The Glory of the Shattered Shell

Imagine, for a moment, that you are a single grain of wheat. You are perfect, polished, and entirely intact. Your golden shell is hard and protective, keeping you safe from the wind, the birds, and the damp, dark uncertainty of the soil. From the outside, you look like a success. You have managed to keep yourself "together." But there is a silent tragedy in your safety. As long as you remain whole, you are utterly alone. You are a monument to yourself, but you are a graveyard for the life locked inside you. To stay "together" is to stay small; to be "shattered" is the only way to feed a hungry world.

This is the paradox at the heart of our two Gospel texts today - the first from chapter 12, which we heard at the beginning of our worship. And a second text from chapter 19, which we’ll hear in just a moment. The paradox begins with a group of Greeks, who we meet in chapter 12. 

We wrestled a bit this past Tuesday in our Caribou conversation about exactly who these Greeks were. From the context - it would seem as though they are Greek-speaking Jews. Part of the diaspora - the Jews who had fled Jerusalem due to Roman imperialism and persecution. And the destruction of the temple in 70 CE. Keep in mind that this gospel was actually written after the temple was destroyed - some 60 years after Christ.

Or, were these actually ethnic Greeks? Gentiles who had come to Jerusalem because, perhaps, the word about this man Jesus was getting out - particularly after he had raised Lazarus from the dead. In our Tuesday morning conversation, I landed on the side of these being diasporan Jews--Greek-speaking Jews, returning from far away to celebrate Passover. I was wrong. Let me show you how I figured that out.

When we look at this text in the Greek, there are two possibilities. One is that this word is Hellēnistai, which would mean that these were Greek-speaking Jews of the diaspora.  The other possibility is that the word is Hellēnes, meaning ethnic Greeks. Gentiles. Which word do you suppose I found? 

That’s right. A look at the original language tells us that these were ethnic Greeks, Gentiles who had come to see Jesus. Why is this important? 

Well, when Jesus arrives in Jerusalem, these ethnic Greeks - these Gentiles - approach the disciples with a simple, but world-shifting, request: “Sir, we wish to seek Jesus.” When this message reaches Jesus, he doesn’t give a lecture or perform a miracle. Instead, he gives this rather odd response. He speaks of biology. He says that the hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified, but he defines that glory through the lens of a seed. Jesus recognizes that their arrival is a signal that the harvest is becoming too big for one village, or one nation, to contain. As long as he remains “intact” as a local teacher in Galilee, the life he carries remains confined. For his life - for his fullness of life - to reach the Greeks, the Romans, and eventually us, the “seed” has to fall. The shell has to break.

It is the brutal reality of this “shattering” that we hear now in our second gospel text for the day, from John, chapter 19.

"So they took Jesus, and carrying the cross by himself he went out to what is called The Place of the Skull, which in Hebrew is called Golgotha. There they crucified him and with him two others, one on either side, with Jesus between them. Pilate also had an inscription written and put on the cross. It read, 'Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.' Many of the Jews read this inscription because the place where Jesus was crucified was near the city, and it was written in Hebrew, in Latin, and in Greek. Then the chief priests of the Jews said to Pilate, 'Do not write, "The King of the Jews," but, "This man said, I am King of the Jews."' Pilate answered, 'What I have written I have written.'" --John 19:16b-22 (NRSVue)

We often read this as a moment of pure suffering. And, make no mistake, it is.

But through the lens of the grain, it is the moment of ultimate relinquishment. We see the "shattering" in the weight of that cross and the piercing of Jesus's body. In the eyes of the world, this is a scene of total defeat where the seed is being crushed into the dust. Yet, look at the detail of that inscription. It is written in Hebrew, Latin, and Greek. This is the divine answer to those Greek seekers who came knocking in chapter 12. The shattering of Jesus’s physical body is the breaking of the shell that will allow the Spirit to pour out into every language and every culture. In that moment, the boundaries of Israel are breached forever. The Seed dies to its singular, local identity so that a global family can sprout from the soil of Calvary.

Sometimes in my sermon preparations, I go down rabbit holes. Do you ever do that? Most often they are a waste of time. But, this week, I stumbled upon a YouTube video (You know how I love YouTube!) that captured this text incredibly well. Watch it here.

This movement - this breaking of the seed shell - reveals the profound difference between sacrifice and surrender. We often think of the cross as a sacrifice—an active, heroic choice to give something up. And it was. Sacrifice is the ticket to the doorway. But surrender is the posture that keeps us open. When Jesus bows his head, we see his internal yielding of a soul that has stopped clinging onto its own life. To the seed, the moist earth feels like a cold grave; but to the plant, that same earth is the only source of life. The difference is surrender. When we surrender, we stop wrestling life into submission and finally allow the Creator to reshape us.

The shattering of the One led to the healing of the Many. Because the Seed was willing to die, the Gentile expansion exploded across the earth, from the Hebrew-speaking Jews, to the Latin-speaking Romans, to the Greek-speaking Greeks, to us, English speakers that we are. 

The shattering of the seed - of Jesus - turned a local movement into a universal hope. Into our universal hope. This is not just a historical event for us to remember; it is a biological and spiritual reality we are invited to inhabit. 

We all have "shells"—identities we’ve built, reputations we guard, and plans we hold onto with white knuckles. We spend our lives terrified of the "fall," afraid that if our plans break or our reputations shatter or our identities are fractured, we are finished. But the Gospel tells us that we are not being destroyed; we are being planted. We are moving from the "prison" of self-control into the "grace" of abundant growth.

So, if you feel "shattered" today—if a career has ended, a relationship has failed, or the person you thought you were has been stripped away—do not mistake the breaking of the shell for the end of your story. Like the Greeks at the Passover, the world is waiting to see the life of Christ that inhabits you. But, they cannot see it through a polished, "together" exterior. They see it through the cracks. They see it in the fruit that the Spirit grows in us only after the fall. 

May we have the courage to release our grip, to open our hands from a posture of defense to one of receiving, and to trust that the shattering of our shell is, in fact, the birth of the harvest. May God grant it. Amen.

Preached March 29, 2026, at Rejoice Lutheran Church, Clearwater, MN. 

Palm/Passion Sunday

Text: John 19:16b-22 NRSVue

Filling the Empty Jars: Finding Abundance in a Wounded World

 I want to begin this morning not with some grand theological statement, but with a simple story about a story. We’re going to look at a familiar passage today - a wedding feast, a worried mother, and a miracle of abundance. I pray that we might hear it in a new way, because I believe that this ancient story of a party that almost failed speaks directly into the heart of the wounds and divisions we have felt so sharply in our broader community this past week. 

For nearly two decades, this pottery jar has been sitting on the bookshelf in my home. It has traveled with me from place to place and has served one purpose. It holds used wine corks. Every time a bottle has been opened to celebrate a birth, an anniversary, a new job, or just the simple gift of a family dinner, the cork has gone into this jar. Over twenty years, it has - as you can imagine - become wonderfully, ridiculously full. It’s a reminder for me of laughter, and community, and moments when life felt generous and the wine overflowed. It is, for me, a jar of abundance.

It feels this week, though, like the jars of our city, our state, our nation are empty. That we, as a community, have run out. That the peace is gone. That the sense of safety in neighborhoods is gone. Our hope - God’s hope - for a shared, common life feels like it’s run dry. 

This was a hard week in Minneapolis. We learned of the shooting of Renee Nicole Good, a 37-year-old mother and poet in our city. We are feeling the anxiety of federal ICE agents present, not just in Minneapolis, but in Buffalo and St. Cloud, and in my hometown of Monticello, disrupting the delicate stability of families and communities. We are exhausted by a political climate that seems to demand that we choose a side, when all we want - I believe - is to mend the tearing fabric of our communities. Our jars of patience, of trust, of civic grace feel empty. 

How do we move toward healing? We are reminded that the only path to a blessing is through the wound itself. Our call this week is not to look away, but to find the courage to touch the wound of our community’s grief. This is where the Word meets us, where Christ meets us. Not in a place of strength, but in a moment of scarcity.  

So, the question this story from Cana forces us to ask is this: In a world where things are constantly running dry, where do we find a hope that is truly abundant?

To understand where we are in John’s Gospel, we must remember where we have just been. We are just past the Prologue, that great cosmic poem that declares that the same Word, the same Voice that spoke light into darkness in Genesis, has now “become flesh and moved into the neighborhood,” as Eugene Peterson puts it in The Message. The God who created the world has not abandoned it, but has come back to begin the work of re-creating it, of mending what was broken. This wedding at Cana is not just a miracle; it is the first sign of that new creation breaking into our scratchy, wounded world. 

A reading from John, chapter 2.

On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.” And Jesus said to her, “Woman, what concern is that to me and to you? My hour has not yet come.” His mother said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.” Now standing there were six stone water jars for the Jewish rites of purification, each holding twenty or thirty gallons. Jesus said to them, “Fill the jars with water.” And they filled them up to the brim. He said to them, “Now draw some out, and take it to the person in charge of the banquet.” So they took it. When the person in charge tasted the water that had become wine and did not know where it came from (though the servants who had drawn the water knew), that person called the bridegroom and said to him, “Everyone serves the good wine first and then the inferior wine after the guests have become drunk. But you have kept the good wine until now.” Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee and revealed his glory, and his disciples believed in him. --John 2:1-11 (NRSVue)

Did you hear it? That moment of tension, of human friction in the story? “Woman, what concern is that to me and to you? My hour has not yet come.” This isn’t the response of a callous son, but of the Word-made-Flesh counting the cost. 

Jesus understands that the moment he steps out of the quiet life of a carpenter’s son and into the public work of mending the world, the clock starts ticking. The path to revealing his glory is the path to the cross. His “hour” is the hour of his death, resurrection, and ascension. 

In this slight moment of hesitation, Jesus gives us a hint of the immense personal cost of re-creation. He knows that to fill the world’s empty jars, he will need to be emptied himself.

His reluctance is a gift to us, because it validates our own. In a week like this one, faced with the pain of our city, don’t we all feel that same hesitation? Don’t we want to say, “What concern is that to me? I am tired. This is too complicated.” Jesus understands that feeling. He knows deeply the weariness that comes with confronting the world’s brokenness.

But then there is Mary. 

In John’s Gospel, she is the first to touch the wound - the advocate who sees the coming social shame, the scarcity of wine that threatens the community’s joy. She refuses to look away. 

She doesn’t offer a solution or a 5-point plan. She simply stands in the gap and speaks the honest and authentic truth to the One with the power to act: “They have no wine.” She compels a response, not with a command to her son, but with a simple statement of need. 

It is in this moment that Mary models for us our primary assignment: to stand in proximity to the pain, to see the emptiness others might ignore, and to raise the needs of the marginalized. It is her courage, her persistent faith, that will be met, not with some heavenly spectacle, but with the most ordinary of objects.

The power of this first sign in John lies not just in its amazing outcome, but in its humble materials. The miracle happens in six stone water jars - jars intended for the Jewish rites of purification. These jars represent for us the systems, the laws, the religious and civic structures of our world. They are the very containers we build to hold our society together. They are the containers meant to serve the rituals that keep a community ordered and clean.

Notice what Jesus doesn’t do. He doesn’t smash them. He doesn’t discard the law or the tradition they represent. He respects them as vessels. But he shows us a profound truth - that any law, any system, any structure is ultimately empty if it does not produce the “wine” of human flourishing, of mercy, of justice, of abundant life for everyone. Everyone. 

Let’s bring this home to our present circumstance. We can see our community as a great wedding feast, a place where families are trying to build lives of joy and stability. This week, that feast has been disrupted. 

Our deepest traditions - shared across every political divide - hold the integrity of the family and the stability of the household as sacred, as gifts from God. When any force - federal or otherwise - tears at that fabric and creates chaos where there should be order, we must ask if it is truly serving its God-given purpose. Martin Luther taught that civil authorities are meant to be a “mask of God,” a means through which God protects and provides for the world. But when the actions of any authority result in a mother being torn from her children, that authority ceases to wear the mask of God’s protection. And instead wears a mask of chaos.

Our call today, then, is not to pick a political side, but to ask a theological question. To look at our societal “jars” - our systems of justice, our structures for community safety, our governmental policies - and to ask whether these systems are functioning as vessels of life-giving water. Or whether they are merely cold empty stones that testify to a failing celebration.

After she points out the problem, Mary turns to the servants and gives them what becomes the central command for us this morning. It is a wonderfully Christ-centered, non-partisan call to action: “Do whatever he tells you.”

I know that many of us feel helpless in the face of such large, systemic problems. We feel exhausted and wonder what we could possibly do. But, notice that Mary’s command isn’t to solve the whole world’s wine shortage. And Jesus’ command isn’t to invent a new beverage out of thin air. It’s a call to a simple, next step. “Fill the jars with water.” It’s a call to radical obedience in the small, next right thing. The servants weren’t asked to understand the miracle, only to carry the water.

So what might “doing whatever he tells you” look like for us this week, whether it is in Minneapolis or here in Clearwater? It might not be a grand gesture. It might be taking the time to listen with compassion to a neighbor who is grieving, without feeling the need to offer a solution. Or it might mean stepping out of our silos to seek truth beyond the headlines and political talking points, and committing to understanding our society’s pain, which is so much more complex than 60-second TikTok videos or Facebook posts. Or perhaps it means becoming the “legal observers” of our own hearts, confessing the moments where we have valued our own comfort over our neighbor’s pain. “Doing whatever he tells you” for us means mending the small tears in our own corner of society’s fabric, one relationship at a time.

It is in these small acts of obedience that we, like the servants, position ourselves to witness the miracle. We don’t make the wine. But we are called to fill the jars. 

The core message of this first sign and the foundational promise of the Gospel is this: that even when our personal wine runs out, even when our community’s jars are empty, even when we are exhausted and hesitant, our God is a God of surprising, overwhelming abundance. 

The chief steward, tasting the water that had become wine, says to the bridegroom, “But you have kept the good wine until now.” This is the promise of re-creation. It says to us that even in a week of grief, even in a nation of deep division, God is not finished. God is still in the business of transformation. And God is saving the best for last. 

So, go, now, as the people of the Word. Remember that the Voice that knit the stars together is the same Voice that was cradled in the manger. He is the Word who stepped into the scratchy mess of our world, who moved toward the jars even when He was hesitant, and who mends the torn fabric of our communities with the wine of his grace. 

May you have the courage to hear your neighbor’s cry, the strength to touch the wounds of our communities, and the hope to know that the New Creation has already begun. Amen.

Preached Sunday, January 11, 2026, at Rejoice Lutheran Church, Clearwater, MN.

First Sunday after Epiphany

God's Power: Power in Brokenness

Then Jesus told his disciples, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life?

“For the Son of Man is to come with his angels in the glory of his Father, and then he will repay everyone for what has been done. Truly I tell you, there are some standing here who will not taste death before they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom.”

Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him. Then Peter said to Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. But Jesus came and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.” And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone.  Matthew 16:24 - 17:8 (NRSV)

Grace and peace to you from God, our Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer. Amen.

Have you ever had a mountaintop experience? The first one I fully remember happened the summer of between seventh and eighth grade.

Summer for us was usually a time that was this mix of laziness and hard work. My brother and sister and I were on summer break from school. My dad and my brother were busy out in our fields farming or doing other chores. My mom worked part-time, from 7 a.m. to 2 p.m. at the post office each day. So, it was up to my sister and I to handle chores around our house - stuff like cleaning the house, doing laundry, washing dishes, and gardening. My sister and I would sleep in late every morning and mess around doing stuff that we wanted to do. Then, about 1 o’clock, we’d jump up and jam to get everything done on the list that my mom had left for us to do. 

But, that summer was different. None of us had ever experienced anything like summer camp. I think, honestly, that my parents weren’t able to afford it. Yet, that summer, they offered the chance for us to go to Lutheran Bible camp. For some reason, which I don’t remember, neither my sister nor brother wanted to go. I was, however, interested. So, along with another friend from my confirmation class, we went to camp. 


Lutheran camp was held at a Lutheran academy in a neighboring town about 45-50 miles away from our farm. This was the first time I had ever been away from home on my own for such a long period of time. 

It. Was. Amazing! And although I can’t even really explain in words what was so amazing about it...It. Was. Amazing! Maybe it was meeting so many other teenagers from different places. So many other Lutheran teenagers. Maybe it was that I developed a huge crush on this really cute guy there. Or maybe it was that sense of community that we experienced together - having fun, talking about our faith - that community that happens that is so hard to put into words. It’s more like a feeling. The same feeling that happens here in worship - not always - but that, when it does, you know something is happening that is just amazing. And, it stays with you.

A mountaintop experience. This is what’s happening in our story today. With Peter and James and John, on the mountaintop with Jesus.

But, before we get to the story, we need to get caught up on what has happened since last week’s miracle stories - the feeding of the 5,000 plus and Jesus and Peter walking on water.

If you remember the end of last week’s story, Jesus and the disciples had crossed over the Sea of Galilee to its western shore. They are still in the northern and more rural areas of Palestine. Jesus is still teaching and performing miracles. He has healed many people. He has fed another large crowd of 4,000 plus with a small amount of food. He is becoming more known as he continues his ministry along the western shore of the Sea of Galilee. He has, also, for the first time been confronted by the religious authorities - the Pharisees and Sadducees. 

Jesus continues traveling southward, moving ever closer to Jerusalem. At one point, he asks the disciples what people are saying about him. In our terms, he was wondering what the buzz was about him. Some of the disciples say that people think he is John the Baptist. Others say Elijah. And yet others say that the crowds think he is Jeremiah, or another one of the prophets.

Then, Jesus turns to the disciples. And says to them, “Who do YOU say that I am?” It is at this moment that we hear this declaration of faith for the very first time from any of the disciples. Peter says, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.”

The disciples are getting it. No longer is their faith immature. It is maturing into a deep understanding of who this Jesus is. “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” So, when Jesus hears their mature response, he knows it is now time to prepare them for the coming events in Jerusalem. Yet, Peter does not want to hear Jesus’ prediction. Bold Peter - the first to climb out of the boat and walk on water - does not want hear that Jesus will suffer and die. And even be raised on the third day. Peter doesn’t want to hear this because Peter is focused on himself. And on how all of this will affect him.

We’re a lot like Peter. Like him, we’ve been well-trained by the world to be focused on ourselves. On our needs. On what we can get out of something or from someone. Thomas Keating in his book, Intimacy With God, writes, ”We are living in a world that rejects love and that affirms selfishness as the ultimate value. The pressure from society is constantly insinuating itself through our upbringing, education, and culture.” He goes on, “We bring [that] false self with us into the spiritual journey and into our relationship with God. Perhaps for many years our relationship with God might be termed co-dependent, because we deal with God in the magical way that is characteristic of children. An important fruit of our contemplative prayer is to be purified of our childish ideas about God. As our idea of God expands, there is no word, no way, no gesture, that can articulate it anymore. Hence we fall into silence, the place we should have been in the first place...As Saint John of the Cross writes; ‘It was said once, and said in absolute silence. And it is only in silence that we hear it.'"

When we have a mature faith, we have moved away from the place where it is all about us. And about our needs. That’s the point of Jesus’ response to Peter in the very next verses. “All who want to come after me must say no to themselves, take up their cross, and follow me. All who want to save their lives will lose them. But all who lose their lives because of me will find them.”

Our cross - the cross that Jesus makes reference to in these verses - is not a cross of our own sufferings, or of the challenges or difficulties in our lives. Those are ours because of our own brokenness or because of the brokenness of our world. It is when we, in that brokenness are turned back to God. When we recognize our own powerlessness and inability to fix things. It is then, that we turn back to God. And we are witness to the self-sacrificial love of Christ on the cross, who loves us. Who forgives us. And who brings us to that place of absolute silence. Where we can finally hear God speaking to us. Where we see God’s glory. Where we have our own mountaintop experience.

It’s like this. How many of you know what this is? (A glow stick.) Is this glowing right now? (Nope.) Why not? (Because it hasn’t been bent.) Right.

Now, everyone gets a glow stick. But don’t break it until everyone has one. Now, bend your glow stick into the shape of a "J," for Jesus. Do you notice that the stick begins to glow? Why? (Glow sticks first have to be broken in order for us to see them glow.) The glow material is always in the stick. But we can’t see it until the stick has been broken. 

We’re a lot like these glow sticks. Sometimes it feels like we have to be broken before we see God’s glory. And before the light of Jesus shines in us. We can have really difficult times. But, the power of Jesus is always inside us, waiting to help us glow. Waiting for us to take up our own cross. Just like the cross of Jesus. Which wasn’t about him. But about us. And about serving us. And all humankind.


We, as Lutherans, have a gift to share with the world. We believe that it is in our brokenness where we experience the glory of God. Where we are then freed by God from our sin and our shame and that very brokenness through the cross of Jesus. We believe that God has freed us from this so that we then take up our own cross - a cross that is like the cross of Jesus. A cross that involves losing our own lives. A cross that is sacrificial. A cross that calls us to come down off the mountaintop. To give of ourselves to serve others. To share this amazing gift of grace through our words and our actions.

And, trusting, that the power of Jesus is always with us and inside us. A power that is found in our brokenness and in turning back to God. A power that is waiting to glow for the rest of the world. Amen.

Preached March 3, 2019, at Grace & Glory Lutheran Church, Goshen, KY.
Transfiguration of our Lord.
Readings: Matthew 16:24 - 17:8; Psalm 41:7-10.

Finding God

Then Laban said to Jacob, “Because you are my kinsman, should you therefore serve me for nothing? Tell me, what shall your wages be?” Now Laban had two daughters; the name of the elder was Leah, and the name of the younger was Rachel. Leah’s eyes were lovely, and Rachel was graceful and beautiful. Jacob loved Rachel; so he said, “I will serve you seven years for your younger daughter Rachel.” Laban said, “It is better that I give her to you than that I should give her to any other man; stay with me.” So Jacob served seven years for Rachel, and they seemed to him but a few days because of the love he had for her.

Then Jacob said to Laban, “Give me my wife that I may go in to her, for my time is completed.” So Laban gathered together all the people of the place, and made a feast. But in the evening he took his daughter Leah and brought her to Jacob; and he went in to her. (Laban gave his maid Zilpah to his daughter Leah to be her maid.) When morning came, it was Leah! And Jacob said to Laban, “What is this you have done to me? Did I not serve with you for Rachel? Why then have you deceived me?” Laban said, “This is not done in our country—giving the younger before the firstborn. Complete the week of this one, and we will give you the other also in return for serving me another seven years.” Jacob did so, and completed her week; then Laban gave him his daughter Rachel as a wife.  Genesis 29:15-28 (NRSV)

I am Leah. Daughter of Laban. Daughter-in-law of Isaac and Rebekah. Wife of Jacob. The oldest of two daughters. Sister of Rachel, like me, also a wife of Jacob.

You remember me, don’t you? The wife that Jacob didn’t love. The daughter with weak eyes. Your translation of the story doesn’t tell the truth. My eyes were weak, which meant they lacked lustre. They didn’t sparkle. Between my sister and I, I was the plain one, unattractive. My sister, Rachel, she was was graceful and beautiful. It was Rachel who first caught Jacob’s attention at the well that day.

Another well romance, you say? Yes. Because it was the only place where we could come into contact with men. With our potential future husbands.

When Jacob met Rachel that day at the well, he’d been there for awhile talking with the shepherds. Bragging really. He asked them why they waited to gather all of the sheep at the well before they removed the lid--suggesting it would be more efficient for them to water the sheep as they arrived and then continue to graze them as others arrived and were watered. The shepherds, well, I’m sure they rolled their eyes at this newcomer, this stranger. Who seemed to know everything. 

They explained to Jacob why they did this--that the stone covering the well was so heavy that they needed several men to remove it, so need to wait until shepherds gathered and could do it together. No one shepherd could lift the stone by himself.

It was about this time that Rachel approached the well with her flock. The shepherds who were there told him who she was--that she was the daughter of his uncle. Cousin of Jacob. Then, Jacob felt the need to display his own strength. For the shepherds. But, mostly, I think for Rachel. Jacob rolled the stone covering off the well, entirely on his own. He watered Rachel’s flock. It was, then, that Jacob told Rachel who he was. That he was our kin. He kissed her. And he wept, as was often customary. 

Rachel ran to tell our father, who then ran to meet Jacob at the well. There, my father embraced Jacob, kissed him, and invited him into our house, where Jacob told his story. Everything. The story you heard last week--how he had tricked his brother, Esau, out of his birthright and his blessing. How Esau had become so angry he vowed to kill his brother, Jacob. How Rebekah their mother, who favored Jacob, sent him away for a few days to escape Esau’s wrath. How Jacob had traveled the long distance to our homeland. And how, during his trip, he had seen God and been blessed by God.

Everything that had happened to him he shared with my father. Hearing it, my father acknowledged that Jacob was indeed our flesh and blood. And he welcomed Jacob into our household.

It was about a month later, after Jacob had been working beside my father for no wages, that my father approached him. My father told Jacob that, even though he was our relative, there was no need for him to work for free. He asked Jacob what he would like to be paid. 

It was then that Jacob named his price. He had fallen in love with my sister. My younger sister, Rachel. Jacob told my father that he wanted to marry Rachel. My younger sister. 

You know how wrong this is, don’t you? It was our custom that the oldest daughter would be married first. That I should have been the first to be married. That if any sister were to marry Jacob, it should have been me. 

Yet, I had no voice in the decision. Neither did Rachel. My father agreed with Jacob that he could marry my sister. But, because, Jacob was destitute and had no property or belongs, he could not offer my father the bride price. And so, in exchange for it, my father told Jacob that he would have to work for my father for seven years. 

What could Jacob do? He had no leverage against my father. He had nothing to offer him for my sister. So, Jacob agreed. It was a handsome bride price for my father, who knew Jacob had nothing else to offer and who was so shrewd in negotiating the agreement.

Time passed. Seven years. I think, though, for Jacob it felt like only a few days. He was so enamored with my sister. Finally, the time came for the two of them to be married.

It was a week-long celebration in our custom. A week of festivities and rituals that brought our entire family and community together to celebrate the joyous occasion. Of the marriage of Jacob and my younger sister. The wedding that should have been my wedding.

It customary that at the end of the week, the marriage would be consummated. The wedding night. 

It was on this night that my father came to me. He directed that I put on my veil--one that would cover my face fully. And, then, he led me into the wedding chamber. Into the room that was to have been the room where Jacob and my sister would consummate their marriage. Instead, he told me that I would be a substitute for Rachel. 

I had no say in the matter whatsoever. Neither did Rachel. I knew this would cause hard feelings--harder feelings--between my sister and I. And, yet, what could I do? It was not my place to disagree with my father.

I’ve never fully understood why he did this. Why my father tricked Jacob. Perhaps, he understood how much he had flaunted tradition by agreeing to give Rachel, his youngest, away. Rather than me first, as his oldest. Perhaps he understood how upset I’d been.

Or, perhaps, he knew that, as soon as Jacob married Rachel, he would be leaving to return to his homeland. To be with his family in Canaan. To take Rachel away from us. So far away that we would likely never see her again.

Or, perhaps, it was simply because he had seen how hard Jacob worked. Harder that most of his other men. And that it had cost my father little, except for his daughter. Perhaps his plan all along was to get another seven years of free labor out of Jacob.

Whatever the reason, I became Jacob’s first wife. Head of his household. In the dark.

When jacob awoke the next morning and saw it was me in his bed instead of Rachel, he was furious. He ran to my father. “What have you done to me?” he said. “Didn’t I work for you to have Rachel? Why did you betray me?”

Do you see the irony here? The trickster tricking the trickster. What is the saying you have? “What goes around, comes around.” It was as though God was teaching Jacob a lesson for all of the ways in which he had tricked his own brother. That Jacob was reaping what he had sowed.

What messiness there is in our families! Tricks and deceit. Sibling rivalry. Brokenness.

And lest you sit there comfortably on this Sunday morning and condemn my family and our actions or our culture, you might look in the mirror yourselves. If you did, you might see that you and your families are no different. There is no “them” here. We are you. You are us. We are all far from perfect. Messy. Broken. We hurt each other intentionally and unintentionally. We act in our own best interest and against the greater good of others in our families. We fail to ask those who have no power about decisions that impact their lives. 

To look into the midst of our family--and of your family--is to look straight into human brokenness. To look on our culture negatively is to hold up a mirror to your world that still judges individuals on their appearance and treats women as less than men.

So, where--where in the midst of this messiness and brokenness--are we to find God? To find the Good News? The Gospel? Where is it to be found?

The Scriptures tell of the story of my husband’s ancestors--Abraham and Sarah--warts and all. It isn’t cleaned up to impress anyone or to give you impossible and unattainable role models for moral living. We are all faithful and sinful. We are all blessed by God and cursed by our own actions. We are all saints and sinners.

In Psalm 105 earlier, you read that “God remembers his covenant forever, the word he commanded to a thousand generations, which he made with Abraham, the solemn pledge he swore to Isaac. God set it up as binding law for Jacob, my husband, as an eternal covenant for Israel.” 

In our stories--yours and mine--God continues to work. To move God’s plan forward. God is present because God keeps God’s promises to a sinful humanity. God is faithful when we are busy managing our lives. Even if we don’t see it at first or have a hard time finding it, God is there. God loves us--the broken families of the world. God loves us so much that God will send his son to “the sons of Israel” and, by extension, to you and to all people. 

This is the good news. For you and for me. And for all people. Of all time. And all place. 

“O give thanks to the Lord,” the psalmist writes. “Call on his name, make known his deeds among the peoples.” 

May this be our response. For all time. Amen.

The Faithfulness of God

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went toward the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed; for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead. Then the disciples returned to their homes.

But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”; and she told them that he had said these things to her. (John 20:1-18 NRSV)

Why on earth do we do this? These Three Days? The meal and footwashing and holy communion of Maundy Thursday. The journey to the crucifixion of Jesus on the cross on Good Friday. The wandering tonight from the new fire to the water to this place where we have heard some the stories of our faith, for some of us, stories we have grown up hearing and knowing and loving, and then the meal, holy communion. Why on earth do we do all of this?

For an answer, we must begin with our gospel lesson tonight, our reading from John.

It is early in the morning on that first day of the week after Jesus’ death. After his internment. It is before light. Still dark. 

Mary has come to the tomb. Why? This gospel writer doesn’t tell us. Other gospels suggest that the women had gone to the tomb to anoint Jesus’ body. If you recall, Jesus was buried after the beginning of the Sabbath and there simply hadn’t been time to properly anoint his body, to fully prepare it for burial as was required under Jewish burial laws. 

Perhaps this was why Mary had gone there, in the early light, by herself. We simply don’t know. 

What we do know, however, is that when she arrived, perhaps just as the light was beginning to break, she saw that the stone had been rolled away from the entrance to the Jesus’ tomb. 

I wonder what she was thinking at that moment. Our lesson tells us that she never went inside the tomb. I wonder why not. Is is possible she thought there might be grave-robbers inside? After all, we know that this was a common problem then. Or, perhaps, it was just too dark, that even if she had gone inside she wouldn’t have been able to see anything anyway. Or maybe, just maybe, the thought of seeing Jesus’ body there--lifeless--was simply too much. Too hard to take. Too real to witness.

She had been there when Jesus had died. Standing at a distance with the other women, after the rest of the disciples had fled. She had seen him die. And with it, her hopes and her dreams.  

What had she felt that day and the next? Grief and sadness? Despair and hopelessness? Bewilderment and confusion? Fearful? Perhaps, all of these emotions.

That week for me in 1992 had started like most others. I had a busy life. I was a part-time church musician and, so, had started out the week on Sunday playing for two worship services, then, spending the afternoon doing laundry and getting myself and my son ready for another week of work and school. Monday came. And the week seemed pretty normal, busy for us. But that was nothing new. It was normal, until the next night. Until that Tuesday night.

On that night, I got a call from my mother. She was calling to let me know that she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. This woman, who was the rock of our family. Who had carried our family through the nearly impossible grief and sadness of my father’s early death. This woman, who had always been such an example for me of strength and faith and trust. Diagnosed with cancer.

But, it didn’t stop there. Within 24 hours, I had another call. This time from my older sister. Another source of strength for me as I had witnessed her in her late twenties fight cancer and win, we thought. Just weeks away from that 5 year remission mark and the title of “cancer free.” She was calling to tell me that she, too, had cancer. Once again. That it had returned.

It is these kinds of moments when it can simply feel as though your whole world is crashing down around you. When you are blinded by the grief and sadness. By the sense of despair and hopelessness. By all of the bewilderment and confusion. By the fear. Nothing makes sense anymore. It feels as though you are simply floundering in the darkness. 

Just like Mary that early morning on the first day of the new week.

And, then, just like Mary, you hear your name called by God. “Karleen, do you remember? Do you remember the story of creation? How I brought wholeness and life out of the chaos and darkness? 

Do you remember? Do you remember the story of Noah? How I brought a new world out of the brokenness and sin of the old? How when you see a rainbow you can remember my promise that, never again, would a flood destroy the whole earth?

Do you remember? Do you remember how I delivered my people Israel out of slavery and brought them to new life in the land of milk and honey?

Do you remember? Do you remember how in your baptism I delivered you from sin and death to new life among my people, just as Lacey tonight has been brought to new life in Christ? 

Do you remember? Do you remember my promise that in this bread and wine I am present here and now and forever?

Do you remember? That every time we have feel surrounded by whatever darkness it is we cannot seem to see the end of, God calls our name. And, then, we remember. We remember that God is faithful. Throughout all of the arc of salvation history and the short blip of our own lives, God has been and continues to be faithful. 

No, it doesn’t mean that there has always been healing. Or that everything has gone the way we wanted. But what we remember, time and time again, is God faithfully at work. Bringing new life out of death. Light out of darkness. Order out of the chaos.

This is why we do this. These Three Days. This is why on earth we do this. 
So that, in those darkest moments, we might, like Mary, remember. We might remember God’s faithfulness.

And like Mary, respond. Saying “Rabbouni” and go out and witness to all the world, proclaiming, “I have seen the Lord!”

Amen.

Preached at Grace and Glory Lutheran Church, Goshen, KY, on April 15, 2017.
Easter Vigil (Year A).
Readings: Genesis 1:1-2:4a; Genesis 7:1-5, 11-18, 8:6-18, 9:8-13; Exodus 14:10-31, 15:20-21; Isaiah 55:1-11; Daniel 3:1-29; Romans 6:3-11; John 20:1-18.

Chaos and Confusion

Now Jesus stood before the governor; and the governor asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus said, “You say so.” But when he was accused by the chief priests and elders, he did not answer. Then Pilate said to him, “Do you not hear how many accusations they make against you?” But he gave him no answer, not even to a single charge, so that the governor was greatly amazed.

Now at the festival the governor was accustomed to release a prisoner for the crowd, anyone whom they wanted. At that time they had a notorious prisoner, called Jesus Barabbas. So after they had gathered, Pilate said to them, “Whom do you want me to release for you, Jesus Barabbas or Jesus who is called the Messiah?” For he realized that it was out of jealousy that they had handed him over. While he was sitting on the judgment seat, his wife sent word to him, “Have nothing to do with that innocent man, for today I have suffered a great deal because of a dream about him.” Now the chief priests and the elders persuaded the crowds to ask for Barabbas and to have Jesus killed. The governor again said to them, “Which of the two do you want me to release for you?” And they said, “Barabbas.” Pilate said to them, “Then what should I do with Jesus who is called the Messiah?” All of them said, “Let him be crucified!” Then he asked, “Why, what evil has he done?” But they shouted all the more, “Let him be crucified!”

So when Pilate saw that he could do nothing, but rather that a riot was beginning, he took some water and washed his hands before the crowd, saying, “I am innocent of this man’s blood; see to it yourselves.” Then the people as a whole answered, “His blood be on us and on our children!” So he released Barabbas for them; and after flogging Jesus, he handed him over to be crucified.

Then the soldiers of the governor took Jesus into the governor’s headquarters, and they gathered the whole cohort around him. They stripped him and put a scarlet robe on him, and after twisting some thorns into a crown, they put it on his head. They put a reed in his right hand and knelt before him and mocked him, saying, “Hail, King of the Jews!” They spat on him, and took the reed and struck him on the head. After mocking him, they stripped him of the robe and put his own clothes on him. Then they led him away to crucify him.

As they went out, they came upon a man from Cyrene named Simon; they compelled this man to carry his cross. And when they came to a place called Golgotha (which means Place of a Skull), they offered him wine to drink, mixed with gall; but when he tasted it, he would not drink it. And when they had crucified him, they divided his clothes among themselves by casting lots; then they sat down there and kept watch over him. Over his head they put the charge against him, which read, “This is Jesus, the King of the Jews.”

Then two bandits were crucified with him, one on his right and one on his left. Those who passed by derided him, shaking their heads and saying, “You who would destroy the temple and build it in three days, save yourself! If you are the Son of God, come down from the cross.” In the same way the chief priests also, along with the scribes and elders, were mocking him, saying, “He saved others; he cannot save himself. He is the King of Israel; let him come down from the cross now, and we will believe in him. He trusts in God; let God deliver him now, if he wants to; for he said, ‘I am God’s Son.’” The bandits who were crucified with him also taunted him in the same way.

From noon on, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. And about three o’clock Jesus cried with a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” that is, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” When some of the bystanders heard it, they said, “This man is calling for Elijah.” At once one of them ran and got a sponge, filled it with sour wine, put it on a stick, and gave it to him to drink. But the others said, “Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to save him.” Then Jesus cried again with a loud voice and breathed his last. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. The earth shook, and the rocks were split. The tombs also were opened, and many bodies of the saints who had fallen asleep were raised. After his resurrection they came out of the tombs and entered the holy city and appeared to many. Now when the centurion and those with him, who were keeping watch over Jesus, saw the earthquake and what took place, they were terrified and said, “Truly this man was God’s Son!” Matthew 27:11-54 (NRSV)

I wonder what the disciples were thinking.

They’d been with Jesus for nearly three years, this man they called, “Rabbi.” He had called them to simply come and follow him. And, they had. Over these years, they had traveled with Jesus throughout the Galilean countryside and beyond--in all the places away from the powerful center of Jerusalem. Along the way, among a variety of characters, they had witnessed Jesus reveal more and more who he was. Characters that included Nicodemus, the Samaritan woman at the well, the blind man to whom Jesus had given sight, and Lazarus and his sisters and the never-before witnessed miracle in which Jesus had brought Lazarus back to life after having been dead for four full days.

I wonder what the disciples were thinking.

They had listened to Jesus tell them what it would mean to be his disciple. To “take up the cross.”  How they were to engage in active nonviolent resistance when confronted with oppression and violence. How the integrity of what they said and did mattered. How they were to love others. Not just friends and families. But, also enemies. 

They’d been sent out, too. Sent to participate in the same mission of Jesus--to proclaim the same message--that God’s kingdom was at hand. Jesus had given them authority,. The same God-given authority to preach and to heal and to forgive. They’d gone out. They’d gone out, knowing how hard this mission would be. That in speaking truth to power they would be oppressed and harassed. That suffering would be inevitable. That participating in Jesus’ mission meant taking up his cross.

I wonder what the disciples were thinking.

They had heard Jesus tell them that he would eventually die at the hands of the religious and the political elite. How they wouldn’t...how they couldn’t...how they didn’t want to believe him. How their thoughts had been expressed by Peter so forcefully when he challenged Jesus. Saying that, “No!” this wouldn’t happen. And watching Jesus shut him down. Oh, how distressed they had been. 

They had also heard him say that he would be raised. Something they did not, could not understand. 

I wonder what the disciples were thinking.

They had witnessed--had accompanied--Jesus riding into Jerusalem. On a donkey. As though he was mocking the Roman authorities. Making his entrance into Jerusalem in the midst of the Passover celebration. A Jerusalem that had swelled in size by several hundred thousand people. People who had come from the countryside to the temple to celebrate this holy festival. People who had heard of Jesus or who had heard him speak. 
They had seen the crowds respond to Jesus as he entered triumphantly into the city. How the huge crowds had welcomed and had shouted their “Hosannas!” and other songs of acclaim. They had retrieved the donkey for Jesus with unexpected ease. They knew the ambivalence of his riding this donkey--that it was a royal animal that had carried previous representatives of God’s reign--King Solomon and others. And, yet, that it was an everyday beast of burden--a symbol of scorn. They saw the contradictions in the extravagant welcome of Jesus by the crowd while he was, at the same time, seated upon this lowly animal, the same animal that had carried his mother to Bethlehem to give birth to him in a stable, of all places.

I wonder what the disciples were thinking.

They had heard that the religious authorities were conspiring against Jesus. They had heard that one of their own was involved. How distressed they had been! And when Jesus told them they would all desert him that night--the night they celebrated the Passover together--they heard Peter boast that he would never abandon Jesus. 

They had been there in the garden that night. In Gethsemane. How they had wanted to stay awake as Jesus asked them. How they had failed. And then, they had seen the soldiers come with Judas. One of their own had grabbed a sword, trying to violently resist, and had been quickly condemned by Jesus. 

They had been there that night. And then, they had deserted Jesus and run. Just as he said they would.

I wonder what the disciples were thinking.

They had seen the week start out so well. They had seen the throngs greet Jesus as the Messiah, with the expectation that he had come to overthrow the Romans--their political captors. Jesus had been treated as the king they knew he was.

And, then, quickly. Within just a few short days, it had all dissolved into madness. The king they knew, the Messiah they thought had come to make a regime change, this Jesus, their teacher and friend, now arrested, convicted, and tortured. And, then, crucified.  Like a common criminal. One of the cruelest means of execution, reserved for non-citizens and for the socially rejected. For rebellious foreigners, violent criminals, robbers, slaves--for all those on the margins. Jesus. Shamed and humiliated.

Chaos and confusion. I think this is what the disciples were thinking. And feeling. Their entire lives. Their entire way of thinking. Their entire world. Turned upside down. Dissolving into chaos and confusion.


Chaos and confusion. This was something Dietrich Bonhoeffer also knew about. It was on this day in 1945--on April 9th, 1945--that Bonhoeffer, a Lutheran theologian and pastor, was shot to death by a Nazi firing squad. He had studied theology in Germany and the United States and had pastored a church in London before choosing to return to Germany to resist the rise to power of Adolf Hitler. He was eventually arrested and, on this day 72 years ago, put to death.  

Just like the disciples, Bonhoeffer knew about chaos and confusion. And, yet, he, like the disciples, knew that this was what discipleship was all about. In his book, The Cost of Discipleship, which he wrote in prison while awaiting his execution, Bonhoeffer wrote, “[God says this]: Discipleship is not limited to what you can comprehend - it must transcend all comprehension. Plunge into the deep waters beyond your own comprehension, and I will help you to comprehend even as I do. Bewilderment is the true comprehension. Not to know where you are going is the true knowledge. My comprehension transcends yours.”

It is in the midst of the chaos and confusion that God breaks in. In the chaos and confusion and brokenness of the world, into our own brokenness--it is there that God breaks in. In the chaos and confusion of a world where people do not have enough to eat or they lack decent healthcare, God breaks in. In the chaos and confusion of a world where it seems there is a mass shooting nearly every day, or terrorism is our first thought after any incident, God breaks in. Or even in the chaos and confusion of a world where a political leader uses nerve gas on his own people, a refugee people that nearly the entire world has rejected, God breaks in. 

This is what we believe. This is what we trust. This is what we know because it is in the chaos and confusion of Jesus’ crucifixion and death that God broke in and raised him from the dead. And it is in the midst of our own chaos and confusion that God has broken in and has brought us new life. In Christ.

And that is why we shout, right along with the crowd that Palm Sunday, “Hosanna! Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

Amen.

Preached at Grace and Glory Lutheran Church, Goshen, KY.
April 9, 2017 - Palm Sunday
Readings: Matthew 21:1-11, Isaiah 50:4-9a, Psalm 31:9-16, Philippians 2:5-11, Matthew 27:11-54

All About the Story

I invite you tonight to open a Bible and turn with me to the book of Hebrews in the New Testament. We’ll be reading parts of chapter 11. 

This part of the letter to the Hebrews is what we often call the “roll call of saints.” I’ll begin with the first verse.

“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Indeed, by faith our ancestors received approval.” (Heb. 11:1-2). 

The chapter then continues with a list of the saints from our faith tradition, a tradition that comes out of the Hebrew tradition. As one reads through these verses, we’re reminded over and over God guided God’s people and how God’s people, through faith, acted even when the forces against them seemed enormous or there were no assurances that the path they chose in faith would have a good outcome. Noah. Abraham. Isaac. Sarah. On and on the list goes. Until we get to verse 13.

“All of these died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them. They confessed that they were strangers and foreigners on the earth, for people who speak in this way make it clear that they are seeking a homeland. If they had been thinking of the land that they had left behind, they would have had opportunity to return. But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God; indeed, he has prepared a city for them.” (Heb. 11:13-16)

And, concluding with verses 39 and 40. “Yet all these, though they were commended for their faith, did not receive what was promised, since God had provided something better so that they would not, apart from us, be made perfect.” (Heb. 11:39-40)

Here ends our reading.

Grace and peace to you from God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Tonight, I opened our worship by saying we would be looking at the Creed. As you’ll recall, during these Wednesdays in Lent, we are looking at the parts of the Small Catechism, this small book that Luther wrote to help parents teach their children in their homes about their faith.

So, you might be wondering, or not, about why I chose this particular chapter in Hebrews for our text tonight. 

Well, I chose it because it’s all about story. This chapter is a story of the early ancestors of our faith. Those people--those unexpectedly imperfect people--in whom God chose to work and to attempt to form God’s own people. This chapter is the story of God’s people. Even more, it is the story--the historical story--of the faith of God’s people. Trusting God. Failing God. And God rescuing them. This is the story of God and of God’s faithfulness. 

It’s all about story. 

We live today in what is called a post-modern world. It’s a world of deconstructionism. There is a general contempt for any systems that seem to claim any form of absolute knowledge or truth. One simple way to illustrate this is to think about your television choices. Do you remember when there were only 1 or 2 channel choices? Not all of you may remember this, but I certainly do. Our news, the way in which we interpreted things that were happening in our world were funneled through the mouthpieces of these couple of television networks. Think, now, about the vast array of choices. No longer is truth expressed in 1 or 2 TV channels. But truth is expressed in hundreds, even perhaps thousands, of channels today. 

One of the things that often happens in a world like this is that there is attempt to deconstruct history. To go back and to look at history through different lenses. Say, perhaps, to look at history through the eyes of women. Or the eyes of people of color. Or the eyes of those who are gay. While this is incredibly important for us--to get a much broader and deeper view of history--it can also be very unsettling. Because it can often seem to us as though there is no truth that comes out of history. That truth depends on where you stand in history and your perspective on history. What often happens, then, is the loss of the grand story, the big picture. The loss of that broad narrative that connects us with the past and prepares us for the future.

On these Wednesday of Lent, we’ve been working our way through Luther’s Small Catechism. Last Wednesday, for example, we looked at the Ten Commandments. Tonight, we are looking at the Apostles’ Creed. One small piece of trivia that I have found incredibly important for my understanding of the catechism is that Luther ordered the catechism in a very specific way. Keep in mind that all of his learning came out of the Catholic church, which used a catechism very similar to that which Luther developed. The difference between Luther’s catechism and that of the Catholic church was the order of the elements.

In the Catholic church, the Creed and the sacraments come first, before the ten commandments. In Luther’s Small Catechism, he began with the Ten Commandments, followed by the Creed.

Why did he do this? Well, Luther wanted to tell a story. And, so, by ordering the parts of the catechism in a certain way, Luther was telling a certain story.

Last week, we looked at one way in which the Ten Commandments can be used. As a guide for us. A guide for daily living into our relationship with God and with each other. This way of looking at the Ten Commandments is what we call the third use. There are two other uses, a first and a second. It is primarily the second use of the Ten Commandments that led Luther to place them first in the Small Catechism. He wanted to tell a story.

That story begins with us. Why? Well, it’s because we like to be central in our own stories. It’s our nature. When something happens to us, we share it. We’re usually central in the stories we tell. So, Luther, began with us. He placed the Ten Commandments first in the story to show us who we are. To show us our brokenness. How we don’t place God first in our lives. And how we fail in our relationships with others.

Now, Luther could have stopped there. He could have left us there in despair. Hopeless. With no way in which for us to save ourselves. But, he didn’t. His placement of the Apostles Creed next was completely intentional in telling the story.

By putting the Creed after the Ten Commandments, after we have been shown the totality of our failure, Luther then tells of the in-breaking of God into our world in the Apostles Creed. In this Creed, we hear of God’s story.

If you’re like me at all, we often miss this point. We recite the Creed every Sunday. It becomes rote. We often don’t pay attention to the story it tells us. But, it does tell us a story. It tells us the story of God from the beginning--the one who creates the world and humankind and who is still creating every day. For us. And for all people. It tells the story of God in Jesus. A God who loved us so much that when we, once again, as usual, failed to live up to the promises, sent his Son, this God-man, to earth. To carry all of our sin and brokenness on his shoulders on the cross. And to restore us forever back into full relationship with God. And, it tells the story of God in the Holy Spirit. That person of the Godhead that has more feminine attributes. Nurturer. Comforter. The Holy Spirit, the Advocate. The person of God sent after Christ to be present in our world. Here. Now. And to work in our world, to form the church, so that the church might continue the work the Christ started--the work of building God’s kingdom. 

This is the story of the Creed. This is the story of God. This is also the story of the church. Of us.

Spotlight is a recent movie that is the true story of how writers from the Boston Globe uncovered the massive child molestation scandal and cover-up within a local Catholic diocese, a story that shook (and continues to shake) the Catholic church and the whole church. It is also the story of how the scandal shook the faith of these writers. Faith in God. Faith in the church. Let’s watch.

We are part of God’s story. This is my final and most important point. We are part of God’s story. The story is God’s. We simply play a part in this story. We often forget that. We often forget that this story is not about us, but it is about God. When we do, it is then that sin and darkness and chaos enter in. 

When that happens, then, once again, God breaks in--into the church and into our lives. Restoring joy out of sorrow. Wholeness out of brokenness. Order out of chaos. And life out of death. This is the promise of the Creed. It is this promise into which we are baptized and in which we believe and trust.  

May God grant you the same faith of our ancestors in that promise. Amen.

Preached at Grace and Glory Lutheran Church, Goshen, KY on March 15, 2017.
Midweek Lenten Service - Week 2
Reading: Hebrews 11:1-2, 13-16, 39-40.

Ten Words

Know this, my dear brothers and sisters: everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to grow angry. This is because an angry person doesn’t produce God’s righteousness. Therefore, with humility, set aside all moral filth and the growth of wickedness, and welcome the word planted deep inside you—the very word that is able to save you.

You must be doers of the word and not only hearers who mislead themselves.Those who hear but don’t do the word are like those who look at their faces in a mirror. They look at themselves, walk away, and immediately forget what they were like. But there are those who study the perfect law, the law of freedom, and continue to do it. They don’t listen and then forget, but they put it into practice in their lives. They will be blessed in whatever they do.
If those who claim devotion to God don’t control what they say, they mislead themselves. Their devotion is worthless. True devotion, the kind that is pure and faultless before God the Father, is this: to care for orphans and widows in their difficulties and to keep the world from contaminating us. James 1:19-27 (CEB). 

Words.

That’s what we’re going to talk about tonight.  Words.

Words are pretty powerful, aren’t they?  

They have the power to build people up. 

They have the power to tear people down. 

Words can create.  Words can destroy. 

Words have power. Words have the power to transform.  

God’s Word has the power to transform.  

We know of the power of God’s Word in creation.  With simple words, God transformed chaos into an ordered world.  With simple words, God created humankind in God’s very own image.

In the Hebrew scriptures, God’s spoken word calls Israel to live as his holy people.  God’s Word promises blessing and judgment.  Through God’s Word, God reaches out to his people and expresses his emotion toward them.  God teaches Israel, through the Word, about who God is and how to live in relationship--both with God and with each other.

This is the basic premise of the Ten Commandments--which in the time of Israel was known as God’s Ten Words.  It is in these Ten Words that God teaches Israel and us about what it means to live in a full and loving relationship with God and in relationship with one another.  The Ten Words aren’t about shaming us or tearing us down.  Instead, they lift us up, they encourage us to live into our relationship with God and with each other in the way God intends for us.  

But, mostly, the Ten Commandments--God’s Ten Words-- teach us about love.  
Remember the words of Jesus in Matthew as he summed them up: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the greatest and first commandment.  And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

I am a regular listener of a weekly program on NPR called “On Being.” Krista Tippett is the host of this program and she regularly brings on guests who talk about many of the central questions of human life.  What does it mean to be human?  How do we want to live?

About a year ago, she had a guest on her program--Dr. James Doty.  Dr. Doty is a brain surgeon who teaches neurosurgery at Stanford University.  He’s also a researcher and is the founding director of the Center for Compassion and Altruism Research and Education.  

During the interview, Dr. Doty spoke at length about his research, which studies the physical connection between the brain and the heart, how each organ affects the other, and how powerful this connection is.  It’s amazing work.  

One thing they’ve discovered, for example, is what happens to the brain when one practices compassion, when one speaks and responds to others in a way that builds people up rather than tears them down.   

Each of our brains contains the amygdala, which is the very primitive, basic part of our brain that houses our tribal “fight or flight” instinct.  When we are threatened, this part of our brain sends a message--either to stay and fight or to flee.  

In their research, Dr. Doty and his colleagues have discovered that, when someone practices compassion with others, there is a physiological change in the brain.  The amygdala--this primitive part of our brain--begins to shrink.  And, as a result, we begin to see ourselves and the world with greater clarity.  And we begin to approach others and the world with a more open heart.  The more one practices compassion, the more the physical body changes and inclines one toward practicing even more compassion.  

What is even more amazing, though, is the work he has done with gang members--work of compassion and love that not only seems to transform these gang members, but, in the process, has transformed Dr. Doty as well.  

That is the gift of living into the Ten Commandments, God’s Ten Word. The more we love God and one another, the more we are all transformed. 

In the animated movie Despicable Me, Gru is a world class villain. But, his reputation has come under attack. And so, to maintain his reputation, Gru devises this elaborate scheme to steal the moon. In the process, he kidnaps and uses three young, orphan girls as pawns in his outrageous plan to steal the moon and assure his reputation as the biggest, baddest villain in the entire world.
  
As he carries out his plan, however, Gru unknowingly becomes affected by these three little girls and by the love they show him. In the process he is transformed.  In the process, they are all transformed.  

Let’s watch.

It is this work, the work of coming alongside other people, people who, just like us, are created in the image of God...it is this work that, through Christ’s saving act on the cross, God has freed us to do.  

You see, being a believer isn't just about hearing God’s words. It is about doing God's word, about doing God’s Ten Words.

Have you ever noticed in scripture that with God’s Word there is always action connected to it?  God speaks and the world is created.  God pledges to deliver his people and rescues Israel from Egypt.  God promises through the prophets that he will send a Messiah and Mary gives birth to Jesus.  God’s Word is always connected to action.

It is to be the same with us.  With God’s Word and with the simple elements of the earth--the water, the bread and the wine--through these simple elements God acts to work faith in our hearts, through the power of the Holy Spirit.  And, through this gift of faith, God acts to transform us.  To free us.  To free us, then, to act. To become the righteous people that God already sees us to be. To free us to be transformed into vessels--the vessels of clay that Paul writes about in 2nd Corinthians. Vessels of God’s love. 

Now our clay may be weak and our vessel may be a little broken, yet God, through Christ, uses that brokenness and our weakness and turns us into doers of God’s Ten Words. Doers of love. Doers of God’s transforming love.  

“You must be doers of the word and not hearers only...”

May we all begin to see the Ten Commandments as that guide to our relationships--to our relationship with God and with all others. And to be more than simply hearers of those Ten Words, but doers also. God grant it. Amen. 

Preached March 8, 2017, at Grace and Glory Lutheran Church
First in a series of five sermons on Luther's Small Catechism, Midweek Lenten Service 1
Readings: Exodus 34:27-28, James 1:19-27