Tag Archives: Isaiah

Formation Under God’s Hand

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When the Spirit-Driven Task Force at Shepherd of the Hills Lutheran Church met on Sunday, Oct. 16, 2011, the members discussed Christian Education. This was a reflection shared during the devotions.

In the second creation story in Genesis, we hear that “the LORD God formed man out of the clay of the ground and blew into his nostrils the breath of life, and so man became a living being” (Gen. 2:7, NAB). And later, the prophet Isaiah proclaims to God, “Yet, O LORD, you are our father; we are the clay and you the potter: we are all the work of your hands” (Isaiah 64:7, NAB)

How long does it take for a lump of clay, pounded, kneaded, picked free of stones, thrown onto a wheel, pressed under strong hands, shaped by firm muscles, drawn up into graceful curves, adorned with patterns, and then set aside to dry, to face the fires, to be glazed and fired again—how long does it take for that lump of clay to fathom the potter’s mind and heart?

How long does it take us to begin to glimpse the splendor of that potter’s creative vision? How long to come to appreciate the intricacy and the beauty of the design pressed upon us, the plan guiding the throwing of a whole set of pieces, the compassion of pounding down a misshapen pot and beginning anew until the lump takes just the right form?

At least a lifetime. At least all the days we have received as gifts from our Master Potter. And so we begin. From the day he washed the dirt from us in Holy Baptism and made us his children, we have confessed, “I believe in God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” Then we have learned to ask in company with those who have gone before us, “What does this mean?”

And for the hints of an answer, for insights into wisdom that lies beyond us, we turn to the Scriptures, the Creeds, the Confessions, the Church’s Traditions of Liturgy, and her Teachings of Morality. We look in these places for the palm prints, the impressions of the divine hands that shape us, that turn us from formless muddy lumps into creatures fashioned in the image of God, people redeemed from death by the Son’s sacrifice, sinful saints living only by the power of the Spirit.

How long does it take? Maybe that’s the wrong question. Perhaps we ought to ask God, “We won’t ever finish exploring your mind and mission, will we?” Why would we want to? What else could possibly matter more, be more significant, consume us so fully, fill us so completely?

Because we are God’s pottery, we are not God, but instead his handiwork. The shape we have, the grace filling us, the promise that leads us all come from him and not from within us. And so for us to learn about God is to come to appreciate the form he has given us, the marks he has pressed upon us, the design he has worked into his world, the plan for our redeeming. We learn about God when we receive our form, shape, and pattern, our ways of thinking and reflecting, our wisdom and understanding from what comes to us from beyond us.

That’s why we, as God’s pottery, do well when we embrace our learning as formation rather than education. Formation reminds us that our shape comes from outside of us and is pressed upon us. Education leads us instead to focus upon what we draw out of ourselves—the word’s root meaning.

What is the end—the purpose—of our formation? St. Paul offers a prayer for the Ephesians that speaks of us, as well:

For this reason I kneel before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth is named, that he may grant you in accord with the riches of his glory to be strengthened with power through his Spirit in the inner self, and that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; that you, rooted and grounded in love, may have strength to comprehend with all the holy ones what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled with the fullness of God” (Eph. 3:14–19, NAB).

Amen.

Giving and Proclaiming

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Introduction

Emmanuel Lutheran Church, east of Beatrice, Nebraska, invited me to preach and preside at worship on Oct. 16, 2011, the Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost.

Readings

Isaiah 45:1–7
Psalm 96:1–13, antiphon v. 7
1 Thessalonians 1:1–10
Matthew 22:15–22

Homily

Let us pray …. May the words of my mouth and the meditations in our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.

Freedom from Want

Freedom from Want, Norman Rockwell

One of America’s most beloved and iconic images is this one [Show print.] Sometimes it’s called “Thanksgiving Dinner.” Norman Rockwell painted it during World War II as an illustration for a war bonds poster. Then it appeared as the cover art on the March 6, 1943, issue of The Saturday Evening Post. Called “Freedom from Want” in that issue, it was the third of four paintings to appear in the magazine to dramatize the Four Freedoms that President Franklin Roosevelt outlined in his January 1941 State of the Union address.

I think we’d be safe in saying that this image rests in our memories more as the ideal of Thanksgiving than as a reminder to us of war bonds or even of the President’s speech. Even so, the themes of Thanksgiving and Freedom from Want somehow tie together.

Here in the painting, a family gathers in joy and peace around a table dressed in white. Young and old together, they are all smiling, except the grandmother who may be more focused on finding a space for the turkey platter and the grandfather who perhaps is resisting the urge to guide the platter to its resting place. And we are there too, at the foot of the table, taking in the scene, our eyes caught in the gaze of the gentleman in the corner looking expectantly at us.

The turkey is large; the fixings are simple and not overly abundant. The drink is water. A good meal in wartime; surely the family will be praying in just a minute, basking in the diffuse white light filtered through the curtain from the sun, shining on a land and a people caught in the throes of war.

It’s funny, though. Our understanding of words has changed over the years. This was a painting about Freedom from Want, but if you look at the food on the table, you see a meal that offers freedom from need, not want. Or perhaps the family in the painting wanted less in the middle of World War II than we do today.

Even so, despite the differing interpretations we might make of this painting, it sticks in our minds’ eyes as an illustration of Thanksgiving, of gratitude for the sufficiency of God’s gifts in our lives.

But sadly, now as then, not all people can look forward to placing enough food on the table to feed a family. They cannot afford what they need to eat, much less to pay for what they might desire beyond their needs.

A U.S. Department of Agriculture report released last month notes that across the United States in 2010, about one in seven households experienced what experts call “food insecurity.” That level of insecurity shows the effect of lacking the resources to afford to purchase the food needed to eat nutritionally sound meals. So it’s easy to see that poverty and hunger go hand-in-hand. In 2008, government statistics showed that 15.4 million Americans found themselves living in extreme poverty, where their family annual cash income didn’t amount to one-half the poverty level. That meant that their income was less than $10,000 for a family of four. (http//www.worldhunger.org/articles/Learn/us_hunger_facts.htm, accessed Oct. 13, 2011, citing http://www.ers.usda.gov/Publications/ERR125/err125.pdf.).

Numbers and statistics can quickly cause our eyes to glaze over. So, it helps to keep faces in mind. Perhaps you know someone who doesn’t get enough to eat, or some family facing questions of what they might find to eat, rather than figuring out if the leftovers in the fridge are still safe after a week or more.

Those are the faces to envision as you gather your offerings for the food pantry. Picture the joy on the faces of a family as its members gather around their table—lifted up by the generosity of the community—and prepare to give God their thanks and to eat the meal he has provided through your contributions.

Why do we give canned and dry goods to the food pantry? For a variety of reasons. First, we and others give because it is a kind and neighborly thing to do. America is not always all about competition and getting ahead, making a killing off of those trying to make a living, just as it is not always about getting one’s fair share without contributing the sweat of one’s brow.

A great and deep strand in our national heritage is to reach out to others, to help them when they have a need, just as they will help us when we face a need. As Christians, we can ands ought to give for this reason, working alongside of others who do not share our faith in Jesus Christ.

This type of charitable work is good. We see a need. Someone is hungry. So, we share our food. That’s our basic humanity at work.

But for us as Christians, other, deeper motivations take root. In Matthew’s gospel, Jesus’s pointed parable about the judgment of the sheep and the goats reminds us that the righteous king will say on the last day, “Come, you who are blessed by my Father. Inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, ill and you cared for me, in prison and you visited me …. Amen, I say to you, whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me” (Matthew 25: 34–36, 40, New American Bible).

So beyond acting out of basic humanity and basic decency, we can trust our Lord’s promise that when we feed people who are hungry, we are offering food to him. And so, in our minds’ eyes, our Lord joins us around the table spread in white. He comes to eat whenever we give our food to someone in hunger.

And finally, there is a third reason to give food to hungry people, to share what God has given us with the food pantry and other ministries that serve people in need. St. Paul hints at this third reason in his first letter to the Thessalonians. In today’s second reading, we heard him say:
For we know, brothers and sisters beloved by God, that he has chosen you, because our message of the gospel came to you not in word only, but also in power and in the Holy Spirit and with full conviction … (1 Thessalonians 1:4–5a, New Revised Standard Version).

The message of the gospel comes not only in words, but also in power and in the Spirit and with the full force of conviction. And so, we give food to hungry people because it is humane, because by feeding them we feed the Lord who gives us life, and finally, because our actions proclaim the gospel with power. We can say that God loves his children and that he calls us to care for others. Once we have said that, we can share God’s love and care by giving food.

And beyond that, if someone asks us why we give food to people who are hungry, we can say we do so because we are neighborly and because we are grateful to God. But in truth, when our giving prompts someone to ask why we give, then our proclamation comes fully to life, “in power and in the Holy Spirit and with full conviction” as we take that opening as an invitation to tell them about the love and grace we have received from Jesus Christ.

So, when we discover the opportunity to share food, we have privilege of giving to meet a need and the chance to proclaim the grace of Lord. For that, we can say, “Thanks be to God!” Amen.

Fruits of the Kingdom

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Introduction

Emmanuel Lutheran Church, east of Beatrice, Nebraska, invited me to preach and preside at worship on Oct. 2, 2011, the Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost.

Readings

Isaiah 5:1–7
Psalm 80:7–15, antiphon vv.14–15
Philippians 3:4b-14
Matthew 21:33–46

Homily

Let us pray …. May the words of my mouth and the meditations in our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.

Jesus’s parables have a sneaky quality to them. Not because He sets out to be devious, but because He takes the ordinary parts of daily living and transforms them into vessels filled to the brim with the power and insights of His Father’s desires for His people.

Today’s Gospel shares with us Jesus’s well-known teaching, the Parable of the Vineyard. It’s familiar, but it’s probably not fair to call it a beloved parable. It is one of His teachings that speaks a little too clearly for our comfort, that leads us to squirm beneath the pressure of its message.

As we listen to the story, we cannot help but see our own faces reflected in the angry and twisted expressions of the tenants. Like them, we have worked hard at home, on the job, in the church. So we feel we have earned the fruits of our labors. But then, the landowner—God Himself—sends first His slaves and finally His own Son to claim what is rightfully His—the harvest from the vineyard.

That doesn’t sit well with the tenants. And so, after killing the slaves, they turn on the landowner’s Son as well. This brings down upon them the judgment of the landowner. At the end of the parable Jesus leaves His listeners, both then and now, to ponder the shape and the depth of that judgment.

Of course, we don’t really work in a vineyard, although saying that in Nebraska is not quite as safe as it once was. A quick Google check reveals that Nebraska has twenty-five wineries scattered all over the state. So maybe you do work in a vineyard, or you know someone who does.

That little familiarity we might have with vineyards makes it easier for us to see why Jesus, along with Isaiah and the Psalmist before him, settles on the daily workings of a vineyard as an image and expression of God’s dealings with us, His people. As His children, we live together in communities God has chosen to cultivate. Raising up communities that live according to His will requires patience, the same kind of patience one needs when cultivating grapes.

The lives of the tenants in the vineyard help us to appreciate this long-term project. They must find the right soil, the best light, and the land with appropriate moisture. They must pick the varieties of grapes that thrive in the local climate. They must plant tender, young vines and train them, prune them, bind them gently to supports, and then wait for several years before the first bunches of grapes appear. They must hope that mold and pests do not overrun the vineyard and kill off the vines. Then they must wait for the right time for harvesting to capture the grapes at their peak of flavor and sweetness. Finally, they must know how to press the grapes, to extract their juice, and how to encourage the fermentation that changes juice into wine.

A good vinedresser lives with the vines, getting to know them, their environment, and their responses to those changing conditions. It takes knowledge and skill to make fine wine to please the palate. We can see how a sense of ownership can grow, how tenant vinedressers can come to think of the vines as their own possessions. They can lose sight of the truth that the owner of the land also owns the vines, the fruit that grows on them, and the wine that flows from the winery.

That’s the way it is with us. We live in a country that recognizes our right to own property. One of our country’s founders, Thomas Jefferson, took to heart the thoughts of John Locke, who had claimed in the 1600s that “life, liberty, and property” were the natural rights of human beings. Jefferson changed the emphasis slightly in the Declaration of Independence, citing our “unalienable rights … [of] life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

Even with that change, we in this country still cling to our shared belief that God, the source of natural rights, has given us the right to own property. Much of our law is written to define who owns property and how they may use it. We have procedures for how property can be taken for the public good, regulations to govern how we may use our property, a tax code to cover the levies imposed on various forms of property, and estate laws that shape the ways we pass on property when we die.

But in the midst all of the work we have put into gathering property and possessions and into protecting and defending our ownership, we often lose sight of the truth that Jesus speaks to us in this parable. Our world, its abundance, and even our own lives are not ours; they are the possessions of God our Father. He is the landowner and we are the tenants He has called to work in His vineyard.

On the one hand, that sounds a little harsh, a little extreme. Isn’t there something that we can really call our own? Isn’t there some thing we can ultimately control and dispose of as we choose. Isn’t this my life? Don’t I own my house? Haven’t I earned this money? Isn’t this my body? No, not really.

We did not choose to be born. We cannot make out of nothing the matter and the energy that comprise our world. We can shape and adapt and use and misuse what God has made. But we cannot become gods ourselves, beings who create and redeem and sanctify.

That’s the hard and the good truth. It is good to be creatures of God and to be the tenants in His vineyard. We are blessed to be the ones our Father has chosen to care for this creation, to share the Good News of His Son, and to live in the community empowered by their Holy Spirit.

The parable tells us about God’s judgment and about His blessing. The point at which judgment and blessing part ways comes when we face the question about how we will live as tenants. Will we be the ones who welcome the Son of the landowner or the ones who seize Him, throw Him out of the vineyard, and kill Him.

As Jesus says to His listeners, we hear Him say to us,

Therefore I tell you, the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom (Matthew 21:43, NRSV).

One way to look at these “fruits of the kingdom” is to return to the vineyard, to the grapes God causes to grow from His vines. A branch of the vine is the Church, grafted onto the base stock—the trunk—that is Israel, the chosen people of God. We are the grapes that sprout from this vine. By the grace of God we grow lush and full. He harvests us and presses us and ferments us into wine.

By planting, pruning, picking, pressing, and fermenting us through good times and bad, through blessing and trial, God makes us follow in the path of His Son. He was pressed upon the cross, so that His blood can be poured out as wine to heal the world of its sin. He was baked upon the cross, so that His body can be broken as bread to feed all who hunger for righteousness.

When God makes us to be the fruit of the kingdom, then by His own hands, He breaks us and pours us out so that others may see what He has done with us. This is what leads them, by the Spirit, to join us in saying, “Jesus, we give you all that have. We give you ourselves. Harvest us and gather us into your Father’s kingdom.” Amen.

A Word of Promise

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Introduction

The people of Shepherd of the Hills Lutheran Church, Hickman, Neb., have organized a Spirit-Driven Task Force, bringing together almost forty members who have committed to a year of study, prayer, reflection, and deliberation to discern how God is calling the congregation to renewal for the sake of his mission.

This is the twelfth of a series of weekly meditations with the aim to inspire reflection and encourage conversation among the members of the task force as we journey together in obedience to our Lord’s calling to serve him.

David Frye, a member of the Spirit Driven Task Force, wrote this week’s meditation.

Scripture

For just from the heavens
the rain and snow come down
And do not return there
till they have watered the earth,
making it fertile and fruitful,
Giving seed to him who sows
and bread to him who eats,
So shall my word be
that goes forth from my mouth;
It shall not return to me void,
but shall do my will,
achieving the end for which I sent it. (Isaiah 55:10–11, New American Bible)

Meditation

With these words, Isaiah serves as the mouthpiece of the LORD. The prophet gives voice to God’s promise and pledge. Isaiah says to the people of Israel—and to us who overhear the LORD’s conversation with them—that His word works His will in the lives of His people, as surely as rain and snow fall from the clouds and bring nourishing waters to the earth and all that grows upon it.

For all who treasure the best of what sprouts from the roots of our Lutheran heritage, this assurance comes as a comforting reminder, recalling for us an echo of Martin Luther’s “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God”:

God’s Word forever shall abide,
No thanks to foes, who fear it;
For God himself fights by our side
With weapons of the Spirit. (Lutheran Book of Worship, #229)

The message is the same. No matter what may stand against God, we can trust that His Word made flesh, the one we know as Jesus Christ, will carry out the Father’s will by the power of their Holy Spirit. Right there is the ultimate source of our comfort and courage in the face of the many challenges scattered throughout our life together at Shepherd of the Hills Lutheran Church.

When God chooses to work His will in the life of His people, nothing stands against Him. He shall overcome our stubbornness, our pride, our sloth, and our self-centeredness. He shall overwhelm the adversities embodied in hard economic times, busy schedules, competing claims for attention, denominational distress, and cultural collapse.

We can be sure that God’s work will change us. We’ll find that idols and monuments to our own desires will be worn away, eroded by the raining down of God’s Word, by the forces that freeze and thaw and crack into rubble the rocks we have piled up, one upon another after our designs. In their place, the LORD will lay down the foundation of His Word and raise upon it a people who love and serve only Him. After all, we know that God keeps His promises, as He has said to us:

So shall my word be
that goes forth from my mouth;
It shall not return to me void,
but shall do my will,
achieving the end for which I sent it. (Isaiah 55:11, NAB)

Prayer

LORD God, give us the ears to hear Your Word and to follow its direction for living as Your people. Speak to us, so that we may find our lives rebuilt upon the trustworthy foundation of that Word. Help us to submit every part of our lives, both individually and as a congregation, to Your will, worked out in our midst through your Word, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Majesty and Grace

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Introduction

St. Mark’s on the Campus Episcopal Church, Lincoln, Neb., celebrates the Holy Eucharist on Tuesdays at 12:30 p.m. The parish’s practice is to observe commemorations at this service.
The parish’s rector, Father Jerry Thompson, asked me to lead worship on Tuesday, March 22, 2011. This date is also the day on which Jonathan Edwards, Teacher and Missionary to the Native Americans, died in 1758.

Readings

Isaiah 6:1–8
Psalm 119: 89–96
John 17:6–10

Homily

Born in East Windsor, Connecticut in 1703, Jonathan Edwards was the fifth of eleven children. He had ten sisters. His father was a pastor in the Congregational Church. Jonathan was homeschooled, enrolled at Yale when he was thirteen, and graduated when he was seventeen. He studied theology, earning a master’s degree when he twenty, and was ordained when he was twenty-three. He got married five months later, and he and his wife had eleven children.

He was what we would call an intellectual, working in epistemology and psychology and theology. He also underwent mystical experiences as an adult.

His preaching inspired waves of revivals of the faith in New England that led to the Great Awakening of 1740 to 1742. He grew famous and that led to strains with his congregation. Eventually he was dismissed in 1750. He moved to the frontier, way out west in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, and became a missionary to the Native Americans. He continued to write treatises on the freedom of the will and original sin. In 1757 he became president of the College of New Jersey, which later became Princeton University. He was inoculated against smallpox during an outbreak, but succumbed to a secondary infection in 1758, and died on March 22.

What strikes me about his life isn’t so much all of the academics, but the fact that he was open and receptive to the mystical side of the faith. It reminds me a little of Isaiah’s experience from our first reading (Isaiah 6:1–8). We can get so bogged down by the grinding details of our daily lives that we forget the wonder and mystery—even the strangeness—of God and how he changes our lives when we are open to him.

Jonathan Edwards wrote a Personal Narrative. In it, he said,

As I was walking [in my father’s pasture] and looking up on the sky and clouds, there came to my mind so sweet a sense of the glorious majesty and grace of God, that I know not how to express. I seemed to see them both in a sweet conjunction; majesty and meekness joined together; it was a gentle, and holy majesty; and also a majestic meekness; a high, great, and holy gentleness. (From New Book of Festivals and Commemorations, Phillip Pfatteicher, Minneapolis, Fortress Press, 2008 p. 137)

Majesty and grace in sweet conjunction. That’s not a bad way to speak of Jesus Christ, God himself in our midst. He’s gentle and holy, majestic and meek.

And the great gift is that he comes to us in the Bread of Heaven and the Cup of Salvation. Wine becomes blood and bread becomes flesh. That is grace and majesty in sweet conjunction, given for you and for me, given to forgive our sins, to strengthen us for daily living, and to preserve us until the day we gather around the LORD’s “high and lofty throne” an join with the seraphim and sing, “Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts! All the earth is filled with his glory” (Isaiah 6:1,3, NAB). Amen.

Listen to the Angel of the Lord

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Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., celebrated the Fourth Sunday of Advent, Dec. 19, 2010. This is my last Sunday serving as the congregation’s interim pastor.

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Readings

Isaiah 7:10–16
Psalm 80:1–7, 17–19
Romans 1:1–7
Matthew 1:18–25

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Prayer

Come, Lord Jesus, and dwell with us. Ask your Father to stir up in our midst the Holy Spirit, so that we may be with one with you, that we may trust you in all things, and that we may listen when you speak to us. We pray, Emmanuel, in your name. Amen.

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Message

As the light of dawn slowly climbed
the ladder of clouds in the east,
glowing scarlet then turning gold,
he found the details of the dream
growing grey and dim.
His memory wrestled with the sun’s heat,
and wrapped the dream in a fog,
hiding its vivid hues and feelings.

Soon, all he could recall was a voice,
the voice of one speaking to him
from his memory’s sea of silence.
He was known, known by name,
known by his family, his lineage,
known for his misgivings,
his fears of ridicule,
his desires to avoid shame and disgrace,
his quandary over what to do,
what to say and how to act
to the woman given to him
to be is partner, his fit helper.

In the ear of his mind he could hear the voice.
“Joseph, Son of David,
do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife….” (Matthew 1:20, NRSV)
Do not be afraid.
What did the voice—
the voice in his dream,
the voice that spoke a message,
the voice of a messenger, an angel—
what did the voice know of his fear?

But as he pondered that voice,
holding the memory in his heart,
he heard that message again and again,
and in the lapping of that message
upon the shore of his heart,
it wore away the jagged edges of fear,
it washed away the doubt,
and left him cleansed and refreshed,
his trust restored, his faith clarified.

“Do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife,
for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.” (Matthew 1:20, NRSV)
The memory gave him strength,
the angel’s voice brought him peace,
the message renewed his faith.
This child, a child conceived amid concern and scandal,
a son of uncertain lineage,
a boy to be born in troubled times,
this child was “from the Holy Spirit.”

He grasped the truth, and not rumor.
He felt awe, not fear.
He knew faith, not doubt.
And the voice told him what to do.
“…take Mary as your wife.”
“…name the son Jesus.” (Matthew 1:21–21, NRSV)
Hear the words of the prophet.
Find their fulfillment in your holy family.
Trust that the son is Emmanuel,
that he is God with us.

And now, fully awake,
aware of the day’s dawn
and of the unfolding grace of God,
the ear of his heart attuned
to the voice of the messenger,
the angel of the Lord,
this man, Joseph, rose from his bed.
He resolved to do as the messenger had commanded him.
He listened to the angel of the Lord.
He took Mary as his wife.
He shouldered the mantle of fatherhood.
He named their son Jesus,
“…for he would save his people from their sins.” (Matthew 1:21, NRSV)

Joseph listened.
The God of angels and mortals
gave him the ears to hear,
the heart to trust,
the faith to believe,
the resolve to act,
the power to serve,
the will to persevere,
the courage to embrace the unknown.

Be still. Be quiet.
Listen for the voices of the angels.
They are the messengers of God.
They come to bear the news, the good news.
They come down from heaven
and walk in our midst.
They speak the words of hope and promise.
They say to us, “He is coming.
He, the Son of the Father, is coming.
He is coming soon.”

And so we sing with the angel choirs,
“Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.” Amen.

We Wait with Patience

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Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., celebrated the Third Sunday of Advent, Dec. 12, 2010.

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Readings

Isaiah 35:1–10
Luke 1:46b–55 (antiphon v. 47)
James 5:7–10
Matthew 11:2–11

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Prayer

Lord God, from your servant, Mary, we learn how to wait and to watch and listen with patience and faith for your Holy Spirit to move in our lives. Fill us with the grace to follow her example and to wait with patience; through your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

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Message

Quick!
How many words and phrases can we name
that remind of us speed?
Quick, instant, now, immediate,
just-in-time, ready-to-go, no prep,
swift, prompt, on-the-spot.

We have microwaves to zap our portable soup.
Deep in their circuits somewhere, our televisions are always “on,”
so that we don’t need to wait anymore for them to warm up.
We can get instant approval for new credit cards
while we’re standing in line to buy
microwave popcorn, frozen green beans,
pre-peeled carrots, and potato salad.

The morning after last month’s midterm elections
all of the talking heads, the pundits, and the wags
were speculating about the jockeying and hopefuls
for the 2012 presidential election.

The joke, that’s not far from true,
is that many people think that odd symbol
on the altar in churches,
the one that’s really iota-eta-sigma,
the first three letters of “Jesus” in Greek,
actually stands for one-hour-service.

That’s the goal, because as soon as we’re done here,
we can mark off worship on our checklists
and get on with tackling the pile of projects, errands,
events, gatherings, and sundry to-dos
that crowd our calendars
until the little boxes bulge from the sheer volume
of our frenzied and frantic schedules.

Or look at our country’s attempts to conduct
a thoughtful and reasoned debate about federal spending.
The political climate of poll-watching
and the instant feedback that office-holders get from their constituents
by e-mailing, texting, twittering, and telephoning
make it almost impossible, at least so far,
for us to look carefully at the ramifications of what we do today
in the lives of our children and grandchildren.

And so we hang on to our hodgepodge of policies and programs,
initiatives and incentives,
taxes and tariffs,
entitlements and equalizations.
As a people, we want results now,
and we’ll do just about anything to get that outcome,
without paying attention to the mess we bequeath to our children,
to the size of the hole we’re digging at this very moment.

Did you see the news article about Jaguar’s newest prototype?
It’s a car with turbine engines
that goes from 0 to 62 miles per hour in 3.4 seconds.
What destination could be so important to reach so quickly?

All of the speed we crave, for some reason,
can leave us a little breathless and harried,
with our lives feeling full and stuffed,
but not in a good way.
Maybe it’s a little like that churning
we get in our guts when we’ve eaten
too much rich food,
dishes we know are not good for us,
but we put them away anyway.

And in many ways,
this time, of all seasons, is the worst part of the year.
Take the regular chaos we navigate almost daily,
and then throw in all of the preparations for Christmas—
the decorating, the parties, the shopping,
the wrapping, the cooking, and the traveling.

Who has time for much of anything?
It takes all we have in us just to show up,
maybe a little late, but at least we made the appearance.

At this point, you might be saying to yourself,
“Well, I’ve heard this sermon before.
Every pastor has this one in him or her.
I knew it. Eventually we were going to get
the ‘let’s put the true spirit of Christmas
back into the holidays’ sermon.’
They must keep this one in a file.

Well, you’re right.
Most every pastor has preached this sermon.
Probably more than once.
Most likely at least once in each parish he or she serves.

But the truth is that while the details may change
as the years go by and we refresh our cultural references,
the reason that we have all heard this message before
is simply because it’s true and we need to hear it.

It’s just natural for us,
every one of us,
you and me,
to want what we want and to want it now.
Immediately, no waiting.

That’s the reality of our human lives.
We cannot hide from this truth
and we cannot hide that truth from God.
He knows that we desire for our wants to be met,
that we want results now and satisfaction right away.

This is probably why Advent
as a liturgical season, as a devotional discipline,
as a time of waiting and preparing,
fights with the secular observances of the holidays
for our time and our attention.

It really is counter-cultural to say,
“Waiting and watching and wondering
are spiritual disciplines worth cultivating.”

But then, the Church is counter-cultural.
It lives under the lordship of Jesus Christ
and not the rule of the powers of this present time.

So listen, again, to the first part of that short reading
we heard from the epistle of James:
“Be patient, therefore, beloved,
until the coming of the Lord.
The farmer waits for the precious crop from the earth,
being patient with it until it receives the early and the late rains.
You also must be patient.
Strengthen your hearts,
for the coming of the Lord is near.” (James 5:7–8, NRSV)

Twice in just two verses
James says to the Church,
“Be patient.”
And between those times
he illustrates patience
with the little picture of the farmer
waiting for the crops to grow,
waiting for the rains to come,
waiting for the harvest to arrive in its time.

Be patient.
“Be strong, do not fear!
Here is your God.” (Isaiah 35:4, NRSV)

Wait.
“A highway shall be there,
and it shall be called the Holy Way.” (Isaiah 35:8, NRSV)

Slow down.
“…sorrow and sighing shall flee away.” (Isaiah 35:10, NRSV)

Listen.
“My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.” (Luke 1:45b, NRSV)

Pray.
“…for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.” (Luke 1:49, NRSV)

Watch.
“He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly.” (Luke 1:52, NRSV)

Ponder.
“Are you the one who is to come,
or are we to wait for another?” (Matthew 11:3b, NRSV)

Wonder.
“…the blind receive their sight, the lame walk,
the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised,
and the poor have good news brought to them.” (Matthew 11:5, NRSV)

Confess.
“For us and for our salvation
he came down from heaven….” (Nicene Creed, LBW, p. 64)

Eat.
“…this is my body, broken for you.” (Eucharistic Prayer IV, LBW MDE, p. 262)

Drink.
“This is my blood poured out for you.” (Eucharistic Prayer IV, LBW MDE, p. 262)

Live.
“Go in peace. Serve the Lord.” (LBW, p. 74)

Be patient.
He is coming. He is coming soon.
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!

Baptized with Spirit and Fire

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Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., celebrated the Second Sunday of Advent, Dec. 5, 2010.

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Readings

Isaiah 11:1–10
Psalm 72:1–7, 18–19 (antiphon v.7)
Romans 15:4–13
Matthew 3:1–12

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Prayer

Cleanse us with your fire, O Lord, and stir up your Holy Spirit in us, so that we may abandon the ways of sin and return to the faith you have given to us in our baptism into your Son, Jesus Christ. Amen.

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Message

Isaiah left us a whole book—sixty-six chapters long—
filled with passages both peaceful and painful.

Today we hear one of his prophecies
about the coming of the Messiah, God’s anointed one.
It begins with those familiar words,
“A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse,
and a branch shall grow out of his roots.” (Isaiah 11:1, NRSV)

We hear that verse, and the words remind us
that David was the youngest son of Jesse.
God had promised David that his descendents
would sit on the throne in Jerusalem in perpetuity.

But Assyria, a great power in the Middle East,
went on a rampage and laid waste to Judah,
and God’s promise seemed broken and bankrupt.

That’s why these words from Isaiah bring hope,
why they speak of promise in the midst of pain.
For us, as we listen to them as a great song of expectation,
we hear them accompanied by the angel choirs
singing about God’s glory in the highest
on a cold night above a hilltop flocked with sheep.

But these words from Isaiah are just a clip,
a snippet from a longer song.
Just before our reading Isaiah tells us
how the LORD will deal with Assyria, Israel’s oppressor:
“He will hack down the thickets of the forest with an ax,
and Lebanon with its majestic trees will fall.” (Isaiah 10:34, NRSV)

That verse is not so familiar,
but it tells us how God works in the world.
When there are forces that oppose him,
when his people are oppressed and burdened,
then his judgment comes down upon the oppressor,
his strong arms lift the burdens laid on his people.
He swings his ax and hacks down the forest.
Nothing stands in the way of his judgment,
his mighty power to protect and to save his people.

Centuries later, another prophet, the last one, arose in Israel.
Named John, he was the cousin of the Son of David,
the same David, son of Jesse and onetime king of Israel.
A hymn by Thomas H. Troeger, describes John this way:
Wild the man and wild the place,
Wild his dress and wild his face,
Wilder still his words that trace
Paths that lead from sin to grace.

He was wild and he was strange,
but like Isaiah, he was a man possessed by the Spirit,
a man bound to see what God envisioned
and to speak to all who would listen
with “the voice of one crying out in the wilderness:
‘Prepare the way of the Lord,
make his paths straight.’” (Matthew 3:3b, NRSV)

John’s signature gesture is a simple one.
He points beyond himself,
showing us the way to the Christ, the Messiah,
turning our gaze to the coming Lord.

And before we can go too far astray
and picture our Lord coming to us
only as a sweet and charming baby,
John reminds us that the Lord who comes
is the same Lord whom Isaiah foretold would come,
sprouting from the stump of Jesse.

Remember, this Lord is King,
and he comes to issue in his kingdom;
his reign over us and the whole world.

And as our King and Lord, he doesn’t let us rest in the security
of anything we have within ourselves.
There is no safety in echoing the crowds’ words to John,
in claiming a special pedigree, that we belong to the right family,
in saying, in our case, “We have Luther as our ancestor in the faith.”
Instead, John calls us to turn from our old ways,
to give up our false security,
to let go of anything that we hold onto that is not God.

Only when we do this,
by the power of the Spirit at work in us,
does God give us the grace we need
to “bear fruit worthy of repentance.” (Matthew 3:8, NRSV)

He can do this, no doubt about it,
because he is the one with the power to make new children
for himself out of cold and lifeless stones.

But he wants us to be his children,
he wants us to live in his kingdom,
and so he sends his Son,
to show, to tell, to preach, to teach,
to heal, to exorcise, to pray,
to suffer, to die, and to be raised.

All of this is our Father’s way of bringing about his kingdom.
Through this obedience in life and death,
his Son, the Messiah, the shoot from the stump of Jesse,
serves his Father in the power of their Spirit.

And it all comes down upon us
when Christ comes into our lives.
He comes as that “infant holy, infant lowly,”
but he also comes to us as our Lord and King,
as the one with water and fire,
with ax and winnowing fork.

As John tells us so vividly,
“He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.
His winnowing fork is in his hand,
and he will clear his threshing floor
and will gather his wheat into the granary;
but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” (Matthew 3:11b–12)

It’s a disturbing message.
It’s not the picture of Jesus we like to hold in our hearts.
He is not meek and mild;
wildness runs in his family.
But, in the end, by faith,
we can find comfort in our Lord’s water and Spirit
his purifying fire,
his ax and winnowing fork.

Remember what the angel told Joseph in his dream:
Mary “will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus,
for he will save his people from their sins.” (Matthew, 1:21, NRSV)

He will save us…
His mission is built into his name, into who he is.
And Jesus carries out that mission as our Savior,
not the ways we might dream up for him,
but in the ways that he knows we need:
with water and fire,
with winnowing fork and ax.

Look into your heart and be honest with yourself and God.
Search out all of the parts of your life that,
in the secret places of your own thoughts,
bring your shame and remorse,
that remind you of the ways you have strayed from God.
This is the thicket in the forest of our sins
that our Lord Christ hacks down with his ax.

This is his judgment, his way of judging us,
not to condemn and to banish us,
but to purify and to purge and to make new.
He hacks away at the thickets of our sins,
and he gathers all the brambles and branches,
a jagged and snarled tangle of debris,
and puts it into a huge pile
and burns it with his unquenchable fire.

And then he washes the ash and the dust
from our soiled and tear-stained faces.
He renews us and refreshes us.
He gives us new birth through his Baptism
and forgiveness through our penitent return to the waters of the font.

If God in Christ can raise up children of Abraham from stones,
then surely he can redeem us from our sins.
He will rescue us from the death sentence of our daily lives
and make us new and whole, fresh and forgiven,
cleansed and restored to live as his people.

We can trust that we will be redeemed and gathered to our Lord,
so that what Isaiah prophesied will come to pass:
“…the earth will be full of the knowledge of the LORD
as the waters cover the sea.
On that day the root of Jesse shall stand as a signal to the people;
the nations shall enquire of him,
and his dwelling shall be glorious.” Amen. (Isaiah 11:9b–10, NRSV)

The Day is Coming

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Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., marked the beginning of the Church year on the First Sunday of Advent, Nov. 28, 2010.

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Readings

Isaiah 2:1–5
Psalm 122 (antiphon v. 1)
Romans 13:11–14
Matthew 24:36–44

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Prayer

Prepare us, heavenly Father, for the day that is coming, so that we may stand ready to welcome your Son when he comes in glory and the power of your Holy Spirit. Amen.

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Message

I wonder, sometimes,
where I will be, what I’ll be doing,
when the Lord comes.
I even wonder whether I will live to see that day.
Of the hundreds of generations, the billions who have lived and died
in the last two millennia
since the days of our Lord’s earthly ministry,
Could we be the ones to see him
“come again in glory to judge the living and the dead?” (Nicene Creed, LBW, p. 84)

But to be honest with you,
I only really ever give Christ’s coming some serious thought
when I read passages from the Scriptures
like the ones we have heard today,
or if life’s circumstances remind me
of the inconvenient and inescapable truth of our deaths.

Most days, most of the times,
I just go about my life,
acting as if the river of days will flow on and on—
predictable, dependable, plannable.

But then someone I know dies,
maybe old and full of years,
or perhaps not so old, not quite so full as we had hoped.
Someone I know and love dies,
with places still to go and people yet to see.

Those are the hardest,
because then death leads me to stewing,
to thinking, “That could have been me.
What would I have done then?”

But even such thoughts about dying
don’t really lead me to giving my full attention
to the kinds of messages that God shares
with his people—both Israel and the Church—
in the readings for today.

Listen to a few verses from the lectionary.
Isaiah prophesies to the people:
“In days to come the mountain of the LORD’s house
shall be established as the highest of the mountains….
Come, let us go up to the mountain of the LORD….” (Isaiah 2:2a, 3b, NRSV)

The Psalmist sings out:
“I was glad when they said to me,
‘Let us go to the house of the LORD!’” (Psalm 122:1, NRSV)

St. Paul writes to the Church at Rome:
“Besides this, you know what time it is,
how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep.” (Romans 13:11a, NRSV)

And finally, Jesus speaks to his disciples
in this passage from Matthew’s Gospel:
“Keep awake, therefore, for you do not know
on what day the Lord is coming. …
Therefore you also must be ready,
for the Son of Man is coming
at an unexpected hour.” (Matthew 24:42, 44, NRSV)

Well, that’s pretty clear.
The LORD calls his faithful people to gather around him,
to climb his holy mountain,
to come to his house.
And he blesses us with admonitions,
words to remind us of our task to watch and to wait:
after all, now’s the time to wake up;
now is the moment to be ready,
because the day is coming.

I remember, as a little child,
how much wonderful, aching anticipation I felt
as the season of Advent slowly made its way into our lives.

We lighted one candle, just one, that first week
and saw the Christmas decorations go up,
at home, throughout the neighborhood, and across town.
My brothers and I suspected secrets might kept from us.
But we weren’t sure.
We did know, though, that the waiting would be worth it
when we would finally celebrate Christmas.

Maybe we were just naïve, innocent, and inexperienced children,
but the simple things that filled us with awe and expectation
as little boys don’t seem, really, to work anymore when we are grown up.

I don’t want to be so jaded,
so worn and faded,
so stuck in the ruts of my routine
that I cannot feel that gnawing hunger
to have the wait be over
so that I can celebrate the day of joy.

Of course, as kids we all had those feelings about Christmas.
But what would it take for us
to feel the same way about the invitation
to go up to the mountain of the LORD,
to enter his house with cries of wonder and joy on our lips,
with our hearts just bursting within us,
filled so full of anticipation of that day
that we can not contain ourselves,
that we just exclaim uncontrollably,
“O my God, my LORD, Hallelujah!
Thank you for bringing me to your house.
It’s so good to be at home with you!”?

What would it take?
What could give us that faith like a child’s simple trust?

Partly that gift comes to us
when we get ready for it to come.
That’s why Saint Paul reminds the Church at Rome,
and through it, the whole Church, you and me,
that salvation is coming, and coming soon:
“The night is far gone, the day is near.”

And so he counsels us to get ready,
to be dressed for the day of the Lord,
to be busy doing our Lord’s work,
to be living in ways that please him:
“…put on the armor of light…
live honorably…
put on the Lord Jesus Christ,
and make no provisions for the flesh,
to gratify its desires.” (Romans 13:12–14, NRSV)

That helps.
Because if I dress myself in the Lord each day when I wake up,
and make no provisions for the flesh,
then my days will go altogether differently.

If I am clothed in him,
then the goal of my life
is not the perpetuation of my existence no matter what.
The point of our living is not, at all costs, to postpone dying,
to live as if we can perpetually sidestep our own God-given mortality.

No, but rather, the calling we hear
is to embrace the promise of life eternal,
to take on the task of getting ready for the Lord’s day.
After all, he reminds us,
“Keep awake therefore,
for you do not know on what day
your Lord is coming.” (Matthew 24:42, NRSV)

There’s still time. It’s early.
He may bless us yet today with his coming.
And if he does, then we shall know
that he has heard and answered
the prayer we offer to him in his Meal:
“Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus.” Amen.

Blessed and in the Book

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Introduction

This is a funeral homily I preached at Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., on Thursday, Nov. 4, 2010.

Readings

Isaiah 66:10–14
Psalm 61
Revelation 21:22–27
Luke 6:17–21

Message

Every nurse knows that each patient is a whole person,
with a history and a story,
with unique needs and joys and fears.
And the good nurses, the compassionate nurses,
know that care for a person is always care for the whole person,
and even that person’s family.

For many years, Janet served others as a nurse.
She lived out her faith, becoming the hands and voice of our Lord.
She touched frail and fragile bodies;
she spoke words of comfort and consolation.

And then, in these last years,
she came to a place where she was touched,
where she and Doug were comforted and consoled.
And in those days, others served
as the voice and hands of the Lord in their lives, in the midst of their pain.

That’s how we live in God’s community, how we believe he works among us.
But such belief, no matter how strong,
does not take away the questions we ask, the fears that gnaw upon us.

And that is why we turn in times of pain and suffering,
in moments of mourning and loss,
to the treasures of our tradition in the faith.

The people of God are no strangers to suffering.
That’s why we find power and encouragement
in the message of Isaiah to his people of faith:
“You shall see, and your heart shall rejoice;
your bodies shall flourish like the grass….” (Isaiah 66:14a-b)

This is a word that promise us
that God’s power to restore all things
will even make our bodies— our bones in Hebrew—
to flourish like the grass.
What a comfort when we truly know the frailty of our bodies.

Those moments when we confront our weakness
can lead us to despair, but by faith, we pray with the Psalmist:
“Hear my cry, O God;
listen to my prayer.
From the end of the earth I call to you,
when my heart is faint.” (Psalm 61:1–2)

The ears of God are keen;
he hears us when our voices fade to a whisper,
and even when we only can call to him in our hearts.
He hears and he answers and he assures us
that he keeps us in his care, now and forever.

That is why John’s Revelation offers the Church
the encouragement of the vision of heaven,
where God gathers his people into his everlasting glory,
and welcomes into his eternal city
“those who are written in the Lamb’s book of life.” (Rev. 21:27)
Since Janet had a passion for books and for libraries,
it is comforting to know that her name is recorded in that great book.

Until the day comes when we join Janet
and all our family and friends who have preceded us in death,
we remain here, in this life, with all its joys and sorrows.
We are not left alone to depend upon our own strength.
Our Father in heaven has sent his Son to live among us,
and like a nurse, he cares for each of us, body and soul.

As Luke tells us in his Gospel,
“They had come to hear [Jesus] and to be healed of their diseases;
and those who were troubled
with unclean spirits were cured….
Then he looked up at his disciples and said:
‘Blessed are you who are poor,
for yours is the kingdom of God.
Blessed are you who are hungry now,
for you will be filled.
Blessed are you who weep now,
for you will laugh.’” (Luke 6:18,20–21)
Now, for the time being, we may be poor and hungry and weeping.
But we will come to the kingdom and then we will be filled and we’ll laugh
with Janet and all the faithful and the Lord our God. Amen.