Weekly Devotion for the week of June 21

Scripture text: Deuteronomy 24:17-22 (Text appointed for Monday, June 22, 2015)

I've been wracking my brain trying to come up with a way to process the events of this past week. Like it was for many people in our country, the shooting at "Mother Emmanuel" Church in Charleston, SC has me rattled. We are seeing the sins of our society laid bare before us: our propensity to hate, our tendency to violence, our unresolved discomfort with issues of race, and a whole host of other flaws and vices that we tend to brush under the rug as quickly as we can.

The more I think about this and other related things, the more I think it all goes back to something very fundamental: our basic moral and ethical makeup. All too often the response I see from people to events of racial violence is to blame the victim. "Someone in that church should have had a gun." "That kid deserved to be shot because he had some minor criminal incident in his past." And so forth.

This is reflective, I believe, of one of two major approaches to morality that we've adopted. One is punitive. It's the morality of "Thou shalt not" and if thou does, beware the consequences. This is an inward morality, a self-focused morality that centers on avoiding vice for one's own sake. I don't murder because if I do I'll go to jail. I don't lie because it'll go worse for me if I get caught. It's better for me if I abstain from these behaviors.

It would not be an exaggeration to say this is probably the dominant model of morality that most of us have adopted. We look at a lot of life in terms of reward and punishment. If I do good, I'll be rewarded. If I do bad, I'll be punished, whether by circumstance or by the powers of those in authority over me.

Most of us would attribute this way of thinking to our Christian faith, but somewhat ironically, this is not the model of morality that most of the Scriptures endorses. The vast majority of the Bible instead endorses an outward morality, one that is focused on the other rather than ourselves. Jesus himself said that "all the law and the prophets hang" upon two commandments, neither of which contain the words (in any language) of "thou shalt not": Love God and love your neighbor. (Matthew 22:36-40)

The Scripture reading for this week from Deuteronomy is an excellent example of this outward morality. These instructions, written to an ancient agrarian society, tell the farmers of those times to never harvest the whole of the their fields, but to leave something behind for those in need. This sort of thinking is commonplace in the Scriptures. I feed the hungry because they need food. I tend to the sick because they need help. It is better for them if I do these things. Do you see the difference?

Now what does this mean for our current moment in history, with our nation at a crossroads when it comes to race and violence? I don't know the answer to that, but I can't imagine that if we were take seriously our Lord's call to an outward moral focus, that things would remain "business as usual" for long. Do we truly want a better society with greater justice and peace for all people? If so, this is the road to that: Caring for others as much if not more than ourselves, remembering well the care and love that our God places upon them.

Our neighbors need us and we are being called to be there for them in their times of need. To me, that's what it means to live a Christian life. It's not about me. It's about them and what I can do for their sake? That's a question for all of us, in this and in every time.

Sermon for the Fourth Sunday after Pentecost

Preached at Canadochly Lutheran Church on June 21, 2015
Scripture text: Mark 4:35-41

There is storm blowing all around us. The waves are tossing us about, spilling over into the boat. We see the lightning. We hear the thunder. We’re being thrown against the rails, battered about. We’re tired and there’s no end in sight.

And Jesus is asleep on the cushion.

The storm has many names. It takes many forms. This week was a perfect conglomeration of awfulness, like everything that is wrong in our society bundled up into one horrific event. Another mass shooting. Another incident of brutality against the African-American community. Another act of terror on American soil. At a church, where people were gathered for worship. In a room we church people call a “sanctuary,” death came calling.

And Jesus is asleep on the cushion.

We can add this latest nightmare to the long list of things we see every night on the news. Child molesters, murders, ISIS ascendant in the Middle-East, plagues in Africa, corruption in Washington, economic instability in our markets, you name it. The future looks bleak. There’s a storm in our world today.

And Jesus is asleep on the cushion.

And then there’s our own lives. Our own struggles: illness, family difficulties, job troubles. Too little money. Too little time. Too much stress. The storm is close to home.

And Jesus is asleep on the cushion.

It’s easy for us to want to be like the disciples in that boat: full of fear and astonished and infuriated that their Lord is so apathetic, so oblivious, to their plight that he dares to sleep through this crisis. Panic has set in! They’re all going to die! We’re all going to die!

People will tell you that the worst thing one can do in the midst of crisis is panic. And yet, that is precisely what the disciples are doing and it is precisely what we have been doing. For almost 15 years, pretty much since 9/11, our nation, our society, has been gripped with fear. We are paranoid about terrorism. We are afraid of changing demographics; white people are becoming a minority. The institutional church is dying. We are afraid of crime. We are afraid of disease. We are afraid of our own government. And the news media does not help, having long since figured out that peddling fear is good for business.

And because we are afraid, we are making things worse.

Ask any of the police who now stand accused of these various incidents of brutality why they did what they did, and they will likely tell you they were afraid for their lives. But why would they, unless we are being taught and told that we are supposed to be afraid of people of color? The shooter in North Carolina killed those people because he was afraid that “black people were taking over the world.” But why would he believe such a thing unless we are being taught and told that we are supposed to fear such a thing? Listen to the rhetoric surrounding the gay marriage debate and you’ll hear all kinds of talk about how it will destroy the institution of marriage. There’s no evidence of that, but why would we believe such things unless we’re being told that it’s something to be afraid of?

But what is Jesus telling us? Not much, since he’s asleep on the cushion. But what a powerful statement that is.

He’s sleeping in this story not because he doesn’t care. He’s sleeping in this story not because he doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s asleep because he’s not afraid.

When he’s woken, Jesus responds with astonishment to the disciples. Did they not get it? Did they not realize his being asleep said everything they needed to know? Did they not get that they were really in no danger? He commands the storm to stop almost as an afterthought, as if to just simply appease the disciples pointless fear. Then he turns to them and chides them. “Oh, ye of little faith.” Did you really think this is where it ends? Did you really think we would die here? The Son of Man did not come to drown in a storm, but to give his life as a ransom for the world. Don’t you get it?

I think Jesus is trying to tell us the same thing. Do we really think this is where it ends? Do we really think that everything is falling apart around us? Are we truly afraid of this when there’s nothing to be afraid of?

It’s funny. I was laughing at myself the other night. I was a night of insomnia, not uncommon with some of the medications I’m on. But what was running through my head made me laugh. There was this old promotional cassette tape that I used to have, basically a mixtape of various one-off Christian songs. And those songs were running through my head, keeping me awake. Most of those songs I’d not listen to in 20 years or more. but there they were.

But you know something, there was one among them that fits and maybe through that bit of insomnia craziness, the Holy Spirit was trying to tell me something. There was a song on that tape by the old Christian group First Call called “The Future.” And its chorus went

“I may not know what the future holds

But I know who holds the future

I may listen to a thousand tongues

But I only hear one whisper

If I act upon that voice of love

Then I know I am a seeker

I can't see much past the present

But I know who holds the future”

The world is always going to have a bit of craziness to it. There will always be the rumble of thunder as the storm of sin does its best to frighten us. But Jesus is asleep on the cushion and with good reason. There is nothing to fear. God still reigns. He is the one who holds the future. The story doesn’t end here. It ends in glory. It ends in triumph. It ends in life and love and peace and justice. Christ’s whisper, or if you will, his snore, is reminding us of that. There is nothing to fear. God is still in charge. Amen.

Weekly Devotional for the week of June 14, 2015

Scripture texts: Psalm 52, Revelation 21:22-22:5 (texts for Tuesday, June 6, 2015)

Author’s Note: Here’s the basic format I’m going to adopt for these devotionals. The Revised Common Lectionary (RCL) has a Daily Lectionary that assigns Scripture readings to each day of the church year. Each week, I’ll be perusing those texts to select one I find intriguing or inspiring or challenging to share with you. It may be the Tuesday texts, the Saturday texts, or perhaps even one of the Sunday texts that I didn’t preach on. (If you’re curious about the Sunday text I did preach on, you’ll have my sermon manuscript posted here for that.) 

I find a certain irony in having Psalm 52 as one of the lectionary texts this week. A polemical psalm, a hostile psalm that carries a dire warning to people of wealth, power, and strength. And yet here we are in the midst of campaign season. Already this week, two more have thrown their hat into the ring for the upcoming Presidential election, two more into an already crowded field of candidates of both parties, all vying for the position of “leader of the free world.” Each one of them, without exception, is a person of wealth, power, and strength.

This was four years ago, a crowded field then against a sitting incumbent. This time the field is even more wide open.

We are political animals and it is very easy for us to place high expectations on our favored candidate, to place hope in their hands that they will make our nation better and stronger. We’ve seen this before and we’ll see it again. Our current President was lauded into office as something akin to the Second Coming by his supporters. More conservative pundits are almost frantic in their search for a new Ronald Reagan. But what gets lost in the midst of the hype is the recognition that these people, whatever their political positions and beliefs, are still human beings. They are as prone to error or greatness as much as any of us and the more we place them on a pedestal, the more likely they will disappoint.

The grand vision of a new world that John of Patmos witnesses in Revelation is not something that will come about of human effort. Human limitations and sin would never allow such an idyllic future from coming to pass. We’re too disagreeable, too flawed, too human to create that perfect world, no matter what our political ideologies or idealism. It takes a God that is beyond our human limitations and human divisions to create such a world.

But that is what we have. As the weeks pass, each of those very human political candidates will outline their vision for America’s future. God, however, has already shown us his vision of the world’s future. There’s a big difference. The candidate who wins may still never see his or her vision come to pass. But God’s vision will come to pass, since what is required to bring it about has already been done through Christ’s death and resurrection. “It is finished” Jesus declared from the cross. That idyllic world has been won. All that’s left really is the wait.

Whatever happens in our world and in our nation over the coming months and years will not change what God has done. Come November 2016, we may find ourselves delighted or disappointed with our new human leaders, convinced of a future glory or catastrophe. But beyond even our most hyperbolic hopes and fears, there is a far greater future. The one God has ordained for his world and for us. His vision, a vision of peace and love, a world where there are no more tears, no more division, no more pain, and no more sorrow. All won through Christ. Amen.

Changes are coming...

...and change is good.

Normally, I use this blog space only to post my sermon manuscripts. But that's going to change in the coming days and weeks. My duties at St. John's are changing again and one of my new tasks is to provide a weekly devotional based on the lectionary. Since I have a readily available blog to post said reflections, this is a no-brainer; they're going to appear here.

Now, most of my readers here are Canadochly members or friends, so obviously you'll get to enjoy the fruits of my labor for my other church. Likewise, I should see an upswing in traffic as St. John's people come to find my little corner of the internet here.

I'll likely be posting my first devotional in the next couple of days, so keep an eye out.

God bless

Pastor Allen

Sermon for the Third Sunday after Pentecost

Preached at Canadochly Lutheran Church on June 14, 2015
Scripture texts: Ezekiel 17:22-24, 2 Corinthians 5:6-10, Mark 4:26-34

Mystery. In literary circles, that’s a pretty common word; it describes a whole genre of literature. It’s the police procedural, it’s the detective story. It’s a story of a crime and the story of unraveling who did it and why. Many readers enjoy mysteries. They are stories that make you think, that challenge your perceptions. The best mystery writers often reveal the solution of the mystery pretty early on in the story, but in ways so subtle many readers miss it, and it’s often fun to sort of go back through the pages and see, oh, I missed that. It’s so obvious now.

There’s another realm of thought where the word “mystery” is used that is not quite so commonplace. It is in the realm of religion, the realm of faith, and here it is used differently. Where mystery in a story is something to be solved, mystery in faith is something that is unknown and largely unknowable. You cannot unravel these mysteries. The deeper you get, the more clouded sometimes things become. Time and again, we encounter questions about the deeper things of life for which the right and only answer is “I do not know.”

We humans are an inquisitive lot. We were given intellect by our creator, curiosity, and we have set to work across the generations to understand why things are the way they are. And we’ve been very successful at it. The whole realm of science is a monument to our ability to tease out the unknowns of the world around us. How did life happen? We know that now. How does gravity work? We know that now. How big is the universe? We know that now. How do black holes work? Ok, we’re still working on that one.

Obviously, we haven’t learned everything, but we’ve learned enough that unknowns bother us. And faith is all about unknowns. Who is God? Well, we know some things. We know what he’s told us about himself in the Scriptures and through his Son, Jesus. But there’s a whole lot we don’t know and really can’t know. And that bugs us. “I don’t know” is usually an unacceptable answer. (Try using it on a teacher or professor sometime. You won’t get very far.) Yet, it’s often the best we have.

Today’s Scripture lessons are all about mystery. They are all about things that we do not know and really cannot know. Ezekiel tells of a mystery. In a wonderful poetic fashion, he teases a beautiful image of a world yet to be. It’s essentially the old covenant retold. All the world coming together on the mountaintop. Justice will reign. There will be sufficiency for all.

And yet, that’s a far cry from the world in which we live. There’s an internet meme going around. It shows Caitlyn (formerly Bruce) Jenner on one side and a man in a USMC uniform on the other. It says that everyone wants to talk about how “brave Bruce Jenner is for transitioning from man to woman. He’s not brave. This soldier is brave.”

Not the exact meme that I describe, but there certainly plenty of these echoing these particular sentiments out there.

I saw that and I sort of shook my head. No, that’s not how it works. Both are brave. Both are courageous. Not in the same way and obviously not in the same contexts. I can’t imagine the kind of valor it would take to be on the battlefield, to be in that environment. Nor can I imagine the kind of courage it takes to completely transform one’s identity from male to female in a world that is often violently hostile to alternative sexuality. It’s a both/and, not an either/or. One does not diminish the other. They are not in competition with one another.

But we want them to be. It’s this same stupid tribalism that I spent last week’s sermon excoriating. My people are better than your people. My people are braver than your people. My daddy can beat up your daddy. Yes, there’s the truth of it. It’s juvenile playground bullcrap, but it’s not children that do this. It’s adults, it’s the people running this world. And we're doing everything we can to divide ourselves from one another.

And yet it is God’s vision that we will all be one, one tribe, one family. Gathered together under the sprout of cedar on the mountaintop as the birds in its branches. “I will accomplish this.” God promises. How? I have no idea.

Jesus too speaks to a mystery in our Gospel lesson, two in fact, perhaps the greatest mystery of all: the mystery of faith itself. Why do we believe? Why do I believe? I mean, I could speak to my childhood and coming to church every Sunday. I could speak to my baptism (which as an infant, I couldn’t remember.) But as to why or even how I believe? I just do and I can’t remember when I didn’t. Oh, I have my moments of doubt and questioning; everyone does. But they were never quite enough to make me fall away from what seems like it’s always been.

I can’t speak to your stories, so I shouldn’t expect them to be the same or even similar. But Jesus does drive home the point that there is something unknowable about faith. You toss the seed and suddenly boom, there is a plant. The mustard seed is tiny and yet grows into something many hundred times larger. How do these things happen? We don’t know.

Of course, I could go into biology and whatnot, but that’s imposing a bit too much of our scientific knowledge onto Jesus’ metaphorical language and utterly missing the point of what he’s trying to tell us. Faith is a mystery, and perhaps never more so than when we are dealing with the faith of others as opposed to our own.

Evangelism is one of those “dirty words” in many mainline churches; not just because we find the idea of talking to people about faith intimidating, but also because we think we are responsible for the whole nine yards. We’ve got to convert these people, but that’s not our job. We are the sower who scatters the seed. Whether the seed grows or not is outside our control.

That lack of control can be frightening when we’re talking about someone we love dearly. I have many friends who are not Christian; They are atheist, agnostic, Taoist, Hindu, Jewish, Muslim, Neo-Pagan, you name it. Will they ever believe in Christ? I don’t know. There’s that phrase again. All I can do is plant seeds.

In 2 Corinthians, Paul talks about “walking by faith, and not by sight” and this is precisely what he means by that. We have these immense promises from God, promises of faith and salvation won through Christ and his cross. We have a promise of a new world of peace and tranquility, unity and love. We have a promise that we will be a part of that world for all eternity. Will others? I don’t know. But faith is about trust and if he’s done all this for me and for you, why would he not for them?

That’s how this works. I don’t know what God will do. But I believe and I trust that these promises are firm. That faith will spread and that idyllic world of unity and justice will come to pass. We has said it and while I cannot see it, I trust that it will come. Amen.

Sermon for the Second Sunday after Pentecost

Preached at Canadochly Lutheran Church on June 7, 2015
Scripture text: Mark 3:31-35

In the movie “Kingsmen: The Secret Service,” the supervillain (played by Samuel L. Jackson) comes up with a scheme to eliminate the excess population of Earth. He will transmit a signal across all cell phones and wireless devices that will cause the whole human race to revert to a more primitive animalistic state and we’ll all turn on one another like the barbarians that we are.

Truth is, if you really want to see that in real life, you don’t need a superweapon or a mad scientist scheme. All you really need is a newspaper headline, the more controversial the better.

I have a number of friends who, anytime there is a news report about some guy molesting kids, they jump in predictably with commentary about it. “We need tougher laws to deal with these predators.” Ok, that’s at least a reasonable reply to these sorts of crimes, but that’s as reasonable as it gets. “We should castrate these people.” “We should hang them up by their own entrails.” “We should bring back medieval torture for these people. Our system is too lenient.” “We should lynch them outside of town and leave their bodies hang for all to see.”

At times, I wonder when some representative of the Spanish Inquisition is going to stand up and say to these folks “Woah, dude, you need to chill.” I understand their fervor, their passion. Many of them are survivors of sexual abuse themselves, so I can get why they feel so strongly about this.

But then news breaks this week about a particular reality TV family who has some very ugly skeletons in their closet. Josh Duggar, the eldest son of the “19 Kids and Counting” clan, has been accused of a half-dozen or so episodes of molesting his younger sisters and other girls while he was a teenager. When news of this broke, I turned to Facebook and to that cadre of people, fully expecting to hear all manner of horrific punishments that this Duggar fellow has now merited for these heinous acts.

Instead, I got crickets. *chirp* *chirp* Not one word.

You see, not are these folks survivors of sexual abuse, but they are also nearly all conservative Christians. And it’s one thing when it’s someone out there, some other, who does these horrific crimes. But when it’s one of our own, that’s different. You want to see human beings at their most primitive. Here they are. When we’ll excoriate people for all manner of sin, but when it’s one of our own, one of our tribe, one of our family, we’ll bend over backwards to make excuses for them.

It’s all a conspiracy. It’s not really a crime. He’s one of us; He can’t be guilty.

We do this all over the place. One of my favorite quotes is from Robert E. Howard about the human capacity for barbarism, about how civilization is unnatural to us and when push comes to shove, we’ll revert to the barbarian within us in a heartbeat. Well, here’s what that looks like. Truth does not matter. Fact is ignored. The severity of the sin becomes irrelevant. When it’s one of ours, one of our tribe, one of our people, sin ceases to matter. The tribe must be defended at all costs.

Take these recent police shootings for instance. Absolutely, that 12-year old boy deserved to die...because he was playing in a park. He merited to summarily executed without judge, jury, a trial, or any other form of due process because.... Or that man needed to be strangled to death for the heinous capital crime of selling cigarettes on the street without tax. Or that other man needed to be gunned down while running away because he was afraid of the vicious crime of being late on a child support payment. Clearly, each and every one of these people was a vicious threat to society that deserved to die...because they aren’t part of the tribe but the people who killed them are.

You look at it objectively and it gets truly ridiculous. The nonsense we’ll spew to defend our own. But this is what we do.

Let me tell you about my friend Greg. Widower, father of four, three girls, one boy. When his wife was in her last months, dying of cancer, he moved in with family to help take care of her and the kids. Well, it turns out one of the family members living in the house took a shine to the girls and began to touch them, began to molest them, began to violate them, began to rape them. When Greg found out, the family pleaded with him. Don’t tell the police. You know how so-and-so is. It’s just a bit of fun. Well, Greg did go to the police and so-and-so did go to jail for what he did. And Greg’s family hasn’t spoken to him since. He broke ranks with the tribe and that is a sin that will not be ignored. Murder, rape, child abuse, those don’t matter. Sweep them under the rug. Break ranks? Unforgivable.

The tribe is all that matters. The truth irrelevant. Facts don’t matter. Doing what is right: very very dangerous.

Contrast all this to what Jesus does in our Gospel lesson today. It begins as innocuous an encounter as one will find in the Bible. A messenger comes to Jesus and relays that his family is waiting outside. “They’ve come from Nazareth to see you. They’re here.” It’s probably a scene that many of us will be a part of this summer as absent children, siblings, and parents travel on vacations to come visit us.

But then Jesus does something very profound with this simple encounter. When this announcement is made, Jesus then turns to the assembled crowd. “Here are my mother, brothers, and sisters.” He proclaims. “They who do the will of my Father.”

Jesus is telling us the tribe is a lot bigger than we think it is. Jesus is telling us the family includes people that we might otherwise exclude.

The atheist who gives a cup of cold water to a thirsty girl. He does the will of the Father. The gay man who cares for the sick in the hospital. He does the will of the Father. The wealthy socialite who provides shelter for the homeless. She does the will of the Father. The dead-broke fast-food worker who uses part of his paltry salary to share his meal with someone who has nothing. He does the will of the Father. They are part of the family, Jesus says. And if they are, who is not?

The primitive human divides themselves from others. These are my people and those are someone else. My people are good and those people are bad. But Jesus calls us to see the whole of humanity as one tribe, one family, and that we are all brothers and sisters to one another. One family together in the same broken world.

Christ himself makes no distinctions. He did not come to the Earth to save only part of it. The covenants are clear. The promises are for ALL the families of the Earth, for ALL the people. His death and resurrection were not conditional upon which tribe we belong to. It is not conditional on being American or white or straight or wealthy or poor or even Christian. There are many who do the will of the Father who are beyond these boundaries. Many who we will be very surprised to see when we get to heaven, but God has granted them a place. Why? Because they are his children and they are our brothers and sisters. All one tribe. All one family. United by God. Amen.

Sermon for the Day of Pentecost

Preached at Canadochly Lutheran Church on May 24, 2015
Scripture text: Acts 2: 1-21

It is probably a safe bet to say that most American Christians are Dispensationalists. Ok, Pastor, that’s a really big word, what does it mean? Fair enough. Dispensationalism is a particular interpretation of the End Times that was developed in the mid-19th century by John Nelson Darby and popularized by C.I. Scofield in his publication of the KJV Bible.

A typical chart of the Dispensations, as one might find in Scofield's Bible.

The rapture, the tribulation, the Antichrist, the battle of Armageddon, and so forth are all drawn from Darby’s picking bits and pieces of Scripture texts here and there to create a reasonably coherent narrative as to how the Last Days will play out. Odds are good you know precisely what Dispensationalism is without ever having heard its scholarly name and odds are equally likely that you believe at least some of what that interpretation teaches, simply because when it comes to the American church, it’s the only story most people ever hear.

Like all theological ideas, it has its strengths and its weaknesses. It does tell an intriguing and exhilarating story. Good vs. Evil. God vs. the Devil. The last holdouts of the Church vs. a viciously hostile World. However, it does also make the End Times into something to be feared. You think it’s bad now. Just wait.

In fact, fear is the primary element of this particular theology. It’s written all over it. Be afraid. Be terrified. You’d better sit up and fly right or Jesus is gonna come back and get ya. Don’t want to be left behind. Don’t want to end up in the Antichrist’s concentration camps. Don’t want to be caught up in the plagues and earthquakes and famines and all the other disasters that are supposed to be coming. Be afraid.

By contrast, it’s interesting to look at how the people of the Bible themselves look at the End Times and the Scripture pertaining thereto. Take Peter for instance in the famous story of Pentecost. He stands up before the befuddled crowd and to help them make sense of what they are witnessing he draws upon an apocalyptic text from the prophet Joel. He preaches on the End Times.

But he does something that is very different than what a modern preacher would do. He does not talk about this text as something that will happen in the future, even the near future. The End Times for Peter on that Pentecost were right now. “In the last days it will be, God declares…” Well, guess what folks, this is now. It’s happening right now.

It’s a strange way for him to approach things. First off, yes, we see the outpouring of the Spirit upon all flesh. We have the disciples speaking in all these different languages. But the sun turning to darkness, and the moon to blood. That wasn’t happening.

Or was it? It might be better to say, when is not happening?

I think Peter’s dead on about this. The biggest problem with dispensationalism or any other interpretation of the End Times is how they place everything at some point in the future, one perhaps far away or perhaps near. But Peter recognizes that NOW is the End Times. NOW is the Last Days.

And as it was true for Peter 2000 years ago, so it still is. We’re still there. We’re still in that moment in many ways. We’re still seeing the Spirit being poured out. We’re still seeing the sun turn to darkness and the moon to blood. In what way? California faces a drought of unprecedented proportions. An earthquake in Nepal has slain thousands of people. There is unrest in our cities at the economic and racial injustices of our society.

And on a more personal level, we have families in this very space who are mourning the recent or the imminent deaths of loved ones. We have people, myself among them, who are struggling with health issues. Tell me, when you first heard the doctor say that dreaded word “cancer” or when the hospice nurse said “They’re gone,” that it didn’t feel like the world was ending?

But to that, Peter gives us a word of hope. For the story doesn’t end there. No, these horrific realities of our lives, the metaphorical dark sun and blood moon made oh-so-real in our lives by things like disease, death, tragedy, and trauma, this is just the prelude to the greatest news that any of us could hear. “And then, everyone who calls upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.”

It doesn’t matter how dark life becomes. It doesn’t matter how dreadful our circumstances. God is there to save us.

We wonder how Peter and the other ten disciples were so successful in swaying that crowd to “come to Jesus” that day. How many of them were living in their own personal hells of heartache, illness, and suffering? How many of them were desperate for a word that would tell them that no matter how bad it is, God has not forsaken you. God is with you. God loves you. Forget about the black sun. Forget about the blood moon. God has the last word and his word is salvation.

It’s probably not much of a secret that as a Lutheran pastor, I love the story of our denomination’s founder, Martin Luther. I particularly like the interpretation of his life that was put on screen for the 2003 movie Luther. Early in the film, in a moment of personal crisis, Luther is told by his monastic superior to place his trust in Christ and to repeat a simple prayer. “I am yours. Save me.”

The night after his first day of questioning at the Council of Worms, Luther is infuriated with himself for his fear and inability to answer the Inquisitor’s questions earlier that day. He knows his life is on the line. He believes his very soul is on the line. And after he rants and raves for a bit, he pauses. He gets down on the floor and he begins to pray. “I am yours. Save me.”


His world felt like it was ending. Luther was under threat of death for his teachings. And in the midst of his darkest hour, it’s as if he heard St. Peter on Pentecost. “Then all who call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.”

No matter how bad life seems. No matter how painful the illness or the sorrow. No matter how scared you might be. God is still there. He still has the last word. And that word is salvation. Amen.

Sermon for Seventh Easter (Sunday of the Ascension)

Preached at Canadochly Lutheran Church on May 17, 2015
Scripture text: Acts 1:1-11

“What a long strange trip it’s been.

“Here we are, on the mountain of Ascension. Jesus is rising up to the clouds. This brings to a close these eight weeks of chaos and confusion, a veritable roller coaster ride of emotions. It began with Palm Sunday and the triumphal entry into Jerusalem, with the crowds singing praises and waving palm branches, heralding their new king into the city. It moved from there to the tension of Maundy Thursday and creeping dread of the inevitable backlash, words of warning of betrayal from one of our own, yet in the midst of that a call for unity and service to one another.

“Then, the hammer falls. Judas betrays us. Jesus is arrested, put on trial, sentenced to death. He is nailed to a cross and left to hang there until he expires. Fear the likes of which we had never experienced scattered us to the four winds. We gathered again and hid, but as the days passed rumors began. First as murmurs, as the deluded ravings of the most sorrowful among us: He’s alive. He is risen. Nonsense. Ridiculous. Nothing more than the fever dream of a tormented mind.

“And then, he was there. Jesus stood among us. It was true. Our most desperate hopes had come to pass. He was alive. He had risen. It was true. But it was not as it once was. He popped in and out. Appearing to some on the road, to others at the seashore, to us in the upper room a second time. But he gave instruction to meet him on this mountain, where he’s spoken his final farewells and departed to heaven.

“Now what?”

If we could interview one of the disciples on the day of Ascension, the tale they might tell would probably sound much like what I’ve just shared. This constant tossing and turning between joy and sorrow, clarity and confusion, death and life. Now six weeks since Jesus rose again from the dead, the disciples find themselves alone again. Jesus is gone, departed to heaven to be with the Father and the disciples are left with the task of figuring out what to do with themselves now.

But Jesus told them. The answer was right in front of them. The various Gospel accounts that we have are often diverse in narrative and interpretation and that’s intentional, but when they all agree about something, it’s usually a sign to sit up and take notice. And Jesus instructions to his disciples for how they are to act after his departure are crystal clear in all of them. “As the Father has sent me, so now I send you.” “You are to be my witnesses.” “Go into all the world and tell.” “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations.”

The Gospels don’t all include the Ascension story itself, but ALL have this same instruction from Jesus. Go forth and tell of Christ and his good news.

This shouldn’t have been any surprise to anyone. God is nothing if not consistent. His whole plan, from all the way back in Genesis, was a plan that required partnership. Sure, God could have done the whole thing on his own, but who would have known? No, he called Abraham and made a partnership with him and with his descendants. You will be my witnesses, he essentially told them. You will tell the world about me and my ways. You will show them what I am about.

And now, in the light of the new covenant made by Jesus, we find the same dynamic at work. God has called the disciples to be his partners in this. You will be my witnesses. You will the world about me and my ways. You will show them what I am about.

It’s a tall order in either period of history. But God again is consistent. To the patriarchs and prophets, to the kings and the judges of old, God says time and again, “I will be with you.” And here, with these disciples. “I am with you always.” Or to use Luke’s language in his two versions of the story, “You will clothed with power from on high by the Holy Spirit, just as I promised.”

The legacy of what those disciples did with those words is obvious. The Church spans every continent of this globe and even beyond (One of my favorite astronomical stories is how the Apollo 11 astronauts shared the sacrament of communion while orbiting the moon on their historic journey.) Could those Eleven on that mountaintop even imagined any of that?

But that’s what happens when God grants you power and you run with it. The world changes. Lives change. People change. Evil is thwarted. The hungry are fed. The sick are cared for. And the good news of Christ’s Gospel is heard in word and in deed.

The internet was all abuzz this week when a new report was released showing the American church is in a rapid decline. People claiming active membership in Christian churches dropped 8% in the past seven years.

Oh, no, the sky is falling. Or at least that’s what some alarmists among the punditry want to claim. I’m not worried, and why not? Because we are the inheritors of those first disciples and the promises they received. We have been clothed with power from on high. Now imagine, if we took that seriously, what we could accomplish?

Our partnership with God has not ended. Christ came to this earth to live, die, and then rise again to save this whole world. And how are they going to know if we won’t tell them? How are they going to get it if we don’t show them? The biggest problem in the church today is not what goes on out there; it’s that too often we get stuck in here instead of being out there. We’ve been given power, folks, from on high. The only thing keeping us from changing this world is ourselves. It’s our fear. Well, God’s promise remains. “I am with you always.” How is that not enough? Amen.

Sermon for Sixth Easter

Preached at Canadochly Lutheran Church on May 10, 2015
Scripture text: Romans 5:1-11

My senior year of university, I was on top of the world. I was just a few credits shy of earning my bachelor’s degree. I was enjoying the party scene. I was the center of my group of friends (most of whom I still have today 20 years later). In a group of nerds and geeks, I was one of the few “game masters.” When you play D&D and other games like that, there has to be a referee of sorts or the game doesn’t happen and that was my job. That gave me a lot of power, a lot of influence in my group of friends. When I talked, people listened. I mattered.

A typical scene in my Blacksburg apartment, circa 1995

And then she came along.

She was Dinah and it would not be an exaggeration to say that Dinah was drop-dead gorgeous. Petite, red-hair, sexy as all get out, and as much of a geek as the rest of us. She wandered into our little niche in Blacksburg and immediately upended just about everything. She’d walk into the room and I would go instantly from top dog to invisible. All eyes were on her. All ears hung on her every word, and I could have done backflips while juggling bowling balls and no one would have noticed. I hated her.

My head was full of reasons why I was justified in my hatred, most of which I cannot repeat in polite company. Some of them were based rather loosely on the truth, but most were the creation of my enraged imagination. Every misogynistic sexist thought I could have conjured up I hurled at her in my mind. Dinah had stolen my friends. She was threat. How dare she? She wasn’t worthy of them. She didn’t deserve them.

It was not my finest hour.

What I had done is all too often what we humans do when we encounter something we find threatening or disturbing. We forget all of our civilized mores and revert to something we’ve inherited from our animal ancestors. In the wild, packs of animals are organized in hierarchy, the top being the alpha, with the beta below, on down to the omega at the bottom. Wolves, apes, all sorts of animals organize in this fashion. My position as the alpha of my pack had been challenged and my head filled up with excuses as to why my challenger was unworthy of that.

We humans do this all the time and most of the time we’re not even aware of it. We’re always evaluating, ourselves and others. Are they worthy? Are we? Where are we in the pecking order? Every day, we run unconsciously through this evaluation of ourselves and others. From our conclusions, we determine the worthiness of ourselves and others. I’m prettier than they are. I’m smarter. I have more money. I dress better. I get better grades. I’m more talented. I’m a better Christian. I’m an American. I’m a man. I’m white. I’m straight. Each time one of these thoughts runs across our mind, conscious or unconscious, we elevate ourselves on that pecking order and devalue those who don’t meet our standards.

I spoke last week about how events in Baltimore of late have highlighted our apathy and this relates to that. Those people down there and their problems aren’t worthy of our attention and how dare they impose that upon us. In a lot of ways, it’s really what it boils down to. We wouldn’t riot, therefore we’re better than those people. We wouldn’t abuse a prisoner in custody, therefore we’re better than those cops. But would we, if we were in their shoes? That question we never ask, because it’s beside the point. This is about our ego, our self-aggrandizement, and those pesky little details might somehow prove our unworthiness and that will never do.

We prove ourselves worthy often at the expense of others. Because every one of us wants to be the alpha and we’ve got a whole list in our heads as to why we deserve it. And we do this constantly. We should be on top. We should be in charge. If you did it my way, we’d never have these problems. I’m the one with all the answers, all the beauty, all the talent, all the money, all the whatever. Listen to me and only me because only I am worthy of your attention. All the rest of these people are inferior. They are unworthy.

It’s like we’re a bunch of squabbling children, each one competing for our parent’s attention. Pay attention to me, Mommy. I’m better than my brother. I’m prettier than my sister. They don’t deserve you.

You know what the saddest part of this is? It’s just how astoundingly pointless it all is. Do we truly not get that it’s not about our worthiness and it never has been? Our value in life is not in how good we are or how much better than someone else we are. That doesn’t matter and it never has.

A quick question, on this Mother’s Day, to all the mothers (and to the fathers for that matter). Do you love your children because of how good they are or do you love them simply because they’re your children? That right there speaks volumes as to how pointless all this jockeying for position really is.

There is nothing our children can do to make us love them any more or less than we already do. They’re our kids. That’s all that truly matters.

That’s the point that St. Paul is trying to make in our text today. He’s talking to us about God’s love and it is not predicated on how worthy of it we are. In fact, quite the contrary. Paul does not mince words here. “God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us.” God loves us despite how unworthy we are. And as if that didn’t drive home the point enough, he says this just a couple sentences later. “For if while we were enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of his Son” Enemies? We are God’s enemies and he still loves us. Still sent Jesus. Still went to the cross and rose again. Enemies and he did all that for us.

There is nothing we can do to make God love us any more or less that he already does. We are his children. That’s all that truly matters.

It doesn’t matter whether you’re worthy. It doesn’t matter whether you’re better than some other person at something. It doesn’t matter if you’re the prettiest or wealthiest or the strongest or the most patriotic or the most Christian or anything. God loves you for you. You have nothing to prove to earn that love. We’re worthy because God says we are. We matter because God says we do. We are worth the universe because the one who created that universe has declared it so. That’s our real value. Amen.

Sermon for Fifth Easter

Preached at Canadochly Lutheran Church on May 3, 2015
Scripture text: Acts 8:26-40

I had a realization this week, a revelation even, an epiphany. I had one of those moments when the world started to make sense. Now most of us, I think, would find such a moment of enlightenment to be invigorating, exciting, something good and positive, but my moment was not that. It was sad and it was infuriating. I was angry; Angry at the society in which I live and perhaps most importantly, angry at myself. And, I also suspect, after I share what I’ve learned, you’ll be angry too.

Like many of you, I was watching the news, reading articles, and so forth regarding the Baltimore uprising. A moment of history happening just a few dozen miles to the south of us here in York county. And I saw the hemming and hawing over what was happening down there. I watched the news media ignore the thousands of peaceful protesters to focus solely on the hundred or so violent ones. I heard people lament how it was just awful that those stores windows were broken and those businesses were looted. I heard people call for ever escalating responses to those violent looters, everything from treating them as terrorists to gunning them down in the streets.

And then I read an article that argued that “if you’re more upset about a few broken store-fronts than you are about the numerous black men who are dying under mysterious circumstances in encounters with the police, you are part of the problem.” And then the light came on. The author of that article was right. The Twitter hashtag that has accompanied this and many of the other similar protests across these past six months has been “Black lives matter.” Except they don’t. Not to us. We care more about store-fronts than their lives. We care more about property than people. We care more about inanimate objects than we do about living breathing children of God.

That is our sin. We don’t care.

Honestly, would we have even noticed if those folks down there hadn’t ripped apart that CVS? Would we have paid even the least bit of attention to those protests and the reason for them if they hadn’t wrecked up that place? The overwhelming emotion I sense in my own circle of friends and acquaintances regarding these events is annoyance. It’s not outrage. No one is really outraged that a drug store and other businesses got trashed, and certainly no one is outraged that yet another black man died under questionable circumstances in police custody. No, most people are annoyed, annoyed that these events have disrupted their pretty little lives. Annoyed that they can’t just keep on ignoring these things like they always do.

Because that’s what we want to do. That’s what we’d like to do. Ignore it all. And that speaks volumes about how much we don’t care.

It gets worse. It’s not just about a few crooked cops and a dead man. It’s not just about generations of economic injustice in one of the most abused cities in our nation. It’s not just about race and class. It’s about all that and a lot more. And because of that, it reveals the truth is even uglier than we want to admit. It’s not just black people who don’t matter. It’s pretty much anybody and everybody who isn’t a part of our increasingly narrow little clique of “our people” who don’t matter.

A member of my family posted that ancient-and-long-debunked internet meme about how we spend millions on foreign aid and fix none of our problems here at home. She did this just a couple days before the Nepalese earthquake.

FYI, this is crap and here's why.

Death toll over there is over 6,000 now and is expected to be almost double that when all is said and done. But why should we help those people when we have problems here at home? Why should they matter? Why should the folks in Africa who had Ebola last year matter?

Well, most of the time they don’t. Because we don’t care.

I’m trying to imagine what it would be like if the characters of our first lesson were living today. The Ethiopian eunuch is doubly-damned. Not only is he a black man, but he’s also...how shall I put this...someone of alternative sexuality. Not anyone we’d regard as important. Not anyone we’d regard as worth our time and energy. We wouldn’t care.

But here’s the funny thing. It’s very obvious that people did care about this man. He is a foreigner and he definitely doesn’t look like your typical resident of Jerusalem. He can’t pass as a Jew. He stands out, sticks out like a sore thumb. And he’s a eunuch and according to the Torah, he is therefore forbidden from the temple courts. He cannot worship among God’s people. It’s forbidden.

And yet, despite those handicaps, someone has cared enough about this man to share with him the rudiments of the Jewish faith. Someone has taught him the Scriptures. Someone has given him an education in the religion of the Jews and he’s taken to it. He’s hungry for it. He loves God and despite the fact that the rules prevent him from treading upon the holy places, he still travels to Jerusalem to be closer to that God, to witness even from afar the temple and its rites, rituals, and worship.

And then there’s Philip, who really comes into this story at the 11th hour. He would have seen what was obvious: a black eunuch, a high court official of a foreign nation. They have nothing in common. Not a lot there to care about and yet he runs to this man’s chariot and jumps aboard. He cares too and gives the eunuch the last missing piece to puzzle of his faith.

To me, this is a story about what happens when we DO care. LIVES GET CHANGED.

My friends, we are rapidly reaching a point in our own times and in our own lives where we can no longer afford this apathy that we have so eagerly embraced. People all around us are suffering. Our society is brutalizing people: economically, physically, and most certainly spiritually. As the Church, it is our job to do something about that.

We talk all the time about how we need to be a Christian nation. Well, let’s start by being Christians and loving our neighbors instead of ignoring them. John spoke rightly when he said that “Those who say, “I love God,” and hate their brothers or sisters, are liars.” I’d argue that it’s also those who “ignore” their brothers and sisters, those who “don’t care” about their brothers and sisters. That’s our sin and it’s time we stopped.

Jesus did not call us to turn a blind eye to the world around us. He did not call us to not care. He called us to love as he did. He called us to do as he did, reaching out to the sick and the suffering, the outcast and the lost. He called us to do as he did with the eunuch, sending to him people who cared enough to give him all the answers to his life. My friends, we are those people, sent to all the other proverbial eunuchs in the world. People who need us. We cannot turn our back on them. Not anymore. Amen.