Sermon for the Sixth Sunday after Pentecost

Preached at Canadochly and Grace on July 21, 2019
Preaching text: Luke 10:38-42

I’m going to take a moment to offer my confession. I really don’t like what Jesus does in this text: Telling the hard-working Martha she’s chosen the poorer option. I’ve got a lot of reasons for it. One, as Pastor, I depend on the dedicated work of all the Marthas in this congregation. Without you, I could not do my job or, at least, I could not do it nearly as well. Two, as I’m sure you’ve all noticed by now, I’m a social justice preacher. Most every week, I get up here into the pulpit and I urge y’all to DO SOMETHING about this world we live in. I urge you to get out there and love your neighbors in real and concrete ways. I urge you to very literally “go in peace and serve the Lord” by making changes both subtle and gross in the world we live in. I urge you to make life better not just for yourselves, but for others. I find an urgency to this work with evil on the rise in our hearts and in our society. And here’s Jesus saying, “No, it is better to simply sit and listen.” Or to put it another way, “Don’t just do something, stand there.”

It feels to me like he’s belittling what you do for your church, for your pastor, and for your neighbors. What he says here strikes me as incongruent with most of his other teachings, which are frequently about going forth to preach the good news, heal the sick, take care of people in need, and all the stuff that makes for a good social justice gospel. In other words, doing stuff.

But Jesus is not incongruent. He is not inconsistent. When he does something, he does it with deliberate intent and it always aligns somehow with who he is and what else he’s taught. So that must be true here, but how?

To answer that, maybe we have to look at this story in the context of the world in which it is told. Martha is doing the right thing according to the standards of her society and times. Middle Eastern cultures, and desert people in general, place a very high value on hospitality. We see that in our first lesson when Abraham goes out of his way to welcome these strangers into his tent. To not roll out the red carpet and go all out for guests in one’s home would be serious faux pas. Shameful and Martha is determined to not let that happen.

But here’s the thing. Why is that hospitality so important to those people? Because without it, people would not survive in the hostile climate of a desert wilderness. That’s the reason the tradition came about. But is that the reason Martha is doing this? Or has it become rote tradition with no meaning to her other than “it’s the way we’ve always done it?”

Falling into the trap of doing things by rote is something we religious folk do all the time. We’re all familiar with that phrase about things being “the way we’ve always done it,” either because we or someone we know has uttered it in all seriousness or in mocking jest of the times we found ourselves in that trap or dangerously close to it.

But how do we avoid the trap? Well, that’s what Mary’s doing. Sitting at Jesus’ feet and listening to his teaching. Hearing again the why of being a follower of Christ. Why do we do the things that we do? What purpose do they serve, or perhaps better, whom do they serve? Is it rote tradition or is the one who lived, died, and rose again for our sake and for the sake of the world?

The stuff I talk about all the time regarding changing the world and our society, that too can fall into the trap of rote tradition. The government can feed people. Corporations can offer medicine to the sick. (And there’s certainly a debate to be had about whether they’re the appropriate vehicles for such aid.) But why does the Church do these things? Why should the Church do these things?

Why do the things that you do around this building? What purpose do they serve? What reason are they done? Is it because no one else does it? Because Grandma passed down the task to you from of old? Or is it because of Jesus?

I think this story from Luke’s Gospel cautions us to not be too quick to answer those questions. Because as the history of religion has shown, it’s very easy to confuse rote tradition with holy writ. The Pharisees are a prime example. Most of them were not bad people. They were not evil. But they did follow the traditions of their forebears without asking why. And for that reason, they often missed the point of what Jesus was trying to show them. They had made an idol of tradition and forgot the God behind the tradition in the first place. A mistake we too often make.

Again, to avoid this, we too must make the choice of Mary from time to time. Dive into the teaching of Jesus. Why is social justice important? Because there are around 2000 verses in the Scriptures and in Jesus’ own words that speak to it. (Far more than the paltry 100 or so that speak to the sexual ethics most Christians seem to get so bent out of shape over.) But we wouldn’t know that if we didn’t READ THE BOOK. We wouldn’t know that if we didn’t listen to Jesus.

Why love our neighbors? Why do acts of service and charity for them? It’s in the book. It’s what Jesus teaches. Why do we do the tasks here in the church? Could that be one way we love our neighbors here within these walls? Certainly. But to understand that’s why we do it, we have to read the book and here what Jesus says to us. We have to choose the part of Mary before we can become Martha.

I think now there’s a very good reason this story is included in the Scriptures. So many Christians have gotten caught up in things that really don’t matter to God, but we think they do. And the reason that’s happened is because we haven’t taken the time to listen to the teachings of Jesus and of the rest of Scripture. We jump to conclusions, usually based on the traditions of the Church or practices of other Christian, and simply assume that must be what Jesus wants. But the only way to know for sure is to be Mary, sit at the feet of Jesus and listen. Listen to what he tells us. And only then shall we really go and do as he commands. Amen.

Sermon for the Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

Preached at Grace and Canadochly on July 14, 2019
Preaching text: Luke 10:25-37

When I saw the Gospel lesson for this Sunday, I had a bright idea. What would it be like if I rewrote the story for a modern audience, making the Levite and the priest a CEO and a politician, and making the Samaritan an illegal immigrant? Then I remembered. That’s what I did the last time this famous parable came around in the lectionary rotation. I still have the manuscript. (Pastor's Note: Turns out I was wrong about this...sort of. I do have the manuscript, dated January 2017, but it doesn't appear that I ever preached this.)

It’s hard for our modern ears to truly hear just how radical Jesus’ story of the Good Samaritan really is. To us, the phrase “Samaritan” and all that it connotes is completely and radically different than it would have meant to the people of the 1st century. We name hospitals and social service organizations for the Samaritan. It’s meaning to us is overwhelmingly positive. It means a person of kindness and self-sacrifice, entirely because of this story. And that’s nothing like what the first hearers of this story would have thought.

It’s hard to overstate how little the typical 1st century Palestinian Jew would have thought of their northern neighbors. The Samaritans came about after the Assyrian Empire overran the northern kingdom of Israel during the reign of King Pekah around 740 BC. The Assyrians took the Israelites prisoner, enslaved them, and essentially bred them out of existence. The offspring of those unions eventually became the Samaritans.

Cut off as they were from the temple in Jerusalem, they adapted their beliefs to their circumstances, regarding several notable mountain peaks in Samaria as the center of Yahweh worship. Fast forward a few hundred years and they quickly emerge as the hated neighbor to the Jews. They were a symbol of defeat, they were not pureblooded, they worshiped differently. They were, in a nutshell, EVERYTHING the Jews feared would happen to them and they didn’t like being reminded of it. So they treated the Samaritans with utter contempt.

And then Jesus tells a story of a righteous, kind, and giving Samaritan. It’s probably a miracle they didn’t crucify him that very day.

Retelling the Good Samaritan to make an illegal immigrant the Samaritan is a pretty accurate way to depict the story to modern audiences. Because, behind a lot of the anti-immigrant rhetoric of today is fear. And it’s the same fear that drove Jewish hatred of the Samaritans, the fear of being replaced, of having their lands and society changed, of being defeated. They’re coming. They’re coming to take our jobs. They’re coming to vote their people into office. They’re coming to take our tax dollars away from things we want them spent on. They’re coming to marry our children and breed us white folk out of existence. And we have to stop them. We have to make the laws tougher. We have to secure our borders. That’s the rhetoric you hear. It would not have sounded alien to those of the 1st century.

And then Jesus tells us a story of a righteous, kind, and giving Samaritan. He does this, of course, because he knows the truth of the human experience. The truth that one’s bloodline or birthright is not what defines what is in their heart. We are not good or evil because of our skin color or national origin. We are good or evil because of our deeds and our attitudes. And if we let fear define our deeds and attitudes, the likelihood that we will slide from good to evil increases dramatically.

Jesus tells this story in the context of being asked what it means to love our neighbor as ourselves. And I know most of you who’ve listened to me preach for these years have long since realized this topic is a big deal to me. That’s because I believe every single person in this room wants to be good, sees themselves as a good person, and would like to live their life in that way. But I know also what you’re told out there, by our leaders and our media. In ways both subtle and gross, we are being taught to hate and fear those who are different. I get you for roughly one hour a week and I’ll be damned if I’m going to waste that by not reminding you of what a lie what they tell you really is.

I’m angry that they lie to you. I’m angry that some of you have begun to believe those lies. They make it easy, giving you outs where you can justify the hate and fear to yourself. It’s not all immigrants, just the illegal ones. It’s not all black people, just the criminals. It’s not all Muslims, just the terrorists. It’s not all gays, just the ones who molest kids. But then they keep pushing and pushing until the line between the acceptable and unacceptable begins to blur and eventually ceases to exist entirely. Then all have become unacceptable.

That’s why Jesus tells this story. You have heard it said that Samaritans are evil, worthless, horrible half-bred monsters. Let me tell you the real story. Let me tell you who they really are. Let me show you how you’re wrong about them. How they’re not what you think. He’s pushing back against the popular narrative of who these people are and, in doing so, teaching us what it really means to love our neighbor as ourselves. He’s reminding us that our neighbors include THEM.

The distinctions we make in our society between us and them are entirely arbitrary. They really are. We decided, at some point in our past, to define our tribal boundaries in such a way to exclude people of different race, language, sexuality, religion, etc. That was our choice, or more accurately, the choice of our ancestors. But it’s still our choice. We can look at one another today right now and admit what nonsense this all is. Because it’s nonsense to God. God doesn’t look at us like that. To him, we’re just human. Equally flawed and beloved at the same time. A precious people in need of rescue from sin and death, and thus came Jesus to deal with those very problems. Jesus did not go to the cross for white folks or Americans or English speakers. He went to the cross for all folks, all nations, all languages, all skin colors, all expressions of gender and sex, all people.

So the question comes down for each one of us. Which voice are we listening to? The voice of the world that eggs us on to hate and fear our neighbor? Or the voice of Christ that reminds us to see the good in all and love even those who are most different from us? As live through this Christian life, we called to answer that question every day. As I said, we all desire to be good people. Jesus shows and tells us how: Love your neighbor as yourself. Amen.

Sermon for the Fourth Sunday after Pentecost

Preached on July 7, 2019 at Canadochly and Grace
Preaching text: 2 Kings 5:1-14

So, how was everyone’s Fourth of July? Good times had by all, I hope. I’ve been hosting my parents all week long. They typically come up here to the USA’s “first capital” each year because this is a family festival as well as a national one; several family birthdays are celebrated in the first week of July, including my stepdaughter Emily who turned 16 yesterday.

Part of our celebration includes a memorial service each year at First Presby Downtown. Interred in their courtyard one Col. James Smith, a signer of the Declaration of Independence. The local DAR chapter has a little ceremony to remember his life and contribution to our nation and given my wife’s family is heavily into DAR, it’s become family tradition to attend (and recent changes to my family haven’t changed that.)

During the ceremony, the Declaration is read in its entirety. And while most of us are familiar with the more famous portions of the text, typically the first paragraph or so, there are some lines later in the document that give pause to my 21st century ears. Particularly the ones where our Founding Fathers accuse the crown of inciting the “savages” against the colonies.

Thanks to my great great great grandmother, who was Cherokee, I have a smidgen of Native American blood in me, so I am aware that at least some of those so-called savages are my ancestors. It’s mildly disturbing to hear part of my personal heritage so vilified by our nation’s founding document.

Human beings are fundamentally tribal creatures and there’s nothing wrong in celebrating the history, heritage, and accomplishments of ones own tribe, however you may define it. Where we get into trouble is when we grow arrogant in our tribal identity and become convinced that we are superior to another because of our nation, skin color, language, or something else like that. This has become an increasing problem for many Americans as our society grows more and more divided along racial, gender, and political lines.

Our first lesson today is one of many texts from the Bible that refutes and even outright mocks that sort of arrogance. Naaman is a great general from Aram, modern day Syria. He’s had many great victories but he’s got a hefty problem: a bad case of leprosy. One of his slaves suggests he go see Elisha in Israel to be cured and so off he goes.

As was proper protocol, Naaman goes first to the court of the king, as any foreign emissary should to declare his intentions are peaceful. The king does not take well to Naaman’s reason for coming convinced as he is that Aram is looking for an excuse to attack. That part of the story should give us a clue to the humorous tone that’s to follow.

After the diplomatic stuff is sorted out, Naaman arrives at Elisha’s home. The prophet, apparently busy with other tasks, sends a servant with simple instructions, go bathe in the Jordan 7 times.

Naaman is furious. Doesn’t he know who I am? Doesn't he know where I’m from? Doesn't he know that the rivers of Aram are much more beautiful and clean than that stinking mud pit known as the Jordan River?

Do you hear the arrogance? The stuffed up sense of self superiority? This man, who comes all this way for a cure to his leprosy, now sticks his nose up in the air in disgust when a solution is offered him. It’s beneath someone of his stature, his origins, to debase himself so.

What an idiot.

One of his slaves, who appears to have some sense, finally convinces our stuffed-shirt general with the most elementary of arguments: This is easy. Just do it. So Naaman does and, lol and behold, he’s cured and begins to praise God.

Naaman learned to not let his prejudices and ego get in the way of God’s willingness to shower even one such as him with grace upon grace. Remember here that Naaman is not only a foreigner and a Gentile, but also an enemy. Aram is a vassal state of the Assyrian Empire, who is soon to consume the Northern Kingdom of Israel in an apocalyptic war. Despite that, God still shows Naaman favor.

Jesus would later use this very tale to call out the prejudices and arrogance of the Jews of Nazareth, reminding them that God’s love and grace are, in fact, universal and not confined to one group or another, no matter how self-important they might think themselves. They predictably got a mite upset with him.

Well, at this risk of the same reaction, I now wish to remind us of the same truth. God smiles upon those at our borders, desperately seeking a better life for themselves and their families. He loves our neighbors in our cities who speak differently, look different, love differently, or even worship differently than us. We, however, are constantly told by our culture, our leaders, our media, and our own sinful impulses to hate and fear them. And one of the lies that is used to justify that bigotry is “We are better than they.”

Because we’re Americans. Because we’re white. Because we’re Christian. Because we’re straight. Because we have money or a job or we speak English or whatever. God doesn’t care about any of that.

None of us chose where we were born. We did not choose our race, sex, or nationality. God did. That we were born with in a place of privilege in this world was a gift, one we were meant to use as Elisha did: to help those in need. Instead, we have twisted it into something barbaric and monstrous.

The Declaration calls some of my forebears “savages.” But what are we when give in to our worst impulses and hate God’s precious children if not savages? Time and again, our Scriptures show us stories like these, stories that tell us God’s love and favor is not limited to us alone. Naaman discovered his arrogance was misplaced and gained him nothing that he did not already have. What about us? When we fall to our own delusions of superiority, we make the same mistakes. We don’t have to earn God’s favor. We already have it and if that favor places us in a position of privilege in our world, that’s an opportunity not for ourselves but to make the world better for others.

Consider again our story. Elisha could have looked down on this enemy of his people but he knew the truth of God’s grace and instead healed Naaman’s leprosy. That’s how it’s done. That’s our model, one of many throughout Scripture. All telling us the same thing. Love your neighbor as yourself. Because God loves them as he does you.

In the end, we really are the same. All equally precious in God’s eyes. All equally loved. All worth the effort to send Jesus to live, die, and rise again for us. We cannot forget that in the face of all the hateful garbage spews into our minds all the time. God loves us. All of us. Amen.

Sermon for the Third Sunday after Pentecost

Preached at Grace and Canadochly on June 30, 2019
Preaching text: Galatians 5:13-25, Luke 9:51-62

I had to laugh when I read this week’s gospel lesson. You my recall last Sunday, I mentioned the difficulty of being patient in the face of a declining institutional church. Fewer members, lower attendance, more troubled finances are never fun things to face and those of us who are loyal to our worshiping communities really want to see things change RIGHT NOW. But, I insisted that Jesus’ way was the better way and it’s the way of planting seeds and giving them time and space to grow into true faith. Jesus’ way is a patient way.

Until it isn’t.

Today’s lesson, by contrast to last week, is all about how impatient Jesus has become. He’s extremely short, frustrated, and in some cases rude to the people he encounters in today’s lesson. He’s in a terrible rush and can’t be bothered by people’s pettiness and excuses. If I could subtitle this story, it would be something like “Ain’t Got Time For That.”

Lord, do you want us to call down fire and brimstone upon those unwelcoming villagers. No, ain’t got time for that. I will follow, but let me bury my father first. Ain’t got time for that. I will follow, but let me say farewell to my family. Ain’t got time for that.

This text takes place in the “set his face like flint” towards Jerusalem phase of Jesus’ ministry, and that’s important to keep in mind. The bulk of his teaching, the bulk of his miracles are now behind him and there’s one major task left. To go to the cross and save the world. And Jesus is impatient to get to it.

It’s important to keep in mind that although I’m jokingly comparing last week’s lesson with today’s, they really are about two different things. Last week, we saw that evangelism takes time and patience. This week, the focus is on saving the world and saving lives and there is urgency here. A need to get this done NOW.

One might say that evangelism is that as well. We need to save people’s souls now. But I think that’s fails to give the Holy Spirit its due. We’re putting it all on us and we’re heading down the road that I criticized last week, where our mantra becomes “Convert or go to hell.” We don’t save souls. God does. It’s helpful to have that reminder from time to time.

But there is still a lesson to be taken from Jesus’ impatience. There are things in this world that require urgency. Lives that do need saved right now. Things about our world that need to be changed right now. Things where there is an urgency or more people are going to die.

Now I know I can get myself in trouble when I talk about real world issues; when I talk about things that might be seen as political. So let me speak here at the onset here that I’m not interested in blaming one side or the other, because all that does is make people dig in and get defensive when their “side” is on the hotseat. And when people get defensive, the problems don’t get solved. In truth, I don’t care about blame. I don’t care about who’s at fault.

Pointing fingers doesn’t fix anything. Instead, I care about what’s right. I care about what God thinks about these things. Our God is a god of life and love. So what do you think he would call us to do about the following things?

There’s plenty of room for debate about how to deal with the problems in our immigration system. But tearing apart families? Putting children in cages with no soap or medicine or even beds? That isn’t solving anything. That isn’t helping. But what it is doing is putting people in danger. Kids are dying. Five kids have died in government custody in the past 18 months. And this is a common pattern for years, even before the current President took office. What are we Christians going to do about saving those lives?

Plenty of room for debate about guns and gun laws. But we don’t debate it. We do everything we can to silence debate. And the killing continues. Some say it’s a mental health issue. Nothing’s ever done about that either. Our silence isn’t solving anything. Every year, on average around 35,000 people are killed by firearms, around 1500 of them children. Again, this is not a new thing. It’s been around for decades. What are we Christians going to do about saving those lives?

I know many of you are passionately pro-life. Aren’t these issues of life too? Jesus raced to that cross for their sake as well as ours. What are we going to do about it?

Again, I’m not interested in blaming or pointing the finger at one side or the other and saying this is all your doing. First off, because it’s not the fault of just one side or the the other. Truth be told, we are all to blame in some way, by action or inaction. Secondly, and more importantly, lives are at stake here. We ain’t got time for all that blaming. People are dying. So what are we going to do about these things?

Our savior didn’t have time for anything else once he set his heart and mind on that cross. On going to the place where he would bring death and sin to heel. He knew there was no time to waste. Lives were at stake. He’d been on Earth for a long time by that point. He’d seen suffering. He’d seen pain. He’d seen torment. And his heart had reached its limit. With every calamity. With every life of struggle. Every disease. Every person cast out because they were different. Each of these broke his heart and he finally had enough. “NO MORE.” he seems to say as he marches dutifully, willingly to the cross to put it all right.

What about us? We see the same suffering. We see the same struggles. Do our hearts not break at the sight of this? Yes, I know, sometimes they aren’t “our people.” But they are PEOPLE. They are human beings who are suffering and in pain. They are human beings in danger and threat of death. They are people for whom Christ died and rose again, just as he did us. We are called to love our neighbors. We are called to aid those in need. We are called to feed the hungry and clothe the naked. Welcome the stranger, tend to the sick. These things are not in debate among us; we’ve seen Jesus do them and we know he called us to do likewise.

So what’s it going to be? All too often we of the church have decided it’s up to others to solve the world’s problems. We ain’t got time for that anymore. Jesus has passed the torch to us, said what he did here on Earth is what we are to do. There is a whole big world out there full of people who need us to show what it really means to be Christian. To show kindness, to offer aid, to call for justice, and bring mercy. Jesus loved everyone and wanted all lives to be better. He’s called us into the same mission. So what are we going to do? Amen.

Sermon for the Second Sunday after Pentecost

Preached at Canadochly and Grace on June 23, 2019
Preaching text:

I know I’ve mentioned the Ray Boltz song, “Thank you,” on more than one occasion as a sermon illustration. The song, released way back in 1988, tells the story of a person who dies and goes to heaven and as he’s walking through the here-after, he encounters a number of people he influenced in his life. You taught my Sunday School class and that helped bring me to faith. You supported a missionary that ministered to me. Time and again, the subject of the song encounters those in whose life he (or she) made a difference.

I bring this up because it highlights something I’ve been preaching on for a while. The acts of kindness and charity we carry out in Christ’s name make a difference and when we make a difference in the lives of others, that is something that is never forgotten. Sometimes, the simplest things can have the largest of impacts in ways we never expect. Faith in Christ is born out of these simple acts, a seed planted that can grow into something magnificent if given time.

I know in our declining world it is hard for us to be patient to let the seeds we plant come to their fruition. We measure success and failure by instant results, because that’s how the world works. The Church however does NOT work that way, nor should it. We take a slow road approach, which can be frustrating for those of us worried about empty pews and empty coffers. Today’s Gospel lesson however is a prime example of why the slow approach is better.

Jesus is sailing across the Sea of Galilee, going from the west side to the east. Now this is a bit of an odd choice for him because the eastern side of the lake is predominantly Gentile territory. Perhaps he’s trying to escape the crowds that have been following him everywhere while in Jewish country. Even the Messiah could use a vacation every now and then.

Jesus and the disciples come ashore and are immediately set upon by one of the locals, a wild man known for being savagely possessed by many demons. Terrified by Jesus’ divine power, this man’s demons beg to not be sent back to hell and identify themselves by the good-enough- for-a-modern-day-horror-movie name of “Legion.”

Jesus bargains with the demons and they all agree that rather than go back to hell, the demons will go possess some nearby pigs (A big clue we’re among Gentiles here.) The demons do so, but the pigs don’t take to the demons well and they rush off in a panic and drown themselves.

This understandably upsets the local swineherds, who probably watched a good chunk of their livelihood just off itself thanks to Jesus. They approach him in fear and anger and demand he leave their country. Rather than stir up any further trouble, Jesus agrees to go back across the lake.

As Jesus is getting in the boat, the former demoniac pleads with Jesus to go with him. Surprisingly, Jesus refuses his request, but tells him to go back to his own people and tell all that has happened to him. With this the story ends.

Or does it?

If that was all there was, this would be a cool miracle story with quite a bit of dramatic flair. But the last verse of our Gospel lesson today isn’t actually where the story ends. Jesus does leave and does go back to the Jewish territories. He continues his ministry there, teaching and performing miracles as he’s wont to do.

The Evangelist Mark however tells us that after some time, Jesus returned again to the Genesaret. He came across the sea again and this time, he was welcomed by a great crowd of people who had brought to him the sick, the lame, the demon possessed; all so Jesus could touch them and heal them of their infirmities. This huge crowd come to welcome him and beg him for his help out of a city that just a few months earlier had told Jesus to take a hike. What made the difference?

The former demoniac.

This terrifying man, filled with rage and superhuman strength, a blasphemer much like those described in our first lesson was now healed of all of that. He’d returned a changed man, good, decent, and honest and what made the difference was the kindness of Jesus Christ. And now because of that kindness, this man took what Jesus had told him to do and ran with it, telling everyone what made the difference in his life. And that word spread. So that when this man (presumably) sees Jesus coming across the sea, he runs and tells everyone and they all flock to the docks to greet the Jewish Messiah who healed their friend, bringing even more people for Jesus to help.

My friends, this is true evangelism. This is how it works. I know all of us have had our heads filled with images of people knocking on doors to figuratively beat people over the head with Scripture, saying things like “be saved or go to hell.” And we’ve all come to think that’s how it’s supposed to be done. But none of us want to do that, because none of us also want to have it done to us. While I admire their dedication and fervor, who of us here is ever eager to see the Mormon missionaries coming up their street? Or the Jehovah’s Witnesses?

But the stuff that they do and the stuff we’ve been so often encouraged to do by the slow creep of American Evangelicalism is not how Jesus himself does it. Jesus embodies the message he brings. He tells people to love one another and then he does it, by healing and kindness and respect and honor. He welcomes the outcast and rejected. He sets free people in bondage to disease and affliction. He gives people a new lease on life. He makes a difference in their lives.

While we may not be able to miraculously cast out demons into pigs or cleanse lepers of their affliction, we can embody the faith we practice as Jesus did. We can talk about loving one another and then go do it to our neighbors, our friends, our family, even our enemies and rivals. We can make kindness and compassion our ruling principles. And in doing do, we can make a difference in the lives of others. A difference they will never forget.

I can tell you from personal experience how true that really is. Pastors all have a call story, a tale of how they knew they were destined to seek ordained ministry. Mine is centered on people. A friend who needed compassion when I was the only one who could offer it. A campus pastor who showed me that faith was more than trying to please an unrelenting set of rules and regulations. An interim pastor who gave me every chance he could to enter the pulpit and hone my skills before I’d even put in an application for seminary. These people made a difference in my life and I have never forgotten any of what they did, nor will I. I owe them such a debt as do any who are touched in turn by the work I do and the work you do because of what I say up here. And so forth and so on. Do you see? This is how it spreads. This is how we change the world. One kindness at a time. Amen.

Sermon for Trinity Sunday 2019

Preached at Grace and Canadochly on June 16, 2019
(Adapted from a sermon preached at St. John's, Davis on June 19, 2011)
Preaching text: None

Trinity Sunday. (sigh). Easily one of the most difficult Sundays in the church year to preach. The only festival day of the church that is dedicated to a teaching of the church rather than to an event in the life of Jesus or one of his apostles. And what a teaching it is, the divine mystery of the Trinity. Mystery is a good word here, because we are discussing something that neither easy to understand or believe. It’s is probably the quintessential example of a theology question where the correct answer is “I don’t know.”

Because we don’t. No one fully grasps the Trinity. No one fully understands it. I’ve told this joke before, but there is a saying that if you can explain the Trinity, you’re probably a heretic.

And yet, we believe in it, despite our inability to fully comprehend or explain it. But asking how it works is really the wrong question. Because the Trinity is not about how. The Trinity is about who. Who is God?

Who is God? God is the Father. God is the Son. God is the Holy Spirit. The fog of the mystery begins to clear somewhat. This makes some sense to us. We know what a father is. We know what a son is. We know what a spirit is…mostly.

Now the traditionalist in me likes this old formula, but even I have to admit there is an extra layer of interpretation that has to go on for us to fully understand it. That is one advantage of the more modern ways of talking about the Trinity. For instance, the popular “Creator, Redeemer, Sanctifier” formula. Who is God? God is my creator. God is my redeemer. God is my sanctifier. The advantage to this formula is that the relational nature of the Trinity changes from being about their relationship with one another to being about their relationship with you.

Of course, that’s in the traditional formula too. God is my father. Jesus is his son, therefore he is my brother. The spirit is, well, the spirit, the spirit of God both within and beside me. But now we begin to see what is at the heart of what the Trinity is really about. It’s all about relationship.

Who is God? If we were to ask him directly, his answer would likely be to throw the question back at us. Who am I to you? What do you need me to be? Your Father? Your brother? Your savior? Then that is who I am.

One of the most curious and most wonderful passages in the Scriptures is the passage from Exodus where Moses pins God down to ask his name. Moses, although a Hebrew, had grown up with the Egyptian mythos. Those gods had names, much as people do: Osirus, Horus, Bast, Set, Anubis, etc. But now he is being introduced to the god of his fathers, of his people, and Moses is expecting that the same rules apply. They don’t. God’s answer is to say a variation on the Hebrew 1st person singular of verb “to be”, Yahweh. I am.

Ok. It seems inadequate, and yet there is a world of possibility there. I am what? I am God. I am your father. I am the way, and the truth, and the life. I am the Good Shepherd. I am your brother. I am your creator. I am the one who brings light out of darkness. I am the one who loves you.

I am the one who has saved you. I am the one who is with you always even to the end of the age. I am all these things and so much more. What do you need me to be, and that I am.

Do you hear the wondrous grace within that? The deity, the god, the creator of all that is makes it about us and our relationship with him. That’s what matters to him.

What do we need him to be? Do we need a nurturing parent, on whose shoulder we can weep out all the woes of our lives? Do we need to be awed by his power, seeing his might in the vastness of a galaxy or the complexity of a single atom? Do we need someone to rescue us from the threat of death? Do we need someone to forgive us those wrongs we can’t even forgive ourselves? Do we one to remind us of our relationship with our fellow human beings, to see ourselves as part of one vast family? Do we need someone to challenge us to better ourselves in service to others? God is all these things.

The Trinity is a gift. God even gives us his very identity. He is who we need him to be. We need a Father, a parent, a creator, for without that we would never be. We need a Son, a brother, a savior, one who delivers us from the power of death, for without that we would be lost. We need a spirit, a guide, a follower, one always eager to remind us of how much God loves us. God is what we need in every hour of every day of our lives. Without him, we are nothing.

Who is God? We can all answer that question, and yet our answer is incomplete. Our answer may change as the circumstances of our lives change. But no matter what God is there, in some way, in some form, granting us his love and grace unbounded. Who is God? The Trinity reminds us that there is no single answer to that question. He is Father. He is Son. He is Holy Spirit. And he is all these things so that we may know him and know what he’s done and is continues to do for us. Amen.

Sermon for Pentecost 2019

Preached at Canadochly and Grace on June 9, 2019
Preaching text: Acts 2

“Suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak...”

What a powerful moment that must have been. The Spirit came down upon an unsuspecting world and it caught it completely flat footed. Even the disciples, who had been instructed by Jesus to wait in Jerusalem for the Holy Spirit, did not know what that would look like until it happened. It caught them just as much by surprise as it did the Jews who had come to Jerusalem for the festival. No one, not even the believers, saw this coming.

Our God is a god of surprises.

I’ve preached on that so many times I’ve lost count, particularly at my first congregation in WV. Our God is a god of surprises. He likes to do the unexpected. Jesus himself is perhaps the greatest example of this. People expected a king like David, a warrior, a man of strength and power. They got a carpenter, a rabbi humble of birth and attitude, who rather than storm the castle and defeat the enemies of God’s people, submitted himself to death and then rose again to bring sin and death, the greatest enemies of humanity, to heel.

As strange as it may sound, we should come to expect the unexpected from our God.

Why am I reminiscing on these truths? Because I find myself envious of the people of Jerusalem on that first Pentecost. Maybe that’s because I’m tired. Synod Assembly takes it out of all of us who attend. “Making the sausage,” to use the old idiom, is hard work and doing the business of the Church institutionally is wearying. I hunger to witness God working in powerful and dramatic ways, not in the drudgery of Robert’s Rules, voting, resolutions, bylaws, and so forth. I want God to shake things up. I am impatient for the kingdom of God made manifest in the world. I eagerly wish to see a world where all are valued, all are precious, all know how they are loved. I want the things I preach about to come to pass in powerful ways. Let this world be remade and God’s kingdom reign.

But, our God is a god of surprises. And just as Pentecost came unexpectedly upon the world, perhaps too God is at work in ways right now in ways that I do not expect. In ways I do not see. In things that astound and astonish all of us, perhaps by being so ordinary and everyday we don’t even notice them.

I had a conversation at Assembly with the folks from Reconciling Works. That’s the ELCA group that’s promoting greater inclusion of LGBT folk in our congregations and communities. I make no secret that I am an ally of their cause and purpose, but as the conversation progressed, I came to tell the story of my internship congregations. In 1998, two years before me, they had a gay intern and felt terribly betrayed by this intern because of who he was. In 2001, the year after I was there, they were to be assigned another LGBT intern and I got to witness the hatred and fear of the congregation of “those people” first hand. It was ugly. It was not Christian. Suffice to say, that intern never showed up.

Two years ago, however, those same two congregations who were so vehement in their disdain and hatred of the sexual other declared themselves openly as “Reconciling in Christ” congregations. That is to say they are open and eager to welcome anyone regardless of their sexual persuasion or identity. What a difference those 16 years made. God was at work in quiet, subtle, and unexpected ways.

At another point during Assembly, I got ambushed by a fellow pastor. She looked at me with wild excited eyes when she realized who I was. “You’re the one at Grace and Canadochly. I need to talk to you.” Suffice to say, I was a little nervous about this. What had I done?

I had lunch with her at Assembly yesterday. She outlined her plan, a new ministry project that she’s looking for congregations to participate in. A project both Grace and Canadochly would be perfect for. I became excited. Something we can perhaps offer to the wider church, something that might invigorate some things here. Provide us options. A new way to look at ministry. While I can’t say everything about the plan here, it is something we need and can use. Again, God at work in a way I wasn’t expecting. I certainly didn’t expect anything like that to happen.

Last evening, I came back directly from Assembly to Canadochly. We were hosting the second meeting of what has come to be known as TAGS, the Analog Gaming Society, a new club that my friends and I are putting together to promote gaming. This is a group eager to help create community and fellowship between people around games. It’s not explicitly a church group (nor would it be), but as we concluded our meeting several of those who attended came up to me to share some of their personal faith journeys. People I’d known for a while in a very different context than this were talking about faith. What moved them to do that but the Holy Spirit? Relationships are forming. Fellowship was coming to be. God was being surprising yet again.

We say, somewhat flippantly, that God works in mysterious ways and that’s true. Sometimes, so mysteriously that we often fail to see it. But sometimes in the least likely places, God reveals himself. Hey, look here. Look at what’s happening here. Pentecost didn’t end on that day so long ago. The Spirit is still moving, perhaps not quite so dramatically, but still moving. Still changing lives. Still making a difference. Still changing the world. Still bringing the kingdom. It’s in your life and mine. All around us all the time, if only we have eyes to see the fire and ears to hear the mighty wind. It’s still there and the world is becoming new because of it. Amen.

Sermon for the Sunday of Ascension (Part Three of the Love One Another series)

Preached at Canadochly and Grace on June 2, 2019
Preaching text: None

I hadn’t intended it this way, but this Easter season has become a pair of mini-sermon series. The first one, towards the beginning of the season, was about all the things that get us stuck and prevent us from following Jesus the way he or even we would like. That was three sermons. Then, two weeks ago, I preached on the New Commandment: Love one another as Jesus has loved us. That led to a challenge where a congregation member asked me “How do we love?” So I tried to answer that in the following sermon; last week. Today, as we mark the Ascension of Jesus into heaven at the end of his earthly ministry, I find myself drawn to answer another question related to the New Commandment: Why?

Why should we love as Christ has loved? So part three of my second sermon series this Easter season.

Some of you who helped out on Tuesday got to meet some of my gamer friends. They’re a diverse and interesting bunch. Some are Christian, many are not. Some are agnostic or atheist and are quite skeptical of any religion, including and often particularly ours. Some are quite critical or even derisive towards Christianity. I try not to let them get under my skin when they start doing that. Instead, I try to understand why they think and feel what they do about God and about Christians. One of the more taunting things say about God is they’ll call him the “invisible sky god.”

You know, there’s a lot of truth to that mocking title. Most of us, I think, understand heaven to be “elsewhere,” but for simplicity’s sake, we typically refer to it as above us, in the sky. As to invisible, well, yeah. We don’t see or experience God with our physical senses. Walk by faith, not by sight, and all that.

Now when Jesus was here on Earth, God was tangible to us. We could see him, talk to him, touch him, hear his voice. He was “real” in a physical sense. But that was 2000 years ago and Jesus has long sense left this world in a bodily sense. We no longer see him, touch him, listen to him with our physical senses. He is invisible once more.

Now I firmly believe that God understands this to be a bit of a problem. It is easier for us physical creatures to believe and trust in that which we can experience in this physical reality. That is why we are gifted with the sacraments. In those holy rites, God gives us something physical, something we can see, touch, taste, hear, and experience with our bodily senses. He gives us his presence in and through the water, the wine, and the bread. He makes himself real to us in a physical sense yet again.

But that is our gift here in the Church. A gift we receive in faith that has little meaning to those out there. But what makes God real to all of them? What is their sacrament? After all, God hardly limits his grace and love to the Church alone, but his heart beats for all the world and all its people. How does he become “real” to them?

Well, you can probably guess the answer. We are the world’s sacrament.

You, me, all of us. We are the ones that make God real to the world. There’s an old saying, “You may be the only Bible some people ever read.” And that’s true. What does your life say to them?

No pressure.

Truth is, it really isn’t that hard. Most of us have a heart for God. We want to become better people, better believers. We want to grow in faith and love. We want the world to be a better place. By in large, our motives align closely with our creator, even if our actions don’t always align with those motives. That’s sin, our seemingly constant plague and our inability to perfectly follow even our best of intentions.

But, you know something. We fail, but God picks us up, lovingly brushes off the dirt, and tells us to try again. That’s forgiveness, another wonderful gift of his. We fail all the time, but as he never stops forgiving, we also are driven to never stop trying.

So be kind. Be loving. Welcome the stranger. Aid the sick. Speak up for the voiceless. Stand up against evil. Love one another. And as we do that, together and individually, the world will start to see God. He will become real to them because his love will become real in and through us.

People will start to realize how important they are. How much they matter. How beloved they are. Jesus is not here in body, but he’s passed the torch to us. What was once his job is now ours.

A long time ago, back right after I graduated from college, I remember we were having one of our late night parties. Pretty sure we were drinking. One of my friends let the booze get to his head a little too much and he got real dark. Started talking about how worthless he felt and how his life was meaningless. He was dead serious and we started getting worried. Where was he going with this? Was he going to do something dangerous? So we rallied around him, starting telling him how much he meant to each of us. How important he was. All his good qualities. How we believed in him and trusted him and cared about him. College age guys aren’t usually the type to pour their hearts out like that, but we did it. It was a holy moment and it’s stayed with me for almost 25 years.

That not-so-young (now, anyway) man is married, father of two kids, great job, veteran of our armed services. He got his life together. He’s also now a believer. That is what Jesus is talking about. That is what “love one another” does. It makes God real. It makes his love real. That’s our job. Now that Jesus has ascended, it falls to us. Can we make God real for those we encounter in our lives? I hope so. Love one another. Amen.

Sermon for the Sixth Sunday of Easter (Part Two of the Love One Another series)

Preached at Canadochly and York on May 26, 2019
Preaching Text:

It seems I have about a million different things rattling around inside my head this week. I’m eagerly looking forward to my move and to the new chapter of my life that’s about to begin on Tuesday. I’m enjoying my Memorial Day Weekend, even if I’m spending most of it packing. There’s also a solemnity to this time, as I remember the family tradition of tending to the graves each year on these weekend and, in particular, I remember my late grandfathers who both served this country during WWII.

I’m also wrestling with what to preach today. Thinking about Jesus’ promise of the Holy Spirit in our Gospel lesson, but also thinking about Jan’s challenge from last week. After the sermon last Sunday, a sermon on embracing love regardless of the consequences, she came up to me and said, “Great sermon. I agree with everything, but HOW do we do that?” Of course, it’s the Holy Spirit that helps to inform the answer to that question. The Advocate acts as our guide through life and learning to tune in to its prompts and urges is an important part of our faith journey.

All of this is jumbled up inside my head and yet there’s a way in which I feel they’re all pieces of the same puzzle. The Holy Spirit, Memorial Day, the question of how to love, all come together somehow.

Well, when you are putting together a jigsaw puzzle, you have to start with the picture. What does the completed puzzle look like? In our case, we must ask ourselves what sort of world does God want? One can assume that our acts of love are part and parcel of helping Him create that world. But what is that world?

To answer that, we must turn to the Scriptures and, in particular, to Christ himself. Who is Jesus? What is Jesus? What does he do in his life to show us that world? This is, as Jesus himself, says a fundamental purpose of the Holy Spirit, to remind us of Christ and his work and his teachings. He is, again, our guide to the person of Christ himself.

What do we find in those stories? Kindness, compassion. Welcome to the outcast and stranger. Health to the sick and infirm. Restoration to the lost. Lifting up of the lowly and rejected. If that’s who Jesus is, then it follows that is also who I am to be, at least as much as I can. If Jesus wants a world where such behavior is commonplace, how do I make that happen?

I think there are two very important steps that we can all take to do that very thing. The first is to resist. Now I know that’s a loaded term in these times, but I am not referring to resisting a political order. I am saying to resist the spirit of these times. This impulse to fear, hate, and mistrust. I am saying to reject those impulses in ourselves. I am saying to give no heed to the voices in media and society who encourage those impulses. Ask yourself when you hear such a voice if it sounds anything like Jesus? If not, reject it. Unsure of what Jesus might sound like? Turn to the Gospels and read again who he is.

The second thing I feel we should do is go deeper. Evil is never more insidious than when it looks like good, and that’s a clever trick that is often played in these times. Take the culture war for instance. People talk all the time about how we’re supposed to be a Christian nation, but what do they mean by that? Do they truly want this country to reflect Christ or do they only want the appearance of some sort of cultural Christianity that bears little to no resemblance to Jesus’ teachings? Forcing children to pray or posting the Ten Commandments on walls in public buildings sounds nice, but does it really accomplish anything that he who knows are inmost hearts would truly want? Or is it just trickery and appearances?

Saving babies by passing abortion restrictions sounds good, but if we do nothing for those children and mothers afterwards, what good is it? Who will care for those children? Who will aid those mothers? Are we willing to do that work? Are we willing to pay for it? We must go deeper. We must go further. If we want to love as Christ loves, then there are no half measures.

No tricks. No gimmicks that sound good, but in the end accomplish little to nothing. God will not be fooled and neither will the world. Our love must be real and it must be total. And again, if we are uncertain of what that love should look like, look again to Christ. Read the Gospels and see him anew.

I do believe this country was founded on Christian principles, but not in the way most people think of it. This was meant to be a place where people were valued, respected, and would have the freedom to be who they are and believe what they wished. Jesus values every person he encounters, even his opponents and enemies. He loves everyone, regardless of whether they follow him or not. He forgives sin; he does not reject people because of it. A world where those things are true and people practice that same sort of compassion and mercy is one I want to live in. It’s one I want to help create. And to be honest, as we remember the sacrifices of those who fought and died in wars past and present, I believe that’s what they fought and died for. It was not for a flag or the personality of a President, but for a vision, an ideal. A dream of America as the herald of a better world that what had been before.

We all want that better world. We here gathered, I presume, all want to follow Jesus as best they can. Those two things work in parallel and what unites them is love. How do we love? Jesus shows us how. How does Jesus love? The Spirit reminds us again and again of his unconditional compassion and kindness, his welcome to all, his aid to those in need. As a Christian, I am to strive to live like Jesus and love as he did. I never going to match his standard, I get that. But I want to try, because I’ve been a recipient of that love. He’s embraced me despite my sin and failings. He’s loved me enough to endure the cross. And so too you. And if we all strive to be like him, what sort of world will we create? I’m curious to see and I suspect God is too. Amen.

Sermon for the Fifth Sunday of Easter (Part One of the Love One Another Series)

Preached at Canadochly and Grace on May 19, 2019
Preaching Text:

“Love one another.” It’s so simple. So basic. So elementary. One would think that such a commandment would be easy as pie to obey, that Christianity would spread like wildfire by all those who would practice this simple easy basic command. Perhaps that was the hope, maybe even the expectation. In the early years of the church, it certainly seemed that way. Even accounting for the fact that Luke probably exaggerated a bit on the number of converts, the first century world was clearly being set alight by the followers of Christ.

What happened?

“By this, they will know you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” Sadly, we know today that the mark of the Church is not our love. All too often it is our legalism, our intolerance, our bigotry, our anger, our hate. It’s inflexible morality, harsh judgment, self-righteousness, and self-superiority. It is disrespect and apathy towards anyone who is not us. It is anything but love.

What happened?

Even within the Church, we see these evil marks. I grew up in a congregation that’s primary mission and ministry was finding new and creative ways to tear each other apart. We went through 5 pastors in 20 years, each one leaving either because they were thrown out or because of scandal. We bled members, good people, who couldn’t stand the atmosphere anymore or those who were targets of someone else’s ire. My church was hardly alone. I’ve heard other stories. Some even worse.

What happened?

As I often do, I was scanning Facebook earlier this week, looking at the various posts from my friends and groups. One caught my eye, a piece of artwork from the fantasy art group I’m a member of. The artist had chosen to, in addition to posting her picture, include a quote from fantasy author Amelia Atwater-Rhodes. "Love is the strongest emotion any creature can feel except for hate, but hate can't hurt you. Love, and trust, and friendship, and all the other emotions humans value so much, are the only emotions that can bring pain. Only love can break a heart into so many pieces."

I wonder if that’s it. Love is hard. Love means we have to be vulnerable. Love means we risk ourselves. Love means we can be hurt. Love means we can be damaged. And that’s scary. Hate, on the other hand, demands nothing of us. Hate is easy. Hate is armor. Hate means we are not vulnerable or at risk. Hate keeps us safe.

In these times of uncertainty, safety is what we want. The world is a scary place, as I’ve mentioned before. I can see its appeal.

But here’s the thing: Christianity isn’t supposed to be safe. This is a religion of risk, of danger, of being vulnerable and doing the right thing when it’s neither politic or popular. We are called to love and yes, that means often times loving those who are unloved by the greater whole. It means loving those the rest of the world fears and rejects.

And it means bearing the consequences of the choice to love.

What set the world on fire during that first century, when the Church was at its infancy? Love. It was people risking themselves to do what was right. Welcoming the stranger and outcast. Helping the downtrodden. Ministering to the sick. There were no tests of worthiness for these acts of compassion. People were not helped because they were worthy; they were helped because they needed it.

And the world responded. John was exiled. Peter crucified. Paul beheaded. Stephen stoned. The world in its rage and hate responded to love with violence. Killed the apostles. Made martyrs of them. But instead of frightening the Church into silence and subservience to the world’s standards, this made it bolder. It loved even more.

We look around and we see a world full of chaos and uncertainty. We look around and see a church empty and struggling. You want to turn this around? You want to see real change in the world and in our lives? I know I do. But the way to do it is not to play by the world’s rules. It’s not to embrace hate, easy as it is. Nor is it to play it safe.

To put it mildly, if we’re not out there trying to make the world kill us because of how and who we love, we’re doing it wrong.

Now, I get it. That’s not exactly the most appealing sales pitch. Join the church and become a martyr. But nothing in life worth having is gained without risk. And we could have a whole new world. One closer to the kingdom of God. One where the churches aren’t empty and people aren’t consumed with hate. We could have that, if we take the chance on love.

And, let’s be honest about something else, is it really a risk when we cannot die? Oh, sure, we can still suffer physical death. But we are promised eternity through Jesus Christ. The apostles, who died horribly at the hands of Roman persecution, banked on that. They knew Jesus had lived, died, and defeated death for their sake. He’s also done so for ours. What really do we have to fear when Christ has gone before us and his tomb is empty, just as ours will be one day?

So take a chance. Take a risk. Love one another. Love your neighbor. Love your enemy. Let that be the mark of the Church again. A bright light in a dying world. A world that needs that light. A light we can bring to it, if we choose to love. Amen.

Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Easter (Good Shepherd Sunday)

Preached at Canadochly and Grace on May 12, 2019
Preaching text:

“Who are these, robed in white? These are they who have come out of the great ordeal.” Many years ago, I was doing a Bible Study on the book of Revelation. It was during my internship; It was 1999 and there was great anxiety about the coming millennium. So much riffraff had been thrown about with the year 2000 being the end of the world, people were scared and we channeled that fear into taking a deep long look at the apocalyptic texts in the Scriptures.

This particular verse stuck with me long after that Bible Study concluded and the paranoia that generated it faded in the face of reality. “What was the great ordeal?” That was the question we asked. Many like to believe it is some manner of mass persecution or some other calamity. We came to conclude the calamity was life itself, with all of its trials and struggles and setbacks. Our lives are an ordeal. We have to navigate our way through this crazy world and all that it throws at us.

There isn’t a single one of us that doesn’t struggle in life from time to time. We face tragedy, setback, difficulty. Sometimes it’s of our own creation, the consequence of mistakes made and vices embraced. Other times, it’s completely unfair, pain inflicted by disease or the evil deeds of others or simply bad luck. But none of us gets out of this without a few scars. The world is broken and we suffer for it.

I’m tired. I’m tired of seeing evil win. I’m tired of seeing good people too frightened to fight back. I’m tired of seeing the innocent suffer. I’m tired of wondering what sort of world our children are going to inherit from us and how much worse even still it will probably be. One million species expected to go extinct in the next few decades, perhaps including even the human race. Warmongers and saber rattlers abound across the world, with merchants of hate in our own neighborhoods, spewing their garbage across the internet and the airwaves. To put it mildly, it’s becoming harder and harder to hold onto hope. Unlike the new Avengers movie where the world recovers from the apocalypse thanks to some plucky superhumans and some magic gems, we will not have any such luck. If we die, it’s over. Or at least, that’s how it feels.

Revelation was written to a group of people who were facing the exact same sort of feelings under very similar circumstances. It’s there to remind us that no matter how bleak things may seem, God remains and that he’s going to win.

In fact, that’s the overarching message of all of our texts today. Death claims a beloved disciple, but God’s power revives her. The uncounted thousands and millions upon the Earth who have washed their robes in the blood of Christ and now celebrate life eternal. The Shepherd who carries us through the valley of the shadow of death to green pastures and still waters. The one whose voice we know, who claims us as his own, and who will never leave nor lose us. God wins.

God wins.

That’s really what this season of Easter is all about. Nowhere has ever been more bleak than the hill of Golgotha when Christ was nailed to the cross. That was it. That was the end. God died that day. Evil had truly won, or so it seemed. And yet, from that came the impossible: Christ is risen. Death is defeated. Sin is forgiven. The world would be set right after all.

God wins.

I mentioned the new Avengers movie a few sentences ago. I’m not going to spoil it for anyone who might be interested in seeing it and hasn’t yet, but it’s not hard to guess how the story goes, because all the best stories go this way. The heroes are on the verge of triumph and then suddenly the villains win somehow. The initiative shifts, the momentum turns. A great victory for evil, a terrible setback for good. But then, when all seems lost, the heroes rally and emerge victorious, perhaps with great sacrifice, but in the end they win.

This happens in hundreds of stories. King Arthur, Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, comic books, nearly every TV show or movie. Even in romance stories there’s a moment when the lovers are pulled apart and that maybe, just maybe, they won’t end up together after all. Stories wouldn’t be worth telling if we didn’t have that moment of setback. There’s no drama, no stakes. The triumph is meh, meaningless without the struggle. The cross was Satan’s moment where evil almost won, but it was not to be.

And perhaps, that’s what’s happening now. We are in the valley of the shadow of death, with the looming threat of climate change and political unrest, with school and church shooters and economic instability and all sorts of scary things around us. It feels like all is lost. This is the end. This is the moment when evil almost wins, but it will not be.

Because God wins.

Take comfort in that. The Good Shepherd is still by our side, as he always has been. The world has thrown calamity at us before and we have endured thanks to Christ. We will always endure, because there is nothing that this world can do to us that can take us from Christ’s side. We are his and always will be. Are we moving towards the Apocalypse? I don’t know. I do know things feel bleak, uncertain, frightening. But God still wins. The tomb is still empty. Christ is still risen. Amen. Alleluia.

Sermon for the Third Sunday of Easter (Part Three of the Stuck Series)

Preached at Canadochly and Grace on May 5, 2019
Preaching Text: Jesus and Disciples by the Seashore in John

One of my favorite pop theologians is the late Brennan Manning. At Canadochly, we did a book study on his book, The Ragamuffin Gospel, a few years ago. In that book, he talks a great deal about his struggles with faith, in particular trying to believe in a God whom he could never please, that he was never good enough for, that he believed his sins would always keep him apart from the divine.

For us Lutherans, that struggle should sound somewhat familiar, since it’s very similar to the struggle Martin Luther himself had with his faith. He too believed God was this unyielding judge who held every last mistake and misstep against him. He too felt he could never earn God’s love and forgiveness, no matter how hard he tried.

Many Christians today, perhaps even some of you, still struggle with this sort of thing. I remember well the pain experienced by one of my former pastors, the man who confirmed me when I was a teenager. Pr. Crozier’s daughter had died horribly from cancer and he was convinced that the reason it happened was because he didn’t pray hard enough or faithfully enough. Guilt became his constant companion. Just as it was for Luther or for Fr. Manning.

And also Peter.

I didn’t really plan this, but it seems my Easter sermons are forming something of a series about the things that we get stuck on in our faith journey. On Easter itself, I talked about how the women we’re stuck in grief. Last week, I spoke of how the disciples were stuck in fear. Today, I’m going to talk about Peter. He’s stuck in guilt.

How? Well, let’s look back at the last few weeks of Peter’s life. As Jesus has begun the last legs of his Jerusalem journey, Peter has, on more than one occasion, pledged his very life to defend Jesus. Even during the Last Supper, Peter has said that he would die for Jesus’ sake, to which Jesus responded with a dire prediction: Three times before the cock crow, Peter would deny Jesus. When the soldiers come for Jesus in the garden, Peter is determined to keep his word. He draws a sword and attacks the soldiers, cutting off the ear of a slave of the high priest. He’s determined to go down fighting and only stops when Jesus tells him to.

Even after this, he follows the soldiers back to the council, hoping to listen in, to spy and eavesdrop on the proceedings. This is when he gets caught and is identified. Three times, people call him out as one of the followers of Jesus and, as predicted, Peter denies any association with Jesus. Then a rooster crows at the dawn. Peter realizes what he’s done and he goes away, weeping and consumed with guilt and regret.

Jesus is, of course, dragged between the various authorities: the chief priests, King Herod, Governor Pilate. Then he’s given over to the Roman soldiers, who mock, abuse, and torture him. He’s taken out to Golgotha and killed on a cross. A few days later, word comes that he has risen. Peter, like the others, does not believe this at first, even though he sees the empty tomb with his own eyes. He’s likely thinking that even if it is true that Jesus is alive, things could never go back to the way they were. Not after what Peter has done.

Jesus then comes to the disciples twice in the upper room, confirming beyond all doubt that it’s him, that he is alive, that the miracle of resurrection has indeed happened just as he said it would. But even after this, Peter still carries a burden. And so we come to today’s Gospel lesson. Jesus meets the fishermen yet again by the seashore in much the same way that he did the first time when he called them to come fish for people. They don’t recognize him at first, but Jesus performs another miracle, Peter realizes who it is. Caught up in his emotions, he jumps into the sea to meet his Lord.

Jesus prepares a fire and they break bread together. As they are eating the fish, Jesus turns to Peter. Fully aware of his burden of guilt, Jesus asks him three times if Peter loves him. Once for each denial. This is truly one of the most powerful moments in all the Scriptures. Here, perhaps more than anywhere else, we see the heart of Christ. Is Peter forgiven? Of course, he is. This is Jesus, who forgave even the soldiers as they pounded in the nails. God can and has forgiven Peter for his denials, but Peter cannot forgive himself. So what does Jesus do? He gives him the means to do so. Here, you denied me three times, now affirm your love three times. Show yourself that you love me.

Jesus is what gets us unstuck. For the women, it was the gift of an empty tomb and angels speaking the truth of his resurrection. For Mary, it was Christ himself calling her by name. For the disciples and for Thomas, it was a visit to the upper room and showing his hands and side. And now, for Peter, it is a meal by the seashore where Peter is given the opportunity to forgive himself for the denials Christ has already forgiven.

Jesus gives Peter and all his disciples (including us) a clear command to tend and feed his sheep, his people. So often, we have failed to do so and see the results in a world consumed with hate and fear and a church paralyzed by empty pews and lack of resources. But God has not abandoned us. Nor would he, no matter how often we fail. Again and again he comes to us to give us strength and encouragement. He is speaking now, within, behind, and beneath my voice as I preach. He is here in the waters that remind you that you are his and always will be. He is here in the bread and wine that remind us how much he gave for your sake. He is sitting next to you in your friends and family. Whatever we need, he will give. He’s proven that time and again in these stories. We are not so different from those disciples. We see them as paragons of faith and yet they too failed. God did not abandon them, nor will he us. Trust in that and go forth. Feed my lambs, Christ says. We can, thanks to him. Amen.

Sermon for the Second Sunday of Easter (Part Two of the Stuck Series)

Preached on April 28, 2019 at Grace and Canadochly
Preaching Text: Doubting Thomas

Every year, on the Sunday after Easter, I enter this pulpit and give a vigorous defense of why Thomas is unfairly maligned as the doubter. One of the defenses I often raise is that he asks nothing of Jesus that the other disciples did not receive themselves and, to be honest, they wouldn’t have believed without seeing those things either.

Last Sunday, I contrasted life in the in-between time of Sunday morning before the tomb and the time after the resurrection has come. I said the women were stuck in the grief, the sorrow, and the fear of that pre-dawn time when all they’d believed and hoped for had come to naught.

But then, a miracle. An empty tomb. Angels proclaiming resurrection. Joy, relief, life instead of death. The best good news the women could have imagined. They run back to the disciples with this tremendous news and receive what can only be described as a rather chilly reception. An idle tale, Luke calls it. They do not believe.

And that brings us to the events of Easter evening. Word has come to them of a resurrected Jesus. They have heard the best news any of them could have imagined and what are they doing? They are hiding, living in fear of marching soldiers and vengeful religious authorities. The doors are locked. They sit paranoid that someone will come knocking, looking for the followers of the one crucified on Friday.

While talked about the women being stuck in their emotions as they marched dutifully to the tomb that morning, it quickly becomes clear they are far from alone. Even after the wondrous news of Christ risen, the disciples are still stuck. So Jesus comes into their midst, shows them his hands and his side. They rejoice to see Jesus. And that fixes everything (or at least it does for everyone but Thomas).

Or does it?

Fast forward to a week later. The disciples have heard the report of the women. The disciples have seen Jesus alive with their own eyes. The disciples have been given the gift of the Holy Spirit. They have everything they need to go out and change lives and the change the world and where are they? They are hiding, living in fear of marching soldiers and vengeful religious authorities. The doors are locked. They sit paranoid that someone will come knocking, looking for the followers of the one crucified a week ago Friday.

They’re still stuck.

But they are not alone. While I talked about the women being stuck in their emotions as they marched dutifully to the tomb, and I’ve talked about the disciples being stuck in their emotions as they cower in the upper room, there is another group often stuck just as they were. And that’s the modern day church. It’s us. We too are stuck with word of a tumultuous world where churches burn and people are slaughtered as they gather for worship. We too are stuck with images of empty churches that were once full and balance sheets full of red. We too are stuck in the grief, the sorrow, and the fear of having all we believed and hoped for and loved has seemingly come to naught.

So what gets us unstuck? Any of us? The women, the disciples, or ourselves?

Jesus certainly does all that he can. He returns again the following week to appear before the frightened disciples. He offers his hands and side once more, not merely just to Thomas, but all of them. The scriptures do not say explicitly, but it’s likely the women were there as well, seeing yet again the miracle. Jesus doing what he can for all of them to get them unstuck.

But what about us? Well, Jesus has not left us orphaned. He promised the Holy Spirit and we have that. It comes to us in the waters of baptism. It comes to us in the spoken word of Scripture and sermon. It comes to us in the bread and wine of communion. It comes to us in the love of friends and family. It comes in the beauty of the world. It’s all around us all the time. The question before us, are we looking for it?

It’s far too easy to let the terrors of this world and this life blind us to the Spirit’s presence among us. Far too easy to see only water in baptism, hear only words in the Bible, taste only bread and wine in communion. Despite there being so much more to all of these than that. Fear is our great enemy. More dangerous by far than doubt ever could be. Doubt wants to believe but cannot. Fear stops even that desire for belief.

And we see the results of fear all around us. Not just in declining churches, but in a declining world. All that frightens and unsettles us is the result of people caving into fear. I may get into trouble for saying this, but the terrorists on 9/11 succeeded beyond their wildest dreams all those years ago. They turned neighbors into threats, foreigners into enemies, and made us forget who we are as citizens of this great nation. We forgot our aspirations, our ideals, our goals and all the work we’d done towards them is now in danger of being undone.

So too the church. Fear has made us forget our aspirations, our ideals, our goals. It’s made us forget Jesus, his love, his mercy, his sacrifice on the cross for all the world. It’s made us not able to see the work of the Holy Spirit all around us. We are stuck in that upper room yet again. But Christ continues to come to us. He comes in more ways than we can imagine. He is always with us. His salvation can never be taken from us. He will always love us. Why do we fear? Open your eyes. Open your heart and you will see him. Amen.

Sermon for Easter Sunday (Part One of the Stuck Series)

Preached at Grace and Canadochly on April 21, 2019
Preaching text: Luke's Easter

Like many of you, no doubt, I spent my Monday glued to the TV watching the horrible events playing out in Paris, France. Notre Dame, that icon of the French people, that wondrous place of worship, was being consumed in fire. It almost seemed apocalyptic, this great church which had stood for almost a thousand years was slowly being destroyed before our eyes.

Thankfully, it wasn’t quite that bad and the brave men and women who fought that blaze managed to put it out before the church was totally destroyed. Most of the priceless works of art and relics of the church that were stored there were rescued before the fire got too bad. The Rose Windows were saved in the nick of time. The great bells as well. All was not lost.

But when we were in the moment, none of that was certain. As we watched and waited, we wondered what would become of this great church. Would it survive or would it die?

That uncomfortable in-between feeling is precisely what the women were feeling that early Sunday morning so long ago. They had witnessed what they thought was impossible. The Messiah, God’s anointed, had been hung on a cross and made to die. Jesus had been crucified. Yes, there were those statements that he’d made about rising again from the dead, but after seeing what they’d seen, that couldn’t be true. The brutality, the viciousness of that death, no, he was gone.

We too know what that feeling is like, not just because we watched Notre Dame burn last Monday, but because we see it before us each and every time we come in these doors. We remember the days when these pews were filled, these walls echoes the sounds of laughing children, when the coffers were full, and all was right in the world. But then, what we thought was impossible began to happen. The Church began to die. And now, we see empty pews, silence instead of laughter because there are no more children (or very few), the coffers are empty, and nothing seems right in the world. And it’s not just here. It’s pretty much everywhere.

I talked before about how we’re in the midst of a society-wide existential crisis. We’ve lost our way. Suicides are at their peak. Drug overdoses as well. People don’t know what to do with themselves. We are stuck in those pre-dawn hours, thinking the world has come to an end, just as it had for those women.

But that’s what makes Easter so important.

If the women thought the crucifixion impossible, they were in for quite the surprise. A stone rolled away and a tomb empty. What? What has happened? A man in white declares both teasingly and boldly, “Why are you looking for the living among the dead? He is not here. He has risen.”

Impossible. That which is dead remains dead. We know this. It is inevitable, unavoidable, inescapable. Or is it?

Christ is risen. Is it really true? He is not here. The angel says what has happened. Can it really be? Can life come from death again?

Easter confronts us with that very question. Can life come from this again? Can life come from this world in chaos and turmoil? Can there be resurrection from what we experience in this world and this life?

And God answers with an empty tomb and an angel proclaiming “He is risen.”

This is the great challenge of our times, not so different than it was for those women and those disciples. An idle tale, Luke says it seemed to the Eleven. As we despair of our modern times, is the resurrection an idle tale to us? Easy for it to become so in the midst of the darkness and uncertainty of these times, but are we letting all that blind and deafen us to the truth that we have embraced since time immemorial? We are Christians. We came to this faith because we believe that God did resurrect Jesus, that life does come from death, that every cross leads to an empty tomb.

Paul reminds us in Romans, in a verse that we quote in each and every funeral in the Lutheran church, that “if we have been united in a death like his, we shall certainly be united in a resurrection like his.” Does this really change that? Or do God’s promises stand inviolate? Unwavering? Eternal?

My friends, we must not lose faith now. This world’s evil and uncertainty seem unstoppable, but we remember a God that brings life from death, forgiveness from sin, and salvation from Christ’s sacrifice. The world DOES NOT change that. Let us not be the women before they reach the tomb. Let us not be the disciples who dismiss their tale so quickly. Let us be them after they come to the tomb, empty of death, but full of hope. Let us be amazed at what God can do, for nothing with him is impossible. Not even this. Life from death. An empty tomb after a cross. Christ is risen. Alleluia. Amen.

Sermon for Good Friday

Preached at Christ United Methodist, Yorkana, PA on April 19, 2019
Preaching Text: Jonah

When I spoke about Abraham at the beginning of this series, I mentioned one of the remarkable things about Abraham’s faith was that he went into this knowing nothing about the God he was coming to follow and worship. There was no organized religion to which he was converting; no doctrines, no dogmas, no Bible to read, not even a name for this god he’d met and decided to place his trust into. All of that would come later.

This highlights a truth in our faith that we don’t always like to talk about. We don’t know everything about God. We like to pretend we do and we often will derive some self-confidence from that arrogant presumption, but there are many things about the deity we worship that are still unknown to us.

And that has been true for a long time. God’s revelation of himself to us has come piecemeal over the generations. But humans are impatient and while waiting for this revelation, we’ve been fond of filling in the blanks ourselves. Usually by assuming that God is just like us, liking what we like and hating what we hate.

Even the Bible itself is guilty of this. There’s a meme that I see floating around Facebook periodically. It says “The Bible is clear. Moabites are evil. They are not to be allowed among God’s people. But then comes a story about Ruth, a Moabite woman who marries a Hebrew and becomes grandmother to a king.”

“The Bible is clear. The people of the city of Uz are evil. Then along comes a story about Job, a man of Uz who is the most righteous and blameless of all men.”

It goes on like this with a few other examples, showing us that our guesses about what God approves or disapproves of are not always right, even in the Scriptures. Jonah is another story of this sort.

Let me give you some historical background. One of ancient Israel’s most vile enemies was the Assyrian Empire. These people were bad. Vicious conquerors who worshiped a series of cruel gods that demanded human sacrifice, often infants. The Assyrians were responsible for the conquest and destruction of the Northern Kingdom of Israel and were a serious threat to the Southern Kingdom of Judea. These were not nice people. The capital of their empire was the city of Nineveh, one of the largest cities in the world at that time.

And so God comes to Jonah and says “Go to Nineveh and call the people of Assyria to repentance for their evil deeds.”

To which Jonah says, with good reason, “I don’t think so.” So he hops on a boat and heads to the exact opposite side of the world; to the city of Tarshish in modern day Spain.

Most of us know the next part of the story well. The ship is swamped by storms. Realizing God is trying to scare him into turning around, Jonah instead offers to commit suicide to spare the crew, so he jumps into the water and is promptly swallowed by a large sea creature.

But that doesn’t kill him. Three days later this whale barfs him up on the sea shore and Jonah discovers he’s been planted firmly in Assyrian territory. Realizing that God doesn’t take no for an answer, Jonah goes to Nineveh and proclaims his message of repentance.

And much to Jonah’s horror, the people of Nineveh listen and obey. They call a fast. They sit in sackcloth and ashes and ask God for forgiveness for their evil ways. And God does what God always does when people he loves ask him for forgiveness. He forgives them and calls off whatever calamity was their due.

This ticks Jonah off to no end and this is where our lesson tonight begins. God proceeds to explain to Jonah his reasons for doing all this. “These people are my children,” God essentially says. “I love them. Should I not care just because you hate them?”

That may be a far harder for us to swallow than Jonah was for the whale. We like to hate and we like to believe that God hates what we do. Oh, we won’t admit that, but let’s be honest. Whether it’s Samaritans, black people, tax collectors, gays, Moabites, Muslims, Assyrians, or whoever, we want God to hate them just as much as we do.

But God continues to surprise us with stories like this one. His love is far greater than we always imagine it to be. And that brings us to the events we usually we remember on this day. Jesus dying upon a cross. His body broken in agony. He’s there willingly. He’s there for you, for me, and (while we say it, we don’t always want to believe it) he’s also there for everyone else too. Even as the nails are being driven into his flesh, he says of his executioners, “Father, forgive them.”

More than anything else that we are taught about who God is, this is the most important lesson. This is the sort of love that God has for his world, for his creation, for his people, ALL OF THEM. Yes, we screw up, we make mistakes, we sin. And so does everyone else. But just as that sin does not separate us from his love, neither does their sin separate them from it either. Even a people as brutal and savage as the Assyrians were beloved of God.

If we take away nothing else from our lives of faith and devotion to God, let it be this. God loves us. He loves you. He loves me. He loves everyone. He sent Jesus for all of us. And Jesus died for all of us. And nothing you do, nothing that you are, nothing that you say, can change that. Neither does nothing your worst enemy does, nothing that they are, nothing that they say, changes that either. We’re all sinners and we’re all unworthy of that great love, but we have it anyway, because that’s who God really is. He is love. He always has been and always will be, even if we don’t know it or want it to be true. Again, what we believe about God or know about God does change him one whit. He will always be love. Amen.

Sermon for Palm Sunday

Preached on April 14, 2019 at Grace and Canadochly
Preaching text:

I think everyone here knows that I am a colossal nerd and I’m into games, anime, movies, music, and all sorts of interests. Now it may surprise you that one hobby I’m not super big into is comic books. Most of what I know about superheroes comes from watching TV and movie adaptations of their stories, rather than the comics themselves. But that’s certainly helped me gain a decent chunk of knowledge about Superman and Spiderman and the X-men and all sorts of these costumed heroes as they battle villains and save the day.

One of Superman’s more popular villains is a guy by the name of Bizarro. Now, his origins vary from source to source, but one thing remains the same. While he has all of Superman’s powers, in every other way, he is Superman’s opposite. Where Superman is good, Bizarro is evil. Where Superman is good-looking, Bizarro is ugly. Where Superman is intelligent, Bizarro is stupid. Because of this character, there is a phrase that I sometimes hear both in geek circles and political discussions. They talk about “Bizarro World” where everything is opposite what it should be. Up is down. Black is white. Good is evil. Etc.

And that’s why I bring this up on this Palm Sunday. Today is our entry into God’s Bizarro World, where everything is opposite what we think it should be. Up is down. Black is white. Good is evil. Death is life.

Now, on one level we shouldn’t be too surprised this is happening in the life of Jesus. Aside from his warnings and predictions about his Passion, we’ve also had his talk about the great reversals that come with his kingdom. The rich become poor. The poor become rich. The hungry are filled and those who are filled become hungry. The sighted become blind and the blind receive their sight. You know...Bizarro World. Everything becomes its opposite.

This is a consistent theme throughout Jesus’ teachings and now is the moment when we see that begin to happen. It happens to Jesus and the first moment is in the Triumphal Entry. There’s always a certain irony in this moment and we who read this story often don’t pause long enough to notice it. Again, as I said a few weeks ago, familiarity breeds contempt. We know this story so well that miss some of its nuances. We never ask why the crowd is cheering Jesus.

Now, we might think the answer to that question is obvious. He’s the son of God. He’s the Messiah. He’s the one come to save the world. Even Luke I feel falls prey to a bit of this hype when he records that Jesus says “Even the very stones would cry out” if the crowds were silent. I’m not so sure. The crowd doesn’t really know all those things that we know about Jesus’ identity. They know he’s a miracle worker. They know they’re under Roman occupation. They know Jesus might just be the one to overthrow the hated Romans. And that I believe is why they celebrate.

But this is Bizarro World and Jesus does no such thing. His glory will not come by having him crowned a king by a jubilant mob. That would make for quite the story. Jesus becoming like Superman, charging at the Romans, and kicking butt and taking names and then making himself king as the hero of the day. But that’s normal world thinking. That’s a normal world story. This is Bizarro World and that’s not this story.

If not now and under these circumstances, then where and when will Jesus’ glory come? Again, Bizarro World thinking, glory comes when he is lowest. When he is broken. When he is nailed to a cross to die the horrible gut-wrenching death of slaves and traitors. That is Jesus’ finest moment. That is when his glory comes. That is when he wins. That is when he is truly king.

Up is down. Black is white. And defeat is victory. Death means life.

This is, of course, what Paul is talking about in Philippians. The famous Christ hymn, which stands as our second lesson each and every Palm Sunday, is all this Bizarro World dynamic in Jesus’ life and what it means for us. The Christ, the second person of the Trinity, the Son of God, empties himself of all that glory and power and honor and might and becomes a human being. He goes from highest to lowest as he’s born in a stable. And then, as if that were not enough, he goes to the cross to die the most shameful of deaths, dying in worst way we humans can imagine.

But this is not the end. This is not defeat. This is victory. This is triumph. This is salvation. As Paul says, rightly, this is the moment when Jesus’ name is elevated above all names, for it is by this act of abject humiliation and defeat that he wins for all humanity salvation from sin and death. By death, he wins life, life eternal for all he loves.

This is how salvation works. It makes no sense to us if we think of it in normal world terms. Death isn’t life. Defeat isn’t victory. But it is here.

We heard some weeks ago when we heard Isaiah 55 that God’s ways are not our ways and his thoughts are not our thoughts. Normal world thinking is not God’s way. Bizarro World thinking is. How else can that which is mortal become immortal? How else can that which is sinful become holy? How else can we be saved than by the death and resurrection of God himself in the form of Jesus? There is no other way. This is how salvation works.

This is how God saves us. Not with parades and jubilation. Not with conquest and strength. But with pain, death, and humiliation. Only by becoming the lowest of the low can God lift up all of humanity to the heights he wishes to bring us. And that’s what Jesus does. And that’s how his name is the name that above all others. The name by which we are saved. Amen.

Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Lent (Latere)

Preached at Canadochly and Grace on March 31, 2019
Preaching text: Prodigal Son parable.

Our Gospel lesson today is one of the most familiar, most beloved of all Scripture texts. It’s one of the first stories we can remember from Sunday School and one we revisit frequently throughout our lives. We all know it. We all love it. It’s the Prodigal Son.

There is an old saying, “familiarity breeds contempt.” On one level with this story, that’s clearly not true, since this is a beloved parable of Jesus. But I do believe that on another level, it is. There is a way in which our familiarity and fondness for this text can make us miss a lot of its nuance and detail and full message. We, in a sense, take this text for granted. We know what it means, so we don’t need to study it closely or further.

For instance, it’s title and name. “The Prodigal Son.” Who here knows what the word ‘prodigal’ means?

I didn’t for the longest time and I’d imagine most of us don’t. Because the only place we ever use that word is in reference to this story. For the longest time, I thought it was a fancy old-fashioned word for “runaway” or “absent” or some such. After all, the son does leave his family behind, so it fit.

Others have contended it means “bad” or “betraying” or something like that. Also apt, since the son is hardly a bastion of moral behavior. But none of these are correct.

When I say we don’t use the word “prodigal” in modern language, that’s not entirely true. There is another very closely related word that we do use that gives us a hint at its true meaning. That word is the adjective “prodigious.” Most of us, I think, know what this word means. It’s something big, overwhelming, extravagant. That’s a very prodigious boulder.

Prodigal, it turns out, means extravagant, excessive, over-the-top, shamelessly so. And this, of course, describes the son well. He has the audacity to go to his living father and ask for his inheritance, something he would normally only receive after his Dad had died. In a very real sense, he’s saying to his father, “drop dead and give me what is mine.” He then takes this money and spends it all on extravagant over-the-top hedonistic living. He throws money around like a billionaire on a bender.

However, if that’s the true meaning of the word prodigal, then there is another character in the story to whom it applies. And that’s the father. He too is prodigal. He too is extravagant and excessive and over-the-top and shamelessly so. His son comes to him and says the most horrible thing, and rather than tell his offspring to go pound sand (like he should have), he gives in. He divides his property and gives this obnoxious little brat what he wants.

And then it gets better. The son figures out what a jerk he’s been and decides to come home. He creates this prepared speech about how he rightly deserves nothing and wishes to be treated as a slave and so forth and he heads off. And in the distance, the father sees him and he runs to meet him.

Now, we know from the context of the story that this father is reasonably affluent. He has enough money for slaves and still enough that after he divides his property in half for this ungrateful son of his, he still has a very good living. Thus, one can expect a certain aristocratic aire to this man. He would be dressed in fine robes. Now the sorts of robes a man of his stature would wear would be somewhat similar to the alb I wear on Sunday morning. A lot more decorative, but approximately the same cut and length and style.

Now, some of you may have noticed that I tend to trip on this thing at least once every Sunday I wear it. To run in something like this is nigh on impossible. So in order to run to his son, Dad has to hike up his robes. Only then can he dash out to meet his boy. Now, unlike me who’s wearing a nice pair of slacks underneath, Dad would not have had anything on underneath. So imagine a dignified elite man of affluence yanking up his robe and running with his bare legs (and perhaps much more) showing for all the world to see.

How shameless. How extravagant. How over-the-top this behavior is. It’s undignified. It’s crass. It’s improper. But Dad doesn’t care, because that’s his boy come home and he’s going to get to him as fast as he can.

And this dad’s prodigal nature keeps going. As the son starts into his prepared speech, Dad will have none of it. Bring out the best robe. Place the signet ring of our house upon his finger. Kill the fatted calf and prepare a feast. All over-the-top. All extravagant. All excessive. And all for a son who has done anything but deserve them.

That, of course, is the point.

Jesus is using this story to tell us who God is. All the time, because of our sin, we tell God to drop dead. We turn our back on him. We walk away. Time and again we do this throughout our lives. And despite the fact that he should tell us to go pound sand, he lets us do it. And when we come back to ourselves and realize our mistakes and fault, what does God do? He throws his arms around us in a massive bear hug, puts the robe and the ring upon us, and throws a feast for us. Because the beloved has come home and that’s all that matters.

We worship a prodigal God that loves us so intensely that nothing else matters. Nothing but his love for us. Not propriety. Not dignity. Not the rules. Not what he’s supposed to do with us. Nothing else but love.

And the proof of that is in Christ himself. God incarnate as this man here on Earth does the most prodigal thing ever. He loves us enough to die the most terrible shameful death for us. The death given slaves and traitors: Crucifixion. It’s an excessive death, extravagant in its suffering, and utterly shameful. But none of that matters. All that matters is a fallen humanity that God loves beyond words and that he will pay any price to see us redeemed.

This is our Prodigal God. Who loves you and me and everyone without limit. And this is what he’s done for us. Amen.