Hidden Hands, Daring Choices: A Vision of Shalom in the Already and Not-Yet

This morning, the smoke from yesterday’s fireworks is clearing, and our neighborhoods are settling down after celebrating a massive milestone: the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. As a nation, we love a milestone. As a Lutheran pastor, I usually love a milestone too, though I’ve learned that my spiritual gifts do not include lighting a charcoal grill. There is a specific kind of public humiliation in standing before a group of hungry people while your lighter fluid fails for the third time and the potato salad begins to reach a questionable temperature. But even as we navigate our neighborhood barbecues, we gather here for a different kind of work. Today, on this July 5th, we are called to hold two heavy things together: gratitude and humility. We are grateful for a vision of equality named so boldly in 1776, yet we are humble enough to admit we are still a long way from the finish line.

In his letter to our church this week, Presiding Bishop Yehiel Curry describes this as the "Already and Not-Yet." This framework changes how we see our country. We love the promise of the "Already"—the revolutionary idea that all are created equal—while we simultaneously lament the "Not-Yet" of our historical failures. To be a person of faith in a democracy is to live in this tension. It’s easier to just eat the potato salad and ignore the struggle, but the Gospel calls us to a deeper honesty. We are a people living under the weight of an empire while holding onto a promise. It is a story as old as the Bible itself, and it brings us back to the heart of the Persian Empire.

Last week, we started the book of Esther, noting that it is the only book in the Bible where God is never mentioned. Not even once. For those of us living in a secular world where it often feels like God is keeping a low profile, this "hiddenness" is a gift. It tells us that God’s providence often moves in the shadows, working through what look like coincidences. In Esther 4, the Jewish people faced a state-sanctioned crisis. A high-ranking official named Haman had secured a legal decree to annihilate them. It was a death sentence written into the law of the land.

When the decree went out, Esther’s cousin Mordecai sat in sackcloth, while Esther sat in the palace, shielded but terrified. Mordecai sent her a message: "Who knows? Perhaps you have come to royal dignity for such a time as this." Esther had to make a choice. She could cling to her own safety, or she could risk her life. She chose the risk. This teaches us that human agency is often the "wing" of God’s protection. We know this at Vista Lutheran. We saw it when this congregation served as an oasis of dignity for our Spanish-speaking neighbors during the recent ICE presence in Minneapolis. You didn't wait for a lightning bolt from heaven; you became the "wing" ourselves.

Now, let us hear how that daring risk turned the tide of history.

I invite you to hear the end of Esther’s story—a narrative where a decree of death is undone by a decree of life.

So the king and Haman went in to feast with Queen Esther. On the second day, as they were drinking wine, the king again said to Esther, “What is your petition, Queen Esther? It shall be granted you. And what is your request? Even to half of my kingdom, it shall be fulfilled.” Then Queen Esther answered, “If I have won your favor, O king, and if it pleases the king, let my life be given me—that is my petition—and the lives of my people—that is my request. For we have been sold, I and my people, to be destroyed, to be killed, and to be annihilated..."

Then King Ahasuerus said to Queen Esther, “Who is he, and where is he, who has presumed to do this?” Esther said, “A foe and an enemy, this wicked Haman!” Then Haman was terrified before the king and the queen... Then Harbona, one of the eunuchs in attendance on the king, said, “Look, the very pole that Haman has prepared for Mordecai... stands at Haman's house, fifty cubits high.” And the king said, “Hang him on that.” So they hung Haman on the pole that he had prepared for Mordecai.

Mordecai recorded these things and sent letters to all the Jews... enjoining them that they should keep the fourteenth day of the month Adar and also the fifteenth day... as the days on which the Jews gained relief from their enemies and as the month that had been turned for them from sorrow into gladness and from mourning into a holiday... Queen Esther... gave full written authority confirming this second letter about Purim... The command of Esther fixed these practices of Purim, and it was recorded in writing. –Esther 7:1-6, 9-10; Esther 9:20-22, 29-32 (NRSVue)

This story moves through the hyperbole of empire—from a ludicrously tall, seventy-five-foot stake intended for execution to a massive celebration of survival—marking a decisive, righteous reversal where mourning was legally transformed into a holiday. This Great Reversal in Persia mirrors the vision of equality cast 250 years ago in America; both represent a moment where the law shifted from a tool of oppression to a promise of defense and joy. 

In our tradition, we call this vision Shalom. Shalom is more than just a lack of conflict or a quiet afternoon. It is a "Kingdom Vision" where every neighbor has an equal and celebrated seat at the table. It is the wholeness God intends for all of us.

Bishop Curry reminds us that as Lutherans, our faith gives us a specific role in a democracy. As Lutheran Christians, we believe that God calls us first to remember our connection to each other through baptism, as Scripture teaches us that we, who are many, are one body in Christ, and individually we are members one of another. Second, we are called to name sin for what it really is and to repent of it, as the Augsburg Confession and the catechisms remind us. And finally, we are called to serve the common good in society as imperfect reflections of God’s ultimate  - and perfect - intention. 

Naming sin is not about being "political"; it is a theological necessity if we want to move toward Shalom. We cannot celebrate the "Already" of our freedom without repenting for the "Not-Yet" of our failures. We must name the displacement of Indigenous peoples from this very land. We must remember the Japanese American families - and German American families - interned in camps during World War II. We must acknowledge that even now, the lives of our queer and transgender neighbors are deeply impacted by orders that deny their dignity. We remember the photo of Elizabeth Eckford, one of the Little Rock Nine - a teenager facing a wall of hate just to go to school - and we admit that our stated values have often been left behind.  

So, what does it mean to celebrate a promise that is real but not yet finished?

It means we live with a hope that does not ignore the truth. We see this in our own identity here at Vista. We are a merged church, the union of Prince of Peace and Wooddale. That merger was not a sign of scarcity; it was a sacred period of gestation. We allowed our individual pasts to become the "Already," so that a new "Not-Yet" could be born. We are a living example of many different streams flowing into one river, becoming one body for the sake of the world.

Our church is imperfect. Our nation is imperfect. But we are held by a perfect grace. The Jews in Esther’s time faced the very real threat of total annihilation, yet they found themselves preserved by the hidden hand of God. And we, too, in our own context and in this moment, are a people held by that same perfect grace.

Today marks the final Sunday of our series, Hidden Hands, Daring Choices. Over these last weeks across Ruth and Esther, we have watched how God moves in the quiet corners of history, and how ordinary people are called to step out in faith. Next Sunday, we will pivot to Paul’s letters to Timothy as we begin a new series called The Guarded House. But before we turn that page, let us carry the lessons of Esther and Ruth into the week ahead.

We are not a people who only look backward to 1776 or to ancient history. We look to the future God is making possible right now. We are rooted in the resurrection of Christ, which means we already have the promise, even while we work for its completion.

We are never alone in this work. We have the presence of God and the accompaniment of the Holy Spirit. As you head out into the week ahead, I leave you with this call: be grateful for the vision of freedom, be humble about our failures, and be bold in serving our neighbors. 

We are people of the resurrection. God's future is making all things new, right here, and right now. And you and I - we - have been called just for such a time as this.

Amen.

Preached Sunday, July 5, 2026, at Vista Lutheran Church, St. Louis Park, MN.

Living Out the Covenant: Guns and Butter

Assyria’s King Sennacherib marched against all of Judah’s fortified cities and captured them in the fourteenth year of King Hezekiah. Assyria’s king sent his field commander from Lachish, together with a large army, to King Hezekiah at Jerusalem. He stood at the water channel of the Upper Pool, which is on the road to the field where clothes are washed. Hilkiah’s son Eliakim, who was the palace administrator, Shebna the secretary, and Asaph’s son Joah the recorder went out to them.

Then the field commander stood up and shouted in Hebrew at the top of his voice: “Listen to the message of the great king, Assyria’s king. The king says this: Don’t let Hezekiah lie to you. He won’t be able to rescue you. Don’t let Hezekiah persuade you to trust the Lord by saying, ‘The Lord will certainly rescue us. This city won’t be handed over to Assyria’s king.’

“Don’t listen to Hezekiah, because this is what Assyria’s king says: Surrender to me and come out. Then each of you will eat from your own vine and fig tree and drink water from your own well until I come to take you to a land just like your land. It will be a land of grain and new wine, a land of bread and vineyards. Don’t let Hezekiah fool you by saying, ‘The Lord will rescue us.’ Did any of the other gods of the nations save their lands from the power of Assyria’s king? Where are the gods of Hamath and Arpad? Where are the gods of Sepharvaim? Did they rescue Samaria from my power? Which one of the gods from those countries has rescued their land from my power? Will the Lord save Jerusalem from my power?”

When King Hezekiah heard this, he ripped his clothes, covered himself with mourning clothes, and went to the Lord’s temple. He sent Eliakim the palace administrator, Shebna the secretary, and the senior priests to the prophet Isaiah, Amoz’s son. They were all wearing mourning clothes. They said to him, “Hezekiah says this: Today is a day of distress, punishment, and humiliation. It’s as if children are ready to be born, but there’s no strength to see it through. Perhaps the Lord your God heard all the words of the field commander who was sent by his master, Assyria’s king. He insulted the living God! Perhaps he will punish him for the words that the Lord your God has heard. Offer up a prayer for those few people who still survive.”

When King Hezekiah’s servants got to Isaiah, Isaiah said to them, “Say this to your master: The Lord says this: Don’t be afraid at the words you heard, which the officers of Assyria’s king have used to insult me. I’m about to mislead him, so when he hears a rumor, he’ll go back to his own country. Then I’ll have him cut down by the sword in his own land.”

This is what Isaiah, Amoz’s son, saw concerning Judah and Jerusalem.

In the days to come

    the mountain of the Lord’s house

    will be the highest of the mountains.

    It will be lifted above the hills;

        peoples will stream to it.

Many nations will go and say,

“Come, let’s go up to the Lord’s mountain,

    to the house of Jacob’s God

        so that he may teach us his ways

        and we may walk in God’s paths.”

Instruction will come from Zion;

    the Lord’s word from Jerusalem.

God will judge between the nations,

    and settle disputes of mighty nations.

Then they will beat their swords into iron plows

    and their spears into pruning tools.

Nation will not take up sword against nation;

    they will no longer learn how to make war. --Isaiah 36:1-3, 13-20; 37:1-7; 2:1-4 

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

Guns and butter. Guns and butter. What do you think is the relationship between guns and butter? Anyone? Anyone study business? Or economics? If you could choose one over the other, which would you choose? Guns? Or butter?

There actually is a relationship between these two things - guns and butter. It comes to us from the study of macroeconomics. (Are your eyes glossing over?) The guns versus butter model shows the relationship between how much a nation invests in its security and defense. And how much it invests in butter. Or, more fully, spending on social things, investing in things that improve or increase social welfare, such as schools, hospitals, parks and roads. Every nation has to decide which balance of guns versus butter best fits its needs - a choice that can be influenced by both external and internal factors. And a choice that can have an impact not only on a nation’s people, but also who are elected as its leaders.

The phrase originated around the time of the first World War. In 1914, Chile was the leading world producer of nitrates. What are nitrates used for? Yep. Gunpowder. Chile had taken a neutral stance in the war and, although it continued to provide almost all the nitrates the US needed, it still made us a little nervous that we didn’t have control over the production. This led to the passage of the National Defense Act of 1916. This directed the administration to manufacture nitrates for fertilizer - in times of peace, and munitions in times of war. The media presented this as “guns and butter.” Guns in war time. Butter in peace.

Today’s lesson from Isaiah shows us the tension and complexity in making the choice between guns and butter. As our story opens, Jerusalem is surrounded by the Assyrian army. They’ve ravaged the countryside - knocking off, according to Assyrian history, 46 Judaen cities, all heavily fortified. People from villages surrounding Jerusalem have fled into the city. It’s overcrowded. Resources are stretched. Food is scarce. Water, too. The temple treasury has been depleted by a tribute demanded by the Assyrian king, Sennacharib. Even the king’s treasury - that of King Hezekiah - has been depleted. Jerusalem is under siege. 

At his king’s command, Sennacharib’s field commander approaches the city. King Hezekiah sends out three of his high officials. Yet, it soon becomes clear that the field commander isn’t really interested in talking to them. Instead of speaking to them in Aramaic, the language they request, he speaks to them in Hebrew - a language the people of Jerusalem will understand. Their vernacular. Why? To spread propaganda. Propaganda that is intended to invoke fear in their hearts for what will come. The guns. And propaganda intended to convince them to abandon Jerusalem -- this place of hardship and starvation -- and surrender to him to be taken to a much better place. To a land he describes in eerily familiar words. A land of grain and new wine, a land of bread and vineyards. Think “land of milk and honey.” Think butter.

How easy it would be for the people to fall into this trap! Perhaps, this is what terrifies King Hezekiah so, leading him to tear his clothes, to engage in rituals of mourning, to go to the temple. And to send his officials to seek out the prophet Isaiah. He knows how exhausted his people are. So exhausted that, as our text reads, it’s as though children are ready to be born, but there’s no strength left to see it through.

It’s an interesting verse, this birthing metaphor. It brings us back to other water and birthing images we’ve seen over these past many weeks. The birthing of a new creation from the waters of darkness and chaos. The rebirthing of our world in the story of Noah and the flood after its near total corruption. The birthing of a new nation, chosen to be a people to show all nations the way of God. Then, today’s image. Of a mother about to give birth, but so exhausted that there is little hope that the child can be born. 

Perhaps that’s where you are right now. Tired of things in the world as they are. The wars that cause vast numbers of refugees. The corruption that seems to only get worse. The many divides in our world. The lack of agreement around caring for our planet. Perhaps you are tired, too. Exhausted from the many ways we just seem to fall so sort of any possibility of peace. Much less any vision or hope for the future. 

But, there is an alternative view. A way that is not about the guns, but about the butter. A profound vision of peace. Where nations no longer learn about war. Where people are more concerned with cultivating food than producing weapons. A vision of shalom. 

That’s what we hear from the prophet Isaiah as he, literally, sees the Word of God. And sees God’s future for that remnant in Jerusalem. And for you and me, too.

What will the future hold? Guns? Or butter? 

This new age, envisioned by God, pregnant with possibilities, will take us to the mountaintop. A mountaintop that is less about a place than a way of being. That’s not about restoring the temple or Jerusalem, also high up. But, it’s about our citizenship in God’s kingdom - an upside-down kingdom led by an upside-down king. Christ, the King. Who leads not with guns, but with butter. Who comes sacrificially for us. To show us the way. A way of justice, and mercy, and peace. And who leads us to salvation - to that shalom way of life that ensures wholeness in every way for every one. So that all nations might flourish. So that all people might have fullness. So that we - you and I, included - might live. Forever. With all the butter we can imagine!

Thanks be to God! Amen.

Preached November 20, 2022, at Grace & Glory Lutheran, Prospect, with Third Lutheran, Louisville.

Christ the King Sunday

Reading: Isaiah 36:1-3, 13-20; 37:1-7; 2:1-4

Living in the Covenant: Elisha Heals Naaman

It’s easy for us, when we read First and Second Kings, to think of this as a history of Israel. And while these books do tell the story of Israel and the succession of its kings, the author isn’t writing just for the sake of history. The author is as much a theologian (trying to understand things) as he is a historian. He’s writing a prophetic history of how the word of God in the Torah and the prophets was the true story of Israel’s God. So, Kings is written from the perspective of someone living long after the exile of the northern kingdom, the destruction of Jerusalem in the south, and the exile to Babylonian. This theological history seeks to explain why Israel and Judah are in exile - because their kings and their people have resisted the word of God and persisted in their rebellion. Leading all the way up to exile. 

It’s the story we have heard from the beginning of our readings this fall. God creates a world of beauty and shalom for all of God’s creation. Humanity strays and resists God. Then God works to bring us back into relationship. Over and over and over again. This is the story of the Bible. The narrative arc of scripture.

Today, we read a story about Elisha. Elisha, not Elijah. Elisha was the successor prophet to Elijah. This is a hinge text - helping us make our shift from the monarchy - the reign of Israel’s kings - to the prophets, sent by God to confront and correct Israel’s leaders. They were unsuccessful. Israel’s leaders continued to persist in patterns of idolatry, injustice, and rebellion until finally they were completely wiped out. The kings were wiped out. A remnant of the people would continue. A people who would ache for something or someone better.

But, today and for the next two Sundays, we hear stories of the prophets. 

Naaman, a general for the king of Aram, was a great man and highly regarded by his master, because through him the Lord had given victory to Aram. This man was a mighty warrior, but he had a skin disease. Now Aramean raiding parties had gone out and captured a young girl from the land of Israel. She served Naaman’s wife.

She said to her mistress, “I wish that my master could come before the prophet who lives in Samaria. He would cure him of his skin disease.” So Naaman went and told his master what the young girl from the land of Israel had said.

Then Aram’s king said, “Go ahead. I will send a letter to Israel’s king.”

So Naaman left. He took along ten kikkars of silver, six thousand shekels of gold, and ten changes of clothing. He brought the letter to Israel’s king. It read, “Along with this letter I’m sending you my servant Naaman so you can cure him of his skin disease.”

When the king of Israel read the letter, he ripped his clothes. He said, “What? Am I God to hand out death and life? But this king writes me, asking me to cure someone of his skin disease! You must realize that he wants to start a fight with me.”

When Elisha the man of God heard that Israel’s king had ripped his clothes, he sent word to the king: “Why did you rip your clothes? Let the man come to me. Then he’ll know that there’s a prophet in Israel.”

Naaman arrived with his horses and chariots. He stopped at the door of Elisha’s house. Elisha sent out a messenger who said, “Go and wash seven times in the Jordan River. Then your skin will be restored and become clean.”

But Naaman went away in anger. He said, “I thought for sure that he’d come out, stand and call on the name of the Lord his God, wave his hand over the bad spot, and cure the skin disease. Aren’t the rivers in Damascus, the Abana and the Pharpar, better than all Israel’s waters? Couldn’t I wash in them and get clean?” So he turned away and proceeded to leave in anger.

Naaman’s servants came up to him and spoke to him: “Our father, if the prophet had told you to do something difficult, wouldn’t you have done it? All he said to you was, ‘Wash and become clean.’” So Naaman went down and bathed in the Jordan seven times, just as the man of God had said. His skin was restored like that of a young boy, and he became clean.

He returned to the man of God with all his attendants. He came and stood before Elisha, saying, “Now I know for certain that there’s no God anywhere on earth except in Israel. Please accept a gift from your servant.”

But Elisha said, “I swear by the life of the Lord I serve that I won’t accept anything.”

Naaman urged Elisha to accept something, but he still refused. Then Naaman said, “If not, then let me, your servant, have two mule loads of earth. Your servant will never again offer entirely burned offerings or sacrifices to any other gods except the Lord. But may the Lord forgive your servant for this one thing: When my master comes into Rimmon’s temple to bow down there and is leaning on my arm, I must also bow down in Rimmon’s temple. When I bow down in Rimmon’s temple, may the Lord forgive your servant for doing that.” (2 Kings 5:1-18 CEB)

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

Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Ever heard that rhyming phrase before? I heard it for the first time when I was living in Minnesota. Let me tell you - you’ve never really heard it until you’ve listened to someone with a nasally, Midwestern accent say it. You know that “Minnesota friendly accent.” Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. 

Speaking of easy. Do you remember the marketing campaign by Staples office supply store several years ago that had “Easy” as its tag line? I had one of those “easy” buttons on my desk at work. And whenever someone would come into my office and ask me an easy question or for something that was easy for me to do, I would punch the button and say, Easy peasy, lemon squeezy!

But, seriously, we do like things easy peasy, lemon squeezy. In fact, our society is driven by ease and convenience. From fast food. To online banking. To Amazon orders. We want things to be quick and easy. If something is too cumbersome or time-consuming, we shy away from it. And try to find alternatives. Easier alternatives. 

Yet, at the same time, if something is too easy, what do we do? Well, we don’t trust it. Ever heard a conversation like this? Well, that was easy. Yeah, a little too easy if you ask me. Don’t get your hopes up. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase that if something is really worth having, it’s worth waiting for. Or worth the extra effort. Parents, how often have you said that to your kids?

That paradox is what we find in today’s story from Second Kings. 

Naaman is introduced to us as a “great man” and “highly regarded” by his master, King Aram. He is a warrior. A mighty warrior. Who has brought great success to this king of Aramea, one of Israel’s fiercest enemies. He is successful, respected, victorious in battle. If we look closely at these introductory verses we see that, in fact, he has won these battles because the LORD has given victory to him and to the Arameans. The LORD. Immediately we get a sense of the universality of this story - of how God acts not just through God’s own people, but through other nations, as well. And their leaders. Even when they are not aware that God is working through them.

But, Naaman has a nagging problem. He has a skin disease. Robert Alter calls it “skin blanch,” meaning he lacks pigmentation in his skin. 

Because of his “success” on the battlefield, Naaman has a very close relationship with his king. It is also because of one of those same “successes” that Naaman has captured a young Israelite girl who has been brought into his household as a slave to his wife.

The young woman, unnamed and unnoticed, makes a comment to his wife: “I wish that my master could come before the prophet who lives in Samaria. He would cure him of his skin disease.” The word gets to Naaman, who hears the suggestion, but doesn’t really listen to it. Because, rather than go to the prophet, as she suggests, he goes to his king. Which is how the trouble begins. 

The king agrees to send a letter to Israel’s king. Along with it he prepares an incentive. Ten kikkars of silver - worth $252,565 as of yesterday. And 6,000 shekels of gold - at yesterday’s value of $3,530,100. Plus ten changes of clothing. I have no number on that today, but, trust me, they were valuable in that time! So, here’s this huge incentive for Israel’s king to help Naaman be cured. And what happens? The king - interestingly unnamed here - misconstrues King Aram’s action. There’s no love lost between these two nations. Immediately, he suspects a trap. That, when he fails to heal Naaman, the Arameans will attack. 

Enter Elisha. He intervenes to suggest that Naaman come directly to him. And he does. Our text says that Naaman - with his horses and chariots, a full military contingent. (Was it any wonder that Israel’s king was afraid?) - Naaman goes to Elisha’s house and waits outside.

Rather than come out and prescribe healing directly to Naaman, Elisha sends a messenger with a cure. Go wash in the Jordan seven times. Easy peasy lemon squeezy! Naaman is angry. “Couldn’t this cure be a little grander?” he wonders. Why not wash in the rivers in Damascus, which are so much better than the little, muddy Jordan? But, his servants - his servants - talk him down. He goes. And is healed. And converted. “Now I know for certain that there’s no God anywhere on earth except in Israel.”

Do you notice that conversion isn’t required for healing? In fact, the healing comes first. With no demand from Elisha that Naaman worship God. His worship of God comes from his being healed. His being made whole.

Do you also notice the unexpected voices in this story? Those small, seemingly insignificant players? The slave girl. Naaman’s servants. They are ones - rather than those with power and wealth - through whom God seems to be working most fully to ensure Naaman’s healing. How many times do we see this in scripture? How God works through the most powerless to move God’s reign forward.

How have you experienced God working through the unexpected voices, the small, seemingly insignificant saints in your life? Those offering a well-placed word of hope? Or those who simply modeled faithfulness for you? Those are the ones who, especially today, we are remembering. The quiet voices of those most often insignificant to our world. 

But, not to God. Because these are the ones - we heard earlier - these are the ones who made it through the great ordeal. Who now live that promised life of shalom. A life a wholeness. A life of peace and joy. A life in the very presence of God. A life that we will experience one day, too.

Or as St. Paul writes, For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now we know in part; then we will know fully, even as we have been fully known. (1 Cor. 13:12 NRSV)

May God grant it. Amen.

Preached November 6, 2022, at Grace & Glory, Prospect, with Third, Louisville.

All Saints Sunday

Reading: 2 Kings 5:1-18

Pain and Promise: The Way

We just heard Psalm 1. We often forget that the Psalms are the songs of Israel. Songs of the joy they experienced, both as individuals and collectively as a people. Songs of praise sung to a gracious and benevolent God. Songs of lamentation sung in times of vast despair. And many other types of songs that come out of the lived experience of a people.

We also often forget as one theologian has noted that much of scripture comes out of lived experience. And particularly, out of trauma. Out of people trying to make sense or make meaning of their traumatic experience. Beginning with the banishing of Adam and Eve from the garden, through the flood and its aftermath, to the enslavement and eventual freedom for Israel, to the first destruction of the temple and the Babylonian exile, even to the time of the Christ, living as a subjugated people and the second destruction of the temple - over and over and over again, God’s people have attempted to make meaning of it all and to understand where God might be working in the midst of it.

So, beginning today with Psalm 1 seems right - this song placed at the beginning of all of Israel’s songs. A song that talks about two ways. Two paths. And about what happens to a people when they stray from the path of life, from God and the ways of God.

This is also a similar theme in the book of Jeremiah. Jeremiah - a prophet called by God to help Judah survive. Sometimes harsh and bitter. Sometimes a predictor of the terror to come. And, yet, a prophet and a book that is a quest for meaning and about how, even in the midst of communal disaster, the people of Judah (and we) we might find both the human and the divine. 

And so, today, we begin in Jeremiah. 

The Lord’s word came to me:
“Before I created you in the womb I knew you;
    before you were born I set you apart;
    I made you a prophet to the nations.”
“Ah, Lord God,” I said, “I don’t know how to speak
    because I’m only a child.”
The Lord responded,
    “Don’t say, ‘I’m only a child.’
        Where I send you, you must go;
        what I tell you, you must say.
Don’t be afraid of them,
    because I’m with you to rescue you,”
        declares the Lord.
Then the Lord stretched out his hand,
    touched my mouth, and said to me,
    “I’m putting my words in your mouth.
This very day I appoint you over nations and empires,
    to dig up and pull down,
    to destroy and demolish,
    to build and plant.”

Jeremiah received the Lord’s word: Stand near the gate of the Lord’s temple and proclaim there this message: Listen to the Lord’s word, all you of Judah who enter these gates to worship the Lord. This is what the Lord of heavenly forces, the God of Israel, says: Improve your conduct and your actions, and I will dwell with you in this place. Don’t trust in lies: “This is the Lord’s temple! The Lord’s temple! The Lord’s temple!” No, if you truly reform your ways and your actions; if you treat each other justly; if you stop taking advantage of the immigrant, orphan, or widow; if you don’t shed the blood of the innocent in this place, or go after other gods to your own ruin, only then will I dwell with you in this place, in the land that I gave long ago to your ancestors for all time.

And yet you trust in lies that will only hurt you. Will you steal and murder, commit adultery and perjury, sacrifice to Baal and go after other gods that you don’t know, and then come and stand before me in this temple that bears my name, and say, “We are safe,” only to keep on doing all these detestable things? Do you regard this temple, which bears my name, as a hiding place for criminals? I can see what’s going on here, declares the Lord. --Jeremiah 1:10-10; 7:1-11 (CEB)

In 2014 I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD. It was the result of over 40 years of loss I experienced throughout my life - loss that continued to impact me even after I’d done much work with mental health professionals over that time. The diagnosis was the result of my individual, accumulated experience of trauma. 

Today, though, and over these next several weeks we are not talking about individual trauma. Now that is not to say that some of us, or even all of us, have not experienced some level of individual trauma over these many months. But, we have also experienced collective trauma - trauma that has come over the series of events we’ve experienced together in this time - disaster and its effects that have disrupted our lives on a vast scale, turning them upside down, shaking our world apart, destroying our day-to-day existence and even shattering our understanding of our own reality and even, perhaps, that of God.

It’s normal for us to want to get as far away from this experience as soon and as quickly as we can. It’s likely why there is so little history written about the 1918 pandemic - that, perhaps, there was a rush to put it behind them. Yet, those who deal with disaster and trauma know of its effects if it is not tended to - hidden effects that can leave us isolated, keep us in our own suffering and grief, and, in time, lead to a collapse of faith and trust in one another, in our society, and in God.

Jeremiah was called to serve God’s people in a similar time as ours, an experience that is hinted at even in Psalm 1, a straying from the true path to one that leads to destruction. And collective trauma. This is Jeremiah’s call from God - to both stand with and against the people, to call them out and to call them in, so that they might endure what is to come, that they might live, and that they might yet realize a future that includes a new covenant with God. Or as we just read: to dig up and pull down, to destroy and demolish, to build and plant.

Isn’t Israel’s way our way? Isn’t Israel’s experience our human experience? Over and over again in the narrative of scripture we read of a three-fold pattern of our world, of our human experience.

There is a triune pattern in the world. Creation - Uncreation - Re-creation. Richard Rohr calls it “order, disorder, reorder.” Walter Brueggemann names it orientation, disorientation, reorientation. It is a pattern we see through the entire story of scripture. 

God creates all things. And it is very good. Then, humanity chooses to betray God and we are plunged into a violent system of shame and blame. The violence comes to it’s apex and the world is plunged into a flood of some kind that threatens to destroy everything with chaos. And yet...God turns the flood into a promise. And resurrects humanity into a new covenant.

And then the cycle repeats itself. Again and again. Over and over. God creates. We uncreate. And God re-creates. Life, death, resurrection. It’s how things grow. It’s how we grow.

Or think about it in another way.

If all of reality was singular, was one. Then it would be static. There would be no diversity. No movement. It would be nothing.

If all reality was split in two, divided between this and that, between us and them, there would only be division. A dualistic or binary system. This is where most of us get stuck. We think the world is divided between God and creation. Between heaven and hell. Between good people and bad people. Between absolute right and absolute wrong. Between us and them. 

But there is a third way. 

The movement of God is to keep these dualities, these binaries, from destroying each other. To use the tension between them to instead open up a new life of hope and possibility. Because, again, this is how we grow.

We start in simple consciousness as children. Life is good and ordered.

We grow into adolescence and begin to focus on our individuality - the things that divide and that define us from each other. We construct our false selves in a way that separates us from each other. That often leads us to division and violence. 

But there is this third way. The way where Jesus invites us to take up our cross and follow him. This third way is the way of Jesus. The way to which we have been called, just as the early disciples were called.

And, yet, in John 16, Jesus tells the disciples that, though he has much to tell them, they are not yet ready to bear it. But, he promises that the Spirit will guide them (and us) in the way of the cross and in the life of resurrection and rebirth. 

Because this is who God is. A Triune God. A threefold God. Three persons, one Godhead. The Trinity. A God who is dynamic and ever changing. Self-emptying. Loving. Ever expanding and inclusive. Creating and sustaining. Working to bring about the unity and harmony of all living things so that all creation might live in shalom. A God who is in relationship within God’s self, but, more importantly, a God who is in relationship with us. A God who can move into the darkest places of our collective trauma to reveal life to us, even when all we can see is death.

As we continue to move through Jeremiah and the Psalms, may begin to understand that this God was the God of the psalmists. This God was the God of Jeremiah and the people of Judah. This is our God, too. Ever creating and re-creating. Always bring us from death to life.

And for this, we say, “Thanks be to God!” Amen.

Preached May 30, 2021, at Grace & Glory Lutheran, Goshen, and Third Lutheran, Louisville, KY.

Trinity Sunday

Readings: Jeremiah 1:10-10; 7:1-11; Psalm 1

God's Triumph: The End of the Story

When the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him. And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. They had been saying to one another, “Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?” When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back. As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed. But he said to them, “Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.” So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid. --Mark 16:1-8 (NRSV)

There is a reason we don't often read the resurrection story in Mark on Easter. Nowhere in it do we see a resurrected Jesus. Nowhere do we see Jesus meeting the disciples later, where they are witness to their now risen Savior.  There's a reason we don't often read the resurrection story in Mark on Easter. Because it ends with the women leaving in terror and amazement. It doesn’t tell us what happened next - whether they went and told the disciples. It leaves us hanging, wondering what happened. 

There is a reason we don’t often read the resurrection story in Mark on Easter. 

Last summer, when I was looking through our readings for this year and realized that this reading was the Gospel text appointed for Easter Sunday, I honestly considered changing it. And yet, who could have predicted what is happening in this moment? Who could have predicted that the entire world would be in the midst of a pandemic? Who could have predicted that much of what we know and our ways of life could have been so turned upside down? Who could have predicted any of this last summer? 

Now - in this moment - the resurrection story in Mark seems right. 

So, what do we have in the story? It opens with the women going to the tomb. These are the same women we met at the end of our Good Friday reading. They had remained at the cross. They had seen Jesus crucified when everyone had abandoned him. They had also witnessed where Jesus was buried. So, early on this morning they set out for the tomb, to prepare Jesus’ body for burial, something they’d been unable to do immediately after his death because of the start of the Sabbath. They go to offer this last loving gesture, this last service of love.

But, they had one very practical concern. Who would roll away the stone?  

It's hard to ignore the imagery in Mark that points to the coming kingdom of God - it’s unveiling and the opening up of access to God. We first saw it at the very beginning of Mark, when the heavens opened and the Holy Spirit came down to anoint him as the son of God. We saw it in the hours leading up to Jesus’ crucifixion. The references in Mark 15 to nakedness, or as Gary would have said if given the opportunity last Sunday, “nekedness.” These point to the undressing and the unveiling of God’s kingdom. 

We saw this same imagery at the time of Jesus’ crucifixion, with the tearing from top to bottom of the temple curtain. Opening up access to a God restricted by the temple system. Then, finally, in our story today, as the women arrive at the tomb, they realize that the stone has already been rolled away. Once more, we have the signal that the tomb has been opened to the entire world. The unveiling of the kingdom of God has begun for everyone.

Now I should mention here that, while we view this unveiling as a positive thing, we must also remember that it is a direct threat to death and the power of evil. Evil recognizes who this Jesus is. We saw this earlier in Mark when only the demons recognized the true power of Jesus and his true identity. Evil fears Jesus and the kingdom of God. Because not only does Jesus usher in life, the kingdom of God unveils evil. Exposes it for what it is. Perhaps this is what is happening in our own time, in this time of pandemic. As we finally begin to see and more fully understand the failures of our economic systems. And of our healthcare systems. Of our systems of class and race. Of our religious systems. The kingdom of God exposes these systems - systems that keep people from shalom. From that wholeness and that peace that God desires for all of us.

Perhaps, this is why the resurrection story in Mark is so helpful for us in this time. Because the very last word in Mark in Greek is the word “gar,” which is a word that in English means “for” or “because.” So, if we read the Greek in English exactly as translated, the last line of our text and of all of Mark reads, “So [the women] went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them, and they said nothing to anyone, they were afraid because…”

In other words, the Mark resurrection story ends with an invitation. To the reader. To finish the story. An invitation into this question of what will happen next. Will anyone go to Galilee? What is the adventure you will choose? Because the end of the story has not been written. Will you respond in faith? Will you respond in fear? Are you, dear reader or dear listener, going to Galilee? Or not.

It may be hard right now to see God’s action in our world, to witness the resurrected Jesus. To see God creating life. It may feel much more like Good Friday than Easter. But, there is no excuse in Mark's gospel to freeze up, to not do the next thing, to not go to Galilee. We, just like those women so long ago, are called to act in faith with only a story, a promise, with only some evidence. We must live toward that promise that we’ve had rumors of, but of which there is perhaps little evidence. To see God at work in our world, creating new life. To believe that, even in the midst of this time, God continues to roll out the kingdom. Working to bring life out of the death we are witnessing in this moment. To give us faith to move us beyond our fear and to live into this life for all eternity that has been promised for each one of us. And for all people.

So, perhaps, the resurrection story in Mark is perfect for this time. May we join God in writing the end of it. Amen.

Preached April 12, 2020, at Grace & Glory Lutheran Church, Goshen, KY.
Easter 1
Readings: Mark 16:1-8; Romans 6:5-11.

Our Sin, God's Faithfulness: A Vineyard Love Song

Let me sing for my beloved

    my love-song concerning his vineyard:

My beloved had a vineyard

    on a very fertile hill.

He dug it and cleared it of stones,

    and planted it with choice vines;

he built a watchtower in the midst of it,

    and hewed out a wine vat in it;

he expected it to yield grapes,

    but it yielded wild grapes.

And now, inhabitants of Jerusalem

    and people of Judah,

judge between me

    and my vineyard.

What more was there to do for my vineyard

    that I have not done in it?

When I expected it to yield grapes,

    why did it yield wild grapes?

And now I will tell you

    what I will do to my vineyard.

I will remove its hedge,

    and it shall be devoured;

I will break down its wall,

    and it shall be trampled down.

I will make it a waste;

    it shall not be pruned or hoed,

    and it shall be overgrown with briers and thorns;

I will also command the clouds

    that they rain no rain upon it.

For the vineyard of the Lord of hosts

    is the house of Israel,

and the people of Judah

    are his pleasant planting;

he expected justice,

    but saw bloodshed;

righteousness,

    but heard a cry! 

--Isaiah 5:1-7 (NRSV)

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

When I was around 30 years old, I met a man. I’d been divorced at this point for about 2 years and life as a working single mom was busy and, often, pretty hard. So, the idea of dating was a bit beyond me. However, one day, work colleagues of mine invited me to go out dancing with them one evening. I was resistant at first, thinking of all of the chores I still had to do at home, plus the challenge of finding a babysitter for my young son. But, they kept working on me and, eventually, I agreed.

They had a favorite hangout spot. It was this combination restaurant and bar that was on the Palos Verdes Peninsula, one of the wealthier communities in Los Angeles, which was where they also lived. We agreed that I would meet them there that evening. 

About 30 minutes into the evening, as I was wondering why I’d ever agreed to come, a gentleman approached our table to greet my friends. He was quite a bit older than we were. But, he was known to my friends and was respected in the community. He was a well known hotel developer. Wealthy. Very smart. Best of all, he was a great dancer! Over the next few minutes, we began to engage in conversation. And, then, to dance together. 

Have you ever had that sense after having just met someone that you are unexpectedly being pulled into a relationship? There is a sense of underlying excitement and an electricity that happens, that’s hard to explain. It’s a type of infatuation that happens, when everything just clicks. And it feels like it's destiny. 

Well, that’s what happened that evening to both of us. Over the next few weeks, we were in this whirlwind period of romance. Then, one Saturday morning, I received a call from him, saying we needed to talk. He’d spent the morning eating breakfast with friends - friends who were his age - who had convinced him of the folly of our relationship. The “May-November” nature of our relationship, if you will. And so, in that phone call, he told me we could no longer see each other. And, he broke up with me.

Earlier in worship this morning, we shared the names of love songs with each other. What we didn’t share, though, were the names of “break-up songs.” At that moment in my life, when it felt as though my destiny - as though our destiny - had been destroyed by his friends, this was my “break-up song.” 

The first part of our reading this morning from Isaiah is nothing more than a break-up song. A love song about a love that has gone awry. A song of a farmer and his vineyard. A farmer who has taken the utmost care to prepare the land for a bountiful harvest of grapes for wine-making. Not just any grapes, but the best grapes, the most excellent grapes. He has planted this vineyard on a fertile hill. He has done everything to ensure the growth of his precious vines -  digging up the dirt, clearing the stones, planting the choicest vines. Then, placing a tower in the midst of the vineyard - a watchtower - so that he might watch for those unwanted animals that might come and destroy his newly-planted vines. Digging out a wine vat, also in the midst of the vineyard, to make this wine that will be the best wine, of the highest quality. 

This is a love song that begins with such a sense of expectation and anticipation. An infatuation, if you must. And, then, we get to this line of the song, in verse 4, which ends with this question - a lament really. From the farmer: “When I expected my vineyard to yield good grapes, why did it yield rotten grapes?”

The next step the farmer takes is logical. With vines that have produced such a poor harvest, he removes the fences surrounding his previous vineyard. Allowing the natural predators to come in and destroy it. He stops farming the vineyard, allowing the thorns and thistles to grow up. The farmer walks away from what was once his beloved vineyard. Broken-hearted. Singing nothing other than a break up song. And, then, near the end of the song, we realize that this is not a song about a farmer and a vineyard. But this is a song - a breakup song - about God and God’s people.

The book of Isaiah is written in two parts by the prophet Isaiah. Unlike Hosea last week, who was a prophet in the northern kingdom of Israel, Isaiah is located in the southern kingdom, in Jerusalem. Isaiah has been witness to the destruction of the northern kingdom and the exile of Judah’s northern kin. It is this destruction and exile of Israel in the north that is the subject of this first part of Isaiah. A lament. A break-up song between God and God’s people. A people from whom God expected the production of good fruit. The fruits of - as we read in verse 7 - fruits of justice and righteousness. And yet, instead, Israel has become a people who have produced bad fruit. Fruits of bloodshed and distress. The harvest is not simply poor or inadequate. The harvest is evil. 

Friends, we are like this harvest. Like Israel. Our world produces similar fruit. A harvest from which God expects justice and righteousness. Where salvation is not just the hope of us as individuals, but where salvation in God’s eyes is about the establishment of a just society. Where the common good is of utmost importance. Where justice and righteousness prevail. A world in which the rights of all, including the most marginalized, are respected. Isaiah’s musical metaphor is a stinging rebuke to Israel, and to us, of the world we have created. A world that produces bloodshed. And cries. Particularly, the cries of children. Hungry. Living in unsafe conditions. In fear of the next mass shooting. Or separated from their parents.

For ten full chapters in this first part of Isaiah, we hear the lament of God over this harvest. Heavy, sobering words from God to the people of Judah, intended to wake them from their similar stupor. We hear God’s sense of despair at their unfaithfulness. At our unfaithfulness.

But, then, suddenly. Unexpectedly. The song changes in chapter 11.

A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse,

    and a branch shall grow out of his roots.

The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him,

    the spirit of wisdom and understanding,

    the spirit of counsel and might,

    the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord.

His delight shall be in the fear of the Lord.

He shall not judge by what his eyes see,

    or decide by what his ears hear;

but with righteousness he shall judge the poor,

    and decide with equity for the meek of the earth;

he shall strike the earth with the rod of his mouth,

    and with the breath of his lips he shall kill the wicked.

Righteousness shall be the belt around his waist,

    and faithfulness the belt around his loins.

The wolf shall live with the lamb,

    the leopard shall lie down with the kid,

the calf and the lion and the fatling together,

    and a little child shall lead them.

The cow and the bear shall graze,

    their young shall lie down together;

    and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.

The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp,

    and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder’s den.

They will not hurt or destroy

    on all my holy mountain;

for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord

    as the waters cover the sea.

--Isaiah 11:1-9 (NRSV)

As the song begins, the vineyard is a stump. Nothing more than a stump that appears to be dead. But, this stump still has roots. And as we listen to the song, Isaiah lifts our eyes. This is a song of a new
vision. An acknowledgement that life is about to be different. An intrusion of good news - very good news to the people of Judah. That, out of this seemingly dead stump, will come a new shoot. And, then, a branch. A new king. Who wears on his mantle the spirit of wisdom and understanding. The spirit of counsel and might. The spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord. The very words used in each of our baptisms.

This new king will judge with righteousness and equity. With a single-minded devotion to the community and to justice - a devotion that will require the abandonment of his own ambition. A new king, through whose leadership, the order of peace will be reestablished. A whole peace. Shalom. Not simply a peace among humans, but a peace that encompasses all of creation. Harmony will be restored.

What a vision! What a love song this is! Where children are safe and where the most likely of enemies live beside each other in peace. Where no one and nothing will be hurt or destroyed. Because the whole earth will be filled with the knowledge of God.

By placing this vision - this love song - into the midst of the very stark realities of Israel’s life, into the midst of the stark realities of our lives, Isaiah reminds us that occasionally we need to stop and allow ourselves the privilege of seeing life not how it is, but about how it can be. About how God desires it to be and promises that it will be. Not a breakup song. But, a love song. A love story. A story of hope. A vision of peace. A true destiny for you and I and all creation. A destiny of justice and righteousness. And peace. And love.

May we long for this love song! And may we learn to sing it with our God. Amen.

Preached November 17, 2019, at Grace & Glory Lutheran Church, Goshen, KY.
Pentecost 23
Readings: Isaiah 5:1-7, 11:1-9; Mark 12:1-3; Psalm 107:38-43

Rekindling Our Faith, Rekindling Our Imagination - Part 4

Now even the first covenant had regulations for worship and an earthly sanctuary. For a tent was constructed, the first one, in which were the lampstand, the table, and the bread of the Presence; this is called the Holy Place. Behind the second curtain was a tent called the Holy of Holies. In it stood the golden altar of incense and the ark of the covenant overlaid on all sides with gold, in which there were a golden urn holding the manna, and Aaron’s rod that budded, and the tablets of the covenant; above it were the cherubim of glory overshadowing the mercy seat. Of these things we cannot speak now in detail.

Such preparations having been made, the priests go continually into the first tent to carry out their ritual duties; but only the high priest goes into the second, and he but once a year, and not without taking the blood that he offers for himself and for the sins committed unintentionally by the people. By this the Holy Spirit indicates that the way into the sanctuary has not yet been disclosed as long as the first tent is still standing. This is a symbol of the present time, during which gifts and sacrifices are offered that cannot perfect the conscience of the worshiper, but deal only with food and drink and various baptisms, regulations for the body imposed until the time comes to set things right.

But when Christ came as a high priest of the good things that have come, then through the greater and perfect tent (not made with hands, that is, not of this creation), he entered once for all into the Holy Place, not with the blood of goats and calves, but with his own blood, thus obtaining eternal redemption. For if the blood of goats and bulls, with the sprinkling of the ashes of a heifer, sanctifies those who have been defiled so that their flesh is purified, how much more will the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit offered himself without blemish to God, purify our conscience from dead works to worship the living God! --Hebrews 9:1-14 (NRSV)

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

If you were one of the newly-freed people of Israel, going to worship at the tabernacle in the wilderness, this is as far in as you could go. In that first place of worship for Israel, there were three parts. The first - the outer courtyard - was where the altar of sacrifice was placed. It was here that, if you were seeking to honor God, to ask for God’s blessing, or make amends for something you had done wrong - it was here that you would come. With grain. With an animal, such as a bull or ram or dove or pigeon. Even with the fat and inner organs from certain animals. You would come to this place with your offering and it was here, in this outer courtyard, where the priests would, if required, slaughter your offering and then place it on the altar of sacrifice. 

If you were of the priestly class in Israel, from the line of Levi, you could go into the next place - the inner courtyard. The Holy place. It was here that you would go about your daily ritual duties. Offering incense morning and evening as you came in to dress and trim the lamps - lamps that were situated beside a table, called the Table of the Presence. Each Sabbath, you would eat the Bread of the Presence - loaves of bread that had been set in place the previous Sabbath as a continual offering to God. These loaves were a visible token for Israel of the communion between God and God’s people. As priests, after eating the bread, you would replace the loaves with freshly baked bread, to be eaten and replaced the following Sabbath. 

If, however, you were the high priest, you were the only person who could enter the next place - the inner sanctuary. The Holy of Holies. This inner sanctum was separated from the courtyard by a curtain. It contained the Ark of the Covenant, which was the most sacred object in all of Israel. It was here, in a box-like container where three sacred religious objects were located. A golden bowl containing manna - the bread that God had provided to sustain Israel in the wilderness. It contained Aaron’s rod, which God had caused to bud and flower when the people disputed his priestly role. Then, finally, it contained the two tablets of stone upon which was written the Ten Commandments. Which represented the covenant that God had made with Israel at Mount Sinai. On top of the Ark was the Mercy Seat. On either end were two gold cherubim. It was between these cherubim where God was present. Hovering over the Mercy Seat in the form of a cloud. 

As high priest, you would enter this space- the Holy of Holies - on Yom Kippur and offer up a sacrifice for all Israel. A sacrifice for all sins committed unintentionally by the people. Part of this sacrifice included two male goats, one of which would be offered up. The high priest would then take the second goat, place his hands on the head of the animal, and confess over it all of Israel’s offenses, their rebellious sins and all other sins. He would then send this goat - this scape-goat - away. Out into the wilderness. Carrying the sins of Israel away. 

This is the tabernacle and the connected ritual around it that the writer of Hebrews is talking about in our text today. This earthly place - this worldly sanctuary - connected to that first covenant made between God and the people at Sinai.

But, do you notice something about this place? Do you notice how far God is in this ritual from God’s people? How there is no direct contact - no direct relationship - between God and God’s people. But that, in order to get to God, you have to go through priests and, ultimately, through the high priest. To get to God. To be in God’s presence.

But, ultimately, God is a God of relationships. I’ve spoken before about the perichoretic nature of God - that God, as the Triune God, is in relationship with Godself, with God’s three persons: Creator, Son, and Holy Spirit. That our relational God has created us to be in relationship with God. And also with each other. That we aren’t intended to go it alone. But that God intends we are together. This is the wholeness God desires. This is the shalom God wants.

And so, as God looked at this earthly sanctuary, God could see its weaknesses and its limitations. How it separated God from God’s people. How there was no “way” into the inner sanctuary. No direct “way” into God’s presence for all of humanity.

And so, God determined, as our text says today, to “make things right.” To do something new. To send Christ as our own high priest. Our own mediator. To tear down that curtain that separates us from the presence of God. To break down once and for all the things that keep us from God. To open the “way” for all people into the presence of God. God has flung the door open wide open for us and for all people.

Why? Because God is a God of relationships. God wants to be in relationship with us. And God wants us to be in relationship with others. And with all of creation. This is the new thing that God is doing. The “new covenant” that our text speaks of. A covenant of wholeness of relationship. With God and with each other.

This is what our text is talking about this morning. About how God has opened the door in a surprising way. And about how God has acted and continues to act to restore relationships. Relationships that our own human sins have closed off.

In 1619, 400 years ago this month, twenty people from Africa were brought to the shores of this country. To Jamestown, Virginia. And they were sold into slavery. This was the beginning of 250 years of the intentional enslavement of a people in our country. The beginning of a transatlantic slave trade that ripped African peoples away from their rich traditions, their history, and their assets. It led to the systematic oppression of people of African descent in the US and throughout the world. To colonial and post-colonial policies. To racist beliefs, policies and practices. To imbalances of privilege, power, and wealth. And to the continuing demand for low or no-wage labor that are the manifestations of this legacy of slavery.

And if you think the church has been immune to this. That the church has not been a party to this legacy. Think again. For centuries, scripture was used to justify slavery. And, while there were some Lutherans in the south who questioned its morality, along with a few in the north, “on the whole,” R.M. Chapman writes in his book about Lutherans and the legacy of slavery.  “On the whole, Lutherans did not become strong anti-slavery advocates, nor did they champion the cause of free blacks in the North or the South.” Lutherans were complicit in slavery as they largely stood by. Passively. Accepting the practice as the law of the land. And, even though much of our own Lutheran church history emphasizes being an immigrant church, during the Jim Crow era and much of the civil rights era and later years, Lutherans as a whole remained on the sidelines. Silent. With only a few small pockets of advocacy and action.

Too often we hear in ourselves that we are not racist. That we are not privileged. We may have grown up poor ourselves and with few resources. We have worked hard for what we have. And that is true. Yet, what we fail to see is that we have a system of privilege that has made our lives easier. We fail to look at the log in our eye. To see the rights and privileges that we have had. That our ancestors have had. Privileges that have allowed us to access good education. To choose where we might live. To get loans and purchase property and assets. To build wealth. All while many others have not had those same privileges. This unearned privilege runs deep within us. And we cannot escape it.

Yet, God continues to do new things. To rekindle our faith. And to challenge our imagination. Through Christ, God continues to draw us back into relationship. With God and with one another. More deeply. So that we might begin to understand the harm our sin has caused in our relationships. That we might repent of that sin. And that we might begin to work alongside the Spirit to change the world in which we live. To tear down the systemic walls that divide us. So that our world might be the heavenly sanctuary God desires. The place of wholeness God wants. The shalom that God seeks for us, for all people, and for all of creation.

For these - for these new things that God is doing - may our response be, “Thanks be to God!” Amen.