There is Always Room Somewhere

Bethlehem means “House of Bread”. I am going to come back to this later, but it is a thing you need to know from the start. From the Hebrew, “Beit” (house) and “lehem” (bread), the little community had that name for more than a thousand years before Jesus. 

Next fun fact: when Luke tells us about the place where there was no room, he uses the Greek word kataluma. We have become used to the idea of “no room in the inn”, like a Motel 6 or the Lazy J putting out a “no vacancy” sign. A kataluma, however, was not a roadside inn or shelter. Luke had a different word for that kind of establishment, pandocheion, which is the word used in the story of the Samaritan who stopped. This is a place where you could pay someone for a room and board. 

Since we know Luke has a word for a commercial inn and he chooses not to use it here, we need to ask what a kataluma is. It is the same word used later when Jesus sends the disciples to find a "guest room" to celebrate the Passover.

Picture this: in the time of Jesus’ birth, most houses in Bethlehem were built into hillsides or over caves. The main room of the house was the heart of the home—the place where cooking, family activity, and sleeping happened. The cave portion or a slightly lower level was the space where the family animals were brought in for the night—maybe a milk cow or a few sheep or goats to keep them safe and provide warmth.

This type of house would have had a kataluma or guest room, usually attached to the side or prepared on the roof. In a culture that emphasized hospitality as a sacred duty, people naturally had space for travelers. The fact that there was no room in the kataluma means the houses all around were already full of family and other travelers who were there for the same reason as Mary and Joseph—the census.

Thus, when the time came for Mary to give birth, the only space available was the dugout space or cave area where the family animals would have normally stayed. Jesus was born into a crowded home. Mary likely had the support of other women for the birth. And there were probably other men around to give Joseph something to do or at least to help him through his own worries. 

Jesus born in this way moves us from imagining the Holy Family being turned away by a cold innkeeper. Instead, we see the Son of God coming into crowded lives. Full houses. Limited space. People already stretched thin by census demands, obligations, traditions, and expectations. And into that very relatable human fullness, God arrived in the flesh.

By the early 300s, Christians were already venerating a specific cave in Bethlehem as Jesus’ birthplace. When Emperor Constantine made Christianity the religion of the Roman Empire, he built the Church of the Nativity directly over that cave, which is still there today. Eastern forms of Christianity have preserved this tradition, and their nativity sets show the birth of our Lord happening in a cave or grotto.

In the Christianity that grew in western and northern Europe, animals were usually kept in a separate building from the main house. This gave rise to the interpretation of Jesus being born in a stable. After all, we usually picture what we know. Since he was born in a place apart from the house, the space where there was no room was no longer imagined as a guest room, but rather as a commercial inn.

Why am I telling you all this? Even if you find it interesting, why does it matter? 

Stay with me. 

This fall, a Savior born in the House of Bread became a stumbling block for me. For the first time in my adult life, I was in a church service with other Lutherans and I couldn’t take communion. One of the discoveries of myriad medical tests I underwent this fall was that I have celiac disease. My body cannot process wheat, barley, or rye. It’s a bummer. 

In November, I was at a gathering with fellow Lutheran clergy. More than thirty of us were gathered for conversation and our time together closed with Holy Communion. I noticed there was only one type of wafer. When I quietly asked the hosting pastor if the bread was gluten-free, which is hard to request, he didn’t know for sure. We were also dipping, or intincting, the wafers into the chalice of wine, so I couldn’t drink that either. I stood in the circle as we prayed together, and everyone communed but me. 

I didn’t feel particularly left out because I knew what was happening and I have great trust in God’s inclusive love. I did think a lot, however, about people who would have felt left out or forgotten. For whom a failure to include would feel like specific exclusion. 

I thought about what it feels like to not be able to participate in the meal of the table of our Savior who was born in the “House of Bread”. 

And this is why the truth about the kataluma matters. 

Sometimes the space we’ve made as human beings just doesn’t have enough room for everyone. Even our best intentions go awry. And, let’s face it, sometimes we don’t even have the best intentions. The most faithful of us, the most knowledgeable, the most experienced in life can still come to a place where there is no room for us in the kataluma, in the space that we’re supposed to be able to count on. 

But God’s work goes beyond intention. God doesn’t intend to… God does. 

When Jesus is born in an unexpected place, surrounded by people who might have had other plans for the day, found by shepherds who were otherwise occupied, in an empire obsessed with its own power (like they all are) – when all of this occurs, God is at work.

God’s presence in our world doesn’t happen remotely or accidentally, apart from daily life. It doesn’t happen in a sterile place, perfectly set up. It rarely happens in the expected way or the planned for way. 

The birth of Jesus happens where there was no way, no space, and not even expectation for how it would happen. Yet, in spite of all that, God’s love is born into the world in the middle of all the things, everything all at once. It draws in and welcomes everyone, even the ones who hang back. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you shepherds, you unexpected parents, you with households full of chaos. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you who feel left out, you with big questions, you with broken and grieving hearts. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you who believe Jesus was born in a stable, you who celebrate a Savior born in a cave, you who have never given it that much thought. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you who are aching in body, you with a divided family, you who no longer believe. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you who must eat gluten free, you who are struggling with addiction, you who are still seeking a diagnosis. 

Unto you is born a Savior – you whose house is not perfect, you whose gift will come late, you who just want me to wrap this up and bring it all home. 

Unto us, in the House of Bread, is born a Savior. Born into a busy world of people full of their own concerns. Born to remove the fear of being separated from God. Born to love and show love, to grant mercy, to heal, and to give hope to all. 

Unto us, in the House of Bread, is born a Savior. In stable, in a cave, in the manger of our hearts. 

And where he is, there is the bread of life, born, broken, and given at a table with room for us all. 

Merry Christmas. 

 

In the Dark (Sermon, Advent 4)

Years ago, when I worked at a church with a preschool, I attended the Christmas program.  This was long enough ago that the Christmas story was told with a flannel board, a cloth covered board with little fabric cutouts. In this version of the Christmas story, there were the usual elements- Mary and Joseph, an outline of a stable, angels, and shepherds. There was also a cut-out of the night sky - a deeply colored piece of fabric with stars and a hint of the Milky Way. 

As we watched the story unfold in this particular year, the teacher would tell part of the story and each child would come and put up their piece on the flannel board. As she came to the part about the shepherds watching their flocks by night, one little boy leapt up and said, “I have the dark!” 

I have the dark. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about that incident this week, not just because today is the solstice. 

The little boy wasn’t bothered about what he had. The dark was as much a part of the story as everything else. The sheep, the star, the manger, the dark. 

Today’s readings take place mostly in the dark.

Not the cozy, candlelit kind of dark.
But the kind where you don’t know what comes next.
The kind where God hasn’t explained the Divine actions yet.
The kind where you have to decide what to do before everything makes sense.

That’s where God seems to like to work.

Isaiah meets King Ahaz in a moment of fear. The Assyrian nation is threatening. The future feels fragile. And God says, Ask for a sign.
Ahaz refuses to ask, not because he is faithful, but because he is fearful. God gives a sign anyway:

A young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.

This is not a lightning bolt miracle.
It is not a military solution.
It is a pregnancy, a regular everyday nativity.

Something hidden.
Something slow.
Something that looks ordinary at first glance.

God’s promise does not arrive fully formed.
It grows in the dark.

The psalm picks up the cry of people still waiting:

Restore us, O God; let your face shine, that we may be saved.

They are asking for light.
They are begging for clarity.
But consider: this prayer itself comes from the shadows, 
from a place of displacement and longing, 
From a place where the ending cannot be clearly seen.

Faith, here, is not confidence.
Faith is calling out when you cannot yet see.
Faith is not the absence of doubt, but action in spite of doubt.

Paul, writing to the Romans, speaks as though the promise is already fulfilled.
He talks about Jesus as both descended from David and declared Son of God with power.

But remember—when Paul writes this, the world has not changed much at all.
Rome is still Rome.
The church is small.
Suffering continues.
And Paul is under house arrest as he writes. 
He knows he’s not getting out of this alive for this life. 

He is not ignoring the darkness.
He is interpreting it.

God’s power, Paul insists, does not cancel human weakness.
God understands it. God accounts for it. 

God moves through the way humans are because this is how we are made and how we be..

And then there is Joseph.

Matthew tells us plainly: Joseph was a righteous man.
Which means he follows the law.
Which also means he has every reason to walk away.

Mary’s pregnancy puts him in a nearly impossible place.
Public shame.
Private heartbreak.
A future rewritten without his consent.

Joseph does not get a sermon.
He does not get an explanation.
He gets a dream.

And in that dream, God does not say, “Here is how everything will turn out.”
God says, Do not be afraid.

That is what God says when full clarity is not available.

Joseph wakes up still in the dark.
Still facing rumors.
Still without proof.

And Matthew says, He did as the angel of the Lord commanded him.

Joseph looked at what he had and said, “I have the dark”. And he acted accordingly with his part of the story.

Not with complete certainty.
Not with complete understanding.
But genuine obedience born of trust that God is present even when the light is dim.

Advent 4 reminds us that God’s greatest work begins unseen.

In a womb.
In a dream.
In a prison cell.
In a decision made quietly, without applause.

We often want God to work by fixing, solving, explaining.
But God works in the dark.

Slowly.
Patiently.
In the dark.

If you are waiting right now—
If you are holding questions you cannot answer—
If you are doing the next right thing without knowing where it leads—

You are not faithless.
You are in Advent.

Immanuel means God with us.
Not God after the confusion clears.
Not God once the fear is gone.

God with us when the wind blows.
God with us when the trees fall. 
God with us when death follows death, and grief seems not to end.

We can have the dark.
God is with us, right here.
In the shadows.
In the waiting.
In the waiting before Christmas dawns.

In the dark is where salvation begins.

Amen.

 

 

Love Has Come

Sermon for the First Sunday in Advent, Year A (2025) 

Written for the Montana Synod 

 

Isaiah 2:1-5; Psalm 122; Romans 13:11-14; Matthew 24:36-44

 

Greetings, siblings in Christ, from your faith family in Big Timber. May the grace and peace of our Lord and Savior be with you all on this day and in the time to come.

Happy New Years, friends! This Sunday marks the start of the season of Advent and the beginning of a new church year. For those of you who are interested, this is the beginning of Year A in the three-year church cycle, meaning most of the gospel readings for the year ahead will be from Matthew.

In the world around us, especially in commercial spaces, Advent is a season of anticipation and acquisition. It’s time to get ready for the celebration of Christmas and all that comes with it. In the church world, we are a little out of step with that. Yes, Advent is a season of anticipation, but less about Christmas and more about the promises of God’s judgment and reconciliation. Part of the reason we put the Christmas carols on hold in the church world is because the Advent themes of hope in frustration, faithfulness in division, and refining fire aren’t in sync with the oft glow of light around mother and child in the nativity scene.

When that thematic separation feels too great, we tend to default to Christmas mode because it feels easier. The judgment themes and the tensions of Advent can be frightening. The idea of still waiting for our long-expected Savior is frustrating and confusing for some. Advent as Christmas-lite seems easier.


When we skip ahead, however, we miss important things about the waiting and the preparation. Not only that, but we specifically cannot skip ahead because Jesus told us not to. As we do not know the day or the hour, we are called to be in a state of preparation, not a state of already celebrating or a position of despair because we think it will never happen. What it means to be a follower of Jesus and to be one who trusts His word is to be one who keeps moving in hopeful expectation, no matter how long it takes.

Here is a story to illustrate what I mean:

In November 2007, I was waiting for my husband to return home from a deployment to Iraq with the Army. He had left in March. We missed many milestones in the nine months apart, including our first wedding anniversary. Our communication had been intermittent. We, along with all the other families in our company, were anticipating the reunion.

Some of you will know this and some of you are about to learn that military returns are not always smooth affairs. Due to security and moving parts in theatre, the dates of returns are not set until very close when they will happen. Many things can cause delays. They may leave the war zone, but be held up in another location for hours or days.

Once we kind of had a date. I began to clean the house. I ordered new sheets. I refreshed the pantry with foods I knew my husband liked and stocked the fridge with beverages. I got a haircut. I filled his truck with gas and got the oil changed.

Finally, on the day before, we were given an estimated return around midday. The next morning it changed to late afternoon. In the waiting, I vacuumed again and did another random load of laundry. I made cookies and talked on the phone with a friend.

In the mid-afternoon, we were told that it would be closer to 10 pm. I made another batch of cookies and ran to the grocery store for some additional food I thought might be good the next day.

At 9 pm, we were told that it would probably be around 2 am.

Families with kids were trying to decide whether to put the kids to bed or just let them stay up. Partners without kids, like me, continued to stretch out our activities- cleaning pantries, playing with pets, vacuuming long forgotten corners of the house. We filled our time with things that needed doing, but that we just usually didn’t get to.

Finally, at 1:30 am, most of us gathered at the Armory building on the post to wait together. A movie was on for the kids. We talked and laughed together. We held each other up.

At 3 am, the reunion came.

When you see pictures or videos of reunions, they’re often in public or maybe they’re surprises. The majority of reunions, however, do happen on bases, posts, or installations. With family members who had filled their weeks, days, and hours of waiting with all kinds of activity.

This is the kind of waiting that Jesus is talking about. This is the waiting of Advent.


This is waiting for one who is loved and who loves.


When Isaiah speaks of the day of the Lord, when the people shall learn war no more…


When the psalmist says, “For the sake of my kindred | and companions, pray for your well-being”...


When Paul says to the Roman Christians, “For salvation is nearer to us now than when we became believers”...

These are statements of anticipation and hope, the kind of anticipation and action-filled waiting that Jesus expected of his followers- then and now.

While we may feel like the promised time of return continues to be delayed, there are still many things we can do. We are called and equipped for tasks of love and service to all those people around us.

The alertness to which we have been called, by Christ himself, is not a flurry of activity right before the event, like cleaning the house before guests. It is on-going, paced responsiveness to the grace that has always been with us, is in us now, and will sustain us in the life to come. This is Advent. And we are Advent people.

At the start of our own new year, in a season of waiting, out of step with the culture around us, we know that a reunion is coming. With the help of the Spirit, we remain awake and active.

And we know the love that will meet us has been with us all along. Amen.

 

 

Here's What I'd Say

“Here is what I would say to you if it wouldn’t hurt your feelings.” This is a popular construct right now in social media posts and in short-form publishing. The set-up is usually a specialist from a medical field or an expert in a given research field, appealing to the viewer to consider an idea or ideas in a different light. “Here is what I would say if it wouldn’t hurt your feelings.” The posts are an effort to counteract “general wisdom” or “accepted knowledge” and to present additional information and research that may lead to a better health outcomes or improved quality of life.

Each time I see it, I consider what my video would be. How would I complete the premise, “Here is what I would say if it wouldn’t hurt your feelings.” Contrary to popular belief, I do try to be gentle in teaching and, most of the time, in preaching. Harshness gains no ground for the gospel. I do pull some punches.

So, should I do it? Should I say the thing that I desperately want you to hear? To understand? To ponder in your heart, turning it over and over until it becomes a smooth touchstone?

Here is what I would say if it wouldn’t hurt your feelings: we don’t have enough imagination about God.

We don’t think big enough. We don’t let enough things be awesome and mysterious. We don’t sit in our questions long enough. We do not imagine a great enough mercy, an amazing enough grace, a broad enough welcome, a long enough table with more than enough seats.

We sing about it, but then let it go, fading with the music. We dream about it but then make the shape of our church life what it has always been, instead of trying something new- rooted in the dream. We pray for it but then do not act- as though prayers are only about words and not equally about deeds.

Here is what I would say if it wouldn’t hurt your feelings: we don’t have enough imagination about God.

What do I mean by that?

In today’s gospel reading, we have one of the “seven last words of Christ”. These are the phrases that Jesus says from the cross, recorded across the four gospels.

All seven are: “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do”, “Woman, behold your son. Son, behold your mother”, “I thirst”, “Why have you forsaken me”, “Today you will be with me in paradise”, “Into your hands, I commit my spirit”, and “It is finished”.

Why would any of these be chosen for Christ the King Sunday? How do any of these fit in with the broad understanding of the Reign of Christ, particularly in the face of nationalism and secularism, which are why this day was established in 1925? Why, especially, would the chosen “word” be the ones said to a criminal, deemed worthy of the death penalty by an occupying army?

And what does this have to do with having more imagination about God?

You ask good questions.

Of the seven last words, “Today you will be with me in paradise” are the only ones that can actually be said by the Son of God. I am not saying these are the only words of Jesus. What I am saying is that the other six could be said by anyone, anywhere, including any king or ruler.

“I thirst”, “Woman, behold your son”, and “Why have you forsaken me” are all very human statements in the face of torture and death. To be worried about the care of a survivor or to experience bodily need when in pain can happen to anyone. They both do all the time. Feeling a separation from God, despite knowing the closeness of the Divine, is a reality we all know. This is why we resonate with Jesus’ anguish in that cry.

“Into your hands, I commit my spirit” and “It is finished” are the utterances of any person, regardless of power, who has come to peace with the end of their life in this plane and who is accepting of what is to come. Sometimes these words are said with the lips and sometimes they are spoken in the heart.

“Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” This one feels more specific to Jesus. Yet, anyone who hopes for another person to experience the grace of God can pray this. A benevolent leader can pray this. A suffering martyr can pray this. We can pray this while watching or reading the news. Jesus gives us the words and permission to refer to Infinite Love as our Holy Parent.

The only word from the cross that could only come from the Son of God is “Today you will be with me in paradise”. This word of consolation and hope can only be uttered by One who absolutely knows where He will be and where the other person will be as well.

In the middle of great suffering, while experiencing pain and humiliation, Jesus has the capacity to see and perceive the deepest need of the man next to him, a man who undergoing the same pain and humiliation. And it is Jesus alone who has the authority to declare what will happen next. “Today you will be with me in paradise” is not a statement of faith from his lips; it is statement of fact.

This is why we have this reading today for the observance of Christ the King. We can be easily distracted by the way human beings throw around their earthly power. We can be razzle dazzled and misled. We can also be fooled by how leaders can manipulate us with pockets of awareness or humility, while calculating political points.

King Jesus, hanging on a cross, does many human things, but also does a thing only God can. Jesus alone moves us from life to life.

Today you will be with me in paradise. Not after your confirmation. Not after a sinner’s prayer. Not after a specific ritual. Not after you agonize over your worthiness and confess again and again and wonder if you’re really forgiven.

Today you will be with me in paradise.

And this brings me back to what I would say to you if it wouldn’t hurt your feelings.

We need to have a bigger imagination about God.

We need to think bigger. We need to let more things be awesome and mysterious. We need to sit in our questions long enough. We need to imagine a great enough mercy, an amazing enough grace, a broad enough welcome, a long enough table with more than enough seats. And we need to let that expansion fuel our life together and our life in the world.

When we nail God down to being about the success of our team- whether sports, political, or otherwise… When we box God in by our traditions and “the way it’s always been”… When we go through the motions of habits as though they are sufficient for spiritual practice…

When we confine the meaning of our faith in Jesus to being our “get out of hell free” card, he is not our king. He becomes no more than a token and our faith is nothing more than magical thinking.

But when we allow ourselves to truly be in awe of the majesty and might of God, when we permit ourselves to believe in One who could definitively say, without preconditions, “Today you will be with me in paradise”, when we perceive the fire of the Spirit still burning in the world, still bringing order out of chaos, still causing scales to fall from eyes…

When we realize that we do not hold God, but that we are being held by God…

Then we will understand the reign of Christ:

we will know what it means to serve a king with joy and devotion,

we will no longer ask “who is my neighbor” because we will see all people as neighbor and sibling.

I don’t want to hurt your feelings. We don’t have enough imagination about God.

And the world that God so loves needs us to grasp that God’s facts- facts of justice, mercy, peace, inclusion, hope, and promises made and kept – God’s facts are bigger than anyone’s imagination.

When we realize that… that day will be paradise.

 

Who Should Eat?

Them: “What if it goes to someone undeserving? Someone who hasn’t earned it? 

Me: “Who am I to keep someone from grace, from help, from the table?” 

 

The “rule” of my denomination that I break most often and most fragrantly regards Holy Communion. In the guidelines about the “means of grace” (ways God is revealed to us), pastors are instructed to offer communion to baptized individuals (regardless of age). The pertinent documents declare that “there is no sin” if an unbaptized person is to receive communion, but to begin withholding the sacrament until there is understanding and baptism. 

No. 

Firstly, I do not believe in hierarchy among the (two) sacraments. Communion is not *more* sacred than baptism. If both are the work of God, then who am I to say that one must be held back until the other can occur. God washes, welcomes, and feeds. It is a gift to be part of that work. It feels like a risky business to withhold the gifts of God based on my own judgment and a human-created schedule. 

Secondly, the invocation of “understanding” means there comes a point in time when we comprehend how the mystery of communion works. People worry about children receiving the elements, but no one has ever stopped me from communing an adult with dementia who still reaches for the host. People would be upset if I withheld from folks with developmental differences or neurological issues, who are able to tell that they are being excluded. If “understanding” is required to participate at our Lord’s table, it’s going to be a pretty quiet party. How can a foretaste of the feast to come be exclusive? 

Thirdly, how can we do it “rightly” if we can’t have it? I know some who are likely ready to slide into my DMs with some words from 1 Corinthians 11. Bring it on. Paul is concerned about people who are “eating and drinking to their damnation.” In the context of the chapter, this seems more about coming to the fellowship table with a disrespectful attitude or one out of step with the neighbor-honoring that seems to have caused the Corinthian Christians to struggle. Get it together, says Paul. Your heart isn’t right at the table, if it’s not right toward the other people in the room. This is true and important. I will argue, however, that the body and blood of Christ are tools to help us get right. If we are struggling, communion may be what we need more. 

Lastly, who decides who deserves to be at the table? Judas (betrayer), Peter (denier), and Thomas (doubter) all ate with Jesus in his last meal before the resurrection. The room held women who prepared the meal, the Sons of Zebedee who hadn’t exactly honored their father, and at least one (former) tax collector who had been in league with an oppressive government. Jesus did not limit who was fed. The forgiveness at the cross wasn’t limited to those who understood what was happening, but was specifically extended to those who knew “not what they do”. Deserve is a precarious concept. And grace isn’t fair. 

Grace isn’t fair. 

But I don’t want to eat at a table or live in a world without it.  

A Parable about Alarms

Many years ago, I spent a few nights in a hostel on the outer edge of Edinburgh, Scotland. I was there alone, but had a great time exploring the city by day and then resting in my little cubby in a shared room at night.

On my third or fourth night, an alarm went off in the building. I got up, grabbed my purse, put on shoes, and immediately went out the nearest exit, heading down to the bank of the small river behind the building. I waited at the far end of the lawn, alone for several minutes before the alarm stopped sounding. No one else came out at all.

When I walked around the front of the building and was let back inside, I asked what happened. “Oh, the alarm does that sometimes,” I was told. “It’s no big deal.”

I was confused, “But what would have happened if there had been a problem?”

I was assured that everything would have been fine. There was nothing to worry about. Just go back to sleep. 

While this probably seemed like nothing to them, it was a big deal to me. I was only a few years out of college, which I attended in North Carolina. In my high school years, two different colleges in NC had residential building fires in which students died. By the time I was in college, fire drills for dorms were mandatory and frequent. In my school, the drills were timed. The building had to be emptied in less than three minutes. Alarms in buildings were (and are) something serious to me.

Yet, here I was in a different country having a very different experience. Yes, there was an alarm, but no one was alarmed. And my experience wasn’t meaningful to the people  in front of me. And since it wasn’t known or meaningful to them, they weren’t able to tell me what would happen if there was an actual problem. 

What is the point of this story? 

There are currently a lot of alarms sounding. Alarms about violated laws and norms. Alarms about vulnerable people and populations. Alarms about harm being done- publicly and in secret.

Some people are ignoring the alarms. Some people are dancing to them, like music. Some people are trying to shout over them and trying to bring attention to them. Some people are saying this just happens sometimes.

All I know is this: an ignored alarm is not the same as a false alarm. It’s better to check what’s happening and take it seriously, than to act like it’s nothing. There is almost always some action that needs to be taken. Talk to other people as well. Which alarms are they hearing and what is their experience with alarms? Everything is not fine.

Alarm bells are ringing. How are you responding?

Patriotism vs. Nationalism

There is a lot of current conversation using the words patriotism and nationalism as though they were interchangeable phrases or concepts. Historically, they have not been interchangeable and I would argue they’re not today either. 

Patriotism and nationalism differ in the areas of unity vs. uniformity, reflection, and expectation around improvement. They both reflect a love of country and a pride in home and aspects of history. One is more willing to embrace truth-telling than the other. 

With regard to unity vs. uniformity, nationalism seeks the latter. Most nationalist movements have a concept of the “ideal” citizen in terms of race, religion, and/or political ideology. In the beginning of most nationalist movements, this is the “quiet” part. Leaders of the movement don’t necessarily specify these preferred expressions because they need everyone to be “all in” in order to achieve power. Eventually, though, the truth will out. Look to who speaks for the group most often and most publicly. Do not look for tokens, but for the most regular way of being. There are always early signs of the expectation of uniformity. 

Healthy patriotism seeks unity. This can be difficult to achieve because it involves listening, compromise, sharing of power and resources, and the pursuit of goals in common. An effort toward unity requires work that not everyone wants to do because it can be slow. Reciprocity and careful communication are required. Progress can be made. Within some of the greatest historical movements, there have always been tensions among leaders, but the change happened in the struggle for unity on the things that mattered most to the most. 

Patriotism allows and encourages reflection on history - celebrating victories and movements and learning from failures and losses. This reflection is not a blame game, but a chance to see the multi-sided truth of what happened, who was harmed, who benefitted, and how we got to where we are. This can be hard and, sometimes, painful work. Patriotism, as a deep love of country, sees it as necessary to continue to grow and to achieve the dreams of all who call a place home. 

Nationalism turns away from deep reflection. The narrow way of this mindset does not allow for the space to consider multiple viewpoints. In fact, integration of a variety of viewpoints would conflict with the preference for uniformity. Nationalism wants us all to accept the stated narrative, without consideration of additional information or experience. Even when a historical consideration is generally considered objectively harmful, the door to additional reflection is often shut to prevent “stirring up trouble” or bringing up things that are “over”. 

Finally, a patriot loves their country enough to be truthful about room for improvement. Accepting that the work will be on-going and sometimes tough, patriotism knows that the dreams continue and the effort to reach the mountaintop carries on. Patriotism can simultaneously recognize sacrifice and dedication AND expect moral deliberation and a pursuit of justice and liberty for all. No patriot would ever see these as mutually exclusive. 

Nationalism loves power. The strong fist, the weapon, the rules (written and unwritten) are the tools that keep those who would stray out of line with the vision of the future. Obedience has a high value and questions are viewed as the gateway to disobedience. In history, nationalist movements are known for having redefined common terms, for creating outgroups and scapegoats, and for shifting the settled laws and norms of the land, both inside and outside of legal channels. Viewed through the lens of history, nationalist movements often look like cults, but we rarely use that term because of the scope of their work in government(s). 

Patriotism and nationalism are not the same. They don’t have the same goals and they don’t show up in the world in the same way. There are many ways of defining them, but even if you use my basic definitions you should be able to tell them apart.

Here’s a story about my kid, both to illustrate a point and because I’m proud of him. My teen runs cross-country. In a recent race, he sacrificed the opportunity to improve his personal record or event experience to pace a teammate. This meant running with the teammate to help him qualify for state competition. The sacrifice meant having a full team to go to state competition and an improved time for the teammate, if a slower time in one race for my son. 

Patriotism is loving your team (country) enough to know that sometimes you will be called upon to sacrifice some for the good of the whole. It means wanting everyone to make it to the finish and to the next thing. It means telling the truth about what has to be done, what will work, what doesn’t work, and celebrating together. Both the individual AND the team matter. 

Patriotism wants us all to thrive as a team. Nationalism only wants certain of us on the podium. Don’t get them confused. 

Look up and Live (Sermon)

A Sermon for Holy Cross Day 
(Numbers 21;4b-9; 1 Corinthians 1:18-24; John 3:13-17)

Look up! Moses says to the snake bitten children of God. 
Look up and live! 

You are being poisoned by a false memory. The scars of the lashes of slavery are still with you, yet you want to remember the grimaces and call them smiles. 
Look up, cries Moses, look up at the truth. 
The truth of God’s provision, the truth of walking in freedom, the truth of hope – these truths are indeed a new landscape, but your eyes can adjust. Your body can adjust. Your breath can adjust. 
But for these truths to do their healing work, you must look up. 
Lift your eyes to the one who heals you, past the medicine in its curious form. Look to the One whose power is over you, whose love is around you, whose Divine desire is for your healing. 
Tell them to look up, says the Lord to Moses, to look up from their pain, to turn away from lies, to want healing as much as I, the Lord, want to heal. 

Look up! Moses says to the snake bitten children of God. 
Look up and live! 
 
Look up, says Jesus to the Pharisee Nicodemus, who crept in under the cover of darkness.
Look up and live! 

Like your ancestors, you are wandering, absorbed in memory of when things were better. A memory can deceive you, but the God who was with you then and is with you now will not. 
Look up, says Jesus, look up and see the Spirit, the breath of God. Perceive how the wind moves, even when you cannot see the force itself. 
Look up and be born again into a new hope, a renewed hope, a hope that demonstrates how God is still speaking. 
Your first birth brought you screaming into brightness. Look up, says the Christ, and know that the second birth, through water and Word, brings you into the brightness of eternal love. 
God so loves. God so loves. God so loves. The world, the cosmos, the height and depth and breadth, Nicodemus. God. So. Loves. 

Look up, says Jesus to the Pharisee who crept in under the cover of darkness. 
Look up and live! 
 
Look up, says Paul to the divided Corinthians, look up to the shape of your salvation. 
Look up and live. 

I know, my beloveds, writes the Apostle, that you long to seem wise. You want to be able to debate with clarity and rhetoric. What good is the gift of salvation, if you cannot shout down every opponent and watch their efforts burn with holy fire, like Elijah and the prophets of Baal. 
Look up to the cross, my Corinthian friends. The joy of our salvation does not lie in proof-texted arguments and quick comebacks, so valued by the powers of this world. The cross turns the world and its “wisdom” upside down. 
If the cross finds meaning in our boasting of our self-righteousness and superior claims to understanding, says Paul, then it has no meaning at all. 
Look up and remember the One who called down forgiveness, who welcomed sinners to paradise, who committed his life to the hands of the Father. Look up and see that it stands empty because neither God’s will nor God’s grace nor God’s plan for redemption can be nailed down and forced to conform to the expectations of this world. 

Look up, says Paul to the divided Corinthians, look up to the shape of your salvation. 
Look up and live. 
 
Look up, says the pastor to the weary soul, look up at the cross of Christ and remember that it is not your own. 
Look up and live. 

Like our siblings in the wilderness, we are snake-bit by false memories and misinformation. We callback a time of glory that never really was only because it wasn’t glorious for everyone. The gospel is only good news when it is good news for the whole creation. 
Look up, says the pastor, look up and learn from our human history, so that all may have cups that runneth over and tables prepared - not in the presence of enemies, but in the company of friends. 
Caught like Nicodemus in trying to sort out Jesus’ confusing words, we sometimes forget the clearest commands of our Savior. Look up, says the preacher, and remember the blessing that comes from peacemaking. Remember how the Savior is met in the hungry, sick, and lonely. Remember how to show mercy to your neighbor and go and do likewise. 
Look up and recall how God so loves and how the Son was sent not to condemn, but to rescue.
Look up, says the preacher, from the same news stories told the same way over and over, stirring up frustration that has nowhere productive to go. Look up from what you use to distract yourself- the thing that in the dark of the night makes you wish you spent your time or your money or your strength differently. 

Look up and consider that when Paul told the Corinthians to stop trying to do things in the way of the world, he then told them that the way of discipleship was one of love- patient, kind, not boastful or rude, no jealousy and no record-keeping of wrongs. 
Look up to the world of the Good Shepherd around you, the blessings of your Creator, the consolation and encouragement of the Holy Spirit. 
Look up and sing again the words of “Amazing Grace”. 
Look up and remember that when we say, “God so loves”- this means you. For you. For you. For you. 
Look up and know that nothing is inevitable except the grace of God. No powers of this world, no spiritual forces, no human mistakes can derail God’s ultimate desire for reformation, restoration, and resurrection. Look up and know that nothing is inevitable except the grace of God.

You have been equipped for living a life of hope amidst doubt, possibility amidst fear, and love amidst violence, for unity amidst division. 

You have been equipped for living for Christ, living abundantly. 

Look up, says the pastor to the weary soul, look up at the cross of Christ and remember that it is not your own. 
Look up and live. 
 

The Constancy of Christ

 Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever. - Hebrews 13:8

In every conversation about societal change, people who seek wisdom from the Bible turn to this phrase. Maybe not every person, but these words show up in each argument. 

Once this phrase appears, the person using it has shut down. They’re no longer open to holy imagination, reason, or even (eyeroll) the devil’s advocate. They’re done. 

Bear in mind, please, that people used these words to justify the chattel slave trade, the subjugation of women, the forcible removal and attempted extermination of Native peoples, the right to “subdue” the land without thought for renewal or regeneration. 

The sameness of Christ has been invoked to support antisemitism, racism, LGBTQ+ shaming and harm, marginalization of those with mental illness, harm to neurodivergent folks, people who are divorced, people with physical illnesses, and the list goes on and on. 

There is no one reading this who hasn’t been harmed by these arguments, directly or indirectly. 

If the constancy of the nature of the Divine, especially in Jesus Christ, is thrown down to show that Jesus dislikes the behavior that I dislike, I might as well allot time in my week to polish the golden calf I’ve made of my own understanding, my own comfort, and my own expectations. 

If Jesus hates who I hate and loves who I love… then the message of Jesus is not good news for me or anyone else. 

Since our faith tradition firmly asserts the mercy of God in Christ as gospel (good news) for all people, then the living out of that faith means examining what we’ve been taught and how I show up in the world. Are our words and deeds showing forth Christ’s love and grace, inclusion and hope, mercy and justice? 

“But Jesus would never want people to continue in sin.” This is true. It is also true, however, that the only sinner I am able to correct is myself. Herein lies the consolation of the constancy of Christ. I am going to sin through things done and left undone, what is said and left unsaid. The sameness of Christ from day to day means the consistent truth of forgiveness, guidance, and connection to the Creator. My sins do not create a chasm of varying depth and breadth, depending on how much I am forgiven and claimed. Jesus’ consistent and gracious presence eliminates those things and, by His example, leads me to better behavior. 

If or when we use the verse, “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever” as a way to shut down conversation, then the words are no longer good news. They have become a weapon we are using to shape the world the way we want it. This way leads to death- death of the conversation, death of relationships, death of community, death of the hope of God’s will being done on earth as in heaven through our hands, feet, mouths, and ears. 

When we invoke the constancy of Jesus, God’s son, to say, “This is how it is”, we are no better than the folks in the parable who sit themselves right down next to the host, at the top of the table, in the place of honor. (Luke 14) Jesus warns that kind of thinking will lead to shame when a person is asked to move on down to a less prominent seat. It can happen to me, to you, to any of us. 

The humility that is needed in our time, the humbleness of heart that can end bullying, division, all the “isms”, and the taking of God’s name in vain by asserting zeal God would not own… that softness of heart comes in considering the constancy and consistency of Christ to be a comfort and tool for hope, not a weapon or a punctuation mark on an argument. 

 Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever. This is not an invitation for us to harden our hearts or close our minds. It is meant to be the everlasting arms that surround and guide us into new growth, new understanding, and new life every day. For the gospel to be good news for us, it has to be good news for everyone. And the constancy of Christ is definitely good news in a world desperate for it. Let us bear it in truth with soft hearts, open minds, and deep faith. 

 

Amen. 

Wanting to Justify Himself (Sermon)

Luke 10:25-40

Over the course of my life, I have watched the focus of today’s gospel story shift. As a child, I received the most common interpretation- that the goal of our life as followers of Jesus was to be like the merciful Samaritan. We are called and equipped to stop and help. How could we do any less, given that our Savior stopped and helped us? 

Good Samaritan laws and a variety of organizations are named after this interpretation. Looked at from this view, the story draws us all toward opportunities of mercy and generosity. Those are certainly two things the world could use more of- mercy and generosity. They can come from unexpected sources but should certainly come from people who claim to be following Jesus. 

 

Then came the reflections on why the priest and the Levite did not stop. I have read and listened to countless explanations of why these two people rushed past a man in need. Sometimes the reasons seem to make sense; sometimes they are difficult to understand in light of human suffering. Looking at this story from the angle of the folks who did not stop is a reminder that we always have reasons for not stopping that make sense to us. Whether those reasons are acceptable to God is a different story.

 

There are other potential ways of looking at the story. One such inflection point is considering from whom we would accept help. Are we open to anyone who might help us or are we only willing to accept help from certain people in certain circumstances?

 

Currently, many people are thinking about the narrative from the perspective of the innkeeper. Through interpretation, he can help think about the people who take on the task of on-going care after a crisis. He is a person who takes on the long-term work after the disaster- tasked with rebuilding, trauma relief, and rehabilitation. This is actually an important role on which to reflect as we often forget the toll of cleaning up and starting over after a catastrophe. 

 

Additionally, many people, including Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., have pointed out that a major aspect of the story is the need to make the Jericho Road safer. Should we take it as given that a dangerous road must remain dangerous? Should we accept it as inevitable that some people will be harmed? The story lifts up the ones who show mercy in a bad situation, but perhaps part of the response is also to make a bad situation stop by creating different and more optimal conditions. 

 

All of these are valid and important ways of considering this familiar story. I’d like to draw back, to zoom out a little and consider the framework of the story. Jesus tells this parable, a story with an indirect point, in the context of being questioned by an expert in legal interpretation. In the scene, it’s not totally clear where Jesus is, but he is in a place where people can ask him questions. This doesn’t seem to be a trap, but a question from a man who both wants to impress Jesus and to be sure he is exactly following the letter of the expectations that will keep him in good relationship with God. 

 

The key phrase that draws my attention is this, “wanting to vindicate himself”. Sometimes we hear, “wanting to justify himself”. One Bible paraphrase says the man was “looking for a loophole”. No matter how you look at it, though, the man isn’t looking for a way to generously interpret how to live in relationship with God and others. He’s looking for the narrow interpretation that would mean he’s done exactly what was required and nothing more. 

 

After all, why ask “who is my neighbor” unless I want to clarify who is NOT my neighbor? When I drive up the Boulder, which license plate numbers or locations should I stop to help if they’re pulled over? That’s only necessary if I assume there are some people I should not stop to help. Wanting to be right in front of Jesus, the man with the question assumes that there are people Jesus would expect him not to help? He believes there are children of God who do not have to be loved as he loves himself. 

 

While we might speak of him derisively, we do exactly the same thing all the time. The hamster wheel of self-justification is always turning in all of us. Even more than the priest and the Levite who hurried past, our reasons for ignoring pain, suffering, trauma, human need, or historical issues that contribute to modern problems fall more into the category of “wanting to justify ourselves”. Our desire to be right in our own eyes steals God's intended peace from us and from others.

 

Repair of the Jericho Road would cost too much and take money from other problems. 

The man should have known better than to be on that road. And what was he wearing when he was attacked? 

The Samaritan probably wasn’t going to come back and cover the bill, so it was left to the innkeeper. Samaritans always take advantage. 

 

“Wanting to justify himself…” 

 

Some of the most common phrases I hear regarding Bible interpretation go like this: 

• Well, the early church life happened a long time ago and things are different now. 
• Jesus didn’t tell us exactly how to respond to this thing or that thing, so we’re doing the best we can. 
• I can always ask for forgiveness if it turns out badly. 

 

Every single one of those statements is an attempt to justify oneself, to make oneself right before God by the letter of discipleship, but not the spirit. If we want to get off the hamster wheel of self-justification, if we want to stop scrambling and be still and know the presence of God, the grace of God, the peace of God, then we have to believe Jesus meant exactly what he said. 

 

A neighbor is one who shows mercy… go and do likewise. 

A neighbor is one who shows mercy… 

 

What is mercy? Mercy is the compassion one shows when one has the power and opportunity to cause harm. Mercy is not the absence of justice or a casual forgiveness or ignoring the law. To be merciful is to seize the chance to exhibit kindness and generosity instead creating unnecessary pain. 

 

When we look at situations around us, whether close at hand, nationally, or internationally, and we begin to make noises about why mercy “won’t work”, we have begun to spin on the wheel of self-justification, self-vindication, self-righteousness. 

 

All that will do is keep us all turning and turning, but never moving forward, never seeing the will of God accomplished through us, never seeing our neighbors as fellow children of God, never realizing that they could see us that way as well. 

 

We are people who sing about amazing grace. We are people who know that God so loves. We are people who believe in the inclusive fire and power of the Holy Spirit. We are people who have been marked by the cross of Christ and given instruction on what it means to follow him. 

 

As long as I stay in the looping dizziness of self-justification, I cannot experience the joy and the hope of any of that. But, with the help of the Spirit, if I lean and trust on the everlasting arms of Christ’s mercy, I can stop trying to justify myself. We can stop trying to vindicate ourselves. We can do what we know Christ has called and equipped us to do. We can be who our baptisms have equipped us to be. 

 

We can be neighbors. We can show mercy. We can love and be loved. We can, indeed, go and do likewise. 

 

Amen.