What are You Going to Do?

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

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

What do they do? Nothing! Hear it again: “So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.” (Mark 16:8) They do nothing! They don’t follow the angel’s instructions, they don’t tell the disciples, they don’t tell anyone!

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alleluia! Christ is Risen!

Christ is Risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

Expectant Joy

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

Our Lutheran Tradition likes to hold things in tension.

Saint and sinner.

Law and Gospel.

Already and not yet.

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

I imagine you’ve experienced this kind of joy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

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

[ii] Ibid.

[iii] Ibid.

Persistent Joy

Sermon preached Sunday, February 18, 2024, the First Sunday of Lent, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA. 

On Wednesday we began a new Lenten series. Throughout the weeks of Lent and up through Easter Sunday, we will be reflecting on the idea of Joy. Where do we experience joy? How do we experience it? How is the complexity of joy like the complexity of God and our relationships with God and with others? Each week we examine another facet. Today? Persistent joy.

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. God promises persistence.

There’s a phrase that I’m 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, aside from wild beasts and angels, 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.

In that, there is our salvation. In that, there is deep and abiding joy because we know, deep down, that nothing can separate us from God.

That’s what the rainbow really says. In the end, God hangs up the bow, God hangs up a weapon. God hangs up a promise. A promise of relationship, a promise of salvation, and a promise of persistent joy.

Consider so many moments in human history when the main theme was struggle. In battles against oppression, in the face of poverty, in the midst of grief and loss, in natural disaster devastation. Somehow, someway, even in heartbreaking and bleak times, glimmers of joy manage to shine through.

I think about the civil rights movement of the 1960s and the songs that rang out loudly during marches. I think about Dr. King who leads into his famous lines about his dream with the words, “Let us not wallow in the valley of despair…” and then paints a joyful image of justice and equitable life for all.
I think about the pandemic, especially those early days when we knew so little about COVID-19, we didn’t know exactly how it spread, we knew even less about the long-term impacts, and the medical field was struggling to provide help at the large scale required. We were isolated. We were scared. We were worried: about our health, our finances, our food supply, our toilet paper supply. …and yet, joy persisted. We discovered new ways to stay connected with loved ones. (In my household, we started doing Zoom happy hours with friends who lived across the county and wondered why we hadn’t thought to do that before now!) Actor and director John Krasinski even did a whole show from inside his house highlighting good news stories that were coming out from around the world, helping us all laugh and smile and not feel quite so alone.

And I think about my own growing up in California and the wildfire threats that came around, that still come around with increasing frequency. The worst part about wildfires, in my opinion, is that they can last a while, they can move and shift and change directions quickly and can last weeks. A tornado, a hurricane, a mudslide, a flood, all can be catastrophic, but usually don’t linger.

On year when I was in high school, we were out of school for two weeks due to both direct threat from the fire and from the poor air quality. (In southern California our classroom windows were slats, our hallways all outdoors and we had no central air.) It was always an anxiety producing time and I have very distinct memories of being glued to the news coverage when a fire was raging while I was in Ohio at college. I couldn’t look away, so worried I was that the fire would take my family’s home or threaten a friend.

And one day, a friend posted a story on Facebook. She worked at Starbucks at the time, in the area of the fire but not so close that her store was closed. She posted a selfie of her and who else but the then-Governor of California, Arnold Schwarzenegger, who had come in with his team for coffee while taking a break from touring the devastation.

Obviously, none of us wanted the fire to happen, we would never trade a celebrity selfie for the horror of a fire cresting over a hill and hopping a freeway…but it was a small moment of persistent joy that came through nonetheless.

Joy, persistent as a weed that continues to pop up no matter how many times you think you’ve gotten the last of it. That is God’s promise to us: even in the bleakest moments, God’s love, light, grace, salvation, and joy is there with us.

Amen.

Glory and the Cross

Sermon preached Sunday, February 11, 2024, Transfiguration Sunday, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA. 

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 the reflection of these preachers, scholars, and theologians 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. As I listened to this week’s episode, I was reminded of a conversation around these lectionary texts that came up a couple years ago. One of the contributors made a point that I have come back to several times since.  

 

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. 

Healing for a Purpose

Sermon preached Sunday, February 4, 2024, the Fifth Sunday after Epiphany, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA. 

We’re still pretty early in the liturgical year. In our Gospel readings, we’re in the first Chapter of Mark. In Mark 1, Jesus has been busy. He’s been baptized by John, tempted in the wilderness, called some disciples, cast out some demons, and now he’s healing people. All this, in just twenty-five verses, because the first nine verses describe what’s happening before Jesus even shows up. Mark moves at a break-neck pace, with everything happening “immediately,” and yet Mark is still painting a picture. He is trying to establish who Jesus is and what Jesus has come to do—and the fact that we get these many healings so early on in Jesus’ ministry means something.

Jesus, Mark tells us, is not just a teacher or a preacher or a prophet. He is a healer, a restorer, a compassionate leader who seeks reconciliation.

The healing of Simon’s mother is brief in the text: the whole encounter is covered in three verses. It is brief in the text, but even in its brevity, it has a lot to say. There are a couple words here that stick out to me. First, it says Jesus “lifted her up.” This is the same word that will later be used to describe how Jesus was “raised” from the dead, so we have resurrection undertones. Secondly, it says that after she was healed, she began to serve. The word here is the same word that is the root of Deacon, a position in the church defined and shaped by service in the world.

So at it’s surface it’s a simple healing and Simon’s mother goes back to living her life. But if we look deeper, this healing is more than just curing a physical ailment. She is lifted up and then immediately moves to service. She has been raised to serve, raised for a purpose.

Could that be true of all who come to Christ for healing?

Could that be true of us?

Illness can come in so many forms.

Of course, it can be physical. Our bodies, even despite our most intense efforts, will all eventually decay and shut down. There are sudden and acute things like injuries, infections, or heart attacks. There are slower moving culprits, like a silent undetectable cancer or encroaching dementia.

There are mental illnesses, both those clinically diagnosed by psychologists and those that might not quite reach that level but cause distress nonetheless.

Our spirits may be in need of healing, beaten down by guilt or shame or just plain exhaustion from the experience of being human.

Last week, the Sesame Street character, Elmo, posted a question on his social media accounts. (Maybe you’ve heard this story.) He wrote, “Elmo is just checking in! How is everybody doing?”
At first, the responses were pretty innocuous. “I’m good, hope you are, too!” “Going to the store to buy groceries!” You know, simple, sort-of silly things you might say to a puppet’s Instagram account.

But then, it almost seems like a dam broke. It seems like people felt they could be vulnerable with this fuzzy red monster from a neighborhood that they visited in their childhood. The answers got real. Some were still celebrations about jobs or life milestones, but there were more, many more, that were honest about the struggle so many of us feel.

Elmo’s question, “How is everybody doing?” got answers I don’t think the folks at Sesame Workshop expected:

“So tired, I struggle to get out of bed.”

“Could be better.”

“I lost my partner 85 days ago. I am lost without him.”

“I’m feeling really unanchored, like I’m floating in the wind with no direction or control.”

“I wish I could say okay. It’s been really rough.”

Each time, Elmo responded with a thoughtful and caring comment and, when needed, a link for more resources or support.

This post and its accompanying comments served to illustrate that so many of us are struggling. So many of us are in need of healing, in all its forms. We are not alone in this. So many of us are experiencing similar struggles.

Yes, I would wager a bet that all of us, in some way, are in need of healing: for the physical, the mental, the spiritual, or some other dimension I’m not even considering.

And that healing can arrive in just as many varied forms as the illness itself.

There is, of course, the healing that has been discovered and developed and supported by science. Medicine, clinical therapies, changes in diet or physical activity. These strategies and tools are gifts from God in and of themselves, God working with and through our society to find ways of providing relief.

But we know that there are other kinds of healing, too.

We can’t fix a broken relationship by taking a pill.

We can’t stave off loneliness by eating a more balanced diet.

We can’t increase our capacity for compassion and grace by following a scheduled protocol.

That’s when we need God.

It is God who forgives us, who enables us to forgive others, who allows us to accept forgiveness from others.

It is God who brings together communities of faith and empowers them to support one another through the highs and lows of life. Who helps us create a space that is open to varied personalities and ideas and backgrounds, but protected from bigotry and further oppression for the most vulnerable.

It is God who sees how we are overwhelmed by the world’s deep need and who buoys us in our small efforts of impact.

It is God who provides that wholeness of healing, that healing that sets us up to serve, not unlike Simon’s mother.

Not in a mercenary way, like God is just healing us so that we can be shipped out to the front lines of mission…but in a beautiful, freeing way, like all that has been keeping us from being fully engaged in service has been that thing within us in need of healing.

I wonder if this sounds too simple, too naïve.

I know that healing, in whatever form is required, is not simple. On the contrary, it is often very difficult to experience and takes time and stages, not an easy flip-of-a-switch. And yet, we trust that God will provide it. And we trust that God will heal us for service, even if it’s not-quite-all-the-way-at-once, even if it happens in fits and starts, even if it is more of a cycle of healing, rather than a straightforward line.

And it is in that vein that we serve: not as perfect, not as “finished products,” but as ever-healing disciples, raised up to care for our world.

Martin Luther wrote, “A Christian is a perfectly free lord of all, subject to none. A Christian is a perfectly dutiful servant of all, subject of all, subject to all.”[i]

Maybe you’ve heard that quote before. It bears repeating: “A Christian is a perfectly free lord of all, subject to none. A Christian is a perfectly dutiful servant of all, subject of all, subject to all.”

In other words, God does not demand service as a price for the healing God so lovingly bestows. Instead, caring for our neighbors and the creation around us is a blessing, a gift, an honor, that we are enabled to do only because God has cared for us first.

Like illness, like healing, that service itself has many shapes to it. Small acts, like giving food to a local food pantry, volunteering at a cold weather shelter, or pushing back against hateful or hurtful rhetoric spoken by another. Bigger acts, like organizing a clothing drive, providing a weekly meal, or supporting conversations around difficult topics of injustice. Large-scale efforts like advocating for policy changes that better the lives of the underrepresented or demonstrations for peace.

Service looks like that and it looks like so many other things God has called the faithful to do, caring for one another as God is caring for us.

To paraphrase Elmo, “How are you?”

Allow yourself to move past the “I’m fines,” and reflect on the places in your life that are in need of healing. I have mine. You very likely have yours.

God knows where you are hurting. God knows what healing you need and will provide. God will lift you up and inspire you to serve.

Amen.

[i] Martin Luther, “Freedom of a Christian.”

What are We Waiting For?

Sermon preached Sunday, January 21, 2024, the Third Sunday after Epiphany, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour in North Chesterfield, VA. 

I’m a planner. It doesn’t mean that I can’t or won’t be spontaneous, but I prefer to know what’s coming, what I have waiting for me down the pike. I want to plan, to feel as if I have some control, and so I’ll often have three or four scenarios laid out, ready to be used when I need them.

My mom’s the same way, too. Neither of us can stand feeling as though we have no control over our futures and so we take control whenever and however we can.

Whenever a big life change is on the horizon, the lists, the googling, the contingencies begin.

When we were looking to buy a house, there were a series of plans that were begun and discarded as offers weren’t accepted or as we didn’t like a house as much in person as we did in pictures.

When I got pregnant with Owen, pinterest became my best friend as I looked up pregnancy tips, newborn care advice, nursery decorating ideas, and recipes for freezer meals to carry us through those early days when we didn’t have the energy to cook. It was less intense with Ellie, but had the added complication of the damage to our house which required a whole other list of plan b’s to be prepared.

One of the trickiest parts of Owen’s treatment is our lack of ability to definitively plan. Anyone who has had or accompanied someone with a severe or chronic illness knows what it’s like to constantly have doctors appointments popping up or clinic visits being rearranged or having circumstances mean that a certain activity is no longer a good idea.

And it’s hard.

…I like to plan.

Which makes it extremely hard for me to identify with the disciples called by Jesus in this morning’s Gospel. What they do is so far outside my wheelhouse!

Can you imagine what it must have been like for these men? Can you imagine picking up and leaving your entire life after one sentence from stranger? They are fishing—likely what they did every day. There’s not a lot of job or financial security in fishing: each day they had to bring in enough to feed themselves, their families, and to sell or trade. So, them leaving is a big deal. It’s not calling in sick from work for a couple days—it’s abandoning your livelihood!

Simon and Andrew hear Jesus call to them, “Follow me and I will make you fish for people.” And immediately they leave their nets and follow him. A little further, Jesus calls to James and John and, again immediately, they leave their family business and follow him. They have no income. No backup plan. No knowledge of what they might be getting themselves into. All Jesus has said is “Follow me” and they do!

No questions asked. …No security. …No guarantee or contingency plan.

And they don’t just leave—that would be bold enough on its own!—they leave immediately. They act immediately to the call from God.

This word, “immediately,” is a hallmark of this Gospel. Over and over again, as we make our way through Mark, we will hear how things are happening right away. This Gospel moves at a fast clip and the listener is asked to keep up!

How many things do we do immediately? Without any delay? [Beat] Maybe I’m just a major procrastinator, but I can’t think of a lot. Things that we do immediately. Not soon. Not in a timely manner. Not before a deadline. Immediately.

It’s remarkable, really. These disciples hear God calling them and decide that they can’t wait another second longer to join in. Jesus gives an invitation, and they take him up on it right away!

Do you hear it? Jesus calling you? This call, this invitation is not just for the individuals who will eventually become the Twelve Disciples. No, it is for us all: for every hearer of these words, for every person who busy doing the work of everyday life, Jesus calls us. Jesus calls us to life: new, abundant, transformative, immediate life.

How do we react to that call? What is our response? Do we act immediately? What keeps us from acting immediately? These first disciples are so filled with faith and hope at Jesus’ call that they cannot help themselves—they must follow him. What dampens that same fire and spirit in us?  What stands in the way of following Jesus into immediate, abundant life?

Unfortunately, the answer to that question is a rather long list. We have our busy schedules, which make carving out time for ourselves, let alone our faith community and spiritual lives a challenge. It’s hard to focus on what God is calling you to do when a new Facebook notification pops up. Every other story in the news makes us worry and encourages us to be more cautious with others, more on guard, more fearful of being hurt or taken advantage of. The political and societal climate encourages us to blame others and surround ourselves with only those who agree with us, instead of encouraging understanding, compassion, and compromise.

I could go on, but this is stuff you know already. You know what keeps you from acting on God’s call. You know what disheartens you. You know the reasons why you feel exhausted and why the notion of doing anything “immediately,” even the work of the Gospel, seems far-fetched.

Maybe the remedy comes, at least in part, from this community. Maybe this community of faith, gathered in spirit, is the thing that allows us to act with immediacy, the energy source of our faith. Here we are renewed and sustained and sent back out into the world.

The community can speak when we don’t know how to. When our faith is strong, we can sing loud and proud. When it is weak, we can let others proclaim God’s grace for us. When we’re not sure of where we stand with God, we make the sign of the cross and remember that we have been claimed and named as God’s children. Let that fire of faith be rekindled in you each week.

And when the worship service is over? Kindle each other’s flames! Encourage one another. Reach out to each other. Help one another in serving God’s mission.

Jesus calls the first disciples to be “fishers of people.” It’s a funny term. The mental picture of a bunch of people being drawn up in a net like fish is frankly a little odd. But that’s what Jesus says: “fishers of people.”

We won’t always be the fishers. We won’t always be the ones proclaiming the Good News loudly. Sometimes we’ll be the fish, swimming in the murky waters, deep below the surface, unaware of the light that awaits us. We are fishers and we are fish. Another preacher put it this way: “Following Jesus means becoming a fish as well as groping for other fish to draw into the net.” (from Sundays and Seasons: Preaching 2021)

And why do we grope for other fish?

It’s not to increase our attendance numbers. It’s not to get more kids coming on a weekly basis. It’s not to increase our offerings or have a youth group with twenty kids in it. All of these may be positive things, but they are not why we are called to be fishers of people. They are not ultimately the work of the Church or the mission of God.

We are called to fish for people to share the Good News of Jesus Christ with them and to help others be aware of the immediacy of God’s abundant grace. With one action, Christ’s death and resurrection, we are forgiven, redeemed, saved—once and for all. This is the mission of the church: share the good news and share it immediately. It’s too incredible to let it wait.

“The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near…”

…So what are we waiting for?

Amen.

Haunted

Sermon preached Sunday, January 7, 2023, Baptism of Our Lord, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour, in North Chesterfield, VA. 

I have had baptism on the brain lately.

It’s not just because I knew this reading was coming up, as it always does, right after Epiphany. No, I think it’s because there is a lot of baptism in my life right now.

You all bore witness to Ellie’s baptism in November. Very good friends of ours are having their baby baptized this morning in York, Pennsylvania. And in a couple weeks, I will be in Pittsburg participating in the baptism of my newest godson, Asher. I just ordered his “snuggly saint,” a stuffed doll of St. Brigid made my orthodox nuns in Kentucky, to go with his older brother’s St. George.
So, yes, I’ve had baptism on the brain.

And all of these baptisms have involved babies. Babies under six months old, who are still sleepy and mostly helpless. We baptize infants and young children because we know it is God acting in that water and in those words and we trust that God’s promises come through. We do not wait for people to “understand,” as if we every fully could. Still, because we baptize so young, and because infant baptism has become the norm in our tradition, sometimes the way we view baptism doesn’t get the full picture.

When we picture a baptism, we picture a family, a baby held in arms, maybe wearing a special outfit. That sweet little face is sometimes sleeping, sometimes not, sometimes screaming when the water hits their head, but that just makes the congregation chuckle a little bit. It is a sweet moment. But baptism, at its core, isn’t a sweet, saccharine thing portrayed by a Precious Moments figuring. It is, or it has the power to be, life-changing. It is a radical act of love by God.

Another pastor was talking about baptism and he used a quote from the novel “A River Runs Through It”: “I am haunted by water.” He went on to explore the things we are haunted by and how, in some parts, we are haunted by the waters of baptism.

At first reading, this troubled me. After all, “haunted” is a word with pretty bad connotations, right? We use it to talk about ghosts, or trauma, or addictions, things that are terrible, but that we can’t escape from.

I took the liberty of looking up the actual definition of haunt and, while there are some examples where the word is used to describe the paranormal or something disturbing, there is also a way in which this word means to simply be persistently in the mind of…and isn’t our baptism, ideally, something that should be persistently in our minds?

Certainly, there are those negative things we are haunted by:

• Despair, when we see violence and the death of innocent people, or oppression and injustice.
• Cynicism, when we know that the world is not fair and we expect others to take advantage of us at every turn.
• Indifference, when we are faced with big issues of climate change, political turmoil, hunger, and unaffordable housing and it’s hard to imagine that our actions could have any sort of impact whatsoever.
• Loneliness, when friendships break down and relationships become a struggle.
• Guilt, our own guilt that we just aren’t enough—good enough, smart enough, wealthy enough, far enough along on this imaginary life checklist.

We are haunted by all the feelings that attempt to tell us, over and over again, that we aren’t okay, that we aren’t really loved, that we aren’t really forgiven, that we aren’t really God’s.

But then we can remember that we are also haunted by baptism, we are also haunted by the water that God has troubled and stirred up and made holy on our behalf, and the only water that can quiet those other persistent occupiers of our mind. This water refreshes, renews, restores, and fills up the nooks and crannies where those other haunts reside.In baptism, God makes us children and heirs of the promise of salvation. We are claimed and named as God’s beloved and sealed with the cross of Christ forever. How is that for persistence?

Baptism does not mean an easy life. It doesn’t mean a simple one. It doesn’t mean that everything we do will be perfect or that we will never struggle with those old haunts of despair or loneliness or guilt. It’s likely we will, because we are human and our brains and hearts and spirits often communicate different things to us, even things that we know aren’t true, but we still can’t shake.

No, baptism is not a magic wand for a perfect life. Instead, it is a grounding, a life-line, a way-station in a turbulent world. It never lets us forget the ultimate truth of who we are and who we belong to. Baptism means that even when (not if!) we are haunted by things that seek to hurt us or separate us from God and our neighbor, God will not allow it. The tether will hold fast and lead us back to God’s abundant grace and love and mercy.

Several weeks ago, I was talking with someone who struggled for a long time with anxiety and depression. (I have their permission to share this story.) After years with therapy and different medications, they still weren’t quite at the baseline that most of us who do not have clinical depression and anxiety live at. Last January, they began Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation, or TMS, and they also embarked on a wonderful and fulfilling new relationship. Both the TMS and the relationship, along with the established meds and therapy, were life-changing.

2023 rolled along with a new sense of peace and happiness. The same things that would have caused anxiety spirals the year before were now dealt with in a more even-keeled manner. I experienced more openness and engagement in-person than I’d seen in a while.

And then, at the beginning of December, I got a text message asking to talk. When I called back, they told me that they were feeling the way they did before. It had all come flooding back, the same feelings of anxiety and depression and the helplessness of it all. And on top of it, I think there was fear that this was the new normal again.

As we talked, I reminded them again and again that the work they’d done, the progress they’d made with TMS, the development of this healthy relationship, it was not all for naught. It didn’t go away because there was this step back. It felt like drowning, but they could see the surface of the water and a hand reaching down to help them. In the end, this episode only lasted a day or two, which was pretty great compared to before.

For me, this is similar to how I think about baptism. It doesn’t erase the bad parts of our lives. It doesn’t cure physical illness or mental health struggles. It doesn’t repair broken ties in our families or communities. BUT it can keep us from drowning. It can remind us of the good in our lives, the love of God, and the support of our faith community.

We can’t keep ourselves from being haunted. We can’t create an emotional bubble suit around ourselves. Not only would it be impossible, but it would also prevent us from living the whole human experience. So yes, we will be haunted by things like loneliness and guilt and indifference. But, and most importantly, we are also and always haunted, in the best possible sense, by water, by love, by grace—by our baptism.

Amen.

A World Turned Right-Side-Up

Sermon preached Sunday, December 3, 2023, the Second Sunday of Advent, at Lutheran Church of Our Saviour, in Chesterfield, VA.

The readings we have in church each Sunday go in a three-year cycle. Last year, most of the readings were from the Gospel of Matthew, right up until we began Advent last week. So, this church year, most of our readings will be from the Gospel of Mark. Not all of them: Mark is the shortest of the Gospels and we’d run out of material. To fill out the calendar, there’s a healthy dose from the Gospel of John, too.

If you’ve never sat down and read each Gospel from beginning to end, you might not realize the extent to which each Gospel has its own unique voice, its own unique characteristics. Each Gospel writer has particular words they are fond of, each highlights different aspects of Jesus’ life and ministry.

As I said, Mark is the shortest Gospel. It is spare on the details—it’s been described that he’s like a beat reporter, or a court stenographer. “Just the facts, ma’am.” For example, Jesus’ 40 days in the desert being tempted by the devil gets exactly one sentence. Mark doesn’t include any pieces of narrative that he doesn’t think are essential.

Which brings us to the reading from today. This is the very beginning of the Gospel, the first eight verses. Mark gives us an unusually large amount of detail: quotations of John, citations of scripture, a depiction of how John looked…so, obviously, it’s got to be important! It’s also important to point out that this is where Mark believes the Gospel should begin: with John the Baptist, not with the birth of Christ. Mark doesn’t have the story of Jesus’ nativity. For Mark, this proclamation by John the Baptist is much more vital.

Why? Why does Mark choose to begin here?

It’s a common saying that the purpose of the Gospel is to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. In other words, the Gospel brings hope to people who are hopeless and points out hypocrisy and sin among those who have forgotten the most vulnerable in favor of their own benefit.

This is essentially what John the Baptist is doing! He is proclaiming the word of God, preaching baptism for the forgiveness of sins. For people who know they are sinful and in need of grace, this is wonderful news! For people like Herod, who don’t want to admit they’ve done anything wrong, he is disruptive and a nuisance. His words comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.

We know this to be true, don’t we? When justice comes, it is a relief to many and, to others, it might feel like a punishment. Think about the civil rights movement. For people of color, it meant not having to live as second-class citizens. For many white people, it meant giving up a certain sense of superiority and systemic power. The loss of privilege can feel like oppression if one has always been privileged.

Comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.

John the Baptist announces the coming of Christ, the one who will feed his flock like a shepherd, who will gather the lambs in his arms and carry them. (Isaiah 40:11)

…The one who will baptize us with the Holy Spirit.

The one who will call disciples and make them fish for people. The one who will cast out demons and heal many. The one who will still storms and walk on water and feed multitudes. The one who will be arrested and beaten and crucified. The one who will die and rise again.

The one who will be the embodiment of God’s reign of justice and peace for all people. The one who protects the vulnerable and dismantles oppressive systems. The one who came to save all people, not just the people we like.

Not all these things are good news to the people John is preaching to. If the status quo has been working for you, why would you want it to change? If the way things are benefits you, why would you want to give it up? If we’re comfortable with world as is, these words are afflicting. If we’re comfortable now, we actively oppose ushering in the reign of God because things are working out pretty well for us.

But when we let go, when we relinquish control, when we stop fighting God’s purpose for us, we are able to clearly see the incredible things God can do and see that those things are infinitely better than any supposed comfort we might create for ourselves.

We may lose some of our wealth because we are sharing more of it, but we will gain compassion and joy.

We may lose some of our privileges, but we will gain relationships with people.

We may lose the illusion of safety and security based on isolation and exclusion, but we will gain encounters with more of God’s children than we might have before.

We may lose everything we think we can’t live without, but we already have all we need in Christ.

If Advent reminds us of anything, it is the fact that when God is involved, things change.

This is a poem written by Mark Oldenburg, a friend, pastor, and retired professor of worship at United Lutheran Seminary in Gettysburg. This text has been set to music and I was first exposed to it several years ago. In the words, we explore two key people in the nativity narrative, Mary and Herod, and how Christ coming into the world changes the world they live in. It begins with the phrase “This is the Night,” a phrase usually used to announce the Easter Vigil, recalling how the night the resurrection happened changed everything. Oldenburg reminds us that the miraculous events of Christmas carry the same weight and importance as Easter. Resurrection cannot happen without incarnation. Listen to what he says:

“This is the night

dark turns to light

silence to song

weak into strong.

For with this birth

God enters earth,

our death to take,

our chains to break.

This is the night.

O Mary, trust that you will bear

the child, the Christ, the Word,

whose life and death bring to birth

a new and better world:

a word where all the last are first

and all the lost are found;

a world where low are lifted high—

a world turned upside down.

O Herod, clinging to the old

and fearful of the new:

you need not kill this newborn king;

his world will welcome you,

where every voice will bear a song,

and every head a crown;

a world where crimes are washed away,

a world turned upside down.

God, comfort us with confidence

that Christ will all transform

and, through us, fill this present age

with hints of what’s to come,

where all shall share the banquet feast

and over-flowing cup;

a world aligned with your own will—

a world turned right-side-up.”

(Rev. Dr. Mark Oldenburg, “A World Turned Upside Down,” written for Music, Gettysburg! Christmas Offering, 2017)

Be reminded of that this Advent. We prepare the way of the Lord, the way of the one who will change things, who will restore creation, who will put everything right-side-up.

Amen.

Identity

Sermon preached the weekend of October 10, 2021, the Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost, at Grace Lutheran Church in Westminster, Maryland. 

Well, this is the second week in a row where I wish I Jesus had been a little heavier on the love and a little lighter on the words of law. Thanks, Jesus. But here we are: last week was divorce and this week Jesus is talking about another “off-limits” topic—money.

We have this funny relationship with finances and faith. It seems that, for many people, God has something to say about every aspect of our lives, except our budget: that we think should be left alone. But is there really anything that God should not have a say in? Do we really believe that God doesn’t care what we do with our resources? We read passages like today and explanations start rolling in about what Jesus “really” meant when he talked about a camel and an eye of a needle. But we cannot ignore Jesus’ words when he said, “How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!” Hard, he says, not impossible.

Most of us, as Christians who live in an extremely wealthy nation, who, by virtue of owning a television or refrigerator, are wealthier than many in the world, face a pretty challenging dilemma. It is a struggle for us to figure out how to use our money in a faithful way that honors God. There are so many ways we choose to use our money and we are prone to give to something “fun” before we give to God’s work in the world.

But let’s get back to the Gospel story this morning. Can you imagine being this wealthy man who comes up to Jesus? He has lived his life by the rules taught to him. He follows the Jewish law to a “T.” He keeps the commandments handed down to Moses and passed through the generations. He doesn’t murder or commit adultery. He doesn’t steal or bear false witness. He honors his father and mother. And through it all, he has managed to amass quite a nice life for himself. The text says he has a lot of possessions. In my mind, I see him with probably a large home, filled with servants to do his bidding; luxurious clothing, fine wine, ample stores filled with whatever he might decide he wants. And this wealth that he possesses gives him power, status, and security.

Jesus tells this man to sell everything he owns and give the proceeds to the poor. What a command! Before Jesus says this, however, he looks at him and loves him. Did you catch that? This man is loved by God before he has checked off all the boxes on his “to-do” list and before he has followed through on Jesus’ next steps. Jesus, just in looking at him, loved him.

This is really important for us to hear. It is vital that we hear how precious we are in the sight of God, how beloved we are, even when we may not be doing all we could theoretically do to support God’s reign in the world.

The same is true of the disciples. The disciples are constantly trying to do everything right. They are like overeager students whose only goal is to impress the teacher. They aim to prove that they are the smartest, the most dedicated, the most faithful, the most spirit-filled person in Jesus’ entourage…and they almost always get it completely wrong. They argue about who is the greatest and Jesus reminds them that the one who wants to be great must be a servant of all. They get upset because some unnamed exorcist is casting out demons and Jesus tells them, “Whoever is not against us is for us.”

Here, Peter tries to tell Jesus (can you imagine?) that the disciples have done everything they possibly can to follow Jesus. Jesus’ response, of course, is to remind them that there is always more to give. Peter says that the disciples have left everything and followed you and Jesus pushes back.

Jesus makes promises to the disciples, promises that carry through to us. Jesus tells the disciples, “Truly I tell you, there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields, for my sake and for the sake of the good news, who will not receive a hundredfold now in this age—houses, brothers and sisters, mothers and children, and fields with persecutions.” When we give up all that we have, when we use our resources to provide for the poor and all dismissed by society, when we care more for the well-being of others than ourselves, there will be consequences.

These consequences have to do with where we inevitably find our identity. If our identity is in this world, then we must be concerned about titles or bank accounts, or how many people invite us to parties. We would be people who pursue money and personal wealth rather than disciples of Jesus who choose to live simpler and share what they have. We would stay with people who are like us—same socio-economic status, same race, same language, same culture—instead of struggling and working to build relationships with those we have little in common with because they, like us, are loved by God.

Jesus’ words here are a challenge to us, to the disciples, to the original rich man. This man must revisit his identity. As a wealthy man, this man was part of certain social circles. He wielded a certain amount of power. Take away his possessions, and he is a nobody with no influence. Who is he now?

The disciples are revisiting their identities as well. They assumed that they were already doing everything they needed to do to be a disciple of Jesus, and then Jesus tells them it takes more sacrifice and more giving of oneself—it’s not just about following the letter of the law.

And Jesus invites us to revisit our identity…because the promise Jesus makes us is not only in the afterlife. The promise that Jesus makes us is one of a new identity and new community: today, here, and now.

“Truly I tell you, there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields, for my sake and the sake of the good news, who will not receive a hundredfold now in this age—houses, brothers and sisters, mothers and children, and fields…”

We tend to hear this in a very individual way: we, our selves, will each receive hundredfold these abundant blessings. …but what if we change our way of thinking? What if these hundredfold gifts are what this new, God-infused community receives?

We will receive a new community, a new family in the body of Christ, a new life to live into. We are graced with new relationships that form and blossom when our identity moves beyond our bank balance or list of assets. And this new community is reshaped and reformed each week as we gather together in-person and online to participate in hearing the word and receiving the sacraments.

At the font we confess our sins together and hear forgiveness proclaimed for us, beloved children of God, brothers and sisters in Christ. At the table we stand or sit together, equally in need of the body and blood of our self-giving God.

Your deepest identity is found with God: you are a created, loved, redeemed, blessed child of God. How incredible would it be if we operated out of that identity? Would our relationships change? Would our interactions with strangers change? Would the amount of unnecessary stuff we keep in our home change? Would the amount of money we give to God and God’s work in the world change?

There’s only one way to find out.

Amen.

What It Means to Take Up a Cross

Sermon preached Saturday, September 11, and Sunday, September 12, 2021, the Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost, at Grace Lutheran Church in Westminster, Maryland. 

Jesus asks Peter, “Who do you say that I am?”

If Jesus asked this question of you, what would you say? There are a lot of titles to choose from. Jesus is teacher. Jesus is healer. Jesus is advocate. Jesus is partner. Jesus is savior. Jesus is leader. Jesus is a justice-seeker.

Jesus asks Peter, and Peter says, “You are the Messiah.” Jesus is the Messiah, but Peter didn’t understand what that truly meant. When Peter calls Jesus the Messiah, the word is loaded with expectations Jesus has no intention to fulfill. Prior to Jesus, ideas of the Messiah had to do with judgement or military might or kingship or something different altogether. There was no consensus. Many of the first century Jews longing for their savior were looking for a commander of armies to drive the Romans out of Israel.

Jesus, on the other hand, does not speak of fighting wars and winning battles. Instead, he teaches his disciples that he must undergo suffering and die. Jesus is the Messiah, but he is unlike any Messiah the disciples have anticipated. Peter can’t handle it. Peter may know that Jesus is the Messiah, but he doesn’t want to hear a thing about the cross.

There are all sorts of ways we can refer to Jesus: Messiah, teacher, friend, activist, healer…but all of them are meaningless if we do not keep the cross at the center. The cross is what grounds every piece of our faith. It’s been said that, “Just as Jesus is our lens for seeing who God is, the cross is our lens for truly seeing Jesus.” (Erica Gibson-Even)

We cannot separate Jesus from the cross. It’s all around us. Martin Luther suggested one way of reminding ourselves of that fact. He recommended that every morning and every evening, we make the sign of the cross. Luther believed that our days should begin and end with the cross.

The cross all around us—in jewelry, architecture, knickknacks from the Hallmark Store. This weekend, as we commemorate twenty years since 9/11, I am reminded of the cross at ground zero, the remnants of broken steel beams that kept vigil over ground zero.

Crosses are all around—but it hasn’t always been that way. The earliest Christians and Jesus-followers avoided using the cross. After all, it was an instrument of torture, terror and execution. It would be like using an electric chair or gallows. It was offensive. It was scandalous. And it was a symbol of the oppressive government that had sentenced their Messiah to death. It took time for it to be representative of our faith, instead of just a weapon of choice for the Roman Empire.

And now, we are removed from the history of the cross and the legacy of scandal. Crucifixion is no longer the most popular means of death for people to be kept in their place. We are left, two thousand years later, trying to figure out what it means to take up our own metaphorical cross…and in our attempts to deal with this reality of the cross, we can fall into two traps: we can cry “persecution!” at every tiny slight, or at the opposite end, minimize all kinds injustice and suffering as par for the course.

One the one hand, it can be tempting to call every hardship we might face a cross. We could say that a long commute is a cross. We could point to the weeds that sprout up in our yard despite our best efforts a cross. We could call the never ending piles of laundry that reappear week after week, or the sign that tells us “no shirt, no shoes, no service,” a cross…but they are not. We are not oppressed by these things. These are minor inconveniences that we want to call “cross” so that we can play the martyr. It’s tempting, but none of these things have anything to do with us living as Christ has called us.

On the other hand, there are a lot of Christian clichés that seek to either glorify or minimize suffering. When someone loses a job or gets a bad diagnosis or faces any kind of difficult period in their life, we say things like, “This is your cross to bear,” or “God has given you this test.” I’m sure you’ve heard some of the platitudes people offer, often with good intentions, that do not take seriously the difficulties or systemic injustice people face.

So that leaves us trying to find a middle way…trying to discern where the cross is in our own lives. We all have a cross, or two, or three. The trick is parsing them out—and then taking them up.

As one preacher put it, “Taking up our cross and following [Jesus] means, most basically, acknowledging that we are powerless to save our own lives—powerless in the face of our own sin, in the face of the brokenness of the world, in the face of death. We don’t have to seek out a cross to bear—for most of us, this reality is always chipping at the foundations of our illusions and best efforts.” (Erica Gibson-Even)

What are you powerless against? What crosses are you carrying? Really think—because they’re there. I’m not saying that there are not resources in our world that might help us…but these crosses require more than a quick fix or an easy solution. They affect our entire beings.

We are powerless against…what, exactly? We are powerless against a life-altering diagnosis. A relationship we have no clue how to repair. A lost job. A dead loved one. A mental illness. A natural disaster, like the ones that don’t seem to stop coming lately. This global pandemic we’re still not out of. We can take steps, we can seek help, we can attempt to do our part, but too much is out of our control.

No, if there’s one thing the world has plenty of, it’s crosses. But the good news is that we need not fear death from any of them. Through his own death and resurrection, Christ conquered death. Through baptism, we have been joined to Christ in death and been raised to new life. These crosses we carry should be instruments of our own execution, but instead, they become a reminder of our unity with Jesus and his resurrection. Our crosses are transformed and taken up by God so that we are equipped to carry them forward.

The traditional Good Friday liturgy involves a procession with a cross. The cross is carried in and pauses three times on its way up to the altar. At each stopping point, the crucifer proclaims, “Behold, the life-giving cross, on which was hung the salvation of the whole world.” The assembly responds, “O come, let us worship him.” Even on Good Friday when the cross should be seen through the most sinister and terrifying lens, we announce that it is in fact life-giving.

We are joined to Christ and that life-giving cross—joined through the waters of baptism. In that baptism, God claims us and names us as beloved children and starts us on a journey to where God is calling us and where God already is. As Rowan Williams, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, commented, “If being baptized is being led to where Jesus is, then being baptized is being led towards the chaos and the neediness of a humanity that has forgotten its own destiny.” (Being Christian, 5) I’ll read that again. [Repeat]

We are being called to the crosses of humanity. We are being called to carry our crosses into the world so that we might help other people shoulder theirs as well. Doing God’s work, with our hands. Our crosses are not eliminated, but we are given the strength to do what God is calling us to, despite the weight. We engage with others and they engage with us and all of our burdens are lighter.

Week after week, we come and gather in this space, our shoulders a little slumped, our backs aching from the heavy load…but here we are washed in the font. Here we are fed at the table. Here we are supported by our siblings. Here we are reminded who shares our burden: our teacher, leader, prophet, priest, advocate, healer…and messiah, Jesus Christ.

Amen.