Tag Archives: Revelation

We Must Obey God

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This is the sermon I prepared for Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., for the Second Sunday of Easter, April 11, 2010.

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Readings

Acts 5:27–32
Psalm 118:14–29
Revelation 1:4–8
John 20:19–31

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Prayer

Stir up in us, O Father, the gift of your Holy Spirit, so that we may see your Son, risen and reigning as Lord of all. Amen.

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Message

Soon enough we will have finished the last of the ham,
bitten off all the ears from the chocolate bunnies,
peeled and eaten the last of the colored eggs,
and planted the lilies, now past their prime, in the garden.

And with those simple actions,
we will turn our attention
away from the dazzling and awe-inspiring events
of Holy Week and Easter.
We will fix our gaze, once again,
on the mundane, the grind,
the tasks and burdens that pile up in daily life.

Taxes are due this week.
Maybe the lawn mower needs servicing.
The windows are streaked and dusty with winter’s dirt.
Homework deadlines are approaching.
It’s been too long since the last load of laundry.
The car needs an oil change and a tire rotation.
That’s the picture of our lives—death by a thousand paper cuts.

And when the lists and piles and loads
surround us and rise around us
and come up to our necks,
we drop our uplifted eyes from the heights of Easter
to the rough and winding road before us
and we take the next weary step.

Maybe that’s not how you feel today.
Perhaps you still are blessed
with that heart-achingly full feeling of joy
that comes with praising God
from your toes to the top of your head
and reminding yourself, “Yes, he is risen. Alleluia!”

And if that is how you feel at this moment,
you are blessed by God.
Offer a silent prayer of thanksgiving to him,
and ask how you can share that joy with others.

But maybe the luster of Easter morning
has faded in the week just past.
And you are left remembering an echo of joy,
recalling how you once felt,
but wondering whether you can rekindle that feeling.

And the truth is that when we enter these cloudy days of the soul,
when we rely simply on our human strength,
when we lean on our own powers of memory,
when we cling to passing feelings of enthusiasm,
it is inevitable that our joy will fade.

Why? Because anything that we make from within ourselves,
whether it’s a feeling or a thought or an action—
any project or program—
will inevitably wind down, diminish, and fade away.

That’s just the way it is in a world broken by sin.

But, in truth, the Good News of Easter
is not like that at all.
The Good News is not the same as our feelings about it.
It is not equal to our thoughts in reflection upon it
or to our intentions to live in new ways because of it.

Because if this Good News, this message, this proclamation
about Jesus Christ and his victory over death
were just one more human project—
even a really attractive and engaging one—
it would have long ago faded away.

In fact, it might have never made it past the first week
after Jesus’ death on the cross.
His small band of followers was scattered and scared.
They went into hiding, for fear of persecution and death.
So it would have been no surprise if the disciples and the others
had just slowly slipped away,
finding their away out of Jerusalem and back to Galilee,
escaping from history into the pages of anonymity.

But instead, the Holy Spirit of God,
the same triune person who raised the Son of the Father from death,
moved among those followers,
breathed strength and power into them,
inspired them to action, to witness, to proclamation.

And so, as Acts recounts for us
just before the passage we heard today,
the apostles went about doing “many signs and wonders.”
People were still afraid to join them,
but “[they] held them in high esteem.”
And as Acts tells us,
“Yet more than ever
believers were added to the Lord,
great numbers of both men and women,
so that they even carried out the sick into the streets,
and laid them on cots and mats,
in order that Peter’s shadow
might fall on them as he came by.” (Acts 5:12–15, NRSV).

This disturbed the authorities.
So the high priests had the apostles arrested.
But an angel of the Lord opened the prison doors
and told Peter and the others to go free
and to continue proclaiming the Good News.

The authorities arrested the apostles again,
and brought them before the council.
And that’s where today’s reading tells us
that Peter and the apostles refused to follow
the ruling of the authorities.
They would not stop teaching the people about Jesus Christ.

And they said,
“We must obey God rather than any human authority.” (Acts 5:29, NRSV)

To our modern ears,
accustomed to the allure of our culture,
to its accent on autonomy—
where I decide what I will do with what is mine—
the whole way of life wrapped up in a phrase like this,
“We must obey God,”
strikes us as alien and authoritarian.

We don’t like to be told what to do.
We don’t want to obedient to others.
We don’t need anyone lording himself or herself over us.

But the Good News saves us from this arrogance,
it rescues from the tyranny of our selfishness.
It reminds us that the God
who seeks our obedience,
who probably expects it,
and who certainly deserves it,
is the God and Father who raised Jesus from the dead
by the power of their Spirit.

And if he can do that—and he did—
then he can fortify a fearful band of disciples
and give them the power
to perform signs, to work wonders,
to proclaim the Good News with power and conviction,
and to face down the authorities.

God can give them this strength of faith,
and he can bless them with the humility to be obedient,
and he can inspire them to distinguish
between the authority of God
and the rulings of humanity that do not submit to his will.
Thus they can say with full courage and conviction,
“We must obey God rather than any human authority.” (Luke 5:29, NRSV)

And what about us?
Well, the Holy Spirit works in our lives too.
We have received from God the gift of faith.
He sustains us by his Word and his sacred gifts.
He gathers us into a global community of faith.
He promises us his abundant mercy when we die.

And that is why we too can say,
“We must obey God rather than any human authority.” (Luke 5:29, NRSV)

And that includes any authority
that would seek to prevent us
from sharing the Good News,
and any authority that would seek to punish us
for living by the standards God sets,
and any authority, whether political or social,
whether by law or by custom
or even just by our own personal habits,
that would tempt and beguile us to live
as if God the Father had not raised the Son by the Spirit.

This is what really empowers and energizes us.
It’s not the Easter flowers, as beautiful as they were,
the music, as sweet-sounding as it was,
the food, as wonderful as the meals may have been.
It is purely and simply
that the Holy Spirit,
breathed out by the Father,
blows into us the breath of life,
so that you and I may rise each day
and serve God in obedience.

And with this gift
this daily resurrection,
we can join with Peter and the other apostles
and proclaim to all around us,
“And we are witnesses to these things,
and so is the Holy Spirit
whom God has given to those who obey him.” Amen. (Luke 5:32, NRSV)

In the Meantime…Coming Soon

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Introduction

This article is the December 2009 installment of my monthly message in the parish newsletter for Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb.

Coming Soon

One of the little pleasures I enjoy is watching a movie in the theatre. I even look forward to seeing the previews screened before the main feature. Some previews will end with a definite promise: Opening Christmas Day. But others, scheduled for sometime further down the road, will only tantalize us with a vague promise: Coming Soon.

This leaves us with the bittersweet task of waiting. On the one hand, waiting requires us to defer the fulfillment of our expectation. But on the other hand, the anticipation that builds in us makes the fulfillment—when it arrives—that much more satisfying and worth the wait.

Advent

The Church begins a new year on Nov. 29. As is our tradition, we start with the season of Advent, the “little Lent,” a mildly penitential time. We find ourselves in the posture of waiting, expecting, anticipating, and preparing. We are getting ready for our Lord Jesus Christ to come to us. This is the meaning of the word “Advent”—from the Latin ad, meaning “to,” and venire, meaning “come.”

With our ancestors in the faith—Zechariah, Elizabeth, the Virgin Mary, Joseph, Simeon, Anna, and John the Baptist—we are looking for the coming of God’s Chosen One, the Messiah, his Anointed One, the Christ. We trust that Jesus is that one. And so we prepare for his coming.

Waiting and Watching

Our Labradoodle, Zeke, has an almost inhuman capacity to wait and to watch with patience. He will sit by the front window of our dining room—statue still—and watch vigilantly for whichever one of us is gone to return home. For Zeke, almost every day is a time of Advent.

When we leave, we don’t ever tell Zeke when we will return. But in his canine mind, it must be that he believes we are coming soon, or at least soon enough so that he can wait and watch.

Past, Present, and Future

For us, Advent is that time of preparing for Christ’s coming. Most obviously we ready ourselves to celebrate his birth. This is his coming as Mary’s infant son, the Word made flesh, Immanuel, meaning “God with us.”

But we also prepare ourselves for the coming of Jesus Christ into our lives. In Advent, we are reminded that every time we encounter him, we experience a Christmas moment. He is enfleshed in our midst—he is incarnate—when he comes to us in the washing of Holy Baptism, the renewing of our lives through Confession and Absolution, the proclaiming of his Word in the reading of Scripture and in preaching, and the sharing of his Body and Blood in Holy Communion.

And finally, Advent is that sacred time when we join with all of the Father’s “servants of every time and every place,” and cry out for our Lord to come again in the power of the Holy Spirit. In the Eucharist, we proclaim this mystery of faith: “Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.” And then in our Eucharistic Prayer, we join our voices with all of God’s people and cry out the ancient prayer of the faithful: “Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!” (Rev. 22:20b, NRSV)

Definite and Open Promise

Come, Lord Jesus!

This is our prayer, the hope driving our preparation, the confession of faith empowering our time of waiting and watching. We trust the promise of our Lord, who says, “Surely I am coming soon.” (Rev. 22:20a, NRSV) And so we wait and we watch for that day when he will return to mark the end of this world, this life, these times of joy and pain.

On that day, the previews will end and the main feature will begin. We may not know the exact date the Kingdom will debut, but the promise, “Coming Soon,” is one we can trust.

“More Precious Than Jewels”

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Introduction

This is a funeral homily I preached at Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., on Tuesday, Nov. 17, 2009.

Readings

Proverbs 3:13-18
Psalm 23
Revelation 21:1-4, 9-11
John 14:1-7

Message

Only a day—and yet a lifetime—
separated the fifteenth day of November in 1920
when Dorothy Mae, a child of God,
was born in St. Joseph, Missouri,
and this past Saturday, the fourteenth day of another November,
when Dorothy was born anew to eternal life.

These are both birth days.
One brought Dorothy to life in this world
and welcomed her into a lifetime
filled with family and friends,
embroidery and bowling,
organizing and taking charge,
pitching for both teams in family softball games
between the Cheaters and the Fairplays,
dancing and playing cards,
crocheting Christmas gifts,
finding just the right ring and blouse,
speaking with pride of her sons’ military service,
and worshipping in church and at home
before altars large and small, small as an end table.

The other birth day now has brought her to life eternal with God—
to a new beginning in the dwelling place
our Lord Jesus Christ has prepared for us, (see John 14:1-3)
to a time for happiness in learning the wisdom of God
and discovering as Proverbs tells us, that
“her ways are ways of pleasantness,
and all her paths are peace,” (Proverbs 3:17),
and to a day that knows no sunset, no night,
but instead glows brightly with the glory of God,
where Dorothy and all the faithful departed
live in “…the holy city Jerusalem
coming down out of heaven from God”
and where they discover, to their surprise and satisfaction,
that living in the city is all the adornment, the jewelry anyone needs,
because the city itself
“has the glory of God and a radiance
like a very rare jewel, like jasper, clear as crystal.”
(Revelation 21:10-11)

That city is bigger than St. Joseph and Beatrice,
more splendid than Adams or Lincoln.
In that place, Dorothy is now discovering to her joy—
as we will share with her on that day—
that eternal worship among the faithful as the bride,
the wife of the Lamb, our Lord Jesus Christ,
is a life, a joy, a blessing
that brings a calming peace to all the strife we endure,
that brings healing to all of the pain we bear,
that brings reconciliation to all the broken ties we mourn,
that brings wholeness to the worn-out bodies we outlive.

It is a natural thing to mourn Dorothy’s death,
because her absence leaves holes in our lives,
like a fresh cut in the skin leaving a wound,
like a rip in a shirt leaving a ragged hole.

But, by God’s grace, we mourn as people of hope,
as friends and family who know that death is not the end,
that the day we die is but our second and better birth day.

And in the meantime, we tell the stories,
we hold the memories fondly in our minds,
we treasure the wisdom “more precious than jewels,” (Proverbs 3:15)
and we raise our heads and look to our Lord,
who says to us, “I am the way and the truth and the life.
No one comes to the Father except through me.” (John 14:6)

And so with that faith, we face this day as people on the way.
And, as T.S. Eliot penned in a famous poem,
“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.” (Four Quartets: Little Gidding)
We do know that place, the place our Lord prepares for us. Amen.

Concerning Last Things

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Introduction

This is the sermon I preached at Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., on Saturday and Sunday, Oct. 31 and Nov. 1, 2009, the weekend of the Solemnity of All Saints’ Day.

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Readings

Isaiah 25:6-9 or Wisdom 3:1-9
Psalm 24 (5)
Revelation 21:1-6a
John 11:32-44

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Prayer

Long ago, O God, you spoke to our ancestors in many and various ways by the prophets. Now in these last days, make us listen as you speak to us by your Son. Amen. (based on Hebrews 1:1-2, NRSV)

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Message

“When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him,
she knelt at his feet and said to him,
‘Lord, if you had been here,
my brother would not have died.’” (John 11:32, NRSV)

A bit after that,
“…some of [the crowd] said,
‘Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man
have kept this man from dying?’” (John 11:37, NRSV)

And a little while later,
“Jesus said, ‘Take away the stone.’
Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him,
‘Lord, already there is a stench
because he has been dead four days.’” (John 11:39, NRSV)

These brief passages remind us
of the intimate and heart-wrenching story
of grief and loss and pain and sadness
that John shares with us in today’s gospel.

It’s hard for us to hear this story
and not find ourselves somewhere
amid the family and friends of Mary and Martha and Lazarus of Bethany.

Perhaps this story reminds you
of the death of a loved one
and the time you, like Mary,
dropped to your knees in prayer and said,
“If, Lord.
If only things had gone a little differently.
If only you protected us,
then we would not know this death.
Where were you?
Why did this happen?
What did we do to bring this upon ourselves?”

On the other hand, maybe when faced with a death,
you find yourself filled with questions and doubts,
like the people in the crowd, so you say,
“Wait, Lord.
Wait a minute.
What’s going on?
If you really are who you claim to be,
if you can really do what you say you can,
then where were you?
Why do you play favorites?
You saved someone else’s loved one!
Don’t we matter too?”

Or maybe, in times of loss,
you protect yourself from the overwhelming waves of pain
by paying attention to the needs of others.
Then, with Martha, you pray,
“But, Lord.
But we don’t want anything to go wrong
with the funeral and the meal.
We don’t want to run late, fall behind,
run out, forget anyone, lose track of the details.”

When we face the death of someone we know and love,
we cannot avoid coming face to face
with the same questions and doubts and fears
that plagued the family and friends of Lazarus.
What could have happened differently, God?
Why didn’t you step in just in time to do something?
Please help me stay busy, so I won’t hurt so much.

These are the questions and thoughts
that run through our heads over and over.
They churn in the pit of our stomachs.
They poke at us and irritate us,
so that we cannot find rest.

But in a way,
as real as these questions are,
they only point to a deeper mystery.
They are like symptoms that remind us
of an illness that plagues us all.

The brute, hard, cold fact is the reality of death.
Why death stalks us is the basic question.
The diagnosis we all share is a terminal one.
The truth is that we will all die.

And Jesus knows this all too well.
He knows the sorrow we feel
when facing a loved one’s death
and he knows the ache of sympathy
that makes us hurt when someone we know is saddened by death.
And so, “When Jesus saw [Mary] weeping,
and the Jews who came with her also weeping,
he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved.” (John 11:33, NRSV)

He asked where Lazarus had been buried
and then he followed Lazarus’s loved ones to the tomb.
And, “Jesus began to weep.” (John 11:35, NRSV)

These are holy tears,
tears that flow from the eyes of our Lord,
tears that speak of his love for us.
And they remind us
that while he is the Word with God from the beginning,
he is also the Word who becomes flesh and lives among us.

And living among us as one of us,
he knows both the joy and the pain of our human lives.
And he shares fully in our grieving,
in the pain of our loss,
just as he knows fully
the ecstasy that comes from moments of joy.

But then he is also God,
and so he says to us what he says to Martha,

“Did I not tell you that if you believed,
you would see the glory of God?” (John 11:40, NRSV)

In John’s Gospel, “glory” is a key
to understanding the Good News of Jesus Christ.
In the Prologue,
we hear the Apostle proclaim,

“And the Word became flesh and lived among us,
and we have seen his glory,
the glory as of a father’s only son,
full of grace and truth.” (John 1:14, NRSV)

Just a little after that,
when Jesus had performed his first sign,
turning Cana’s water into wedding wine,
St. John’s Gospel tells us,

“Jesus did this, the first of his signs,
in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory;
and his disciples believed in him.” (John 2:11, NRSV)

And later, during Holy Week, in his priestly prayer,
Jesus tells how glory leads to unity:

“The glory that you[, Father,] have given me
I have given them,
so that they may be one,
as we are one.” (John 17:22, NRSV)

In all of these places,
we hear how the glory of Jesus
is tied together with the reality
of his life both as God and as a man.

And there is no point in life
that more clearly shows us this glory
than the moment of death.

Because we are human,
we can do nothing, in the end,
to stave off the death that will claim us.
We can postpone it, perhaps,
through the kind of life we lead,
the practice of medicine we call upon,
and our management of stress and rest.

But, in the end, yours and mine,
we will die, just as Lazarus did,
just as Jesus himself died upon the cross.

These moments of death are revealing,
times of honesty and truth.
They show us our finitude, our brokenness.
But they also show us the glory of Jesus.

He is the one who faces death,
who himself dies, but finds in death his glory and not his defeat.
And by the power of his Father’s love,
he is raised to life in their Holy Spirit.

This is what we see when we look at Jesus the Word,
and this is what we can trust is the destiny,
in and beyond the end of death,
for us and for those we love who die in him.

Today we mark All Saints’ Day,
when we remember
all who have died trusting and entrusted to God.
We give him thanks for their lives,
for the witness of their faith,
and we pray with longing
to be reunited with them,
and with Mary and Martha and Lazarus,
with John and the other apostles,
and with all of God’s saints.

And so, in one of our Eucharistic Prayers,
we lift our voices to God, saying,
“Send now, we pray,
your Holy Spirit,
the Spirit of our Lord
and of his resurrection,
that we who receive
the Lord’s body and blood
may live to the praise
of your glory
and receive our inheritance
with all your saints in light.” Amen. (Lutheran Book of Worship, p. 70)