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“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also.

And you know the way to the place where I am going.” Thomas said to him, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” Jesus said to him, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you know me, you will know my Father also. From now on you do know him and have seen him.” Philip said to him, “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.” Jesus said to him, “Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father. How can you say, ‘Show us the Father’? Do you not believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me? The words that I say to you I do not speak on my own; but the Father who dwells in me does his works. Believe me that I am in the Father and the Father is in me; but if you do not, then believe me because of the works themselves.

Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father. I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If in my name you ask me for anything, I will do it.

John 14:1-14

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.

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.

Now[Jesus] was teaching in one of the synagogues on the sabbath. And just then there appeared a woman with a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years. She was bent over and was quite unable to stand up straight. When Jesus saw her, he called her over and said, “Woman, you are set free from your ailment.” When he laid his hands on her, immediately she stood up straight and began praising God. But the leader of the synagogue, indignant because Jesus had cured on the sabbath, kept saying to the crowd, “There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day.” But the Lord answered him and said, “You hypocrites! Does not each of you on the sabbath untie his ox or his donkey from the manger, and lead it away to give it water? And ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan bound for eighteen long years, be set free from this bondage on the sabbath day?” When he said this, all his opponents were put to shame; and the entire crowd was rejoicing at all the wonderful things that he was doing

Luke 13:10-17

My sermon from the 11th Sunday After Pentecost (August 21, 2022) on Luke 13:10-17.

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The older I get, the more life feels like it’s mostly a series of interruptions. Most of our interruptions are quite small – like an unexpected phone call or a cat begging for its dinner or even a self-caused interruption when we take a four hour excursion through the land of social media. Yet there are those other kinds of interruptions that seem to change who we are. In today’s reading from the gospel according to Luke, our English translation of the ancient Greek language Luke wrote in, introduces us to an unnamed woman who seems to have interrupted Jesus while he was teaching on the sabbath in a synagogue. He was, I imagine, up in the front, speaking in the way he always does. Then, while in almost mid-sentence, Jesus stopped because this bent over woman came in. She, in her own way, interrupted what Jesus was doing which happened quite a bit during Jesus’ ministry. People, in all the gospels, kept getting Jesus’ way, sharing with him their needs, concerns, and even disagreements. Responding to these interruptions was a big part of what Jesus did. And this woman seemed to fit the pattern even though she’s never recorded as asking to be healed. But when I was preparing for this sermon, I noticed how other translations of this text don’t act as if the woman was the interruption. Instead, she’s described as just being there and was among those listening to Jesus while he taught. We don’t know much about her and even her ailment is a bit of a mystery. All we’re given is that for 18 years, she was bent over. And yet during those same years, she was part of this community who gathered together on the sabbath for worship, study, and prayer. The reaction of the crowd after she was healed shows how they were her people and how, even before her healing, she was already one of them. So if she was there while Jesus began to speak, she wasn’t the interruption in the story. Instead, that title really belonged to Jesus because he was there in front of them. As we heard a few weeks ago, Jesus was in the middle of his long round-a-bout journey to Jerusalem. Every day he taught and healed and got into arguments with all kinds of people. When he entered the unnamed synagogue in the unnamed village where this unnamed woman lived, he wasn’t the usual person who got up and taught. Jesus interrupted their normal sabbath routine and this interruption grew when the woman suddenly became visible to him in a way she wasn’t before. When he finally saw her, he stopped all that he was doing, called her over, and interrupted how she had typically celebrated the sabbath over these last 18 years. The healing she received didn’t pretend as if she had never suffered nor did it change her presence within the community she called her own. She still belonged but her life was now a bit different. And once Jesus spoke his words of hope, she kept doing what she had already been doing: praising God with the people who called her their own. 

But that’s when the grumbling started. A leader within the community wasn’t thrilled with what he just saw. Now he wasn’t necessarily upset about the healing itself. Rather, he wasn’t happy that it had happened today. That might sound like a weird thing to be bothered about but we can give him the benefit of the doubt by remembering what it’s like when we’re asked for some professional advice when we’re supposed to be off duty. It’s not uncommon for us to interrupt someone else’s day off when we think they can help us. And once people know who we are and what we do, there’s a chance that every one of our conversations with friends and acquaintances end up feeling like work. On a day when we’re trying to get away from all the other activities that dominate our week, this one word can interrupt our rest by making today feel like every other day. The leader of the synagogue might have known of Jesus’ reputation as a healer – something he had the habit of doing almost every day. Being able to heal others was a gift from God and, in his mind, should have been shared abundantly. Yet the Sabbath was meant to be a break for everyone, including those who could heal. When Jesus interrupted what he was doing on the sabbath to heal a woman with a chronic but non-life threatening ailment, it looked as if Jesus wasn’t taking the Sabbath seriously. He was doing on God’s day what he did every day, blurring what the Sabbath was supposed to be about. The leader of the synagogue felt it was his responsibility to help the entire crowd keep the Sabbath so he did what he could to interrupt the focus they had on Jesus. 

And so, as we can see, today’s story is a story all about interruptions. The entire community was called to interrupt their daily lives by spending one day a week in synagogue with their God. Jesus, while in that space, interrupted their usual flow of worship by teaching and preaching in a community he wasn’t always in. And then, when he noticed this woman, he interrupted what he was doing so that her ongoing condition could be interrupted too. The faith leader believed that Jesus’ actions had interrupted the Sabbath by making this holy day feel like every other day of the week. The Sabbath is more than a day of rest; it’s an interruption to our lives where we intentionally do not go our own way; serve our own interest; or pursue our own affairs. Instead, we spend time with our God who encourages everyone, regardless of age, gender, economic backgrounds, or physical, mental, and spiritual health to just stop and be with God. The Sabbath is how we hear we are loved and the love we’re given transforms who we are and what we do. The Sabbath is how we learn that every other day this week can be something different. The leader of the synagogue was afraid Jesus was trying to turn the Sabbath into something that looked like every other day of the week. But Jesus was there to remind him that through God, with God, and in God – it’s the Sabbath day that transforms what every other day can be about. It’s through this interruption that we gain the rest, care, and insight we need to live through the rest of our lives. And when we embrace the interruptions we are given, we then get to participate in a life with wholeness and hope. 

In a little bit, we’re going to do another thing that doesn’t feel like an interruption but actually is. We’re going to do what we’ve done a lot – and that’s baptize a little child and welcome her, publicly, into the body of Christ. Now Kaylee has already experienced a lot of interruptions to be here today – giving up her normal Sunday morning routine to travel several hours so she can be surrounded by her beloved family. God already knows her, loves her, and values all that she is. Yet today is also when we interrupt who she will be by inviting her into something more. When the water is poured over her head and the seal of the Cross marked on her forehead, she will no longer be defined by what people say about her or by what she thinks about herself. Those opinions and points of view will be interrupted by her identity as a beloved child of God. That identity will be with her, interrupting every part of her life so she can grow into the love God gives her every day. And as she gets bigger, learning all the different ways she can easily interrupt whatever her parents or her brother are doing, she’ll never be able to interrupt how God sees her. Kaylee will now have a lifetime to experience God’s constant interruption of grace, mercy, and love on every sabbath and on every other day in the week. And when all the stuff life brings tries to interrupt God’s love for her, Jesus will be right there, bringing a word of comfort, healing, and hope. 

Amen. 

He was praying in a certain place, and after he had finished, one of his disciples said to him, “Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples.” ² So he said to them, “When you pray, say:
Father, may your name be revered as holy.
    May your kingdom come.
³     Give us each day our daily bread.
⁴     And forgive us our sins,
        for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us.
    And do not bring us to the time of trial.”
⁵ And he said to them, “Suppose one of you has a friend, and you go to him at midnight and say to him, ‘Friend, lend me three loaves of bread, ⁶ for a friend of mine has arrived, and I have nothing to set before him.’ ⁷ And he answers from within, ‘Do not bother me; the door has already been locked, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot get up and give you anything.’ ⁸ I tell you, even though he will not get up and give him anything out of friendship, at least because of his persistence he will get up and give him whatever he needs.
⁹ “So I say to you, Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. ¹⁰ For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. ¹¹ Is there anyone among you who, if your child asked for a fish, would give a snake instead of a fish? ¹² Or if the child asked for an egg, would give a scorpion? ¹³ If you, then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”

Luke 11:1-13 (NRSVU)

My sermon from the 7th Sunday after Pentecost (July 24, 2022) on Luke 11:1-13.

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So where do you think Jesus was praying at the beginning of today’s reading from the gospel according to Luke? We’re told Jesus was at a certain place but there’s very little connecting this story to what came before. It reads like a singular scene that could have taken place during any part of Jesus’ life. Luke, out of all the gospel writers, does this a lot and it’s not helpful that our lectionary, the three year cycle of readings we use in worship, often jumps around and between different gospels. There’s no guarantee what we heard last week is chronologically related to what we heard today. Yet this time, there is. Jesus, at the end of chapter 10 was in a certain village, hanging out with two sisters named Martha and Mary. It was there when Martha, an independent woman, did the unlikely thing of inviting this wandering preacher – and his disciples – into her home. After their eating together; drinking together; and teaching Mary as the disciple Jesus said she was, Jesus went to a certain place to pray. And I like to imagine that all Jesus did was sort of step out the front door, seeking peace in the courtyard of Martha’s home. As he prayed, another disciple snuck outside and waited for Jesus to finish. And when Jesus looked up, this unnamed disciple asked Jesus to teach them to pray.

Now this unnamed disciple had, most likely, been sitting at the feet of Jesus just a few moments before. And they, I think, were pretty familiar with what Jesus does. Their relationship had history and so this probably wasn’t the first time this disciple saw Jesus pray. There’s also a good chance that they, themselves, had a long history of prayer since they, like Jesus, were Jewish. The book of psalms, which we’ve been listening to this summer, was their prayer book and it was common to pray in the morning, in the evening, and at the beginning and ending of meals. They, as regular prayers, also had a rich experience using their own words to communicate with God. It’s safe to say this unnamed disciple bugging Jesus in the courtyard of Martha’s home knew what it was like to be an active participant in a life of prayer. That nuance about their story was something I hadn’t really noticed before since I assumed they were seeking a how-to guide when talking to God. But there might be more to this story since, out of the blue, this unnamed disciple made sure to include the name of John the Baptist in their question.

John, like Jesus, was a teacher and he also pulled together his own group of disciples. We don’t know much about them except they were drawn to this man who was teaching, preaching, and baptizing in the wilderness. They, like countless others, saw how, through God and through John’s witness, they had an opportunity for a different kind of life. The disciples of John were, like Jesus, faithful and followed him even after he was killed by King Herod. Some, though, switched from following John to following Jesus even when John was alive. And I wonder if this unnamed disciple was one of them. If that’s true, then their own life had been full of ups and downs and all kinds of changes as they grew in their connection to God. They, themselves, had seen their life of faith change as new people, new places, new ideas, and new experiences transformed them. Their life with faith had included saying prayers in a variety of settings with all kinds of people. And since they prayed, they knew what it was like to have some, but not all, of their prayers answered. The ebb and flow of their life of faith, full of unexpected challenges and changes, probably even included moments when they felt alienated from God, from people, or even didn’t really think about God at all. They were a disciple who had lived their life and while outside Martha’s home, they found themselves with the opportunity to ask Jesus to teach them to pray.

And that’s exactly what Jesus did. He shared a version of a prayer we’ll title as the Lord’s prayer – acting as if it, somehow, belongs to him. But the disciple who asked this question didn’t ask Jesus to repeat the prayers he had just brought to God. Instead, he asked to be taught which means the Lord’s prayer is really our prayer. And Luke’s version of this prayer shows how personal it’s supposed to be since the “our Father” simply begins with “Father.” The father Jesus imagines in this moment isn’t necessarily defined or limited by our experiences of having a father, being a father, or living with a father who was anything but. This father is, I think, reflected and enhanced by where they were at that particular moment. Jesus and this disciple were in the courtyard of Martha’s home after having experienced a hospitality that was stretched and expanded by the welcome Jesus gave to all. Martha and her sister were brought into the fullness of being with God while surrounded by disciples who had heard Jesus share the parable of the good Samaritan and who had depended on the hospitality of strangers when Jesus sent them to bring peace to the homes of people who were thought to be their enemies. This Father was more than a creator of the universe who demanded and expected a kind of reverence based on hierarchy and power. This God was also a God of welcome and inclusion who wanted us, in prayer, to always be ourselves. And one of the tools Jesus gave us to do all of this was the Lord’s Prayer. It, with only a few words and sentences, makes sure we hold any part of ourselves back from God. It describes how we diminish the name of God by acting as if God is merely an extension of our own opinions and ideas. These words also admit that our world, our lives, and every so-called kingdom we build fail to fully reflect the love God made real on the Cross. We, on a personal level, plead not only for the resources we need to thrive but also push back against the habit of hoarding God’s gifts of food, money, and other things as we seek to secure our future at the expense of everyone else. And, at the end, these words from Jesus invite us to ask God to carry us through every trial we face since life isn’t easy. In essence, this prayer helps us admit the ways we’ve failed to be hospitable to ourselves and others while, at the same time, letting these words guide us into practicing the kind of hospitality Jesus experienced and showed to Martha and Mary. He wanted them to always be human and he invites us, especially in our prayers, to do the same. We, through baptism and faith, have already been welcomed into a relationship big enough to hold us through what our lives might bring. And this connection to God stretches, moves, expands, and changes no matter where life takes us. The prayer Jesus taught us is a promise that God has already made the decision to be with us, no matter what because Jesus is Emmanuel. Wherever you are in your journey with God, may your prayers never pretend you’re something you’re not. You can be with God like that pushy friend who won’t hold back because God’s own hospitality towards us expects nothing less.

Amen.

From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes and be killed and on the third day be raised. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, saying, “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.” But he turned and said to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan! You are a hindrance to me, for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

Then Jesus told his disciples, “If any wish to come after me, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life?

“For the Son of Man is to come with his angels in the glory of his Father, and then he will repay everyone for what has been done. Truly I tell you, there are some standing here who will not taste death before they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom.”

Matthew 16:21-28 (NRSVue)

My sermon from the 12th Sunday after Pentecost Sunday (August 30, 2020).

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The story of Jesus that we carry within us is usually a hodgepodge of different scenes we see in the Bible. For example, during Christmas, we celebrate angels, shepherds, and magi from the east and put them into one coherent story. But there is no one text in our Bible that has the angels, shepherds, and magi all in the place. Instead, the Christmas story we hold in our hearts is composed of different scenes from different books that make up the narrative of Jesus’ life on earth. That narrative, then, is our creation – rooted in the Bible but doesn’t exactly match with what’s written. Now I don’t consider that a bad thing. No one vision of Jesus’ life – either according to Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John – can be more “true” than the others. They give us a different kind of encounter with Jesus that, when pulled together, gives us a fuller picture of what God’s love is all about. It’s like if the people in our lives wanted to describe our story. The words used by our siblings, our parents, and our grandchildren wouldn’t always be the same. And it’s where those differences intersected, when we get a deeper sense of who we are. God gave us multiple encounters of Jesus in our Bibles so that we can experience him in a multi-dimensional way. And that’s important because one of those differences in Jesus’ story matters to our reading today from the gospel according to Matthew. But to see that difference, we need to go further along in Jesus’ story, to when Jesus was betrayed by his friend, arrested, and told by those in power to walk and carry the Cross.

Now this part of Jesus’ story is usually reserved for Good Friday. After the governing authorities pronounced Jesus guilty, they forced Jesus to walk through the city and head up a small hill just outside the city’s walls. The Romans, worried that this so-called revolutionary might lead a riot when the city was full of religious pilgrims, forced Jesus to carry the device that would kill him. In our wider Christian tradition, there’s a prayer service called the stations of the Cross – that describes the traditions around Jesus’ long walk. He wept, he cried, and he reached out to some in the crowd. But this walk to the hill known as the place of the skull – is not the same in all four gospels. In the words of Edith Humphrey, while quoting C.S. Lewis, “in John’s gospel, Jesus bears his own cross. He is the only one who does not cling to his prerogative as God – ‘the representative Die-er of the Universe.’” But in the other three gospels, including Matthew, a previously unknown character from the island of Cyrene named Simon, was forced to pick up Jesus’ cross and carry it to the hill. Matthew doesn’t give us any more information about his part in the story. All we know is that Simon lost the privilege of watching Jesus’ story unfold from a distance. He became an active participant in what God was up to in the world. It’s as if, for Matthew, we don’t get the luxury of letting Jesus go to the Cross on his own. The work he does is work only he can do. But we don’t get to run away from those pieces of wood. Jesus’ willingness to experience every part of life – including death – means that we have to, too. We don’t get to run from life. Instead, we get to live through it. And as we do, through our baptism and through our faith, we participate in what Jesus is already doing in the world. In a word, we get to love – because the Cross is our story too. 

So when Jesus says – take up your Cross – he’s not zeroing in on the things that annoy you about yourself. He’s also not saying that your illness, pain, or disability is something that you have to overcome before you get to know his love. You are wonderfully and beautifully made – worth every dignity and every grace. Suffering doesn’t define what’s loved and what’s not. Rather, the love God has for you – is what holds you when the pain gets to be too much. The Cross we are called to raise up, to hold and to carry on our shoulders, is a Cross that always leads to new life. But when that life happens to look a little bit like the one we already know – Jesus promises that it’s different because it’s filled with a holy presence that refuses to let our world – and ourselves – be declared as anything but loved. 

And that love looks a lot like the love described in Paul’s letter to the Christian community in Rome. It’s a love that isn’t a noun but rather a verb; one that moves and breathes through our life, impacting everything that we do. It’s a love that isn’t afraid to do hard things or one that waits for everyone else to do the work first. The love we’re given is a love that gets its hands dirty in the life we actually live. Jesus isn’t interested in the life we project to others – that one that looks good on Christmas cards, social media, or one that has fireworks at the end of the day. Jesus is much more interested in loving you – as you are – especially when you are feeling alone. Because those moments are the nuanced moments of our lives. They’re the places where different perspectives and understanding collide – revealing deeper truth about ourselves. It’s in those places where we admit the ways we are broken – and that we’re not as strong as we want others to think we are. It’s there where we, instead, own our vulnerabilities, admit our fears, and realize that we’re too quick to categorize our enemies. Our list of enemies usually are not recorded in some real- life version of the Mean Girl’s “Burn Book.” But if we find ourselves nodding along to posts in our social media feeds or segments on cable news that use quotation marks around the names other people call themselves, that spend all their time focused on the hypocrisy of others, who claim that we’re always on the winning side, and who feed us fear at the expense of hope – then we’ve already identified who are enemies are. It’s in those nuanced places where we see how small we want love to actually be. We have no problem with a love that exists for us and for our friends – but the love of God is just too big. And it has to be – because it’s love that says even you – with your small vision of love – is worth everything to God. And since you are worth that much, we get to love others as much as God loves us. 

That kind of love isn’t easy. And it’s often a love we don’t want to give. We’re told to welcome strangers – and we’re not allowed to limit what that welcome can mean. We’re also told to share in all joys and in all pain  – which will require us to sit and listen to stories that might reveal how we might have been part of the problem. We’re told to not show off our power but to use what we have so that all – including those we don’t want to associate with – can thrive. And if that’s not hard enough – we’re also called to provide a feast for our enemies regardless of how they first treat us. This kind of love is a love that knows Crosses are real. It’s a love that admits that suffering, hardship, and sadness are a very real part of life. But when the brokenness of this world becomes a little too real, the love of Christ that feeds our souls is a love that isn’t afraid to make the sacrifices needed for hope to reign. We, as individuals, are people with unique stories, experiences, and realities. There is no one perspective or point of view about who we are that sum up the mysterious nuanced corners of our lives. But it’s in those corners, I think, where Jesus’ story intersects with our own. And when it does, we get to pick up the Cross – not to save the world – but to love it more deeply because Christ has already come. He’s already lived, died, and was raised – because your life is worth nothing less. And since your life is worth so much – we get to love just as much – and to work for the benefit of all. Or, to sum up the call of love described by Paul, we get to lose what we think life is to instead live the new life that Christ has already given to us. 

Amen.