Sermon: Sent out to seek peace (April 24, 2022)

 Full service HERE.

Easter 2C
April 24, 2022
John 20:19-31

INTRODUCTION:

Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed, Alleluia!

This is the traditional greeting all throughout the Easter season, and so we will keep using it for each of the seven Sundays of Easter. In liturgical churches like ours, we understand Easter not to be one single Sunday, but rather, a week’s worth of Sundays! So we will celebrate the resurrection each of seven weeks – and yes, every Sunday after that, as well.

Our readings during this season also reflect this. During the Easter season we will hear from Acts rather than a Hebrew Bible (OT) reading. This is so that we can see and hear how the Early Church dealt with the news of the resurrection, how the news shaped their faith and their church, and so also how it shapes ours. 

For the second reading we will be hearing from Revelation – a book that has a reputation of being sort of bizarre and troubling in its depiction of the end of the world, but really, it is a deeply symbolic book that paints a picture of hope in the midst of despair, famine, conflict, and war. The Book of Revelation shows us how God is present, not absent, how Christ is the self-giving Lamb, and how people are called repeatedly into a circle of praise and worship. All hopeful images, and all appropriate themes for the Easter season!

And finally, during these six remaining Sundays of Easter, we will hear from John’s Gospel. This 2nd Sunday of Easter, we always hear the story of Jesus appearing to his fearful disciples in the locked upper room, and breathing his peace upon them, and about how Thomas, who was gone that night, wanted the same close encounter with the Risen Lord. It is a story about how we, too, crave Christ’s peace, and an encounter with our Lord. 

As you listen, listen as one who is still excited, mystified, and perhaps a little scared about this earth-shattering news of the resurrection. For this news is still all of these things, 2000 years later! Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

The month of April holds two important anniversaries for two modern giants of faith: Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination was April 4th, and April 9th marks the anniversary of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s death. Martin Luther King, of course, was a pastor and activist who fought for civil rights during the 60s and upset a lot of important and powerful people in doing so. Dietrich Bonhoeffer was also a pastor, an ethicist and a theologian during World War II, and was a part of a plot to assassinate Hitler. Though the attempt was unsuccessful, he was arrested for his part in this. Bonhoeffer’s work is often compared to that of Martin Luther King’s: both were compelled by their Christian faith to resist a racist regime, both found their gospel commitments led them to work outside of the conventional church, and both ultimately gave their lives for their respective resistance movements.

These two anniversaries may help us hear some of Jesus’ words in today’s Gospel reading a bit differently than we have before. First, three times in this reading, Jesus says, “Peace be with you.” I have usually read this as a word of comfort to the fearful disciples. But thinking this week about the work of King and Bonhoeffer, I’ve thought about those words differently, because while the end goal of peace might in fact be something resembling calm and reassurance, getting there can be anything but calm. Just ask King and Bonhoeffer, who were both martyred at age 39, because of their working for peace! Ask those trying to raise their voices and make people aware of their various plights, whether that is as a victim of a racist system, or a system that keeps people living in poverty, or someone speaking up about being harassed or abused or bullied, only to be told they are imagining it or lying. Ask someone in Ukraine, standing to defend their country from invasion. Ask anyone who spends every day working toward a more fair and just system how peaceful that work is (or isn’t!) while you’re doing it!

The irony of this exchange is that I suspect peace is exactly what the disciples were trying to find by locking themselves behind that door in the first place. We do that, don’t we – lock ourselves away from reality in an effort to get away from it all? If there is something out there that we don’t want to deal with, that we want to get away from, we just lock ourselves away behind the door where we can pretend that everything out there is not really happening. Maybe it is an actual locked room that we turn to, or maybe to some other coping mechanism like shopping or alcohol or our technology of choice. Maybe our locked room is adamant denial that a reality could exist that doesn’t fit with how we perceive the world to be, or how we wish the world was. However it looks, we try to find peace by locking ourselves away from a reality that does not bring us peace.

And so I wonder if, when Jesus offers those words, “Peace be with you,” he might be saying, “You’re not going to find true peace locked in here. True peace comes from faith and trust in me.” 

But I also wonder, if in those words might also be a charge, to seek out that peace themselves, to be agents peace for the world. Because look at the very next thing Jesus says: “As the Father sent me, so I send you.” If Jesus truly meant to offer calming words, that seems like a tough line to chase it with, no? “Hey guys, calm down, everything is going to be fine. Because… I’m sending you out into the world that just had me killed. Good luck!” Yikes! That makes me feel the opposite of peaceful! But you see, the mission is not to feel peace now, but rather, to seek peace in the broken world – not the peace that comes from avoidance of a problem, but the peace that comes from confronting the brokenness of the world with the good news of the abundant life given to us by a God who so loves the world and loves each of us who are in it. “As the Father sent me, so I send you,” he says, to speak a word of life into a hurting world, to bring Christ’s life to those in need. 

And that is not a charge that brings peace to the heart right away, because it is really hard. Martin Luther King lived every day in fear for his life, as he spoke the hope he found in the gospel to the oppressive reality of racism that plagued his community and the country he loved. 

But it is a charge that ultimately brings peace to the world God loves. And that is the role Jesus is giving to these disciples, now apostles, being sent out: to speak a word of life, and work for peace in this broken world.

Then, Jesus breathes into them and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them. If you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” The word translated here as “retain” does not mean to “withhold” forgiveness, but rather, like, “hold fast.” It’s like, holding to account. It is like Christ refusing to turn a blind eye to human suffering and wrong-doing, refusing to “just let it go,” and thus enable bad behavior to continue. “Holding fast” to sin is Dietrich Bonhoeffer saying, “What Hitler is doing is wrong, and it needs to stop.” It is Martin Luther King proclaiming that God did not intend that human beings should be anything but free, that indeed all men and woman are created equal and must be treated as such. I imagine it as taking sin and sinful actions by the collar, looking it in the eye, and saying, “Listen, this is not okay, and it cannot continue!”

In other words, “retaining” or “holding fast” to sin is not refusing to forgive it. It is refusing to tolerate sin that would keep the world from living in the peace Christ died to bring to this world. And so, as a follow-up to, “Peace be with you,” Jesus charges the disciples to hold to account and confront wrong-doing whenever they see it, to keep sin and abuse from having their way. 

That’s a tall order, too, a very difficult call for Jesus to extend to his followers. No wonder they were back in that same room the next week, with the doors still shut! In fact, I think many of Christ’s followers today are still in that same room with the door shut. Because being a disciple is hard, and it is even harder being an apostle, who goes out into the world and finds the places most in need of healing and speaks to those places a word of peace and life. 

Of course, Jesus knows that. That’s why he also offers to his apostles that night – and to all believers since then – the gift of the Holy Spirit. Back before he died, he called this Spirit an “Advocate,” someone to go along with them and work with them and for them, helping them to do God’s work in the world. It’s that same Spirit that we celebrate coming on Pentecost at the end of the Easter season. It’s that same Spirit that we pray to come upon every child of God who is baptized (in fact, included in the baptismal promises are these words: “to work for justice and peace”). It’s that same Spirit that we pray to come into the bread and wine before we take communion. We are continually infused with this Spirit of peace, love and life, the Spirit of wisdom and understanding, counsel and might, knowledge and joy. 

We are not alone in this call, friends. God has given us all that we need to make those words, “Peace be with you,” truly come to be in this world. And even when we do lock ourselves away from the realities of the world that so desperately need a word of hope and life, Jesus comes to us – repeatedly! – to once again give us the strength to pursue his work. The question is, will we open the door, like Martin Luther King, Jr. and Dietrich Bonhoeffer and so many others, and go do it?

Let us pray… Risen Christ, you come into our locked rooms when we are scared and would rather avoid the pain of the world, and you breathe your Holy Spirit into us. Empower us by this Spirit, that we might bring your words, “Peace be with you,” into the parts of God’s beloved world that need to hear it the most. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Easter Sermon: God is giving us a new story (April 17, 2022)

 Full service can be viewed HERE.

Easter morning, by Grace Rehbaum, age 6

Easter Sunday (2022)
April 17, 2022
Luke 24:1-12

Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Grace to you and peace from our risen Lord and Savior Jesus Christ!

Like many of you, I’m sure, I have been working on paring down the stuff in my house. My latest effort has been clothing. I’m realizing just how few clothing items I have that I really like or wear or need, so I have been purging. 

But there is one pair of jeans that I’m just really struggling to part with. I’ve had them for years, and they are so comfy. But, I have loved them so well that they are threadbare, and in particular there is a hole in one of the knees. And, if I’m honest, they don’t really fit all that well. They do right after the wash – they get their shape back and I put them on and feel like, “Yeah! I love these jeans!” but then by a few hours into the day they have begun to stretch out and sag once again. Yet I cannot get rid of them. Even though I am able to fool myself between washes, convincing myself, “These jeans are fine, I’m sure I’m just misremembering!” when I put them on, I am once again discouraged when my toe catches in the hole and rips the hole bigger, and by 11 o’clock I’m having to add a belt to keep the pants from sliding down any further. But still: I will not get rid of the jeans! They are just so comfortable!

I thought of these jeans this week as I read once again Luke’s telling of the resurrection story. Each time I read it, I am caught by the angel’s question to the women, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” I feel convicted by this question! I feel convicted because I know that I do exactly the same thing, always clinging to what is old and familiar – whether an old pair of jeans or an old pattern that has proven repeatedly not to bring about the results I want – hoping that this time I might find there the life that I crave. I want life – don’t you?? Don’t we all want to live in such a way that brings about joy and love and a sense of lightness to us and to those around us? A way that leaves us at the end of the day feeling satisfied, rather than searching for something, we’re not sure quite what, that seems to be missing? We want life, we want new life, and yet we are forever searching for it among the things that were – the old, comfy pair of jeans – instead of recognizing that some things need to die (or perhaps already have) and we will not find there the life that we seek.

As children’s author Mo Willems articulates in the book, Goldilocks and the Three Dinosaurs, “If you ever find yourself in the wrong story, leave.” In other words, if the story you are living is not bringing about life, then leave that story and find a new one. Maybe that story is the one in which your jeans fit perfectly and have no holes, or the one in which holding that grudge is actually doing some good, or the story in which you tell yourself you are anything other than deeply beloved by God. Or even that broken story in which endings do not bring about beginnings. Whatever the story is that you are living, if it is not bringing you life, then leave that story! Maybe you can’t leave the circumstances – but you can leave the story you are telling yourself about the circumstances.

But it is so much easier said than done! The women showed up that morning with the very reasonable expectation that the man they had seen die would still be dead. They believed that death was the end, that evil had won, that their faith had been in vain. Why should they place their hope in anything otherwise? This had always been their experience. It was their comfy pair of jeans, which didn’t fit quite right, and were running ragged, but at least they were close at hand. An old story is like that – it may not be offering you life, but it is comfortable and predictable. 

But upon arrival, the women are faced with a perplexing new story, which begins with a question – “Why do you seek the living among the dead?” Why have you once again returned to your old, broken story, the torn, saggy jeans, to the belief that death is the end? Why do you cling to that which does not bring life? “He is not dead,” says the angel, “but is risen!” Everything you thought you knew, that you thought was keeping you safe, has changed! He is risen – so just imagine what new life is possible!

I think the most miraculous part of this story (aside from, you know, the resurrection part) is that the women believed the angel! I have sat in plenty of counseling sessions where my counselor points out those old, broken stories I’m trying to live, and directs my attention to the possibility of a new, more life-giving story, and I can feel my face scrunch up with resistance. I have even been known to exclaim, “I don’t wanna. Isn’t there any way to have that outcome without having to make this change?” I’d rather keep telling myself that there isn’t a gaping hole in the leg of my favorite jeans, and I can keep on living in the way I have grown accustomed, and expect that eventually, there will be a different outcome. Eh? But the women here actually accept that their whole world view has just shifted, and that because of that shift, new life is possible!

Of course we can’t say the same for the men they run to tell. The disciples are quick to dismiss the good news as an “idle tale,” which is just a nice way of saying they think it is a load of… ahem, garbage. And this, this I get. Wouldn’t we rather dismiss anything that challenges us to shed our old ways of thinking and acting? Here they call it an “idle tale,” but the words I hear from people and from whole congregations or organizations are more likely, “That’s too hard… that’ll never work… we don’t have the resources… that’s not how we’ve done it before…” 

Only Peter, God bless him, actually gets over his initial inclination to dismiss the possibility, and goes to check it out himself. And, Luke tells us, he is amazed. I wonder what it was exactly that amazed him? Was it that the women were, in fact, telling the truth? Was it that something Jesus had said multiple times would happen, did actually happen, and that now, everything was different? Was it that he found he could, finally, believe that God could do and was doing a new thing, even in his life, even after his mistakes?

Luke doesn’t tell us, and you know, I guess that is okay. Because what amazed him isn’t the point so much as the fact that he was amazed. That’s where Luke leaves it, and I’m perfectly happy to leave it there, too, for this morning. There will be time to follow in the women’s footsteps, to run and tell the good news. But there is also time simply to be amazed. Because it is amazing that God would go to such length to show us that nothing, not even death itself, is more powerful than God’s power and love. It is amazing that God can take our old stories, pull them down into the grave, and raise up something new in our lives. It is amazing that God promises continually not to do the same old thing, but to do a new thing – and, God makes good on that promise, for us as individuals and for the Church. It is amazing that God, in God’s infinitely poor judgment, loves even me, and each of you. 

And it is because of that love that we no longer have to seek the living among the dead. We can be bold enough not to dismiss a new thing, but rather, to look for Jesus in the possibilities with which we are presented. And when we fail (which we sometimes will!), we can trust that no failure, no death, no ending, is more powerful than God’s ability to bring new life out of it.

Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia! In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Remember (Maundy Thursday)

 Full service HERE.

Maundy Thursday
April 14, 2022
1 Corinthians 11
Exodus 12:1-14

I love to read to my kids, and they love being read to. And they know, and I know, that my favorite thing to read to them is Bible stories. We certainly have our favorites: they like all the Jesus stories, and Queen Esther is always a big hit. But another that we frequently return to is the story of the Passover. Not just the Passover, but the whole story surrounding it – the 10 plagues, and Moses repeatedly asking Pharaoh to “let my people go!” (Sometimes we shout Pharaoh’s predictable and repeated, “No!” or pretend we are the ones being attacked by flies or gnats, which is always a good bedtime activity.) And we love the dramatic escape through the Red Sea. 

But at the center of this story, of course, is the story of the Passover: the final plague, and the one that finally convinced Pharaoh (before he, again, changed his mind), in which the first born of every Egyptian family was struck down by the angel of death. But the Israelite families were told to smear lamb’s blood over their doors, so that the angel of death would know they were there and “pass over” those houses, thus saving them from death. This is the part of the story that we heard read a moment ago. God also includes instructions about what to wear, telling them, “Be ready for a quick exit! This is the moment for escape from slavery in Egypt!” It’s definitely a dramatic story! 

The reason we hear it tonight, on this night on which we remember Jesus’ sharing his last supper with his disciples, is that according to Matthew, Mark and Luke, the last supper was a Passover meal. Did you notice that last line of our reading? God says that “this day shall be a day of remembrance for you,” a festival observed as a “perpetual ordinance.” And so, for thousands of years, the Jewish people have done just that, sharing in a meal like the one described here, one that is full of symbolism and storytelling. It is a meal about remembering, and re-membering – that is, it is not just about recalling something, but also, in that recollection, bringing together once again the community from across the ages, the generations of God’s people who have been and continue to be saved and restored by God. It re-members them, makes them members again, as they tell again the story about how God saved them – from the angel of death, and from the yolk of slavery. God is a God who saves us. 

It is at this Passover event, this remembering of God’s salvific actions, that Jesus shares his last meal with his disciples, but this time with a twist. This time it is not a lamb whose life is given for their salvation, but Jesus’ own life. It is his body that becomes their feast. It is not a lamb’s blood that saves them from death, but Jesus’ own blood. And as he breaks the bread and shares the wine, calling them his own body and blood, he says those familiar words, “Do this in remembrance of me.”

I guess I have usually interpreted that instruction, “in remembrance of me,” as more of a recalling. Like, “Remember me and my love for you, whenever you take communion.” But this year I’m seeing it as something different. Certainly, putting it alongside the Passover story brings out the sense that this meal we share as Christians is a meal about freedom from our captivity to sin and about the life we have because of Christ, our “paschal lamb.” But this year I’m thinking especially about that word, “remember,” as a word about restoring a community. For the past two Maundy Thursdays, we have not shared in holy communion, and that has felt very strange. We haven’t shared in a lot of our usual community activities – in person worship, singing together, the various special meals that are so much a part of our life together as a congregation. And though we have done our best to maintain what we could, and we are trying now, safely, to resume some things… I know that the sense of community has suffered as a result of our time apart. All of our various communities have! For our literal survival as individuals, we have had to figure out how to go it alone. We home-schooled and worked from home, and watched church from the safety of our living rooms, we started ordering groceries with Insta-cart, and suspended our usual annual gatherings. It was the right thing to do for the times. 

But tonight, and the stories we hear tonight, are a poignant reminder of what we have lost, and of the importance of re-membering. We are not captive like the Israelites in Egypt, nor subject to an oppressive Roman regime like the disciples, but we are captive to our own things, our own sin and fear. We are not running for our lives later tonight like the Israelites, nor betraying Jesus for some silver like Judas, but we are feeling the effects of our broken communities, and the need for restoration between people and between peoples. We all, across time, have felt the need for re-membering. We all have need for restored community.

And that is the gift we receive tonight. The Passover story re-members a history of God’s saving actions, encouraging people to care for each other in that highly intense time. Corinthians reminds us that when we partake of this holy sacrament, we re-member not only Christ, but also our place together in Christ’s family – despite whatever divisions may exist in that family. And the Gospel reading, the beautiful story of Jesus washing his disciples’ feet, helps us remember that undergirding all of the restoration of community that we need and crave is God’s abiding love for us, and his command to us to love one another in this same way.  

As we come forward tonight, we will, as we always do, come with hands open and outstretched. It is a gesture that says, “Lord, I’m ready to receive – receive grace, forgiveness, and love.” And as we receive Christ’s own body and blood, we do this in re-membrance of him. We are re-membered, restored, to Christ’s community – not in the same way we were before, necessarily, but in a new way. For we know that God is always doing a new thing, not the same ol’ thing. And so even as we do recall the ways that God has loved us and saved us in the past, we are also put back together in a way that is ready to receive whatever new thing God has in mind for us. We do this in remembrance of that promise, in remembrance of Christ. 

As we continue through these Three Days, we will watch as Christ’s own body is broken – not just the bread tonight, but his physical body tomorrow. And we will remember our own brokenness, our own need for restoration. And then, as we watch God’s new thing unfold, we will marvel as God re-members us, putting us back together in a way that brings life to us and our communities. May we remember, and never forget, and continually tell the story, of our place in God’s salvation plan for us, and for the world. 

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

Sermon: The Smell of Love (April 3, 2021)

View full service HERE. Sermon begins at 34:30.

Lent 5C
April 3, 2022
John 12:1-8

INTRODUCTION

Next week is the start of Holy Week, and our Gospel readings also bring us right up against that last week of Jesus’ life. Context is everything for today’s reading, which jumps back into John’s Gospel after several weeks in Luke. Right before today’s story, Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead. This event was so shocking that, according to John, it was the impetus for wanting to kill both Jesus AND Lazarus. Lazarus is the brother of Mary and Martha, in whose house we now find ourselves. Just after this story, just as in our church year, John takes us to Palm Sunday, and Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem, and not long after that will be Maundy Thursday, when Jesus will be the one kneeling at the disciples’ feet, washing them and wiping them with the towel around his waist. Mary’s actions today foreshadow this event – and just as Jesus’ act of footwashing is an act of love for neighbor, Mary’s is an act of love for Jesus. Context is everything for this story!

In the other readings, we will hear about God providing water in a dry land, and in both Isaiah and the Psalm, this is likely referring to the way God restored the exiles. In both the Hebrew Bible and in Philippians, we’ll hear again about how God is doing a new thing – a theme we hear often and most profoundly, of course, on Easter in just a couple weeks! (Spoiler alert!) As you listen, notice the ways God is doing a new thing in your life, giving water where there was dryness, freedom where there was captivity, and love where there was skepticism. Let’s listen.

[READ]

At the end of a Lenten series where we have explored how God is here with us in whatever places we find ourselves, today, on this last Sunday before Holy Week, we’re going to immerse ourselves in the place where God is. That is, we’re going to go and observe this strange encounter between Mary, the sister of Lazarus, and Jesus.

…

It was a dinner “party,” but I’ll be honest, it was tense. Perhaps on the surface, to an outside observer, is seemed ordinary enough – Martha bustling away in the kitchen, Jesus reclining, idle chatter all around, mostly discussing the upcoming Passover, now just six days away… But we all knew just how much there was going on behind the scenes. For example, there across the table from Jesus was Lazarus. Not too long ago? Lazarus died. I mean, the guy was dead, for four days. There was weeping and mourning and the guy stank of death. And Jesus… brought him back to life. Let me say that again: Jesus brought a dead man back to life. It was as dramatic as it sounds, and though you may think everyone was happy and excited about such a thing, that was not the case. Even those of us who follow Jesus were fairly terrified about this. We didn’t know what to make of it. And that’s to say nothing of Lazarus – as you can imagine, the guy was never the same. He barely spoke now, and his face looked constantly confused, as if he wasn’t exactly sure where he was, or why, always looking off at something in the distance that no one else could see. Still, his sisters were delighted to have him back, and that was why we were all gathered in their house: they felt that, after Jesus brought their brother back, they’d like at least to offer him a meal! 

Well, that was part of it, at least. But there was another, unspoken part. You see, both Lazarus and Jesus were in grave danger. After Jesus raised Lazarus, there were rumors that Caiaphas, the high priest, had it out for them both. In fact, Caiaphas had prophesied that “one man should die for the people” and that that one man, was Jesus. And, they said that anyone who knew anything about Jesus’ whereabouts, should turn him in. You can imagine our shared anxiety level!

Now, Jesus is one of the gutsiest guys I know, but he’s no fool. Having heard these rumors, he knew he had to keep a low profile, staying in nearby Ephraim, away from Jerusalem. We all wondered whether he would go to Jerusalem to purify for the Passover like usual, or frankly if he’d go to Jerusalem at all, knowing how dangerous it was. In fact, even this dinner party in Bethany was pushing it – we were less than two miles from Jerusalem! 

So yeah, like I said, tensions were high. We had the formerly dead man (who still kind of stank from his time in the grave), and the death threats, and if I’m honest, the sinking fear that one of would crack, and be the one to give Caiaphas what he wanted: to arrest Jesus and kill him. I didn’t want to believe it, but I’m just saying, that fear was also in the mix.

Martha was busy in the kitchen. Dinner would be ready soon, and what a nice respite that would be. Our tummies growled – hiding from the authorities was not for the faint of heart, and we were, despite everything, looking forward to a warm meal. 

But then, things got weird. 

Mary had always seemed a bit… much. Martha – she was stable, reliable, diligent. But Mary was always… so deeply emotional. We could never be sure what was coming next with her. And this night was no exception. As we made small talk, suddenly, Mary stood up and let down her hair. This in itself was strange, because we Jews see a woman’s hair as quite alluring, and for her to do this in a house full of men she is not related to was, well, it was a bit shocking! But then, it got even stranger. With great determination, she retrieved a large, sealed container from a shelf, and broke open the seal. Immediately, the smell of perfume filled the house. Not just any perfume – this was good stuff, pure nard, not mixed with anything else. If I had to guess, a year’s wages might just about cover the cost of such a perfume! She walked back to where Jesus was reclining and knelt at his feet. We all gasped as she poured the perfume on his feet. 

Her face shone with love – it genuinely glowed! Jesus’ face, too, softened at her touch, as she used her long, dark hair to rub the ointment into his skin. 

I had the sense that we were being drawn into a place almost other-worldly, a place of warmth, a place that felt almost electric, even as it felt like the safest place I’d ever been. Strange as it was, the room felt like we were all being bathed in love.

The room was silent, though the smell alone was more than enough to compensate – it was so potent it filled not only our noses, but every other sense as well! We could practically see and hear and touch this smell, the smell of Mary’s love for Jesus! It was as if the scent of the perfume found its way into every crevice, every pore, every heart. 

At the other end of the table, I caught a glimpse of Lazarus. The faraway look on his face had disappeared. He was as fully present in this moment as I’d ever seen him. He looked now as if he had arrived at that place he was always looking toward. He was here. 

Finally, Judas’ voice broke the silence. “Why was this perfume not sold for 300 denarii and the money given to the poor?” The question hung there for a moment, dragging us back toward reality, as we continued to try to take in what was happening. Myself – I… I was torn. I consider myself to be quite a practical person, not one to waste. And in that sense, Judas was absolutely right. I certainly didn’t want to be the one to say it, and coming from Judas I admit it came out like a sneer (he always seemed to have an edge to him, like he had something to prove). And yet, I somehow knew that this act of Mary’s was too important to even be compared to practicality. It was so much deeper than that. And though I knew in my head that Judas was correct, that this was a complete and utter waste… my heart understood it differently. My heart knew that no act of love is a waste. While my head told me that moderation is good, my heart reminded me that Jesus has no thought toward scarcity or moderation – from the beginning of his ministry, he had been about excessive and even reckless abundance! Do you remember hearing about that wedding we went to? The one where he changed water into wine? He could have gotten his point across by changing one jug, or even one cup of water into wine, but no – he turned 6 jugs into wine! He could have gotten to Lazarus soon enough to heal him of his illness, but why heal a man when you can raise him from the dead? 

And now Mary seemed to really get it: why use a dab of perfume, when you can use the whole pound? Why love a little, when you can love with everything you have and everything you are? Why be moderate, careful, and reserved, when you can love extremely enough to fill every corner of a room, leaving everyone in the room with the lingering scent of love on their skin for days to come?

And that of course is exactly what happened. Not so long after that, as you know, Jesus was turned over to the authorities by the same one who had questioned that love, and he was crucified. And as he stood before Pilate, as he was nailed to the cross, and as he was laid in the grave, he still smelled of that abundant love. As he met a different Mary in the garden that Sunday morning, he still smelled, not of death, but of love. As he met us in the upper room, the essence and scent of love still surrounded him, bringing peace and joy to his terrified friends.

There is a place for practicality. I know that. But that day in the home of Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, we all caught a glimpse of God’s very kingdom: a place where joy and love are impossible to measure, where abundance overcomes moderation, where the greatest good is simply to love the Lord with all that you have and all that you are. That is life in Christ.

Let us pray… Abundant God, we try to be careful, reserved, cautious. But you call us to be reckless in our love, to offer it – to you and to our neighbor – with all that we have and all that we are. Make us brave enough and vulnerable enough to love in this way. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

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

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

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

INTRODUCTION

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

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

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

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

[READ]

By Otto S., age 9 1/2 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Full service can be viewed HERE.

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

INTRODUCTION

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

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

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

[READ]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joy: Our Natural State

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reset

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

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

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

A smattering of looks from the 100 days

Since I Lay My Burden Down

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

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

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

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