Abiding in God’s Love

Sermon preached Sunday, May 5, 2024, the Sixth Sunday of Easter, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA. 

This morning we hear again from Jesus’ final meal with his disciples. In this passage, which is also usually read on Maundy Thursday, Jesus tells his disciples that the most important commandment he can give them is to love…and not only love, but to abide in the love God has already given them.

“As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. ¹⁰If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love…” (John 15:9-10a)

 

Abide. That’s an interesting word choice. It can mean a lot of different things. We might say that we “abide by the rules” or that we “can’t abide rudeness.” It can also mean to remain with or to dwell or to endure. It’s one of those incredibly ambiguous terms that can include several larger themes, and even trying to go back to the original language doesn’t help us out much—in Greek, it still covers the same variety of meanings.

I think it is with this intentional ambiguity that Jesus tells his disciples—and tells us—to abide in his love.

All too often, we think of love as a noun—as a feeling. Something that makes us feel warm and comfortable and joyful. We think of love as something that we sense, or something that is so ephemeral or intangible that it simply is or isn’t. We either love someone or we don’t—we either “feel love” for something or we don’t.

But love is much, much more than that. I think we do much better when we think of love as a verb—as a term of action.

One of the most popular readings at weddings is from First Corinthians, chapter 13. I think that all but one or two of the weddings I’ve officiated and been to have included this piece of scripture, as did my own! Most of you could probably recite it with me, but in case you need a reminder, here’s what it says:

^“4Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant⁵or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful;⁶it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. ⁷It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” (1 Corinthians 13:4-7)

When I preach on this text at weddings, I use it to remind people that all too often “love” becomes simply a word without a whole lot of meaning. Love can’t exist in a vacuum. You can say you love someone or something all you want, but if your actions don’t witness to it, your love is empty.

I illustrate this point by re-reading those four verses, but adding in the word “behavior.”

“Loving behavior is patient; loving behavior is kind; loving behavior is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. Loving behavior does not insist on its own way; loving behavior is not irritable or resentful; loving behavior does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. Loving behavior bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

We love one another through what we do and what we say, simply saying that we love our neighbor doesn’t mean much if we aren’t living out that love.

When Jesus says, “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you,” this sense of action is what we should think of. After all, when we talk about God’s love for us and how that love has been shown, we talk about God’s actions.

We talk about God’s love through creation, how God brought order in the universe out of chaos, how God designed an ecosystem to sustain such abundant life, and how God created us in the divine image and called us good, and how we see God’s love in every detail and in every step.

We talk about God’s love through the stories of our Israelite ancestors: God leading them out of Egypt and slavery, God providing manna and water for them in the wilderness, God healing people, God lifting up and calling prophets, and God finding a way for people when it looked like all hope was lost.

And, of course, we talk about God’s love through the cross and through every part of God’s incarnation through Jesus Christ: taking on our flesh and living among us, suffering death at our hands, and rising to share with us new life—all because God loves us and wants to be reconciled with us in spite of our sinfulness.

And these are just the things that God has done collectively for our world and for all of humanity. I know that many of us have our own stories of what we have seen God do in our own lives, moments when we have seen healing or restoration or peace.

Without these actions, would we know God’s love? Without the cross, would we have evidence enough that God actually cares for us, actually loves us? Everything God does is for us, for the creation God so lovingly formed.

Jesus says, “love one another as I have loved you.”

If that is our calling, if that is the last and greatest commandment Jesus gives us, then the love Jesus shows—the actions of Jesus can give us some guidance.

Jesus showed love by healing the sick, like when he came upon the paralytic by the pool of Siloam who kept missing his chance to enter the water and be healed, until Jesus came along and made him walk.

Jesus showed love by engaging with people no one else would, like the Samaritan Woman who Jesus meets at a well when anyone else might have steadfastly ignored her.

Jesus showed love by feeding people who were hungry, like when he took five loaves of bread and two fish and feed an enormous crowd with twelve baskets-full to spare.

Jesus comforted the afraid, like when his disciples were terrified on a boat in the sea and Jesus walked across the water to be with them.

Jesus showed love by standing up for people facing unjust circumstances, like the woman caught in adultery who had no chance to defend herself and whose punishment was disproportionate to her accused crime.

Jesus showed love by dying for us and, in his own words, drawing all people to himself.

Jesus says, “love one another as I have loved you.” This is how we do it, through the example God has given us. Healing, comforting, restoring, feeding, building relationships, sheltering, helping, being compassionate, becoming vulnerable for the sake of others…these are the actions of love.

When we do these things, we are already abiding in God’s love: living in it, dwelling in it, surrounded by it, and sustained by it—Love that found it’s home in us through our baptism.

When you were baptized, and every time you have affirmed your baptism since then, promises have been made. You might remember some of them: to live among God’s faithful people, to come to worship, to read scripture, and to pray—but do you remember what else is promised?

In our rite of baptism we ask if you promise to do these things, “so that you may learn to trust God, proclaim Christ through word and deed, care for others and the world God made, and work for justice and peace.”

It’s there, from the beginning, from the entry rite of our faith. From the day we enter the community of faith, we commit ourselves to the work of love.

Every week. Every day. Abiding in the abundant love of God.

Amen.

“What is to Prevent Us?”

Sermon preached Sunday, April 28, 2024, the Fifth Sunday of Easter at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA. 

I love other people’s enthusiasm. I love how contagious it is. I love how all it takes is one person’s passionate response to something to get a whole group of people involved. Have you ever been to a meeting or a planning session where one person’s enthusiasm gets everybody worked up and the ideas are flying across the room and everyone is honestly, truly, excited about doing what needs to be done? I live for those moments.

Maybe it’s because I’m already a pretty enthusiastic person. If you haven’t noticed—and I’m sure you have—I talk with my hands. They’re almost always moving, especially when I’m passionate about something. I sometimes talk fast, as if there are so many words and ideas rolling around in my head that I almost can’t get them out fast enough. I laugh loudly. I use hyperbole liberally, noting that far too many things are “the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”

And maybe all of this is why I love the first story we heard this morning so much. Acts of the Apostles is full of stories about conversion and baptism, but this one I think is my favorite. This story about the Ethiopian eunuch stands out amidst the sermons, miracles and confrontations with authorities. If nothing else, this Ethiopian eunuch is enthusiastic—especially about his faith.

This man has a high power position with the Ethiopian royal court, even if his social status is still rather low. He is in charge of the entire treasury for the queen. He is trusted and is likely well compensated for his loyalty. And yet even with his lofty role, he takes the very long journey to Jerusalem. He goes to worship at the temple, even though, being a eunuch, he wouldn’t be considered a whole man and wouldn’t be able to fully participate in temple worship.

He reads the prophet Isaiah to himself, even though he struggles to understand it. He invites Phillip, a stranger on the road, up into his chariot to teach him. He sees a small bit of water and immediately wants to be baptized. He goes on his way rejoicing and proclaiming the good news of Jesus.

This Ethiopian’s enthusiasm can be best highlighted in the question he asks Phillip: “What is to prevent me from being baptized?”

What would our faith look like if we lived with such enthusiasm? What would it mean to operate out of a place of possibility and hope instead of doubt and pessimism. What might be the questions we would ask?

What is to prevent us from providing food for the hungry and shelter for the homeless?

What is to prevent us from offering equal opportunities to everyone, regardless of race, gender, creed, or any of the other labels we love to put on other human beings?

What is to prevent us from boldly proclaiming the freedom and abundant life we have in Jesus Christ?

These questions, and more questions. What is to prevent us from living our faith and not just talking about it on Sunday mornings?

What is to prevent us from being God’s presence in the world? What is to prevent us from being God’s hands?

I have a classmate from high school. His name is Dwight. We haven’t kept in touch much, but Facebook makes the world small. Nine years ago, he had been attempting to climb Mt. Everest. Let me remind you that nine years ago, in April of 2015, an earthquake hit Nepal…and it hit while he was on Mt. Everest. His expedition was safe, though an avalanche near them took out most of their base camp and ended eighteen lives. Instead of trying to get out of the country as quickly as possible, Dwight and some of his fellow climbers leapt into the rescue effort, helping as much as they could.

Dwight had the Silicon Valley money to afford a helicopter evacuation. He could buy his way onto a flight home. Instead, he asked himself, “What is to prevent me from doing what I can here?” Instead of taking that flight, he donated what it would have cost to the villages he could get to, started up a fundraising site for those same villages and stuck around for at least a month to lend his hands, feet, body and soul to the place he found himself in.

We might not have the financial resources that could allow us to do what Dwight did, but what is to prevent us from doing something when faced with a community in need? What is to prevent us from stepping up like the people we see or read about who accomplish remarkable things? What is to prevent us? Nothing. Nothing, because of what Jesus tells us in verses from the Gospel of John we heard this morning.

Jesus tells us, “I am the true vine.” Jesus is the vine, we are the branches. “…the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine.” We cannot bear fruit unless we abide in Christ—and when we abide in Christ, that is when some truly amazing things are done.

When we abide in God, we have the resources and sustenance to do the will of God. When we abide in God, we are grounded in prayer and discernment, and find ourselves asking what God wants of us, rather than what we want for ourselves.

The branches do nothing apart from God: they die, their ideas die, the momentum and enthusiasm dies the more it moves away from God and instead focuses on us. This is the reality of everything we do as church. When we focus on things that aren’t God, it just doesn’t work.

If our main goal and focus is to increase membership, or giving, or pay off our mortgage faster, or renovate a space, we will never succeed. Those goals are not us abiding in the vine. We will not have the patience, endurance, or energy to see them through.

But if our goal is to spread the Gospel of Christ, or to show God’s abundance love through word and deed, or to truly welcome the stranger (instead of seeing them as another warm body)—then we are abiding in the true vine. Then we can have true, lasting, renewal. Focusing on God’s mission may very well result in more people or more money, but it’s not the goal. Our eyes are on God—our lives are abiding in God and God has promised to abide in us.

When we remember our roots and ask what God is calling us to do instead of letting fear take over, real change and life and growth happens. Let’s ask the questions of hope instead of the questions of fear.

Instead of: How can we get more members?” Or “How can we be sure we do things the way they’ve always been done?” Or “How can we get more money?”

Let’s flip the script like the Ethiopian Eunuch and look for the new places God is taking us.

Let’s ask:

“What is to prevent us from abiding in God?” “What is to prevent us from discerning God’s will for this place and this people?” “What is to prevent us from doing something remarkable for the sake of the Gospel?”

What is to prevent us?

Nothing.

And Christ, the True Vine, will give us the life to do it.

Amen.

The Marks We Bear

Sermon preached Sunday, April 14, 2024, the Third Sunday of Easter, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA. 

What marks do you bear?

What physical marks are spread across your skin? Do you have a scar from falling off your bike when you were a kid? A finger that bends a little funny from when you broke it? Are your limbs marked with arthritis? Your lungs marked with respiratory illness? Your eyes marked with cataracts or slowly building blindness?

Maybe your marks are more mental or psychological. The education you received, either long ago or continuous, every day as you work or live, marks your mind. Maybe you are also marked by something more diagnosable. Maybe you are marked by clinical depression, or obsessive-compulsive disorder, or something else that requires regular therapy or medication.

And then there are the ones that are harder to pin down—the spiritual and emotional marks. The marks that can help us grow and be better people: the marks we receive from being loved and cared for and being told we are children of God. The marks that are always just a little tender or downright raw from times we may have been mistreated or abused, or when God’s words of hope were twisted into words of condemnation.

We carry these marks, all of them, throughout our lives. Some are visible, like a scar from a skinned knee, and some are not, like the hurts we carry deep in our hearts. Some go away with time, or at least fade, like a bad breakup; others won’t, like when our body slowly loses one physical function after another. And some of these marks are helpful: they can help us learn and grow and move forward. But some of these marks do nothing but destroy, if they are given free rein in us.

Today’s Gospel is about the marks that Jesus still bears. And that “still” is important. After the resurrection, Jesus Christ is not a spirit. Jesus eats: he asks for something to eat and takes the broiled fish the disciples offer. Jesus has fellowship: he sits with his disciples, teaches them, talks with them. And Jesus still bears the marks of the crucifixion: the holes in his hands and feet. This is no ghost: this is Jesus Christ, in the flesh, among them.

There is a lot of debate about what happens with our bodies when we die and what our bodies will be like when we are resurrected. We say in the Apostle’s Creed that we believe in the resurrection of the body. But whose body? Christ’s body? Our bodies? Christ’s body and our bodies?

In essence, this question is: Will we still bear the marks of our lives when we are raised to new life with Christ? And the truth of the matter is, we don’t know, at least not for sure, and we won’t until Christ comes again. I have my convictions and others have theirs.

When I was living in Chicago and going to seminary, I worked as a nanny for my cousin. He and his wife lived out in the suburbs and twice a week I drove out to watch their daughter Grace and, eventually, their son Cooper when he was born the Spring before my last year. I started watching Grace when she was only about fifteen months old and loved getting to see her grow up and explore the world with the kind of curiosity it seems is reserved for those who have not yet learned all the reasons they should doubt themselves.

We talked about lots of hypothetical questions: whether dolphins went to school and who Grace would hang out with on Sesame Street. Some of Grace’s questions were pretty advanced and she stumped me, like when she wanted to know how my phone could send messages to another phone so quickly! And some questions were a mix of both: hypothetical questions that I had no hope of knowing the answer to.

Grace’s grandpa had a dog who was blind. Grace loves all animals and is always concerned about their wellbeing. So, she looked at me one day and out of the blue asked, “Do you think Ralph (the dog) will be blind in heaven? Or do you think God will make him see again?” Deep theological questions sometimes come from the most unlikely places. I didn’t—couldn’t—give her a precise answer, so I asked her what she thought and we wondered together.

The truth is, it’s not about what marks we have now or what marks we may gain in the future because God has those same marks—and not all of those marks are bad. This is a distinction we need to make. Many people who are blind do not want to be told that their vision will be restored in heaven and that they will receive a new, better body because that means that they are less-than now. The same can be said for the Deaf community who tend to see their inability to hear as a difference but certainly not something to be pitied. The same can be said for someone who is born with Down Syndrome or any other condition on a long list of things that the “normal” community sees as needed to be remedied. Certainly, these marks require different ways of interacting and accommodations, but if we believe that God bears all of our marks, then God bears these marks, too.

Disability theologians are quick to point this out. God, in taking on our flesh, takes on every aspect. God bears the same marks we do.

And the holes in the hands and feet of Jesus are physical marks that symbolize so much more that what our bodies tangibly hold. Those holes are stand-ins for the marks Jesus has taken on for our sake: the marks we carry that would separate us from God. In each of those holes, Jesus carries our inability to forgive, our greed, our lack of caring for our neighbor, the sin we live with every day.

The disciples and companions of Jesus were the first witnesses. Jesus appeared to them and offered them peace. He showed them his wounds. He ate with them. He taught them. And then they shared the Good news.

These were the first witnesses, and now it’s our turn. We are the witnesses to a savior who has taken on our marks of sin and shame and guilt. We are the witnesses to a God who has the same marks we do of blindness, Deafness, physical and emotional frailty, depression, and so much more. Whatever we bear, God bears with us. And whatever we might bear that separates us from God, God bears for us, so that we may be reconciled.

This is not a ghost; this is not a God of spirit, but of real, true, bodily flesh. In a couple of minutes you will be invited up to the table. I will take a piece of bread and offer it to you.

Take it. Eat it. It is the body of Christ, which bears all the good and bad marks of humanity, broken and given for you.

Amen.

Peace over Fear

Sermon preached Sunday, April 7, 2024, the Second Sunday of Easter, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA. 

What does the word “peace” mean for you?

There are lots of ways it can be used, right? I use it to sign off on emails, or use as a verb, saying I “peaced out” of somewhere. It can be something internal, a quietness felt inside. It can be a lack of external strife. It can be a legal, political thing, or an adjustive to describe a sleeping baby.

This complexity is nothing new. Even in Jesus’ time, the word we translate as “peace” meant different things to different people. To the Romans, it meant a pause in the violence they used to maintain control, it meant that the people were being appropriately docile and there were no active rebellions to put down. Even more philosophically, to both Romans and Greeks, it had connotations of being at peace within one’s self, the absence of conflict.[i]

…but to Jesus, to the disciples, to those who held the Hebrew notion of shalom, peace was used in a much more interpersonal context and, in the Gospel of John, it is used sparingly, on just three occasions, and always from the mouth of Jesus.

In Chapter 14: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.” (John 14:27)

In Chapter 16: “I have said this to you, so that in me you may have peace.” (16:33a)

And, finally, we have our reading today. Jesus greets his disciples with peace as they are huddled away from the world.

Let’s remember what’s happening here. The scene opens later on the day of resurrection. Mary Magdalene has presumably already come to tell the disciples that she saw the resurrected Christ. So are they out sharing the news? Nope, they’re locked in the house because of the disciples’ fear. We don’t know if they believed Mary or not, but even if they did, it wasn’t enough to get them back out into the world. Their fear has taken over.

Jesus arrives and offers them his presence and his peace.

Then we learn of Thomas. He wasn’t there when Jesus originally showed up. He, unlike the others, had left the room. But fear still has some hold on him, because he is unable or unwilling to believe what the disciples and Mary Magdalene have reported: that Jesus has, in fact, risen from the dead.
It takes Jesus’ presence and Jesus’ peace, once again, to lead Thomas into a new place, into a place of trust and faith.

Fear is such a powerful force. It manifests in so many ways. Fear can make us selfish. Fear can make us silent. Fear can make us still, paralyzed from taking action.

We’re too afraid of being taken advantage of, so we refuse to make ourselves too vulnerable. We don’t give our money or resources away because of the tiniest of chances that they could be used in a way that we don’t approve of, or that could come back to hurt us, or leave us without enough to get by. How many times do we see someone hungry or asking for help and our first reaction is to wonder if they really need that money or if they really have kids at home?

We’re too afraid too afraid of what others might say about us, so we refuse to make a speak out against unjust systems or oppression. A theologian of the cross calls a thing what it is, but we all too often prevaricate or allow for “both sides” to have equal footing even in settings where there are really not two equivalent sides to a debate. How many times do we hedge around saying that a statement was racist, a policy is discriminatory, an airstrike unjust?

We’re too afraid of the scale at which the world hurts, so we refuse to move on anything. People are hungry. People need shelter. People are being killed. The earth is crying out. Waters are tainted. Diseases spread. Cancer develops. There is so much to do. How many times do we tell ourselves that our efforts are worth it because they won’t make any kind of difference?

This is what fear does. Fear exposes us to everything that has gone wrong and everything that could possibly go wrong and it convinces us that the best option we have is to lock ourselves away in a room. The best option we have is stay selfish and silent and still.

But God doesn’t let that be the end of the story. God, who is no stranger to fear, took on a symbol of horror in the cross and doesn’t let us be trapped and paralyzed by the fears of this world.

In the times we are most afraid, Jesus comes and meets us. In the places we lock ourselves away, Jesus enters in and greets us.

“Peace be with you.”

Jesus gives us peace.

Not just the absence of violence. Not just the quieting of inner turmoil. And not really the docile quiet imposed by a domineering oppressor.

This peace is shalom.

Biblical scholar Michael Joseph Brown explains it this way: He writes that the Jewish people “tended to use the term primarily for interpersonal or social relations, where it comes very close to meaning justice. When justice is done, it is seen as God’s gift to the people, and prosperity comes to the people when they live faithfully under the divine covenant.”[ii]

And so we understand that the peace Jesus gives alleviates and mitigates fear not by instantaneous magic, but by investing in community and by enabling others to invest in each other.

The disciples, after Jesus appears that first time in the house, they rejoice and share the news with Thomas when he arrives. We presume, from this point, that they are now engaged in the work of evangelism and discipleship, reengaging the community of Jesus believers that has been a bit scattered since the crucifixion.

Thomas holds himself somewhat apart. His fear did not keep him in the house, but it did keep him from believing what his friends had so excitedly reported to him. And so, when Jesus appears and gives him his peace, he is restored back in community with the other disciples and they can move forward.

Some of you know this, but for those of you who don’t, during the Easter Season, our first reading comes from the Book of Acts, instead of an Old Testament reading. It is a small sampling of scenes from the early church as it developed post-resurrection.

And it developed out of this peace that Jesus gives.

Going back to Dr. Browns explanation of peace, we see the fruit of this peace is justice and prosperity as they live in community with one another. Does that sound like anything you’ve heard recently?

“Now the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one claimed private ownership of any possessions, but everything they owned was held in common. With great power the apostles gave their testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and great grace was upon them all. There was not a needy person among them, for as many as owned lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold. They laid it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to each as any had need.” (Acts 4:32-35)

After his resurrection, Jesus brought this deep and abiding peace to his friends and disciples and some really incredible things happened. They supported one another, cared for one another, and managed, for a time at least, to not let their fear get in the way.

Eventually, it happened. Fear got the better of the Church. Fear still gets the better of the Church far more often than we’d like to admit, highlighting our foibles instead of our strengths.

But Jesus still meets us, greets us, offers us peace, embodied in one another, that can quiet that fear, sometimes for a brief moment, sometimes for long stretches. Peace that can embolden us to share when we want to be selfish, to speak up when it feels safer to be silent, and to step out in faith when it is easier to stand still.

Amen.

[i] https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/second-sunday-of-easter-2/commentary-on-john-2019-31-20

[ii] Ibid.

What are You Going to Do?

Sermon preached Sunday, March 31, 2024, Resurrection of Our Lord, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA. 

Did you notice anything strange about the end of our Gospel reading? Anything strike you as odd in Mark’s account of the resurrection? I’ll help you out: Mary Magdalene, another Mary, and a woman named Salome go to the tomb to anoint Jesus’ body. Not only is the stone rolled away and the body gone, but an angel is there who tells them that Jesus has risen from the dead and that they need to go and tell the other disciples.

What do they do? Nothing! Hear it again: “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 16:8) They do nothing! They don’t follow the angel’s instructions, they don’t tell the disciples, they don’t tell anyone!

This is where the Gospel of Mark originally ended. You’ll notice if you look in most Bibles that the eleven verses that follow are usually bracketed off and set apart—they aren’t found in our earliest manuscripts. Most scholars agree that this book of the Bible originally ended right there, with the women not telling anyone anything because they were afraid.

It’s easy to understand why people would want to add more onto it. Fear and silence doesn’t make for a great ending. I mean, where does the story even go from there? People tried to explain it away and tried to fix the problem. But what does it mean that this is the end? What does it say to you? What does it say to us?

Imagine that you are a Jesus believer in those early days, early years, hearing this story. You’re sitting in someone’s house, gathered with other early believers being told and retold these accounts of Jesus’ life: his miracles, his teachings, his actions, and, of course, his death. You are invested and passionate and finally the story teller comes to the end and says, “…and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”

Silence.

All of a sudden, there’s an unspoken challenge: they said nothing. They said nothing—what are you going to do? Are you going to tell the story? Are you going to proclaim that Christ has risen? Are you going to be brave and bold in your faith?

It’s a challenge for us, too.  What will we do with the news of the resurrection? Will we tell it to anyone who will listen? Or will we remain quiet?

There is, of course, a difference between the church almost two thousand years ago and the church today. Whereas they were persecuted and under threat and had the uphill battle of telling an incredible, mystifying, miraculous story to people and trying to get them to believe it, Christians today, at least in our current society, don’t have those same challenges.

If someone sees a cross somewhere, they probably know what it refers to. If someone says the name “Jesus of Nazareth,” people usually know the basic biography: born in a manger, died on a cross, rose from the dead. The story of Christianity, the story of Jesus is almost ubiquitous in our culture, even for people who have never stepped foot in a church.

The challenge Mark’s Gospel gives us, then, is a little different. Instead of simply telling the story to as many people as we can, we are called and compelled to proclaim why the story matters. Why it matters for us as individuals and for us collectively and for the world. It’s not enough to shout “He is risen!” We’re called to name how Christ’s resurrection affects and influences our lives and our world.

All of you are here this morning for a reason. Only you know what that reason is. For many of you, it’s simply because you are an active part of this congregation and worship is an integral part of congregational life. Some of you are here because you always go to church on Easter, even if you don’t come very often throughout the rest of the year. Some of you might be here because you just felt a pull, a tug, a calling that maybe you should give this church—or any church—a try, and this seemed like a good week for it. Or maybe you’re here for another reason all together. Nonetheless, you’re here.

And since you’re here, let me remind you that God has done, is doing, and will continue to do incredible things in your life. These acts are not always easy to spot. Oftentimes they are camouflaged through our friends or in tiny miracles of nature or in things we write off to dumb luck or cheerful happenstance…but if we look for it, we can see how God moves in and through our lives bringing hope and life and peace when we need it the most.

When you hear this challenge from Mark to share with the world the story of the Risen Christ and, in particular, the challenge to share why this story matters, think about those moments. Think about the times hope shone in the bleakest setting. Think about when a community came together to care for one another or to work against injustice. Think about the places where hungry people are fed and the oppressed are met with freedom. Think about when illnesses in bodies and minds and spirits are met with holistic healing.

Think about everything God has done and be brave. Be bold. Proclaim God’s saving action with everything you have.

It won’t always be easy. Sharing our faith can be quite scary at times.

We will face people who are incredulous. Those who can’t imagine believing in any God at all and find our faith misguided at best and dangerous at worst.

We will encounter other Christians who believe our faith is not genuine if we do not agree one hundred percent on every finer point of theology.

We will encounter people who have been hurt by the church and are wary of how we might hurt them as well.

These are all scary scenarios, and they’re not the only ones we might face! But the Gospel is bigger than that. The good news of the resurrection is bigger than that. We might be afraid because of the response we might receive from the world…but Easter is here and there’s not much we can do about it.

God has risen from the dead. The world is a different place. The kingdom of God is here and now. And it matters. It has an impact.

This is our story. It’s our calling to share it.

Alleluia! Christ is Risen!

Christ is Risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

“Then ‘Crucify!’ is All Our Breath”

Sermon preached Sunday, March 24, 2024, Palm and Passion Sunday, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA.

Today we enter into Holy Week. We accompany Jesus as he enters Jerusalem and will continue to accompany him throughout the entirety of his passion. This week, these days, are ones that Christians have remembered over and over and over again, knowing that we are being led once again to the cross.

But we are not merely spectators: we are participants in the story as members of the human family. We remember an historical event and we embrace the evidence that we are still so in need of God’s salvific work. We may not have been alive two thousand years ago, but it is our collective human sinfulness that called for Jesus’ death. It is our collective human sinfulness that couldn’t handle a God whose reign is characterized by compassion and mercy instead of asserting power and dominance.

On Palm Sunday, we highlight the sharp turn we are able to make from shouting “Hosanna!” in the streets to shouting “Crucify him!” outside of Pilate’s residence. We recognize that worshiping a God of love is easy when things are going well; it’s easy when we think we’re getting what we want. But when Jesus refuses to meet violence with violence, when, on the other hand, Jesus refuses to back down and play along to maintain a phony sense of peace…that’s when we rebel. We think we know what Jesus should be doing better than God does and we can’t have Jesus messing that up for us.

In just a moment, we’re going to sing a hymn together, a hymn whose text is one of the most beautiful way of understanding this dynamic. We’re going to sing it, but before we do, I want to read you the text, so you can hear it once now, and maybe enter into deeper meditation on it when we add music.

My Song Is Love Unknown

1      My song is love unknown,

my Savior’s love to me,

love to the loveless shown

that they might lovely be.

Oh, who am I that for my sake

my Lord should take frail flesh and die?

2      He came from his blest throne

salvation to bestow;

the world that was his own

would not its Savior know.

But, oh, my friend, my friend indeed,

who at my need his life did spend!

3      Sometimes we strew his way

and his sweet praises sing;

resounding all the day

hosannas to our king.

Then “Crucify!” is all our breath,

and for his death we thirst and cry.

 

4      We cry out; we will have

our dear Lord made away,

a murderer to save,

the prince of life to slay.

Yet cheerful he to suff’ring goes

that he his foes from thence might free.

5      In life no house, no home

my Lord on earth might have;

in death no friendly tomb

but what a stranger gave.

What may I say? Heav’n was his home

but mine the tomb wherein he lay.

6      Here might I stay and sing—

no story so divine!

Never was love, dear King,

never was grief like thine.

This is my friend, in whose sweet praise

I all my days could gladly spend!

Text: Samuel Crossman, 1624-1683, alt.

Liberating Joy

Sermon preached Sunday, March 3, 2024, the Third Sunday in Lent, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA. 

Persistent Joy. That was two weeks ago.

Expectant Joy. Last Sunday.

And today? Liberating joy. How is joy part of liberation? How does God liberate us? What does it mean to be liberated?

Let’s start with the temple.

The Temple in Jerusalem was a key part of life for a first century Jew like Jesus. It’s hard for us to understand just what it represented and the incredibly important role it played.

The temple, at least the first one, was built by King Solomon, son of King David, because God required a permanent home. Since the time Moses came down the mountain with the Ten Commandments, the Israelites has carried the commandments and, in essence, the presence of God in the Ark of The Covenant—a name that might sound familiar if you’re an Indiana Jones fan.

They carried God’s dwelling place around with them, until finally God said that it was not right that he had no real place to call home. And so, Solomon built a great temple. It took lots of special offerings and years to build, but it was lauded for its beauty and design. Unfortunately, it was not to stand forever. It was destroyed by the Babylonians nearly six hundred years before Christ was born.

It was eventually rebuilt, after the Israelites returned from exile enforced by those same Babylonians. After years of having no place to properly worship God, they were able to rebuild God’s house. It was bigger now, the temple complex was spread out, containing a series of areas that eventually led to the Holy of Holies, where God’s presence was. The Court of Gentiles (or non-Jews), The Court of Women, The Court of Israel for the men, and the Court of Priests. This was the temple Jesus knew, the temple Jesus and his disciples walk into at the beginning of John’s Gospel.

Since the temple was God’s house, it is where Jews would offer sacrifices to God, or come to pray on special festival days. It wasn’t that God couldn’t be found anywhere else, but one was guaranteed to find God at the temple. Up until this point, this was the common thought: if I want to encounter God, I need to be there.

But, as usual, Jesus has more to say. When we hear this story about the money changers and the merchants selling animals, we picture all of this happening in the heart of the temple. We might imagine animals being placed upon the altar, or the sounds of coins clinking overshadowing the practice of worship. But these things would have been happening in the court of the Gentiles, in the outermost part of the temple complex.

If we were to compare this story to our own churches, this is not Jesus acting in the Sanctuary, or even in the Admin or Education wings. This would be Jesus our in the parking lot, maybe even standing out by the entrance sign. Jesus has left the building.

And that’s the point. Jesus speaks on this day about how the temple will be destroyed and raised up again in three days. He is obliquely referring to himself, but no one else understands that—no one else understands that he is now the temple. He is now where God is present, where people can be sure to encounter God.

This was scary sounding to his disciples and to everyone else who was listening. All of a sudden, the world has been busted open and the rules don’t seem to apply the way they did before. That is a scary proposition! God gave the Israelites the law as a gift, as a sign of love…does the law even matter anymore?

When our way of understanding the world is upended, we can fall back into rigidity and legalism…or we can lean in and embrace a newly discovered sense of freedom and liberty. While being held in a loving relationship with God, there is openness and joy in what new things we might soon encounter.

God dwells wherever Jesus dwells. God goes wherever Jesus goes.

We might call a church a “House of God,” but God is not exclusively located there. Jesus spent time in local synagogues, interacting with the local people of the established religion. He didn’t ignore them; he spent time with people like Nicodemus, a Pharisee who came to Jesus in the middle of the night to learn.

But because of Jesus’ actions, God can be found in so many other places.

Jesus often went to the edges, to the borders and crossed them. He engaged in a conversation with a Samaritan woman at a well. If you remember anything about the relationship between Jews and Samaritans, you know it wasn’t good. Each group believed the other to be worshipping God at the wrong place, to be unclean, to be, at their core, bad people where were to be avoided at all costs. And here Jesus is, inviting a Samaritan into dialogue and bringing her and her entire village to faith.

Jesus heals a blind man, who many believed was blind because he or his parents had committed some unpardonable sin. Jesus restores his sight, even though it is the Sabbath and some might think he is “doing work on the Lord’s day.”  He does not let human rules get in the way of God’s grace. Time and time again, Jesus can be found with those whom society often overlooks. The poor, the hungry, the outcast, the ones who live on the fringes.

God is not kept in a box, God has been taken free-range of our world and we get to join in! We get to encounter God in the world and let the joy of that encounter break us open in ways we can’t imagine, let the joy of that encounter fill us with new passion for the gospel and enthusiasm for God’s mission and work.

Maybe that’s something to think about this week. Maybe we can keep our eyes peeled for where God might show up. And maybe we can use that to discover where we might be most called to do the work of God.

If we spot God in the midst of an interaction with someone living on the street, what can we do to join God there? If God is advocating for justice and peace in a public forum, can we add in our own voice? If God is offering care to the sick, can our hands help? If God is comforting the grieving or consoling the bereft can we provide our own shoulders to lean on as well?

It’s a deceptively simple formula: find where God has already decided to dwell and foster joy, and take up residency there ourselves. But it takes courage on our part, and creativity. We cannot limit ourselves to what we have always done or where we have always gone. It means expanding our ideas of where we can encounter God. It is taking the joy God has given us and allowing it to liberate us.

God has left the building, abounding in steadfast joy and love. Let’s go find out where God’s gone!

Amen.

Vocational Joy

Sermon preached Sunday, March 17, 2024, the Fifth Sunday in Lent, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA. 

We’ve come to the Fifth Sunday in Lent and the last of the Sundays we’re focusing on a particular kind of joy. Today, it is vocational joy.

The word vocation can be a tricky one. Oftentimes, it is used as a substitute for “occupation.” Certainly, sometimes our vocation plays out through our occupation, but that is certainly not a requirement. Sure, we may be a teacher and our vocation is to share knowledge and to help people grow. Or we may be a healthcare worker and our vocation is to help people heal or feel their best physically. They don’t have to be connected, by they also don’t have to inhabit completely different silos in our lives.

My favorite understanding of vocation comes from Frederik Buechner—maybe you’ve heard it before: “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”[i] If that is our framework, then our vocation is so much more than what we do to earn a living or support ourselves or our family.

Our vocation is a calling from God that leads us deeper into discipleship while, at the same time, blesses us with a sense of purpose and joy. Sometimes our vocations seem to appear easily in front of us, ready for us to take them on. Other times, they may require some searching, both within ourselves and in the world around us. In any case, our life can present us with a string of consecutive vocations, or more than one vocation at a time that we need to balance.

It is tempting to hear Buechner’s words (“…where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”) and believe that this is an easy thing or believe that once you have discerned your vocation everything you do in service to it will be smooth sailing. And not only will it be easy, but because it is where our deep gladness leads us, it must always be a place of unbridled happiness.

This just simply isn’t the case. The deep hunger of the world is a yawning chasm of pain and suffering and, frequently, literal hunger. It is where people are vulnerable and tired and rarely the best versions of themselves, displaying anger, selfishness, and distain. Our gladness certainly helps encourage and energize our work, but it doesn’t make everything simple and cheerful. Meeting the world’s needs in this way requires bravery and tenacity, not to mention abundant compassion energy. It requires faith and trust that God will not call us to a place where God will not accompany us.

…and God has already gone anywhere we might go.

This morning’s Gospel reading takes place after Jesus has triumphantly entered Jerusalem. I love the way a colleague sets the scene:

“The whole city is talking about Jesus. Just before this Sunday’s verses begin, the crowd that witnessed Lazarus’ raising was testifying, and their story was compelling. Now, these Greeks want to see Jesus! Everyone wants to see Jesus! It’s all very glorious and shiny. But Jesus can perceive the cross in the near distance. He recognizes that he has arrived precisely where God has called him to be. Here, he will be led into pain, suffering, and even death. The world’s deep hunger is about to gulp him down.”[ii]

Jesus and his disciples are approached by a group of Greeks. “Sir, we wish to see Jesus,” they say to Philip. And what is Jesus’ answer? He tells them how they will see Jesus: “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life.”[iii]

Jesus goes on to say that his heart is troubled but that he cannot turn away from the path laid out before him, the path that will lead, inevitably, to the cross. “…it is for this reason that I have come to this hour,” he declares.[iv]

Could this be Jesus’ declaration of vocation? Could this be an asserting of God’s vocation?

Where deep gladness and deep hunger meet…
God’s greatest desire throughout scripture is reconciliation with creation. To have renewed relationships, to have lasting covenants, to love humanity as deeply as love can go. Is it too much of a stretch to say that God’s deep gladness is found by being in relationship with the world God created?

…and the deep hunger of our world is a resounding echo of that desire, or maybe its mirror image, only separated by a chasm of sin, of stubbornness and pride and an inability to not make idols out of wealth and power. The world has a deep hunger and deep need for God’s grace and salvation, but we just keep pushing it away, favoring instead all the ways that provide instant gratification or individual comfort at the expense our neighbors.

And so, for God, where else could this lead but the cross? Where else could this all lead but a symbol of humanities depravity, of the ugliness we inflict on ourselves, on each other, and, now, on God? This instrument of execution used by the Romans stands in for every way in which humanity rebels against God…and by meeting humanity’s hunger for love and grace and salvation there, God turns it on its head.

In Christ’s passion, we see highlighted the just some of the foibles and deep sin that God came to overcome:

• Judas and other Zealots unable to see a God who doesn’t not rule by force.
• The religious leaders unwilling to cede their self-important power.
• The Roman authorities subjugating through violence any threat to their farce of peace.
• Masses of humanity that shout “Hosanna!” one day and “Crucify him!” another when things get hard or didn’t happen the way they expected.
• Disciples who are quick to doubt and forget what they’d learned and experienced while they were with Jesus.

And so, God goes to the cross because it is through the cross, through confronting death and rising to new life, that God responds to the deep hunger of our sin, and responds, finally, with the deep gladness and joy of the resurrection. It is not easy, but it is who God is, who God is for us. Where we might say God finds vocational joy.

Not simple. Not easy. Not always cheerful and happy…but needed. And real. And for our sake.

Amen.

[i] Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking: A Theological ABC (New York: Harper and Row, 1973), 95.

[ii] Barn Geese Worship Sermon Notes.

[iii] John 12:23-25. NRSV.

[iv] John 12:27b. NRSV.

Transformative Joy

Sermon preached Sunday, March 10, 2024, the Fourth Sunday in Lent, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA.  

Let’s talk about Transformative Joy. This morning’s readings are such great examples of the ways God can take something and turn it on its head, transform it into something else completely. In the story from Numbers and in the Gospel reading, we see death transformed into life.

The stories about the Israelites wandering in the desert for forty years are relatively well known to many of us. You may remember the story of God providing manna for the people to eat when they didn’t have food, or God providing water from a rock when they didn’t have anything to drink. The ten commandments? That happened during this time. The worship of a golden calf? That happened here, too!

Chances are, though, if you start naming stories about what happened, today’s reading from Numbers isn’t in the top five. Despite the fact that this story is always the first reading on the Fourth Sunday of Lent during year two of our three year reading cycle, it’s one that we’re prone to forget about.

I think part of the reason for this is that it comes across as supernatural in a superstitious and almost magical way. The serpent on the staff becomes a totem, something that will provide a cure for the poisonous snakes just by looking at it. What we forget, though, is that the healing does not come through the action of gazing on the snake itself. Looking is the act of repentance—healing only comes through God.

The Gospel reading refers directly to this Old Testament narrative and Jesus compares himself to this serpent…but there’s a difference. Whereas the snake is the object of fear and danger, Jesus is the representation of salvation and healing. Instead, the cross itself is the thing we wish to be saved from.

In both cases, we are asked to look at things that are killing us: the poisonous snake and the cross, which represents all of the ways we harm one another and seek to destroy the things we don’t understand, namely a God who defies our expectations. The cross embodies our unwillingness to accept and embrace justice and love over power and violence. It contains all the ways in which we refuse to listen to God’s Word, all the ways we actively work against it.

Why is this the case? Why are we called to look here? Why were the Israelites asked to look at the snake? Why do we make the cross the focal point in our worship space? It’s not magic. It’s not superstition. It is a recognition that only by identifying the things that hurt us, the things that are slowly killing us, can we move forward. The Israelites faced the source of their death and God healed them. We face the cross, the symbol of our own death, the symbol of our sin, of all the things that keep us from new and abundant life with God, and God reminds us that even this horrific tool of death can play a role in our salvation.

It’s like going to the doctor. You can go and have blood drawn and your heart and lungs listened to, and tests taken, but what would happen if you just left? What would happen if you never got the results back? What would happen if you never faced that you had high blood pressure, or diabetes, or cancer? Would refusing to look at your illness make it go away? Of course not. We have to face the diagnosis in order to know how to address it.

It’s like having a conflict with a spouse or a friend or a coworker. You can pretend like it never happened, paste a pleasant, if fake, smile on your face every time you see them. But what would happen? Would things actually get better? Or would resentment seethe underneath the surface until it came out sidewise and your relationship was ruined beyond repair? It takes courage to confront conflict, to decide to work through it and address it—we have to face it in order to transform it into something else entirely.

It’s like thinking that, as a society, problems like racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, economic disparity, and education gaps will all sort themselves out if we’d just stop talking about them, as if the only reason these things happen is because we keep bringing them up.

But think about that for a minute. Would slavery ever have ended in this country if abolitionists just decided to stop talking about it and waited patiently until slave holders came around to their way of thinking? It never would have happened. Would women have been given the vote if they never marched and demanded that their voice be heard? Would we have weekends, safer working conditions, and a minimum wage if workers assumed that their employers would choose fairness and employee welfare over profit?

We don’t like to have the boat rocked. We like the status quo because we know what to expect. We are tempted to keep things the way things are if “the way things are” is working for us.

We know from history that talking about our societal and systemic problems don’t actually make them worse, rather they highlight and bring into the open all the things that live in the shadows. We have to face the ways in which sin manifests itself if we want to participate in dismantling it. We have to face the ugliness of ourselves and our capacity for destruction to be transformed into participants of God’s new creation.

This work is hard. This work is sometimes painful. This work can also be incredibly rewarding. And this is work we do not undertake alone. We face the things that hurt us—hurt our bodies, hurt our spirits, hurt our society, hurt our world—always with God by our side, and only through God’s grace and strength.

The central verse in the Gospel reading today is perhaps the most well-known and well-loved verses in the Bible: John 3:16. “⁶For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” It’s a verse you’ve likely heard a lot. Maybe you have it memorized. But when you really think about it, what does it mean for you? How does it influence your life? Does it provide comfort? Or hope? Or inspiration? Or courage?

For me, when I hear these words or read them, I am reminded that God’s love is ever-expanding and abundant. It sticks with me. It will never leave me. This love is so incredible that God chose to inhabit our world, inhabit our bodies, and endure the shame and pain of the cross. Through this incredible act of irrevocable love, we are given healing, wholeness, salvation…and freedom. Freedom from everything that hurts us, everything that kills us slowly from within and without, everything represented by that instrument of torture, the cross. We face the cross, we look to the cross, and we are transformed, because we know that Christ has triumphed over it and, through Christ, so have we.

This is God’s doing, not ours. It is God’s power, not ours.

God tells Moses to put a bronze serpent on a pole to be lifted up, so that everyone who looks on it may life. Jesus tells all who will listen that he will be lifted up, so that everyone who believes will have eternal life. Elsewhere in the Gospel of John, Jesus goes further and says that when he is lifted up, he will draw all peoples to himself. This is God’s act of reconciliation and new life and transformation.

We know that God’s transformative joy finds us every time we courageously face those things that threaten us, both from within and without, and embraces us with love.

Amen.

Expectant Joy

Sermon Preached Sunday, February 25, 2024, the Second Sunday in Lent, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA. 

Our Lutheran Tradition likes to hold things in tension.

Saint and sinner.

Law and Gospel.

Already and not yet.

It’s that last one that we’re drawn to today. On this second Sunday in our Seed of Joy series, we’re exploring the notion of Expectant Joy, joy that perhaps has not yet arrived in full, but is waiting just beyond in the wings.

I imagine you’ve experienced this kind of joy.

As a child, it’s that feeling when you go to bed on Christmas Eve or the night before your birthday, giddy with excitement and happiness because you know the next day has wonders awaiting you.

As we grow, maybe we’ve felt that joy before a graduation, or before moving into a new place you’ve been looking forward to living in. If you’ve gotten married, it’s likely you’ve felt this in the time between your engagement and the wedding day itself, the planning and preparation tinged with joy because you knew that special day was coming.

There is expectant joy when ourselves or a loved one is planning to add to their family, whether by pregnancy or adoption. Expectant joy, though tempered by worry, when a promising treatment is undergone for a scary diagnosis. Expectant joy when we make plans to see friends or family or just a trip to relax.

It’s something that I think is pretty well baked into our lives, this notion that we can feel these early precursors of joy even if the joyful event or moment or experience is still far off.

A friend of mine put it this way: “…This is joy that we know is coming, but it is not here yet in its fullness. Expectant joy trembles with shimmering possibility that has not yet come into being but will, and that sheer potential is enough to lighten loads, strengthen hearts, unbind minds, and stir hopes. Practicing expectant joy might look absurd: it’s an act that resists rationalization and believes six impossible things before breakfast, à la Alice in Wonderland. Expectant joy invites our faith, and on the grayest days, it demands our trust.”[i]

This joy is present throughout scripture, as God’s people wait for relationship, wait for deliverance, wait for a promised land, wait for a messiah, wait for the return of Christ. It is also especially present in the readings assigned this morning.

Abram is promised a multitude of descendants, too many to count. The joy he feels at this is immediate, in some ways, because God is enacting this covenant with him, even going so far as to adding God’s spirit to his name…but it is also expectant. Abraham will not live to see all of these descendants come to pass.

Paul echoes this, reminding the listeners in Rome that they are heirs of this covenant…and what are heirs but expectant recipients of a gift? A gift that is still not fully realized and so their joy—and ours—inhabits that in-between space of already and not yet.

The Gospel reading gets at it a little more directly. Jesus is preaching about what the disciples can expect…and it certainly doesn’t seem to joyful, does it? Suffering, rejection, death…no, these are things that anyone would want to avoid.

And Peter does. He tries to correct, to redirect Jesus, to keep him from saying these horrific things. But Jesus knows that it is only through this process, this struggle, that true and full joy can come in the moment of resurrection, in the moment of reconciliation with God. And so Jesus’ response comes quickly: he rebukes Peter, tells him to get behind him.

I have to admit, I’ve always heard this in a “get out of my way” sense. Like, “Get behind me, Peter, get out of my way, fall in line, back off.” But, this year, for whatever reason, every conversation I’ve had about this text, everything I’ve read, has made the same point that is now so obvious to me I can’t believe I ever missed it.

Jesus says, “Get behind me.” Not to leave Peter behind or to shut him out, but because it is only by getting behind Jesus that Peter can follow. He is still very much part of this community and Jesus still very much wants his presence and participation…but Peter is confronted with his own need to learn how to follow.

Isn’t it the same for us? Peter has to learn to follow Jesus because he wants, more than anything, to avoid the path of the cross, for himself, for his friends, for Jesus. Why would he ever choose that? But in following Jesus, we see that the cross is where God meets us: in suffering, in the pain and need of the world, in the place where all pretense and performance and pride is stripped away. And when we meet God there, we see the joy waiting on the other side: the resurrection, the hope of new life, the restoration of relationship and community and identity.

To borrow a little more from my friend again: “Christians live in between the right now and the not yet. The present moment is often fraught with grief: neither the world nor we ourselves are as God desires. Creation is rife with violence and division, suffering and hate, and we don’t know if we will see it change in our lifetimes. But God will fulfill all that God has promised. That joy is with us even in the midst of the not yet, and it has the power to shape our encounter with the right now. Through this complexity, God invites and equips us to cultivate expectant joy, a persistent trust in God’s future promises that empowers us to work toward God’s vision immediately.”[ii]

How do we attempt to live in that expectant joy? This is not an easy task, I know. The temptation is to put on rose-colored glasses and lean into empty optimism that simply brushes aside or seeks to minimize our hurts and pain. This is not the way.

No, instead, we are called to lean into honest trust—not because we are naïve, but because God is faithful. I turn again to my friend because she just puts it too beautifully: “In this Lenten season, we might begin by embracing joy even when there’s no good reason to feel it; by trusting God’s promise even when the world thinks it’s a foolish thing to do; by hoping against hope that everything God has offered to us is on its way, and may even be arriving now, in us, around us, and through us.”[iii]

In your moments of pain and hurt, where have you been reminded of God’s promise? What has enabled you to feel expectant joy? May we seek to be the face, the hands, the feet, the words of that promise for one another.

Amen.

[i] Victoria Larson, Barn Geese Worship, Seed of Joy, Preaching Notes.

[ii] Ibid.

[iii] Ibid.