” isn’t entirely helpful.

The Forerunners of Christ with Saints and Martyrs
by Fra Angelico (accessed on WikiMedia Commons)

So if they aren’t instructions, then perhaps they are meant to be read more as words of comfort. That’s why they are assigned for this All Saints Day, a day when we remember the dead, when we may count ourselves among “those who mourn.” Though we don’t likely find ourselves in all of these categories at once, we likely find ourselves in some of them sometimes. Like I was saying at the beginning of this sermon: we all grieve at some point; we all pursue righteousness; we all desire peace. Some of us have probably felt at some point like living a life of faith made us feel, if not outright persecuted, at least like we were trying to live a way that is counter-cultural, a way others in the world might not understand. And in those times, it is gratifying to read these words from Jesus saying, “I know you are struggling right now. My promise to you is that this will not last forever. You will get what you need! You will be blessed!” This is a very helpful way to read the Beatitudes, especially in a world with so much pain and fear.

But I’d like to suggest a third way to read this beloved text. Because you see, Jesus doesn’t say to those struggling, “They will be blessed.” He says they already are. So, what if we read the Beatitudes not as words speaking to us wherever we are, assuring us that our circumstances will change sometime in the future but doesn’t imply any current or eventual change in us, but rather, as a way to shift the way we see the world right now and going forward?

Let me explain. If I were to ask you, “When do you feel blessed?” I doubt you would say, “When I’m lacking, or grieving, or experiencing injustice, or being persecuted,” right? We feel blessed when things go well, not when we are suffering! No one says, “You should have heard this guy today who was screaming all kinds of evil threats against me. Ah, I felt so blessed!” No! And yet, Jesus says that there, in those places, is blessing. How can that be?

You see, in saying this, Jesus is turning upside down everything we thought we knew about suffering. But that’s sort of Jesus’ M.O., isn’t it? Jesus is always turning everything on its head. We see it right away, when the King of Kings is born to peasants in a smelly stable. We see it when he is raised in Nowheresville Nazareth. We see it when he surrounds himself with lowlifes and sinners. And we see it most profoundly on the cross. Nothing about Jesus is how we would expect God to be.

And so maybe, just maybe, God is using these unlikely blessings to show us that God continually moves and acts where we least expect it. Not in the glorious places we’d think to look for God – in success and wealth and notoriety, in places we normally associate with blessing – but rather, in the broken, in the aching, in the grieving. It goes back to the theology of the cross we talked about a couple weeks ago – that God has shown us that God’s love is made most profoundly known to us on the cross, and so we can be sure that in our own suffering, God will be there with us, too, kneeling beside us in our despair. And because God is there, with those who suffer, those who suffer are indeed blessed.

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

So what does all this mean for a life of faith? It doesn’t mean that we should make ourselves suffer so that God will come to us. It does mean that if we want to see God, we must go to where we know God is: in suffering.

Today [at St. Martin] in a moment, we will witness a young woman affirm her baptismal faith in the rite of confirmation. One of the things I asked Lydia to do in preparation for this day, was fill out a little bio. One of the questions was, “What do you want to do someday?” I imagined this as a sort of “what do you want to be when you grow up?” question, but I like Lydia’s answer better. She said that she’d like to go to a children’s hospital and hang out with the kids all day, adding that this would be great. You see, Lydia is already living into the saintly life she inherited in baptism – she knows, in her heart if not in her mind, that in these children, she would see God. Or perhaps, they would experience God’s love in her. Because God is with us, in many and various and sometimes unexpected forms, when we suffer.

            As we celebrate Lydia’s confirmation, we give thanks for the ways she has and will continue to live into her saintly nature, even as we give thanks for the ways God calls us to do the same – by hearing the good and comforting words of Christ when we are the ones who are suffering, and by witnessing God by being present in others’ suffering. You know, some Bible scholars believe that a better way to translate that word, “blessed,” is actually, “Congratulations!” Because being so close to God is a celebration. You have experienced God’s mercy – congratulations! You have seen God’s work among the poor – congratulations! You have fought for justice in Christ’s name – congratulations! You have experienced a true life of faith – not one in which God promises you will never face hardship, but rather, that when you do, God will be deeply and profoundly present with you in it. Blessed are you! To Lydia, and to all your saints out there – Congratulations!

            Let us pray… Blessed Jesus, we know that you know and understand the pain we feel, because you have felt it, too. Bless us with many opportunities to see your love at work in the world, by emboldening us to be with the suffering in their pain, just as you are with us in ours.  In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

We have another toddler!

November 4, 2017

Dear Sweet Isaac,

Well, it only took you 10 ½ months, kid… you are walking! And delighted to be doing so, I will add. True to your character, you went through all the prerequisite steps before taking the actual steps – roll over, sit up, army crawl, all-fours crawl, pull to standing, cruise on furniture, stand on own…. And then those first, wobbly, tentative steps, that result in a fall into the arms of someone joyfully receiving you. And with each success along the way, Isaac – you celebrate! You grin and laugh and move your arms about. And you stand up to try again, now feeling a little more secure.

Train ride and pumpkins.
Isaac wanted all the pumpkins.

Now that you have had a couple weeks to practice, you’re getting much more consistent, and much braver in your efforts. You take a few steps, wobble back and forth, focusing your attention on not falling, smiling when you realize you have succeeded at this, then take another step. When you fall, you look up at someone nearby, smile slightly, and work on standing back up.

Honestly, watching you learn to walk has been so dear. Like your learning to come down stairs, this has offered such a beautiful glimpse into your developing personality: your care and attention, your caution, your consideration of a situation, your wanting to do it the right way, your determination, and your joy in celebrating your success. I can’t wait to see how these wonderful traits serve you in your future endeavors.

Meanwhile, you are living it up as a biped. Sometimes you toddle into the kitchen like a drunken sailor, stand and watch me for a while, smile, and then turn around and go back in the living room, carefully stepping over the bottom of the baby gate. You are getting stronger at keeping up with Grace, which makes you very happy. The two of you like to wrestle and roll around on

Halloween!

the ground now. Grace likes to hug you, which you’ll put up with for a while and then push her away. You are more and more adept at climbing the stairs, and will dutifully follow me up, then turn right back around and follow me down as I run around the house doing chores. The up and down doesn’t seem to bother you; you’re just glad to be able to participate in it!

Even as your mobility improves, so does your language. Several times you have said things that sounds like the appropriate word for the situation: “More,” “ow,” “mama,” etc. You have discovered a grumbly part of your voice, which you enjoy, and you also like to shout various syllables, like you are making an important statement everyone needs to hear, then you smile, pleased with yourself. You have also gotten into music lately, trying to dance, or play instruments, or drum on things. Of course I’m pleased about this! You and Grace and I just had our first jam session a couple weeks ago – I played ukulele, Grace and I sang, you laughed, and you and Grace alternated playing drum and maraca. It was pretty great. I hope it is the first of many!

In two days you turn 11 months – amazing! My little boy is so big! What a joyful almost-year it has been with you, my incredible son. I’m grateful for every single day that I get to live with your smile and laughter.

                                                                                                Love you,

                                                                                                Mama

Sermon: Reformation500, Free Indeed! (Oct. 29, 2017)

Reformation Sunday (Ref. Series: Doctrine of Justification)

October 29, 2017

Jeremiah 31:31-34; Psalm 46; Galatians 2:16-21; John 8:31-36

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

            Five hundred years. I know this will reveal what a church nerd I have always been, but I’ve had this day on my radar since I was a kid. I remember thinking how old I would be when the 500^th anniversary of the beginning of the Reformation came about! Turns out, fun fact, that Luther was exactly my current age when he posted his 95 theses on the church door.

Well now that it’s here… I don’t really know what to say. On the one hand, there is something to celebrate. Because 500 years ago, a young monk (and he was young!) said to the Church, “Hey listen, you’ve distorted the heart of Christian faith. You’ve got people believing they can buy their forgiveness, when really, that comes free from God!” What followed was a reformation of the Church as it was, resulting, hopefully, in a greater emphasis on God’s grace.

But that also brings up the dark underbelly of the Reformation, which is that this event spilt apart the Church. And that is nothing to celebrate. Division wasn’t Luther’s desire, nor was it Jesus’. Jesus prayed that we would all be one – and the Church now, 2000 years after Jesus’ death and 500 years after Luther’s bold act, looks nothing like one, united Church. Christians differ from each other even on the most basic tenets of faith, and that difference has led to bloodshed. In fact, Luther’s words did much to cause some of the pain the Church has experienced for the past half millennium. He also said awful things about Jews. Nazis used his words to justify their actions. He wasn’t always kind to other Christians, either. Lutherans today have worked hard to heal some of the very divisions and pains caused by our namesake.

And so, 500 years later, I find myself as prone to lament and even repent, as I am to celebrate. But I think that’s okay. After all, the first of those 95 theses states, “When our Lord and Master Jesus Christ said, ‘Repent,’ he willed the entire life of believers to be one of repentance.” I can lament and repent that my denominational heritage hurt people along the way. I can lament and repent that there is division in the church. I can lament and repent for what I have or haven’t done to heal that division. Lament and repentance are an important part of the life of faith.

Because of the complexity of this historical event in the Church’s life, the word we are supposed to be using is “commemorate.” A recognition, but not a celebration. That said, I do also want to recognize that there is something to celebrate today. And that is the realization and the articulation, by Luther and his colleagues, of the life-changing, spirit-filled, liberating theology known as the doctrine of justification: that we are saved by grace and not by works.

That’s a lot of fancy church words, so let’s break this down into more accessible words, drawing some inspiration from our Gospel reading today. Jesus is talking to a bunch of Jews, saying that the truth will set them free. “Free?” they respond. “But we don’t need to be freed. We’re not slaves. We were never slaves.” You might be inclined to feel the same about yourself. We’re American, after all, living in the land of the free. I don’t even have slavery in my family history. I know nothing of slavery. But if you know something about Jewish history, you’ll remember: they were very much slaves! Remember that whole bit in Egypt? How Moses had to ask the Pharaoh a bunch of times to let God’s people go? How Moses finally led the Israelites, God’s people, out of Egypt in dramatic fashion, through the Red Sea? Uh yeah, it’s sort of a big part of their history that they were slaves!

And while it may not be quite so obvious in our own histories, we were and are still very much slaves, too. We are enslaved to the love of money and all it can do for us, to building and maintaining our reputations, to our work, to our schedules – always trying to justify ourselves by saying our diligent attention to these things will increase the level of happiness for ourselves and our families… But in the end, it is just a never-ending race of trying to keep up, trying to succeed, trying to prove to ourselves, our neighbors, and to God, that we are enough.

And that’s really the driving motivation in all of our enslavements, isn’t it? We want to be enough: good enough, smart enough, attractive enough, faithful enough. And we try to prove to ourselves and the world that we have achieved “enough” by ensuring our kids have all the best opportunities, and we make a good salary, and contribute something worthwhile, and maybe that we have whatever the hot item is. We are slaves to the relentless desire to be enough.

But we are not doomed to spend our whole lives in this enslavement – we can be free. “The truth will set you free,” Jesus says. “So if the Son makes you free, you will be free indeed.” Did you hear that good news? It is the Son, Jesus, who makes us free. Not the right number on the bathroom scale, not the higher salary, not your kid earning straight As, not getting that award, not even doing good deeds. Those things aren’t bad in and of themselves – really, they are good! – but while they may make us feel good in the moment, they will not set us free from that core fear of not being enough. Only the Son can do that. Only Jesus’ work on our behalf can do that. Only the promise we receive in baptism – that we are beloved children of God, whose sins and failures are always forgiven by a merciful God – can free us.

I like how Lutheran pastor Emily Scott put it. She says, “I am only interested in a conversation about the Reformation insofar as it is centered on the liberation of God’s people. The life-giving theology Luther and his colleagues articulated has rescued me from a life depending only on myself.” To me, this really is life-giving

news! How much pressure we put on ourselves, believing that we can pull ourselves out of our own darkness! I am pretty smart and capable, and often I am able to fix my own problems, but the most pressing ones, and especially the rat race of trying to prove to myself and the world that I am enough, never seems to have an end, at least not as long as I’m in it alone. I always seem to resort to comparing my own success or failure with someone else’s, and it turns out, there is never any joy in comparison. It always results in my feeling like I could be more or better, like I’m not enough. But the good news of the Reformation is that there is an end to that race, and that end is Jesus Christ. Through Christ, God says, “You are already enough.” It doesn’t depend on you or your goodness. It depends on God and God’s goodness.

That is the end of the rat race – but it is the beginning of a life of faith. Pastor Scott goes on: “If we are to remember the Reformation, let it stir us to see the suffering of God’s people in our midst,” and reach out to them with love. This, you see, is also the heritage of the Reformation. Once we hear that good news that we are free from sin, free from the temptation to compare ourselves to others, free from the constant effort to prove ourselves to everyone, we also realize that we are freed for a purpose. We are freed for serving others. We are freed for speaking up on behalf of those held captive by oppressive power structures. We are freed for giving our time, talents, and treasures to those who lack what they need. We are, in short, freed for loving our neighbors and seeking their well-being as fervently as we love and seek our own.

For Luther, you see, and the theology he described, neighbor-love was an implied response to the good news that we are saved by grace and not by works. When we hear that good news, he says, when we really hear it with our whole being, we are compelled to love and serve our neighbor in whatever way is possible – not because it’s a nice thing to do, or to get a gold star in our crown, or so others will look to us and say, “Wow, they are great!” or even to get into heaven or to be saved. We serve others because it is what springs out of the good news that we are loved and forgiven and embraced by God, who loves us and says we are enough just the way we are. We don’t serve others to be loved and saved. We serve others because we already are loved and saved. This truth, sisters and brothers, will set you free.

On this 500^th anniversary of the Reformation, you may, like me, feel a mix of emotions. Sadness that the Church is still working toward unity, but gratitude for the work that has already been done. Lament for the ways people of faith have been nasty to one another, often using our own Martin Luther’s words as fuel, and hope in seeing that many are working hard to mend the brokenness. Despair that this world still has so much pain and fear, but immense joy that Christ continually promises to be with us in the pain, and bring us toward new life. There is room in our faith for all those feelings. As we commemorate the Reformation, may we let it be a reformation of our hearts, knowing that lament leads to repentance, and repentance leads to hope, and hope leads to joy in the promise of a new life of freedom.

Let us pray… Reforming God, by your Son you have freed us from the shackles of sin and doubt and promised us that we are beloved, and we are enough. Continue to reform our hearts, that we would see the needs of our neighbor, and reach out to them with your love and grace. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen

Sermon: Finding God in the last place you look (Oct 22, 2017)

Pentecost 20A (Reformation Series – Theology of the Cross)

“Finding God in the Last Place You’d Look”

October 22, 2017

Exodus 33:12-33 (RCL); Psalm 99 (RCL); 1 Corinthians 1:18-2:2; Mark 15:33-39

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

            I knew to expect, at some point in my children’s young life, that phase where everything you say is followed by, “Why?” I didn’t expect it so soon as age 2. “Where’s daddy?” At work. “Why?” So he can make money and help people. “Why?” Because he wants to be a contributing member of society. “Why?” Uuuugghhh… I’m already exhausted!

            And yet, I’m grateful, because every day my toddler teaches me something about human nature. With these exchanges, she teaches me that this question, “Why?” is so deeply ingrained and pressing that it nags us just as soon as we start to develop reason and language. Of course as adults, the question most meaningfully makes its appearance in times of suffering: “Why did she die so

young?” “Why has he suffered so long?” “Why would God let this happen?” It’s a question I often get asked as a pastor, usually asked with sad, questioning, sometimes even angry or desperate eyes. Unfortunately, I’m no more privy to the mind of God than anyone else, and so my answer is usually a pathetic, “I don’t know.”

            But really – how can we know? If we knew the mind of God, would that really be God anymore? We are desperate to understand how life works, why God acts the way God does, why things happen the way they do, but the fact is: as soon as you claim to understand God’s ways, you have eaten of the tree in the middle of the Garden of Eden, and put yourself on the same plain as God.

            Martin Luther describes this temptation as a “theology of glory.” A theology of glory tries to rationalize God – for example, by saying in the face of untimely death, “God wanted another angel in heaven.” A theology of glory says that we can determine who will go to heaven and who won’t, based on their good or evil deeds. A theology of glory assumes that we can do something to earn our own salvation – for example, that we need to choose Jesus, and make him our personal Lord and Savior, or that we need to do good so that God will love and accept us, or so that we will be saved.

All of these ways of trying to understand God and faith are so tempting – I think all of us here have fallen into at least one of them at some point. They are tempting because they make sense to us, and we like to understand things. That is why churches that preach the prosperity gospel – the understanding that God gives good things to those who are true believers – are so popular: that way of thinking makes sense for our culture. If you do well, you gain much. Problems can be reasoned through. Everything can be understood if you are smart and rational enough.

Luther pushed against this, instead describing what he called a “theology of the cross.” A theology of the cross points to a God who acts in a way that doesn’t make a lick of sense to our human minds: a God who would choose to reveal his love and character most profoundly through a beaten, humiliated, broken man on a cross. And so, Luther says, if we want to see God, that is the place we must look: we must look for God in suffering, because if there is one concrete thing we know

Peter Paul Ruben's Crucifixion via Wikimedia Commons

about God, it is that in suffering, God is made known to us.

And suffering? Well that’s something we know something about, isn’t it? Just look around the world. In Puerto Rico, 95% are still without power and people are drinking toxic water. California looks like a war zone, and people’s lives have been consumed by fire. Victims of mass shootings – those who witnessed it and survived, and those whose dear family and friends did not survive – are still weeping. Threats of nuclear war. The largest refugee crisis since World War II. Millions of women speaking up about their experiences of sexual harassment and assault. And this is not to mention our individual journeys – this week alone I have sat with and heard from victims of mental illness, victims of cancer and other illnesses, people desperate to leave the suffering of this world – and these are only the things I have heard about.

But here’s the good news about the theology of the cross: we can’t understand why any of these things happen, but we can know, because ours is a God who is made known in suffering, that God is in each of these places. God does not cause suffering – freewill and human sin and brokenness do that – but God goes to where there is suffering. It’s hard to believe, hard to wrap our heads and our hearts around, but it is the promise of the cross: that God will be present in the last place a rational person would ever look for God: in the midst of suffering, oppression, violence, and even death.

I like to think of it this way: There has been quite a lot of hubbub about what is happening in the NFL with players kneeling during the National Anthem. I read a piece about this written by a political conservative who is also a Christian that hit the nail on the head. He said, basically, that whether or not you agree with this gesture as a way to draw attention to police brutality against people of color (which was its original intent), the Christ-like way to respond is not to dismiss it, disparage it, or call people names. What Christ would do is kneel beside those expressing their pain, and say, “Talk to me about why you are kneeling.” He would go into the suffering, not condemn it. Not necessarily agree with the expression of it, but acknowledge it, and be with people in it.

I love this image of Jesus coming to us when we are on our knees – in prayer, in exhaustion, in despair – and kneeling beside us. As I have thought about the ways I have suffered in my life, it was never helpful to me to think things like, “Someone else has it worse than you, Johanna, so get over it.” I know that is a common coping mechanism for people, but for me, that only disregarded the real pain I was feeling. What is helpful to me is that image of Jesus kneeling beside me and saying, “I know, Johanna. It hurts. It isn’t fair. I have felt your pain, and I know how much it hurts. Let’s have a good cry together, and then, if you’re feeling up to it, I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

A theology of glory tries to make human sense of everything. That’s what Paul was talking about in his letter to the Corinthians. But reason doesn’t heal emotional pain. A theology of the cross puts Jesus down in the dark hole with you, where he acknowledges your pain, and holds your hand, and then shows you that there is life after death.

I read a story this week about a seminary professor who was trying to explain basic Christian theology to a bunch of first year seminary students, who seemed less than interested in what he was saying. Exasperated, he finally just drew THIS [hold up large, downward arrow] on the board and said, “This is Christian theology in a nutshell. If you understand this, you know all you need to know,” and he walked out of the room, leaving the students in a tizzy. The next day he explained further, now to a captive audience. The main gist of Christian theology, he said, is this: that God comes down. Every time. God comes down to us. God comes down to us, even and especially when we are suffering. God comes down to kneel beside us when we are broken and at the end of our rope, to feel our pain with us, then to offer his hand and draw us into God’s preferred future – a future of love, connection, and abundant life.

It doesn’t make a lick of sense that God, the Creator of the universe, would do such a thing. No one would think to look for God among the hurting – among the sick, the poor, the oppressed, the forgotten, among women whose bodies and spirits are broken by the abuse they have experienced, among bullied children in a school yard, among communities who can’t “pull themselves up by their bootstraps” because they never had boots to begin with. No God that makes sense would be found in those broken places. And yet, ours is. Ours is there, loving us, and beckoning us into a new and fuller life.

Let us pray… Suffering God, you went to great lengths to show us that you know our pain and feel it with us. Thank you. Thank you for coming down to us, down into our suffering, and loving us there, even as you draw us out and into new life. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Sprit. Amen.