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

Closet History and Practical Transitions

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joseph’s Wardrobe Malfunctions

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

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

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

Unraveling the Sacred Fabric

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

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

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

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

Styled in Grace

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

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

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

Dressed for the Future

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

And the Lord is with us, too.

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

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

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

Unraveled: Unraveling Bias

Then Pharaoh gave an order to all his people: “Throw every baby boy born to the Hebrews into the Nile River, but you can let all the girls live.”

Now a man from Levi’s household married a Levite woman. The woman became pregnant and gave birth to a son. She saw that the baby was healthy and beautiful, so she hid him for three months. When she couldn’t hide him any longer, she took a reed basket and sealed it up with black tar. She put the child in the basket and set the basket among the reeds at the riverbank. The baby’s older sister stood watch nearby to see what would happen to him.

Pharaoh’s daughter came down to bathe in the river, while her women servants walked along beside the river. She saw the basket among the reeds, and she sent one of her servants to bring it to her. When she opened it, she saw the child. The boy was crying, and she felt sorry for him. She said, “This must be one of the Hebrews’ children.”

Then the baby’s sister said to Pharaoh’s daughter, “Would you like me to go and find one of the Hebrew women to nurse the child for you?”

Pharaoh’s daughter agreed, “Yes, do that.” So the girl went and called the child’s mother. Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, “Take this child and nurse it for me, and I’ll pay you for your work.” So the woman took the child and nursed it. After the child had grown up, she brought him back to Pharaoh’s daughter, who adopted him as her son. She named him Moses, “because,” she said, “I pulled him out of the water.” --Exodus 1:22, 2:1-10 (CEB)

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

Genocide. It’s the world into which baby Moses was born. This week I turned to Professor Google to learn more about how genocide is defined and what exactly it is. Unsurprisingly, one of the first links was to the U.S. Holocaust Museum website. On it, they define genocide as an act or series of acts designed to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnic, racial, or religious group. They arrange these acts into five categories: 1) killing members of a group; 2) causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group; 3) deliberately inflicting conditions of life on a group that are designed to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part; 4) imposing measures on a group that are intended to prevent births; and 5) forcibly transferring children of a group to another group.

So often, I think, we try to convince ourselves that we are so different from the people of the Hebrew scriptures. That we have advanced so much further. And, perhaps, we have. Yet, on a related website I found a list of places in our world this very moment where genocide is occurring or at risk of occurring. South Sudan. The Congo. The Uyghur people in China. Afghanistan. Indonesia. Yemen. 

And lest we think that we, here in this country are immune, I would like to acknowledge the traditional, ancestral, unceded territory of the Adena, the Hopewell, the Myaamia, the Shawnee, the Cherokee and the Osage First Nations on which we are gathering and worshiping today.

Genocide. It’s the world that Moses was born into. A world where his life should have ended just as swiftly as it had begun. But, it didn’t. Thanks to a plot devised by Moses’ mother and his sister, whose name, Miriam, we would learn later in the story - thanks to their plot, Moses survived, one of who knows how many children didn’t. 

We have to wonder how detailed their plot was. Perhaps, it was simply to place him in the basket among the reeds, hopeful that Adonai would spare his life. Perhaps, their plan was more detailed, more opportunistic, even manipulative as someone suggested this week. Regardless of the complexity of their plan, the life of Moses, first-born son in his family, was spared because of it.

There are alot of things we could consider today under our summer-long theme of unraveling. The unraveling of Moses’ mother, of her hopes and dreams for her son. The unraveling in Miriam’s life, not subject to the genocide orders and how that may have impacted her. Or even the unraveling of the Pharaoh's daughter bias, conscious or unconscious, that she likely inherited for the Hebrew people.

But, today, I’d like to spend a moment looking at the actions of Pharaoh’s daughter that go directly to the unraveling of her own father’s plans of genocide. And, particularly, what it means to be an ally versus what it means to be “nice.”

I don’t know about you, but for my entire childhood I was constantly reminded to “be nice.” That idea is so deeply ingrained within me that I even talk to my two fighting cats, telling them to simply “be nice” to each other.

To be a nice person, as pagan spiritualist, Nadirah Adeye writes is to be “someone who doesn’t want to make others feel badly.” (One can find truth in the most interesting places!) She continues, “Being nice is about the personal choices we make regarding our friendships and relationships. A nice person, for example, likes to see diversity at gatherings, but may not understand that “diversity” is not just people of different complexions or lifestyles (but who all have similar assumed world views and behavior patterns). True diversity is, at times, grinding and intense and messy and loud and awkward.” We may say we want diversity, but do we really?

To be an ally, though, is very different. Anne Bishop, author of Becoming an Ally, defines it in this way: “Allies are people who recognize the unearned privilege they receive from society’s patterns of injustice and take responsibility for changing these patterns. Allies include men who work to end sexism, white people who work to end racism, heterosexual people who work to end heterosexism, able-bodied people who work to end ableism, and so on. Part of becoming an ally is also recognizing one’s own experience of oppression. For example, a white woman can learn from her experience of sexism and apply it in becoming an ally to people of color, or a person who grew up in poverty can learn from that experience how to respect others’ feelings of helplessness because of a disability.” 

To be an ally sometimes requires that we are not nice. It requires vulnerability. Risk on our part. It requires that we do the work to examine and question our own privilege. To understand who we are internally. And also how our external appearance or membership in a certain group might have an impact on our power in society. Being an ally means being willing to be uncomfortable. And trying again. Over and over. It’s less about being right than it is about being unwilling to allow wrongs to persist unchallenged. And to be willing to move toward the mess and discomfort rather than simply walk away.

Perhaps that’s why I’m so intrigued by the Pharaoh’s daughter. The unnamed Pharaoh’s daughter. Because, perhaps. Perhaps, just for a moment as she saw that Hebrew boy baby, she could connect with him. She could learn from the sexism she experienced in her own culture and use her own privilege to be an ally. To push back against her own father and against the systems of oppression he continued to perpetuate. To save a baby. To save Moses. Who God would eventually call to be an advocate - an ally - in his own right. To use the privilege he’d gained as a son of the Pharaoh’s daughter to help lead an oppressed people to freedom. 

Isn’t this the story of Jesus, too? Son of God come to earth to be an ally? To find every opportunity to push back against these same systems of oppression that continue to plague us today? To be vulnerable himself? To risk death so that all people - you and I included - might be fully free? Freed so that we might risk like Jesus? Called by God to carry on the work of unraveling and re-weaving, the mission of God to create a tapestry of diversity and beauty in our world? Yes.

For this, I say, Thanks be to God!

Preached August 14, 2022, at Grace & Glory, Prospect, with Third, Louisville.

Pentecost 10

Readings: Exodus 1:22, 2:1-10; Psalm 83:1-4, 9-10, 17-18

Unraveled: Unraveling Shame

 Jesus had to go through Samaria. He came to a Samaritan city called Sychar, which was near the land Jacob had given to his son Joseph. Jacob’s well was there. Jesus was tired from his journey, so he sat down at the well. It was about noon.

A Samaritan woman came to the well to draw water. Jesus said to her, “Give me some water to drink.” His disciples had gone into the city to buy him some food.

The Samaritan woman asked, “Why do you, a Jewish man, ask for something to drink from me, a Samaritan woman?” (Jews and Samaritans didn’t associate with each other.)

Jesus responded, “If you recognized God’s gift and who is saying to you, ‘Give me some water to drink,’ you would be asking him and he would give you living water.”

The woman said to him, “Sir, you don’t have a bucket and the well is deep. Where would you get this living water? You aren’t greater than our father Jacob, are you? He gave this well to us, and he drank from it himself, as did his sons and his livestock.”

Jesus answered, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks from the water that I will give will never be thirsty again. The water that I give will become in those who drink it a spring of water that bubbles up into eternal life.”

The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water, so that I will never be thirsty and will never need to come here to draw water!”

Jesus said to her, “Go, get your husband, and come back here.”

The woman replied, “I don’t have a husband.”

“You are right to say, ‘I don’t have a husband,’” Jesus answered. “You’ve had five husbands, and the man you are with now isn’t your husband. You’ve spoken the truth.”

The woman said, “I know that the Messiah is coming, the one who is called the Christ. When he comes, he will teach everything to us.”

Jesus said to her, “I Am—the one who speaks with you.”

Just then, Jesus’ disciples arrived and were shocked that he was talking with a woman. But no one asked, “What do you want?” or “Why are you talking with her?” The woman put down her water jar and went into the city. She said to the people, “Come and see a man who has told me everything I’ve done! Could this man be the Christ?” --John 4:4-18, 25-29 (CEB)

She came to our food pantry one day, a few minutes after we had closed. When we told her we were closed, she burst out in tears. In the midst of her tears, we heard her story. She was a mother of four sons. Trying to survive after her husband had walked out on her and left her all alone. She’d driven by our food pantry for a year - a whole year - unable to stop by, to get food, this mother of four boys who we’d later learn had her PhD. All because of her shame. 

Shame. It’s at the heart of this story today. This story of the woman at the well. Notice that I didn’t say the “adulterous” woman at the well. Because, the truth is, nowhere does the text say this. 

Sure, Jesus reveals that she has five husbands. That the man she’s living with is not her husband. But he does not condemn her. Because there are many possible explanations for this. Explanations that are reasonable, perhaps even more typical. Explanations that are within the bounds of the Torah. Yet, explanations that have rarely been considered, perhaps even dismissed, as so many commentators, so many preachers have viewed this text for far too long with a patriarchal lens. A lens that resists other possible explanations. A lens that we, in the church, along with so many other lenses, have been challenged to unravel. 

Because this lens would much rather accept Jesus’ offer of good news to the Samaritans - a people hated by the Jews and vice versa -  than to her. A woman. A Samaritan woman. A despised Samaritan woman. Of questionable moral character. Or who lacks the intellectual and theological ability to engage with Jesus in serious conversation. Both interpretations of this text that delegitimize her (and any woman, if we’re honest) as a conversation partner for Jesus and as a receiver and proclaimer of the gospel. 

So, instead, she is shamed. Not only by our patriarchy, but by hers, as well. And, perhaps, she has begun to believe this shame, too. Perhaps, that’s why she comes to the well at noon - the hottest time of the day, when no one else - no other women - would be there. Because it is so much safer - so less risky - to simply be alone. And isolated. So as not to trouble the waters. So as not to feel ashamed.

But, then, Jesus speaks to her. And in one of the longest conversations by far in the Gospels that he has with anyone, Jesus names her truth. Her woundedness and isolation. Her shame. And, in naming it, begins to unravel it.

Dr. Brene Brown is a sociologist and a researcher on shame. For six years she researched shame before she began to write about it. Why? Because, as she puts it, “shame is this horrible topic, no one wants to talk about it. It’s the best way to shut people down on an airplane. ‘What do you do?’ ‘I study shame.’ ‘Oh.’” When we begin to talk about patriarchy or whiteness. Sexism or Racism. Or privilege. She writes that when we begin to talk about these things, people get paralyzed by shame. Because “shame is the most powerful, master emotion. It’s the fear that we’re not good enough.”

But, here’s the thing. We cannot unravel those things in our lives, in our world, without addressing the shame - the shame Adam and Eve felt in those first moments after eating the apple - the shame that is at the heart of our human brokenness. Shame that tells us that we are not good enough. And shame that then drives us to wound others.

What shame in your life needs to be unraveled? Where is your woundedness? What is the thing that you spend so much energy trying to heal through so many insufficient ways? Relationships? Religion? Success? More degrees? More therapy? Working out? Busy-ness? Perfectionism? Aspects of aging? Aspects of youth? Whiteness? Othered-ness? There are a million ways we seek to isolate ourselves or to use substitutes for God to try and make sure our woundedness - our shame - is not known.

But Jesus knows. Jesus knows this deep and hidden part of us. And Jesus loves us for who we have been created to be, people in God’s image. And, then, Jesus calls us, just as he called the woman at the well, to be his apostles. At this time. In this place. In this moment of great disruption in his Church. In this moment of great disruption in our world. To do the risky work of unraveling. Faithfully. 

But, it’s hard work. This work of unraveling. And it’s difficult to find hope in the midst of it. Where can we find that hope? Where can we find Jesus in this work of unraveling?

I would suggest right here. Here, in our midst, in this space, as we have begun to unravel our own frameworks of thinking and ways of being, as we have argued and wept together, it is here. Where we have witnessed hope for the church God desires, the church God has called us to be. It is here where Jesus has been. Present in the midst of our shame and all our unraveled-ness. Knowing us. Building trust. And weaving us together into a rich tapestry of the diverse and beautiful community God has created us to be, that God hopes for us, for the whole church, for our world, and for all creation. 

For this I say, thanks be to God. Amen.

Unraveled: A Radical Unraveling of Vocation

Jesus entered Jericho and was passing through town. A man there named Zacchaeus, a ruler among tax collectors, was rich. He was trying to see who Jesus was, but, being a short man, he couldn’t because of the crowd. So he ran ahead and climbed up a sycamore tree so he could see Jesus, who was about to pass that way. When Jesus came to that spot, he looked up and said, “Zacchaeus, come down at once. I must stay in your home today.” So Zacchaeus came down at once, happy to welcome Jesus.

Everyone who saw this grumbled, saying, “He has gone to be the guest of a sinner.”

Zacchaeus stopped and said to the Lord, “Look, Lord, I give half of my possessions to the poor. And if I have cheated anyone, I repay them four times as much.”

Jesus said to him, “Today, salvation has come to this household because he too is a son of Abraham. The Human One came to seek and save the lost.” -Luke 19:1-10 (CEB)

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

Alright. Time to tell the truth. How many of you sang this song? 

Zacchaeus was a wee little man
And a wee little man was he.
He climbed up in a sycamore tree
For the Lord he wanted to see.
And as the Savior passed that way
He looked up in the tree.
Spoken: And he said, Zacchaeus, you come down!
For I’m going to your house today.
For I’m going to your house today.

Ah, Bible camp! How it made Zacchaeus famous! Did you also know that, early in the pandemic, there was an internet meme of Zacchaeus on social media - one of the earliest to “socially distance.”

It’s an interesting story, this story of the wee little man, Zacchaeus. Whose name means “clean.” Or “innocent.” Isn’t that interesting? Because I don’t know about you, but I have never heard Zacchaeus portrayed as innocent. 

In fact, Zacchaeus was, based at least on his identified vocation, far from innocent. He was a tax collector. Tax collectors were hated. They were considered to be traitors because even though they were Judean, they worked for the Roman empire. So they were not allowed to serve in positions as judges or witnesses. They were thrown out of the synagogue. Their families were disgraced. They were known for skimming off the top of what they collected. So, they were very wealthy. And Zacchaeus was not just any tax collector. He was a chief tax collector. It is a title we see nowhere else in Scripture or even in any surviving Greek literature. That Luke, in this story that is specific to his gospel only, would identify the vocation of Zaccheus to be chief tax collector - well, it’s to show us how much he was hated! How much his family was hated! How much they were outcasts in their community. Even the description of his stature - that he was short - suggests, at least metaphorically, that he was without character. And held in the lowest regard.

But, there’s something unusual about this story as we’ve heard it all these years. It’s verse 8. It’s the verse where Zacchaeus is responding to Jesus: Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor, and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much.

The problem with this verse is that it can be translated in the future tense, as we just heard and are likely most familiar with. Or it can be translate in the presence tense. In the present tense, it’s more a declaration of the way in Zacchaeus is telling Jesus about how he is using the wealth he has accumulated in his position: Look, Lord, I give half of my possessions to the poor. And if I have cheated anyone, I repay them four times as much.

So, which is it? Is it the future tense? A confession by Zacchaeus about how he intends to turn over a new leaf? Or is it in the present tense? And Zacchaeus lifting up an old leaf for all to see.

What I know in my few years of biblical translation is that the harder, least expected version is usually the right version. We, like the crowd, want to jump to the conclusion that this chief tax collector is like all the rest. A thief. A traitor. Someone who should be despised, simply because of what he does and what he’s worth. 

Rather, though, than this story being an unraveling of Zacchaeus and his vocation, perhaps it is the unraveling by Jesus of a culture that casts him aside. That despises him and counts him as nothing. Even worse than nothing. 

Jesus calls Zacchaeus by name. There is an intentionality and an urgency in Jesus’ request for him to come down. To, of all things, take Jesus home for dinner. By seeing Zacchaeus. By calling him. By staying with him and blessing him through his presence, Jesus is making a strong statement that this one - even this chief tax collector - is a child of Abraham and a child of God. 

The faith and resilience of Zacchaeus is a lesson for us. He is determined to find a way to see Jesus. Even though a towering and discouraging crowd is in his way. And as he climbs that majestic sycamore tree. As he goes further and further up so that he can see Jesus, both his faith and his actions are rewarded. Jesus looks up. Sees him. Tells him to come down. Calls him by name as Jesus calls all, particularly all on the edges of our world. And tells him, as Jesus tells all of us, you belong. You are mine. You are loved.

Thanks be to God! Amen.