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Sermon – John 13.1-17, 31b-35, MT, YB, April 2, 2015

15 Wednesday Apr 2015

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belonging, brokenness, church, dinner, Eucharist, failings, footwashing, forgiveness, God, home, identity, Jesus, joy, Last Supper, Maundy Thursday, peace, renewal, sacred, Sermon, sinfulness, strength, table

The dinner table is where sacred things happen.  The dinner table is where food is served that can satisfy a hunger, can heal an ailing body, can delight the senses, and can invoke a nostalgia like no other.  The dinner table is where stories are told, days are recounted, prayers are said, and laughter is had.  The dinner table is where places are set, dishes are passed, plates are cleared, and remnants are cleaned.  The dinner table is the host of all things mundane – like that frozen meal you threw together before you ran off to the next thing; and the dinner table is the host of all things momentous – like that gloriously planned and executed Thanksgiving meal that you hosted for your friends and family.  Because the dinner table can do all these things, the dinner table becomes the place in our home where sacred things happen – a holy site for one’s everyday and one’s extraordinary moments.

The dinner table where Jesus and his disciples gathered for that Last Supper was no different.  They had gathered at table hundreds of times in the three years they had spent together.  There had been learning and laughter, stories and questions, arguments and celebrations.  In many ways, all of these things seem to happen in the course of this one night during the Last Supper.  Jesus and the disciples are likely chatting up a storm, talking about the days events, when Jesus does something extraordinary.  He gets up, takes off his outer robes, and washes the feet of his disciples.  This kind of event is unheard of.  Hosts and well-respected teachers do not wash others feet; that task was assigned to a household slave.[i]  And some of the midrashic commentary suggests that not even a Hebrew slave was expected to perform such a menial task.  Instead, the slave might bring out a bowl of water, but the guest would wash his own feet.[ii]  So of course, a lively debate ensues with Peter, who does not understand what is happening.  Jesus washes Peter’s feet anyway – and washes Judas’ feet – before returning to that dinner table to explain what he has done.  He goes on to explain that not only will he die soon, but also that he expects a certain behavior after he is gone – that they love one another.

That is the funny thing about dinner tables.  They can bring out the most sacred and holy of conversations.  The dinner table is where one tells his family that he has terminal cancer.  The dinner table is where one tells her best friend that she lost her job and has no idea what she is going to do.  The dinner table is where the young couple announces that that they lost their pregnancy.  The dinner table is where the college student tells his parents that he is dropping out of school.  We tell these awful, scary stories at the dinner table because we know that the table can handle them.  The table is where we gather with those who we care about and is therefore the place where we can share both the joys of life and also the really hard stuff of life.  Though our table may have never hosted a dinner as beautiful as one of the tables Norman Rockwell could paint, our table is still a sacred place that can hold all the parts of us – the good, the bad, the beautiful, and the ugly.  We can share the awfulness of life there because we know that those gathered can handle it, and can carry us until we can be back at the table laughing some day.

What I love about our celebration of this day is that all of those things – the good, the bad, the beautiful, and the ugly – were present that night with Jesus and his disciples.  So yes, earlier in the evening, there probably is a raucous conversation.  The disciples are gathered at the table, in all their imperfection: those who love Jesus with a beautiful innocence and those who greedily hope to be at Jesus’ left and right hand; those who humbly understand Jesus and those who want Jesus to victoriously claim his Messianic power; those who profess undying faithfulness (even though they will fail to be faithful) and those who actively betray Jesus.  At that table Jesus not only talks about how to be agents of love, Jesus also shows them how to love.  On this last night – this last night before the storm of Jesus’ trial, crucifixion, and death – a sacred moment happens at the dinner table.  And though we do not hear the story tonight, we also know that Jesus then breaks the bread and offers the wine, instituting the sacrament of Holy Communion.

We know the rest of the story.  The disciples, who still do not really understand Jesus fully, muddle their way through footwashing and Holy Communion.  Then those same dense disciples sleep their way through Jesus’ last prayers.  One of those disciples becomes violent when a soldier tries to seize Jesus.  And eventually, most of the disciples betray and abandon Jesus altogether.  To this unfaithful, dimwitted, scared group, Jesus offers a sacred moment at the dinner table, inviting them into the depths of his soul and a pathway to our God:  and encourages them to love anyway.

Our own Eucharistic table is not unlike that dinner table with Jesus.  Tonight, we too will tell stories, sing, and laugh.  We too will wash feet in humility, embarrassment, and servitude.  We too will hear the sobering invitation to the Eucharistic meal, and will walk our unworthy selves to the rail to receive that sacrificial body and blood.  We too will argue with God in our prayers, pondering what God is calling us to do in our lives and resisting that call with our whole being.  We too will lean on Jesus, longing for the comfort that only Jesus can give.  And we too will hear Jesus’ desperate plea for us to also be agents of love – not just to talk about love, or profess love, but to show love as Jesus has shown love to us.

In this way, our Eucharistic table is not unlike the dinner table in your own home.  Our Eucharistic table has hosted countless stories, arguments, and bouts of laugher.  Our Eucharistic table has witnessed great sadness and great joy.  Our Eucharistic table feeds us, even when we feel or act unworthily.  And our Eucharistic table charges us to go out into the world, being the agents of love who are willing to wash the feet of others – even those who betray us and fail us.  This Lent, we have been praying Eucharistic Prayer C.  In that prayer, the priest prays, “Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal.”[iii]   This Eucharistic table, like our own dinner table, can handle all of us – all our failings, sinfulness, and brokenness.  This table can fill us up with joy, forgiveness, and peace.  This table can be a place where we find belonging, identity, and security.  But this table is also meant to build us up – to give us strength and renewal for doing the work God has given us to do – to love others as Christ loves us.  Sacred things happen at this table.  Those sacred things happen so that we can do sacred things in the world for our God.  Amen.

[i] Guy D. Nave, Jr., “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 279.

[ii] Mary Louise Bringle, “Homiletical Perspective, Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 279.

[iii] BCP, 372.

Sermon – Matthew 18.21-35, P19, YA, September 14, 2014

19 Friday Sep 2014

Posted by jandrewsweckerly in Uncategorized

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domestic violence, forgiveness, free, gift, hurt, Jesus, love, obligation, Peter, self, Sermon, terrorism

This week has been a bit rough.  We started the week talking about Ray Rice and the NFL’s handling of the physical abuse of Rice’s then-fiancée.  The incident raised all sorts of questions about domestic violence:  how genuine the NFL’s stance on domestic violence is, why people stay in abusive relationships, and what domestic violence really looks like.  And then, just days later, we honored the anniversary of September 11th.  We made space for those who are still mourning deaths, we remembered our own experiences of that day, and we reflected on how much our world has changed in the shadow of that event.

Needless to say, when pondering the horrors of domestic violence and terrorism, the absolute last thing I wanted to do this week was to pray on our gospel lesson from Matthew.  The scene is familiar.  Jesus has just told the disciples about how to resolve conflict within the community of faith, and Peter appears with a question.  “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive?  As many as seven times?”  In other words, Peter basically comes to Jesus asking the question that we all want ask, “Okay, so I know you want us to be a community that honors God, even when we fight.  But how many times, exactly, do we really have to forgive someone?  I mean, surely there are limits to how many times we have to keep forgiving someone?”  I give Peter credit.  Peter manages to come off sounding pretty generous.  I mean, how many of us would propose forgiving someone seven times before cutting them off completely?  Instead, our most common colloquialism is “Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, shame on me.”  In our culture, we will forgive someone once and clear the slate.  But if people cross us twice, we believe we would be foolish to stay in a relationship with them because they have proven that they cannot be trusted.

But Jesus does not concede to our modern sensibilities about forgiveness.  Jesus’ response to Peter is shocking, “Not seven times, but I tell you, seventy-seven times.”  Now seventy-seven times is way more leeway with which most of us feels comfortable.  And that is not even taking into account that some translations translate Jesus’ instructions not as seventy-seven times but seventy times seven.[i]  Regardless, the point is that Jesus is basically saying that there is not true end to forgiveness.  “There can be no limit on forgiveness, because [forgiveness] is a never-ending practice that is essential to the life of the church.”[ii]

What ultimately makes us feel uncomfortable about Jesus’ words is that when we begin to talk about forgiveness, most of us have some pretty distorted beliefs about forgiveness.  Some of us believe that forgiveness means excusing or overlooking the harm that has been done to us and saying that everything is okay.  For those who hold that belief, forgiveness can be equated with stuffing our feelings down deep inside or downright lying in order to keep the peace.  Others of us believe that forgiveness means allowing those who have hurt us to persist in their behavior.  For those who hold this belief, forgiveness is so important, that we become recurring victims of offenses.  Still others believe that forgiving means forgetting what happened.  For those who hold this belief, forgiveness is pretending an old hurt does not still hurt.  Finally, others see forgiveness as something that we can do at will, and always all at once.  For those who hold this belief, forgiveness must be immediate and offered quickly.  The problem with all these models of forgiveness – of overlooking the harm, saying everything is okay, of allowing recurring behavior, of trying to forget, or forgiving once and for all – is that these models of forgiveness fall apart when we run into extreme situations like the ones from this week with Ray Rice or September 11th.

The tremendously good news this week is that all of these understandings about forgiveness would have been foreign to Jesus.  I was reading one of my favorite authors this week on her thoughts about forgiveness.  Jan Richardson says of forgiveness, “The heart of forgiveness is not to be found in excusing harm or allowing [the harm] to go unchecked.  [Forgiveness] is to be found, rather, in choosing to say that although our wounds will change us, we will not allow them to forever define us.  Forgiveness does not ask us to forget the wrong done to us but instead to resist the ways [the wrong] seeks to get its poisonous hooks in us.  Forgiveness asks us to acknowledge and reckon with the damage so that we will not live forever in [the damage’s] grip.”[iii]

That is why Jesus tells the hyperbolic parable about the servant and the forgiving king.  The forgiveness by the king of ten thousand talents (or the equivalent of 150,000 years of labor)[iv] is almost ludicrous in its generosity.  The servant would never have been able to pay that amount back.  But then again, the forgiveness we receive from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ is also ludicrous – ludicrously abundant, underserved, and more than we could ever earn.  And yet, the times we struggle to forgive will be like when the unforgiving servant cannot forgive the hundred denarii owed by another servant (or the equivalent of a hundred days of labor) – a much less egregious amount to owe.  In order to be a people who live under Jesus’ excessive forgiveness, we must be a people who are also willing to work on the art of forgiveness.  But we do not do that work out of obligation – instead we do that work as a gift to ourselves.

There once was a woman who went to see her Rabbi.  The woman was a divorced single mom who was working to support herself and her three children.  She explained to the Rabbi that since her husband walked out on them, every month she struggled to pay the bills.  Though she and the kids could not afford everyday treats like going to the movies, her ex-husband was living it up with his new wife.  The Rabbi suggested that the woman forgive her ex-husband and she was indignant.  “How can you tell me to forgive him,” she demanded.  The Rabbi responded, “I’m not asking you to forgive him because what he did was acceptable.  What he did was not acceptable – it was mean and selfish.  I am asking you to forgive him because he does not deserve the power to live in your head and turn you into a bitter angry woman.  I would like to see him out of your life emotionally as completely as he is out of your life physically, but you keep holding on to him.  Know this:  you are not hurting him by holding on to that resentment.  You are only hurting yourself.”[v]

Jesus does not propose that we forgive seventy-seven or seventy times seven times because Jesus is a sadist.  Jesus knows forgiving is hard.  But Jesus also knows that the worst part about forgiveness is not that the work is hard.  The worst part about forgiveness is that when we do not forgive, we only hurt ourselves.  And Jesus does not want us to be locked in a prison of resentment and anger.  Jesus wants us to be free.  One of the reasons Jesus asks us to forgive so many times is because Jesus knows this work does not happen overnight.  Forgiveness is not a once-and-for-all event.  Forgiveness requires us to keep going, to keep trying, because only in the practice of trying – in fact trying until our earthly lives are over – will we ever come close to the profound forgiveness that we receive through the life, death, and resurrection of Christ Jesus our Lord.  Our work on mastering the art of forgiveness is not a gift that we give to others.  Our work on mastering the art of forgiveness is the gift that we give to ourselves.  We work on the art of forgiveness because we are working on loving ourselves as much as Jesus loves us.  Amen.

[i] Lewis R. Donelson, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 69.

[ii] Charles Campbell, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 69.

[iii] Jan Richardson, “The Hardest Blessing,” Sept. 9, 2014, as found at http://paintedprayerbook.com/2014/09/09/the-hardest-blessing/#.VBOogcKwKi0.

[iv] David Lose, “Pentecost 14A: Forgiveness and Freedom,” Sept. 7, 2014, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/ 2014/09/ pentecost-14-a/.

[v] Paraphrased story by Harold S. Kushner, quoted by Charlotte Dudley Cleghorn, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 72.

Homily – Mark 16.15-20, St. Mark the Evangelist, April 25, 2013

01 Wednesday May 2013

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evangelism, forgiveness, homily, Mark, redemption

Today we celebrate St. Mark the Evangelist, author of the Gospel according to Mark.  I have always loved Mark’s gospel.  His writing is so succinct that you have to run to keep up.  He gives very little detail at times, leaving the reader to use their imagination.  Mark feels like the Gospel for the 21st century:  quick snippets that you have to catch before they are gone.

What’s funny about celebrating Mark is that he is the same Mark who bails out on Paul in the book of Acts.  Paul, Barnabus and Mark were to go on a missionary journey, but Mark decided not to go.  Paul was so upset that he refused to travel with Mark on the next trip.  They eventually made up, but Mark is always that guy who turned his back on a missionary journey with Paul and Barnabus.

What I appreciate about this flaw is that Mark gives us all permission to be human, something we do not always give to ourselves.  We are a people who strive to be good Christians, to use the gifts God has given us.  When we fail, we beat ourselves up and wallow in guilt.  We can take more time to forgive ourselves than we take to forgive others.  And we see all our flaws with a magnifying glass – we know our failures better than anyone.

How perfect is it then that we get the gospel lesson for today?  Mark, the guy who bailed on a missionary journey, writes about Jesus’ commission to share the good news.  Mark’s inclusion of this text shows both his humility and his redemption.  If an abandoner of mission can be “Mark the Evangelist” and can write one of the four gospels about Jesus Christ, then there must be plenty of redemption for all of us.

When we were potty-training our daughter, we watched a Sesame Street video about potty training.  One of her favorite parts was a song by Elmo and Grover.  The chorus goes, “Accidents happen and that’s okay.”  Just the other day, I caught my daughter doing something she wasn’t supposed to.  When caught, she looked at me and said, “Accidents happen Mommy, and that’s okay.”  She took a lesson about using the potty and could make it a much larger concept about forgiveness and redemption.  If only we could do the same!  Amen.

Sermon – John 20.19-31, E2, YC, April 7, 2013

10 Wednesday Apr 2013

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afraid, ashamed, fear, forgiveness, Jesus, love, peace, resurrection, Sermon

As Christians who just celebrated Easter last week, rejoicing in Jesus’ resurrection and all that his resurrection means in our lives, you would think our gospel lesson would be a little more victorious.  You would think the next step after the angels appear saying Christ is not in the tomb but is risen would be the disciples hitting the ground running, doing the work of spreading the good news or at least throwing a raucous party.  Instead, we find the disciples huddled in a locked room, cowering in fear.  They have not taken the good news from Mary Magdalene as reason to celebrate.  Instead, they are paralyzed by fear.

I have often wondered what the disciples were afraid of.  The text says they are afraid of the Jews, perhaps afraid that the same people who killed Jesus would try to kill them too.  But I think there is more to their fear.  I think they are afraid to face others, because they feel as if they have failed.  Perhaps they believe that their pick for Messiah did not seem to be the Messiah after all.  I think they are also behind those locked doors because they are ashamed that they failed to protect Jesus, to keep him alive.[i]  Those locked doors are not just for safety – those locked doors are for hiding the shame, the disappointment, and the fear of facing others that the disciples have.

We know a little about what the disciples feel like.  We all have things about ourselves for which we are ashamed.  There are things about ourselves that we lock away, praying that no one every finds out because we are not who we fully want to be or even who we pretend to be.  Garrison Keillor once said, “We always have a backstage view of ourselves.”[ii]  Most people only see the carefully arranged stage we have assembled for others to see.  But behind the curtain, in that backstage view that only we have, there are all sorts of things hiding: old failures, hurts, guilt, and shame.  And Eastertide is one of the most difficult times for this dichotomy because we feel like we should be at our best – wearing our best clothes, coming to church as perfectly functioning families, showing forth nothing but happy alleluias.  We are working overtime to ensure that our stage is especially carefully arranged at church.

But to this frenzied, harried behavior, what does Jesus say?  Peace be with you.  Jesus comes to those fearful, ashamed, embarrassed disciples, finding them behind their locked doors of protection and offers them peace.  Jesus barges backstage and says, “I see you in your fullness, and I offer you peace.  So forgive yourselves and now go and forgive others.”  This is why Jesus died on the cross – that their sins might be forgiven.  And so, before the disciples get too mired in wallowing in fear, shame, and self-pity, Jesus demands they recognize that they are forgiven – and that they share that good news with others.  For no one should be locked inside a room of shame and fear.  The peace Jesus offers is not some “greeting-card platitude about the sun behind the clouds.  [Jesus’ peace] is the beginning of a new world, the long-awaited world of God’s shalom.  [His peace] comes with freedom from fear, sin, and death.  Jesus opens the door that the disciples had locked…and he shows the way to resurrection reality.”[iii]

This is our invitation today as well.  Our invitation is to offer the same forgiveness to one another that Christ unabashedly offers to us.  In so doing, we invite not only ourselves, but others, to take down the pretty stage trappings, and to recognize that we all have backstage versions of ourselves, which are all in need of Jesus’ love and forgiveness.  This is good news for which we can really shout alleluia.  This is the kind of good news that makes us want to be in church.  Because this sacred space is not sacred because we made our stages look sacred; this sacred space is sacred because we are fully ourselves, and fully forgiven.  Peace be with you.  Amen.


[i] M. Craig Barnes, “Crying Shame,” Christian Century, vol. 121, no. 7, April 6, 2004, 19.

[ii] Barnes, 19.

[iii] Kristen Bargeron Grant, “No Joke,” Christian Century, vol. 120, no. 9, April 19, 2003, 18.

Sermon – Luke 15.1-3, 11b-32, L4, YC March 10, 2013

15 Friday Mar 2013

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envy, forgiveness, God, grace, prodigal son, relationship, self-righteous, Sermon

The parable of the prodigal son is one of those beloved parables – the perfect parable for a Lenten journey.  Part of the story’s perfection is that there are so many characters with which to connect.  This year, I have been lingering on the older son.  The older son has every reason to be angry with his father’s lavish forgiveness.  The older son has done what has been expected of him.  He is obedient, hard-working, and would have never insulted his father as deeply as his brother does.  He is the consummate good and faithful servant.  And so when his father, who, by the way, has never given much praise for the older son’s obedience, throws a party for his wayward brother, the older son finally snaps.  He throws a first-class temper tantrum, refusing to come into the party and then yells at his father about the injustice of such a party.

What is so real for us with the older son is that we know his reaction all too well.  Two strong emotions take over the older son.  First, he is struck down with a serious case of envy.  The older son sees the party for his wayward brother, and covets the party.  Never once has he been offered even the smallest of parties for himself and his friends.  The older son has a case of what the Berenstain Bears children’s books call the “Green-Eyed Monster.”  In the Berenstain’s book, The Green-Eyed Monster, Brother Bear is celebrating his birthday, receiving gifts.  Sister Bear is mostly fine with this arrangement, remembering her own birthday party earlier in the year.  That is, until Brother Bear gets the most beautiful, sleek bicycle she has ever seen.  Then the Green-Eyed Monster takes over.  But just so that the adults do not think they are immune, before the story ends, Papa Bear gets a visit from the Green-Eyed Monster too when a neighbor gets a fancy new car.  The point is that envy and jealousy are all too familiar to us.

The other emotion that takes over is self-righteous indignation.  The older son is clearly right about his younger brother.  His younger brother did sin, was disrespectful, behaved selfishly, and disgraced the entire family.  The younger brother does not deserve the reception he receives.  But that is exactly what makes the reception so full of grace.  But the older son is so blinded by his self-righteous indignation, that he cannot see the blessing of his father’s reaction.  As one person describes his situation, the older brother is “standing outside in the dark, perfectly right and perfectly alone.”[i]

When we do premarital counseling, we talk about the ways that spouses and partners behave in disagreements.  Every family and couple has them, and so our counseling is a way to talk about handling disagreements in a healthy way.  I once had a priest tell me that the three most important words for any marriage are, “I.  Am.  Sorry.”  They sound like three words that are simple enough to say.  But somehow we have such a hard time saying them.  Partly I think we struggle with saying them because we think they mean admitting guilt or, even worse, defeat.  And few of us like to lose.  But that same priest told me, the next three most important words are, “You.  Are.  Forgiven.”  As hard as apologizing can be, sometimes forgiving can be even more difficult.  But forgiveness is the only thing that can keep our relationships in balance.  Ideally, by one person saying, “I am sorry,” and the other saying, “You are forgiven,” both parties give up some of their power.  Both parties submit something of themselves to the other.  When one party is unwilling to say one of these things, they become like the older son – perhaps perfectly in the right, but also perfectly alone in their rightness.

What the older brother teaches us is that sometimes we have a choice between being right and being in relationship.  In some ways, much like the younger son has been in a distant country, the older son is also in a distant country.  He has cutoff connection to his brother, to his father, and even to those who have gathered to rejoice over the new life his brother has been given.[ii]  In choosing to be right, he stand out in the darkness, unable to rejoice in another’s joy, closed off the hope of redemption and reconciliation.  In Rembrandt’s The Prodigal Son, the older son stands at a distance, hands crossed in front of him, standing in a darker section of the painting.  His face is lighted, but only to highlight the way in which his distance is important.  Like in the parable, Rembrandt shows the older son, in his rigid, distant body language, as choosing rightness over relationship at that moment.

In the face of this stubborn resistance to forgiveness and grace, the father in the parable shows equal abundance toward his two sons.  According to etiquette of the time, leaving his guests at a party was a breach of social mores.[iii]  But the father ignores social mores for both sons.  The father disregards common practice, and seeks out his older son in the same way that he ran to his younger son upon his return.  The father reminds the older son of the promise that still awaits him.  Then the father invites him into his joy – to celebrate a reconciled relationship – much like the reconciliation the older brother can enjoy if he just comes into the room.

Perhaps why the older son’s story is lingering with me is because we do not know how he responds to the father’s invitation.  The story ends with the ultimate cliffhanger that does not let you know whether the older son remains outside the party or comes inside the party.  Certainly the father’s desire is for him to come in, but we do not know whether the son chooses rightness or relationship.  I have wondered what would happen if the older brother went into the party.  What if the younger brother fell at his brother’s feet too, saying those three hardest words, “I am sorry.”  What if the two men simply embraced – saving words for later.  What if the joy and laughter of that room cracked through the older brother’s tough exterior, and warmth began to seep into his heart.  What if…

In many ways, I think the story ends openly to remind us that we too have a choice.  We too can choose to be right – to hold on to the things in life about which we are justifiably angry and disappointed.  We have every right to protect ourselves and even our family and friends from the kinds of behaviors that hurt us emotionally.  We can be guarded and keep our distance – standing out in the darkness of rightness.  Or we can choose to come into the party, and see what happens.  We may not be able to say “I am sorry,” or even, “You are forgiven,” but we can at least step through the door, into the warm glow of a room that is bursting with abundant grace and love for us and for all – that place where all are forgiven and all are loved.  Amen.


[i] Barbara Brown Taylor, “The Evils of Pride and Self-Righteousness,” Living Pulpit, vol. 1, no. 4, O-D 1992, 39.

[ii] David Lose, “Preaching the Prodigal,” as found on http://www.workingpreacher.org/dear_wp.aspx?article_id=672 on March 8, 2013.

[iii] Leslie J. Hoppe, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 119.

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