Hidden Hands, Daring Choices: The Tapestry of Grace (Ruth 4)

No sooner had Boaz gone up to the gate and sat down there than the next-of-kin of whom Boaz had spoken came passing by. So Boaz said, “Come over; sit down here.” And he went over and sat down. Then Boaz took ten men of the elders of the town and said, “Sit down here,” so they sat down. He then said to the next-of-kin, “Naomi, who has come back from the country of Moab, is selling the parcel of land that belonged to our kinsman Elimelech. So I thought I would tell you of it and say: Buy it in the presence of those sitting here and in the presence of the elders of my people. If you will redeem it, redeem it; but if you will not, tell me, so that I may know; for there is no one prior to you to redeem it, and I come after you.” So he said, “I will redeem it.” Then Boaz said, “The day you acquire the field from the hand of Naomi, you are also acquiring Ruth the Moabite, the widow of the dead man, to maintain the dead man’s name on his inheritance.” At this, the next-of-kin said, “I cannot redeem it for myself without damaging my own inheritance. Take my right of redemption yourself, for I cannot redeem it.”

Now this was the custom in former times in Israel concerning redeeming and exchanging to confirm a transaction: the one took off a sandal and gave it to the other; this was the manner of attesting in Israel. So when the next-of-kin said to Boaz, “Acquire it for yourself,” he took off his sandal. Then Boaz said to the elders and all the people, “You are witnesses today that I have acquired from the hand of Naomi all that belonged to Elimelech and all that belonged to Chilion and Mahlon. I have also acquired Ruth the Moabite, the wife of Mahlon, to be my wife, to maintain the dead man’s name on his inheritance, in order that the name of the dead may not be cut off from his kindred and from the gate of his native place; today you are witnesses.” Then all the people who were at the gate, along with the elders, said, “We are witnesses. May the Lord make the woman who is coming into your house like Rachel and Leah, who together built up the house of Israel. May you produce children in Ephrathah and bestow a name in Bethlehem; and, through the children that the Lord will give you by this young woman, may your house be like the house of Perez, whom Tamar bore to Judah.”

So Boaz took Ruth, and she became his wife. When they came together, the Lord made her conceive, and she bore a son. Then the women said to Naomi, “Blessed be the Lord, who has not left you this day without next-of-kin, and may his name be renowned in Israel! He shall be to you a restorer of life and a nourisher of your old age, for your daughter-in-law who loves you, who is more to you than seven sons, has borne him.” Then Naomi took the child and laid him in her bosom and became his nurse. The women of the neighborhood gave him a name, saying, “A son has been born to Naomi.” They named him Obed; he became the father of Jesse, the father of David.

Now these are the descendants of Perez: Perez became the father of Hezron, Hezron of Ram, Ram of Amminadab, Amminadab of Nahshon, Nahshon of Salmon, Salmon of Boaz, Boaz of Obed, Obed of Jesse, and Jesse of David. --Ruth 4 (NRSVue)

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One of my favorite things about early summer in Minnesota is the explosion of life all around us. The trees are heavy with new green leaves, and the gardens are beginning to sprout, even if it’s been a little cool lately. In nature, summer feels like a steady state of plenty. It is a "green muchness" that feeds our souls deeper than we often realize.

To see how this connects to our faith—and to the end of the Book of Ruth—I want you to picture another landscape. Early in my ministry, I served a church in Goshen, Kentucky, just on the outskirts of Louisville. It is a place of wide-open, rolling green hills that look like waves of deep bluegrass. You can drive for miles past the black and white fences of famous horse farms, where the rich soil makes the grass look painted.

This is the home of farmer and poet Wendell Berry. He has spent his life teaching us that nature moves in reliable cycles. Even the deepest winter deprivation eventually returns to abundant fields and orchards. This is a perfect frame for the end of Ruth. As theologian Parker Palmer writes, summer is when the promises of a difficult season finally come due, repaid with compounded interest.

The climax of Ruth and Naomi’s story takes place at the city gate. In the ancient world, this was the local hub for law and business. Boaz goes there to settle the matter of Naomi’s family land, left behind years ago during the famine. While there, Boaz meets a closer relative to Naomi. The Hebrew text calls him paloni almoni—the ancient version of "Joe Schmo."

Boaz offers Joe the deal. At first, Joe is enthusiastic because he sees a material gain. But then Boaz shares the fine print. By law, buying the land means marrying Ruth—the Moabite foreigner. He must do this to maintain the deceased heir's name on the inheritance.

Suddenly, Joe gets cold feet. He refuses, claiming it will damage his own estate. Joe is living a calculated life of self-preservation. He sees his legacy as a secure stockpile that would be diminished by helping an outsider.

In contrast, Boaz refuses to live with a scarcity mentality. He accepts the legal and social risk. In doing so, he shows us the true meaning of hesed—a word that means far more than steadfast love. It means extraordinary, self-sacrificing faithfulness. Boaz weaves his life into the histories of two destitute widows, trusting that by passing grace around, he creates more of it. 

Choosing this kind of faithful risk requires a deep peace. Wendell Berry wrote about this in his famous 1968 poem, "The Peace of Wild Things." Written during a time of national despair—amid assassinations, racial injustice, and the death of our illusions—his words remind us that we can choose joy and courage. We can lean into a grace that doesn’t depend on our own anxious schemes. He writes:

When despair for the world grows in me

I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief...

For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

When we rest in that grace - when we rest in God’s grace, we can act with courage.

We see this courage ripple out into the community of Bethlehem. When Ruth gives birth to a son, the neighborhood women don’t just watch; they share the joy. They name the child Obed themselves and proclaim, “A son has been born to Naomi!”

These women make a radical statement. They tell Naomi that Ruth is “more to you than seven sons.” In that culture, seven sons represented complete security. Yet, these women declare that Ruth’s faithful love is Naomi’s greatest blessing. Naomi, who returned home entirely empty, now experiences the fullness of generations.

This brings us to the most profound part of this summer harvest. The genealogy at the end of the book reveals that Obed would become the grandfather of King David. Think about what this means. A widow, an immigrant, and a foreigner was the person God chose to join the lineage of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

God took a foreign widow from Moab and made her the foundation of a royal lineage of hope. By choosing community over secure stockpiles of wealth, Boaz, Ruth, and Naomi allowed God to weave their lives into a tapestry of grace. It was a legacy that outlasted them and that changed the history of the world. 

When we hold tight to what we have, we create a world of lack. But when we trust the flow of God’s abundant supply and pass it along, abundance flourishes. Community is the very definition of that abundance. In choosing it, we open ourselves to God, letting God re-shape our empty spaces into a royal inheritance of hope.

And this is the ultimate promise of the harvest: in God's kingdom, no one is an outsider to grace. The borders we build, the secure stockpiles we guard, and the lines we draw between "us" and "them" melt away at the city gate of God's love. Naomi’s once-empty lap was transformed into a space of generational fullness because an outsider was welcomed in.

So as we go forth into this bright summer season, let us open our hearts, open our hands, and expand our circles. Let us trust that when we choose community, we allow God to turn our personal emptiness into a royal legacy of hope. Amen.

Preached Sunday, June 21, 2026, at Vista Lutheran Church, St. Louis Park, MN.

 

More Than Three Kings: The Radical, Political Truth Behind the Christmas Story

Beyond the Familiar Scene

The Christmas nativity scene is one of the most enduring images in our culture: three royal kings, dressed in velvet and jewels, bringing the baby Jesus finely-wrapped birthday gifts. It's a peaceful, almost cozy picture of adoration.

But the original biblical account in the Gospel of Matthew is far from this sweet tale. When we look closely at the text, we find a raw political and theological narrative, one that is defined by state-sanctioned fear, brutal violence, and a radical, world-altering hope. By removing centuries of tradition from this story, we can uncover surprising takeaways from the story of the magi that seem more relevant today than ever. Here are four possibilities:

1. It’s a Political Thriller, Not a Fairytale

The story of the magi unfolds within a specific context of political oppression. Matthew’s Gospel sets the scene “In the time of King Herod,” who is a puppet ruler of the Roman Empire, particularly known for his violent paranoia.

When Herod, the installed king, hears news from foreign astrologers about the birth of a new “King of the Jews,” his reaction is not joy, but terror. It drives him to coercion and control, culminating in what Matthew’s account describes as the horrific slaughter of Bethlehem’s children (Matthew 2:16-18). His fear escalates into genocide, echoing Pharaoh’s slaughter of Hebrew infants in the first chapter of Exodus.

In this volatile landscape, the magi’s journey and their homage to Jesus are not merely devotional acts—they are deeply political. By kneeling before a vulnerable child in an occupied territory, they make a bold and embodied declaration that their ultimate loyalty lies with this new king, not with the violent empire represented by Herod. 

Matthew presents Jesus’ birth not in opposition to politics, but within it. The empire’s reaction to Jesus reveals the threat he poses to systems of oppression. (Rev. Dr. Boyung Lee, from her feminist commentary on Matthew 2.) 

This framing matters because it mirrors the reality of oppression in our world today. Palestinian theologian Mitri Raheb, preaching from Bethlehem, calls the Christmas story a “Palestinian story par excellence,” rooted in the painful realities of occupation and state-sanctioned violence. The good news, he explains, is found in God's deliberate choice:

When the fullness of time came... God did not choose Rome or Athens for Christ to be born at; He chose occupied Bethlehem.

2. The “Three Kings” Are a Myth

The popular image of three kings named Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar is a product of later Christian tradition, not the biblical text itself. 

King Tingz (by Nicolette Faison)

The original Gospel account is much more mysterious. Matthew calls the visitors magoi apo anatolōn—magi from the East—without specifying number, gender, or religion. The idea of three visitors was most likely drawn from the three gifts they offered: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

The term magoi comes from Old Persian and refers to a “priestly class in Zoroastrianism.” This detail directly challenges the myth of royal kings. They were foreign, Gentile astrologers—figures who would have been considered outsiders by the religious establishment. Their inclusion is significant because it places God's activity firmly on the margins, subverting imperial logic where a new king is hailed not by the religious elite in the center of power, but by Gentile astrologers on the fringes.

3. The Magi Might Have Been Women

In her fresh, feminist interpretation, theologian Rev. Dr. Boyung Lee proposes that the magi could have been women.

The basis for this theory lies in the original term. In Zoroastrian tradition, the title magoi could refer to both men and women. Reimagining the magi this way radically shifts the story’s meaning. Instead of “strange men” arriving at the door, we can picture “wise women crossing boundaries of religion, ethnicity, and culture to stand in solidarity with a marginalized mother and child.”

In this interpretation, their journey is not just reverence and worship but an act of “radical accompaniment.” Their visit becomes a “feminine embodiment of God’s epiphany.” This reading is particularly powerful when considering the scene from Mary’s perspective. During her postpartum recovery, a time when cultural law might have kept her isolated, she may have welcomed the solidarity of other women into her room far more readily than that of foreign men. 

4. It’s a Story About Responding to Fear

At its core, the Epiphany story is a clash between two starkly different responses to fear.

First, there is Herod’s response. Terrified of losing his grip on power, his fear mutates into “deception, surveillance, and mass violence.” He deploys “state-sanctioned terror to preserve power,” revealing how untransformed fear can lead to the most destructive outcomes.

The magi provide a powerful “counterpoint.” They, too, face fear and uncertainty, traveling through foreign lands and confronting a paranoid tyrant. But they “don’t let Herod’s fear-driven demands stop them.” They model what it looks like “to be led by hope, moving through fear without letting it paralyze us.”

Their final act—being warned in a dream and returning home “by another road”—is deeply symbolic. It signifies not just a different geographical route, but a “transformed life.” They leave changed by their encounter with Christ, choosing a new path forward. In her commentary on the passage, Rev. Dr. Boyung Lee frames this choice by asking a question that echoes the poet Rumi:

Will we move the way fear makes us move? Or will we move the way love calls us to?

A Different Road Home

When we look past the sanitized and saccharin nativity narratives we're so accustomed to, we find that the story of the magi is far more political, complex, and challenging than the domesticated version we often see. It’s a narrative about political resistance, radical inclusion, and the courageous choice to pursue hope in a world defined by fear.

The journey of the magi is an invitation to us all. It asks us to consider which path we will choose—the one dictated by fear, control, and violence, or the other road of courageous hope. In a world that still brims with violence and uncertainty, the magi's journey insists that fear doesn't have to stop us - that love is the antidote to fear and that, ultimately, it is Love that leads us forward. 

From Generation to Generation: We Tell This Story

Nearby shepherds were living in the fields, guarding their sheep at night. The Lord’s angel stood before them, the Lord’s glory shone around them, and they were terrified.

The angel said, “Don’t be afraid! Look! I bring good news to you—wonderful, joyous news for all people. Your savior is born today in David’s city. He is Christ the Lord. This is a sign for you: you will find a newborn baby wrapped snugly and lying in a manger.” Suddenly a great assembly of the heavenly forces was with the angel praising God. They said, “Glory to God in heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors.” --Luke 2:8-14 (CEB)

Grace, mercy, and peace to you from God, our Creator, and from our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

The stories we tell. What are some of the Christmas stories that are told in your family?

In mine, one of those stories goes back to a time when I was seven years old. That year, all my sister and I wanted was an Easy Bake Oven. Remember the Easy Bake Oven? For those of you too young to know, it was this plastic contraption molded to look like an oven. Inside, it had this heat-emitting light bulb that gave off just enough heat so that, using the tiny cake pan and tiny cake mix provided, you could make a cake. It came with 3 or 4 tiny cake mixes. But, you could also by a supplement with another 20 mixes for cakes and brownies. 

That Christmas morning, my sister and brother and I were up early as so many children are - unable to sleep. Anxious to see what Santa had left behind. So, about 4 am, we got up and quietly sneaked to our living room to open our presents left under the tree. Where we found a large box - the Easy Bake Oven! My sister and I were thrilled. The three of us quietly took the oven and all 20 plus mixes downstairs to our basement to try it out. 

Over the next 3 hours, we kept mixing those mixes and pushing the cake pan into and out of the oven. Cake after cake. Brownie after brownie. Feeding my brother who, except for the few my sister and I ate, wolfed down every single one. So that, by the time my parents awoke and came downstairs to find out why it was so quiet, all of the tiny mixes were gone. 

You can imagine their reaction. And that is a story for another time. But, this is one of many stories in my family that we tell each year at this time. I’d dare say that all of us have stories like this. Stories that, especially as we remember them, are those fond stories we tell year after year after year.  

It’s like this story. This story we tell every year. A story of a young couple, traveling on a donkey back to their hometown to comply with a royal decree. The young woman in the last stages of her pregnancy who, nonetheless, must obey that empirical directive, along with her partner to whom she is engaged, where, when they reach their destination, she goes into labor and gives birth to a tiny baby. Who will change the world. 

Amidst all the cultural and commercial stuff of this season, we continue to tell this story. What is it that captivates us so about this story? Why has it been preserved throughout the generations and across cultures? Why is the nativity of Christ so important to us? 

It begins, interestingly, according to Walter Brueggemann, with the song of the angels. A song that breaks into our world and completely shatters the decree of the earthly emperor, who seeks to control by means of a census. This song of the angels stands in direct conflict with that census decree. It announces the birth of a new king - one that neither Rome nor Herod can stop - who begins a new history. A new jubilee that frees all humanity from debt, that gives amnesty from old crimes, and a new beginning again, a beginning that has at its core, freedom. 

The angels break into our world and sing this song to the shepherds, who are the outcasts in their world. They sing their song not just to the shepherds, but to a barren old woman; to an innocent, yet believing young woman; to an old man struck dumb; to a lowly carpenter. All of whom in our world and in the world of their time meant nothing. Were of no importance. Who knew the depths of grief, whether through loss, marginalization, lack of money or power - all of those things that those who are edges of our world experience. It is to them to whom the angels break into with song. And they are amazed. 

Isn’t that what this story is really about? Being amazed. Amazed at how, over and over, this baby in his adult ministry will break down the physical, emotional and psychological narratives that divide people - that divide us. Those narratives we are told in our world about who is clean and who is unclean. Jesus breaks in, just as the angels broke in. And we are amazed. And changed. And restored back into community, given life where none seemed possible before. Offered hope rather than despair. And a future quite different than that offered by royal decree. 

This is why we tell this story. Again and again. It’s to remind ourselves of and to fully embody this story - a story of hope, a story of freedom, a story of love, a story of God coming to be with us. A story you and I are called to pass onto future generations, so that they, too, may experience the hope it brings. A hope given to us by God in Jesus - a God who breaks down the walls of our hearts to show us that there is a better way. A new way. A way of amazement and energy rather than grief and despair. 

And it begins with a baby. As helpless as we are. In need of others, as we are. Who cries out, as we do. And holds hands, as we do. Who experiences the pain and joy and complexity of being human, as we do. Who moves into our neighborhood and promises to accompany us in the journey now. And forever.

Glory to God in the highest. And on earth, peace. Good will toward all. May you hold this sacred story close to your heart. May it give you hope. And, like so many generations before us, may you pass it on. God grant it. Amen.

Preached December 24, 2022, online with Grace & Glory, Prospect, and Third, Louisville.

Nativity of Our Lord - Christmas Eve

Readings: Luke 2:1-20, Micah 5:2-5; John 1:1-14

Unraveled: Unraveling Doubt

It was still the first day of the week. That evening, while the disciples were behind closed doors because they were afraid of the Jewish authorities, Jesus came and stood among them. He said, “Peace be with you.” After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. When the disciples saw the Lord, they were filled with joy. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father sent me, so I am sending you.” Then he breathed on them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive anyone’s sins, they are forgiven; if you don’t forgive them, they aren’t forgiven.”

Thomas, the one called Didymus, one of the Twelve, wasn’t with the disciples when Jesus came. The other disciples told him, “We’ve seen the Lord!”

But he replied, “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands, put my finger in the wounds left by the nails, and put my hand into his side, I won’t believe.”

After eight days his disciples were again in a house and Thomas was with them. Even though the doors were locked, Jesus entered and stood among them. He said, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here. Look at my hands. Put your hand into my side. No more disbelief. Believe!”

Thomas responded to Jesus, “My Lord and my God!”

Jesus replied, “Do you believe because you see me? Happy are those who don’t see and yet believe.” --John 20:19-29 (CEB)

Grace, mercy and peace to you from God our Creator, Jesus Christ our Redeemer, and the Holy Spirit our Sustainer. Amen.

Where do I begin? I have to admit to you that, as I’ve been working and living through this past week, there are a lot of things I have felt called to preach today. This may be a longer sermon because of it. Let’s hope it makes some sense by the end.

I want to begin with this idea of how we respond when the unimaginable happens. Perhaps that unimaginable thing is happening to us personally. Perhaps it is something that happens to us collectively. I’m thinking today about the people of eastern Kentucky. 

If you’ve watched any of the videos of the flooding or the damage in the aftermath of the floods, or considered the loss of life, this was for our neighbors one of those “unimaginable” events. I’m one of two co-coordinators for disaster response in our synod. (I used to say I was a co-disaster response coordinator, but decided I needed to change that wording a bit.) 

Whenever a disaster hits, there are organizations, both in-state and from across the country, who begin to meet on Zoom to coordinate the volunteer response. These groups are called VOAD groups - Voluntary Organizations Active in Disaster. Every state has a VOAD group. There’s a national group, too. So, when a disaster hits, all of the VOAD partners plus all of the state and county emergency management teams jump on daily calls to, first, understand the need and, then, to coordinate the response. Lutheran Disaster Response - our churchwide organization that works through the affected synod - is one of those partners. And because Lutheran Disaster Response operates primarily through synods, I am typically on those calls, too.

When the floods hit a week ago in the eastern part of the state, the VOAD organizations and EMS teams took to Zoom. We typically aren’t part of this initial crisis response, but work more longer term. Yet, it’s important to know the extent of the disaster, so we all jump on the calls

You can imagine what we heard. Stories shared that most of us, including the EMS teams, could never have imagined would have happened. The devastation, the loss of life, the grief and heartbreak caused by these floods where streams and rivers, in some cases, were 20 feet above “normal” flood stage.

As I sat and listened in this past Monday, there was one need that stood out to me. A young woman working for a housing development corporation in Owsley Co. - one of the poorest counties in Kentucky. This young woman, Cassie Hudson, made a plea for $50,000 cash. It’s not often that people just blurt out the need for cash on these calls. Usually requests are for volunteers and supplies. Not just cash. But, for Cassie - like for Thomas in our text today - there was a need to be direct. To be honest. To risk. To be vulnerable. To see the evidence. To find the hope.

Isn’t that what Thomas is doing in our text today? Wasn’t he just verbalizing what every other disciple had been thinking - at least before Jesus appeared to all of them (except for Thomas) as they waited in fear in the upper room that Easter evening? A locked room that didn’t stop Jesus from showing up. And who, when he did show up, spoke a word of peace to them. Twice. Peace be with you. Peace. As in shalom. Meaning wholeness. Belonging. Community. 

But, Thomas wasn’t there. He wasn’t there to receive this word of peace from Jesus, literally in the flesh. Have you ever wondered where Thomas was? Why he wasn’t there? I have to wonder if, so devastated by Jesus’ death - by the unimaginable - he might have self-isolated. Caught up in his own grief. Grief that had turned him into a doubter. A skeptic. A cynic. Even a truth-teller. “Unless I see…I won’t believe,” Thomas says, even after the other disciples have witnessed to him. Who believed only when they saw! Who, in that moment, experienced their own Pentecost, as Jesus breathed his Spirit on them and sent them out.

Then, for Thomas, Jesus shows up. Again. And offers him exactly what he asks for. Put your finger here. Look at my hands. Put your hand into my side. Touch me. See that I am real. And believe. No longer is Thomas the cynic. No longer does Thomas need to touch Jesus. To touch the wounds on his hands. Or on his side. Simply being in the presence of this resurrected Jesus has restored his hope. Restored his faith. Restored his joy.

We never read of Thomas again in scripture. It might be easy to imagine that he simply faded away. Except, he didn’t. Thomas would go on to found the early Church in India. To build communities of Jesus’ followers that exist today - St. Thomas Christians, they call themselves. One of whom is an ELCA pastor, who serves just down the road from us in Corydon.

Because, like the other apostles, Thomas took seriously the divine authority given him by Christ. The authority for his own mission that can only be understood in light of the mission of Christ. A mission of self-giving love. A mission evidenced and fulfilled by Jesus’ life and death. A mission to which each and everyone of us are called, under the authority of Christ through our baptism in the Holy Spirit. Just as Thomas and the rest of the disciples were called, then sent. Thomas. Truth-teller that he was.

So, who is the Thomas in our midst? What is the truth here that no one is naming? That no one is vulnerable enough to speak out loud? Something that we all see, but that no one will say? 

Perhaps, one of those truths is that church as we’ve known it is no more. Our numbers, like virtually every other church in this country, are unraveling. Drastically. Something that is not your fault, or mine. But, something that has been trending in our nation for well over 50 years. We just - lucky or not - happen to be living at the end of it. In the midst of this liminal time.

What will the future bring? What will happen to the church? I daresay, none of us know. But, here’s the thing. When that unimaginable thing happens, whatever it is - Christ will be there. Breaking through the closed doors of our building, the closed doors of our hearts, the closed doors of our minds, saying to us - as he said to Thomas… Put. Touch. See. Believe. You and I will not do this new thing. God will do this new thing. And, God in Christ through the Holy Spirit will then send us into mission. Whatever that mission will be.

What’s an example of that mission? A possibility? Here’s a real-life, honest-to-God example of a mission God sends us on - of what it means to invite others to put, to touch, to see, to believe.

I’d like to read from two emails I received this week from that young woman I mentioned at the outset - from Cassie Hudson, Executive Director of Partnership Housing in Boonesville, KY. 

On Tuesday, she wrote this: "I have 3 small homes to build and a couple small repairs to other homes. I have the contractor willing to build back all of these 3 homes at no cost for his labor, I'm just struggling so bad with money for building materials. Owsley County is the poorest county in KY, finding money is difficult and we just experienced a historical flood in March 2021 which I was very successful in getting everyone homed, homes rebuilt etc. and fully recovered by July 2021, merely 5 months after the flood. This flood happened in a different part of the county and our previous efforts went untouched and I'm so thankful to God for that. Any and all funds no matter the amount is appreciated but I'm needing at least $50,000. Funds are just not coming in like previously, I think its because there has been so many disasters throughout KY since March 2021."

Then, on Thursday, after receiving an email I sent letting her know that Lutheran Disaster Response, because of dollars we and so many others have given - that LDR through our Synod would fully fund her request, plus any additional funds she might need, here’s what she wrote: I am at lost for words.  I can never thank you and everyone involved with.  You have not only took such a worry off of me but you will be able to help these people who can never recover from such devastation.  I'm usually a person with a lot of faith and belief that everything will work out and line up but on Monday evening, my faith was being tested.  I had doubt, I was worried and didn't know how I would pay for the materials to build these homes, but I was building them as I had just dug footers and poured them on one of the homes.  On Tuesday, I threw my doubt out the window that morning and put it in the lords hands.  He placed me here with PH almost 10 years ago to learn housing and to help the people of Owsley County and everything I've accomplished has been because of him, so I knew he wasn't finished with me...and today I receive your email."

Put your finger here. Look at my hands. Put your hand into my side. No more disbelief. Believe! Believe that God is working in our midst. Believe that God will turn our cynicism to hope. Will move us from isolation to community. From disbelief to faith. From fear to joy. So that we might then be like Thomas, like Cassie. To throw our doubt to the wind. And with all the authority of Christ to invite others to put, touch, see, and believe. 

Let us pray: Lover of the poor, defender of the needy, sanctuary of the rejected: for those who suffer injustice today, for men and women who cannot provide food for their families, and for whole communities who fear today and have no hope for tomorrow, we offer the longings of our hearts in prayer. We seek for them, O God, the gifts that are dear to us: food for the table, drink for the soul, shelter in the night and open doors to welcome us in. Amen.

Preached August 7, 2022, at Grace & Glory, Prospect, with Third, Louisville.

Pentecost 9

Readings: John 20:19-29; Psalm 16.

Unraveled: Sarah Laughs

The Lord appeared to Abraham at the oaks of Mamre while he sat at the entrance of his tent in the day’s heat. He looked up and suddenly saw three men standing near him. As soon as he saw them, he ran from his tent entrance to greet them and bowed deeply. He said, “Sirs, if you would be so kind, don’t just pass by your servant. Let a little water be brought so you may wash your feet and refresh yourselves under the tree. Let me offer you a little bread so you will feel stronger, and after that you may leave your servant and go on your way—since you have visited your servant.”

They responded, “Fine. Do just as you have said.”

So Abraham hurried to Sarah at his tent and said, “Hurry! Knead three seahs of the finest flour and make some baked goods!” Abraham ran to the cattle, took a healthy young calf, and gave it to a young servant, who prepared it quickly. Then Abraham took butter, milk, and the calf that had been prepared, put the food in front of them, and stood under the tree near them as they ate.

They said to him, “Where’s your wife Sarah?”

And he said, “Right here in the tent.”

Then one of the men said, “I will definitely return to you about this time next year. Then your wife Sarah will have a son!”

Sarah was listening at the tent door behind him. Now Abraham and Sarah were both very old. Sarah was no longer menstruating. So Sarah laughed to herself, thinking, I’m no longer able to have children and my husband’s old.

The Lord said to Abraham, “Why did Sarah laugh and say, ‘Me give birth? At my age?’ Is anything too difficult for the Lord? When I return to you about this time next year, Sarah will have a son.”

Sarah lied and said, “I didn’t laugh,” because she was frightened.

But he said, “No, you laughed.”

The Lord was attentive to Sarah just as he had said, and the Lord carried out just what he had promised her. She became pregnant and gave birth to a son for Abraham when he was old, at the very time God had told him. Abraham named his son—the one Sarah bore him—Isaac. Abraham circumcised his son Isaac when he was eight days old just as God had commanded him. Abraham was 100 years old when his son Isaac was born. Sarah said, “God has given me laughter. Everyone who hears about it will laugh with me.” She said, “Who could have told Abraham that Sarah would nurse sons? But now I’ve given birth to a son when he was old!” --Genesis 18:1-15, 21:1-7 (CEB) 

Grace, mercy and peace to you from the Triune God - Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer. Amen.

The Festival of the Trinity. The one Sunday and the one topic that every pastor loves to preach on. Yeah, not so much.

Yesterday, as we closed Synod Assembly with worship, we heard a sermon by Deacon Mary Ann Schwabe. She was the representative from churchwide, from the national body of the ELCA, there, among other things, to bring greetings from Presiding Bishop Elizabeth Eaton. She opened her message with a quote about the Holy Trinity. About the impossibility of explaining the Trinity. A quote from Luther, who wrote: "To deny the Trinity is to risk our salvation. To try to explain the Trinity is to risk our insanity."

You see, try as theologians might, we don’t fully understand the Trinity. This Godhead made up of three Persons: Parent/Creator, Son/Redeemer, and Spirit/Sustainer. And to try to explain it is probably, as Luther suggested, inviting insanity.

So, for the moment, I’m not going to try. Although we will return to this topic in just a second or two.

Instead, I’d like to turn to our primary text today - this story about Abraham and Sarah. Really, a story about Sarah. And her laughter.

Early in the week, when I was exegeting this text before leaving for Muncie, I can’t even begin to tell you how many different interpretations and explanations there were about why Sarah laughed in this story. Some suggested she laughed from amusement - from an image of she, at the age of 90, and her husband Abraham, nearing 100, making a baby together. Some suggested that she laughed at the preposterous idea that, at the age of 90, post-menopausal, there was even any remote possibility of her conceiving a child. Others suggested that her laughter came from a place of deep bitterness over the fact that she and Abraham had not had the child - the heir - long promised by God. And yet others wrote that her laughter was from disbelief, from doubt about what the visitor - rather, the three visitors (pay attention to that especially on this Trinity Sunday) predicted - that Sarah was laughing in disbelief, doubt, and perhaps even scorn over the very possibility.

Perhaps all of these explanations of Sarah’s laughter are true, because much had happened before our story today. God had promised Abraham and Sarah to make of them a great nation. Then, after this hadn’t happened and after Sarah had moved beyond child-bearing age, she had taken matters into her own hands, giving Hagar, her servant girl to Abraham. Forcing her into surrogacy. Then, growing jealous when Hagar became pregnant with Ishmael, Abraham’s first-born son. All of this then followed by a visit, at the age of 90, from these three strangers whom we, from the outside looking in, know to be God - strangers who tell her that by next year at this time she will have a son. Her laughter must have come from all of these different places: from amusement, and bitterness, and grief, and even pure glee at the absurdity of it all. 

But, mostly, it would seem, at least to me, that Sarah’s laughter comes from disbelief. From a lack of belief in the future God has promised both her and Abraham. A disbelief that, by the following year, is completely unraveled by the gift of her son, Isaac. Whose very name means “laughter.” 

I mentioned at the beginning of worship this morning that, for 12 weeks, we will be hearing 12 different stories or resilience from Scripture. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been hearing the word - resilience - a lot over the past several months. This past week, I read a definition for this word in a Psychology Today article: Resilience is the psychological quality that allows some people to be knocked down by the adversities of life and come back at least as strong as before. Rather than letting difficulties, or traumatic events, or failure overcome them and drain their resolve, people who are resilient find a way to change course. To heal emotionally. And to continue moving forward.

In a related article I also read that people of faith are often more highly resilient. Because, in some ways, faith is synonymous with hope. Both faith and hope allow us to see a future beyond the present moment. But, it is faith that helps us more readily understand and accept that our present difficulties are part of the path to a better future. That’s the nature of faith. The nature of belief. To be able to see the connections between our present situation and the future. The opposite of this is disbelief. It's disbelief that led, in large part, to Sarah's laughter. Because, after all that had happened, after all she'd experienced, she was no longer able to see the future God had promised for her. And for Abraham. 

I wonder how many people in our world today lack this kind of faith. This belief in the future. And, really, is it any wonder that they do? Every day we are witness to a world that just seems to be struggling. To be hurting so deeply. Even to be falling apart. 

Or maybe it’s not just the world that seems to be so unsettled. Perhaps, we’re experiencing it in our own lives. An unexpected illness. Or a deep loss. Or even confusion about who we are and where we are at in our lives. Where it feels as though the future is so uncertain, so dark and cloudy. Or even, perhaps, when it feels as though there is no future. 

It is then - just as for Sarah - that, as one contemporary theologian puts it, it is then that our loving and relational God, the mysterious Trinity comes and invites us in. To abide in the holy. To admit the difficulties of the present. And the truth of what is unknown. To stop hiding behind false statements and facade of sureness. And to, once again, be reminded of the future God has in store for us. A future of abundance and wholeness. Of lives filled with hope and faith and love. And, especially, of lives that are full of laughter - the joyous laughter that comes from trusting God and living into the hope of that future God has promised for you and me, and for all people - a future given to us through the unexplainable presence and power of God, known as parent and Creator, as Word made flesh, and as life-giving Breath. 

Praise be to God! Amen.

Preached June 12, 2022, at Grace & Glory, Prospect, with Third, Louisville, and New Goshen Presbyterian, Prospect.

Holy Trinity

Readings: Genesis 18:1-15, 21:1-7; Psalm 116:1-2, 12-19

Called by God: Hope in Deep Suffering

Ahab told Jezebel all that Elijah had done, and how he had killed all the prophets with the sword. Then Jezebel sent a messenger to Elijah, saying, “So may the gods do to me, and more also, if I do not make your life like the life of one of them by this time tomorrow.” Then he was afraid; he got up and fled for his life, and came to Beer-sheba, which belongs to Judah; he left his servant there.

But he himself went a day’s journey into the wilderness, and came and sat down under a solitary broom tree. He asked that he might die: “It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life, for I am no better than my ancestors.” Then he lay down under the broom tree and fell asleep. Suddenly an angel touched him and said to him, “Get up and eat.” He looked, and there at his head was a cake baked on hot stones, and a jar of water. He ate and drank, and lay down again. The angel of the Lord came a second time, touched him, and said, “Get up and eat, otherwise the journey will be too much for you.” He got up, and ate and drank; then he went in the strength of that food forty days and forty nights to Horeb the mount of God. At that place he came to a cave, and spent the night there.

Then the word of the Lord came to him, saying, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” He answered, “I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away.”

He said, “Go out and stand on the mountain before the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.” Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. Then there came a voice to him that said, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” He answered, “I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away.” Then the Lord said to him, “Go, return on your way to the wilderness of Damascus; when you arrive, you shall anoint Hazael as king over Aram. Also you shall anoint Jehu son of Nimshi as king over Israel; and you shall anoint Elisha son of Shaphat of Abel-meholah as prophet in your place. Whoever escapes from the sword of Hazael, Jehu shall kill; and whoever escapes from the sword of Jehu, Elisha shall kill. Yet I will leave seven thousand in Israel, all the knees that have not bowed to Baal, and every mouth that has not kissed him.” --1 Kings 19:1-18 (NRSV)

Grace, mercy and peace to you from God our Father, and from our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Elijah may have overestimated things. He may have overestimated his response to King Ahab and Queen Jezebel. He’d known that the Baal religion was important to them both, especially to Jezebel. So, in his zealousness for God, after he had decidedly defeated the Baal prophets in chapter 18, which just precedes today’s text, Elijah had slaughtered them. Four hundred fifty of them. With it, he had earned the wrath of the Queen, who now sought to kill him. So, now, Elijah was on the run. Yes, Elijah may have overestimated things.

In some ways, though, this may have not been Elijah’s fault. Up to this time, every experience he’d had with God had been powerful. And miraculous. Known as the “troubler of Israel,” Elijah had known the fullness of that power of God. He’d courageously challenged King Ahab, who was leading the people away from God. In the midst of drought he’d been fed miraculously by the ravens at the Wadi Cherith. He’d performed a miracle at the widow’s house in Zarephath, ensuring that he jar had of meal and jug of oil would not run dry before the end of the drought. He’d raised her son from the dead. All of these amazing feats had been possible for Elijah because of the power of God. It’s no surprise then, that when he challenged the powers that be and their religion, that Elijah could have expected God to show up. And to protect him. But, that didn’t happen. And so. Now. Elijah was on the run.

Soon he would be all alone. First in the desert. Then, sitting under a single, solitary broom tree. Where he asked God to let him die. “It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life, for I am no better than my ancestors.” He falls asleep. A messenger from God appears with food and drink. (There’s nothing like a little snack and a nap to make you feel better, is there?) Again, Elijah falls asleep. Then, wakes and eats to prepare for his own wilderness journey. Forty days. By the end he will be at Mount Horeb - also known as Mount Sinai. Again, hiding. In a cave.

It’s there that he finally hears God’s voice. “What are you doing here, Elijah?” the voice asks. Elijah immediately responds, giving us and God a sense of his own sadness. His vulnerability. His humanness. “I have been zealous for you,” he answers. “And now I am all alone. On the run.”

God’s response is to show up. But not in the powerful ways God has shown up before. Not in the power of the wind, breaking the mountain apart. Not in the power of the earthquake. Or in the power of a fire. 

Have you ever felt like Elijah? All alone? Lost and feeling as though God was not present for you. Perhaps it was in the grief after a loss. Perhaps it was in a moment of despair. Or anger. Or frustration. When you felt that no one understood you or had your back, especially God.

Or perhaps it is right now. In the grief and loss of these past nearly two years. Does it feel like God isn’t with us? Isn’t present for us? That all we hear, like Elijah, is silence.

But, it’s in the silence - in the thin quiet - where Elijah experiences God. In the smallest of sound. Perhaps its that way for us, too. In the smallest of responses. The quiet hug from a friend. A loving look from a spouse. A gracious touch from a nurse or caregiver. God is present in these small moments for us. As God was for Elijah.

What’s interesting to me is the end of this story. After Elijah’s final lament, God responds to him. Telling him to go back to work. Because sometimes the only way to move out of a place of grief and despair is to simply put one foot in front of another. To keep going. And trust that God will be with you on the way.

In just a moment, on this All Saints Sunday, we are going to watch a film that remembers the many saints in our lives. And that names the collective grief and loss we have been experiencing for all of the loss of these past two years. Grief and loss that often goes unnamed. The music that underlies this film features words found written after World War 2 on the call of a concentration camp in Cologne, Germany. They speak to hope in the midst of deep suffering. They speak to the hope our faith ancestors had. The hope that we have. Hope in a God who desires life and not death. Who is always working to turn death to resurrection and new life. Even in the silence. 

May we keep going. And may we trust that God will be with us. On the Way. Amen.

Preached November 7, 2021, at Grace & Glory, Prospect, and Third, Louisville.

All Saints' Sunday

Readings: 1 Kings 19:1-18; John 12:27-28

Pain and Promise: Acts of Hope

 Psalm 30 is what we call a song of thanksgiving. It is what the Hebrew calls a “new song,” a song that is sung after a person or a people have been delivered by God from crisis, whatever that crisis may be. 

Our Jeremiah text this week names one of those crises. An existential crisis for Judah and, particularly, for Jerusalem. Our story opens in the tenth year of King Zedekiah of Judah. Jerusalem is under siege by the king of Babylon. Jeremiah, once again, is imprisoned for harsh and difficult words he has spoken to Zedekiah: they are words of the demise of Jerusalem and its king, both of whom will be taken into exile. We are at the point of death that is coming in many forms.

Our reading is from Chapter 32. Its placement is odd, because surrounding this chapter are chapters from the second part of Jeremiah, what is often called the Book of Comfort. Chapters 30, 31, and 33 are all chapters that promise Israel’s return from exile. Set into these words of restoration is this odd story, a story about a real estate transaction.

We read now from Jeremiah, chapter 32.

Jeremiah received the Lord’s word in the tenth year of Judah’s King Zedekiah, which was the eighteenth year of Nebuchadnezzar’s rule. At that time, the army of the Babylonian king had surrounded Jerusalem, and the prophet Jeremiah was confined to the prison quarters in the palace of Judah’s king. Judah’s King Zedekiah had Jeremiah sent there after questioning him.

Jeremiah said, The Lord’s word came to me: Your cousin Hanamel, Shallum’s son, is on his way to see you; and when he arrives, he will tell you: “Buy my field in Anathoth, for by law you are next in line to purchase it.” And just as the Lord had said, my cousin Hanamel showed up at the prison quarters and told me, “Buy my field in Anathoth in the land of Benjamin, for you are next in line and have a family obligation to purchase it.” Then I was sure this was the Lord’s doing.

So I bought the field in Anathoth from my cousin Hanamel, and weighed out for him seventeen shekels of silver. I signed the deed, sealed it, had it witnessed, and weighed out the silver on the scales. Then I took the deed of purchase—the sealed copy, with its terms and conditions, and the unsealed copy— and gave it to Baruch, Neriah’s son and Mahseiah’s grandson, before my cousin Hanamel and the witnesses named in the deed, as well as before all the Judeans who were present in the prison quarters. I charged Baruch before all of them: “The Lord of heavenly forces, the God of Israel, proclaims: Take these documents—this sealed deed of purchase along with the unsealed one—and put them into a clay container so they will last a long time. The Lord of heavenly forces, the God of Israel, proclaims: Houses, fields, and vineyards will again be bought in this land.”

Jeremiah has received a word from Yahweh, from God. "Your cousin, Hanamel, will come to you in prison and offer you the opportunity to purchase a piece of property.” Jeremiah has first dibs on this property. He has the right to “redeem” this family property according to Jewish law that provides for the next of kin to buy back property that is in danger of being lost to debt. Jeremiah is that next of kin. 

When his cousin arrives, Jeremiah is now sure that this is the work of God. The story continues with surprising technical details of that transaction. Jeremiah prepares the deed, with the help of his personal secretary and scribe, Baruch. He gathers the necessary witnesses for the transaction. Then, Jeremiah weighs out the money, seventeen shekels of silver. He signs the deed, seals it, gets witnesses, and, again, weighs the money on scales. He takes the sealed deed of purchase that contains the terms of the agreement and gives it to Baruch in the presence of his cousin, charging Baruch with putting them into a clay container - the safest of places - so that they will last a long, long time.

Like the witnesses to this transaction, we are likely questioning in our thoughts the wisdom of investing in land which, at that very moment, is being besieged and destroyed by a large foreign power. It makes no sense. As if Jeremiah can read their thoughts, and ours, he responds with a word of hope. Someday, he says...someday, there will again be fields and houses and vineyards on this land.

It’s an act of hope. A symbolic act of hope that proclaim Jeremiah’s words through action. At this worst moment in Judah’s life, Jeremiah’s act of hope - his land deal - shows that there will be a future. A hopeful future for God’s people. It is an action taken in the face of what seems impossible. Proclaiming in the thick of captivity that there will be life again in the land of Judah. That not only will Jeremiah survive, but the land will, too. 

We’re a lot like Jeremiah, I think. As I’ve been reflecting back over these past 15 months, I’ve been thinking about similar acts of hope that I’ve engaged in myself or seen others engage in. Planting a garden in the midst of a pandemic is an act of hope. Sewing masks for healthcare workers is an act of hope. Birthday parades are acts of hope. Assembly and delivering gift baskets to nursing home residents, isolated from their families, is an act of hope. Recognizing and cheering for frontline workers is an act of hope. Creatively changing an entire curriculum to teach online is an act of hope. Acts of kindness, of volunteering, of charitable giving are all acts of hope. Learning a new way of gathering online is an act of hope. Joining a protest for change is an act of hope. Walking in a Pride parade is an act of hope.

All of these acts that we witnessed and, perhaps, engaged in ourselves are symbolic actions that say that no matter how hard and difficult things are, no matter how important it is that we sit in our grief, no matter our need to process our grief and pain in a healthy way, we believe the God will bring us through this. And that God will not only bring us through this, but that God will be us to a new day. To a new way of being.

This is what Psalm 30 speaks to. This song of thanksgiving. Or what Brueggemann calls psalms of reorientation, or new orientation. It bears witness to the surprising gift of new life when none had been expected. It recognizes that we have made it through the storm and reached a new place. Yet, having reached this new place, there is no going back to what was before. That we can no longer pretend that all will always be well and that all is as it should be. And yet, that even in the midst of our Saturday - as we have sat for a very long time in Saturday - we have not lost the hope that despair will not win out. And that evil does not have the last word.

This is what Jeremiah’s act of hope proclaims. This is of what Psalm 30 sings. That those who have walked the darkest valleys, who have stood in the midst of shaking mountains, who have experienced life when the bottom drops out, will, with creation, in time experience new life and grace. Together. As God’s beloved people. 

This is our hope. This is God’s promise. Amen.

Preached June 27, 2021, online with Third Lutheran, Louisville, and Grace & Glory, Goshen.

5th Sunday after Pentecost

Readings: Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15, Psalm 30

The Hope of the Messiah - Return, Rend, Restoration

Our text this morning comes from the prophet Joel. As you hear the reading, it may seem odd to hear these words during the Advent season. We more typically hear the first part of our reading on Ash Wednesday. And the second part on Pentecost Sunday. 

Our reading this morning is from Joel, chapter 2.

Yet even now, says the Lord,

    return to me with all your heart,

with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning;

    rend your hearts and not your clothing.

Return to the Lord, your God,

    for he is gracious and merciful,

slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love,

    and relents from punishing.

Then afterward

    I will pour out my spirit on all flesh;

your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,

    your old men shall dream dreams,

    and your young men shall see visions.

Even on the male and female slaves,

    in those days, I will pour out my spirit. --Joel 2:12-13, 28-29 (NRSV)

The first chapter of Joel, preceding today’s lesson, opens with a lament. It describes a country overrun by a horrible infestation of locusts. The swarm has completely devastated the countryside, leaving it in ruins. The situation is dire. Not only is there environmental calamity and devastation, but the people are experiencing famine and starvation. There is no food. Not even enough to offer a sacrifice to God. There is nothing with which to worship.

Then, in the second chapter, the prophet Joel switches the metaphor. To an invading army that in the same way as the locusts that preceded it. These images of invasion and destruction are a familiar story for the readers of Joel. The people of Israel have lived this story over and over again. It goes like this…

In Genesis, God promised Abraham and his descendants that they would inhabit this land called Canaan. Canaan is sandwiched between the vast Mediterranean Ocean to the west and the desolate desert to the East. After years of being enslaved by Egypt, God frees Israel and makes a covenant with them in Exodus. Here, God promises to be with them. And that they will become a holy nation. A royal priesthood.

God gives them instructions to build a tabernacle that will represent the Garden of Eden and God’s relationship with all humanity. King Solomon will eventually build a beautiful and magnificent temple to replace the Tabernacle and will establish it in the city of Jerusalem. This temple was to remind the people that the Spirit of God filled their covenant with God. That they planted like a vineyard so that the world could taste the love of God. Through them. 

This relationship with God was to be the source of the rivers of life for all nations, for all humanity.

Things went fairly well, at first. Under King David, the twelve tribes of Israel were united into one kingdom. But, then, King Solomon built the temple. And he did it by over-taxing the people and by using slave labor. The kingdom was torn apart. A civil war led to two separate nations: Israel in the north. And Judah in the south. 

Immediately, Israel repeated the story of the Golden Calf from Exodus and established two golden calves to replace the temple. Judah wasn’t much better. The majority of her kings led like tyrants: oppressing the people, driven by greed, gluttony, and violence. They brought the gods of Canaan into the very temple itself. 

Eventually a series of invading armies destroyed the nation. The people of Israel, in the north were completely destroyed by Assyria. The people of Judah, in the south, were carried into captivity by the Babylonians. Solomon’s beautiful temple lay in ruins.  The people lived in exile - torn apart from their land, their communities, from the temple - the center of their worship, and from everything they knew. 

Yes, the readers of Joel knew the story of the invading locusts all too well.

Things were bad. Devastated. Left in ruin. The people far away. And yet...

...even now…Even in the midst of all of the betrayal and corruption, God stands ready to receive them. Return to me with all your heart, God says through the prophet. Return to me with fasting, with weeping, with mourning. Rend your heart and not your clothing.

You see, the traditional symbol of mourning in Israel and even today was to tear one’s robe open or to rip one’s clothing. Like wearing black to a funeral or having ashes smeared on our foreheads on Ash Wednesday. These outward symbols are good. But, they can become meaningless acts. What matters most to God is not the outward ritual - the ways or the places in which we worship. What matters most to God is our hearts. What God desires is hearts that are rendered. That are broken wide open in all honesty. In all of our anguish and grief. Hearts torn open, revealing the pain, the sorrow, the regret, the shame that each one of us carries deep inside. To rend our hearts is to break them wide open and pour everything out to God. 

To God. Who is gracious. Merciful. Slow to anger. Abounding in steadfast love. A god who relents from punishing. A God who is good. Who desires to be the center for us. To be the source of our well-being, our shalom.

This verse in Joel is a quote from Exodus 34. It’s one of the most repeated verses in the Bible. It’s the way in the Exodus story that God describes God’s very self to the people who have just betrayed the covenant at Sinai. God is not some cruel tyrant who wants oppressed servants to obey his every whim. God is a loving parent - father and mother - who longs to be in relationship with God’s children. Who longs to see God’s children thrive in God’s beautiful garden, created just for them.

When we allow our hearts to be opened by the Spirit and allow ourselves to be turned back to the grace, mercy, and loyal, never-ending love of God, our hearts, broken and hurt as they may be, connect with God’s heart. And, then, the love begins to flow...

...the Spirit of the LORD flows freely through our lives. Flowing through everybody, not just the elite or the chosen. But, through all flesh. Anyone who’s heart resonates with the heart of God - the heart of love - can flow in the spirit of God.

The readers of Joel longed for the day when the Messiah would come to restore the kingdom of God on earth as it is in heaven. We, on this side of the Advent, know that this Messiah is Jesus. This is what Peter proclaimed in Acts 2. That Jesus was God in the flesh. That Jesus was the picture of what it looks like when humanity fully resonates with the heart of God. 

Jesus. Who spoke truth to power. Who called out corruption and the abuse of the weak. Who touched the poor, the sick, the exiled. And who reconciled all things with his own self-sacrifice and forgiveness. Who inaugurated God’s kingdom here on earth. Who promises restoration that begins with the rebuilding of the natural world, which is where the story of creation first began - restoration and re-creation. 

And then the outpouring of the spirit and the embracing of all nations. All humanity. Living in abundance and well-being, with silos full of grain and no worries for anyone about where their next meal will come from. This was what the people of Joel’s day dreamed of. This is the unfolding vision in which we live, in this post-Advent world even in the midst of what may seem to be the darkness of the present time. So, come, people of God. Turn back to God. Here. In this place. In this time. Break open your whole heart. Pour out all the anguish, all of the sorrow, all of the confusion, all of the anger that has characterized our world and our lives in this time. Your lament is welcome before God, who is waiting there for you with a promise of new things and new possibilities. That there will be a future. And a future future. And, when you do, know that the Spirit will not be withheld from your broken heart. She will bind up your wounds, replace your doom with visions of what can be, and help us hear each other into being and into continuing to do the work of God in building up the kingdom of God here on earth. This is God’s promise in Joel. A promise for you and me. A promise for everyone. Amen.

Preached online Sunday, December 6, 2020 with Grace & Glory/Third Lutheran churches.

Advent 2

Readings: Joel 2:12-13, 28-29; Luke 11:13

Who We Are: Treasures in Clay Jars

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about baptism. Perhaps, in part, because of the vast quantities of water we’ve received in rain over the past few days. Or, perhaps, it is because of all that we’ve seen and heard over these past few days about Congressman John Lewis and heard how he lived his life, with such integrity and humility, in much the same way we are called to live out our own baptismal promises.

Whatever has triggered it, I’ve been thinking about baptism. So, it led to me turning to the order that we use for baptism in our church. There are five parts to it. And I invite you to take a look at it more closely sometime. Within it, there’s a part called the Profession of Faith, or sometimes it’s called the Renunciation. Perhaps you remember it - it comes before the actual act of baptizing someone and is a series of questions asked of parents or sponsors or, in the case of an adult baptism, of the one being baptized. These are questions that come to us from the earliest centuries of the church. 

Do you renounce the devil and all the forces that defy God?

Do you renounce the powers of this world that rebel against God?

Do you renounce the ways of sin that draw you from God?

The answer to each of these questions in our own baptisms was likely the phrase, “I renounce them,” or something similar. But, that’s really easier said than done, isn’t it? Throughout our lives I dare say we feel the push and pull of these forces. Forces of evil and those that defy God. The powers of the world that rebel against God and seek to draw us from God. The sins we commit that bring us shame and can separate us from God. Yes, living into our baptismal promises is so much easier said than done.

It’s really the same challenge that the church in Corinth was dealing with. In fact, in the first part of our reading today, it seems that Paul makes reference to these very things the Corinth believers had also renounced. As in our baptisms. They, too, are experiencing the pull on the church from all sides. They are on the verge of being divided by many different factions, both internal and external. This is a new, fledgling church trying to find its way and not doing well. 

And so, as we’ve heard before, Paul has had to correct them, sometimes harshly. Yet, he knows that what they need now is not more correction and teaching. Instead, what they need now are words of comfort. And of hope. Words to help heal the wounds and guide them forward, against the pull of these forces of evil and the world and sin. Words that may feel especially written for us, too, in this time. Words to guide us. To give comfort and give hope. To heal our wounds and help us go forward. 

Which brings us to our reading today, from chapter 4 in Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians.

Therefore, since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart. We have renounced the shameful things that one hides; we refuse to practice cunning or to falsify God’s word; but by the open statement of the truth we commend ourselves to the conscience of everyone in the sight of God. And even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who are perishing. In their case the god of this world has blinded the minds of the unbelievers, to keep them from seeing the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God. For we do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord and ourselves as your slaves for Jesus’ sake. For it is the God who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.

But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be made visible in our bodies. For while we live, we are always being given up to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our mortal flesh. So death is at work in us, but life in you.

But just as we have the same spirit of faith that is in accordance with scripture—“I believed, and so I spoke”—we also believe, and so we speak, because we know that the one who raised the Lord Jesus will raise us also with Jesus, and will bring us with you into his presence. Yes, everything is for your sake, so that grace, as it extends to more and more people, may increase thanksgiving, to the glory of God.

So we do not lose heart. Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, because we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal. --2 Corinthians 4:1-18 (NRSV)

Paul begins by reminding the church in Corinth - and us - how both of us got here. Solely by God’s mercy. It is nothing we have done, but what God has done. And Paul reminds the Corinthians and us that God is our foundation. Our center. Around whom our lives revolve.

Then, Paul continues on to make five important points. Creedal points almost - that serve as the basis for the lives and ministry of the Corinth church. And for ours, too.

First, Paul reminds us that our ministry is to be done out in the open. Transparently. Anytime we are fighting the powers that be, they will be on the watch for anything that can be used to tear us down. So, we are to be open and honest in the work. To be transparent in everything we do because it’s about integrity.

Then, Paul reminds us that everything we do should point to Christ. It’s so easy for us to want to be in the spotlight - in the center - of things. It’s natural. And human. But it’s not the way of Christ. And if we fall to this temptation, it has the potential to risk everything. 

Third, Paul writes that we are not impervious to pain. We are human. Made of mortal materials like that fragile clay jar. And, while we may want to hear only the positives here - that we are “not crushed, ...not driven to despair, ...not forsaken, ...not destroyed,” we cannot ignore the reality that in doing this work we will be “afflicted, ...perplexed, ...persecuted, ...and struck down.” I FaceTimed this week with one of our members who has been in lockdown in a nursing home since March. We mourned together the isolation she was feeling in this time. To acknowledge this to recognize our mortality. And our pain. Yet, Paul writes that this pain will not have the last word. Neither will death have the last word. Life - God - will.

Then, Paul writes that our faith is not silent, as he quotes from Psalm 116, these words: We believe and, therefore, we speak. When we see works in our world that are opposed to the way of Christ, our faith calls us not to be silent. But to speak out. To challenge the forces of evil at work in our world.

Finally, Paul’s last point is that while the fruit of our labor may be hidden, it is there. It can be easy to fall into despair when we don’t see the immediate fruit of our work. When we don’t see the world immediately changing. When it seems as though there is no improvement. We may begin to wonder if everything we do or have done is in vain. This is where point number two is important. Paul writes to help us remember that we are in this work and in this ministry as God’s people for the long haul. To trust in the work of the Holy Spirit. It may take a long time to sprout. So long, in fact, that we may not live to see it.  But, as Paul writes at the end of the chapter - in the same way he began it..."We do not lose heart." 

So, do not lose heart, dear friends, dear people of God. Even in the midst of all the troubles we are experiencing know that similar troubles and challenges have been experienced by believers and the church before. And know that, just as God promised life in Christ through Paul to the early church, God continues to promise life, through Christ, for us. And life is what will come. May we hold fast to this promise. In this time. Amen. 

Preached August 2, 2020, online at Grace & Glory Lutheran Church, Goshen, KY.

9th Sunday after Pentecost

Readings: 2 Corinthians 4:1-18; Matthew 5:13-16