The Guarded House: Ancestral Ash and Living Flame

You know, as your new pastor—and as someone still trying to figure out which light switch controls which hallway in this building—I have to tell you: there’s something wonderfully, maddeningly quirky about church people. We are a unique group. We have our "assigned" pews that we’ve claimed through some ancient unwritten rule, and Heaven help the visitor who accidentally sits in the spot where the pew squeaks. We have our long, passionate debates over the exact brand of decaf coffee served in the fellowship hall—because apparently, the wrong coffee bean is the first step toward heresy.

I may be new to the Vista community, but I am already falling in love with this church family.

And if we’re being honest, most of us didn’t show up here today because we have life all figured out. I certainly don't. The writer and theologian Frederick Buechner is famous for his quotes. He’s the one who so beautifully wrote that “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” But he also wrote that when a person looks in the mirror in the morning, what they see is "at least eight parts chicken, phony, slob." It’s an honest, funny reminder of our human weaknesses.

We come here to Vista with our messy parts and our timid hearts. We often carry a faith that feels less like a shiny trophy and more like an old hand-me-down sweater—inherited, a bit itchy, and maybe a few sizes too big, but somehow exactly what we need to stay warm.

We represent a faith passed down from person to person, often through the very people who knew our flaws best. When we turn to Scripture today, we find that even the Apostle Paul didn't start his letter with heavy theological arguments. Instead, he started with family history, reminding his friend Timothy that his faith didn't just drop out of the sky—it had a home, a mother, and a grandmother.

We read from 2nd Timothy...

Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God, for the sake of the promise of life that is in Christ Jesus,

To Timothy, my beloved child: Grace, mercy, and peace from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Lord.

I am grateful to God—whom I worship with a clear conscience, as my ancestors did—when I remember you constantly in my prayers night and day. Recalling your tears, I long to see you so that I may be filled with joy. I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you. For this reason I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you through the laying on of my hands, for God did not give us a spirit of cowardice but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.

Do not be ashamed, then, of the testimony about our Lord or of me his prisoner, but join with me in suffering for the gospel, in the power of God, who saved us and called us with a holy calling, not according to our works but according to his own purpose and grace, and this grace was given to us in Christ Jesus before the ages began, but it has now been revealed through the appearing of our Savior Jesus Christ, who abolished death and brought life and immortality to light through the gospel. For this gospel I was appointed a herald and an apostle and a teacher, and for this reason I suffer as I do. But I am not ashamed, for I know the one in whom I have put my trust, and I am sure that he is able to guard until that day the deposit I have entrusted to him. Hold to the standard of sound teaching that you have heard from me, in the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. Guard the good deposit entrusted to you, with the help of the Holy Spirit living in us. --2 Timothy 1:1–14 (NRSVue)

I grew up in a more conservative Lutheran tradition, and it taught me a lot about routine and respect. The liturgy was as solid as the oak pews, and "reverence" was measured by how still you could sit without your shoes making noise on the floor. There was beauty in that structure, even if it felt a little stiff at times.

But the reason that tradition stayed alive for me was because of the real faith I saw in my family, particularly, my mother and my grandmother and grandfather. They had what Paul calls anupokritos—a "genuine faith." Literally, it means a faith without a mask, without faking it. My mother didn't just memorize what she was supposed to believe; she lived it. When life got hard, her faith wasn't a list of rules to follow—it was the ground she stood on.

She lived out a spirit of power, love, and a clear mind. She showed me that real faith isn't about doing every religious ritual perfectly. It’s about having a heart that trusts the God who defeated death.

That upbringing gave me my foundation. And just like Timothy, and just like me, our community here at Vista has its own history and soil.

Paul tells us that God hasn't given us a spirit of fear. When we feel like our faith is fading, he offers us three distinct gifts to lean on. First is the Spirit of Power. This isn't about human strength or winning arguments in a church meeting; it is God's strength that helps us keep going when things get tough. Second is the Spirit of Love, which pushes us to care for others and keeps our focus on helping a hurting world, even when it costs us something. Finally, he gives us a Clear Mind, or Sophronismos. In the original Greek, this means clear thinking and self-control. For us at Vista, it lets us look back at the two and a half years without a pastor not as the end of the church, but as just one chapter in a much longer story of God's faithfulness. It’s seeing that pause as a comma, not a period.

Here is the best part: Paul is confident that God guards what is placed in God’s hands. Paul tells Timothy to guard the faith, but he also reminds him that God is the one ultimately holding onto it.

Vista, I know you’ve felt the weight of keeping this church going on your own shoulders for a long time. But our faith is safe because God never lets go of it. The Lord has been watching over you, even while you were working hard to keep things going.

As your new pastor, I want to talk honestly about where we are. Vista has been through a lot. You made it through a long time without a pastor, and you brought different church traditions together. Each of those traditions had its own "Lois and Eunice" figures—faithful people who planted seeds years ago. Some people might look at the past and think the fire has gone out.

They are wrong.

Ash isn't useless trash; it’s proof that a fire was actually burning. As I step into this role with you, we will take time to grieve what we've lost over the years. But remember: we don't honor the people who came before us by turning the church into a museum. We honor them by taking the spark they left us and fanning it into a real flame today.

The faith of our ancestors isn't a heavy load we have to drag around. It’s fuel for our future.

So, Vista, here is our goal: rekindle the gift.

Don’t look at the future with fear. We aren’t doing this alone, and I’m not doing it without you. We are doing it together, with the help of the Holy Spirit inside us. We are taking that old, inherited faith and realizing it’s exactly what we need for the work God has ahead of us.

Let’s be a people who admit our weaknesses, but rely completely on the power of God. And, with God’s help, let’s take the ashes of the past and turn them into a living flame today.

Amen.

Preached Sunday, July 26, 2026, at Vista Lutheran Church, St. Louis Park, MN.

From Generation to Generation: There's Room for Every Story

A record of the ancestors of Jesus Christ, son of David, son of Abraham:

Abraham was the father of Isaac.

Isaac was the father of Jacob.

Jacob was the father of Judah and his brothers.

Judah was the father of Perez and Zerah,

whose mother was Tamar.

Perez was the father of Hezron.

Hezron was the father of Aram.

Aram was the father of Amminadab.

Amminadab was the father of Nahshon.

Nahshon was the father of Salmon.

Salmon was the father of Boaz, whose mother was Rahab.

Boaz was the father of Obed, whose mother was Ruth.

Obed was the father of Jesse.

Jesse was the father of David the king.

David was the father of Solomon,

whose mother had been the wife of Uriah.

Solomon was the father of Rehoboam.

Rehoboam was the father of Abijah.

Abijah was the father of Asaph.

Asaph was the father of Jehoshaphat.

Jehoshaphat was the father of Joram.

Joram was the father of Uzziah.

Uzziah was the father of Jotham.

Jotham was the father of Ahaz.

Ahaz was the father of Hezekiah.

Hezekiah was the father of Manasseh.

Manasseh was the father of Amos.

Amos was the father of Josiah.

Josiah was the father of Jechoniah and his brothers.

This was at the time of the exile to Babylon.

After the exile to Babylon: Jechoniah was the father of Shealtiel.

Shealtiel was the father of Zerubbabel.

Zerubbabel was the father of Abiud.

Abiud was the father of Eliakim

Eliakim was the father of Azor.

Azor was the father of Zadok.

Zadok was the father of Achim.

Achim was the father of Eliud.

Eliud was the father of Eleazar.

Eleazar was the father of Matthan.

Matthan was the father of Jacob.

Jacob was the father of Joseph, the husband of Mary—of whom Jesus was born, who is called the Christ.

So there were fourteen generations from Abraham to David, fourteen generations from David to the exile to Babylon, and fourteen generations from the exile to Babylon to the Christ. --Matthew 1:1-17 CEB

Holy is God’s name, who shows mercy to everyone, from one generation to the next, for those who honor God. Amen.

From generation to generation. That is our theme throughout this incarnational season of the church year - this time from Advent through Epiphany. It is taken from Mary’s song of protest and praise - a song sung by her in the midst of challenge. In the midst of her vulnerability. Even in these moments, Mary could see God’s vision. That dream of God captured in the reading from Isaiah that we heard last week and, again, today. Perhaps, repetition is helpful for us - that this vision of God for a new way of being for all nations might be more fully and deeply embedded in us. A vision of peace. Of wholeness. Of shalom.

It was a vision that was bigger than Mary. That is bigger than we are. That Christ comes for our collective liberation. That this work of God’s redemption continues and is meant to be lived out and passed on. From generation to generation.

So, it’s perhaps no surprise that, on this first Sunday of Advent, we begin at the beginning. With Jesus’ family tree.

I’m curious how many of you have done any genealogy work on your own family tree? My work really began with my mother, decades ago, when she created a wall hanging for the 50th anniversary of my paternal grandparents. My brother, a cousin and I have continued that work. Over the past decade or so, thanks to Ancestry.com, that simple wall hanging has grown into an extensive tree reflecting generations in my family. Not only on my father’s side, but on my mother’s, as well.

Why do we do this work of tracing the generations of our families? Although I can’t answer that question for you, for me it has been a way of identifying where I come from. And who I am. In learning the stories of my ancestors, my story is told, too. 

There is, for example, the story of my father’s family. Fourteen children. Four boys and ten girls. A huge family with not alot of money, at least at the beginning. So, their entertainment was to sing together as a family. To play instruments, especially piano and accordion. To go every Friday night to community dances, which happens to be where my mom met my dad. And, because they lived in such a rural place, nearly 40 miles away from the nearest small town, it also meant that my father and his older brother learned how to fly (and crash) a small Cessna, so they could travel to places they might otherwise not have experienced. Perhaps, that’s how I get my travel bug.

If we look at Jesus’ lineage, we see that he, too, comes from a large family. In Matthew, this family is traced all the way back to Abraham. Then to Isaac, then Jacob with his twelve sons. Then to David, who God promised - covenanted with - that his line would never end. On and on Jesus’ line is traced through the chosen nation of Israel and its ancestors. From kings to prophets to priests. To show us two things about his identity. That Jesus embodies the royal lineage of King David, whose line would be carried on by the Promised One, the Messiah. And that he also embodies the covenantal authority of Abraham, through whom all the families of the earth would be blessed. For Matthew’s audience, Jesus may appear to be a simple carpenter, but he is, in fact, the fulfillment of both the promise to Abraham and that of King David. Jesus is the royal successor to David. King. And the promised Messiah. Savior. King and Savior, come to bless all nations. 

But, genealogies give us not only glimpses of the happy or joyful times in our families’ histories, but also stories of challenge and hardship. Sometimes evil. If I look carefully at my grandfather’s history, I learn that the same year he was born, his four-year-old sister died. Two years later, another sister died in childbirth. The following year, when my grandfather was only 3 years old, his mother, my great-grandmother Marian, died at the very young age of 24. Three months later, his father married Marian’s sister, Katherine. If I move to my mother’s side, I find a great-grandfather who was murdered. 

In the midst of the joy of our families, lies tragedy and heartache. Struggle and conflict. And, sometimes, family members who lose their way. This is so with my family. I wonder if it is so of yours.

This complexity is so with Jesus’ family, which contains serious blemishes.

For example, in Jesus’ line, Manasseh and Amon appear - two incredibly evil kings. Or there’s King Jechoniah, an unhappy king who was exiled not once, but twice. Then, notice the women who appear unexpectedly in Matthew’s genealogy, something unusual in ancient times. Many of them experienced their own trauma and heartache. There is Tamar. Jacob’s daughter-in-law whom he impregnated. Or Bathsheba. Unnamed in the family tree, but mentioned as the wife of Uriah, whom David killed so that he could take Bathsheba as his own. And impregnate her with a son she would lose seven days after his birth. Or consider Rahab. A prostitute who hid the Israelite spies as they were scouting out the Promised Land. Or consider Mary herself. A teenager who found herself pregnant and unmarried at a time when such a condition could result in stoning. All of these women, with the exception of Mary, foreigners, often in conflicted circumstances. Yet grafted - adopted - into Jesus’ family tree. Just as you and I have been adopted in, as well. 

What’s your family story? My guess is that it is as messy and wonderful as my family's story. And that of Jesus’ family. In those long lists of names, we remember the trauma and triumph of those who came before. Each name holds a story. And, in Matthew’s genealogy, their story gives way to Christ’s story. A story that encompasses all of our stories, complicated as they are. Weaving them together with generations past and present. Welcoming us in. And inviting us to share Christ’s story and our story, too. Of liberation and freedom. Of peace. Of shalom. With all the generations to come. 

Because, in Christ’s story, there is room for every story. Past. Present. And future. Amen.

Preached December 4, 2022, at Grace & Glory Lutheran, Prospect, with Third Lutheran, Louisville.

First Sunday of Advent

Readings: Matthew 1:1-17; Isaiah 2:1-5