I write this on my 11th wedding anniversary. Kind of a weird day. I'm not exactly celebrating. I didn't celebrate twelve months ago either. It was clear then what was coming. And now it's arrived.
You may be wondering why I haven't updated this sermon blog in almost two months. You may be wondering why I've been somewhat evasive on Facebook or in person about my personal life. You may be wondering why I've scrubbed said Facebook page of nearly every reference to Sarah.
Sarah and I are separating. Our marriage is over.
We made this decision together. As I imply above, it's been inevitable for a while now. We're just not working out. Relationships are hard enough. But we've had to deal with financial struggle, medical issues, car accidents, disability, and plenty of mistakes along the way. We've truly had everything but the kitchen sink thrown at us. And we did not endure to come out the other side like some Hallmark Channel movie. Not many do who've been through what we have.
In less than two weeks, I'm moving to a new apartment in York, PA. Right downtown, less than one block from the square. Looking forward to the move. It should be the beginning of an exciting chapter in my life. I'm hoping to embrace the city life: the cafes, the theater, the craft beer pubs, the restaurants, the baseball stadium, the market, all soon to be within walking distance of my house.
My professional life will not change. I'm still pastor of Grace and Canadochly. In fact, I'll be within walking distance of Grace also in the new place and no farther from Canadochly than I am now.
As for what Sarah is doing, I am uncertain. I know that she too is moving, since neither of us chose to renew the lease on the townhouse here in Red Lion. I know that she has boxes packed and loaded up throughout the townhouse. I know she wants to keep Emily in the same school district. Other than that, I don't know much else. I do know we are trying to keep things civil and amicable. I know I hope to remain friends with this woman with whom I've spent the last 13-14 years of my life. I know I want to remain a part of Emily's life. On all those things, we shall see.
Right now, my focus is on getting my life sorted into the new place and new circumstances. Hence, the sermon blog has been on hiatus for a while, but that should change in the near future.
I am hoping to get the new apartment up and running quickly. I want it to be a social hub for my friends here in the York area. I've got one of the best groups of gaming geek friends that I've ever had, one to rival the group from Virginia Tech. And if any of those VT friends want to take a trip to visit, the door will be open. You'll fit in with the York nerds just fine. (I promise I won't kill any PCs in the first round of combat. RE: Greg.)
Wish me luck in these coming months. It's a bittersweet moment. There are times when I'm angry and sad. Other times when I'm hopeful and excited. Mix of both. But life is about change and mine is about to change big time.
God bless
Allen
Friday, May 17, 2019
Monday, March 11, 2019
Sermon for the First Sunday of Lent
Preached at Grace and Canadochly on March 10, 2019
Preaching text: Luke 4:1-13
It is considered the pinnacle of science fiction writing. As Lord of the Rings is to fantasy, as Citizen Kane is to film, so Dune by Frank Herbert is to science fiction. I’ve read the book probably a half dozen times over my lifetime. It’s a remarkable story and I was thinking about it this week in terms of the temptations that Jesus is offered by the devil in the wilderness. Particularly the second one. “Bow down to me and I will give you all the kingdoms of the world.”
The reason I connect that to Dune is because Paul Atreides, the protagonist of the novel, essentially makes the opposite choice of Jesus to disastrous consequences.
In the novel, Paul comes to the planet Arrakis, also known as Dune, with his royal family and soon discovers that, by coincidence and a bit of luck, he fits the bill of an ancient prophecy among the planet’s native population, a people known as the Fremen. He is essentially the very image of their “mahdi,” their Messiah. When his family’s enemies attack and wipe nearly everyone out, Paul flees into the desert and begins living among the Fremen, using their legend to keep himself alive. He also exploits it to turn the natives into an army he can use to avenge the death of his family. And he unleashes them on his enemies, but soon discovers he can’t control what he’s let loose. And the Fremen jihad spreads across the galaxy, leaving billions dead in its wake.
Herbert wrote the novel in the 1960s in response to the dangers he saw in charismatic leaders throughout the world, people who started with a vision of a new world, but soon turned into murderous tyrants against anyone who did not share their vision. He wrote in response to such people as Adolf Hitler, Chairman Mao, Josef Stalin, Idi Amin, and countless others, who had slaughtered millions in pursuit of their goals.
And to think, had he given in, Jesus could have one just like them.
Of course, he didn’t give in. He told the devil no and ensured that he would go on to do the very opposite thing. Instead of killing for his goals, Jesus would die and in doing so would save us all.
Too bad his Church didn’t quite the message.
That’s been our great sin over the generations, hasn’t it? Founded by a man who called us to serve others to the point of self-sacrifice, the Church has gone on to slaughter, rape, and pillage its way into the history books. Death to the heathen. Convert or die. And we’d justify it by quoting Old Testament texts of the battles of the people of Israel, stories told when our understanding of God was far more limited. But, the truth of it was uglier still. We did it because it was easier. Showing respect, honor, and giving service to others takes too long. Loving and showing compassion is not the quick way to bring people to Christ. Better to scare them into it and if they refuse, just kill them and not worry about it anymore.
That’s not what we’re supposed to be. Not what we’re supposed to be doing.
That was at the heart of the devil’s temptation to begin with. In offering Jesus rulership of the world, he was putting forward the options between what was right and what was easy. And Jesus chose the hard path, the right path, the path that led to the cross and to our salvation. He remained a servant to the end, a servant to all of us.
I wonder what the world would look like if we did the same. If we stopped choosing the easy path, and instead chose as he did, choosing the right, but hard, way. The way of compassion, understanding, honor, respect, and love.
How many more souls might be in these pews if we stopped telling them they’re abominations because of who they love? Would we live in fear of the Muslim if they no longer had reason to fear us? Would our nation be so divided across lines of race and politics and economics, or would be far more united than we are now? Would people be able to hear our message of love and acceptance if they weren’t deafened by our hypocrisy?
Those are hard questions. But these are things we’ve brought on ourselves. Things that have come about because of our fears and our eagerness to remake the world to our vision via the quick and easy path. Have we ever squared with the fact that the world is the way it is because we Christians have made it that way?
We have become Paul Atreides. And the world has suffered for it.
But it’s not too late. Lent is a time of repentance, a word that means to live life differently than you have before. Can we do what we have failed to do so many times before? Can we say no to the devil’s quick and easy path and choose instead, as Jesus did, the way of the cross?
Everyone of us faces that question everyday. How are we going to answer it? Each of us crosses paths with myriad different people everyday. Some are atheist. Some gay. Some poor or rich. All of them, in some way, different from us. Can we love them in spite of that? Can we accept them in spite of that? Can we show them what Jesus was really about? By living a life of service, compassion, and love. The question is before us. What will your answer be? Amen.
Pastor's Note: For those interested in the width and depth of Herbert's series, a great place to learn is this YouTube series
Preaching text: Luke 4:1-13
It is considered the pinnacle of science fiction writing. As Lord of the Rings is to fantasy, as Citizen Kane is to film, so Dune by Frank Herbert is to science fiction. I’ve read the book probably a half dozen times over my lifetime. It’s a remarkable story and I was thinking about it this week in terms of the temptations that Jesus is offered by the devil in the wilderness. Particularly the second one. “Bow down to me and I will give you all the kingdoms of the world.”
The reason I connect that to Dune is because Paul Atreides, the protagonist of the novel, essentially makes the opposite choice of Jesus to disastrous consequences.
In the novel, Paul comes to the planet Arrakis, also known as Dune, with his royal family and soon discovers that, by coincidence and a bit of luck, he fits the bill of an ancient prophecy among the planet’s native population, a people known as the Fremen. He is essentially the very image of their “mahdi,” their Messiah. When his family’s enemies attack and wipe nearly everyone out, Paul flees into the desert and begins living among the Fremen, using their legend to keep himself alive. He also exploits it to turn the natives into an army he can use to avenge the death of his family. And he unleashes them on his enemies, but soon discovers he can’t control what he’s let loose. And the Fremen jihad spreads across the galaxy, leaving billions dead in its wake.
Promotional Art from the less-that-stellar 1984 film. It does show the Fremen army though.
Herbert wrote the novel in the 1960s in response to the dangers he saw in charismatic leaders throughout the world, people who started with a vision of a new world, but soon turned into murderous tyrants against anyone who did not share their vision. He wrote in response to such people as Adolf Hitler, Chairman Mao, Josef Stalin, Idi Amin, and countless others, who had slaughtered millions in pursuit of their goals.
And to think, had he given in, Jesus could have one just like them.
Of course, he didn’t give in. He told the devil no and ensured that he would go on to do the very opposite thing. Instead of killing for his goals, Jesus would die and in doing so would save us all.
Too bad his Church didn’t quite the message.
That’s been our great sin over the generations, hasn’t it? Founded by a man who called us to serve others to the point of self-sacrifice, the Church has gone on to slaughter, rape, and pillage its way into the history books. Death to the heathen. Convert or die. And we’d justify it by quoting Old Testament texts of the battles of the people of Israel, stories told when our understanding of God was far more limited. But, the truth of it was uglier still. We did it because it was easier. Showing respect, honor, and giving service to others takes too long. Loving and showing compassion is not the quick way to bring people to Christ. Better to scare them into it and if they refuse, just kill them and not worry about it anymore.
That’s not what we’re supposed to be. Not what we’re supposed to be doing.
That was at the heart of the devil’s temptation to begin with. In offering Jesus rulership of the world, he was putting forward the options between what was right and what was easy. And Jesus chose the hard path, the right path, the path that led to the cross and to our salvation. He remained a servant to the end, a servant to all of us.
I wonder what the world would look like if we did the same. If we stopped choosing the easy path, and instead chose as he did, choosing the right, but hard, way. The way of compassion, understanding, honor, respect, and love.
How many more souls might be in these pews if we stopped telling them they’re abominations because of who they love? Would we live in fear of the Muslim if they no longer had reason to fear us? Would our nation be so divided across lines of race and politics and economics, or would be far more united than we are now? Would people be able to hear our message of love and acceptance if they weren’t deafened by our hypocrisy?
Those are hard questions. But these are things we’ve brought on ourselves. Things that have come about because of our fears and our eagerness to remake the world to our vision via the quick and easy path. Have we ever squared with the fact that the world is the way it is because we Christians have made it that way?
We have become Paul Atreides. And the world has suffered for it.
But it’s not too late. Lent is a time of repentance, a word that means to live life differently than you have before. Can we do what we have failed to do so many times before? Can we say no to the devil’s quick and easy path and choose instead, as Jesus did, the way of the cross?
Everyone of us faces that question everyday. How are we going to answer it? Each of us crosses paths with myriad different people everyday. Some are atheist. Some gay. Some poor or rich. All of them, in some way, different from us. Can we love them in spite of that? Can we accept them in spite of that? Can we show them what Jesus was really about? By living a life of service, compassion, and love. The question is before us. What will your answer be? Amen.
Pastor's Note: For those interested in the width and depth of Herbert's series, a great place to learn is this YouTube series
Sermon for Ash Wednesday
Preached at Emanuel Lutheran Church, Freysville, PA on March 6, 2019 (Ecumenical Lenten Service)
Preaching text: Genesis 12:1-8
We’ve all heard the saying “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” Nowhere is that more evident than at the very beginning of the Judeo-Christian story. Nowhere is that more evident than with Abraham, the patriarch, the one who started it all.
Who is Abraham? We know that wasn’t his original name. He was born as Abram, a man of the city of Ur, one of the oldest cities in the world (and was also even in his time.) We know that Ur was a city of Ancient Sumeria, one of the first human civilizations. We know that the Sumerians had their own religion, a pantheon of gods and goddesses that Abram probably began his life worshiping; in fact, according to Jewish tradition, Abram got his start as a carver in his father’s idol shop. But then Yahweh spoke to him and made what probably seemed a ridiculous promise.
“Pack up your family and go all the way across the known world to the land of Canaan and there I will make of you a great nation.”
Now, we don’t know what went through Abraham’s mind when this new god, one he did not know, said this to him. We do know however that Abraham listened to this voice. He packed up with his family and set out. He sojourned in the land of Haran for a time, but eventually made his way to Canaan. He did as God told him to do. He trusted that this strange god knew what he was talking about.
Perhaps it was because the idols he carved had always been mute, no matter how much he prayed, and yet now he was encountering a god who spoke and commanded and promised with authority. Who knows? I think it may be hard for us to understand just how radical Abraham’s behavior was. We’re so used to worshiping God/Yahweh with theologies, and doctrines, and rituals, and rites, and sacraments, and all the trappings of modern religion. Abraham had none of these to tell him who this voice was. In fact, the religion he was abandoning had all that, which probably would have made it a lot more real to him. But there was something about this voice. Something about its promises. Something that made him want to trust and believe.
And that, of course, is why we remember him. His great faith. And that faith is shown to be all the more potent when you remember the content of what God promised him. “I will make of you a great nation...and in you, all the families of the earth shall be blessed.” First off, there is no way Abraham will EVER see the end result of these promises. To be made into a nation will take generation upon generation of time, long past a normal human lifespan. Secondly, to be a blessing to all the world is also something he will never see. We Christians understand that blessing to be Christ, who was born of Abraham’s line many many generations into the future from when Abraham walked the earth.
He was never going to see any of what God had promised and he believed anyway.
And God did not disappoint him. Yes, Abraham did not see it with his mortal eyes, but God fulfilled his promise. From Abraham came Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph, and from them came the Hebrew slaves who ran Egypt. From them came Moses who led the people to freedom. After that came Joshua and the Judges. And then came kings and prophets who predicted the coming of Messiah. And from a descendant of Abraham, the Messiah was born, who lived, died, and rose again to be that blessing for all the families of the world. And also from descendants of Abraham came the apostles, who invited us Gentiles into this spiritual family. Hundreds of generations later, we here gathered are part of that promise fulfilled.
And it came to pass despite many things that could have thwarted it. Abraham’s age and Sarah’s barrenness were not barriers to that promise. Nor were all those forces throughout the Biblical times that sought to destroy God’s people. Nor were our own bigotries and petty jealousies that sadly pitted and still sometimes pit Christian against Jew when we are rightly brothers and sisters. God proved faithful time and time again.
I wonder what life would be like if we adopted Abraham’s faith and truly trusted in the promise of God. One of the curious things about Christianity is that every single generation of Christians, from the apostles on down to us, has been convinced that Jesus would return in their lifetime. How many of us here gathered are convinced that we will not see death, but we will instead be raptured or see him coming in the clouds or however we believe Jesus will return? In my experience, it’s a lot of us, if not most.
What I find, however, is that this desire for Christ’s return is driven more by our anxieties about the way of the world than it is for a true eagerness to see God’s plan reach fulfillment. We look around and see a world that seems chaotic and frightening and we throw up our hands and say, “Oh, God, take me away from all this.” God, get me out of here; things are the worst they’ve ever been. Surely, now is the time for your return, because it can’t get any worse.
Any objective view of history will tell you that things in the world are a long way from being the worst they’ve ever been. But this isn’t about objective truth. It’s about our fears and our anxieties; irrational as they may be, but still very real. Yet, in the midst of it all, God says the same thing to us that he said to Abraham. “Stop worrying about it. Here are my promises. Here is my love and grace. Trust in that. I will fulfill them. I will be faithful. Trust me.”
Can we do that?
Tonight is Ash Wednesday. Tonight is when we hear that unpleasant truth that we are “dust and to dust (we) shall return.” We are mortal. We are human beings destined to die. Our span of years on this earth will be what it will be, but it will not be unending and unlimited. But we come here because we worship a God who is unending and who promises a new world, a new creation, a blessing for all that we may not see with our mortal eyes. Can we be faithful to that God the way Abraham was? Knowing that we may not see the fulfillment of his promises in our mortal bodies, but instead through the immortality he grants us through his grace? What would that mean for the way we live our lives in the here and now? If we believe Christ’s return is not tomorrow, but a thousand years from now or maybe more?
It’s a question we don’t ask enough, and yet Abraham’s example compels it out of us. He was faithful. He believed the promises of God despite the fact that he knew he would never see them. Can we set aside our fears and believe as he did? Can we believe beyond our finite lifespans and see the world as God does? As Abraham did? Amen.
Preaching text: Genesis 12:1-8
We’ve all heard the saying “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” Nowhere is that more evident than at the very beginning of the Judeo-Christian story. Nowhere is that more evident than with Abraham, the patriarch, the one who started it all.
Who is Abraham? We know that wasn’t his original name. He was born as Abram, a man of the city of Ur, one of the oldest cities in the world (and was also even in his time.) We know that Ur was a city of Ancient Sumeria, one of the first human civilizations. We know that the Sumerians had their own religion, a pantheon of gods and goddesses that Abram probably began his life worshiping; in fact, according to Jewish tradition, Abram got his start as a carver in his father’s idol shop. But then Yahweh spoke to him and made what probably seemed a ridiculous promise.
“Pack up your family and go all the way across the known world to the land of Canaan and there I will make of you a great nation.”
Now, we don’t know what went through Abraham’s mind when this new god, one he did not know, said this to him. We do know however that Abraham listened to this voice. He packed up with his family and set out. He sojourned in the land of Haran for a time, but eventually made his way to Canaan. He did as God told him to do. He trusted that this strange god knew what he was talking about.
Perhaps it was because the idols he carved had always been mute, no matter how much he prayed, and yet now he was encountering a god who spoke and commanded and promised with authority. Who knows? I think it may be hard for us to understand just how radical Abraham’s behavior was. We’re so used to worshiping God/Yahweh with theologies, and doctrines, and rituals, and rites, and sacraments, and all the trappings of modern religion. Abraham had none of these to tell him who this voice was. In fact, the religion he was abandoning had all that, which probably would have made it a lot more real to him. But there was something about this voice. Something about its promises. Something that made him want to trust and believe.
And that, of course, is why we remember him. His great faith. And that faith is shown to be all the more potent when you remember the content of what God promised him. “I will make of you a great nation...and in you, all the families of the earth shall be blessed.” First off, there is no way Abraham will EVER see the end result of these promises. To be made into a nation will take generation upon generation of time, long past a normal human lifespan. Secondly, to be a blessing to all the world is also something he will never see. We Christians understand that blessing to be Christ, who was born of Abraham’s line many many generations into the future from when Abraham walked the earth.
He was never going to see any of what God had promised and he believed anyway.
And God did not disappoint him. Yes, Abraham did not see it with his mortal eyes, but God fulfilled his promise. From Abraham came Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph, and from them came the Hebrew slaves who ran Egypt. From them came Moses who led the people to freedom. After that came Joshua and the Judges. And then came kings and prophets who predicted the coming of Messiah. And from a descendant of Abraham, the Messiah was born, who lived, died, and rose again to be that blessing for all the families of the world. And also from descendants of Abraham came the apostles, who invited us Gentiles into this spiritual family. Hundreds of generations later, we here gathered are part of that promise fulfilled.
And it came to pass despite many things that could have thwarted it. Abraham’s age and Sarah’s barrenness were not barriers to that promise. Nor were all those forces throughout the Biblical times that sought to destroy God’s people. Nor were our own bigotries and petty jealousies that sadly pitted and still sometimes pit Christian against Jew when we are rightly brothers and sisters. God proved faithful time and time again.
I wonder what life would be like if we adopted Abraham’s faith and truly trusted in the promise of God. One of the curious things about Christianity is that every single generation of Christians, from the apostles on down to us, has been convinced that Jesus would return in their lifetime. How many of us here gathered are convinced that we will not see death, but we will instead be raptured or see him coming in the clouds or however we believe Jesus will return? In my experience, it’s a lot of us, if not most.
What I find, however, is that this desire for Christ’s return is driven more by our anxieties about the way of the world than it is for a true eagerness to see God’s plan reach fulfillment. We look around and see a world that seems chaotic and frightening and we throw up our hands and say, “Oh, God, take me away from all this.” God, get me out of here; things are the worst they’ve ever been. Surely, now is the time for your return, because it can’t get any worse.
Any objective view of history will tell you that things in the world are a long way from being the worst they’ve ever been. But this isn’t about objective truth. It’s about our fears and our anxieties; irrational as they may be, but still very real. Yet, in the midst of it all, God says the same thing to us that he said to Abraham. “Stop worrying about it. Here are my promises. Here is my love and grace. Trust in that. I will fulfill them. I will be faithful. Trust me.”
Can we do that?
Tonight is Ash Wednesday. Tonight is when we hear that unpleasant truth that we are “dust and to dust (we) shall return.” We are mortal. We are human beings destined to die. Our span of years on this earth will be what it will be, but it will not be unending and unlimited. But we come here because we worship a God who is unending and who promises a new world, a new creation, a blessing for all that we may not see with our mortal eyes. Can we be faithful to that God the way Abraham was? Knowing that we may not see the fulfillment of his promises in our mortal bodies, but instead through the immortality he grants us through his grace? What would that mean for the way we live our lives in the here and now? If we believe Christ’s return is not tomorrow, but a thousand years from now or maybe more?
It’s a question we don’t ask enough, and yet Abraham’s example compels it out of us. He was faithful. He believed the promises of God despite the fact that he knew he would never see them. Can we set aside our fears and believe as he did? Can we believe beyond our finite lifespans and see the world as God does? As Abraham did? Amen.
Sermon for Transfiguration Sunday
Preached at Canadochly and Grace on March 3, 2019
Preaching text: Luke 9:28-43
Back when I served at my congregation in Davis, WV, one of my duties was to lead a brief chapel service at the local nursing home, Cortland Acres, about every three months or so. The worship service was pretty straight-forward and attendance varied wildly, but for a while there was one woman who I always knew would be there. Mary was in her 80s and struggled mightily with numerous health issues. Diabetes had robbed her of both her legs, but that didn’t matter to her. She was there every time I showed up, to sing and pray and worship God.
She told me once that she had no fear of death, that she knew her Lord was going to take care of her. She was particularly insistent that when she got to the world beyond, that “God was gonna give her a new pair of legs.” She was looking forward to that.
After a few years, Mary died from her illnesses. Those of us who knew her, the staff, the volunteers, the clergy, all talked about her after she passed and one thing kept coming up. “Mary’s got her new legs.”
I was thinking about that this week in light of a number of things. One was a conversation I had with someone who shared a similar courage towards their mortality. Another was my own war with myself as my body decided to do what it likes to do and I spent about half the day in bed on Thursday trying to regain my strength. And the last was the fact that this Sunday was Transfiguration Sunday. All these things intersect in my understanding.
Transfiguration is a bit of a weird holiday in the Church. On one level, it looks like the one time Jesus uses his miraculous powers to “show off.” Transfiguring into this brilliant figure doesn’t seem to serve any particular purpose. No one is healed. No one is fed. No one is raised from the dead. But on another level, I remember that Jesus does nothing by accident or for selfish reasons. So what is this really about? What does Transfiguration mean?
Well, like so many other things that Jesus does, he’s giving us a glimpse of the kingdom. He shows the disciples his true form, not simply to show off, but to reveal a truth of what is yet to be. What we are now is not what we will be.
That shouldn’t really be any surprise to anyone. We are told, numerous times, that God loves us as we are. And he does. But when God touches our lives, we find that we don’t often stay as we are. We grow, in faith, hope, and love. We become stronger. More courageous. More bold. We become more than we were before.
This is what God’s love does to us. And again, this should not be any real surprise to us. There are other times and places in our lives where this dynamic comes out. Consider what happens when we fall in love with that special man or woman in our lives. How we want to be better, to be more, for their sake. Consider what happens when we give birth to our children and how we want to be more for them. This is what love does. God’s love is no different. It grows us into our full potential.
As Jesus is glorified before the disciples, he shows them (and us) the end result of what love will do for us. We will become, as Scripture has often promised, a new creation.
For those of us who struggle, like myself, with physical ailments, illnesses, and disabilities, this is good news. What we are now will not always be. For those of us who struggle with addiction and vice, this is good news. What we are now will not always be. For those of us who struggle with loneliness, abandonment, and heartache, this is good news. What we are now will not always be. We will be more. Our lives will be more. We will have, as Jesus promised, abundant life.
And not just us alone. For those of us who weep over the state of the world, this is good news. For what the world is will not always be. For those of us who feel for the hungry and the poor, this is good news. For they will not always be so. All will be made new.
Transfiguration is about hope. What is now will not remain so. It be more. It will be greater. It will be glorious. That is the kingdom of God. That is what is coming.
Of course, it’s not here yet. Not in its fullness. And like the disciples, we cannot live on the mountaintop right now. We must return to the world as it is now. Just as Jesus and his disciples did in our Gospel story today. They come back to a world where children are taken by evil spirits, where there is hunger and poverty and sickness and all manner of difficulty.
And we may be impatient for that kingdom to come, as Jesus himself is, but it’s not here yet. So, like Jesus, we have our work to do. Bringing little pieces of the kingdom here and there by showing love and compassion to others. By becoming more our true selves by giving that same faith, hope, and love to others. Piece by piece, act of love by act of love, we grow into the person we are meant to be and bring that kingdom closer for us and for others.
This is the Christian life. Become more than we were before. Helping others see the kingdom we place hope within. When we are out there beyond these walls, that’s the person we’re being called to be. Giving the world a glimpse of transformed and transfigured life. The kingdom that comes. What God is doing with the world. Making all things new. Amen.
Preaching text: Luke 9:28-43
Back when I served at my congregation in Davis, WV, one of my duties was to lead a brief chapel service at the local nursing home, Cortland Acres, about every three months or so. The worship service was pretty straight-forward and attendance varied wildly, but for a while there was one woman who I always knew would be there. Mary was in her 80s and struggled mightily with numerous health issues. Diabetes had robbed her of both her legs, but that didn’t matter to her. She was there every time I showed up, to sing and pray and worship God.
She told me once that she had no fear of death, that she knew her Lord was going to take care of her. She was particularly insistent that when she got to the world beyond, that “God was gonna give her a new pair of legs.” She was looking forward to that.
After a few years, Mary died from her illnesses. Those of us who knew her, the staff, the volunteers, the clergy, all talked about her after she passed and one thing kept coming up. “Mary’s got her new legs.”
I was thinking about that this week in light of a number of things. One was a conversation I had with someone who shared a similar courage towards their mortality. Another was my own war with myself as my body decided to do what it likes to do and I spent about half the day in bed on Thursday trying to regain my strength. And the last was the fact that this Sunday was Transfiguration Sunday. All these things intersect in my understanding.
Transfiguration is a bit of a weird holiday in the Church. On one level, it looks like the one time Jesus uses his miraculous powers to “show off.” Transfiguring into this brilliant figure doesn’t seem to serve any particular purpose. No one is healed. No one is fed. No one is raised from the dead. But on another level, I remember that Jesus does nothing by accident or for selfish reasons. So what is this really about? What does Transfiguration mean?
Well, like so many other things that Jesus does, he’s giving us a glimpse of the kingdom. He shows the disciples his true form, not simply to show off, but to reveal a truth of what is yet to be. What we are now is not what we will be.
That shouldn’t really be any surprise to anyone. We are told, numerous times, that God loves us as we are. And he does. But when God touches our lives, we find that we don’t often stay as we are. We grow, in faith, hope, and love. We become stronger. More courageous. More bold. We become more than we were before.
This is what God’s love does to us. And again, this should not be any real surprise to us. There are other times and places in our lives where this dynamic comes out. Consider what happens when we fall in love with that special man or woman in our lives. How we want to be better, to be more, for their sake. Consider what happens when we give birth to our children and how we want to be more for them. This is what love does. God’s love is no different. It grows us into our full potential.
As Jesus is glorified before the disciples, he shows them (and us) the end result of what love will do for us. We will become, as Scripture has often promised, a new creation.
For those of us who struggle, like myself, with physical ailments, illnesses, and disabilities, this is good news. What we are now will not always be. For those of us who struggle with addiction and vice, this is good news. What we are now will not always be. For those of us who struggle with loneliness, abandonment, and heartache, this is good news. What we are now will not always be. We will be more. Our lives will be more. We will have, as Jesus promised, abundant life.
And not just us alone. For those of us who weep over the state of the world, this is good news. For what the world is will not always be. For those of us who feel for the hungry and the poor, this is good news. For they will not always be so. All will be made new.
Transfiguration is about hope. What is now will not remain so. It be more. It will be greater. It will be glorious. That is the kingdom of God. That is what is coming.
Of course, it’s not here yet. Not in its fullness. And like the disciples, we cannot live on the mountaintop right now. We must return to the world as it is now. Just as Jesus and his disciples did in our Gospel story today. They come back to a world where children are taken by evil spirits, where there is hunger and poverty and sickness and all manner of difficulty.
And we may be impatient for that kingdom to come, as Jesus himself is, but it’s not here yet. So, like Jesus, we have our work to do. Bringing little pieces of the kingdom here and there by showing love and compassion to others. By becoming more our true selves by giving that same faith, hope, and love to others. Piece by piece, act of love by act of love, we grow into the person we are meant to be and bring that kingdom closer for us and for others.
This is the Christian life. Become more than we were before. Helping others see the kingdom we place hope within. When we are out there beyond these walls, that’s the person we’re being called to be. Giving the world a glimpse of transformed and transfigured life. The kingdom that comes. What God is doing with the world. Making all things new. Amen.
Monday, February 25, 2019
Sermon for the Seventh Sunday after Epiphany
Preached at Grace and Canadochly on Feb 24, 2019
Preaching text: Luke 6:27-38
I want to begin today with a bit of trivia. This year, Easter is one of the latest dates it can appear. As a result, we have an exceptionally long season after Epiphany. Rarely do we ever see the fifth or sixth sunday after Epiphany, let alone the seventh which is today. For a preacher like me, that’s great. I don’t think, even after almost 20 years of ministry, I’ve ever preached this Sunday or these texts. This is all new and fresh. Unfortunately, that also means you’re unlikely to have heard a sermon (at least not recently) on these Biblical passages either.
And that’s a real shame, because they’re good texts. Important texts. Texts we probably need to hear more often. Like today, for instance, “love you enemies.” Think about that for a second. Is there any message that is more counter-cultural than that? Really? Love those who hate and despise us? Those who seek us harm? Is there anything Jesus asks of us that’s more difficult?
Well, it certainly would be, if any of us actually had enemies.
That was the observation one of the ELCA pastors on the Facebook group made this week in regards to this text. Who here really has an enemy? Someone who is truly out to get us, who truly despises us and wants us to fail. We might have rivals at work. We might have people we’ve encountered who dislike us or don’t agree with us. But to really hate us? To invest that much emotional energy into our downfall? Those are rare indeed. I can think of maybe two people in my life that qualify and I’ve neither seen nor encountered either one in almost 30 years.
Now, of course, we’re told there are all kinds of enemies out there. People who want to destroy us. Be afraid of the terrorists! They will destroy everything you hold dear. And I’m sure they’d like to try. Truth is, thought, despite some rather high profile successes on their part, the likelihood of being hurt or dying in a terrorist attack is still somewhere around being eaten by a shark, struck by lightning, and winning the MegaJackpot, all on the same day. So are they really our “enemy” if they never have any impact on our life? Despite what the propagandists say.
There are all sorts of phantom enemies out there according to people who benefit from our distrusting or disliking certain groups of people. It’s easier to punish or persecute the immigrant, the poor, the person of different race, the person of different gender or sexuality, if we believe they hate us and want to destroy us. Our heads are filled with all sorts of nonsense about the threat they pose. But think about it for a moment. Do we really think those people honestly hate us? That they really want to destroy us? Or are they just trying to do what we all do? Live life, make a decent wage, have a family, and a measure of happiness along the way.
None of this is to say that the world doesn’t have its dangers. There absolutely are things out there that are threatening. But, in my experience, apathy is far more dangerous than hate. The “active shooter” that comes at us isn’t going to shoot us because he hates us; he’s going to shoot us because we’re standing there. We mean no more to him than that. We’re in his way. We’re an easy target. The CEO that eliminates our job has done so to maximize “shareholder value.” We’re just a statistic to him, a number without meaning. He doesn’t care.
Many of the problems of the world can be laid at the feet of apathy. They happen because people do not care.
So what are we to do with Jesus’ command to love our enemies, a happenstance which seems so rare in our lives to be pointless? Well, we would do well to listen to what else he tells us in this passage. Give to those who beg, lend to those who cannot pay you back, show mercy, do not judge, do unto others as you would have them do to you.
Or, in other words, start caring.
If apathy is the problem, then we care and love and forgive and show mercy. If the world does not care, then we will. That is the mark of a true Christian. That’s what makes us different from them. That is what Jesus calls us to do.
A few final observations, I would like to leave you with. First is the phrase that should never escape the lips of a Christian. Three words: “Not my problem.” Those are words of apathy. We are called to love and the problem of our neighbor is not just theirs alone. It is ours as well and by solving it together, we build community and fellowship with one another. People are not going to embrace Christianity because we got the best words and our rituals are better than their rituals or whatever nonsense we’ve come to believe. People are going to embrace our faith, because they come to believe Jesus cares because we do. And that means that we’ve got to stick our neck out for others and be there for them in times of need.
Second observation, while we may not have enemies now, if we start caring about people and we start living into that care and love, we will make them. There will always be those who will tell us the people we care about don’t deserve it and they will get angry when we rock the boat. Ignore them. It is not their approval we seek. We are following what God has asked of us. That’s what matters. And if these get go angry and so hateful to seek us harm, well, Jesus has told us how to respond to that as well.
Third and final observation, all of this is nothing more than Jesus asking us to do as he did. Who are we? Why do we matter? It’s not because of what we’ve done. It’s not because we are somehow more special than other people. We’re not any more moral or ethical or righteous than anyone else. No, we matter because God loves us. He cares. And we are a problem that he embraces willingly. Jesus came to solve the problem, our sin and our love of death. He stuck his neck out for us and there were plenty of people who wanted to do him harm for it. They succeeded and nailed him to a cross. That didn't stop him. What mattered was us, saving us, helping us, loving us. God cared about you and me and he asks us to do likewise with those we encounter every day. That’s how the kingdom gets spread. It’s how the world is changed. One hurting soul at a time. Go and care. Go and love. Amen.
Preaching text: Luke 6:27-38
I want to begin today with a bit of trivia. This year, Easter is one of the latest dates it can appear. As a result, we have an exceptionally long season after Epiphany. Rarely do we ever see the fifth or sixth sunday after Epiphany, let alone the seventh which is today. For a preacher like me, that’s great. I don’t think, even after almost 20 years of ministry, I’ve ever preached this Sunday or these texts. This is all new and fresh. Unfortunately, that also means you’re unlikely to have heard a sermon (at least not recently) on these Biblical passages either.
And that’s a real shame, because they’re good texts. Important texts. Texts we probably need to hear more often. Like today, for instance, “love you enemies.” Think about that for a second. Is there any message that is more counter-cultural than that? Really? Love those who hate and despise us? Those who seek us harm? Is there anything Jesus asks of us that’s more difficult?
Well, it certainly would be, if any of us actually had enemies.
That was the observation one of the ELCA pastors on the Facebook group made this week in regards to this text. Who here really has an enemy? Someone who is truly out to get us, who truly despises us and wants us to fail. We might have rivals at work. We might have people we’ve encountered who dislike us or don’t agree with us. But to really hate us? To invest that much emotional energy into our downfall? Those are rare indeed. I can think of maybe two people in my life that qualify and I’ve neither seen nor encountered either one in almost 30 years.
Now, of course, we’re told there are all kinds of enemies out there. People who want to destroy us. Be afraid of the terrorists! They will destroy everything you hold dear. And I’m sure they’d like to try. Truth is, thought, despite some rather high profile successes on their part, the likelihood of being hurt or dying in a terrorist attack is still somewhere around being eaten by a shark, struck by lightning, and winning the MegaJackpot, all on the same day. So are they really our “enemy” if they never have any impact on our life? Despite what the propagandists say.
There are all sorts of phantom enemies out there according to people who benefit from our distrusting or disliking certain groups of people. It’s easier to punish or persecute the immigrant, the poor, the person of different race, the person of different gender or sexuality, if we believe they hate us and want to destroy us. Our heads are filled with all sorts of nonsense about the threat they pose. But think about it for a moment. Do we really think those people honestly hate us? That they really want to destroy us? Or are they just trying to do what we all do? Live life, make a decent wage, have a family, and a measure of happiness along the way.
None of this is to say that the world doesn’t have its dangers. There absolutely are things out there that are threatening. But, in my experience, apathy is far more dangerous than hate. The “active shooter” that comes at us isn’t going to shoot us because he hates us; he’s going to shoot us because we’re standing there. We mean no more to him than that. We’re in his way. We’re an easy target. The CEO that eliminates our job has done so to maximize “shareholder value.” We’re just a statistic to him, a number without meaning. He doesn’t care.
Many of the problems of the world can be laid at the feet of apathy. They happen because people do not care.
So what are we to do with Jesus’ command to love our enemies, a happenstance which seems so rare in our lives to be pointless? Well, we would do well to listen to what else he tells us in this passage. Give to those who beg, lend to those who cannot pay you back, show mercy, do not judge, do unto others as you would have them do to you.
Or, in other words, start caring.
If apathy is the problem, then we care and love and forgive and show mercy. If the world does not care, then we will. That is the mark of a true Christian. That’s what makes us different from them. That is what Jesus calls us to do.
A few final observations, I would like to leave you with. First is the phrase that should never escape the lips of a Christian. Three words: “Not my problem.” Those are words of apathy. We are called to love and the problem of our neighbor is not just theirs alone. It is ours as well and by solving it together, we build community and fellowship with one another. People are not going to embrace Christianity because we got the best words and our rituals are better than their rituals or whatever nonsense we’ve come to believe. People are going to embrace our faith, because they come to believe Jesus cares because we do. And that means that we’ve got to stick our neck out for others and be there for them in times of need.
Second observation, while we may not have enemies now, if we start caring about people and we start living into that care and love, we will make them. There will always be those who will tell us the people we care about don’t deserve it and they will get angry when we rock the boat. Ignore them. It is not their approval we seek. We are following what God has asked of us. That’s what matters. And if these get go angry and so hateful to seek us harm, well, Jesus has told us how to respond to that as well.
Third and final observation, all of this is nothing more than Jesus asking us to do as he did. Who are we? Why do we matter? It’s not because of what we’ve done. It’s not because we are somehow more special than other people. We’re not any more moral or ethical or righteous than anyone else. No, we matter because God loves us. He cares. And we are a problem that he embraces willingly. Jesus came to solve the problem, our sin and our love of death. He stuck his neck out for us and there were plenty of people who wanted to do him harm for it. They succeeded and nailed him to a cross. That didn't stop him. What mattered was us, saving us, helping us, loving us. God cared about you and me and he asks us to do likewise with those we encounter every day. That’s how the kingdom gets spread. It’s how the world is changed. One hurting soul at a time. Go and care. Go and love. Amen.
Sunday, February 17, 2019
Sermon for the Sixth Sunday after Epiphany
Read at Grace and Canadochly on Feb 17, 2019 (Pastor out sick)
Preaching text: Luke 6:17-26
“Where do you see God in all of this?”
The question caught me a little off-guard. I suppose it shouldn’t have. The hospital chaplain who asked it of me knew what I did for a living. He knew I am a pastor. He also knew the history; that this was my sixth visit to the hospital in three years. We’d just been talking about the rollercoaster that is my life.
I began to answer with the obvious. I saw God in the good. I saw him in the support and prayers I received from all of you, my parishioners. I saw him in the well-wishes of friends. I saw him in the love of family. I saw him in the skill and science of the doctors and nurses and the power of the medicines they were using to heal my body. I saw God through my colleagues, who visited and brought with them Word and Sacrament from God himself.
But then I diverged. I also began to see God in the pain and loneliness. I saw him in the sleepless nights, the nausea, and other symptoms too disgusting to mention. I saw him in the bad too, because I wondered what was God trying to teach me here. I know I’m not the only one who struggles with these diseases. I’m far from the only person with diabetes. Far from the only person with severe gastrointestinal illnesses. Far from the only one with depression and anxiety. What was I to learn? Empathy perhaps? Strength? Perseverance? Compassion? All things that would make me a better pastor and a better person. All things that would make me better suited to serve my God and his people.
God was in all of it. There was none of it where his grace was not touching me and sustaining me.
I was thinking about this when I was reading Luke’s version of the Beatitudes, which is our Gospel lesson today. Luke does something very different than the more traditional version of this text that we’re familiar with; the one from Matthew’s Gospel. Luke shows Jesus not just offering blessings, but also woes. Blessings to the hungry, the poor, the mourning, and the hated. But also woe to the rich, the satisfied, the exuberant, and the well-regarded.
What’s this about? It makes Jesus sound like he doesn’t want us to be successful or happy. I don’t think that’s it. Nor do I think it is merely limited to most common interpretation we place on this text. After all, we’ve all met or encountered someone in life who was rich or self-satisfied and was absolutely insufferable for it. None of us would mind a little divine reversal on those types. Likewise, we’ve all met or encountered someone who was poor and downtrodden and our heart didn’t break for them. Would be nice to see some reversal for them too. No, I think it’s more than that too.
I think Jesus is talking about the whole of the human condition.
We all receive some degree of success in life. The question is how. We reach the top of the mountain and look back at all we’ve been through and we see hard work, perseverance, and a little luck (or maybe a lot). The question we never ask of ourselves is “Who did we hurt on the way up? Who did we harm? Who did we run roughshod over to get here?”
Our inclination would be to say “no one.” Most of us of good heart and nature would be appalled to learn we hurt someone to get where we are. But appalled or not, odds are good we did cause harm, even if we never meant it.
Recent events in Virginia have brought racism to the fore once again. Most of us sit back contented that we never wore blackface or did anything quite that offensive, telling ourselves that we’re not racist. And that may be true. But there’s another truth that lurks under the surface. We white folk are living in a world that was built for us and it is often quite comfortable, but it was built by those in past generations who WERE racist and used their vile beliefs to shape the world in particular ways. We today benefit from their guilt and we often don’t even know it.
How much is that T-shirt at Wal-Mart? How much for that iPhone? Expensive or not, these things often do not cost what they are supposed to. And why is that? Perhaps because some poor soul in the Third World was paid starvation wages to make that for you. How much farther have we all come because we’ve never had to pay the REAL cost of what we own?
How much pollution have we put into the atmosphere? Or the water? Or the earth? And how much hurt did that cause? Was it the herbicide we sprayed on our weeds that caused the neighbor kid to get sick? Was it the cloud of noxious smoke that belched out of our car that tipped that man just enough to trigger his cancer or COPD? These questions don’t have answers, but you have to wonder.
Sin is inescapable.
Try as we might to live upright and moral lives, it doesn’t take long for us to realize that life really forces us to run roughshod over others, often without even realizing it. We hurt and we harm and we benefit from the hurt and harm inflicted by others. What can we, those of good heart, do about this? Very little. Save to remember that when we are rich, satisfied, happy, and well-regarded, woe to us for what we’ve done to get that way.
And then there’s when the shoe is on the other foot. When the sin we experience is not what we’ve done or who we’ve hurt, but instead what is done to us or how others have hurt us. That too is inescapable. When the one who was run roughshod over in the climb to the top was us.
We always talk about how life is hard. We know that lesson well. Sickness, injury, financial ruin, family troubles, divorce, loss. We’ve all been there. And what can we do about it? Very little. Save to remember that when we are poor, hungry, sad, and hated that we are blessed.
So where is God in all of this? He’s in all of it. He is in the blessings and the woes. He sees our sin, whether we intend harm or not, and it doesn’t make him happy. He sees the sin inflicted upon us and that doesn’t make him happy either. But he’s there, with us through it all. He’s in the good and the bad, and unlike us, who can do very little to change the sinful circumstances of our broken world, he intends to do something about it.
He sent Jesus. He who came to destroy sin forever. And through his life, death, and resurrection, he did just that. Thus God blesses us in the bad and forgives the bad we’ve done, again sometimes without even knowing it, to receive the good we have. And life goes on, blessings and woes, until Christ comes again to bring his kingdom in its fullness.
We are given a hard task, to live in the inbetween days. We know that sin is conquered, but the fullness of that gift has not yet come. Life is a rollercoaster of blessings and woes. The good and the bad, and we endure it all. But God is there, in the midst of all of it. No matter what we’ve done or what’s been done to us, he stands by our side through thick and thin, walking with us to that bright future that was promised through his Son. Amen.
Preaching text: Luke 6:17-26
“Where do you see God in all of this?”
The question caught me a little off-guard. I suppose it shouldn’t have. The hospital chaplain who asked it of me knew what I did for a living. He knew I am a pastor. He also knew the history; that this was my sixth visit to the hospital in three years. We’d just been talking about the rollercoaster that is my life.
I began to answer with the obvious. I saw God in the good. I saw him in the support and prayers I received from all of you, my parishioners. I saw him in the well-wishes of friends. I saw him in the love of family. I saw him in the skill and science of the doctors and nurses and the power of the medicines they were using to heal my body. I saw God through my colleagues, who visited and brought with them Word and Sacrament from God himself.
But then I diverged. I also began to see God in the pain and loneliness. I saw him in the sleepless nights, the nausea, and other symptoms too disgusting to mention. I saw him in the bad too, because I wondered what was God trying to teach me here. I know I’m not the only one who struggles with these diseases. I’m far from the only person with diabetes. Far from the only person with severe gastrointestinal illnesses. Far from the only one with depression and anxiety. What was I to learn? Empathy perhaps? Strength? Perseverance? Compassion? All things that would make me a better pastor and a better person. All things that would make me better suited to serve my God and his people.
God was in all of it. There was none of it where his grace was not touching me and sustaining me.
I was thinking about this when I was reading Luke’s version of the Beatitudes, which is our Gospel lesson today. Luke does something very different than the more traditional version of this text that we’re familiar with; the one from Matthew’s Gospel. Luke shows Jesus not just offering blessings, but also woes. Blessings to the hungry, the poor, the mourning, and the hated. But also woe to the rich, the satisfied, the exuberant, and the well-regarded.
What’s this about? It makes Jesus sound like he doesn’t want us to be successful or happy. I don’t think that’s it. Nor do I think it is merely limited to most common interpretation we place on this text. After all, we’ve all met or encountered someone in life who was rich or self-satisfied and was absolutely insufferable for it. None of us would mind a little divine reversal on those types. Likewise, we’ve all met or encountered someone who was poor and downtrodden and our heart didn’t break for them. Would be nice to see some reversal for them too. No, I think it’s more than that too.
I think Jesus is talking about the whole of the human condition.
We all receive some degree of success in life. The question is how. We reach the top of the mountain and look back at all we’ve been through and we see hard work, perseverance, and a little luck (or maybe a lot). The question we never ask of ourselves is “Who did we hurt on the way up? Who did we harm? Who did we run roughshod over to get here?”
Our inclination would be to say “no one.” Most of us of good heart and nature would be appalled to learn we hurt someone to get where we are. But appalled or not, odds are good we did cause harm, even if we never meant it.
Recent events in Virginia have brought racism to the fore once again. Most of us sit back contented that we never wore blackface or did anything quite that offensive, telling ourselves that we’re not racist. And that may be true. But there’s another truth that lurks under the surface. We white folk are living in a world that was built for us and it is often quite comfortable, but it was built by those in past generations who WERE racist and used their vile beliefs to shape the world in particular ways. We today benefit from their guilt and we often don’t even know it.
How much is that T-shirt at Wal-Mart? How much for that iPhone? Expensive or not, these things often do not cost what they are supposed to. And why is that? Perhaps because some poor soul in the Third World was paid starvation wages to make that for you. How much farther have we all come because we’ve never had to pay the REAL cost of what we own?
How much pollution have we put into the atmosphere? Or the water? Or the earth? And how much hurt did that cause? Was it the herbicide we sprayed on our weeds that caused the neighbor kid to get sick? Was it the cloud of noxious smoke that belched out of our car that tipped that man just enough to trigger his cancer or COPD? These questions don’t have answers, but you have to wonder.
Sin is inescapable.
Try as we might to live upright and moral lives, it doesn’t take long for us to realize that life really forces us to run roughshod over others, often without even realizing it. We hurt and we harm and we benefit from the hurt and harm inflicted by others. What can we, those of good heart, do about this? Very little. Save to remember that when we are rich, satisfied, happy, and well-regarded, woe to us for what we’ve done to get that way.
And then there’s when the shoe is on the other foot. When the sin we experience is not what we’ve done or who we’ve hurt, but instead what is done to us or how others have hurt us. That too is inescapable. When the one who was run roughshod over in the climb to the top was us.
We always talk about how life is hard. We know that lesson well. Sickness, injury, financial ruin, family troubles, divorce, loss. We’ve all been there. And what can we do about it? Very little. Save to remember that when we are poor, hungry, sad, and hated that we are blessed.
So where is God in all of this? He’s in all of it. He is in the blessings and the woes. He sees our sin, whether we intend harm or not, and it doesn’t make him happy. He sees the sin inflicted upon us and that doesn’t make him happy either. But he’s there, with us through it all. He’s in the good and the bad, and unlike us, who can do very little to change the sinful circumstances of our broken world, he intends to do something about it.
He sent Jesus. He who came to destroy sin forever. And through his life, death, and resurrection, he did just that. Thus God blesses us in the bad and forgives the bad we’ve done, again sometimes without even knowing it, to receive the good we have. And life goes on, blessings and woes, until Christ comes again to bring his kingdom in its fullness.
We are given a hard task, to live in the inbetween days. We know that sin is conquered, but the fullness of that gift has not yet come. Life is a rollercoaster of blessings and woes. The good and the bad, and we endure it all. But God is there, in the midst of all of it. No matter what we’ve done or what’s been done to us, he stands by our side through thick and thin, walking with us to that bright future that was promised through his Son. Amen.
Sermon for the Fifth Sunday after Epiphany
Preached at Canadochly on Feb 10, 2019 (Pastor sick. Read by congregation)
Preaching text: Luke 5:1-11, Isaiah 6:1-13
Most, if not all of us, are pretty familiar with the story of Jesus calling the first disciples. Jesus comes down to the seashore, sees some fishermen, says ‘follow me,’ and they drop everything and follow him. That’s how the story typically goes, very barebones and simple.
Luke’s Gospel tells a slightly different version of that familiar tale, which we have as our Gospel lesson today. He fills in some details that the other Gospel authors either didn’t know or chose to omit. In Luke’s version, we hear his encounter with the fisherman occurs in the midst of a moment of teaching, where the crowd so presses in on Jesus that he has to commandeer one of the fishing boats to give himself some breathing room. He then also performs a miracle by grant those same fisherman a miraculous catch of fish.
In this version of the story, it is easy to imagine why the fishermen decide to leave everything and follow Jesus. First, they’ve had to listen in on his teaching. While they are not the target of Jesus’ teaching efforts here (He’s focused on the crowds), they can’t help but overhear what he’s saying. Did they perhaps hear something that intrigued or fascinated them? We don’t know for sure, but it’s a safe guess. There’s also what happens after Jesus is done teaching.
Jesus tells them to go out into the deeper water and lower their nets again. Peter protests, claiming that they didn’t have any success earlier in those spots, so this would likely be a waste of time, but he relents. Peter and his partners know their trade. Their comments to Jesus are not uninformed. They have no reason to believe they will catch anything now when they had no luck all night long. Must to their astonishment, they catch more fish than ever seen before in their lives.
Surely, those two experiences would be more than enough for anyone to want to follow Jesus, but Luke tells us that’s not actually what happens. Peter freaks out. He panics and tells Jesus to go away, to leave, because Peter says he is “a sinful man.” Why such a reaction? One would think, given his line of work, that such a massive haul of fish would be cause for immense celebration. Here is enough to support his family for a month or longer perhaps. But no, Peter responds in abject terror.
The reason why is simple. He reacts the way everyone reacts when in the presence of God. Think about the Old Testament stories: Moses, Abraham, Isaiah, Jeremiah. Any of these guys. When God comes to them, they freak out. They panic. They are terrified. It’s the only reaction they can have. Because when we are confronted with the perfection of the Divine, our own inadequacies take center stage. We realize how pitiful we really are, how flawed, our sinful, in comparison to that which is truly perfect. We recognize our unworthiness and instinctively become threatened by that which is so much more than we are.
Take our first lesson today as example. Isaiah is in the temple and God comes into his midst with his angels. He does what Peter does and panics. “Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips!” God has come into my midst and I am toast.
It’s usually at this point that the real miracle happens. For Isaiah. For Peter. For pretty much everyone who meets God like this. And also for us. God or Jesus or an angel speaks in a kindly voice and says “Do not be afraid.” Those words, regarded by many, to be the most important words in all of Scripture. Because they are the beginning of grace.
Do not fear. God has not come to you to destroy or to punish or to erase or any other thing you might fear. He has come instead to invite you into his service, to make you a part of his great plan. You, me, Peter, Isaiah, Moses, Mary, whoever. As flawed and imperfect as we are, he has come to us to make us his. “Do not be afraid, for now on, you will be catching people.”
There’s a bit of bumper sticker theology that I’ve come to like: God does not call the qualified, he qualifies the called. And that’s true. I think about my own story. Why am I up here? I’ve always been a person who’s far more comfortable with books and machines than with people. Painfully shy when I was a child and a good portion of adulthood to boot. I didn’t really date until after I graduated from college. And yet here I am now in one of the most intense people-oriented professions you can have. All because God once said to me, “Go and become a pastor of my church.”
Almost 18 years I’ve done this now. I can’t imagine doing anything else with my life. I suppose God knew something I didn’t. Funny that.
Did Peter have similar thoughts? I imagine he did. I’m just a fisherman, a salt-of-the-earth works-with-his-hands sort of guy. I’m no scholar, no great educated man. Just Simon Peter the fisherman. And yet, when Jesus called him, he became so much more. A leader, an evangelist, a paragon of the faith.
Each one of us has a calling. God may have given it to you or me in so grand a manner as he did Peter or Isaiah, but he calls us to his service nonetheless. He calls us in the waters of baptism. He calls us in the wine and bread of communion. And he does not call based on who you are. He calls based on who you could be. Who he knows you can be, because he knows you better than you know yourself. Peter, James, John, and Andrew, all of them were men of greatness and potential, but only Jesus knew it. So are you and me and God sees that in us in ways we cannot.
I know I get up here all the time and I talk about how we, as the church and as followers of Jesus, are to change the world, to give the world vision of God’s kingdom. It’s a tall order and I know it. Scares the daylights out of me often times too. It’s too much. Too big. But then I remember what God has said to me, through his Word and his sacraments, through the experiences of my life, through his call. “Do not be afraid. From now on, you will be catching people.” So it is with all of us. Amen.
Preaching text: Luke 5:1-11, Isaiah 6:1-13
Most, if not all of us, are pretty familiar with the story of Jesus calling the first disciples. Jesus comes down to the seashore, sees some fishermen, says ‘follow me,’ and they drop everything and follow him. That’s how the story typically goes, very barebones and simple.
Luke’s Gospel tells a slightly different version of that familiar tale, which we have as our Gospel lesson today. He fills in some details that the other Gospel authors either didn’t know or chose to omit. In Luke’s version, we hear his encounter with the fisherman occurs in the midst of a moment of teaching, where the crowd so presses in on Jesus that he has to commandeer one of the fishing boats to give himself some breathing room. He then also performs a miracle by grant those same fisherman a miraculous catch of fish.
In this version of the story, it is easy to imagine why the fishermen decide to leave everything and follow Jesus. First, they’ve had to listen in on his teaching. While they are not the target of Jesus’ teaching efforts here (He’s focused on the crowds), they can’t help but overhear what he’s saying. Did they perhaps hear something that intrigued or fascinated them? We don’t know for sure, but it’s a safe guess. There’s also what happens after Jesus is done teaching.
Jesus tells them to go out into the deeper water and lower their nets again. Peter protests, claiming that they didn’t have any success earlier in those spots, so this would likely be a waste of time, but he relents. Peter and his partners know their trade. Their comments to Jesus are not uninformed. They have no reason to believe they will catch anything now when they had no luck all night long. Must to their astonishment, they catch more fish than ever seen before in their lives.
Surely, those two experiences would be more than enough for anyone to want to follow Jesus, but Luke tells us that’s not actually what happens. Peter freaks out. He panics and tells Jesus to go away, to leave, because Peter says he is “a sinful man.” Why such a reaction? One would think, given his line of work, that such a massive haul of fish would be cause for immense celebration. Here is enough to support his family for a month or longer perhaps. But no, Peter responds in abject terror.
The reason why is simple. He reacts the way everyone reacts when in the presence of God. Think about the Old Testament stories: Moses, Abraham, Isaiah, Jeremiah. Any of these guys. When God comes to them, they freak out. They panic. They are terrified. It’s the only reaction they can have. Because when we are confronted with the perfection of the Divine, our own inadequacies take center stage. We realize how pitiful we really are, how flawed, our sinful, in comparison to that which is truly perfect. We recognize our unworthiness and instinctively become threatened by that which is so much more than we are.
Take our first lesson today as example. Isaiah is in the temple and God comes into his midst with his angels. He does what Peter does and panics. “Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips!” God has come into my midst and I am toast.
It’s usually at this point that the real miracle happens. For Isaiah. For Peter. For pretty much everyone who meets God like this. And also for us. God or Jesus or an angel speaks in a kindly voice and says “Do not be afraid.” Those words, regarded by many, to be the most important words in all of Scripture. Because they are the beginning of grace.
Do not fear. God has not come to you to destroy or to punish or to erase or any other thing you might fear. He has come instead to invite you into his service, to make you a part of his great plan. You, me, Peter, Isaiah, Moses, Mary, whoever. As flawed and imperfect as we are, he has come to us to make us his. “Do not be afraid, for now on, you will be catching people.”
There’s a bit of bumper sticker theology that I’ve come to like: God does not call the qualified, he qualifies the called. And that’s true. I think about my own story. Why am I up here? I’ve always been a person who’s far more comfortable with books and machines than with people. Painfully shy when I was a child and a good portion of adulthood to boot. I didn’t really date until after I graduated from college. And yet here I am now in one of the most intense people-oriented professions you can have. All because God once said to me, “Go and become a pastor of my church.”
Almost 18 years I’ve done this now. I can’t imagine doing anything else with my life. I suppose God knew something I didn’t. Funny that.
Did Peter have similar thoughts? I imagine he did. I’m just a fisherman, a salt-of-the-earth works-with-his-hands sort of guy. I’m no scholar, no great educated man. Just Simon Peter the fisherman. And yet, when Jesus called him, he became so much more. A leader, an evangelist, a paragon of the faith.
Each one of us has a calling. God may have given it to you or me in so grand a manner as he did Peter or Isaiah, but he calls us to his service nonetheless. He calls us in the waters of baptism. He calls us in the wine and bread of communion. And he does not call based on who you are. He calls based on who you could be. Who he knows you can be, because he knows you better than you know yourself. Peter, James, John, and Andrew, all of them were men of greatness and potential, but only Jesus knew it. So are you and me and God sees that in us in ways we cannot.
I know I get up here all the time and I talk about how we, as the church and as followers of Jesus, are to change the world, to give the world vision of God’s kingdom. It’s a tall order and I know it. Scares the daylights out of me often times too. It’s too much. Too big. But then I remember what God has said to me, through his Word and his sacraments, through the experiences of my life, through his call. “Do not be afraid. From now on, you will be catching people.” So it is with all of us. Amen.
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