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¹Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to [Jesus.]

² And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

³So he told them this parable: ^11b “There was a man who had two sons. ¹² The younger of them said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the wealth that will belong to me.’ So he divided his assets between them. ¹³A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant region, and there he squandered his wealth in dissolute living. ¹⁴When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that region, and he began to be in need. 

¹⁵So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that region, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. ¹⁶ He would gladly have filled his stomach with the pods that the pigs were eating, and no one gave him anything. ¹⁷ But when he came to his senses he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! ¹⁸ I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; 
¹⁹ I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.” ’ 

²⁰ So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. ²¹Then the son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ ²² But the father said to his slaves, ‘Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. ²³ And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate, ²⁴ for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!’ And they began to celebrate. ²⁵ “Now his elder son was in the field, and as he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. 

²⁶ He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. ²⁷He replied, ‘Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf because he has got him back safe and sound.’ ²⁸Then he became angry and refused to go in. His father came out and began to plead with him. ²⁹But he answered his father, ‘Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command, yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. ³⁰ But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your assets with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!’ 

³¹Then the father said to him, ‘Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. ³² But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.’ ”

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

My sermon from the Fourth Sunday in Lent (March 30, 2025) on Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32.

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Today’s story from the gospel according to Luke is all about lives that were lived – which is weird to hear on a day when, in a few minutes, we’ll be celebrating a life that is basically brand new. Jesus, who regularly used stories to explore deeper truths about faith, grace, hope, and love, shared with us a family whose life together was a bit complicated. We often identify this story by focusing on the so-called prodigal son, whose wasteful and recklessly extravagant behavior eventually brought them home. The end of the story, then, shapes our interpretation of what Jesus’ words were all about. But we can’t get to the end without all the stuff that comes before. The parable of the prodigal son is full of all the juicy stuff we love to analyze and gossip about. But if we’re still at the beginning of our own story – not even realizing our parents still exist when they cover their eyes while playing peekaboo – a story about lives that were lived feels a bit out of place. Yet I wonder if – on this day of beginnings – that the beginning of Jesus’ story reveals the kind of grace that carries us through whatever comes our way. 

Now, to notice that, I think we need to remember why Jesus told this story in the first place. He was, at this point in Luke’s version of Jesus’ life, taking his last journey to Jerusalem in a very roundabout kind of way. Jesus regularly made it a point to preach, teach, and heal at various places along the way. And since he – and his friends – were always traveling, finding their next meal was always a bit of a challenge. Jesus rarely ever said no to someone who invited him to eat at their table. And he regularly set a place at his table for anyone who came his way. This, though, caused issues since not everyone who visited Jesus were the kind of people we’d want kneeling next to us at the communion rail. These so-called sinners weren’t simply people who considered themselves good but who occasionally made a mistake. Those breaking bread with him included those who were seen as destroying the very fabric of what it meant to be a faithful community in the first place. The tax collectors often used violence and intimidation to funnel money to the Roman soldiers who occupied the land. Their work required them to violate the religious and cultural expectations that shaped who they knew themselves to be. And Jesus not only took the time to listen and care for them; he also ate with them in a very empathetic and merciful kind of way. Giving that kind of focus to those considered unworthy is something we all struggle with today. Yet instead of telling a literal story about the tables we choose to sit at, Jesus told a story about a father and a son whose table could only be described as completely dysfunctional. 

Now we don’t actually know what life was like for this family before the younger one left. Jesus doesn’t tell us if they got along or if any other family were around. All we get in the beginning is a conversation that includes no small talk at all. Rather, the young son went to the day and said “I wish you were dead.” I know that sounds a little harsh since it feels like all he did was ask for money. But the words he chose show how he wanted what he felt he was entitled to once his father was no longer there. Maybe, in our own lives, we’ve said – or imagined – or slammed a door while shouting down the hallway something that sounds a bit similar. Yet the weird thing that makes this entire parable something odd is how, at the beginning, the dad said “okay.” When it comes to Jesus’ stories, it’s always the weird, the absurd, the that-doesn’t-sound-right that provides us the opportunity to deepen our faith. This dad, after his younger child asked for the future to start right now even though his culture didn’t always give younger kids all that much – this dad agreed to do exactly that. And while there might be those among us who have offered – or received – a fairly significant financial gift like a college education, a wedding, a downpayment for a house, or cash to start a business to embrace some kind of new beginning – we don’t usually give the next generation our 401ks and social security payments before they’ve kicked in for ourselves. We, like the father, have our own needs, responsibilities, and callings from God to live out. Maybe, if we had the foresight and luck to know we won’t need our wealth to pay for our future health needs to be a bit more generous than we expect to be. Yet the need to hoard, to be afraid, and to keep what we feel we deserve often limits just how imaginative we get to be. The father had a lot of life yet to live but decided to act as if his future was already over. 

Then, what followed was a story full of excessiveness, unfaithfulness, anger, worry, confusion, mercy, and grace. And it was a grace I’m not even sure the father fully understood since, when the younger son came home, the ring, the sandals, the robe, and the fatted calf he gave no longer belonged to him in the first place. When the father accepted a future that no longer included him, the kid who stayed home received everything else. That son’s anger, frustration, and belief the one who didn’t repent shouldn’t then get a spot at the table is about more than them simply being jealous of the love the father showed. Rather, the dad was abundantly over the top with stuff he, in theory, no longer owned. It wasn’t his to give and yet, when an opportunity came to show grace to the graceless, he couldn’t help but live into a future where love abound. The father didn’t create a new beginning for his younger son when he came back after living his life. Instead, he built it at the start and refused to live – or accept – that their future could be anything else instead. Before the younger son left, his seat at the table was already set. And when he finally caught up to that different kind of future, a ring was placed on his finger and new sandals on his feet. That is, I think, one of the ways to imagine what our life with Christ looks like. We are, already, wrapped up in the new beginning he brought us by living a human life, going to the Cross, and living into the new future God has already brought about. We, as the Ones already made – or about to be made – as part of the body of Christ, have a seat at a table where God’s love never ends. This future was given to us not because we’re perfect, holy, or get everything right. Rather, the beginning we have with our God is the beginning of just how human we get to be. What allows us to be ourselves – to live and grow and face whatever comes next – is the grace that keeps the spot at God’s table for us. And since it’s God’s grace that holds the spot open, we get to extend that same kind of grace to those we’d rather push aside. It’s at Jesus’ table where we learn to listen, to care, to change, and be changed by one another and our God. And while Kennedy (who will baptize later) might find different parts of her life feeling like the father, or the older son, or maybe the younger one who just wished that the future she wanted was starting right now, the God who promises to be with her will carry her into a more holy future where Christ’s love is the beginning that never ends. 

Amen.

From Dollarstore Children’s Sermon. 

Bring two cards from the sign board. The letters I and F 

So it’s my tradition after the prayer of the day to talk to all of God’s children. I brought with me two of the letters we use to put messages on the sideboard. It’s the letters F and I. These letters can spell a couple of words. One is the word FI which doesn’t sound like a real word to me but something giants say in stories like Jack and the Beanstalk. The other word, though, is one we’ll hear in our reading about Jesus today. It’s the word – IF. If is only two letters long but I think it’s a big word because it’s a word that is used for questions. What do you think is a question we could ask that needs the word if? Accept answers. A lot of times, these questions are really a kind of contract. For example, “if you clean up your room, I’ll let you play on the iPad” or “if you give me your ice cream, I’ll be your friend.” Sometimes these questions are simply negotiations that feel fine – but other times that make us wonder if we are who God knows we are. They’re questions that make us think maybe we’re not good enough or kind enough or loved enough to be a friend or to be a part of the popular kids or to even be liked by those around us. If you do this for us, we will do this for you – can be very scary when it seems related to our identity in the world. If is scary – and it’s a question Jesus will be asked a lot today. After he was baptized, he’ll feel compelled to go into the wilderness and while there, evil will come and ask him a lot of “if” questions. This evil force – the devil – everything that is against God – will ask Jesus to be something other than he is. And the devil does this by using the word “if.” If you are the son of God, turn these stones into bread you can eat. If you are the son of God, worship me and I’ll make you the most powerful ruler in the world. If you are the son of God, jump off a high building to force God to take care of you. If – if – if – which implies that Jesus is not. It was a test to prove who he is and to doubt his own story. Yet Jesus doesn’t because he knows who he is. 

There are times when we’ll doubt our own story too. We’ll doubt we’re loved or we matter or we’ll let others around us tell us who were supposed to be instead. But I think it’s important to realize that these questions to Jesus came after his baptism – after a moment when he heard God call him beloved. And that’s because, in your baptism, you’ve already been called beloved too. That doesn’t mean we’re always perfect or that we won’t make mistakes. But whenever someone – or even yourself – wonders if you matter, if you’re important, if you have value, if you’re worth dignity and care and support – know that God has already declared you are loved, that you matter, that you are worth more than you could ever imagine. No one can take away from you that the Creator of the Universe thinks you’re neat. And if we’re loved by the Creatore of everything – then we can live out that love by moving away from always asking others “if” and, instead, shift our words to remember that “since we’re loved – we get to be kind, be patient, to care, to support, and to show others just how much God loves them too.” 

Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tested by the devil. ² He fasted forty days and forty nights, and afterward he was famished. ³ The tempter came and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.” ⁴ But he answered, “It is written,
‘One does not live by bread alone,
    but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.’ ”

⁵ Then the devil took him to the holy city and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, ⁶ saying to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down, for it is written,
‘He will command his angels concerning you,’
    and ‘On their hands they will bear you up,
so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’ ”
⁷ Jesus said to him, “Again it is written, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’ ”

⁸ Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory, ⁹ and he said to him, “All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me.” ¹⁰ Then Jesus said to him, “Away with you, Satan! for it is written,
‘Worship the Lord your God,
    and serve only him.’ ”
¹¹ Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him.

Matthew 4:1-11

My sermon from the First Sunday in Lent, (February 26, 2023) on Matthew 4:1-11.

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Every year, the first Sunday of Lent is devoted to the story of what happened to Jesus after his baptism. While his hair was still wet from being immersed in the Jordan river and with the words of God’s love for him ringing in his ears, Jesus was immediately sent into the wilderness. That isn’t the typical response to baptism that happens here since after worship we immediately take pictures in front of the altar before being sent out to whatever restaurant we reserved for a post-church brunch. This movement from church and into the land of omelets and waffles can feel pretty wild since we’re often coordinating the movements of our family members and friends. The stress we experience to get to the baptismal moment can sometimes obscure what that moment is all about. We, like Jesus, hear God’s promise that we are loved, valued, and an essential part of what God is doing in the world. This experience isn’t the culmination of our life with God but rather an opportunity to live into what God’s love is all about. Taking a moment to sit with our baptism and breathing in the promises of God is, I think, an important part of the entire experience. And while we sometimes can’t do that during the baptism itself, it’s something we should do in the day, weeks, and years that follow. Jesus, in our reading from the gospel according to Matthew, feels like he’s doing exactly that: unplugging from the world to pray, ponder, and wonder how God’s promises change everything. Yet this moment of peaceful reflection with all the quiet and lack of stress such a moment might need, isn’t a good description of what a biblical wilderness is all about. The wilderness Jesus went into is scary, untamed, and full of risk. It’s where our strength, intelligence, wisdom, and ability to even trust ourselves breaks down because it’s the kind of place where only God can be in control. 

Now that doesn’t sound like a place very conducive to doing some faithful reflection after experiencing the joy of baptism. Yet that’s exactly where Jesus went and when he got there, he fasted. The fasting he did isn’t like the fasting we sometimes do, which is heavily tied to a diet culture built on body shaming and irresponsible beauty standards that devour the lives of way too many people. Jesus was already in a risky place and his religious practices weren’t designed to make that risk grow. But we get a sense of the reasons for what he was doing if we notice how much time he spent there. The number forty is a biblical number, appearing all over place. It’s a number associated with how long Noah, his family, and the animals on the ark waited before the sea began to recede. When the Isrealites were freed by God from slavery in Egypt, they spent forty years being tempted by their own worries, insecurities, and struggles in the wilderness. Another similar story to this moment in Jesus’ life is when Moses spent 40 days and 40 nights in God’s presence on the top of Mt. Sinai. He was there so long the people wondered if he had abandoned them. The number 40 represents the time it takes for a new thing to arise out of the current moment. Before the next thing comes, life just has to be lived. That isn’t usually what we think about when we imagine what our experiences with God should be like. We want them to be like Jesus’ experience at his baptism – this over the top moment filled with a joy that becomes a real pivot point to who we are. It’s the moment when our prayers are answered, the heavens are opened, and a voice lets us – and everyone else – know that God is right here. Some of us have had that kind of experience yet it isn’t universal and it’s often pretty fleeting. The voice that declares we are beloved is very quickly overshadowed by the voices that say we’re not. Our own failures, hurts, and the way we hurt others can make us wonder how transformational that experience actually was. We chase after these kinds of God moments hoping they’ll be strong enough to withstand that terror that comes when our prayers are met with silence. And while I wish every one of our faith moments could be filled with joy, they often aren’t. Our sorrows, struggles, laughter, and tears are constantly swirling around us. We have to live through temptations, frustrations, worries, and to make many decisions that have no right answers. It would be easier if we could trust ourselves to be like Jesus as he seems to be in today’s story. But what Jesus does in this moment, while powerful, is a bit deceiving since these temptations show up again and again. Jesus doesn’t necessarily overcome these temptations. Instead, he chooses to live through them. 

If we reduce today’s story into simply a battle between Jesus and the forces that defy God, we miss noticing how Jesus’ experience in the wilderness also revealed what was coming next. The struggles laid out in this passage are like the ones that came later as preached, taught, and offered wholeness to all. In his ministry, we see followers who never fully understood him and how they often relied on their own perspectives of faith and power rather than noticing who God was choosing to be. Jesus, whether he was in lands filled with Jews or Gentiles, chose to help those we tend to push aside since every small act of love reveals who our God truly is. From Galilee to Jerusalem and beyond, religious and political authorities couldn’t understand how Jesus centered a life that looked more weak than strong. And when it appeared as if his story was about to end, his friend betrayed him and the rest abandoned him. Jesus didn’t push past these temptations or struggles nor did he, as the Son of God, act as if they did not matter. He, instead, lived through them so that we, with Jesus, could live through them too. 

And that, I think, is gospel – good news. God, in Jesus, refused to let us live without the promise of what our lives can be. This good news wasn’t meant to minimize our lives or pretend as if temptations, frustrations, and the joys where we forget to even notice God aren’t part of a faithful life. Rather, the good news is that our Jesus leads us through life because he lived life. He experienced pain, suffering, sorrow, laughter, smiles, and joys. He will guide us through the indecisions, questions, doubts, and those moments when all we think we have is ourselves. Jesus brings us through the crosses we face everyday and tears down the ones we give to our neighbors. And while we want this good news to push us towards a kind of happiness that fills every one of our days, this good news is what sustains us through whatever comes next. The gospel fleshes out the promises God made to us in our baptism and this is a good news that is offered to all. Yet this gospel is also a bit particular since the lives we live are the lives we live. Each one of us has our own experiences, temptations, struggles, and joys. And your experience of the gospel matters because it’s how we discover that God’s story isn’t complete without your story too. It takes time, a little effort, and some work to gain the words we need to share with others what our personal experience of the gospel is. And we start learning how to do that by paying attention to Jesus’ story and noticing how he is often most faithful to us during the messiest parts of our lives. 

Amen. 

Jesus said: “Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven. “So whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be praised by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be done in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.
“And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.
“And whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that your fasting may be seen not by others but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

My sermon from Ash Wednesday (February 23, 2023) on Matthew 6:1-6,16-21.

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A few nights ago when I went to sit down at my dining room table to write this sermon, I let out a big sigh because it was covered in board games. My four year old loves playing games but she hates putting them away. I gently pushed the box for Zingo – which is a game like bingo except the squares are pictures of things like a kite, a sun, a sock, or a snail – carefully out of the way because the box is falling apart. I double checked every fake plastic earring, necklace, ring and silvery crown was safely back in the box for the game “Pretty, Pretty, Princess.” And when my computer made an ugly clanging sound, I realized I forgot to move the metal containing the cards for the game “Go! Sushi!” These games, in theory, help kids develop the skills they need for everyday life like reading, counting, and noticing social cues when we interact with others. Yet the main goal for most of these games is to, simply, win. And I’ll admit that even though I’m a grown adult, there’s still something satisfying about coming out on top when playing a game designed for three year olds. Winning is fun but learning how to lose well involves a lot of patience, weeping, and gnashing of teeth. These games are designed for little kids which means there’s no real payout when we win. All we get is the feeling of satisfaction that comes when we crush our opponent by stealing all their acorns while playing the “Sneaky, Snacky, Squirrel Game.” That feeling is our reward and we keep chasing after it whether we enjoy these games or not. In our culture and context, winning matters and what we win often defines our worth in the eyes of others and ourselves. From a very young age, we invest a lot of time, energy, hope, and faith in always coming out on top. And so that might be why Ash Wednesday, this oddball of a church holiday, still matters.

Now today is strange because we’re not commemorating a specific moment in Jesus – or in anyone else’s – life. This day isn’t like Christmas or Easter or when we remember the faithful who’ve gone before us. We are, instead, beginning a new season of the church year on a rather random day of the week. We are choosing to interrupt our school calendars, our work calendars, our sport calendars, our life calendars, and even our worship calendar to meet on a Wednesday. Compared to what we usually do as a faith community, we’re being a bit extra. And if that wasn’t enough, we’re also making worship itself extra too. In just a few moments, some of us will come up to receive an ashen cross sketched on our foreheads which isn’t something we usually do when we meet. And if that wasn’t enough, we’ll also be doing this in the most public way possible – choosing to broadcast online our later service so that the whole world can see just how different we’re choosing to be. On this unusual day, at this unusual time, while doing something we don’t typically do – we’re doing all we can to make sure we’re noticed. Ash Wednesday isn’t supposed to be a day centered around competition yet if being faithful was a game we played against each other, today would be the day when we’d score a lot of points. It does feel a bit strange to say that yet I can’t help but think about our desire to compete since Jesus, in our reading from the gospel according to Matthew, keeps talking about some kind of reward.

Now faith should mean more to us than simply a spiritual version of passing Go while playing Monopoly. Yet our competitive culture, our love of games, and our need for winners and losers come into deeper focus when God talks about a reward. The rewards we typically seek are tied, I think, to what we experience while playing games. We want something tangible, physical, emotional, and spiritual so that all our struggles, frustrations, and failures become worth it. A reward only really has value when no one else can have it. And these rewards are something not everyone can win. When Jesus sat down to sketch out a vision of living in the world in his great sermon on the mount, it’s not hard to interpret his teachings as a way to win at faith. By the time he gets to today’s reading,we want to hear about those who aren’t quite up to snuff when it comes to being with God. Jesus, in chapter 6, isn’t putting down the practice of faith manifested in the act of giving money, praying, and being more intentional about noticing the abundant resources you already have. These are biblical behaviors rooted in Jesus’ own Jewish community and he told all who followed him to do the same. Jesus wasn’t calling into question what these practices were but he was calling out those who lost sight of why they do what they do. Jesus is inviting everyone to be a little more transparent, a little more reflective, and a little more honest about what living their faith actually means. Do we do what we do because we want to be seen or because we want to think of ourselves as a good person or because this is just what we’ve always done or because we seek a reward that requires others to be in a competition with us? Is living the faith about chasing after some kind of reward or does it have more to do with why this ashen cross is traced on our forehead to reveal the cross that was already placed there during our baptism?

These big questions show that Jesus was doing more than simply changing the scores different faith practices earn when it comes to being with God. Jesus promised that there was something beyond our need to always be competitive. The games we play are not the games God plays because God’s love is so much more. We need Ash Wednesday to interrupt our week, our lives, our motivations, our competitions, our games, and the faith that focuses way too much on creating winners and losers. Jesus, through the Cross, took it upon himself to end every game we create and play because none of us could do what God has already done. We, through our greed, worry, anxiety, anger, fear, self-centeredness, and sin often try to game faith by declaring who is in, who is out, and making up the rules needed to win a so-called eternal life. Yet God chose to do what we couldn’t do which was to refuse to compete with us at all. Jesus simply lived and loved and healed and prayed and taught and welcomed and promised that we are not defined by what we win or what we lose. Our worth – your worth – the world’s worth- is simply defined by who – and whose – we are. Ash Wednesday is when we, as a community, interrupt the competitions we wrap ourselves in and declare the truth of who we are. We are human. We are mortal. We are sinners. And there is no game you play that will ever make God love you more.

Amen.

¹³ “You are the salt of the earth, but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything but is thrown out and trampled under foot.

¹⁴ “You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. ¹⁵ People do not light a lamp and put it under the bushel basket; rather, they put it on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. ¹⁶ In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.

¹⁷ “Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. ¹⁸ For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. ¹⁹ Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments and teaches others to do the same will be called least in the kingdom of heaven, but whoever does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven. ²⁰ For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.

Matthew 5:13-20 (NRSVue)

My sermon from the 5th Sunday after Epiphany (February 5, 2023) on Matthew 5:13-20.

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I am not a miracle worker but everyday I try to make the impossible happen. Sometimes I’m being silly like pretending my mind is powerful enough to make a parking spot magically appear in front of the store I’m trying to visit. But other times what I’m trying to do is a bit more personal. When I see someone who is sad or who is feeling down, my first instinct is to make them “feel” better. And over the years, I’ve tried to do this by making them laugh or taking them to do something fun. If, however, I’m the reason for why they’re feeling what they’re feeling, I tend to  become a bit defensive and act as if my intentions are more important than what they’re going through. If we’ve ever been told to “calm down” or “just relax” while going through something traumatic, we know how impossible it is to change what another person feels. Yet we keep trying to do that because, I think, we don’t really know how to manage our own feelings when someone else is feeling what they feel. We, instead, teach one another to hide our feelings or we learn how certain feelings among certain kinds of people are more important than others. Our own insecurities, defensiveness, and need to appear happy cause us to push hard against those who wonder if there’s a different way to be. It’s difficult enough for us, on our own, to feel what we feel. And it seems a bit unfair that we, at the same time, have to be around others who feel what they feel too. 

Today’s reading from the gospel according to Matthew is a continuation of what we heard last week. Jesus, after quickly developing a reputation as a healer and a preacher, sat down on a mountain to teach those who came to see him. Jesus, in Matthew’s eyes, is like a new Moses, revealing what life can be like since the kingdom of heaven is near. Way back in the book of Exodus, Moses met God in a cloud on Mt. Sinai and delivered to the people the Ten Commandments. These words from God were given to a community who, for 400 years, had been forced to live a certain way because of their enslavement by the Egyptians. God, after freeing them, gave the Israelites something that was more than simply a list of dos and do nots. They were part of a larger revelation from God about what it means to live together. This revelation is often called the “law” which sounds a bit legalistic. Yet the Hebrew word behind the Greek word in our reading today that was translated as “law” is really all about “teaching.” And while a list of rules provides a structure we can live in, this teaching from God is how we discover what living is meant to be. Jesus, then, began his ministry in Matthew doing exactly that: he taught. And after a series of sayings about God noticing those we usually push aside, Jesus moved the conversation into something odd with a simple “you are.” 

Now it’s not uncommon, when we’re teaching, to focus on what another person “should” do. For example, when we show  others how to cross the street, we tell them they “should” look both ways before they step onto the road. Our “shoulds” do a lot of lifting when we’re teaching others how they should live their lives. Yet it’s very interesting that at this early moment in Jesus’ teaching, he doesn’t use the word “should.” There he was, sitting on a mountain side, looking out at his disciples and a crowd of people who needed to be healed. Jesus didn’t tell any of them that they “should be the salt of the earth” or that they should be “the light of the world.” He, instead, shared how that was already what they were. To the fishermen who left their nets and their families behind on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, Jesus told them: “you are the salt of the earth.” To the parents bringing their sick child to see him and to the blind man who had to beg for food, Jesus told them: “you are the light of the world.” In a world that believes only certain kinds of people get to decide what all our “shoulds” should be, Jesus looked at everyone around him and said we’re already something more. 

We, traditionally, are a little more familiar with Jesus’ saying about “light” since we hear it during every baptism. But on this day, I was drawn to Jesus’ comments about salt. Salt is so accessible to us that we often talk about it in a slightly negative way. We, especially as we get older, worry about how much salt is in our diet and we lament at how destructive, though necessary, salt is when ice shows up on our roads. If you went on a scavenger hunt in the church right now, you would find salt in boxes and bags and little glass shakers all over the building. Yet in Jesus’ day, salt was viewed as something, while ordinary, was extremely precious. It was the primary way food was preserved since refrigerators hadn’t been invented yet. And there are descriptions in our Bible of salt being necessary during certain practices and rituals. Our cultural history is so wrapped up in salt that even the word “salary,” which will be a part of today’s annual Congregational Meeting when we talk about the 2023 budget, is derived from a Latin term describing the allowance a soldier received to purchase salt. Salt is very necessary yet Jesus focused on how this very ordinary thing makes an impact on what we do everyday. Salt has a habit of enhancing flavor in whatever we’re eating. And you – the ordinary you, the emotional you, the one who teaches others the “shoulds” we, ourselves, sometimes ignore – you, through baptism and in faith, are a salt enhancing a certain kind of flavor that’s part of our world. 

But what, exactly, is that flavor supposed to be? Well, I think it’s tied to Jesus’ comments later in the passage about righteousness. Stanley Stowers, in a reflection on this passage, wrote: “We often think that righteousness is a matter of being a better, nicer, more ethical person: the righteous attend church regularly, give when the offering plate is passed, avoid common vices, and treat others kindly…[but for] Jesus…righteousness is concerned with mercy, forgiveness, and, most of all, justice…” It’s a righteousness that takes a look at the living we do together and how that reflects the fullness of our God. God doesn’t need us to “pursue the kind of morality that divides the world into the righteous and the unrighteous” nor does God need us to become a people “whose sense of righteousness denies the reality of grace.” The flavor God is already bringing out in the world is one where we, through acts of mercy and love, notice and see and work hard to make every relationship whole. One way we do this is by letting ourselves and others feel what we feel. We will have to learn how to emotionally handle the times when there is nothing we say or do that can make anything better. We will discover the courage, strength, and humility necessary to say we’re sorry and to never let our intentions be worth more than what people actually experience. We will, in a sense, stop asking ourselves to do the impossible and, instead, do what Jesus did. He, while teaching, sat with the broken, the hurting, the curious, the emotional, and even those who he knew would abandon him in the end. Yet he remained right there – to show how we, as the salt of the earth and the light of the world, can do the very possible thing of living with one another too. 

Amen.

¹⁸ Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be pregnant from the Holy Spirit. ¹⁹ Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to divorce her quietly. ²⁰ But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. ²¹ She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” ²² All this took place to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet:

²³ “Look, the virgin shall become pregnant and give birth to a son,
    and they shall name him Emmanuel,”
which means, “God is with us.” ²⁴ 

When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him; he took her as his wife ²⁵ but had no marital relations with her until she had given birth to a son, and he named him Jesus.

Matthew 1:18-25 (NRSVue)

My sermon from the Fourth Sunday of Advent (December 18, 2022) on Matthew 1:18-25.

*****

At today’s 9 am worship, we did something we don’t usually do. We held a kind of pop pageant to teach each other the carol, Good King Wenceslas. You might know the song but I wasn’t aware it was based on an actual person. Over 1000 years ago, a Duke – who was later declared to be a king – was celebrated for his faith and generosity. Stories about his life inspired people all over Europe to take care of others. The carol is based on a legend that might not entirely be true. But it is a kind of imaginative journey that reveals what our faith invites us to do. We, because of Jesus, get to be like Jesus by offering hope to those who need it most. The carol is, I think, a good example of what I often describe as using our “spiritual imagination.” It’s how we add dirt, grime, and real life into our Bible readings like the one we just heard from the gospel according to Matthew. It’s always a bit odd to connect our imagination to faith since we usually want our faith to be anything but pretend. We long for our Jesus to be as real as the bread we touch during communion and as physical as the screen or phone we use to worship. Faith, too often, feels like it’s supposed to simply be one more thought in our head. But when we choose to claim that God’s promises are real, then our imagination becomes a tool to see God at work in our work. Our Bible, I think, teaches us how to do this kind of imaginative work by not sharing every detail of every story. That allows us to ask questions like: how did Mary and Joseph get engaged? And what was Joseph’s internal dialogue like when he struggled knowing if his right to split from Mary was truly right? There is a long history in our faith, borrowed from our Jewish friends, to use our imagination to help make God’s words more real in our lives. These stories are known as a midrash which helps us ask the questions that fill in the gap. A midrash doesn’t contradict scripture but helps to expand with guidance from the Holy Spirit. And when Pastor Kimberly Cooper of St. Timothy’s Lutheran church in Wayne shared with me her midrash on this passage, I asked if I could share it with you. She wrote it after visiting the Holy Land and seeing where this story took place. To me, it’s a great model of what our spiritual imagination invites us to do. And I pray her example will inspire your own as we sit with Joseph who chose his family. 

****

Long ago, in the time of the Roman Empire, in the faraway land of Palestine, there were two cousins, Yoachim and Yakob. Throughout their childhood they ran and played together in the small town of Nazareth. They drove their Torah teacher crazy with their shenanigans when they were meant to be memorizing the law. They chased the chickens from the yard and pretended to be wolves when their sisters were minding the sheep in the fields. They were ornery and smart and the best of friends. When they grew strong enough, they each went to work with their fathers. Yoachim learned the art of weaving rugs and Yakob went to work as a builder. They each found a wife and had children. Yakob’s oldest child was named Yusef. He was a sweet child – nothing like his father and cousin. He loved listening to the Torah teacher and tending the animals. He could hardly contain his excitement when his father invited him to go to the nearby metropolis of [Sepphoris] to build a large bath at the home of a wealthy patron. He watched carefully and learned quickly. When they returned home, they heard the news that Yoachim and [his wife] Hanna had just had another baby, a girl, who they named Miriam. 

Yusef grew to be more and more respected throughout the area as a moral upstanding Pharisee. He worked very hard at the family business of building and carpentry, but always honored the Sabbath and kept it holy. He traveled to [Sepphoris] regularly to work building bigger and bigger homes for the wealthy. He enjoyed the work and took great pleasure in the beautiful finished product. But, he was saddened to see many of the wealthy […] adding mosaics of Roman [gods, their oppressors] in their homes. [His kinsman kept building] bigger and bigger homes, in which they threw lavish parties – […] while becoming less and less inclined to obey the laws of God. On the long walks between Nazareth and [Sepphoris], […] Yakob and Yusef would talk about the high taxes that were crippling their neighbors and making even their own business difficult. Yakob would always say, “one day the Messiah will come like a warrior to defeat these Roman pigs. We will be ruled by God’s anointed instead of the emperor’s representative.”

Yusef believed what was written about the Messiah [… but…] wondered why the LORD was waiting so long to send relief. Why did the LORD allow [some to have so much food] they [could simply throw some] away? And why did the LORD leave others so poor [..] they couldn’t […] go to Jerusalem and make sacrifices at the temple? Where was God in all of this?

At the same time that Yusef was growing to be a man, Miriam was also growing into a serious and hardworking girl. One day Yakob and Yusef visited Yoachim. Hanna and Miriam prepared a meal of fresh bread, goat cheese, olives, and roasted pistachios. Yusef blushed listening to the two older men reminisce over their childhood antics. Then, after the tea was served, Yakob broached the reason for his visit. Was Yoachim interested in a marriage between Miriam and Yusef? Yoachim chuckled and asked what Yusef had to offer. Yusef blushed [while keeping] his eyes away from [looking towards] where Miriam and her mother were working [..]. He had no doubt that both were listening […] to the conversation. 

Yakob raised his eyebrows and said, “what do you have in mind?” 

Yoachim quickly laughed and said, “ah dearest friend, surely you know, I am joking. It would be a huge honor for my lowly daughter to be married to the great Yusef ben Yakob.” 

The tension left Yakob’s shoulders as he grinned broadly. “Of course, we don’t come empty handed. Yusef and I will build a house for them to live in. This week we will go to the synagogue and make the announcement of their engagement public. Although, I know you are a successful man, I hope you will honor us by taking the gift of a she-goat as a bride price.”  […]The men embraced and departed without a nod to the women in the corner. But Yusef [did see] Miriam […] with a slight smile on her lips.

By the end of the next week, all the town had learned that Yusef ben Yakob was to wed Miriam Bat Yoachim. No one was surprised. On the Sabbath, all the Jews gathered to listen to a reading from one of their scrolls. Yusef closed his eyes as he listened to the words from Isaiah, “Hear then, O house of David! Is it too little for you to weary mortals, that you weary God also?” He wondered, is this why the LORD wasn’t sending a warrior to defeat the Romans?  Perhaps the LORD believed that all the people had turned against [God] and were chasing after the Roman gods like the those that lived in [Sepphoris]. […]

The next day Yusef and his father began work on the house for him to live after his marriage to Miriam. As he worked, Yusef prayed to the LORD offering himself, his wife, and all their future children as His servants. He [also] prayed […] for a sign that the LORD had heard him. Yusef did this every day […] but nothing happened. […] The anxiety became too much for him, so when his father asked him to go to [Sepphoris] to collect some more stones, he jumped at the chance. When he arrived, he went straight to the synagogue to seek out the Rabbi.  

The Rabbi was quite old and regarded as the wisest in the area. Yusef found him reading a scroll from the writings of Isaiah. “[…]Excuse me, Rabbi[?]” 

The rabbi looked up with a smile. “Yes, my son, what is your question?”

Yusef said, “Rabbi, I am deeply troubled. […] Here in [Sepphoris] I see [those who] have become so wealthy under Roman rule that they disregard the Torah, the law. I know that in Isaiah it is written, ‘Hear then, O house of David! Is it too little for you to weary mortals, that you weary God also?’ It makes me wonder if the LORD is wearied of us. How can I let Him know that some of us are still faithful?”

The Rabbi nodded. “Yes, these are very troubling times. It is not so different from the days in which Isaiah wrote these words. At that time, King Ahaz was fighting to keep Jerusalem from being overtaken by the Israelites that didn’t honor the LORD. Ahaz was trembling in fear that he would be defeated. The LORD sent Isaiah to tell him to trust in the LORD by asking for a sign. Ahaz refused to ask for a sign so the LORD answered, ‘Hear then, O house of David! Is it too little for you to weary mortals, that you weary God also? Therefore, the Lord himself will give you a sign. Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.’ Immanuel means God is with us. Trust in the signs that the LORD has given and continue to do right in the eyes of the LORD. Direct your family to do the same. This is what you can do.”

When Yusef returned home, pondering these things, he found his father and Yoachim waiting for him. Yoachim looked sick and miserable. Yakob looked angry. Yoachim opened his mouth to speak to Yusef, but no words came out. Yusef […] quickly asked, “is it Miriam? Has she been harmed?”

Yakob snorted and said, “she isn’t worth your concern. She has disgraced us all!”

Yoachim shook his head in shame. “I don’t know how this could have happened,” he swallowed and closed his eyes, “but she is with child.” His voice broke at that end and he turned to leave. 

Yusef fell to his knees on the dirt floor. “What?!” His mouth hung open in shock. 

Yakob said, “You must forget her, son, the town will take care of her, as we always take care of such filth.”

Yoachim began to weep […].

The reality of what would happen to Miriam penetrated the fog of Yusef’s shock and grief. “No!” he said hoarsely. And then more loudly, “no, Father, tell no one.” He jumped up and took Yoachim by the arm. “I do not know how this happened […] And I don’t want to know how. But let no harm come to her. Send her away to have the baby, so that no one knows. You are a good family. None of us deserve to have this disgrace.”

Yoachim was surprised, but nodded. “I will send her to my cousin Zechariah. His wife is also expecting and is of an advanced age. No one will bother either of them at this time.” Then he left quickly with his head bowed.

That night Yusef struggled to find sleep. He prayed to the LORD with all the many emotions flooding his soul. One moment he was angry then the next sad. Finally, after many hours, he fell into a troubled sleep. Then “an angel of the LORD appeared to him in a dream and said, “Yusef, son of [David,] do not be afraid to take Miriam as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Yeshua [Jesus], for he will save his people from their sins.” Yusef awoke in a sweat, and thought, “Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel.” Yusef laughed out loud [and] said, “when I asked for a sign, I had no idea it would be like this!”

Before the sun rose, Yusef went to the home of Yoachim. He went in and found Hannah and Miriam preparing the day’s bread. Hanna looked at him in fear, but Miriam seemed at peace. He asked her to go and raise her father. When Yoachim came, Yusef said, “I will take Miriam to my home now. Tell no one that she has become pregnant by anyone other than myself. For I have heard from the LORD. She and I are both of the line of [King David. And [I think this child] will be the Messiah for whom we are all yearning. I think the LORD has heard our cries and has chosen Miriam to bear the answer. [..] Miriam, will you come [home] with me [..]?”

Both Hanna and Yoachim were shocked into silence. They looked between Miriam and Yusef in confusion. Miriam smiled and said quietly, “yes […] I have heard from the LORD as well. I trust you to protect me and raise this child.” Then looking him in the eye she said, “for God is with us.”

Yusef and Miriam went on to have many other children. He worked hard and lived a good life […] without ever hinting to anyone the special circumstances of Yeshua’s birth. Sometimes he would watch Yeshua and wonder how such a […] kind boy could be the great warrior meant to overthrow the Romans. One day he mentioned his thoughts to Miriam. She smiled and said, “[…You] of all people must know that it takes so much more strength to love those that hurt us than to strike out in anger.”  […]

Amen.

On one occasion when Jesus was going to the house of a leader of the Pharisees to eat a meal on the sabbath, they were watching him closely.
When he noticed how the guests chose the places of honor, he told them a parable. “When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited by your host; and the host who invited both of you may come and say to you, ‘Give this person your place,’ and then in disgrace you would start to take the lowest place. But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, ‘Friend, move up higher’; then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you. For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” He said also to the one who had invited him, “When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.”

Luke 14:1,7-14

My sermon from the 12th Sunday After Pentecost (August 28, 2022) on Luke 14:1,7-14.

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On Friday morning, we did something here at the church we haven’t done in a while: we held a First Communion class. Eight kids, from first through fourth grade, joined me for a class that took us all around the entire building. We first gathered at the tables outside the church office, read our Bibles and wondered where Jesus sat during the Last Supper. We then moved on to the Sonshine room, stood around its long table, and created bread dough that didn’t really hold together. Once the kids’ hands were washed and the flour brushed out of their clothes, we headed to the altar – the table at the heart of our sanctuary. The class was a lot of fun and the kids were amazing. Yet when I reflected afterwards on how everything went, I was struck by how central the tables were. Instead of sitting on the floor or in chairs facing a blackboard, I unintentionally had the kids spend the entire class around a table. Since I planned for us to color and draw pictures of Jesus having a meal, I made sure that part of the lesson had a table big enough for everyone. Once the first part of the lesson was over, we then needed a long table close to a kitchen where we could work in pairs to mix and measure and stir together a whole bunch of ingredients. Finally, as we neared the end of our long class, we went into the sanctuary to spend time talking about what it means to be fed by God. I invited the kids to join me around the altar which I described as Jesus’ table. Jesus, during his earthly ministry, rarely turned down the opportunity to share a meal with others and we often imagine him eating around a table. A table is a piece of furniture that helps to make a meal, a meal because it’s a central thing everything gravitates to. It’s the place where food is served and received; and also where people on opposite sides look at each other while they talk and chew. Many of Jesus’ arguments with his disciples and with others involved who was allowed to sit at the table with him. And while picturing Jesus at a table makes sense for our cultural context, there’s a good chance most of his meals didn’t include a table at all. The piece of furniture in the middle of the room wasn’t central to his story. And as we see in today’s reading from the gospel according to Luke, what God keeps central and what we keep central are not always the same thing. 

So to properly set the scene, we need to imagine what this dinner party looked like. From what we can tell, the host of the meal pretty much followed the cultural expectations of the Greco-Roman world. When Jesus first entered the space, his feet were most likely washed by someone who was probably enslaved before he was invited to then take his seat. But instead of taking a seat at a long table, three or four couches would have been arranged at the center of the room. The scholar Craig Keener described the scene in this way: “These couches did not have backs, so three or four people could recline on each one. Each diner would recline on the left elbow, with their right hand free to take the food in front of them. They would be facing the center of the room, with their feet pointing away from the table.” The table in that space might have been a big piece of wood like we have in our dining rooms today. But I think it was mostly a small tray, big enough to serve one couch, so that the enslaved and servants could walk through the center of the room while cleaning plates, filling glasses, and bringing fresh food to the guests. These kinds of parties were not rushed affairs. Rather, they were an event where people were meant to be seen.

And being seen was something Jesus knew quite a bit about. When he arrived at the party, lots of people’s eyes were on him. Yet his eyes were on everyone else. He noticed all the people who, like him, were invited guests. And he also paid attention to the people others didn’t even notice and those who hadn’t been invited at all. Once everyone was welcomed, the guests had to find a place to sit. And so they began trying to claim spots as close to the host as possible while the host was busy deciding who was worthy of sitting next to them and who wasn’t. It was a very unmusical version of musical chairs, where people’s importance and worth was determined by where they sat. Picking the right spot involved keeping your eyes on the host while hoping they saw you as you saw them. Where you sat in relation to the host showed all the other invited guests the worth you had as a person. And your proximity to the center showed others what you could do for them and gave a hint of what they might be able to do for you. Your seat determined who you could talk to, network with, and the relationships which would help your reputation grow. But if you sat in the wrong spot and chose a couch you weren’t supposed to be on, your worth in the eyes of others would go down. In that dinner party space, your place in relation to the host was central to who you were. So that’s when Jesus reminded everyone that what other people think is not central to God. 

In a space without a table, the most central thing to Jesus was always people. The people he saw in the room included the host, those working the party, and the guests who rushed past Jesus while trying to show others how important and valued they were. Jesus knows that, as human beings, we often pay attention to what other people think about us. We want others to think we’re cool, kind, smart, strong, clever, funny, and that we’re simply worth being around. What other people think about us often impacts what we think about ourselves. And while that can cause problems, we often navigate through this dilemma by strengthening our own sense of self-worth. Yet it’s interesting Jesus doesn’t tell the host or the guests or the enslaved that God’s love for them is enough to show how valued they actually are. Instead, he invites everyone – especially those who have the opportunity to be invited to the party in the first place – to simply act as if everyone truly matters to God. For Jesus, that means practicing a kind of humility that breaks through the social hierarchy we participate in. We don’t have to live as if some people are worth being known while others are not worth being seen. Jesus wasn’t only interested in making sure we always have a place at his table. He also wanted us to look past the table and into the eyes of everyone who is central to him. God’s love is never only for those who we view as worthy; God loves even those who we wouldn’t want to sit next to in the first place. We are invited to keep people, rather than places or spaces or material goods, central to how we live in the world because all people – especially the marginalized, the wounded, the broken, the ill, and those we’ve pushed aside – matter to God.

Amen.