Notes From Seminary

Sorry for the interminable delay in posting sermons here.  I want to do it, really I do, but I've forgotten the tech specs for the sound recordings, and haven't been able to stumble upon them since.  I also haven't been writing them out, so no help there either.

In the meantime, note that I'm going to try and post some short thoughts or reflections every couple of days during Lent.  No promises, but I'll give it a shot.

Tonight, I went to the adoration of the Eucharist at the local Catholic university.  It was nice, quiet, reflective.  The reading was from chapter 1 of the apocryphal book of Sirach, part of the Catholic Bible but not the Protestant canon.  Among other things, it says, "All wisdom comes from the Lord and with Him it remains forever, and is before all time.  The sand of the seashore, the drops of rain, the days of eternity:  Who can number these?"

It got me to thinking.  There are a lot of questions in me right now, questions to which I can't quite approach the answer.  The Internet is not the appropriate place to share them, but I'm betting you have some of your own.  But if God can number the sand and the rain and the days of eternity, surely God knows the smaller things that weigh on my mind.  If wisdom comes from God, then the only reason I do not know these things is that God has not chosen to reveal them to me.  And that is okay.  I don't need to know, however much I may want to.  I can trust that God knows, and that God will always guide me well.

Blessings to you as we prepare for Lent.

Sisters and Brothers in Christ,

Yesterday, I had the privilege to sit at the Quest Center for the Interdenominational Ministerial Association of Omaha’s luncheon celebrating Martin Luther King, Jr. day.  Excitement was in the air over the large attendance numbers and the upcoming presidential inauguration.  The message I heard there was one sharing a real sense of accomplishment.  Strange, as the feeling I always have on this day each year is a reminder that there is so much left to do.

This should be no surprise to those who get to hear my sermons regularly.  I’m often naming all the “isms”--racism, sexism, classism, heterosexism, and ageism, just to name a few.  We’ve come a long, long way, yes, but we have a long way yet to go.  Injustices abound in our world, and all of us are guilty of them.  I, for one, was taught to value diversity from a very young age.  I abhor racism, and even recognize and condemn the unfair advantages I enjoy just by virtue of my skin color.  But aside from speaking against it in the small ways I can, I don’t often actively work to end racism, and am therefore guilty of perpetuating it.  I, and we all, have a long way to go.

It’s an old, old pattern.  The Egyptians enslaved the Israelites, and then the Israelites went to the promised land and killed and enslaved the Canaanites.  We need not look that far; when Adam looked at the wife he loved and blamed her for their Eden disobedience, injustice was born.  Injustice doesn’t have to come in such large doses.  Any time we treat one another unfairly--be it our neighbors, our friends, our families, or even ourselves--we gently tear away at relationships and extend injustice.  I, myself, have committed several injustices this morning, and I have yet to leave the house!

It is the responsibility of every Christian to stand in solidarity with those whom injustices harm.  Christ is the best example of this.  He ate with sinners, healed the poor, and condemned the oppressive twisting of God’s Law espoused by the religious powers of the day.  And more than this, he aimed to reconcile relationships in his own life.  After all, on that last night, he looked at Judas who had betrayed him, and shared with him his own body and blood.

We need to speak truth to power.  We need to speak truth to injustice.  We need to do this most when the unjust power is us, unthinkingly harming others and forgetting to love even ourselves.  Because we cannot, with Pilate, wonder what truth is.  We know that the Truth, ultimately, is the love that God has for each of us, revealed to all nations in the epiphany of Christ Jesus.

Grace and Peace,
Vicar Aaron

This is just the start of my sermon from Sunday; the rest was not written out, and did not record well.  Sorry!  The occasion was Christmas 1.  The link to the text is here:  Galatians 4:4-7.

"Darn it, Joshua!  How many times do I have to tell you?  You need to learn to take better care of your things!"

He looked up at the three-year old child.  From the place on the floor where he was sitting, the boy was about at eye level, maybe a little lower.  He didn't like for him to come in here, into the workshop.  It wasn't good for him, breathing this air, choked with sawdust and the bitter smell of varnish.  And he might get hurt with one of the many tools scattered about the room, or a sharp bit of scrap wood that had been neglected.

"We don't have a lot as it is, and I can hardly afford to get you new toys.  I've told you before not to throw your things so hard, or they're going to get broken.  You need to be more responsible!"  But there was hardly any point in lecturing a three-year old on responsibility.  "Oh, all right, I'll try to fix it.  You go play; I'll come find you when it's fixed."

The man reached out his hand, tough and stained from years of work, and took the child's plaything, broken in two, from his young son.  As the child walked away, he examined it.  The break was uneven, and severe.  Glue alone wouldn't do it.  He'd have to make sure that the nails didn't poke through, that there were no sharp ends to catch on little fingers.  And the way the wood splintered, it would be a wonder if he could sand it down enough to make it safe while still keeping the object intact.  Better to make a new one.  So much for finishing work on this chair today.

Joe stood up and went to the barrel of scrap wood over in the corner.  He found a piece that was about the right size, and set to work with his saw, cutting away the excess to make out the shape of the toy that Joshua had brought.  "I didn't even want a child," he thought.  What a hassle.

Well, not a hassle, exactly.  But certainly a surprise.  The boy wasn’t his, and so it wasn’t really so much that they didn’t want a child as it was that they weren’t even trying to have a child.  And yet the kid was here anyway.  His wife’s child, from before their marriage.  He had thought about getting out of the engagement when he found out about Joshua, but he couldn’t help it.  He loved that woman, and so he married her anyway.  And there were other reasons.

But anyway, Josh wasn’t supposed to have been part of the deal.  And yet here he was, not even his own child, but become his responsibility.  It was a lot of work, taking care of a child.  It would have been nice to have just focused on his business, without the added burden of a son.

The pieces of the cart were made now, and just had to be assembled.  The big, blocky back piece where imaginary vegetables would sit for transportation and sale had to be affixed to the large, flat base, and then the wheels put on either side.  Before coating them with wood glue, Joe had a thought.  He grabbed his carpenter’s pencil and scrawled on the underside, where the pieces would be joined--where, once the toy was finished, nobody would see.  He wrote, “I love you, Josh.”

Because he couldn’t help it.  He loved the kid.  Joshua maybe wasn’t born his own child, but Joe had adopted him when he married his mother.  And that wasn’t just for pretend.  No, Josh was his real son now, and he loved him with all of his being.  He’d do anything for the kid, even stop his work day, and an order for an expensive set of furniture which could bring in quite a bit of money, in order to fix up a toy.  He laughed a little to himself, and then, after making sure the glue was set and the wheels turned smoothly in their places, he went off to look for his own, dear son.

Of course, we don’t really know much about Joseph, though we do know have a great deal of information about his son, named Joshua in Hebrew, and Jesus in Greek.  Joseph is present for Jesus’ birth, but shortly thereafter, he disappears from the Gospels altogether.  I think we can guess that he was a good father, though.  After all, Jesus talks at length about his “good Father in heaven,” and in order to use such a metaphor for God the Father, he must have had a good example of an earthly father to compare Him to.  Joseph’s de facto adoption of Jesus was complete, whole, and loving.

It is this same kind of way in which God adopts us as children.

The occasion was Christmas Day.  It was a bilingual service, in English and Spanish, so the sermon is in both languages.  Please pardon the very bad Spanish grammar, if you can read it.  The link to the text is here:  John 1:1-14.  Also, note that there's a Christmas Eve sermon just below this, which I posted at the same time.  And also, there will be a sermon for the second Sunday in Advent, just as soon as I can get my hands on a CD of it.

Can you see the light?  No?  It is so hard to see it.  Sometimes, it seems like darkness shines into every corner of this world.  There are so many problems in our land.  Racism, classism, sexism, and all the other “isms” keep us bound in our places, unable to reach across the great divide to meet our neighbor.  Even if we wanted to connect with other people around us, we have our own problems.  We fear for the money we already have, in this unstable economy, and for our jobs as well.  We cannot worry about our children’s futures, as we are too uncertain about our own.  Will social security--if we qualify for it--last for our retirement?  Will the violence on our streets allow us, ourselves, to last until retirement?  Is the worry that far off?  Do we need to be concerned about next month, or next week, or the next meal?  Is our neighbor on the brink of poverty or homelessness?  Are we?

¿Puede Ud. ver la luz?  ¿No?  Es muy difícil verlo.  A veces, siente que la tinieblas resplandecen en todo parte del mundo.  Hay demasiadas problemas en nuestra tierra.  Racismo, clasismo, sexismo, y todos los otros «ismos» dejanos encuadernado en nuestros lugares, incapáz para alargar o tender la mano de nuestro vecino.  Si quisiéramos conectar con las otras personas entre nosotros, no podemos, porque tenemos nuestras problemas propias.  Tenemos miedo sobre el dinero que ya tenemos,  en esta economía, y sobre nuestros trabajos también.  No podemos preocuparnos de los futuros de nuestros hijos, porque estamos inciertos de nuestros propios.  ¿Va la programa de seguridad social--si calificamos--estar aquí para nuestra jubilación del trabajo?  ¿Va la violencia en las calles dejanos, nosotros mismos, estar aquí para nuestra jubilación?  ¿Está la ansiedad tan lejos como esto?  ¿Necesitamos preocuparnos de la mes entrante, o la semana entrante, o la cena entrante?  ¿Vive nuestro vecino con pobreza or destitución?  ¿Vivimos nosotros?

Life was much the same 2,000 years ago.  In the Roman world, many people lived in poverty.  The Romans were hard rulers, making laws and creating systems to keep the poor in their place, to keep those who were not Roman citizens powerless, and to live a life of extravagance while the rest of the world was practically, or actually, enslaved.  The world cried out to God for help, as it had so many times before.

La vida fue casi la misma hace dos mil años.  El el mundo romano, muchas personas vivieron con probreza.  Los romanos fueron gobernantes duros, haciendo leyes y creyando sistemas para encuadernar los probres en sus lugares, para dejar los que no fueron ciudadanos romanos sin poder, y para vivir una vida de despilfarro cuando los demás fueron practicamente, or de verdad, esclavizado.  El mundo pidió socorro a Dios, como muchas veces pasadas.

And God sent a man, named John.  John’s message was a simple one.  He asked, “Can you see the light?  It is coming,” he promised.  The light was coming into the world, and the darkness could not overpower it.

This is a big message!  In a world where the darkness seems so pervasive, the promise is that the light shines everywhere.  It can be a hard truth to believe, but it is the truth.  Because Jesus is that light.  A tiny infant, the Word made flesh centuries ago, the real God who continues to exist today, to live in the world, to walk among us.

Y Dios envió un hombre llamado Juan.  El mensaje de Juan fue simple.  Preguntó, «¿Puede Ud. ver la luz?  Él viene,» prometó.  La luz venía a este mundo, y las tinieblas no han podido extinguirla.

¡Qué un mensaje grande!  En un mundo donde las tinieblas sienten tan penetrando, la promesa es que la luz resplandece a todos partes.  Es una cosa en cual es muy difícil para creer, pero es la verdad.  Porque Jesús es esta luz.  Un infante pequeñito, el Verbo hizo hombre hace muchas siglas, el Dios real que existe de verdad hoy, que vive en el mundo, que camina entre nosotros.

Because that is the mystery and miracle of Christmas.  That God, the creator of all that is, poured God’s self into the being of a tiny infant, a child who grew and lived in this world.  A man who lived first in the economic bracket of a laboring carpenter, and later took on the abject poverty of a traveling rabbi.  Jesus’ worries were the same as ours.  God himself knows what we are going through, not because of His omnipotence, constantly looking over our shoulder like some horrible version of Santa Claus, taking notes about whether we are naughty or nice.  But God knows because God lived a life like ours.  And despite that life, perhaps because of that life, the light still shines in the darkness.

Porque esto es el misterio y el milagro de Navidad.  Dios, el creador de todo que existe, puso su existencia en un infante pequeñito, un niño que crezcó y vivó en ese mundo.  Un hombre que vivó primero en la stación de un carpintero y jornalero, y más tarde en la pobreza abatida de un rabí vagando.  Las ansiedades de Jesús fueron los mismos de los de nosotros.  Dios conoce como vivimos, no porque es todopoderoso, siempre mirando lo que hacemos como un versión horrible de Santa Claus, apuntando si estamos malos or buenos.  No, Dios conoce porque Dios vivó una vida como nosotros.  Y a despecho de esta vida, o quizás por medio de esta vida, la luz todavía resplandece en las tinieblas.

The light shines because God invites us all to gather around the Word and the Table.  This is the place where we can find healing and wholeness.  Here, we can be renewed to go back into the world, a world of darkness, with the light shining on in our hearts.  In it, we can see the truth that the world tries to obscure.  We can hear God’s promises of love and peace and joy whenever the world tries to divide us and conquer us.  And God offers this healing and reconciliation freely, with no strings attached, to all who seek to find it.

La luz resplandece porque Dios nos invita a congregarse al Verbo y a la Mesa.  Esto es el lugar donde podemos encontrar curación y cambiar en íntegro.  Aquí, podemos ser restaurado para volver al mundo, un mundo de oscuridad, con la luz resplandeciendo en nuestros corazones.  En ese, podemos ver la verdad que el mundo trate de ocultar.  Podemos escuchar los promesas de Dios, promesas de amor y paz y alegría, cada vez que el mundo trate de dividirnos y conquistarnos.  Y Dios ofrece esta curación y reconciliación gratis, sin calificación, a todos que quieren encontrarlo.

And so, we can see the light.  It’s because Jesus Christ truly is God’s Word made flesh.  And that Word is full of grace and truth, a sign of God’s love for us all.

Así que, podemos ver la luz.  Es porque Jesucristo de verdad es el Verbo de Dios se hizo hombre.  Y este Verbo es lleno de gracia y de verdad, un símbolo del amor de Dios por nosotros todos.

The occasion was Christmas Eve, an 11:00 service. Link to text: Luke 2:1-20.  There are some wisps of Isaiah 9:2-7 there too.

It was a quiet night, pretty ordinary. Nothing really special about their situation. After all, it wasn’t just Mary and Joseph who’d had to travel back to their ancestral home. Caesar Augustus, Emperor of the entire known world, had called for a census, and so everyone’s lives had been turned upside-down, trying to make it back home, even if their families hadn’t lived there in generations, just so they could be registered and counted. It was a long journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem--some fifty miles, which was no small trip 2,000 years ago. A camel could make it in a few hours, but it’s not likely that an ordinary carpenter like Joseph could have afforded such a luxury. Rather, there would have been days of walking, made longer by Mary’s pregnancy.

Unexpected pregnancy. Not that a child wasn’t welcome. Children were like life insurance in those days, a necessity for survival to old age. But they hadn’t been planning on it. Heck, they hadn’t even been married when it first happened. And on this trip, it was a nuisance, the worst timing possible. But there was little that could be done, except to close down the carpentry shop for some days, and go where the Emperor said. A perfectly ordinary problem, and this Holy Family was hardly alone in it.

Were the inns really all full? It could be. With so many people temporarily displaced from their homes because of the census, it would be no surprise. Such an ordinary problem could happen today, as indeed it did this summer--the flooding in western Iowa meant that hotels for more than a hundred miles in every direction were booked, to the consternation of a certain seminary student headed toward his new internship site late one July evening. No, the inns could have been truly full that first Christmas eve, or they might have intentionally shut out that couple and the problems they brought with them. After all, who wants to deal with a teenager, so obviously full with child. Were the contractions already starting as they searched for a place to stay? What innkeeper would want to deal with a family with a child so quickly on the way?

But the child came anyway. An ordinary birth, miraculous in that way that all births are miraculous, a tiny human being, alive and healthy, and the mother too. Not all births go so smoothly, and the couple’s relief must have been great. The birth had been announced by heavenly messengers, sure, but now they held proof in their arms. The God who created all things had created yet again, and promised that this infant would be the salvation of all things, that he was “God with us.” It seemed so unlikely that such an ordinary baby was the culmination of the universe’s yearning for God’s presence. A miracle amidst the ordinary.

* * *

It was a quiet night. The stars shone in the clear sky with all their brilliance, just like most nights on the Palestinian plains. It was the kind of sky that could get a shepherd to daydreaming, as he lay on the ground, head propped up on a wooden headrest, watching the sheep nibble on the scanty green shoots and scanning the horizon for wolves.

Bethlehem, the town of David, just south of Jerusalem, the great city King David built. David grew up here, a simple shepherd, much like these tenders of sheep. Dirty and smelly, because of their life in the fields, with the animals under their care. Could David have sat on this very hill with his own herds? Perhaps under this exact tree, some 600 years earlier? This great cedar must have been a sapling, then.

And God must have seemed so real then, too. Back in David’s time, prophets like Samuel and Isaiah abounded. And Amos! He was a shepherd, too. Can you imagine, God speaking to someone as ordinary as a shepherd? God spoke all the time, back then. But the exile in Babylon had changed all that. And then the Persians, and the Greeks, and now the Romans. Unjust rulers, great oppressors, and now they were living in a land of deep darkness. No, better to be just a shepherd, with only the sheep to worry about, and the occasional predator on the horizon.

When suddenly, the sky was filled with great light! And an angel came, bringing good news. The sight must have really been something; I don’t know if I would have been stirred from my relaxed pose on the Judean hillside quite so easily. They went, and saw the Christ child, which must have looked like a perfectly ordinary baby, sleeping in a manger, next to his exhausted mother and father. Yet something had opened their eyes to a joy and wonder that lies far beyond human comprehension. They knew this was the promised Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, and Prince of Peace. God was present in this tiny child, present in a way that couldn’t be imagined, in a way that broke the rod of the oppressor, that shook the very foundations of the earth, that rocked the heavens in their courses.

The shepherds were changed that night. Transformed into something bigger than themselves. And no wonder. They saw God in the flesh, there, right before their eyes. Did they hold him in their arms, swaddling clothes concealing a tiny face? After encountering Jesus, even as a tiny baby, how could they stay silent? It seemed so unlikely that these shepherds would be the first to hear and tell the good news. A miracle amidst the ordinary.

* * *

It is a quiet night. The snow and ice lays thick on the ground, out beyond the doors of our church and our homes. At 11:30 at night, the only folks still out and about are a handful of midnight churchgoers and those with no other place to go, to belong. At home, gifts sit nestled under our trees, along with the credit card debt and financial worry that goes with them. The future is uncertain, and our troubles, while significant to us, are perfectly ordinary.

And in the midst of whatever our worries are, we gather here, around the Lord’s table, to celebrate the birth of a baby, thousands of years ago. A miracle amidst the ordinary, one important to our faith, but seemingly unconnected with our lives. A moment of ancient history.

We easily forget that the angels’ message is for us, too. Glad tidings of great joy came to ordinary people like Mary and Joseph, to ordinary people like the shepherds, and to ordinary people like you and me, too. We’re not talking about an infant who was born so very long ago. We’re talking about an event of cosmic proportions, something that would fundamentally change the world, no the universe, at it’s very core! We’re talking about God, coming to live here with us. Were talking about God coming to become an ordinary person too, God becoming an ordinary part of the ordinary world that God made. And why? So that we might become extraordinary!

This is how very much God loves us. God, out of all of the great possibilities that a omnipotent creator might have, decided to become like you and me, so that we might be changed forever. Into that tiny infant, infinite love was poured, and it has never left. God continues to be present in the world around us, reaching out with human hands to heal the sick, to comfort the lonely, to care for the poor, to tear apart barriers and to bring together the whole human family, and all of creation.

All that in a baby, two thousand years ago, one who is still alive today, working in each of our hearts and lives. It’s pretty far-fetched, an unlikely story, and yet it is true, every word of it. The greatest miracle ever, standing amidst the ordinary.

Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth, peace to all of God’s creation, this night, and always.

The occasion was Thanksgiving Eve. Here is the link to the text: Deuteronomy 8:7-20. Worth noting is that the service was a joint service between three Lutheran, one Roman Catholic, and one Presbyterian church in our area, as well as that during the service, canned food was collected for the local food pantry.

---

How quickly we forget.

Do you remember? Do you remember when our people were in Egypt? Our oppression was terrible. The Egyptians worked us to death, literally. There was no rest, and the people cried out in anguish. And yet even in that time, we prospered and grew. God gave us children, and cattle, and we flourished.

Do you remember remember when the Pharaoh instructed our midwives, Shiphrah and Puah, to kill all our firstborn children. The Egyptians were afraid of us, and they lashed out against us, tried to destroy us from within. Yet God strengthened and fortified those blessed women! God helped them to defy the power of the Pharoah. What courage they had!

Do you remember when Moses was run out of town, ran away from Egypt for fear of being caught after he killed that Egyptian slave driver? Yet God spoke to this man—a murderer, even if on our side. God spoke to him, and shaped him into a prophet. God gave him new life, and used him to give our people new life, to lead them away from their oppressors. God spoke against Egypt's racism, and God's words had power.

Do you remember standing in the wilderness, alone and afraid, wondering how we would survive? There was no food, there was no water, there was no protection from the elements or attacking bandits or armies. Yet God came down to us, in a cloud, and rested among us in the tabernacle, and we were not alone anymore! God gave us manna in the morning, and quails at night, so much that we were sick of manna and quails, but well-fed and healthy. God commanded Moses to strike the rock with his staff, and the waters flowed out from it, quenching our thirst, we, a stubborn and complaining people yes, but God’s people. And Moses lifted his arms, and God was with us, protecting us from our enemies.

It was so easy to follow God's commands then. We knew God was with us. We depended on God so completely. There was nothing we could do for ourselves in the desert. God provided us with our food and water, and shelter. The clothing we wore did not wear out, because God made it last. And God is the one who bound us together, twelve tribes, into one great community of Israelites. And God gave us the promised land, a home to look forward to, a place that would be our own. We did not choose God; God chose us!

But the opposite is also true. God chose us, and we did not choose God. Moses warned us that this would be true, he told us to guard against it, but we did not remember his warning, and look at what we have gotten ourselves into. When we look at this promised land in which we live, a land that even in the midst of this economic crisis, continues to flow with milk and honey and every other kind of abundance imaginable more than any other place in the history of humankind. When we look at this place, we feel pride in our accomplishments. We look at the homes that we have built, whether literally or emotionally, the money that we have earned through our own hard work, the possessions that we have purchased. They are our accomplishments which we both take pride in, and protect at the cost of our lives. And because this is where our joy is, because we have become self-reliant, we have forgotten the Lord our God. We have forgotten that even in the midst of our affluence, everything that we have comes from God.

And so we have neglected God's commandments and customs and laws. God tells us that when we glean our fields, we are to leave a portion on the stalk so that the poor can come and glean behind us, and eat their fill. But what portion of our gains do we use to provide for the poor? So little, that today, Omaha food pantries are yearning for contributions. God tells us that abundant joy in extreme poverty can overflow in a wealth of generosity. But the most wealthy among us often hoard their riches for themselves, reaching always for more, plunging everyone else into poverty and creating a land in which greed and its cousin violence seem to reign. God tells us to welcome the stranger, and the widow, and the orphan, and every marginalized person. Yet women are still battered. Blacks and Hispanics are still forced into economic substrata. Gays and lesbians still have no marriage rights. Disabled people still do not have full access to many facilities and services. And the people who were in this land before us are still relegated to tiny reservations and dead-end opportunities unless they give up much of their culture and heritage. God tells us to love our neighbor. But we only love ourselves. In our society, we have forgotten God.

How strange, then, that God should still remain faithful to us. But God does. Though we seem to be headed into exile, God is still here among us. Though our selfishness seems to reign, Christ is still king of this world. And though we put up divisions among ourselves, God consistently brings us back together.

And look around! Look at the fruits of God's work among us! Can you imagine? Presbyterians and Catholics and Lutherans worshiping together! At the same service! Who could have guessed such a thing could happen, say, 30 years ago. And look at the offerings of our bounty—of God's bounty to us—that we have brought tonight. No, we won't cure world hunger tonight, but we will certainly feed many in need. The families with whom we will share this holiday; the friends, new and old, who are part of our lives. These are the incredible gifts that God has given us, and continues to give.

But most of all, we have the gift of the Christ. He is the one who takes communities in grief and brings them new life. He is the one who lived in poverty and so gives hope to the poverty among us. He is the one who takes the terror of violence and brings healing and hope and renewal. He is the one who died to free us from the power of our sins, and who brings us together again and again around the [Lord’s] table for a family meal far greater than the ones we will enjoy tomorrow.

And so we give thanks. For though we may forget God, God will always remember us. In our life, in our death, and in the life to come, in Christ, we will never be forgotten.

The occasion was Christ the King Sunday.  Link to text:  Matthew 25:31-46.

You can find an audio (MP3) file of the sermon by clicking here.  This will take you to a website called "Just Up It."  Click on the "Download file now" link.  Apologies for the ads, and do notice the "Skip this ad" button that may appear in the upper right hand corner of the page.

The occasion was Reformation Day.  Link to text:  Jeremiah 31:31-34.  You may also want to see Jeremiah 17:1 for reference.

This sermon was not written out.  You can find an audio (MP3) file of the sermon by clicking here.  This will take you to a website called "Just Up It."  Click on the "Download file now" link.  Apologies for the ads, and do notice the "Skip this ad" button that may appear in the upper right hand corner of the page.  I don't know another way to get sound here for the time being...

Hope it works!

Sisters and Brothers in Christ,

The word "hope" is being tossed around in the news a lot lately, especially in the upcoming presidential elections.  For example, the website for the McCain/Palin campaign currently features a video which begins with Senator McCain explaining that, "The last eight years haven't worked very well, have they?  I'll make the next four better."  The Obama/Biden campaign promises the same kind of hope, with the Senator's platform described on a "Blueprint for Change."  These candidates recognize that there is a need for hope in our world.

The need is there because there is a pervading sense of hopelessness.  41 states have reported job losses in the month of September.  The stock market, along with many people's retirement savings, is drooping.  At the same time, crime rates are skyrocketing all over the country.  Environmental experts are shouting gloom and doom from the latest studies, but how can we worry about global warming when it's too expensive to put food on the table, or buy heating oil for the cold winter ahead?

The book of Revelation was written at a time when things were looking pretty hopeless for the Jewish nation.  The Romans were hard sovereigns, and the situation was becoming progressively worse by the day.  Some felt they should submit to Rome completely, allowing poverty and foreign rule to slowly destroy them.  Others wanted to fight back--and they did, in the year 70; their destruction came much more quickly.  But the author of Revelation had a third alternative.  Behind the cryptic symbolism of the book, God's message clearly stands out.  The Romans seem powerful, but one day, their empire will end.  All human kingdoms eventually do.  But the Kingdom of God lasts forever.

What a hopeful message!  We have learned to trust in mutual funds, in presidential candidates, in the institutions and dreams and promises of our country that have gotten us this far.  And a great country it is!  But if we place all of our hope and trust there, we will one day find the floor has fallen out below us.  Our candidate will lose the election, the stock market will crash, and the American dream will prove only a dream.  Yet even the money that we hold on to so tightly can point us in the right direction.  On each bill and coin it proclaims loudly:  "In God we trust."

So as the election approaches, and a myriad of candidates try to sell you their particular brand of hope in exchange for your vote, I encourage you, do go vote!  Do it faithfully, for whomever you believe will be best for our future and God's plan.  But remember that the hope they offer is failing at best.  For it is only through God in Christ and the Holy Spirit, as Romans 5 says, that hope does not disappoint.

Faith, Hope, and Love,
Vicar Aaron

Link to texts:  Matthew 22:1-14 and Isaiah 25:1-9

Anyone who has spent any time around me this week probably knows that I’ve been struggling with this text.  See, I’m under the strange impression that the Gospel--a word which means, “good news,”--should bring us some, well, good news.  But instead, this text tells us about weeping and gnashing of teeth, and presents a God who is only interested in revenge and propriety.  Not quite the God I remember learning about in Sunday School.

This text is bad news for us, because we’re the bad guys in the story.  We are the first set of guests invited to the banquet.  We are the ones who are invited, but are simply too busy to attend.  We have all kinds of excuses, other things we have to do, good reasons why we can’t respond to God’s call.

That may seem like an absurd thing to say to people sitting here in Church.  We HAVE responded, haven’t we?  We’ve come, gathered around the banquet table, to worship God!  And look at the things our congregation does to serve God:  Our food pantry is something to truly be proud of, and so is the ever-stocked clothing rack.  We have some very fine Christian Education here, and it’s slowly growing and changing into something even more exciting.  Quilters gather every Wednesday to provide for Lutheran World Relief, and seniors gather on Thursdays to rejoice in each others’ gifts and company, and the list goes on.  These are good things!

But no matter how much time and effort we devote to God, we can always give more.  It takes no effort whatsoever to look out the window and see a hundred needs that we could be fulfilling, but that we just ignore.  And if you’re anything like me, you’re so busy all the time, doing things for whatever cause or ministry that you are involved in, that you never actually hear God’s invitation in the first place.  How do you know you’re doing what God truly wants unless you first stop and listen to what God is saying?

And as for being called murderers, well, I’m afraid we don’t do so well there, either.  How many hearts have we killed with a thoughtless word or act?  Worse yet, how many die from our inaction?  How many people die from diseases that we could cure?  Or from hungry bellies that we could feed?  Or from loneliness when we could sit by their side?  We, in this country, have more time and resources than anyone else in history, and we do not use them wisely.

Verse 8 describes us perfectly.  We are not worthy to be at the banquet.  The response promised in this story is harsh, but appropriate.  If you’re one of those people who think we should have more hellfire and damnation in church, you’re in luck.  The king, “sent his troops, destroyed those murderers, and burned their city.”  God promises that for our destructive apathy, we will receive only destruction in return.

Surely this is “bad news.”  Yet Isaiah, in our Old Testament reading for today, sees it differently.  He says, “O Lord, you are my God; I will exalt you, I will praise your name; for you have done wonderful things, plans formed of old, faithful and sure.  For you have made the city a heap, the fortified city a ruin; the palace of strangers is a city no more, it will never be rebuilt.”  Isaiah stands praising God for the destruction that has come to the city.  How could this be?  He explains, as he continues in verse 4:  “For you have been a refuge to the poor, a refuge to the needy in their distress, a shelter from the the rainstorm and a shade from the heat.”  And more:  “On this mountain the LORD of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines, of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear.”

The God I know is not about destruction.  He has never been.  Even in the story of the great flood, of Noah and the ark, when all things were washed away, the purpose was for renewal, for planting new seeds and growing a new world.  God is a God of creation, not destruction, and so God is always involved in the work of creation, and re-creation.  Sometimes, we need to be remade, reformed and reshaped into the holy and righteous people that God intends us to be, and often, a part of us has to be destroyed, first.  But isn’t that what Baptism is all about?  A constant dying to this world, drowning under the holy waters, and being reborn from them clean, renewed?

One of my favorite books gives a perfect example of this.  The book is “The Great Divorce,” by C.S. Lewis.  The novel follows a bunch of people on a bus, who are on their way to heaven to see if they can get in.  But they all have something that’s holding them back, just like you and I--something that prevents them from from truly realizing the fullness of God, and living into their promised eternal life.  There’s one young man in this story who carries a red lizard on his shoulder, which represents some vice of his, lust or greed or something.  And he’s just turning to head back to the bus when an angel speaks to him, and asks, “Can I kill it?”  Now, the guy makes all kinds of excuses:  He just wanted to see what it was all about up here, he needs to go back and check with his doctor to see if it can be removed, and so on.  And the lizard is whispering in his ear, trying to get him to head back.  But the angel insists.  “You can go in, but first, that lizard has to go.  Can I kill it?”  Well, finally, the guy agrees, and the angel plunges a fiery spear into the lizard.  It lets out a terrible scream as it dies, and then, its transformed into a beautiful horse which carries the young man on, up the mountain, into the Kingdom of God.

And just like this, you and I have parts of us that need to be destroyed, so that they can be transformed.  So, when God peers out onto the street to make a new invitation to the banquet, we have died, yes, but there we are standing also, renewed, made poor, needy, humble, desperate for God’s refuge.  And this time, because God has opened our ears, we now hear the invitation, and we enter.

And what a sight that banquet is!  Matthew’s Gospel tells us that the wedding hall is filled with guests.  And since they are right off the streets, they are of every kind imaginable:  Black, white, yellow, and brown; female and male; gay and straight; disabled and fully-abled; mentally ill and “well-adjusted,” if there even is such a thing.  And the Gospel even gives us this startling detail:  “Both good and bad.”

We seem to think that we have to be especially good to get into heaven, or to approach the banquet table, or however we want to put it.  But if we really are the miserable creatures we described earlier, then we are bad!  It is an inescapable fact.  So it is not our goodness which brings us here, but instead it is God’s goodness.  God is the one who makes us worthy to gather at the banquet.

Of course, we need to be careful.  This bit at the end of our story about the man without a wedding garment is meant as a warning.  We cannot be too excited about our newfound worthiness.  The moment we are taken with our own worth, we forget who it is that has made us worthy, and suddenly we are ready for destruction again.  And, of course, renewal, and rebirth.  No, we have to remember that the only reason we are here at all is because of the garment in which we have been clothed, when in our Baptism we “put on Christ.”  It is Christ who makes us worthy.

And so, today, may the parts of us which are unworthy be destroyed.  And may God make us new, and righteous people.  And may we listen for God’s invitation, and truly hear it.  And with Isaiah, may it be said on that day that, Lo, this is our God; we have waited for him, so that he might save us. This is the LORD for whom we have waited; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.

Sisters and Brothers in Christ,

I went back to Chicago last weekend with the intent of taking a workshop on stewardship in preaching.  Sadly, the workshop had to be cancelled; the woman who was to lead and facilitate the workshop--a beloved member of our seminary community and one of the first women to be ordained in the ELCA--passed away after a long battle with breast cancer only a few weeks before.  My trip to the big city became an opportunity to visit with friends and share some of my joys in these first two months in Omaha.

Friday night, I joined with a large number of these friends to celebrate the lives of Julianne and her husband Beau.  Julianne, a Lutheran Deaconess, has been a close friend at the seminary these last two years.  Now that she has completed her M.A. degree, the two plan to move to Australia, which is where Beau is originally from.  The night was extravagant for a seminary gathering; a multi-course meal was followed by a chocolate party.  Several different types of fondue were laid out, with brownies, marshmallows, and strawberries for dipping.  Julianne’s famous molten chocolate cakes were made and shared, and the movie Chocolat was shown to everyone’s delight.  I think it was my favorite seminary gathering to date--good friends, good food, all in celebration of the gifts of one woman and one man who have touched our lives so deeply.

The entire weekend was rainy, and Chicago is anything but pleasant when it is damp.  When I got up on Saturday morning, I peered out the window at the bleakness outside.  Down in the courtyard below, on the painted bench that made up part of the children’s play area provided by the seminary, was a woman.  She lay on her side, eyes closed, trying desperately to sleep in the rain.  An umbrella was sandwiched between her body and the bench, helping to keep at least her head and arms somewhat dry, but the water poured on her lower body, making it impossible to drowse.  What a stark contrast this homeless woman was to the abundance of the previous night!

A wise person recently asked me who we are serving in our Christian faith.  Is it right to celebrate our friends’ gifts and ignore the homeless?  No, but neither would it be right to disregard the relationships we have been given as we reach out to those beyond our doors.  In the end, we cannot perfectly serve all...  but we must not be self-serving either.  The Church exists for those who are not a part of it--who may never be a part of it!  God calls us to reach out beyond ourselves, to care for and know those around us.  For, as we learn in Matthew 25, when we are in relationship with others, we are really in relationship with Christ.

May we all discover new ways to serve and love one another.

Grace and peace,
Vicar Aaron

Link to texts:  Numbers 21:4b-9 and John 3:13-17

5:45 a.m.  The terrible noise reaches throughout the place, fills all senses, intruding everywhere.  One eye opens, and with a disgusted moan, a hand darts out from behind the sheets.  Silence.

5:52 a.m.  The sound peals forth again.  This time there are no eyes, just the hand.  Too quick to be visible, it leaps out, crushes the black oval on the top of the infernal machine, and disappears again into the dark silence.

5:59.  This time, the covers are flung back, and the switch is pushed that stops the sound permanently, for this day.  Steve lumbers his way out of the bed and trudges off down the hallway, muttering the whole way, cursing the inventor of the snooze button, the sunlight, his employer, and whoever dreamed up the idea of mornings in the first place.  His walk is slow, and if his arms were longer, he’d be dragging his knuckles along the carpet like an orangutan.

Shower.  The hot water pours over his head, clearing away the grime from yesterday and the sweat from sleeping.  But why even bother, really?  There will just be another day of work, another night of sleep, and another shower to take tomorrow.  It’s so repetitive, monotonous, the same thing day in and day out, week in and week out.  Shave.  Brush teeth.  Clothing.  Bo-ring.  If eternal life meant living forever with this kind of monotony, why would anyone want it?

Cereal.  Milk.  Coffee.  Orange juice.  The orange juice tastes bad against the remnants of toothpaste in Steve’s mouth.  He pokes warily at a cheerio as it floats on the surface of the milk.  Is this what life is reduced to?  Cheerios and juice, listening to the news drone on in the background every morning?  What ever happened to “you can do anything you want when you grow up?”  Does anyone really ever say, “I want to be a real estate agent, and spend all of my time hoping some poor sap decides to buy a house in this market, so I can make enough commission to actually eat this month?”  Wasn’t he supposed to be curing cancer by now, or exploring the moon, or maybe being president?  These are the things we wanted when we were children.  Where did that go?

I should feel grateful, he thinks.  There were so many people who couldn’t afford even what he had.  People without food, without a home and a bed.  He remembers seeing a woman the previous day, trying desperately to sleep on a park bench in the pouring rain, an umbrella sandwiched between her body and the bench to keep he head dry as she fidgeted, trying to get comfortable enough.  He supposed he was glad for what he had.  But was that really what the gospel promise was reduced to?  For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son, so be grateful for what you have?  And what about the promise to that woman on the bench?  Where was her gospel?

The television drones on.  “And now for the weather.  This low pressure area moving through the region means more rain today...”  Not more rain!  He couldn’t take another rainy day like yesterday.  The gray gloom of the world around him was oppressive, and really, nobody bought houses on rainy days.  He’d shown another house to the Richardsons yesterday, a perfectly lovely home right in their price range.  The living space was quite comfortable, and the extra bedrooms meant that as their family grew, they would still have room, but they said they weren’t quite sure it was what they were looking for.  The problem was, they didn’t know what they were looking for.  Their indecisiveness was a plague, following him for week after week.  It had infected Steve, like a poisonous snake, biting at his heels, the venom running through him and draining away the life.  He didn’t want to face them again.

As he sips at his coffee, the phone rings and startles him away from his thoughts.  It’s Dana, an old friend from college.  “I’m pregnant,” she announces.  “I want you to be the godfather.”

Months later, Steve stands, feeling a bit conspicuous, at the front of the church next to the proud parents, as their pastor pronounces those old, old words.  “Bethany Lynn, I Baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”  The water pours over her tiny head, cascading back into the bowl, a tangible sign of God’s grace.  Then a finger is dipped into oil, and the sign of the cross is drawn on the beautiful child.  “You have been sealed by the Holy Spirit, and marked with the cross of Christ forever.”

So strange to see this mark placed on the forehead of a baby.  This ancient symbol, an instrument of hate, used to condemn criminals to a painful death.  And yet, there it is, standing out in bas relief, an oily residue drying on the forehead of this new life.  A strange juxtaposition, death and life.  What’s the difference between the two?

Of course, Jesus is the difference.  He is the one who transformed that symbol from death to life because for Him, for God, death could not be the end of the story.  By hanging on that cross, he took all of the pain and hatred, the evil, the poisonous venom that eats away at our souls and our hearts, and drew it out of us.  And then Jesus came down off that cross, and was resurrected, and is still alive!  Lifted up in the midst of our lives, we gaze on the cross and find new life and healing, meaning and purpose.  Because the cross now is not a symbol of death.  It is a sign of God’s presence with us still, a sign that Christ is with us and among us.

And this was the sign that little Bethany now had on her forehead.  A tangible reminder that she lived in the presence of the Cross wherever she went.  That this healing and new life and purpose was there for her throughout her life, in all times and places, on her own face and on the face of all the Baptized.  Including, of course, Steve.

5:45 a.m.  The horrible sound is no different than ever, nor is the tiredness.  The ritual of the snooze alarm takes place again at 5:52 and 5:59 and 6:06, and then the slow, grumpy walk to the bathroom.

Shower.  The hot water pours over his head, cascading down into the tub below, running down the drain and returning to the earth from whence it came.  Steve makes the sign of the cross over himself right there, a tangible reminder of God’s grace, and He’ll need that reminder of grace today.  He’s taking Bob and Gina Adam out to see another house, and they have been quite a challenge, unable to really articulate what they are looking for, or even what their hopes and dreams are for the future.  It feels a little silly to do this ritual act in the shower of all places, but God is present there just as much as in a church or anywhere else for that matter, right?

And it is good to know that God is there.  Because it gives meaning and shape to the monotony of the day.  Steve thinks about his clients, wondering what God is calling them to, what path God is directing them down.  One way or another, it is Steve’s call to help them find a home from which to do it, a place where they can be family and community and love each other.  As challenging as it may be sometimes, this work is a ministry of sorts, and as long as Steve can keep viewing it as such, he knows that he can keep from despair.

See, this is the real meaning of eternal life.  It is not a never ending, monotonous existence, though life-forever is part of the promise.  But real eternal life is something we have now.  Already!  It is a way of life that knows always that Christ is with us.  Because the world--the whole world:  The earth, the rain, the cereal and milk, the water pouring over our heads, the people around us, and we ourselves--all belongs to God.  The Holy Spirit has reached out Her hand and marked us with the cross of Christ forever.  So now we live in the shadow of that cross, a cross which, for us, is a symbol of meaning and new life against the deadly venom of this weary land.  This is not because of what the cross it, but because of whose it is.  We are a people with water poured over our heads, living richly, eternally, beneath the cross--of Jesus.

When you picture Nebraska, the images that leap to mind involve miles and miles of cornfields, lush green crops, and not a lot of people. You don’t automatically think “cultural melting pot,” which is why I’m a bit surprised by what I’ve found here. The city of Omaha was founded in 1854 on the western bank of the Missouri River. Once a pioneer town, Omaha now stretches over 200 blocks west of the river, and the metropolitan area houses just under one million people.

My neighborhood, just west of the downtown area, was originally built to house those people who worked downtown but wanted to live outside of that area. The majority of the congregation comes from that group of people who once lived near the church—a predominantly German heritage people with families that have been part of this congregation for decades. The church has had a difficult history. In the middle of the 1900s, the congregation had to decide, along with many other area churches, whether it wanted to stay here or move further west as the city grew and changed. The decision to stay was one imbued with trust in God and a desire to reach out to the community that God had given them. In the 70’s, the congregation was one of many to leave the Lutheran Church—Missouri Synod over disagreements about how to understand scripture and live out our faith. These churches worked later hard for Lutheran unity, and their presence was a significant factor in the formation of the ELCA that we know today.

Over the decades, the neighborhood has changed quite a bit. As the city grew, people moved into suburbs further and further west, and today, this impoverished community is made up of first-generation immigrants, migrant workers, and people who cannot afford housing elsewhere. Much of the neighborhood is Hispanic or Latino—not a day goes by that I don’t get to speak some Spanish in the church office—and community organizers estimate that a large number of the people living here are not doing so legally. Others’ life situations have driven them to poverty, trying to survive as thinly spread as possible. The home across from me, for example, houses aunts and uncles, and a huge number of children—the older ones caring for the younger as adults are forced to scrounge for whatever work they can. Reaching out to this new community has been exceptionally difficult for the congregation, but the congregation’s very active food pantry, ESL classes run at the church through the local community college, and many children’s programs help the congregation fulfill it’s mission to “Build a Neighborhood for Christ” and to ensure that ALL feel welcome at the Lord’s table.

Mutual of Omaha insurance company, located just four blocks north of us, is currently undergoing a major construction project. They will be building expensive condominiums and converting old buildings in our area into upscale apartments for their employees, and so many young businesswomen and men are expected to move in within the next 6 months. The neighborhood is changing again. Finding a balance between crying out against the injustices of gentrification and seeking ways to welcome these newcomers to the community has been a challenge. To that end, the congregation is embarking on a major advertising campaign to spread the Gospel to these newcomers. First Lutheran Church is committed to welcoming and ministering to all people, from every background, race, and economic status, and the struggle to live into that commitment is an exciting one!

And so I am very glad to be here. The house is wonderful, the cat and I are settled in, and the congregation has welcomed me with open arms. My work so far has been so exciting, and I cannot wait to tell you more about it next month. Until then, all my thanks for your love and support!

Grace and Peace,
Vicar Aaron

Now I say this is the hard part because this second part of the gospel today, well, I have to admit.  I don’t like it.  Not one bit.  See, I think the Gospel should be filled with hope.  But the way that Jesus treats this woman, despite the fact that he eventually gives her what she wants, well, it seems to me to be pretty hopeless.

We have Jesus go off to the north, leaving Galilee for the lands surrounding Tyre and Sidon.  What this means is that he’s left Israel, the lands of the Hebrews, and gone to Phoenicia, another country that’s part of the vast Roman Empire.  We don’t know why he leaves.  But one way or another, he’s not in Israelite territory anymore, and so if he’s going to run into people, they’re going to be foreigners.

And sure enough, a Canaanite woman comes out to meet him, crying, “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.”  She’s obviously heard of Jesus--the news about him has traveled far and fast.  She knows exactly who he is:  A healer, since she asks for help, and the promised Messiah, since she calls him “Son of David.”  And so she reaches out to that promise.  And we know how this story is going to go, because we’ve seen it before in the Gospel.  We’ve seen him cure the paralytic and the centurion’s boy, we’ve seen him stop the hemorrhaging woman’s bleeding and raise a little girl from the dead.  And we know that this time, too, Jesus, the healer, will reach out his hand, and heal this woman’s daughter, and cast out the demons, and God will be glorified, and so...

And so, we are shocked when Jesus just doesn’t respond.  When Jesus ignores her, completely, as if she weren’t even there.  And this has to be a willful choice on his part, because the disciples can’t ignore her.  She’s making such a commotion and noise that, well, you can just imagine them glancing back at her, and maybe whispering amongst themselves wondering why they haven’t stopped.  And finally one of them gets up the courage to say, “Hey, Jesus, this woman, she keeps following us, and, well, we can’t have that, it’s not good for our image.  I mean, it’s making us kind of uncomfortable, so maybe you could, you know, do your healing thing and get rid of her?  Maybe?”

And Jesus still doesn’t look at her, or speak to her, but he tells the disciples that he was sent only to the lost sheep of the HOUSE OF ISRAEL.  She’s not his responsibility, see, because she’s Canaanite--because her skin is maybe a little darker, and her eyes look different, and she’s got this weird accent, and so you can tell, she’s not an Israelite, and so, really, it’s somebody else’s job.

But this woman runs up, and kneels in front of Jesus, and makes him take notice of her.  And she pleads with him, “Lord, help me!”  And Jesus responds by calling her a dog.

Even if you were comfortable with this story up to this point, you’ve got to be squirming a little now.  We all have a little trouble with this, and even our best commentators try desperately to explain this away.  William Barclay, the Episcopal commentator who wrote the Daily Bible Study series, says, “We can be sure that the compassion in Jesus’ eyes robbed his words of all bitterness.”  But I just can’t find a compassionate way to call someone a dog.  Historical critics point out that this probably isn’t an authentic saying of Jesus--that it crept into the Gospel of Matthew from some other source over the centuries.  But authentic or not, we’ve accepted it as part of our holy scriptures, and we’ve got to deal with it.  Other commentators, point out that the word specifically means a household dog, a little puppy, so the term doesn’t have as much sting to it.  But a dog, loved or not, is still a dog, and in comparison with the children that sit right up at the master’s table, it’s a term of denigration.  It’s as if Jesus is saying, “Yes, I can make bread to feed 5,000, but that bread is not for you.”

And it doesn’t excuse the sting of Jesus’ words, but that is actually exactly what Jesus is saying.  See, Jesus is the Son of David, the Messiah, the fulfillment of the promise made to our ancestors, to Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, to Sarah and Rebekah, Rachel and Leah.  But Abraham and Sarah were not the ancestors of the Canaanite woman.  God made no covenant with HER ancestors.  God did not establish the kingdom of HER King David.  God did not send HER Prophets and sages.  And so when she reaches out for this promise, the promise is not for her, it is for someone else, and she has no right to reach for it.  And Jesus, who is the God of justice, is right to point out that it would be unjust and unfair to respond to her need.  She has no claim on him.

This is why I say that this story is hopeless.  Because this woman, who desperately needs Jesus’ help, cannot turn to him for help.  He is Israel’s Messiah, but he is not her Messiah, nor any other gentiles’ Messiah either.  And when I look back in my family history, I see that I am half German, a quarter Irish, a quarter Slovak, and no Israelite at all.  Nor you either.  This Jesus is not OUR Messiah!  The promise that God made was a promise to somebody else, and we have no right to call on Him.  And that is a devastating message if ever I heard one.

There’s a lot of shocking things in this story.  But the most shocking thing to me is this:  The Canaanite woman continues.  She has heard Jesus’ insulting, final and resounding “No,” and she goes on asking for help anyway.  And that shows her amazing courage, and strength, and faith.  Because, see, I’ve known a lot of people in my life who have been told “No” over and over again in their lives.  Women who have survived in a man’s world, who have risen the ranks of a corporate structure that strains to keep them at the bottom.  People of color who have navigated an all-white educational system, demanding to be valued and have their voice heard.  Gay and lesbian people who have insisted on their right to love both God and the people to whom God has given them.  People of different faiths who know that God created all people and loves them too, even if they name God differently.  These are people whom I respect and admire, whose strength and faith I only wish I could begin to emulate!  And yet I don’t know many of them who, if they were faced with God, standing, looking at them, telling them “No,” wouldn’t back down, walk away, saying, “I’m too tired, I’ve been fighting too long, I can’t stand up against this.”

And so it is no wonder that Jesus is awed by this woman’s faith.  Because she knows who she’s dealing with, and she knows she has no claim on the promise, and yet she reaches out for it anyway and refuses to let go!  She trusts this Jesus deeply and implicitly, and knows that he really is God, and that he really can help her, in a way that no one else can.  Hers is an amazing, astonishing faith that, even in the face of rejection, would follow Jesus to the ends of the earth.  It’s a faith that is beyond human capabilities, and can only come from God.

And God gives us this same faith too!  How many of us has faced terrible, painful moments in our lives and reached out, almost instinctively, for God?  How many times have we experienced loneliness or sickness, poverty or hardship, grief or despair and cried out, “Lord, help me!”  God gives us this faith so we know always where to turn.  And God even does one better.

In this story, despite all the rules, despite the demands of fairness and justice, Jesus heals the woman’s daughter.  There is no good reason for it.  Because even though she has faith, she still has no claim on the promise.  Yet God chose to reach out to her in that moment, to extend the promise to include her.  When all is said and done, when the senseless insults have passed, Jesus looks at her with love and astonishment, and says, “Let it be done for you as you wish.”  And her daughter was healed instantly.

Now, God doesn’t always make things happen exactly as we wish.  We still manage to be lonely, get sick, and even die.  Yet our prize is better than the simple fulfillment of desires, because at the end of our story, God looks at us, who have no claim on the promise, and extends that promise to us too.  Jesus becomes OUR Messiah.  God speaks to us and call us--not dogs--but God’s children.  And God invites us all to the master’s table, to that great banquet, to share not crumbs but holy bread, to taste and know that the Lord is good, and to know that we, too, are part of that ancient promise, that we have been adopted as descendants of Abraham and Sarah, and that we do, in fact, finally have a claim on God.  Why?  Because God has chosen, for no reason whatsoever except out of that Great Love, God has chosen to have a claim on us.

And this is why I love this story.  Because it finally gives us such great hope.  Because as Paul says, God has imprisoned all, so that God may be merciful to all.

Did you hear what they said? They said he walked on water! I can hardly believe it! Not through the water, or wading in it, but right on top, on the surface, as if it were solid ground! It’s impossible! No human could do something like that! And him especially—he’s nobody important. Perfectly ordinary. A simple fisherman named Peter.

Our Gospel text today is a miracle story; there’s no doubt about that. But the real miracle here isn’t Jesus walking on water; it’s Peter. See, the other Gospels, Mark and John, tell this story too, but they only talk about Jesus. In their account, Jesus walking on water is amazing proof that Jesus is God, but it’s no real surprise to us. We know Jesus is God; we know about the healings and casting out of demons and turning water into wine, and so one more miracle, while impressive, is to be expected. But Matthew’s retelling of this story is remarkable, because in his story, Peter gets out of the boat. And we know all about Peter, too. We know he’s painfully ordinary. A fisherman, a laborer, and a fallible human being, who has great faith, but makes mistakes and does stupid things and sometimes can’t see the nose in front of his face. Peter’s not a lot different from, say, you and me.

And you and me, we can’t walk on water. You know we can’t. We’ve all had that moment—well, I’VE had that moment, where, you know, you’re at the swimming pool or the beach, and you think, maybe if my faith is good enough, maybe if I just pray, wouldn’t it be fun… And you reach your foot out over the water, and you squeeze your eyes shut, and then… well, you end up with a wet foot. It’s just not possible for a person like us to walk on water. So when Peter does this impossible thing, even for a moment, even though it ends with him sinking in doubt, when ordinary Peter actually walks on water, that, right there, is truly a miracle.

That’s not the only impossible thing we heard about in today’s Scripture readings. Our Old Testament lesson is one of my favorites—Elijah, in the cave, waiting for God to pass by in a whisper. But the result of the encounter is not quite what Elijah had planned. He’s there on Mount Horeb in the first place because he’s running away from King Ahab and Queen Jezebel, who have promised to kill him. Elijah is running away for fear of his life! And God tells him to turn around and go back. There is absolutely no way that he can just walk back to Israel and survive. And yet he does.

Now, I don’t know about you, but for me, there are some days that God tells me to get out of bed, and it seems an impossible task. How on Earth could God expect ordinary people like us put ourselves in mortal danger and walk on the surface of the sea? How can God call us to do the impossible when most of the time, we can’t even manage to do the easiest things right?

Well, to begin with, God doesn’t leave us to fend for ourselves. God will always provide us with the help that we need to accomplish the impossible. Elijah was told to go and anoint kings and prophets, and to take them with him on his return. He did not go back into danger alone; God gave him companions. And Peter, standing there in the middle of the Sea of Galilee so far from the land, needed only cry out for help and Jesus was right there, reaching out his hand to support him.

One of my friends from seminary—Ben—suffers from a form of clinical depression. Most of the time, he lives quite happily, unaffected by this illness. But once in a while it rears its ugly head, and the whole world comes crashing down around him. There was one day last March when, headed to the bank, he walked a block from his apartment and stood at an intersection to cross the street. One car went by, and another, and then another, and after only about the fifth car, he turned around, walked home, locked the door, and crawled back into bed. He tells me that the simple act of crossing the street that day was truly an impossible task.

And yet, God calls us to live full, productive, and Christ-centered lives, and Ben knew this. But he also knew there was no way he could do this impossible thing alone; and so he picked up a telephone book, called the number of a therapist, and made an appointment. In his state of mind, even this phone call was a herculean task. But the knowledge that there would be someone else there to help him was enough to propel him back out the door to get on with his life. For Ben, that counselor was a gift from God—the help and companion that was divinely provided to him so that he could surmount the impossible.

God does give us help, but that’s not all God does. God believes in us, too. It’s funny; that sentence usually shows up the other way around. We should believe in God. But long before we began to believe in God, and much more deeply than our wavering belief, God believes in us.

That’s the thing we always get wrong about Peter in this story. We think Peter has lost faith in God. We have this mental image of Peter, totally focused on Jesus like he’s got blinders on, walking across the water, and suddenly, the wind picks up and he looks away, and that’s when he falls. But Peter’s faith in Jesus is totally unwavering in Matthew’s Gospel. You know his faith is unwavering when he dares Jesus to give the impossible command to walk. You know his faith is unwavering faith when steps out of the boat onto the surface of the deep, vast sea. And you know his faith MUST be unwavering because knows exactly who to call for help when he starts to sink. Peter doesn’t reach for the boat when the waters suddenly surge up over his head; he doesn’t call to his fellow fisherman, whose nets would provide quick and certain help. No, he calls out, “Lord, save me!” He reaches for Jesus, because in Jesus his faith is sure.

Yet Jesus says to him, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” So there must be someone that Jesus believes in, that Peter doesn’t. Though surprising, the answer is obvious. Peter doubted himself! Peter, who steps out of the boat with confidence, who strides across the water like it’s solid ground, suddenly gets a face full of wind and thinks, “What in God’s name am I doing? I can’t do this!” And down he goes.

And such is the way of life. Our lack of self-confidence is our worst enemy. I know a young woman named Heather, whose self-confidence had been crushed. She comes from a poor family, and was the victim of abuse for many years, both in her childhood, and in a long-term relationship throughout her twenties. When I knew her, she was in college, trying to become a music teacher, but the failures kept coming. But it made no sense: She was intelligent, vibrant, and talented! She just didn’t believe in herself.

Something remarkable happened to her in college, though. For the first time in her life, other people believed in her. And as she started to hear that message, her life started to turn around. She finally graduated from college with honors, and she teaches elementary school music today. She is married to a man who treats her well, and they have two beautiful children. And most importantly, she believes she can succeed, that she is worthwhile and valued by the many people that surround and support her in the communities she is a part of.

If the confidence of other people can change our lives, how much more can God’s belief in us change our lives? And the good news is that God does believe in us! God created us, has promised to be with us, and has entrusted us with the work God wants us to do in the world. God has brought us into the community of His children though our Baptism, and called us to do this work. God invites us again and again to gather around the table at this glorious feast, renewing and refreshing us for that calling. God believes that we—little old ordinary you and I—can be God’s church, God’s own hands and feet here on earth.

And so we have been sent, off to do the impossible for God—to spread that message that the God who made us also loves us, helps us, draws us together into one community, believes in us, and is always with us. And like Elijah, like Peter, we actually DO the impossible! When faith leaders from around the community gather around Hanscom Park on a Sunday afternoon and provide a picnic and a safe space for the community to gather, that is doing the impossible! When together we celebrate and welcome a new member into our congregational family, as we are about to do in just a few minutes, celebrate the strength of this man and his walk in the Lord, that’s doing the impossible! And when a whole church gathers together and collects school supplies for nearly 300 children in our neighborhood--and let’s not mince words. Many of those families are regularly told by the world around them that they are not wanted, that they should not be here, that they aren’t even worth communicating with. And the message that I think they heard yesterday was that whether the world is right or wrong, the fact is, God wants them. They are truly valuable, because they are God’s children. God made them, and God loves them, and God wants them. And shouting that message, and sometimes even hearing it for ourselves, that, sisters and brothers, that is doing the impossible!

So we know it can be done. But today is a new day. So I ask you: What impossible task is God calling you to do today? Who has God sent to help you? Do you really get how much God believes in you? How will you walk on water this week?

Dear Sisters and Brothers in Christ,

I love to tell stories. I've had special occasion to realize that this summer, being home again in Pennsylvania for the last time in the next two years. I've been able to meet up with old friends and neighbors, and share stories of those times in each other's lives that we've missed, and those times that we shared long ago. And it's such a joy to do so! So much that I find myself joining in with my mother to tell--even starting myself--those old stories that parents use to embarrass their children. Like that time when he couldn't stop touching the nativity set, even though he was told not to. Or when he accidentally sat in the birthday cake. With each retelling, these stories gather more details, things that never happened, and they become more relished with each embellishment.

I went last weekend to visit my half brothers and sister--my father's children from a first marriage. These are people who are my family, whom I love, but whose lives are so different from my own that we haven't seen each other in, for some ten years, for others, seventeen. And it was like we'd always been together. It was such a warm and joyful reunion, to sit on the porch and share stories of how their children have grown, where my life has taken me, and most of all, of the father we share and the mothers we don't. I learned so much about my parents' lives that Sunday afternoon, and drew much closer to these siblings I barely know.

And there's my friend, Angela, whose job this summer was mine last year--working in a camp with autistic children. What a joy to hear stories of these children I left behind, whose lives touched me forever even though I'll not see them again. And too, to think back on stories I told them, since that was part of my job as chaplain. Silly children's stories; ancient fables; embellished life experiences; and my favorite, those great old Bible stories.

My favorite author, Madeline L'Engle, was often chastized by certain groups for her fanciful style of storytelling. Billed as a Christian author, her children's books were fantasic and wild, and she was accused of telling fiction stories rather than Christian truth. But stories are truth! L'Engle says that stories can reveal a truth that is deeper than plain fact. And she's right. Stories aren't just lists of events. Fact or fiction, they can show us God's presence in all that we do, the Truth that is beyond truth. No wonder we love to tell that old, old story.

Less than one week is left before my trip to Omaha. And amidst all the other things this trip brings, there is mostly excited anticipation. I can't wait to hear your stories, and to share mine with you. See you soon!

Grace and peace,
Vicar Aaron

Sisters and Brothers in Christ,

Something Ruth Ann said in June's "Microphone" struck me. "Somebody is always moving," she noted. And its true; we join with others on their life journey, and they with us, for only a little distance. Then time or chance separates us, sometimes for a short while, and sometimes for so long it seems forever. We remember them, often, with so many joys, but also with so many regrets, and worries, and fears. As many times as I have moved in my short life--to college in rural Michigan, back home to Pennsylvania, then to center-city Chicago; into a career in computer systems, and a few years later, leaving that career for teaching, and then public ministry--I am amazed that this practice of changing directions and locations mid-journey hasn't become routine. Yet there are always fresh challenges and new joys, wonderful people to meet-- And those same old worries and fears.

As usual, I'm only preaching to the choir. You must know the fears of change well, as you send off your beloved Vicar Kristina to the next step in her ministry, and prepare to receive a stranger to fill her role. Or as you look at the city around you, the last winds of change still blowing even as Destination Midtown Omaha promises to reshape the neighborhood in ways--both exciting and worrisome--that you can't yet imagine. Or the devastation of flooding faced by your neighbors just a few hours away in Iowa. Or those millions of redirections in each of our lives, whether we are facing illness, celebrating new children, learning new jobs, mourning old friends... We all know the loss of the past, the worry of the present, and the fear of the future.

Imagine the fears of the disciples of the early church, wondering what to do next, now that their Lord had ascended into Heaven, entrusting the care of humankind and all Creation to them--those foolish, blessed disciples who remind us so much of ourselves. Or Jesus, praying alone in the Garden of Gethsemane, knowing the journey ahead was necessary, but still praying it might be taken away. We know that God's own self in Christ experienced that same loss, that same worry and fear in that ancient garden. That God knows our own fears and has promised to be with us in this and every time of change is incredibly comforting to me.

So, as I pack my belongings and deliver long lectures to my cat, Ashes, about how nice Omaha will be and how much she will like it (as if she could understand, as if those lectures were really meant for her), I can trust in the presence of the God who promises to be with us, yea, even until the end of the age. And so the loss and worry and fear seem to melt--at least in part--away, and leave me with excitement, anticipation, and peace at the prospect of joining you for this little while, come August.

I pray that same peace for you, and look forward to meeting you all soon!

Grace and Peace,
Vicar Aaron

In my class on worship at seminary, we learned the right way to hold our hands. We’ve all seen the pastor do it—stand at the altar and pray, and she’ll hold her hands out, sort of like this. Right? Except, “that’s not right,” says the professor, “not right at all. You need to bend your elbows.” Like this? “No, not like that—now you look like you’re kicking a field goal for Jesus. Pull your elbows in! Hands out! Fingers together! Palms upward! And for the hundredth time, put your thumbs in!” I lost points on the worship final because of those thumbs, let me tell you.

That kind of strictness is a little ridiculous, and the professor admitted that he agreed—though not until his last lecture of the term, of course. But I did learn this year: How you hold your hands is very important.

Take Roger, for example. I’ve always liked him well enough, a good man, middle-aged, hard-working. A little negative sometimes, but someone you knew you could count on. But I found out that he has a brother that lives in Salt Lake City. They had a fight some 15 years ago, over something ridiculous that neither of them can remember, and they haven’t spoken to each other since. Roger says he’d be glad to hear from his brother, would love to start their relationship again as adults. But he’s lying to himself. See, he wants his brother to make the first move. He’s not willing to dial the phone, to write a letter, to open his arms in any way to invite his brother back into his life. He stays closed up, because of some past pain. A pain that’s real, and still hurts, and keeps him trapped, arms folded in defiance and anger.

Sometimes the pain runs so deep. Like for Betty. She’s a beautiful woman, must be in her late 60’s now, but as vibrant as ever. Well, as vibrant as she can be. Betty used to be married, but, well, her husband wasn’t a good man. It started early in their marriage, with name calling. He’d always put her down, tell her how bad of a wife she was, how stupid she was, how nobody wanted her. And she believed him, and when it got so much worse, she didn’t think there was anyone to go to. She didn’t leave until it was almost too late. And by then, there really was nowhere to go. She’s tried to put a life back together in the twelve years since then, and you’ll always see her with a smiling face—but it’s not real. The wounds don’t go away. The bleeding never stops. And she’s all alone, because she’s too scared to reach out to anyone, for fear they’ll hurt her, all over again.

And a third story. This time about Matthew, a young man, though hardly the youngest of his crowd. It was his job that was the problem. He was a tax collector, and back in ancient Palestine, it worked rather differently than it does now. There were no government regulations that set exactly how much people are taxed. Instead, Rome told the tax collectors how much money they wanted, and it was up to the collector to figure out how to get it. Everything went to Rome, and if the tax collector wanted to earn a living, he had to collect more money, over and above the taxes, and keep some for himself. How much he kept was up to him, just as long as Rome got what they wanted. If Matthew wanted a raise, he had to squeeze his neighbors for a little more money. And if he saw his neighbors’ poverty, and decided to charge them less, well, he might not be able to eat that day. No wonder everyone hated tax collectors. His hand was always out saying, give me more—it had to be, he couldn’t help it—and as a result, nobody liked him. Nobody wanted him.

Imagine what it must have been like for him that day when Jesus walked by, and saw him, saw him in the tax collector’s booth and knew exactly who he was and what he did. And, unlike everyone else who passed by, Jesus didn’t shout insults or even ignore him. Jesus stopped, opened his arms, and said, “Follow me.”

And from that moment, Matthew was free. Free from the hatred and oppression that had been his wherever he went. The man whom nobody loved discovered that God loved him, and it changed his life. He was free to… free to… free to do what?

Because that’s the problem we have, isn’t it? We know God frees us. We’ve experienced the love of God, and the joy that comes from it. And it’s changed our lives. But we don’t know quite what to do with our newfound freedom.

Well, we know what Matthew did, don’t we? He did what any one of us would probably do. He went in, and had dinner, my favorite pastime. He sat down at the same table as Jesus, and so did other tax collectors, and sinners, and unpleasant people, people who were unclean, people whom it was against religious law to eat with. When the religious leaders had a problem with that, Jesus reached back into the book of Hosea, to our first lesson today, and he said, “Go and learn what this means, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’”

See, the ancient Pharisees spent their time picking apart the Law and the Prophets—pouring over the Old Testament to figure out what exactly was necessary to do to fulfill God’s Law. And before we get too critical of the Pharisees, we need to remember that all they wanted to do was to please the God whom they loved, and whom they knew loved them. Their goal was a good one! But their method had a flaw. They were so busy figuring out just how much they should do that they never thought to do more than just the letter of the Law. After all, if they strayed from exactly what the law said, which direction should they stray? No, better to stick to just what God had said; that way, we’ll know just what God wants. It’s like being so busy driving exactly the speed limit and passing only on the left that you refuse to let a driver pass who is rushing to the hospital. Or like being so worried about just how to hold your hands when you pray, that you forget to actually pray.

Jesus took his disciples and went from place to place caring for people. For example, the woman who, like Betty, had been suffering for twelve years from wounds that may have been much older, who had no one to go to. Because of her faith in this Jesus, she finally reached out to someone in the only way her fear would let her. And Jesus turned, and loved her, and called her “daughter,” and declared her well. And she was.

Or like the ruler whose daughter had died. It must have been difficult for someone of power to turn for help to this dusty carpenter from a simple family in Galilee, and his ragtag bunch of followers. But Jesus’ presence is one which invites us to open our arms and ask for help. So Jesus went, and took the girl by the hand, and brought that family back together. I wonder what he might do for Roger and his brother.

Jesus freed people in order that they might open up their arms, and practice mercy. Perhaps it was mercy for themselves—the woman and the ruler who wanted their lives to be whole again. Perhaps it was mercy for others—Matthew and the other disciples, who, in the very next chapter of the Bible, are sent out to drive out demons and heal every disease and sickness. And they did! Jesus opened his hands so that we might be able to open ours.

Another of my professors is fond of saying, “The Church doesn’t exist for itself. The church exists for those who aren’t a part of it—who will maybe never be a part of it.” We exist to care for, and to bring mercy to, others!

Don’t get me wrong. It is good that we are here today to worship God. But this service is not the end of our worship. It is merely the beginning. Some Sundays here, we gather at the table, to taste and see that the Lord is good. Other times, we focus exclusively on the scriptural Word, to hear the account of our spiritual ancestors, and their encounters with the living God. But these things only renew us for our real act of worship—opening our arms to the world. We are called by the Holy Spirit to go out and heal the sick, to lift up the weary, and to offer ourselves to the God of all creation in thanksgiving for the mercy that God has done and continues to do for us. This was our vocation since the time we all were Baptized—to take the gifts God has given us, and to use them to show God’s love to the world, by loving the world ourselves.

What is it that has you trapped today? What pain binds you down? Do you hear God, calling your name, reaching out those opened arms, saying, “Follow me, know my mercy, be free, free to love the world as I love you?”

This is a sermon I gave recently for the second week of Easter. The text was John 20:19-31, the story of "doubting" Thomas. Warning: It needs to be edited for legibility, which I should get to within a few days.

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I hear you have this tradition out here in Chicago during the Easter season that I’m not familiar with. It’s something we don’t do back home, and I really want to try it out. So: Alleluia! Christ is risen!

(Congregation responds: Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia!)

That’s awesome! Such excitement behind it. But here’s the question. Are we really sure that Christ is risen? I mean, do we really, truly believe that?

I used to work with a man named Sudhir. He was from India originally, and he was a Hindu. We became good friends—good enough to breach that most dangerous of workplace subjects: Religion. See, I was a theologian even then, when I was a computer systems administrator, and so I was curious about his faith. Since it was so different from my own, I’d ask him lots of questions. Questions like:

Sudhir, why do you fast on Tuesdays and Fridays?

--And he’d say, those are the days of fasting for my two gods.

So how do you pick which gods you worship, out of all the many gods available to the Hindu religion?

--You ask them, he’d say, and they pick you.

Alright, then, Sudhir, tell me why you bless yourself when you bump a stack of papers on my desk?

--And he’d tell me, We believe words are sacred, along with the knowledge they impart.

Hinduism seemed so strange to me, so foreign. And so I told him this one day. He responded with some insight into MY faith which I thought was quite insightful. He said to me,

--You, a Christian, think my religion is strange? You believe that a man was God! And that he died, and came back to life! And then you go to worship, and you gather around a table there and eat your God!

It struck me that Suhdir was right. Christianity is a strange religion. We even need our own vocabulary to describe what we believe! This second week of Easter, we continue to celebrate the "resurrection" of the "incarnation"--when our Creator God, poured into a human body, died, and then came back to life. And not just the God part but the human part as well. And we proclaim that because of this, we too have new life. This is what we believe! How absurd!

It’s no surprise, then, that Thomas, the Apostle, who was called the twin, had some trouble believing it too. I mean, usually, when people die, they stay dead. And it’s not like he had 2,000 years of Christian theological reflection on the doctrine of the resurrection to rely on, either. No Sunday School teachers to ask, no books to read, not even the Holy Sacraments to taste and see that the Lord is good. He only had his grief.

And it was truly grief. You may remember from a few weeks ago, at the story of the raising of Lazarus, that Thomas had something to say as they headed off, back toward Jerusalem. "Let us go too, that we may die with him." Thomas knew what was coming. He knew that Jesus was going to be killed, and he’d have gladly died with him. He’d have died with him because he knew what Jesus’ death meant. It meant, he thought, that they’d failed. It meant their message would die. It meant he’d picked the wrong teacher, because Jesus had preached a message against the scribes and teachers of the Law, and the teachers of the Law had won; because Jesus had healed many but not really done anything lasting; because Jesus had spread the word of new life, but had ultimately come to death.

Thomas had given up everything he’d had to follow Jesus. He believed in Him with all his heart and all his mind and all his strength. And now it had proved to be a bad decision, and Thomas had nothing left.

Perhaps it’s no wonder that we, today, have such difficulty truly committing ourselves to be disciples of Christ. Sure, we may come to worship regularly. We may be involved in the ministries of the church, and active for social change. We may give generously of our time, talent, and treasure. We may go to Sunday School or Synod events to learn all we can about God. We may tell everyone we meet about the Good News of Jesus Christ, pray without ceasing, sell all we have and give it to the poor-- Am I describing anyone in the room anymore? Certainly not me. But even if we could manage to fit this challenging and difficult description of discipleship, I think we would still find some way of being just a little bit self-centered, a little too much disciples of ourselves rather than disciples of Christ.

However committed we might be, there is always room for improvement. After all, we are committing ourselves to a Christ we don’t see. Jesus’ death and resurrection is old news—2 millennia old news—and it’s awfully difficult to believe in something we can’t see or touch.

Thomas gets a bad rap, and he doesn’t deserve it. Because we, like him, want to touch the holes in Jesus’ hands, and put our hand in His side, before we’ll truly believe. And at least Thomas has the courage to say that.

When he does say this, Jesus does something unexpected. He doesn’t rebuke Thomas for his unbelief. Instead, He gives Thomas what he needs to believe. He puts Thomas’s hand in His own, and offers him His broken, gaping side.

Jesus’ simple act of providence, offering Thomas what he needs to believe, produces remarkable transformation. Thomas proclaims, "My Lord and my God!" None of the other apostles are able to make such a bold declaration. Peter calls Jesus Messiah, but only Thomas recognizes that He is God. Thomas is the first to truly believe, to truly understand what it means to be a disciple, to truly see God incarnate and manifest on earth.

If God was willing to give Thomas what he needed to believe, so too God will certainly do the same for us. Christ is revealed constantly in the world around us. In the love we share with our partners or children or friends, Christ is revealed. In the joy of a sunrise or the spreading of a heron’s wings, Christ is revealed. In the burning of a distant galaxy or the glittering uniqueness of a snowflake, Christ is revealed. And wherever two or more of God’s children are gathered, Christ promises to be present, just as He is beneath the water and word, beneath the bread and the wine, in the meal we will share this morning at this table.

And what about the ugliness in this world? What of the ghettos, and the violence and the hatred? When we look into these places, we are reaching into the very wounds of Christ, the injustices of His hands and the despair of His side. And how else can we respond, except to cry out, "My Lord and My God," and help to bring Christ’s healing and wholeness to the wounds of Christ’s body, this world.

When the wounds are our own, when we are living in broken relationships, suffering from anger and sadness, surrounded by sickness and death, it is Christ who reaches out to us. It is Christ who takes our wounds onto Himself, His hands, His side, who anoints us with a cup of oil that overflows, who brings us healing, and restoration, and relief, and everlasting love.

So we’re not perfect. So we fall short of the glory of God. God knows this. And despite God’s desire that we believe without seeing, God will keep offering us what we need to believe, over and over, and new life will well up in us, and we will be better disciples each time, better able to walk by faith, and will believe, again and again, that Christ is risen indeed.

Grace and Peace,
Aaron

The seminary’s Maundy Thursday’s service was very full, our normal rule about seminary Eucharist service length broken for the occasion. We came to the baptismal font for individual confession and absolution with some of the ordained pastors who are studying for their Doctoral degrees, gathered here in Chicago from places like Peru and Indonesia. The truly moving sermon by Bishop Wayne Miller of the Metropolitan Chicago Synod laid bare our souls and our feet, in time for them both to be washed by the Deaconesses and Diaconal Ministers that are present in our community. And then, that joyous Meal, as we gathered at the table, cut short by the stripping of the altar, leaving only a stark, Norwegian Lutheran emptiness. Such empty, barren walls in a vast, cold space, the sun refusing to peek out from behind gray clouds.

And it was colder still on Good Friday, as those clouds began to dump snow—and thunder—on the frozen city. In traditional fashion, all the instruments were silent at our late morning service, and the assembly chanted psalms in a plaintive tone. The Gospel was read by a team of people, and as the woman who read Jesus’s part was handed over to the chief priests to be crucified, it seemed that the whole world became still. The words of the Solemn Reproaches struck me so profoundly that I could barely sing them. O my people, O my church, what more could I have done for you? Answer me. I washed your feet as a sign of my love, but you have prepared a cross for your Savior.

That afternoon brought a harrowing drive through the snowy slush to a Russian Orthodox church for a discussion about icons with Archbishop Job of the Midwestern Diocese. Rather than a window into the depth of a rich, mysterious part of Christianity’s depth, it was a reminder of how broken the church is. His Eminence told us of a time when some students from Moody Bible Institute across the street came to try to “convert” him and the other priests at the Orthodox congregation. And he also implored us to leave the use of icons to the confines of Orthodox churches and practitioners of the “true Orthodox faith.” Fundamentalists against Orthodox against Lutheran—how can we be so opposed when we all serve the same Christ?

That same Christ whom we try to break apart unites us all, as was evident at sundown on Saturday for the Great Vigil of Easter, which Chicago Lutherans seem to prefer for this festival. A new fire was kindled outside my learning parish’s church doors, and a new paschal candle was lit. The pastors sung the good news of Christ’s resurrection in joyous chant that seemed to resound to all eternity. God’s saving acts from the Old Testament were recounted in the dark, by candlelight. (I got to tell the story of Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego.) We gathered at the font, and I sprinkled great drops of water around the congregation, remembering the day we were Baptized and brought into that ancient covenant with God. And then, after we threw the lights on and decorated the sanctuary with flowers and song, we broke bread and drank champagne around the Lord’s Table, for the greatest celebration of all time, a celebration which never ends.

The church is broken, it is true, and so are our communities and even, sometimes, our families. But Christ is with us through it all, even on the grayest of days. Though all else may fail, one thing is certain: Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Grace and Peace,
Aaron