Sermon for the Seventh Sunday after Epiphany

Preached at Canadochly Lutheran Church on February 23, 2014
Scripture text: Matthew 5:38-48

Memory is a funny thing. You can remember events from decades past with perfect clarity and yet not remember where you put your cell phone just five minutes ago. I’m often astonished at the crazy things my brain can recall. Weird bits of trivia. Dreams I had as child. Events in my lifetime that no else remembers (mostly because they don’t care about whatever it was.)

For instance, I remember with a great deal of clarity a birthday party I once went to in 1st grade. Yeah, all the way back then. Of course, there’s a reason why I remember it, which will become clear to you in a moment. Grant was the boy’s name; one of my classmates in grade school. Not necessarily a friend or playmate even then, but it was the habit then as now to pretty much invite everybody in your class to your birthday. So there I was, at this party.

I remember the party favors for all the guests. There were two stacks of stickers. Superheroes. Superman, Batman, the like. There were two stacks because there were two different kinds of guests at this party. Those who were worthy of the big sheets of stickers (Grant's "real friends", I supposed), and those who only got the little ones.

Now, in my seven year old mind, I found a certain unfairness in that. So I decided to take matters into my own hands and helped myself to one of the big sheets. Grant was furious that I had broken the rules of his party, which I had admittedly. But here’s the thing, and it’s the reason I remember such a seemingly inconsequential episode of my childhood. He never forgave me for that and in the years that followed throughout my schooling, he never let me forget it either.

I talked numerous times about how I was bullied in school. A lot of kids are. There is one simple truth about most bullies however. They pick on you because you are a target of opportunity, easy prey to a kid who is bigger or tougher. Not because they have any emotional investment in what they are doing. They don’t really hate you; they generally don’t care about you at all. Grant was not like that. He was the first person in my life that I can say truly genuinely hated me, down into the core of his bones. With every fiber of his being, he despised me. If I were hanging off a cliff by tree branch, he not only would not have helped me, he probably would have gone looking for an axe.

I haven’t seen him since I was a senior in high school, but I haven’t forgotten him and the way he acted around me. All over some petty stupidity from my obviously-not-very-mature 1st grade self. Never made any sense to me then and it still doesn’t. But maybe that’s the point. Hate really doesn’t make any sense.

Oh, we like to think it does. Someone hurts us in some fashion. A co-worker cheats us out of a promotion we deserved. A significant other breaks our heart. A criminal attacks us. And in our anger, fear, and pain, we hunger for retaliation. I know. Every time Grant treated me like crap for no reason whatsoever, I wanted to slug him. Every time a bully pushed me around, I wanted my revenge. We’ve all been there. We rationalize it. Scum deserves it. Woman gave me lip. I have to defend my honor. I have to stop them. And so forth.

All while deep down inside that little demon within each of us giggles with perverse delight at all horrific things our imagination is conjuring up that we might do in revenge and then laughing with unmitigated glee when we act on them.

They say we preach best what we need to hear the most. Perhaps, I preach so often about hate because it’s what I struggle against most within myself. I talk about racism and homophobia and bigotry so much because they are things I struggle with. That little giggling demon is not so little inside me.

But one thing I have Grant to thank is that he taught me what it’s like to be on the other end of all that. To have someone, even as a child, who held such a vendetta against me. It made me realize something. It made me realize just how right Jesus really is when he talks about hate in the Sermon on the Mount.

“You have heard it said that you shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.” Curiously, the Bible actually doesn’t say that anywhere. But then again, it doesn’t have to because that’s what humans have always said from time uncounted. “But I say to you love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” He’s right. It has to be this way.

Imagine for a moment if we all acted on those hateful impulses. Every slight avenged. Every wrong repaid. The world would look like...well, a lot like it does now only more so. Property destroyed. Lives lost. The weak abused, tortured, enslaved. People murdered in wars, crime, violence. Civilization would break down. And it wouldn’t just be the villains that would get theirs. Each of us, as Grant once taught me, can be the villain of another person’s story. The world would be a mound of corpses, with only the vultures happy about the outcome.

It cannot be that way.

It cannot be that way because not only would we seek to destroy ourselves, but what would God do? Is he not the one most wounded by our foolish hunger for hate and vengeance? Are not the ones we seek to hurt precious in his sight? We do all this horrible stuff (and more besides in our own minds) and yet he sits back. Imagine if he didn’t?

Oh, that’s a fantasy of some of us. But be careful what you wish for. God watches us ravage this planet. He watches us murder and destroy one another in fits of pointless rage. All over who has the most gold, oil, land or power, or who has the better government or better religion. We destroy each other over nonsense, each time wounding someone or someones that God Almighty sees as more precious than all else.

Imagine what it would be like if God acted on his anger and hate. Noah’s flood would seem like a spring rain in comparison to what God could do. But he doesn’t, because he knows that it will not work. He cannot hate, because hate leads only to death and destruction, and our God is a god of life. Only love leads to life. So God will love even his enemies.

God could have hated us and been within his rights to do so, but he made a choice not to. He made a choice instead to save us from ourselves. That was what the old covenant was about. That was why Jesus came. The whole plan of salvation was truly one of love for his enemies; for us who have so callously and shamefully treated him and one another. There’s a better way, God says. And through the mouth of Jesus on that mountain, recorded in the book of Matthew, we hear that better way.

But not only do we hear it, we see it too. We see Jesus take the abuse of his captors. We see him tortured, mocked, beaten, and then hung on a cross to die. And his words of response to all that torment. “Father, forgive.” Love, even from the cross, for all of us who put him there.

God made a choice to save all of us through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. He asks that our lives reflect that same love, that same choice. It is not easy, but it is the right thing to do. Amen.

Sermon for the Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

Preached at Canadochly Lutheran Church on February 9, 2014
Scripture text: Isaiah 58:1-12

It is at the heart of nearly every popular story ever told. From the great myths of ancient Greece to the songs of the skalds in the Dark Ages to today’s spectacles of stage and screen, it is in many ways the fundamental story of our time: Good vs. Evil.

We hear that trope so often that we presume it’s nearly everywhere, even when it isn’t. One of the reasons, for instance, our politics have become so hostile and polarized is because we (both sides) have assumed that the other side are more than just the opposition. They are EVIL. Not just a different perspective, different ideas, with the same goal of doing what is best for our country. No, they are evil and they must be stopped (and even destroyed) at all costs.

Obviously, this sort of black-and-white thinking has its detriments. But it’s also so commonplace that it’s hard to overcome. We see it everywhere, even when it isn’t. Another example is that we often think of the Bible and the great story of God’s interactions with our world is also a great story of a struggle between good and evil, God vs. the Devil.

Except that Satan shows up as a character in this story only a tiny handful of times and is mentioned in passing only a few additional times. You could probably collect all the places the Bible talks about our great enemy on a single page of paper. That’s it. “Good vs. Evil” isn’t really what the Bible is about.

But there is great conflict in the Scriptures, a great debate between two sides. But the fascinating thing is, those two sides are not good and evil. It’s two different ways of seeing good.

The central conflict of the Bible is good vs. good. Wrap your brain around that for a minute.

In this corner, you have what I would call the “moral” side of good. It is focused on self-improvement, on BEING good. You go to church. You pray and read the Scriptures. You avoid vice and sin. You obey the commandments. No stealing. No murder. No adultery. Those things are bad for you, so you avoid them.

And in this corner, you have what I would call the “ethical” side of good. It is focused on improving others, on DOING good. You feed the hungry. You welcome the outcast. You heal the sick. You obey the commandments. No stealing. No murder. No adultery. Those things hurt others, so you avoid them.

Do you see the difference? They are different, but they are also both two perfectly legitimate forms of goodness. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that if you looked at the faith journey of each and every one of us, you would find both forms of good in our own stories. Times when we were charitable towards others and times when we sought to be pure.

But the Scriptures definitely take sides in the debate between these two, arguing that one of these is better than the other. And that brings us to our first lesson, to this prophecy of Isaiah. This passage encapsulates this debate as well as any, being among the best to show us what’s at the core of this.

It begins somewhat oddly. God speaks of a rebellious people who “continually seek him and delight to know his ways.” Wouldn’t rebellious people be turning away from God? But God goes on to explain further. Yeah, you fast. Yeah, you’re in worship every week. You’re being good, but you’re not doing good.

You’re turning piety into a weapon, using it to puff yourself up and tear down others. Sure, you’re keeping the letter of the law, but hardly paying any attention to the spirit of it. You’ve made it all about you, how special you are, how righteous you are, and haven’t spared a single thought for anyone else.

God then tells of what he desires. Loosing the bonds of injustice. Feeding the hungry. Clothing the naked. That, he says, is the fast he seeks. To do right by others. God declaring that the “ethical” side is superior to the “moral” one.

Of course, we see this debate elsewhere in the Scriptures also. We see it in the conflict between Jesus and the Scribes and Pharisees. The Pharisees, as I have said numerous times, were not bad people. They wanted to be good. The problem is they wanted to be good only in themselves; to be pure, but not charitable. We also see it in the letters of Paul, his conflicts with the so-called Judizers, those who would demand absolute obedience to Jewish social and religious tradition as a prerequisite to be a follower of Jesus. Again, worrying about oneself to exclusion of others.

And we see it today. How many sermons will be preached this morning in churches all over about how we need to “get right with God” with no mention whatsoever of caring for the less-fortunate, all of it being about how we need to do better at being moral and upright? The debate goes on.

But it has a real impact of us. I’d even argue our salvation depends on it. But don’t misunderstand me. Our salvation does not depend on how we choose to interpret good, either as ethical or moral, but in how Jesus does. You see, if Jesus came down to earth and favored the moral side, we’d be in a world of hurt.

He would be upright and virtuous, but he would never dare mingle among sinners. He would never dare touch a leper or invite a tax collector to table with him. He would never let his purity be stained by such things. He’d never rock the boat. He’d never challenge the established order, and he’d certainly never die the death of a slave on a cross. He’d live a nice long peaceful live and die of old age. And odds are good we’d never even know he was here.

But that’s not what Jesus did. His whole life was dedicated to doing good, even and perhaps even especially when it would ruffle feathers of the morally upright crowd. He did invite tax collectors and prostitutes to dinner. He did heal lepers. He did the rock the boat and challenge the established order. And for that reason, they hung him on a cross to die the most humiliating death they could think of.

But it had to be that way. It had to because it was how he would save us. Jesus couldn’t be an island of purity in the midst of a sinful sea. That wouldn’t help anyone. No, he had to take those sins upon himself. He had to become sin, impure, tainted, so that he could nail those sins to the cross in his own body. He became immorality so that he could take not his own sins, but ours, to the grave with him.

That, he tells us, is the ultimate good. The best kind of good, to give one’s life for those that he loves. That’s what he did. And he did not die unremembered or unnoticed. He died a death no one could ignore because it was a death that saved us all. It mattered for each of us.

A lot of our lessons today talk about light. Isaiah mentions it and Jesus himself speaks of us as the “light of the world.” We’ve all envisioned those texts as a city on a hill, shining out in the midst of a dark night. Christ is that beacon because we saw the good that he did for us. He calls us to do likewise. Not simply to be good, but to do good for others. That is something people will see. That is something people will remember. Just like him. Amen.

Sermon for the Presentation of Our Lord

Preached at Canadochly Lutheran Church on February 2, 2014
Scripture text: Luke 2:22-40

It is widely regarded as the best of the Star Trek films: #2, the Wrath of Khan. The valiant captain Kirk faces off against the super-villain Khan across the depths of space in this action packed movie. But one of the things that makes this film work so well is not simply that it is an exciting story of good vs. evil. There is deeper element to it. It is the story, in part, of how our valiant hero faces his own mortality.

The movie begins with Captain Kirk’s 50th birthday and that sets the tone for the story. He’s getting older and maybe even starting to lose his edge. That piece is brought into sharp relief when Kirk and his ship are attacked on a routine training cruise by the vicious Khan. Ambushed. Taken by surprise. The game of cat-and-mouse between the hero and the villain eventually finds Kirk stranded inside the planetoid Regula. Trapped. “Buried alive” in the words of his adversary.

His ship is under attack. His friends, his crew, and he himself are under threat of destruction. And someone asks Kirk how he’s feeling. “Old,” he says, “and worn out.”

Earlier this week, I attended an ELCA Ministry Consultation on Appalachian Ministry. I served an Appalachian congregation for 11 years, so it seemed to the Synod Office that I was a good match to represent LSS at this Consultation. I went in not knowing what to expect.

The consultation began with Bishop Ralph Dunkin, my former bishop, giving his reflections on the recent chemical spill in WV. We also heard from Rev. Jon Unger, a former colleague of mine from WV, who in addition to being a Lutheran pastor is also the Majority Leader of the WV State Senate. He talked about what the government has learned about the leak in the weeks since it happened. The news is not good.

There is really no other way to put it. My home, my home state, my home town, are under attack.

Then we moved on to how to address Appalachian ministry and in particular the ELCA’s ministry arm in Appalachia, ELCMA. I have been a part of ELCMA for nearly 15 years, longer than I have been a pastor. The story is the same as it seems to be everywhere in the ELCA. We have no money. We have no people. We cannot do things as we used to. Our congregations are in decline. Our mission support is dwindling. We have to retreat. We have to withdraw. We have to do less.

An organization of the church (and in many ways the whole ELCA) is under threat. Friends, ministries, our work for the Gospel about which I am passionate and dedicated is in danger of destruction. And, like Captain Kirk, if you asked me right now how I’m feeling, I’d probably give the same answer: “Old and worn out.”

So what does all this have to do with the festival of the Presentation of Jesus? Quite a lot actually.

Luke’s story from his Gospel of that event in Jesus’ life includes the introduction of two peripheral characters: Simeon and Anna. Tradition has held (and Luke’s text confirms for one of them) that these are people of great age. They have lived a long time, 84 years in the case of Anna.

If that is so, then Anna was probably there when Pompey marched his Roman legions into Jerusalem. She saw the tyrant Rome take over her land, install as puppet kings the dynasty of Herod, saw Herod the Great line the roads of Judea with the crucified bodies of supposed rebels. Simeon may have likewise witnessed these horrible events.

They have seen their home under attack. They have lived their many years with their friends, their families, and themselves under threat of destruction. After decades of this, it would be easy to imagine their answer to the question “How do you feel?” “Old and worn out.”

But there is something else that binds us together, characters both fiction and real. In the midst of our frustration, our anxieties, and our worries about the people and the things that we love, there is also faith.

Kirk believes in his people, in his crew and his friends. His faith is not misplaced. At the end of the movie, Kirk’s best friend, the alien Spock, sacrifices himself to get the ship’s warp engines working again so they can escape from Khan’s final trap. He dies so the others may live.

Simeon and Anna believe in our God. They trust in his promises and one day, they both come to the temple and a small baby is placed into their hands, Yeshua, the son of Joseph and Mary. And both of them realize who is this really is. He is the one they’ve been waiting for. And they know too that this child will grow up, become a man, and then be killed upon a cross. He will sacrifice himself to save the people from their sins. He will die so others may live.

For me and for you, we too cling to the promises of that same God that proved true for Simeon and Anna. We too have faced times and will again see days when we will say we are “old and worn out.” Regardless of our actual age and energy, we will be battered and beaten by the storms of life, the things we hold dearest will be under threat of loss and death.

But into the midst of our darkness comes Jesus Christ, Emmanuel, God is with us. Our darknesses may pale in comparison to past or future generations, but there are real to us. But so too is the God who keeps his promises, the God who keeps faith. The God who became incarnate of the virgin and was made man in Jesus Christ. The God who loved this world enough to come into it to die for it.

Faith is easy when life is easy. But faith is most necessary when life is hard. Today we are gifted with the story of two people whose lives show the truth of that, Anna and Simeon. Two people who in the midst of horrific events knew that God would prove faithful. They were not wrong. For us, when we face our own horrors, whatever form they take, God will prove faithful also. His promises are not subject to the terrible whimsies of life. They stand firm. They remain. He will not abandon us. Not now. Not ever. Amen.

Sermon for the Third Sunday after Epiphany

Preached at Canadochly Lutheran Church on January 26, 2014 (a revamp of a sermon first preached at St. John’s Lutheran, Davis, WV on Jan 23, 2011)

Scripture text: Matthew 4:12-23

Familiar stories like the one we have as our Gospel lesson today can be among the hardest texts for preachers like myself to work with. Familiarity can be a drawback. We've all heard the story of Jesus calling the first disciples to become, in the words of the old translations, "fishers of men." This is the introduction of Peter and Andrew, James and John into the story line, the four most famous and probably most important of the Twelve. This is old hat, nothing to see here.

Or is there? One drawback to the "format" of preaching is its narrow focus. We hone in on a single passage in a single book of the Bible, dissecting it, interpreting it, analyzing it until we think we know what it means, what it has to say to us. I was talking with Pr. Schneider at New Freedom a week or so ago about our favorite Gospels and our struggles with the ones that aren’t our favorites. I mentioned that Mark does sit on my list of not-favorites-to-preach-on precisely because the whole Gospel is meant to be told as a single story; chopping it up like we all these Scripture texts for our Sunday worship doesn’t work very well with it.

There is another approach however. Many years ago, back when I first started as a pastor, Dr. Scott Gufstason was invited to hold a Bible study for myself and other new pastors at our First Call Continuing Education event outside Ligonier, PA. At the time, Scott was a professor at Gettysburg Seminary and when he got up in front of us, he held up a Bible and said to the crowd "This is what we're going to study today. Not Matthew or Isaiah or Revelation or any one single book or chapter. We're going to talk about the whole thing." It was a different approach. Not narrow, but broad. Wide. Big picture. What's the whole story here?

I'd like to take a similar approach to the events we read about today. Partly because (let’s be honest) I already talked to some degree last Sunday (and even the Sunday before) about the calling of the first disciples in terms of who and what they are. Today I’d like to look at their call in a larger context. To understand why Jesus does this. What does it all mean?

In some ways, the text invites us to do just that. It begins with a grim pronouncement. "After John had been arrested..." Who's John? Well, we know that's John the Baptist, Jesus' cousin, his herald, his ally. Already, the story begins grimly. Jesus begins his ministry alone and unaided.

This shouldn't be any surprise to anyone. After all, what we know about Jesus' life prior to this point fits this grim tone. The visitors at his birth are shepherds, people barely one step above slaves in the social order, and foreign-born diviners, astrologers whose dabbling in often forbidden arts made them feared pariahs at times. He was forced to flee as a toddler from the wrath of a psychotic king who sought to murder him. And now as an adult, he comes into his ministry by closely aligning with a wild nomad in the wilderness, the aforementioned John the Baptist, an ally who now finds himself on the wrong side of the law.

And Jesus responds to all this by embracing a group of fishermen to be his first disciples. His choice in allies is an odd one, doubly so when you consider the threats he has already faced. He doesn't seek out the powerful, the strong, the well-connected, people who can fend off potential threats. He embraces instead four nobodies.

But that's also precisely the point.

Jesus doesn't come into his ministry looking for power. He's not after influence. He's not after strength. He's not after safety. He's not looking for any of these things. What Jesus wants is a connection with the weak, the vulnerable, and the powerless. He wants to connect with the nobodies.

He's not looking to be on top of the pile. He's looking to be on the bottom. And that's all part of the plan.

First off, Jesus has come to show people a new way, a way different than the way it's always been done before. The old way is through strength, through violence, through power. Strength built the Roman Empire, as well as every other empire before and after it. But the kingdom Jesus brings is built on love. And if you want to show how that works, you can't start with the strong. You have to start with the weak. Only then can you show that love is greater than violence. Mercy greater than hate.

Secondly, the kingdom Jesus brings is for all people. Realms built on strength and power aid only the few, the elite, the wealthy and well-connected. Only those handful reap the benefits of the land's prosperity, while all others are left the scraps. Not so in the kingdom of heaven. All benefit. The proof of that is that humble fishermen and other nobodies become the first introduced to it. Jesus does not go to preach to the mighty; he goes instead to the masses.

But the great and the mighty are not rejected from this kingdom. Sometimes, for people like me, this is the hardest piece to grasp. Most of you know my political leanings and also know the suspicion of wealth and power within me that gives birth to them. If it were up to me, I’d keep the Jamie Dimons, the Warren Buffets, the Koch brothers, the Wal-mart family, and all their like out of the kingdom. But it’s not up to me. It’s up to Jesus and because of that, they're there too, intermixed among all the others. All people together, regardless of class or status. No division. No separation, but rather unity.

All this culminates in the greatest act Jesus performs in his earthly ministry. For we all know where this story goes. His new way is too threatening, too dangerous, too scandalous for people to endure. So they kill him and they do it in a particularly gruesome and degrading manner. No clean death here, not like John the Baptist. Beheading may seem gruesome to us, but it's quick and largely painless. Not so crucifixion. It's the slaves' death, reserved for the lowest of the low.

And Jesus wouldn't have had it any other way. It's what he wants. It's what he needs to do.

The visitors at his birth are slaves and outcasts. His disciples are peasants and nobodies. He hangs on the cross to receive the death given to slaves. All this he does to put proof to what he told us. "The Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many."

Jesus came to save us all. Jesus came to inaugurate a kingdom that would benefit all people. He can only do this by becoming the lowest of the low. The weakest of the weak. The very bottom of the pile.

For only then, only then can he lift all of us up. Only then can there be no exceptions to the salvation he offers. It's for everyone high and low, great and small, strong and weak.

This is how he did it. The Son of God came down to Earth to be incarnate as one of us, but not someone great or powerful, but someone simple and humble. He turned the whole world on its head, humbled the strong, took away the dividing lines we create for ourselves, and opened a kingdom where all could enter. And we see him work towards this throughout his entire earthly ministry. We see this in who he calls to be his followers. We see it in who he teaches and who he heals.

And it didn't stop with his death and resurrection. Who are we? Not the famous. Not the powerful. And yet we are a part of that kingdom. He lifts up each one of us as well. He came to serve us. He came to die for us. And he came to make a kingdom for us. Amen.

Sermon for the Second Sunday after Epiphany

Preached at Canadochly Lutheran Church on January 19, 2014

Scripture texts: Isaiah 49:1-7, 1 Corinthians 1:1-9, John 1:29-42

What does it mean to be chosen?

This question’s been on my mind since I put pen to paper last week to write last Sunday’s sermon and has continued with me into this week’s sermon preparation. After all, we have as our Gospel lesson today the call of the first disciples in John, surely a moment where these brave young men are chosen. But what does that really mean?.

Last Sunday, I talked about Peter’s transformation. I called him a bigot at first, too caught up in the idea of what he thought it meant to be chosen. He had to recognize that God might be willing and even eager to spread his blessings and grace beyond his own people. I struggled with doing that, using such harsh language. After all, Peter’s people are the Jews, a people who have within the last century suffered catastrophe the likes of which few can even comprehend. Feels a little like kicking someone when they’re down.

But the sort of arrogance that Peter had fallen prey to (and had to be liberated from) was hardly unique to the Jews or really to any people. It pretty much happens to any group or nationality the moment they believe they are “chosen” or “destined” or whatever word you want to use.

We Americans have been guilty of this. We are the “city placed on the hill,” the beacon of democracy and freedom, the ones with the manifest destiny to claim the North American continent, and so forth. As a result, we have often seen by people in other countries as snobbish and self-important.

I read an article a while back about how Europeans don’t seem to understand why Americans are so proud of their American-ness. I found some irony in the thought that Germans or English or Italians see us as too full of ourselves. For all our flaws, real and imagined, it is to Rome that all roads lead, the sun does set on our Empire, and I’ve never heard an American politician refer to us as the “master race.” Obviously, our friends across the pond have had their moments of inflated and arrogant nationalism as well.

We all make this mistake. We confuse chosen-ness for superiority.

What does it mean to be chosen?

Isaiah was chosen. Called to be a prophet to God’s people. Was this because he was the most qualified? The most righteous? The most holy? Isaiah speaks of his own calling in the sixth chapter of the Old Testament book named for him and calls himself there “a man of unclean lips.”

Paul was chosen. Called to be an apostle and disciple of Jesus. Again, was this because of his devotion to Christ? His close adherence to Jesus’ teachings? Oh, yeah, he was an enemy of the Church, stood by cheering as Stephen was martyred, and was sent to Damascus to arrest and probably torture any Christians he found there. Nice guy.

Then, of course, there’s Peter along with James, Andrew, and John in our Gospel lesson. They’re chosen. There’s John the Baptist also. He’s chosen. Again, why and what does that mean? Here is a crazy man (or seemingly so) and his followers, hardly paragons of propriety. None are wealthy. None are famous. None are highly educated.

These were all chosen, but the thing they seem to share in common is not excellence or superiority. If anything they are mundane, ordinary, even villainous. If these are our examples from the Scriptures, then perhaps being “chosen” has less to do with who and what you are and much more to do with what God wants to do with you.

Isaiah is called to be a prophet, to remind the people of what God has done for them and to bring them back to following him. He describes himself in our first lesson as a sword and an arrow, recognizing that what he has to say is going to be unpleasant and perhaps painful to people who don’t want to hear the truth. He and his message will not be popular. He will be “abhorred by the nations, the slave of rulers.”

Paul the persecutor of the Church had it easy. The freedom and the power to bind, arrest, and perhaps even murder with impunity. Paul the apostle is himself arrested, bound up, shipwrecked, and nearly murdered himself on numerous occasions.

And the cast of characters in our Gospel text? John the Baptist is beheaded. James is the first of the twelve to be martyred. Andrew and Peter are both crucified. John dies alone, the only one of the twelve to die of natural causes.

Each of them was probably better off not being chosen at all. It was not a path to worldly riches or power or glory. There was nothing that made them better than others, if anything they died among the least of these. But there’s a reason for that. Being chosen isn’t about you, it’s about the one who chose you.

Each of these men were chosen to do this.

 An arrow showing the way to God. Showing the Christ. He is what really matters.

Charlatans in the church will tell us that our being chosen means the world is our oyster, that faith is the path to worldly success, that prayer is the means to riches, and devotion the path to power. If that’s what you believe, I’m here to tell you it’s a lie. The Way is not Easy Street. Being chosen is not cause for arrogance or self-superiority. It is to diminish so that others can see God through and in you. It is to be less so that all can see that God is more.

Each of us has also been chosen. We were taken to a font, washed in the waters of baptism, and God said to each of us “You are given the mark of my cross. You are mine now.” In that moment, we became servants of something more important than ourselves. We became disciples and apostles of Almighty God.

The question before each of us is what does God want to do with us. Only you can answer that question for yourself in prayer, discernment, and contemplation. But know this. Your life and perhaps even your death is meant to serve that purpose and it alone.

That is what the apostles and prophets did. But they and we have a model to follow. Our Lord also was chosen. He too came to represent something more important than himself. He too lived and died in service to something more than himself. And what was so important that God would die for it? You and me and all the world.

That’s what matters to him. It’s the core of God’s whole plan. It’s why he chose the Hebrews to be his people. It’s why he called prophets like Isaiah. It’s why he called disciples like Peter and Paul. And it’s why he called you and me. We are chosen to participate in God’s great plan to save the world.

And it’s not because we’re special or full of expertise or particularly devout. Like so many others, we’re rather ordinary, perhaps with a bit of villainy hidden away in our closets. But that’s not what matters. What matters is God’s plan for salvation. What matters is saving the world.

And you and I have our part to play in that. After all, we’ve been chosen. Amen.