Who Was, Who Is, Who Is to Come

Sermon preached Sunday, November 25, 2018, Reign of Christ Sunday, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA. Audio may be found here. 

Today is Christ the King Sunday, or, as some now call it, Reign of Christ Sunday. It is a relatively new liturgical holiday, instituted by Pope Pius XI in 1925. It was originally conceived as a response to rising fascist and nationalist movements in Europe. As more and more people began to identify their preferred political leader as the ultimate hero of the people, the church pushed back and proclaimed, loudly, that only Christ is king and our allegiance is appropriately given to God alone. While this feast day had particular implications in the 20s and, especially, the 30s, it still is a valuable observance today.

Today is the day that we remember that Christ is the true sovereign of our lives, not any government or political party or individual leader, regardless of how inspiring or charismatic we might find them. Instead, our king displays power and strength through sacrifice and vulnerability. Today is the day we remember the one who was, who is, and who is to come: our King.

If you remember anything about humanity’s history before Christ, you know that our history with kings is fraught with disaster. When Moses led the Israelites in the wilderness, they wondered if they would have a king. When they entered the promised land, they begged God to give them a king. The new peoples they encountered all had kings and they wanted to be like them. They wanted to be the same. God resisted, reminding them that they were not the same as all the other peoples and that God would be the only king they would ever need. They insisted, but God instead put judges in place to guide them.

The judges lasted for a while, but it wasn’t long before the cry went up again from the people for a king. God warned them that a human king would exploit them, take their property, treat them poorly, and lead to destruction. The Israelites didn’t care. Finally, like an exasperated parent tired of the questions and demands, God relented. Saul was crowned king, then David and then Solomon, and then a long line of kings, some of which were faithful to God, but many of whom lost their way and abandoned God’s word. It turned out exactly as God had warned.

The people knew their history, so it is even more curious how ready the people were to crown Jesus as their next king—a human king, that is, not understanding who Jesus really was. At the beginning of the Gospel of John, Jesus meets Nathaniel, who he will call as a disciple and Nathaniel identifies Jesus as the new king. When Jesus feeds the five thousand, the people clamor after him, hoping to make him their king. When Jesus enters Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, the crowds call out, praising him as their king. …but none of them get it. None of them understand what Jesus being our king means.

That brings us to the text for today, when Jesus is being questioned by Pilate, who has surely heard stories of Jesus’ ministry. He asks Jesus if he is a king and Jesus doesn’t answer yes or no. He is King, but not in the way anyone expects. He is the King who was, who is, who is to come.

“Who was, who is, who is to come.”

That phrase is one of the places we can get a little lost. “Who was, who is, who is to come.” It’s a bit outside of outside of time, a bit outside of space, a bit outside of our understanding. The reign of Christ has already broken into the world and we see glimpse of it…but we also understand that it has not yet reached its fulfillment.

“Who was, who is, who is to come.” This struggle to understand can lead us into despair. It’s like a recent episode of the sitcom, “The Good Place.” Has anyone watched it? It’s like a crash course in philosophy with really clever and funny writing. If you’re not familiar with the show, or aren’t caught up to this season, I promise, no spoilers. But in this particular episode, the main characters learn that time is not linear, like they believed it to be, with events happening one after the other in a nice, orderly fashion that moves distinctly from the past through the present and on to the future. Instead, they are told that time is more like “Jeremy Bearimy”—time actually looks like what the name Jeremy Bearimy looks like when written out in cursive, doubling back on itself and full of loops. (You can watch this scene here. SPOILERS!)

The responses from the characters to this new information are phrases like, “I’m sorry. My brain is melting,” and “This broke me.” It’s impossible for them to comprehend and makes them frustrated and confused and throw their hands up in frustration. That’s how it can feel when we try to really wrap our minds around what it means for us to have a God who was, who is, and who is come—for God’s reign to have been, to be, and to be coming in the future.

The other option, though, is not despair, but wonderment. When we embrace the knowledge that we can never really understand any of it, we embrace the mystery and embrace all the ways in which God works in ways beyond human imagination.

The full reign of Christ, the reign of the one who was, who is, and who is to come, is full of beautiful and incredible things we can’t explain.

God, the One who was: The one who created the universe and called forth order out of chaos. The one who led the Israelites through the Red Sea and into the promised land. The one who took on our flesh and lived among us. The one who was arrested and tortured and executed. The one who died and rose again. The one who ascended into heaven. The one who came upon the disciples at Pentecost.

The One who is: the one who encourages and continues to reform the church. The one who forgives us. The one who loves us. The one who claims us as beloved children in baptism. The one who meets us at the table and feeds us with bread and wine, body and blood. The one who gathers us into community with each other as the Body of Christ.

The One who is to come: the one who will reconcile all of creation once again. The one who will raise us to eternal life. The one who will reign into eternity.

The One who was, who is, and who is to come. Amen.

The Birth Pangs

Sermon preached Sunday, November 18, 2018, the Twenty-Sixth Sunday after Pentecost, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

I come to the pulpit today knowing that these readings will trigger us in different ways. We hear these words, these warnings, and we look at the world around us—it’s hard to feel like these words were not written precisely for this moment. Violence continues, seemingly unchecked across all borders, across all continents, across all boundaries of race or religion or nationality.

As I explored the readings for this week, I realized that the texts were, of course, chosen for a three-year cycle and that every time they reappear, they seem prescient…but still these are readings for this week, this moment in time.

The book of Daniel tells us, “There shall be a time of anguish, such as has never occurred since nations first came into existence.” (Daniel 12:1) The Psalmist writes, “Protect me, O God, for I take refuge in you.”  (Psalm 16:1) In the letter to the Hebrews, we hear, “Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who has promised is faithful. And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds…” (Hebrews 10:23-24a) Finally, in the Gospel of Mark, there is Jesus speaking to us from the last week of his life: “When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed…nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom.” (Mark 13:7-8)

I’m tired. Jesus says not to be alarmed, but alarmed isn’t the strongest thing I feel. I’m tired—exhausted, really. I’m frustrated. I’m angry. I’m heartbroken. I am mourning and grieving the fact that violence seems to find a way to penetrate the places we deem sacred. I am weary of all the times I have seen the news and have had to stop and think about what this might mean for the world, or how in the world I can preach about it in a way that speaks God’s good news.

But Jesus says, “…do not be alarmed.” Am I alarmed? It’s not the first emotion I name, that would be the tiredness, but it’s there. I am alarmed at the speed with which blame is spread to innocent people who are fleeing violence. I am alarmed at how quickly we assume we could have saved more lives or prevented any deaths if we had only done x, or y, or z. I am alarmed at how retaliation is the most common response to any slight.

My alarm is not based in fear, but rather despair I tend to feel when nothing seems to change. We use the same rhetoric, the same strategies, the same forces, the same cries of “we must be united!”…and it is hard not to assume that in a few days, or weeks, or months, or, if we’re lucky, years we will be confronted with the same or a similar tragedy.

So, what to do with the alarm and the swirl of emotions roiling around inside us? How do we take steps forward? I think, for we who are believers in a God of life and light and hope, our first step is to go back to scripture, maybe even our readings for today. These words can help us, can help us orient ourselves and God in times of unrest and the unknown…but this happens best when we understand the context and background of this kind of writing.

The second half of the book of Daniel, where our reading today comes from, is a little apocalypse. Jesus’ words to his disciples in the Gospel of Mark have an apocalyptic bent to them. You’ve heard that word before—“apocalyptic”? It’s usually used to describe some disaster movie starring Tom Cruise or to highlight how bleak a society is as it’s described as “post-apocalyptic.” We link this word to disasters and movies about the destruction of the world, but that’s a bit of a misnomer.

“Apocalypse” means “Revelation.” The book of Revelation is an apocalypse. It means that something has been revealed to someone, or to all of humanity. There usually is quite a bit of violence and destruction, but also a lot of curious imagery and symbols that make the writing sometimes hard to understand.

At the heart of apocalyptic literature, however, is hope. Typically, these texts are written when groups of believers are facing severe persecution or hardship. They have watched their friends, their families, members of their communities be tortured or killed. There is little light in the world around them, so they look forward, they look to the future when God will right every wrong and, as the book of Revelation says, a future when God will wipe every tear from their eyes. Apocalyptic literature presents a hopeful vision of a promised time for those who are in tribulation now.

Again, the book of Daniel tells us, “There shall be a time of anguish, such as has never occurred since nations first came into existence.” (Daniel 12:1a) It sounds ominous and frightening…but then it goes on: “ But at that time your people shall be delivered, everyone who is found written in the book. ²Many of those who sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake, some to everlasting life, and some to shame and everlasting contempt. ³Those who are wise shall shine like the brightness of the sky, and those who lead many to righteousness, like the stars forever and ever.” (Daniel 12:1b-3)

Again, in the Gospel of Mark, there is Jesus saying, “When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed…nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom.” (Mark 13:7-8a) I can almost picture the images of tanks, explosions, and violence flashing on my TV screen. But Jesus, like the writer of Daniel, goes on: “This is but the beginnings of the birth pangs.” (Mark 13:8b)

Birth pangs. What are we laboring over? What is the world in labor with? Could it be that all of creation is pregnant with God’s promised future of love, life, light and reconciliation? Violence is nothing new. But could it be that this tragedy is not the end? That we are not headed towards death, but actually headed toward life?

When I am weary and tired, this is what I cling to. When I am afraid and concerned, I put my trust in God’s Word. When I struggle to find the good in such a tangled mass of evil and violence, I take solace in my belief that God at work, though I cannot see it.

“Do not be alarmed,” Jesus tells me, tells us, tells the world. Do not be alarmed because this violence and strife is not the end of the story. Do not be alarmed because we can proclaim our trust in Christ in the face of those who would urge us to despair or resort to revenge. Do not be alarmed because our world is laboring—God is bringing forth a promised future for all nations, all peoples, all creation. Do not be alarmed. Amen.

God’s Call to Action

Sermon preached Sunday, November 11, 2018, the Twenty-Fifth Sunday after Pentecost, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

If you were in worship a few weeks ago and were paying attention, you might remember that we had some of these verses from the Gospel of Mark, the verses depicting the widow’s offering, during our stewardship focus. This story was used to illustrate how our giving should be proportionate to our income. That week, we started at verse 41—by doing that, you’ll notice that we left out some of the story. We left out why Jesus is watching all of this unfold at the Temple. By going back and beginning at verse 38, we get a better idea of what Jesus is actually commenting on.

Jesus says, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, ³⁹and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets! ⁴⁰They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers.” (v.38-40a)

In other words, they say the right things and perform the correct actions, but when it come to following God’s command to love their neighbor, especially the vulnerable, like widows, they take advantage, focus on their own interests and ignore others, or simply don’t seem to care. They are more interested in maintaining their power or influence and not rocking the boat or changing the status quo. As long as their own life isn’t adversely affected, they don’t see a reason to engage in caring of the most vulnerable.

It’s easy for us to read this and simply write off the scribes as hypocritical jerks. The truth is, though, we are all to frequently just like them. We engage in faith practices, we want people to think of us as good people, as good Christians, and yet we directly or indirectly contribute to houses of the vulnerable being devoured.

We try to find the cheapest price possible on our clothes or toys, which means we often participate in exploitive labor practices overseas.

We allow predatory payday loans and discriminatory housing and employment policies to remain in place and keep people in poverty.

We abdicate responsibility for the environment, not caring that it is the poorest and least educated, the oldest and very youngest, who will bear the brunt of increased pollution and more frequent and severe storms.

I have especially been thinking this week about all the times I have been witness to people saying the proper thing or performing the proper act, without any real response.

I watch my home state burn. Part of it is a natural cycle: the brush needs to burn to stay healthy—but there is something unnatural about the frequency of fires all over the country. There used to be a season and now it is a constant threat.

I watch as a bar in a town where friends I love live, where I have been countless times before, becomes the latest scene of a mass shooting.

I watch as our country held an election in an environment that is increasingly toxic and hostile towards anyone who disagrees.

I watch all these things and I see our leaders blame increased fires on poor forest management. I see people offer thoughts and prayers without any concrete ideas of how to address the issues. I see elected officials talk about listening to each other and working together and seem to, in almost the same breath, continue to deride their opponents.

These are the scribes. They may offer up prayers, but the vulnerable are being devoured. They may go to the temple to make an offering, but the vulnerable are still in need.

So, what does that mean for us?

God doesn’t need anymore scribes. God has called us as disciples to not just give lip service to our faith or present ourselves in the proper way, but to actually listen to God’s command to love God and love our neighbor and do it.

I don’t know the answers to our country most pressing challenges. I am not even sure where to start. …but I’m open to trying something, anything, everything to get people fed and housed, to help people overcome addiction, to improve and preserve our environment, to ensure that a person won’t go bankrupt from an illness, to keep innocent people from experiencing mindless, indiscriminate violence, the list goes on.

Let me share with you an example of this God-filled action. I hope you can hear it because it has nothing to do with the issues that seem to divide us along political lines. By now, most of you have probably heard about the devastating fire that destroyed the home and took the life of a young baby. When the news spread, we prayed. We prayed, but then we acted. Donations came from far and wide. People asked how they could help. This family’s troubles are, unfortunately, far from over, but this community seems determined to do whatever it can to help them gain some semblance of recovery. It was more than just prayers—and we know that prayers can do quite a bit.

I pray. I pray hard and I pray frequently. But I know God is also calling me to do more, to be disciples, not just scribes. God is calling all of us to action because God acts.

Throughout the Gospel of Mark, especially, Jesus is always “immediately” going off to do one thing or another. Our Gospel reading this morning comes from the twelfth chapter. Let me tell you all the things Jesus does in chapters one through eleven, not counting the parables or other teachings:

• Stills the storm on the sea
• Walks on water
• Raises a girl from the dead
• Feeds the 5,000
• Feeds the 4,000
• Casts out at least five demons
• Performs at least ten healing miracles.

All of that. In eleven chapters! And it doesn’t stop there. Perhaps two of his most important actions were when he gave something to the disciples: the ability to cast out demons and heal people themselves. Jesus isn’t content to do God’s work by himself, he invites, encourages, and enables the disciples to do the work of God themselves! All are involved and all are participating. What a blessing to be part of God’s reign breaking in!

Yes, there is power in prayer and the importance of prayer is often underestimated…but prayer is not the only tool in our Christian toolbox—we also have advocacy and accompaniment and action.

It’s like a quote from Saint Teresa of Avila, a 16^th century nun and mystic:

“Christ has no body now but yours. No hands, no feet on earth but yours. Yours are the eyes through which he looks compassion on this world. Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good. Yours are the hands through which he blesses all the world. Yours are the hands, yours are the feet, yours are the eyes, you are his body. Christ has no body now on earth but yours.”

God doesn’t need us to usher in God’s reign, but God wants us. God wants us to proclaim the good news of Christ, not just in our prayers, but in our deeds…and God’s abundant first love and first action for us is what makes any of it possible.

Amen.

[Insert Your Name Here], Come Out!

Sermon preached Sunday, November 4, 2018, All Saints Sunday, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA. Audio can be found here.

Imagine the scene, if you will.

Jesus has just come into town, four days late. At least that what Mary and Martha, the sisters of Lazarus believe. Jesus is four days past due. “Jesus,” they say to him, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died!”

These two women have had four days to mourn. They’ve had four days to try to begin the process of reorienting their life without Lazarus. Four days of grief. Four days of that hollow, empty feeling you have when someone you love is no longer there.

And then Jesus arrives. Martha hears he’s come to town and goes out to meet him. She’s not angry with him for not getting there sooner. She isn’t berating his tardiness. She simply states the fact, “If you had been here, my brother would not have died, but even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.”

Mary has a similar reaction when she finally sees Jesus. She goes to find him and when she does, she kneels before him and also says, “Lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died.”

Because at this point, it is obvious to everyone in the village, including Mary and Martha, that four days is simply too long for there to be any hope of Lazarus coming back. In the ancient world when it was hard to tell sometimes if someone truly was dead-dead…everyone could agree that four days was indeed dead.

But still, Jesus goes to the tomb and commands that the stone of the cave-tomb be moved. Martha can’t believe this. She is  incredulous and protests Jesus’ actions. Doesn’t Jesus smell what everyone else can smell? Doesn’t Jesus realize that Lazarus’s body has already started to decay? They could smell it from outside the tomb! He’s been dead for four days.

And that’s just outside of the tomb! What was it like inside the tomb? Dark, surely. It was a cave, after all. There was the smell, the stench of a dead body laid to rest. It was likely quiet, too. The stone that covered the entrance likely blocked a lot of sound from the other side and, it being a tomb, there wasn’t a whole lot happening inside. Dark, full of stink, silent.

Then the stone is moved. Light begins to stream in bit by bit. And the voice of Jesus cries, “Lazarus, come out!”

…and he does! Lazarus comes out. In the darkness, in the isolation, in the decaying stench of death, the voice of Jesus reaches Lazarus and Lazarus comes out.

Four days dead. Lying in a tomb. Alone. In the dark. Life over.

And then the voice of Jesus calls Lazarus forth from the tomb—calls life forth out of death.

The trick, though is that there was death first. Lazarus was dead. Jesus didn’t prevent the death from happening. Lazarus did die. But God is able to bring life out of it.

There’s death everywhere. That’s the main reason we celebrate All Saints Sunday. We recognize, acknowledge and name the reality of death in our world, particularly the literal, physical death of our friends, family, and loved ones.

But there’s also another kind of death. The death that makes us feel as though we are in a tomb of our own. Alone, in the dark, heavy with the smell of failure or despair.

We’ve been Lazarus. You may be feeling like Lazarus today, this morning. I don’t know what your death might be. I don’t know what your tomb might look like.

Maybe death came in the form of a lost job or opportunity. Things were looking good, looking up, everything was pointing to the stars aligning and circumstances coming together and then—nothing. A pink slip. A rejection letter. A thanks-but-no-thanks from the school or organization or office you envisioned yourself at. The imagined future has died.

Or death could be a broken relationship. A friendship, a marriage, a connection that felt real and deep but for whatever reason fell apart. Hurtful words and that deep sense of loss dig the tomb we find ourselves in. It feels like nothing will be the same ever again and it’s almost impossible to imagine moving forward.

Perhaps the death we talk about the least among other people is a death of faith, or perhaps it’s better to say that our relationship with God feels dead. Sometimes that connection to God feels so strong and so powerful that it erases all doubts and concerns.

But other times… Other times it seems as if there’s nothing on the other side of our prayers, as if there’s no one who actually cares about us, or loves us…as if we’re just going through the motions, but feeling empty.

And, just maybe, it is simply the death of someone you cared about deeply and now your grief ebbs and flows in such a way that you’re not sure if you’ll ever feel quite “normal” again, whatever that means. Our mourning becomes a kind of death in and of itself—keeping us from the life we led before.

I don’t know what your death looks like, but it really doesn’t matter. In all cases, these deaths are around us and in us. They suck energy. They leave us drained, with little desire to do anything about them. They put us in a tomb, bound in cloth, lifeless. We sit in a dark, dank cave unable to do anything else. And we cry out to God, “If only you had been here, we would not have died!”

Then Jesus comes. Jesus has been there all along. Not preventing the death—death is a part of the greater cycle of creation. Instead, Jesus is prepared with the gift of new and abundant life.

Jesus doesn’t wait for us to gather our own strength. Jesus doesn’t wait for us to “buck-up” or “get over it” or even to “just have faith.” None of these admonitions or pieces of advice are helpful in the face of death. They are platitudes, at best. But Jesus doesn’t say these things.

No, instead Jesus comes to the tomb, stands at the entrance of the cave and calls us out. In the silence, darkness and isolation, we hear a voice:

“Lazarus, come out!”

Jesus calls to each of us:

“Karen, come out!”

“Larry, come out!”

“[Insert your name here], come out!”

The voice draws us out, into the light, into the fresh air, and into the community. It’s not through our own power or sheer force of will that we are brought back to life, but through Jesus coming to us.

And it the same way that our deaths take different forms and shapes, the voice of Jesus can reach us in a lot of ways.

Maybe the voice of Jesus comes through words of comfort and commiseration from a friend. Or through forgiveness proclaimed through our baptism. Or through the words “given for you” as you receive communion.

But somehow, someway, that wonderful, beautiful voice of Jesus reaches into the tomb to bring us back to life.

New life that looks like finding joy in the things you once loved; reconciling broken relationships and finding the strength to build new ones; sensing renewal and looking forward to all of the ups and downs life has to offer. Opportunities open up and fresh paths lay out before us, ready to be walked down with our village alongside us. New life, spring forth out of the darkness. We think of the ones we’ve loved and lost and our heart begins to feel the joy of memory,  even if tinged in grief.

It may not happen instantaneously and sometimes the voice might be a little subtle. It might be hard to hear.

But it’s there. God is there. God isn’t afraid to roll away the stone and smell the stench of our death. God doesn’t care if our village has given up on us after four days in the tomb. The God who loves us, who wept for Lazarus, weeps for us. The God who loves us doesn’t let death have the last word in our relationship. God has the last word at the door of death.

God says, “Child of mine, come out and live.”

Amen.