Sermon for the 23rd Sunday after Pentecost

Preached at Canadochly Lutheran Church on October 23, 2016
Scripture text: Luke 18:9-14

“Oh, Lord, I am so thankful that I am not like this Pharisee. That I am not so stuck up on my own righteousness. That I understand how much better it is to be humble before you. That I am not so close-minded and bigoted about the people around me. That I know that I am not better than everyone else just because I love you....”

Or do I?

The great challenge of our Gospel text today is to avoid the reverse of the sin of the Pharisee, to turn our prayers into thanksgiving because we’re not like him, so full of his own self-righteousness. It’s a tall challenge in these polemic times. Oh, how I am so glad I am not like those...well, fill in the blank: Rich folk, bigots, fundamentalist Christians, Donald Trump supporters, bullies, rednecks, fans of UVA, people who turn without signaling, and children who kick the back of my seat in movie theaters.

You’ll note that’s not my usual list of suspects. That’s deliberate. When I talk about “those people,” I’m usually listing off the groups that society has, for a variety of reasons, rejected, people we divide from based on race, language, economics, or sexual orientation. But if I talk about my own set of “those people,” well, that’s who they are. And we all have them. Even the most open minded of us finds ourselves confronted by the reality of the human condition. There’s always an enemy, always somebody we just can’t stand.

Oh, Lord, how I am glad I am not them.

And yet, we are still called to love even them. And yet, we are called to not place ourselves above them, no matter how tempting it is. A tall order indeed.

It’s a tall order because it’s such an easy trap to fall into. Why are we here each Sunday? Why do we come to this place and sit in this space and listen to me prattle on about whatever I’m preaching on that Sunday? Well, there’s a variety of reasons. We come to hear God’s encouragement, to gain his strength through word and ritual, strength that will help us through the trials of the week to come. We come to embrace friends and to receive their encouragement and support.

But among all those reasons, but sublime and gross, we come to learn. We come to learn in particular how to be better moral agents in the world in which we live. To put it more simply, we come to learn how to be good. We come to learn how to be better people.

And one of the easiest ways for me to teach that is to point to some figure known to you, a celebrity, a pundit, a politician, or a generic stereotype and say “Don’t do that.” “Don’t be that way.” “Don’t behave like that.” “Don’t think that way.” It’s not right. It’s not moral. It’s not Christian.

But sadly, in doing that, I make it an easy jump from us seeing their bad behavior to thinking they’re bad people.

Truth is, none of us wake up each morning planning to be or do evil in the world. Even the most evil monsters in history had their own, albeit twisted, moral code that they held to that defined good to them. We’re not them. Most, I presume, of the figures I speak of as examples are not them. They are, instead, people who are just trying to live life, try to be good, and then screw up from time to time.

We try. We try to do good. We try to do better. But every now and then, we cave in. We give into our vices: our greed, our lust, our ambition, our anger, our whatever, and we do evil. We sin. Sometimes it’s just impulse. Other times it’s deliberate. But either way, we mess up. We make mistakes. We hurt people. We hurt ourselves. We break faith with God and our neighbor.

It’s what we do. It’s part of being human.

And that’s Jesus’ point in the parable. None of us, regardless of how hard we try or how successful we are at being good, pulls it off perfectly. We all sin from time to time. We all embrace, again deliberately or accidentally, the brokenness of our human condition.

What makes the tax collector’s prayer so profound is his honesty about that. He’s screwed up. He knows it. So he calls upon God to fix things. “Have mercy upon me. I need your help. I can’t do this on my own. I need you, Lord. I need you.” He embraces his humanity and the brokenness thereof. He also embraces his need for God and his love, forgiveness, and mercy.

He doesn’t blame anyone else for his failures. He doesn’t even make a claim that he’ll do better. He throws himself before God and says “I’m yours. Do with me as you will.” That’s trust. That’s faith. God could hit the smite button on his computer keyboard (like the classic Far Side cartoon), and end this guy right now.

He doesn’t.

God is a god of infinite second chances. He’s a god of infinite forgiveness. That’s the whole point behind Jesus’ coming. The world is screwed up. It’s broken. And God could just throw the whole thing (and us) away, but he doesn’t. He loves his creation. He loves his people. He loves you and me and wants us around forever. So he sends Jesus to show us what the forgiveness looks like. It’s in his teachings. It’s in his miracles. It’s in everything he does, most profoundly (of course) in the cross and empty tomb. I will go to any length to see this world put right. This is how far I’ll go for you...and you...and you.

The tax collector knows that, so he prays with humility and confidence. Two things that don’t usually go together, but here they can. He prays out of his brokenness to a God who seeks to repair that brokenness. A god who will forgive his sins. A god who will embrace him regardless of all his failures. That’s our God and for you and you and all of us, he will do the same. Trust in that. Amen.

Sermon for St. Luke's Day 2016

Preached at Canadochly Lutheran Church on Oct 16, 2016
Scripture: Matthew 8:1-17

Pastor's Note: This is my first sermon back after a month-long convalescence for some pretty serious medical issues. I'm better and back to work. I'm also immensely grateful for the prayers, support, and patience of my congregation. You guys are the best. God bless you all.

Almost 25 years ago now, I wandered into Luther Memorial Church in Blacksburg on a Sunday morning. This was typical of my college years; I attempted at least a somewhat regular schedule of church attendance, made easier by the fact that my dorm was only a block away from the church. But this Sunday was different. I wandered inside in a bit of a daze. Over the past week, I’d discovered I’d failed a midterm project in my computer science class and failed a calculus exam. My one true love, the one girl I thought I’d be spending my life with, wrote me a Dear John letter. Everything I thought I was going to be in life had come to an abrupt halt. I walked in that church that Sunday feeling like my whole world was ending.

Obviously, it wasn’t. But in the moment, my 19 year old self didn’t know whether he was coming or going. Completely in over my head with what life had thrown at me. It was October 18, 1992, the feast day of St. Luke and that day was the healing service. I sat there and just absorbed the whole experience. I heard the words of the Gospel, stories of how Jesus healed those in need. I listened to the sermon. I went forward for anointing and laying on of hands. And in all that I found a tiny measure of hope to help me carry on.

I’ve come to appreciate this day and this service immensely because of that experience. And in a lot of ways, as I stand before you today, I find myself in not so different a boat. I’m stronger now, more anchored, more mature, and not quite so prone to fits of despair. But I am here today after a month long convalescence for a whole host of life-altering and borderline life-threatening illnesses. And I’m having moments where I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. I may not feel that my whole world is ending, but I do feel like I’m completely in over my head with what life has thrown at me.

And yet, I still have hope. I have hope because of what this day means. I have hope because of what Jesus does. He’s the one that holds me together in the midst of this and every other daunting trial life throws at me.

And as I look out at all your faces, I suspect I’m not alone in this boat. I see here today others who are struggling with illness, with cancer, and all the uncertainty that brings. I see here today people wondering about the future. Worried about bills and income and jobs. I see folks who have among their friends and even family Latinos and blacks and gays who are wondering what sort of world are we creating when so many of the powers-that-be (or could be) are so openly and viciously hostile to them and anyone else who is “different.” And, of course, the elephant in the room here at Canadochly. I see the faces of people grieving. People who have lost friends, parents, spouses, and even children.

And yet, we still have hope.

Why?

Because we know that we have a God who puts things right. We have a God who restores. We have a God who heals, heals the body, the mind, and the heart. We have a God who enfolds us in his arms when our souls ache with fear and sorrow, who wraps us up and whispers in our ears, “I know. I feel it too. I get it. I understand. I’m here.”

We know we have this God because we have his stories. We have story after story of miraculous healing. We have strength restored to Samson. We have leprosy cured on Naaman. We have the son of the widow of Zarephath brought back to health, and that’s just the Old Testament. Let’s toss in Jesus who restores sight to the blind, makes the lame to walk, and even raises the dead. Let’s talk about the apostles at the portico of Solomon commanding a lame man to walk. Let’s talk about all these stories, because they’re our stories. They’re really about us and what God intends to do for us.

In fact, I would argue that nearly every story of the Scriptures is about some form of healing. Nearly every one is about some form of restoration or revitalization. Nearly every story is about going from what one is to what one is meant to be. Noah’s ark? Escaping from the death and destruction of the flood to a new life. Sodom and Gomorrah? Again, fleeing out of death to freedom and life. The Exodus? Liberation from bondage to freedom. David and Goliath? David goes from being a nobody to a hero lauded by his people.

In each case, God takes something broken or imperfect and makes something new of it. Are the stories we have in our Gospel so different? People taken from the brokenness of sickness and brought back to health. Brought from a form of death back to life.

My friends, is that not the resurrection? Is that not the empty tomb writ small? Time and time again, we find these stories and they point to something. They point to a greater truth that we have come to embrace. God is bringing us all from death to life, from sickness to health, from brokenness to wholeness, from what we are to what we are meant to be.

Your story is that story too. My story is that story too. God is doing the same thing with each of us. To those who have lost, do we not cling to the promise of resurrection, knowing that one day we will be reunited with those that we love? To those who suffer, do we not cling to the promise of restoration, knowing that even if what we have kills us, there is an empty tomb and the bliss of life eternal beyond? To those who worry about the world, do we not cling to the promise of the new heaven and new earth, knowing that God will put right all that has gone wrong in the world through life, death, and resurrection of his Son?

That, my friends, is our hope. That’s what this and every day really is about. God is still on the throne. He is still working in each of our lives to put right what has gone wrong. That’s his plan. It’s the plan of the Old Covenant, when he promised a blessing for all people. It’s the plan of the New Covenant, written in the flesh and blood of the Christ who revealed to us God’s heart, mind, and intentions. We are all a part of that, the recipients of those blessings. It is our hope and our promise. God has declared, “What is wrong will one day be put right. Life will be restored. Relationships healed. Death put asunder. And will be as it should be, as it was meant to be.” That is God’s kingdom. May it come quickly. Amen.

Pastoral letter on the life of Mike Wanbaugh

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ,

I regret deeply being unable to be there earlier today. You know me. You know if it were possible, I'd have been present. But life has given me a series of curve balls of late as well, as you well know. But I did not want this day to pass without sharing some of my own thoughts and reflections on Mike, his life, and his impact on my own. I also did not want to discredit or preempt the contributions of my colleague, Pr. Tom McKee, who I am grateful was able to be present with you on this day. I am certain he shared with you the Gospel truth of the resurrection, a truth we all need to hear in the midst of such things.

But, regardless, here now are my reflections on Mike Wanbaugh.

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It was Monday afternoon. I had just finished office hours and was on my way home for lunch. As had been my habit for the past several working days, I took a detour on the route home to swing by Yorkana to stop in and see Mike Wanbaugh. I arrived at the house to be greeted by enthusiastically by the dog (He was good at announcing my presence.) I stepped inside and there was Mike, lying as he usually was on the sofa, surrounded by his family and friends. I slipped in, greeted him and began my visit.

I had not intended to stay long, knowing Mike was low in stamina at this point. He was a shadow of the man that I had known and yet, there was still his spark. Still his heart. Still his soul present in that broken down body. Still, I didn’t want to overtax him. But Kathy did offer me some lunch, namely some of Chuck Van de Water’s notoriously delicious pulled pork BBQ.

Well, I wasn’t going to say no to that. So I made myself a plate and sat at the table to eat. But the whole time I was watching things in that living room. I saw Kathy, after a few moments, slump into the recliner in tears. Sensing a moment, I jumped up to console her. I took her in hand, offered some words of comfort. But then Mike caught my eye.

He was still were he had been, but he was watching the two of us. And then, with a smile, he flashed me a weak “V” sign with his fingers from across the room.

It was a simple gesture. Identical to the one I often jokingly give in church as my “long distance peace.” Was that what he meant by it?

Perhaps. It would be something fitting. No one had any clue was about to happen to me. Within 24 hours of that visit, I would find myself in the hospital in the midst of a desperate battle with a condition I had no clue I was battling. A week long stay, five of which was in ICU. Had the Holy Spirit given Mike the foresight to see what I was to face and was he doing what Mike always did? Caring for others in whatever way possible?

Because that’s who he was. Monday afternoon would hardly have been the first time he’d done that sort of thing for me. I remember sitting in my pulpit on that All Saints Sunday where I’d spoken about my friend Dan who had died unexpectedly. After I finished preaching, emotion overtook me and I burst into tears as we were singing the hymn. Mike came up to console me.

When I could barely stand in the sanctuary due to the pain of my colitis last May, it was Mike who comforted me. It was he who drove me home that day. That’s what he did.

And not just for me, but for so many of us. For Freddie during his battle with cancer. For others at the cancer that he provided rides, conversation, and support. For those who will one day benefit from the knowledge doctors gained from his experimental treatments. For many of us here at Canadochly. Our brand new chair lift was his final project for us. I’ve said several times, to Mike himself among others, that he gets it. God loves us so we can love others. God takes care of us so that we can take care of others. He personified that Christian ethos as well as any soul I’ve ever met.

I envied him that, in some ways. I always want to do better on that front. I wanted, to borrow an advertising phrase from a few years ago, to “be like Mike.”

So maybe that’s a takeaway. Keep up the good fight. Keep on taking care. Let the work continue. Let God’s people continue to receive what they can of our bounty, our skill, our talents, and our love. Words of encouragement, all wrapped up in a simple gesture. A v-sign.

But there’s another way this gesture can be read. Past generations know that the V didn’t just mean peace. It was the symbol proudly flashed by Churchill upon the defeat of tyranny two generations ago (as evidenced in the picture above). It means also victory.

Was that what it meant for Mike? I don’t doubt that. Because he did have victory. He knew. He never doubted where this was going to end. Jesus had claimed him in baptism, held him in his arms all these long years, and now was going to take him home. Of that, he had total and complete confidence.

Would I be able to say the same in the face of such a tragic and unexpected end? Would any of us? I don’t know, but we can. Those promise he received, we’ve received. That embrace? That adoption through baptism? Those are ours. God will not let us down. All that we’ve ever needed he’s provided. We belong to God and neither death nor life, nor things present nor things to come will ever be able to snatch us from his grasp. I may not know what the future holds, but I know who holds the future. GOD WINS!

And that victory he shares with all of us. His victory is our victory. His empty tomb is our empty tomb. His resurrection is our life eternal. I want to be like Mike. Thanks to Christ and his resurrection, we WILL BE because we too will have the victory.

Of my friend, I will miss him terribly. Writing these words, knowing that my present health issues will prevent me from saying these things from the pulpit, hurts me deeply. But things are what they are. I know Mike would understand. I know that he loved me and I loved him. And as the tears flow as I sit here, I know also that I will see him again. God be praised. He was a blessed man and he was a blessing to so many. And a blessing to me. I am so grateful to have known him. He’s the sort of person I aspire to be. The person I hope to be. He was a hero to me.

All that he was can really be wrapped up into that one gesture he flashed to me that afternoon. Do not forget what this means, he seemed to say. Do not forget this truth, this peace, this victory. It’s mine and it’s yours and it’s all of ours. Do not forget. Amen.