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.

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’s Next?

Sermon preached Sunday, May 7, 2023, the Fifth Sunday of Easter, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA. 

Today’s Gospel reading is most commonly heard at funerals. In fact, if I went back through every funeral I’ve ever presided over, I’d be willing to bet that over half, if not closer to two thirds or more, have used this excerpt from the Gospel of John over any other passage found in our four Gospels.

These verses are comforting. When we are forced to look death in the face, it’s helpful to hear this promise from Jesus that we are not alone. God is with us and God has prepared a place for us when we breathe our last.

But because I’m so used to preaching on this text at funerals…I spent a lot of time pondering what good news these words might be to us when we aren’t as emotionally raw. What do these promises mean to us when we aren’t mourning? What is the Word we need to hear today?

And that got me thinking to what Word the disciples needed to hear, needed to remember.

Four weeks ago, we celebrated the resurrection. And then we followed that up with two weeks of post-resurrection appearances—basically, we journeyed with those early followers of Jesus as they processed what happened and began to spread the news.

But the last two weeks? We’ve kind of gone back in time, haven’t we? We’re back to hearing things Jesus said before his passion while he was teaching. Why is that?

Well, it’s partly because there’s not that many more post-resurrection accounts in our Gospels to pull from—we wouldn’t have enough to go the whole season of Easter until Ascension Day on May 18^th.

But I also think it’s because it’s where the disciples and followers of Jesus’ mindset was. Yes, Jesus is back and dwelling among them, but there is still a lot to figure out. Where do they go from here? What are the most important things that need to be remembered and shared from Jesus’ ministry?

And that’s why I think these Gospel readings in these weeks of the Easter Season are included. In my mind, it’s a window into the psyche of those early followers asking the question “What now? What’s next?” and leaning on these snippets for inspiration and guidance.

If I approach the text in this way, I’m left asking these questions for myself and for our community of faith today: “What now? What’s next?”

The initial mission and work of the Church was simply to share the story, share the account of Jesus’ ministry and teaching and death and resurrection and share how God came to dwell among us and usher in a new way of life. That, for the most part, has been done. There may be some tiny region of the world where this message has never been shared, but I am skeptical. Missionary movements of the past and the current inter-connectedness of our world mean that there are very few individuals who have not heard of Jesus or who have not heard of the basic tenets of Christianity, regardless of what faith tradition, if any, they belong to.

So just getting the story out there is not our “what’s next?”

And attempting to “save souls” or “get converts” shouldn’t really be, either. Christians of the past, as well as the present, have taken on that particular mantle and it has not often been beneficial to those who were being “saved.” Missionary schools in this country and Canada stripped native peoples of their cultural heritage and language in the name of “saving them.” Slave traders and holders used the notion of bondage as a way of “taming” and “saving” people they saw as savages or heathens. Even today, attempts to “save people” often seem more about fear or emotional manipulation than about sharing the freeing, inspiring love of God in a way that genuinely changes lives and reflects the reign of God.

So, siblings in Christ, what is our “next”? Looking at the words of Jesus that have inspired and encouraged believers for two thousand years, what are we to do post-resurrection, two thousand years on from those earliest days?

Jesus says, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you know me, you will know my Father also.” (John 14:6-7a)

More often than not, we hear this in a very exclusionary way: “Believe in Jesus or you won’t be able to come to the Father!”

But I think it is richer than that, more nuanced than that. God came to us in human form, introduced us to Jesus, so that we might have a new way of relating to and understanding God. Through Jesus, we bear witness to a God who feels sorrow and joy, pain and passion. Through Jesus, through his death and resurrection, we are assured there is nothing we can experience that God is separate from, even death. Through Jesus, God decided to give up the trappings of divinity to be reconciled to us.

And that is why no one comes to the Father except through Jesus, because it is by Jesus’ actions that we know him, know the Father and Creator, that we know the Holy Spirit.

Phillip and Thomas (and probably most of the other folks listening) are really struggling to understand what Jesus is saying. And so when Philip says to Jesus, “Show us the Father, and we shall be satisfied,” you can almost feel the frustration in Jesus’ response:

“Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father. How can you say, ‘Show us the Father’? ¹⁰Do you not believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me? The words that I say to you I do not speak on my own; but the Father who dwells in me does his works. ¹¹Believe me that I am in the Father and the Father is in me; but if you do not, then believe me because of the works themselves. ¹²Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father.” (John 14: 9-12)

So, it is knowing Jesus, knowing the Father, knowing God, both from experiencing God through the works of God’s own’s self and from the works of God lived out through our hands and feet and words. This is what’s next, what is our calling as we go into the future.

What’s next for us, fellow disciples of Christ? What shall we do, following the works Jesus did in his time walking this earth?

What’s next? We heal people. Maybe not through miraculous instances that make the blind see, but through supportive care, seeking resources and provisions to enable healing of body and mind and soul. And through caring and cooperative relationships to strengthen community ties and build bridges instead of animosity.

What’s next? We feed people. Both immediately via food pantries and feeding programs, but also through advocacy for ease of access and working to reduce and eliminate food deserts.

What’s next? We clothe and house people. We shelter them from the immediate threat of inclement weather, and also work towards fair and affordable means to get out of debt and find secure accommodations.

What’s next? We speak up for all voices that continue to go unheard, lifting up everyone who has historically been excluded from the larger narrative and paving the way for all who continue to be kept at the margins.

What’s next? We tell people how much they are loved by God, especially those who haven’t heard it before and especially those who have been told that God will only love them if they change.

What’s next?

The details and particulars are as yet unknown, but the goal is the same: to do our part in living out the reign of God in our world today and, through our actions, allowing people to know Jesus, the way, the truth, and the life.

Amen.

A Realistic Example

Sermon preached Sunday, April 16, 2023, the Second Sunday of Easter, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA. 

It’s no secret that most, if not all of the images we see advertisements are the result of Photoshop. It seems like every week or so there is some expose article floating around about this company’s Photoshop fail or that celebrity’s “untouched” picture being released. Someone is always doing something to make someone look better.

Sometimes it can be egregious, like making a woman’s waist impossibly tiny or putting arms at unnatural angles. Other times it’s pretty harmless. I can remember taking my senior pictures for high school and having them airbrushed to remove some pretty embarrassing acne. For good or for ill, these sorts of alterations happen.

And there is debate about just how good or ill they are. Some people say that all sorts of digital adjustments are fine in the media. After all, these companies are trying to sell something; they are presenting an ideal for everyday people to aspire to. The models aren’t supposed to look ordinary—it’s their job to be extraordinary!

The other camp argues that these representations can be dangerous. They keep people from having a reasonable perspective on their abilities or bodies. Companies should use models representative of the population, not a tiny minority. We should have realistic models. Representative models.

When we are looking for models and examples for our spiritual lives, we often turn to scripture. Regardless of what camp you may belong to when it comes to our secular culture, when we look at the Bible, it seems we are given nothing but “realistic models.” In the Old Testament, there are stories like the time Abraham lied and passed his wife Sarah off as his sister, or when King David pursued Bathsheba despite her being another man’s wife. The New Testament isn’t all the much better. The disciples as a whole tend to misunderstand what Jesus tries to teach them. Judas hands Jesus over to the authorities and Peter denies that he ever even knew him.

And then we have today’s story about Thomas, who was called the Twin, but who we so often refer to as “The Doubter.” Thomas is one of the most realistic models we have. He doubts what he hasn’t seen for himself. The other disciples had all been able to witness Jesus’ resurrection for themselves when he appeared in the room. Thomas just wanted that same tangible sign.

We’re often the same. We have trouble believing in things we haven’t experienced for ourselves. When we are young, we learn about the five senses. We learn to explore things with our senses of sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch. We use those senses to decipher the world around us, to determine what is real and what isn’t. The trouble is, faith in God can’t rely only on those senses.

Our experiences with God come in lots of other ways. We may feel God’s love and presence in the relationships we have with other people. Or we may feel it in times of peace and tranquility. Or while experiencing and exploring nature. Or we may be overwhelmed by it during an exceptionally spiritual experience brought on through music, meditation, prayer, or worship.

But sometimes we, like Thomas, seek harder evidence. We look for those more concrete signs. We are hungry for things that we can point to and say, “There! There is God!”—because it’s hard to maintain faith without them. We can find ourselves, like Thomas, having doubts and struggling to believe.

And then, in today’s Gospel story Jesus proclaims, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” Those are kind of discouraging words, aren’t they? We can take them to mean that Thomas is somehow “less-than” for not trusting fully in the other disciples’ account. We may begin to see Thomas as a bad example, a bad model for us because he doubted. We may begin to equate doubting with not being a good Christian.

Jesus does say, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe…” The unspoken phrase that we tend to assume follows is, “Woe to those have to see to believe.” But that’s not what Jesus intends. Jesus doesn’t speak words of woe to Thomas. He lifts up and blesses those who have faith in the resurrection without proof, but he does not condemn the doubters.

Thomas is not a bad example for us. Despite his doubts and concerns, he still boldly proclaims Jesus’ identity: “My Lord and my God!” He recognizes the fully divine nature of Christ. He remains with the other disciples as Jesus continues to perform miracles and teach. And then, like the others, after the ascension he is sent out into the world to proclaim the Gospel.

I’ll say it again: Thomas is not a bad example. Rather, he is a realistic model. Even though he has his time of uncertainty, he was still a faithful disciple. He still spread the word of God. God still worked through him. Though he doubted, Jesus still came to him. God can and does still work through all of us. Our loving Creator doesn’t abandon us, even when we aren’t so sure of it all.

And God has provided us with at least two visible and physical signs: our sacraments, baptism and Holy Communion. There are two parts that make up a sacrament: it is commanded by Christ and uses a material or earthly element. Through connection with the Word, is the bearer of God’s promise. The elements of water, wine and bread give us something physical through which we can experience God’s grace.

Through the water that washes us in baptism, we to die to sin and rise to new life in Christ, and we are also reminded that we are beloved children of God. Bread and wine, the body and blood of Christ in Communion, nourish and sustain us and are signs that point to the love of God shown in Christ’s death and resurrection.

Yes, doubts are real. They happen. We have periods of feeling disconnected from God. But the good news today and every day is that God is never disconnected from us. Sometimes we feel that divine presence strongly, other times it may be less noticeable, but God is there. In water, in bread and wine, in the Word, God has given us things we can see, taste, smell, hear and feel.

Our “realistic model,” Thomas, shows us that doubts do not keep us from God’s presence. They do not preclude us from seeing the signs and miraculous works God can do. They do not cause us to be shut out of the community of believers. Jesus came to Thomas and Jesus comes to us, embracing us in times of both faith and trust and in times of uncertainty and wavering belief.

Amen.

Our Place in God’s History

Sermon preached Sunday, April 23, 2023, the Third Sunday of Easter, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA.

I spent several days last week in Indiana at a conference on the campus of Valparaiso University. It’s the Institute of Liturgical Studies and, this year, the theme was “Finding Our Rhythm, In The Fullness of Time.” The plenary speakers, workshops, and worship opportunities all focused around the theme of time: how we keep it, how it impacts us, how it gives meaning to our lives of faith.

One of the plenary speakers was James K.A. Smith, a philosopher who has a way with the intersection of philosophy, theology, and culture. He argued that, in general, we are not great at approaching time in a healthy way. By we, I mean both as Christians and as participants in our current cultural environment. We struggle to situate ourselves appropriately in history, tend to think of ourselves as being a-historical, above time, that somehow we are the only human beings that have ever existed who will not, one day, be relegated to the stories of history.

The danger with this, is that it allows us to ignore the way history and story and our collective past informs the present. It allows us to think that we were dropped wholly formed into our world and that the past of our faith, the past of our nation, the past of our families and communities has had no bearing on our shaping at all.

To be honest, it got pretty in depth. And I am certainly not qualified to regurgitate a hour-long philosophical exploration or even to summarize it in a great way…but it got me thinking. In particular, it got me thinking about this morning’s text, the walk to Emmaus.

We don’t know why Cleopas and this other disciple, whoever they are, his wife, someone else, were walking to Emmaus. The text doesn’t tell us. But they’re talking about what happened.

And I wonder if they’re talking about it all, grounded in the history and time that they’ve experienced, or if they’re talking about it in a more detached, clinical way.

Because when Jesus comes alongside them, they are looking sad, but lay out the facts of the last several days in a pretty orderly fashion, catching this stranger up on what’s been going on. To me, it feels like maybe they aren’t fully letting themselves dive deep into where they’re at, what they’re feeling.

When they finish their recap, Jesus (the stranger) seeks to reinsert them back into the history that has happened, insert them back into the timeline of what has happened, to reconnect them to the larger story unfolding.

And so he does. He interprets all of scripture, going back to Moses and the prophets, and it seems like this is the beginning of pulling the disciples back in, tethering them back to everything that has gone on before. Knot by knot, securing them back into the history of God’s work in the world, until finally, sitting around a table, Jesus breaks bread, and that last piece of disconnect locks into place.

Jesus, through his recounting of scripture and time accompanying them, helps them settle into their place in the story.

It’s not that they weren’t always participants. Of course they were! But they had been able to separate themselves: from both what is currently happening and from all the lead up to it. And it takes this time with Jesus for them to realize or remember it. “Were not our hearts burning within us?” they ask each other. In other words, their bodies recognized their role and position before their minds were freed to do the same.

One of the reasons this interpretive lens struck me so hard this week is that I think this disconnect, this separating ourselves, this notion that we are observing history rather than participating in it, is something that happens more than we realize. And the biggest example of this is pitfall of dangerous nostalgia.

Nostalgia, on its own, is not necessarily a problem. We all have times in our lives that we look back on with fondness. TV shows or music or food that hits us with a flood of memories. The piece of furniture or item of clothing that sticks with us. I always think about a gravy boat that my grandma used every holiday meal—when we cleaned out my grandparents’ house after their deaths, it was one thing my cousins and I all agreed could definitely not get donated.

So, feelings of nostalgia are not dangerous in and of themselves. But all too easily, they can become dangerous, when we let that nostalgia block us from seeing things as they really were, and as they really are.

In churches, this means that we look at our congregational history and tend to only remember the times when things were good: when attendance was growing and things were active. Even if there were unhealthy patterns behind the scenes, or even larger numbers of people not actively participating, we paint those times in rose colored glasses.

On a larger scale, we look at religious affiliation in general and pine for a time when many more people belonged to a church, without acknowledging that just because membership was greater doesn’t mean that discipleship was greater or that faith formation was greater or that participation in God’s mission was greater or more impactful.

We look back on certain times in our nation’s history and often zero in on the highlights, ignoring the pieces and parts that were far from beneficial for others. An example given by James Smith was about when he was watching Mad Men when it was first airing ten-plus years ago. He could watch it and think, “Boy, it would have been cool to live back then!” …But he could only think that because of who he is. A woman, a person of color, a person not making lots of money on Madison Avenue, experienced life in a very different, less rosy way. And to ignore that fact is to ignore the actual history.

And when we ignore that actual history, it keeps us from being in real and deep relationship with each other. Imagine trying to form a relationship with someone who had been abused by a parent. And instead of listening, and remembering, and acknowledging that hurtful past, you just said, “That’s not how it was! Think about the good times. It doesn’t do any good to remember the bad.” That person would know pretty quickly that you weren’t someone they could trust.

The story of Emmaus reminds us that we can’t be separated from history, good or bad, that the past plays a vital and pivotal role in how our present is shaped and how our future will form.

Jesus, even as he is not recognized, highlights that history for the disciples, both good and bad, the whole understanding of God’s history with humanity, and ending with the final passion account. Without that historical grounding, the resurrection doesn’t mean the same thing. Without God’s relationship and storied past with Israel and creation, the love expressed through that death and resurrection does not hit the same high mark and deep meaning.

And, it is only after all of this is put in proper perspective that the disciples realize what it all means. And that realization sends them right back to Jerusalem to share what happened with the other disciples and to help them recognize their place in the grand history of God’s salvation.

We are part of that story, too. We read the Bible, sometimes thinking that we are so separate from these earliest Jesus followers and certainly so separate from the figures of the Old Testament, but they are our history. And we are the history of those who will come after us. We are connected to each other, for better or for worse.

As you go about your weeks, your months, your years ahead, consider your role in the larger picture of God’s story, God’s history. Let it remind you of your connection to the company of saints who have gone before us—and let it encourage you to live in a way that will make the saints who come after us proud.

Amen.

“I Will Not Leave You Orphaned”

Sermon preached Sunday, May 17, 2020, the Sixth Sunday of Easter, from my home in Gettysburg, PA, due to Covid-19 restrictions. 

Today we hear another excerpt from Jesus’ last night with his disciples before his arrest and execution. He is trying to cram so much into this final discourse: teaching and reassurance and farewells. This section of the Gospel of John has some of Jesus’ most well-known phrases and, just like last week, one phrase in particular really stood out to me.

Jesus tells his disciples, “I will not leave you orphaned; I am coming to you.”

“I will not leave you orphaned.”

Orphaned is such a visceral word, isn’t it? What are the images that come to mind for you? I think about all the fictional orphans in novels and theater and movies like Oliver Twist, or Annie, or even Anna and Elsa from Frozen. We don’t use the word “orphan” too often today, but there certainly are children in this world who are without parents, who either grow up in a group home with other kids like them or who are raised by other family members or guardians.

Orphaned obviously means parent-less, but it can also have connotations of abandonment, intentionally or otherwise. I also hear it as “left behind.” It’s not a choice that parents make, but orphaned children are left behind when their parents die.

What does it mean that Jesus won’t leave us behind?

Perhaps Paul is a good example of this. In the reading from the Book of Acts we hear this morning, Paul is talking to a large group of people in Athens. They are not Jesus-believers. They haven’t heard the Word yet. And yet Paul works to not leave them behind.

He could have started out talking about his vision, about all the Old Testament prophecies, about the ways Jesus fulfills all the promises God has made…but he doesn’t—because he knows the people aren’t ready for that. If he started out that way, he would leave all kinds of people behind.

Instead, he changes tack. He goes to where the people already are and meets them there and brings them along, using their own language to teach them about Christ. He sees that they already have an altar to an “unknown god” and explains that the God he proclaims is that same unknown God! He finds ways to connect with them.

This is the kind of thing Jesus is promising: to always meet us where we are and to never move so far or so fast as to leave folks behind.

I’ve been especially preoccupied with this idea as we talk about how our community will transition when the time comes. How can we be sure not to leave people behind? Not everyone will feel comfortable being in public with other people, even in small groups, even with masks, even with good physical distancing. We cannot simply leave these people behind. We are called to find ways to continue to keep people connected and together, despite very real fears and concerns.

I will be honest with you: nothing keeps me up at night more than the concern that I might inadvertently pass something along to one of you because we are too eager to see each other face to face. We cannot leave people behind, pretend like their concerns don’t have merit. We must find a way to be with folks where they are.

God promises to not leave us orphaned and there are lots of ways that plays out. We are not orphaned in regards to our salvation, or forgiveness, or God’s love…and we are not orphaned in our ability to care for one another—so we should take care that the church and our community does not inadvertently “orphan” members of Christ’s  body by decisions we make in haste.

“I will not leave you orphaned,” Jesus says. There is beauty in that promise. There is hope. There is love.

No matter where we are or what situation we are in, God will be with us.

Amen.

Troubled Hearts

Sermon preached Sunday, May 10, 2020, the Fifth Sunday of Easter, from my home in Gettysburg, PA due to COVID-19 stay-at-home orders.

Today’s Gospel reading is most commonly heard at funerals. In fact, if I went back through every funeral I’ve ever presided over, I’d be willing to bet that over half, if not closer to two thirds or more, have used this excerpt from the Gospel of John over any other passage found in our four Gospels.

These verses are comforting. When we are forced to look death in the face, it’s helpful to hear this promise from Jesus that we are not alone. God is with us and God has prepared a place for us when we breathe our last.

But because I’m so used to preaching on this text at funerals…I spent a lot of time pondering what good news these words might be to us when we aren’t as emotionally raw. What do these promises mean to us when we aren’t mourning? What is the Word we need to hear today?

Jesus says, “Let not your hearts be troubled.” Jesus says this and I want to respond, “Easy for you to say!”

Let not your hearts be troubled.

I don’t know about you, but my heart has been plenty troubled lately. It is troubled with the stress of trying cram more than a normal amount of work into naptimes and the hours I trade off with Andrew in watching Owen.

It’s troubled with feeling guilt that maybe we’re not doing enough to stimulate his learning and development.

It’s troubled with a long list of tasks that never seems to get much shorter, as one thing gets crossed off and another is added.

It’s troubled by concern that we will see a second wave of this virus that will be worse because it will be a long time before we have a vaccine or hit herd immunity.

It is troubled by the realization that even when we are able to worship in person, we won’t be able to commune or sing together for some time.

How about you? Any of that sound familiar?

So how can Jesus tell us to not let our hearts be troubled?

These stresses and anxieties aren’t going anywhere but, with the help and grace of God, we can make it through.

When Jesus says, “Let not your hearts be troubled,” we often hear it in such a way that it actually adds to our troubles. “Oh no!” we think, “Jesus says to not be troubled so I better stop being troubled right now!” And then, just like that, we’re more stressed or bothered than we were before.

But I don’t think that’s his intent. I don’t think God offers us words of comfort only to make us concerned about whether or not we’re good enough at accepting that comfort!

No, I think Jesus is acknowledging that troubled hearts are a part of who we are as human beings. Lots of things will trouble us.

But, in the end, God is holding us all together in a loving embrace. Our hearts may still be troubled, but they don’t have to stay that way.

When we begin to feel overwhelmed by working in a new way and feeling the need to prove our worth, God reminds us that we are worthy just as we are.

When we feel like we are falling short as parents or partners, God reminds us that we are enough.

When the dishes are still in the sink and the laundry hasn’t made it out of the hamper for several days, God reminds us that it is enough that we take care of ourselves.

When we look to the future and feel a growing sense of dread, God reminds us that we are not alone and that God will be with us every step of the way.

When we return to worshiping in person and mourn the loss of our voices raised in song or sharing bread and wine at the table, God reminds us that the Body of Christ is still strong and will return in full strength once again.

We’ll still struggle, I’m sure. We’ll still have days when we worry, days when we are too hard on ourselves or when we are too focused on a bleak outlook. …but God is there to remind us that these troubles are not all there is.

Maybe a better way to hear Jesus’ words is, “Let not your hearts remain troubled.” Pray. Talk to God. Let these promises buoy you and sustain you in this season of uncertainty.

Amen.

The Good Shepherd’s Community

Sermon preached Sunday, May 3, 2020, the Fourth Sunday of Easter, from my home in Gettysburg, PA due to COVID-19 Stay-at-home orders. 

Today is Good Shepherd Sunday, as it always is the fourth Sunday of Easter. It’s a day when we are reminded how Jesus cares for us like a shepherd and a day when we usually end up comparing ourselves to sheep.

Usually, that comparison is not super flattering. Someone brings up how sheep are stupid; how they’re always getting lost. Sheep don’t have minds of their own. Sheep need someone to look after them, or else they’d never survive! Sheep appear to be pretty lousy creatures and we, as humans, are given likeness to them.

Some of it, sheep deserve. And some of it we certainly deserve in the comparison. We do get lost. We do need someone, especially our God, to look after us. But sheep are also much smarter than we give them credit for.

And perhaps even more important for us to realize this time around is how sheep are herd animals. They thrive in community! They do their best work when they are working together. And, so do we.

I don’t mean to say that all of us enjoy being around lots of other people all the time. That’s obviously not the case! We have introverts and extroverts, who get their energy and recharge their batteries in different ways—and even extroverts like occasional alone time and introverts enjoy social gatherings from time to time! But when we are functioning in a healthy way, we are often connected to a community: a faith community, a work community, a civic community.

In a community, the best traits of individuals are highlighted. Since people with all sorts of different abilities and strengths are pooling their abilities, you can find a place where your gift is needed and where you can do your best.

In a community, your joy can multiply. When you have a birthday or anniversary, people are there to remind you over and over again that it is a special day, worthy of observance and celebration. When something great happens—a new job, a new child, a wedding—this community can gather around you and rejoice with you. There is support here that as joyful things happen, the community will walk with you through it.

And that community will walk with your through the bad times to. In a community, your sorrow can find a place to rest. Others’ shoulders can take on some of your burden to remind you that you are not alone. Tasks that you may no longer be able to do can be taken care of by the community. When it is time to pray and the only words you have for God are words of anger or hurt, the community can praise God for you and remind you of the promises God has made.

Right now, it’s a lot harder for to feel that community. We aren’t able to physically be together in the same ways. But I’ve been blessed to see the ways in which we are still managing to make community happen—and see it happen in really innovative and remarkable ways!

Through phone calls and video chats and cards, we’re staying connected with the people we care about. Through signs on people’s yards thanking healthcare workers and delivery drivers, we’re encouraging the folks who are making our self-isolation possible. Our masks and six-foot radius might make us seem more alone, but it’s a signal that we are concerned about the health of the people we come across.

Our communities come in so many different forms and facets, but there is one thing that they all share:

I can only understand these communities being brought together by the grace of God. In my view, these communities are only created and given life because the Good Shepherd has brought them together—brought these people into the flock.

Today is Good Shepherd Sunday. The Good Shepherd who makes us one people, one community of people on this earth. The Good Shepherd who brings us together in one body, who feeds us with one meal of bread and wine, who washes us in one baptism.

Jesus said, “I am the Good Shepherd” and he will hold us together in spirit, if not in body.

Amen.

 

 

 

We Had Hoped

Sermon preached Sunday, April 26, 2020, the Third Sunday of Easter, from my home in Gettysburg, PA during the COVID-19 Stay At Home Orders. 

Way back in February, I looked ahead to see what accounts of the resurrection we were going to get this Easter season. Obviously, there are the different Gospel’s stories of what happened at the empty tomb. And I knew we would hear about Thomas last week. …but I wanted to know if we’d get one of the other, less told, stories. I saw that we would have the Road to Emmaus story today and I got really excited.

I love this story. I love how two disciples of Jesus, not part of the Twelve, just faithful disciples, are leaving Jerusalem and going to Emmaus. On their way, they have this whole conversation between them about everything that’s happened. It reminds me of times that I’ve gone on walks with friends and we’ve just sort of rehashed everything that happened earlier in the week or in a conversation that we had—and then through those conversations that we kind start to sort everything out. That’s what I think this conversation between these two disciples is: trying to sort through the whirlwind of events in the past few days and figure out what the next step is.

And it’s in the middle of this conversation that Jesus shows up—only they don’t know it’s Jesus. I mean, imagine you’re having this deep conversation with a good friend and all of a sudden, this person comes up alongside you, and interrupts you to ask just what exactly you’re talking about.

Like, it’s bad enough that a stranger interrupts you, but he has no idea what’s going on. They’re incredulous. They basically say, “Are you serious? You’ve got to be the only guy who doesn’t know what’s been going on in Jerusalem. They take the time and try to explain it all to him Their conversation carries on for some time—for so long that the disciples arrive at their destination. They arrive at the place where they’re gonna stay and Jesus, who they think is still this stranger who they’ve never seen before, starts to keep walking and they say, “Well, why don’t you at least come have dinner with us? We’ve spent this whole time walking and talking; come and have dinner with us.”

Jesus, of course, does and it’s at the table when he breaks the bread that they finally realize that it has been Jesus the whole time. The disciples look back at the whole encounter and come to a realization. “Haven’t our hearts been burning this whole time?” they ask. It’s such a beautiful story, isn’t it?

I love it and I was so excited and so ready to preach this great sermon about communion and about how Jesus meets us at the table and how Jesus is revealed to us in the breaking of the bread…but, alas, like so many other things it is not to be. We aren’t having communion and I’m not breaking any bread that I can tie into the text.

I had hoped that we would be back in the sanctuary by now, but we’re not. And there’s something so bittersweet and heavy and almost tangible about hopes that don’t come to fruition. I mean, isn’t that a lot of what the disciples are grieving about on their walk to Emmaus? As they are talking to the stranger they say, “We had hoped that [Jesus] would be the one to redeem Israel.” We hoped that this was the guy and now he’s dead, now he’s gone, and we don’t know what to do next. Our hope is gone.

This is a feeling we all know really well right now, don’t we? The feeling of hopes and expectations not coming through, or not jiving with reality. What are some of the things that we had hoped for that now we don’t see?

Originally, we had hoped that we would be back in our sanctuary for worship services by Easter. College and high school seniors hoped that they would still be able to have their commencement ceremonies or their prom or all the other senior activities they were looking forward to. Athletes had hoped they’d still be able to play their season. Musicians had hoped they’d still be able to perform their concerts. Families hoped they’d still be able to take that vacation they’ve been saving and planning for. Couples hoped they’d still be able to hold their wedding. Mourners hoped they’d be able to have a funeral to mark the death of a loved one. Pregnant women and new moms hoped that they would be able to have the birthing experience they’d been planning in dreaming of. And all of these hopes are now gone. There will be a time in the future when they’ll be able to return, but for now, and for some indefinable period to come, they’re gone.

So, what do we do now? Do we give up hope? Do we just stop ever hoping for something new?

The disciples say to the stranger we know to be Jesus, “We had hoped that he would be the one to redeem Israel.” They think their hope is gone but, in fact, their hope is standing at right next to them, walking alongside them.

We know that our ultimate hope is in God. We know that God is our only hope for joy, love, peace, and salvation. So as our lives are filled with these other things that continue to disappoint us, we know that we have constancy in what God has to offer. Our God who meets us not only around bread at a table but on whatever road we happen to be walking on. Our God is a god of hope.

Amen.