July 25, 2010 at 5:39 am · Filed under Homilies
This is the sermon I prepared for Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., for the Ninth Sunday after Pentecost, July 25, 2010.
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Readings
Genesis 18:20–32
Psalm 138 (antiphon v.8)
Colossians 2:6–19
Luke 11:1–13
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Prayer
We ask you, heavenly Father, to give us your Holy Spirit, so we may pray to you in faith and may trust that you will meet our needs through your Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.
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Message
Sometimes you get more than you ask for.
Today’s Gospel begins simply,
with Jesus praying,
and one of his disciples asking for guidance:
“Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples.” (Luke 11:1b, NRSV)
So Jesus gives his gathered disciples a prayer,
a prayer deceptively simple,
a prayer we have come to know as the Lord’s Prayer, the Our Father.
The form of this prayer in Luke’s Gospel
is a little different from the one in Matthew’s account,
and the version we use in worship and devotions,
but we still can recognize our most familiar prayer in its ancient form.
We call God our Father.
We hallow his name and look for his reign to come.
We ask for our daily sustenance.
We plea for reconciliation.
We seek deliverance from trials that test our faith.
It’s a prayer we know so well that—if we are not careful—
we can find ourselves shifting into autopilot
as we begin to mouth the words
and then waking up somewhere
amid “the kingdom and the power and the glory”
without remembering exactly how we got there.
But here’s the curious thing about this Gospel.
It’s almost as if Jesus anticipated that this simple prayer would,
in human hands and on limited lips,
inevitably devolve into a nearly rote incantation.
Because as soon as he finishes sharing the prayer,
responding to the disciple’s simple request,
Jesus goes beyond the question.
He digs into the wisdom surrounding and supporting the prayer,
the motivations of those who pray,
the expectations we might have of the God who hears us.
The first thing Jesus does
is to compare praying to God
with bugging a friend in the middle of the night for a favor.
Even though our friend might want to close the door,
turn off the light, and go back to sleep,
our persistence wins out,
and our friend gives us whatever we need.
I don’t think the point of Jesus’ teaching
is that God is easily annoyed,
or that we are merely pests,
or that he answers prayers just to get us to go away.
Instead, the focus of the image is on persistence.
The wisdom Jesus offers
is that for us to pray faithfully as he has taught us
is for us to pray persistently,
to come to God our Father over and over again,
telling him what we need
and asking for him to respond.
That means that while we can grow overly accustomed
to the words of the Lord’s Prayer,
we never exhaust their power to share with God our Father
the praise and petititions,
the needs and requests
we bring daily to him.
Why should we bother with repetition?
Doesn’t God hear us the first time?
Doesn’t he have a memory big enough
to listen once and then to know what we need?
Part of the power of the Lord’s Prayer
comes in the patterns of repetition.
When we pray as our Lord has taught us,
we submit ourselves to God our Father,
we are being trained to adopt holy habits.
Not only are we asking him for daily bread, for example,
but by asking him each day for that bread,
we are learning the truth that the bread is his to give.
When we pray for remission of our sins, debts, and trespasses,
we acknowledge that only God can pardon us
and only by his grace can we forgive one another.
When we plea for our Father to rescue us from trials,
we are reminding ourselves that—left to our own devices—
we can only imperil and never deliver ourselves from threats.
This is the value of persistence.
This is why Jesus raises it up as a virtue.
It’s like we are a knife and the prayer is whetstone
and the repetition is God’s way of honing the edge of our blade.
And what happens when we are persistent?
Our practice of the virtue bears fruit,
as Jesus then tells his followers:
“‘So I say to you, Ask and it will be given you;
search, and you will find;
knock, and the door will be opened for you.
For everyone who asks receives,
and everyone who searches finds,
and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened.’” (Luke 11:9–10, NRSV)
This is why we don’t retire the Lord’s Prayer from worship and devotions.
We pray it persistently, repeatedly, daily even,
because each new day brings fresh opportunities
in which to hallow the name of our Father
and new moments in which to acknowledge our need for his graces.
And for the sake of practicing the virtue of persistence,
for training ourselves to turn to God for grace,
we pray every week for all who are sick,
for peace in our world and our families,
for the Spirit to refresh the Church,
for our Father to guide our search for a pastor,
for our Lord to receive our joys and pains.
And finally, Jesus takes his last step in going beyond
what the disciples had asked to receive from him.
He jolts his followers with some strange questions.
“…if your child asks for a fish,
will [you] give a snake instead of fish?
Or if the child asks for an egg,
will you give a scorpion?” (Luke 11:11–12, NRSV)
Instinctively we join our voices with the disciples and say,
“No, of course not. Absolutely not!”
And then, finally, Jesus brings us all the way around,
back to the first question about prayer.
In his wisdom, he has led us along a path
through prayer offered with persistence to God our Father
to the absurdity of imagining mothers and fathers
who would feed their children snakes and scorpions.
And because we cannot imagine that,
because even we who are frail, who fail daily,
who find ourselves so dreadfully flawed,
will give our children fish and eggs,
will give our offspring what we know they need,
“…how much more will the heavenly Father
give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!” (Luke 11:13, NRSV)
How much more?
How much more?
More than we can comprehend,
more than we can put into words,
more than we either can expect or deserve,
but not more than God freely chooses.
And so, all we do is ask for daily bread and fish and eggs.
And then, give God thanks and praise,
because we do receive more than we ask for:
the gift of love from God our Father,
the blessings of grace from his Son Jesus Christ,
and life in communion with their Holy Spirit. Amen.
July 18, 2010 at 5:35 am · Filed under Homilies
This is the sermon I prepared for Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., for the Eighth Sunday after Pentecost, July 18, 2010.
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Readings
Genesis 18:1–10a
Psalm 15 (antiphon v.1)
Colossians 1:15–28
Luke 10:38–42
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Prayer
Loving Father, lead us by your Holy Spirit to welcome your Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, into our lives. Amen.
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Message
One of my friends in college was named Mustafa.
He came to Pennsylvania from Iran in the late 1970s
as a student and enrolled at Lebanon Valley College.
In 1979, the Iranian Revolution that led to the Shah’s exile
and to the return of the Ayatollah Khomeini
also stranded Mustafa in the states.
He found himself suddently cut off from his family back in Iran
and left without the pipeline of their support for his education.
A variety of churches in Annville pitched in
to help him out with an apartment,
giving him the most basic furniture and household items.
He didn’t have much,
but what has always stuck with me
was the overwhelming sense of welcome
he lavished on me every time I visited his apartment.
He would invite me—almost make me—sit in the best chair.
He would go to the fridge,
open the door to nearly empty shelves,
and get me a drink.
If there was only one, he gave it to me,
while he would drink water from the tap.
He said, in so many words to go with his actions,
“What I have is yours.”
This has rested in my memory all these years
as the epitome of hospitality.
He gave joyfully because—as a faithful Muslim—
he trusted that Allah would judge him by his obedience
to the command to practice this hospitality.
Mustafa’s obedience did not take away from the grace I felt
in his home in that small apartment in Annville.
I don’t know what part of Iran Mustafa came from,
but it was clear to me that he had learned and embraced
the wonderful practice of Middle Eastern hospitality.
It’s a tradition that crosses the fractures of religion and history
that divide Jews and Christians and Moslems from one another.
Who knows the roots from which it grows,
the foundations upon which it is built?
It’s genesis is lost in the dust and whispers of history.
But we could do worse than to trace back the roots of hospitality
at least to our common father and mother in the faith—
Abraham and Sarah.
We heard today in our first reading
the account of the visit the three strangers make
to Abraham and Sarah’s tent
pitched by the oaks of Mamre.
Listen to what Abraham and Sarah did
when the strangers approached.
Abraham ran from the tent when he saw the strangers drawing near.
He met them and bowed down to the ground.
He offered water to wash their feet,
bread to fill their stomachs.
Sarah baked cakes while Abraham prepared a calf.
They served curds and milk
along with the bread and meat.
By their actions,
they said to the strangers,
“What we have is yours.”
This was hospitality,
a Middle Eastern welcome,
a gracious embrace extended to strangers by people of faith.
And what dawned upon Abraham in the course of their visit together
was that he had welcomed
not a trio of traveling men,
but the LORD, Yahweh himself.
We know this because we read,
“The LORD appeared to Abraham by the oaks of Mamre
as he sat at the entrance of his tent in the heat of the day.” (Genesis 18:1, NRSV)
At the end of our reading
we hear that one of the strangers reminded Abraham,
“I will surely return to you in due season,
and your wife Sarah shall have a son.” (Genesis 18:10a, NRSV)
And that word opens Abraham’s eyes.
This was God’s promise of grace,
Yahweh’s word of hope for the future,
his vow to make of Abraham and Sarah’s descendants a great nation.
Abraham had heard it at least four times before,
when he and God walked together and talked.
And so, when he opened his tent to the strangers,
when he gave them food and drink,
rest and refreshment,
he had, in fact, opened his heart and his home to God himself.
That is the ultimate hospitality.
And we give thanks
that Abraham and Sarah,
our spiritual father and mother,
offer this example of faithful obedience for their offspring to follow.
And so now we know the motivation
that drove Martha to welcome Jesus into her home
and to go all out to provide for his comfort.
She was practicing the hospitality of Sarah and Abraham,
welcoming the Lord the same way they had welcomed Yahweh.
And Mary, for her part, by sitting and listening at her Lord’s feet,
followed in the footsteps of Abraham,
who had walked and talked and listened to Yahweh.
In its own way, Mary’s embrace of the gift of time with Jesus—
her willingness to rest and to sit and to listen—
was her practice of hospitality,
welcoming the Lord into her heart,
just as her sister had welcomed him into her home.
The beauty of this story comes alive in us
when we realize that true hospitality
comes not in being constantly busy,
or in relaxing endlessly,
but in being open, attentive, ready to listen, willing to receive
both the words of our Lord and his gift of his presence in our lives.
Hospitality is openness of the heart.
When we truly welcome our Lord,
he comes into our heart and homes
and rests with us, dwells with us.
Sometimes Jesus Christ may send his messengers to us in disguise,
like the strangers who came to the tent at Mamre.
That’s why the book of Hebrews reminds us,
“Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers,
for by doing that
some have entertained angels without knowing it.” (Hebrews 13:2, NRSV)
And if we recall our Lord’s words
from the vision of the Great Judgment,
we remember how he promises
that he will come to us through others,
the hungry person we feed,
the thirsty person to whom we offer a drink,
the stranger we welcome,
the person whom we clothe:
“Truly I tell you,
just as you did it to one of the least of these
who are members of my family,
you did it to me.” (Matthew 25:40, NRSV)
So where do we go to welcome our Lord,
to extend hospitality to him?
We can find him sitting down to dinner at Warren’s Table.
There he is, standing in line at the Community Food Pantry at St. John Lutheran Church.
Maybe he’s gathering here in the basement with Narcotics Anonymous.
He might be dwelling in the person sitting beside you in the pew right now.
So, let’s follow the example of Abraham and Sarah.
Let’s run from the entrance of our tent to meet the Lord.
Let’s bow down to the ground and welcome him.
Let’s invite him to stay and to rest with us.
Let’s make sure he can wash up and have some dinner and a drink.
Let’s say to him, “What I have is yours.”
And the most amazing thing happens to us.
As we show hospitality to him,
our Lord Jesus Christ shows hospitality to us.
He invites us to his table in his house.
We stretch out our hands and open our palms
to give him a place to rest his body in bread.
We open our mouths and drink,
inviting his blood in wine to enter us.
And when we do,
then he says to you and to me,
“What I have is yours.” Amen.
July 11, 2010 at 5:29 am · Filed under Homilies
This is the sermon I prepared for Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., for the Seventh Sunday after Pentecost, July 11, 2010.
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Readings
Deuteronomy 30:9–14
Psalm 25:1–10 (antiphon v. 4)
Colossians 1:1–14
Luke 10:25–37
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Prayer
Gracious Father, pour out upon us the Holy Spirit, that we may keep your Law in our hearts and minds and actions, showing your Love to you and to all people, through your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
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Message
Listen to a few little pictures in words,
and pick one that speaks to you.
You have some sandpaper in your hand
and you rub it back and forth
over the curves of a piece of pine
you have shaped into a toy for your grandchild.
To give the wood a smooth finish and feel,
you need to use sandpaper with a fine grit
and only take away a little wood at a time.
It’s a hot and humid morning,
but even so your family would enjoy
some homemade pancakes from your scratch recipe.
You don’t have the quantities written down,
but as you mix the flour and milk,
the eggs and butter and baking powder,
you make little adjustments in proportions
so that the batter flows just right,
not too thick or too thin.
Your favorite knife is a little dull,
so you pick up the sharpening stone
and the oil and get to work.
The best edge comes with patient honing,
using even, rhythmic motions,
gradually working away the tiny flaws in the blade.
You love your dog and you enjoy the walks
in the cool of the morning
almost as much as your best friend enjoys the smells
only it can find in the tall and dewy grass.
When you get home, you turn on the outdoor faucet
and run the hose gently over those gritty paws.
Today, your dog seems to know what’s coming,
and for the first time lifts a paw for you to wash.
I hope one of these pictures speaks to you.
But whichever one you might pick,
look for the little common thread
winding through that illustration
and entwining itself with the threads
coming from the other pictures.
They all have something in common.
It’s a simple thing, almost invisible.
But it’s there and we know it,
even though we may not be aware of what we know.
The changes that matter,
that make our days better,
are often the ones that build up slowly, over time.
They can begin like a whisper in the dark,
like small drops of rain kicking up dust on dry ground.
But then, as time passes,
the small changes accumulate,
they grow like whispers rising into conversations,
like raindrops falling and forming into puddles.
This is the kind of change that God often works
—imperceptibly, invisibly, incrementally—
through almost ignorable little actions in our lives.
But just as we gently rub on wood to make it smooth,
and subtly tweak a recipe to make fluffy pancakes,
and carefully hone a blade to make it sharp,
and gradually train a dog to make it obedient,
God trains and hones and tweaks and rubs us
with his Law, his Word.
That’s how he makes our will match his will.
This is not to say that God can never work drastic changes in our lives.
Sometimes he does,
and we encounter changes both sudden and sharp,
like flipping a switch to bring light into a dark room.
That’s what Jesus did when he called fishermen
who dropped their nets, left their boats, and followed him.
That’s what the risen Christ did
when he struck Saul blind on the road to Damascus
and blessed him with the calling
to serve as Paul, the apostle to the Gentiles.
And maybe God has worked a sudden change in your life.
Perhaps you treasure a moment in your memory
when God touched you with his power,
and your life divides neatly into “before” and “after.”
That is a great gift,
one for which to give God thanks and praise.
But for many of us,
and for most us much of the time,
God works almost secretly in those small ways,
where we are like wood and batter,
blade and dog,
and he makes us attentive and sharp,
fluid and smooth
through the quiet and irresistible power of his Law.
This is the only way we can grow into our calling
to live as God’s people,
to serve him with joy,
to touch others with his love,
to give ourselves up for his glory.
And so, when we overhear the lawyer and Jesus
in conversation about love and the Law,
we shouldn’t feel confused by what they say.
It’s really true that for us to live as God intends
and for us to love others selflessly,
we must keep the Law.
That’s why Jesus agreed when the lawyer said,
“You shall love the Lord your God,
with all your heart,
and with all your soul,
and with all your strength,
and with all your mind;
and your neighbor as yourself.” (Luke 10:27, NRSV)
Our Lord doesn’t mean for us to be confused or overwhelmed
by his desire for us to live and love by the Law.
But we can easily feel that way.
How can we find the strength, the resolve,
to go all in and to love God without limits and conditions,
with our whole mind and strength and soul and heart?
Jesus knows that we wonder about this,
that we fear what will happen if we live totally for God.
He knows we have those feelings,
just as the lawyer did when he tried to put limits on the Law,
on God’s calling for all people to love him and neighbor alike.
That is why the lawyer asked,
“And who is my neighbor?”
Because it we can define neighbor a litle more narrowly,
leaving out some people out there on the fringes,
then we can contain the calling of God’s Law,
we can build in some safeguards, put some limits,
manage our expectations and responsibilities.
God wants us to love him and to love others just the same,
but if there are reasonable limits on who those others might be,
then the demands of loving and living by the Law
only go so far and then they stop,
leaving a little energy and life just for us.
And so Jesus tells that familiar story
of the Samaritan and the man beaten by thieves,
who watched through his pain
as religious people passed him by twice.
They were the ones who knew
what were the reasonable limits when asking, “Who is my neighbor?”
But the story paints a vivid picture of neighborhood as God sees it.
Even two strangers—
one a man, presumably and Israelite,
and one a Samaritan despised by the people of Israel—
are neighbors in the eyes of God.
And to be a neighbor,
to show love without reserve,
to live by the Law,
to give God our whole lives without holding anything back,
does not require us to make great and grand gestures,
to take dramatic and earthshattering actions.
It’s the small things:
to be moved by pity;
to bandage another’s wounds;
to give someone a ride;
to take care of a stranger;
to give some money;
to make good arrangements;
and to meet the needs that arise.
It’s the simple acts of service:
to comfort someone who grieves;
to share your food with someone who is hungry;
to make peace with your adversary;
to pull up your pride by the roots and plant humility;
to squash your prejudice and disdain for others;
to seek out times for acts of kindness;
to respect each person as brother, as sister.
These are the simple, small acts
that work together to fulfill the Law,
to fill our lives with love for others and God,
to help us submit to his will.
Through these everyday tasks,
God trains and hones and tweaks and rubs us,
conforming us to his will,
so that in his good time,
we will rise refreshed at the dawn of his bright and glorious day,
greeting one another as neighbors who live by the Law.
On that day, we will love God our Father
with everything that is in us,
with heart and soul and strength and mind.
And we will love one another as brothers and sisters
of our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
July 8, 2010 at 5:44 am · Filed under Ephemera
Introduction
One of the opportunities I have as the interim pastor at Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., is to prepare a short column for a feature called “The Pastor’s Pen.” This installment appeared in the Beatrice Daily Sun on Thursday, July 8, 2010.
Scripture
“May my instruction soak in like the rain,
and my discourse permeate like the dew,
Like a downpour upon the grass,
like a shower upon the crops ….” (Deuteronomy 32:2, NAB)
Meditation
Maybe you can date yourself by remembering whose voice you hear in your mind’s ear when you recall the lyrics to “Rhythm of the Rain.” When you sing to yourself, “Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain / Telling me just what a fool I’ve been,” do you hear the Cascades from 1962 or Jacky Ward from 1978 or Dan Fogelberg from 1990? But no matter whose voice you hear, which era’s singer you recall, it’s easy to imagine listening to that rhythm as the rain falls, especially with the weather we’ve had the past several months.
For some of us, rain, at worst, inconveniences us. A passing shower means getting wet going from car to office. Sometimes the rains might mean the cookout gets moved to the garage. For others, though, the rain and the hail and the wind have poured out heartbreaking damage upon crops and brought challenging loss of livelihood. So it’s natural to want the rain to come conveniently, in just the right quantities in the right places at the right times. But listen! The falling rain tells us we are foolish to think we can control its coming and going.
Rain also speaks other messages and gives us other reminders. The Scriptures are full to the brim with references to rain and to water. That’s not surprising, given the arid climate of the lands where God’s people lived in the times recorded in the Bible. Look at one verse from Deuteronomy, which comes from a passage known as the Song of Moses. In this section, the leader who brought Israel out of bondage in Egypt, through the wilderness, and to the promised land, sings a song that is really a poetic sermon. He begins by asking God to make his words flow into the people’s lives like rain and dew, downpour and shower. He sings a kind of prayer asking God to drench his people, to soak them to the skin with the divine Word.
This is an image of blessing and abundant grace. God sends the showers of his instruction upon his people. He pours out his will upon them as inescapably as he sends the rains. As Christians, when we hear Moses’ words, we cannot help but be reminded of the waters of Holy Baptism. With this holy and life-giving water, God cleanses and renews us so that his instruction soaks into us like the rain.
So when the next storm blows in from the west and the next downpour falls upon us from the sky, the rains can remind us to give God thanks for his blessings and to wash our ears of faith so we may hear his instruction. In these ways, God refreshes us to live for his purposes. He permeates our lives like dew upon the ground, so that we may recall his blessings and give him thanks in all things.
July 8, 2010 at 5:35 am · Filed under Ephemera
Introduction
The Congregation Council at Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., where I am serving as interim pastor, opens its monthly meetings with devotions. These are the thoughts for the July 2010 meeting. The Psalm is the one appointed for the seventh Sunday after Pentecost. The council read it in choirs—men and women.
Invocation
In the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
Amen.
Reading
Psalm 25:1–10
1To you, O LORD, I lift up my soul.
2O my God, in you I trust;
do not let me be put to shame;
do not let my enemies exult over me.
3Do not let those who wait for you be put to shame;
let them be ashamed who are wantonly treacherous.
4Make me to know your ways, O LORD;
teach me your paths.
5Lead me in your truth and teach me,
for you are the God of my salvation;
for you I wait all day long.
6Be mindful of your mercy, O LORD, and of your steadfast love,
for they have been from of old.
7Do not remember the sins of my youth or my transgressions;
according to your steadfast love remember me,
for your goodness’ sake, O LORD!
8Good and upright is the LORD;
therefore he instructs sinners in the way.
9He leads the humble in what is right,
and teaches the humble his way.
10All the paths of the LORD are steadfast love and faithfulness,
for those who keep his covenant and his decrees.
Devotion
When I was young, I was a member of Troop 45, Boy Scouts of America.
Scouting was big in those days.
There were probably forty or so boys in the troop,
organized into four patrols of ten.
A bunch of dads served as scoutmaster and assistant scoutmasters.
What I loved most about scouting was camping.
We had a camping trip scheduled every month.
Sometimes we went to a campground,
but other times we went backpacking.
The Appalachian Trail ran along the ridges and valleys of the Appalachians in Lebanon County.
This is where we hiked.
We learned to stay on the trail, to check the feet of the scout ahead of us.
We did this for safety, because you could see loose rocks or fallen limbs.
We also did it out of respect for the environment;
it’s better for twenty-five people to walk on one trail,
then to tear through the woods and make new paths.
We learned the wisdom and safety
in following the path of an experienced and trusted leader.
The Psalmist invites us to follow the path of our Lord.
Our God marks his path in our lives with his truth and love and mercy.
He instructs us in the way we should go.
He leads us in humility to take the right path;
he teaches us his way.
He promises us that his paths are “steadfast love and faithfulness,
for those who keep his covenant and his decrees.”
We’re invited to join our voices with the psalmist’s voice and pray,
“Make me to know your ways, O LORD; teach me your paths.”
Discussion
+ What do you see on the path ahead of us as a congregation?
+ What are the loose rocks and the fallen limbs?
+ Where have we wandered from the path?
+ What can we do as leaders to help our fellow members to follow on the path the Lord points out to us?
+ Which verse speaks to you personally? Can you share why?
Prayer
We want to follow you, Lord God, along the path you have chosen for us. Lead us to follow you in humility. When we stray from the trail, bring us back onto the path of your truth. Raise up in us a spirit of gratitude for your steadfast love and faithfulness. We pray this in the name of Jesus Christ, your Son and our Savior. Amen.
July 5, 2010 at 10:17 am · Filed under Ephemera
Introduction
One of the opportunities I have as the interim pastor at Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., is to prepare a short column for a feature called “The Pastor’s Pen.” This installment comes from the Beatrice Daily Sun on Thursday, July 8, 2010.
Scripture
“May my instruction soak in like the rain,
and my discourse permeate like the dew,
Like a downpour upon the grass,
like a shower upon the crops ….” (Deuteronomy 32:2, NAB)
Meditation
Maybe you can date yourself by remembering whose voice you hear in your mind’s ear when you recall the lyrics to “Rhythm of the Rain.” When you sing to yourself, “Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain / Telling me just what a fool I’ve been,” do you hear the Cascades from 1962 or Jacky Ward from 1978 or Dan Fogelberg from 1990? But no matter whose voice you hear, which era’s singer you recall, it’s easy to imagine listening to that rhythm as the rain falls, especially with the weather we’ve had the past several months.
For some of us, rain, at worst, inconveniences us. A passing shower means getting wet going from car to office. Sometimes the rains might mean the cookout gets moved to the garage. For others, though, the rain and the hail and the wind have poured out heartbreaking damage upon crops and brought challenging loss of livelihood. So it’s natural to want the rain to come conveniently, in just the right quantities in the right places at the right times. But listen! The falling rain tells us we are foolish to think we can control its coming and going.
Rain also speaks other messages and gives us other reminders. The Scriptures are full to the brim with references to rain and to water. That’s not surprising, given the arid climate of the lands where God’s people lived in the times recorded in the Bible. Look at one verse from Deuteronomy, which comes from a passage known as the Song of Moses. In this section, the leader who brought Israel out of bondage in Egypt, through the wilderness, and to the promised land, sings a song that is really a poetic sermon. He begins by asking God to make his words flow into the people’s lives like rain and dew, downpour and shower. He sings a kind of prayer asking God to drench his people, to soak them to the skin with the divine Word.
This is an image of blessing and abundant grace. God sends the showers of his instruction upon his people. He pours out his will upon them as inescapably as he sends the rains. As Christians, when we hear Moses’ words, we cannot help but be reminded of the waters of Holy Baptism. With this holy and life-giving water, God cleanses and renews us so that his instruction soaks into us like the rain.
So when the next storm blows in from the west and the next downpour falls upon us from the sky, the rains can remind us to give God thanks for his blessings and to wash our ears of faith so we may hear his instruction. In these ways, God refreshes us to live for his purposes. He permeates our lives like dew upon the ground, so that we may recall his blessings and give him thanks in all things.
July 3, 2010 at 7:35 am · Filed under Homilies
This is the sermon I prepared for Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., for the Sixth Sunday after Pentecost, July 4, 2010.
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Readings
Isaiah 66:10–14
Psalm 66:1–9 (antiphon v.4)
Galatians 6:1–16
Luke 10:1–11, 16–20
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Prayer
Bless us with the strength of your Holy Spirit, gracious Father, as we journey like lambs amid wolves, telling others that the kingdom of God comes to us all in Jesus Christ, your Son and our Savior. Amen.
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Message
We have an innate sense—
a vestige of our animal selves—
that alerts us to danger.
It’s the tingle that runs up our spines when we hear a shuffling in the dark.
It’s the primal fear of danger
that filmmakers and novelists plumb with abandon
when they create horrors seen and unseen—
forces with blade and muscle,
both machine and beast.
Perhaps the experts might trace this sense
to the survival instincts of our ancestors
who huddled—naked and hairless—
in caves and crooks of trees,
while greater, stronger creatures ruled the night.
But whatever the sources of our fears,
the wellspring from which flows our sense of threats,
we know the truth of this world that the strong vanquish the weak,
that the powerful overwhelm the impotent.
And it really doesn’t matter whether we are talking about
animals running wild on the prairie or in the woods
or about people running wild on the streets of our cities
or on the sidewalks of villages.
In both cases, the law of the jungle seems to hold.
That’s why the phrase, “red in tooth and claw,”
resonates with our fear of injury and death
at the hands of beasts, both human and animal.
The author of that phrase, Alfred Lord Tennyson,
captured the bloody struggle when he wrote:
Who trusted God was love indeed
And love Creation’s final law—
Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shriek’d against his creed—
Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills,
Who battled for the True, the Just,
Be blown about the desert dust,
Or seal’d within the iron hills? (In Memoriam A.H.H., Canto LVI)
It is a struggle between love and hate,
between order and chaos,
between good and evil.
And in the midst of it all,
we can find ourselves driven to despair,
which means to live disspiritedly, without hope.
We can come to believe that the best we can do
in this life—this “nasty, brutish, and short” life—
is to hold on as long we can,
to ward off the forces arrayed against us,
to postpone inevitable.
Something will get us, in the end,
something surely will claw at us, drag us down,
whether it’s disease or old age,
violence or drugs,
guns or random accidents,
terrorists or crazed vigilantes.
And with the world as scary and as threatening as we know it to be,
the last thing we normally and sanely would want to do
is to place ourselves in danger,
to put our lives at risk.
That’s just natural and normal.
This makes Jesus’ saying in today’s Gospel
all the more difficult for us to overhear
and to embrace as his word to us.
He tells the Seventy—
and by extension,
all who follow in the footsteps of the Seventy,
meaning you and me and every other Christian—
“See, I am sending you out like lambs
into the midst of wolves.” (Luke 10:3b, NRSV)
As lambs amid wolves,
we are the prey, not the predators.
We do not go with weapons, with tooth and claw,
but instead we head out on our mission
as a flock, gentle and meak, gathered and sent.
We go out only because our Lord sends us.
He sends to be witnesses to the world.
He sends us out to tell others,
“The kingdom of God has come near you.” (Luke 10:9, NRSV)
Some will hear our message,
experience our testimony,
come to know our witness,
and they, too, will join the flock.
They will become lambs with us.
When this happens to others,
as it has happened already to us,
then God rejoices,
and we celebrate along with him.
We give thanks that his kingdom has grown,
that his flock has expanded.
This is the work of the Spirit in us and through us.
This is the power of the Word
spoken both as summons and promise,
enacted both as discipline and comfort.
This is the ministry of the Father
embodied in people,
poured out in service,
and suffered in extremes of personal sacrifice.
It’s no coincidence that the Greek word
often translated as “witness” is “martyria,”
from which we get the English word “martyr.”
This reminds us that when we become God’s witneses,
we very well may also become his martyrs,
his lambs amid wolves.
But this is not the final word.
We are not doomed to die pointlessly,
torn apart by inhuman forces “red in tooth and claw.”
That’s not to say that we, as lambs amid wolves,
will escape all threats and dangers,
that we will end our days unscarred,
that we will necessarily live as unbloodied martyrs.
Instead, we can live as courageously as witnesses,
knowing that we are on our Father’s mission,
that he has sent us out in Christ’s name,
that he blesses us with the Holy Spirit,
just as he promised the Seventy:
“See, I have given you authority to tread on snakes and scorpions,
and over all the power of the enemy;
and nothing will hurt you.” (Luke 10:19, NRSV)
So, does this mean that Jesus Christ gives us some sort of body armor,
that we cannot be hurt in the course of our witness?
It helps to know what Jesus means by “hurt.”
In Matthew’s Gospel, he says,
“Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul.” (Matthew 10:28, NRSV)
To me that means that while our witness may lead us into times and places
where we are hurt, and perhaps even die as martyrs,
we need not fear those forces,
because all they have done is “kill the body.”
At the end of the day,
we find protection in God and in him alone.
As St. Paul encourages us in Ephesians,
“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power.
Put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand
against the wiles of the devil.
For our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh,
but against the rulers, against the authorities,
against the cosmic powers of this present darkness,
against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.
Therefore take up the whole armor of God,
so that you may be able to withstand on that evil day,
and having done everything, to stand firm.” (Ephesians 6:10–13). Amen.
July 1, 2010 at 5:34 am · Filed under Ephemera
Introduction
This article is the July 2010 installment of my monthly message in the parish newsletter for Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb.
Daily Witness
The other day I stopped at the Beatrice Post Office to buy stamps for the Lincoln Stamp Club’s July newsletter. A few months ago I agreed to add the creation of this newsletter to my other responsibilities as the Club’s secretary. Because the newsletter goes to stamp collectors, they appreciate when the stamp on the newsletter is a commemorative and not a common issue.
I’d recently seen that the Postal Service had released a Kathryn Hepburn commemorative, and thought—given the ages of most of the members of the Club—that this would be a good choice. I found out from Bob, the clerk at the post office, that he was almost sold out of the Hepburn stamp and didn’t have the fifty I needed. But then he suggested a roll of Flags of Our Nation, featuring the Nebraska flag. That was the choice I made.
Somehow in the course of our brief conversation I mentioned the newsletter. Bob said, “Oh, I’m in a stamp club too.” It took only a moment for us to discover he was a member of the same club and actually receives the newsletter I write. This led to us comparing notes on our specialty collections and me asking whether he would ever consider presenting a talk on his collection at one of the Club’s meetings.
At this point, you might be asking yourself, “Where is he going with this rambling story?” That’s a good question. And the answer is that I was struck by how easily and how energetically I could engage in a conversation with a complete stranger when the topic touched on our shared passions. You have probably had a similar experience, whether it involves sports or antique cars or the latest best seller or ….
No, Not That!
But now envision yourself running into someone and somehow—through the twists and turns of the conversation—bumping up against your faith. Certainly we are passionate about our Lord Jesus Christ, about the new life we share in the Holy Spirit, and about the trust we have in coming, upon our deaths, to the endless day we will enjoy with the Father in heaven. But to talk about that with a stranger is an almost unimaginable scenario for most of us. In fact, we often find it hard enough to talk about our faith in church or even at home with a spouse or other relative. When we picture ourselves treading perilously close to the topic of our faith, we find ourselves pulling back, raising our hands in defense, and crying soundlessly, “No, not that!”
Beyond Fear
We typically fear what we cannot control, so it is natural, in one sense, to fear a conversation about faith. Once that topic arises, then God—without a doubt—is present and active and alive in the conversation. And we do not control him.
But while fear is natural, fear that shows we do not trust God to guide us is the kind of fear that we know to be the absence of faith. St. Paul reminds us:
For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God. For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, [emphasis added] but you have received a spirit of adoption. When we cry, “Abba! Father!” it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ—if, in fact, we suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him. (Romans 8:15–17, NRSV)
This helps, because it reminds us that the Spirit bears witness with us when we share our faith with others. And really, of what or whom need we be afraid if God is our ally standing at our side? With him as our companion, we are free—free of fear of embarrassment, ridicule, injury, even death—to witness daily to others of our faith with the same intense passion we bring to our hobbies and pastimes.
Blessings!
July 1, 2010 at 5:29 am · Filed under Ephemera
Introduction
Holy Cross Lutheran Church began offering individuals the chance to ask questions about the Church, faith, theology, and the Bible by putting their queries into a Question Box. A question and answer appears in each month’s newsletter. This is the July 2010 installment.
Question
Is Jesus the only way to eternal life, and if so, what happens to people who do not believe in him? Please use the Scriptures in the answer.
Answer
St. Paul’s hymn in Philippians says, “Therefore God also highly exalted [Christ Jesus] and gave him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. (Philippians 2:9–11, NRSV) This tells us that God desires for all people to say, “Jesus Christ is Lord.” We trust that he will work this out in his own time and according to his own plan, revealed to us when Jesus said, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” (John 14:6, NRSV) So, yes, Jesus is the only way to eternal life with the Triune God.
But in the meantime, we are left with the reality that not all people confess that Jesus is Lord or come to the Father through him. Some people doubt or deny that God exists. Others may say, “He may be your God, but I have made my own religion.” Still others follow the tenets of the world’s major religions, such as Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, and Taoism.
We believe that God has made us with the capacity to respond to him, which includes the ability to say “yes” to his love, but also to say “no,” even if that answer will cause lasting separation, a gulf between us and God, and pain because of that estrangement.
This “what happens” question can cause us great anguish if we have a loved one who professes doubt or denial of the Christian faith. In such circumstances, we are called to pray, not so much that they “snap out of it,” but that God will live up to his promise to relentlessly pursue his children, no matter how far they may stray. As Jesus said, “The Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost.” (Luke 19:10, NRSV)
June 27, 2010 at 5:26 am · Filed under Homilies
This is the sermon I prepared for Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., for the Fifth Sunday after Pentecost, June 27, 2010.
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Readings
1 Kings 19:15–16, 19–21
Psalm 16
Galatians 5:1, 13–25
Luke 9:51–62
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Prayer
By your Spirit, gracious Father, empower us to follow your Son in faith, that we may keep our sights fixed on him throughout our days. Amen.
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Message
One of the cliches you can hear repeated
in news reports about politics and government
is that public officials have just pivoted
to focus attention on a new issue or problem.
The sense behind the visual image of pivoting
is that the officials now have set their sights
on a complex issue requiring full attention.
The problem, though, is that they run the danger
of pivoting so often—in response to so many polls—
that they create the opposite impression.
They are not resolute, but fickle,
and perhaps they are just turning in circles
like a centerpivot in a cornfield.
In today’s Gospel, Jesus himself reaches a true pivot point in his ministry.
In Luke’s Gospel,
up to the point just before today’s reading,
Jesus had devoted himself to his Galilean ministry.
But, with the opening sentence of the reading,
we hear a change in focus and attention:
“When the days drew near for him to be taken up,
he set his face to go to Jerusalem.” (Luke 9:51, NRSV)
“The days [drawing] near” refers to the coming days of his passion—
his trial, sentencing, torture, crucifixion, and death.
And in response to those days drawing near,
Jesus “set[s] his face to go to Jerusalem.”
The word “set” is the translation
of a form of the Greek word στηριζω (stérizó, pronounced “stay-rid’-zo”).
It means “to set fast, to turn resolutely in a certain direction, to determine.”
It has a seriousness to it,
a strong sense of will,
a heft and weight and force
that will not be diverted or dissuaded.
We get the feeling that Jesus displays energy and drive,
that he leans into the task before him
in a way that would overcome any obstacle,
overmatch any force arrayed against him.
And for Jesus, his task is to carry out the will of his Father
by the power of the Spirit they share,
no matter the personal cost to them.
We know what he had only recently told his disciples in Luke 9:22–24 (NRSV):
“The Son of Man must undergo great suffering,
and be rejected by the elders, chief priests, and scribes,
and be killed, and on the third day be raised.”
Then he said to them all,
“If any want to become my followers,
let them deny themselves
and take up their cross daily and follow me.
For those who want to save their life will lose it,
and those who lose their life for my sake will save it.”
This is his ministry
and it is the path of the cross
that all who follow him must take.
It’s not a time for pivoting too and fro.
It’s a time for setting one’s face,
for determining to take the cross and to bear it,
and to follow the Lord along the path he takes before us.
Today’s text tells us how hard this is
for people to witness and to embrace.
The people of Samaria,
who shared a longstanding rivalry with the people of Israel,
did not welcome Jesus,
because “his face was set toward Jerusalem.” (Luke 9:53, NRSV)
James and John, two of Jesus’ disciples,
want to call down the fire of God
to wipe out the Samaritans
the way Elijah called down fire on the prophets of Baal.
But that is not the way of Jesus,
the way of the cross.
And then he encounters people
who come up to him as he travels along.
They see him walking with purpose.
Perhaps they see something of the passion in his face
as he makes his way to Jerusalem.
They sense, maybe, his determination,
and they want to be a part of the movement.
But he reminds them, at every step,
how hard this way will be.
Animals have places to call home,
safe places, restful places,
but not the Son of Man
and certainly not those who follow him resolutely.
The way of the cross demands that God
and service to him be first in our lives.
And so, in a seemingly harsh saying,
Jesus counsels a would-be disciple
to leave behind family commitments
and to “go and proclaim the kingdom of God.” (Luke 9:60, NRSV)
Finally, one person wants to follow Jesus,
but first desires to say goodbye to family.
The response from Jesus?
“No one who puts a hand to the plow
and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” (Luke 9:62, NRSV)
Who does that leave?
Do you feel fit for the kingdom?
I know I look back,
I try to make a start down this path,
but then, like a politician,
I convince myself of the goodness of an easier path.
I pivot and get distracted while my hand is on the plow.
I’ve never plowed a field,
but I get the impression from Jesus’ saying
that plowing straight and true for the kingdom
involves setting one’s face.
It’s like orienteering,
something I learned in Boy Scouts.
You get a list of compass directions and distances
and you set off through the woods and meadows.
The secret is to take a reading,
get your bearings,
know the length of your stride,
pick a landmark out ahead,
and then set your face, your gaze, on that landmark.
If you look back or watch your own feet
or pivot too much this way and that
to avoid rocks and fallen trees,
you can easily lose your bearings
and end off far removed from the mark.
Plowing for the kingdom,
proclaiming God’s good news,
taking up one’s cross and following Jesus
is like orienteering in the wilderness.
But what hope do we have?
Is there any chance we can follow him?
Are there any among us
who would deny themselves,
who would face lives with no holes or dens,
nowhere to lay their heads,
who would leave behind family
to become cross-bearing disciples of Jesus?
Well, on our own,
left to our own devices,
under our own power,
depending upon our own wills,
we would pivot away from suffering,
drop the cross from our shoulders,
and plow crooked and meandering furrows.
But the grace that comes to us
as a gift from God
saves us from living on our own,
by our own devices,
facing life under our own power
and depending upon our own wills.
Our Lord has plowed our lives with his cross.
He has planted in us the seeds of faith.
He moistens those seeds with baptismal waters.
He weeds the sin from our lives through confession.
He prunes us and cuts us back through trials
so that we can grow to bear the fruits of faith.
He fertilizes us with his body and blood in communion.
These are the gifts of God for us, the people of God.
They are what empower us
to step into the footprints of our Lord,
to follow behind him in faith,
to set our faces upon him in obedience,
and so to follow him with determination. Amen.
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