September 6, 2020 - Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost

For nearly everyone, work has looked different since March and the emergence of the coronavirus. For some, work has looked drastically different. This weekend we observe Labor Day, a national holiday set aside to honor and lift up all workers. 

I’ve thought a lot about work these past several months. When much of the country went into lockdown in the spring, one of the immediate fallouts was the loss of jobs. Layoffs, furloughs, businesses closing, livelihoods disrupted, in some cases ruined. For those fortunate to keep their jobs, many experienced a sort of whiplash as all of a sudden work needed to be done remotely, at home, juggled simultaneously with childcare, parent care, and other everyday responsibilities. The number of hats required to be worn grew exponentially overnight. For some, remote working was an impossibility. Thus the term “essential workers.” For these heroes, daily work suddenly became dangerous, a life-risking endeavor day in and day out. Work began to include thermometers, masks, symptom checking, and lots of sanitizing. Some workplaces became safer than others.

And yet, with all of these changes and challenges, looking beyond the financial stability that employment provides, many of us have re-discovered the sense of purpose that working provides us. With everything around us turned upside down, doing something, even if we feel only the slightest bit productive (because who really feels that productive these days), a sense of purpose can be the one thing keeping us from falling off the ledge. 

Martin Luther often spoke and wrote about vocation. And he always did so through the lens of baptism. Vocation flows directly out of the waters of baptism. It is there in those waters that responsibility and promise swirl together. The promise of baptism is God claiming us as named and beloved children, the promise is grace, love and forgiveness, the promise is life and salvation over sin and death. The responsibilities are the ways in which we live as children of God in the world. Vocation. Vocation covers all manners of roles and responsibilities–a child, a parent, a spouse. Baptismal vocation is also deeply tied to work and how we fill our days, how we interact with the world. Remember that the first disciples were defined by their occupation–fishermen, a tax collector. Baptism reminds us of the deep connection between faith and work.

While today’s gospel reading deals mostly with conflict and how best to navigate conflict, the last verse is a broad declaration that covers all aspects of life, “For where two or three are gathered in my name,” Jesus says, “I am there among them.” For me, it is a reminder that Jesus is most certainly present at our work and in our work, wherever that is and whatever that looks like. And even if in our work we are often alone, we are connected in some way to others. Christ is there, too. Our work is important to God and is a way we live out our faith in the world.

Given the importance of work and vocation in the life of faith, we must always be advocates for workers and workers’ rights. Things like a living wage, safe working conditions, and paid sick leave are not just workers’ rights, they are human rights. Our work as advocates is even more important now in this pandemic to ensure the safety and well-being of all workers, but especially essential workers who put their lives on the line to keep us safe and keep our economy running. While our lives have been disrupted, the call and baptismal responsibility to work for justice continues to ring.

How do we live together, work together, in the world as the body of Christ? The question is certainly as relevant today as it was when Jesus and his disciples walked the earth. In our work in our play, in our labor and in our rest, we do so dripping wet with God’s promise that we have been saved by grace and liberated by God’s love to love and care for one another.

August 30, 2020 - Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Sometimes, you can feel so many things at once, it’s hard to narrow it down to a single word or a single emotion. That’s what this past week has felt like for me. 

In today’s readings we also encounter a broad spectrum of emotion: fear, love, frustration, happiness, despair, joy, and denial. Today God’s word shines a light on how complicated being human can be.

The prophet Jeremiah provides us with a classic example of lament. Jeremiah is pretty honest about his feelings of pain and frustration with God, “Truly, you are to me a deceitful brook, like waters that fail.”   

By contrast, the psalmist strikes a chord of confidence, claiming, “I have walked faithfully with God…I have not consorted with the deceitful…I will not sit down with the wicked.” Yet even these words spoken to prove the psalmist’s faithfulness, are born out of a plea for justice.

In his letter to the Romans, St. Paul places an emphasis on love and the kinds of actions that follow when love is truly genuine. Paul’s words were addressed to believers in Rome during Nero’s reign. A context that fueled fear and despair demanded encouragement to respond to evil, suffering and persecution with perseverance and hope.

Speaking of fear, it’s what betrays Peter only moments after his profound profession of faith and the title of “rock” given to him by Jesus. His fear outweighs the faith he had just shown. His fear is what turns the “rock” into Satan, a stumbling block whose focus is on human things. Despite his good intentions, Peter obstructs Jesus and his mission.

It’s Peter’s struggle with fear that leads Jesus to deliver those well-known, yet troubling commands, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves, 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.” What does it mean to deny ourselves? What does it mean to take up our cross? What does it mean to lose our life in order to save it? 

If we claim to be followers of Jesus, denying ourselves means putting others first and the needs of others before our own. 

Here we are only a couple months removed from George Floyd and it’s happened again. The name–Jacob Blake–is different but the circumstance all too similar. 

Now I know you’re tired of hearing it. I know I sound like a broken record. Maybe some of you wish I’d talk about something else, something uplifting. But, dear friends in Christ, as long as black women and men continue to be unjustly shot and killed, as long as we continue to wake up to horrific incidents that are symptoms of the evil of racism in our nation, I’m going to keep talking about it. And doing just that–just talking about it, engaging with it, listening to the people who truly fear for their lives every day, people like Jacob Blake, saying those three words black lives matter–these are concrete, actionable ways that we deny ourselves and lose our lives for the sake of others.

While headlines and stories about looting, violence, and rioting have grabbed the attention, thousands gathered and peacefully protested in Washington DC on the anniversary of the March on Washington 57 years ago to promote racial equality and police reform. And just days after Jacob Blake was shot seven times in front of his three sons, Blake’s mother had this to say, even as the violence spilled over and resulted in the death of two protestors–his mother said this, “Let’s begin to pray for healing for our nation…a house that is against each other cannot stand…to all the police officers, I’m praying for you and your families. To all the citizens, my black and brown sisters and brothers, I’m praying for you…Everybody, let’s use our hearts, our love and our intelligence to work together to show the rest of the world how humans are supposed to treat each other.” 

Reminds me of St. Paul when he says, “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” Evil forces are captitalizing on fear, hatred, and division and it is tearing our communities apart. We are better than this. We need to be better than this. Overcoming evil with good starts with you and me. 

Like Peter, it is easy, especially in these turbulent days, as we feel complicated, confusing and conflicting emotions, to let stumbling blocks get in our way and keep us from doing what Jesus asks of us. Despite our good intentions, it is easy for us to obstruct Jesus and his mission. So let’s throw those stumbling blocks out. Let’s be intentional about getting rid of the things that keep us focused only on ourselves. Let’s put aside our egos, our self-righteousness, our defensiveness, our denials, our judgments and our assumptions. Let’s listen and stop making it about me or us. Let’s put the lives of others and the well-being of our communities above our own.  Let’s build that community of love that St. Paul describes. By doing this righteous work, by losing ourselves for the sake of Jesus and his gospel, for the sake of our neighbor, will we find new life. 

The life of faith is never an easy one. There are always peaks and valleys. We are always awkwardly juggling everyday human experience with the invitation that flows from the waters of baptism, to follow Jesus’ lead, taking up our crosses for the sake of the world. Yet baptism helps us remember that while faith is a journey, it is also a relationship. For in baptism, we become children of God. We become sisters and brothers in Christ. And as Jeremiah finds out, we hear God speak our name and say, “I am with you.”

August 16, 2020 - Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost

What is your earliest memory of a visit to the doctor? I remember visiting my pediatrician as a child. I remember getting a lollipop or a piece of candy at the end of the visit. I remember that it felt good to be listened to and cared for.

One of the things that I have discovered over the last few months is a new-found appreciation for access to good healthcare. It’s not the only time in my life that I’ve held a deep thankfulness for good health insurance and the world-renowned doctors and hospitals here in Chicago. That said, these are things we often take for granted. Sometimes it takes a traumatic event–a tragic illness or injury, a pandemic–to discover again gratitude for health and healing. 

The gospel story begins with a woman in search of healing for her daughter. “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David, for my daughter is tormented by a demon.” And very uncharacteristically, for Jesus, he greets her plea with silence. “Send her away,” his disciples say.  

Maybe Jesus is tired. Maybe he can’t deal with one more healing. Maybe he’s hung up on the fact that she’s Caananite, an outsider. Maybe there are some troubling power and gender dynamics going on. Whatever the case may be, the woman wants access to health and healing for her daughter and not only is her request denied, Jesus, at first, doesn’t even listen. 

Even as I express gratitude for good health and access to good healthcare in corona time, this pandemic has also exposed deep inequities in the quality of and access to our healthcare system. We now know that the virus disproportionately affects communities with high rates of poverty and communities of color. Many of us have come to realize what people of color have known all along–that our healthcare system is yet another system that is broken and another system infected by the virus of racism. 

Which leads me back to Jesus’ actions in today’s story. This story makes me wonder how many “Canaanite women” are out there today? How many people desperately need access to health and healing for themselves and their family and they’re either denied or ignored?

The Chicago Tribune ran an article a few days ago documenting the implicit bias that keeps people of color from getting the care that they need. One of the subjects interviewed for the story said that over the course of his life, when seeking help for a medical condition, he says that nine times out of ten, he was completely brushed off.

When we hear stories that suggest deep and troubling disparities in access to health; when we hear the pleas for healing, too often we don’t listen. We don’t show enough empathy or try to understand. We cast blame. We make judgments. From a perspective of privilege, the system works just fine. Yet just because it works fine for some people doesn’t mean it works for others. 

In today’s story, the Canaanite woman won’t take no for an answer. In response to Jesus’ final attempt to brush her off, saying, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs,” the woman pushes back, “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.”

Her persistence pays off. Something in Jesus clicks. He does finally listen. In a complete turnaround, he praises the woman for her great faith and her daughter is healed instantly, that very moment.

The prophet Isaiah writes, “Thus says the Lord, maintain justice and do what is right, for soon my salvation will come, and my deliverance will be revealed.” Today’s story reminds us of the responsibility that flows from the waters of baptism: to continuously work for justice in the world. Today’s story reminds us that a critical part of doing justice is listening in the first place­–listening to neighbors who are ignored or brushed off. Today’s story reminds us of our call to embrace, welcome and care for all who cry out for help.

Today’s story also reminds us of God’s expansive, inclusive vision for the world. God desires healing and wholeness for all creation, especially those who are brushed aside or denied help. 

Today’s story reminds us about the relational nature of God. The good news that flows from the waters of baptism and through the story about the Canaanite woman’s daughter is that God is always drawing us into relationship. Jesus, in the end, hears what the Canaanite woman has to tell him. Our God is a God who listens, a God who hears our cries for love, care and healing. Our God is a God who reaches out to us with limitless grace and mercy. 

August 9, 2020 - Tenth Sunday after Pentecost

Lord, save me. This is Peter’s plea as he begins to sink, the waves overwhelming him, his courage and trust waning. Lord, save me. This is the gist of Elijah’s plea to God, on the run, in the solitude and silence of a mountain cave. Lord, save us. We join the chorus. 

It’s no surprise that faced with the image of a raging storm out on open water, my thoughts go immediately to the storm that has been raging around us since March–not of wind or crashing waves, but a storm nonetheless; a silent, invasive, insidious storm–the novel coronavirus. 

In ancient Hebrew tradition, the sea was a metaphor for chaos. Like a turbulent sea, chaos causes a feeling that the world is upside-down, and makes us realize we are no longer in control. 

When we are surrounded by chaos, by the storms and rough waters of life, God’s presence can feel far from us. It can feel isolating, and God’s response to our predicament can sound like sheer silence, like nothing-ness, as Elijah and the disciples, who set out into the boat without their leader–can attest. 

Jesus does finally appear, strolling on the water as if it was gently rolling sand, well after the disciples had started clinging for dear life, their boat battered by the waves. Perhaps due to the eerie early morning light, and the fact that he appeared to be walking on water, the disciples’ immediate thought was that they were seeing a ghost. If you strip away all the dramatic effects of this story, you are left with an important detail--one that will describe Jesus over and over again. Jesus approaches them. Jesus comes to them. Jesus senses their fear and their distress and out of death-defying compassion, he goes out to them, says “do not be afraid,” and saves them. 

Jesus is always moving in our direction, coming to us, amidst the storms of life that rage around us. Jesus is always meeting us in our fear and our worry. Yet Peter can tell you, the tricky part is trusting that it’s really him. The tricky part is having faith God will be there to walk us through the impossible. 

Sometimes I wonder what possessed Peter to get out of the boat and try walking toward Jesus. Like, wouldn’t you just want to stay in the boat and wait for Jesus to climb aboard? And yet, maybe it’s not so strange. He, like any of us, wants proof that Jesus is really there. “Lord, if it is you, command me to come out onto the water.” A bargain he immediately regrets. Because the wind picks up, the waves get bigger, and all he can think about is the fear of going under. 

Peter’s walk out onto the water is deeply symbolic of our walk of faith. Trust, doubt, trust, doubt again. There are times we feel like we could do anything, even walk on water. Then there are times we feel like even the smallest waves will overwhelm us. There are times we have great faith. And there are times when God feels absent and silent, and we doubt God’s presence at all. 

The best part about this story, is that even at his lowest, even when Peter has lost all faith and trust that Jesus will save him, Jesus reaches out and pulls him up out of the water. Even when we are feeling at our lowest, when the storms seem too much, when we’ve lost faith, when all we hear is silence, when we doubt that God is there, when all we can utter are the words, “Lord, save us,” God’s hand reaches out to catch us. 

“It is I, take heart, do not be afraid.” Today, like the prophet Elijah, God calls us out of our caves of fear and despair. Like Peter, Jesus pulls us out of the stormy seas that threaten to overwhelm us. God restores our faith. “How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news,” writes St. Paul in his letter to the Romans. God’s invitation is to go, and proclaim the good news that God’s saving presence is always closer and more powerful than we think. 

August 2, 2020 - Ninth Sunday after Pentecost

Whenever we hear one of these stories about Jesus feeding a crowd of thousands with only a few loaves of bread and a couple fish, we most often place ourselves in the story by identifying with the tired, hungry crowd or the confused, overwhelmed disciples suddenly feeling really inadequate when asked to feed so many people. But what if we took a moment to identify with Jesus in this story? There is a lot more to Jesus here than his miraculous act of blessing bread and fish into instant abundance.

It’s important to note what happens immediately before one of Jesus’ greatest miracles. The scene is a different kind of feast, held around the tables of Herod’s palace. Turns out, food wasn’t the only thing being served on fancy dishes. In a gruesome turn of events, Herod’s wife requests the head of John the Baptist, on a platter.

When we meet Jesus in today’s story, he had only just heard and begun digesting the news that John–his predecessor and cousin–was brutally executed. His grief and heartache was so great that he withdraws, by boat, to a deserted place by himself. He withdraws. When he returns to shore, the crowds are there, waiting for him. And yet, consumed by loss and grief, Matthew writes that “Jesus had compassion for them and cured their sick.” What’s the greater miracle, the multiplication of the bread and fish, or that Jesus had compassion or anything else left to give?

I think about this question because I know for many of us, it feels like we don’t have much left to give. Over four months into this pandemic, we are now faced with the looming potential of another shutdown and the reality that all of this won’t be over for a really long time. The trauma that we have experienced–even if we’re lucky enough not to have lost a loved one to COVID–continues to take its toll. We’re tired from juggling everything, we’re wiped out from decision-fatigue, having to constantly make impossible choices, and I sense we are also starting to feel compassion fatigue as well, as the protests around the nation continue and the coronavirus death toll–approaching 150,000–continues to rise. 

Too often, it feels like all we can say is echo the words of the disciples, “We have nothing here. I have nothing here.” Author and sociologist Brene Brown refers to scarcity as the “never enough” problem. We are never enough good enough, never perfect enough, etc., nor do we have enough time, enough money, enough compassion. Her research suggests that scarcity thrives in environments in which it is easy to feel shame, environments that are steeped in comparison and fractured by disengagement.

What do we do when we feel like we don’t have anything more to give? How do we act with compassion when we’re emotionally and physically walking on a tightrope?

As usual, Jesus points us in the right direction. Jesus moves us from a mindset of deficiency to one of sufficiency by providing a counter-narrative of worthiness, compassion, connection, and abundance. Even in his suffering, even as he wrestled with a tangle of human emotion, he trusts in God’s abundance. He trusts that God will provide him with the compassion needed to see the humanity of the crowd and addressing their needs. He trusts that God will provide over and above what is need to meet the hunger of thousands.

The tired, hungry world needs our compassion now more than ever. We need to show compassion by doing everything we can to protect the health of our neighbors, following the rules and protocols provided by our public health experts and local officials. We need to show compassion by continuing to be attune to the needs of the most vulnerable in our communities. We need to show compassion by acknowledging who is being most affected by this pandemic and why. We need to show compassion by pushing back against the evil forces that seek to divide us. We need to show compassion by listening to our black and brown sisters and brothers. We need to show compassion by continuing to work for justice, turning our anger and frustration with the way things are into real action that will inspire hope for a better tomorrow. 

And when it feels like our compassion, like everything else, is running on empty, God hears us and God fills us. 

It can be hard to let go and trust in God’s promise to provide abundance, especially when all we see around us are mere scraps. It can be hard to let go and trust in God’s presence when we are burdened by responsibility and the troubles of the world. Yet God still graciously extends the invitation to experience God’s abundance. 

“Come, you that are thirsty, come to the waters; you that have no money, come, buy and eat.” The prophet Isaiah urges us to remember the covenant God made with our ancestors, a covenant made with us in our baptism, that God’s love for us is like a cup overflowing and that God can use the things that we have–limited as we might think they are–to create abundance for all. 

When we trust in God, there is more than enough. 

July 26, 2020 - Eighth Sunday after Pentecost

Jesus keeps the parables coming today, jumping from one to the next with hardly a breath between them: a mustard seed that grows into a shrub, yeast in the dough, a hidden treasure, a pearl of enormous value, a net that catches all fish. After all that, he ends by asking the question, “Have you understood all of this?” Now, who said Jesus didn’t have a sense of humor?  

It is understanding that King Solomon asks for in the reading from 1 Kings, over and above the trappings of this world–a long life, riches, the demise of his enemies. With humility–admitting that he is “only a little child”–Solomon seeks wisdom to discern between right and wrong, good and evil–a monumental and, even at times, impossible­­–task. 

Jesus’ string of parables in Matthew 13 all say something about the kingdom of heaven. Jesus doesn’t speak in parables just for fun or to annoy his audience, he does so to provide us with some understanding of what God’s reign looks like. The mustard seed, the yeast, the hidden treasure and the pearls­–they all proclaim good news of joy and growth. A single seed that becomes a huge shrub, providing shelter for birds. A small amount of yeast that transforms unleavened bread into a hefty loaf. A hidden treasure and pearls that compel the one who discovers them to sell all that she has. The kingdom of heaven is prolific, transformative, and brings so much joy that we are liberated to leave everything behind.

So why couldn’t Jesus have just left it there? That would’ve been a good ending, a perfect happily ever after. Instead, Jesus just can’t help himself and drops a final parable of doom and gloom that doesn’t seem to fit with the others. A net that catches fish of all kinds, including the bad ones. Then comes the furnace of fire, the weeping and the gnashing of teeth. How do we reconcile these two very different images of God and God’s kingdom?

It’s the same question that Martin Luther struggled with mightily. He felt his spirit crushed by things he read in the bible–descriptions of a vengeful and wrathful God. He was tortured by guilt that resulted from feeling like he was never good enough to receive God’s love and mercy. For Luther, the answer was found in Jesus’ death and resurrection. On the other side of that universe-altering event, we need not live in fear of judgment but in the joy of salvation that through Christ, God has conquered sin and death. 

Our God is a God of law and gospel, justice and mercy. But at the end of the day, we live soaked in the waters of baptism and the promise that in Jesus’ death and resurrection, all creation has received redemption and salvation. Nothing–not even ourselves, not even death–can separate us from God’s love. It’s no wonder Luther was such an admirer of St. Paul. The reading from Romans beautifully captures the good news that pulls us out the hole of our own sin and brokenness. 

“If God is for us, who is against us?” Paul writes. “Who is to condemn? It is Christ Jesus, who died, yes, who was raised, who is at the right hand of God, who indeed intercedes for us. Who will separate us from the love of Christ? No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

It is because of this love that we have already received the joy, prolific growth, and immeasurable value of the kingdom of heaven. This love liberates us to let go of our shortcomings, to stop getting hung up on the question, “do you understand all this?” What we do know and understand is that in the midst of brokenness and suffering, God is with us, actively bringing about our salvation. What we do know and understand is that God has claimed each of us as his own. What we do know and understand is God’s love empowers us to start living new kingdom-of-heaven lives--sowing miniscule seeds in hope, putting our trust in the joy and wisdom that comes from God, and becoming instruments of God’s mercy and justice. What will this new life look like for you? 

July 19, 2020 - Seventh Sunday after Pentecost

“Why is there evil in the world?” is one of those age-old questions in life that always seem to leave us looking for answers. Our biblical tradition suggests that sin and evil had their origins in the Garden of Eden, that place of paradise where two freshly created earthlings give in to their temptation for knowledge and control and defy God’s instruction. It’s a wonderful story, but somehow, unsatisfying in our quest for an explanation of the world’s evil.

Like you and I, Jesus’ disciples and the crowds of people that Jesus preached to surely wrestled with this question as well. There was plenty of evil afoot in the first-century Mediterranean world. Having just shared and explained his parable about the sower and the seeds--good soil and poor soil--Jesus stays with the agrarian theme, but takes the image another step. 

The seeds have sprouted into wheat and weeds. When both grow alongside one another, it can be difficult at first to tell them apart. The words wheat and weed even sound the same! In the parable, an enemy--perhaps out of jealously--maliciously plants weeds in a neighbor’s field of wheat. The slaves want to pull the weeds so they don’t crowd the wheat, but the householder says that it’s too risky. They would likely pull up the wheat too. They are told to wait until the harvest. 

The problem of evil can be so perplexing that sometimes, out of fear and frustration, we become over-zealous in our efforts to solve it or figure it out. Sometimes we cast blame. Sometimes our attempts at combating evil focus on symptoms rather than the root causes. Sometimes, though well-intentioned, in fighting evil, we inadvertently spread it. We treat systemic racism this way--we try to do things that we think will help or fix the problem, when in actuality, we are only perpetuating it. White people develop a “Robin Hood” syndrome in which we think we know what is best for people of color without letting them decide and without listening to what they need. We can’t dismantle racism without understanding and then reconstructing the systems that have been built by white power and privilege.

We’ve also seen evil inadvertently spread over and over in warfare.  By dropping bombs to fight terrorism, we only create more devastation, fueling another generation of hatred. 

There is a real danger with this parable in looking at the world as full of two kinds of people--good ones and bad ones, righteous ones and evil ones. We’re seeing this played out right now in our nation as divisions across political, social, economic, and racial lines are being provoked. It’s hard to resist the temptation to have that “us vs. them” mentality. It’s hard to resist the temptation to see ourselves as wheat and condemn others we view or judge or disagree with as weeds. The honest truth is, things are a lot more complicated than that. We are a lot more complicated than that. Each of us has both wheat and weed inside of us. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson once pondered, “What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered.”

With his parable, Jesus is trying to explain the reality that good and evil coexist in the world and sometimes it’s hard to distinguish between the good and the evil. But Jesus is also saying something about how God views the world. “Wait until the harvest,” he says. God as the householder patiently waits for the harvest--a time, God promises, that all sin and evil will be removed, leaving the righteous to shine like the sun. Perhaps there are even weeds, like dormant seeds, that can grow into something beautiful and fruitful. At the end of the day, it’s not our job to make judgments or call the shots. Christ--the Son of Humankind--is the judge. 

Our task instead is proclaimed by both the prophet Isaiah and St. Paul: to live with hope and certainty of God’s salvation.  Isaiah suggests that even in the midst of strife and turmoil, even when we see only hostility and hopelessness, we can turn to the one beside whom “there is no other rock.” St. Paul reminds us that we have already received the fruits of the Spirit; we have gracefully been given things like love, joy and peace. Therefore we are called children of God, and if children, then heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ. This incredible promise is where our hope lies. 

Jesus’ parable of the wheat and the weeds is both a wake-up call and a proclamation of freedom. It’s a wake-up call for us to think deeply about the presence of evil in the world, its complexity, and our complicity in it. It’s a wake-up call for us to consider the ways that we act like wheat and the ways we act like weeds; the ways that we act like those slaves, so concerned with judging who is good and who is bad that we inadvertently pull up the wheat and become part of the problem itself. Jesus’ parable also frees us from the bondage of sin, death and decay. God gives us unseen hope that one day God will liberate us from a broken world and from ourselves. Jesus will send angels on our behalf who will remove all evil and suffering and redeem all of creation. 

After reading the parable today, I  couldn’t help but imagine Jesus preaching the famous words of Archbishop Desmond Tutu to the crowd gathered that day, “Goodness is stronger than evil, love is stronger than hate. Victory is ours, through God who loves us.”

July 12, 2020 - Sixth Sunday after Pentecost

Sowing seeds is an ancient image, but one that so many of us still relate to. I know that we have lots of gardeners in the Ascension ranks, so Jesus’ parable using planting and growing, good soil and poor soil, finds an immediate connection to our lives. And even if you aren’t a gardener, there is truth captured in this image–in the countless ways that our words and action sow seeds in the lives of others, and how the soil of our lives collects seeds that others cast our way. Some seeds grow, some don’t.

Parents and grandparents strive to plant seeds of goodness and grace in the lives of their children and grandchildren, hoping they will grow into loving and responsible adults. Teachers strive to sow seeds in their students, hoping they will produce a love for and commitment to knowledge, learning and exploration. Those who teach Sunday School or confirmation strive to plant seeds, hoping they take root in the hearts of young people, so they know how precious and loved they are.  

During Ascension’s summer mission trips to Appalachia, I know some of the conversations in the evenings after a hard day of work or in the van on the way home deal with whether or not the seeds that were sown that week will produce any lasting change for families and communities we served, or if those seeds will just blow away, lost and forgotten. 

There can be feelings of failure, disappointment, or frustration when it seems like the seeds we sow don’t find good soil. Yet St. Paul, in his letter to the Galatians reminds us that whether a seed takes off or not, whether it finds good soil or not, isn’t a burden we need to carry. We may plant the seeds, but it is the Spirit’s transformative presence that turns a seed into a plant that yields thirty-fold, sixty-fold, a hundred-fold. It is the Spirit’s indwelling­–a gift received in the waters of baptism–that causes new life to spring from even the most dormant of seeds. And sometimes, it’s a long while before a seed is awakened. Sometimes we plant seeds knowing that we might not be around to see the green shoot emerge from the earth. 

“For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return there until they have watered the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater,” writes the author of Isaiah, “so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and succeed in the thing for which I sent it.” God’s word is like never-failing precipitation. We trust the power of God’s word and the presence of God’s Spirit to cause seeds to sprout and grow, bringing forth fruit abundantly.

I love those words from the prophet about God’s promise to keep the covenant. But if we’re honest, they aren’t exactly based reality. Isaiah’s audience were people exiled, taken from their homeland. Their beloved city, Jerusalem, would never returned to its past glory. Faced with evil and suffering, how do we explain what God’s promises mean? In the midst of a pandemic and a nationwide racial justice reckoning, it is hard to trust. You might say that we have trust issues. It is hard to trust in the power of God’s word and the power of people like you and I to get through these dark days and help bring about real, lasting change. It is hard to trust that the seeds of today will ever bear the fruits of tomorrow. And then there are times when we ourselves find that our hearts are so hardened that God’s word won’t take root. There are times when our own soil is too rocky and stretched too thin for God’s grace to take hold. As we juggle the responsibilities of life in the midst of COVID-time, we feel caught in the thorns, hope and joy choked from us. We’re often tempted to look at the world and ourselves and only see the places that are inhospitable to God’s love.

There is an old Hasidic tale in which a student asks a Rabbi, “Why does God not lay the scripture inour hearts?” The rabbi said, “God knows our hearts are closed, so God’s word can only rest on our hearts. But when our hearts inevitably break, God’s word falls in.” Whatever the difficulty or turmoil, God’s word falls into our broken hearts, giving us peace, wisdom, and puts an end to the loneliness that comes in suffering. God’s Spirit–the Spirit of life–continues to speak to us and for us.

“For you shall go out in joy, and be led back in peace,” writes Isaiah. I know that each and every one of you are planting the seeds of God’s word in these uncertain times. The ways in which we have lived into our baptismal vocations and continued to sow God’s love through word and deed has been inspiring. Jesus’ parable is a vivid reminder of all God has and continues to overcome­–rocks, scorching sun, thorns, and snatching–to bring life to the world. So we scatter seeds indiscriminately. You just never know where the seed of God’s loving kingdom will find good, receptive soil. Sometimes it happens in unlikely places. Always it takes root, waiting for the moment that God’s Spirit brings new life. 

July 5, 2020 - Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

Exhausted. It’s a word I hear often these days. Tired. Weary. Exhausted. Psychologists will tell you that an experience of trauma can cause us to feel this way. I’ve heard from experts who study trauma that the COVID-19 pandemic has been a collective, worldwide experience of trauma—one that we will continue to see the effects of for many years. And it’s not just the experience of trauma that is wearing us out. In extraordinary times like these, our human tendency is to over-function, over-compensate; to take on extra burdens, shouldering a heavier load than we can or should.  

Even as we over-function and take on extra burdens, maybe in an attempt to lighten the load of others—our family, our friends, our co-workers—we struggle with feelings of inadequacy, like we aren’t doing enough, or if we are, we aren’t doing a good enough job. It’s a vicious cycle that heaps more and more weight on our shoulders. 

It’s a cycle that St. Paul often wrestled with. In the second reading from Romans he confesses his very personal struggle with never feeling good enough, “I don’t understand my own actions,” he says, “For I do not do what I want, but do the very thing I hate…For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.” I know the feeling. It is a heavy burden.

The gospel passage begins with Jesus showing frustration with his generation—people who were overly critical of him and his predecessor, John the Baptist. He is losing patience with people who refuse to dance in times of joy and refuse to weep in times of mourning. Sometimes our burdens keep us from living in the moment; the stress that our burdens create can leave us bitter, overly-critical and quick to complain.

Come to me, Jesus says. Come to me, all you that are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest…Take my yoke upon you, for my yoke is easy and my burden is light.

Even as he voices his frustrations, Jesus acknowledges the heavy burdens that we place on ourselves, the tremendous weight that we place on our shoulders and invites us to rest, to take a yoke that is easy and a burden that is light. Instead of beating ourselves up by feeling inadequate or being imperfect or believing that we are alone in dealing with all our difficulties, Jesus looks us in the eye and says, “you are enough.” Jesus invites us to give him our exhaustion and our weariness, letting the heaviness fall away, releasing the tension in our bodies and souls.

In the first reading from Zechariah, the phrase “prisoners of hope” is used to describe the people of Israel. Prisoners of hope. In many ways that is what we are. We are people held captive by the burdens we carry. We are people held captive by the trauma and division that we see around us. We are held captive by the sin and evil that we hate, but we do anyway, knowingly and unknowingly. And yet, we are people of hope. We are people of resurrection. We are people of God, called to place our hope in the freedom and rescue of the crucified and risen Christ.

Taking up the yoke of Christ, set free from our burdens, we are released and replenished to live lives of compassion, sacrifice, reconciliation, and service to our neighbor. 

The next time you are feeling exhausted, the next time you are feeling inadequate or despondent over your failings, remember Jesus’ invitation to “come, come with your weariness and burdens, and I will give you rest.” Remember that you are enough. Live into the grace that God blesses us with, grace to do only what we can, and trust that it is enough. Live into the grace of God’s boundless love for you. Hand yourself over to the one who accompanies us every day, bringing us victory and peace.

June 28, 2020 - Fourth Sunday after Pentecost

Let me state the obvious this morning: God does not give us lives that are easy or comfortable. Our current context and reality should be more than enough to underscore that truth. No, our lives are messy, often difficult, and filled with plenty of sorrow and suffering. A coping mechanism for many of us in times of trouble is to go into denial, to sweep our troubles and the world’s troubles under the rug. But for us to deny or ignore these realities runs in direct conflict to the kind of life Jesus lived and calls us to live. A life in God is one that affirms God’s presence in every circumstance. A life in God affirms the heights and depths of the human experience. 

The people that the prophet Jeremiah spoke to were much too familiar with sorrow and suffering. They were an exiled people, in a foreign land, their homeland plundered and destroyed. They were people held in captivity, living in misery, yearning for home. Surrounded by turmoil and tragedy, Jeremiah must’ve been tempted to preach a sort of prosperity gospel that would gloss over their suffering and promise a utopian future to an audience that had every reason to be discouraged, angry and hopeless. That’s exactly what his counterpart, the false prophet, Hananiah does, “God is going to bring back everything we have lost, and we will be great again.” Hananiah take advantage of the peoples’ hopelessness, ignoring their real struggle and instead promising a nostalgic vision of victory and prosperity.

Jeremiah doesn’t fall into this trap of religiously pleasing but false words. Instead, Jeremiah acknowledges the people’s suffering, promises God’s continued presence with them, and urges the people to get to work, rebuilding their lives in peace.

I often hear the voice of Hananiah these days when I hear that the coronavirus will “just disappear” or that “this country doesn’t have a race problem.” These are pleasing words but they are false words. Unfortunately it seems to have taken a white man’s knee on the back of a black man’s neck, suffocating him to death, despite his cries, “I can’t breathe,” for white people, myself included, to wake up and call out this deception for what it is. Black and brown Americans have been shouting “we can’t breathe” for four centuries, but America hasn’t been listening. Do we really think that there isn’t a problem? Do we really not see systemic racism and social injustice? I think, like the prophet Hananiah, we choose not to see it. We choose to ignore it. We cry, peace, peace, when there is no peace. Our choice to ignore it is a choice born out of centuries of privilege. Yet the suffering is all around us: in the criminal justice system, the killings that we’ve seen and not seen on cell phones and body cameras, the denial of economic and educational opportunities for the black community, the denial of healthcare. I know that the phrase Black Lives Matter has become a political weapon, but it’s not a political statement. It’s not an either/or statement. Of course white lives matter. Of course all lives matter. But for once, this isn’t about white people. This is about standing with and supporting our black and brown siblings in Christ and saying “enough.” This is about affirming that people of color are wonderfully created in God’s image, too. As self-proclaimed disciples of a man of color who was murdered by keepers of the law, as Christ-followers, we can say with conviction that black lives matter.

I came across an article in The Christian Century recently with the provocative title, Why are so many white Christians suddenly standing up for racial justice?” It’s a fair question. An even more troubling question is why did it take a string of brutal black killings? This moment in history that we are living in right now—a moment of worldwide pandemic that has disrupted the lives of people in every corner of the world—is also a moment that has created a heightened awareness of sorrow, suffering and injustice, and given us more time to listen, learn and act. And maybe, the author suggests, this is due primarily, at least in the US, to altered schedules and closed buildings—schools, offices, and yes—churches. 

In John’s gospel, the disciples are waiting, locked in a room holding vigil after Jesus’ death. In Acts, the room is empty. The doors are open. The disciples have “poured out into the city to find that this is where people are speaking new languages, dreaming new dreams, and standing up to proclaim the world as it can yet be and should be.”

Could we be witnessing an “Acts” moment here in the United States? Our buildings are empty. And people of faith have poured out into cities and towns around the country to find people out in the streets speaking new languages, dreaming new dreams, and standing up to proclaim the world as it can be and should be. The Black Lives Matter movement and other coordinated protests have given us new language to call out and reject systemic racism and white supremacy. They have given us new dreams of a more just and equitable society, a society in which black and brown lives matter as much as white ones. They have provided a unique moment for white Christians to get out of the way, listen, and stand up and with people of color, proclaiming yet again a vision of the world as it can and should be.

If we truly believe that God is just as present in suffering as in joy, we might understand this unique time of suffering as a Spirit-filled moment that has ushered in a sacred movement, a holy movement in which we as a society are finally peeling back the blinders and naming the reality of and our complicity in suffering, sorrow, and systemic sin. Faced with a worldwide pandemic that has emptied our buildings, our gaze has turned outward into the messy realities of the world, more fully stepping into a Christ-centered life.

The few verses from Matthew that comprise the gospel reading this week are packed with meaning. Jesus is issuing his final directives to the disciples as they prepare to go out into the world to preach, heal, and cast out demons. And some of his last words of advice are about welcome in a world that will be hostile and won’t always be welcoming. Jesus adds an interesting directive about giving just a cup of cold water to a “little one.” It’s an important part of his blueprint for welcome—it shouldn’t just be extended to the great or well-known or highly respected. Welcome should be extended equally to the vulnerable and the voices most often ignored. It’s a foreshadowing of his famous sermon later in Matthew about feeding the hungry, clothing the naked and visiting those in prison, “just as you do to the least, you do to me.” As people of faith who have left our buildings behind, at least for the moment, it is time to dream and re-imagine what welcome looks like and who are the ones we are called to welcome.

Dear people, working to dismantle systemic racism, re-imagining a Christ-centered welcome, all in the midst of worldwide pandemic—this is hard work. It is uncomfortable work. Such is the life of a Jesus-follower. Thanks be to God that we are no longer slaves to sin, wickedness, suffering and death. For we are not under the law, St. Paul writes, but under grace. Amazing grace. Grace that will see us through this moment in history, grace that will help us overcome our wrongs, grace that will remind us that we are only human after all, grace that proclaims to us that we are loved children of God, grace that will accompany us through times of sorrow, grace that will lift us in times of joy, grace that will eventually lead us home to eternal life in Jesus Christ our Savior. Amazing grace. How sweet the sound.

May 31, 2020 - Day of Pentecost

Fire and wind will forever define that first Pentecost. A violent wind that filled the entire house where they were sitting. Fifty days after Jesus had appeared to them by walking through a door, showing them his grisly wounds, and breathing on them his peace, they were still bound by four walls and a locked door. And after the rush of wind, fire. Flames of fire, tongues of fire, which came to rest on each of those gathered. You think God had their attention, now? The wind and fire wasn’t just for dramatic effect—Luke in the book of Acts tells us that these natural elements accompanied the presence of God’s Holy Spirit into that space, and “all of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as God gave them ability.” The creative, transforming power of God’s Spirit had their attention. 

In the gospel reading we meet Jesus on the final day of the Jewish Festival of Booths—a festival that included a ritual in which the temple priests would lead a procession out of the city to a sacred fountain, gather water, return to the city and pour water down the temple steps. Jesus had already made his presence known at that temple on an earlier day of the festival—teaching to the crowd and re-hashing his controversial healing on the sabbath. Before the Pharisees and temple priests are able to arrest him, Jesus cries out on the last and most holy day of the festival, “let anyone who is thirsty come to me…as the scripture says, ‘out of a believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.’” John adds an important explanation, “he said this about the Spirit, which believers in him were to receive.” 

Water, wind, fire. Now, we can’t talk about these elements without bringing to mind their potential for destruction. In an era of climate change, we know the havoc that floods, tornadoes, hurricanes, and wildfires can unleash on communities.  

But we also know water, wind and fire to be renewing and re-generative. And looking back through the stories of salvation, we know that Moses encountered God in a burning bush, God led the Israelites out of Egypt with a pillar of fire, and a great wind announced God’s presence on the top of Mount Sinai. We know that it was after the flood that God suspended a multi-colored bow in the sky to signal a promise of the earth’s salvation, it was through a sea that the Israelites escaped Pharaoh, and it was water that healed Naaman’s leprosy. And later we hear Jesus talking about water—living water—the kind that brings salvation to a Samaritan woman with a checkered history, heals a man born blind, gushes up to eternal life, quenches our every thirst, and flows back out again into the world.  

It’s been longer than 50 days that we’ve been locked in our homes like the disciples had been on that first Pentecost. And, although Jesus has breathed his COVID-free peace into our lives, we’re still barricaded in by uncertainty and anxiety that this deadly disruption has caused. We’re thirsting for some hope, some reason to believe that things will get better, that the chaos will end, that even an ounce of normalcy will return to our lives. As we sit in our homes, stressed, lacking motivation and burned out, we could use a spark. We could use our own Pentecost event. Give us that violent wind, refining fire, and living water to renew us and transform us. 

Transform us, God does. We are those disciples cooped up, unmotivated, anxious, terrified. The promise has been made in baptism and affirmed whenever we encounter that living water but especially today: we, too, are filled with the dynamic Pentecost power of God—the power that refreshes, and re-creates, comforts and heals.  

Fifty-one days ago, Jesus stood among the disciples, saying, “receive the Holy Spirit.” Today, God brings upon them that same Spirit transforming them to go forth and proclaim God’s message of love and salvation, revealed in the resurrected Christ—to all who thirst—and doesn’t everyone thirst from time to time. And we, thirsty pilgrims, now follow in the steps of those disciples, “given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good,” claims the author of First Corinthians. The Day of Pentecost marks a pivot point for our mission the rest of the year. Our mission begins again to go out and proclaim the Easter good news of Jesus’ death and resurrection. 

As businesses and churches around the country consider “re-opening,” it’s important for us to remember that regardless of what decisions our congregation makes in the coming weeks, our church, God’s church, has never been closed. We’ve continued to fulfill that Pentecost mission. We’ve continued to pray, work for justice, respond to the needs of our neighbors, and share God’s good news. As those disciples can attest, the church was never just what happened behind closed doors. God’s Spirit at Pentecost thrust the church out into the world, for good. 

We don’t know what will happen tomorrow, we don’t know what the next month or next year will hold, but we do know and trust the one who holds the future. We do know and trust that today the Spirit of fire burns within us. Today, God’s ruach, God’s breath, the same breath that hovered over the waters at creation, stirs within us. Today the Spirit becomes rivers of living water flowing in us, through our hearts, and back out into the world. God has our attention. God’s creative, transforming Pentecost Spirit shines for us now, equips and sends us forth, to tell of God’s deeds of power, God’s name emblazoned on our hearts forever.

May 24, 2020 - Ascension of our Lord

This week I’ve been thinking about our experience with COVID-19 in the context of time. Time is one of the many things that is so different now. For me, the days on the calendar run together. Outside of Sundays, it sometimes takes me a while to remember what day it is. This past week I’ve asked myself, “Memorial Day Weekend!? How can it be almost June already?” Time is different. It’s almost like we’re in this strange in-between space—there’s time before coronavirus and time, hopefully, after, beyond coronavirus. There’s the past—which we now look back on with, yearning for those normal days again. And there’s the future, a future that we are deeply uncertain of, anxious about, yet a future we still are hopeful will return some stability and normalcy to our lives. 

It wouldn’t feel right to be Ascension Lutheran Church and not celebrate the Ascension of our Lord—a festival day in the church calendar that rarely falls on a Sunday and isn’t widely celebrated by Lutherans. But we are people of Ascension. And the story of Ascension is an important story. It serves as that in-between space, that door that swings between the Easter proclamation, “he is not here, he is risen!” and the Spirit’s fiery arrival on Pentecost next week. This day of Ascension invites us to hold on, not to the past or the future, but to God’s presence.

Today we actually get two different accounts of the Ascension—one from the gospel of Luke and the other from the book of Acts. In both stories, before Jesus ascends, he blesses them with a vocation—“you are witnesses of these things,” “you will be my witnesses to the ends of the earth.” In other words, go! Tell everyone about the things you have seen and heard! Go and tell about my death and resurrection, tell about repentance and forgiveness, tell about God’s salvation! Tell about how God is at work in the world!

Yet so much of God’s presence and work in the world is hidden and difficult to discern. One of the pitfalls of the story of Jesus’ Ascension is that it sometimes makes us think that once Jesus ascended, he became absent, a big divine “peace out.” And often our life experiences bolster that claim, right? Wars rage. Poverty persists. Hunger starves. And as we sit, sheltered in our homes, living in “coronavirus time,” the evidence of Jesus’ absence adds up pretty quickly: rampant disease and death, unemployment, abuse in homes and workplaces, depression and despair.

The story of Jesus’ Ascension shows us a different reality, a nevertheless, a hope that seeps under the doors of our closed and made up minds to the contrary. The Ascension declares that Jesus is with us, whether we recognize it or not. Jesus’ hiddenness is not absence. Jesus shows up—outside his own tomb, on the road, at the lakeshore; in our homes, on our neighborhood streets, down by the river. Jesus shows up time and again. 

As the disciples gazed into the sky as Jesus was lifted up, I would imagine some of them were hoping that Jesus’ return would happen just as quickly as his departure. I know in the midst of “coronavirus time” our gaze often shifts to the future, hoping that a vaccine, a return to some normalcy, some stability and physical connection—things we so easily took for granted—would happen quickly. Two men in white robes interrupt their reverie and shift the disciples gaze from Jesus’ feet back to that world that Jesus so deeply loves. 

The Ascension story shifts our gaze, too. Instead of living in the past or longing for a future, Jesus shows us his presence in the world right now. Jesus shows up with us, in us and his presence is revealed through us. And we are witnesses of these things. 

“With the eyes of your heart enlightened, you may know what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints, and what is the immeasurable greatness of his power for us who believe,” writes the author of Ephesians. In those times when it gets hard to see clearly Jesus’ presence in a world full of hurt, we can find encouragement and empowerment in God’s words of promise. 

One ritual that our family has adopted during COVID time is sharing highs and lows. I know many of you do similar exercises around your tables and living rooms. When it’s hard to see the presence of that ascended Jesus, simply calling to mind our highs—things that give us joy or moments that we’re thankful for—reveal Jesus’ presence. And naming our lows—things that are frustrating or moments that are hard—are a reminder that Jesus is present there, too. And we are witnesses. 

When time seems to stand still, when we look nostalgically at the past or hopefully toward the future, when the days run together, even in coronavirus time, Jesus has not left our homes, our workplaces, our community, our world. The ascended one has been right here with us, all the time and will be with us in all time. And we are witnesses. 

May 17, 2020 - Sixth Sunday of Easter

Okay, so the disciples weren’t suddenly faced with a worldwide pandemic, the likes none had seen for nearly a century. But their world was about to turn upside down. It’s hard to put ourselves in their shoes, but imagine for a moment what the next 72 hours would have in store for those disciples. The one whom they had devoted their entire lives to, spending nearly every minute with, the one they were starting to believe was truly God’s Son would be arrested, put on trial, executed, only to then rise from the dead after three days. On that third day he would suddenly greet them in a locked room, show them his hands and his side, and then disappear once again. 

It’s no pandemic, but that is a LOT of traumatic change in a very short period of time. 

Jesus does his best to prepare his friends for that change. But based on the questions and the reactions of the disciples, they don’t really get it, they don’t grasp the reality that he’s not going to be with them much longer. Nevertheless, knowing the tremendous turmoil and chaos that will follow in the days ahead, Jesus promises that he won’t abandon them. Even though he will no longer be physically present, he will send them an Advocate, a Spirit of Truth, to guide, comfort, support and inspire. 

We have been treading through unprecedented change, these last couple months. Change is hard even when we choose it. But when change is forced upon us and when refusing to change could lead to illness or death—for us, our loved ones or our neighbor—boy that’s hard. 

Right now I think we’re seeing how forced change can create tension and frustration. The fear and anger that it creates causes us to turn inward, to go into self-preservation mode, to slip into that “hell with everyone else” attitude. It seemed like for the first six weeks or so of sheltering-in-place we were committed to following restrictions, keeping our neighbors safe, even at the price of personal freedoms. A month we could do. Six weeks we could do. But now approaching two months with no definite end in sight, we’re starting to see some fault-lines as those who feel that they have suffered enough for the other, for the collective good are starting to make choices that put others at risk.

Dear friends, I know this is hard. I know there is very real suffering that restrictions and guidelines have caused for many people. I get it. I have friends and family who are applying for unemployment, searching for new jobs, worried about making rent and their mortgages. But this is not the time to go it alone. This is not the time to turn inwards. It will only, most certainly, lead to more suffering and death. We cannot turn our backs on the most vulnerable and marginalized. We cannot turn our backs on the elderly, the ones whose wisdom and stories of faith and perseverance have been passed on from generation to generation. We cannot turn our backs on all those working on the front lines: healthcare workers, grocery clerks, police officers, those who deliver mail and other goods, restaurant workers, those who work in manufacturing and processing plants. We cannot turn our backs on our black and brown sisters and brothers who know this narrative all too well—yet another example of being ignored by systems built on white privilege. The only way we get through this is together, doing what we can for our families AND our neighbor. 

The passage from 1 Peter talks about suffering—suffering for what is good. We don’t suffer for its own sake, there isn’t salvation in suffering itself, but we understand that it is a part of human life and sometimes doing the right thing comes at some personal cost. And, in the cross of Christ we know and trust that suffering isn’t the end all, it doesn’t have the last word. In the cross we know and trust that Christ suffers with us.

All of this traumatic change that we are going through as a community, as a nation, as an entire world, it wears on all of us. So let Jesus’ reassuring words to the disciples be a comfort and guide for us, “I will give you an Advocate,” he says. “to be with you forever…the Spirit of Truth, you know this Spirit because it abides in you and will be in you.” In the midst of chaos and uncertainty, in the midst of change that turns our lives upside down, Jesus promises to give us the Spirit—to comfort, to reassure, to guide—an advocate, one to literally act and speak on our behalf. 

I will not leave you abandoned, Jesus says, I am coming to you. The tense of that verb, “I am coming” is interesting, given that Jesus was talking directly to the disciples. But John writes into his gospel this notion—supported by all of the stories about Jesus—that Jesus comes to us again and again and again. He meets us again and again and again. He shows up again and again and again. 

And he shows up bearing a promise: that God is faithful, that God loves us, that God will not abandon us. The God who made the world and everything in it…the Lord of heaven and earth…gives to all mortals life and breath and all things. 

With the gift of the Spirit, the disciples would soon be commissioned to be the voice of God’s creative and redemptive word. And now, that responsibility falls to you and me. And that word is needed now more than ever. So let us join our voices to share God’s love with the world and prove that goodness is stronger than evil, love stronger than hate, and life stronger than death.

May 10, 2020 - Fifth Sunday of Easter

It’s a very different scene today in John’s gospel than it was last week, when we heard Jesus talking to the Pharisees and shepherds and sheep and gates. 

Today we fast forward a few chapters in John and find ourselves in an intimate setting, on the last night that Jesus spends with his disciples, the last night before his crucifixion and death. In John there isn’t really a “last supper” scene like the other gospels. In John, Jesus washes the feet of the disciples and then spends the evening in deep conversation, preparing them for what lies ahead—his death and their life in his absence. 

Today’s passage most memorably contains the statement about the Father’s house with many rooms or dwelling places and Jesus’ latest “I am” statement, I am the way, the truth and the life—whatever that means. But in this time and season that we find ourselves in—each of us dealing with the coronavirus pandemic—I was drawn first to the sentence that begins this passage, “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” And I’m drawn to those words of good news because right now I’m feeling a lot like Thomas in verse 5, “Lord, how can we know the way?” I don’t know about you, but this statement sums up my experience right now. How can we know the way? How can we know the way through this pandemic? How can we know the way to meaningful connection through phones and computers? How can we know the way to care for loved ones and friends when physical presence isn’t possible? How can we know the way to re-entry when guidance is inconsistent at best and things are changing every day? How can we know the way when opening up places the vulnerable and marginalized in our communities—the elderly, people of color, immigrants—at disproportionate risk? How can we know the way?

I am the way, Jesus says. I am the truth. I am the life. And as vague and abstract as that sounds, maybe it is that simple. That we might not know the way forward today, we might not know tomorrow, but the resurrected Christ meets us on the way and reminds us of the truth of who we are—resurrection people—and whose we are, named and claimed as God’s beloved. We might wake up feeling lost, anxious, stumbling through the dark, but that abundant life that Jesus kept offering and talking about continues to find us. 

Perhaps especially when we’re stumbling around, trying to find our way, we have a tough time figuring out where God is in all of this. “Just show us the Father, and we will be satisfied,” Philip says. Just show us God, show us where God is. Whoever has seen me, Jesus says, has seen the Father. So don’t let your hearts be troubled. Because as each of us struggles with figuring out which way to go from here, as each of us struggles to be fathers, mothers, grandmothers, grandfathers, sons, daughters, friends, employees; as each of us struggles with living our daily lives in totally new and different ways, as each of us walks that tightrope, discerning the right balance of providing what our loved ones need with very real public health threats and risks—we aren’t alone—we have each other—and through the resurrected Christ, God is with us, too, and we know and trust this, because in all the places the resurrected Christ shows up—on the road, around the table, in our homes and workplaces, in hospitals, in meat-packing plants, in flesh and blood, in water and word, God’s right there, too.

How can we know the way? The resurrected Christ is our way, our truth and our life. When we are lost, confused, burdened, burned out, and overwhelmed, Christ meets us and calms our troubled hearts. Christ shows us the way and reminds us of the truth that we are enough and that we are doing enough. When all we are able to see is death and despair, the resurrected Christ shows us new and abundant life.  

As we try our best to find that way, a way forward for our families, our work and our church, the way into a future that will almost certainly look different than what we had come to know as normal, the words of the resurrected Jesus give us courage to step faithfully into the coming days, weeks and months. And the one in whose house there many rooms, the one who is in Christ and is indeed in each one of us, frees our minds from tombs of impossibility, opening them to re-imagine a way forward full of possibility and to perceive the new things that will continue to spring up all around us.

Alleluia, Christ is risen. Christ is risen, indeed, alleluia. 

May 3, 2020 - Fourth Sunday of Easter

I am the gate, Jesus says.

You know, like many of you, this pandemic has forced our family to be home together pretty much 24/7—certainly a challenge at times, but also a tremendous blessing. With daycare closed, Liz and I have witnessed more of those moments that showcase our two-year old learning and growing and doing silly two-year-old things. And one of Hanah’s favorite games these days involves our poor dog, Ruby, and a safety gate that separates our dining room from our kitchen. Hanah loves playing the gatekeeper. She lets Ruby (and us!) in, she keeps her out. She might open the gate just enough to give Ruby a window to escape, but the moment Ruby makes a move, Hanah swings the gate closed, “Ruby stay!”

I’ll be really honest—when I first read through this gospel lesson for the Fourth Sunday in Easter, Good Shepherd Sunday, my thought was, given our reality of mandated sheltering—a state in which doors are supposed to mostly stay closed—I thought the image of a gate maybe isn’t super helpful. Because, even as many of us have tried making the best of this new normal, I’m getting tired of gates and doors. I’m growing weary of masks, distancing, things that make us stay in place, things that keep us from going about our lives like we used to, things that keep us from physically connecting with others.

At the same time, as we’ve been kept from connecting with each other in a physical way, I’ve been amazed at how people have stayed connected through phones and video conferencing. I’ve heard more than a few people tell me that they’ve been more in touch with friends and family during this pandemic than they’ve ever been. And as we’ve switched to these new and different ways of connecting, I think we’ve been forced to pay more attention to each others’ voices. I’ve noticed this especially during bible study on Tuesday mornings—since most of the participants call in from their phone, we don’t see any faces, we just hear voices. And it’s amazing to me how well everyone knows the sound of each others’ voice—there’s never any mystery about who’s talking. We recognize each other simply by listening to someone’s voice.

The gate and the shepherd are really useless if the sheep don’t know and recognize the sound of the shepherd’s voice. If you have a pet at home, then you know this. If we’re on zoom or facetime with my parents or Liz’s parents, our dog immediately recognizes their voices, coming from the computer. She’ll run to the door, expecting them to walk in. This voice motif that Jesus discusses is I think both a promise and a challenge. It’s a challenge because there are lots of voices out there, right? There are lots of voices competing for our attention. There are lots of voices that fall into Jesus’ category of thieves and bandits—voices that knowingly mislead, voices that are void of empathy or self-sacrifice, voices that care, not about the sheep, only about themselves. I don’t think you need a very wild imagination to think of some of those voices right now. Sometimes the voices of the thieves and bandits are the loudest and the ones that steer us away from listening to the voice of the shepherd. And therein lies the challenge that Jesus names for us. 

But with the challenge is also a promise. Jesus promises that he calls his sheep by name, and the sheep know the sound of his voice. Jesus knows and calls each of us by name—this promise was spoken to us at baptism. The voice of Jesus we recognize as a voice that brings calm, reassurance, and hope when we’re feeling anxious, uncertain, afraid or disheartened. It’s a voice we trust because we know he’s been on the roads we’ve traveled, suffered the things that we have. It’s a voice we trust because in the cross, he laid down his life for the sheep, just as he said. It’s a voice we trust because through his death and resurrection, he has brought us life, and life abundantly. And this is how we know the sound of his voice—it’s the one that brings us out of despair and into hope, and out of death into abundant life. 

You know, gates can keep us in. But gates can also release us. There will come a day when we can leave our homes with more freedom and a greater sense of security, even though things may never go back to the way they were. When that time arrives, God will release us to re-imagine the possibilities and the new ways to do God’s work and share God’s good news with the world. The good shepherd will release us from our tombs of despair reminding us that he knows us and calls us by name. 

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, the psalmist writes, you are with me. As we seem to be passing through more shadowy valleys these days, the voice of the good shepherd speaks to us and reminds us that we are his and he is with us—now, in two weeks, in two months, in two years. And along the way, our cup still overflows with abundant life. 

April 26, 2020 - Third Sunday of Easter

After poring over the gospel lesson for this week, I keep thinking about that road. That road to Emmaus must’ve been a sad, disappointing and lonely road for those two disciples. I imagine them walking briskly, eager to leave the last three days behind them, eager to leave the city of Jerusalem, a place that was now dangerous for them, were they to be identified as Jesus’ followers.

I imagine their hushed conversation interrupted by periods of silence, as each of them re-played the scenes over and over again. How could this have happened? What are we missing? Their sadness and fear turning into despair and profound disappointment. This was not what they were expecting; this was not what they had in mind. They were ready to be part of a revolution. Instead, they were on the run.

I imagine the two were so consumed by their thoughts and their feelings, they didn’t even notice someone join them as they continued their trek to the village of Emmaus. The two disciples are startled, jerked out of their fog as the stranger begins asking them questions: What are you talking about? Things about Jesus? What things? I imagine their annoyance as the stranger’s curiosity turns into outright insult: how foolish you are…

Luke writes that the hearts of the two disciples burned within them as the stranger began talking and teaching. As they neared the village, the two had a strange feeling, like they had met this fellow traveler somewhere before.

You know the rest of the story—with the evening darkness growing, the two invite Jesus to stay with them; they gather around a table, Jesus takes bread and blesses it. Their eyes are opened. They finally recognize him and just as quickly, he vanishes. Unfazed by the strange disappearance, the two hurry back to Jerusalem to tell the others.

The road that we have been traveling over the past five or six weeks has been at times a sad, lonely, frightening road. It is a journey we weren’t expecting. Although we have found ways to cherish this time and make the best of it, I think it’s still a road we are eager to put behind us. And how easily our sadness and fear turns into despair: will this road ever end, will things get back to normal, will we get through this?

In the moments that we are consumed by these thoughts and feelings, the risen Christ strides up alongside us and makes our hearts burn. On this road that we walk, Jesus shows up and walks with us. On this road that we travel Jesus reminds us of God’s proven track-record of bringing salvation and life, even in the grimmest circumstances. Jesus reminds us that he has been on this road before. Jesus promises that this road doesn’t end with suffering and death, it ends with resurrection.

We are treated this morning to a beautiful, moving arrangement of the old spiritual, “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.” (Click here for a link to the song). The origins of this song come out of the black experience in the South during Jim Crow—a period of time in the late 19th and early 20th centuries during which thousands of black men and women were lynched—horrific acts of mob violence—often for just being black. The words to this song describe how black folk found refuge and hope in the crucified Jesus, “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen…But Jesus. Glory, Hallelujah.” Jesus knew their trouble, because he, too was branded a criminal and lynched. He, too, was tortured, mocked and executed; he, too, was hung on a tree.

Now, of course none of us will ever begin to know it feels like to suffer and live under the threat of lynching, but just knowing that Jesus has suffered and felt many of the same things that we struggle with helps you and me have faith that God is with us, in whatever experience, on whatever road we encounter in this life.

Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen but Jesus. When Jesus meets us on the road, he brings with him the experience of the cross and the empty tomb; that even in the most difficult experiences, there is promise and hope of redemption. The risen Christ opens our eyes to his resurrected presence. He keeps showing up and meeting us, giving us hope in the midst of despair, joy in the midst of sadness, and life in the midst of loss. 

Dear people, this road will come to an end, and we will get through this, we will get through it together and we will get through it because the resurrected Christ finds us, even when we do not feel it, even before we know it; Christ finds us and stays with us. Glory, halleujah.

April 12, 2020 - Easter Sunday

Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ is risen, indeed! Alleluia!

“They left the tomb quickly, with fear and great joy,” writes the author of Matthew’s gospel. With fear and great joy. There is an obvious tension in today’s resurrection story. Two seemingly opposite emotions—fear and joy—are felt simultaneously by the women who encounter an empty tomb guarded by a ghostly angel. There is fear as the earth shakes, the angel descends, and the women begin to worry about what has happened to the body of their teacher. Joy at the possibility—however unlikely, even absurd—that he was raised from the dead, as the angel said. Fear and great joy.

As we celebrate the strangest Easter—surely in my lifetime, maybe for generations—I sense a similar tension. It is hard to ignore—and we shouldn’t ignore—the real fear, pain and suffering going on in our communities: fear of this mysterious coronavirus, the pain and suffering that has resulted in the wake of lost jobs, mandated isolation, severe illness and death. And yet, here we are, gathered, albeit virtually, to celebrate the great joy of the resurrection. Here we are to give voice to God’s transformation of death into new life. Fear and great joy.

As the story from Matthew goes, the women don’t get far before running into Jesus himself, very much alive. Jesus meets them, right in the middle of that tension, right in the middle of that clash of fear and joy. Jesus meets them and says, “do not be afraid.” It’s like Jesus knew that sometimes the new life that emerges can be just as unsettling as the death itself. 

Something that I’ve started to think about is the new life that will emerge from this moment in history. What resurrection will we begin to see in our nation? What transformation will we begin to see in our communities? What new life will we begin to see in our congregations, in our families? 

I think that new life is already starting to appear. I see it in the countless ways that people are giving of themselves, going over and above to help out their neighbors. I see it in the ways that ordinary people are doing extraordinary and heroic things for the well-being of their community. I see it in the ways that people are re-dedicating themselves to their jobs, their families, their churches. I see it in the ways that people of all ages are finding new ways to connect. I see it in the ways that church leaders are reinventing aspects of their ministry. I see it in the way that the church has been forced to leave the building and get out into the world. 

That’s what this Easter story does, it promises the possibility of transformation, it promises the possibility of new life, in every moment—even moments of despair. Even in seasons of suffering, Christ’s resurrection is emerging.

You know, there’s a refrain that is often sung at funerals—even at the grave we make our song. That refrain captures this moment for me. Even at the grave we make our song. Even in fear and death we make our song. Even in despair and uncertainty we make our song. Even physically separated, unsure of when we’ll actually be back together in the sanctuary again, we make our song. And the song that we lift our voices to sing proclaims the great joy of resurrection new life. 

I know many of us are looking forward to the day we’ll be able to gather safely outside of our homes, in backyards, in parks, in stadiums, in theaters, at festivals and in sanctuaries. Whatever day of the year it is, it will be an Easter celebration. But in the meantime, God gives us the joy of resurrection each day. God will continue to bring life out of death. God will continue to re-create that Good Friday to Easter Sunday transformation. God will continue to empty tombs. And the resurrected Christ will continue to meet us, especially where fear and great joy collide.

Alleluia, Christ is risen. Christ is risen, indeed, alleluia.

April 10, 2020 - Good Friday

Our Good Friday didn’t begin today. Good Friday for us began weeks ago, as the coronavirus tightened its grip on our nation and our communities. Good Friday began as we felt slammed by a tidal wave of cases and then deaths—our daily morning rituals became accompanied by grim news reports as we braced ourselves for the “steep” part of the curve. Good Friday began when we started to feel more acutely the suffering, uncertainty, grief, fear and isolation that spread as quickly as the virus itself. Today is Good Friday, but we’ve been stuck here for a while.

We’ve been stuck here for a while, but the story that takes place tonight on Calvary, the story of the crucified Christ provides us with an exit strategy. The crucified Christ provides us with an alternate story to the suffering, grief and fear that has become an all-too-familiar part of our days.

One of the things that makes what we’re going through right now so difficult is the fact that there is so much that is out of our control. There is so much unknown. Tonight we heard the story of Jesus’ passion from the gospel of John. One of the things that makes John’s passion account unique is that from start to finish, Jesus is in control. When an army comes to arrest him, he causes them to fall to the ground and negotiates the safety of his companions. He interviews Pilate as much as Pilate interview him. He is unfazed as he is ridiculed by the soldiers, paraded in front of the crowds and crucified. He even gives direction from the cross as he declares a new family structure for his mother and best friend. And he announces the end, the fulfillment of what he had been sent to do, mission accomplished.

When things feel like they are out of our control, God reminds us that the crucified and soon risen Christ is in control. The story that takes place on Calvary reminds us not only of who is in control but of who walks with us through our Good Fridays. I have certainly had trials and tribulations in my life and I know each one of you have, too. When I go through those difficult times, I need to know that God has been there. I need to know that God knows what it is to feel pain, to feel suffering. I need to know that God knows what it is to weep. I need to know that God knows what it is to be anxious and stressed. This is why Good Friday is important to me. Because in Jesus’ life—and especially the last few days—his death and his resurrection, we are assured that God knows these things, that God knows our trials and God walks with us through them. 

Although this day is shrouded in a dark pall of death, we know that Christ’s death offers life to all the world. The tree around which we gather this evening is indeed a tree of life. We leave the foot of the cross knowing that there has been a victory, that all of the world’s brokenness is put to death with Christ. The cross is where our redemption begins. 

From here, we make our way to the promised joy of new and abundant life declared by an open tomb. When we feel stuck in Good Friday, the crucified and resurrected Christ calls us out of our tombs. When we feel stuck in Good Friday, God reminds us of what always waits for us in the morning: an empty cross, an empty tomb, a new day full of life.

April 9, 2020 - Maundy Thursday

This day might’ve been the most challenging of the three days—Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Easter Sunday—to imagine when we are physically apart from each other. The essence of this day and this day’s worship is rooted in sensory and bodily ritual: the laying on of hands, foot or hand washing, holy communion, and stripping the altar. On this day, perhaps more than any other, actions speak louder than words. And so I found it really hard to capture that feeling when we are all physically separated from each other. 

As you may know, the name for this day, Maundy, comes from the Latin word mandatum, meaning mandate or command. In the story from John, as Jesus gathers with his disciples one last time, he washes their feet, they share a meal, and he gives them a command: to love one another as he has loved them. This command gets to the heart of the meaning and ritual of this day. Love one another. And so over the past week, I’ve collected some pictures, videos and stories of ways that folks like you are living out Jesus’ command to love another, even now, largely confined to our homes. These stories are proof that even in the most extraordinary and unprecedented times, even when despair seems to filter out all hope, even when it seems to take superhuman strength to find moments of joy and positivity, God’s love persists, through people like you and me.

The story tonight of Jesus washing the feet of the disciples and commanding them to love one another brings to mind an earlier passage in the gospel of John—another one about love, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son…” You might’ve heard it before. The love expressed in this famous verse suggests love that is sacrificial, a giving of oneself. This is how much God loves the world—that God would give God’s only Son for the life of the world. Now, in our present reality, it might be hard to believe that God could love a world as broken and diseased as this one. It might be hard to believe that a God who loves the world so much could allow so much suffering and death. Yet this love is what saves us. This love—love that comes to earth as a baby, turns water into wine, chooses to hang out with sinners, offers living water gushing up to eternal life to strangers that he meets, feeds thousands with a couple loaves of bread and a few fish, makes the blind see again, even raises people from the dead—this love is what saves us. 

The love that God shows us by sending the true light that has come into the world is the same kind of love that Jesus talks about with his disciples and models for them by engaging in a servant’s act. Washing feet is only the beginning of Jesus’ self-sacrificing love—love that expects nothing in return. The ultimate act of love will come tomorrow when he walks to a death on a cross.

And in baptism we are called in turn to reflect this type of love, to share this love with all the world—love that is inclusive, love that crosses boundaries, love that stands with the most marginalized and vulnerable, love that challenges the accepted yet sinful ways in which the world operates. Especially during this time that we are living in right now, a time rife with anxiety, fear, suspicion, and uncertainty, acts of love, ways in which we give of ourselves for others are as important as ever. Especially during this time, moments and glimpses of love remind us that God’s ongoing and redeeming continues. The persistence of love reminds us of the persistent presence of God. 

April 5, 2020 - Palm Sunday

Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the highest!

On a typical Palm Sunday, we would begin worship outside, in the church garden. We would gather, standing close to each other, and holding palm branches while hearing the story of Jesus entering Jerusalem. And then we would re-enact the day’s events, processing into the sanctuary while singing the same words that came from the lips of the crowd that day. We would start with Hosannna, in the highest, hosanna in the highest; blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord. And then, upon entering the sanctuary we would sing that classic and beloved Palm Sunday hymn, All Glory Laud and Honor. All glory laud and honor to you redeemer king, to whom the lips of children let sweet hosannas ring

There is so much I like about worship on Palm Sunday and so much that I will miss this year. We’ve had to adjust our expectations. And that’s what I’ve been thinking about this week, adjusting expectations. We’ve all had to do a lot of that, as our normal lives have been turned upside down. We’ve had to adjust our expectations for just about everything—holidays like Easter, spring break, graduations, family outings, work-life balance, visiting with grandchildren and grandparents, surgeries and doctor’s appointments, even how we get our groceries and medicine. 

 And so I wonder what it must have been like to be a follower or disciple of Jesus on that day he rides into Jerusalem. It’s a procession worthy of a king, yet Jesus isn’t in a chariot or on a horse or with an army—he’s riding a donkey, by himself. And after all the pomp and circumstance, he doesn’t sweep into the city and overthrow the rulers, like many had probably hoped he would. Instead, he spends some quiet days teaching and spending time with his closest followers before literally walking to his death. All of this has made me wonder about how much the disciples and others were forced to adjust their expectations.  

I think in many ways, over the course of Jesus’ ministry, people’s expectations of who he was and what he came into the world to do were constantly adjusting. They had waited centuries for this Messiah, the one descended from the house of David, the one who would come to save them. Save them he does, but not in the way they might have expected. Their redemption doesn’t come by the sword or with overwhelming force; it comes through an ignominious death and equally unfathomable resurrection.  

Usually, on Palm Sunday, there is a turning point in worship, a pivot from celebration to mourning. As we hear an account of the passion story, it is jarring how quickly the “hosannas” turn into shouts of “crucify him.” Maybe this proves that the people just couldn’t take one more adjustment to their expectations. They’d had it with this prophet and his vague promises. Maybe he was just a criminal, another false prophet stirring up trouble.

I’ve encountered days during this time of shelter-in-place when I feel like one more adjusted expectation will be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. But then I remember that the events of this coming week—the entrance into Jerusalem, the meal with the disciples and washing of their feet, the trial and crucifixion and the resurrection after three days—all of it took place for these very moments that we find ourselves in—moments in which we feel like giving up, moments in which it’s hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel, moments when despair seems to filter out all of the hope, moments of real pain and suffering. This unpredictable and unexpected story—Jesus’ death and resurrection—is what saves us, day in and day out. God is saying that suffering and death are real, but so is hope and new life. Worry and fear are real, but through each storm, through each dark valley, through each cloud of uncertainty, the one who came into the world meets us and walks with us each step of the way.  

As we are forced to adjust our expectations, and live in this new reality, God doesn’t waver. God reminds us that love has come and is here to stay. God lifts our heads high, casting our gaze on that horizon, where the sky is always lightening with the resurrection dawn.

Hosanna in the highest, blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.