“Then ‘Crucify!’ is All Our Breath”

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

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

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

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

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

My Song Is Love Unknown

1      My song is love unknown,

my Savior’s love to me,

love to the loveless shown

that they might lovely be.

Oh, who am I that for my sake

my Lord should take frail flesh and die?

2      He came from his blest throne

salvation to bestow;

the world that was his own

would not its Savior know.

But, oh, my friend, my friend indeed,

who at my need his life did spend!

3      Sometimes we strew his way

and his sweet praises sing;

resounding all the day

hosannas to our king.

Then “Crucify!” is all our breath,

and for his death we thirst and cry.

 

4      We cry out; we will have

our dear Lord made away,

a murderer to save,

the prince of life to slay.

Yet cheerful he to suff’ring goes

that he his foes from thence might free.

5      In life no house, no home

my Lord on earth might have;

in death no friendly tomb

but what a stranger gave.

What may I say? Heav’n was his home

but mine the tomb wherein he lay.

6      Here might I stay and sing—

no story so divine!

Never was love, dear King,

never was grief like thine.

This is my friend, in whose sweet praise

I all my days could gladly spend!

Text: Samuel Crossman, 1624-1683, alt.

God Acts

Sermon preached Saturday, April 3, 2021, Vigil of Easter, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

We’ve all heard a lot today. From the Easter Proclamation that began our worship in which we cried out “This is the night!” to the Resurrection account from the Gospel of John…we’ve heard all about God’s work throughout human history.

Frankly…I don’t think I have much to add. I think the texts, largely, can speak for themselves.

There’s a recurring theme in the readings. Over and over again, we heard about the ways in which God has acted.

We began at Creation—is there a better place to start? In the midst of chaos and a formless void, God calls forth light and life. Piece by piece, our world is created: land, sea, stars, animals, humanity, vegetation. God acts and life is created.

Next, we heard of the flood, when God, after coming close to giving up on creation completely, resolved to never again abandon humanity.

Then we heard one of the touchstone moments of our faith’s history. After years of slavery and hard labor in Egypt, God decides to work through Moses to free God’s people Israel. Moses has led the Israelite people out of Egypt, but before they can be fully free from Pharaoh’s grasp, they are faced with an sea they cannot cross. The Egyptian army is advancing and death and destruction seem imminent. But we have a God who acts. And this God who acts parts the sea and the Israelite’s walk through on dry land to safety.

Our reading from Isaiah has a different feeling. It is the prophet, Isaiah, proclaiming the words of God. These words, written for Israelites in exile from the promised land, have imperatives: Come! Buy! Drink! Eat! Even in exile, even in despair, God prepares a table for all with water, milk, and wine. Even in tragedy, God is acting to sustain and fill God’s people. And those last few verses? They sum it all up:

“¹⁰For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven,

          and do not return there until they have watered the earth,

          making it bring forth and sprout,

          giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater,

  ¹¹so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;

          it shall not return to me empty,

          but it shall accomplish that which I purpose,

          and succeed in the thing for which I sent it.” (Isaiah 55:10-11)

God’s word does not return empty—it always accomplishes. God’s promises are not in vain—God acts and things happen.

The pinnacle of these texts, of course, is the story of the empty tomb. The whole life, death, and resurrection of Christ is a sign of who powerfully God acts. God acted and came to us in human flesh. God acted and performed miracles, welcomed the outcast, fed the hungry, forgave sins, and proclaimed the expansive love of God. God acted and was crucified by a humanity that would not welcome that expansive love. And—the best part—God acted and came back. The resurrection promises us that God can and will continue to act even after it seems like death has ended it all.

One of our first theologians, Paul, knew this and in his letter to the Romans reminded everyone that God’s action didn’t stop with the resurrection with Christ. God’s action goes on!

³Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death?  ⁴Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life.

⁵For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.  (Romans 6:3-5a)

God’s continuing action means that God continues to give us new life. We are forever joined to Christ in our baptism and there is nothing we can do about it. Our ever-loving God will never abandon us and will always be acting to bring about reconciliation in all of creation.

In the end, it goes back to the beginning. The beginning of creation, the beginning of our service. As I inscribed our new paschal candle, I said these words: “Christ, yesterday and today, the beginning and the ending. To Christ belongs all time and all the ages to Christ belongs glory and dominion now and forever.” Or, to put it another way on at this Easter Vigil, “Christ has died, Christ is Risen, Christ will come again.” Our words proclaim the power of God’s action, then and now.

Resurrection that happened then and resurrection that continues to happen over and over again. Alleluia! Christ is risen! God has acted!

Amen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Recognizing Our Role

Sermon preached Friday, April 2, 2021, Good Friday, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

We’re here on a day that only happens once a year. Some of the rituals, prayers, and practices we participate in tonight are unique. Some might even seem strange…but they’re important. It can be easy, too, to get confused about what it is we’re doing here. The altar is stripped. The sanctuary is more bare than it normally is. I’m not wearing an alb or a stole. We will not be having communion. Tonight is more solemn. More somber. More serious.

It might even look like a funeral. It might look like we’re holding a funeral for Jesus two thousand years later, pretending that we don’t know Easter is around the corner. It might look like we’re playing pretend or forcing ourselves to try and “be sad enough” because, we’ll Jesus died tonight and we’re supposed to be in mourning…

That’s what it might look like—but that’s not what Good Friday is. That’s not why we are gathered here tonight.

Good Friday is an observance of the death of Christ, yes, of course it is. But we are not pretending to crucify him again. We are not pretending like we don’t know the end of the story. Instead, we are here to witness it, to stand at the foot of the cross and worship our God who loved us to the end. And, we are here to recognize our role in the passion of Christ.

You might ask yourself, “Recognize our role? We weren’t alive two thousand years ago! We didn’t deny Christ! We didn’t ask for Barabbas! We didn’t mock Jesus on the cross! We didn’t yell ‘Crucify him!’”

Of course not. But we are humans, part of the fallen humanity that refused to accept a God who offered reconciliation instead of a sword and solidarity with the outcast instead of institutional power. We are part of the humanity who couldn’t handle a God with love so abundant and far-reaching…and so we did the only thing we could think of—we killed him. Tonight, we recognize that we are not innocent in the crucifixion of Jesus. We are complicit.

One of the ways in which we name that complicity is through this service and the Solemn Reproaches, in particular. Towards the end of the service, I will read several stanzas, written as if God were speaking to all of us. Each stanza begins, “O my people, O my church…” These words, words that are hundreds of years old, are still for our ears. In each stanza, God tells us, tells humanity, what God has done and what we have done in return. Whereas God has given us life and light and healing, we continually turn away from God and go our own way.

On Good Friday, it is easy to look at the figures in the passion narrative and feel superior. We are not like Pilate, we tell ourselves. We are not like the Romans. We are not like the crowds shouting for Barabbas. We are not like Peter denying even knowing Jesus. We are not like those people, we assert.

…but we are. And the Solemn Reproaches don’t let us forget that fact. Every stanza, after God repeats all the good that God has done, ends the same way: “…but you have prepared a cross for your savior.” That’s it. We are those people. We have prepared a cross. And tonight, we gather at the foot of it.

The “Good” of Good Friday comes here. The stanzas of the Solemn Reproaches aren’t the final word. They’re not purely condemnation. They’re not meant to just make us feel guilty or depressed or to beat ourselves up. They’re an acknowledgement, an admission of our sin—and then a plea. The refrain of the Reproaches is a plea for mercy: “Holy, holy, holy God, holy and mighty, holy and immortal, have mercy on us.” We cry out to God in praise and in supplication for forgiveness.

Good Friday is “good” because God is good. Good Friday is “good” because God forgives us and loves us, even though we are “those” people. Good Friday is “good” because God came and died for us because we are “those people.”

“Holy God, holy and mighty, holy and immortal, have mercy on us.” Amen.

A New Way

Sermon preached Thursday, April 1, 2021, Maundy Thursday, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

As I was preparing my sermon for tonight, I was really struck by the Gospel story in a new way.

I don’t say that lightly. The story of the Last Supper, Jesus’ last evening with his disciples, is incredibly well known. Not only do we hear it every Holy Week on Maundy Thursday, but we hear segments of this Farewell Discourse throughout the year, and we are reminded of it each time we partake in communion.

Even still, I heard it anew, especially the ending.

Jesus says, “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. ³⁵By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

Even here, even at the end of it all, even though he’s about to be betrayed and denied and beaten and executed—he still has love on his mind.

That’s what this meal is about: love.

And this love is for everyone.

This love is for Judas, who we know is secretly plotting. He is going to tip off the chief priests and lead them to Jesus. And still, Jesus washes his feet. And still, Jesus offers him the same bread and wine.

And this love is for Peter, who we know will end up resorting to violence and denying him. Still, Jesus washes his feet. Still, Jesus offers him the same bread and wine.

And this love is for all those disciples in the upper room, the ones who will hid until Jesus appears to them and struggle to find their way forward.

Still, Jesus washes their feet. Still, Jesus offers them the same bread and wine.

And what’s more?

This love is even, miraculously, blessedly, thankfully, for us, too.

We, who will value power or money over God.

We, who will deny God when things get tough.

We, who will hide when we are afraid.

We, who will hurt our neighbor and be selfish and ignore the injustices around us.

Somehow, God’s abundant, unending love is for us—for us to receive and for us to share. To share freely—with no litmus test to judge another’s qualifications or divisions set up by our politics.

Love—God’s love—is above it all.

Jesus says, “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. ³⁵By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

Let’s be sure that’s what others see.

Amen.

Holy Week in Quarantine

Like just about everyone else, the past three weeks has been an intense time filled with learning new technology and techniques for work and new protocols for just about every other aspect of life.

The Triduum services I lead in my congregation don’t tend to change all that much from year to year: songs might be swapped out, edits to language are made, and, of course, everything is still carefully reviewed several weeks out to make sure we’re not forgetting anything. Then, on Holy Monday, I typically go to a coffee shop and plan out my sermons for the rest of the week: Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I like to do them all at once to give them a cohesive theme and arc (and also to make sure I don’t accidentally repeat myself too much!). Tuesday and Wednesday is bulletin printing and supply checking and phone call making and ticking off all the boxes on a to-do list that somehow keeps getting things added to it.

But then, it’s time. We gather for worship on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday and the Easter Vigil and while it is mentally and physically and emotionally draining to do so many impactful services in so few days, it is amazing. In a very physical and tactile way, I am able to proclaim forgiveness and feed people with Christ and banish the night with light from a candle and hold up the life-giving cross.

This year, obviously, is totally different. We will not gather in person out of love for our neighbor.

What this has meant is that the past several weeks have been a sprint of learning new technology and trying to envision how on earth we could do these services while spread so far apart and isolated.

I think we found some solutions, (you can visit stjohnslittlestown.com/virtual-worship-resources if you want to learn more) but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been exhausting, in a totally different way than it normally is.

Holy Week is so very different…but that’s okay.

It’s okay because God is still present, God is still with us, and Jesus is still risen.

I’ll go ahead and say it a few days early: Alleluia!

Palm Sunday 2020

Sermon preached Sunday, April 5, 2020, Palm Sunday, from my home in Gettysburg, PA during the Covid-19 Stay at Home order.

Today we enter into Holy Week. We accompany Jesus as he enters Jerusalem and will continue to accompany him throughout the entirety of his passion.

But we are not merely spectators: we are participants in the story as members of the human family. We may not have been alive two thousand years ago, but it is our collective human sinfulness that called for Jesus’ death. On Palm Sunday, we highlight the sharp turn we are able to make from shouting “Hosanna!” in the streets to shouting “Crucify him!” outside of Pilate’s residence.

Four our sermon time this morning, I just want to share a poem that has become a beloved hymn text. In fact, this is the hymn I chose to be the hymn of the day today, but, as you know, plans changed. But I still want to share it with you. Listen to it. Ponder it. Reflect on what it means.

“My Song Is Love Unknown” by Samuel Crossman

Nothing Can Seperate

Sermon preached Friday, April 19, 2019, Good Friday, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA. 

If there is one thing you take out of the Passion Story this year, I hope it is the knowledge that nothing can separate you from God.

In the story of the Passion, there are so many characters who fail to do what they should. There are the disciples who fall asleep in the garden and who resort to violence when Jesus calls for peace. There is Judas, who leads the authorities directly to Jesus to arrest him. There are the religious leaders who compel Pilate to punish him. There is the crowd that calls for Barabbas to be released and for Jesus to be crucified. There is Pilate, who finally hands Jesus over for torture and execution and all of the people who carry out the sentence and mock Jesus along the way.

None of these people are doing what God would prefer of them. None of them are faithful and all of them are falling short in different ways.

There are also the characters who do stay with Jesus, who watch and wait at the foot of the cross, like Jesus’ mother, Mary Magdalene, and the disciple whom Jesus loved. There is Joseph of Arimathea who was a secret follower until it really counted and he took a risk and asked Pilate for Jesus’ body. And there are all the woman who readied the spices and ointments for Jesus’ body, even though they never got the chance to use them.

Both groups, those who struggled and those who remained steadfast, are equally valued and equally loved and equally held in relationship with God.

Again, I’ll say, nothing can separate you from God—that is what the cross tells us.

Your own sin cannot keep you from God: no matter what you may have done, small sin or big sin, God is still with you. No matter what you may have failed to do, God is still with you. Like Judas, who Jesus still welcomed to the table or the criminal who Jesus promises to see in Paradise, or the soldiers who Jesus forgives from the cross, God is with you always.

Your own sin cannot keep you from God and whatever hardship or oppression or difficulty of life you might face can’t either. No one’s words or actions—not one thing you might suffer at the hands of others can keep God away.

And how to we know this? Because of the cross. Because of this story. Christ has been there, Christ is there, and Christ is by our side, regardless of the circumstances. Through the cross, we know that God has already felt the full extent of grief, pain, and death and so knows how to be with us through our own trials.

Through the cross, Christ reconciles all people to himself and through the cross God brings salvation to the whole world. Everyone, saint and sinner and all of us who fall somewhere in between are brought back into reconciled relationship with the one who first created us.

Although we use the cross to remind us of this, although the cross is a symbol of our faith, we know that it is not the cross that does this, but the self-sacrificing love of God that can somehow bring life out of an instrument of torture and death.

In a little bit, a cross will be processed in and laid here in front of the altar. During the procession, it is proclaimed: “Behold the life-giving cross on which was hung the savior of the whole world,” and you all as the assembly will respond “O Come, let us worship him.”

You’ll then be invited to come up and reverence the cross in whatever way is meaningful for you. Again, it’s not about worshipping the cross—it’s not divine, only God is. Rather, it is about recognizing how our incredible God can manage to work even in the darkest circumstances and turn even this scandalous, terror inducing thing into a symbol of hope and love and life—life in God and with God, now and forever.

Amen.

Embodied Faith

Sermon preached Thursday, April 18, 2019, Maundy Thursday, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

Welcome to the first of the Three Days, the holiest days of our faith year. Over the next few nights we’ll journey with Jesus from the Upper Room to the Garden to the Cross until, finally, we sit in vigil at the tomb proclaiming the resurrection.

You’ll notice that in these three days my sermons will also be shorter than normal—and there’s good reason for that. The liturgies of these days are so full of action and ritual and scripture that they really speak for themselves…or rather, they allow for each worshipper to have a conversation with them. Too many words on my part would be superfluous.

Out of every worship service we hold, tonight is perhaps the most tangible. It is all about our senses: the items in the sanctuary we see, the water we feel, the bread and wine we taste and smell, the words we hear and say. Every single one of our senses are engaged in some way.

It’s a reminder that our faith is a thing we live out in our bodies, our faith is not just in our minds or something we might feel abstractly—but it is something that is embodied, something we might even feel down in our bones.

Of course, that’s when our faith is strong, when it is so palpable, we can almost physically touch it…but maybe that’s not where you are right now. Maybe you’re struggling to even grasp your faith, let alone feel it in your whole being. Maybe you’ve been feeling disconnected from God…and maybe there’s no better time to let yourself be immersed in the things that can only be sensed. Who knows? Maybe you’ll even sense yourself being called back into that holy relationship.

After all, that’s what kind of what happened at the last supper—Jesus renewed and reinforced his relationships with his disciples even though he knew one was betraying him and another would shortly deny even knowing him. Even then, Jesus shared a meal and washed the feed of those he loved and was in relationship with…and then he told them to keep doing it for each other, knowing that each time they did, their relationship with each other and with God would be strengthened and renewed.

Sometimes, we take this part of the story for granted and we forget just how incredible it is. Even with all their failings, Jesus still welcomes the disciples and trusts them with is final commandment to love one another. He knows they’ll screw up, that they’ll fight amongst themselves and at first lack the courage to spread his word…but nonetheless he knows they can do it.

The same goes for us. We screw up in our faith all the time. We betray God by ignoring the people who are most in need and damaging the world God created for us. We deny knowing God every time we leave our faith at the door when we leave here and pretend the rest of the week like it doesn’t impact us. We hide in fear when God is calling us to public acts of discipleship. And yet…and yet God still meets us here, at this table, offering us grace and forgiveness and most of all love.

So tonight, participate in the washing. Taste the bread and wine. Sing the songs. Hear and speak the prayers. Sense Jesus’ deep care for you and feel Jesus’ presence in your body.

Feel your relationship with God in a new way.

Amen.

A New (Impossible) Commandment

Sermon preached Maundy Thursday, March 29, 2018, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

As most of you know, I grew up in the church. My dad is a pastor and my mom is a deacon. This means that there has never been a time in my thirty years of living when I have not participated in Holy Week Services. Not always all of them—I didn’t experience my first vigil until Seminary—but Maundy Thursday and Good Friday were always part of the mix. There were some years when we were a bit creative with our observance, like when my dad was serving a church in Anaheim and we were at Disneyland up until about an hour before worship started…and we went immediately back afterwards! But regardless, I always knew growing up that these days were important.

I knew they were important, but I didn’t always know why, especially when it came to Maundy Thursday. For all my years attending worship on this day, I was still at a loss for why it has this strange sounding name. I don’t blame the congregations I grew up in and I definitely don’t blame my dad who I am sure explained it many times…I just don’t think I was paying attention.

For awhile I thought it was “Monday Thursday.” I made sense of it in my head by thinking, “Well, Thursday is kind of like the ‘first day’ of this part of Holy Week, so it’s like the Monday Thursday.” Get it? Yeah, I was way off base.

By the time I got into high school, I knew it was “Maundy,” and not “Monday.” I think I got “maundy” confused with “maudlin” and was convinced that we called it “maundy” simply because it was a sad time. Jesus is having this last supper with his friends and then we all knew that the arrest and crucifixion were right around the corner. Sad. Emotional. Maundy?

Of course, that’s not correct either, is it? Anyone know why we call it “Maundy Thursday”? It’s from the Latin word mandatum, the same word we get “mandate” from. We call today Maundy Thursday because it is the day we are given a mandate from Jesus.

“I give you a new commandment, that you love one another.” (John 13:34a) This is our mandate. This is what God is calling us to: to love. And not only to love, but to love one another as God has first loved us.

Wow. That’s a tall order. I’m sure Jesus didn’t mean to scare off his disciples, but if I was in that upper room and I heard Jesus say this, I’d probably hold up my hand and say, “Jesus, you know we love you and we’ll try our best…but there is no way we can love other people the way you love us. Other people are jerks sometimes. We’re jerks sometimes. It’s impossible.”

When I picture this scene in my mind, Jesus always ends up looking at me with a wry smile on his face, as if he expected this response. Of course we won’t succeed in loving others the same way God does—we don’t even always love ourselves that much! But, nonetheless, this is what we’re called to: love with open arms.

We are loved so much that God willingly endured the arrest, humiliation, torture and execution we called for when we cried out, “Crucify him!” How can we show even a small sliver of that love to others?

Now might be the time for that cliché question: What Would Jesus Do? What did Jesus do?

Jesus fed the hungry. Jesus healed the sick. Jesus welcomed outsiders. Jesus forgave. Jesus proclaimed the Gospel of mercy and grace. Jesus was generous. Jesus was compassionate. Jesus didn’t exclude or give up on people. Jesus argued and fought for justice, an end to oppression, and for peace.

How can we love like God loves us? We’ve got our roadmap all laid out. What did Jesus do? We will stumble. We’ll take a wrong turn here and there. We’ll fail from time to time, but love will still happen because God is still working in us and through us.

God gives us a new commandment, that we love one another. Let’s get to it. Amen.