The Story: a sermon on Acts 2:36-47 (and how the end is really the beginning)

This was my sermon on my last day at Light of the World.

Scripture:  Acts 2:36-47

Peter spoke to the people, telling them the story of God and Jesus from the very beginning, concluding, "Therefore let the entire house of Israel know with certainty that God has made him both Lord and Messiah, this Jesus whom you crucified.”

Now when they heard this, they were cut to the heart and said to Peter and to the other apostles, “Brothers, what should we do?” Peter said to them, “Repent, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ so that your sins may be forgiven; and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. For the promise is for you, for your children, and for all who are far away, everyone whom the Lord our God calls to him.” And he testified with many other arguments and exhorted them, saying, “Save yourselves from this corrupt generation.” So those who welcomed his message were baptized, and that day about three thousand persons were added. They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers.

Awe came upon everyone, because many wonders and signs were being done by the apostles. All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need. Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the goodwill of all the people. And day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved.

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Sermon

Today we move from the gospels into the book of the Acts of the Apostles.  It’s a part II to Luke’s gospel specifically; the writer introduces both books the same way:  to Theophilus, Greek for “lover of God.”  And Luke begins the book of Acts by explaining that the disciples looked to the risen Christ and said “So you’re going to wipe out all the Romans now, right?  Now that you’re back from the dead?”  And Jesus sort of smiles gently and says “That’s not really why I’ve called you all here.  You are going to receive power from the Holy Spirit, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in the surrounding countries of Judea and Samaria, and you know what -- to all the ends of the earth.”

So the Acts of the Apostles is the book of the Bible that tells the stories of all the disciples becoming apostles, becoming people sent out to the very far corners of the globe to preach the good news of God come to us in Jesus Christ.

In today’s story Peter and all the disciples are gathered in Jerusalem, preaching and teaching about God’s deeds of power through Jesus.  Peter tells the assembled crowd:  “God knew that you would hand Jesus over to death, and you did -- you crucified him.  But our ancestor David, the great king David, whose kingdom was supposed to last forever -- he died, and his kingdom is over, but Jesus his descendent did not stay dead.  This Jesus is Messiah and Lord.”

And the people gathered are cut to the heart, and three thousand of them join the Christian church that day.  They are cut to the heart -- they are pierced all the way down, the Greek says:  katanusso.  It’s the same word for when Jesus’ side is pierced on the cross.  Something about what Peter says gets them right here, pierces them, life-changingly.

And so they join the church.  By their actions they proclaim:  This story is greater than any other story.  Greater than religious ritual that tries to manipulate God; greater than political power that tries to dominate others.  This story of Jesus of Nazareth, who did deeds of power and wonders and signs, who was crucified and died and was buried and rose again -- this story is greater than death.

These people knew death.  In some ways death was closer to them than it is to us.  People died much younger, and at home.  Babies died.  Children were lost.  Many of the common jobs in first-century Judea were dangerous:  fishing in stormy seas, guarding herds of sheep against hungry wolves.  And Peter is speaking to a crowd of Jews -- people who are under the oppression of Rome, people who are not unaccustomed to seeing their hopes destroyed by their ruler’s violent ways of shutting down protests and silencing calls for justice.

Some of us live in that place, too.  Some of us fight cancer diagnoses and sick bodies and broken minds, parts of us that we can’t get away from and make every day feel like a struggle.  We watch our loved ones fight for life.  We pray over babies and we mourn our friends.  This is real and it is scary and I don’t like it.  I don’t like that even two thousand years later life can still be as precarious as it was for a sheep out among wolves.

I like life much better when it’s controllable.  When I can fit it inside my hands, like clay, like marbles.  And I don’t think I’m alone in this; I don’t think I’m alone in wanting to keep things safe.  To make things easy.  And sometimes there’s nothing wrong with that, but I wonder if when we hold on to things, when we cling to our own security and wealth and power, when we do not want to share, we might be dangerously close to looking at whatever our hands have a white-knuckle grip on and saying “This -- this is life.”

And into all this Peter has come and said No -- this [the cross] is life.

And you know the frustrating thing is that I think he’s right.  Because I have tried, God knows I have tried, to make a life out of the things I can hold.  To say this money, or this job -- or this relationship -- is life, and I will cling to it with everything I have.  Completely ignoring how that clinging turns into a cage.  How whatever I am trying to control soon gets control of me.  How trying to fit my life into something I can grasp often turns into me breaking myself, cutting off the parts of me that can’t fit into my clenched hands.

And Peter says Save yourself from this corrupt generation, from this clinging, this hoarding, this fear, this breaking of yourself down so you can fit into your own tight fist.  Save yourself from that kind of death.  It might look like life, it might move and breathe and talk like life, but this isn’t life.  This [the cross] is life, that God sent Jesus.  This is life, that God knew us, knew that we would try to squeeze down this crazy Jesus message of mercy and hope, that we would try to hold it and when we couldn’t hold it we would seal it up inside a tomb.  This is life, that even death could not hold Jesus.

That’s the story that made three thousand people believers -- that this man Jesus is freedom, is hope, is life, and smallness and fear and even death has no more power.

This is the story that made thousands of people bold enough to sell what they had and share it; to gather every day for worship and prayer; to praise God and care for everyone around them.  

And so over time they became part of the story; this little church of three thousand believers in Jerusalem, who kept growing by tens and hundreds and thousands more, until the day came when one of them whose name was Luke said “We’d better write this down.”  And so the believers came to be a part of the story of Jesus, the story of life that is stronger than death.

So let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time there was a little group of people who were looking for life.  Some of them had looked in church and they hadn’t quite found it there.  Some of them had looked inside their big houses and their large yards and they hadn’t quite found it there, either.  

And they came together, and they heard each other’s stories.  They broke bread in their homes, and in a golf course, and in an elementary school gymnasium.  They met together to pray.  They talked about trusting God in their finances; those who could, gave, and the funds were distributed to those in need.  They painted a house, and marched in parades, and packed food for Feed My Starving Children.  And every Sunday they met, and sang, and praised God, and prayed for one another, and learned together, and broke bread and found Jesus there.  And sometimes they would turn to each other, and make the sign of a cross on the forehead, and say the words they heard at every baptism:  “You are a beloved child of God.”

They told their friends and family.  And they told their friends, and they told theirs, and slowly the church grew.  People came who were hungry for forgiveness, for mercy, for grace, for life.  And they found it, and they became one people, a people called Light of the World, a place where people were fully known and totally welcomed and radically loved.

They survived change.  Some traditions stayed, and some faded.  They moved from building to building as it was needed.  Finances changed, and they went from two pastors to one and full-time staff to half-time.  They had one intern pastor, and then another, and another.  Their founding pastor was called to larger ministry, and on the day she left they laid hands on her, and with great hope and trust they prayed for the future of all.

They knew there was something greater than death here -- something more than a pastor -- something that felt like life, abundant and real.  

An interim pastor came, and guided them through transition.  They talked and discussed and met and voted and became the first Reconciling in Christ church in Dakota County, repeating what they heard every Sunday over the communion table:  All are welcome -- no exceptions.

They called a new pastor.  She came and she stayed, and she brought with her a wonderful partner and a passion for justice.  There was life, new life, new joys and excitement.  And every Sunday they met together to praise God and break bread and remember each others’ stories.  

And today you will lay hands on me, your third intern, and send me forth.  But thinking that the story stops here would be like thinking the story stops in Acts 2.  It doesn’t.  Even if I didn’t know a single word of the Bible past where we ended today, I would know the story doesn’t stop, because two thousand years later here we are.  Two thousand years later we are still devoting ourselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread, and to prayers.  

The story keeps going.  The marble keeps rolling.  And this promise is for you, for your children, and for all who are far away, everyone to whom God calls.  There is life here -- there is life here, for you, and you, and you, and you.

Amen.

Sermon for December 22, 2013: A Blue Collar Kind of Guy (Matthew 1:18-25)

Scripture:  Matthew 1:18-25

This is how the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place:  His mother Mary was engaged to Joseph, but before they were married and living together, she was found to be pregnant through the Holy Spirit. Joseph was righteous, and did not want to expose her to public disgrace, so he planned to break the engagement quietly.

But as soon as he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you will name him Jesus, which means 'God saves'; for he will save his people from their sins.”

All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet Isaiah: "See, the virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel” (which means “God is with us”).

When Joseph woke up, he did what the angel of the Lord had commanded him, and took Mary as his wife. But he did not consummate their marriage until she gave birth to a son; and he named him Jesus.

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Message

Advent is the blue season.  It wasn’t always; when I was growing up, and probably for those of you who grew up Lutheran or Catholic, it was purple.  It was meant to be a time like Lent -- a time of fasting and preparation, of self-examination before the coming of Christ.  Then we shifted, as we do with traditions when they need new life:  Advent became blue, for royalty, for anticipation, for moonlight on snow, for the color of Mary’s robe.

Mary gets top billing during Advent, because she gets the best role in the pageant:  she gets to say Yes to the miracle, Yes to Gabriel, Yes to God.  She gets to sing:  “My soul proclaims your greatness, O God.”  The Magnificat.  And for centuries we prayed “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.”

Mary gets top billing, and Advent is blue for her robe.  But I think Advent could just as well be blue for Joseph.  We dress him in browns, in most nativity scenes, but he’s a blue collar kind of guy, really.

He was a carpenter, we think, or maybe a stoneworker.  The word is tricky to translate but we know he worked with his hands.  Hard, backbreaking work, pounding out a living in the desert of Galilee, finding his way in the hot sun and the hard granite and the skinny trees.  Mending fishermen’s boats.  Fixing doors.  We could think of him in beat up work boots, with a hammer in the sling of his jeans.

He worked with his hands.  A hard life.  A life where righteousness is shown not in words but in actions.  A man of strength and purpose.  Trustworthy.  The kind of guy who could fix things.  The kind of guy who snowblows his own driveway and then takes care of the next door neighbors’, too.

He paid his taxes, demanded from him by the Roman empire.  He turned his face away when he passed crosses on the side of Roman roads, the punishment for insurrection against the empire.  With his neighbors he quietly mourned the oppression of Israel, the four hundred year silence of the prophets, the empty throne of David.  It seemed, at least, that God’s Old Testament promises of a land and a people of Israel, a free people, a light to the nations -- that those promises had all gone dark.  The Jewish people were freed from Egypt, they returned from Babylon, but still they are not free.

Joseph couldn’t read.  He couldn’t write.  He didn’t know what the Torah, the Law of Moses, looked like -- wouldn’t have known it from chicken scratch.  A peasant worker in a poor town called Nazareth, he couldn’t afford a lot of the sacrifices and offerings prescribed by his religion.  But he went to the local synagogue on Saturday, and he journeyed to the Temple each year for Passover, and he did the best he could to be a righteous man -- a follower of the Law.  A trustworthy man, who trusted God.  

A simple and hard and humble life.  A blue collar life.

And into this simple life has been given joy, in Joseph’s engagement to Mary, a peasant girl of Nazareth.  She would have been, perhaps, thirteen or fourteen years old.  Joseph is often depicted as older, but he could have been as young as eighteen.

Marriage was the central social contract of Jewish life.  It bound two families together.  Before an engagement was entered into, the families would break bread together, making sure they were compatible, honorable, worthy of trust.  After the engagement, the man received a dowry from the young woman’s family, usually including a piece of land so he could build a house and start a small farm.  It was a familial affair, this marriage business, and it was the backbone of society.

Joseph has been building this house, tilling the land, shaking hands with new neighbors.  Working twice as hard in the hot sun, staying up late and rising early.  He dreams of the wedding, of the day he will bring Mary home, of how their children to come someday will fill the house with shouts of laughter.

And into that dream comes a gut-wrenching truth:  Mary is pregnant.

Dishonor.  Betrayal.  Shame.  Mary has broken the marriage contract.  It is awful to imagine the pain that Joseph felt in that moment when he saw his dreams die.  For he is a righteous man, and the Torah was clear:  a woman who was not a virgin was not fit to be married.  The law even permitted her execution by stoning.  But Joseph is a righteous man, who knows the meaning of mercy, and so he plans to end the engagement quietly.  He will not expose Mary to public disgrace and humiliation.  Only her family will know.  She can escape to another town, maybe to her cousin Elizabeth’s house, and have her baby in secret there.

Joseph is a man of strength and purpose.  A trustworthy man, who trusts God.  He is committed to the religion of his ancestors and faithful to its traditions.  He makes a decision, commits to a course of action; he is resolved.

And into that strength breaks the word of God.  Into that resolution and righteousness, and into the fear and pain of a broken engagement, comes the divine promise:  “Do not be afraid.”

So Joseph must wake and ask himself:  What now?  Do I follow the law, and end the engagement?  Do I disobey tradition?  Do I forget my religion?  Do I dare question the practices of my elders, passed down over thousands of years?  

Do I risk shame and scandal, taking an uncertain path, becoming an outcast, accepting the rejection of my family and the laughter of my friends, putting myself even farther to the fringes of society, because I think that what just happened was more than just a dream?

What does it mean to be righteous?  What do you do when the truth runs counter to your whole life?  

What do we do?

What do we do when we come to the edge of everything we know and finally have to say:

“I love you.” “I can’t live like this.”

“I’m changing jobs.” “Mom, Dad, I’m gay.”

“I’m going back to school.” “I don’t know what I’m doing, and I need help.”

“You have hurt me too much, and you can’t be in my life anymore.” “It’s over.”

How do we speak the truth, in that moment, when it seems like the whole world speaks against it -- when we know it will turn our lives upside down?

Something in us, somewhere, has this strange and unexplainable sense that the truth is bigger than our fear.  Something in us is plucked, like a string on a violin, when the angel says “Do not be afraid.”  Because Joseph knew, right in the center of his chest, just above his heart, that what he’d seen in his dream was more than a dream.  That -- that is trust.  Even when the truth seems unbelievable.  Especially when the truth is impossible, and yet we know it to be true.

The miracle of the Christmas story is that God came to earth, but there are a hundred small ones, tucked into the story like straw in a manger, and here is this one:  that Joseph says yes.

He says nothing to the angel, but he takes Mary as his wife.  And in that, Joseph says Yes.  Yes to being the stepfather to God.  Yes to the whispers and judgment.  Yes to having a son who will always be more than a carpenter.  Yes to the son whose ministry he will not live to see.  Yes to the messiness of God.  Yes to his life turned upside down.

And sometimes we get to stand there too.  Sometimes, truth breaks into our lives, and we have the opportunity to say Yes.  In that moment, at the edge of everything we know, we fall into the truth, because it is bigger than us.  Because what that truth has the power to do is to break through our fear and our pain and drop us into this deep cradle of love and mercy.

Falling into truth, speaking it and believing it when the world seems against it, is a radical confession of faith.  A terrifying kind of obedience to the new and beautiful movement of God.  After the longest night of the year, there’s a new dawn, and the days start to lengthen.  And we’re reminded that just when life turns upside down, God shows up, sometimes in the smallest of ways -- a flicker of light -- a hope in the darkness -- a tiny baby born into the life of an unwed mother and a blue-collar kind of guy.

Amen.

a banner of ads for Black Friday

Once upon a time, an amazing church in Denver, Colorado wanted to remind themselves that Christmas is about more than presents.

They made this.

from House for All Sinners and Saints in 2008

And I, a year or two later, stumbled upon it and fell in love with the idea.

Last year, my internship congregation got to do it.

Early concept drawing

Final design

Color guide

PDF'd and printed

Everyone brought in the many Christmas advertisements they'd received, and over the four weeks of Advent, we cut out shapes and colors.  We slowly assembled an icon -- a religious piece of art meant to point us to God.  We took what the world uses to tell us we need more, more, more, and turned it into a reminder that we already have all that we need.

The finished icon

O come, o come Emmanuel.

One saturated hour

I wrote this back in January 2013, just after Light of the World's founding pastor had been called to a new ministry and I was swimming in a mixture of love for the community and grief for its loss.  Today, when we scrambled for floor fans to relieve ourselves of the sweltering heat, and we wished we were lucky enough to be a baby baptized in cool water, I remembered January.

In seminary, we sometimes talk about God and time.

There are two words for "time" in Greek:  chronos and kairos.  Chronos is the word that becomes chronological -- the order in which things happen.  Chronos time is seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, millenia.  Chronos time is countable.

Kairos time isn't chronological.  It's squishable, squeezable, stretchable.  Kairos time is the moment that feels like forever, the minute packed dense with emotion.  Kairos time is relative time, time that stretches and compacts.  

Kairos time, for me, is Sunday morning, when so very much happens in just a few hours.

The worship leaders circle up, with fifteen minutes to go.  We pray.  We hope.  We try to get out of the way and let the Spirit do the work.  I call on one of our confirmation kids to choose the cheer that ends our prayer:  "1-2-3, Yay God," or "God's work, our hands."  His eyes flare with surprise and then a hint of pride.  We leaders split, to our guitars, our nametags, our coffee pots, our running kids.  I join the greeters in the hallway.

A couple that's been on vacation for a few weeks is back, cheeks red, eyes beaming.  The communion bread appears ten minutes before worship, just-baked and still-warm.  I graze my hand over a baby's head, greeting his dad before the service.  Suddenly there are little arms around my leg, a pleased and quick hug from one of our kids.  A teacher and mom bumps into me with a cardboard box, and laughs, sarcastically, "Excuse me, excuse me" as she bumps me again and again until I laugh.

The first song begins with a shake and stutter, and yet the congregation sighs out "Holy, holy, holy" like a breath held for a week.  I pray, and the words come in swells and rushes, like a wave under my swimming arms; all I can do is ride the crest and foam.  

The sermon eases us gently into our seats, rocking our chests with laughter, then slowly reaching in around our hearts.

We share the peace, and arms go round my shoulders like a blanket made of promise.

I beg the Spirit to show up, to speak, and when she does, it's with a rush of wind disguised as slowly spoken words about family and community and love.

I look into fifty-odd sets of eyes and say, over and over, "This is the body of Christ, broken for you."  Our gluten-free kid reaches for the rice cracker I put out for her every week.

I forget where we are in the service.  I stand and stare at my bulletin, and finally look out at the assembly -- "Are we at community time?  Is that where we are?"  They all laugh.  There is love and grace enough even for the leader who gets lost.

The kids rush forward during the final song, joining hands and pulling each other in a circle, tripping over their snowboots.  When we dismiss the congregation together, their arms spread wider and gladder than mine when we say, "Go in peace, serve the Lord."  And then they're off, in a rush for the cookie trays before Sunday School begins.

The band packs up.  The mikes come down, the chairs are put away.  I turn in my microphone, the one marked "Assistant," which is more true now than ever. 

I touch the elbow of a parishioner -- someone I don't know well -- who's just lost a family member, and he trusts me enough to let me into his mourning.

The altar's left untouched today: the wine and bread waiting to be poured out, cups and plates to be washed and wrapped till next week.  One of the many "duties not otherwise specified" that falls to the intern pastor, some weeks, and this week is mine.

I sneak a bite of a hunk of bread, thick and full of molasses.

Bread of the Presence.

People of the light of the world.

How can so much happen in one saturated hour?

But in the presence of God, how could anything less?

Sermon for May 12, 2013 on Acts 8:26-40: Lines, laws, and dangerous beauty

Children's Message

I invited the kids forward to help share a "very important message."  I passed out 8 1/2 x 11 pieces of paper, taped together with numbers on the outside -- 1, 2, 3, etc -- and letters on the inside.

I asked what kind of rules we needed to put these letters into a message.  "Like a puzzle," I said.  "You can't just put the pieces anywhere."  So we started with person #1 in line, and then #2 next to them, making a straight line across the front of the room.

But then I said, "Maybe we need some more rules.  To make sure we do this right.  How about anyone under the age of four has to stand on the other side of the room?"  My three-year-olds looked at me with confused wonder.  "Okay.  Under four years old, stay where you are.  But how about if you're over ten?  Then maybe you should move to the back."

One of my confirmation kids gave me that "This isn't going to work" kind of look.

"Okay.  Anyone wearing pink should stand on a red line."  More kids moved.  The line was broken.  "And anyone wearing blue should be on a blue line."  At this point they were getting confused.  Where were they supposed to be?

"Okay!" I said, with false bravado.  "Show your letters!"

It was, of course, a jumble of chaos.  We had too many rules.

So we got back into one line, and we lined up our letters, and one of our seven-year-olds couldn't get his right-side up, but it didn't matter because when the congregation got it, they got it:

We hung the letters on clothespins, and the kids went back to their seats.

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Acts 8:26-40

Reader 1:  An angel of the Lord said to Philip,

Reader 2:  Get up and go towards the south to the wilderness road that goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza.

Reader 1:  So he got up and went.  Now there was an Ethiopian eunuch, a court official of Candace, queen of the Ethiopians, in charge of her entire treasury.  He had come to Jerusalem to worship and was returning home; seated in his chariot, he was reading the prophet Isaiah.  Then the Spirit said to Philip,

Reader 2:  Go over to this chariot and join it.

Reader 1:  So Philip ran up to it and heard him reading the prophet Isaiah. He asked,

Reader 3:  Do you understand what you are reading?

Reader 1:  He replied,

Reader 4:  How can I, unless someone guides me?

Reader 1:  And he invited Philip to get in and sit beside him. Now the passage of the scripture that he was reading was this:

Reader 5:  Like a sheep he was led to the slaughter,
and like a lamb silent before its shearer,
so he does not open his mouth.
In his humiliation justice was denied him.
Who can describe his generation?
For his life is taken away from the earth.

Reader 1:  The eunuch asked Philip,

Reader 4:  About whom, may I ask you, does the prophet say this, about himself or about someone else?

Reader 1:  Then Philip began to speak, and starting with this scripture, he proclaimed to him the good news about Jesus. As they were going along the road, they came to some water; and the eunuch said,

Reader 4:  Look, here is water! What is to prevent me from being baptized?

Reader 1:  He commanded the chariot to stop, and both of them, Philip and the eunuch, went down into the water, and Philip baptized him. When they came up out of the water, the Spirit of the Lord snatched Philip away; the eunuch saw him no more, and went on his way rejoicing. But Philip found himself at Azotus, and as he was passing through the region, he proclaimed the good news to all the towns until he came to Caesarea.


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Sermon  (click here to listen along)

The Ethiopian eunuch doesn’t have a name.  Did you notice that?  He never gets a name.  He’s just “the eunuch.”  And this is the only time the Scriptures talk about him.  We don’t know what happens or where he ends up.  He’s a minor character, whose path crosses with Philip and then who “goes on his way rejoicing.”  We don’t know what his life is like after this encounter.  He could have started a church in Ethiopia.  He could have cashed in his high-ranking job and come back to Jerusalem, bringing all his money to add to the growing new church.  We don’t know.  We never hear of him again.  And we don’t even know his name.

It’s good to be curious when a character in the New Testament doesn’t have a name.  After all, everyone has one.  When a name gets forgotten, when it isn’t written down, the writers turn to descriptions instead.  We do this too, right?  “Do you know so-and-so?  You know, they look like this, they work at this place...”  When names don’t work, we have to describe.  So this Ethiopian, a powerful man in charge of the entire treasury of the queen Candace, becomes just “the eunuch,” “the eunuch,” “the eunuch.”

But this is a good place to be curious, because being forced to call the eunuch just “the eunuch” would have sounded very different to the first readers and hearers of the book of Acts.  For us, we get a little queasy.  But for the first readers and hearers, the mention of a eunuch would have been shocking.  It would have reminded them of a rule, of one of the lines clearly drawn in their religious life as Jews, in Deuteronomy 23:1:  "No eunuch may enter the assembly of the LORD."

It was spelled out very clearly, in the Torah, in the books of the Law of the Jewish people.  Eunuchs could not belong.  So this Ethiopian eunuch has traveled hundreds of miles to Jerusalem to worship, but he can’t go inside the temple.  He is truly an outsider.

He is one of what the New Testament calls "God-fearers" -- people who know of the Jewish god, people who pray to this God and travel to Jerusalem to worship and study the Jewish scriptures, but are still outsiders looking in.  Because there are rules.  There are lines.  For good order, right?  If we want to preach the message correctly, there have to be some rules.

And the Ethiopian eunuch is a rich and powerful man -- very different from Philip and the rest of the first disciples and believers, who were working-class, fishermen and tax collectors and tentmakers.    Philip has just traveled about forty miles, most likely on foot.  His sandals are caked with mud.  His tunic is sweaty and smelly.  The eunuch inviting Philip into his chariot is on the level of Hillary Clinton pulling over Air Force One and inviting one of us inside.

So when the Ethiopian eunuch asks, "What is to prevent me from being baptized?" the answer is everything.  Race, and religion, and class, and his own body.  Everything about him makes him an outsider from the people of God.  There are so many lines between him and Philip.  So many rules about what is allowed, what is appropriate, what is acceptable. Philip is looking over at this grand chariot and shaking his head, going, "Well, he's certainly not who I came for."

But the Spirit has already taken Philip forty miles south, traveling through desert and wilderness.  And the Spirit says, "Go over to this chariot and join it."

See, I have this sneaking suspicion that God does not really care about a lot of our rules.  That some of them are like sending ten year olds to only stand at the back, and kids wearing red to only stand on red lines.  Some rules are good for getting the message across.  But some rules just make it harder and harder to hear God's promise of grace.  And God is on a mission to break through those rules and cross those lines to make sure the message is heard.  God is on a mission to bring us into relationship, to break down walls and fears so that we can see and hear how very much we are loved.

We see this in the life of Jesus.  Jesus, who was always doing what he shouldn’t.  Jesus, who talked with women, even though it wasn’t socially proper; and with and Samaritans, even though they didn’t believe as he did.  Jesus, who touched lepers and dead little girls, even though it made him ritually unclean.  Jesus, who healed on the Sabbath, even though no work was supposed to be done.  Jesus whose actions said, over and over again, “I will not let there be lines to cross to receive God’s grace.  There are no rules to God's abundant love."

And now the Spirit is breathing into the disciples, inspiring them to "get up and go."  Go south to the wilderness road.  Go up to the chariot.  Go into the water.  Because God's message of grace is not just for the Jewish people.  It's for the whole world.

God's message of grace is not just for people who look like us, who worship in the same temple, who stand on our side of the line.

This is beautiful.  And this is dangerous.

The book of the Acts of the Apostles is full of stories of the Jewish people of God recognizing that the message is not just for them.  The Holy Spirit is falling on the Gentiles as well as the Jews.  These Gentiles, these pagans, who have long been called “not God’s people,” are receiving the Spirit and asking to be baptized and listening eagerly to the message of Jesus.  Over and over in the book of Acts, the Jewish believers come together and say:  These people are outsiders.  They’re on the other side of the line, on the wrong side of the rules.  But God is doing something among them.  God is trying to draw them in.  Maybe we were wrong.  Maybe they shouldn’t be outsiders.  Maybe they are God’s people too.

These are important stories -- not just for them, but for us.  We are a people hungry for a taste of God, for a promise of grace, but so many of us have walked into churches -- and out of churches -- saying to ourselves, "That's not for me.  I'm an outsider.  I'm too selfish, too anxious, too depressed, too sick, too rich, too poor, too confident, too afraid, too independent, too dependent, too broken, too perfect.  My kids are too loud.  My faith is too weak.  There are rules that say who's in, and I'm out.  There are lines to be drawn, and I'm on the wrong side.  People like me aren't welcome here.  God's grace isn't for me."

And then God calls us into relationship.  Then God brings someone like Philip into our lives, someone who says, “Do you understand what you are reading?”  Someone who offers clarity, or prayer, or hope.  Someone who can tell us a story that turns out to be about ourselves.  Someone who looks across every line between the insiders and outsiders and says, “All are welcome.  That means you.”

Because when Philip finds himself standing by a river, with an Ethiopian eunuch saying "What is there to prevent me from being baptized?"  The answer is everything.  And the answer is absolutely nothing.  Because Philip's answer is to look past race and religion and class and the eunuch's very own body, and to get into the water with him and make him a part of the people of God.  Something happened in that moment that meant the laws and rules and lines that Philip knew could be let go in order to preach the message of God's grace.  The Spirit moved Philip to recognize the amazingness of God’s love.  He could get into the chariot.  He could have a conversation about Jesus with this man who was so very much unlike him.  And he could see the look in the eunuch’s eyes when he felt the beauty of God’s grace.

This kind of relationship is beautiful.  And this is dangerous.

When Philip listens to the Spirit, he ends up letting go of a lot of what he has known.  When God is in charge of drawing the lines and making the rules, the people of God look a whole lot different.  When “all are welcome” is where we start, we put ourselves in a beautiful danger.  When we stop worrying about who’s in and who’s out, and learn what is deeply meaningful and powerful to the person sitting next to us, we risk being changed.  We risk learning.  We risk seeing an old situation in a new way.  We risk changing our minds:  about who we are, about who God is, about who’s in and who’s out.  When “all are welcome” is our cry, we take a risk about who might show up.  It’s dangerous.  And it’s beautiful.  Because we are changed.

And when “all are welcome” is where we start, that welcome isn’t just for outsiders.  It’s for us, too.  For us when we draw lines within ourselves.  For us when we make rules, and fail to live up to them.  For us when we think, “I’m not enough.  I’m not worthy.  I’m not OK.  I’m not wanted.  I’m not loved.”  Every time we put up a boundary, every time we pull back and try to hide, every time we think we’ve broken the rules too much, God is reaching out across that line to say:  I know you’re broken.  Now let me show you that you’re loved.  “All are welcome” means you too.  And we are changed.

We’re made to be that love for each other.  We are made for this.  We are given mouths and ears and eyes and hands and hearts so that we can be that love to each other.  The eunuch asks, “How can I understand, unless someone guides me?”  How can I know who Jesus is, who God is, who I am unless someone is here to help me?  We weren’t made to be alone.  Philip wasn’t called to stay in Samaria alone.  The eunuch wasn’t called to ride his chariot home alone.  The Spirit drew them together so that they could both be transformed.

That kind of relationship is dangerous.  You’re asked to know yourself.  You’re asked to be honest.  You’re asked to tell your story, to be vulnerable, to talk about your fears and your hopes.  You’re asked to cross some lines and break some rules within yourself -- about what’s okay to say and share.  You put yourself at risk -- at the risk of knowing yourself, at the risk of being hurt, at the risk of change.  You’re asked to let yourself be known and loved.

That kind of relationship is scary.  But I hope and I pray and I think that every one of us has experienced how beautiful it can be.  To be known, deeply, lets us know ourselves.  To be loved, openly, lets us love ourselves.  And that knowing and loving opens up our past and present and future to something new and dangerous and beautiful.

This is where you’re invited today:  to think about those dangerous and beautiful relationships.  To think about where you’ve been given space to grow and change and be yourself.  What in you is longing for that space now?  What change are you hoping for?

Response


Partner up with someone you feel comfortable sharing with.  It may be your spouse.  It may be a friend.  It may be a friendly looking stranger!

Think of a relationship that changed you -- that gave you space to grow and transform.  Share that story.
* Who was that relationship with?
* What was beautiful about it?
* How were you changed?

Then, think about where you are now.
* Is there a change you are longing for in your life?  If yes, what is it?
* What do you need (physically, emotionally, mentally) to start that change?
* Who can be a person that helps you start that change?  Or, what kind of person do you need to help you start?

* Is there something in you that are you longing to offer to others?
* Like Philip, are you being "sent" somewhere?  Where do you think it is?

Sermon for April 14, 2013, on Acts 9:1-20: Some running around, and some letting go.

Children’s Message

[ I had the children (and, like I’ve said for years, “those who are, like me, a child at heart”) meet me in the back of the worship space / cafeteria-gymnasium -- in a wide space where there’s lots of room for running.

I asked:  “Who here knows how to play Sharks and Minnows?”  I knew most would -- we play it all the time.  So we chose a Shark, aka Saul, and everyone else got to be Minnows, aka Christians.

Saul was played by the eight-year-old daughter of one of my internship committee members, and she managed to catch and imprison a good handful of Christians before I called an end to the game and sent them back to their seats. ]

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Acts 9:1-20

Meanwhile Saul, still breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord, went to the high priest and asked him for letters to the synagogues at Damascus, so that if he found any who belonged to the Way, men or women, he might bring them bound to Jerusalem. Now as he was going along and approaching Damascus, suddenly a light from heaven flashed around him. He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?”  He asked, “Who are you, Lord?” The reply came, “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting. But get up and enter the city, and you will be told what you are to do.” The men who were travelling with him stood speechless because they heard the voice but saw no one. Saul got up from the ground, and though his eyes were open, he could see nothing; so they led him by the hand and brought him into Damascus. For three days he was without sight, and neither ate nor drank.

 Now there was a disciple in Damascus named Ananias. The Lord said to him in a vision, “Ananias.” He answered, “Here I am, Lord.” The Lord said to him, “Get up and go to the street called Straight, and at the house of Judas look for a man of Tarsus named Saul. At this moment he is praying, and he has seen in a vision a man named Ananias come in and lay his hands on him so that he might regain his sight.” But Ananias answered, “Lord, I have heard from many about this man, how much evil he has done to your saints in Jerusalem; and here he has authority from the chief priests to bind all who invoke your name.” But the Lord said to him, “Go, for he is an instrument whom I have chosen to bring my name before Gentiles and kings and before the people of Israel; I myself will show him how much he must suffer for the sake of my name.” So Ananias went and entered the house. He laid his hands on Saul and said, “Brother Saul, the Lord Jesus, who appeared to you on your way here, has sent me so that you may regain your sight and be filled with the Holy Spirit.” And immediately something like scales fell from his eyes, and his sight was restored. Then he got up and was baptized, and after taking some food, he regained his strength.

For several days he was with the disciples in Damascus, and immediately he began to proclaim Jesus in the synagogues, saying, “He is the Son of God.”

This is the word of the Lord.
Thanks be to God.

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Sermon  (click here to listen along)

Welcome to the story of Saul.

Saul is a young man, a Jew in good standing in his local synagogue.  He knows the Hebrew Scriptures, goes to worship faithfully on the Sabbath.

And just a chapter ago, in Acts 7 and 8, Saul listened as a disciple of Jesus, Stephen, proclaimed Jesus as the Son of Man, the Righteous One whose coming was foretold by the prophets.  And then Saul watched as the religious leaders dragged Stephen from the city, threw him to the ground, and stoned him.  The council laid their cloaks at Saul's feet and took up rocks to end Stephen's speech.  Acts 8:1 says:  "And Saul approved of their killing him."

Saul takes up the charge.  He persecutes the believers in Jerusalem, entering house after house to drag both men and women off to prison.  Now he has letters that send him to Damascus, a little over a hundred miles north and west, to persecute the church there.  He is on his way to track down all those who belong to The Way.

The Way is the early name for the Christian church -- they won't be called Christians until Acts 11.  The Way is this life among the Jewish believers, this little group that proclaims baptism in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of sins.  In The Way, there is teaching, there is fellowship, there is communion, there are prayers.  Those who belong to The Way share what they have with one another.  They choose seven men of good standing to fairly distribute food to the poor and widowed -- seven men including Stephen.

Now Saul is on his way to hunt down all those who belong to the Way.  To him, this group is a perversion of the Jewish faith.  He will find them, he will bind them, and he will bring them to Jerusalem, to the Holy City, to be tried and imprisoned.

And then just outside the gates of Damascus, on the cusp of chasing down another group of believers, there is a blinding flash of light.  Saul is knocked from his horse.  He is struck blind.  And he hears a voice:  "I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting.  But get up and enter the city, and you will be told what you are to do."

Then this same Jesus appears to the disciple Ananias, and says:  "Get up and go find this man named Saul, and lay your hands on him to give him back his sight."

These are the kinds of visions that no one wants to see.

Saul is Ananias' enemy.  He has come to Ananias' hometown to specifically track down disciples and send them off to prison in Jerusalem.  His blindness is a lucky break for Ananias.  He might be able to get out of the city, keep some of the others believers safe, while Saul can't see or do a thing.

So Jesus' invitation is more like a warrant than a welcome.  He tells Ananias to put himself in danger, to put his hands on Saul knowing that Saul has come to put those hands in chains.

And Ananias goes.

See, both Saul and Ananias are told what they are to do.  Ananias is called to lay hands in prayer on the man who wanted to lay hands on him in persecution.  And Saul is called to bring the name of Jesus before Gentiles and kings and the people of Israel, to proclaim this very Christ he has been persecuting.

But before they can go what they are to do, they have to let go of what they know.

Ananias has to let go of his fear.  His anxiety.  His protests about Saul's evil and terrifying authority.  His desire to protect himself and his own people against the persecution and hatred that Saul has brought to Damascus.  The only way Ananias can do what he is to do is to let all that go.

And Saul -- Saul has to let go of everything.  His religious beliefs.  His prejudice.  His hatred.  His guilt, now, that not only has he persecuted people who were following a true Lord and Savior but that in persecuting them he was persecuting Jesus himself.  Everything that Saul has known and staked his time and energy and reputation on stands in the way of belonging to The Way.

Saul and Ananias have to let go before they can do what they are to do.  There has to be space made in the heart, and mind, and hands, before Jesus can fill it with something new.  There has to be surrender, and trust, and some kind of crazy irresponsible hope that whatever they're letting go of is going to be replaced by something infinitely better.

And that hope means they don't do it alone.  They do it because of a dream.  A vision.  A hope, not from their own hearts but from the Holy Spirit, that their world might be just a little bit better if they took a chance.

And so it is with us.

There are a hundred things that stand in our way of belonging to The Way.  A hundred things that keep us from doing what we are to do.  Fear.  Guilt.  Shame.  Anger.  Anxiety.  Hatred.  Prejudice.  Our past.  Our present.  The infinite unknown of the future.

There are a hundred things that we have done, and I know that I at least am the kind of person that will cling to them till my fingers go numb because I need to know something is true.

And then the vision breaks in.  Then hope shines a light.  Then God shows up, rude and loud, and interrupts our life with hope and expectation and dreams of something better for us, and for the people we love, and for the whole world.

To do what we are to do, we have to let go.  And to let go, there has to be a vision powerful enough to give us hope.

And the vision of what we are to do -- the vision of God's hope for us -- this crazy idea that we might be changed and restored and given the mercy and grace that we are dying for -- that just might be enough.

This crazy idea that you might be known by God.  That you might be trusted.  That you might be loved, just as you are.  That everything that dies in you and your life might be raised like Jesus from the dead.

That just might be enough.  That just might be enough hope to overcome whatever you are holding on to and whatever is holding you back.

So what is your vision?  What is your hope?

And in that hope, what do you want to let go of?

There are two slips of paper at your chairs and tables. The colors don’t matter.  Choose one for your hope, and one for what you need to let go of.

Take a moment.  Write it down.  When you’re ready, bring them to the baskets on the altar.

Offer your hope.  Offer your fears.  Everything is welcome in the light of the risen Christ.

Amen.

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Everything Changes

When You come everything changes 

When You speak even the darkness hides 

When You step into our frailty, Jesus 

You restore every broken life 

Everything changes 

Verse 1:

Mercy to the brokenhearted 

Life for those who grieve 

Joy to those whose dreams are stolen 

Imprisoned souls released 

Verse 2:

Blessing to the poor in spirit 

Grace for all in need 

Sight to those who live in darkness 

Innocence redeemed 

This is the Kingdom come 

This is the Kingdom

This is the Kingdom come 

This is the Kingdom

Everything changes

Seminary newspaper article: "Not the Internship I Signed Up For"

This was published in the Concord, the seminary student newspaper, in March 2013, in an issue titled "At the Cross (Roads)."

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"Not the Internship I Signed Up For"

All my internship interviews had begun the same way:  "So, tell me about yourself."  By my fourth interview I walked into the room feeling solidly prepped on my mini-biography.  Then this five-foot-nothing mission start pastor leaned forward, her fingers pressed into a point, and asked, as her first question, "So.  What is the seed of hope that lies at the heart of Emmy?"

While I stammered through something resembling an answer, I thought, This woman is either crazy or brilliant.  Forty-five minutes later I knew the answer to that question, and I also knew where I wanted to be for internship.

I felt almost immediately comfortable under Deb Stehlin's supervision at Light of the World.  It's a mission start community in Apple Valley, just barely five years old when I started in September.  Light of the World is a congregation built around radical relationship: a true welcome for everyone who walks in the door and a commitment to get to know each other, warts and all.  We want to know people for who they are.  As I fretted over this article, someone gently reminded me:  "Let go of perfect.  We want you to be real."

Deb told me when I came on that she saw in me the opportunity to be a leader and a partner.  I learned leadership from a pastor who fully embodies her belief in the importance of God's grace for us and our love for each other. I saw how bringing people into relationship with each other transformed lives and spoke the Gospel into broken hearts.  And then in early December we learned that Deb had been called to serve as the Director of Evangelical Mission for the Minneapolis Area Synod.  Her last Sunday was January 6th, 2013.

Suddenly the "leader" aspect of Deb's vision for me took on a whole new meaning.  I couldn't shadow her as she met with local pastors and national mission leaders.  I couldn't turn to her with questions about worship or pastoral care or church history.  I didn't have someone sitting next to me on Sundays, squeezing my elbow to say she was pleased with my sermon, offering me the Peace of Christ with a smile as wide as her arms.

This is not the internship I signed up for.

We have an interim pastor in place as of February -- Hollie Holt-Woehl, who brings her knowledge as pastoral care professor and experience as interim pastor at three previous congregations.  It is likely that, since I am a concurrent intern, I will still be with Light of the World when they call their next pastor.

I've spent many nights in prayer and worry.  But the message I've received is clear:  I am going to learn a lot more, and a lot that I needed to learn, under three supervisors than under one.  And while this is a lesson I'd much rather learn from a book, the leadership role Deb saw in me has come to better fruition now that I have to stand more on my own two feet.  The changes and pains of transition force me to know better who I am and who I'm called to be.  Where do I feel comfortable?  Where do I feel stretched?  When do I trust my gut, when do I listen to my heart, and when do I rely on my head?  None of this would have been impossible to learn under one supervisor.  But under three, it can be easier to learn what's true to me.  Continual change forces me to know where my real self gravitates.

This is not the internship I signed up for.  It's harder, and I feel more vulnerable and make more mistakes.  But Deb didn't just leave behind a pastor-sized hole.  She built a community that believes in loving each other where we're at.  She organized a church that surrounds its people -- and its intern -- with a God-sized abundance of grace.

Maybe that's another lesson I can't learn from a book:  that the church isn't just about the pastor.  That when I signed up for partnership and weird questions, I also signed up for radical relationship and meaningful community.  That I signed up to learn what it was like to be a leader, and a partner -- not just to the pastor or staff but to the whole congregation.  And maybe I signed up to learn, not how to be perfect, but how to be real.

Sermon on Isaiah 55:1-11: Thirst, junk food, and why in the world God wants all of us

(To get the full effect, participate in the children's sermon... I handed out crackers, grapes, and gummy bears, and we talked about good food, junk food, and what kinds of food God wants to feed us.  So it's best if you're snacking on some Triscuits, seedless grapes, and gummy bears while you read.)

Isaiah 55:1-11 (The Message)

“All who are thirsty, come to the water!
Are you penniless?  Come anyway—buy and eat!
Come, buy your drinks, buy wine and milk.
    Buy without money—everything’s free!
Why do you spend your money on junk food,
    your hard-earned cash on cotton candy?
Listen to me, listen well: Eat only the best,
    fill yourself with only the finest.
Pay attention, come close now,
    listen carefully to my life-giving, life-nourishing words.
I’m making a lasting covenant commitment with you,
    the same that I made with David: sure, solid, enduring love.
I set him up as a witness to the nations,
    made him a prince and leader of the nations,
And now I’m doing it to you:
    You’ll summon nations you’ve never heard of,
and nations who’ve never heard of you
    will come running to you
Because of me, your God,
    because The Holy of Israel has honored you.”
Seek God while he’s here to be found,
    pray to him while he’s close at hand.
Let the wicked abandon their way of life
    and the evil their way of thinking.
Let them come back to God, who is merciful,
    come back to our God, who is lavish with forgiveness.
“I don’t think the way you think.
    The way you work isn’t the way I work.”
        God’s Decree.
“For as the sky soars high above earth,
    so the way I work surpasses the way you work,
    and the way I think is beyond the way you think.
Just as rain and snow descend from the skies
    and don’t go back until they’ve watered the earth,
Doing their work of making things grow and blossom,
    producing seed for farmers and food for the hungry,
So will the words that come out of my mouth
    not come back empty-handed.
They’ll do the work I sent them to do,
    they’ll complete the assignment I gave them."

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We’re getting used to trilogies, aren’t we?  They’re how we write books and make movies now.  Star Wars.  The Godfather.  The Lord of the Rings.  The Hunger Games.  Even stories that weren’t originally trilogies are being written and made as them now:  Christopher Nolan made Batman Begins, then The Dark Knight, then The Dark Knight Rises.  Iron Man 3 will come out this year.  Both reboots of Spiderman, the one with Tobey Maguire and the new one with Andrew Garfield, are trilogies.  The Bond movies with Daniel Craig?  Three of them.  We’re telling stories in sets of three.

This isn’t new for us, as humans.  We’ve had trilogies as far back as we’ve had written literature.  Remember your high school English and the three Theban plays of Sophocles:  Oedipus the King, Oedipus at Colonus, and Antigone.  There’s something about the structure of three that we like, the way things loop back, how certain themes get repeated, how the first part leans into the second and the second into the third, and the third wraps it up and solves questions from the first.

The book of Isaiah is a trilogy, set in Israel and Babylon.  This is the three-part story of a people in exile.  The Jewish people have lost the promised land; they forgot to trust God and to care for their neighbor.  They lose the protection of God.  They’re taken into Babylon in chains, away from their homes and the land they believed God gave them.  And they turn to the prophet Isaiah to try to understand what’s happened to them and what’s coming next.

The first part of Isaiah, chapters 1-39, are the words of judgment -- the long list of how Israel has wandered away from God and from their promises.  And then suddenly, in the first verse in chapter 40, everything changes.  God tells Isaiah:  “Comfort, o comfort my people.”  This is what we sing at Christmas:  “Comfort, comfort now my people.”  Suddenly there are words of comfort and peace.  There are promises of a coming servant.  God speaks over and over again of a radical, abundant, merciful love for Israel.  “Don’t be afraid, I’ve redeemed you.  I’ve called your name. You’re mine.”  Remember?  “Do not be afraid, I am with you.  I have called you each by name.”  In the second part of Isaiah God says “No matter what has happened, I still love you.  I still want you.  I still know you and call you and hope for you.  I will bring you back from captivity in Babylon.  I will save you.  I will free you.  The promises of God are still true.”

And chapter 56 is where Isaiah will move from words of comfort to words of hope.  God will reveal that this salvation and freedom and promise isn’t just for the people of Israel, but for the whole world.  The third part of Isaiah is where God will declare, “My house shall be a house of prayer for all people.”

So today’s passage, chapter fifty-five, is leaning into that.  When God says, “Pay attention, come close now,” we’re in the last three minutes of the second movie.  We’re with Luke and Leia on the observation deck, planning to find and free Han Solo.  We’re with Frodo and Sam, on their own as they start their journey toward Mordor.  We’re with Katniss when she wakes up for the first time in District 13.  The end of the second part of a trilogy is always leaning forward, pulling us into the third.  There’s this feeling of incompleteness, this question of “But now what?”, this scrambled grab for the third book.

So when God speaks through Isaiah and says, “All who are thirsty, come!” we need to remember that it’s the last sentence of the second part of a trilogy.  It is less of a lovely offer and more of a wake-up call.  It’s that leaning in, that waiting, that not-quite-yet that pulls you into the final chapter.

* See what God says through Isaiah, in the middle of the first paragraph:  “Listen to me, listen well:  Eat only the best, fill yourself with only the finest.”  The beautiful thing is that in the original Hebrew, Isaiah says:  Fill your soul with rich things.  This cotton candy is not about what you’re feeding your stomach but about what you’re feeding your heart.  God looks at Israel’s life and says:  This is junk food.  You’re feeding yourself on jealousy, and anger, and blame, and fear.  You’re stuffing your soul with cheap carbohydrates.  You’re spending your money on air.

* And instead, see what God wants to feed us with:  the covenant with David.  “I’m making a lasting covenant commitment with you, the same that I made with David: sure, solid, enduring love.”  It was a covenant of peace, and a promise that a son of David would always be king over Israel.  It sounds so lovely.  But remember that the people first hearing this have seen David’s sons and grandsons and great-grandsons tear the kingdom apart.  They were lousy leaders who forgot God and failed to take care of the people.  The Israelites are being reminded, right here, of a promise that looks broken.  This “sure, solid, enduring love” feels bitter, now, because it seems like that covenant is over.  They’ve been dragged off to Babylon in chains.  Everything around them suggests that God’s love is anything but sure.

* But God knows this.  So then God says:  “You’ll summon nations you’ve never heard of, and nations who’ve never heard of you will come running to you.”  God says:  You know that covenant?  The one that looks broken?  It’s still true.  And now it’s going to be even bigger.  I’m not just making promises to the people of Israel anymore.  Yes, Israel will be restored.  The Holy One will honor you.  But you’re going to be restored to be a light to the world.  Nations who’ve never heard of you, nations that you think are outside of God’s people, will come running.  The wicked and evil will get a second chance.  Because God is merciful.  Because God is lavish with forgiveness.

* Because God doesn’t think the way we think, with vengeance and grudges and who’s in or who’s out.  The covenant God made with Israel is being turned into this blessing for all nations because of the very nature of who God is.  “For as the sky soars high above earth, so the way I work surpasses the way you work.”  God’s way is far beyond and above our way.  God’s way is about mercy, and forgiveness, and second and third and fiftieth chances.  God has sent words, like rain and snow falling on dry earth, and those words are going to do the work they were sent to do.

And what are the words that God has sent?  “All who are thirsty, come.”  This isn’t a friendly invitation.  This is a radical change.  Last week we heard about Abraham and the covenant with God, that Abraham’s descendants would be as numerous as the stars.  Now those stars are finding out they’re not the only lights in God’s galaxy.  God’s got an eye not just on the nation of Israel but on the whole world.  It no longer matters if you’re a descendant of Abraham.  It doesn’t matter if you live in Israel or Babylon or anywhere in between.  It doesn’t matter if you’re male or female, or young or old, or even holy or wicked.  When God says “All who are thirsty” that means the only thing required to come to God is thirst.  Is hunger.  Is your soul longing for something more.  All that’s required is for you to say “What I’ve been feeding my heart is junk food and cotton candy.  I need something more.”

And here’s what I kept coming back to this week:  why?  Why everyone?  Why me and you and us?  And why the other nations, and why the evil and the wicked?

Surely the Israelites asked this too.  After all, they heard thirty-nine chapters of judgment in Isaiah before they got to the comfort and hope.  The whole point up until now is that we aren’t worthy of this.  We sin.  We make mistakes.  We hurt each other.  We forget to trust God.  We have nothing to offer; we’re penniless.  And the moment when we know that is the moment when God says “Come and buy without money -- everything’s free.”  What is that about?  Why is God so interested in bringing everyone to the table?  It’s not just bringing everyone to God -- it’s getting us all in one place.  We’re all drinking this milk and wine together.  It’s not an individual call.  God is hollering for every person, every family, every community to show up and eat, like a cosmic dinner bell.  Even though we know through thousands of years of human history that wherever two or three are gathered there’s bound to be a mess.

And God is willing to take that risk.  God wants everyone at the same table.

So here’s what I think:

God doesn’t just want us.  God wants us for each other.

God knows that we need each other.  That we need each other to laugh, and to hold on to, and to cry with.  That we need each other to keep each other honest, and hopeful, and kind.  We need each other so that every time we come together we remember that we’re a mess, that none of us are perfect, and every week we say, “Your sins are forgiven.”  Every week we say, “Peace be with you.”  Not just any peace but the kind that comes with knowing the end of the story.  Knowing that no matter where you are in the trilogy, the end is full of promise -- the promise that you are a beloved child of God.

And we come back for that promise over and over again.  We come to the table, penniless and without money, and find so much more than we could ever need.  We take wine and bread from each other to remember that God wants to feed us with so much more than junk food.  God wants to feed our souls.

Because God knows we are hungry.  But God knows that my thirst might be your thirst, and that if we both ask, we might find some living water.  God knows that maybe what I’m hungry for is what you’re hungry for, and if we come together we might build a table and a room and a community and a church that feeds each other.

And then all who are thirsty might come, and find something to feed their soul.

Amen.

Sermon for February 3, 2013: A fire in our bones, for the light of the world

Jeremiah 1:4-10

Now the word of the Lord came to me saying,
"Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,
and before you were born I consecrated you;
I appointed you a prophet to the nations."

Then I said,
"Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy."

But the Lord said to me,
"Do not say, 'I am only a boy';
for you shall go to all to whom I send you,
and you shall speak whatever I command you.
Do not be afraid of them,
for I am with you to deliver you,
says the Lord."

Then the Lord put out his hand and touched my mouth; and the Lord said to me,
"Now I have put my words in your mouth.
See, today I appoint you over nations and over kingdoms,
to pluck up and to pull down,
to destroy and to overthrow,
to build and to plant."


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So this week at Bible study, we read this text.  And then Barb Hansen turned to me and said, "So, does God have a plan for each of us?"  And I said, "Well--" and she said, laughing but serious, "Yes or no?!"

This week I've been surrounded by plans.  Normal plans, like the plan for the next semester of school, and plans for my summer, and plans for when I'll get around to doing my taxes.  And in the midst of all that there are plans for Pastor Hollie's arrival and for the next steps in calling a long-term pastor for Light of the World.  So I probably shouldn't have been surprised when Barb asked me "So.  Does God have a plan for each of us?"  And I can't blame her.  Because I'd like to know.  Is there something I was made for?  Does God have a plan for everyone, even before they're born?  Does God have a plan for Light of the World?

Well, yes.  And no.  But yes.  But also no.

I should back up.

Here’s the background on Jeremiah.  We don’t know how old Jeremiah was when he heard the voice of God.  Our guess is between thirteen and seventeen.  So it’s best if, when you think of Jeremiah, you visualize one of our confirmation kids.

So the word of God comes to the teenage Jeremiah and says, "You.  I chose you before you even knew how to breathe.  I made you to be a prophet to my people."  Jeremiah says, “I can’t, I’m too young; I don’t know how to speak for you.”  God says, “Don’t worry about this.  I’ll be with you.  Don’t be afraid.”

And then immediately follows that with:  “You are going to be a destroyer of nations.  You are going to pluck up and pull down; you will destroy and overthrow.”

Well, no wonder Jeremiah said no.

See, being called to be a prophet in Israel is not a good gig.  This is not a multi-million-dollar salary, tour-the-world, meet the President, go on CNN kind of deal.  Prophet is not a desired career path.  A prophet in Israel is the bringer of bad news.  A prophet is the one who stands up against religious leaders and kings, who says, “We’ve forgotten to trust God.  We’ve forgotten to take care of each other.  We’ve lost God’s protection, and we’ve lost the community.  We are in serious, serious danger.”

Sound familiar?  Isaiah was called to the same cry:  “Israel!  Stop.  Stop putting your trust in idols and false gods.  Stop oppressing the alien, and the orphan, and the widow.  Act justly with one another.  Remember what God has done for us.”

And this is painful.  Jeremiah preaches this message for almost forty years, and it's forty years full of pain.  His friends and family turn against him.  The whole nation of Israel sees him as a false prophet.  He is beaten by a priest.  Locked up in the temple stocks.  Threatened with death.  Tossed into a water-tank full of mud and left there to starve.  When he’s rescued, he watches the invading army of Babylon as they kill the king’s sons and destroy the holy city of Jerusalem.  Jeremiah is then taken, against his will, to Egypt, away from his home, away from the promised land, away from almost all the other Israelites.

Being called to be a prophet is painful.  And God knows this.  God’s promise is:  “Do not be afraid, for I am with you, to deliver you.”  Not like a letter in a mailbox but like when we ask, every time we pray:  "Deliver us from evil."  Be with us.  Keep us safe.  Get us through.  God knows that being a prophet is not an easy call.  So when God appears to this teenage boy in Israel and says, “I’ve planned for you to be a prophet for a long time,” it’s no surprise that Jeremiah says, “God, please not me.”

But God insists that Jeremiah is called.  When God says, “I consecrated you,” the root of “consecrate” is kadosh.  It means “set apart, to make holy.”  It’s the word for the seventh day of the week, in the story of creation:  So God blessed the seventh day and kadoshed it -- made it holy.”  It’s the same word when God calls to Moses from the burning bush:  “Take off your sandals, for the place where you stand is kadosh -- it’s holy ground.”  It’s set apart; it’s chosen.

And this is where the words of the Bible and the tradition of the Lutheran church can look like they’re butting heads.  See, Martin Luther was pretty insistent that everyone had a calling.  The Catholic Church, in the 16th century, only talked about a calling when they talked about priests and monks.  People who were “set apart” from the rest of the regular world.  But Luther thought that maybe, just maybe, talking about this Jesus thing isn’t just for Sundays, and maybe it isn't just for pastors.  Maybe it’s for every part of our lives.  This call to preach the word of God, to talk about forgiveness and grace and love -- maybe that is for everyone, all the time.

Which is a beautiful idea, until you get down into the details.  Maybe it’s too easy for Martin Luther, and for me, to stand up as pastors and say:  “Everyone’s called!  Go and preach!”  Martin Luther was a priest for the rest of his life.  I’m preparing to be a pastor.  The idea that our whole life is a calling doesn’t seem so strange.  But what about when you’re a teacher, or a nurse, or a consultant, or an HR rep, or a postal worker, or a stay-at-home mom, or a retiree?  See, Luther wanted to get away from the idea that the only time our lives are holy is when we’re doing something for the church.  But if we say “Everything’s a calling!” then this amazing idea that we’re all called, no matter what, can start to feel watered down.

So we go back to Jeremiah.  Because here is a guy who did not want to be called.  In chapter 20 he turns to God and says, “You know what?  I didn’t ask for this.  I didn’t want this.  You’re the one who got me into this mess.  I spend my days shouting ‘See the hatred!  See the violence and destruction!’  And everyone laughs at me and hates me.”

Jeremiah did not want everything he did to be a call.  He wanted out of this mess.

But then he says, “But if I say, ‘I will not mention God, or speak any more in the Lord’s name,’ then in me there is something like a burning fire shut up in my bones.  I am weary with holding it in, and I cannot.”  Jeremiah says:  “I can’t not do this.  Trying to hold it in makes me feel like my heart and my blood are in flames.  It is physically painful to keep my mouth shut.”

Jeremiah’s life isn’t only about preaching the word of God.  It’s about doing what he’s called to do.  About being what he has been made to be.  About forgetting what is easy or simple or financially sound or cost-effective and doing what makes him feel alive.  It’s what fulfills him.  It’s what satisfies a need, what quenches a thirst.

And see what he is called to do:  to pluck up and pull down, to destroy and overthrow, to build and to plant.  This fire in his bones isn’t just for him.  What is going to fulfill his hunger is something that will change everyone else.  He’s called to stand up against religious and political powers, shouting, “Stop the oppression!  Stop the hatred!  Stop the confidence in yourselves!  Remember God, and remember one another.”  He is called to tear up everything that is already dead, to clear away the weeds in peoples’ hearts and minds that keep good seeds from growing.  He is called to say, over and over, “Don’t you see how this is killing you?” in the hope that the whole nation or even just one person might turn away from worshipping money and power and success, from pride in their own abilities or a hidden shame about their own failings, from everything that keeps us from love of God and love of neighbor.  Jeremiah’s heart burns because he sees the pain his people are in, and he wants to--he is made to tear it down and plant something new.

This is what he’s made for.  This has been God’s plan from the beginning of his life -- that Jeremiah is to be a prophet to the nations.  He can't not do it.  He's called to this, chosen for it, set apart to be holy.  But he's not called to something just for himself.  He's called and fulfilled and set on fire for something that is meant for all the people.

See, God has a plan for Jeremiah, but God also has a plan for Israel.  It's in chapter 29:  "I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord.  Plans to prosper you, and not to harm you; plans to give you a hope and a future.  Then when you call for me and come to me and pray to me, I will hear you.  When you search for me, you will find me.  And I will restore everything you've lost, and gather you from all the places you've been driven, and I will bring you home."

This is God's plan, not just for Jeremiah but for everyone.  Plans for growth, not for pain.  Plans for hope, for a future.  Plans to be known and heard and found and brought back home.  It’s not an itinerary, or a manual, or even a map.  It’s a promise.  It's a promise from the very mouth of God that no matter who we are or what has happened, God wants you.  God wants you home.  God wants you to feel that fire in our bones, that excitement, that passion.  God wants to give you something so deeply satisfying that it feeds all of your life.  God wants to call you, to give you purpose, to give you hope, to give you a future.  And not just you, not just Jeremiah, but every single one of God's beloved children.  God has a plan, but it's not a step-by-step guideline or a PowerPoint presentation.  It's a hope that someday everyone will have God's word written on their hearts, like a tattoo on every vein, so that each heartbeat is a cry for mercy and justice and love.

That's what Jeremiah longed for -- not for God's word but for a way to change people's lives.  And that's how you can know your call.  When your passion and hope becomes a gift to someone else.  When your story becomes a source for another's healing.  And that can happen anywhere, any time.  You don't have to be a prophet, or a pastor, or anything -- not anything except the light of Christ that God has lit up in you.  You will know your call when the fire in your bones becomes a light by which others can see.  That fire isn't just to keep you warm.  It's to light up the world.

And if you don’t have that -- let’s find it.  Let's talk it over.  Let's fight it out.  Let's pluck up and tear down everything that keeps you from joy.  Let's burn a fire in your bones till whatever holds you back is ashes and dust.  And then let's plant something new.  Something that will feed you, and then feed others.  Something that will give you purpose and strength and hope.  Let's be a community that does that for each other.

Because God wants nothing less for you than a fire in your bones that becomes a light to the world.

Amen.

The assistant's mic: more true now than ever

My microphone, thank you very much, is labeled Assistant.

The first Sunday after Deb had left, it was suggested that I take the Pastor's mic, and leave the Assistant's for whoever else was helping with the service.

"No, thank you," I said, more than once, and smiling as best I could.

Even once the Pastor label was peeled away, leaving just a streak of white, I wanted my Assistant mic.

At first glance, this was mostly about my own comfort.  The ordained office, to me, is very special.  I will love the day when I am Pastor, but I am very cautious about taking it before my time.

When she was at Light of the World, Deb did not wear a collar, and so neither did I.  I was envious of my colleagues at other internship sites, who posted shots of their first Sundays in clericals, but the tradition at LOTW was not to wear one, and so I did not.

Now it feels right.  It would feel early, to wear it now.  I am not yet called to the office of Word and Sacrament.  I have no question that someday I will be, and so to look at the stoles and collared shirts in the back of my closet is only a reminder that I have a promise to walk towards.

I am fine just being Emmy, for now.  I have no wish to be pastor, just yet.

But today I thought of how very true it is that I am an Assistant.

I am with the people of Light of the World on this new journey, through losing their mission starter, finding an interim, calling a new long-term pastor.  I am with them, but not as one of them, because my time here is temporary.

(And this kills me, to remember that my time is limited.  Deb commissioned me, when I began, to fall in love with the people.  This was a painful request, because it was too damn easy to do, and will be so damn hard to leave.)

I am not a Pastor, and while I lead worship and plan music and make phone calls and lead Bible study, I am not the pastor.

I am the Assistant.  I am the one who watches, who waits for a signal, who plans ahead.  I wash the altar cloth.  I ask for preachers and presiders.  I write the prayers, teach the kids, hug the parents.  I am the one who helps.  I am Eve, pulled from Adam's side:  "It is not good for Light of the World to be alone.  I will give them a helper as a partner."

I am not a leader in all this.  I am the helper.  The community of Light of the World, in its two hundred and some members, will lead the way through this process.  They are the ones who will ask the hard questions, who will challenge each other, who will stumble, who will rise.  They will set their hands on their future next Pastor.  And I will be their helper.

This -- this is a holy call, to be the Assistant.

May God make me worthy of it.