The Walkup Song of the Lord

Synod Sermon – Pentecost 19, Lectionary 27, Year A

Isaiah 5:1-7; Psalm 80:7-15; Philippians 3:4b-14; Matthew 21:33-46

Dear Friends in Christ,

Grace and peace to you on this celebration of the Lord’s Day. I thank God for you and for all the Spirit is doing in and through you. Remember, beloveds, that the work of God is not only what we can name with our traditional spiritual frameworks, but also the gifts of the seasons, life-giving weather patterns, and the wonder of wild things.

In the shifting sounds of autumn, I would like you to take a moment to reflect on the idea of walk-up music. Almost always, walk-up music is associated with baseball. It is the snippet of a song that comes over the loudspeaker as a player approaches the batter’s box. The music is both for the player and the fans. It hypes up the player and lets the crowd join in on the excitement of who is up next.

Walk-up music makes an appearance in other arenas. Some large public-speaking events have adapted the practice, playing music as speakers take the stage. Just like athletes, the speakers choose songs that reflect their preferences and get them excited.

In today’s reading from Isaiah, the prophet tells us about God’s walk-up music. The song of the speaker is the song of the beloved for the vineyard. It is a song of love and tenderness, a musical testimony of care, compassion, and hope. When the prophet cues up the song, the listeners know that the Creator is coming up to bat – a home run is a sure thing, a score for the team of the good, a W for the vineyard of the Lord.

Unfortunately, though, the prophet is grieving. Those who believe themselves to be on God’s team have let other music drown out the walk-up music of the Lord. A melody of unrighteousness, a drumbeat of nationalism, discordant notes of injustice and idolatry have all made it hard to hear the song of the Beloved Creator to the beloved creation.

In the light of this behavior, the prophet warns that the Lord would rather tear down the stadium than let the music of harm continue. The caution of potential destruction is a call to those who will listen. The walk-up music of the Lord remains a song of love and hope, but those who are distracted by other tunes, however harmonious they seem, will bring destruction.

The other readings today echo this theme. The apostle Paul continues his encouragement of the Philippian community of Christ followers. He tells them how he learned to change his own walk-up music in light of the good news of Jesus. His prior song, one of self-justifying righteousness, became rubbish to him as the Spirit helped him to understand how the song of the Beloved and the vineyard were calling to him.

I must note to you, friends, that it is easy for us to be caught in a tide of poor Christian interpretation and believe that the flaw in Paul’s song was Judaism—as well as misjudging those who heard the prophet and the leaders in Matthew. The failure to understand God’s call and covenants is a flaw of humanity, not a flaw in a particular religious tradition of humanity. We as Christians and as Lutheran Christians are just as prone to misunderstanding, misinterpretation, and mistakes as any other denomination or spiritual connection to the Creator. To believe we are the most right is EXACTLY what Paul is telling the Philippians that he had thought about himself, and he knows he has the capacity to let that song change keys, become about Jesus, and still drown out the music that should actually be about the glory of God. Not the glory of Paul, or Luther, or us.

The parable from Matthew gives us a variation on the theme. The tenants in the story aren’t wicked so much as delusional. As they work in the vineyard, they begin to believe a lie amongst themselves. Their work means the vineyard should belong to them. Did they make the soil, the sun, the seeds, or the rain? Is the fruit actually theirs? No, but their own song of human rewards, social goals, and thirst for power drown out the music of the song of love of the vineyard owner, an allegory for the God whose farm, vineyard, and ranch is all creation.

Remember that Matthew is also the gospel that says, “...Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:16) To let our lights shine means to listen for God’s walk-up music, to learn to recognize the verses of love, grace, mercy, inclusion, hope, justice, and peace. Then, beyond recognizing the song, we yield to the Spirit’s work of making that music our own song, the beat that guides our lives.

We are invited through our baptisms, Holy Communion, our ongoing spiritual maturing, and our life together to be a part of the chorus of God’s music. When we join in with our words and our deeds, people are drawn to divine, irresistible grace. We all know what it’s like to have a song stuck in our heads. The song of the beloved to the vineyard should be that song all the time. A song that says, “You are mine. I love you. I will pull these weeds. I will help you grow. I will prune what does not produce. I will spend time with you. I love you. You are mine.”

This is the walk-up music of the Lord—the song that tells us who is deciding the outcome of the game, the game that has already been won.

Continue to help each other and your neighbors to hear this music, beloveds. Hold fast to the truth that you are God’s vineyard. The song of the Lord is a song to you and to all of us. Carry that song with you into the world and learn to perceive it playing all around you.

May God continue to bless and keep you, today and always. Amen.

 

The Cost of Discipleship

In June of 1939, the German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer returned to Union Theological Seminary in New York City. He had visited and studied there in the 1930–1931 school year and was returning as a potential lecturer. In the years between those visits, Bonhoeffer had been a founding member of what was called the Confessing Church, a movement of committed Christians—clergy and laity—who were resisting the state church’s alignment with the government of the Third Reich.

Bonhoeffer had been offered several opportunities to leave Germany to teach and preach elsewhere in safety. When he came to the United States in 1939, he was doing so for his safety and to escape conscription into the German army. He was in the U.S. for two weeks before he realized he’d made a mistake.

He wrote to his friend and fellow theologian, Reinhold Niebuhr, these words:

I have come to the conclusion that I made a mistake in coming to America this time. I must live through this difficult period in our national history along with the people of Germany. I will have no right to participate in the reconstruction of Christian life in Germany after the war if I do not share the trials of this time with my people... Christians in Germany will have to face the terrible alternative of either willing the defeat of their nation in order that a future Christian civilization may survive, or else willing the victory of their nation and thereby destroying our civilization and any true Christianity. I know which of these alternatives I must choose, but I cannot make that choice from a place of security.

Bonhoeffer’s seminal work, The Cost of Discipleship, was published just two years before in 1937. In that book, he wrote about the idea of followers of Jesus who take the commitments of discipleship too lightly. In the words of today’s gospel reading, Bonhoeffer was watching many who called themselves Christian say yes to Jesus but then fail to do the very things that the Savior commands in daily living.

One of the most famous passages from The Cost of Discipleship is this:

Cheap grace means grace sold on the market like cheapjacks' wares. The sacraments, the forgiveness of sin, and the consolations of religion are thrown away at cut prices… The essence of grace, we suppose, is that the account has been paid in advance; and, because it has been paid, everything can be had for nothing. Since the cost was infinite, the possibilities of using and spending it are infinite. What would grace be if it were not cheap?... Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline, Communion without confession, absolution without personal confession. Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate.

In 1939, Bonhoeffer felt that by coming to the United States, he had availed himself of a kind of cheap grace. In less than a month, he was on a boat back to Germany. He continued to preach, to train up new pastors and vicars in the Confessing Church, and to try to rescue Jews and others condemned to die. The latter is what eventually got him arrested and then hanged in a prison camp.

When Bonhoeffer wrote about cheap grace, he did not mean that the Church should fail to offer God’s assurance of forgiveness or the consolation of the sacraments. He was specifically addressing the idea that people who consider themselves disciples of Christ cannot do whatever they want, say whatever they want, live however they want, and then say, “But I am forgiven by the blood of the Lamb.”

To understand the cost of grace, in Bonhoeffer’s mind, one must be doing absolutely everything in one’s power to live in accordance with God’s will. In that willingness to take up the cross every day, one will stumble or make a mistake. It is then that the grace of God covers us—not through erasing harm caused through carelessness or intention, but pain caused by accident in the effort to do what was right.

And Bonhoeffer understood that intention cannot override impact. His intent by going to the United States was to be able to write, preach, and offer encouragement, but he realized the impact of being so far away from those who were suffering in the day-to-day was too great. The pain of receiving sermons from safety would cause a wound greater than his words could heal among the people whom he loved.

This same tension is evident in our readings today. The people listening to God’s words through Ezekiel cry out about the unfairness of the Lord. The Creator responds with wonder at how humans can think Divine action is unfair when their days are filled with injustice, destruction, and unfaithfulness.

The religious elders ask Jesus a pointed question, but not because they’re curious or want to learn. They want to protect their turf, their system, and their fragile peace with the Roman Empire. Jesus answers them with parables about obedience, truth, and heart-change. But the deeper question underneath their interrogation echoes down to us: Where does authority come from, and what does it look like when it is handed to us?

Paul gives an answer in his letter to the Philippian followers of Jesus. In observing the Christ, we see a different way of being, a different kind of authority: Though Christ was in the form of God, He did not count equality with God something to be taken advantage of or exploited. Instead, He emptied himself, taking the form of a servant.

Worldly authority says, “Get yours and hold on to it. Climb to the top, protect your power, and command others.”

Christlike authority says, “Hold everything lightly for the sake of the gospel. Descend into the mess, wash feet, empty yourself, and love to the point of cross-bearing.”

The authority Jesus gives His followers is never a badge for domination, status, or spiritual pride. It is an authorization to love sacrificially, to speak truth to power, and to serve a broken world. It is instruction, equipping, and empowerment to make choices that reflect the cost of God’s grace and our understanding of that cost.

When Paul says, “work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for his good pleasure,” he does not mean that we have to make our own salvation happen. He is reminding those who hear his words to continue to strive every day to understand the gift of salvation, to live into it, and to pray once more to have joy in that gift.

Years ago, I was in a church meeting in a different congregation. The young child of one of the council members was playing with cars on the floor next to me as I sat at one end of the table. I heard him talking, but when I turned to look at him, I realized he was speaking to me. I hadn’t recognized that before because he wasn’t saying my name.

“Jesus, Jesus!” he said, looking at me.

“Are you asking me something?” I said to him.

“Yes, Jesus,” he replied. “Watch this.”

He then sent a car flying down the ramp of the toy garage.

We corrected my identity later, but I have always known that for children, the role of the pastor can sometimes be conflated with the role of God. The same goes for parents, elected officials, community leaders, or ever-present volunteers.

Anyone who takes action and is known as a follower of Christ will be assumed to be acting in accordance with their faith. Someone is watching us and either recognizing Jesus in us or not.

And I know some of you are thinking, Not every action has to do with my faith in Jesus. Sometimes it’s just buying an apple, getting my car washed, or venting with a friend.

That’s the thing about costly grace, though. If we believe in it, if we do not wish to cheapen it, if we want it to change the world in us and through us, then it does and it will affect everything.

Our yes to Jesus in song and devotion in the sanctuary means very little if it becomes a no in the vineyard of God’s world.

A no to Jesus, coupled with the right actions, means very little in terms of our evangelism and pointing toward the One who knows and loves us best.

We all must come to the same understanding as Bonhoeffer in June of ’39. Our words and our deeds must match, and they must do so for the sake of Christ in our neighbor.

The grace of God is free, but it will cost everything we have to understand its worth. And it is by living out that value in every aspect of our lives that we can be part of how the irresistible grace of God continues to redeem the world.

Amen. 

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. 

 

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. 

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.

 

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. 

 

 

There Is No "I" in Baptism

When we read the story of Jesus standing in the Jordan River, we often focus on the divine "I." We hear that voice from the heavens breaking through the clouds like a thunderclap: "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased." It is a moment of profound, individual identity. It’s the ultimate "I see you."

And if we aren’t careful, we stop there. Baptism becomes our personal insurance, a moment between "me and my God," rather than the instant that changes and shapes our whole life. The water of the Jordan was what was known as “living water,” meaning it moved as opposed to being stagnant or still. It flows. It connects the mountaintop to the sea.

We are called to use fresh water, lots of it, and to pour it generously when we baptize to recall this living and moving water. The act and the call of baptism is never just about an "I"; it is the radical, difficult, and beautiful transition into a "we."

In our liturgies, we tend to use both singular and plural possessives interchangeably. In the creed, we say, “I believe in,” but we say it together and we mean it together. Even if we pray the Lord’s Prayer alone, we speak, “Our Father,” because we are praying in concert with all people, across time and space, who use those words to call upon the Divine.

We sing, “This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior all the day long,” when we know that we share the story of the mercy of God and the saving hope of Jesus with an uncountable number of people in the world today and throughout history. We sing, “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty, early in the morning our song shall rise to thee,” even when we sing alone.

Since we use the words and the concepts interchangeably, maybe it is not that important to emphasize that our baptisms make us a “we.” After all, it seems to be a thing we understand. Understanding only becomes evident, though, when we are living as baptized people, as the body of Christ, in the mission field of the world.

In the gospels, Jesus doesn’t just show up to the river alone for a private ceremony. He is standing in the mud with the tax collectors, the soldiers, the seekers, and the skeptics. Even when John, recognizing who Jesus is, would have refused, Jesus insists—the act of righteousness, or making things right, means he is where the people are and he does what the people do.

To be baptized "into Christ" is to be baptized into his body. And a body doesn’t function as a collection of isolated organs competing for resources. A body is the ultimate "we." When the hand is cold, the heart pumps harder. When the feet are tired, the rest of the frame leans in. Even when a limb is amputated, the rest of the body remembers, even as it compensates for what is lost.

The shift from "I" to "we" is where justice begins. In a world that screams at us to "get yours," to "protect your own," and to view our success as a solo achievement, what we believe and teach about baptism is counter-cultural. The worst parts of history have happened when people divided into “us versus them.” Horrors happen when people, including and especially Christian people, have lost any sense of “we” with our neighbors who are also children of God.

If we are one body in Christ, then a "justice issue" isn't something that happens "over there" to "those people." It is a wound on our own skin; it is a wound to the body of Christ. In living as a "we," the question is no longer "How does this affect me?" The question becomes, "How does this affect us? The most vulnerable among us? The aching among us? The fearful and pushed aside among us?"

Baptismal justice says: I cannot be "well" if you are thirsty. Baptismal justice says: The God who claims me as a child also claims you. Baptismal justice says: The water that touched my forehead is the same water that quenches thirst, brings health, shapes communities, and is needed by all.

It is true that right after being baptized, the Spirit sent Jesus into the wilderness. Even there, though, he wasn’t alone. There were wild animals, angels, the Spirit, and the tempter. Even in our silent time, there is no "I"—there remains a “we” with the God who does not abandon us.

Our baptismal vows call us to a life that imitates Christ. We promise, in response to God’s grace, both to the individual acts of studying scripture and prayer, together with the communal acts of being at the Table together and supporting one another. We commit, again in response to God’s grace, to the mission work of being the body of Christ, pursuing divine justice and peace in the world.

Our baptisms are critical, memorable moments demonstrating how we belong to God. Part of the reason we also teach that baptism is a public act, not a private one, is because God has made us to belong to each other. We are the body of Christ. We are the ones called and equipped by God. We are the "we" that God is using to mend the world.

The waters of baptism do not dry up. They remain living water. They soak in and yet remain a flood that presses us forward, beyond any constraining banks we might try to construct. There is no “I” in baptism. Well, I guess technically there is, but you know exactly what I mean.

We are washed together. We are fed together. We are sent together. Not for some “them” or against some “they,” but for the fullness of the “we” that is God’s whole beloved creation. This is the day that the Lord has made. This is the way that the Lord has made. These are the Lord’s waters in which we wade. Let us rejoice and be glad in it and go forth to live in response to the grace we have received.

Amen.