Ride and Die

Sermon preached Sunday, February 21, 2021, the First Sunday of Lent, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA. 

On Wednesday we began a new sermon series at St. John’s. Throughout the season of Lent and up through Easter Sunday, we will be reflecting on the idea of covenant, or promise. What promises has God made to us? What is our role in the covenant? What happens when a covenant is broken? And what does it mean that Jesus came into our world to create a new covenant with God’s people?

With that lens in mind, we approach this morning’s text. We began with a familiar story, the story of Noah. Noah and the Ark is one of those stories that the church teaches even very young children. Every time we see a rainbow in the sky, we remember this account!

But how often, really, do we take the time to think about what’s really happening here? Yes, God promises to never flood the earth again—but it’s bigger than that. The bow in the sky is a reminder of the covenant that God makes—not just with humanity, but with all of creation. God makes a covenant to be the God of this earth and to stick it out, through thick and thin.

There’s a phrase that I’m probably going to sound hopelessly uncool for saying, but this is God’s promise to be the ride-or-die divinity for this world. Come what may, God will not abandon us, God will not wipe us out and start over, God will do whatever it takes to stay in relationship with us.

And this first covenant is one that God proves over and over again throughout scriptures. When things get tough, God adapts and finds new ways to reach us. God makes new covenants, but they never erase this primary one.

And this primary covenant finds it’s most fitting confirmation in the person of Jesus.

The lengths that Jesus goes through to evidence how much God loves us are incredible.

His ministry begins with forty days in the desert. Forty days without food, or water, or company, or a comfortable place to rest his head. And, if that wasn’t enough, Satan tempts him—adding even more difficulty to an already trying time.

The following weeks and months are full of conflict and trouble and constantly highlight how much easier it would be for Jesus to just capitulate. To give up. To leave humanity to our own devices.

And, of course, in this season of Lent, we know that the most trying days of all lie ahead. Jesus will be betrayed. Arrested. Mocked. Tortured. Convicted in a sham trial. Executed by the state.

Do you see? God is even more than “ride or die.” God is “ride and die.” Not only will God go to any length to be reconciled to us in life—but God is willing to go further, even to death.

From the first book of the Bible to the last, from Genesis to Revelation, we learn of our God who makes a covenant with us and never relents. Not when Jesus dies. Not when we die. We are God’s, in life and death. There is nothing we can do about it and nothing God will do about it.

That’s what the rainbow really says.

Amen.

Why the Transfiguration Matters

Sermon preached Sunday, February 14, 2021, Transfiguration Sunday, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA. 

There’s a podcast that I listen to almost every week. It’s done by three professors at Luther Seminary and it takes a deep look into the scripture readings for the week in light of current events and the liturgical season. It’s helpful and enlightening and listening to these scholars has become a weekly habit of mine.

One of the things I appreciate most about this podcast is the honesty and frankness with which these individuals approach the text. There are no easy answers or pat explanations—and when one of them struggles with something, they confess that struggle to their listeners. This past week, one of the professors made a point about this morning’s Gospel text that I had felt for a long time, but had never been able to articulate.

The transfiguration, he said, this incredible event on a mountain top where Jesus’ appearance suddenly changes, this event is easy to teach but can be terribly difficult to preach. It’s easy to teach because there is a clear set of events, with symbolism that connects them to Jewish history and beliefs. It’s easy to say, “Well, this event has similarities with Moses seeing God on Mount Sinai. Moses and Elijah are figures many believed had to return before the Messiah would begin to reign. Moses represents the law and Elijah represents the prophets—and both the law and the prophets are fulfilled in Jesus.” As long as we stay in the realm of historical and cultural context, I can talk about the Transfiguration for hours. Easy.

What’s not so easy, however, is finding something to preach in this story. That is, what about this story actually has any bearing for you and me and how we live our lives when we leave the church building today? What is there here to preach? Knowing all the facts and the background is valuable, but it doesn’t necessarily tie-in to me; it doesn’t necessarily give me something to take with me; it doesn’t necessarily sink into my soul. In other words, I can really easily tell you why the transfiguration happens the way it does in our scripture…but I have trouble sometimes telling just why, exactly, it matters. Knowing what Jesus did is essential, but so is knowing what it means for me.

Lent is bookended by two mountains, two hills, two raised places. This Sunday before Lent begins on Wednesday, we hear of this mountain of Jesus’ transfiguration. On Good Friday, there will be another raised place: a hill known as the place of the skull, Golgotha, where Jesus is crucified. We want the Jesus of today—we want the Jesus of transfiguration.

We want the Jesus who gets the voice of God coming down from heaven, who’s clothes and skin change and become dazzling. We want the Jesus who shows, without a shadow of a doubt, who he is.  We want glory. We want Glory Jesus. What we get, however, is the Jesus of the cross, the Jesus who is mocked and tortured, the Jesus who is written off because he chooses suffering for our sake over military might.

The Jesus of the cross is the Jesus we need. This is the Jesus we are desperate for. This is the Jesus who leaves the glory and comes back down the mountain. This is the Jesus who hears our longing for wholeness and peace and healing and comes to bring all of it to pass. This is the Jesus who underwent death and suffering so that there will never be a place we can go where God has not already been.  It is through this Jesus that we see the true and whole glory of God revealed in the unexpected place of the cross.

Transfiguration Sunday is about who Jesus is: the Son of God, the Chosen, prophet connected to Elijah and Moses…but that’s not all. Jesus is also the one who comes back down. Jesus doesn’t stay on the mountain.

We, as the church of this transfigured Jesus, are called to strike a balance between the “mountain” and the low places.

The mountain has its place. We all have ways of getting to a mountain top, a spiritual experience that connects us to God. For some people it is in worship, either our Sunday service or special services throughout the year. For others, it might be in private prayer or devotion. For still others, God might be closest when exploring nature, the wild and wonderful creation God has blessed us with. The place or time doesn’t matter, but we all need these moments of connection and renewal to sustain us in the rest of our faith journey. The mountain isn’t bad—in fact, it’s pretty great!

But we cannot stay there forever. There is work to be done in the world around us. We say that we are God’s hands and feet in the world, carrying out the mission of God. People are hurting and in need of healing and comfort. We are called to search out the broken in our world, in our lives, and witness to the love of God through our words and actions. And, during those times when we are the broken and we are the ones desperate for healing, others will bring the Gospel to us. So, we need to leave dazzling clothes of the mountain from time to time and get dirty in the world around us.

On Wednesday begins a journey to the cross. It will take us to the high of Palm Sunday and the deep low and lament of Christ’s passion. We walk it together. We walk it with Jesus. We walk it, and at the end we will gather at that second raised place and remember, at the foot of the cross, the words of God: “This is my Son, the Chosen, listen to him.” In that moment, the glory of God is revealed to all, even through the horrific, messy way of the cross.

Amen.

Interruptions

Sermon preached Sunday, February 7, 2021, the Fifth Sunday after Epiphany, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA. 

This week I saw someone say, “If there’s one thing that defined Jesus’ time on earth it was his willingness to be interrupted.”

That really struck me.

It’s true. Over and over again in the gospels, Jesus is in the middle of something—a meal, a journey, a conversation, relaxation—and people come to him with their problems. He doesn’t get upset or frustrated (I mean, maybe he feels those things internally, but he certainly never expresses them outwardly!). Instead, he listens and meets the need that is expressed.

This week’s reading is a perfect example. This passage from Mark follows immediately behind last week’s. Jesus has just left the synagogue where, if you remember, he was teaching (“with authority!”) and caused an unclean spirit to leave someone. It was a pretty eventful day already!

But, of course, the day isn’t over yet. Jesus and his disciples go to the house of Simon and Andrew, presumably to eat and rest, because it isn’t until they’re there that Jesus is told that Simon’s mother-in-law has a fever. He heals her, but the day still isn’t done!

At sunset, everyone in this city who is sick of possessed by a demon shows up and wants Jesus to heal them. He probably wouldn’t say no to an evening of relaxing, but he sees to all of them and heals and casts out demons until everyone is satisfied.

In the morning, probably quite early, since the text tells us it was still very dark, Jesus gets up and goes to a deserted place to finally have some peace and quiet. There, he prays. And there, Simon and other disciples track him down and tell him everyone is looking for him because there is more work to do. I mean, the text says that they hunted for him!

Even then, Jesus doesn’t lose his temper. The text doesn’t say anything about rolling his eyes.

I don’t get how Jesus can be so calm and easy going here.

Getting interrupted almost always prompts at least a little irritation for me—sometimes even an eye roll.

Especially during the past year, it feels like interruptions are even more inevitable and they don’t really get easier to deal with.

If you had to work from home, in the same house as a spouse or a parent or a child of any age, you know what I’m talking about. No matter how well we set ourselves up for success, there’s always something that will interrupt us: the dog needs to go out. The kid needs a snack or direction or help or attention. The spouse has a question that clearly could have waited until later. The parent wants to be helpful but is actually making things harder.

It is so hard not to come right back with the eye roll or the deep sigh or the passive aggressive attitude.

And I remember these stories of Jesus and how the interruptions he was facing were often matters of life and death! People needed Jesus for comfort, for teaching, for healing, for reconciliation, for reminding them that they are a valued part of God’s humanity.

Yes, he needs his time apart. Throughout scripture, he makes a point to find solitude where he can pray by himself.

But, he never lets that alone time, that time in prayer, get in the way of his calling, get in the way of what he came to earth to do in the first place.

Maybe that’s one way to consider interruptions, in the bigger picture. After all, if they serve the larger mission God has called us to, are they really interruptions?

Jesus doesn’t seem to think so.

So, what might be interrupting us that we try to push away?

And what would happen if we stopped and listened instead?

Amen.

Not a Stumbling Block or a Doormat

Sermon preached Sunday, January 31, 2021, the Fourth Sunday after Epiphany, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

The connecting thread in the readings this morning is the idea of how God’s word can reach God’s people.

In Deuteronomy, we learn that one of the ways in which God’s word will be proclaimed will be through a prophet like Moses.

In First Corinthians, Paul writes about how God’s word can get muddled or lost or misconstrued if we allow stumbling blocks to get in the way.

And in our Gospel reading from Mark, we hear a story of how Jesus is sharing God’s word in a new way, and as one “with authority.”

Each week, while I am in the early stages of sermon writing, I usually read through the texts several times and see if any word or any phrase sticks out. I tend to think that this is the Holy Spirit nudging me towards what my focus should be.

This time, it was this idea of a stumbling block.

Paul brings it up in a larger discussion about food sacrificed to idols. Here’s the context: many cities in the Roman Empire would have food—fresh produce, grain, and meat—sacrificed to idols and then that food would be distributed to the community. Although it did not make up for all of the social injustices in the Roman Empire, this one practice was one that was actually pretty beneficial to poorer families and people lower in the social hierarchy.

Paul implies in his letter that there is a conflict in the Corinthian church about whether or not it’s okay for Christians to still partake of this food that has been sacrificed to idols. The one side argues: of course not! We don’t believe in these other gods or worship these other gods and therefore we shouldn’t eat food that has been sacrificed in their honor.

The other side argues: of course, we can! We know that there are no other gods and therefore we know that this food is just normal food that these non-Christians think is blessed by their gods. Why should we give up good food—and good meat!—that can feed the poor in our midst?

And what is Paul’s solution? He plays it right down the middle. The one side is right: we do know that it is fine to eat this food sacrificed to idols because we know the one true God. BUT, if by eating this food we cause one of our siblings to get confused or to lose faith, we’ve messed up.

So yes, we can, but we must always be wary of whether or not we should. “Knowledge,” Paul writes, “puffs up, but love builds up.” In other words, it’s fine to know academically that your behavior is theologically fine—but is it loving to simply argue that knowledge over and over again when someone is truly struggling? Or is it more loving to walk alongside them, accompany them, and live in a way that displays your knowledge without pushing the point?

We never want to be a stumbling block to others, Paul tells us.

The trick is, though, that we don’t end up going to far the other way, either. That we don’t so avoid becoming a stumbling block that we become a door mat, not having any convictions and living on ever shift sand.

Instead, I think that maybe we should strive to be a helpful sign, or an unlocked door, or an invitation inside.

Let’s look at today’s Gospel reading as an example:

Jesus is in the synagogue teaching and those who are gathered aren’t sure what to make of him. They’re skeptical. The text is translated “astounded,” but I think skeptical works, too.

Who is this guy? How is he teaching with authority? He’s not like the scribes! Can we believe him? Is he trustworthy?

This is the knowledge. This is what could be a stumbling block. But Jesus doesn’t allow it to be, because he follows it up with an invitation—a sign of God’s power.

This man with an unclean spirit calls to Jesus and the spirit knows who Jesus is and what he has come to do. The spirit is worried. And Jesus heals the man—calls the unclean spirit to leave the man.

This act of power, this miracle, this healing, whatever you want to call it, is an act of love. Jesus is showing that not only does he have new knowledge about a new way of living in God’s world, but then he shows a loving example of what that new way of living looks like—and it looks like people being made whole again. It’s the teachings being put into practice.

He does not just say all the things he knows, he leads with love, and that makes all the difference.

Instead of a stumbling block, it’s an open door into the reign of God.

This is part of our calling, part of what Paul is trying to get us to realize.

We can have incredible theology. We can have well thought out arguments for our beliefs. We can quote scripture until we’re blue in the face. But knowledge puffs up and love builds up.

If we can’t express ourselves with love, if we can’t lead with love, if we can’t let our love to the bulk of the work, then we’re just creating a stumbling block.

We can do better than that.

Amen.