M A M A ‘ S B O Y :

A Narrative Lectionary Sermon on John 2:1-11

John 2:1-11

On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.” And Jesus said to her, “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come.” His mother said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.” Now standing there were six stone water jars for the Jewish rites of purification, each holding twenty or thirty gallons. Jesus said to them, “Fill the jars with water.” And they filled them up to the brim. He said to them, “Now draw some out, and take it to the chief steward.” So they took it. When the steward tasted the water that had become wine, and did not know where it came from (though the servants who had drawn the water knew), the steward called the bridegroom and said to him, “Everyone serves the good wine first, and then the inferior wine after the guests have become drunk. But you have kept the good wine until now.” Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.

The Message

Today is the day when the church, universal, celebrates Jesus’s baptism. But in the gospel according to John, Jesus’s baptism is never covered. It’s never mentioned—not even once. We see Jesus’s cousin, John the Baptist, harkening back to the words of the Prophet Isaiah, testifying to crowds of locals as he baptizes them. John the Baptist insists to priests and to Levites sent from Jerusalem that he is not the Messiah; that the Messiah is coming. But we never see that messiah—Jesus—baptized, himself.

Today, we focus, instead, on Jesus’s first miracle. The first public act in his almost three-year-long ministry. This story of the wedding at Cana is well-known and well-loved, and I think it makes sense to read as a stand-in for a baptism story. After all, on the surface level, it centers around water and transformation. It’s a story about a lavish gift from God that eliminates shame. Jesus gave a gift here, regardless of merit—regardless of what people did or didn’t deserve. The act of turning water to wine is an act that boasts the glory of God above all else.

Glory is a very, very Johannine theme. Who doesn’t love a little glory?

But friends, on a deeper level, this story makes sense to read on the day we remember Jesus’s baptism because it reminds us why that glory actually matters. And what do I mean by that, exactly?

Well, we have walked through most of Chapter One of the book of John – through the prologue and the calling of Jesus’s disciples. This has given us a feel for John’s style and John’s agenda in his writing.

I think it’s fair for all of us to say that John is a bit of a drama king. He goes big about everything. Cosmic, even. To use the words of an old professor of mine, John’s gospel is the gospel where Jesus is only ever incredible, up close and entering the scene with perfect lighting and a fog machine.

It’s easy for us to get swept up in the grandeur of John’s writing—the omniscience and the total control that God and Jesus seem to have throughout the gospel.

I think that, in the gospel of John, it’s easy for us to accept a bias toward the divine side of Jesus’s divine and human nature. To burrow into glory for glory’s sake, alone.

I think that, when we read John, it’s easy for us to stop asking questions about the text. To find solace in really abstract ideas—really abstract mantras—and just stop there.

This miracle story is one of the great balancers in John’s approach. I think that it swings the pendulum back toward a human bias. When I say that this story reminds us of why God’s glory actually matters, I mean that it reminds us of why God’s glory actually matters for us.

The story of the wedding at Cana keeps us from getting swept up in grandeur. It helps us start asking questions again. It makes sure we don’t stop at the abstract. It makes sure that we let ourselves dig into some messy details. And if all of you are feeling up to a little thought experiment this morning, I want to explore that idea by retelling this story through the lens of Mary.

Mary has to be crucial to our interpretation of this passage. Otherwise, there would be no reason for John to have included her. Think about it. If Jesus really is the star of the show in this gospel—if he is incredible, up close with perfect lighting and a fog machine—you would think that he would milk the moment when he transitions from someone who has been foretold to someone who is actually here doing the work of God. You would think that he had a plan behind performing his first miracle. But the text doesn’t read that way.

It doesn’t even read like Mary and Jesus came to this wedding together. It says that Mary was there, and that Jesus and his disciples had been invited, too. Mary comes up to Jesus and says, “They have no wine.” We assume this is because she thinks he’ll be able to fix that. This is the most Minnesotan version of Mary I think we ever see. It’s not, “Honey, help them figure out what to do about the wine,” or, “Honey, you’re the Messiah. If anyone can pull off a miracle here, it’s you.” No. She goes for a very simple, “They have no wine.”

Jesus says to her, “Woman, what concern is that to you and me? My hour has not yet come.” Now, in English, this sounds pretty rude. “Woman,” alone, is an abrasive address to our ears. But Jesus refers to a lot of other female figures in the gospel of John this same way. “Woman.” It’s unusual that he would choose this word for someone as intimate as his mother, but in the Greek, this title in general is more indifferent than it is rude. It’s not really charged any one way.

As for the sentiment about his hour, the direct translation is something like, “What to me and to you?” Once again, this is striking, and not typical as an exchange between parent and child, but not necessarily as harsh as it comes across to us. It’s mostly neutral.

I am amazed by Mary’s reaction every time I read this story. Rather than getting flustered; rather than trying to convince Jesus to care; she actually returns his indifference. She puts the ball entirely in his court. She goes to the servants at the wedding and says, “Do whatever he tells you.” Which has to mean that she has a hunch he will come around.

We’ll never know for sure what inspires Jesus to change his mind and provide for the bridegroom and all of the guests, but we do know for sure that Mary’s words and Mary’s faith in who Jesus is—in what she knows he can do—seem to make a difference here. Sure, the wedding is saved and Jesus is officially outed as a fulfillment of the prophecies and rumors that have been swirling around Galilee. But I actually think that the biggest difference we should care about this morning is the difference that Mary’s words and Mary’s faith created for herself.

Mary’s instigation of this miracle is her first step in acknowledging the fact that she is going to lose Jesus. Mary’s coy little invitation to Jesus at this wedding feels to me like her giving herself permission to start the struggle of accepting his call.  

You know, as of a few months ago, it has become drastically easier for me to empathize with Mary. To connect with her as a figure in our shared history. To try to put myself in her shoes. My body is going through the nausea and the bloating and the breakouts and the aches and pains and the shape shifts of pregnancy. I wonder if hers did, too. My mind has gone to places it’s never gone before, curious and terrified about hypotheticals that I’ve never had to imagine. I wonder if hers did, too. This baby is only halfway to being here, but already, she has brought out opinions and extreme convictions from so many people in my community and George’s. I’m willing to bet that Mary had it a million times worse in that department. The main difference I’m recognizing between Mary’s experience and mine—minus about two thousand years’ worth of medical technology, of course—is the fact that I get to imagine what an entire life might look like with my child. I endure these things and welcome these changes because I have a chance to live a life of faith alongside my daughter. George and I get to hope for a shared lifetime with her.

Mary never got to do that. For her, living a life of faith meant, from the beginning, that she would have to let go of her son in multiple senses of the term. That she would outlive him. That she would watch him journey through the highs and lows of a misunderstood and very public life, and that she would only be able to help so much.

I wonder how often Mary was tempted to wrap her arms around Jesus and to tell him that it was okay for him to stay at home a little longer if he wanted to. That it was okay to take a new construction project or put some more thought into who he wanted to gather as his disciples. That he didn’t have to rush anything. I wonder how many times she had to resist the urge to stall him; to keep him close and cherish the extra seconds and minutes she could conjure up.

In our story this morning, Mary is doing the hardest thing she will ever have to do. The most human thing she will ever have to do. She is letting Jesus know that as he launches into his work, she will launch into hers. She believes enough in who he is and what he is sent to do that she will center him—who is he, and what he is sent to do—in her life. She believes enough in the true glory of God that she is willing to wander into the not-so-glorious.

During the wedding at Cana, Mary is letting Jesus know that she understands that he has been sent to quench thirst in more ways than just this.

Here’s a tangent I think is interesting—the only other time Mary is mentioned in the gospel of John is at the crucifixion.

When Christ was baptized, he was baptized into death. This is what we profess. When we are baptized, we are baptized into death with him, so that we may find new life. Not just once, at the end of our respective worlds, but every. Single. Day. Sometimes multiple times a day.

Because we follow the Narrative Lectionary, I always want to weave the Hebrew Bible into our message. The Psalm associated with this passage from John in our liturgy is Psalm 104, and there is a relevant passage I want us to meditate on as we wrap up our worship today:

“You, God, cause the grass to grow for the cattle,
and plants for people to use,
to bring forth food from the earth,
and wine to gladden the human heart,
oil to make the face shine,
and bread to strengthen the human heart.
The trees of the Lord are watered abundantly,
the cedars of Lebanon that God planted.
In them the birds build their nests;
the stork has its home in the fir trees.
The high mountains are for the wild goats;
the rocks are a refuge for the coneys.

You have made the moon to mark the seasons;
the sun knows its time for setting.
You make darkness, and it is night,
when all the animals of the forest come creeping out.
The young lions roar for their prey,
seeking their food from God.
When the sun rises, they withdraw
and lie down in their dens.
People go out to their work
and to their labor until the evening.

O Lord, how manifold are your works!
In wisdom you have made them all…”

Friends, the glory of God that shines through these seasons of Christmas and Epiphany is anything but superficial. Anything but empty. Glory is not a one-sided experience. It’s not wonderful just because it’s wonderful. It’s wonderful for us because we know what things can look like and how hard things can be when we don’t feel connected to it. When it seems far away, or invisible. Or impossible.

We should not leave this place today consoled by the fact that our God provides us with lavish gifts. That’s true, and it’s very nice. But it’s not satisfying, and it’s not enough. We should leave this place today consoled by the fact that we have a God who knows literally as well as we do how challenging it can be to navigate this world, and who will never abandon us as we keep trying to.

Y O U A R E H E R E :

A Narrative Lectionary Sermon on Jeremiah 29:1; 4-14

Jeremiah 29: 1

These are the words of the letter that the prophet Jeremiah sent from Jerusalem to the remaining elders among the exiles, and to the priests, the prophets, and all the people, whom Nebuchadnezzar had taken into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon.

Jeremiah 29: 4-14

Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce. Take wives and have sons and daughters; take wives for your sons, and give your daughters in marriage, that they may bear sons and daughters; multiply there, and do not decrease. But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare. For thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel: Do not let the prophets and the diviners who are among you deceive you, and do not listen to the dreams that they dream, for it is a lie that they are prophesying to you in my name; I did not send them, says the Lord. For thus says the Lord: Only when Babylon’s seventy years are completed will I visit you, and I will fulfill to you my promise and bring you back to this place. For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope. Then when you call upon me and come and pray to me, I will hear you. When you search for me, you will find me; if you seek me with all your heart, I will let you find me, says the Lord, and I will restore your fortunes and gather you from all the nations and all the places where I have driven you, says the Lord, and I will bring you back to the place from which I sent you into exile.

The Message

God did not choose to give me the gift of navigation. My Dad? He’s brilliant with directions. You could drop him anywhere in the world and he could find his way home. My sister? She’s the exact same way. But somehow, those genes missed me. I still need Google Maps coming home from the grocery store half the time. I’m what you might call a directory person. In malls and museums and every other public place you can think of, I look for the displays and the brochures that give me the lay of the land. That show me the little red star that says, “You Are Here.” If I can get a reminder of where I’m standing, I can make sense of my surroundings and chart out my next steps.

Our passage this morning is something like that little red star. It’s a spiritual “You Are Here” marker for an entire community of God’s people who have been exiled—that is, forced out of their homeland in Judah.

Now, we don’t talk about “Judah” a lot, so I just want to give us all a reminder of what we’re referring to when we do. Remember King Solomon? The wealthy, bougie ruler who built the beautiful Temple we talked about a few weeks back? After he passed away, the leadership structure in Israel changed. Israel split into two, distinct regions: the Northern Kingdom, which was, of course, to the north, and Judah, which was to the south. Sometimes, when we talk about exile in the Bible, we think of the Northern Kingdom. Last week, when we heard that almost poetic passage from the Book of Isaiah, we were nearing the end of the 8th century BCE. During the 8th century, the Northern Kingdom was struggling. Assyria was the dominant political power in the region, and Assyria had exiled a lot of the Northern Kingdom. Assyria had conquered a lot of the Northern Kingdom.

This morning, we’ve jumped ahead about 100 years. We’re actually in the very beginning of the 6th century, and by now, Assyria is old news. Babylon has risen to power, and they’ve invaded Judah. The first rebellion—the first organized resistance we know of—took place in 597 BCE. But it wasn’t successful. The leaders and the social elites who led it were exiled. That means that they were sent away from their homes and made subject to Babylonian rule—Babylonian life—somewhere else in the empire.

We’re reading a letter that the Prophet Jeremiah wrote to this exiled community of God’s people. A letter that he transcribed directly from God. A letter that has one, central promise: God wants God’s people to thrive. Period. Full stop.

Jeremiah knows that this message is getting lost. Jeremiah knows that this message is hard to believe.  God’s people living in Judah are interpreting this exile—and really, this entire Babylonian takeover—in a lot of different ways.

A very common, underlying Jewish assumption at this time in history was that if you were following the laws and covenants laid out in the Torah, God would be pleased and reward you in relationship. If you had strayed—if your following of those laws and those covenants was getting a little loose—God would be angry and punish you. There was no in-between state. There was no other option. So, when Babylon came storming in, projections and accusations and uncertainties about God’s role (or maybe God’s place) in everything got murky, fast.

Those people who were sent away might have wondered what they did wrong. They assumed that they were suffering judgment from God, but they might have suffered judgment from the people who got to stay, too.

Those people who got to stay might have been relieved to know they did something right. But anxiety began to plague them. How close am I to the edge? To being exiled? What if I slip up?

Divisions were popping up everywhere, and community harmony was not exactly at an all-time high. Serious questions, and serious disagreements, began to emerge about how to live as people of faith under a new power that did not share or recognize that faith. Finally, debates over how to deal with Babylon consumed both the community in exile and the community still dwelling in the homeland.

Many prophets had come out of the woodwork encouraging more rebellion; more resistance; more vim and vigor. They spoke of visions where God promised a breaking of the Babylonian yoke! A restoration of everything taken from Judah and a glorious return of God’s people! Some of them predicted this happening in as little as one or two years. “Don’t get too comfortable,” they were saying. “God is doing big things. God is so very near to us. We won’t be here long.”

Jeremiah agrees that God is doing big things—that God is so very near, even among all of this chaos and confusion. Jeremiah even agrees that God will break that Babylonian yoke. That God will restore God’s people and gather them again in a return to Judah. But here’s the thing. It’s not going to be one or two years. It’s going to be decades.

We will be here, exiled, for a significant amount of time. So, we should get comfortable. Our little red star is smack-dab in the middle of exiled Babylon. “You Are Here,” Judah. And you will be for a while. So go live a full, beautiful life. A faithful and faith-filled life.

There’s a quote attributed to Martin Luther that I think is appropriate here. Full disclosure: he probably never said these words, but by now, they are canonized lore, and they make a good point.

When asked what he would do if he knew that tomorrow would bring the end of the world, he answered, “I would still plant my apple tree.”

Here in the exile; in the biggest interruption these people of God have ever faced; in what feels like a devastating ending for so many; God is using Jeremiah to call people to the work of beginning. God is using Jeremiah to call people to the work of creation. We hear echoes of our origin story, Genesis, in this letter. Jeremiah is encouraging God’s people to work fertile land. To eat its fruits. To increase in number instead of disappearing into oblivion.

Through Jeremiah, God says to God’s people, “Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you. For in its welfare, you will find your welfare.” Other translations use, “Seek the peace to find your peace;” “Seek the prosperity to find your prosperity;” “seek the well-being.” Any way you word it, it’s clear: God wants us to thrive.

Jeremiah is basically saying that, in the Venn Diagram of our vision for a relationship with God and God’s vision for a relationship with us, there is some pretty significant overlapping in the middle. But in times like these when our circle…our vision…doesn’t match our lived reality, we need to trust the parts of God’s circle…God’s vision for relationship with us…that we don’t know. That we can’t know. That we don’t understand. That we can’t understand.

And while that trust seems really abstract, it actually comes out in the little things. Our day-to-day habits and decisions. The minutia of our lives. We are wired to believe that living day-to-day becomes impossible if you can’t see the bigger picture or how you fit into it. God is saying to us that the bigger picture has already been sorted. Sure, we can chase after it. Ponder it. Explore it. Ask questions about it. Pray about it. Mourn it. Fight it, sometimes. But, by design, we will never understand the bigger picture the way God understand it.

And it is precisely because of that that we are liberated to put our energy into into the things we do understand. Very little, beautifully human, life-giving things.

You see, the most tempting thing to do with this passage is to isolate the first part of Verse 11: “For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord.” I mean; how well- known are those words? They’re on every mug and pillowcase and bumper sticker and cross-stitch and yearly planner that I can imagine. I think I’ve seen about 30 different tattoo designs: “For surely I know the plan I have for you.” When we isolate this idea; when we repeat these words and these words only, we subconsciously tell ourselves that God is off scheming, doing whatever God wants to do, and if we don’t understand what God is up to right now, that’s just too bad. When we isolate this idea; when we repeat these words and these words only, we paint a neglectful picture of God. A sterile, distant picture of God.

Jeremiah is trying to bring our attention to the latter part of Verse 11: the fact that God’s plans are “plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.”

Living in the present doesn’t mean ignoring the past or the future. Living in the present doesn’t mean denying the past or the future, either. It simply means remembering that we have God here with us now. We have God’s grace here, guiding us now. If we understand where we are, we can make sense of our surroundings and chart out our next steps in faith.

What a perfect message for us as we enter into the season of Advent, balancing our anticipation with a sense of here and now.

Amen.

This sermon was written and delivered on November 28, 2021.

Helpful influences include:

“314” Seek the Peace of the City” episode of the Bible Worm Podcast with Amy Robertson and Robert Williamson Jr (October 24, 2021)

“#469: Jeremiah’s Letter to the Exiles” episode of I Love To Tell The Story: Working Preacher Narrative Lectionary Podcast (November 21, 2021)

“Commentary on Jeremiah 29:1; 4-14” by Charles L. Aaron, Jr (November 28, 2021)

M A R G I N A L :

A Narrative Lectionary Sermon for Reformation Sunday on 1 Kings 5:1-5; 8:1-13

1 Kings 5:1-5

Now King Hiram of Tyre sent his servants to Solomon, when he heard that they had anointed him king in place of his father; for Hiram had always been a friend to David. Solomon sent word to Hiram, saying, “You know that my father David could not build a house for the name of the Lord his God because of the warfare with which his enemies surrounded him, until the Lord put them under the soles of his feet. But now the Lord my God has given me rest on every side; there is neither adversary nor misfortune. So I intend to build a house for the name of the Lord my God, as the Lord said to my father David, ‘Your son, whom I will set on your throne in your place, shall build the house for my name.’”

1 Kings 8:1-13

Then Solomon assembled the elders of Israel and all the heads of the tribes, the leaders of the ancestral houses of the Israelites, before King Solomon in Jerusalem, to bring up the ark of the covenant of the Lord out of the city of David, which is Zion. All the people of Israel assembled to King Solomon at the festival in the month Ethanim, which is the seventh month. And all the elders of Israel came, and the priests carried the ark. So they brought up the ark of the Lord, the tent of meeting, and all the holy vessels that were in the tent; the priests and the Levites brought them up. King Solomon and all the congregation of Israel, who had assembled before him, were with him before the ark, sacrificing so many sheep and oxen that they could not be counted or numbered. 

Then the priests brought the ark of the covenant of the Lord to its place, in the inner sanctuary of the house, in the most holy place, underneath the wings of the cherubim. For the cherubim spread out their wings over the place of the ark, so that the cherubim made a covering above the ark and its poles. The poles were so long that the ends of the poles were seen from the holy place in front of the inner sanctuary; but they could not be seen from outside; they are there to this day. There was nothing in the ark except the two tablets of stone that Moses had placed there at Horeb, where the Lord made a covenant with the Israelites, when they came out of the land of Egypt. And when the priests came out of the holy place, a cloud filled the house of the Lord, so that the priests could not stand to minister because of the cloud; for the glory of the Lord filled the house of the Lord.

Then Solomon said, “The Lord has said that he would dwell in thick darkness. I have built you an exalted house, a place for you to dwell in forever.”

The Message

 I love that we, as a congregation, use the Narrative Lectionary to center ourselves in worship.

One thing you might have noticed about using the Narrative Lectionary is that it requires us to contextualize constantly. We’re moving really fast through really big pieces of Scripture. Sometimes, we jump literal hundreds of years between services and sermons. So, we need to slow down and remind ourselves where we are in the Biblical arc every time we gather to read the Word together.

Some of you might recall that last year, on this very Sunday—Reformation Sunday—we heard a story from 2nd Samuel. I’m going to paraphrase the story for us, because it helps tee up our text 1st Kings text this morning. Are you ready for a little NRMV? (That’s the New Revised Madison Version.)

David says to his prophet, Nathan, “Something isn’t right here. God has done so many good things for me and for the rest of God’s people. God has given me and the rest of God’s people so much. Here I am in a house of cedar, nicer than anything we have; nicer than anything we use; to honor God. I should do something about that.” Basically, David is starting to think that it’s time to take devotion more seriously; to make a statement; to build God a house even finer than his own.  

Later that night, God comes to Nathan and gives him a message for David. “Listen—I’ve never asked for a house. I’m still not asking for a house. I haven’t had anything to do with houses since the day I brought the people out of Egypt. My place has been in tents and tabernacles with my people. You’re not going to build me a house, David. In fact, you know what? I’m going to build you a house. How do like that? I’m going to keep forming you as a leader and we’re not going to talk about a Temple again. And that’s that.”

Then God says something curious. “When the time comes, David, and you are ready to lie down with your ancestors, I’m going to turn my focus to your son. I’m going to love him. I’m going to look out for him. He’s going to be the one to build me a house.”

That promise is what we’re talking about in 1st Kings this morning. We’re listening to King Solomon—the son of King David—as he decides to build the Temple, and as he plans to dedicate it once it’s done.

If you have some extra time this afternoon or even later this week, I’d recommend reading about the actual construction of the Temple, itself. Chapters 5, 6 and 7 are bursting with details that help us wrap our minds around just how beautiful this structure was. Solomon ruled during a time of relative peace, but there is speculation that what that really means is that that he was the only one in the region who had any significant resources to work with. For him, and for him alone, money really wasn’t a concern. So, he spared no expense in making this Temple the finest place that God could ever have hoped to dwell. He used the finest materials possible from every end of the earth.

I tried to use this story to my advantage over the last few days. My husband and I are getting a fence put around our back yard, and as I was looking through the brochure, I said, “We should do this horizontal pattern with the premium cedar. Look—it doesn’t have any knots in it.” Then, he told me how much that horizontal pattern with the premium cedar would cost, and he assumed that would shut down the conversation because it was quite literally double the budget we had decided on when we started this project. But I channeled my inner King Solomon and I said, “Well, if it’s good enough for God, it’s good enough for me. Let’s do this.”

(We’re getting decidedly non-premium wood with tons of knots in it. Hopefully those of you working on home improvement projects can have better luck with that strategy than I did.)

When we get to 1st Kings Chapter 8, we see that all the people are gathering in Jerusalem, bringing up the ark of the covenant and making sacrifices during ethanim, which translates to the 7th month of the year in the Jewish calendar. “Ethanim” is a pre-exilic name, and has since been replaced with “tishrae.” We can think of “tishrae” as the time from mid-September into early October. That’s when the majority of foundational Jewish holidays happen, back to back to back.

Solomon has chosen to formally dedicate the Temple to God during a specific time during “tishrae.” It’s called “sukkot,” which some of us might know as the Festival of the Tents. This is a time set aside for remembering seasons of wandering and seasons of harvest throughout the whole history of Israel. Seasons when God was ultra-present with God’s people in the wilderness, providing for them.

How fascinating is this juxtaposition?  Solomon focused on almost nothing other than building this Temple. He felt the pressure of a generational charge from God. He threw all of his money into the Temple to make sure . He hired thousands of men to finish the job as fast as possible. You would think that the second it was done, he would want to show it off. He would want to call people from all around to join him in the celebration of this space. But that’s not even close to what he did. He stayed quiet and did nothing for almost 11 months, presumably so that he could schedule this dedication during “sukkot” and add to its significance.

King David offered God a house of cedar and God said, “No, I dwell in tents. My home is with my people in the wilderness.” Now, in a time of remembrance about that wilderness—about those tents, God is dwelling in a beautiful and very permanent Temple. A house of cedar.

Friends, our God is a God who will constantly reminds us who and what lies in the margins. Our God is a God who will reveal what lives in our blind spots; who will balance our perspective by reminding us not only where we have been, but also, where others are, right now.

When we find ourselves dwelling in tents, God will be there with us, promising visions of a cedar house and a plan to get that house built. When we find ourselves in abundance—maybe in more solid dwelling places, God will be there with us, calling us to love, serve and stand in solidarity with the nomads in tents. Our relationships with God can never go stagnant. Our relationships with God can never be passive. God is constantly acting in our lives. God is constantly re-shaping us; re-working us; re-forming us.

Do you know what Solomon says just a few verses after this reading ends? In the literal prayer he uses to dedicate this grand building into which he has put so much time, so much energy and so many resources, Solomon exclaims:

“Even heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you, God, much less this house that I have built! Regard your servant’s prayer and plea, O Lord my God, heeding the cry and the prayer that your servant prays to you today; that your eyes may be open night and day toward this house, the place of which you said, ‘My name shall be there.’”

1 Kings 8:27-30 (NRSV)

Reformation Day is about open eyes, the name of God and every possible way those two things can be connected.

I’ve seen so many Reformation Day jokes and cartoons and memes on my social media pages this week. In one, Martin Luther is nailing the 95 Theses to the Wittenberg chapel, saying, “No, your door is fine! It’s your theology I want to fix!” In another, Katie Luther is at home, cooking something, when she sees the 95 Theses nailed to refrigerator door and yells, “What do you think I bought these magnets for?” Then there’s one that lets us know that coffee was introduced to Western Europe in 1514, and that the 95 Theses were posted in 1517. “Beware a caffeinated theologian with caffeinated followers,” it reads. There are even word plays I’m seeing on “Reeses” and “Theses.” The list goes on.

These are good for a chuckle, but they highlight a temptation we all have on this day—a temptation to root down in self-righteousness about our (Lutheran) theology. About the ideological Temple that we and our ancestors have built to God.

This is the day when we celebrate how the church, universal, was reformed. And friends, who do we say did that reforming work? Who do we say continues to do that reforming work? That’s the important question for us to ask.

I’ll give you a hint: God is the answer.

When I was in seminary, I served at a small, hundred-year-old Lutheran parish in Trenton. It was in Redevelopment Status with the synod at the time, which is a nice way of saying that it was on life support. Enrollment was down, cash flow was negative, and if these people were going to keep gathering as an active congregation, change was needed. Desperately.

So, things were tense all around. Anxiety was high in general. But we were going through some drama on top of all of that, and that drama that exacerbated everything. The head of facilities and the church council president, who had been married for about 20 years at this point, were starting the divorce process. He had fallen in love with someone else—someone who happened to be a well-known sex worker in the area—and the two of them were quickly making plans to start a family chapter of their own.

Our pastor did a lot of good, hard work to help the congregation navigate the complications and nuances that all of this unleashed. He was able to stabilize us and to get us to the point where this man felt comfortable inviting his new partner to church events and programs.

They especially enjoyed worship dinners we hosted every week for the entire neighborhood. At the first of these dinners I led, this woman sat down next to me and struck up small talk in a classically gruff, New Jersey way. She seemed a little uncomfortable, but I suppose I did, too. We had a lot of eyes on us.

About halfway through the meal, I stood up to read the scripture for that evening—John 8:1-11. Scribes and Pharisees bring a woman to Jesus, accusing her of adultery and, essentially, waiting for him to pass judgment on how they should punish her. Jesus says, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her,” and, one by one, they all leave. He assures the woman that she is forgiven, and charges her to go back to her life and not to make the same mistake again.

When I sat back down, she grabbed my elbow. “Is that really from the Bible? I’ve never, ever heard that story before.”

I nodded, and before I could craft a response, she kept going:

“I never thought that somebody like me would be in a holy book. And I definitely didn’t think that if she were, Jesus would be on her side.”

“That’s the great thing about Jesus,” I laughed a little. “He’s full of surprises.”

When dinner was done, she volunteered for dishwashing duty so that she could stand next to the pastor and ask him every question that came across her mind about this passage. She had so many!

There’s a lot I still don’t know about that woman; her story; her life on that particular night. But I do know that I witnessed true Reformation in that moment.

I got to watch somebody engaging with the living Word of God, truly and authentically. I saw that living Word stop somebody in their tracks; I was there when a Temple mindset disrupted her tent-dwelling one. And it was a privilege.

Friends, I’ll say it again because it bears repeating—our God is a God who will constantly reminds us who and what lies in the margins. Our God is a God who will reveal what lives in our blind spots; who will balance our perspective by reminding us not only where we have been, but also, where others are, right now.

Our God is a God who did something that has never been done before. Our God is a God who broke into our world as one of us to unlock completely new ways we can see ourselves and relate to each other.

So happy Reformation Day, and praise be to God.

This sermon was written and delivered on October 31, 2021.

Helpful influences include:

“309: Solomon’s Temple” episode of the Bible Worm Podcast with Amy Robertson and Robert Williamson Jr (October 24, 2021)

D E P E N D E N T :

A Narrative Lectionary Sermon on Exodus 16:1-18

Exodus 16:1-18

The whole congregation of the Israelites set out from Elim; and Israel came to the wilderness of Sin, which is between Elim and Sinai, on the fifteenth day of the second month after they had departed from the land of Egypt. The whole congregation of the Israelites complained against Moses and Aaron in the wilderness. The Israelites said to them, “If only we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate our fill of bread; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger.”

Then the Lord said to Moses, “I am going to rain bread from heaven for you, and each day the people shall go out and gather enough for that day. In that way I will test them, whether they will follow my instruction or not. On the sixth day, when they prepare what they bring in, it will be twice as much as they gather on other days.” So Moses and Aaron said to all the Israelites, “In the evening you shall know that it was the Lord who brought you out of the land of Egypt, and in the morning you shall see the glory of the Lord, because he has heard your complaining against the Lord. For what are we, that you complain against us?” And Moses said, “When the Lord gives you meat to eat in the evening and your fill of bread in the morning, because the Lord has heard the complaining that you utter against him—what are we? Your complaining is not against us but against the Lord.”

Then Moses said to Aaron, “Say to the whole congregation of the Israelites, ‘Draw near to the Lord, for he has heard your complaining.’” And as Aaron spoke to the whole congregation of the Israelites, they looked toward the wilderness, and the glory of the Lord appeared in the cloud. The Lord spoke to Moses and said, “I have heard the complaining of the Israelites; say to them, ‘At twilight you shall eat meat, and in the morning you shall have your fill of bread; then you shall know that I am the Lord your God.’”

In the evening quails came up and covered the camp; and in the morning there was a layer of dew around the camp. When the layer of dew lifted, there on the surface of the wilderness was a fine flaky substance, as fine as frost on the ground. When the Israelites saw it, they said to one another, “What is it?” For they did not know what it was. Moses said to them, “It is the bread that the Lord has given you to eat. This is what the Lord has commanded: ‘Gather as much of it as each of you needs, an omer to a person according to the number of persons, all providing for those in their own tents.’” The Israelites did so, some gathering more, some less. But when they measured it with an omer, those who gathered much had nothing over, and those who gathered little had no shortage; they gathered as much as each of them needed.

The Message

I have always loved this story, but I feel extra close to it because of how much I’ve been using DoorDash lately. I feel like delivery apps have given us the 21st century remake of this passage: I’ve been on the go all day. I’m hungry. I throw my head back to the heavens and complain, and then, all of the sudden, the food I need has popped onto my front porch. Out of nowhere! It really does feel like a miracle (at least until the credit card statement rolls in).

No, truly—I do love this story. And I think that’s because of how intense and how visceral it is. Our liturgy this morning emphasizes God’s generosity and God’s giving. God’s listening and God’s goodness. And to be clear, I see every single one of those things in this passage. I think the Holy Spirit is bringing us here today to witness to the generosity and giving and listening and goodness in God’s character. These are traits that we’ve seen in our God before, in scripture and in day-to-day life. These are traits that we know make our God unique. That we know as “grace.” These are traits that we can note, traits that we can celebrate, and traits in which we can take delight.

But I think the Holy Spirit wants us to go one step further this morning and remember why that generosity, that giving, that listening and that goodness are so important. I think she wants us to get a little uncomfortable and admit why grace matters so much. I think she wants us to remember just how high the stakes were for these people of Israel; how vulnerable this community was. They were physically vulnerable, of course, because they were subject to all of the elements in one of the harshest stretches of desert we know; but they were also raw, emotionally and spiritually. They were anxious and strained because they were leaving everything familiar to them—they were new to liberation and new to wandering and new to figuring things out on the go, with no apparent game plan.

Let’s try to put ourselves in their context for a minute here.

Literally a matter of months ago, these families were slaves under Pharaoh’s rule. And that was a life that they had known for generations. God was with them in that life, whispering promises of love and sustenance and resilience and subversion and impending freedom, but that freedom hadn’t become their reality yet. Their reality was systematic oppression.

The sole driver of their behavior was fear. On individual levels and group levels, they had been forced to internalize and live by the belief that they were sub-human, inferior to the Egyptians by birth and dependent on the Egyptians for everything. They had been forced to internalize and live by the belief that their value was related to one thing and one thing only: what they could produce.

There are so many pastoral care studies that coincide with psychological and biological studies to show us that this kind of internalization is more than just a state of mind. Prolonged stress and struggle can actually start to rewire cells and patterns and reactions in our bodies. That means that, just like joys and strengths and so many other positive things, trauma can actually be passed down in our family lines. The reason why healing is a lifelong process is because each of us comes into the world carrying more than just our own share of experiences. Think of how much God’s people must have been carrying that way, decades and even centuries into a communal life of forced labor.

I think the Holy Spirit wants us to remember this morning that for God’s people, liberation from Egypt wasn’t really a relief. It wasn’t a switch they could flip—a change they could enjoy and benefit from right away. Sure, liberation from Egypt might have been a victory, but it couldn’t have made life easier. It couldn’t have erased the effects of slavery in their minds or their bodies or their souls. After all, what did it take for God’ people to achieve liberation? More oppression. More struggle. More violence. When we enter into this story, the people of Israel have suffered plagues and slaughters. They have had to pack up their belongings and leave the only homes they have ever known. They have been let out of Egypt by their very hesitant Pharaoh; led out of Egypt by a strange, ambivalent Moses, accompanied by some terrifying pillars of clouds and fire; and then chased down by an entire army because their very hesitant Pharaoh changed his mind after all. They have witnessed the drowning of that army in the Red Sea. And then, they have been commanded to cross the same sea, trusting in a magic staff to keep the murderous walls of water up.

I can’t imagine that these people are relaxed. Or inspired. Or even thankful. They must be a little shaken. They must be confused. Disoriented. They must be exhausted. And now, they are hungry.

God comes to Moses and says, “I hear that. I don’t want that. I love my people. So here’s what I’m going to do.”  

Mysterious, flaky bread covers the surface of the desert. Here’s a fun fact: “manna” is a play on the Hebrew “ma nah,” which is a question: “What is it?” It takes a little while for people to adjust to the idea of dewy sand-bread, and to adjust to God’s main rule surrounding it. It’s a funny rule, isn’t it? “Gather as much of it as each of you needs.”

What could be the reason for this rule? Scripture tells us that God devises it as a test. But a test of what? It’s definitely not a deprivation exercise. It’s very important to God that God’s people end up full and satisfied.

Here’s where I think this rule came from: God is feeding a people who have been taught that dependence is a prison. That dependence is a trap. That dependence is suppression.

In this manna, God is reminding the Israelites that dependence is the very crux of God’s shalom vision—God’s vision of holistic peace—for the cosmos. In this manna, God is reminding us, the readers, that dependence is not supposed to be a weapon.

Dependence is supposed to be an expression of God’s love. Dependence is supposed to be safe for the giver and the receiver.

And that’s our good news this morning, friends. We have a God who helps us reframe and remember “dependence.”

Why are we conditioned to believe that being dependent is a bad thing? I think it’s because our culture is built on two myths:

The first myth is that dependence means the exact same thing as weakness. That the opposite—independence—means the exact same thing as strength.

Friends, “dependent” is a morally neutral word. So is “independent.” We’re the ones who have charged “dependent” with negative, needy, parasitic connotations. When I really sit down to think about it, I wonder if true independence is even possible, much less good.

Think about those accomplishments of yours that make you proud. Think about those moments when you did something amazing. Those are absolutely accomplishments and moments worth noting. Worth celebrating. Worth delighting in. But are they really yours, alone? Aren’t there a million little nooks and crannies in those accomplishments and in those moments where the lives and work and contributions of other people helped you get there? Could a butterfly have flapped its wings and started a miraculous chain reaction? I think so. And I think that makes everything you do all the more beautiful. Your uniqueness shines through in your accomplishments; in your proudest moments; but it is enhanced by your community. Enriched be being shared. Incredible and interconnected.

The second myth we have been taught is that dependence is one-sided. That we live in a zero-sum world where the giver holds all of the resources and the taker simply depletes them.

There are scholars who say that this story in Exodus shows us that God’s love turns the Protestant work ethic upside down—that it reverses the order of things and the power dynamics that we know. They say that God’s love turns dependence on its head. I would argue the opposite. The Protestant work ethic is what messed things up. God’s love has been around since the beginning of time. God’s love has only ever wanted us to thrive in community with all of creation. God’s love only ever made dependence and interconnectedness safe.

When I worked as a financial advisor at a faith-based broker dealer—and when I still had a commute to the office—I used to take three minutes in my parking spot every morning to pray for forgiveness over the irreconcilable day that was coming. My entire job was to make sure that people were independent. My entire job was to ensure that no matter what direction their lives went, my clients could adapt and adjust and carry on, protected, prepared and impervious. My entire job was to perpetuate those two myths about dependence. That it is weakness. That it is one-sided. My role was to help people do self-sufficiency—which is a convenient euphemism for capitalism—and do it better.

 I regret nothing about that. But I still repent. This message about dependence is so deeply troubling for us to hear because all of us have had self-sufficiency—capitalism—taught to us and reinforced and taught to us again and reinforced. Independence is the water we’re swimming in. The call to live a Christian life is literally impossible in our context. It’s irreconcilable. It’s a paradox.

Luckily, friends, we have a God who thrives in paradox. We have a God who embodied paradox, even. Just like Jesus died to defeat death, Jesus became what is impossible to make all things possible.

When God made it so that Jesus was, at once, fully divine and fully human, God blew our knowledge of and our familiarity with and our myths about everything out of the water. And that includes our knowledge of and our familiarity with and our myths about dependence. The person and the relationship we have in Jesus is the only thing that can make sense out of the nonsensical. It is the only thing that can whisper a way forward in what would otherwise be an impasse.

What can you do today, friends, to call on God? To subvert this paradox we live in? To reclaim the Godly meaning of “dependence?”

What can you to this week to remind yourself of your beautiful dependence on God? And what is one, small and surefire way you know you make somebody else feel safe depending on you?

This sermon was authored and delivered on October 10, 2021.

Helpful influences included:

“Commentary on Exodus 16:1-18” by Alphonetta Wines (October 10, 2021)

“Commentary on Exodus 16:1-18” by Julianna Claassens (October 8, 2017)

“#462: God Provides Manna” episode of I Love To Tell The Story: Working Preaching Narrative Lectionary Podcast (October 10, 2021)

P I N K :

A Series of Heartbreak Haikus

The day I moved in,

I covered all the walls in

a light, blushing pink.

I bought the supplies

from a hardware store nearby.

Semi-gloss finish.

“Oh, how exciting!”

said the sales associate.

“You’re having a girl!”

She saw my belly,

flat as it had ever been

(or so I had thought)

and assumed: baby.

Why do you suppose that is?

Maybe the rumor

that pink is for the

little; the young; the demure.

Polished and perfect.

That pink equals soft;

that pink equals delicate

femininity.

She thought: nursery.

But no. This pink was for me

and only me. See—

I had been planning

to commandeer this plaster

for a good, long while.

To take a rental

and turn it into something

that was almost mine.

Something that could catch

the south-facing sun; the warmth

in all the mundane.

That’s what pink can do:

bring a white void to new life

with a drop of red.

And looking at it

morning, noon and night each day

I would remember:

That’s what I can do.

Impose a new energy;

infuse a little

spark into sadness.

I had never lived alone;

I did not choose it.

But I chose this pink

for every inch of this place

and it felt like me.

It felt like a smile

and a flipped middle finger

all wrapped into one,

tied up in a bow,

framing the picture window—

my new favorite view.

Anything but soft,

pink is just a different way

to say “resilience.”

Pink equals immense,

intense, strong and determined

to make things better.

There have been a few

times I walk past that old place

and see that old pink,

glowing and pristine;

preserved by my successors

in all its glory.

I’m glad they kept it,

because that means they love it

just like I loved it.

Maybe they need it.

Maybe they are resenting

being alone, too.

And maybe the pink

will remind them that they aren’t.

They just need to paint.

I wrote this poem on May 13, 2021 as part of a poetry contest sponsored by Vocal and Moleskine. The prompt read, “Write about something that makes you unique, inspired by the idea of color.” I chose to post it here in October because that’s the month it’s really about.

H I N N A E :

A Narrative Lectionary Sermon on Genesis 27:1-4 and 15-23; Genesis 28:10-17

Genesis 27:1-4

When Isaac was old and his eyes were dim so that he could not see, he called his elder son Esau and said to him, “My son”; and he answered, “Here I am.” He said, “See, I am old; I do not know the day of my death. Now then, take your weapons, your quiver and your bow, and go out to the field, and hunt game for me. Then prepare for me savory food, such as I like, and bring it to me to eat, so that I may bless you before I die.”

Genesis 27:15-23

Then Rebekah took the best garments of her elder son Esau, which were with her in the house, and put them on her younger son Jacob; and she put the skins of the kids on his hands and on the smooth part of his neck. Then she handed the savory food, and the bread that she had prepared, to her son Jacob. So he went in to his father, and said, “My father”; and he said, “Here I am; who are you, my son?” Jacob said to his father, “I am Esau your firstborn. I have done as you told me; now sit up and eat of my game, so that you may bless me.” But Isaac said to his son, “How is it that you have found it so quickly, my son?” He answered, “Because the Lord your God granted me success.” Then Isaac said to Jacob, “Come near, that I may feel you, my son, to know whether you are really my son Esau or not.” So Jacob went up to his father Isaac, who felt him and said, “The voice is Jacob’s voice, but the hands are the hands of Esau.” He did not recognize him, because his hands were hairy like his brother Esau’s hands; so he blessed him.

Genesis 28: 10-17

Jacob left Beer-sheba and went toward Haran. He came to a certain place and stayed there for the night, because the sun had set. Taking one of the stones of the place, he put it under his head and lay down in that place. And he dreamed that there was a ladder set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven; and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it.  And the Lord stood beside him and said, “I am the Lord, the God of Abraham your father and the God of Isaac; the land on which you lie I will give to you and to your offspring; and your offspring shall be like the dust of the earth, and you shall spread abroad to the west and to the east and to the north and to the south; and all the families of the earth shall be blessed in you and in your offspring. Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.” Then Jacob woke from his sleep and said, “Surely the Lord is in this place—and I did not know it!” And he was afraid, and said, “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.”

The Message

Every time I read this story, I find myself wanting to give my little sister the evil eye. Like —just try to take my birthright. I dare you.

This account of Isaac blessing his son, Jacob is a lot like the binding of Isaac that we explored last week in that it doesn’t feel good to read. It might feel good to watch if it were turned into a soap opera. No—a reality show. I’d bet that the amount of drama and hyperbole wrapped up in this Abrahamic lineage could last a minimum four seasons with plenty of offshoots and promotional opportunities. These characters would put the Kardashians to shame, easy. I don’t know about you, but I would tune in to see someone cover themselves in goat skins and actually get away with making their dad think they were someone else. How ridiculous is that premise?

But this is not a soap opera. This is not a reality show. This is a canonized piece of the living Word of our God.

So, we have to sit in this discomfort.

At the center of everything we have Esau and Jacob, two brothers who have literally been competing—fighting—since before they were born. Their mother (and Isaac’s wife), Rebekah, was having a difficult pregnancy, and she went to God in prayer to ask what was going on. God said to her:

“Two nations are in your womb,
and two peoples born of you shall be divided;
the one shall be stronger than the other,
the elder shall serve the younger.”

Genesis 25: 23 (NRSV)

So, from the beginning, we as readers are dealing in a kind of black-and-white thinking. We know that trouble is coming. We know that conflict is inherent in this brotherhood. Destined. Here’s a fun fact: The name “Jacob” is a play on the Hebrew root for “supplanting,” or “grabbing by the heel.” Jacob was born clinging on to Esau by the foot—like he was trying to hold Esau back and race him into the world.

Here we are, so many years later, entrenched even more deeply in this rivalry, watching Jacob holding Esau back and racing him for something else: the family inheritance. The first-born son’s birthright. The family blessing.

Our liturgy tells us most of that story, and then, it makes a very interesting move. It pivots to the passage most of us call “Jacob’s Ladder,” where a vision comes to Jacob in a dream. This vision lifts up a different blessing—a blessing directly from God. The ladder that connects the earthly realm and the heavenly realm represents a constant, relational, and climbing exchange between us and the divine. It indicates God’s never-ending presence in our lives.

As you can imagine, many scholars and pastors looking for God’s promise in this pairing of passages will gravitate toward this idea of God’s presence. The notion that God will always be there with us and for us, even when we’re on the run. Like Jacob was. Even when we’re in hiding. Like Jacob was. Even when we’re isolated and confused. Which Jacob definitely was.

As you can imagine, many scholars and pastors looking for God’s promise in this pairing of passages will drive home the point that God will be there with us and for us, even when things are so rough that we’re using stones as pillows. God will give us visions of things we haven’t seen before, and imaginings that renew our bodies and our spirits, alike.

I think that makes sense. I think the text tells us that, directly and clearly. And our service this morning supports that line of thought—that focus on God’s presence. We opened our worship this morning by echoing Jacob, saying, “Surely the Lord is in this place! How awesome is the presence of the Lord. This is the house of God. This is the very gate of heaven.” Our first hymn was centered around the idea of our souls meeting God. Being literally alongside God and drawing strength and life from God.

But I’m left feeling a little empty at that idea. It’s nice to know we’re not alone, it’s comforting even, especially when things are hard. But I can’t help thinking: what about Esau? What does God’s presence do for him? Or maybe, for those of us who feel like him some days? Overlooked. Overworked. Destined to be second. Maybe hairy and gross? What does God’s presence do for us?

Because we skipped a significant number of verses in Chapters 27 and 28, there is a lot we missed in the development of this plot line.

We missed Jacob putting up a fight with his mother, Rebekah, when she hatched the plan for him to fool his father, Isaac. We missed Jacob telling her that there was no way they were going to pull this off—that Isaac would end up mocking him instead of blessing him and that this deceit would cause a rift in the family. We missed when Esau came to Isaac’s bedside, fresh off of a hunt, savory soup in hand and ready to receive his blessing. We missed Esau and Isaac discovering, together, that they had been fooled, and mourning and weeping. We missed Esau’s growing resentment. We missed his vow that, after his father passed on from this life, Esau would kill Jacob, himself. We missed Rebekah overhearing this pledge, and giving Jacob instructions on how and where to flee; who he should look to for help and who he should marry; how and where to set up a life in hiding until Esau’s fury passed. We missed Esau vindictively doing all of the things that Rebekah told Jacob not to do, just because he knew they made her unhappy. We missed entire relationships unraveling.

All of the verses that we left out this morning chip away at the black and white thinking that often acts as the backdrop for Esau and Jacob.

It’s usually easy to say, “God foretold Jacob’s success, and God had a plan to work through Jacob. We always knew that Jacob was the chosen one.” It’s easy to justify Jacob’s behavior using God’s favor, and it’s easy to celebrate his victories because we know that they align with what God wants to do. But now that we see Jacob struggling with the weight of a decision that determines the trajectory of an entire family system…now that we see him putting up resistance, he’s humanized in a new way. Should he really be doing that? If God is going to bless him no matter what, does he really need to swoop in and deprive his brother of a blessing?

It’s usually easy to think of Esau as an unfortunate, neutral character. I always feel a bit of preemptive sympathy for Esau, because through no doing of his own, he was destined not to be chosen. But now that we see the toll this lie takes on Esau, the pain that it causes him, he’s humanized in a new way. He’s a grown man—a strong, fierce man—weeping and wailing. He can’t control his rage. He makes violent and abusive decisions that hurt other people and himself. He doesn’t seem so innocent anymore.

It’s usually easy to assume that Isaac would understand betrayal better that most. His own father bound him to sacrifice him to God without any hesitation. You would think that he would try harder to reverse his mistake and to find some justice for Esau. Do right by him. But here, Isaac comes off as vulnerable and bumbling. You can tell that he loves both of his sons deeply. That he knows them. But he isn’t doing much to participate in or guide their relationship. In fact, he foretells some trouble and some conflict of his own. He tells Esau,

“By your sword you shall live,
and you shall serve your brother;
but when you break loose,
you shall break his yoke from your neck.”

GEnesis 27:40

And Rebekah. Oof. It’s easy to read Rebekah as the true villain in this story. She truly doesn’t seem to care about Esau at all. Not only does she come up with this deception scheme—she does all of the work to make it happen. But when she’s telling Jacob to flee, we get a glimpse into where all of this comes from. It’s love. It’s pure love. She wants him to live fully and genuinely; safely and with integrity. It’s not that she isn’t worried about Esau; it’s that the only thing we see is her anxiety for Jacob.

Black-and-white morality and standing goes out the window when we read this story through. And friends, I think that means that a status of “chosen” or “not chosen” disappears, too. All of these characters are full people with full lives experiencing a full spectrum of emotions. The good ones aren’t always good, the bad ones aren’t always bad, and regardless of what was destined for each of them, they all present differently from that destiny in day-to-day life. All of these characters are messy. Complex. Subject to their circumstances. They’re trying to reconcile a divine promise with an earthly existence. They’re trying to live as people of faith.

S,o our promise this morning is not simply that God will be present for us in suffering because God was present for Jacob in suffering. Our promise this morning is deeper than a like-to-like transfer.

Our promise this morning is that when status disappears; when messiness reigns supreme; when we go back to basics and have our existential crises and realize that we aren’t always good; we aren’t always bad; when make decisions we shouldn’t; when our reconciliation doesn’t seem to be working; God will show up knowing that. God will show up understanding that. God will show up saying “I’m the one who created space for that.” God will show up saying “I can do so much with that.”

In the very first verse we read today, we heard a word we know—a Hebrew word—hinnae. Pastor Wade gave us a great definition of hinnae last week. It’s not so much an attendance-taking as it is an assurance. Hinnae. “I’m here.’ I’m fully and intentionally present.

We’ve heard this word spoken from people to God, as a response to a call. We know the power of this word when it’s spoken from people to God. Abraham spoke this word when he was being put to the test, preparing to sacrifice his beloved and promised son. Hinnae. I’m here, God.

We’ve heard this word spoken from people to other people. It’s in our reading this morning: Jacob, or as I like to call him, fake Esau, calls out to his father, Isaac, and Isaac responds, hinnae. I’m here, my son. I’m ready to bestow my blessing, which is my whole life. My whole livelihood. I’m here, son.

The story of Jacob’s ladder is the story that reminds us that this word has been spoken from God to people since creation. God might not say hinnae, explicitly, but God says hinnae through miracles. Through covenants. Through nature. Through migrations. Here, in this fantastical dream, God says to Jacob:

“I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.”

Genesis 28:15

Friends, God is here for us. God will keep us wherever we go, and will bring us back to where we need to be. God will not leave us. Period. Jesus is the embodiment of hinnae. Jesus is God breaking into our messiness and taking it on alongside us.

I went to a Jesuit university, which means that I learned a lot about St. Ignatius of Loyola. His mantra—the posture that informed the Society of Jesus—was simple: “God in all things.” Surely, friends, God is in all things. God is in all places. God is with all of us all of the time. Surely, God is in this place, whether or not we know it.

Amen.

This sermon was authored and delivered on September 26, 2021.

Helpful influences included:

“#460: Jacob’s Dream” episode of I Love To Tell The Story: Working Preacher Narrative Lectionary Podcast (September 19, 2021)

U N C O V E R E D :

A Narrative Lectionary Sermon on Revelation 4:1-11 and John 17:1-5

Revelation 4:1-11 (NRSV)

After this I looked, and there in heaven a door stood open! And the first voice, which I had heard speaking to me like a trumpet, said, “Come up here, and I will show you what must take place after this.” At once I was in the spirit,[a] and there in heaven stood a throne, with one seated on the throne! And the one seated there looks like jasper and carnelian, and around the throne is a rainbow that looks like an emerald. Around the throne are twenty-four thrones, and seated on the thrones are twenty-four elders, dressed in white robes, with golden crowns on their heads. Coming from the throne are flashes of lightning, and rumblings and peals of thunder, and in front of the throne burn seven flaming torches, which are the seven spirits of God; and in front of the throne there is something like a sea of glass, like crystal.

Around the throne, and on each side of the throne, are four living creatures, full of eyes in front and behind:the first living creature like a lion, the second living creature like an ox, the third living creature with a face like a human face, and the fourth living creature like a flying eagle.And the four living creatures, each of them with six wings, are full of eyes all around and inside. Day and night without ceasing they sing,

“Holy, holy, holy,
the Lord God the Almighty,
who was and is and is to come.”

And whenever the living creatures give glory and honor and thanks to the one who is seated on the throne, who lives forever and ever, the twenty-four elders fall before the one who is seated on the throne and worship the one who lives forever and ever; they cast their crowns before the throne, singing,

“You are worthy, our Lord and God,
to receive glory and honor and power,
for you created all things,
and by your will they existed and were created.”

John 17:1-5 (NRSV)

After Jesus had spoken these words, he looked up to heaven and said, “Father, the hour has come; glorify your Son so that the Son may glorify you, since you have given him authority over all people,[a] to give eternal life to all whom you have given him. And this is eternal life, that they may know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent. I glorified you on earth by finishing the work that you gave me to do. So now, Father, glorify me in your own presence with the glory that I had in your presence before the world existed.

The Message

Do you recognize the refrain “Holy, holy, holy, the Lord God almighty?”

How about, “the one who was, and is, and is to come?”

So many Lutheran liturgies—so much of our Lutheran language—draws on imagery from the Book of Revelation. And it’s easy to see why, right? This snippet from Chapter 4, alone, sounds like something my nephews would draw and then try to explain to me very fanatically. (Or maybe something a college buddy would have rambled on about after delving into some choice substances). Stones and a rainbow; oceans of glass and creatures covered in eyes and wings. Unceasing chants. Elders in white robes. Thrones everywhere. It’s a lot. For 22 entire chapters, the author of this apocalyptic work paints some of the strongest, most mystical, most bizarre pictures in all of our canonized texts.

Now, do you remember the first time you actually read from the Book of Revelation?

We are so constantly immersed in the familiarity of Revelation’s language, but we hardly every touch the book, itself, as a church. That’s why I’m excited to dig in today and to listen for the promise coming to us in this text.

I remember the first time that I read from the Book of Revelation. I was probably 14 years old, sitting around a coffee table with the other girls in my Confirmation group, covered in craft supplies. We were making blankets and scarves for a local shelter, but my small group leader, Ms. Lisa, wanted to go the extra mile for us, so she had made up some snacks and rented a movie for us to watch together as we worked.

The movie was based on a series of books—the Left Behind series. For those of you who haven’t had the absolute pleasure of watching these films or reading these stories, let me give you a summary. Rayford Steele, a middle-aged, silver fox of an airline pilot is our main character. He returns home from a work trip to a completely empty house. His wife and his kids have vanished along with a ton of other people world-wide. Rayford Steele and the others who were “left behind” quickly figure out that they’re watching the Rapture unfold before their eyes—the end times talked about in the Bible.

About 30 minutes in, my friends and I started to look at each other, majorly confused. We were thinking that maybe we hadn’t read far enough in the Bible yet. Maybe we had missed something. We would have remembered this stuff that we were seeing on screen. Natural disasters and violent crime and other destructive sweeps of God’s judgment become the norm for Rayford Steele and the other nonbelievers left on earth. A Romanian politician rises to serve as Secretary General of the UN, allegedly trying to restore peace, but he is actually the Antichrist in disguise. Some people are very selectively left behind in very large numbers (I’m talking about Catholics and Muslims) and the focus of the movie becomes the conversion of desperate, suffering people. It’s like constant tests of devotion and attention. Evangelism warped and on steroids. Everyone is preparing for the impending Tribulation of God—the Final Judgment that’s 7 years away. And as much as you want to laugh at the absurdity of all of this, the movie is unsettling. A little scary, too. One of my friends pulled the study Bible from her backpack and started flipping through the Book of Revelation, trying to find the textual basis for all of these things.

Ms. Lisa’s daughter went into the kitchen to ask her if we could switch to something else. “Don’t you like it?” she asked. She followed her daughter back into the living room, and after watching for a couple of minutes, she gasped. I’ve never seen someone find the remote and shut down their entertainment system so fast.

Ms. Lisa apologized to us over and over. She had simply seen this DVD under a sign that said, “Christian Movies for Teens” and she hadn’t had time to prescreen it, herself. Like many other people in mainline Protestant denominations, she had never heard of the Left Behind books, and based on the cover of the movie case, she thought this was a feel-good family story. She could tell we were all a little shaken, so she took a seat with us and started some damage control on the fly.

Looking back, I’m so impressed with her answers to our questions, especially considering that she did not go into that evening planning to talk to a bunch of kids about eschatology. Ms. Lisa spent that night witnessing. She knew Jesus—who he is, what he does and how vastly he loves. She knew about God’s essence; God’s character; God’s relationship with God’s people and God’s devotion to God’s people from the beginning of time all the way through today. And she led our discussion with those things. I’m going to tell you what she told us that night. We’ll add our own twists, of course, but that witness of hers is the whole point of the Book of Revelation.

Now, first thing’s first: we need to establish our definitions. When we hear the word “apocalypse,” I think we tend to make it a synonym for “the end times.” For all of those things in the Left Behind series: natural disasters and violent crime and sweeping judgments and maybe even Romanian Antichrists. But in Greek, the word “apocalypse” translates to “uncovering,” or “peeling back.” “Revealing.” Hence, revelation.

In this text, we see a door from afar. It’s open, and when we walk through that door—when we cross the threshold—an entirely new reality is uncovered. Our old status quo is peeled back. A literal cosmic order is revealed to us. And what is at the center of that order? God, the creator. What is the rest of that order doing? Praising God for being the creator.

The winged creatures covered in eyes surrounding God’s throne in this vision represent the span of creatures from our origin stories—from the creation narratives in Genesis. All beings from sky, land and sea are in harmony with humanity around God’s throne, intermingled and interdependent in God’s love.

In a text so often associated with destruction, the thing that God reveals to us to frame the entire book is creation. Sustenance. New life and continuing life in the past, present and future. Revelation is a book about waking up to God’s vision for wholeness and thriving. And then being a part of it; being made alive in big and constant and new ways. Revelation is a book about transformations—visceral upheavals in your heart that translate to visceral upheavals in your world. Revelation is a book about keeping your eyes where they should be; turning your gaze toward what really matters.

In a text so often associated with destruction, the thing that God reveals to us to frame the entire book is creation. Sustenance. New life and continuing life in the past, present and future.

Why was this written? Well, we know that at this time—a handful of decades after Jesus died and rose again—the church was mostly an underground operation. Questions of religious and political authority were swirling around everywhere. You couldn’t escape wondering who to listen to; who to believe; who to follow. In my church, we prayed something to this effect together this morning: “We live in a world of increasing confusion and mixed messages,” we said. “There are many voices from all around and even inside of us.”

Many early Christians were persecuted people, figuring out how to walk by faith. They needed a centering vision of what was possible—what was real. They needed to know what true, not temporal, authority looked like. They were plenty familiar with oppression, so what fed them was a model of liberation. Resistance.

The Book of Revelation is a work of liberation. Resistance.

Now, I wouldn’t call Revelation a warm and fuzzy book. In its illusions to the prophets from the Hebrew Bible and in its fantastical, allegorical way it tells us that some things will, indeed, be destroyed when the world ends. But they’re destroyed in the sense that new things are actively taking their place. They’re destroyed so that we can be free to re-pent. Re-focus. They die so that we can truly live.

Does this sound familiar? We talk Baptism this way. In fact, in my church, we’re about to practice our Thanksgiving for Baptism rite and profess this very thing: that from deep waters of literal death God raised Jesus to life in triumph. Eternal life. That with him, we have been born completely new by water and by Spirit.

Friends, we might call it by a few other names, but the apocalypse is something that God does in our lives on the regular. Our world ends every single day. But because we know Jesus, we know that it’s starting fresh just as often. Jesus is the one pointing to that open door in the heavens. Jesus is the one who leads us there and invites us to look. To step inside. To be in the spirit.

With all this in mind, I think that it makes sense for us to use Jesus’s words from the Gospel of John to prepare to go into the world and do God’s work this week:

Father, the hour has come; glorify your Son so that the Son may glorify you, since you have given him authority over us, to give eternal life to all whom you have given him. And this is eternal life, that we may know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent us. He glorified you on earth by finishing the work that you gave him to do. So now, Father, glorify us in your own presence with the glory that Jesus had in your presence before the world existed.

Amen.

This sermon was authored and delivered on August 8, 2021.

U N I T Y A S T E R I S K :

A Narrative Lectionary Sermon on Ephesians 2:11-22 and Matthew 28:16-20

 Ephesians 2:11-22

So then, remember that at one time you Gentiles by birth, called “the uncircumcision” by those who are called “the circumcision”—a physical circumcision made in the flesh by human hands—remember that you were at that time without Christ, being aliens from the commonwealth of Israel, and strangers to the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world. But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ. For he is our peace; in his flesh he has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us. He has abolished the law with its commandments and ordinances, that he might create in himself one new humanity in place of the two, thus making peace,  and might reconcile both groups to God in one body through the cross, thus putting to death that hostility through it. So he came and proclaimed peace to you who were far off and peace to those who were near; for through him both of us have access in one Spirit to the Father. So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God, built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone. In him the whole structure is joined together and grows into a holy temple in the Lord; in whom you also are built together spiritually into a dwelling place for God.

Matthew 28:16-20

Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them.  When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted. And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

The Message

Welcome, everyone, to Installment Two of our summer series on the letter to the Ephesians.

Last week, we talked about how important the language in this letter is—the repetition and the dramatic vocabulary that the author chooses to use tells us that the feelings the words in this book evoke are just as important as the meaning of the words, themselves. We definitely see that same style coming through in our passage today, right? Especially toward the end.

We also talked about how some scholars track the movement of this letter by leaning on three of the verbs that the author uses most: “sit,” verbs, “walk” verbs, and “stand” verbs. Last week, we were solidly in the “sit” portion of things, ruminating on who Jesus is and what Jesus does in terms of our relationship with the Divine. Chapter One is a vertical focus on God’s love: spelling out what happens between God and us. Us and God. This week, we’re transitioning from “sit” verbs to “walk” verbs. Chapter Two is also trying to highlight who Jesus is and what Jesus does, but this time, in terms of our relationships with each other. Chapter Two has more of a horizontal focus. Me to you; you to me.

If you want an easy way to frame things, think of this week as the “We love,” where last week was the “because God first loved us.”

We. Love. Let’s dig into that.

The author of Ephesians is writing in the style and the tradition of Paul, which means that he views Jesus Christ as an event. A cosmic, transcendent, and utterly transformational event. Nothing about our world before Jesus could possibly be the same now, after Jesus. Literally everything is different. And the way that he chooses to illustrate that is to remind his readers that there have been distances and distinctions throughout history that have made reconciliation impossible between entire groups—and entire generations—of people. Now, in the wake of the event that is Jesus Christ, those distances? Those distinctions? They don’t work the same way. The grace and the mercy in the blood of Jesus Christ have “put hostility to death;” the grace and the mercy in his flesh have “broken down dividing walls.”

The author of Ephesians has a very clear message: Jesus is our peace.

The author of Ephesians has a very clear message: Jesus is our peace.

Why do you think the people living in Ephesus need to hear this? Simple as it seems, my guess is that they need to hear about peace because they don’t have any. They need to know that peace is possible because they aren’t seeing it day to day—and that means that they have begun to believe it unattainable. Unrealistic.

It’s safe to assume that Jesus’s disciples feel much the same way in our passage from Matthew 28. I don’t think they’re experiencing much peace. I think they are in a place where they think it is unattainable. Unrealistic.

First of all, only eleven of them go to this mountain in Galilee. Did that throw anybody else off? I’ve never seen the term “the eleven disciples.” I’ve only ever read about twelve; I’ve only ever imagined twelve; a complete set. But here, in Jesus’s final moments on earth, it appears that the broken trust stemming from Judas’s betrayal is still raw. The pain he caused has cut through the group. Cut him out of the group.

It’s not just that, though. We read that when these eleven disciples saw Jesus, they began worshipping him. But some doubted. That either means that a handful of people are worshipping while the rest are abstaining blatantly in front of Jesus’s face; or that all of them are worshipping, but some are harboring resentment… going through the motions, maybe, but without their hearts really in it. Either way, it’s an interesting split, and one that Jesus has to be picking up on.

After all, he is the cause of a lot of the confusion and frustration among his followers. His crucifixion, his death and his resurrection scared them to their very cores. Some of them found comfort and wonder and understanding when Jesus came back to find them. They were relieved! They were reassured. Reinvigorated, even, when it came to his plan and his message. They rooted down in Jesus’s return, using it as proof that everything they had ever known needed to be run through a new lens.

But others were traumatized—others were hurt. There were disciples who felt so deeply abandoned by Jesus and so disoriented by his death that they lost their trust in him. They lost their passion for his ministry; their faith in his miracles. They rooted down in Jesus’s death, using it as proof that anything Jesus said or did from now on needed to be run through their old lens. They grew cemented in a “fool me once” kind of posture.

Jesus sees this conflict unfolding before him. Jesus feels tension, steady and strong in this shared space. Jesus recognizes anxiety and vulnerability in his most beloved companions. And it is precisely in all of this that he calls them to make disciples. To baptize in his name. To love indiscriminately and to teach everything he has taught. His disciples haven’t even fully shown up, and here is Jesus, encouraging them to go into the world and raise up their own.

Jesus sees this conflict. Jesus feels this tension. Jesus recognizes anxiety and vulnerability in his most beloved companions. And it is precisely in all of this that he calls them to make disciples.

He meets every single one of them exactly where they are and lets them know that this is the time to embark on the reconciling work of building God’s kingdom. “All authority on heaven and earth,” he tells them, “has been given to me.”

Would you like to know another way we can interpret that? A way we can put it into different words? We could read it as, “I am your peace.”

When they author of Ephesians says that distance and distinctions don’t work the same way they used to, what he’s really saying is that they don’t hold any power anymore. Jesus is now the foundational measure of who you are—not your ethnicity, your abilities, your gender, your age, your family history, your tribe politics. None of that has the power to alienate or isolate you anymore. The power to make you a stranger; to pull you away from God or community. You are defined, first and foremost by the fact that you know Jesus. You are intimately and preemptively connected to other people by the fact that you know Jesus. Your empathy has unlimited potential because you know Jesus.

This is what will make all the difference in Ephesus. Remember—Ephesus was a huge city. It basically marked the fusion between the East and the West in the trading world, which meant that it was wealthier and more diverse than almost any other place in the Ancient Near East. The people of Ephesus no longer needed to spend their time parsing out who was legitimate in which spaces, or who had the power to speak to what. Now, Jesus is everybody’s common power. Everybody’s access to legitimacy; to a voice.

This is what will make all the difference for the disciples and the early church that they help to grow. They didn’t need to be on the same page in order to do God’s work. They just needed to be connected by the same live wire—touched and molded by the same, confounding paradox: Jesus.

When I opened this text early last week to begin my research and my reflection, I let out an audible groan. I didn’t want to preach on unity, because unity feels so unattainable right now. So unrealistic. I don’t have to go into much detail or wax poetic about the abnormally high level of conflict we’re living through right now. We have record numbers of people taking to the streets in Cuba to protest poverty and rampant sickness and suppression of the media. Our own federal court system just blocked new applications for the DACA program. We’re banding behind our country’s greatest athletes as the Olympic trials wrap up for every sport, and we’re arguing about regulations in ways we never have before. State to state, we’re politicizing and debating mask mandates in the face of the new COVID-19 variant, and the heart of our beloved Minneapolis is still a site of struggle and resistance in the pursuit of justice. My faith in Jesus doesn’t seem like it’s something that can actually bring about peace in all of this.

But then it hit me: the word “unity” isn’t used anywhere in this text. We put it in our prayers and our liturgy today. But nowhere in this part of Ephesians or this part of Matthew does Jesus’s peace entail unity. Jesus’s peace is about:

“Being brought near.”

“Making many groups into one.”

“Reconciling people to God in one body.”

“Being joined together and growing.”

But it’s not about erasing differences. Diversity. Struggles, even. It’s about cherishing them. Valuing them. Jesus’s peace doesn’t expect us to ignore pain or conflict. Jesus’s peace doesn’t call for us to deny the things that are hard…or to be a monolith in his name. Jesus’s peace transforms difference; diversity; struggle; from things that cause pain to things that can beget and amplify love. Jesus’s peace uses the differences, diversity and struggles between us to heighten awareness and widen witness. To surprise us out of our doubt and out of our certainty just enough to show us new ways of being. New ways of loving.

Here’s the thing, friends. The event that is Jesus Christ warped our metric of what is “realistic.” It made it kind of obsolete, actually. Christ’s radical love reveals to us the exceptions to all of our rules; it empowers us to create where we would normally destroy.

The event that is Jesus Christ warped our metric of what is “realistic.” It made it kind of obsolete, actually. Christ’s radical love reveals to us the exceptions to all of our rules; it empowers us to create where we would normally destroy.

At my seminary, the Lutheran program was a pan-Lutheran program. That means that I had Missouri Synod and Wisconsin Synod peers for my entire time there, which made things difficult not only in class, but in planning Lutheran Group activities. How could we organize on campus and do good work if we couldn’t even take communion together? If these men didn’t take me seriously as the organizer of the group? I spent almost two years bristling at every question they asked me about my call; getting defensive and even dismissive of their opinions and their feedback because I deemed both harmful. Exclusive. Dangerous. All of the things they represented have hurt people I know; all of the beliefs they carried with them seemed threatening to me. I was polite to them, but nothing more. I felt a constant strain in our relationship—a constant buzz in the background.

And then, on the morning I was assigned to deliver my senior sermon in the campus chapel, I walked in to find all of them sitting in the third row from the front. That’s pretty good for Lutherans! Any kind of Lutherans! I hadn’t invited them. I didn’t want the strain—the buzz—associated with this beautiful day, and I assumed they wouldn’t want to hear the word coming from me, anyway. But here they were, of their own volition. Early. Ready. So supportive and so receptive. They focused on every word I said. They mercy-laughed at of all of my dumb jokes. They told me afterward that they had prayed for my me and my message. They told me they were proud of me. They had no agenda that morning but love.

And that changed everything for me. To this day, we disagree about what Biblical justice means. What it looks like. We disagree about major pieces of how to live a Christian life. We do not have a comfortable unity. But we don’t have strain or buzz anymore, either. We have recognized Jesus and his peace as our common bond, and it has allowed us to engage in a true way; a genuine way. Jesus’s peace is doing work on both sides and helping us to grow together.

The author of Ephesians says that Jesus has created a new humanity in himself. We’ve talked about this before, especially in our celebrations of Baptism and our Thanksgiving for Baptism rite. In Jesus, the old creature is drowned—washed away—and the new creature emerges, empowered to love without end and to make the impossible, possible. This morning, we will commit to nurturing this new humanity in Andrew John David Stevens, beloved child of God. And as we go into the world this week, we will commit to nurturing this new humanity in ourselves.

When we say the word “unity” today, let’s put an asterisk on it. Let’s think “connection.” Let’s think “change.” Let’s think of being built together, spiritually. Loving in new ways that stem from all of our beautiful particularities,

Jesus’s peace be with you.

This sermon was authored and delivered on July 18, 2021.

Helpful influences included:

“Commentary on Matthew 28:16-20” by Eric Barreto (April 12, 2015)

“#88: Preaching Series on Ephesians” episode of I Love To Tell The Story: Working Preacher Narrative Lectionary Podcast (July 3, 2021)

C H E E R S :

A Narrative Lectionary Sermon on Ephesians 1:1-14 and John 14:25-27

Ephesians 1:1-14 (NRSV)

Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God; to the saints who are in Ephesus and are faithful in Christ Jesus: Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places, just as he chose us in Christ before the foundation of the world to be holy and blameless before him in love. He destined us for adoption as his children through Jesus Christ, according to the good pleasure of his will, to the praise of his glorious grace that he freely bestowed on us in the Beloved. In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace that he lavished on us. With all wisdom and insight he has made known to us the mystery of his will, according to his good pleasure that he set forth in Christ, as a plan for the fullness of time, to gather up all things in him, things in heaven and things on earth. In Christ we have also obtained an inheritance, having been destined according to the purpose of him who accomplishes all things according to his counsel and will, so that we, who were the first to set our hope on Christ, might live for the praise of his glory. In him you also, when you had heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation, and had believed in him, were marked with the seal of the promised Holy Spirit; this is the pledge of our inheritance toward redemption as God’s own people, to the praise of his glory.

John 14: 25-27 (NRSV)

“I have said these things to you while I am still with you. But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you. Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.”

The Message

I have to be honest—in terms of preaching, this passage from Ephesians makes me feel like I’m cheating a little bit. Or like I lucked out. Because there is nothing I could say about God that the author of this epistle hasn’t already said. Our first portion of text here could be a sermon, in and of itself, because it does what every theologically sound sermon does: it proclaims the very essence of God, which centers us in the good news of God’s promises.

Our text gets straight to the point:

  • God has blessed us with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places.
  • God chose us in Christ before the very foundation of the world, destined us for adoption as children.
  • In that very same Christ, we have redemption through blood, forgiveness of our trespasses and riches of grace lavished on us.

Essentially, the message here is that God has a cosmic vision, and that we’re a part of it! God’s classic move—God’s defining characteristic—is making big plans with us, around us and including us. The author of Ephesians is trying to drive home the point that God has been operating this way forever, and that God will continue to operate this way, seeking relationship with us in quite literally creative ways. God’s work is to redeem all of creation and to foster wholeness on a universal scale. We are inseparable from that agenda. From that wholeness. From that redemption.

God has a cosmic vision, friends, and we’re a part of it.

Now, that is an overwhelming thesis. It’s beautiful. But overwhelming. It’s really nice on paper, isn’t it? Comforting and warm and very grand. But I think it’s hard to understand in terms of lived experience.

I mean, when I hit the snooze button for the second or third time and roll out of bed; when I’m looking in the mirror, brushing my teeth; sitting in traffic; sending emails; taking another Zoom call; picking up my groceries; paying my bills; watering the garden for the millionth time; what does it mean in all of that mundane that God loves me in this way? And that God loves me so much? What does it mean that we, as a community, together, are loved in this way? And loved so much?

What does it mean in all of this mundane that God loves me in this way? And that God loves me so much?

Let’s break it down.

This is not a text where we can lean on historical context like we normally might. For one thing, we’re never going to be sure who the author of Ephesians really is. We say that it’s Paul, but most scholars are convinced that it’s someone else writing in the style and the tradition of Paul. (That’s not too strange. It was understood in the early church that plagiarism and imitation were the highest forms of flattery—credibility, even. People wrote as other people all the time.) So some of our context goes cold there.

If we wanted to, we could dig into the dynamics of the city of Ephesus. It was one of the largest and wealthiest cities in the Eastern Mediterranean, and a very unique link between East and West, especially in terms of travel and trade. As it came under Roman control, Ephesus became known as a melting pot, much more ethnically and religiously diverse than other regions. But, this letter to Ephesus doesn’t even hint at any part of that. In fact, it’s one of the only epistles in our Biblical witness that doesn’t mention any details about the city for which it is intended. There are no particularities in any of the six chapters we have at our fingertips today. So, we’re at a geographical dead end of sorts, too.

On top of all of that, the Greek used in this letter is very repetitive. It doesn’t really benefit us to analyze individual words or scrutinize portions of vocabulary because so much of the language in this letter is used again and again and again and again.

And that’s actually what I think the Holy Spirit is calling us to reflect on. The connotation of this letter—the feeling that it gives you as you read it—is just as important as the denotation. The experience of the words is just as important as what the words are saying; in fact, the experience of the words mirrors what the words are saying.

This is a text that performs very thing it’s talking about. It plays to our senses, more like a song than a letter. Ephesians 1 almost oozes an idea of the overly abundant grace of God to try to lull us into a state of awe. To try to get us to dwell for a few moments in the mystery that is our God.

So, I would argue that this language is not so much redundant as it is experiential. It reminds me of every best man and maid of honor toast I’ve ever heard at a wedding.

These toasts are showy. Most of the time, they’re a little cheesy, too. Over-the-top. They wax poetic about at least one of the spouses-to-be, forming a kind of testament to their character. Maybe the maid of honor or the best man will include a little anecdote about an awkward meeting or an embarrassing moment, but they always bring things back to how wonderful this person is. How happy they are for this person. How excited they feel looking to the future alongside this person.

That should make most of us roll our eyes a little. That should make most of us say something like, “That’s a bit much.” I will admit, though, that every time I hear one of these speeches, I get emotional. It doesn’t matter if I know the couple or not, if the best man or the maid of honor is an engaging public speaker or not—it doesn’t matter. I always tear up when these toasts roll around.

And that’s because, when you think about it, this maid of honor or this best man is trying to fit an entire person—the all-encompassing connection they have with that person—into sixty seconds. And then they’re trying to make a room full of strangers understand that all-encompassing connection. To internalize it. I think they’re going so far as to invite a room full of strangers to be a part of that all-encompassing connection.

Wedding toasts are always over-the-top, but that’s because they are marking and sharing entire relationships. Whoever the author of Ephesians is, this first chapter is his best man speech. He’s trying to fit all of who God is and what God does and why into a mere few pages of mail. He doesn’t want you to walk away with a chronological or intellectualized understanding of God. He wants you to walk away feeling a new kind of closeness to God. He’s inviting you into relationship with God.

Some scholars use a set of verbs to organize the letter to the Ephesians and to track its movement or its evolution. They’ve extracted some of those repetitive Greek words to pick up on overarching patterns. On the whole, the book goes from emphasizing “sit,” to emphasizing “walk” to emphasizing “stand.”

On the whole, the book goes from emphasizing “sit,” to emphasizing “walk,” to emphasizing “stand.”

Chapter 1 falls solidly into the “sit” category. Chapter 1 is immersing us in the fact that God has seated us in heavenly places (heavenly wedding reception halls, if you will, with cute little name cards and slices of sheet cake and the chicken dance in the background). Because of who God is and what God does and why, we are sitting in more sacred places than we were before we knew God.

This sitting isn’t passive. It is preparing us to walk. That’s probably the most familiar and beloved portion of Ephesians, right? To walk worthily in the ways we have been called…to lead lives worthy of our callings. (Ephesians 4:1)

And from there, we will be empowered to stand. To turn toward the outside world and somehow, remain grounded. Centered. Strong.

Alongside the rest of the church following the Narrative Lectionary, we’re focusing on the sitting today. But we do that knowing that the sitting is not an isolated or disconnected stage. We sit knowing that the love we remember; God’s love that we experience; God’s love that we’re invited into here has momentum. Direction. We know that we will bring this love with us as we walk breathing it in and out as we go about our normal, ordinary days. We know that this love will fortify us when we find ourselves needing to stand in the moments that are abnormal. Out of the ordinary. And we know that we’ll move back to sitting again.

Rinse and repeat.

Our John passage cements this process of sitting and walking and standing. Jesus is giving his disciples something of an overview. An executive summary of what they’ve seen and everything they’ve been a part of in the trajectory of his ministry. And he is doing this so that they can be prepared for what they what they haven’t seen. What they haven’t been a part of. What they will need to lead after he leaves this realm.

In Verses 28-31, just after the verses we read together today, we hear Jesus say:

“I am going away, and I am coming to you. If you loved me, you would rejoice that I am going to the Father, because the Father is greater than I. And now I have told you this before it occurs, so that when it does occur, you may believe. I will no longer talk much with you, for the ruler of this world is coming. I do as the Father has commanded me, so that the world may know that I love the Father. Rise, let us be on our way.”

Jesus sits with the disciples in love. But then he calls them to action—to walk with him away from that place and to stand as his witnesses in the world.

This is why big ideas about God matter in the every day. This is how they matter in the everyday. If we can sit and remember God’s love; if we can sit and remember that there is nothing God won’t do to show us that love; if we can sit and remember that God’s love for us can never disappear or be diminished; then we can walk. We can stand. We can grow into our ever-cyclical identities as agents of God’s love.

Jesus has promised us the Advocate—the Holy Spirit—to guide us in this growth. She is calling us today to write, deliver and live out our very own wedding toasts. To love precisely because God loves us first and always has, in the biggest way.

Amen.

This sermon was authored and delivered on July 11, 2021.

Helpful influences included:

“Commentary on Ephesians 1:1-14; 2:11-22; 4:1-16; 6:10-20” by Mary Hinkle Shore (August 11, 2013)

“NL277: Preaching Series on Ephesians” episode of I Love To Tell The Story: Working Preaching Narrative Lectionary Podcast (July 8, 2017)

H E L L O :

Welcome to Pastorish, a collection of sermons and messages from an almost-ordained preacher.

To make a long story short, I always thought I was going to be a pastor. Always. I never dreamed of anything else. As I entered seminary and learned more about discernment (more about the Biblical imperative of justice, even), I realized that God had other plans for me. But I have been fortunate enough to stay actively connected to ministerial spaces and communities, and to theology, more broadly, which I love.

I hold a part-time Associate Minister of Worship position with a congregation in the Twin Cities area, and I use this blog to gather and organize the sermons I deliver in that position. The occasional poem or article may sneak its way in, along with intermittent devotional reflections.

Really, this page is all about navigating the “priesthood of all believers” — a call outside the church influenced almost entirely by my time inside the church.

Martin Luther describes your call, or your “vocation,” as a multifaceted thing. Chaotic in the best of ways and always evolving. You aren’t so much defined by what you do, but rather, you are defined by who you know. Your relationships inform and build and drive your purpose.

So I want to use this first post to name the people I know — the people who allow me to know myself.

I want to thank my family for their unwavering support — for their listening, their honesty, their ideas and their commitment to their faith that has taught me so much. I want to thank my friends, inside and outside of the church, for their curiosity and their love. I want to thank my partner for his trust, and for the depth he brings to everything he does. I want to thank my mentors in congregations, schools and other organizations for their time and their wisdom. And I want to thank the countless strangers who have made their way into and out of my life day to day, telling me stories and making me pause and reminding me just how miraculous the ordinary can be.

I’m so glad you’re here.