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My sermon from the 4th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (June 21, 2026) on Genesis 21:8-21.

For today’s sermon, I’d like to switch from focusing on the gospel according to Matthew and sit with Abraham and his family in the book of Genesis. When it comes to Abraham, we tend to focus on how God called him to leave what is modern day Iraq and move to Israel and Palestine; the promise God made that his descendants would outnumber the stars and how all families, through his, would be blessed; we remember how weird this promise seemed since Abraham and Sarah struggled to conceive, and when the promise of an heir was fulfilled, Abraham tried to sacrifice that child on a mountaintop. There are ways we can celebrate Abraham as a parental ancestor for our faith while also recognizing how a mug saying “World’s Greatest Dad” might not be a good gift for him on Father’s Day. His family’s story, though, is much bigger than what we typically hear in worship and he isn’t always the hero we always assume he is. Holding the good bits of his story next to the parts that are hard does more than reveal how human Abraham was. It also, I think, shows who our God chooses to be too. 

Way back in chapter 11 is when we’re first told Sarah and Abraham are struggling having children. The reasons why aren’t explicitly shared but we can safely assume it impacted their life together. Back then, as well as today, women were often unjustly blamed for reproductive struggles and this shame projected by the wider community was internalized by those who were struggling. Abraham and Sarah had, together, formed a large and wealthy nomadic community that even nearby kings felt the need to negotiate with. They were a force to be reckoned with and yet what might come next was always on their mind. Abraham prepared for the future by naming one of his slaves his legal heir. And while this created a way to have descendants that would follow, they wondered if there might be another way to create their future. So in chapter 16, Sarah told Abraham to sleep with Hagar who was one of Sarah’s slaves. God’s promise to Abraham did not fully identify who the mother of his child might be and so the cultural practice of letting a child’s parentage be transferred to whoever owned the mother was something they chose to embrace. This wasn’t, however, something they had to do. Sarah didn’t have to act as if our ways are also God’s way nor did Abraham have to simply do whatSarah said. Both of them had the capacity and power to say “no” while Hagar, who was enslaved, was the only one who couldn’t. Once Abraham exerted his power over her, everyone’s relationship with one another became strained. Sarah decided to deal with the pregnant Hagar harshly and so Hagar fled towards home through a wilderness full of dangers. While stopped at a spring, an angel came and convinced her to return to Abraham’s household. God, though, also gave her a promise that – like Abraham – her descendants would be uncountable. Hagar, then, did something no other person in our Bible does. She gave God a name. She named God “El-roi – which might mean “the God who sees.” And when Hagar returned to Abraham and Sarah, she gave birth to a son who was named Ishmael and it appeared as if God’s promise was becoming fulfilled. 

But everything changed once Sarah gave birth to Issac and seemed like he’d survive through the ancient world’s very high infant mortality rate. Ishamel was no longer simply Sarah’s legal son and Abraham’s firstborn heir. He was now only the son of an enslaved woman. Vanessa Lovelace, in a commentary on this passage, described how Sarah’s perspective shifted when he saw Ishamel being affectionate to his much younger brother. The word for “playing” is rooted in the word for “laughter” which is a deliberate play on Issac’s name which meant laughter too. What Sarah saw was “Ishmael behaving in a way that imitated her son Isaac” and she might have been worried their relationship would interfere with God’s promise since there were cultural rules about who has value, who matters, and who gets what when the future comes our way. Sarah demanded Abraham to send Hagar and Ishamel away so they wouldn’t get in the way of what she wanted her tomorrow to be. Abraham was conflicted by this request but he didn’t come out and say “no.” God, though, spoke up and appeared to let Sarah’s fears, worries, anxieties, and way of life shape what happened next. And so early the next morning, before the household started to stir, Abraham gave Hagar and Ishamel some meager supplies before casting them out into the wilderness. 

There was, though, something about this moment that was different from the last time she was in the wilderness. Back then, she executed a plan to return home but this journey was different. Without purpose, direction, and having lived within Abraham’s household for a number of years, she wept and waited for her future to end. We might assume, like before, an angel would show up to respond to her cries for help. But what we heard instead was that Ishamel had to grow up way too soon and the one who didn’t seem to have a say in his own future chose to cry out too. He did the very faithful and very human thing of not letting this be the limit of what could be. Scripture doesn’t tell us exactly what he said which means we’re allowed to let our imagination fill out that gap ourselves. And while our first instinct might be to assume Ishamel was reverent and spoke to God in what we might say is the proper way, I think it’s okay to not limit the words he uttered. Rage, anger, fear, sadness, and anxiety – all the stuff we say when the future we expected is no longer on its way – would have been on his lips too. Ishamel, who didn’t ask to be brought into a world that devalued who he was based on what he was born into, imagined a different kind of tomorrow. And God, rather than letting Sarah and Abraham’s vision be all that could be, affirmed that the one who we pushed to the margins will always have a place in God’s kingdom too. 

Now we never hear if any kind of resolution or reconciliation between Abraham, Sarah, Hagar, and Ishamel ever took place. Hagar disappears from the book of Genesis and Ishamel only shows up in one verse to help Issac bury Abraham after he died. Like a lot of families, the unresolved harm, conflict, and violence, ends up having a permanent place at the table too. We might imagine that a peaceful family is a sign God is really with us. Yet even in the very mess bits that make up the families we’re born into and the families we choose, God’s promises always remain. When the water was poured over you and God declared you really are a beloved child of God, every other claim on your life and soul was overwritten. You are not limited by what other people say about you nor is every cultural rule and tradition good and true. Rather the God who heard the cry of Hagar, who heard the cry of Ishamel, and who hears every cry we make is also a God who promises to hold you through. And while what comes next is a mystery that doesn’t always match our expectations, the God who never left Ishmael is a God who will never leave you too. 

Amen.

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.” 

My sermon from the 4th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (July 2, 2023) on Genesis 22:1-14.

So what do we do about a story that, in the words of the Mark Smith, professor of Old Testament at Princeton Theological Seminary, “has no parallels in the Bible or ancient Near Eastern literature?” Christians have, since the first few decades after Jesus’ death and resurrection, seen the story of the attempted sacrifice of Issac as one foreshadowing Jesus on the cross. There are details within this story that seem to match – such as Issac being the one who carried the wood he would be bound too. Yet this story still leaves us with questions since God, who already promised that Abraham’s descendants would outnumber all the stars in the sky, suddenly out of nowhere asked Abraham to end that promise. We’re told that this whole ordeal is meant to be a test but what that test is trying to measure is a bit fuzzy. Even Abraham, Issac, his family, and their entire household are left in the dark, not knowing that they’re undergoing a test in the first place. Our reading begins with God calling Abraham by name and then quickly moves to God uttering a word we wouldn’t expect. This is a story where God’s intentions aren’t very easy to see. 

Yet I wonder if the opening words between God and Abraham might help us unpack everything else that followed. These words, at first, feel rather one-sided since God does most of the talking. But we can safely imagine that Abraham wouldn’t have been so quiet since he had a regular habit of arguing with God. At worst, Abraham would have kept every response to God safely in his head and I think that that command that punctuated God’s speech provides that space where we get to imagine what Abraham might have said. God began his words with the command “take your son” which Abraham would have made Abraham wonder – which one? By this point in the story, Abraham had two sons – one through Sarah and the other through Hagar, Abraham’s slave. That son was born when Sarah and Abraham tried to make God’s promise come true on their own. God, though, answered Abraham’s question by pointing to Issac but surrounded that name with “an only.” Abraham knew, however, that such a word didn’t fully apply to him but did to the women who never made an overt appearance in the story. Abraham, I believe, loved all his kids – which might be why God didn’t say that Issac was the only one he loved. By this point in the speech, I imagine Abraham was a bit confused – not quite sure what God was doing. The comments God shared didn’t fully describe Abraham’s story as he, himself, knew it to be. God seemed to be shifting Abraham’s story in a slightly different way that left Abraham filled with questions. Abraham probably wondered where God was going with all of this – which shows how faith doesn’t require us to turn off our brain or leave our emotions behind. Instead, God seemed to be engaging with Abraham’s default story – his own self-vision of who he was supposed to be. 

And it’s at that point in the story where everything gets weird. God then told Abraham to take Issac to a new place to be offered up as a sacrifice. Now the idea behind the sacrifice – the intentional killing of a living thing as a way to connect with the divine – is something that’s all over our Bible. But our Bible doesn’t take a few verses to describe why this kind of sacrifice existed in the first place. Instead, it’s just there – a part of our human story that assumes reaching out to the divine requires a life to be involved. Usually the sacrifice used grain or grapes, cattle or sheep, or other kinds of domesticated plants and animals. But there were moments when, during a war or after a natural disaster or while living through a famine or plague that humans were killed. When the world was on the line, a person’s life was used as a way to convince a god or gods or whatever to intervene. Abraham knew that his current situation wasn’t close to being that dire but that concept of sacrifice was simply assumed as part of what it means to interact with God. He, I think, couldn’t even imagine that a relationship with the divine wouldn’t include some kind of sacrifice. A sacrifice was how you convinced the so-called gods to act on the behalf of you, your family, and your nation. Living with the divine meant the world was kind of wrapped up in a pay-per-play attitude where your faithfulness, your love, your devotion, was reflected in and through the living things burnt up to the divine. Abraham, though, doesn’t explicitly hear from God about what this so-called test that he didn’t even know he was taking – would give him. Yet that pay-per-play idea was assumed to be part of every communication one had with the divine. God commanded Abraham to end the promise Issac’s life fulfilled – and every bit of his wonder and doubt and questions were impacted by this sacrificial vision of what it means to be in a relationship with God. 

And so I wonder if this test wasn’t about how close Abraham came to slaughtering his own son but rather was God showing how far these default stories take us into death and how we need God to give us a new vision of what it means to live in the world. Asking, or forcing, others to make all kinds of sacrifices for our own personal benefit – is a story that is still with us. We often require others, especially the most vulnerable among us, to sacrifice their own opportunities for life, love, health, and success so that the story we tell of our own value and importance won’t come crumbling down. We, without always realizing it, live as if God’s creation really is a pay-to-play reality where everything, including love and grace, is a limited commodity that only certain people are allowed to have. God sent Abraham on a journey that revealed to him and Issac just how far the default stories we carry might take us. God was not interested in letting these kinds of stories continue because a sacrifice shouldn’t be about asking others to lose their own life so that we can continue embracing the status quo. Rather, the kind of sacrifice God had in mine was centered on what we can do to help those around us – thrive. 

God gave Abraham and his descendants a new story rooted in the promise of life, opportunity, and hope. Our interaction with the divine and the wider world would no longer be centered on death but rooted in the life God had already brought about. The life of faith is not meant to make us into some kind of holy robot that does whatever it’s told. Rather, our new story helps us undo the default story that believes that scarcity and fear are central to what God is about. And so, after rewriting Abraham’s story, God eventually re-wrote every story by living a human life and ending the power of death. Instead of asking or forcing others to be sacrificed so that we can remain who we are, God intervenes to show us the life-giving people we can be. This, though, requires us to reflect, deeply and honestly, about what our default story truly is. We need to ask what sacrifices we ask others to make so that we don’t have to make any sacrifices of our own. We have to push through our own comfort zone and into a reality where mercy, hope, and forgiveness abound. And we do this not because it’s easy or because we think this will get God to do what we want God to do. But rather, this is simply the way we get to be because God has already acted. Jesus died on the Cross so that we would no longer ask others to die on it too. Instead, we get to embrace a new vision – a holy vision – a Godly vision – that notices just how abundant God’s love, grace, and forgiveness can truly be. 

Amen. 

My sermon from 5th Sunday of Easter (May 13, 2023) on John 14:1-14.

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So I’ve heard that when you’re trying to sell your home, make sure to preheat the oven a few minutes before the open house kicks off and then put some store-bought cookie dough inside. The hope is that once the air is filled with all that sugary goodness, potential buyers will think they’re home. This marketing gimmick has been around for so long that it even shows up in all kinds of unexpected places. About ten days ago, I dropped off my oldest kid at school and then drove to Philadelphia. I pulled into a large parking lot surrounding a big box-like building with the words “life celebration” in giant white letters along each side. When I got out of my car, I ran into my brother and sister-in-law who helped remove all the stray white cat hairs that were all over my suit. We, together, then walked into the building and were directed by two highly enthusiastic people to head towards our right. As I walked, I could hear the sounds of many different voices chatting ahead of me. Our plan was to find the large community space filled with our family members but we first ran into a large self-serve coffee bar in front of it. Along one wall were coffee pots filled to the brim with caffeinated goodness while on the island in the middle of the room was a tower of freshly baked cookies. The smell of baked chocolate chips, butter, and m&ms was simply everywhere as I turned the corner to give my great aunt a big hug as we commiserated over the death of my great uncle. Those two were, for all intents and purposes, my grandparents since my grandfather passed away when I was in high school. Every summer, for a week or two, I would stay at their home during our visits to the town my mother grew up in. Once I got older and started a family of my own, my kids got to spend hours doing what I had done fifteen years before: pretending to play pool while listening to a jukebox filled with 45s of Frank Sinatra in my great uncle’s finished basement. In my inner suit pocket, I had a print out of the sermon I planned to share since my great aunt asked if I would like to participate in the service. After we chatted, a Roman Catholic priest invited everyone to take a seat. And as we prepared to say goodbye to my great uncle, the smell of cookies – and the thoughts of home – filled the air. 

Now I never did get the chance to deliver that sermon but the reading I had picked was the first six verses we just heard from the gospel according to John. They are the words we often turn to when we are wrapped up in grief since the disciples, 2000 years ago, were wrapped up in their own kind of grief too. For three years, the disciples had been with Jesus as he traveled through Israel, Palestine, Syria, and beyond. Jesus was always on the move which meant every person in his ragtag group of friends had to leave the places they grew up in. They left home to create a new home rooted in the One who was always there. Jesus, right before today’s reading, brought the disciples, once again, into the city of Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover. They gathered in someone else’s home to do what we often do when we’re home: eat, talk, and be merry. We don’t know everything shared around the table that evening but I like to imagine these friends were exactly that. They talked about what they had seen and heard; named their fears and worries; admitted what gave them hope; and rolled their eyes at every single one of Peter’s lame jokes. They were at home with their Jesus during one of the holiest moments of the year. Yet Jesus, unlike them, knew just how hard things were about to become. Judas left to tell the police where they were going to be and it was now time for Jesus to help his friends get through what came next. 

So Jesus, in the middle of their meal and without saying a word, stood up, wrapped a towel around his waist and washed every one of the disciples’ feet. He didn’t let his power or his privilege get in the way of showing everyone what love is supposed to look like. Now before the shock of that moment wore off, Jesus then launched into a long conversation that shocked the disciples even more. He seemed to be hinting at a kind of separation that, at first glance, felt as if it would leave all his friends behind. Thomas, Philip, and the rest of the disciples listened to the center-of-their-life-together say he would no longer be with them like he had always been. A deep grief, worry, and anxiety seeped into their hearts as they asked for an assurance that their life with Jesus had been wasted. They were afraid and so Jesus was very careful in each one of his responses. The words he used were not meant to be used as some kind of religious test which determined who, and who isn’t, part of God’s family. Jesus didn’t scold them, yell at them, or act as if they weren’t enough. He, instead, told them that he knew them – and because of that, they would always have a home with him. No matter what came next, Jesus had already created a pace where they belonged. They could, safely and freely, admit their joys and fears; their doubts and questions; and be honest about all those times when it felt as if God didn’t even know they existed. They could simply be themselves because, through baptism and faith, they were already home. 

Our home with Jesus isn’t something we create; rather, it’s a gift we are given by the One who makes us his own. Much of this kind of home making is seen in the life Jesus chose to live, full of moments when even the Son of God relied on others to take him into their homes. Jesus needed his adopted father, mother, siblings, and friends to show how he belonged too. This home-building is something Jesus takes seriously since he comes to each of us in the prayers, music, words, and holy communion that shape our worship. And he encourages each of us to be in this kind of home-building too. My great uncle, in his own way, tried to live this out by showing how I, no matter where I was, had a place in his home too. In his finished basement, the walls are covered with the posters and headshots of all the pop culture icons, movie stars, and athletes that inspired him. Pictures of the 1980 Philadelphia Phillies, Audrey Hepbun, Humphrey Bogart, and various Eagle gear fill the space. Yet mixed in among the celebrities were also photos of every family member who had ever played a sport or even acted. Every one of his grandchild, nephews, or nieces – weather related to him biologically or who he informally adopted when he married my great aunt while in his early 50s – anyone who played soccer in kindergarten, field hockey in college, or were on the fourth line of his JV high school lacrosse team – their photo was hung right next to the Frank Sinatras of the world. It was his way of showing how we, no matter where we were or how God brought us together, always had a home. And Jesus has, through his life, death, resurrection, and ascension, has declared the very same to you. You are already home and we, in Christ, through Christ, and with Christ, get to show others what the love of God can do since God has made a home in our world. 

Amen.

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. 

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.