Sermon: “This Kingdom”

The following sermon was preached on Christ the King/Reign of God Sunday, November 25, 2012 at Divinity Lutheran Church of Parma Heights, OH.  The sermon was based on the text John 18:33 – 38.

“What does king mean to you?”

This was the question my preaching professor asked me when I went knocking on his door, asking for advice on how preach Christ the King Sunday.

I was surprised to learn Christ the King Sunday is sort of a new phenomenon.  Instead of focusing solely on a king-head figure, over the centuries Christians have celebrated the broader reign of God and set time aside in the year for celebration.  Lutherans and other Protestants historically celebrated the reign of God on Reformation Day, October 31.  In the Roman Catholic tradition, the last Sunday of October was designated Reign of God Sunday.

As time passed, the world became increasingly more secular.   Instead of being a primary lens for decision making, the reign of God and God’s intention for the world was a secondary lens to the growing strength of political systems throughout the western world.   In 1925, Pope Pius XI inaugurated a Sunday dedicated to Christ as King, emphasizing the authority of Christ was greater than any monarch or ruler.  When the ecumenical Common and Revised Common Lectionaries were formed in the following decades, “Christ the King, Reign of God” Sunday was incorporated to be the last day of the church year.

All of this history was floating around in my mind when my professor asked the pointed question, “What does king mean to you?”

Living as a US citizen in a post-modern world, the notion of a king may be a bit abstract.  There is not one reigning family line that has greatly affected our realities more than any other, with the exception of perhaps the Kennedy’s or maybe the Kardashian’s.  Watching the Royal Wedding of William and Kate could have filled us with a sense of awe, but our connection to such moments most strongly resembles seeing a fairy tale brought to life.

So what does king mean to us?

Just moments out of a tumultuous election season, there is no doubt that while we may not have a political king-head figure in our country, we are impacted by ruling orders that impact our world.  Elections force us to think about which reign influences our voting.  Is that authority taxes or money concerns?  Could it be healthcare?  Education?  Foreign Policy?

If we had to name it, what reign would we say dominates how we function in our nation?  Which authority is the ultimate ruler?

This is the hidden question Jesus faces while he stands on trial before Pilate.  When Pilate outwardly asks “Are you the king of the Jews?,”[1]  the question beneath the question was “If the Jews believe that you are their king, to which allegiance do they pledge?  Your authority, or the Roman authority?”

If we thought the presidential debates were heated this fall, they had nothing on this exchange before Pilate and Jesus.  The ultimate politician, Pilate asks a question that if answered directly would lead Jesus no option but to condemn himself.

If Jesus had answered, “Yes, I am the king of the Jews,” he would have been persecuted for trying to overpower the Roman reign.  If he answered, “No, I am not the king of the Jews,” the authority of his work would be destroyed.  Pilate asks a lose/lose question, one that will surely trap Jesus.

But Jesus is no stranger to the political game and responds to Pilate’s question with a question.  Jesus replies, “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?”[2]  Jesus’ response not only flips the coin away from answering the question, he acknowledges that it is his own people that have sent him to trial.

Now Pilate is the one forced to acknowledge that he is in a lose/lose dilemma.  You can’t trap a man who recognizes the trap.  So Pilate responds, “I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?”

This is a watershed moment in the text.  When Pilate asks, “what have you done?” this trial turns from a crime against the state to a civil trial of people against each other.  Whatever wrongs Jesus’ people are accusing him of have no bearing on the authority of the Roman kingdom.

Jesus is not a threat to the empire.  He is a threat to the ruling authority that dictates the soul.

Jesus further tells Pilate that if the people were of his kingdom, he would not be facing trial.  He would not be facing persecution at the hands of the Roman Empire or the vengeful or fearful actions of any group of people.

We are ruled by countless authorities of this earthly kingdom which reign over the actions of our hearts and minds.  We are influenced by spiritual and emotional pressures of greed, loneliness, fear, and doubt.  We are influenced by worldly pressures of addiction, financial and healthy limitations, and social status.  We are born victims of a fallen humanity, living in a kingdom where our actions are at times as unjust as the ones that sent Jesus to trial before Pilate.

While such influences would separate us from Christ in our human world, under the reign of God our would-be limitations can serve as springboards to unite in Christ.

When Jesus died upon the cross, the limitations found in the authorities of this world were washed away.  Through his death and resurrection, we are no longer victims of a fallen humanity and are resurrected into God’s reign.

We are living in the midst of our salvation, set free from the barriers that would keep us from knowing and experiencing the grace of God.  By the waters of our baptism, we are granted citizenship into God’s reign.  Sealed with the cross of Christ, we have been given authority to help demonstrate God’s reign on earth.  Every time we gather at the table, we are given the nourishment to follow in Jesus’ footsteps, washing the feet of those around us, reminding ourselves that our worldly status has no bearing in this kingdom.

In this kingdom, under God’s reign, it does not matter if we vote red or vote blue.

This kingdom does not care if we have been greedy, thoughtless, or irresponsible with our resources.

It does not matter what our skin color is, what our sexual orientation is, what our marital status is, what our financial status is, whether we have a job or are unemployed, have had infidelities in our marriage or have always remained faithful.  We are still a part of this kingdom.

Being a member of God’s reign does not mean we are perfect people who will never make mistakes.  It does not mean that we should stop striving to follow the example of Christ in our everyday lives.  Being a citizen of this kingdom does mean that when we do make mistakes, when our actions reflect the human world more than God’s, we are forgiven.  We are still loved.  We are still citizens of a holy reign.

Our citizenship does not waver, our salvation is secure.  Nothing we say, think or do will stop our Triune God from reaching into the darkest places of our heart and soul and accept us just as we are.

Our citizenship is once and for always, the ultimate gift of love and faithfulness.

It is in celebration of this gift we uplift that Christ is King, and that the Reign of God has no boundaries.  It is in celebration of this gift that we do our best to operate under the authority of our true citizenship, standing strong against the temptations found in the human world.

Christ is king, and today we celebrate that the reign of God’s salvation knows no end.

Amen.

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[1] John 18:33

[2] John 18:34

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Reflecting on Being an Honest Vessel

The following was an article written for the September 2012 Divinity Digest for Divinity Lutheran Church of Parma Heights, OH. 

When I started the entrance process for ordination and began filling out my seminary paperwork, Pastor Doug gave me some very sound advice – you can never have enough practice.  At the time, he was referring to preaching.  I was surprised to learn that Pastor Doug practices his sermon each week prior to Sunday.  I myself have really appreciated the model he set, a model which has only served to evolve my own preaching style.

Every time I write a sermon, I have an idea on how it will sound, what emotions will be evoked, how the Spirit will speak to our community through the words I wrote.  I sit at my computer at my kitchen table, reading the final draft aloud.  There have been a few times I’ve called my parents from my apartment in Chicago, “Hey, Dad, how does this sound?”  When I get up to the pulpit to practice, though, it usually sounds a lot different.  Hearing my voice in a large room, hearing the difference between emphasizing in a normal speaking voice verses a public speaking voice, I realize that my expectations change through practice.

This summer, I “practiced” ministry of a different sort.  I spent the summer working as a chaplain intern, a role that fulfilled my clinical pastoral education (CPE) unit.  In seminary last fall, I took a class on pastoral care where we role-played pastoral encounters with each other.  For example, one time I played the role of an unemployed single mom who just found out my child had cancer, and my friend and fellow seminarian played the role of pastor and offered support.  The role-playing was helpful, pointing out natural strengths and weaknesses that accompany such situations.  Role playing gave us a safe space to take a risk and see if we could emotionally handle what is needed to love someone in the midst of great pain and uncertainty.

From our practice, I thought I would have a flavor for how similar situations would play out in real life with real people.  But this summer, as I sat with an unemployed single mom who found out that her 18 month old daughter needed to be withdrawn from life support, the classroom practice paled to the experience before me.

Becoming a pastor requires a lot more than learning Hebrew (something I’m doing in class this fall) or understanding the perspective of one Gospel author over another.  Becoming a pastor requires a lot of practice, a lot of time living and working in emotionally and spiritually challenging situations and then returning to a classroom, peer advisory group, or supervisor to stop and reflect on the work that has been done.  Even in the moments when you feel that you have provided the best care you could at the time, it is important to recognize where you could have been more present, more attentive, more compassionate, less focused on your own reactions.  It is important to realize the limitations of humanity.  You have to learn to let go your expectations that prevents you from being the most honest vessel of the Spirit that you can possibly be.

This is no easy feat, and takes a lot of practice.  This summer I spent 300 hours working as a hospital chaplain, providing direct pastoral support to patients, their families, and the staff who care for them.  I spent 200 additional hours reflecting in a classroom on how effective my care actually was.  This is in addition to the countless hours reading and studying about pastoral care.  A lot of practice in 11 weeks.

This is still not enough practice.  In the upcoming school year, I am assigned to yet another type of practice, working in a congregation.  Different from the administrative role I continue to hold for St. Luke’s Lutheran Church of Logan Square, my contextual education at St. John’s Lutheran of Wilmette, IL, will help me continue developing my pastoral care identity.  This time will further practice my ability to lead Bible studies, confirmation classes, and worship leading abilities.  Different from my paid role at St. Luke’s that I can set aside at the end of the work day, my time at St John’s will be coupled with classroom time to reflect on my ministry and learn what was helpful and where I can continue to grow.
Pastor Doug was right – you can’t have enough practice.  I now realize this practicing ministry needs to be balanced with intentional reflection.  Becoming a pastor means becoming honest about what worked and what didn’t, what parts of your ministry were centered on your own needs rather than the greater good of the community, and learning how to get out of your own way in order to be the most honest vessel of the Spirit that you can possibly be.

Wishing you God’s Peace & Blessings,
Tina Heise, Seminarian

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Sermon: Sating the Hunger

The following sermon was preached at Divinity Lutheran Church of Parma Heights, OH, on August 19, 2012.  It was written on John 6:51-58

This Thursday was the end of my clinical pastoral education unit.  More commonly referred to as CPE, the ELCA requires that all candidates for ordination learn how to provided spiritual support in a clinical environment.  Like many of my seminarians, I fulfilled my CPE unit during a 12 week summer intensive.  During my intensive I worked full time as a hospital chaplain intern for the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center in Lebanon, New Hampshire.

A teaching facility of Dartmouth College, this hospital was an ideal learning environment.  One of our goals was learning how to make “cold calls.”  A cold call is exactly as it sounds, knocking on the patient room of a person knowing nothing other than their last name, and asking if they would like to speak to a chaplain.  The point of a cold call is for spiritual caregivers to develop the capacity to invite someone into a conversation without having any idea on how that conversation will go, and to show the least suspecting individual that their spirit is valued by another human being.

Needless to say, making a cold call is not easy.  Providing spiritual care in a hospital is not easy, particularly since I was providing spiritual care to all faith traditions, Christian or not.  I kept asking my supervisor for some sort of tool, some sort of book that would help make these encounters easier.  Surely I could carry scripture with me, or a prayer book of some sort.

My supervisor told me I needed to enter these rooms with my hands empty and my heart open.  He said, “You know, God as a voice told Adam and Eve that he loved them and they should trust him not to eat the fruit.  They didn’t listen.  Then God told the Israelites that he loved them and they should trust him to follow the laws he put in writing.  They didn’t listen.  So God came down as a human, and told them he loved them face to face.  That’s when things started to change.”

Today as we look at our passage from John, we see Jesus doing just that – sharing the love of God face to face with the people.  This is a pivotal moment in the John narrative, a point where the gospel shifts and the road to the cross becomes clear.  This is the moment where things start to change.

The gospel of John has a different flavor than the other three.  Matthew, Mark, and Luke all share information from one central source, source Q.  Q is a source that adds a level of historical integrity to the other gospels.  While occasionally John has a few stories and events that are found in the other gospels, Q segments don’t come into play.  John’s message is less focused on historically grounding the ministry of Jesus, and more focused than the others on emphasizing that Jesus is the Messiah in the flesh, the incarnate Son of God.

Because of this human emphasis, John shows Jesus repeatedly engaging in in-depth conversations explaining that he is in fact the Messiah.  Today’s gospel is one snippet of one of those conversations.

This conversation began a few weeks back with the feeding of the multitude.  This miracle is one of many demonstrations in John where Jesus shows that we can count on God to provide for our needs, to sate our hungers.  The community doesn’t exactly understand this message, so the conversation moves to Jesus telling the people “I am the bread of life.  Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, whoever drinks of me will never be thirsty.”[1]  Again, this message isn’t overly clear to the people.  Last week’s gospel passage ended with Jesus explaining that not only is he the bread of life, he is also the bread of heaven.

Today’s message begins exactly where last week’s gospel ended, with Jesus professing, “I am the living bread that came down from heaven.  Whoever eats of this bread will live forever, and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.”[2]

Looking at the Greek of this passage, I was surprised to discover that the word John uses for eating can also be translated as “to munch.”  I don’t know about you, but when I think about Holy Communion, I have never envisioned myself as “munching” on the body of Jesus.

Yet, when we participate in Holy Communion, our Lutheran tradition confesses that we are consuming a literal presence of Jesus.  Christ is in, with, and under the elements, so that the morsels we eat are both fully bread and wine while being fully the body and blood of Christ.

However, a communion conversation isn’t John’s focus.  John never shows us a traditional last supper moment, with the dialogue of “This is my body…this is my blood…do this in remembrance of me”.  This gospel instead shows Jesus washing the feat of the disciples.

So we must ask ourselves, without a communion connection, what is the point of this lengthy dialogue about the body, bread from heaven, bread of life?  Why is this conversation so important that it takes us five gospel lessons to finish reading?  How can a conversation that began with a hungry crowd help us understand our own faith?

As I read this passage, I am reminded of an infant I met on one of my hospital units this summer, a child in the Intensive Care Nursery.  Annalee was born at 30 weeks, weighing a little over one pound.  At 30 weeks, she should have been at least triple her size, but because of a genetic defect, not enough oxygen went to her brain and her body did not grow like it was supposed to.

This dangerous birth weight resulted in a variety of birth defects.  Her lungs were ill formed, her heart had not closed, her kidneys and liver in failure.  Because of her breathing issues, Annalee had a trach installed in her neck, which is a breathing tube so thick in relationship to the rest of her body that she could not swallow or cry aloud.  She was fed through a tube directly into her stomach.

I became very attached to this family and to the beautiful little girl who, without the tubes, would have looked like a perfectly formed baby from the outside.  I found myself fascinated in how the nursing staff tried to normalize Annalee’s life.  When I met her, she was 6 months old, and like many young infants, smacked her lips at the smells around her.  Because of the trach in her neck, she could not swallow anything greater than her own saliva.  She will mostly likely never eat solid food, never be able to munch.

But she could taste.  I’ll never forget watching the developmental specialist brush applesauce across Annalee’s lips with a tiny paint brush.  The applesauce was not enough to force her to swallow anything solid, but just enough for Annalee to lick the sweet treat off of her lips.

That applesauce brush sated a hunger.  For Annalee, whose tummy was always full because of a tube in her belly, the applesauce brush sated her hunger for taste.  For her parents and myself, that applesauce brush sated our hunger for an innocent child who is unable to eat to be able to experience the pleasure of food.

When Christ tells us that through his body and blood we will be fed bread and wine of the heavens, he is telling us that in him and through him, our hungers will be sated.

Hunger is an important part of our human experience.  We may hunger for food.  We may hunger for love.  We may hunger for financial security, a job that fulfills us, better relationships with our children, a cure for cancer.  We may even hunger for things that may do us harm; like revenge, alcohol, drugs, nicotine, vengeance.

My CPE supervisor told me that it was when God came into human form and talked to people face to face things began to change.  I have thought about that statement many times and wondered if I was standing face to face before Christ, what would be the change I would look for?  What would be the hunger that could only be sated by coming face to face with God’s presence on earth?

It begs to ask, what is the hunger that keeps us from realizing that our needs have already been sated?  What is the hunger that keeps us from experiencing Christ in, with, and under the elements of our life?

We all have barriers that keep us from experiencing the grace Christ’s presence in our lives.  Often times, those barriers are found within our own grief and expectations.

Part of why John depicts such a long conversation is because people kept asking Jesus to re-create the miracle of the feeding.  Their expectation on being fed physically kept them from seeing how they were fed spiritually.  Despite Jesus saying that he is the bread from heaven over and over again, people kept missing the message.  The very next lines after where our message ends shows the disciples saying to Jesus, “This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?”[3]

I sort of wish the formers of our lectionary would have left that verse in, because to me it names a tension this passage evokes.  Jesus tells us that the hunger of our salvation is sated in him, but quite frankly, this teaching is difficult.  Who can accept it?

Who can accept that there is a little girl in New Hampshire who can only experience taste when someone paints her lips with applesauce?  Who can accept that there are many of us in our Divinity family who are living pay check to pay check, trying to find a way to be fiscally stable?  Who can accept when tragedy occurs, loved ones die, and families break apart?

It is in these moments that we need to realize that the expectations of our hungers can serve like barriers to experiencing the grace of God.  The disciples are right.  This teaching is difficult.  It is difficult when we are so caught up in the munching and the drinking that we lose focus on what those physical manifestations tell us.  We eat this bread and drink this wine because in doing so we remember that Christ abides in us.

Christ tells us, “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them.”[4]

We may never accept that there is a little girl in New Hampshire who can only experience taste when someone paints her lips with applesauce.  We can be sated in knowing that Christ abides in her, loving her with every stroke of the brush.

We may never accept that there are many of us in our Divinity family who are living pay check to pay check, trying to find a way to be fiscally stable.  We can be sated in knowing that Christ abides in those experiences, and will never forsake us during the darkness of those moments.

We may never accept when tragedy occurs, loved ones die, and families break apart.  We can be sated in knowing that Christ abides in those moments, grieving the losses along with us, standing strong behind us as we move forward.

God loved us enough to come down in human form and abide within us, sating our hungers as we face them face to face.  It is in the embrace of love that we can release our barriers and feel the gift of Christ’s sacred change.

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[1] John 6:35

[2] John 5:51

[3] John 6:60b

[4] John 6:54

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Sermon: Still a Miracle

The following sermon was preached at Community Lutheran Church of Enfield, NH on July 1, 2012, on the texts of Mark 5:21-43 and 2 Corinthians 8:7-15

I must be honest with you, when I read our gospel lesson in preparation for today, I had a moment of internal groaning.  Of course the lectionary would lead the seminary student interning as a hospital chaplain to a story of death and illness.  The irony is palpable.

I have been more than a little struck at how much the text resembles what I am witnessing at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center.  If you were to pluck the hemorrhaging woman out of the crowd, place her in a waiting room and strap a blood pressure cuff to her arm, she could easily be one of the patients I’ve encountered this past month.

I would imagine that there are many of us here today who can relate to what is happening in our text this morning.  I imagine there are some of us who have battled difficult illnesses, those of us who have lost a child or another intimate loved one.

Maybe we don’t have such a literal connection to this passage, but perhaps we are people who can connect to it because we feel a deep sense of loss.  It could be that we are struggling at our jobs, fighting with our spouse, feeling a separation from our once attentive child who has increasingly become more distant as they grow into their teenage and adult years.

In those moments of loss and uncertainty, we may feel that we are like Jarius, proverbially prostrating our self before Jesus, begging for the healing touch that will take the pain, illness, and loneliness away.  We are faithful people, and we want to feel the relief in knowing that our faith can indeed make us well.

And here we wait.  Waiting for the miracle.

The gospel of Mark is filled with miraculous healing stories.  In fact, healing is one of the first notable acts of ministry Jesus performs.

In the first chapter of Mark, Jesus is baptized by John, a moment so powerful that Jesus is thrust into the wilderness for 40 days.  Upon his return to civilization, Jesus meets a few disciples, does a little teaching in the synagogue, and then begins healing.

He heals a man in a synagogue in Capernaum.  He heals a bunch of people at Simon’s house.  He heals a paralytic.  He heals the man with the withered hand.  He heals the man called Legion who was filled with so many evil spirits that when leaving Legion’s body they filled a flock of pigs.  This all happens within the first four chapters of the gospel.  Every place he goes, Jesus heals and heals and heals.

Mark wants us to take note of this miraculous healing.   Jesus’ healing ability enlightens us to the extent of his authority.  Jesus can go where no one else would dare to go, do things that are beyond anyone’s expectations.  Not only does Jesus engage the social and religious outcasts by talking to them and teaching them, but he eliminates the barrier that keeps them from their community.   The fact that Jesus can heal what others cannot shows us the limitless nature of his anointed power.

Jesus and his ministry are a contradiction to the reality of the world.  The reality of the world is that people are sick, people die, people struggle in their marriages and feel distant from their children.  The reality is that in a world of hardship and struggles, a miracle is the last thing anyone really expects.

Jesus stands in contrast to all of those difficulties, and the relief he provides in that contrast is beyond anything anyone could imagine.  The people are simply not prepared for the miracles, as seen by the action of the bystanders and disciples in today’s lesson.  Where there should be celebration, skepticism abounds.

After the woman touches Jesus and she felt her body heal, Jesus turns around and asks his disciples, “Who touched my clothes?”  The disciples, steeped in reality, can’t understand why being touched is such a big deal.  Almost mockingly they say to him, “You see the crowd pressing in around you?”

If you we could read the cartoon thought bubble above their head, it would probably read, “Come on, Jesus, it’s a mob out here.  Of course someone touched you.  You probably got bumped, get over it.”

Getting bumped in a crowd is a pretty real and normal thing.  It is such a regular, non-miraculous every day occurrence that it never crossed the disciples mind that in that moment of contact something extraordinary happened.  It was so far from their mind, a woman was healed right next to them and they didn’t even notice.  Their skepticism kept them from seeing what was happening right before them.

But Jesus names the not-so-obvious, calls to their attention the moment that was overlooked.  He tells the woman, that her faith, her faith in something greater than all human reality, made her well.

One would think that bearing witness to the exchange between the woman and Jesus would be enough to open the hearts and minds of the disciples.  Especially after seeing so many miracles before.  Yet again, in the very next encounter, we see the disciples and bystanders’ opting to believe what is most logical to believe.

When Jesus tells them that Jarius’ daughter is not dead but merely sleeping, they not only don’t believe him, they outright laugh at him.  “Okay, Jesus.  She’s sleeping.  Can you believe this guy?”  Again, Jesus makes the impossible possible.  He awakens the girl from death.

I imagine we can all see ourselves in the characters of the woman and Jarius, waiting upon God for our faithful miracle.  But if we look a little deeper, can we also see ourselves in the hearts and minds of the skeptics?

In a world of science and technology, of answers and proof, where is the room for faith?  We claim to be faithful people.  As Lutherans, we confess that we are justified from sin by faith in Jesus Christ.  But do we actually live what we confess?

Do we really believe that our faith in God will mend our broken hearts?  Do we really believe that wellness is within our reach?  Do we trust that Christ will continue to go where the reality of humanity has failed us?

Or are we like the disciples and the bystanders, taking the steps to follow our Triune God while a part of us remains behind and just a little bit skeptical?

Perhaps the reason why it is easiest to identify ourselves with the hemorrhaging woman and Jarius is because illness and grief are emotions that are easier to understand.  It is easier to see ourselves as the person needing a healing touch than to acknowledge that we are as skeptical as the bystanders and disciples, trying to live our faith but not quite seeing the miracle right under our nose.

There is a reason why Mark tells of healing story after healing story.  Yes, these stories show the magnitude of Jesus’ sacred and anointed authority.  But the other reason we see these stories is to bear witness to the bystanders who remain skeptical that their faith will be enough.  We need to remember that there are times when it is not always so easy to believe.

This gospel lesson is a message about healing and hope.  It is also a story that reminds us that it is in our human nature to carry a little bit of doubt, and that followers of Jesus for centuries have sought the balance between reality and the miracles around them that defy such a reality.

The Apostle Paul certainly understood the struggle to remain a faithful person.  In our epistle today he tells us that in order to be faithful, we must commit acts of faith, commit acts of good works to those around us.  In order to see Christ in our world, in order to feel the healing miracle of Christ’s love, we must show that love to others without reservation.

The hemorrhaging woman made her public witness to Jesus by merely touching the edge of his garment.  This one touch allowed the possibility for the bystanders to witness Jesus’ healing presence.  Had that moment remained silent, the bystanders would have missed it.

Jarius’ daughter, by rising out of her death bed, bore witness that Jesus’ love transcends life and death.  Had she laid quietly in her bed, waiting for the crowd to leave, the bystanders would have missed it.

These were healing acts had been seen before, over and over again, but still people needed to see them.  Those miracles needed to be uplifted in that crowd and outside Jarius’ house, because miracles that seem too good to be true are easily forgotten.

We complete acts of faith and show our love for Christ by completing good works.  In our actions and our steps, we provide proof that cures the skepticism.  Our actions as faithful people remind ourselves and those around us that God’s love is always with us, from the hospital waiting room to our dinner tables.

Every time we bring in food for the hungry, we are testifying our faith.  We are curing the skepticism that the hungry are forgotten.  When someone receives that testimony of faith, we provide an opportunity to stop the hunger in both their stomachs and their hearts.

Every time we make a prayer quilt, we are testifying our faith.  We are curing the skepticism that love cannot transcend the cold, dark night.  When someone receives that quilt of faith, and wrap it around their shoulders, we provide an opportunity for someone to remember that God’s arms are also wrapped around them.

Every time we participate in worship, donate money to our teenagers going to New Orleans, invite a friend to join us on Sunday, pray for someone who is struggling in their own lives, we testify our faith.  We shake the walls skepticism.  We invite Christ into our hearts and minds, and in that inviting, create a little room to receive the gift of healing.

It may not be as obvious as being raised from the dead or being cured from a chronic illness.  But it is still a miracle.

Amen.

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Changing Tides

In three days I am packing up my home for the third time in the past year and moving to New Hampshire to begin my CPE training.

Looking around my house, my home kind of matches my head.  There are stacks of clothes and books in almost every room, little lines of organized chaos.  I know in what container everything will be packed by the time I leave on Thursday morning, but right now, all I see is clutter. 

I am so grateful for this ride that is the seminary experience.  Even still, as I drove my closest campus friend to the airport this morning for her own CPE journey, I realized that I am nostalgic for a little stability.  I have changed so much since moving to Chicago last August.  My theology is different, my preaching is different, my writing is different, my body is different, the way I communicate with my loved ones is different.  In seminary, every day is an opportunity for transformation  While it is exciting, this fast paced change can be intimidating at times.

CPE will be twelve weeks of even more change.  These weeks will be spent learning how to provide spiritual care within the context of a hospital setting.  I’ll be working with people of all faith traditions in all walks of life whose lives transition as a result of life-changing medical moments.  Some people will be expecting the changes their health situation brings, like a senior who has been preparing for the end of this life.  For others, like those in a car accident, change will be unexpected.  CPE will teach me to how to faithfully be with people from all edges of the spectrum.  In that process of learning, my expectations of what it means to be a pastor will become something very different then how I understand it to be today.

The irony is, I begin my CPE unit exactly one year after my final day of employment at the congregation which opened my heart to a life of pastoral ministry.  It is also ironic that one year later, I learned that this congregation is also transitioning in its life as I transition in mine, as I learned via a social media announcement this morning their senior pastor has accepted a call to a new congregation. There is a part of me that wishes I could go back to that parish and we could wade in these unsure waters together.  But in my heart, I know that our simultaneous transitions need to travel on separate currents to end up where we need to be.

There is no shame in acknowledging that these currents feel uncertain at times, and that our uncertainty has us reaching for the familiar.  We all crave stability in times of change.  I know right now I am searching amongst the stacks in my home and head , searching for some metaphorical life preserver that will ease the fear of the ambiguity of what is to come.  It is natural for us to quake when we feel the tide of our lives shift directions, even when that change will bring goodness, knowledge, and peace.

But in these moments when we wade, not quite understanding how the water laps at our feet, we should remember that we were called into a relationship of security through turbulent waters.  We were called into a life of faith through baptismal waters, waters that while appear gentle in the font yet powerfully remove the bondage that comes from being victims of a fallen humanity.  Such waters brought a change so strong that we went from being dead in sin to alive in Christ with a few drops and the seal of a cross upon our head.  It happened quickly, in the blink of an eye, and in that blink gave us a life preserver that will never waver no matter how strong the current.

The tide is changing.  Who we were yesterday will inform how we will move tomorrow, but not determine who we’ll be tomorrow.  A change is coming.  Praise and thanksgiving to the One who equipped us to brave the storm through the waters of our baptism.

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Sermon: Arrested Development

The following sermon was preached at Divinity Lutheran Church of Parma Heights, OH in May16, 2012.  This sermon was based on Acts 10:44-48, 1 John 5:1-6, John 15:9-12

As children of God, our lives are split between two realities.  Salvation is here, but not yet.  We are the resurrected people, but we are still waiting for the end of days.  Our Messiah is dead, yet still lives.

The Gospel of John focuses on the tension that many theologians call the “two kingdoms.”  Luther was a big fan of this notion, and our confessional heritage spends a great deal of time helping us reconcile the polarities of our faith.

Lutherans celebrate that we are called into a life of faith.  We recognize that without God calling us into relationship, we would not have our faith.  Since we have been given the gift of faith we are called into a life of service, both to God and to our world around us.  Our faith is entirely ours, but only because it has been given to us.  Our faith is that of two kingdoms.

We are nearing the end of the Easter season.  I just learned recently that during this season, our first lesson is always from the book of Acts.  Our lectionary is structured in such a way that the first lesson is always about the history of our church.  During most of the year, our first lesson is from the Hebrew Scriptures, most often referred to as the Old Testament.  We read those passages to help us learn about how God worked in the pre-Christ world, and the tradition that formed as a result.

We study Acts during the season of Easter for the same reason we read from the Hebrew Scriptures – we are trying to understand another chapter of time within our church history.  The book of Acts shares how the Jewish community began to adapt their heritage from the impact of the life, death, and resurrection of Christ.  Looking at our Acts passage today, we see a mention of the circumcised people, meaning the Jews.[1]

Acts is a book shares how through Christ, the two kingdoms of the Jews and the Gentiles unite.  Yet, many scholars and people who read Acts and other New Testament scriptures see the division between these two communities, and focus on the rising tension between the two.

How many of us feel that we are caught between two tensions, two kingdoms, two aspects of our lives?

This past week the United Methodist Church held their General Assembly.  While at this assembly, they began their first church-wide discussion about whether or not they would call openly gay, transgendered, or bisexual people into rostered leadership.  Their discussions sounded very familiar to that of our own denomination in 2009, and the Presbyterian Church USA in 2011.

As one can imagine, the United Methodist Church engaged in discussions that contained a great deal of tension, a great deal of controversy.  Two sides of the aisle emerged, two groups of people with two different thoughts, two kingdoms trying to strive for what they feel is the most truth representation of the Gospel.

In the ELCA, we continue to adjust to this division of understanding.  Churches have left our synod and denomination because they felt conflicted on where the church should stand on such a controversial issue.  Often, same passages of scripture and confessional doctrine are used to represent one side of the aisle or the other.

It is hard to engage in these discussions because we all just want to do what is right.  We all want to follow God’s will the best way that we can.  We all want to know that we are making the right call, and that we can somehow, some way, bridge that gap that separates this earthly reign from the reign of the heavens.

During the season of Easter, we read the book of Acts to help us remember that building a church and forming the right doctrine really isn’t about us.  Moving the church forward requires us to release a part of ourselves and make room for the Spirit.

In the passage directly before our lesson today, Peter is telling the Gentiles that the disciples had been commanded to preach that Jesus had been ordained to judge the living and the dead, and that people will receive the forgiveness of sins through is name.

Much like the justice conversations that have been occurring over the last few years, this was really controversial news.  This news did not match how the Jewish community understood their faith to unfold.  Peter was really connecting with the Gentiles, but making no headway with the Jewish community.

Suddenly, the Holy Spirit fell upon the conversation, and all who heard the word understood that it was true.  Not only that, but they could also communicate with each other in a way that they hadn’t been able to before.  Suddenly, they not only were hearing each other, but they were working for the same cause.

Before that moment, no one would have thought that the Gentiles would have been invited into a life of faith as the Jewish community had.  No one would have thought that anyone outside the Jewish community would have benefited from the Messiah of the chosen people.

Yet in that moment, the Holy Spirit called the Gentiles into a life of faith.  The Holy Spirit made room where the human limitations of faith could not.  Peter recognized this and asks:

“Can anyone withhold the water for baptizing these people who have received the Holy Spirit just as we have?”[2]

Peter is asking his followers, “Who are we to place limits on who should be baptized when the Holy Spirit is clearly telling us that these people have been chosen by God into a life of faith just like us?”

He is asking, “Which kingdom has the right to decide who experiences the grace of God?”

It is a futile question.  We all know the answer to which kingdom has the right to decide.

The non-futile question we must ask ourselves today is how do we invite the Spirit into our hearts and minds so we can faithfully hear God’s decision?

One answer is found within the epistle of John.

The letter first reminds us that we are loved by God, and that out of respect to that love, we should follow the commandments.  The letter reads:

“For the love of God is this, that we obey his commandments. And his commandments are not burdensome, for whatever is born of God conquers the world. And this is the victory that conquers the world, our faith.[3]”

Once again, we are confronted with two kingdoms.  To make change in this world, we must adhere to laws that are not of this world.  We must follow the commandments to love others as we love ourselves, to honor the Sabbath, to not commit trespasses of morality, to honor those around us and their possessions.  If we ever hope to make change in our church, in our world, we must live by guidelines that are not of this world.

This message is re-solidified in our Gospel passage, where Jesus reiterates that to truly show our love for him, we must love one another.  We must keep the commandments.[4]

Jesus takes this message one step further.  He tells us that when we keep his commandments, we are no longer servants but friends.  We are elevated into a place where we are freed to engage in tough conversations.  By keeping the commandments, our hearts are in put into a place where we can, like the crowd in Acts, hear the truth with the Holy Spirit.

I read recently an article where a pastor explained his frustration with people referring themselves as children of God.  For him, referring to ourselves as children places us in a sort of “arrested development” state, a state that allows us to sit back and wait, hoping that God will speak to us when we need to be spoken to.

This same pastor argued that we should continue to see God as a parent – a mothering Father who will forgive us when we fail, support us in our struggles, and comfort us when we ache.  But he urged his readers to view themselves as adult children relating to their Holy Parent, rather than a toddler waiting for Daddy to scare away the monsters under the bed.

I know that for myself, my relationship with my parents has greatly enhanced since I have become an adult.  Now that I hold myself accountable for my actions, I am freed to be honest with them in a way that I never have been before.  Most of our conversations have a level of equality that leads to an understanding of truth that I had never considered when I was a child.

And yet, I am still their child.  It was only a few weeks ago that I had some struggles with my auto-immune disorder, lupus, and I called my mom in the middle of the day.  As a loving parent, as a parent who values my adult nature, she hopped right into her car and drove six hours to Chicago to be by my side.  As an adult, I connect with her more intimately than I ever did before, and it is because of that intimacy that the testimony of her action was so powerful.

In our Gospel and Epistle today, our texts support that we should engage our faith as adults.

We are called into our adulthood when we are given the responsibility to engage in the commandments and to follow the scriptures.

We are called into adulthood when we engage in challenging conversation that we would rather have a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy about.

We are called into adulthood when we celebrate that our high school seniors are now making life choices that are our equal.

We are called into adulthood when we parent our own children, or when we respectfully celebrate holidays about parents when we are unable to be a parent ourselves.

It is in engaging our adulthood that we overcome our arrested development and achieve an intimacy with God through the power of the Holy Spirit that we could never imagine.  Living into our commandments helps us to bridge the gaps between our earthly reign and the reign of the heavens.

Amen.

---

[1] Acts 10:45

[2] Acts 10:47

[3] 1 John 5:3-4

[4] John 15:12

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Sermon: Roll Away Your Stone

The following sermon was preached at Divinity Lutheran Church of Parma Heights, OH, at the Easter Vigil Service on April 6. It was based on the text of Mark 16:1-8

My niece and nephew love to play Hide-and-Seek.  Just last night at bath-time, four year-old Phoebe hid from her two year-old brother Alex when he wasn’t looking.  She hid in the most stealth of places, behind a curtain, her little hot pink socks pointing out underneath the fabric of the curtain, which was shaking with the force of her giggles.

Once Alex realized Phoebe was missing, he got a little flustered.  He started walking around the living room, “Phoebe?  Phoebe?”  As his search grid became wider, his started to look more and more bewildered, his voice getting louder and louder, “Phoebe?  Phoebe?”  He looked over at me with big fearful eyes, afraid because he couldn’t find his sister.

I pointed him over to the corner window.  Once it sunk in that she was hiding in plain-site, he could not wait to pull back the curtain and “find her.”  Together they laughed and laughed at this miraculous discovery, and my mom and I laughed with them.

The fun as adults watching children play games like Hide-and-Seek and Peek-a-Boo is that we know there is never any real threat.  We know that the missing person will be found.  We can enjoy in the experience of the discovery because we know the ending to the story.

Looking at this passage from Mark, once again we have the privilege of being the informed observer.  We know that there is no real threat to the Mary Magdalene, Salome, and Mary the mother of James.  We know that the man in the tomb who speaks to them is an angel telling of a resurrection.  We can enjoy the experience of the discovery because the good news of this message is as obvious to us as a four-year-old hiding behind the curtain.

But for Mary, Salome, and Mary, this news makes them very, very afraid.

Fear is an important part of Mark and is what propels this gospel towards the cross.  Time and time again throughout we see that people are afraid of divine miracles that test their faith.

For instance, after Jesus stills the boat on the sea, he asks the disciples, “Why are you afraid?  Have you still no faith?”  Later, there are three times when Jesus foretells the crucifixion, and each time the disciples had questions about what Jesus was saying but were too afraid to ask.  Perhaps most significant to Easter, the chief priests and scribes searched for a way to crucify Jesus because they were afraid of his teachings, and later when trying to trap him as they questioned him about John the Baptist, those same priests and scribes were afraid of the crowds.

We must also remember that as Jesus performs divine actions throughout Mark, he tells people to stay silent.  We see incident after incident where Jesus casts out demons and heals the sick, and each and every time he instructs the formerly afflicted to “tell no one what has happened here.”  And yet, the healed cannot compel themselves to keep such actions a secret.  They share the miracles, and the attention that comes from these miracles eventually results in Jesus’ crucifixion.

It is ironic that the one and only time in this gospel when someone is specifically told to share a miracle that has happened, Mary, Salome, and Mary cannot do it because they are afraid.

It is hard to acknowledge the times when our fear stands in the way of being courageous in our faith.  This was most certainly true for the translators of Mark.  We have learned that in a few sources translated after the fourth century, the Gospel of Mark suddenly has a different ending from the original source.  This new-and-improved ending has all sorts of reassuring images of Jesus appearing to Mary Magdalene and the disciples, and the ascension to heaven.  This new ending was to reassure fourth century people that their faith was placed in the right place.

The original intention of the Gospel of Mark does not want us hide from the notion of fear.  The original ending, while at times unsettling, is important because it speaks so honestly of what it means to be a person of faith.

Faith is a scary thing.  Our faith is arguably the most personal thing we have, but it does not come from our own making.  It is given to us as a gift from the Holy Spirit, and it is what calls us into relationship with God.  This gift of faith is what brings us to the table at Holy Communion, and is the gift of faith that justifies us through the waters of baptism.

Tonight we celebrate the baptism of our newest members of the body of Christ.  Somewhere along their journey to the font, they experienced a means of grace.  Somewhere along their journey, the Holy Spirit gave them the gift of faith, and today they will be justified through the waters of baptism.

It is so fitting for us to celebrate baptism on this Easter Vigil night.  We were born into the world victims of a fallen humanity.  Through Christ’s death on the cross we are freed from the bondage of that sin that comes from a fallen humanity, justified to engage in the relationship of faith.  In baptism, we can most intimately experience the death and resurrection of Jesus.  It is through baptism we travel the journey of death from the bondage of sin to live forever a life where sin no longer holds us captive.

Through baptism we are justified by grace, through faith in Jesus Christ, without the fear that if we do not complete a certain quota of good works our justification will be taken away.  It is in thanksgiving of this fear that at our baptisms we pledge to exhibit our faith the best way we can.  We recognize the truest way to exhibit faith is complete good works like caring for the earth and loving our neighbor.

In baptism, we publically accept this gift of faith and we commit ourselves to a relationship with God that is eternal.  This is a life changing moment, and can make even the best of us a bit fearful.  This is why we celebrate baptism together in community.  We support one another in this commitment because it is easy to be fearful when accepting the magnificent blessing of salvation.

The challenge comes in living out our faith.  It is hard to be bold in our faith at times when we feel shaken.

Today’s lesson of Mary, Mary and Salome is the perfect example.  They were afraid to accept this turn their faith journey took.  They believed in the teachings of Jesus.  They loved Jesus.  They were dedicated servants to his ministry.  It was faith that brought them to the tomb.

But while the stone of the physical tomb had been rolled away, the stone of their fear kept them silent.  They didn’t know how to handle this shocking revelation that so greatly impacted what they understood their relationship with Jesus to be.

Every time I have read this passage lately, I have been reminded of a song by Mumford and Sons.  The song opens, “Roll away your stone, I’ll roll away mine.  Together we can see what we will find.  Don’t leave me alone at this time, for I’m afraid of what I’ll discover inside.”

When we encounter stones that redirect the pathways of our faith journeys, it is easy to be afraid and to feel alone.  We are not alone.

In baptism we are adopted into God’s family, given a family wider and broader then we could ever imagine.  In baptism we are adopted into a relationship with a mothering Father who stands fast with us in times of strife.  In baptism we are adopted into a relationship with a Son who died on the cross for our salvation.  In baptism we are adopted into a relationship with a Spirit who is as close a confidant as the most tenderhearted sister.

Because our baptismal family is so large and broad, we will experience transitions in our faith at times when we least expect it.

Four years ago, I did not know where my faith would lead me.  Four years ago I was working as a librarian, and while feeling loved by God, did not feel overly connected to the idea of the church.

Four years ago, I stood at a baptismal font with my niece Phoebe.  As I watched the waters of baptism justify her sweet, infant face, I began to weep.  I remember later when I returned to my seat my aunt joking that I cried more at the waters of Phoebe’s baptism then Phoebe did herself.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that moment of baptism reactivated my awareness of my gift of faith.  Within six months I was no longer a librarian, but working part time as a secretary for a church.  Six months after that, I was the director of that same church, overseeing the outreach ministry and living a life of service.  Six months after that I first began discerning my call to ordained leadership, and six months after that I was accepted as a pastoral candidate for our synod.  Six months after that I applied to seminary, and now I stand before you with almost a year of seminary under my belt.

With each and every faith transition I have been afraid.

I was afraid that day at the font of someone else’s baptism because I knew then that despite turning my back on my faith at times, God never turned away from me.

I was afraid because I knew that I am not a perfect person.  I have tattoos, I swear, I battle a cigarette and food addiction, I have let my loved ones down, spent more money on myself then I gave to my neighbor, have ignored the homeless on the street corners, have lied, have doubted, and yet, there I was.

Hearing the Holy Spirit call my name at someone else’s baptism.

Hearing the Holy Spirit say to me, “Tina, child of God, you have been sealed by the cross of Christ forever.”

Hearing the Holy Spirit say to me, “No matter what, I love you, and believe in you.  Be in relationship with me.  Do not be afraid.  Live out your faith and be in relationship with me.”

It was at someone else’s baptism that I was able to start the process of rolling away my stone.  It was at someone else’s baptism that I realized I wasn’t alone.  It was at someone else’s baptism that I re-discovered what was inside, and it was at someone else’s baptism that I learned the joy of being afraid.

It was the fear of my faith transition that gave me the strength to ask my baptismal family to stand with me as I began living out my faith journey, and they have not let me down.  Being true to my faith and my individual sense of calling and sharing that with my church family has been more of a blessing to me then I can ever begin to put in words.

I am so grateful that tonight our family will grow again, and to see how the Spirit will work through their lives.  I feel privileged to bear witness to the Spirit calling their names into a relationship of faith, and supporting them as they are sealed with the cross of Christ forever.

I am so grateful for such spirit filled waters, and I can’t wait to discover how the Holy Spirit will speak to me tonight at someone else’s baptism.

Roll away your stone.  I’ll roll away mine.  Together we can see what we can find.  We are not alone at this time, even when we are afraid of what we will discover inside.

Amen.

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Sermon: Forsaken

The following sermon was preached on Good Friday, April 6, 2012 at Divinity Lutheran Church Parma Heights, OH, based on the passage Matthew 27: 45-49.

Forsaken.

That is a word I have been hearing a great deal within my community lately.

I attend seminary at the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago.  Located in the famous Southside of the city, my community is known for many things – the White Sox, the DuSable Museum, Lake Michigan, jazz.

The Southside also has a name for its relationship with violence.  This relationship makes the odds that you will be connected to gangs and/or homelessness to over 60%, and is why in this city over 17,000 children are labeled as “food insecure”.  These statistics are easily overlooked when glamorizing the “Windy City” with memories of a river turned green or shopping on the Magnificent Mile.  When people speak of the great city of Chicago, Southsiders often feel forsaken by the sensationalized impact of our Downtown and Northside counterparts.  There is a division among the city, and is much broader then the Cubs fans verses Sox fans.

In the wake of the death of Trayvon Martin, a young African American male who was profiled and murdered in Florida a month ago, people within my community have been vocalizing racial injustice issues found in our own backyard.  Three weeks ago, the Chicago Tribune reported that in one week in the Southside, 49 children under the age of 18 were shot, ten of which died.  These ten lives that were lost too young were a fraction of over 300 children who were killed since 2008 from gun related incidents in the Southside of Chicago alone.  Over 300 children in four years, and we aren’t even halfway through this year yet.

There is a division in my community.  Right now, on any given Sunday at any given church in the Southside, the words, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me” are not strange to voices raised in prayer.  I am sure our survivors and families grieving from the Chardon School shooting last month are also feeling the weight of those words, also feeling a division between their experience and the experience of their neighbor.  As we read this passage of Jesus’ words on this most holy of days, we know all too intimately what it means to feel forsaken.

For some of us, we feel forsaken by our communities in a time of violence and racial injustice.  For others, we feel forsaken by our friends who fade into the background as we wade through the murky waters of divorce.   We feel forsaken as we spend hour after hour interviewing for jobs that never quite pan out.  We may say, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me” as we see the red in our check books, or as we sit in through yet another round of chemotherapy.  We may feel that we are forsaken every time we risk our sobriety and are tempted to resort back to our favorite drug of choice.

There is division among us, and its anthem cries out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

I don’t know about you, but I am made incredibly uncomfortable by this passage from Matthew, specifically with the word “forsaken.”  I was so uncomfortable, in fact, I double checked to make sure this wasn’t some faulty literary translation.  I double checked the Greek source of this passage because I hoped that this was one of those times, maybe providing us some sort of theological wiggle room where “forsaken” perhaps could mean something else.

I peered over the text, digging into the Greek word καταλείπω (kat-al-i’-po), and what I found was not much better.  Kαταλείπω can also mean to leave behind, to desert, to abandon.

I even went so far as to check the corresponding passage in the Gospel of Mark.  There it was again – καταλείπω.  Forsaken.  Just as there is no avoiding the moments when our lives are filled with pain, when we feel that we are utterly alone, we cannot avoid that Jesus on the cross cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

This moment on the cross puts a bad taste in our mouths, equally as bitter as the vinegar that was given to Jesus upon the sponge.  We can get lost in our feelings of division, and when we hear Jesus cry out those words, it is easy to miss the good news in this message.

The good news of this message is that while these words are Christ’s, they were first ours.  Jesus does not create this anthem on the cross, but echoes this anthem from our ancestors.  He is repeating the words of the psalmist, the songs of his community.

The psalms were written after the Exodus, after the Israelites had left Egypt and had settled into what they thought would be the end of their problems, their promised land.  These were people like the many who thought they were finding refuge in the great city of Chicago only to discover the poverty and violence of the Southside.  These were people like the many who now doubt if their hometown of Chardon is as safe as they once thought.  The psalmist wrote the turmoil of the people who thought they had found safety but instead found division and despair.

Voicing the people’s pain and doubt, the psalms served as anthems voicing the troubling thoughts of the community.  When Jesus cries out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me” he is voicing the anthem of the people who felt forsaken and ignored.  Jesus does not shy away from sharing words that are as familiar to the ears of his community as the hymns we are singing together today in our community.

The lyrics from one song, Psalm 22, go like this:

¹ My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning?
² O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer;
and by night, but find no rest.

³ Yet you are holy,
enthroned on the praises of Israel.
⁴ In you our ancestors trusted;
they trusted, and you delivered them.
⁵ To you they cried, and were saved;
in you they trusted, and were not put to shame.

⁶ But I am a worm, and not human;
scorned by others, and despised by the people.
⁷ All who see me mock at me;
they make mouths at me, they shake their heads;
⁸ ‘Commit your cause to the Lord; let him deliver—
let him rescue the one in whom he delights!’

There is a division among us, and when Jesus cries out our anthem, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?,”  we should stand fast in recognizing that it is a cry of solidarity.  The psalmist tells us to commit our cause to the Lord, and upon the cross Christ is telling us that his commitment is to our cause.

Jesus cries out not because he is forsaken but because he knows that we feel forsaken.  Jesus cries out not in recognition of his own pain but in relationship with ours.  Even in the midst of extreme agony and torture, he is crying out for for our worries, placing our needs before his own.  He is reassuring us that we will not be abandoned, left behind or deserted.

Through Christ, the word “forsaken” is transformed from a symbol of despair to radical good news.  It is such good news that it is hard to grasp, one that is easier for us to taint with the vinegar that is our skepticism.

It was such radical good news that even the bystanders gathering at the cross couldn’t process it.  It was easier for them upon hearing those words to sneer, “This man is calling for his Elijah.” It was easier for them to mock then to accept that they could be supported so intimately.  It was easier for them to assume that Jesus was thinking of himself then to accept that his love for us is above his own needs and transformative.  It was easier because radical solidarity is not of this world.  When Jesus makes our anthem his own, we are forced to have faith that we will never be forsaken again, and that faith is a holy thing that is given to us as a gift from the Holy Spirit.

Christ is with the family of Trayvon Martin and the parent grieving around the world as they cope with the loss of their children. He will not forsake them.

Christ is with the students of Chardon every day as they courageously return to their studies.  He will not forsake them.

Christ is with us interview after interview, helping us reassess our budgets so we can turn our red balances into black.  We are not forsaken.

Christ is with us as our bodies are ravaged apart by chemotherapy, as we struggle with our addictions, as we suffer from food insecurity, as we search to find affordable healthcare, as we mourn the loss of our marriage, or even when we just feel blue.  We are not forsaken.

Christ is in solidarity with us, has been to the point of suffering on the cross for our sin.  This is radical good news!  This solidarity comes from a love that is beyond our understanding, and completely despite of ourselves.  Just as Christ made our anthem his, we too can make his solidarity ours.

As Christ’s representatives in this world, we need to stand strong with those who feel forsaken and build bridges in places of division.

We show solidarity with prayer, by gathering at the font, communing together with bread and with wine. We show solidarity by not shying away from telling the hard stories of our community but by uplifting the poor, whether they are poor financially or poor in spirit. We show the solidarity of Christ every time we ask someone how they are feeling when we see pain etched in their faces.  We show the solidarity of Christ when we go to Redeemer Crisis Center or help out at the Cleveland Food Bank to fill the stomach and cupboards of people labeled as being “food insecure.”

When in despair our neighbors cry out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me” we help them remember that Christ reframed that anthem as he died upon the cross.  And in helping them remember that the bridge of our division is found in Jesus, we allow ourselves the space to remember that the word “forsaken” has a new meaning now.  In Christ, “forsaken” is radical good news.

Amen.

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Work Enrichment

This past week has provided me with two powerful worship experiences.  On Sunday, I was officially installed at St. Luke’s Lutheran Church of Logan Square, the parish where I serve as their administrative assistant.  On Monday, I was part of a healing service that I helped plan with my dear friend.

When you spend as much time in chapel as seminarians tend to do, it can be hard to have your spirit feel fed.  I know for myself worship has felt an awful lot like business this semester.  I’m taking a course on worship, and I find myself examining the execution services;  Did the pastor hold her arms out when she greeted the congregation? Is the sermon based on the lectionary?  How does the assembly dispose of the left-over sacramental elements?  Add to these questions that fact that I have spent the last six weeks scouting congregations to complete my field work at next year, and it can be hard to set aside business and just worship.

So imagine my surprise when I was nurtured at the two services that were actually supposed to be work.

I had never planned a worship service before, and I was more than a little terrified for Monday.  I was fortunate to be working with someone I trust a great deal.  We planned this service with the intention that we would create awareness for sexual and domestic assault survivors.  This is a subject that hits very close to home.  In my own healing and work with survivors I have longed to be a part of service that did not back down from naming the evil that is assault.  I give thanks to my friend who knows that finding a voice for survivors in worship is important to the ministry of our church.  I also give thanks that our preacher on Monday was a pastor who did not try to dress up “sexual assault and domestic violence” with ambiguous and flowery words but to name it as it is.  Because we were able to name the evil, we created a space where people felt safe to come forward and receive healing for all sorts of pain, assault and beyond.  As I and three others sang “Grace Like Rain,” almost every person in the assembly went to prayer stations and were anointed.  I felt my knees buckle at the magnitude of our communities openness to feel God’s love for them.  The Holy Spirit was truly present in that place, and in that moment there was no doubt that the gospel reached our community.  I will carry the feeling of that day in my heart forever.

I will also carry the memory of being installed at St. Luke’s with me forever.  I loved working for Pilgrim UCC, loved how I was stretched and grew within that community.  I learned that God was calling me into pastoral ministry because of Pilgrim, and there will never be a time when I will forget that it was that environment that nurtured the journey I am on today.  But standing up in front of a new body of believers and committing myself to service in them in light of the scriptures and our shared Lutheran confessions solidifies my sense of vocation in a way that I cannot explain.  God has called me to the Lutheran church because God wants me to bear witness to our confessional doctrine that we are justified by grace through faith in Christ without works righteousness.  I can live out that vocation and discover what sort of leader I am being called to be in a Lutheran church in a way that I cannot live out in a different denomination.  It is one thing to say theoretically that I will uphold Lutheran confessional doctrine, but it is something else entirely to make that promise publicly before God and witnesses.  Making such promises makes my position not just a job, but a relationship.  It is humbling to realize that I have been invited into this relationship, and that God will continue to invite me into relationships in future communities.

It is a miraculous thing to be a part of a profession where doing your work enriches your spirit, and I give thanks that I can experience such miracles.

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Video: Four Young Preachers on Reaching this Generation

Click the following link to watch an interview by Day1, Four Young Preachers on Reaching this Generation, from the National Festival of Young Preachers held in Louisville, KY in January 2012.

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