Category: Sermons

Jesus shared with the people: “Listen to another parable. There was a landowner who planted a vineyard, put a fence around it, dug a wine press in it, and built a watchtower. Then he leased it to tenants and went to another country. When the harvest time had come, he sent his slaves to the tenants to collect his produce. But the tenants seized his slaves and beat one, killed another, and stoned another. Again he sent other slaves, more than the first; and they treated them in the same way. Finally he sent his son to them, saying, ‘They will respect my son.’ But when the tenants saw the son, they said to themselves, ‘This is the heir; come, let us kill him and get his inheritance.” So they seized him, threw him out of the vineyard, and killed him. Now when the owner of the vineyard comes, what will he do to those tenants?” They said to him, “He will put those wretches to a miserable death, and lease the vineyard to other tenants who will give him the produce at the harvest time.” 
Jesus said to them, “Have you never read in the scriptures: ‘The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone; this was the Lord’s doing, and it is amazing in our eyes’? Therefore I tell you, the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom. The one who falls on this stone will be broken to pieces; and it will crush anyone on whom it falls.” When the chief priests and the Pharisees heard his parables, they realized that he was speaking about them. They wanted to arrest him, but they feared the crowds, because they regarded him as a prophet.

Matthew 21:33-46

My sermon from the Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost (October 8, 2023) on Matthew 21:33-46.

I’m sure many of you have noticed how full our lawns have suddenly become at the start of October. Where once there was a lawn chair, some dandelions, and a smattering of toys our kids forgot to put away, there’s now quite a few gravestones, giant skeletons, and dozens of inflatable Disney characters holding all kinds of jack-o-lanterns. When it comes to the Halloween season, I tend to focus on all the fun: like costumes and parties and eating body weight in fun-sized candy bars. But October is also a month when dozens upon dozens of new movies, tv shows, graphic novels and comic books suddenly show up to frighten us. I, personally, do not like being scared but I am a bit fascinated by the creative process that makes “scaring” work. A little while ago, I was listening to an interview with Emily Carrol, an award winning cartoonist who recently released a horror graphic novel called “A Guest in the House.” That comic book is all about a young woman who, after marrying a rather kind dentist, realizes there’s a mystery surrounding his former wife’s death. The person interviewing Emily could have spent the entire interview focused on the book itself, asking her why she wrote it and what she hoped readers would get from it. But what I heard instead was a different kind of discussion focused on the nuts and bolts of scaring people through comic books. Unlike movies, tv shows, or even the radio, cartoonists can’t use a variety of sounds, moments of silence, quick movements, or an unexpected camera change to surprise the viewer. So many of our October scares are defined by that unexpected thing that makes us jump out of our skin. To do that well, bits of information need to be revealed and shown at the exact right time to increase the tension and startle the audience. But that’s a bit hard to pull off in a medium where a reader can look down at an entire piece of paper and have all the art laid out before them. The primary tool Emily and other cartoonists use to mimic the kind of jump scare that we long for from movies and shows involves the physicality of the comic itself. Turning the page from one part of the story to whatever comes next is the moment when that unexpected jolt can suddenly appear. Turing the page, then, is one way we make October as spooktacular as we want it to be. And I wonder if Jesus, in our reading from the gospel according to Matthew, used a similar kind of page turning technique to show a little of what the kingdom of God is all about. 

Now today’s reading is a continuation of what we heard last week. Jesus had just entered the city of Jerusalem on a donkey and had annoyed everyone by disrupting how the Holy Temple functioned during one of its busiest times of year. The local religious leaders were a bit concerned by Jesus’ behavior since it seemed as if he was purposefully upsetting the delicate balance the community had established the occupying Roman Empire. They wanted Jesus to explain to them why he was doing what he was doing. And so Jesus, being Jesus, used a series of stories to illustrate his point. The first story involved two sons: one who said they wouldn’t work in the vineyard but then changed their mind; and another who said they would work in the vineyard but chose not to. The second story, which I Just read, detailed what happened when a vineyard was leased to tenants who didn’t really want to pay their rent. This parable is, I think, one of the more violent stories that Jesus ever told. And it’s one we seem particularly drawn to since the violence within it would soon echo through the violence done to Jesus on the Cross. It’s also a parable that we, as Christians, have used to justify our own violence and hateful acts towards the Jewish community while claiming that God has made us superior to everyone else. In light of the ongoing violence that occurs around the world everyday, I sort of wish that our lectionary – the 3 year cycle of readings we use on Sunday morning – had given us something a bit more peaceful. Yet when I read Jesus’ words in light of everything else that’s going on right now, I couldn’t help but notice the specific creative choices Jesus made in telling this story. Since he was the one telling the story, he controlled how certain bits of information would be revealed to everyone else. Jesus could heighten the tension by using specific words, different tones, and other storytelling techniques to invite us deeper into the story. He could have, for example, added a few value judgments to the different characters within his story by giving them specific adjectives like “good,” “faithful,” or “wicked.” Jesus, though, chose to do something else. He kept his words very plain, allowing our imaginations to paint a more vivid picture. All Jesus did was tell us what happened, allowing us to sketch a scene of what we assumed was going to happen once the page turned. Since violence and suffering is something we often focus our attention on, we couldn’t help but describe the violent outcome we’d expect to befall those wicked tenants who spilled so much blood within the story. Yet it’s interesting that Jesus, while not denying that part of the story, doesn’t actually turn to that page himself. All he did was ask a question – and we, in an almost unconscious way, revealed how focused we are noticing and using violence to get what we want in the world. We assume that the landowner is like us and so, like us, the violence within the story would grow. Yet I wonder what would happen if we didn’t turn the page so quickly. What if, instead of answering Jesus’ question, we let Jesus turn the page by himself? If we did, I imagine we might notice better how his words throughout the story were centered not on the tenants but on the one character who, over and over again, sent servants to those whose only response was violence. Rather than perpetuating the kind of violence he would soon experience himself, the part of the story Jesus focused on was all about the One who wants our lives to be as fruitful, and joyous, as a vineyard. That doesn’t necessarily mean that God expects our lives to be untroubled or that there will never be consequences for the ways we choose to hate and disregard our neighbors. But it does mean that when God chooses to act, the page God is turning to is focused primarily on mercy, forgiveness, justice, and joy. On one level, none of that feels too scary especially in light of an October full of spooks, ghosts, and ghouls. But if God’s love and God’s mercy ended up being the last thing we’d expect to see as we turned to the next page of our story, then that’s a pretty scary thought indeed. Yet I am grateful that we are not the ones who, no matter how hard we try, define what page God will turn to. Instead God will keep doing what God does – choosing to use words and people, prayers and songs, justice and wisdom, truth and hope, the Spirit and even Jesus himself to show how our focus on violence, pain, and hurt will be the page God turns us from so that our lives and our world will be filled with mercy, peace, and love. 

Amen. 

When [Jesus] entered the temple, the chief priests and the elders of the people came to him as he was teaching, and said, “By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority?” Jesus said to them, “I will also ask you one question; if you tell me the answer, then I will also tell you by what authority I do these things. Did the baptism of John come from heaven, or was it of human origin?” And they argued with one another, “If we say, ‘From heaven,’ he will say to us, ‘Why then did you not believe him?’ But if we say, ‘Of human origin,’ we are afraid of the crowd; for all regard John as a prophet.” So they answered Jesus, “We do not know.” And he said to them, “Neither will I tell you by what authority I am doing these things.

“What do you think? A man had two sons; he went to the first and said, ‘Son, go and work in the vineyard today.’ He answered, ‘I will not’; but later he changed his mind and went. The father went to the second and said the same; and he answered, ‘I go, sir’; but he did not go. Which of the two did the will of his father?” They said, “The first.” Jesus said to them, “Truly I tell you, the tax collectors and the prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you. For John came to you in the way of righteousness and you did not believe him, but the tax collectors and the prostitutes believed him; and even after you saw it, you did not change your minds and believe him.

Matthew 21:23-32

My sermon from the Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost (October 1, 2023) on Matthew 21:23-32.

A few days ago, I stood on a skateboard and I’ll admit it was a little terrifying. In a past life, I regularly rode one around my college campus but I’ve since traded my Vans skate shoes for ones that primarily step on a gas pedal. Standing on a thin board a few inches off the ground shouldn’t be so difficult. But my balance isn’t what it used to be and I kept leaning forward and backward and side to side. Everytime I moved, my toes tried in vain to grip the side of the board while I made a million tiny bodily adjustments to keep it from sliding out from under me. I pretended as if I knew exactly what I was doing but the old skills I built up when I was younger no longer apply. Maintaining any kind of balance, whether physically, emotionally, financially, or spirituality is a rather difficult thing to do since it doesn’t take much for something to throw off our attempt at equilibrium. Tilting from one side to another is, on the surface, a type of balance that exists within a binary that knows we can never quite grab hold of that middle way that’s right in front of us. It would be awesome if we could step outside this way of being and find something a little more peaceful and holy. And I wonder if seeking, finding, and living with that type of balance is something Jesus hinted at in today’s reading from the gospel according to Matthew. 

Now Jesus spoke these words during a rather busy week in the city of Jerusalem as it prepared to celebrate the festival of Passover. He had, the day before, entered the city at the head of a small procession riding a donkey while others waved palm branches in the air. Some in the crowd recognized that Jesus was presenting himself as a kind of humble king. Yet others were a bit suspicious that this carpenter from Galilee seemed to be copying a different kind of procession that was occurring on the opposite side of the city. Pontius Pilate, the governor of Judea appointed by the Roman Emperor himself, was, at nearly the same time, leading his own procession into Jerusalem surrounded by a legion of Roman soldiers. They were there to police the city  and intervene if anyone decided to use the Passover story as a pretext to upset the delicate political balance the Romans had worked hard to create. The soldiers were on high alert to respond if anyone, for example, entered the Holy Temple and disrupted the economic system allowing Jews from all over the empire to make specific kinds of offerings to God. Jesus, in Matthew’s version of His story, did exactly that after arriving on Palm Sunday. He flipped a few tables, drove out the moneychangers, and then took care of those within the Temple who needed help. The next day, Jesus returned to the Temple and the local leaders wanted some kind of explanation. They wanted to know why Jesus was trying to upset the balance that existed between the community and Roman solidres who had the capacity to burn the entire city to the ground. Jesus, in response, asked a question of his own and then followed up with a story involving a vineyard, a father, and a handful of kids. 

This story, compared to the other parables Jesus told, doesn’t appear to be too complicated. Within its structure, we find a kind of binary with a kid who refused to work but later changed his mind on one side and a kid who refused to fulfill the promise they made on the other. Both of the kids messed up and it’s pretty easy to place ourselves within the story. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re thinking about one specific experience – even one from today – that shows how we are the one who said no and then yes or the one who said yes and did no. Oscillating between these two experiences is, in one sense, a kind of balance since, on most days, we’re often doing one – and then the other – in rather quick succession. This way of being in the world is very human but it’s also pretty exhausting. What would be better is if there was another character, maybe even another son connected to this story that would invite us to notice a different kind of balance we can live into in our world. 

Now seeing ourselves within Jesus’ stories is, I think, one of the reasons why Jesus told them. When we see ourselves within Jesus’ words, we discover how normal we are while, at the same time, witness the absurd generosity that makes up the kingdom of God. Every story, though, includes more than simply the characters within the words. There’s also those listening to it which includes those who saw Jesus face to face and us, gathered together, nearly 2,000 years later. But a story without a storyteller is one that cannot be told. And Jesus, I imagine, knew we didn’t have to settle into this kind of binary choice to find our balance with God. Rather than merely being the kid who says no and does it anyways or the kid who says yes and does nothing, there’s also a third way where our response matches the life God calls us to. To get to that point, we need to empty ourselves of the either/ors that define what we imagine balance might look like. We can, instead, look outside ourselves and towards the One who bore witness to what our humanity could be. Jesus, who was there when the universe was made, had the power to do anything and yet he chose to show how being human is always enough. Rather than tilting from one side to the other while seeking a balance that never quite gets there, we could focus on the third way Paul described in his letter to the Phillippians. Instead of acting as if we are the only ones who can bring balance into our own lives, we could look to Jesus who used His power to bring healing and hope to all. The balance Jesus modeled was less about trying to feel balanced since he, like all of us, wept, laughed, got angry, and rolled his eyes everytime his disciples failed to grasp what God was up to. Instead of being balanced, he lived out God’s holy balance by inviting those who were exploited, pushed aside, or up on their high horses, to discover the love God already had for them. This kind of balance admits the ways we are accountable to one another while, at the same time, have needs that are valid and real. It’s a balance we often won’t feel since an illness, an accident, a change in our employment or just life itself, can easily upend what we hoped this whole thing would be. The balance we need, then, can’t be created only by ourselves. What we need is a community – people around and outside of us – who can help us live balanced even when we’re feeling anything but. That’s why, when we were baptized, the promises uttered over us included more than a declaration of God’s love. We also heard how we were now part of something bigger than ourselves. We were brought into the body of Christ – a community bound to Jesus himself to make real God’s harmony of grace and peace. To do that well, we need to do more than simply tilt from one extreme to another. We have to choose to care. We do that kind of care by recognizing each other’s needs and our own. We practice care by noticing all the different gifts God has given us to share. We live this care out by not letting ourselves get in our own way while serving those God has united us to. We care by asking for help and doing our best at being a community that people trust will answer their call when help is needed. None of us can do that kind of care on our own since there are times when we need the care we’ve often given to others. Offering care or needing care is not a sign that our life has become, somehow, unbalanced, out of whack, or that life is about to zoom out from under us. It is, instead, a reminder that Jesus knows we need each other. We, together, are invited to care so that we can bring balance into the lives of those around us. And we do that not because we are perfect or awesome but rather because, through the Cross, Jesus has shown that God will always seek a new way where love and hope are found.

Amen. 

“For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire laborers for his vineyard. After agreeing with the laborers for the usual daily wage, he sent them into his vineyard. When he went out about nine o’clock, he saw others standing idle in the marketplace; and he said to them, ‘You also go into the vineyard, and I will pay you whatever is right.’ So they went. When he went out again about noon and about three o’clock, he did the same. And about five o’clock he went out and found others standing around; and he said to them, ‘Why are you standing here idle all day?’ They said to him, ‘Because no one has hired us.’ He said to them, ‘You also go into the vineyard.’ When evening came, the owner of the vineyard said to his manager, ‘Call the laborers and give them their pay, beginning with the last and then going to the first.’ When those hired about five o’clock came, each of them received the usual daily wage. Now when the first came, they thought they would receive more; but each of them also received the usual daily wage. And when they received it, they grumbled against the landowner, saying, ‘These last worked only one hour, and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the day and the scorching heat.’ But he replied to one of them, ‘Friend, I am doing you no wrong; did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage? Take what belongs to you and go; I choose to give to this last the same as I give to you. Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?’ So the last will be first, and the first will be last.”

Matthew 20:1-16

My sermon from the Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost (September 24, 2023) on Matthew 20:1-16.

A couple weeks ago, a trend on TikTok had people asking their husbands and boyfriends how often they think about the Roman Empire. On one level, it’s sort of a weird question since the Roman Empire, especially the part centered on the city of Rome itself, collapsed over 1500 years ago. Yet what was striking was how often, without hesitation, people admitted they thought about the Roman Empire every day. That doesn’t, necessarily, mean they’re obsessed with it since most of us probably think about the things we’re interested in quite often. But it does mean that among the people around you, at least one would love it if you asked them what SPQR actually means. This fascination with the Roman Empire tends to skew male since so much of the Roman story was shaped by a male lens. This allows, in the words of Mike Duncan, a man who turned his thinking about Rome into a successful podcast – men to do a lot of historical fantasizing since “we can see men who were poor, men who were middle-aged, men who were smart, men who were dumb, men who were emperors. Every available option is” open to them. The Roman story, though, is much bigger since it shaped our culture and our practice as the church in very tangible ways. Taking the time to ponder, wonder, and sit with something we find really interesting is a very human thing to do. And today’s parable from the gospel according to Matthew is Jesus’ way, I think, of inviting us to purposefully spend a bit of every day thinking about a specific characteristic of our God. 

This parable, in some ways, is a continuation of what we heard last week. Jesus told a story about the kingdom of God being like a generous king who showcased what forgiveness is supposed to do. Today’s story, which Jesus shared immediately after, described the kingdom of God as if it included a generous employer whose hiring practices were a bit bizarre. The employer arrived at the local market at the break of day, looking for day laborers. He found some who, after agreeing to the typical daily wage, were then sent into the vineyard. A few hours later, he came back and, for some reason, hired a few more. It’s possible these new folks had been initially passed over because they were too small or too ill to properly tend to the vineyard. But it’s also possible they arrived late after dropping their kids off at the ancient Israeli equivalent of daycare. Either way, they were chosen while others were left to wait in the marketplace. Many, though, didn’t have to wait very long because at 12 noon, 3 pm, and 5 pm, he came back to hire even more. We find ourselves in a strange situation where people who did very little were promised to receive the same as everyone else. Now the employer could have hidden what he was doing, by paying those who started the day first and sending them out before he paid everyone else. But instead, he called everyone together and paid those who started late, first. Those who worked all day, when they saw what the others were paid, assumed they would receive more. Yet when they looked at the coins placed in their hands, they saw the equal wage they were paid. This was, without a doubt, completely unfair which is why they, rightfully, complained. It felt as if they were being pushed aside and undervalued. As they simmered in anger, frustration, and a bit of confusion, I get a sense that a rage against those who they imagined had done less began to grow. In protest, those who had worked since dawn, pointed to all the things they had done. They mentioned their hard work, the length of their service, and all their personal qualities related to their time in  the vineyard. They identified what they, and we, believe they deserved. And, in response, their employer looked at them and said “tough.” He doesn’t invalidate their feelings nor does he say that their complaints aren’t true. Rather, he invites them to think about things differently by noticing one of his inherent qualities. He was free to reward others as he saw fit. And so what they received was not based on their hard work, their abilities, or even in their sense of fairness or equality. What mattered most was that the employer had a holy generosity that shaped everything that the employer chose to do. 

Generosity is easy to talk about but difficult to put into practice because it has to be willing to risk, and trust that there is always enough. We know, from our own lives, how hard that can be since an illness, an injury, a loss of employment, or a lack of opportunities can wipe away what we can place on our table. And we also live in communities and in a world with social media, tv, radio, newspapers, books, and all kinds of tools that show, and tell us, all about those who we think don’t deserve what they receive. The reasons we have for these kinds of thoughts are, we imagine, are always truthful, honest, and incredibly fair. Yet I wonder if at the heart of all those thoughts is a deep rooted sense of scarcity that believes, more than anything, that there’s only so much that can go around. Any generosity we offer, then, must be small, self-contained, and limited by the qualities of those who receive whatever we choose to give. And while we should be the proper stewards of every gift God gives, we often pretend that this scarcity is really a wisdom that ends up limiting how free we choose to be. We let the voices around and in us act as if the voice of God proclaimed that there never is, nor ever will be, enough for our lives, our world, and our souls. Yet the God who, in baptism and in faith generosity claimed as God’s own, constantly shows us how this isn’t true. It isn’t our goodness, our faithfulness, our success, our good looks, or whatever our culture uses to define who is worthy and who isn’t – that brings us into the body of Christ. It is, instead, God’s free and generous gift that knew the church couldn’t be what it’s supposed to be with you as a part of it.  There’s something pretty awesome about knowing how far God will go, even to death on the Cross, to show much we belong. But if we’re not too careful, we can act as if this free gift is a limited gift that’s for us alone. It should, though, instill within us a sense of awe, responsibility, and even a little fear that the God who could include anyone decided that, in Christ, we – as we are – are part of what God is up to. This is one aspect of answering the call Jesus has already placed on our lives. And it in, and through him, we are invited to think differently about ourselves and our world. Rather than letting scarcity be what primarily defines us, we get to wonder what it would mean to let the generosity displayed in this parable be at the heart of who we are. What if, every day, instead of reflecting on the Roman Empire or whatever else we’re interested in – we chose to make God’s generosity one of our daily thoughts too? It would, I think, help us get better at recognizing our greatest needs while, at the same time, showing how generous we can be. By shifting our thinking towards God’s radical, inclusive, and over-the-top generosity, we might untangle that sense of the scarcity that has warped what generosity can be about.  And I can’t wait to see how our thoughts can, with Jesus’ help, make God’s free, holy, and unimaginable generosity become the primary characteristic of who we get to be. 

Amen. 

Then Peter came and said to him, “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” Jesus said to him, “Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times. “For this reason the kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king who wished to settle accounts with his slaves. When he began the reckoning, one who owed him ten thousand talents was brought to him; and, as he could not pay, his lord ordered him to be sold, together with his wife and children and all his possessions, and payment to be made. So the slave fell on his knees before him, saying, ‘Have patience with me, and I will pay you everything.’ And out of pity for him, the lord of that slave released him and forgave him the debt. But that same slave, as he went out, came upon one of his fellow slaves who owed him a hundred denarii; and seizing him by the throat, he said, ‘Pay what you owe.’ Then his fellow slave fell down and pleaded with him, ‘Have patience with me, and I will pay you.’ But he refused; then he went and threw him into prison until he would pay the debt. When his fellow slaves saw what had happened, they were greatly distressed, and they went and reported to their lord all that had taken place. Then his lord summoned him and said to him, ‘You wicked slave! I forgave you all that debt because you pleaded with me. Should you not have had mercy on your fellow slave, as I had mercy on you?’ And in anger his lord handed him over to be tortured until he would pay his entire debt. So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.”

Matthew 18:21-35

My sermon from the Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost (September 17, 2023) on Matthew 18:21-35.

So something I don’t know much about is whether professional athletes – or their agents – get to choose the picture used on their trading card? I would think, on some level, that they’d want the chance to select a photo showcasing their strength, confidence, and athleticism. An action shot showing a diving catch, an incredible dunk, or an unbelievable kick, combined with an intense emotional stare, would be the shot every athlete would pick. But if they don’t choose, then their card might look like it belongs in the 1973 edition of Topps baseball cards. Most of those cards are pretty basic, with the ballplayer either holding a bat, fielding a ball, or posing as if they’re taking a photo for their driver’s license. Yet there are other cards which are a little different. Steve Garvey, 3rd baseman for the Los Angeles Dodgers, was photographed strolling down the baseline towards home plate. However, standing in front of him was another Dodgers player whose backside practically hid Steve Garvey from view. Willie Davis, who also played for the Dodgers, was immortalized for all time on his card with a photo of him in shock after nearing being hit by the ball. Ellie Rodriguez, catcher for the Milwaukee Brewers, wasn’t even on his card, replaced by the butt of an umpire and the catcher for the Minnesota Twins. All of these athletes probably had a million other athletic snapshots they wish were highlighted on their baseball cards instead. But what they got was that one moment when they were anything but their best. 

Today’s parable – the short story we just heard Jesus tell – pictures someone who also wasn’t at their best. It began in a very Jesus-y way by telling us what the parable is about. It’s not merely meant to be a description of God’s reign in heaven. Instead, it’s about what life is supposed to be like when God shows up. We meet a king – a ruler with incredible power – who enslaved a number of people. At some point in the past, he gave a few of them an unknown task that involved the handing, or creation, of a lot of money. The king brought the entire community together and decided, in a very public way, to go over everyone’s books. The first enslaved person we hear about is one who managed to create a financial obligation of almost unimaginable size. We don’t need to know how much a talent was actually worth since Jesus simply took the largest named numerical value in his world, aka 10,000, and attached to it the largest monetary value as well. If Jesus was telling this story today, he’d probably use a similar number in the range of $10 trillion dollars – or higher. The king chose to empower someone with no social power – to generate a debt that, in reality, could never be paid back. Even though the king knew this, he ordered the slave to be imprisoned and his family sold. Desperate, the enslaved person made a promise – saying they would find some way to pay it back. The king, after listening to this promise they also knew would never be fulfilled, then did something that none of the people listening to Jesus’ story – the enslaved, the tenant farmers, those who lived with immense debt, and those who could make other indebted to them – something none of them had ever experienced. The king forgave it and canceled the entire debt. 

Now if Jesus’ story had ended there, we’d have a short parable that could easily fit on anyone’s spiritual baseball card. The picture on the front for the king would be filled with grace and the newly forgiven slave would be shown having this immense emotional, spiritual, and financial weight lifted from their shoulders. Jesus’ parable could then be defined as a feel-good story about paying attention to the kind of forgiveness we receive from God. The story, though, continued and we saw the one who was forgiven refuse to offer that same forgiveness to others. Before the gathered community, he grabbed the debtor by the neck and threw him into prison. That behavior is pretty shocking though we, in our own ways, have experienced that or done the same thing to others. It’s not difficult for us to blame the newly forgiven for their behavior yet those who heard Jesus tell this story also recognized within it the environment that shaped that enslaved person’s action. In the greco-roman-near-eastern culture that surrounded them, creating specific obligations between people was how relationships were defined. Those with power – and those who society said had none – were constantly negotiating with each other the opportunities and privileges that would enable them to survive. Being in-debt and or having the options to make folks indebted to them was often how people formed the kinds of social bonds keeping their community together. It was more than simply scratching the back that scratches yours since it determined who you talked to, hung out with, where you worked, and who you married. When the newly forgiven had their debt wiped away, they probably felt as if they had now had a new obligation to fulfill with their king. He, after all, still owned him and had the power to upend his life. Everyone, including those listening to the story, assumed that the normal social contract was still intact even though the irony of the forgiven not forgiving was obvious to see. When the king learned what happened, he was furious and invited everyone to discover just how unbelievable the forgiveness he offered truly was. The king didn’t just simply cancel their debt; he also shifted the obligation that defined their relationship. The practice of forgiveness didn’t just change the enslaved person’s life; it was also meant to change the community’s life too. In the words of Richard Lischer, this parable “is not merely a story of God’s forgiveness wasted, or a tale of human fallibility, but” an illustration of what happens within communities where forgiveness isn’t found. “When we refuse, [within the Christian community], to forgive we cancel the [very] identity of God.” Forgiveness isn’t merely something we do; forgiveness is what happens when God’s kingdom comes near. 

Now forgiveness, itself, is complicated since the forgiveness we need and the forgiveness we offer is always going to be very specific. Yet within Jesus’ story we glimpse a vision of what this forgiveness is supposed to do. Forgiveness isn’t forgetting nor is forgiveness primarily the responsibility of the victim rather than the one who did harm. Forgiveness isn’t about returning to how things were but, instead, makes us free by breaking what binds us and others. Forgiveness is gracious, transforming and making holy the ways we relate, listen, and live with each other. Forgiveness empowers us to take full responsibility, in a very public way, of the harm we cause others. And forgiveness refuses to keep score because, through Christ, it knows we’ve already won. If what we’re asking for or offering to others doesn’t free them or help them or repair the harm that’s impacted their lives, then what we’re giving isn’t forgiveness at all. Forgiveness helps us – and others – thrive – and is supposed to be front and center on our spiritual baseball card. If we could choose the picture on the front of that card, we’d probably pick something showing us offering forgiveness, love, or grace. But what we’d actually get would probably be a picture of when our choices, behaviors, points of view, actions, and inactions – showed how we needed forgiveness in the first place. It wouldn’t be the kind of set we’d spend money to collect but it would be one that’s truly honest because it would reveal why we’d need Jesus on the front of that card too. We often struggle practicing forgiveness since we refuse to truly admit the harm we cause, often acting as if our intentions matter more than the impact of our actions. We, like the enslaved man, quickly forget what forgiveness feels like. Yet we, through baptism and faith, have already been wrapped up in a forgiveness that doesn’t end. It’s through God and in Christ where we discover a grace that is not defined by our obligations but by an abundance that focuses us on our Lord and on our neighbors. It’s never too late for us to own the harm we cause, repair the relationships we’ve shattered, and lean into the limitless love that has a hold on us. We can, when it’s safe and holy and sure, learn how to forgive because our God is already head. 

Amen.

The Lord said to Moses and Aaron in the land of Egypt: This month shall mark for you the beginning of months; it shall be the first month of the year for you. Tell the whole congregation of Israel that on the tenth of this month they are to take a lamb for each family, a lamb for each household. If a household is too small for a whole lamb, it shall join its closest neighbor in obtaining one; the lamb shall be divided in proportion to the number of people who eat of it. Your lamb shall be without blemish, a year-old male; you may take it from the sheep or from the goats. You shall keep it until the fourteenth day of this month; then the whole assembled congregation of Israel shall slaughter it at twilight. They shall take some of the blood and put it on the two doorposts and the lintel of the houses in which they eat it. They shall eat the lamb that same night; they shall eat it roasted over the fire with unleavened bread and bitter herbs. Do not eat any of it raw or boiled in water, but roasted over the fire, with its head, legs, and inner organs. You shall let none of it remain until the morning; anything that remains until the morning you shall burn. This is how you shall eat it: your loins girded, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand; and you shall eat it hurriedly. It is the passover of the Lord. For I will pass through the land of Egypt that night, and I will strike down every firstborn in the land of Egypt, both human beings and animals; on all the gods of Egypt I will execute judgments: I am the Lord. The blood shall be a sign for you on the houses where you live: when I see the blood, I will pass over you, and no plague shall destroy you when I strike the land of Egypt. This day shall be a day of remembrance for you. You shall celebrate it as a festival to the Lord; throughout your generations you shall observe it as a perpetual ordinance.

Exodus 12:1-14

My sermon from the Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost (September 10, 2023) on Exodus 12:1-14.

A couple of weeks ago, after I put my kids to bed, I took a seat in my gray easy chair, opened up my laptop, and got ready to learn about Bloodborne Pathogens. The Fall sports season was about to begin and my town’s rec leagues, like every other volunteer based organizations, needed a little help. I know that most of us are too busy, too stretched, and too tired to do all the things that need to be done. And while we do our best to set our priorities, it doesn’t take much for everything to fall apart. It’s tricky to know how, and in what way, we can contribute in the communities we are called to live in. But I figured taking a few required training courses, including one about blood, is how I can contribute on the Cross Country field this year. And I noticed, while reflecting on our first reading from the book of Exodus, how contributing and participating in the community is within God’s words about a sacred meal.

Now a lot has happened since last week when we heard about Moses meeting God on a mountain top. After fleeing the land of Egypt after spilling the blood of an Egyptian who had brutalized an enslaved Israelite, Moses built a new life for himself in the land of Midian. He married into the family of a local religious leader, started a family, and took on the task of managing his father-in-law’s sheep. One day, nearly a generation after he left Egypt, he led the sheep to the base of Mt. Sinai. While there, his curiosity drew him to notice a burning bush that didn’t burn up. God, who was in the bush, told Moses it was time for him to return to Egypt and let Moses’ kin know God had heard their cries. The attempt by the Egyptians to distort their own history and exploit the lives of others was coming to an end. Moses went back to Egypt, bringing a word of promise to the Israelites and a word of warning to the Pharaoh. But the Pharaoh refused to listen so God created the first plague, transforming the water in the Nile River to blood. That, though, merely made the Pharaoh more stubborn so God sent 9 more plagues into the land. In quick succession, frogs, gnats, and flies covered the land. All the livestock was struck by a deadly disease and boils appeared on everyone’s skin. A massive storm pummeled every city while locusts devoured every green thing to its root. God then covered the land with a deep darkness that, on-top of everything else, should have convinced the Pharaoh to simply give up. Yet the king of the Egyptians refused to be moved so God promised that a final plague was on its way. Every one of the plagues was, in its own way, a response to what the Isrealites had experienced. The Pharaoh had used them to build the Egyptians economy so God took all of that away. The last plague, though, would mimic the original command that caused Moses to be placed floating in a basket after he was born. The Egyptians used violence and death as a way to tear apart the Israelite’s community. God in response, was going to do the same to them. Now we’d expect after all this excitement and tension and drama within the story, that the words immediately following God’s promise would show exactly what God was doing to do. But before the one final plagues comes, everything is interrupted by God’s description of a meal.

The meal, appearing at this moment in the story, feels a bit out of place since it doesn’t feel big enough to commemorate what’s about to take place. The food God told them to eat is pretty simple and everyone must dress as if they’re about to rush out the front door. The main course, the lamb or goat, is singled out for a ritual where its blood is brushed onto the outside of the door frame so that anyone coming by would notice who is gathered there. The blood acts as a kind of marker even though I’d expect the creator of the universe to know who’s already inside the home. Up to this point in the story, none of the plagues required the Israelites to do anything to make them happen. Yet here, before this climactic moment, God gives the community something to do. It’s almost, I think, as if God told the people that in the midst of everything – they could still contribute something to their world too. Much of what the Pharaoh and Egyptians had tried to do was to isolate, oppress, and diminish who the Isrealites got to be. And so, in response, God gave them a meal which could show who they would be instead. The meal, like all meals, begins with the people around the table. God wanted these tablemates to be connected but still diverse, welcoming, and suppurative. Their connection to each other invited them into the difficult work of truly knowing who their neighbors were. And, in that process, being very honest about their own abundance or lack there-of. Everyone had a place at the table and God wanted them to participate in making it happen. And it’s only after the table is set when food is finally served. The meal is simple yet points to the complexities and variety of life. The blood on the door mimics the blood in our bodies, an animating force that doesn’t serve as some kind of insurance against the wrath that’s about to come. It is, instead, a proclamation that the community gathered around God’s table will be defined, shaped, and rooted in something other than all the blood the Pharaoh tried to spill. They will have a future, a new life, shaped, formed, and nurtured by the One who had already claimed them as God’s own.

And one way this shaping takes place is through a meal. It’s there where God’s passover took shape, showing what life with God might look like. It’s around a table where God passed over and upended the contributions we make to the world that take life rather than animates it. It’s while wearing garments rooted in our complicated story where God passed over our attempts to forget or distort our history by choosing to highlight a few privileged voices at the expense of others. It’s over a few simple foods where God passed over our lack of curiosity to invite us deeper into God’s vision for our world. And it’s through God’s ongoing work that our love of power, control, and violence was passed over for something more. As Christians, engaging with the story of Passover isn’t easy since it’s not as foundational to our own story as it is to our Jewish friends and neighbors. Yet within our faith is another powerful simple meal that shapes us too. In that meal, the promises declared to us in baptism and faith are lived out in the ways we love and mutually support one another. In the meal of Holy Communion, we discover who God knows we can be. God’s vision and Jesus’ presence among us is what, as disciples, animates what we say, think, and do. And when we eat around the Lord’s table, we become something more too. It’s these sacred meals that show us who we can be and how, through simple acts, we can contribute to the vision God is making real all around us. And while that’s often hard to see, it’s through our honesty, empathy, and doing what we can to prioritize God’s way rather than our own, that we discover how different things can be.

Amen.

My sermon from the 11th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (August 13, 2023) on Genesis 37:1-4,12-28.

Professor Amey Adkins-Jones, in her commentary on our first reading from the book of Genesis, asked a compelling question: “is it possible for these brothers to be completely and terribly wrong, without being all bad?” That question isn’t easy to answer but it is one we hope would be asked about us when we’re the problem in any particular situation or experience. To answer that question truthfully, we need to bring nuance into our reading of this story. By examining the context, the situation, and the meaning within its words, we invite this story from the past to reveal who we are today. And when we do that work well, we grow into the new life Jesus has already given to us. 

Now our reading begins many years after the story we heard last week where Jacob wrestled with the “man” at the Jabbok river. For decades, Jacob’s behavior of recognizing and manipulating other people for his own benefit had bred success. But, at Jabbok, everything finally caught up with him. His twin brother Esau was coming to see him and, it was assumed, he would try and get revenge on the one who cheated him out of his birthright. Jacob did everything he could to delay the violence he thought was coming his way. And when he was at his most vulnerable, God showed up and, in a wrestling match, changed Jacob’s name to Israel. When Esau finally arrived, he and Jacob were reconciled and we’d expect that such a life-affirming moment would encourage Jacob to reflect on why things turned out the way they did. But when we finally meet his son Joseph, we notice how old family behaviors had returned. Way back in chapter 32 when we first met Jacob and Esau, we saw how they weren’t only competitive against each other but that each one was also a parents’ favorite. Issac, their father, preferred Esau because Esau was a hunter who kept the dinner table full of meat. Rebecca, their mother, preferred Jacob but we’re not told exactly why that was. This favoritism was more than one parent simply being more comfortable with one son rather than the other. It, instead, grew to the point where all of them manipulated each other so that one child’s future came at the expense of the other. These behaviors and actions shaped who Jacob and Esau knew themselves to be. And as they grew older, the trauma they were given became a template for parenthood that they used with their children. Years later, Jacob copied his parents by picking a favorite. Like his mother and father, the reason for it is pretty thin since Benjamin, not Joseph, was actually his youngest child. But regardless of the reason for Jacob’s favoritism, its consequences were very real. And this trauma he inherited was lived out through his children. 

When we meet Joseph, the first thing we learn about him is he’s a bit of a tattletale. He’s also, as we hear later in the story, a dreamer but not necessarily in a good way. In the part of the story we didn’t read out loud, Joseph shared with his brothers two dreams. These dreams, unlike the previous ones described in the book of Genesis, were not labeled as visions from God that anyone could understand. These dreams required interpretation and Joseph assumed he was going to be the hero of it all. He described dreams that glorified him at the expense of his brothers and his parents. And he had internalized his father’s favoritism to the point where he couldn’t see how these dreams also revealed his own hidden desires. The dreams, his need to keep sharing them, and his status as the most preferred child through the gift of a special jacket, made his brothers pretty resentful. It wasn’t long before the brothers’ jealousy consumed them and they looked for an opportunity to end Joseph’s story. 

Now I’m not trying to let these brothers off the hook or to cut them some slack since their trauma does not justify the violence they chose to inflict on their brother. But I wonder if by noticing the intergenerational trauma within the story, we can better notice what this word from God reveals about us. It isn’t difficult to make Joseph a hero, his brothers the villains, and turn the horrors of the rest of Joseph’ story – including the slavery, the famine, the betrayal, and many incidents of violence, into a good that we label as “God’s plan.” But what if we, instead, borrowed words from Prof. Adkins-Jones and “cast his brothers not as evil people but as hurt people?” How would our lives be changed if we chose to recognize the hurt in our own lives while refusing to pretend as if the consequences of this inherited trauma are, so how, not real? This isn’t about seeking blame or labeling ourselves as victims or even trying to push aside all the good that has been a part of our lives. Rather, it’s about choosing to not let any story – even a family story – get in the way of who we truly are through the birth, death, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus. It’s difficult to be a beloved child of God when we have absorbed and put into practice old traumas we did not create on our own. To move through this past, we sometimes have to do what we don’t want to do: such as naming the different ways our parents and guardians were unable to fully live into the vocation of parenthood God gave them. We would also, in the same breath, recognize how we – through our own vocations as grandparents, uncles, aunts, friends, neighbors, church members, and even children – have failed to live into those vocations too. It’s okay, I think, to admit that our parents and guardians weren’t perfect and that the phrase “that’s just how it was” isn’t always an excuse for behaviors that perpetuate hurt and harm. We, instead, can be brave and courageous by noticing the ways we have been a Jacob or a Joseph or even one of the brothers. It’s easier to say this than to actually do it and I’ll admit it is weird to talk about this while knowing I’ve already probably passed on to my own children some intergenerational trauma too. I hope that when they have the courage to tell me how off I was that I won’t get defensive or turn into a worse version of myself. I pray I’ll be able to recognize that this challenge is one of the ways we learn how to wrestle with – and not against – our neighbors, our family, our friends, and our God. And how it is through this kind of struggle that we learn how “[fairness, equality, and favor isn’t about] by everyone getting the same thing” but by helping people get what they need so they can feel like they truly belong. The work of working through intergenerational trauma enables us to stop defining favor and blessing as a competition that forces us against each other but that we are truly part of God’s vision where greatness and wholeness does not come at “the expense of others.” This kind of work is hard and it feels as impossible as walking on water because we’re human and we never know how emotional, spiritual, and faithful this whole thing will turn out. But it is, I think, something God trusts us to do because we have a Jesus who has done this work too. Jesus didn’t let the story of the disciples, their families, their fear, their worry, their sin, or even their unfaithful actions during his earthly ministry to be all they could become. Instead, he reached out, grabbed them by the hand, and promised that – through it all – they would never sink. Your story is, even now, wrapped up in God and Jesus promises that our defensiveness, our worry, our shame, or our need to always come out on top, will not be the limit of who we get to be. Instead, because of baptism and through the gift of faith, you are more than you once were because Jesus has you and will help you become so much more. 

Amen.

My sermon from the 4th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (July 16, 2023) on Genesis 25:19-34.

So when I first saw our reading today from the book of Genesis, I wanted to focus on the end of the story. There’s something riveting and exciting about a set of twins who are impulsive, calculating, and who are not the heroes of their own story. We’re slowly moving our way through the story of Abraham, Sarah, and their descendants. After being called by God to leave their home in modern day Iraq, Abraham and Sarah lived a semi-nomadic life in ancient Israel and Palestine. While there, Abraham received a promise from God that his descendants would outnumber the stars and that through Sarah, the entire world would be blessed. God, though, didn’t say when this promise would be fulfilled. And as the months turned into years, both Abraham and Sarah wondered if it would ever come true. They tried to speed up God’s promises by having Abraham sire a child named Ishamel through Hagar who was one of their slaves. Eventually, though, Sarah did give birth to a son who they named Issac. It seemed, for a moment, that everything was finally moving forward. But the dynamics within this family were pretty complicated. We saw how Sarah expelled Hagar and Ishmael from their household and even Abraham tried to sacrifice Issac on a mountaintop. Through it all, Issac grew up married Rebekah, and became the new head of the household. God’s promise to Abraham then became his promise and today we witnessed how it was partially answered through the birth of Esau and Jacob. Esau was a rather rugged individual who spent most of his time outdoors. He became a very skillful hunter and was his father’s favorite because of the meat he regularly brought to the table. His twin brother Jacob, though, was more of a homebody who learned how to cook. He, like Esau, was one of his parents’ favorites but unlike his brother, we’re never given a reason why Rebekah favored him the most. Their differences, though, were matched by their shared appetites for power and status. Both used food as a way to improve their social standing at the expense of their brother. Esau, who was constantly on his toes while busy hunting in the field, walked carelessly into a carefully laid ambush by his brother. One day, Esau came home, complaining that he was starving even though he was simply hungry. He, in a very impulsive way, sold the cultural expectations centered around his status as first-born to his twin brother. This wasn’t the end to that story since Jacob still needed to trick his father into granting him that status which he will do in chapter 27. Both Jacob and Esau were ruled by their appetites which invites us, I think, to wonder about those appetites that are busy ruling us. When we focus on the promise fulfilled, we can then dwell in the very humanness of these twins who are not, I think, meant to be made into a hero and a cautionary tale of what not to do. 

But there’s another story within this story that I feel particularly drawn to. When Rebekah and Issac entered into their arranged marriage, both expected that a child would arrive very soon. All around them, it appeared that God’s promise to Abraham was coming true since Abaraham, through his second wife, fathered at least a half-a-dozen more children, and Ishamel’s children were already making families of their own. Yet as the length of their marriage stretched from months into years and into two decades, Rebekah and Issac found themselves experiencing something that his parents felt too. For twenty years, they wondered if God’s promise was ever going to come true for them. I want to skip to the fun part, yet I wonder if it’s a bit more faithful  for us to sit with Rebekah and Issac in the years before their children came. Many of us know what it’s like to have a promise or an expectation delayed. We know what it’s like for a dream to never take off in the direction it should. The promise of a family, of children, of a relationship built on mutual hope, love, commitment, and whatever else we hold deep in our hearts, that promise might be one that simply lingers in the air. And it hurts when the promise seems to be coming true for everyone else but us. Sometimes the long awaited promise is fulfilled in a way that surpasses our expectations. But most of the time we end up changing the promise or downgrading our expectations and then learn how to live with a promise that never comes. There’s a deep hurt, grief, and sorrow that radiates from the unfulfilled promises that linger in our hearts and souls. And while these promises are often given to us – an inheritance built on the expectations of our families, our culture, and whatever we imagine we need to succeed – they’re also mixed through with words we hear from God. We sit with Issac and Rebekah not because our story exactly matches their story but because we know what it’s like to wait for a promise that might never come. 

Now sitting in that spot isn’t comfortable and there are times when we can’t stay there for very long. When the rawness of an unfulfilled promise is simply too much, we can – and should – let someone else take our seat around that table. That space will be  ready to receive us when we’re able to name our grief, sorrow, and share with others our unanswered prayers. And once we get there, we’ll do more than simply be present for ourselves. We’ll also name the unfulfilled promises that we see impacting the lives of all our neighbors. When we sit with Rebekah and Issac, we are given the space we need to cry, to doubt, to wonder, to ask questions, to sit in silence, to pray, and even to rage at the sky. We have the permission to admit how these unfulfilled promises impact the relationships we have with our family, friends, our loved ones, and with the entire church. It’s a space where we do not need to be perfect and it’s big enough to hold the loneliness that every unfulfilled promise makes us feel. It is not an easy space but it is a holy space since even Jesus, while on the Cross, wondered why God had forsaken him too. I’ll admit that I’ve found myself sitting in this space this week with questions about what it means to love, serve, and forgive after a particular trauma from almost a half a century ago has suddenly become fresh again. I wish I could simply rush to the next part – to the fun part – to the part where all the questions, doubts, worries, and grief are fully answered by a promise that makes everything new. But until then, we linger in that particular space with every Issac and every Rebekah. When you find ourselves living with unfulfilled promises that linger, know you are not alone. Your worth as a beloved child of God is not defined or limited by the amount of time you spend as a Rebekah or as an Issac. You, through your baptism and faith, are united with a God who knows what it’s like to linger while their loved ones fail to live out their call to show mercy, offer hope, grant forgiveness, and share a holy love meant for all. We are invited to name out loud those promises that linger; to thank those who share those promises with us; and to sit with each other as we yearn for what tomorrow might bring. And it’s in that space where we live as the body of Christ for each other since no one lives through this life alone. 

Amen.