Category: Sermons

[Jesus] put before them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in his field; it is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches.”

He told them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened.”

“The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and reburied; then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.

“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls; on finding one pearl of great value, he went and sold all that he had and bought it.

“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a net that was thrown into the sea and caught fish of every kind; when it was full, they drew it ashore, sat down, and put the good into baskets but threw out the bad. So it will be at the end of the age. The angels will come out and separate the evil from the righteous and throw them into the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

“Have you understood all this?” They answered, “Yes.” And he said to them, “Therefore every scribe who has become a disciple in the kingdom of heaven is like the master of a household who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old.”

Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

My sermon from the 9th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (July 26 2026) on Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52.

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So even though I know how to follow a recipe, I don’t really know what a “measure of flour” actually means. I’m familiar with cups, tablespoons, pints, quarts, and weighing ingredients on a scale. But measuring a measure is a metaphor that is slightly over my head. I’m sure most of us know what it’s like when a metaphor doesn’t connect in the way it should. We’re left feeling a bit dumb we don’t get it or confused why others don’t see things the way we do. One metaphor isn’t always enough to break through which is why, I think, Jesus used a lot of different kinds of metaphors to describe the kingdom of God. Today’s reading from the gospel according to Matthew gives us a taste of what it must have been like listening to Jesus speak. The crowds around him were often very diverse – full of merchants, fishermen, farmers, shepherds, slaves, servants, the sick, the healthy, the faithful, the doubters, men, women, old, young, those who worked in their home, and those without one. Not everyone was excited to see Jesus speak and most didn’t become his disciples immediately he preached and shared. Jesus, though, wanted everyone to experience what it means when God’s kingdom comes near and so he used many different metaphors as a way to let his stories linger in their minds and souls. As we listened to these words, the mustard seed or pearl or the net might have been the image that spoke to you. But for me, it was the dough that made me pause and wonder. 

Now most of Jesus’ stories contain a setting, a plot, a cast of characters, and a few verbs. And while those details are easier to see in the longer stories Jesus told, this one sentence about a woman baking bread can still be enough. For thousands of years, people have noticed something happens when a little piece of old dough is left on the kitchen counter. When given enough time and a little moisture, the old dough expands and changes while its carbohydrates are converted into gassy bubbles. This fermented dough can then be used to transform freshly made dough into bread that is bigger, flufflier, and delicious. This process is how dough is leavened and, when used as a metaphor in our Bible, is typically seen as a bad thing. Yet in Jesus’ story, this process is a good thing because it describes what the kingdom of God looks like. It wasn’t until the 1800s that we finally identified the  microscopic fungus, aka yeast, that makes this fermentation happen. But folks in Jesus’ day knew that the sticky, wet, and smelly batch left to fend for itself in our kitchens could create a lighter bread that was fun to eat. We have our own starter dough at home or maybe we’ve made it during those moments when bread making becomes a very trendy thing to do. But based on the number of bread machines that are donated to our Trash and Treasure rummage sale every year, we prefer to focus on the crusty bread rather than the process itself. But, for Jesus, it isn’t the end that defines what God’s kingdom is. Rather, God’s kingdom is the source and start of everything that comes next. 

And what comes next is always meant to be a lot. I learned while preparing for today’s sermon that in our current context, a measure of flour is 1 cup. Yet in the ancient world, a measure of flour was a whole lot more. According to scholars, that measure would have weighed between 20 and 60 lbs. The amount of dough in Jesus’ story was incredible and it would have been handled by a person who didn’t have a commercial motorized mixer. She would have done everything by hand and it began by taking a tiny bit of yeast and hiding it within a mountain of flour bigger than her. Jesus doesn’t tell us why she’s making this huge pile of dough but we know it must have been for something that was immediately about to happen  since she wouldn’t be able to set any of it aside. It sounds as if she is making bread for a kind of gathering her entire village could go to. And what that gathering might be is something we get to decide for ourselves. Maybe she was getting ready for a wedding, celebrating a joyous event where her child was invited to make a household all their own. Or maybe grief was stirring in everyone’s heart while they prepared to host a feast in memory of someone who had made an incredible difference in their lives. As she worked the dough by hand, we can imagine her kitchen was full of words while people shared stories, laughed, cried, and talked about what was about to come. When the dough was finally mixed, it would need time to rest and so the rest of her life would go on as she took care of her family, friends, and everything else the world brought her way. But once the dough was fully leavened, the baking could begin. And once the loaves were crispy and fresh, a feast would be shared with all. 

We often imagine, I think, that every word, verse, and story in our Bible should be able to answer whatever questions we have. Yet I wonder if Jesus’ parables are sometimes less about answering a question and more about showing who our God chooses to be. We want the so-called kingdoms that make up our lives – such as our families, our homes, our neighborhoods, and every community we’re a part of to appear strong and good. They should be full of joy and working towards an outcome that matches what we think it means to be successful and true. Only the messy bits of life that lead to something positive should ever be on display. When folks view our life from afar, they should be envious of how good our life appears. It’s a way of life that focuses on the end results others see. And the stuff that makes us vulnerable, fragile, imperfect, and truly human are the things we’re supposed to hide. Yet it’s in those hidden bits of life where, according to Jesus, God’s kingdom is found. God’s kingdom will always be messy since it’s in that mess where love, care, mercy, and compassion are shared. It’s through our tears and laughter, our confidence and confusion, our fears and joys, where God’s presence, power, and persistence breaks through those kingdoms we try to build on our own. And while we often want our life to be less smelly, and way less funky that it is, it’s through the mess where we discover how beloved we already are. It isn’t the feast at the end that defines what being with our God is all about. Rather, it’s in the everyday things that feel hidden – such as grace and hope – where our eternal life is found. There is no one single metaphor that can fully measure or express God’s vision for our lives and our world. Yet, in baptism and through faith, the yeast of God’s kingdom is already in you. And it’s bubbling out in the welcome, the mercy, and the love we share. 

Amen.

[Jesus] put before [the crowd] another parable: “The kingdom of heaven may be compared to someone who sowed good seed in his field, but while everybody was asleep an enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat and then went away. So when the plants came up and bore grain, then the weeds appeared as well. And the slaves of the householder came and said to him, ‘Master, did you not sow good seed in your field? Where, then, did these weeds come from?’ He answered, ‘An enemy has done this.’ The slaves said to him, ‘Then do you want us to go and gather them?’ But he replied, ‘No, for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them. Let both of them grow together until the harvest, and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, Collect the weeds first and bind them in bundles to be burned, but gather the wheat into my barn.’ ”

Then he left the crowds and went into the house. And his disciples approached him, saying, “Explain to us the parable of the weeds of the field.” He answered, “The one who sows the good seed is the Son of Man; the field is the world, and the good seed are the children of the kingdom; the weeds are the children of the evil one, and the enemy who sowed them is the devil; the harvest is the end of the age, and the reapers are angels. Just as the weeds are collected and burned up with fire, so will it be at the end of the age. The Son of Man will send his angels, and they will collect out of his kingdom all causes of sin and all evildoers, and they will throw them into the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Let anyone with ears listen!

Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

My sermon from the 8th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (July 19, 2026) on Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43.

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So one of the most common themes we see in superhero stories is the double life they lead. They, on one hand, can throw an asteroid into the sun but can’t fight back when the school bully tries to take their lunch money. The Superman films from the 1970s were very good at showcasing these moments in a rather funny way. Lois Lane, for example, once went to a gym to work out and Clarke Kent – aka Superman – went with her. A few gym rats tried to impress her by showing how strong they were while Clarke acted like he couldn’t lift a dumbbell. However, when Ms. Lane wasn’t looking, Superman tossed a bar covered in weights onto the tough guy who couldn’t believe what happened. The most common reason why heroes pretended to be something they weren’t was as a way to keep their families and friends safe. If villains knew where Ms. Marvel went to school, they could harm her classmates at Coles Academy in Jersey City. Those who were a bit more visible like the Fantastic Four or Black Panther used their wealth and power to shield those they were closest too. Yet every hero wrestled with what it means to be human when they couldn’t turn off their powers. Superheroes live a double life stopping Thanos from destroying the universe while making sure they pay their rent on time. a kind of double life that was always complicated. And I wonder if today’s words from the gospel according to Matthew might show us the kind of double life we live too.

Now whenever we listen to one of the stories Jesus told, we shouldn’t immediately try to solve it. Jesus is, I think, inviting us to sit with his words as a way to see God more clearly. It’s why, I think, Jesus often used vivid images from nature and agriculture as a way to illustrate how God’s kingdom doesn’t operate like the kingdoms we work so hard to build and maintain. He wants us to step into his words; sit in a field full of wheat and weeds; and notice all the amber waves of grain. However, the kind of wheat Jesus was describing doesn’t match the same kind of wheat we use today. 2000 years ago, wheat stalks in the ancient Near East were 50% taller with tough husks surrounding each grain. When the stalks were disturbed, the husks would fall easily since that’s how the plant – in the wild – liked to spread. The wheat in Jesus’ day was taller, more fragile, and way harder to turn into flour. And when a field was weeded or harvested, a lot of the good stuff was harmed in the process. Weeds, of course, are always a problem and we’d love to dig them out before they interfere with the wheat’s chance to grow. But just like the wheat in Jesus’ day wasn’t the same kind of wheat we see today, it’s possible the weed was different too. The weed could have been a kind that wrapped itself around each stalk, making it impossible to remove without destroying the wheat. Or the weed Jesus was pointing to was the kind that looked like wheat until it was fully grown. If we had the choice, we’d want a field where wheat and weed could be easily identified and separated. We’d desire – or seek out – a kind of checklist showing all the weeds and the wheat at every part of its growing journey. Maximizing the amount of wheat is, after all, what a farmer is supposed to do. Yet the field Jesus described was one where removing any of the bad before the end would also end up destroying what is good before it even had a chance to grow.

And that, of course, feels a bit frustrating. Every field – the literal ones we sow and the metaphorical ones that represent ourselves, our lives, and our communities – are places where we want what is good and what is bad to be easily discerned. We know that life is often full of weeds and we are sometimes the people who plant them. Yet we hope, pray, and believe that at the end of the day, it’s the wheat that defines our lives. When the wheat and weeds are easy to see, life might be difficult but it still feels like something we can live through. But when our ability to distinguish between wheat and weeds breaks down, anxiety grows. We know that there is no perfect field and it’s reasonable, as well as very human, to know we won’t get everything right. But I find it interesting that when Jesus was asked to interpret his own story, he didn’t focus on the field. He doesn’t define people, communities, or life as the sum of its parts. Rather, it’s wheat – and wheat alone – that has an eternal future with God. I’ll admit that word is a bit hard to hold since that isn’t how we define ourselves. We are – and always assume – we should be valued by the sum of our story, history, abilities, and experiences. We see ourselves less as wheat and weed and more like a bundle – all mixed up while doing our best to be who we can be in a world that is full of incredible highs and heartbreaking lows. And while our culture, our world, and even the church has surrounded us with a deep list of what we can think, say, and do to become wheat, we’re never simply that one thing. We are complicated and we live a double kind of life where we do what we should and what we shouldn’t all at the same time. The field or a bundle or something mixed up but trying its best is the image we hold for ourselves. But wheat only being wheat and weeds only being weeds is the kind of binary distinction we wield against others but don’t imagine for ourselves.

I wonder, though, if the rush to make Jesus’ metaphor into something it isn’t might cause us to miss the promise Jesus declared. Even though there are weeds in the field, Jesus doesn’t let the wheat be trampled. Rather, it grows because love, grace, compassion, and hope is something our lives – and our world – always needs. Even though our ability to discern what is a weed and what is wheat is often disrupted by all the lists we create that say success, worthiness, and goodness looks a certain, God’s hasn’t. And a God willing to laugh, cry, and bleed when cut; a God willing to listen, to mourn, to recognize what we think is worthy of love and set a table for those we push aside instead – is a God who won’t let our doubled lives be the limit of what life can be. God’s promises are never partial nor are they designed to only speak into parts of our lives. Rather, the life we live is met by the promise God made in baptism and through faith that you are, regardless of the weeds you’ve planted, also wheat. This is different from saying we’re no longer weed-like since we’re still going to act as if compassion, mercy, and love is always a limited resource. Rather, when God named you beloved, you were granted a new identity as the hands and feet of the One who had nails driven into them for the benefit of all. The doubled life we lead is not merely trying to turn weeds into wheat by finding a special checklist of what is holy and true. It is, rather, about trusting you don’t have to be the only hero of your story since Jesus’ promise is always more than enough. The God who loves you, the God who is with you, and the God who was willing to experience not only the wheat and weeds of life but how we can be that wheat and weed too – knows you are already worthy of the promise God has made to you. And if Jesus has been a Christ to us – then the least we can do is embrace the wheat we are by being a Christ – with welcome, compassion, mercy, hope, and love – to others too.

Amen.

That same day Jesus went out of the house and sat beside the sea. Such great crowds gathered around him that he got into a boat and sat there, while the whole crowd stood on the beach. And he told them many things in parables, saying: “Listen! A sower went out to sow. And as he sowed, some seeds fell on a path, and the birds came and ate them up. Other seeds fell on rocky ground, where they did not have much soil, and they sprang up quickly, since they had no depth of soil. But when the sun rose, they were scorched, and since they had no root, they withered away. Other seeds fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked them. Other seeds fell on good soil and brought forth grain, some a hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty. If you have ears, hear!”

“Hear, then, the parable of the sower. When anyone hears the word of the kingdom and does not understand it, the evil one comes and snatches away what is sown in the heart; this is what was sown on the path. As for what was sown on rocky ground, this is the one who hears the word and immediately receives it with joy, yet such a person has no root but endures only for a while, and when trouble or persecution arises on account of the word, that person immediately falls away. As for what was sown among thorns, this is the one who hears the word, but the cares of this age and the lure of wealth choke the word, and it yields nothing. But as for what was sown on good soil, this is the one who hears the word and understands it, who indeed bears fruit and yields in one case a hundredfold, in another sixty, and in another thirty.”

Matthew 13:1-9,18-23

My sermon from the 7th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (July 12, 2026) on Matthew 13:1-9,18-23.

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So most of my pop culture attention has, over these last few weeks, been focused on all the international tourists discovering Waffle House and Ranch dressing for the very first time. It’s been fun seeing Scots, Norwegians, Colombians, and Egyptians trying to physically handle all the fast food we consume. But last weekend, there was another cultural event that wasn’t related to the World Cup and the 4th of July.  And that’s because the world’s biggest post star got married at Madison Square Garden. I’ll admit I feel a little rawness in my soul as a Denver Broncos fan bringing up anything related to the Kansas City Chiefs. Yet Travis Kelce and Taylor Swift are the kind of celebrities we love to put on a pedestal and then immediately tear down. Taylor Swift is a force onto herself and she’s the kind of public figure we do our best to define. We want to see their union as either a fantasy we should aspire to or a sign of our civilization’s immediate collapse. But there’s also the reality that these pop culture milestones are always more than whatever we want them to be. The couple also has a say on what their moment will be. And paying attention to what happens rather than defining it before it even begins has a way of revealing who we choose to be too. 

Now noticing what took place at the Swift/Kelce wedding isn’t particularly easy since the 1000+ attendees locked up their phones in small individual glass cases before entering the event space. Gossip, though, spreads quickly and we learned the basketball / ice rink / concert space was decorated as a heavily wooded garden. The comedian and pick-up basketball star Adam Sandler officiated the nuptials while Taylor Swift walked down the aisle to an instrumental version of one of her own songs. Paul McCartney, at some point, sang the song “I Want to Hold Your Hand” for the first time in decades. And during Swift and Kele’s 40 minute long vows, handkerchiefs embroidered with “TT” were handed out to everyone. The food at the reception included pasta in parmesan wheels, cheesesteaks by Bradley Cooper, mountains of french fries, pop tarts, and other tailgating kinds of foods. When it came time to dance and mingle, guests were entertained by carnival games that included a raffle for a 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle. Swift and Kelce, it’s been said, beamed the entire night and they kicked everything off by donating approximately 26 million dollars to a number of charities. Now I’m sure if we had an unlimited budget to plan our own party attended by a thousand of our closest friends, it wouldn’t be easy making it feel like our own while meeting everyone’s expectation for what her wedding should be. We, especially if we’re a woman, know our culture is very good at tearing apart the choices we make. And the online response to the Swift and Kelce wedding has been very predictable with many folks using the same word over and over again to describe it. To them, the whole thing was tacky when it should have had way more class. Taylor is the biggest pop star in the world which means her day was never only going to be for her since we love sharing our opinion about things that do not impact on our lives. And that’s why I appreciated a commentary by Anne Helen Petersen who believed the word “tacky” should be seen as something akin to a badge of honor. She wrote:  People wield [tacky] as an insult, but I’d like to reframe it as an accurate description of pretty much any large, fun wedding between two performers who actually really like — even love — each other. … [E]xuberance isn’t classy. Neither is abundance. “Classiness” is, above all else, contained. Prim. Smooth. Subdued. Streamlined. It can be novel but only while hewing to tradition; it can be personal but only if the person themselves is, well, classy, which is to say, largely absent of personality.

Classy is a venue without a price tag. It’s the simplest French twist for a hairstyle and a single strand of inherited pearls. It’s a manicure with nude nails but never, never French Tips. It’s a perfectly manicured guest list without a single person thinking of posting their thoughts on [social media] in the aftermath. It’s an “acceptable” amount of people in the wedding party or no wedding party at all. It includes absolutely no elements gleaned from Pinterest… A classy wedding is beautiful in photos (but there shouldn’t be too many, god forbid) and utterly dull in practice.

…[Taylor Swift is] a good celebrity. And the vast majority of celebrities are tacky. Same for the vast majority of celebrity weddings. One type of tacky aspires, desperately, for class, revealing a well of unhappiness at its core. The other type of tacky isn’t transgressive, per se, so much as secure in itself: boisterous, clashing, abundant, or, in this case, everything wedding all at once.

Boisterous, clashing, abundant, exuberant and secure in itself isn’t only a good description for the pop cultural event we weren’t invited to. It’s also a series of awesome words for who our God chooses to be. There’s a tendency, especially after hearing Jesus’ own interpretation of this parable, to focus our attention on being the kind of good soil where faith can grow. But during a weekend when we said goodbye to a pillar of our community and while all the wider conflict, division, and being terrible to each other is on full display, there’s something surprising about a God who chooses to be extravagant. We have a God who refuses to be strategic when it comes to love and grace. God doesn’t choose the best and the brightest, the most compassionate and the most faithful to be Christ’s body in the world. Even if we have a high opinion of ourselves, there are plenty of times when we fail to love others in the way God wants us to. Rather than sharing life in all we say and do, we let our anxieties, fears, and biases limit what we believe God’s love should do. We have, however, a God who chooses to keep throwing seeds of hope everywhere. We have a God who will not be constrained. We assume God will always act like us – trying to be strategic and classy when it comes to the people God Jesus calls to follow him. Yet the God who chose a human life; chose parents and caregivers to raise him; who hung out with friends who rarely understood him; who welcomed the unwanted and broke bread with the most unclassy people imaginable; our God chooses to wield a very tacky kind of grace that’s big enough for all kinds of people – including you and me. And since our God is this tacky, God is also – I think – inviting us to be that tacky too. We can let our own acts of compassion, kindness, mercy, and welcome mimic the Jesus who fed, healed, and served. We can worry less about being classy when sharing our faith and choose to let everyone know Jesus is for them too. We can be exuberant and boisterous in naming our experience with God – admitting the prayers that were answered and those that still remain open. And while we might not always witness an immediate impact when we live our faith out loud, a seed of love and hope sowed on every thorny path will always have a chance to grow. We don’t need to be the biggest celebrity in the world to be extravagant with the gifts God has given to us. We can, instead, be the tacky kind of people who trust that Jesus really does make a difference in our lives and in our world. 

Amen.

“But to what will I compare this generation? It is like children sitting in the marketplaces and calling to one another,
‘We played the flute for you, and you did not dance;
    we wailed, and you did not mourn.’
“For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, ‘He has a demon’; the Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Look, a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners!’ Yet wisdom is vindicated by her deeds.”

At that time Jesus said, “I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants; yes, Father, for such was your gracious will. All things have been handed over to me by my Father, and no one knows the Son except the Father, and no one knows the Father except the Son and anyone to whom the Son chooses to reveal him.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Matthew 11:16-19,25-30

My sermon from the 6th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (July 5, 2026) on Matthew 11:16-19,25-30.

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On January 21st, 1776, in the small town of Woodstock, Virginia, a 29 year old pastor was about to step into a pulpit. This pastor, Peter Muhlenberg, was the son of Henry Melchoir Muhlenberg, whose ministry is why we have a Lutheran Church in the United States in the first place. Peter, after growing up in Pennsylvania, was sent at the age of 16 to further his education in Germany. He wasn’t that interested in school and after the school threatened to expel him, he immediately signed up with a British infantry unit visiting in the area. After a season with the Brits and with a local German dragoon unit, Peter returned home. He went back to school, graduated from what is now the University of Pennsylvania, and followed his father into ministry. And after serving as a Lutheran pastor in Bedminster, New Jersey, he felt drawn towards a new town being established in the Shenandoah Valley. Woodstock was primarily settled by German Lutherans who were originally from Pennsylvania. They wanted a religious leader who spoke their language and shared their identity but the colony of Virginia required all pastors within its borders to be ordained by the church of England. Peter, then, left for England in 1772, was ordained a priest, and returned to Woodstock to serve a Lutheran congregation masquerading as an Episcopalian church. Over the next few years, Peter became active in local politics, served in the state legislature, and when the Continental Army was formed in 1775, Pastor Mulhenberg was made a colonel and authorized to raise and command the 8th Virginia regiment. We can imagine all of this caused a bit of conflict within his congregation since not everyone wanted to break with England. In fact, even his own family was split with his father remaining a loyalist throughout the war. We can imagine that when Peter entered that pulpit, he was filled with a lot of excitement, worry, confidence, and fear. And the text he used for his sermon was that famous bit from the third chapter of Ecclesiastes: “For everything there is a season and a time for every matter under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to break down and a time to build up.” And after delivering a fiery word outlining some religious justification for the revolution that was to come, he ended his sermon by saying in German: “In the language of Holy Writ, there is a time for all things, a time to preach and a time to pray. There is a time to fight, and that time [has] now come.” After a short prayer, he left the pulpit and moved down the center aisle. And as he walked, he removed his clerical robes to reveal a military uniform underneath. Peter would eventually serve at the battles of Brandywine, Monmouth, and Yorktown, before retiring as a Major General at the end of the war. And when the Constitution was eventually ratified a few years later, he served in the House of Representatives and also as a Senator. The community he served in Woodstock – Emanuel Lutheran Church – is still there and I believe a stained glass window depicting this cinematic highlight of his life illuminates the pulpit. Even if we’ve never heard Peter’s story before, it fits a weekend when we celebrate the 250th anniversary of the declaration that all are created equal. This highlight of Peter’s life is a moment that stirs our souls. And yet it is a moment that, most likely, isn’t entirely true. 

Now we have a lot of documentation related to Peter’s life. There’s letters, government papers, orders, memoirs, and articles from the newspaper. But the story about him revealing his military uniform while in church doesn’t show up until his great grand nephew published a biography about Peter 75 years later. There’s no doubt Peter raised a regiment, served the entire length of the war, and preached a farewell sermon at Woodstock on Ecclesiastes chapter 3. But the moment that would be the highlight of our moments was probably invented years later. Asking why it was created is very important and might be related to what was happening in the years leading up to 1849. Immigration into the United States from Europe had grown and people, as well as political parties, were suspicious of these folks who were coming from somewhere else. With the rise of so many who wanted to keep the Irish, Germans, and Catholics out of the country, those who traced their ancestry back to these so-called enemy regions felt a need to explain their contributions to American society. Peter Muhlenberg – as well as his brother Frederick who was the first speaker of the House of Representatives – are the perfect kind of candidates to explain how Germans and Lutherans have always been a part of the American story. We don’t know when the Mulhenberg family added this spicy highlight to the stories they shared about Peter or when they started downplaying the other bits of his background that were a bit more problematic. He, especially in his later years, was regularly asked to resign from the positions he was elected to and he also believed the Bible gave him permission to own slaves for their so-called benefit. Peter, though, became a symbol of liberty at a time when what it meant to be an American was regularly being fought over. And choosing to embellish the highlights of life by making them more dramatic and cinematic is, I think, a very human thing to do. It’s what we do when we’re busy sharing stories about ourselves, our families, and even our country during times of celebration and conflict. And what we wish to share is a vision for a life so well lived that there’s never a need for nuance, context, or questions. 

Yet I wonder if Jesus, in today’s words from the gospel according to Matthew, wants us to remember how it’s our whole story – not just its highlights – that matters to God. He began by pointing out how our expectations often limit who we expect ourselves – and others – to be. People assumed that when God showed up, it would be in such a way that everyone could see. The community, though, didn’t even agree about what the Messiah might do or even what they might look like. But many looked at the ministry of  John the Baptist and Jesus and say that’s isn’t God’s work at all. God’s presence should be like fireworks and not as subtle as a cup of cold water shared with a child who is thirsty in the desert. Jesus, however, invited those around him to look at more than simply the impact of his ministry. He also invited them to recognize how our biases, expectations, and context shape who we want God to be. And while it would be awesome for God to be very cinematic when God shows up, God chooses to let God’s kingdom be revealed through the work of welcome, hospitality, healing, wholeness, and love. That kind of work isn’t always cinematic since it requires time, patience, and a willingness to be changed by the people God brings our way. But a God who has already chosen to be with you will always care about more than the parts of your lives a great grandnephew might choose to embellish 75 years into the future. God is always more than any of our expectations. And a God who lived, died, and rose for you promises that you are worth more than every other expectation too. 

Amen.

“Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me. Whoever welcomes a prophet in the name of a prophet will receive a prophet’s reward, and whoever welcomes a righteous person in the name of a righteous person will receive the reward of the righteous, and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple—truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward.”

Matthew 10:40-42

My sermon from the 5th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (June 28, 2026) on Matthew 10:40-42.

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A couple streets down from where I live is a cat who rarely stays at home. Dusty is white with gray splotches and wears a collar that jingles when he runs. He has a habit of going out and not coming home for several days so our many town facebook pages are filled with posts wondering who he belongs to. Dusty, unlike my two cats, likes to be outdoors. And when he jumps my fence and wanders through the backyard, he does whatever he can to generate an audience. My cats are used to Dusty hanging out on my patio. But my dog Pepper doesn’t handle it very well. When Dusty comes by there is always a ton of whining, barking, growling, weeping, and gnashing of teeth. And I’m pretty sure Dusty knows exactly what he is doing. He’s the kind of cat that does this to all my neighbors and I’ve even seen him roll around in the front of a neighbor’s home for what felt like hours while their kids – and their dog – watched through an all glass screen door. Dusty has made the entire neighborhood his own because he knows we’ll keep him safe, pet him when he comes to say high, listen to all his meows, and give him a treat or two if we’re feeling generous. He, like a lot of animals, knows what it means to be welcomed in places other than his own. And Jesus, in our reading today from the gospel according to Matthew, reminds us how the art of welcome is a hallmark of those who claim to follow him. 

We’ve spent the last few weeks listening to instructions Jesus gave his disciples at roughly the midpoint of his ministry. Jesus had been preaching, teaching, healing, and causing trouble all over the area. He had visited communities that he had grown up in as well as non-Jewish communities that didn’t know what to do with this wandering Rabbi. Jesus’ reputation had grown to the point where he needed help to do what he wanted to do. So he identified twelve individuals as his apostles and empowered them to be a Jesus to everyone they met. He instructed them on where to go, what to do, and what to say. And while he encouraged their initial work to take place among people who shared their ethnic and religious backgrounds, Jesus’ words served as the foundation for a ministry that would eventually encounter folks like you and me. Matthew never forgot that it was the magi – those Zoroastrian astrologers from what is now modern day Iran – who were among the very first to meet Jesus when he entered the world. And so he wanted his friends to develop a habit of discipleship that could reverberate beyond the Sea of Galilee. Jesus instructed them to go and proclaim the good news – that the kingdom of heaven – this kingdom of God – had come near.  And while we sometimes reduce this proclamation to words we only hold in our heads, Jesus showed how the good news changes our bodies, hearts, and souls too. For Matthew, God’s kingdom is lived out when the sick are cured, the dead raised, those with skin diseases become whole, and demons are sent back to where they belong. Everything that divides us from God and from one another is overcome by a power that doesn’t ask for money or influence or even attention. Rather, Jesus’ friends are pushed to meet people busy living their lives and to listen to their story, their needs, their hopes, and their dreams. They were to practice the holy art of being welcomed by showing up in other people’s homes, eating their food, and getting to know who they really were. Their hosts would offer hospitality which, as we see throughout the Bible, is making sure invited and uninvited guests have all the food, shelter, and care they need. Yet unlike some other guests, Jesus’ friends would offer their own kind of welcome too. Just as they received the support they needed to be who God wanted them to be in the world; they, through the gifts Jesus had given them, would welcome their hosts into God’s kingdom by supporting them too. 

Now, this welcome for welcome sounds like the kind of social transaction where what we get is equaled by what we give. We, whether we realize it or not, assume that this quid pro quo is simply how most relations work. Each time we talk or care or invite someone in, we expect to receive some kind of gift or favor in return. And while scratching each other’s backs can be a way for us to build bonds of friendship and accountability, when welcoming is reduced to merely be another social transaction, we can quickly decide that some are worth our welcome while others aren’t. Jesus, however, refused to let these kinds of transactions be the limit of who his disciples got to be. They were, instead, to practice a welcome that matched Jesus himself. This kind of generosity, though, doesn’t always sit well with us which is why we heard last week how this way of being can disrupt all the other relationships that we have. And that’s because when we move to a kind of welcome that embraces empathy and pays attention to stories that aren’t our own, we can soon discover that our priorities, expectations, experiences, and histories need to  change too. Jesus wasn’t trying to tell his friends that a life with faith is mostly transactional where our suffering today is met with a future reward we can’t begin to imagine. Rather, in the words of Professor Stan Saunders, Faculty Emeritus of Columbia Theological Seminary, Jesus’ words of promise and suffering are really “the two poles that together define the singular experience of discipleship.” Following Jesus is hard and not because there are those who have a different opinion, belief, or value system than us. What makes discipleship difficult is how Christianity is a faith that will always inconvenience us. Being for one another and for those who we harm, marginalize, and push aside will always cost something because the art of welcome takes time, energy, and attention. It forces us to admit the truths about ourselves we’d rather not reveal and repent of the ways we let our kingdoms rather than God’s define our lives. A welcome that is honest, faithful, and holy will always change the lives of those doing the welcoming. The kind of welcome Jesus invites us into is a welcome that is always costly because it’s rooted in generosity rather than in any kind of transaction we come up with. And that’s because the one who has already welcomed you into what God is doing in the world through the gift of baptism and the hope of faith, trusts that his ministry of welcome healing, and grace can be your ministry too. And so that ministry might look like having to deal with a cat who always puts on a show because they know you’re already going to keep them safe from all the things that growl their way. But this ministry of welcome could also look like a cold cup of water to someone you don’t know even when your mouth is dry and dusty too. We are often told that we have to hoard our time, talent, resources, attention, focus, time, and who we listen to as a way to preserve our own sense of who we’re meant to be. Yet the Jesus who was welcomed, rejected, and rose again to keep welcoming others all the same is a Jesus who knows our life becomes more when welcome, rather than fear, is at the heart of what we say and do. 

Amen.

Then Jesus went about all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and curing every disease and every sickness. When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. Then he said to his disciples, “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest.”

Then Jesus summoned his twelve disciples and gave them authority over unclean spirits, to cast them out, and to cure every disease and every sickness. These are the names of the twelve apostles: first, Simon, also known as Peter, and his brother Andrew; James son of Zebedee and his brother John; Philip and Bartholomew; Thomas and Matthew the tax collector; James son of Alphaeus and Thaddaeus; Simon the Cananaean and Judas Iscariot, the one who betrayed him.

These twelve Jesus sent out with the following instructions: “Do not take a road leading to gentiles, and do not enter a Samaritan town, but go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. As you go, proclaim the good news, ‘The kingdom of heaven has come near.’ Cure the sick; raise the dead; cleanse those with a skin disease; cast out demons. You received without payment; give without payment.

Matthew 9:35—10:8

My sermon from the 3rdSunday after Pentecost Sunday (June 14, 2026) on Matthew 9:35—10:8.

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So I’d like to begin by sharing a little bit of what I asked Minka and Oliver to do at the start of every Confirmation class. Before we’d share our highs and lows for the week, explore different books of the Bible, or ponder how Lutheran Christianity is a way of hearing, teaching, and following – I made them answer a bunch of questions on a 2 sided worksheet. This little bit of busy work gave me the time I needed to talk to folks after worship ended and class time began. But I’ve also found – and research has confirmed – that a different kind of learning takes place when we write things out. When what we’ve heard, seen, or thought is made physical and tangible through the act of writing, a circuit in our brain grabs hold of that experience in a powerful way. And so, on the backside of each worksheet, I asked them to write out what we covered in our last lesson. But on the front, the questions remained the same every week. Minka and Oliver were invited to not only define sin, articulate God’s promise to Abraham, and Jesus’ interpretation of the ten commandments; they were also invited to ponder a few characteristics of our God. At the top of each page were six two and three word phrases with a word that was missing. They knew what each missing word started with, how many letters were in those words, and a hint at what it might be. So for example, the first phrase was two words long: God <blank>. The missing word starts with C, is 7 letters long, and the hint was “the story of Genesis.” So – pop quiz – what do you think that phrase might be? Pause. If you guessed – God creates – then you’ve learned what I think is one of the essential characteristics of God. Our God, though, chooses to be more than only a creator. God is also active, and cares, and is present. Our God makes promises and blesses all the places and experiences where love and new life is found. When we talk about God, we often treat the divine as mostly a noun – focusing on adjectives such as great, good, and holy to flesh out what this noun might be. But our God – like our faith – chooses to be more like a verb – a vibrant, moving, breathing, living force in our world. God isn’t absent from the lives we live. And as we hear in today’s reading from the gospel according to Matthew, each one of us has our place with this living God too. 

Now we are, at this moment in Matthew’s version of Jesus’ life, at a moment of transition. Jesus, who had been busy teaching, preaching, and healing all around the area he grew up in, needed help. His reputation had grown to the point where he could no longer do everything by himself. The people coming to him were from all areas around the sea of Galilee as well Syria, Jordan, Judea, and beyond. And when he saw them, compassion was at the heart of what he said and did. That word compassion, though, meant more than merely feeling sorry for what people were going through. It’s also a word that, in the ancient Greek, was derived from the same word for the intestines. When Jesus saw folks who were hurting, in pain, and whose future looked bleak because of what others said about them – he experienced it in his body and his soul. He identified emotionally with those who suffered; felt what they felt; and longed for them to have a life where they didn’t feel harassed and helpless. Jesus didn’t only see them; he also knew and experienced whatever it was they were living through. The story of those who came to Jesus discovered how their story was already part of God’s story. And as the scope of Jesus’ ministry continued to grow, it was time for our story to take on a bit more of God’s story too. Jesus, throughout the gospel of Matthew, is constantly inviting folks to participate in what God is up to. Yet it’s here when Jesus decides to make their journey with him into something a bit more tangible and real. It’s here where we get 12 names for 12 apostles, representing a symbolic restoration of the 12 tribes of Israel nearly 800 years after 10 of them were destroyed by the Assyrian Empire. Jesus’ work, though, is more than a symbol of re-establishing what once was. He also empowers them to embody what God’s kingdom is all about. He grants them the kind of authority Jesus himself has while instructing them about what this kind of power should do. They are not to let their ego, sense of entitlement, or their desire for wealth, fame, honor, and attention overwhelm the task at hand. Rather Jesus’ ministry is their ministry – and making the kingdom of God tangible in the lives people actually live is a hallmark of who they get to be. Jesus doesn’t, however, tell them to put limits on what kind of compassion folks can receive. He doesn’t tell the apostles that only those who convert or who choose to follow Jesus get to be cured. The healing, peace, and comfort they offer doesn’t depend on what others do. Rather showing up and bringing people into a different kind of future is simply what God chooses to do. And while it’s easy to focus our attention on those receiving healing and wholeness, it’s also pretty fascinating who Jesus gave this power to. The ones who Jesus empowered are the same ones who Jesus described as having little faith. These apostles include one who will deny him; one who will betray him; and ten who will leave Jesus behind. If God left it up to us to determine how God’s love moves in the world, the list of who gets to be a part of that would be pretty small. But a God who chooses to create; who cares; and who is present; a God who makes promises, blesses, and is active isn’t a God who leaves us on our own. Rather, the God making God’s love tangible in our world has decided that you – exactly as you are – get to be part of Jesus’ mission too. 

Now Confirmation is often treated as a kind of graduation since, after two years of reading, writing sermon notes, and listening to a long winded pastor, Minka and Oliver should be celebrated for being very intentional with their faith. Not everyone in the space has gone through Confirmation nor do we always have the opportunity to ponder what it means to say I believe. Yet, for me, Confirmation is not only about recognizing your commitment to waking up early on Sunday mornings while the rest of your peers slept in. Confirmation is also about confirming God’s ongoing commitment to you. It wasn’t how detailed your answers on the worksheet that determined whether you were worthy of God’s grace and compassion. Rather, God has – in baptism and through faith – already made tangible the promise you belong. Like the apostles before you, Jesus has named you as a part of what God is doing in the world. And our God does not expect you to be perfect nor does Jesus invite you into a life without its share of fear, grief, and worry. Yet the compassion God showed by choosing to live, die, and rise for you is the same kind of compassion we get to share in all we say and do. And while we will often wonder if God’s promises really will be fulfilled and if the holy wisdom and understanding we long for will finally show up to guide us along the way, I know the God who didn’t give up on the apostles won’t give up on you. You truly are beautifully and wonderfully made. And the Jesus who is  Emmauel – God-with-you – is the Jesus who is leading you, calling you, and showing you how compassion can be an essential characteristic of you too. 

Amen.

As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man called Matthew sitting at the tax-collection station, and he said to him, “Follow me.” And he got up and followed him.

And as he sat at dinner[a] in the house, many tax collectors and sinners came and were sitting with Jesus and his disciples. When the Pharisees saw this, they said to his disciples, “Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?” But when he heard this, he said, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. Go and learn what this means, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ For I have not come to call the righteous but sinners.”

While he was saying these things to them, suddenly a leader came in and knelt before him, saying, “My daughter has just died, but come and lay your hand on her, and she will live.” And Jesus got up and followed him, with his disciples. Then suddenly a woman who had been suffering from a flow of blood for twelve years came up behind him and touched the fringe of his cloak, for she was saying to herself, “If I only touch his cloak, I will be made well.” Jesus turned, and seeing her he said, “Take heart, daughter; your faith has made you well.” And the woman was made well from that moment. When Jesus came to the leader’s house and saw the flute players and the crowd making a commotion, he said, “Go away, for the girl is not dead but sleeping.” And they laughed at him. But when the crowd had been put outside, he went in and took her by the hand, and the girl got up. And the report of this spread through all of that district.

Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26

My sermon from the 2nd Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (June 7, 2026) on Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26.

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I’d like to start today’s sermon with a question: what does a good Christian look like? 

Now we know, based on the Bible and our own experience, that only God can hold the totality of our human story. Attempting to analyze, process, and categorize every thought, action, and even our inactions through some kind of theological framework is impossible. It’s spiritually healthy – and a bit freeing – to admit how God’s standards don’t often match our own. But I imagine that most of us might carry a mental picture of what we think a good Christian actually looks like. It’s a picture we might have purposely put together and crafted through deep study, prayer, and paying attention to our own personal histories. Yet it could also be one given to us unconsciously by others who shared this is what a good Christian looks like. Maybe the picture we hold looks like our grandmother, our uncle, or that friend who showed up for us in our time of need. Maybe that so-called Christian speaks, talks, dresses, and has the family life we wish we had instead. The good Christian is, we imagine, pure, holy, and different in ways we recognize but couldn’t fully describe. We don’t regularly compare ourselves to the picture we have of this “good Christian” because our lives are often too busy to keep constantly measuring how faithful we actually are. Yet during those moments when we see ourselves as that good Christian, we can’t help but feel a little more holy and true. The image we hold of what it looks like to follow God has a way of shaping how we read the Bible, listen to these stories, and interact with our neighbors and friends. And when someone comes along who doesn’t look, sound, or act in the ways we’d expect a good Christian to be, that picture in our heads – rather than Jesus – ends up deciding who we believe truly belongs to God. 

Now today’s reading from the gospel according to Matthew is rather short but is also very full. We begin with a call story before moving into a healing and a resurrection I wish we all experienced way more often. Jesus was, at the time, busy preaching, teaching, and healing all around the Sea of Galilee. It’s at this moment, while in the midst of his ministry, when we meet the one who the early church later decided wrote the words we just read. Matthew was a tax collector who was probably assigned to collect money based on how many fish people caught. Like I’ve shared in other sermons, the Roman Empire outsourced their tax collection services to individuals and businesses that operated like street gangs. These groups were empowered by the Romans to use violence and intimidation to get whatever the ruling authorities wanted. And so these tax collectors were seen by the community as wicked people whose occupations – and maybe even their existences – violated God’s law. They were, in the eyes of almost everyone, the complete opposite of what a faithful follower of God looked like. Yet Matthew – and so many of the other tax collectors Jesus interacted with – weren’t the business owners contracted by the Roman Empire. He was simply the grunt shaking people down for money. The Rev. Dr. Mark Allan Powell in a commentary on this passage shared how recent scholarship has noticed these tax collectors often had a very specific look about them. These men (and they were almost always men) often “had something wrong with them: mild mental challenges, speech impediments, physical deformities, and the like. They were often enslaved persons or, at least, were people who for some reason could not find work in a more desirable profession. The man called to follow Jesus was obviously not an enslaved person (since he left his position), but he was probably representative of a class of people considered pathetic, despicable, or both.” Tax collectors were not only doing those things their community found to be dishonorable, gross, and ugly. They, through no fault of their own or because of the situation they found themselves in, also looked as if this was the only kind of work – or existence – or future – they could possibly live in. 

And it was exactly these folks – including so-called sinners – who were invited to party with Jesus in Simon Peter’s house. Now we’re not told who these “sinners” were but, based on context and how this word was used in other places, “sinners” was a  euphemism for prostitutes. These workers, though, weren’t in this profession for themselves since they were most likely sold, enslaved, and forced to do this work at a young age. Their future – and lives – would be short since we have no records of those who Jesus would have encountered ever retiring from that lifestyle or making it into their 20s. Peter’s home wouldn’t have been big enough to keep all these guests inside so everyone would have seen who Jesus chose to break bread with. And so the house party Jesus threw was the kind of party respectable neighbors would have called the cops to immediately shut down. The community Jesus pulled together was, in the words of Mark Allen Powell, “the most pitiable people of [Jesus’] world, though of course it may have been difficult to pity them when they were robbing you or physically assaulting you or tempting your husband to spend grocery money on adultery or infecting your sons with venereal diseases. In Jesus’ day as in ours, pathetic individuals were both easy to pity and easy to despise.” Jesus, though, chose to do more than pity those who looked like they deserved the short, miserable, and painful present and future they were living through. He showed them mercy and how the kingdom of God belonged to them too. 

And that might make sense to us since we assume Matthew, who immediately became an ex-tax collector, was at Jesus’ table too. We expect those who turn from what we assume is an unChristian life to be brought in by their God. Yet nothing within these few verses implies that every other guest left – or could leave – their current circumstances behind. For those who were enslaved; who look different; those who society decided didn’t deserve a future with them; for those failed to break out of the ongoing cycle of poverty and violence; for those who, through no fault of their own, were caught in a system that consumed their life; and those who looked like they deserved everything that had happened to them – Jesus welcomed, invited, and set his table for them. We often read Jesus’ proverb about coming for the sick rather than the well as his way of promising to cure whatever is infecting us. But Jesus knows we don’t always necessarily have the option – or get to change – our life or the future coming our way. We often assume our walk with God depends only on the choices we make and, especially those with us with a little money, security, and opportunity to have agency over our life – we assume being with God and choosing God are the same thing. Jesus, though, knows just how big life can be and that we are – and always will be – defined by something other than what we do or what’s been done to us. So he chooses to see, to know, to welcome, and to embrace those “in spite of [the] current circumstances that reflect nothing of God’s reign or righteousness.” Jesus chooses to include, feed, and to honor those who otherwise live in shame. And while Jesus himself often didn’t look like he was following God because of the company he chose to keep, he embodied a kind of mercy, grace, and an ever expanding table that showed who our God chooses to be. 

Amen.

When God began to create the heavens and the earth, the earth was complete chaos, and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters. Then God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. And God saw that the light was good, and God separated the light from the darkness. God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.
And God said, “Let there be a dome in the midst of the waters, and let it separate the waters from the waters.” So God made the dome and separated the waters that were under the dome from the waters that were above the dome. And it was so. God called the dome Sky. And there was evening and there was morning, the second day.
And God said, “Let the waters under the sky be gathered together into one place, and let the dry land appear.” And it was so. God called the dry land Earth, and the waters that were gathered together he called Seas. And God saw that it was good. Then God said, “Let the earth put forth vegetation: plants yielding seed and fruit trees of every kind on earth that bear fruit with the seed in it.” And it was so. The earth brought forth vegetation: plants yielding seed of every kind and trees of every kind bearing fruit with the seed in it. And God saw that it was good. And there was evening and there was morning, the third day.
And God said, “Let there be lights in the dome of the sky to separate the day from the night, and let them be for signs and for seasons and for days and years, and let them be lights in the dome of the sky to give light upon the earth.” And it was so. God made the two great lights—the greater light to rule the day and the lesser light to rule the night—and the stars. God set them in the dome of the sky to give light upon the earth, to rule over the day and over the night, and to separate the light from the darkness. And God saw that it was good. And there was evening and there was morning, the fourth day.
And God said, “Let the waters bring forth swarms of living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the dome of the sky.” So God created the great sea monsters and every living creature that moves, of every kind, with which the waters swarm and every winged bird of every kind. And God saw that it was good. God blessed them, saying, “Be fruitful and multiply and fill the waters in the seas, and let birds multiply on the earth.” And there was evening and there was morning, the fifth day.
And God said, “Let the earth bring forth living creatures of every kind: cattle and creeping things and wild animals of the earth of every kind.” And it was so. God made the wild animals of the earth of every kind and the cattle of every kind and everything that creeps upon the ground of every kind. And God saw that it was good.
Then God said, “Let us make humans^[c] in our image, according to our likeness, and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the air and over the cattle and over all the wild animals of the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth.”
So God created humans in his image,
    in the image of God he created them;
    male and female he created them.
God blessed them, and God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the air and over every living thing that moves upon the earth.” God said, “See, I have given you every plant yielding seed that is upon the face of all the earth and every tree with seed in its fruit; you shall have them for food. And to every beast of the earth and to every bird of the air and to everything that creeps on the earth, everything that has the breath of life, I have given every green plant for food.” And it was so. God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good. And there was evening and there was morning, the sixth day.

Genesis 1:1-2:4a

My sermon from Trinity Sunday (May 31, 2026) on Genesis 1:1-2:4a.

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So one of the things I love about books is what it takes to get to the very first page. We often find ourselves having to flip through the cover, a title page, a table of contents, and even a dedication page before we finally get to the beginning. Those first few pages usually include a few words but they’re primarily defined by a bunch of empty space. And it’s the emptiness that helps us transition from lives filled with to-do lists, bills, homework, housework, and everything else towards something new. Turning a page from what was and towards what can be is a blessing we receive when we open physical books. And we hope those first words on the other side of all that emptiness sets a life-giving tone for whatever comes next. I wonder, then, if our experience opening books shapes how we interact with the Bible. When we’re sitting at a desk, lounging in bed, or resting on the beach, we want the opening of God’s story to be a kind of firm boundary showing us who our God chooses to be. And for a long time, the English translation for the opening words of Genesis, chapter 1, matched that expectation. Scholars, though, have known for quite awhile that the words “In the Beginning” might not be the best translation for what those original Hebrew words actually meant. And that’s why our first reading today sounds a bit different from what we’ve heard before. A year ago, we began using an updated English translation of the Bible for worship which, for the most part, hasn’t really changed how we’ve heard these words since the late 1980s. However, the very first words of the Bible sound quite new. No longer do we begin God’s story with a firm boundary between nothing and everything. We, instead, enter into a story that sort of feels as if it’s already begun. God does what God always does by making something brand new and when God began to create the heavens and the earth, something was already there. 

Now like I said in our children’s message,the Bible includes several creation stories. And we tend to take these different stories – such as the two that begin the book of Genesis as well as references in the Psalms, Isaiah, and the first chapter of John, to create some kind of synchronized timeline that removes anything that contradicts with each other. But I like to imagine these separate visions of creation as serving as an opportunity to discover more about ourselves and our God. Paying attention to what makes these stories different makes our faith grow. And when we do that with Genesis, chapter 1, we discover how all the nothingness was actually very full. The God who creates is wrapped up by a chaotic void containing a deep ocean shrouded in darkness. God, then, has a canvas we can’t really mentally picture since there’s no real science or structure to describe it. God, though, gets busy with wind, spirit, and breath moving through it all. We quickly see a pattern God uses to take what is present and transform it into something new. And it wouldn’t be wrong to recognize this pattern as rooted in division and separation. God, after all, is described as adding boundaries and putting distance between day and night, the various waters, the sky, and the dry land. It feels as if one of the things God does when God creates is by bringing a sense of order out of something that’s all mixed up. This order, then, is rooted in setting apart bits of creation from one another so that everything can be what we’d expect them to be.  

Yet I wonder if there might be something more happening when God speaks, separates, identifies, and names. Brian Maas, who works for an organization supporting seniors through the Nebraska Synod, wrote a commentary about this passage that noticed how God’s acts of separation weren’t done for their own sake.* Those named parts of creation – the Day, Sky, Waters, and Land don’t exist independently on their own. They are, rather, identified, named, and in tune with each other. The Day doesn’t replace the Night nor does the waters of the sky replace the waters of the seas. What God does, instead, is give different parts of creation their own identity – and then keep those identities in relationship with one another. This, then, is at the heart of the order God is creating. God isn’t merely setting the stars, continents, plants, animals, and people apart. God is giving them their own identity so they can get to know one another. The day does not exist without the night and the land does not exist without the waters. And the relationship God binds them together with generates new possibilities for what might come next. When we finally get to the creation of people, which is the climax of what this version of creation is all about, all humans are identified as bearing the image of God. What that might mean, we’re not necessarily sure. But I wonder if part of the image we carry is tied to God’s pattern of creation. We might assume it’s our responsibility to practice the art of separation and division to establish an order we think is holy and true. Yet if God’s creative work is rooted in the giving of identities to keep creation related to one another, then tending to our relationships is how we bring a more faithful order to our lives and to our world. It’s through the connections we form with one another, with nature, and with all God has given us, that enables us to discover more of who God knows we can be. 

So maybe what God is opening us to when we turn the page to the first words of our Bible is an invitation to notice the God who has given us an identity too. By clinging to who our God has made us to be, we separate ourselves from all the other voices claiming we’re something other than who we are.  It isn’t our ego, pride, intelligence, culture, history, where we grew up, or all the things we’ve accomplished that define us when it comes to our God. Rather, the God who has created you is also the God who has claimed you through baptism to be part of what God is doing in the world. You have already been separated from everything that takes your life and brought towards the source of life instead. You have, exactly as you are, been created for deep relationships with God and with all parts of creation. And when we recognize we are made for community we discover how that is part of the image of God too. The God who chose to be Father, Son, and Holy Spirit – to be Creator, Redeemer, and our Sustainer – exists with identities and a community too. And if holding an identity – while being part of something bigger than ourselves is good enough for God – then it’s also good enough for those who bear that image into the world. The God who takes what is there and gives it an identity rooted in love, connection, and transformation is also a God doing that with you. The God who has declared you to be a beloved child of God invites us to live God’s pattern of creation in all we say and do. And when we do that through all the different identities we hold as well as in the different communities we call home, we show others who God has made them to be too.

Amen.

* From Christian Century’s email about the lectionary that was emailed out on Tuesday, May 26, 2026.

When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability.
Now there were devout Jews from every people under heaven living in Jerusalem. And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. Amazed and astonished, they asked, “Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs—in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.” All were amazed and perplexed, saying to one another, “What does this mean?” But others sneered and said, “They are filled with new wine.”

But Peter, standing with the eleven, raised his voice and addressed them, “Fellow Jews^[a] and all who live in Jerusalem, let this be known to you, and listen to what I say. Indeed, these are not drunk, as you suppose, for it is only nine o’clock in the morning. No, this is what was spoken through the prophet Joel:
‘In the last days it will be, God declares,
that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh,
    and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
and your young men shall see visions,
    and your old men shall dream dreams.
Even upon my slaves, both men and women,
    in those days I will pour out my Spirit,
        and they shall prophesy.
And I will show portents in the heaven above
    and signs on the earth below,
        blood, and fire, and smoky mist.
The sun shall be turned to darkness
    and the moon to blood,
        before the coming of the Lord’s great and glorious day.
Then everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.’

Acts 2:1-21

My sermon from Pentecost (May 24, 2026) on Acts 2:1-21.

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So a few days ago, I did something I haven’t done in awhile: I went to an actual movie theater to watch a movie. It was, after all, the opening day for the new Mandalorian and Grogu movie and the Star Wars fans in my household couldn’t wait to see it. Memorial Day weekend has, for decades, been viewed as the unofficial start of summer and the summer blockbuster movie is part of that tradition. Even though many of us still have six more weeks of school to get through, we’re already mentally on vacation. We can’t wait to escape real life by going to the shore, the lake, or simply visiting family and friends. Summer, we imagine, is when we temporarily leave our worries, anxieties, and fears behind. The big screen full of action, adventure, and all kinds of special effects can create a moment of peace that soothes our soul. Taking a moment to visit a place a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, is – for me – what summer is all about. And it was sort of fascinating how, during the countless commercials and previews before the movie even began, the idea of movies being an escape from our lives kept showing up over and over again. We were explicitly invited to forget whatever was going on outside that darkened space and to escape into a new world while eating an obscene amount of popcorn out of a novelty bucket. The large screen, loud music, giant explosions, and fantastical creatures are meant to bring us out of our lives and the world. And so I think it’s pretty interesting that on this Sunday of Memorial Day Weekend, what we hear from the book of Acts is a blockbuster story that pushes us into our lives and into the world instead. 

Now one of the things I enjoy within today’s reading – a reading we hear every Pentecost – is how self-referential it is. We, along with those gathered around Jesus’ friends, get to ask “what does this mean?” And one of the ways we try to answer that question is by connecting the tongues of fire, the mighty wind, and the day itself to the entirety of God’s story. Like I said in my children’s message, Pentecost isn’t only a thing Christians celebrate. Pentecost – which comes from the Greek word for fifty – is also known as “the festival of Weeks” and it originally was related to farming and the growing season. The festival marked seven weeks and one day after the harvest started. But over time, Pentecost became connected to Passover since it’s hard to predict when the harvest will actually begin. Pentecost also grew beyond its focus on the food since some recognized how we need spiritual nourishment too. This date, then, is also an opportunity to renew the covenant God made with the Jewish community while also celebrating the giving of the law at Mount Sinai. Beyond the significance of the day itself, the imagery of the wind and fire have been linked to all kinds of things too. Professor Rebecca Dean in a commentary about this passage pointed out how all these special effects have been seen as a description for God. King David sang about a God of wind and fire during a moment of Thanksgiving and Elihu, a sort of frenemy of Job, used that same imagery to describe God’s majesty. When God descended onto Mount Sinai to meet with Moses and give the law, clouds and fire raged all around. And when someone chooses to twist God’s words by acting as if their will is the same as God’s, the prophet Ezekiel promised God’s stormy wrath would surely come. Even the miraculous act of speaking other languages has been connected to other parts of God’s story by seeing it as a reversal of the tower of Babel itself. The wind, smoke, fire, and power has also been connected to Jesus since, at the very beginning of his ministry, it was promised that our baptisms would include water, the Spirit, and all kinds of fire. 

We are, I think, drawn to these special effects since, on one level, that’s who we want our God to be. A God with the power to create the universe should, we hope, show up in our own lives with that same kind of might and glory. Our scriptures are full of healings, miracles, and a generosity we want to experience every day. And when we do something – or something happens to us – that undoes who we know ourselves to be, we need a God who can make us whole. Yet there are times when the prayer “Lord, I see what you do for other people and I wish you’d do it for me” is more than a joke we see on a screen. A faith without special effects is a faith that can feel incomplete when life gets hard. Chasing after those special effects can be one of the ways we try to calm our own anxieties, worries, and fears. But wanting a faith that always feels like a summer blockbuster movie is a faith that will struggle when real life comes our way. I wonder, then, if our focus on the wind, fire, and tongues in the Pentecost story, gets in the way of what God is trying to say. And that’s because no one within the story tries to extend or make those special effects continue. Jesus’ friends don’t try to keep those flames over their head nor does the crowd ask them to perform it over and over again. In fact, even asking for an explanation lowers the energy and the intensity of the moment. And when we get the explanation – an explanation that goes beyond what we hear today – we discover how it’s the story of  Jesus’ love, presence, and deep connection that moves people to discover what following Jesus might mean for them. Peter invites those in the crowd to not only recognize the new thing God is doing but to also see how God refuses to give up on us and our world. God has – and God continues – to show up in big and small ways to show how much you truly matter. And while we often need the opportunity to momentarily take a break from all the hardships, struggles, and sorrow of the world – that doesn’t mean leaving the world is Jesus’ wish for those who he has already claimed as his own. Rather we are called to follow him towards those who need to know they matter too. Which is why, I think, on that Pentecost after Easter, Jesus’ friends weren’t invited to keep the front door locked and keep those special effects only for themselves. They were, instead, pushed out to tell Jesus’ story to everyone they met. The wind, fire, and speaking in different languages wasn’t the miracle of this story. What made Pentecost special was that God’s story was heard in the words that remind us we are loved, we have value, and we have a home. And rather than wanting Jesus’ story to be tied only to outward displays of power, God knew our faith grows when we make the time to get to know one another. Jesus invites us to recognize that the special effects which strengthen our faith are rooted in the ways we choose to be for each. And the God who has already gone through the blockbuster of the Cross doesn’t want us to escape from the life we live. Rather, because of Jesus, we get to live with one another and show how God’s love makes us – and our world – brand new. 

Amen.