Category: Sermons

[Jesus said:] “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 a denarius for the day, 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 a denarius. Now when the first came, they thought they would receive more; but each of them also received a denarius. 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 a denarius? 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?’^[a] So the last will be first, and the first will be last.”

Matthew 20:1-16 (NRSVue)

My sermon from the 16th Sunday after Pentecost (September 20, 2020) on Matthew 20:1-16.

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One thing you might not know about me is that I was a high school athlete – for exactly one semester. I played lacrosse because a friend of mine was on the team and you didn’t really have to try out to play. I wasn’t very good but I enjoyed cradling the ball, stick checking other people, and learning how to brace myself when someone body checked me. I enjoyed most of my time playing lacrosse but one thing I didn’t like was all the running. Now during practice, one thing my coaches liked to do was have everyone run a team relay race. We would be broken into groups of four and told to sprint around the track. They imagined, I think, that having us compete against each other would somehow improve our skills. But when you’re already the slowest person on your team, running a team based race doesn’t always help. My teammates always had a look on their face when I lined up behind them. And I know, if they had the choice to pick their teams, I would have been picked last. But since they couldn’t, the look on their face told me they were trying to figure out how to work around me. Because if they wanted to win team bragging rights, my slowness would have to be something they endured. 

Today’s reading from the gospel according to Matthew is a continuation of a conversation Jesus and his disciples started in chapter 19. A young person came to Jesus and asked: “what good deed must I do to have eternal life?” Jesus responded by telling them to follow the commandments, sell everything they own, give all their wealth to the poor, and then follow him. That young person left sad because no one wants to give up the things they feel they’ve earned and that they’re entitled to. Now the disciples watched this whole conversation go down – and the Bible tells us they were astounded. They asked Jesus – who could be saved – and what was the kingdom of God all about? As they talked, the disciple Peter pointed out that they had already done what the young person couldn’t and wanted to know what their giving up would earn them in return. And so it’s during this back and forth between Jesus and the disciples when we get this parable about a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire laborers for their vineyard. 

Now, as you listened to the text being read out loud, which group of laborers did you identify with? We sometimes, I think, focus most of our attention on those who were picked first. They were, after all, the group that’s really busy in the story. They negotiate with the landowner for how much they would get paid and they spend all day working in the vineyard. When it’s time to be paid, the only reaction we hear is from the first group laborers as they watch everyone else get paid. And when the landowner addressed them with the last two sentences in the story, we never get their response – and so everything is left open ended. It makes sense that we focus on those who were first. But what if we choose to do something different? What if, instead of focusing on those picked first, we paid attention to those who came last? 

I wonder what their day would have been like. And I wonder what they felt while they watched others get picked first. They, like all the laborers, had woken early and assembled in the marketplace before dawn. Each one of them was willing to do the work because they needed money to buy the food and to take care of their families. When the landowner first showed up, each person was ready to be picked. But, for some reason, only a few were initially chosen – and they were the ones allowed to negotiate their liveable wage. The ones who weren’t picked had to endure watching their friends be given the opportunity to earn enough to eat. After a few hours, the landowner came back to hire more workers. Once again everyone was willing to work but only a few were chosen. But unlike the first group, these new laborers weren’t allowed to negotiate their wage. The landowner told them they would need to accept what they were paid. They headed to the vineyard not knowing if they would earn enough to support their families. And that became a pattern – because the landowner returned to the marketplace several more times. As it got close to evening, the ones who were still not picked – were probably worn out, tired, and exhausted. They had spent the day watching others receive the opportunity to earn money while standing in the marketplace. As they waited, they heard business being done.  They saw food being bought and eaten. They witnessed wealth being generated and being spent. They saw people participating in the activity of life but they weren’t able to join in. All they could do was wait for an opportunity that they knew might never come. They had to endure watching others living their lives while they waited for the chance to live theirs. 

That opportunity, though, eventually. And the ones who had endured worked only about an hour. With the day over, all the workers gathered together again. They knew who had worked all day and who had worked for an hour. I imagine there was a lot of anxiety and uncertainty in that moment. They weren’t sure what the future would bring. And when the manager came to those picked last to offer them their wage, they probably expected to receive only a tiny fraction of what the others did. But that’s not what they got. They received a full day’s wage – and that changed the thinking of everyone else in the group. Those who worked longer started to shift their expectations. They assumed they were entitled to more. No one could really believe how much the last group got paid. And when it was time for those who got picked first to be paid – no one could believe what they got paid either. It didn’t seem fair that those who didn’t do what they did – and who didn’t have the opportunities they had – could still somehow receive everything they did. It didn’t make sense that those who were last were valued as much as those who were first. 

And we, I think, struggle with that too. We identify with those who were picked first because we like to imagine that’s who we are too. We tell ourselves we work hard, that we’ve earned everything that we’ve got, and that we’re entitled to the goodness that life has given to us. We live our lives as if we were the ones picked first because we don’t want to endure being picked last. But when we only focus on the work done in the story – we actually miss what this parable is all about. The kingdom of heaven isn’t a vineyard that we’re invited to toil in. Instead, the kingdom of heaven – God’s presence – and God’s vision of what life is all about – is a landowner who sees us as we are and chooses to give. The landowner saw the laborers as they were and the system of so-called fairness and competition that was part of their lives. The landowner knew how idolized the idea of earning – and instead, gave them generosity. Life with God is not something that we earn. You cannot make God love you anymore than God already does. Jesus is with you because Jesus is with you – and in your baptism and through your faith – God has already made you God’s own. You have already been chosen; already been picked; already accepted; and you are already loved because you are worth more than just what you do. You have a Jesus that sees you; knows you; and has been with you every time you were picked first and every time you were picked last. The love that God gives you every day – is a love that knows what it’s like to endure. And when we start to grumble and start identifying with those who were picked first, that’s when we should stop and imagine how things might be different if we see ourselves who came last. When we do that, we stop turning everything in this world into a competition over what we think we’re entitled to. Instead, we realize that God’s kingdom, in the words of Pablo Jimenez, is really about generosity, mercy, and love. And since that is what God’s kingdom is all about – we, as the current and latest followers of Jesus Christ, are called to make our lives and our communities that generous too. 

Amen.

Now when Jesus came into the district of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” And they said, “Some say John the Baptist but others Elijah and still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.” He said to them, “But who do you say that I am?” Simon Peter answered, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” And Jesus answered him, “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you but my Father in heaven. And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.” Then he sternly ordered the disciples not to tell anyone that he was the Messiah.

Matthew 16:13-20 (NRSVue)

My sermon from the 12th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (August 23, 2020) on Matthew 14:13-21.

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What was the last thing you day dreamed about where everything happened in slow motion? 

Now, if I’m honest, it’s probably been a while since I imagined anything happening in slow motion. But when I was younger, my overactive imagination was very good at creating vivid worlds in my mind. I, of course, was the hero of every story. I was always the Jedi fighting Darth Vader, the superhero saving my hometown from Doctor Doom, and was the star quarterback playing in the Super Bowl with my team down by 5 and with 3 seconds left on the clock. As I lived into those new identities I picked for myself, I made sure that when great things were about to happen, the world slowed down. Slow motion is meant for those moments that make or break the story. It’s why every sport highlight is broadcast in slow motion a million times because we want to see how it happened. We rarely, if ever, use slow motion to focus on the mundane or usual parts of the game. Instead, we’re excited to get a zoomed in look at the action – that moves so slowly, we can see sweat as it forms on the forehead. Slow motion is how we highlight the drama of the moment so that we can linger in it for a little while. Slow motion helps make transformational moments simmer in hearts, our minds, and our souls. And going slow motion through our Biblical stories – is one of the ways we can discover what the good news is all about. 

So let’s do that. Let’s go through this passage from the gospel according to Matthew in slow motion. And we’ll start at the very beginning. Jesus and his small band of followers have arrived in the district of Caesarea Philippi. Now that name might jump out at you because it doesn’t sound like the names of other cities in the ancient near east. Instead, it sounds a bit like Caesar – which was the title for the Roman Emperor. Roughly 20 years before Jesus’ birth, King Herod renamed an existing town in ancient Israel to Caesarea in honor of the Roman Emperor Augustus. Near the town was a small mountain filled with religious shrines. Herod, as a way to gain favor with the empire that occupied the land, built a temple there and dedicated it to the Emperors. In that space and on that mountain, the leaders of Rome were venerated like gods. People made sacrifices to them, laid gifts of gold and precious items on their altars, and turned to them in their times of need. The city and its temples turned the area into a place where different beliefs, cultures, political affiliations, and ways of life swirled around each other. And it’s there when Jesus turned to his disciples and asked them what people had to say about him. 

This moment, then, is filled with a kind of tension. Jesus had already made a name for himself as a bit of a healer, prophet, and rabble rouser. He stood there in the presence of the Romans and their enablers who said that they were the true masters of the world. And it must have felt weird to talk about Jesus in that space. The disciples began by sharing that some though Jesus was John the Baptist reincarnated. John was recently killed because he refused to stay quiet when he saw political power abused. Many of these leaders, including one of King Herod’s sons, saw Jesus in this way. Others, however, imagined Jesus to be Elijah – a prophet who, according to scripture, never died but was taken up to heaven by God. As Christians, we describe John the Baptist’s ministry as being Elijah returned. But non-followers of Jesus were hoping for Elijah to come in a rather potent – and powerful – kind of way. And along the same lines as Elijah, some thought Jesus was a prophet – an heir to the long line of men and women who were God’s mouthpieces on earth. They regularly challenged those in power to trust God and to make a difference in the lives of the marginalized and poor. It wasn’t only the city of Caesarea Philippi that was viewed as a swirling focal point of beliefs and points of view. Jesus, himself, was defined in the very same way. The physical space – and its statues – was how the community elevated the status and symbols of everything Rome stood for. And the words people used to describe Jesus – showed how everyone was using their personal stories and the stories of their people to try and identify who exactly Jesus was. The swirling experience of Jesus and the city exemplified just how much our lives and our world are made up of conflicting identities and views. And so, after his disciples spoke, Jesus butted in. He asked – point blank – “but who do you say that I am?” 

That question is worthy of a slow motion moment. And we should use our imagination to imagine what that moment felt like. I can see the disciples, clustered together, and maybe walking with Jesus on the way. In the distance is the city, its temples, and all the possibilities of political might. They noticed the city and they turned to look at one another. Some probably made eye contact with who they thought should speak up while others just kept their heads down. They had experienced so much since Jesus called them by name yet there was something about him that words couldn’t adequately explain. As the slow motion silence lingered, they finally looked at the One who had the audacity to feed thousands of people with a few bits of bread and fish, who walked on water during a storm, and who proclaimed that mercy, love, and forgiveness as what encountering God was all about. If the disciples were anything like me, this slow motion moment would have left their minds feeling blank and kept their mouths silent. But one of them finally spoke. And Peter, with a word, not only summed up what his experience of Jesus was but also imagined what a future with Jesus might look like. I wonder if Jesus’ mouth, as Peter spoke, broke into a slight smile. He heard Peter declare what is one of the foundational parts of who we are as Christians. Jesus is more than just a historical person with a story filled with miracles and powerful moral teachings. Rather, Jesus is an encounter of God’s love face-to-face. And it’s through Him where we, the imperfect people that we are, are claimed as God’s own. 

It took a slow motion moment for Peter to affirm Jesus’ identity and for Jesus to reaffirm Peter’s identity too. In the words of Paul Roberts, “of the innumerable miracles Jesus performed during his earthly ministry, perhaps none was greater than the miracle of inviting twelve poor, pigeonholed, imprudent persons into community and empowering them to live into a new identity.” Peter’s confession of who Jesus is – was made after Peter had already spent time living and being with his Lord. Peter’s identity as belonging to Christ began the moment when Jesus claimed him as his own – and told him to follow me. When we affirm who Jesus is – and when we, like the disciples, wrestle with who we say Jesus is – we are, together, affirming that Jesus is already part of our lives. In your baptism – and through your faith – Jesus already decided that you are his. And that you, of course, means YOU. It doesn’t mean the person you think you are or the person you want to become. Jesus claimed you – even those who remain silent during all the important slow motion moments. He promised to walk with you; to be present to you; and to always be for you even when you are not for yourself. It’s not always easy to let the identity God gives us be the one that informs everything else about us. We too often look to other things – especially our culture and our concepts of power – as ways to shape our thoughts about Jesus rather than the other way around. But Jesus doesn’t let those thoughts limit what’s possible with his story. Instead, he moves forward – into the otherside of our slow motions moments. Because Peter – and the other disciples – needed to see that God would be willing to go to the Cross. And we, like those first followers, need to discover just how far God will go – to make us into the people God promises we can be. 

Amen.

Jesus left that place and went away to the district of Tyre and Sidon. Just then a Canaanite woman from that region came out and started shouting, “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.” But he did not answer her at all. And his disciples came and urged him, saying, “Send her away, for she keeps shouting after us.” He answered, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” But she came and knelt before him, saying, “Lord, help me.” He answered, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” She said, “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.” Then Jesus answered her, “Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.” And her daughter was healed from that moment.

Matthew 15:21-28 (NRSVue)

My sermon from the 11th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (August 16, 2026) on Matthew 15:21-28.

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What was the last thing you brought to God that God initially answered with silence? 

Now I know, when I think about that question, I don’t, at first, think about anything good. I don’t pause and reflect on all those times when silence was exactly what I needed to get in deeper touch with myself and with God. Instead, I immediately think about all those moments in my life when I brought something hard to God – and didn’t really hear anything in response. It might have been a prayer, a cry for healing, or even just a blank stare because I didn’t have the words or the energy to say anything out loud. I, as best I could, leaned on God – and when I wanted an answer, I heard nothing. That silent response from God didn’t feel loving or caring at all. 

I wonder if the Canaanite woman, in our reading from the gospel according to Matthew, felt that same way when Jesus responded to her with silence. She had come to him with a request. She needed mercy. And when she shared with Jesus the hard thing that was in her life – Jesus didn’t answer at all. That, for her, must have been extremely emotionally hard – because, as we see in the words she used to address Jesus, she had understood him to be exactly who he was. And that, in itself, is kind of odd because she wasn’t Jewish and Jesus was no longer in Jewish lands. He, after making a name for himself all across Galilee and other parts of ancient Israel, chose to leave the land filled with people like him and enter some place new. The territory centered around the cities of Tyre and Sidon were once ancient kingdoms that competed with Israel. They fought wars, haggled over trade routes, and struggled with their religious differences. Even though ancient Israel and Tyre and Sidon were now occupied by the Roman Empire, the cultural and religious barriers between those two communities had not broken down. The Canaanite woman did not belong to the same group as Jesus did and Jesus didn’t really belong to her group either. Yet he chose to cross the border between their two communities and when he did, she came to him. She spoke with a loud and strong voice – admitting her need and declaring who she knew Jesus to be. She called him, at first, Lord – showing him the respect a rabbi expected while also affirming that she, as a foregin woman, wasn’t supposed to really be talking to him at all. She then named him as the Son of David – a term that had value and meaning for Jews but wasn’t really applicable to gentiles like herself. Yet her word choice was strategic because in the genealogy that appeared way back in chapter one, three of the four women named as Jesus’ ancestors were Canaanite women like herself. In the words of Professor Mitzi J. Smith, “the anonymous woman’s foremothers are Jesus’ kinfolk,” and so she believed that the cultural barriers between them weren’t necessarily as large as others might say. The Canaanite woman then told him, without reservation, the hard thing in her life. Her daughter was ill. Her daughter was suffering. And all the Canaanite woman asked for was mercy. 

So Jesus responded by not saying anything at all. 

His silence was more than just a “no.” Jesus, for a moment, basically refused to acknowledge her at all. He was the one who initiated the cross-cultural movement that created the opportunity for the Canaanite woman to come to him. But when she did – Jesus’ silence could have stopped her cold. If he had at least said “no” – then we could claim that he had initially seen and heard her. But Jesus acted like she wasn’t even there. That kind of silence hurts. It hurts because she, in a moment of desperation, revealed how vulnerable, scared, and hopeful she was. The Canaanite woman was willing to shed all the emotions, history, and cultural baggage that told her not to talk to a Jewish rabbi because she needed mercy. She – it seemed – was able to do something that even Jesus found hard to do. 

We don’t usually like to imagine Jesus, the Son of God, struggling with hard things. We don’t mind if he holds our heavy emotions – but, in today’s story, the hard thing he needed to do was change. Change isn’t an attribute we typically give to God. We want our God to be holy, all-powerful, and steadfast – firm and unmovable because we, unlike God, have to live through change all the time. A God who is love and a Jesus who is always Jesus – is a comfort in times of uncertainty and fear. Yet this immovable God is One who made the choice to experience change. When Jesus entered the world, he didn’t come out of Mary’s womb fully formed with sandals, robes, and a tight group of friends. He started as a newborn – one who would grow up and experience all the change that happens in our lives. That means he knew what it was like to be cared for and to cry real tears. And, I think, Jesus also knew what it meant to carry all the cultural, religious, ethnic, and other identities that we are given by the culture we grow up in. Jesus didn’t transcend all the baggage that comes with being human. He, instead, found a way to live through it. 

And so did the Canaanite woman. She refused to let Jesus’ silence change who she knew Jesus to be. She, in a way, created the opportunity for Jesus’ ministry to expand and change. Jesus had already done the work of crossing the boundary between what he knew and what else was out there. So she pushed him to affirm the ministry he was already doing. She kept shouting, knelt before him, and simply said “Lord, help me.” In that moment of extreme vulnerability, Jesus responded with a hard word – calling her a dog. Yet her identity as a gentile allowed her to use the cultural difference between them to help Jesus see so much more. Dogs, in the community Jesus grew up in, were typically kept away from the family. But for the Canaanite woman, dogs were more “endeared as household pets” and they would have been fed under the table. There was no binary choice between who gets to experience God’s love and who doesn’t. Instead, all can be fed. 

And that’s when, I think, Jesus faced his own silence. In the moment after the woman spoke but before he responded, something changed. Matthew doesn’t tell us Jesus’ internal monologue – nor does he describe how the disciples acted after she spoke. But I like to imagine that there was a kind of pause where even Jesus was confronted by silence. It was a silence full of everything he had experienced up to that moment – and the truth that God’s kingdom is as inclusive, loving, and diverse as God’s creation. The silence might not have lasted very long but it was created by a persistent woman who wouldn’t let Jesus be anything else but God.  

The silence we experience during our hard moments won’t always turn out the way we hope. There will be times when our need for mercy won’t lead to our loved one being healed. Our hearts will be broken and that silence will be louder than we expect. Yet the silence we live through is not a silence that Jesus doesn’t know. He experienced it when a woman refused to let him be anything else but himself. And he felt its crushing effect when he cried out to God on the Cross – and heard the jeer of Roman soldiers in response. We are called to be, like that woman, persistent despite the silence. We are called to raise up, in prayer or in a blank stare, everything that is hard. We, like her, should call God to account – and to not be afraid to ask for mercy, grace, or hope. And we can, also, I think – be a little like Jesus. We can give ourselves the chance to be changed and to assume that whatever and whoever you are right now – is all that you can possibly be. The silence that surrounds you is not what determines your worth or your purpose. You are and you always will be a beloved child of God. Even when your faith feels small and in those moments when you wonder if you actually believe anything at all – Jesus is right there with you. The silence he originally expressed – is a silence he’s lived through. And you – with him and in him – will live through your silences too. 

Amen. 

Immediately [Jesus] made the disciples get into a boat and go on ahead to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds. And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, but by this time the boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land, for the wind was against them. And early in the morning he came walking toward them on the sea. But when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were terrified, saying, “It is a ghost!” And they cried out in fear. But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”

Peter answered him, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” He said, “Come.” So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came toward Jesus. But when he noticed the strong wind, he became frightened, and, beginning to sink, he cried out, “Lord, save me!” Jesus immediately reached out his hand and caught him, saying to him, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” When they got into the boat, the wind ceased. And those in the boat worshiped him, saying, “Truly you are the Son of God.”

Matthew 14:22-33 (NRSVue)

My sermon from the 10th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (August 9, 2020) on Matthew 14:22-33.

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The last boat I was on wasn’t really a boat at all. It was large, brown, and resembled the ships vikings used one thousand years ago. But unlike those vessels that were able to sail across the North Atlantic, the one I was sitting on would have sunk if it was ever placed in water. And that’s because this so-called boat wasn’t designed to float. It was, instead, a ride at an amusement park. I don’t remember it’s name but you’ve probably seen it before. The viking ship was attached to a large device that would swing the ship like a giant pendulum. People, like me and my two oldest kids, chose to pay money to ride such a device. And when it was our turn to take our seats, we had a large cushioned bar resting on our laps and chests as a way to keep us from falling out. At first, the swinging of the boat wasn’t very much. We went back and forth – and then back and forth. But each time the boat swung, we ended up going a little bit higher. Soon, the apex of our swing reached the point where we would, for a moment, find ourselves staring straight down at the ground. Each time that happened, my lizard brain told me that maybe this isn’t that safe. And when the boat finally swung down, it always felt as if my body moved while my heart stayed up on top. I’ve never really enjoyed being terrified and so I was perfectly fine when the ride ended before my kids wanted it too. When we finally stepped off the ride, they were full of energy and ready to go on the next one. I, on the other hand, felt a bit queasy – and I told them to go see if their aunt would ride with them instead. 

The movement of that amusement park ride is designed to be quick, over-the-top, and brief. It also, in some ways, mimics what we might experience if we were on a boat caught in a storm at sea. The waves would force the boat to rock back and forth – back and forth – back and forth. At first, those waves might be small. But as the wind howled and the waves grew larger – a different kind of fear would show up because we would know when this storm would end. As I read today’s story from the gospel according to Matthew, I kept wondering what it was like to be one of the other disciples who sat on that boat. We often focus our attention on Peter in this reading but he wasn’t the only person in the story. Peter was with at least 11 others who were told by Jesus to get in and head to the other side of the sea. As the boat sailed across the waters, a storm blew in and it stopped them in their tracks. I’m pretty sure, as the wind howled, their boat rocked back and forth in the waves. I’m sure it felt as if they were constantly moving – except they weren’t going forward and they couldn’t go back. They were swirling in a storm that was forcing them to stand still. And they were stuck, on the sea, without Jesus who – just a few chapters before, had already shown how he could calm the sea. The other disciples were far from the One who had performed all kinds of miracles and who, right before their trip on the boat, fed thousands of people with a few loaves of bread and two fish. These followers of Jesus were going exactly where Jesus told them to go – but they weren’t following him to pray. Unlike my ride on that fake boat in an amusement park, I knew the fear would end after only a few moments. But while Jesus prayed, night turned into day – and the storm still raged. 

It’s probably safe to say that the terror the disciples felt was a bit tempered because many of them were fishermen. They knew what it was like to be caught in storms – and those who fished probably told the others how to get through this moment. They did the safest thing that they knew how to do. They hunkered down, stayed in the boat, and let the waves rock them. The disciples focused on the things they could control – and they let everything else work the way it would. I don’t think that stopped them from being anxious or afraid. But they did their best to not get hurt. They waited for things to lighten up and to change. And when they could finally see how far they were from shore – they looked out over the sea and saw Jesus walking to them. 

Now, walking on water was something Jesus hadn’t done before. And after being up all night and filled with all the fear, adrenaline, and anxiety storms bring – it makes sense that the disciples had no idea what they were seeing. Their boat was still being rocked by waves – and I bet they focused on Jesus about as well as we could if we’re being rocked by an amusement park ride. Their cry about a “ghost” is more than just them revealing some kind of superstition. It’s also, to me, the cry of followers of Jesus who were exhausted, worn out, scared, and couldn’t possibly believe that there was one more awful thing headed their way. 

Everything the disciples knew – their skills as fishermen, as followers of Jesus, and as human beings – could only hold them up for so long. As the storm raged, it kept changing what they could do and where they could go. It felt, I bet, as if more and more things were being forced upon them and they couldn’t possibly take one more thing. They were on the verge of articulating what someone recently told me: that they just felt like giving up. In the midst of a pandemic, job losses, the working out of racial equity, the current economic uncertainty, and a tropical storm that knocked power out across our area just this week – those things – when added to all the broken relationships, troubles, and tragedies of everyday living – can sometimes be too much. We, like the disciples, cry out for relief; for reassurance; for a break. And we’re not always sure if that break will come. 

Which might be why Jesus’ first response to the cry from the disciples wasn’t to calm the storm. Instead, he walked straight into it – and when the disciples cried out – he told them “take heart; it is I; do not be afraid.” Jesus came to them in the storm instead of waiting for them to get to the otherside. And when he arrived, his first act was to speak a word of comfort and calm. He chose to speak it at a distance – as he traveled towards them – because he knew they needed a word to remind them how much they were loved. Even though they had been separated while Jesus prayed – he never really left their side. Rather, he entered their storm while it raged. And when Peter came up with the great idea to walk on water, Jesus simply said “come.” 

I wish I could tell each of you that the storms in your lives will come in manageable forms and only one at a time. But we know that’s not true. Our storms sometimes show up all at once – and were left rocking back and forth while practically standing still. In those moments, in the words of Andrew Connors, “simply focusing on Jesus may not necessarily do anything to calm the storm…and no amount of prayer is guaranteed to calm the storms that sometimes rage within every life, within every home.” But we don’t go through these kinds of storms alone. Instead, we have a Jesus who chooses to enter into them. He shows up, in unexpected ways, to grab us as we shout “Lord, save me.” And he does that not because we’re the best sailors or because we never are afraid. He grabs hold of us – because love wouldn’t have it any other way. In a few moments, we’ll affirm the baptismal promises God gifted to Lauren – our confirmand – and all of us. And I hope, as you recite those words, you will hear the word of comfort Jesus has already given to you. The storms in our lives will impact us in ways we can’t always foresee. But the love God has for each of you cannot be destroyed even when we feel like we’re about to fall out of the boat. God loves you. Jesus is with you. And you can take heart – because Jesus is in the midst of your storms – and he is telling you to not be afraid. 

Amen. 

Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd, and he had compassion for them and cured their sick. When it was evening, the disciples came to him and said, “This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves.” Jesus said to them, “They need not go away; you give them something to eat.” They replied, “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” And he said, “Bring them here to me.” Then he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven and blessed and broke the loaves and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. And all ate and were filled, and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full. And those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children.

Matthew 14:23-31 (NRSVue)

My sermon from the 9th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (August 2, 2020) on Matthew 14:13-21.

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I’m going to start today’s sermon with a question: what do you do with leftovers? 

Well, what I try to do with those bits of food leftover after a meal is to save them. I take what wasn’t eaten and usually store it in a takeout container with a mismatched lid. I tell myself that this food would be perfect to eat the next day and that I should remember where I put it in the fridge. But that mental note doesn’t always stick. And before you know it, that container full of leftovers is pushed to the back of the fridge. When I finally remember that it’s there, it’s no longer food fit for people to eat. Rather, it becomes a kind of science experiment that I used to do at school. I end up tossing those leftovers out – and I take the entire bag of garbage to my garage. Now, I try to be on top of things when it comes to leftovers. Right before I sat down to write this sermon, my lunch consisted of five day old peach cobbler and the last slice from a day old bread boat covered in cheese. Leftovers, to me, can sometimes be the very best part of a meal. Because there’s something special about food that’s all carbs and covered in sauce when it’s eaten on day two. But there are times when leftovers are just leftovers and they never actually get eaten. The mental notes we make for ourselves sort of vanish in the busyness – or lack of busyness – present in our every day lives. Our best intentions can’t always compete with the fact that time moves forward – and that there’s another meal we need to plan for. When the next day comes and if we have the resources to make a choice when it comes to our meal, we might not want to eat what we had the day before. Those leftovers might not fit into the life we’re living right now – especially if we always ate leftovers at the office but we’re now entering the fifth month of working at home. Or maybe leftovers aren’t really something that show up in our life very often. Maybe the meals we make are only meals for one – and we haven’t been to a restaurant in months. Leftovers can sometimes simply be food we are planning to eat. But they can also tell a story about what’s happening and what’s possible in our life right now. 

In today’s reading from the gospel according to Matthew, there’s a lot of leftovers. But it started with Jesus not really having anything extra to give. When he heard that John the Baptist was executed by those in power, Jesus wanted to take a moment just for himself. He went by boat to a place where he could be alone because he was, I think, grieving. Jesus went to a wilderness place – but it wasn’t a place where he couldn’t be found. The crowds and people in the towns nearby heard about John’s death too – and so they went out to find Jesus. They noticed him on the boat – and so they gathered along the seashore. Jesus saw them and chose to come ashore. Even though he was grieving, Jesus recognized their need and so he showed compassion while, I think, his heart was already breaking. The grief Jesus experienced didn’t stop him from showing love and so he started healing the sick that were around him. As evening crept near, the disciples finally caught up to Jesus who was surrounded by the crowds. They too – recognized a need – and how no one looked like they really made plans to spend that night in a deserted place. Maybe they, like Jesus, felt compelled to just get out once they heard of John’s death. The urgency of that moment – their fear and uncertainty – didn’t give them the opportunity to pack a few sandwiches before they headed out. The disciples, I think, were moved to show mercy – and so they told Jesus to send them home so that they people could actually be fed. But the mercy Jesus had in mind was different. He wouldn’t let them outsource filling the need that they had already seen. He told them to feed the crowd but the disciples assumed that what they had would never be enough. Their first response was to say they had nothing – except for five loaves and two fishes that would be nothing in a crowd that large anyways. We might want to rag on the disciples a bit because they were with Jesus – and this wasn’t the first miracle Jesus had done. But I do think the disciples were trying to be loving at that moment. And when they noticed a problem in the crowd before the crowd even complained – they recommended what they thought was possible. Their capacity for love and care was large – but Jesus was about to invite them to expand their vision of what was possible. 

So Jesus, after giving thanks, blessed and broke the loaves and fishes. He gave the pieces to the disciples who then turned around and fed the crowd. After everyone ate their fill, the leftover bread and fishes filled twelve large baskets. It wasn’t enough for Jesus to just satisfy the immediate needs of the people gathered around him. He made sure that there were plenty of leftovers. But one of the funny things about this story is that we never hear what happened to those baskets. We never learn if that food was given to the crowd or was stashed away by the disciples to be eaten later. Now, I’m pretty sure anyone with a piece of bread or fish that was blessed and broken by Jesus would’ve made sure that it didn’t end up pushed to the back or bottom of their knapsack. Yet today’s scene ended with those 12 baskets just sitting there. And nothing was used up – or thrown away. 

And so those leftovers, I think, are an invitation for us to expand our capacity to see what’s possible in our world. We, like the disciples, often notice a problem but then quickly shift our focus to our limitation. Instead of lingering in the problem, we move into those moments where we assume we aren’t enough. That doesn’t mean – and I’m not saying – that we all need to be optimists or embrace some kind of mantra like positive thinking. But I do wonder if the miracle in today’s story isn’t necessarily the feeding – but the opportunity Jesus gave the disciples to do what they didn’t think was possible. Because even though Jesus broke the bread and blessed it, he gave it to the disciples to feed the crowd. He didn’t take it on himself to do all the work. He knew that the disciples had been moved by mercy – so he gave them something different to help their practice of love grow. It’s not hard for us to linger in the limitations of what we think is possible. Our lives, experiences, and personal histories teach us what is possible and what is not. And that can be good because it helps to keep us safe. But our lives and experiences can also limit what we think is possible for us with God. We are called  to be aware of what’s happening to our families, our neighbors, our country, and our world. We are called to see the needs of people who are not exactly like us. And when we see them, we can choose to focus on the limits of what we think love looks like. But we also have another choice. We can choose to expand our capacity of what love looks like – because God’s kingdom is always so much more. The leftovers of grace that Jesus displayed in this story was just an extension of the work he was already up to. Our reading began with Jesus noticing the crowd, recognizing their needs, and then offering love. Jesus was already busy working before the disciples showed up – and he’s also busy working in our world right now. We can, together, expand our capacity for what love looks like by not letting our limits define what we think God’s limits are too. Because, the truth is, that love always leaves leftovers. And the love God gives you – is a love we can give to each other and to the world – and that love should be big enough to leave leftovers too. 

Amen. 

[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 8th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (July 26, 2020) on Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52.

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Two weeks ago, when we last looked at parables – those 40 or so short stories Jesus used in his preaching and teaching – I mentioned a trick that I use to interpret what Jesus said. Now, the word trick might be a little harsh because Jesus’ parables aren’t some kind of secret code that we’re supposed to figure out. Instead, they’re stories we’re invited to sit with for a while. And we get to pay attention to how these words impact our hearts, minds, and bodies. We don’t want to rush past them – thinking we either already know what Jesus was talking about or to assume that our confusion about Jesus’ words means we should ignore them. The trick I shared helps us to become comfortable admitting that, when it comes to Jesus, there are times when we have no idea what he’s talking about. We can, and should, say more often those three words – “I don’t know.” We don’t have to pretend like Jesus’ followers did and say “yes,” immediately after Jesus asked “do you understand?” We can pause, reflect, and still look totally confused while also being incredibly faithful. Jesus gave us permission to say “I don’t know” because that phrase is one of the ways the Spirit uses to reveal the good news Jesus is offering to us – and to the world. 

So what was that trick that I mentioned two weeks ago? 

Well, I invited all of us – when listening to the parables Jesus shared – that we should pay attention to the weird. The weird can be, pretty much, anything. It could be the place where Jesus shared that story or the fact that he repeated a phrase over and over again. The weird could also be the setup for the story itself – filled with characters who wouldn’t normally meet in the first place. Or the weird could be the fact that the characters within the story do things that, on deeper reflection, do not make a lot of sense. Luckily for us, there’s a lot of weird in the many different parables we heard today. And it starts off with a mustard seed being planted in a field. Although the mustard plant was seen in a positive light by some people in the Roman Empire, it wasn’t something you would necessarily plant near your other crops. The mustard plant of the middle east was more like a hardy weedy – one that aggressively took over everything else. Even though it started from a very small seed, the plant couldn’t be controlled. And the one Jesus described was so over-the-top, it turned into a giant tree that even birds could sleep in. It would be pretty weird for a farmer or a gardener to plant a weed like that. 

Then there’s the parable of the woman mixing dough for bread. Now, there’s nothing weird about baking bread but the woman in the parable does something odd. She doesn’t only make enough dough for her family. Instead, she made enough to feed the entire neighborhood. Yet the text is weird because it described the kingdom not as that bread but as yeast – which, in some biblical texts, is actually a bad thing. Yeast was typically described as a corrupting influence – something that wasn’t even allowed in something holy, like the celebration of Passover. It’s really weird to see yeast as something divine when it was also seen as something very dangerous. 

And yet – there’s still more. There’s a person who finds an amazing treasure and chose to hide it in a field. Banks and safe deposit boxes weren’t really a thing 2000 years ago so that could make sense. But then that person sold everything they had to buy that field – and maybe just left that treasure, buried in the ground. We don’t get to hear how that story turned out before we meet a merchant in the business of buying and selling pearls. After finding a specific pearl that they wanted, they chose to destroy their livelihood by getting rid of their inventory to purchase an item that they would never sell. We next hear of a net filled with every kind of fish there was – and were asked to believe that one person could some sort and organize the incredibly the diversity that exists in all the waters of the world. Finally, Jesus ended his series of parables by talking about scribes who were usually hired to work for the master of households – as somehow becoming like the masters themselves. These parables were over-the-top, yet filled with very ordinary things. Jesus described farmers planting; bakers baking; merchants shopping; and fishers fishing. And that, I think, might be the weirdness thing of all: because when do we describe anything as powerful, potent, amazing, and divine like kingdom of heaven and the reign of God – as something that can be summed up by the slightly weird happenings of our ordinary lives?

The kingdom of heaven – God’s presence in our life – is weird and Jesus’ words hint at why that is so. We sometimes imagine that when the divine shows up, trumpets sound. Our prayers are answered; God’s might is expressed; and the power of the heavens appears in an over-the-top kind of way. And that, I think, is how we expect God to move in our world. We want a God who is so obvious that we could point that event to our family, friends, and even strangers and they would see that God was here too. We want a big God – who can overcome the big issues in our lives and in our world. And there are times when a big God does show up. But when we act, trust, or believe that God only works in big ways – then we let our expectations of God determine what God can do. And a God who only shows up in big ways is a God who misses the fact that we live most of our life in small doses. The God we want is a God who would have no problem being that large tree in the field or all the bread our neighbors could eat. But that kind of God would miss all the times when we’re just a seed, a sapling, or ingredients that are being gathered into dough. A God who is only big – is a God who would miss that we spent most of our life doing small and ordinary things. Yet we, instead, have a God who is big – but big enough for all the small things too. We have a God who entered the world small – as a newborn and who chose to be cared for and loved by a poor mother and a father who adopted him. We have a God who had angels announce Jesus’ birth not to kings but to shepherds who were watching their flocks in the hills at night. And we have a Jesus’ who was born while his family was on the move, uncertain about what the future would bring. Our God shows up not only in big ways but also in little ways – like in a little wafer, a little drink, in our prayers, our words, and even in the little pixels that make up the screens on our smartphones. We have a Jesus who says that it’s okay to say, “I don’t know” because he already knows you – exactly as you are. Life has a habit of not meeting our expectations. Yet, through our baptism and our faith, we have a God who is busy showing up in all of our ways. The way forward isn’t always clear and there are plenty of moments in our lives that are just weird. But we get to move into the future leaning into the promise God makes to each of you: you, as you are, are valued. You, as you are, are loved. You are allowed to say “I don’t know.” But with God’s love, grace, and guidance – we will live through our unknowns and into the future – that kingdom of heaven – that God is already bringing about. 

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 (NRSVue)

My sermon from the 6th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (July 12, 2020) on Matthew 13:1-9,18-23.

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Today’s reading from the gospel according to Matthew doesn’t contain the first parable Jesus told. But it does use the word “parable” for the very first time. And that makes sense because Matthew wanted to show that Jesus didn’t only perform miracles or make broad proclamations like “love your neighbor.” Jesus was also a storyteller and he had about 40 stories that he told regularly. We have no idea how often Jesus told these stories – but my hunch is that he told them a lot. And each one of these repeated stories lingered and resonated within the stories the early church told during the 30 to 50 years before the gospels were written down. The stories Jesus told stuck with the followers of Jesus because they, like him, could not be summed up by some kind of simple saying. Rather, the depth of the storyteller was mirrored through the stories they choose to tell. Jesus’ parables, then, invite us to linger with them – in the same kind of way we linger with him.

Yet spending time with parables is more than just trying to figure them out. A parable is designed to be familiar and different all at the same time. Parables are always supposed to be weird. And that weirdness means that our response to them isn’t always going to be the same. We might, like the disciples, ask Jesus – what does planting seeds actually mean? Or – in other parables – we might get what Jesus is saying pretty quickly but we’re not comfortable with the implications Jesus’s words have for our daily life. Parables often feel, at first glance, like they’re easy to grasp. But it’s not long before we realize they’re just out of reach. In a way, parables sort of mimic what Jesus did at the start of our reading today. He got into a boat and went a little ways out, away from the shore. He made sure that everyone in the crowd could see him – and the water from the lake would actually help amplify his voice. But even though he was easily heard and seen – he wasn’t actually easy to get to. Instead, Jesus was at a distance – and in the words of John Proctor, that shows how parables are always “a little harder to get ahold of.” 

And that to me – that inability to fully grasp and hold onto everything within one of Jesus’ stories – is what I mean when I say that parables are weird. Yet that can also be a way we can get deeper into the story itself. When I come across a parable, I usually try to first find that odd thing – that weird thing – that shows up in Jesus’ words. The weirdness might be a word that Jesus repeats, an action by a character in the story, or maybe even the setup for the story itself. Looking for the weird can help us interpret Jesus’ words. But as I sat down to spend time with this parable this week, looking for the weird felt – weird. I don’t know about you – but weirdness seems to be having a big moment in my life right now. Six months ago, when I dreamed of the summer heat, I didn’t imagine that some of us would be spending worship outside within it. We, together, didn’t imagine that we would spend a lot of our time worshipping in our homes. None of us thought we’d have spent all the time we have thinking about shaking hands, wearing facemasks, and who to hug and who to not. The pandemic we are still living through has made our everyday life weird. And that weirdness is centered in uncertainty – that makes planning for the future really hard. I don’t know what tomorrow will look like – I know that it’s going to be weird. And that weirdness doesn’t even include the other parts of our life that are also just weird. Our health; our finances; our employment; our families; and our relationships – there’s stuff we’re carrying that is giving the rest of our life its own flavor of weird. And I don’t even have to be specific about what those things are – because they’re personal to each of us – and yet each one of us might be thinking about it right now. 

It’s weird to look for the weird in this really weird time. Yet Jesus never told us that our life wouldn’t be weird. Instead, he promised that in our baptism; in our faith; and because of him – we wouldn’t have to live through that weirdness alone. 

So what’s weird in the parable we just heard? Well – I’m not a very good gardener but even I know that throwing seed on a path or in rocky soil isn’t really the best idea. Seeds need specific things to grow – and their best chance they have is in good soil. Even though we find plants growing in the cracks of sidewalk or among weeds and thorns – we don’t usually put seeds in those places on purpose. Our goal for the seed we put in soil is for a plant to grow and flourish. As a sower, a planter of seed, we want our seed to begin in the best soil possible so that it grows. How the seed reacts to different kinds of soil as seen in our parable – none of that is really odd. Even if the crowd around Jesus was a poor gardener like myself, none of them would be surprised at the seed flourishing in good soil. Our instinct might want to imagine the ways we can be good soil for the faith God has given us. But if we stay with the weird – we see that the soil, the thorns, the rocky boulders, and the birds – do exactly what they’re supposed to do. Those are the bits of Jesus’ story that are easily grasped. Yet the sower throwing seeds with abandon – especially in places where it’s not going to thrive – now that’s downright weird. 

And that weirdness might be where God’s word is speaking to us as we through our weird. The seed is the parable is God’s word – but God’s word is always more than just words spoken a loud or read from a page. God’s Word is also God’s presence – and God’s presence is always filled with a promise. The seed God spreads with abandon – is a promise that God is always with you. You are worthy of God’s love – and God doesn’t limit how much love you are given. When God committed to you in your baptism and through faith, God did not hold back. God fully gave all that God had to you because you really do mean everything to God. 

And that commitment from God is a promise given regardless of the soil our soul currently is in. We will sometimes find ourselves feeling and embracing the presence of the divine – and will see how the presence of God is transforming our life right now. But there are other times – maybe even most of the time – when our soul is well-worn, rocky, and full of thorns. We find ourselves with a faith that’s too complacent – and when something new pops up, our only conclusion is that God must have abandoned us. Or something incredible happens and our life is suddenly filled with a passion for God – but it burns out quickly and without warning. And there are other times when the rest of our life seems to overwhelm our sense of God – and we go weeks, months, or even years not even looking for where God is. Yet through all that different soil of the soul – God’s promise to each of you never fades. God doesn’t let the weirdness of our lives or our times limit what God chooses to do. God already claimed you and me – and holds us together in a Jesus who didn’t run from the weirdness of the world but lived through it. If your soil is rocky, worn down, and full of thorns – you aren’t tilling that ground alone. Because we have been brought into the weird story of a God who loves you, and me, and the world with a love full of mercy; forgiveness; justice; and hope. That love isn’t only meant for the saints, the most faithful, and those who always get everything right. That love, instead, is for us – the imperfect; the well worn; and those who get it wrong more often than we get it right. The soil of your soul is not what makes you who you are. Instead, it’s the truth that Jesus loves you – even through your weird. No matter who you are – or what you’re going through – you aren’t there alone. Instead, you have a gardener who is tending to you – and he will bring you through. 

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 (NRSVue)

My sermon from the 4th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (June 28, 2020) on Matthew 10:40-42.

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So I want to start today by asking all of us to notice what’s happening right now. Pay attention to where you’re sitting; the noises that you’re hearing; and recognize that I don’t think you’re sitting in a hard, wooden pew. For almost 4 months now, our body has experienced worship in a different way. We sat on couches, on padded chairs around kitchen tables, and maybe even outdoors on our decks. Worship has been and will be different than it used to be. But worship hasn’t only happened in our homes, online, or – now – in our church parking lots. Worship also happens in and with the bodies that we have right now. 

I know that not all of us have a very good relationship with our bodies. Many of us have been told, either directly or through advertising and our culture that our body isn’t good enough. We’re either too fat or too short; too muscular or not athletic enough. Our wider culture has thoughts about what’s possible with sex, gender, race, and what it means to be healthy. And if we don’t fit in, then we end believing that there must be something wrong with us. This wrongness becomes part of our daily routine as we step on the scale, look in the mirror, and notice that sometimes even the grocery store isn’t design for a body like ours. Bodies are complicated things – and they don’t stay the same. As a kid, our bodies grow and when we’re adult, it sometimes feels like our bodies break down. As we age and experience different health challenges, too often we don’t get to do the things we think we should do. The wrongness we might feel ends up getting bigger in our mind and we start thinking that being human means that we’re really just a mind that happens to have this body. 

But one thing I learned this week, from researcher and author Hillary McBride, is that being human is a very body based experience. And one way we see that is by looking at the amount of messages that pass from our brain to our body. Those messages are impulses transmitted by neurons through our nervous system. These messages regular our heart while also making us more comfortable as we settle back into our chair. Our brain is very busy telling our body a lot of things. But our body is actually telling our brain so much more. For every one impulse from our brain down into our body, our body is busy sending 9 messages to our brain. We want to believe and act as if being human is mostly just a top-down experience. But our body shows that being human really happens from the bottom up. 

Today’s reading from the gospel according to Matthew wraps up the teaching we’ve been listening to these last few weeks. Jesus had gathered together his imperfect disciples – the ones who would eventually deny him, betray him, and abandon him on the Cross – and he told them to go out and do the things Jesus did. They would share Jesus while also living out what it means for the kingdom of God to come near. That experience of living as followers of Jesus would involve a lot of bodies. The disciples were called to heal bodies; to cast out demons from bodies; and to use their own bodies as bearers of the good news of Jesus Christ. Jesus’ guidance to them included words on what they would carry on their bodies and how their bodily existence would rely on the hospitality of others. This journey was not one without any risk. And so Jesus told them that their words might end up breaking the incarnational relationships of families and households. Yet he also promised that the breaking or breaking down of their bodies would not mean that God loved them any less. In fact, God was already with them exactly as they are. God wasn’t waiting for the disciples to be the best, most beautiful, and most faithful versions of who they thought they should. God knew they wouldn’t be perfect. But God did want them to trust that even now, they were loved. And that love – that connection – and that relationship to Jesus changes everything. 

Now we might imagine that this connection to Jesus sort of stays up here. But faith isn’t always stuck in our heads. Instead, there’s an experience of faith that bubbles up from the bottom. That kind of faith is grounded in our encounters with others because we live in a world full of people who are not us. Our spouses are not us. Our children are definitely not us. And even our best friends who we’ve known our entire lives are still not us. We, as individuals, are unique in our own ways. Yet each of us are beloved children of God – who encounter God daily in amazing, but sometimes hidden, ways. We need each other to point out the ways God has shown up in our lives. We need each other to be that different kind of voice that reminds us we are beautifully and wonderfully made. We need each other to offer a supporting hand that will do something hard like giving us a cup of cold water on a hot summer day. And we need each other to show us that the life we live – a life we tell us ourselves that we are not enough – is a life that is valued by God and that we are worth God’s love. 

And maybe that’s one of the reasons why we, together, are more than just a church. We are also part of the body of Christ. In your baptism and in your faith, you were united with a Jesus who is still active in the world. The words he gave to his disciples 2000 years ago are still words meant for us. Faith isn’t supposed to stay in our heads. Faith is also lived out loud – and that living happens from the bottom up. Through Jesus and his body in the world, we are reminded that we matter to God. And since we do matter to God, we are also called to go out and participate in what Jesus is already doing in the world. Jesus continues to find new ways to show us that our bodies – exactly as they are – can still bear God’s love into the world. We don’t have to wait to be the most perfect version of ourselves before we fully follow Jesus. We can, instead, just be us. We, who are too short, can pray big prayers. We, who feel as if our body is breaking down, can cook a meal to build other bodies up. We, who live in a world where certain bodies do not matter, can reach out and tell others that they are loved. And each one of us can do the hard work of making sure that our communities, our towns, and our neighborhoods are places where all bodies thrive. This bottom-to-top way of living in the world is something that we get to do because Jesus has included us – every part of us – into his holy body. You are valued. You are important. You who is viewed as imperfect in the eyes of the world – is still, in Christ, holy and loved. Let us, together, use our bodies to make Jesus’ body real in our world.

Amen. 

”If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him, because he abides with you, and he will be in you.

”I will not leave you orphaned; I am coming to you. In a little while the world will no longer see me, but you will see me; because I live, you also will live. On that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you. They who have my commandments and keep them are those who love me; and those who love me will be loved by my Father, and I will love them and reveal myself to them.”

John 14:15-21

My sermon from the 6th Sunday of Easter (May 17, 2020) on John 14:15-21.

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So if I counted correctly, this is our 11th Sunday, in a row, where we are worshipping together online and over the phone. Now that’s pretty incredible because when we stopped gathering together in person as a way to keep ourselves and our neighbors safe, we had no idea how long our being apart would take. At the time, way back on March 15th, we were hopeful it would only last a few weeks. But those few weeks have turned into a few months and we’re still not sure when we will be able to safely gather together again in person. Now over these last 11 weeks, you’ve done amazing things. You’ve washed your hands more than you’ve ever done before. You’re wearing masks everytime you go out. You’re donating money and resources to all sorts of non-profits and food pantries. And you keep making phone calls, saying your prayers, and giving your time, talent, and money to your faith community. I know you’re not up to all those things, every day, but you continue to be God’s people in the world – even when you’re just not feeling it. We all want things to go back to normal – yet – you’ve already started living into a new normal – one that might still make us uncomfortable – but one that truly responds to Jesus’ call to love God and our neighbors. If, over these last 11 weeks, you’ve felt like you haven’t been doing much, I want to affirm that you actually have – because you’ve made adjustments in your life to help keep love at the center of who you are. 

So as we think back to where we were over 11 weeks ago – and reflect on the plans we made for ourselves right when this shutdown happened – were there any goals that you made back then that ended up being sort of hard to accomplish? For example, maybe there’s a pile of books on your nightstand that you’ve been meaning to read for months and so you made a promise to yourself that they were going to be read by now. How’s that plan going? 

Or maybe you decided to learn a new language or clean those untouched junk drawers in your kitchen, or maybe you signed-up for a daily aerobics class over Zoom? You promised yourself that your time at home would be “productive.” So how productive have you been? 

Or maybe you choose to focus on staying mentally well during this time apart. You made a promise to yourself not to read too much news, to only look at instagram once a day, and to eat well and exercise as a way to live through the constant anxiety and worry and frustration we’re all experiencing. How has staying mentally healthy gone for you so far? 

When I look back at the goals I made for myself prior to our first online-only worship service on March 15th, I’m not sure quite sure how to put into words exactly what I’m feeling. Because none of those goals were, necessarily, wrong or bad or silly. But they were goals that didn’t really understand what the next chapter of my life would be like. We knew, I think, that life would be different but we didn’t realize how different. And as we reflect on where we’ve been and what we’ve done, these past 11 weeks might feel a little empty. Or maybe super full – but full of none of the things that you expected or planned for. The downtime we expected to have when we stopped gathering together wasn’t really downtime at all. Because we were busy, consciously or unconsciously, making shifts in our life to just survive. That survival meant that we became teachers or learned how to manage parents-and-students over zoom, email, and conference call. That survival meant that we figured out new places to find toilet paper and which food pantries were still taking donations and giving out food. That survival meant finding new ways to connect to each other, especially if we live alone. And that survival meant that we still don’t really know how to balance everything that’s swirling within us – because we’re living through a lot of change we didn’t plan for and that we don’t want. That doesn’t mean we didn’t find moments of joy and laughter and kindness during these last 11 Sundays. But it does mean that this is still hard – and it will keep being hard – until a vaccine of some kind is found and made widely available. There might be a lot of promises that you made to yourself over these last 11 weeks that you haven’t fully kept. And that might be because promises are hard – especially when we’re living through something we never expected in the first place. 

Once again, our reading today from the gospel according to John, is Jesus’ attempt to prepare his disciples for what’s next. He gathered them together to share a meal, to wash their feet, and spent three chapters trying to talk to them about what was about to come. The disciples had heard Jesus talk about the various promises that God had made to them. But they had, at the same time, not really realized the promises about God’s promises that they made to themselves. When Jesus healed the sick, casted out demons, and displayed all those signs of God’s kingdom coming near – the promise they internalized from their experience of Jesus – was one that couldn’t live through the Cross. To them, Jesus was powerful; he was strong, mighty, and above all things. There was nothing on earth, they believed, that could withstand the one who even raised Lazarus from the dead. The disciples couldn’t really imagine that Jesus would experience a complete human life – one that included betrayal, sadness, hurt, and even death. As Jesus taught and proclaimed God’s promise of love in the world – the disciples made a promise to themselves that Jesus was full of power and all they needed was to stay with him. They heard the words Jesus said; they experienced his presence in the world; but the promises they made to themselves about what being with Jesus was all about – were promises that needed to be broken. The disciples couldn’t love God and the world like they should if they stayed locked onto promises that would die, like Jesus, on the Cross. 

So Jesus, then, made his own promise – one that didn’t depend on how talented or faithful the disciples were. He told them that, no matter what, they would never be alone. The Holy Spirit, God’s love active in the world, would envelop them, filling them a love that would never end. The “if” at the start of verse 15 isn’t meant to sound conditional, as if Jesus’ love for us depends on our choosing of him. Rather, the “if” is wrapped up in a bigger promise – rooted in the relationship Jesus has already gifted to us. Through our baptism and through the gift of faith, Jesus made himself a part of who we are. We get to love ourselves and others like Jesus does because the Spirit lets us focus on the promises that carry us through all of life’s unexpected moments. These promises let us be honest about our current reality and how hard things are. Yet these promises also proclaim good news  – because you are loved. There might be a lot of promises that we continue to make during this pandemic that we will struggle to keep. But we will also choose to lean into the promise Jesus has already given to us. Let that promise of love and hope – invite you to make different kinds of promises to yourselves and to the world; promises that help you love yourself and that give grace to your neighbors, family, and friends. It’s okay if you never read all those books on your nightstand and if your junk drawers are still full of junk once we gather together again in person – because the Holy Spirit is already keeping you grounded in the eternal promise: and God’s love is with you – even now. 

Amen.