Dead Prayers

In general, other than at a funeral close to the time of death, I do not say prayers for people who are already dead. I pray for the grieving, for those who continue to mourn, for those with unspoken pain, for the currently dying, for caregivers, for those with vocations surrounding the realities of death, for those tending to the many tasks that come with death. All of that, yes, but almost never directly for people who are long dead. 

That changed this summer as I visited cemeteries, happened upon graveyards, viewed countless war memorials, paid my respects where markers had worn away, and stood in places where blood watered fields. 

I went to the cemetery that holds the mass graves and some individual plots for the victims of the Lusitania disaster. I wept at markers for the dead of the Great War (WW1) and the Second World War and stood quietly at markers for the lost in individual battles. 

My son and I read through names on a memorial marker to the enslaved workers at Catoctin Iron Furnace, looking into the rippled ground under the trees where no markers still stand. 

We walked among marble and granite markers at Gettysburg and at other battlefields, where even unknown dead are acknowledged. 

In Iceland and in northern Scotland, I saw the many markers for children who died so young from things we can now prevent with vaccines. If we want to. One of the saddest sights for me will always be the tombstone of a man who outlived his beloved wife and children. By years. There are often many things we take for granted that he would have given anything to have. 

The Mule Shoe Salient at Spotsylvania is where I finally walked into the woods and cried so hard that I choked on my tears. It was not the first place I cried nor the last, but the air there is not peaceful. And I was finally exhausted, not from travel, but from the accumulation of sites and information about people who would rather die than let someone else be free. 

And this is where I tell you that early in these travels, in a very un-Lutheran way, I began to pray for the repose of souls, for light perpetual to shine on the dead, for those who died in bondage or pain to receive the deepest renewal of God’s peace. 

Theologically, I believe people are already at rest in God’s care. 

Psychologically, though, it was easier to pray for the dead than to pray that the living would learn from history. It was easier to pray for perpetual grace for those already gone than to pray that the folks who currently walk the earth would open their minds, soften their hearts, and love their neighbors in word and deed. War monument after war monument, battlefield after battlefield, tiny marker after tiny marker, it was easier to speak to the Divine about the dead than to, once again, plead for a world where we truly intend to do for one another what Jesus would have us do. 

I have rarely, if ever, taken the easier way in my life, but I did in these recent moments. It was just easier than accepting that we haven’t learned, we haven’t changed, and maybe we don’t want to. I won’t quit my work and I won’t quit praying, but I hope that someday someone will pray for me. Easy rest comes from God. Because there are people who will disturb it if they think they can. 

Tools from Jesus

Note of caution: The opening story for this sermon touches very briefly on infant loss.  

Grace and peace to you, friends, from the God who sustains us and maintains our connections, through the Holy Spirit, across the miles that separate us. We in Big Timber pray for you this morning and we welcome your prayers for us. 

Almost 14 years ago, when I still lived in Alaska, I was in two very different online groups. One was for women expecting babies in January 2013. Connected through a larger website, we encouraged and supported one another through the experience of pregnancy and early motherhood. 

The other group was a very large, international group for women clergy. This group had existed for years, shifting with the internet, and continued as a su
pport group, sharing resources and even meeting in-person in small groups and for big events. 

In December 2012, a tragedy occurred in my January baby group when one woman went into labor early. The baby turned out to have an unexpected genetic abnormality and passed away very shortly after birth. We were all devastated for our friend. 

As I texted with another mom from the baby group, we lamented how far away we were. I was in Alaska, texting with someone in Minnesota. Our friend was in a third state altogether. I asked if our friend had a pastor or someone who might come for support. 

The Minnesota lady reported that our friend didn’t and said the only pastor she would want was me. I couldn’t get there. No one from our baby group could, but I knew where to find a pastor who might be able to be there. 

In my clergy group, I reached out and asked the three pastors who lived that city if any of them could go to the hospital to offer a blessing and support. One could and did. In the story of a terrible day, two strangers met in person, in a hospital room, and one received help and consolation. 

What does this story have to do with anything? I think of this story each time someone says that the internet is a terrible place. It can be, but it doesn’t have to be. It has been and can still be a place of connection, a place for hope and help, a place where real people reach out and are not alone in their worst moments. 

The internet is a tool, and we decide how to use. And we must decide each time. 

The exact same truth applies to the tool Jesus offers us in Matthew. Throughout this section of Matthew, Jesus expresses concern for how the community of believers will use the tools of fellowship and truth-telling. The community has to opportunity to use these gifts to pay attention to the marginalized, to stop harm, to protect children and other vulnerable members, to speak up and speak out. 

Jesus offers a tool for discipline- not a punishment, but for correction and for restoration to fellowship. The process for speaking to an individual, first, one-on-one offers followers of Jesus a chance to hear one another and, if necessary, to make repair and restitution. It can happen but rarely is one party completely right and the other, completely wrong. 

Jesus’ guidance for correcting harm in the community goes further when a group is needed to be brought as compassionate witnesses to a confrontation. I realize this is a nightmare scenario for many of us- the very word “confrontation” can make some folks very uncomfortable. 

Jesus does not mean an aggressive fight, but a private meeting that has been prayed for and prayed through and has a clear goal, in keeping with the larger mission of the fellowship. Using this tool from our Savior requires everyone present to have a soft heart and an open mind. 

This passage is longest section of scripture cited in our Lutheran constitutions at all levels- congregational, synod, and churchwide. It is a process we are supposed to follow when there is a real, serious issue in the congregation. There is not a flaw in the tool. 

Sometimes, however, the flaw is us. On occasion, church folks “solve” a problem through gossip, anonymous letters, or social pressure. Sometimes we, as the church, ignore a problem because we hope it will go away before we must become too uncomfortable. Sometimes we urge victims to “forgive” rather than doing the hard work of making the ones causing harm stop and repent. And it is entirely possible for church folks to weaponize this tool, confronting someone they wish to silence or to make go away. 

The internet doesn’t have to be a villain; it’s just a tool. In my opening story, it was a tool that facilitated community, consolation, and hope.  

The tool Jesus gives us for how to speak the truth in love and in compassion to one another can do those same things. Jesus must have been concerned about the community of believers and Matthew must have shared that same concern later, which led to preserving the teaching. 

The question for us is whether we share the same concern: a desire for a welcoming community, a hope for reconciliation, a longing for community wholeness, a joy in the truth. Do we have enough of this concern to use the tool Jesus has given us in a judicious manner, with prayer and gentleness, with truth and discretion? 

Are we willing to apply this tool not just in our work together as the church, but in all our doings so that anyone and everyone will see how we conduct ourselves and give glory to our Creator in heaven?

Our Lord, Jesus Christ, has given us many tools to be used for His purposes and to His glory. Let us pray for the insight, the strength, and the courage to do so.

Holy Son of God, we give you thanks for the gift of community and life together. Grant us wisdom and discernment that we may use the tools of discipline and truth-telling for growth, support, and hope in your church and in the world. May all we do be in gratitude and in response to your amazing grace. Amen. 

The Way of the Cross Can Have Rhinestones (Sermon)

This is a sermon about Jesus, adversaries, and Dolly Parton. 

When Jesus says to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan”, I imagine the other disciples all sucking in their breath and averting their eyes. None of them would have imagined Peter as a red devil with horns and a pitchfork, that’s an image from much later. 

Jesus is giving the disciples information they need to know about the kind of opposition, pain, and grief they are going to face when they come into Jerusalem. It is going to come from both civil and religious authorities, Jesus warns, but God’s authority is greater and trauma and destruction will not be the end of the narrative. 

Peter either cannot comprehend what Jesus is telling them or doesn’t want to. The careful explanation and spiritual preparation do not comport with the image he has in his mind of the one he has already named as Messiah. The healings he’s seen, the teachings he’s heard, the miracles he’s observed, surely all of this will not end in the horrific way Jesus is describing. Surely, God will not let it happen. 

Jesus’ rebuke has two directions. First, the Savior identifies the disciple as an adversary. The original meaning and phrasing for “satan” (or ha satan) is an adversary or the adversary. In this language context, Peter’s denial of Jesus’ truth-telling will make him an opponent rather than a follower, if he keeps arguing. 

Called out for resisting Jesus’ prophetic words, Peter then is forced to grapple with whether God will act in accordance with his (Peter’s) will or with the Divine will. Peter’s spiritual struggle is one to which we can all relate. Jesus is describing some terrible things. Why is God going to permit these things to happen? What makes these horrors acceptable? Why shouldn’t Peter, indeed any of us, be an adversary to pain and suffering? 

There’s more than one way to fight against suffering. Peter’s way was to demand that it never happen, at least not to Jesus and, preferably, not to him. We can be adversaries to suffering by denying it, by believing it won’t happen to us if we believe enough, pray perfectly enough, study enough. We can be adversaries to suffering by demanding that we know God’s plan and how it will work and exactly who will be affected and why. And when people have questions or doubts, we can shame them because they don’t believe the way we do. 

That’s one way to do it. The way that Peter was determined to embrace for a hot minute. 

There is, though, another way to be an adversary to suffering and to be on the side of Jesus. There’s a way to honor and glorify God and to not claim more knowledge than you have and to be an opponent to pain, hardship, and struggle. That’s the Dolly Parton way. In the past week, no one thinks she was perfect. No one says she didn’t struggle. No one is attesting that things were easy for her or that she didn’t have griefs and pain. 

Every story about Dolly Rebecca Parton Dean this week pointed to how she did not close her hand. She reached behind her; she pushed people ahead of her; she not only didn’t pull up her ladder behind her; she built additional supports for it so that others could climb up without fear or hindrance. 

She paid for books for children, for college for employees, for band uniforms and instruments in predominantly black high schools, for vaccine research, for support for victims of fires and hurricanes. Her nephew said, in his statement from the family, that she made sure everyone in that family had the support to achieve their goals. 

You can be an adversary to suffering. You can be an opponent of pain. You can resist the terrible things that human beings do to each other and the awful things that happen that are beyond our understanding. We can choose together, and as individuals, to embrace the fullness of what Jesus speaks over his hearers earlier in Matthew, to be the light of the world. 

Peter is going to make a few more mistakes before he gets it right. He does not want to be a satan, an adversary, to Jesus, yet he’s going to fumble, he’s going to deny, he’s going to doubt the resurrection. 

We, on the other hand, have information he didn’t have. We have the whole story, we have the faithfulness of God in Christ, we have the Holy Spirit. What do we do with what we have, with the grace we have been given? 

We have a choice every day when confronted with suffering. We can be like Peter and reject it, turning away because it doesn’t fit with what we want to be true. Or we can be like Dolly. We can profess our love for Jesus, acknowledge the suffering we can plainly see, accept that we cannot do everything, but we can do something. And then go about it. 

Take up your cross and follow doesn’t always mean crucifixion. Sometimes it just means hard work, a genuine smile, and a sincere effort to be an enemy of suffering in whatever form you find it. In living that way, Miss Dolly set her mind on divine things, and we can to. Amen. 

 

Questions and Points to Ponder?

Each summer, it is a privilege and a pleasure to help with staff training at Christikon and at Flathead Lutheran Bible Camp. One of my favorite things is to put out slips of paper and invite questions of all kinds. I still take (and get) verbal questions, but I receive a raft of folded slips of paper with burning questions of all types. 

Here is a sample: 

How can we reconcile the truth in other religions with Jesus saying He is the way, truth, and life?  

What should we do with what we’ve learned here? 

Why don’t we know who is going to hell? 

What if one person’s definition of the Bible as a tool might act/feel like a weapon to someone else? 

How should I relate to Jesus as a brother? 

How can God be good, but allowed my abuse to happen? 

What do you believe is the purpose of religion? 

Should I fit to the church or the church fit to me? 

What is your perspective and/or the Biblical perspective on utilizing violence to overcome oppressive systems? 

Thoughts on resistance vs. resilience? Who is allowed to resist? 

Are there parts of other religions you subscribe to or preach? 

How do I deal with nervousness about leading a group in Bible study/answering questions? [I] fear discouraging them/saying something incorrect. 

Have you experienced any difficulties being a woman in this field? How do you deal with it? 

What are your thoughts on the parable of the sower? 

 

How does one deal with feeling like an imposter or load? How do I know if I’m being honestly me? How does this relate to faith? 

What is your favorite story to preach on and your biggest lesson from it? 

What inspired you (or called you) to ministry? What were your personal reasons? 

What is your favorite Scripture or verse? 

What trait do you most value in yourself? 

When did you know you wanted to be a pastor? 

What is something that surprised you about writing a book? 

Pacifism vs. Inaction: can/should we take direct action against things like persecution and genocide for the sake of others? 

What brought you to Big Timber?

How has your family shaped your relationship with God? 

How do you approach situations where people use Christianity to justify injustice? When do you know to stand up for what you know to be true? 

Thoughts on diversity creating tension in a church community? 

What parts of the Bible point us toward hope? 

Have you doubted God? 

What keeps you in Montana? 

If communion represents God’s grace and love for all people, why do some churches not let everyone participate? 

How do we read and interpret the creation story in relation to scientific evidence? 

How has describing God as king contributed to a patriarchal history in the church and how women have been treated in some eras of Christianity?

What are your thoughts on surrounding yourself solely with people who believe the same things you do, especially in college or university? 

How can I combat someone who tells me that women cannot be a pastor? 

What makes Paul credible in his teachings? 

To whom should we address our prayers? Is praying to Jesus different than praying to God? 

Is disease the result of sin? 

How do we define the Kingdom of God to young kids? 

Do you think people need God? 

To what point does AI signify the end times? 

What do you believe happens to people who never get the opportunity to learn about Jesus in their lifetime? 

Thoughts on Christian nationalism? 

What would you ask? 

Thanks be to God

I think often these days of Edward Jenner, who pioneered (with others) vaccine science and whose work led to the initial near-eradication of cowpox and smallpox. 

People were not immediately trusting or fans of his work- some with religious objections, some with scientific, some because they would lose money on what they were selling (which didn’t work). 

His work and theories eventually did work and have gone on to save millions of lives. We know now that he was right. 

 Close to the end of his life, he said to a friend, “I am not surprised that men are not thankful to me; but I wonder that they are not grateful to God for the good which he has made me the instrument of conveying to my fellow-creatures.” 

Is there someone whose work we may not yet understand but for which we should, perhaps, be thankful to God? 

I stopped by Jenner in Kensington Park in London on 17 July to thank him and to thank God for him.

Truth and Consequences (Sermon)

Texts: Acts 5:55-60; John 14:1-14

I have been in a lot of conversations around the theme of forgiveness recently. It’s not just in Bible study, but also in individual exchanges as well. One thing that I’ve noticed in these discussions is that there seems to be a cultural expectation that if a person who has been harmed forgives, then the consequences will go away. 

That is not how forgiveness works. 

 

To forgive because of what has been done to us or to others is important work. It is not fast. It is not easy. It is, however, essential because it affects our relationship with God and our relationship with the work to which we are called. 

 

Forgiveness, because it is on a vertical plane, may not actually alter anything on the horizontal plane. Things between people may remain broken because forgiveness does not eliminate the consequences of harmful actions. Forgiveness is not a magic eraser or strong coat of paint.  

 

We actually see an example of a harmful action that can never be undone in today’s reading from Acts. When we read the story of the stoning of Stephen, particularly with his speech that directly precedes it, we have a sense of awe at his faith and an understanding of the grief of his martyrdom. 

 

We get a tiny mention here of something else, though. There is a description of a young man named Saul, standing with the coats of those who killed Stephen. This is the very end of ch. 7 of Acts and ch. 8 begins with this verse, “And Saul approved of the killing of Stephen.” Remember that when Luke wrote this, there were no chapters and verses. The words about Saul’s approval would have immediately followed the death of Stephen and his words of forgiveness. 

Saul, you may or may not know, goes on to become Paul, the one we sometimes call the Apostle Paul. He has a powerful encounter with Jesus on the road to Damascus, when he (Paul) is on the way to commit more persecutions against Jesus’ followers. Jesus speaks to Saul, blinding him temporarily, until his mind is opened and his heart is softened through the work of the Spirit and the teaching of Ananis and others. 

 

We don’t have a good timeline for Acts, so we don’t have an accurate idea of how close in time the events are between Stephen’s stoning and the road to Damascus event. It’s likely between 2-4 years apart. 

 

After his encounter with Jesus, Paul spends time in Damascus and parts of Arabia. He is learning about what it means to be a follower of the Christ. As best we can tell, he comes back to Jerusalem three years later, so between 5-7 years after Stephen’s death. Acts 9 tells us that the believers in Jerusalem did not trust him and were afraid of him. Barnabas takes up Paul’s cause and tells of Paul’s witness in Damascus. 

 

Even with Barnabas facilitating reconciliation, it is not really possible for Paul to remain in Jerusalem. Part of it is his personality: he’s strong-willed and ends up in a lot of arguments. The other issue is that people still struggle with trusting him. The community is full of people who remember Stephen- their friend and co-worker in the Lord, maybe even their relative. 

 

Eventually, Paul’s friends move him out of the area. A major reason that Paul’s mission becomes to the Gentiles of Asia Minor is not purely because God called him to that. Paul is called to that work because his behavior prevents him from being anywhere else. His watching and approving of the death of Stephen closes the door on his ability to be part of God’s mission anywhere except to people who do not already know him. (And who aren’t yet annoyed with him.) 

 

The believers in Jerusalem can have God’s help in letting go of their anger and grief, but that does not mean that they have the human capacity to welcome Paul back into their company- at table, in worship, through prayer. Their forgiveness means they can commend Paul to God and understand God to work in him and through him, but just not near them. There is too much pain on the horizontal level, within the human relationships, for there to be trust and community. 

This is what I mean when I say that forgiveness, between us and God, does not remove consequences. Human relationships are not Legos. They can’t come apart and then just snap back together. Sometimes things that have been broken can be mended, but sometimes they stay broken. 

 

The harm is too great. The grief is too deep. The wound may scab, but the scar remains. 

 

When we think of Jesus proclaiming that He is the way, the truth, and the life, part of what we are called to consider is how following in His way and living in his truth is meant to guide us into lives of care and compassion. It is his life, death, and resurrection that helps us to comprehend the fullness of God’s grace and mercy. 

 

In living like Jesus, however, we acknowledge that we are still in this life wherein actions have reactions and consequences. We must make every effort not to stand by, watching the coats and approving of harm that is done to anyone. What happened to Stephen was legal, but not moral. That can happen in our own time and the converse as well, illegal actions that are moral. 

 

As people who are called and equipped to live in the way of Jesus, we can help one another with forgiveness - relief and healing in our relationship with God. We can also live the truth of faithful community, acknowledging that sometimes people may not be able to be welcomed back to a space where they caused harm, but perhaps they can be received in God’s name elsewhere.

We cannot treat grace cheaply, allowing it to cover a multitude of sins without acknowledging pain. We can handle grace with generosity. We can support those who have been hurt and recall that our Savior bore his own scars in his resurrected body. 

 

Hope and healing are real. They can happen; they do happen. Reconciliation between people can happen as well, but sometimes on-going relationship is no longer possible. Even so, the grace and love of Jesus remains and the promise of all things being made new in the life of the world to come is still true. For Stephen and Saul, for Barnabas and Paul. And for us and all people. 

 

Amen. 

 

 

Trust the Comma and the Gate

George Burns and Gracie Allen were one of the greatest comedic duos in history. They were inseparable on the radio, on stage, and on television. Their television show was on from 1950–1958. After having some heart trouble, Gracie decided to retire. George attempted the show without her for one year, but it didn’t work without Gracie. She died of a heart attack in 1964. When George went through her papers, he found a note she wrote to him, which included the line, “Never place a period where God has placed a comma.” Never place a period where God has placed a comma. George Burns took this reminder from his beloved that his life on earth wasn’t over yet. He went on to continue acting, directing, and writing until he died at the age of 100 in 1996, always missing Gracie, but continuing to truly live his own life. 

A reminder that came from deep love, even in grief, “Never place a period where God has placed a comma.”

In today’s reading from John, Jesus introduces us to a radical idea that echoes in Gracie’s note. He says, "My sheep hearmy voice." Notice the tense. He doesn't say the sheep heard the voice of God back in the days of the prophets, nor that they will only hear it in the life of the world to come. Jesus speaks in present tense and John preserves that tense. Jesus is speaking, the Creator is speaking, the Spirit is speaking. Right now. 

Often, the story of our faith can feel like something long ago and far away — a collection of periods and finished chapters. The saints, the apostles, the reformers, the mothers and fathers of our faith — they lived ages ago. We sometimes talk as though the "voice of God" is something confined to ancient parchment. 

But Jesus describes a living, breathing relationship, an active communication and calling. Jesus tells us that to be called His followers, his people, sheep of his fold, and lambs of his flock means to still be listening to his voice. To hear His voice today is to recognize that the Divine is still speaking. There is a voice of Love and grace that is louder and more persuasive than all our modern noise, but we must pay attention to how we’re tuned to hear it and listen. 

Jesus warns us about that modern noise, the misdirecting sounds, and loud untruths. He speaks of the thief who comes to "steal and kill and destroy." These thieves don't just try steal our peace; they try to steal our future by lying about God’s punctuation and our identity as valuable and treasured.

A thief is always a master of the premature period. They whisper:

"You've made too many mistakes; your story is over." (Period.)

"This sickness is the end of you." (Period.)

"You’ll never understand the Bible, so you should quit trying." (Period.)

“No one will believe you now, so you might as well keep lying.” (Period.)

“It doesn’t matter if you keep going. No one cares.” (Period.)

These voices try to convince us that the gate is locked, that our purpose has expired, or that God has stopped speaking. They want to trap you in a finished chapter, convincing you that there is no "next" in your walk with the Shepherd. But a voice that tells you God is done with you is never the voice of the Shepherd. You matter. Your presence matters. You are part of God’s beloved creation. And you are defined by God’s love for you, not anything you’ve done. A sentence is never too long for one more comma and a new clause in God’s handwriting. 

Jesus corrects the thief’s grammar by declaring, "I am the gate." In the life of a shepherd, the gate functions as a comma. It is not a wall; it is a point of transition that swings in both directions.

There are seasons when the world is too loud and predators are too close. The shepherd guides us through the valley, by still water, and into the gate to take refuge in the fold. Here, the comma represents a pause—a place of rest, healing, and protection. We find "pasture" for our souls.

But the sheep do not stay in the fold forever. Jesus says they “will come in and go out.” The gate swings outward. This is the comma of service. We are led out into the world to be the hands and feet of the Shepherd, witnessing the protection and provision that only come from love and care and a deep understanding of our continuing story. 

Jesus grants a powerful promise: "I have come that they may have life, and have it abundantly."

Abundant life, a life where we are followed constantly by goodness and mercy, is found in the rhythm of the gate—the "in and out" of a life led by His voice. When we try to place a period on our lives — deciding we are too old to serve, too broken to be used, or too comfortable to change — we miss the abundance.

Gracie Allen knew that even in grief, God wasn’t finished with George. Jesus proclaims that even in our failures or our fears, He isn't finished with us.

Reject and renounce the false periods that come from thieves, that diminish your worth, that make you feel small, that make you question God’s work in your salvation. Listen for the Shepherd’s voice. Look and listen for the signs and words of love. Let Christ draw you into the fold when you need rest, and follow Him out into the world where He leads you to mission. Trust the comma, trust the Gate, and live the life that is truly full.

Amen. 

Sin and the Wrong Questions

The other week in the Thursday Bible study, the question of why bad things happen came up. As often happens when this issue arises, no one had a satisfactory answer. From the time we are toddlers to our years as elders, “I don’t know” is the least comforting answer to the question, “Why?” The problem with “why” is not in the asking; sometimes it is in the idea that the question has an answer we can know in this life.

As Jesus and his disciples walk along, they encounter a man who has been blind from birth. For the disciples, his blindness is a puzzle to be solved. He isn't a person to them yet; he is a theological case study. "Rabbi," they ask, "who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?"

It is such a tidy question. It assumes a universe that functions like a vending machine: you put in a certain amount of sin, and you get out a certain amount of suffering. If you can just find the cause, you can justify the effect. This is the snare in the pursuit of "why." Discovering a “why” shores up our illusion of control. If a "why" is linked to a specific sin or a specific mistake, then as long as we don't make that mistake, we can believe we will be safe. A cause-and-effect God is a predictable God, and a predictable God feels comfortable.

But consider the world right now. We should ask “why” in regard to news cycles filled with the smoke of cities at war, the cries of the displaced, and the silent grief of those who have lost everything to powers far beyond their control. If we ask "who sinned" that these children are dead or these families are grieving, we end up in a spiral of blame that never actually heals, achieves justice, or rebuilds. Do we ask "Why me?" only when the difficult diagnosis comes, or "Why them?" when tragedy strikes? The “why” that only comes in pain assumes that God’s presence is only marked by an absence of struggle. We treat peace and health as the default settings of a blessed and faithful life, and anything else as a glitch in the system that must be someone’s fault.

Jesus, however, refuses to play this game. He looks at the disciples and effectively says, "You’re asking the wrong question." He rejects their binary of sin versus health, of blindness set against wholeness. He moves the conversation away from ancestry—where this came from—and shifts it toward agency—what God is going to do with it. It is not simply that God’s work has been dormant in the blind man until this moment; it is that the moment is needed so that those who are around the man can see that God has been with him all along (even if people haven’t).

It would be a cruel misinterpretation to state that God made the man blind just for him to wait around to be healed in adulthood. That is not a kind of puppetry that I am willing to attribute to the Fount of Every Blessing. Rather, Jesus is saying that in the kingdom of God, the point is not the origin of the wound, but the opportunity for grace. The focus isn't on the "why" of the past; it's on the "what now" of the future.

When we ask our “whys,” we want God’s answers to conform to our expectations of where, how, and when. When something takes too long, doesn’t happen like we expected, or isn’t convenient, we sometimes wonder if God is at work at all. We love reformation, restoration, and resurrection, but we like them on our own terms.

Think for a moment about the resurrected body of Jesus in the upper room at the end of the fourth Gospel. Remember Jesus showing the wounds in his hands, his feet, and his side. The triumph over death did not come with the erasure of the signs of pain. If the resurrected, conquering body of Christ still bore the marks of the nails and spear, then we may have to rethink what wholeness actually means.

In our culture, we sometimes act as though healing equals erasure. We want the scars to disappear. We want the memory of the trauma to be wiped clean. We want to go back to the way things were before the war, before COVID, before the change (whatever that was), before the pain or loss. But Christ’s Gospel doesn't promise a return to the Garden of Eden. It promises something much more profound and necessary: accompaniment and solidarity through the Garden of Gethsemane. 

True healing isn't the erasure of the hard parts; it’s the scab, then the scar, and then the going on in hope. The man born blind didn't just get his physical sight; he gained a testimony that confounded the most powerful religious leaders of his day. His "flaw"—the very thing seen as a mark of sin—became the site of God’s most visible work. His history of blindness wasn't deleted; it was the very thing that allowed him to see Jesus more clearly than the people who were sure they were watching for a Messiah so closely they’d never miss him.

When we look at our own lives, and when we look at a world ravaged by conflict, we often miss the reformation that is happening right under our noses because we are waiting for a version of "fixed" that God never promised. We are waiting for the scars to vanish. We are waiting for the "why" to be answered so we can finally feel okay again.

Todays’ psalm (23) doesn't say, "The Lord is my shepherd, everything will go great for me." It says, "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death." The valley is there. The shadow is real. The rod and the staff aren't there to magic us out of the valley; they are there to comfort us while we are in it. God’s presence isn't the absence of the shadow; it is the light that the shadow cannot overcome.

When we pray for wholeness, sometimes the answer comes as the strength to carry scars as witness. Restoration can look like a new way of seeing, even if the physical circumstances haven’t shifted to our liking. It is the ability to look at a weary, aching world and not see a lost cause, but a place where the works of God are waiting to be displayed through acts of mercy, through the courage of peacemakers, and through the stubborn hope of the church.

We are often conditioned to see perfection as the goal: the perfect body, the perfect family, the perfect peace. But the cross tells us that God works through imperfection. God works through the mud and the spit. God works through the man who has spent his whole life in the dark.

This past week, when our girls’ basketball team lost two games in a row at the State level, it was a bummer. We ache for them. We cannot undo the pain of that loss for the team, nor the feelings of the boys’ team in a similar situation a few weeks ago. Yet there was something else that happened. Sweet Grass County High School had one of the larger student cheering sections, a pep band, and cheerleaders present. Due to the weather, the team from Shepherd did not have those things. Even in their own disappointment, the SGCHS students stayed and cheered on the Shepherd Mustangs to victory. It wasn't the win they wanted at the start of the day. It didn’t redeem the loss. But that effort was its own kind of win, its own blessing, its own act of agency and revelation of what it means to be team players.

Losses, wounds, pain, grief, and scars are not receipts for sin. These are not signs that God has abandoned you. They are the place where your testimony is being forged; they may not ever answer the question “why,” but they do point to Who—who is acting, who is bringing wholeness, who brings life out of dust, mud, spit, and nothing.

We are not called to be people who have never been hurt. We are called to be people who have been healed into something new—something that still bears the marks of the struggle, but shines with the glory of the resurrection.

Why? “I don’t know why,” said the man born blind. “Don’t know where exactly or how exactly. But I do know who. And I want to follow him.”

May this be our response. Every time.

Amen.

 

Zealots

In the musical and film versions of Jesus Christ Superstar, there is a dramatic song-and-dance number in the first act called “Simon Zealotes.” This follows “Hosanna” (the triumphal entry into Jerusalem) and is immediately followed by “Poor Jerusalem.” “Simon Zealotes” is a very energetic song with catchy lyrics, but most of us don’t have enough historical context to understand why Simon’s proposal is a problem. On the surface, and without the details, Simon sings of the crowd’s intense devotion to Jesus:

“Christ, you know I love you / Did you see, I waved / I believe in you and God / So tell me that I'm saved.”

Whether acknowledging Jesus in the triumphal entry via a wave should count as belief is a whole other essay. Simon is hyped up by the people's enthusiasm for Jesus. He goes on:

“There must be over 50,000 (50,000) / Screaming love and more for you (Love, love, love) / And every one of 50,000 / Would do whatever you asked them to (Ever and ever).”

Is there actually a problem so far? Maybe. Maybe not. What problems could ever come from an over-enthusiastic disciple of Jesus? (Highest of eyebrow raises.)

In the Norman Jewison film, this dance number is coordinated and fast. People move quickly, and the pacing of the music picks up significantly from the fairly sedate “Hosanna” that came before. The composer, Andrew Lloyd Webber, demonstrates through musical rhythms the multiple viewpoints of the people around Jesus: the deep, methodical singing of the temple officials; the parade chorus of the crowd; and the frenetic energy of the disciples—especially Simon the Zealot (Luke 6:15; Acts 1:13).

Simon goes on to sing:

“Keep them yelling their devotion / But add a touch of hate at Rome / You will rise to a greater power / We will win ourselves a home.”

And there it is: the hope that Jesus’ power will be the political power that the Zealot wants. Here is the whiff of magical thinking that was part of the crowd from the beginning and still lingers. Surely Jesus hates whom I hate. Surely Jesus loves my country best. Surely my will is God’s will. I am about to leave several topics on the table: Who were the Zealots as a sect in the first century? Is theocracy actually bad? Why would Jesus have included a Zealot among the twelve, and was Simon actually a “Zealot Zealot” as opposed to just being “full of zeal”?

Those are good questions. My point in bringing this up today is this: there is a lot of conversation circulating about “holy wars,” war as a sign of the “end times,” and wars intended to kickstart the “end times.”

Point the first: If you think that people can do a thing to make God do a thing, you may be misunderstanding who is people and who is God.

Point the second: We may indeed, in the course of human events, be called upon to take actions that seem necessary for the well-being of others—for freedom, for provision, for aid. It is always important to stop first, however, and ask ourselves (and those with the power to make decisions) whom we are choosing to help and why.

There is suffering everywhere. There are rogue leaders everywhere. There are threats everywhere. These are not reasons to take no action; these are reasons for significant moral and ethical deliberation and truth-telling about the costs: money, lives, land, water, non-human animals, and generational memory. Again, sometimes actions must be taken, but “adding a touch of hate” is not a sufficient reason.

Point the third: “Did you see I waved?” Waving at Jesus with one’s words is not the same as faithful action in concert with the will of God. Name-dropping the Savior does not automatically convey divine blessing on events we cannot be sure the Holy One condones. That God has permitted something does not mean God has approved it.

I frequently say, “I could be wrong.” A beloved school administrator at my seminary once told me, “We can’t attribute to God things that God did not cause.”

Humility is a necessary Christian virtue. It rarely exists in the same space as a zealot. Caught up in the frenetic dance of self-assured and self-justifying faith, the zealous ones keep flailing, unconcerned with who might get hit or hurt. They wave at Jesus while continuing to misinterpret His power and glory as their own, counting on Him to eventually hate those whom they despise.

There’s a reason Jesus sings a lament after “Simon Zealotes.” He may be singing it yet.

 

A Political Gospel (Sermon)

Transfiguration Sunday: Year A: Exodus 24:12-18; Psalm 99; 2 Peter 1:16-21; Matthew 17:1-9

I know, and you know, that people do not like sermons they perceive to be "political." Many come to church hoping for a break from the endless news cycle and its doom, gloom, and overwhelming encroachment on peace of mind. Desperate for good news, they implore the pastor: "Stay away from politics... just preach the gospel."

But what is that gospel, exactly? Does it mean hearing the story of Jesus on the mountain today as a mere special effects show, with no assessment of why the Law and the Prophets—represented by Moses and Elijah—stand there with him?

We know that when people say "the sermon was too political," they often mean "I heard something that made me uncomfortable." The reality of biblical preaching is a focus on people and the situations that affect them. We cannot avoid how the written word of God has life and breath and shapes the world.

Consider our reading from Exodus 24. In that text, Moses isn't just taking a hike; he is entering a cloud of glory that looks like a "devouring fire" to the people below. He is there to receive the Law—the very blueprint for how a liberated people should treat one another, how they should handle property, and how they should protect the vulnerable. The very cloud that is the "glory of the Lord" is delivering the "justice of the Lord"—affecting not only the freed Israelites but also anyone else who lives with or near them.

Psalm 99 reiterates the theme. The psalmist declares that our God is holy, yes, but also specifically praises a ruler who "loves justice" and has "established equity." To praise the holiness of the Divine while ignoring the Divine demand for equity is to read only half the page.

When people ask for an "apolitical" gospel, they are often asking for a safe, spiritualized myth. But in 2 Peter 1, the apostle is adamant: "We did not follow cleverly devised myths." He is talking about the Transfiguration. He’s saying, "I was there. I heard the voice from the Majestic Glory." Peter insists on the reliability of this message. Why? Because the early Christians were living in an Empire that claimed the Emperor was the "Son of God." For Peter to stand up and say, "No, I saw the real King on a mountain, and his name is Jesus," was the most politically subversive thing he could do. It was a declaration that the current power structures were not ultimate.

In Matthew 17, we see Jesus transfigured—his face shining like the sun. But look at who is with him: Moses, who stood up to Pharaoh, and Elijah, who stood up to King Ahab and Queen Jezebel. They are not talking about "spiritual" abstractions. In the broader context of the Transfiguration story, they are discussing his "exodus"—his departure which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.

The original Exodus story featured a despotic ruler, a hardened heart, and a struggle for freedom. By standing with Moses and Elijah, Jesus is signaling that his mission is a similar type of exodus. He is focused on the freedom that comes from being in relationship with the God of released captives. To appreciate the fullness of the Incarnation, we must recognize that Jesus pursued justice throughout his life. The truth that makes us free is political because it affects people. We cannot ignore it.

If we are to pretend there are no politics in scripture, we must ignore the cloud that overshadows Peter, James, and John. We must ignore the fact that Peter’s first instinct was to build "dwellings"—to institutionalize the moment, to stay safe on the mountain.

But the voice from the cloud interrupts him: "Listen to him!"

Listening to Jesus means following him down the mountain. It means following him into the valleys where people are sick, where children are afraid, and where the "powers that be" are crushing those without the power or platform to be heard. To strip the Transfiguration of its political implication, we must water down the command to "Listen to him" into a mere suggestion for private meditation.

Here we stand on Transfiguration Sunday, about to enter Lent. We are on a mountain peak with Jesus, and while we can see the empty cross from here, we are compelled by the Holy Spirit to proceed into a season of reflection and repentance.

In the Christmas carol O Little Town of Bethlehem, we sing about the will of God becoming flesh and resting in a manger. We sing: "The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight"—"thee" being both the town and the infant Jesus.

Those hopes and fears are not just "spiritual" anxieties; they are the concrete fears of people living under occupation, the hopes of those who hunger for justice. They were the realities for the people of the first Exodus, the Temple congregation singing the psalm, the crowds who followed Jesus, and the people who received the epistle from Peter in hope.

Our faith cannot be untangled from the political realities of our day, nor from our prayer that God’s "will be done on earth as in heaven." Each time we say those words, we are asking God for the courage to be part of accomplishing that will.

Let it be our hearts and minds which are transfigured today. Let it be our spirits which shed the fear of "being political" in favor of the courage to be biblical. Let it be our lives, transformed by the grace which has met all our hopes and fears, that compel others to seek a Divine will of love and justice—in the mundane and in the political.

Amen.

 

You Know What's Right

Years ago, my dad used to say, “You know what’s right- do it.” These were usually his parting words before I left on a trip or to be gone for a while.

As I grew older. My dad and I sometimes differed on the exact nature of what was “right”, but I
never lost sight of the heart of what I knew he meant about respecting others, sticking up for people, speaking out, and being generous with what you have.

Telling the truth and being willing to apologize and make amends were among the things that were “right”.

Humiliating memes, AI lies and slop (fake news and pics), and blaming underlings are all things I’ve seen in the past 24 hours across the internet- from my hometown to the highest office in the land.

It’s not right. It’s not excusable. And it has to stop.

And blaming the bots or staffers or saying that it was just a video or a story is unacceptable.

I’m not putting a Bible verse here because a person can find a verse to support just about anything and I will not weaponize scripture.

Instead, I’ll hit you with my dad:

You know what’s right. Do it.

Chairs and Foolishness (Sermon)

Famously, pastors are trained to preach with the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other. Even if we do not directly refer to the latter, the Spirit reminds us of what is happening in the world around us. The call to discipleship always has a context- a time, a place, and fruits of the Spirit that are needed in action. 

When the Civil War in the United States broke out, the Episcopal churches in the seceded states of the South formed the Protestant Episcopal Church in the Confederate States of America. While some historians argue that the split was pragmatic since it would be hard to govern a church across two warring nations, the reality is that the splinter denomination did support the institution of chattel slavery. They tolerated the perverted teaching of “Christian slavery”- claiming care and concern for the enslaved people who were legally, socially, and spiritually considered property. 

In 1862, the Episcopal General Convention met in New York City. The war was raging and the states and institutions of the Union were under immense pressure. The leadership of the Northern church made a radical decision to continue with their convention with an eye toward unity in Christ, even knowing that their Southern siblings had broken faith with that unity. 

During the roll call of the states, the Secretary of the Convention called out the names of the Southern dioceses (Alabama, Florida, Georgia, etc.) just as he did for the Northern ones. On the floor of the convention, empty chairs were placed for the Southern bishops and deputies. By refusing to remove the chairs, the Northern church was signaling that the South was not "gone" or "excommunicated"—they were simply "absent." The leadership of the 1862 convention held a radical, stubborn hope:: "We are not two churches; we are one church with some members who are currently unable to attend."

The real drama occurred in October 1865, just months after the war ended. The General Convention met in Philadelphia. The atmosphere in the country was toxic and vengeful, yet the Episcopal leadership sent word to the Southern bishops that their "seats were waiting." No one was sure what would happen. No one was entirely sure what should happen. 

Here is what did happen on the first day as recounted in a sermon by the Reverend Morgan Dix, delivered just weeks later: 

When the Convention assembled in St. Luke's Church, for the opening service, one of the southern Bishops was there. He came alone, and took a seat among the congregation: he looked like a stranger. That was a sight which his brethren in the Apostolic Episcopate could not bear. They saw him; they became uneasy. At last they sent a dignified messenger to tell him that he must come to them. Then he hesitated no longer; he arose, and just as he was, with no vestment or robe of office, passed up to the chancel and went to his brethren. I was told that there was not a dry eye in that august company at that moment. Men felt that GOD was giving answer to the question whether this Church could be one again. (https://anglicanhistory.org/usa/mdix/convention1865.html)

People remembered the passionate singing of hymns during that convention, giving God the glory. Did the moment of reunion and welcome fix everything? No, there remained historical pain, work to be done, changes to make, but the hope of unity kept the chairs out, kept the names on the rolls, kept the prayers going, kept the invitations ready to be sent. That moment of restoration could never have happened if at least one side had not remained attuned to the Spirit’s urging- even during the bleakest hours. 

In today’s reading from 1 Corinthians, Paul writes to a church that is obsessed with "branding." They are divided into fan clubs. "I belong to Paul," says one group. "I belong to Apollos," says another. "I belong to Cephas (Peter)." And then there’s the ultra-spiritual group that says, "I belong to Christ," which is always code for "I’m better than all of you."

Paul does not write a soft prayer for peace. He asks a pointed question: "Has Christ been divided?"

The Greek word Paul uses for "divisions" is schismata. It’s where we get our word schism. It literally means a tear or a rip in a garment. Paul looks at the church and sees people tearing the fabric apart because they want to claim the larger or better piece. This fractured faithlessness is not only harming the body of Christ, it is fundamentally damaging the witness of that body to a world that needs a message of liberation, wholeness, and hope. 

For Paul, the message of the cross is foolishness because its message seems useless to a world that needs to know who is on top, who has the most power, who has the best stuff. And if those are your priorities, says Paul to the divided Corinthians, then you might as well be dying. On the other hand, he writes, if we trust the message of the cross, we are saved by its power. That power is the outstretched arms of Christ, a message of forgiveness, a message of the not being forsaken. 

When Jesus invited people to follow him, he called fishermen and people who were mending nets, people who were single and lived with their parents, people who were married, a tax collector employed by the Roman occupation, and at least one zealot who wanted to overthrow the Roman occupation. He was followed by people with questions, women with money, and at least one boy with a hefty lunch.

Each of these people followed the Spirit’s urging, whether they recognized it as such or whether they knew it as curiosity or a desire to follow a crowd or just a need for something different. The choice to follow meant setting aside what was known and familiar for this new thing. It is easy for us to assume we would have done the same, but would you have left the family business or your good paying government job or the comforts of your home to follow an itinerant teacher and healer? 

In a world filled with the music of Rome, Rome’s power, idols to Rome’s gods, would you sing the song of Jesus? Would you embrace the foolishness of the cross? Would you set out the chairs and issue invitations to people who had cut themselves off from fellowship and unity and who rejected the full humanity of others? 

Things are going to get worse before they get better. 

For those of us who considered ourselves “being saved”, for those of us who call ourselves followers of Jesus, for those of us who want to continue to have hope...

We have to figure out how to keep some chairs out for those we disagree with.

We must be prepared to welcome those who wish to pursue unity, togetherness, and work in community for the sake of others.

We have to be ready to leave our nets—our safety, our tribe, our certainty—to follow a wandering teacher into a future we can't control. 

That is the discipleship, the baptism, the faithfulness that heals. And it is possible. 

Unity is not a feeling; it is an empty chair maintained in the middle of a war. It is the foolish, stubborn refusal to let the fabric stay torn. Isaiah says the people walked in darkness, but Matthew says they sat in darkness. By Matthew’s time, the sense of oppression, political and spiritual, made it almost impossible to move. 

It can feel that way, but in lives shaped by Christ’s cross, movement is always possible. Even in the sitting, there is a way forward.

I have a song to sing in the night, and so do you. I have a little light to shine, and so do you. I have chairs to set out. And so do you. Amen.