The Liturgy of Release: Legacy, Commemoration, and Stewardship: Ancestral Foundations

When we walked into this sanctuary today, greeted by white and gold, with candelabras standing ready to name those we love and miss, we aren't just walking into an ordinary Sunday service. We are stepping into the presence of a vast cloud of witnesses. 

We walk in surrounded by generations of saints whose prayers, sacrifices, and deep faith formed the very bedrock of our shared community. They are the ones who passed down to us a living heritage of grace. On All Saints Sunday, we don't just look back in quiet memory; we ask how their witness shapes our steps right now. How do we live, love, and lead in our own time as part of this enduring communion of saints? 

Before we look at what it means to carry that legacy forward, let’s listen to our third reading today from 1 Kings.

The king went to Gibeon to sacrifice there, for that was the principal high place; Solomon used to offer a thousand burnt offerings on that altar. At Gibeon the Lord appeared to Solomon in a dream by night, and God said, “Ask what I should give you.” And Solomon said, “You have shown great and steadfast love to your servant my father David because he walked before you in faithfulness, in righteousness, and in uprightness of heart toward you, and you have kept for him this great and steadfast love and have given him a son to sit on his throne today. And now, O Lord my God, you have made your servant king in place of my father David, although I am only a little child; I do not know how to go out or come in. And your servant is in the midst of the people whom you have chosen, a great people so numerous they cannot be numbered or counted. Give your servant, therefore, an understanding mind to govern your people, able to discern between good and evil, for who can govern this great people of yours?”

It pleased the Lord that Solomon had asked this. God said to him, “Because you have asked this and have not asked for yourself long life or riches or for the life of your enemies but have asked for yourself understanding to discern what is right, I now do according to your word. Indeed, I give you a wise and discerning mind; no one like you has been before you, and no one like you shall arise after you. I give you also what you have not asked, both riches and honor all your life; no other king shall compare with you. If you will walk in my ways, keeping my statutes and my commandments, as your father David walked, then I will lengthen your life.”

Then Solomon awoke; it had been a dream. He came to Jerusalem, where he stood before the ark of the covenant of the Lord. He offered up burnt offerings and offerings of well-being and provided a feast for all his servants.

Later, two women who were prostitutes came to the king and stood before him. The one woman said, “Please, my lord, this woman and I live in the same house, and I gave birth while she was in the house. Then on the third day after I gave birth, this woman also gave birth. We were together; there was no one else with us in the house; only the two of us were in the house. Then this woman’s son died in the night because she lay on him. She got up in the middle of the night and took my son from beside me while your servant slept. She laid him at her breast and laid her dead son at my breast. When I rose in the morning to nurse my son, I saw that he was dead, but when I looked at him closely in the morning, clearly it was not the son I had borne.” But the other woman said, “No, the living son is mine, and the dead son is yours.” The first said, “No, the dead son is yours, and the living son is mine.” So they argued before the king.

Then the king said, “The one says, ‘This is my son who is alive, and your son is dead,’ while the other says, ‘Not so! Your son is dead, and my son is the living one.’” So the king said, “Bring me a sword,” and they brought a sword before the king. The king said, “Divide the living boy in two; then give half to the one and half to the other.” But the woman whose son was alive said to the king, because compassion for her son burned within her, “Please, my lord, give her the living boy; certainly do not kill him!” The other said, “It shall be neither mine nor yours; divide it.” Then the king responded, “Give her the living boy; do not kill him. She is his mother.” All Israel heard of the judgment that the king had rendered, and they stood in awe of the king because they perceived that the wisdom of God was in him to execute justice. --1 Kings 3:4–28 (NRSVue)

If you grew up watching classic TV, you might remember I Dream of Jeannie. Major Nelson stumbles across a magical bottle, pops the cork, and suddenly has a genie willing to grant his every wish. It touches on that universal human daydream: what would you do if someone handed you unlimited power and said, "Your wish is my command"?

If you were put on the spot by the Creator of the universe—no bottle required—and told, "Ask for anything you want," what would you say?

Be honest. Most of us might ask for a clean health report, a paid-off mortgage, or maybe for political campaigns to end at least three weeks earlier than they actually do.

When Solomon inherits the throne from his father David, he doesn't ask for invincibility, endless wealth, or the destruction of his opponents. He looks at the massive responsibility ahead of him and essentially says, "Lord, I’m way over my head here. I don't know what I'm doing."

The English text says he asks for an "understanding mind." But in the original Hebrew, the phrase is lev shomea—literally, a "listening heart."

Notice Solomon doesn’t ask for a sharp, aggressive intellect to outsmart people. He doesn’t ask to be the loudest voice in the room. Instead, he asks for a heart that listens—a heart tuned to God, tuned to truth, and tuned to the needs of the people he has been called to serve.

And notice who gets heard first. Right after this dream, two women come to Solomon. They are sex workers—people living on the absolute fringes of society with no status, no wealth, and no political capital. In the ancient world, they should have been invisible to a king. Yet, Solomon’s listening heart makes space for them. He listens to their grief, he reads between the lines of their desperate situation, and he seeks genuine protection for what is vulnerable and alive.

Notice what these women bring into the courtroom: profound, raw grief. One mother has lost her child in the night, and the other is terrified of losing hers. They don’t pretend everything is fine, and Solomon doesn’t ask them to brush their pain under the rug.

That is so important for us to hear today. On All Saints Sunday, we carry grief into this sanctuary. We carry the ache of empty chairs at our dinner tables, the longing for parents, partners, children, or friends who shaped our faith and are no longer here. And son, as those candles are lit, their light will quietly mark the lives of those we miss so deeply.

And if we are being completely honest, many of us are also carrying a different kind of grief right now—a collective fatigue, a sorrow over how fractured our culture feels, a worry about where our nation is heading as we approach an election, and a weary sadness over how hard it has become to talk to one another.

Here is the truth: it is okay to name our grief. In fact, it is necessary. When we stop pretending we have it all together, when we speak our heartaches out loud to God and to each other, we take a crucial step forward in our healing. Naming our grief doesn't make us weak; it makes us honest. And it opens a door for grace to enter the dark places we usually try to hide.

That kind of radical honesty is precisely what our ancestral legacy is built on. As Lutherans, we have a wonderfully realistic view of saints. We know that saints aren't perfect, flawless superheroes who lived up on pedestals. They were saint and sinner all at once—imperfect, flawed people who made mistakes, got things wrong, and yet were held, redeemed, and made holy by God's steadfast grace alone. Even Solomon, for all his wisdom, was deeply human and made plenty of missteps down the road. We honor our ancestors not because they were morally invincible, but because in their messy, saint-and-sinner lives, they named their pain, trusted God's promise, and tried to cultivate listening hearts. They left us a legacy built not on human perfection or worldly power, but on God's faithful grace.

That legacy brings us right into our calling as citizens and neighbors today.

In that same Lutheran tradition, we talk a lot about vocation—the simple, holy idea that God doesn't need our good works, but our neighbor certainly does. Participating in our civic life, taking time to vote in this upcoming election, and engaging in our communities isn't about saving the world or claiming ultimate power. God already holds the future. Rather, civic engagement is just one quiet, practical way we let our faith be active in love for our neighbors.

What if our duty as Christians, and as citizens, begins with asking God for the very thing Solomon asked for? What if we prayed for a listening heart?

A listening heart doesn't mean we abandon our convictions or stop caring about justice. Solomon used his listening heart to execute true justice. But a listening heart does slow us down. It gives us room to acknowledge our shared grief and heartbreak. It helps us listen past the noise to hear the actual suffering in our communities. It helps us ask: What decision here protects life? What path serves the common good? How do we care for the neighbor who has no voice in the room?

We stand on the shoulders of saints who weathered wars, economic collapses, political division, and deep personal loss—ordinary sinners transformed by extraordinary grace. They survived because their hope wasn't anchored in temporary political kingdoms, but in the enduring promise of Christ. They passed that promise on to us.

As you cast your vote this week, and as you walk through the days after, carry that ancestral legacy with you. Don't be afraid to name your grief and take those steps toward healing. Put away the need to win every argument. Take a breath. Ask God for a listening heart—one that seeks wisdom, extends mercy, and remembers who we belong to.

May the God of our ancestors grant us the wisdom to listen well, the courage to seek justice, and the grace to love our neighbors through it all. Amen.

Preached Sunday, November 1, 2026 - All Saints Sunday - at Vista Lutheran, St. Louis Park, MN.

Wilderness Mindsets: Stepping Out onto Clean Ground

Acknowledging the Cultural Noise

If you have turned on a television, opened a browser, or checked your mailbox this past week, you were likely reminded—about sixty times an hour—that in less than ten days, a national election arrives. According to the surrounding culture, the fate of human civilization rests entirely on this ballot.

Look around our sanctuary today. Red paraments adorn the pulpit, lectern, and altar, reminding us of the Holy Spirit, church history, and God's constant, re-forming grace. But many of us brought a very different color into this space today—a heavy, anxious gray.

We live in a culture of constant panic—one conditioning us to live out of scarcity, fearing there is never enough safety, control, or grace to go around.

I was thinking about this fear on returning from my trip last week to Budapest. One of the most powerful experiences I had there was along the bank of the Danube River at a memorial entitled Shoes on the Danube. It consists of 60 pairs of old-fashioned iron shoes scattered along the water's edge. These shoes honor 20,000 people—mostly Jews and political dissidents—who in the winter of 1944-45 were lined up, shot, and pushed into the river by fascist militiamen. They were ordered to strip off their shoes first because shoes were a commodity that could be sold for profit.

Standing before those empty shoes, you realize what happens when fear and political hostility run unchecked: human beings cease to be neighbors made in the image of God and become reduced to entries on a spreadsheet of suspicion.

Under pressure, our human instinct is to pull back and build protective walls. But defensive armor locks us in. To help us dismantle these defenses, we turn to an ancient story in 2 Samuel—a story about power, denial, and a prophet who used a story to break through royal armor.

  In the spring of the year, the time when kings go out to battle, David sent Joab with his officers and all Israel with him; they ravaged the Ammonites and besieged Rabbah. But David remained at Jerusalem.

  It happened, late one afternoon when David rose from his couch and was walking about on the roof of the king’s house, that he saw from the roof a woman bathing; the woman was very beautiful. David sent someone to inquire about the woman. It was reported, “This is Bathsheba daughter of Eliam, the wife of Uriah the Hittite.” So David sent messengers to get her, and she came to him, and he lay with her. (Now she was purifying herself after her period.) Then she returned to her house. The woman conceived, and she sent and told David, “I am pregnant.”

  When the wife of Uriah heard that her husband was dead, she made lamentation for him. When the mourning was over, David sent and brought her to his house, and she became his wife and bore him a son. 

  But the thing that David had done displeased the Lord, and the Lord sent Nathan to David. He came to him and said to him, “There were two men in a certain city, the one rich and the other poor. The rich man had very many flocks and herds, but the poor man had nothing but one little ewe lamb that he had bought. He brought it up, and it grew up with him and with his children; it used to eat of his meager fare and drink from his cup and lie in his bosom, and it was like a daughter to him. Now there came a traveler to the rich man, and he was loath to take one of his own flock or herd to prepare for the wayfarer who had come to him, but he took the poor man’s lamb and prepared that for the guest who had come to him.” Then David’s anger was greatly kindled against the man. He said to Nathan, “As the Lord lives, the man who has done this deserves to die; he shall restore the lamb fourfold because he did this thing and because he had no pity.”

  Nathan said to David, “You are the man! Thus says the Lord, the God of Israel: I anointed you king over Israel, and I rescued you from the hand of Saul; I gave you your master’s house and your master’s wives into your bosom and gave you the house of Israel and of Judah, and if that had been too little, I would have added as much more. Why have you despised the word of the Lord, to do what is evil in his sight? You have struck down Uriah the Hittite with the sword and have taken his wife to be your wife and have killed him with the sword of the Ammonites. --2 Samuel 11:1-5, 26-27; 12:1-9 (NRSVue)

Looking into Nathan's Mirror

Last week, we stood with Joshua at Shechem as Israel renewed its covenant, declaring, "We will serve the Lord!" What followed was a long descent through the Judges, leading Israel to demand a king "like everyone else."

By 2 Samuel 11, Israel has shifted to a centralized monarchy. And then comes trouble: "In the spring, when kings go out to battle... David remained at Jerusalem."

From his high palace rooftop, David sees Bathsheba and takes her. When she sends word—"I am pregnant"—David quickly manages the crisis. He recalls her husband, Uriah the Hittite, from the front lines to cover it up. But Uriah, a foreigner, acts with covenantal integrity, refusing to sleep at home while his comrades camp in the field. When Uriah ruins his cover story, David escalates, sending Uriah back carrying his own death warrant. Uriah is killed, David marries Bathsheba, and the crisis seems contained.

Except for the story’s final line: "But the thing that David had done displeased the Lord."

God sends the prophet Nathan, who tells a simple story about a rich man with vast herds who steals a poor man's single, beloved ewe lamb to feed a visitor.

David’s moral indignation is ignited: "The man who has done this deserves to die!"

And right at that moment, Nathan drops the trapdoor: "You are the man."

God points directly to the root of David’s sin: a fundamental distrust of divine grace—a belief that God’s provision is not enough, which drives him to grab and hoard. Nathan’s story brings David face-to-face with truth. That same mirror turns gently toward us today.

Bringing the Mirror Home

We must bring Nathan’s mirror home to this sanctuary.

It is easy for a church—just like a king—to build protective walls out of self-preservation. As we mark seven years since our legacy congregations merged into this single church body, we recognize that seven years is a milestone worth celebrating. Yet in any season of change, it can be easy to want to hold onto the way things used to be.

But because we are rooted in Christ, we do not need to lead out of caution or defensiveness. God’s grace gives us a safe, gracious space to acknowledge those lingering feelings without fear, letting go of what was so we can channel our energy into what is—serving the living mission of Jesus Christ together.

In fact, today at the back of the sanctuary, you’ll find an easel. As you leave worship later, I invite you to stop by, take a marker, and write down what you miss, as well as what sustains you—bringing both our grief and our gratitude out into the light of God's grace. Because that is where healing always begins: in simple, unvarnished honesty. When David was finally brought face-to-face with his own truth by Nathan, he didn't offer excuses. He prayed Psalm 51: "Create in me a clean heart, O God."

At its core, David’s sin—and so much of our own—stems from a mindset of scarcity. Scarcity tells us there is never enough grace, status, or control to go around. It makes us lock up our hearts and view reconciliation as a risk we cannot afford. But true repentance shifts us from scarcity to God’s boundless abundance.

When we realize that God’s grace is infinite, we no longer need to protect our pride or hoard our resources. Receiving God’s forgiveness naturally spills outward into horizontal grace across these pews and into our community. Repentance isn't a burdensome duty; it is the liberating relief of discovering there is more than enough grace for every single one of us—allowing us to lay down the heavy burdens of self-defense we were never meant to carry anyway.

Stepping Out onto Clean Ground

Today, we launch our annual stewardship campaign: The Plowshare Pledge.

The world's way of scarcity beats plowshares into weapons and hoards resources behind walls. But as the Church, we are called to beat swords into plowshares—driven not by fear, but by grace and trust. Stewardship isn't a duty or a membership tax; it is simply what an unburdened, grace-filled heart looks like in practice.

Think back once more to those iron shoes along the Danube—a tragic monument to human fear and self-preservation. But in scripture, slipping off our shoes means something entirely different. Like Moses before the burning bush, taking off our shoes acknowledges that the ground beneath our feet is holy.

Right now, right where you sit, I invite you to take a physical step of faith. If you are comfortable doing so, slip your shoes off your feet. Wiggle your toes. Feel the solid floor beneath you in this sanctuary. 

Let this simple action be a physical sign of what God is doing in our hearts today. As your shoes come off, let  down any defenses you brought through these doors. Unclench your hands, breathe, and feel the clean, solid ground of God’s grace beneath you. You don't need to carry the panic of our culture anymore. You are standing on holy ground.

Hear this word of assurance today: God does not hold your past against you. Just as Nathan declared to David—"The Lord has put away your sin"—that same word of pardon is spoken to us today. Your past is forgiven. The old accounts are closed.

Step out into God’s peace. Set down those self-protective walls, open your hearts, and let us walk forward together in radical trust, boundless generosity, and open-handed love. Amen.

Preached on Reformation Sunday, October 25, 2026, at Vista Lutheran Church, St. Louis Park, MN.

Wilderness Mindsets: Reclaiming Our Shechem - Leaving Old Divides to Serve One God

During the pandemic, like a lot of people who suddenly found themselves with far too much unstructured time, I developed a slight YouTube addiction. While some people were mastering sourdough or learning foreign languages, I found myself drawn into a very specific rabbit hole: young people buying unbelievably beat-up fixer-uppers and attempting to restore them without losing their minds or their life savings.

There’s one channel in particular I keep coming back to. It’s run by a young woman originally from Louisville who moved out to a tiny town in North Dakota. She became popular because the very first house she bought in that town was sold to her for exactly one dollar. Now, whenever a property is priced lower than a gas station cup of coffee, you know there’s gotta be a catch. Undeterred, she made it her personal mission to take that dollar house—and then other abandoned properties in that small town—rehab them, and bring a little life back to the town.

If you’ve ever renovated an older home, you know the most head-scratching drama usually happens at a seam—where the original house meets a later addition. Underneath a fresh coat of paint, that seam hides the real surprises: leaks, rotted joists, and sloping floors. Often, unless both structures are tied into a single foundation, the whole house runs on wishful thinking.

For seven years now, our church family has been living inside an addition.

Seven years ago, two distinct congregations came together under one roof. Today, our worship rises as one sound, and that initial logistical awkwardness is long gone. Yet if we are honest, that seam does still exist. It can show up in subtle assumptions, unspoken friction around new decisions, and nostalgic whispers: “That’s not how we used to do it at…fill in the blank. 

We are living at the seam. To see how God addresses a community at such a threshold, listen to Joshua 24:

Then Joshua gathered all the tribes of Israel to Shechem and summoned the elders, the heads, the judges, and the officers of Israel, and they presented themselves before God. And Joshua said to all the people, “Thus says the Lord, the God of Israel: Long ago your ancestors—Terah and his sons Abraham and Nahor—lived beyond the Euphrates and served other gods. Then I took your father Abraham from beyond the River and led him through all the land of Canaan and made his offspring many. I gave him Isaac, and to Isaac I gave Jacob and Esau. I gave Esau the hill country of Seir to possess, but Jacob and his children went down to Egypt. Then I sent Moses and Aaron, and I plagued Egypt with what I did in its midst, and afterward I brought you out. When I brought your ancestors out of Egypt, you came to the sea, and the Egyptians pursued your ancestors with chariots and horsemen to the Red Sea. When they cried out to the Lord, he put darkness between you and the Egyptians and made the sea come upon them and cover them, and your eyes saw what I did to Egypt. Afterward you lived in the wilderness a long time. Then I brought you to the land of the Amorites, who lived on the other side of the Jordan; they fought with you, and I handed them over to you, and you took possession of their land, and I destroyed them before you. Then King Balak son of Zippor of Moab set out to fight against Israel. He sent and invited Balaam son of Beor to curse you, but I would not listen to Balaam; therefore he blessed you, so I rescued you out of his hand. When you went over the Jordan and came to Jericho, the citizens of Jericho fought against you, as well as the Amorites, the Perizzites, the Canaanites, the Hittites, the Girgashites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites, and I handed them over to you. I sent swarms of hornets ahead of you that drove out before you the two kings of the Amorites; it was not by your sword or by your bow. I gave you a land on which you had not labored and towns that you had not built, and you live in them; you eat the fruit of vineyards and oliveyards that you did not plant.

“Now, therefore, revere the Lord and serve him in sincerity and in faithfulness; put away the gods that your ancestors served beyond the River and in Egypt and serve the Lord. Now if you are unwilling to serve the Lord, choose this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your ancestors served in the region beyond the River or the gods of the Amorites in whose land you are living, but as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord.”

Then the people answered, “Far be it from us that we should forsake the Lord to serve other gods, for it is the Lord our God who brought us and our ancestors up from the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery, and who did those great signs in our sight. He protected us along all the way that we went and among all the peoples through whom we passed, and the Lord drove out before us all the peoples, the Amorites who lived in the land. Therefore we also will serve the Lord, for he is our God.”

But Joshua said to the people, “You cannot serve the Lord, for he is a holy God. He is a jealous God; he will not forgive your transgressions or your sins. If you forsake the Lord and serve foreign gods, then he will turn and do you harm and consume you, after having done you good.” And the people said to Joshua, “No, we will serve the Lord!” Then Joshua said to the people, “You are witnesses against yourselves that you have chosen the Lord, to serve him.” And they said, “We are witnesses.” He said, “Then put away the foreign gods that are among you, and incline your hearts to the Lord, the God of Israel.” The people said to Joshua, “The Lord our God we will serve, and him we will obey.” So Joshua made a covenant with the people that day and made statutes and ordinances for them at Shechem. Joshua wrote these words in the book of the law of God, and he took a large stone and set it up there under the oak in the sanctuary of the Lord. --Joshua 24:1-26 (NRSVue)

At Shechem, we read of disparate clans who have gathered with very distinct ancestral memories and old regional gods packed in their luggage. Joshua summons them to confront those legacy loyalties and commit to one shared covenant.

People often rush to verse 15—"Choose this day whom you will serve." But focusing solely on human choice misses the theological center here. As Lutherans, we remember Martin Luther’s Small Catechism: I believe that I cannot by my own reason or strength believe in Jesus Christ... Grace always comes first.

In verses 3–13, before asking Israel for anything, God recounts seventeen explicit "I" statements: "I took... I led... I gave..." Verse 13 brings it home: "I gave you a land on which you had not labored..."

This is our great equalizer post-merger. Neither of our predecessor congregations saved themselves. We sit here today in a vineyard we did not plant. Long before the merger between Prince of Peace and Wooddale happened on paper, Christ grafted us onto the vine. Realizing that our entire shared life rests on unearned grace transforms former rivals into fellow beggars at the same table.

Only then does Joshua demand they put away foreign gods. Holding onto old church rivalries, keeping score over past decisions, or digging in our heels for the "way we used to do it" is our modern equivalent of worshiping those idols. It anchors us to dead history instead of the resurrection present.

When the people offer easy promises, Joshua stops them cold: "You cannot serve the LORD, for he is a holy God." On human willpower alone, we fail. That is where Shechem points directly to the Gospel. Where human promises fall aparte, Christ stands in the breach, breaking down the dividing walls that set us against one another.

In Deuteronomy 5:3, Moses declares: "Not with our ancestors did the LORD make this covenant, but with us, who are all of us here alive today." God’s covenant isn't an antique heirloom from seven years ago. Christ meets us right now—in real bread, real wine, and real community. True unity means bearing one another's burdens gently, carrying structural weight together because Christ first carried the ultimate burden for us on the cross.

Joshua sets up a large stone under an oak tree as a lasting witness. Scripture tells us Jesus is the chief cornerstone who ties the whole structure together into a single house of God.

After seven years together under a shared roof, it is time to rest fully on that Cornerstone. Let us leave old divides that remain behind. May we bind our gifts into one undivided body—dedicated to serving the crucified and risen Christ who brought us here through grace. Amen.

Preached Sunday, October 18, 2026, at Vista Lutheran Church, St. Louis Park, MN.

Wilderness Mindsets: Walking Between the Waters

When the king of Egypt was told that the people had fled, the minds of Pharaoh and his officials were changed toward the people, and they said, “What have we done, letting Israel leave our service?” So he had his chariot made ready and took his army with him; he took six hundred elite chariots and all the other chariots of Egypt with officers over all of them.

As Pharaoh drew near, the Israelites looked back, and there were the Egyptians advancing on them. In great fear the Israelites cried out to the Lord. They said to Moses, “Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you have taken us away to die in the wilderness? What have you done to us, bringing us out of Egypt? Is this not the very thing we told you in Egypt, ‘Let us alone so that we can serve the Egyptians’? For it would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the wilderness.” But Moses said to the people, “Do not be afraid, stand firm, and see the deliverance that the Lord will accomplish for you today, for the Egyptians whom you see today you shall never see again. The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to keep still.”Then Moses stretched out his hand over the sea. The Lord drove the sea back by a strong east wind all night and turned the sea into dry land, and the waters were divided. The Israelites went into the sea on dry ground, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left. The Egyptians pursued and went into the sea after them, all of Pharaoh’s horses, chariots, and chariot drivers. At the morning watch the Lord, in the pillar of fire and cloud, looked down on the Egyptian army and threw the Egyptian army into a panic. He clogged their chariot wheels so that they turned with difficulty. The Egyptians said, “Let us flee from the Israelites, for the Lord is fighting for them against Egypt.”

Then the Lord said to Moses, “Stretch out your hand over the sea, so that the water may come back upon the Egyptians, upon their chariots and chariot drivers.” So Moses stretched out his hand over the sea, and at dawn the sea returned to its normal depth. As the Egyptians fled before it, the Lord tossed the Egyptians into the sea. The waters returned and covered the chariots and the chariot drivers, the entire army of Pharaoh that had followed them into the sea; not one of them remained. But the Israelites walked on dry ground through the sea, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left. --Exodus 14:5-7, 10-14, 21-29 (NRSVue)

Look around the sanctuary today. We have barking, purring, squeaking, a bit of shedding, and hopefully no unexpected accidents on the carpet! If you had told the ancient Israelites as they stood trapped between Pharaoh’s advancing army and the Reed Sea that several thousand years later, a congregation would gather to mark deliverance by inviting dogs, cats, and stuffed animals into church, they’d probably assume we’d spent a little too long in the wilderness sun.

Yet here we are on St. Francis Day, surrounded by God’s creation and the pets who walk alongside us, right as we start our October journey where we’re looking at wilderness mindsets.

When we look at Exodus 14, something surprising happens. As Pharaoh’s 600 chariots appear on the horizon, the Israelites don't react with courage. They panic. They turn on Moses and say: “Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you brought us out here to die? It would have been better to serve the Egyptians!”

That is a deeply human reaction. When we feel trapped against a wall—or an ocean—we tend to romanticize the past. "Egypt was oppressive," the children of Israel thought, "but at least it was predictable!"

We know that feeling. As a merged congregation, you set out to build a shared future, only to have the pandemic and so much more interrupt the delicate work of blending lives and letting go of old traditions. Now, as we do the work of letting go of former habits, it can feel intimidating. The urge to look back and say, "Wouldn't it be easier to stick with what we knew?" is very real.

In ancient times, the sea represented chaos, disorder, and death. So when God sends a strong wind all night to divide those waters, it isn't just a rescue—it’s an act of re-creation. Just like in Genesis, God’s breath - God’s ruach - pushes back the chaotic waters to create order, safety, and dry ground. 

This moment at the sea reveals the very heart of God: a God who consistently meets us at dead ends and makes a way forward out of places of death. Centuries later, Jesus showed us this same God at work—taking what looked like total defeat on the cross and opening up a path to resurrection and new life. Dead ends simply do not have the final word with God.

Notice what happens once that path opens: God provides the dry ground, but the Israelites still have to gather the courage to step onto it and walk between those walls of water to reach the other side.

God frees us from our past not so we can sit still in old comforts, but so we can walk into freedom and serve the world around us. Saint Francis understood that this call to serve extends to all of God's creation—from the birds in the trees to the loyal pets sitting at your feet today. Our animals live grounded in present grace, reminding us of the simple, unearned love God offers us every day.

As we let go of old traditions and step onto new paths this fall, do not be afraid. The God who carved a path through the Reed Sea and brings life out of every grave is making a way for us today.

May we leave the old shores behind, take courage, and walk together into God's future—serving our neighbors and caring for all of creation.

Amen.

Preached October 4, 2026, Feast Day of St Francis/Pentecost 19, at Vista Lutheran Church, St. Louis Park, MN.

The Storm and the Road: Dressed in Grace - Faithfulness in Foreign Rooms

Closet History and Practical Transitions

If you walk into your home tonight, I guarantee there’s a jacket hanging in your closet that hasn't seen the light of day in years. Maybe it’s a vintage leisure suit, a heavily padded 80s blazer, or—like this high school varsity jacket I’m wearing, which I uncovered this past summer while packing up boxes during a move—a coat you keep simply because you can’t bring yourself to throw it away. Why? Because fabric holds memory.

Our church buildings work the exact same way. For Wooddale, Prince of Peace, Vista, and Spirit of Christ, our physical structures are like favorite old coats. They’ve sheltered our prayers, kept us warm through baptisms and heartbreaks, and fit us perfectly for a season. But standing in a season of building transitions feels like being caught between winter and spring—wearing a heavy parka when it’s 70 degrees outside, just not quite sure what to put on next.  

Luckily, we aren't the first ones navigating a complicated wardrobe change. If you open the Book of Genesis, you find a young man whose entire life can be measured in the garments he wore and the ones he was forced to leave behind. Listen now to the Word of God as it comes to us in Genesis chapter 39.

Now Joseph was taken down to Egypt, and Potiphar, an officer of Pharaoh, the captain of the guard, an Egyptian, bought him from the Ishmaelites who had brought him down there. The Lord was with Joseph, and he became a successful man; he was in the house of his Egyptian master. His master saw that the Lord was with him and that the Lord caused all that he did to prosper in his hands. So Joseph found favor in his sight and attended him; he made him overseer of his house and put him in charge of all that he had. From the time that he made him overseer in his house and over all that he had, the Lord blessed the Egyptian’s house for Joseph’s sake; the blessing of the Lord was on all that he had, in house and field. So he left all that he had in Joseph’s charge, and with him there he had no concern for anything but the food that he ate.

Now Joseph was handsome and good-looking. And after a time his master’s wife cast her eyes on Joseph and said, “Lie with me.” But he refused and said to his master’s wife, “Look, with me here, my master has no concern about anything in the house, and he has put everything that he has in my hand. He is not greater in this house than I am, nor has he kept back anything from me except yourself, because you are his wife. How then could I do this great wickedness and sin against God?” And although she spoke to Joseph day after day, he would not consent to lie beside her or to be with her. One day, however, when he went into the house to do his work, and while no one else was in the house, she caught hold of his garment, saying, “Lie with me!” But he left his garment in her hand and fled and ran outside. When she saw that he had left his garment in her hand and had fled outside, she called out to the members of her household and said to them, “See, my husband has brought among us a Hebrew to insult us! He came in to me to lie with me, and I cried out with a loud voice, and when he heard me raise my voice and cry out, he left his garment beside me and fled outside.” Then she kept his garment by her until his master came home, and she told him the same story, saying, “The Hebrew servant, whom you have brought among us, came in to me to insult me, but as soon as I raised my voice and cried out, he left his garment beside me and fled outside.”

When his master heard the words that his wife spoke to him, saying, “This is the way your servant treated me,” he became enraged. And Joseph’s master took him and put him into the prison, the place where the king’s prisoners were confined; he remained there in prison. But the Lord was with Joseph and showed him steadfast love; he gave him favor in the sight of the chief jailer. The chief jailer committed to Joseph’s care all the prisoners who were in the prison, and whatever was done there, he was the one who did it. The chief jailer paid no heed to anything that was in Joseph’s care because the Lord was with him, and whatever he did, the Lord made it prosper. (Genesis 39:1-23 NRSVue)

Joseph’s Wardrobe Malfunctions

Joseph’s story is practically a fashion show of divine curveballs. First, his dad gives him that famous multi-colored coat, which his brothers promptly rip off him before tossing him down a pit. Then he ends up in Egypt, dresses for success, and becomes Potiphar’s top administrator. Things are looking up—until Potiphar’s wife frames him, grabs his cloak as he runs out the door, and uses his own clothes as fake evidence to land him in a prison cell. 

Joseph gets stripped down to his undershirt—no physical status, no square footage to manage, and definitely no custom outerwear. Yet, right there in the basement of Egyptian correctional facilities, the Bible repeats a steady drumbeat: "The Lord was with Joseph." 

In our Lutheran tradition, we hold to a deep truth: God shows up most profoundly, not when our buildings look like a grand blueprint of success, but when our plans get unraveled. Joseph didn't put his faith on hold while waiting for a better season; he served inside a prison cell with the very same integrity he brought to the palace. His ministry was never defined by the roof over his head, but by the God who stayed beside him. The Lord who was with him.

Unraveling the Sacred Fabric

As we consider our buildings and properties at Vista and Spirit of Christ, we know we are dealing with a sacred fabric woven over many years. Martin Luther referred to these physical spaces as larvae Dei—the "masks" or outer garments God wears to care for the world.

Through the building of Prince of Peace, God wore a coat of community outreach that eventually transformed that land into space for childcare and affordable housing. Through the sanctuary of Wooddale, God offered a cloak of hospitality for joining Prince of Peace members.

In the world of weaving, if you want to take good wool from a cherished old piece and make something new, you have to carefully unravel it first. God’s tailoring works the exact same way. To weave a new garment for our future, the old building fabric often has to be unraveled.

Spirit of Christ is at that exact threshold today, asking: How can our building and property be reshaped as a garment to bless our neighbors now? Unraveling a physical coat we’ve worn for decades is hard, uncomfortable work. But in God’s economy, letting go of a building isn't a funeral—it’s just handing the fabric back to the Master Tailor so a new shelter - a new garment - can be sewn.

Styled in Grace

The Augsburg Confession reminds us what the Church actually is. It’s not brick, mortar, or a specific architectural style. The Church is simply the gathering of believers where the Gospel is proclaimed and the sacraments are shared. That is the one outfit that never goes out of style and never suffers from deferred maintenance.

Two chapters later, when Joseph finally gets pulled out of prison in Genesis 41, Pharaoh dresses him in fine linen and a gold chain. But those high-end clothes weren't given to him so he could strut around—they were his larvae Dei - the garments given to him by God for his vocation through which he would feed a starving world.

Our ultimate legacy isn't holding onto real estate. It’s taking the equity wrapped up in our bricks and mortar and using it to clothe our neighborhood in practical hope—feeding the hungry, supporting families, and sharing grace.

Dressed for the Future

God’s presence has never depended on the specific sanctuary we’re standing in or the architectural style of our walls. Whether Joseph was in the foreign halls of a palace, the damp stone of a prison cell, or stepping out into an unknown future, the constant thread throughout his story remained the same: The Lord was with him.

And the Lord is with us, too.

We don't have to erase our history to step into what’s next. We can cherish the old coats that sheltered us—the sanctuaries where we wept, celebrated, and encountered God—while still having the courage to lay them down when the season changes. We don't need to fear standing in this middle place, this quiet waiting room of transition. The One who clothes the lilies of the field is the Master Tailor who is already gathering our threads, unraveling what was, and weaving our future together in grace.

So let us step forward with open hands and confident hearts. Let us trust that as the outer garments change, the Body beneath them—the living, breathing Church of Jesus Christ—remains warm, vital, and ready to clothe this world in love. Amen.

Preached Sunday, September 27, 2026, at a joint worship service with Vista and Spirit of Christ Lutheran churches.

The Storm and the Road: Leaving the Baseline

In the house where my brother and I grew up, there was a heavy, battered trunk sitting up in the attic, covered in decades of dust. When we were kids, my brother pulled it down and restored it as a 4-H project—painstakingly cleaning off the grime, fixing the iron hinges, and bringing the wood back to life. Today, that trunk sits in my home, a constant reminder of our shared history.

Every time I look at it, I am reminded of what it actually represents. It wasn't built to be living room décor or a project to win a ribbon at the county fair. It was built for survival. My ancestors, perhaps like yours, packed everything they owned into that box, locked the latch, and walked away from their homes in Northern Europe to cross an ocean into a completely unknown future. So many of those early immigrant families wrote back home in their letters and journals comparing their trek across the Atlantic and onto the Midwest prairie to Abraham’s journey, truly believing they were seeking a new "promised land."

We tend to look at old family heirlooms with a kind of cozy nostalgia, but that trunk was born out of sheer risk. Leaving the familiar was terrifying for those who came before us. But they did it because they believed God had a future for them that couldn't be found by staying put.

We often fall into what we might call the baseline fallacy—the subtle belief that our original starting point, our comfortable home or familiar past, is the only ideal state in which to exist. But our ancestors understood a hard truth that we so easily forget: We cannot follow God into the future if we are married to the way things used to be.

Long before that trunk crossed the Atlantic, an elderly couple stood in the dust of Mesopotamia facing the exact same choice. We read of them today in Genesis, chapter 12. 

Now the Lord said to Abram, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse, and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.”

So Abram went, as the Lord had told him, and Lot went with him. Abram was seventy-five years old when he departed from Haran. Abram took his wife Sarai and his brother’s son Lot and all the possessions that they had gathered and the persons whom they had acquired in Haran, and they set forth to go to the land of Canaan. When they had come to the land of Canaan, Abram passed through the land to the place at Shechem, to the oak of Moreh. At that time the Canaanites were in the land. Then the Lord appeared to Abram and said, “To your offspring I will give this land.” So he built there an altar to the Lord, who had appeared to him. From there he moved on to the hill country on the east of Bethel and pitched his tent, with Bethel on the west and Ai on the east, and there he built an altar to the Lord and invoked the name of the Lord.  And Abram journeyed on by stages toward the Negeb. (Genesis 12:1-9 NRSVue)

Notice what happens when Abram finally arrives in the land God promised. He doesn't build a fortress. He doesn't lay a concrete foundation. He does two very intentional things: he pitches a tent, and he builds an altar.

The tent is a statement of transience, signaling that we are not settling down into comfort, but ready to move whenever God says move. The altar is a statement of faith, declaring that God is right here, in this temporary place, right now.

When Abram built those altars along the road, he wasn't trying to build a fortress or guard his self-interests. He was simply taking what he had in his hands and using it to mark the places where God had met him. His whole life was given to the journey, not to playing it safe.

We naturally crave the fortress. We want permanent walls, predictable routines, and the safety of what worked yesterday. But throughout Scripture, God rarely meets God's people in static comfort. God shows up on the dusty road, in the wilderness, and in the transition—the places where we are forced to depend on God because our usual safety nets have been pulled away.

This hits close to home for all of us.

Seven years ago, Wooddale and Prince of Peace gave up their individual identities to merge into Vista. That was not a simple administrative decision. It was a loss. It meant closing doors, moving furniture, and grieving spaces that held decades of weddings, baptisms, and quiet prayers. Then came the storms of cultural shift and the isolation of pandemic years.

For the last seven years, it has often felt like we’ve been living in a holding pattern or a long waiting room. But waiting rooms are not wasted space. In Scripture, those holding patterns are where God deepens our faith, shapes our character, and prepares us for what comes next.

Now, seven years in—entering this holy Sabbath cycle of processing our shared memory—this fall is our dedicated season to pause on this journey. We are here to do the sacred, necessary work of looking back together. We are here to reflect on where we have come from, to give ourselves full permission to grieve what has been lost, and to also name the new, positive life that has emerged along the way.

Today, we are launching our Merged Timeline Wall in the hallway. Each one of you is invited to step up to that timeline wall over the next few weeks, to map your own origins and history, to tell your own story. And, together, to honor every single stream that has brought us into this room in this moment. 

Right now, in this fall season, our primary task is to pause, reflect, process, and offer our lives to God right where we are, getting our hearts ready for wherever the road leads next. Taking that road forward doesn't mean forgetting where we came from. It means honoring the legacy of those who went before us by exemplifying their courage, not just preserving their old structures. 

So, let us honor our story, build the altar where we find ourselves today, and trust that the God who called Abram into the unknown is the very same God holding us now.

May it be so. Amen.

Preached September 20, 2026, at Vista Lutheran Church, St. Louis Park, MN.