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Sermon – John 15.9-17, Acts 10.44-48, E6, YB, May 5, 2024

08 Wednesday May 2024

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When I was curate, I served with two other full-time priests.  That meant after about two years, I got used to our very different styles of preaching, but also some of the themes of our preaching.  I remember at one point, my Rector was preaching and I had the distinct thought, “Here we go again.  Another sermon about love!  Ugh!”  I remember being almost irritated thinking, surely there were other topics to preach about.

Sometimes I think we experience John’s gospel in the same way.  John’s gospel is repetitive and circular from the very beginning, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  He was in the beginning with God.  All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.”[i]  But John is not the only one who is repetitive and circular – Jesus in John’s gospel is repetitive and circular too.  In the first five verses of John’s gospel today we heard the word “love” eight times.  “As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love.  If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love.”[ii]  And the funny thing about the gospel today is this is not the first time Jesus talks about love.  As I was reading verse 12, which says, “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you,” I immediately thought, “Oh, we must be reading the same text we read on Maundy Thursday!”  But you know what?  On Maundy Thursday, we read a passage from two chapters before what we heard today.  The words there are strikingly similar though.  On that night of washing feet, Jesus says, “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another.  Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.”[iii]

So what is the deal with Jesus talking about love over and over again?  Scholar Karoline Lewis argues that you cannot summarize Jesus in one sentence, so of course we have lots of sentences – even if they are repetitive.[iv]  But I think there is something deeper here.  I think Jesus knew that we, as humans, easily distracted.  “Yeah, yeah, yeah Jesus, I got it.  Love my neighbor! Oh look at that shiny thing over there!”  But even more importantly, I think Jesus knew that love – loving neighbor, loving self, loving God, loving others as Jesus loved is not easy.  Loving as Jesus loves means loving people that others (and even sometimes ourselves) would rather hate.  Loving as Jesus loves means mingling with people that society calls unlovable, difficult, and even evil.  Loving as Jesus loves means seeing dignity and worth in every human being – even when they hurt us, say awful things, or are just so different that they make us uncomfortable.  All we have to do is think about what we have been hearing in the lessons from Acts last week and this week to know that loving means letting people into your circle that you had no intention of letting in – breaking those boundaries that Father Charles talked about last week.  For Peter and the early disciples, that meant Jesus was not just for the Jews, but for Jew and Gentile alike.  And not just as charity, but as a way that transformed the entire community of Jesus followers – such that we find Peter dining and staying with Gentiles – who definitely are not kosher and might even be holding fast to other gods while committing to Jesus. 

So how are we supposed to do this really hard work?  How are we supposed to pull together the strength to love as Jesus loves?  I found comfort in words from scholar Debie Thomas this week.  If you remember, last week we heard the verses from John right before our Gospel lesson today, where Jesus declares he is the vine and we are the branches – he is the vine that we are to abide in.  Debie Thomas says, “My problem is that I often treat Jesus as a role model, and then despair when I can’t live up to his high standards.  But abiding in something is not the same as emulating it.  In the vine-and-branches metaphor, Jesus’s love is not our example; it’s our source.  It’s where our love originates and deepens.  Where it replenishes itself.  In other words, if we don’t abide, we can’t love.  Jesus’s commandment to us is not that we wear ourselves out, trying to conjure love from our own easily depleted resources.  Rather, it’s that we abide in the holy place where divine love becomes possible.  That we make our home in Jesus’s love — the most abundant and inexhaustible love in existence.”[v]

Yes, we will continue to hear about loving others because love is the most important message of Jesus.  And yes, loving will feel nearly impossible at times.  But as Thomas reminds us, “As is so often the case in our lives as Christians, Jesus’s commandment leads us straight to paradox: we are called to action via rest.  Called to become love as we abide in love.  In other words, we will become what we attend to; we will give away what we take in.  The commandment — or better yet, the invitation — is to drink our fill of the Source, which is Christ, spill over to bless the world, and then return to the Source for a fresh in-filling.  This is our movement, our rhythm, our dance.  Over and over again.  This is where we begin and end and begin again.  ‘Love one another as I have loved you.’ ‘Abide in my love.’  These are finally not two separate actions.  They are one and the same.  One ‘impossible’ commandment to save the world.  It’s all about love.”[vi] 

That is our invitation today – to become love and to abide in love.  Perhaps in reverse order:  maybe we need to abide in Jesus’ love in order to know how to love.  But either way, we repetitively and circularly are invited to love – to love as Christ has loved.  Loving will be hard, loving will be messy, loving will be wearying.  But loving will also be beautiful, loving will life-giving, loving will be transformative – certainly of the other, but mostly of ourselves.  We can do that hard, messy, beautiful, sacred work by returning to the source of love and strength.  We can love as Jesus loves because Jesus first loved us.  Amen.

[i] John 1.1-3.

[ii] John 15.9-10.

[iii] John 13.34.

[iv] Karoline Lewis, as explained in the podcast “#963: Sixth Sunday of Easter – May 5, 2024” Sermon Brainwave, April 28, 2024, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/963-sixth-sunday-of-easter-may-5-2024 on May 2, 2024

[v] Debie Thomas, “It’s All About Love,” May 2, 2021, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/3003-it-s-all-about-love on May 3, 2024.

[vi] Thomas.

Sermon – John 10.11-18, E4, YB, April 21, 2024

01 Wednesday May 2024

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In a few moments, we will baptize Abby and Laela, sisters who are ages 6 and 7 respectively.  What’s interesting about a baptism for candidates who are not infants is there is much more cognition, curiosity, and craving.  In a sense, Abby and Laela understand more profoundly that their baptism is a sacrament of belonging – a welcoming into full membership in the body of Christ.  One of Hickory Neck’s strongest gifts is the powerful gift of welcome.  You talk to any newer or longer-term member, and they will likely tell you that Hickory Neck’s warm welcome was what drew them in and made them linger.  There was a sense of inclusion and care that made them want to stay.

For a community so skilled in welcoming and especially as a community who will be welcoming Abby and Laela today, we hear a powerful word from John’s gospel about life with the Good Shepherd.  For people familiar with the lectionary, the fourth Sunday of Easter, affectionally known as Good Shepherd Sunday, is a favorite Sunday.  Every year on this Sunday we hear about Jesus’ proclamation of being the Good Shepherd.  This year’s text from John tells us how Jesus the Good Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep; how Jesus will protect the sheep; how he knows the sheep and the sheep know him; and that there are other sheep that do not even belong to the fold that Jesus will bring into the beloved fold.  When we hear a text like this, we get a warm-fuzzy feeling[i] – the kind of feeling of protected belonging that we want Abby and Laela to always feel with Jesus and the church community.  That feeling of care and belonging has inspired artwork, song, liturgies, and sermon alike.  This Good Shepherd Sunday reminds all of us of what inspired us to keep coming back to this modern incarnation of the Good Shepherd’s fold here at Hickory Neck.

The challenge about the warm-fuzzies that come with belonging is that chasing a sense of belonging can become consumeristic:  a pursuing of a feeling that is received without any expectation of reciprocity.  The pursuit of belonging makes sense.  As one scholar suggests, “Forming authentic and holistic community is hard work – we dole out parts of ourselves in stingy bits and pieces, avoid being vulnerable with each other, hold back our feelings and thoughts, are afraid to confront each other, judge each other without mercy, hold grudges, set impossibly high standards for ourselves and each other…We have a difficult time trusting each other,” making real and life-giving community hard.[ii]  But belonging with Jesus and within the faith community is not something that is just received.  Belonging comes with obligation.  No longer are we individuals feeling alone – now we are a part of a larger whole.  Though beautiful, that whole does not work without each of its members.  Receiving the warm-fuzzy feeling of belonging results in the action of giving:  of contributing in your own right to the community.[iii]    

The good news is that although we use language about welcome at Hickory Neck, we actually mean belonging.  Yes, we were likely greeted warmly, maybe given a welcome gift or sent a greeting by mail soon after our first visit, and often we were recognized and engaged after the service or at Coffee Hour.  But I cannot tell you the number of people at Hickory Neck who have also told me about how accessible involvement and even leadership are here.  From stories of being recruited to lead Fall Festivals within the first year of membership, to hopping in as an usher or reader, to being invited to a Bible Study, service opportunity, or a Foyer Group, to becoming a financial supporter of programming:  you are not just welcomed here – you are invited into belonging here.  Though we may not use the strong word of “obligation” or “responsibility,” we teach through our behavior that warm welcome means full membership in the body of Christ.  We join in not because we have to, but because the warmth of the Good Shepherd’s inclusion of all overwhelms us into wanting to give back – both here inside these walls and outside these walls in the wider community.

And that is what we have been teaching Abby and Laela about baptism.  Today, as the water is poured over their heads and the oil rubbed into their foreheads, they will be welcomed into full membership in the body of Christ.  And even though age six and seven might seem too young for the “obligations of membership in the body,” we need their gifts just as much as they need the gift of belonging.  So, when they bring forward the communion elements, or participate in Godly Play, or join in singing and song, they make our community complete.  They remind us of the broadness of God’s inclusion, the power of being known, and the resultant discipleship that springs out of all of us – no matter size, age, or ability.  Today, the Good Shepherd welcomes Abby and Laela into the fold – into the body of Christ.  Today, Abby and Laela invite us to renew our sense of belonging in that same fold and all that belonging entails.  And for that, we give thanks to God.  Amen.

[i] As described by Matt Skinner, on the Sermon Brainwave podcast, “#961: Fourth Sunday of Easter – April 21, 2024,” April 14, 2024, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/961-fourth-sunday-of-easter-april-21-2024 on April 18, 2024.

[ii] Barbara J. Essex, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 451.

[iii] As described by Karoline Lewis, on the Sermon Brainwave podcast, “#961: Fourth Sunday of Easter – April 21, 2024,” April 14, 2024, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/961-fourth-sunday-of-easter-april-21-2024 on April 18, 2024.

Sermon – John 20.19-31, E2, YB, April 7, 2024

01 Wednesday May 2024

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Photo credit: Hickory Neck Episcopal Church. Reuse with permission only.

For those of you who have worked with me for a while now, you know that I am easily excited by new ideas.  So, when Ed and Tyler suggested the Sunday after Easter for Quinton’s baptism, I excitedly said, “Yes!”  I knew we would be still experiencing the high of Holy Week and Easter from last week, I knew that baptisms are traditionally celebrated throughout Eastertide, and I knew having another reason to celebrate this Sunday would be fun.  What I failed to double-check was the lectionary.  As soon as I saw the gospel for today, I groaned.  Who wants to talk about Doubting Thomas when we are performing a sacrament of belief and belonging?!?

At first glance, John’s Gospel text today, is in fact, a terrible text for baptism.  First of all, the disciples are making a very poor showing about what the community of faith is supposed to look like.  You would think after seeing the empty tomb and hearing Mary Magdalene’s testimony, “I have seen the Lord,” the disciples would be 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.  The text says they are afraid of the Jewish leaders, perhaps afraid 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 they have failed.  Perhaps they believe 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. 

And then we have the famous Doubting Thomas.  That we even call him “Doubting Thomas” is indication enough of the communal disapproval of his behavior.  Why couldn’t he just believe?  If not Mary Magdalene, at least his fellow disciples, who use the same words as Mary’s own testimony, “We have seen the Lord.”[ii]  Even Jesus seems to disapprove when he asks, “Have you believed because you have seen me?  Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”[iii]  We do not exactly seem to be setting the stage well for little Quinton, or anyone new to the Church today.

But the more I thought about this text, and the more I read, the more I realized this is actually the perfect text for someone new to the community of faith.  As little Quinton grows up, I do not want him to think that faith is about perfectly believing, perfectly behaving Christians, who perfectly go to Church.  And although I want Quinton to know about doubt and to have a super healthy sense of curiosity and questioning, the truth is our labeling of Thomas as “Doubting Thomas,” gets in the way of what John is trying to teach new believers.  Instead, New Testament scholar Karoline Lewis explains, “The primary definition of the term doubt, however, has to do with uncertainty.  Uncertainty, as a category of belief, does not really exist in the Fourth Gospel.  One is either certain or not certain; in the light or in the dark.  Jesus invites Thomas to move from darkness to light, from lack of relationship to intimacy.  There is no middle ground with it comes to believing in Jesus.”[iv] 

Now, stay with me on this, because I realize that dichotomy sounds even worse than doubting.  Instead, what John’s gospel is doing is not about exclusion, but about radical inclusion.  John is not conveying something about belief but about incarnation:  “to be incarnated demands relationship.  As a result, you are either in one community or another, but you cannot be not in community.  Life, especially abundant life, is dependent on the reality of multiple expressions of connectivity and belonging, whether that be on-on-one or in various sizes of communities…Even God was not alone in the beginning…”  So, when Thomas says, “My Lord and my God,” he is not talking about his own belief or even an individualized theology, but rather “the intimacy this Gospel imagines between believer and Jesus…”  As Lewis goes on to say, “To give witness to a personal relationship with Jesus is immediately to enter into a community of intimacy between Jesus, God, the Paraclete (a fancy word for Holy Spirit[v]), and the believer and between the believer and the new community, the flock, that Jesus as the Word made flesh has made possible for the world.”[vi]

One this day, when Thomas the Twin teaches us all about what belief really means – that is, incarnate, intimate relationship with God and with one another – I cannot imagine a better word for us today.  When we baptize Quinton today, we invite him into the relationships already present in this community – the real ones that sometimes cower in shame and doubt – but also the ones that lead to abundant life and blessing.  When we pour water over his head and rub oil on his forehead and commit to supporting him and one another in this journey of faith, we are claiming him not as someone who will always have things figured out – because we do not always have things figured out.  But we do commit to the intimacy of relationship:  with the three persons of the Godhead, with one another, and with the community of faith.  I cannot think of a better reminder on this second Sunday in Easter as we deepen our own intimacy with the risen Lord than to baptize and reaffirm our baptisms – as we acclaim today, “I will! (with God’s help).”  Amen.

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

[ii] Karoline M. Lewis, John:  Fortress Biblical Preaching Commentaries (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 2014), 248.

[iii] John 20.29.

[iv] Lewis, 249.

[v] My words, not Lewis’ words.

[vi] Lewis, 250.

Sermon – John 20.1-18, ED, YB, March 31, 2024

01 Wednesday May 2024

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The funny thing about clergy families is that they have a unique gift of not caring at all about your ego as the clergyperson.  This week, in the midst of nightly worship commitments, and school wrapping up before Spring Break, and me trying to wrap up commitments before our family takes some time off, I share with the family how I was still struggling a bit with my Easter sermon.  A beloved member of my family said, “You’re worried about an Easter sermon?” “Oh, yes!” I explained.  “It’s a big day.  The sermon needs to be good!”  Said unnamed family member looked at me, dumbfounded, and said to me, in a way that only a family member can, “You know nobody comes to church on Easter because of the sermon.” 

Now as a preacher, you can imagine my ego was a little bruised.  But the more I thought about the observation, the more I realized the observation was right.  We come to church on Easter for a whole host of reasons.  We come to church on Easter because that is what our family has always done, and the continued observation of Easter somehow connects us to the past, present, and future, creating a sense of belonging and identity.  We come to church on Easter, because we long for a good word – a reminder that even in a tumultuous world, there is the promise of resurrection life, joy, and hope.  We come to church on Easter because we love the music, the flowers, the crowded seats, the Easter attire, and the experience of being a part of a community.  And some of us are not sure why we come to church on Easter, but we suspect, or at least hope, we will find something that can revive our weary souls. 

I suspect what most of us are hoping for today is an experience like Mary Magdalene’s.  I am not sure Mary knew why she went to the tomb that fateful day.  In John’s gospel, Mary is not there with spices to anoint Jesus’ body.  She does not bring flowers or some memento to leave at the tomb.  In fact, she comes to the tomb in darkness, before the morning light has arisen, perhaps in a fog of knowing she needs something but not sure what that something might be.  And then, not unlike the chaos that may have been your morning to get here on time and half-way presentable, Mary’s life gets thrown into chaos.  An empty tomb means she and the disciples run around like chickens with their heads cut off.  Later, Mary finds herself bemoaning to angels and a stranger alike that she just wants Jesus’ body – a physical reminder of all the horror and love and pain that has happened.  And in the midst of this chaos, a simple, profound thing happens.  Mary is called by her name.[i]  And her world gets turned on its head.

There is something very powerful about being called by your name.  We will frequent restaurants or coffee shops because we love being recognized by name by our favorite barista or shop owner – not unlike that old show Cheers whose intro talked about going to a place, “where everybody knows your name.”  If you have ever received a blessing or healing prayer by a person who knew your name, you know the intimacy that is created between the two of you, and the power of hearing your name lifted up to God.  We even try to use nametags here at Hickory Neck because we know how wonderful being known by name feels.  Being known by name creates a sense of acceptance, affirmation, affection, and acknowledgement.[ii]  I can only imagine the rush of emotions when Jesus calls Mary by name today – not just the recognition of who Jesus is, but the reminder of how much he has loved her.

I suppose we should add that to the list of reasons why we come to church on Easter Sunday.  We want to be known too.  Perhaps we want to literally be called by name.  But perhaps we know just being here creates the same sense of belonging that being known by name creates.  When we sit in these seats today, we know that we are sitting next to someone who is longing for belonging too – who also rallied to get to church on time – maybe with kids in cute dresses, or maybe just pulling their aching bodies to church.  When we sit in the seats today, we know that we are surrounded by a group of people who also love having their senses overwhelmed – from the smell of fragrant lilies, to the joyous sound of song [laughter], to the taste of communion bread and wine, to the sight of fanfare and smiles, to the feel of another hand at the peace.  When we sit in these seats today, we know that we will be offered a word of joy, light, love, and hope – and we want our lives to be marked by that same sense of promise.

Now you may feel tempted today to take all that affirmation, encouragement, and joy, and go about the next days on your own personal high – as though the gifts you receive today are solely for you.  But what all this fanfare, acknowledgment, and hope are meant to do is to propel you out into the world.  When Mary is called by name, receiving the blessing of recognition and encouragement, she does not stay at the feet of the resurrected Jesus.  She becomes the first preacher in John’s gospel[iii].  “I have seen the Lord,” Mary says to the disciples.  Now I know some of you will go out from this place today and do just that – you will put on your Facebook page or your Instagram, “Alleluia, Christ is Risen!” or you will hug your neighbor and tell them what a joyous day you just had at church.  But for others of you, sharing today’s joy may take you a little more time, or may look a bit different than proclaiming, “I have seen the Lord,” to your favorite barista.  But what Mary invites us to do is find our own way of sharing the beautiful gift we receive today – to give someone else the gift of joy and hope, to quietly tell a friend what a cool experience this day was, or to simply call someone else by name – sharing that same sense of belonging and affirmation you receive today.   You came to church this Easter Sunday for something.  Mary invites you to give that something to someone else.  Amen.  Alleluia!

[i] Serene Jones, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 378.

[ii] D. Cameron Murchison, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 380.

[iii] Beverly Roberts Gaventa, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 381.

Sermon – John 13.1-17, 31b-35, MT, YB, March 28, 2024

01 Wednesday May 2024

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Photo credit: https://lighthousesouthbay.org/resources/stories/maundy-thursday-family-worship-footwashing/

In my first year of seminary, we traveled to Burma for an Anglican Communion learning trip.  For a portion of the trip, we led an educational component for the theological students, which closed with a foot washing experience.  In my mind, the foot washing experience was so authentic:  those with empirically more power serving those with less; the leaders becoming servants; and certainly, the tangible re-creation of Jesus’ experience, since in Burma everyone wears those plastic flip flops, so their feet really are dusty in the ways that I imagine those disciples’ feet were.  The seven us of seminarians were feeling pretty good about ourselves – we were embodying the kind of love Jesus always talks about. 

But then something unexpected happened.  When we finished the last student, several students grabbed the arms of each us, and almost forcefully put us in the very chairs where we had been washing their feet – all with very little English to navigate the turning of the tables.  The role reversal felt all wrong – we were the ones who should be washing them, not them washing us.  Suddenly we were asked to be vulnerably touched, to humbly receive, and to ultimately right the balance of power between us.  The unplanned reversal left us shaken and uncomfortable, and a whole less sure of ourselves.

As I have been thinking about this Maundy Thursday service this week, that’s kind of what this service is:  messy.  Jesus, the one with power, lowers himself to the floor and washes the disciples’ feet – something not even servants would normally do, as they would simply provide the water for you to do the work yourself.  There are a few occasions where women might do this work, but certainly Jesus shouldn’t be stooping to women’s work.[i]  There is all kinds of messiness about the appropriateness of Jesus’ humble act that makes the disciples feel quite vulnerable.  But then there is the fact not only does Jesus do this humble, vulnerable act on his hands and knees, but also he does this for everyone, including Judas – his soon-to-be betrayer – and Peter – his soon-to-be denier.  Jesus washes the feet of the faithful follower and stumbling follower alike.  On the one hand, we can conceptualize how to humbly serve others – I imagine it gives us great satisfaction like we seminarians had in Burma.  But humbly serving those who literally betray you and shun you – that’s something else altogether.  All we have to do is imagine the politician who makes us the most angry, indignant, and rightly willing to protest.  And then imagine kneeling down and washing his or her feet – humbling yourself before them, willing yourself to tenderly touch the very human skin of your so-called enemy.

And so, by the end of this passage – where Jesus has argued his way through this lesson of foot washing, and as the verses that were edited out of our passage tonight would have told us, Judas leaves to betray Jesus, we are told a major kernel of truth – a command that this whole night is named for (Maundy literally means in Latin “command” or “mandate.”[ii]).  Jesus says, “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another.  Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.  By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”  Now we all LOVE to talk about this new commandment – we love to talk about love.  But those six words are the scary part of this commandment:  Just as I have loved you.  So that person who betrays us, denies us, works against goodness, who hurts us, who angers us – we are to love them just as much as the people we actually like.  Jesus is asking a lot tonight, folks. 

And so, in this service, in just a few minutes, we are going to do some messy things.  We are going to literally wash each other’s feet.  No matter how embarrassed we are by our imperfect feet, no matter how little we like being the recipient of care, no matter how much we might like the people in this room but we are not prepared to be really vulnerable with them – we will have the opportunity to both serve and be served tonight.  Then we will gather around the altar rail – with people we like and maybe people who frustrate us, with people who agree with our political opinions and people who really do not, with people we may not even really know all that well – and we will receive the blessed sacrament, elbow to elbow with everyone.  And then finally, we will watch as everything is taken away – the dishes from our feast, the adornments we love, the familiar things of comfort, even the light itself.  And the priest will scrub down the altar, with a sound that sounds like the scrubbing away of everything familiar and comforting. 

We do all these messy things because what Jesus asks of us is nothing short of messy.  “Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.”  That is what we leave here tonight – on this Commandment Thursday – to go out in the world to do.  To love – to messily, vulnerably, frustratingly, painfully do.  To love – just as Jesus has messily, vulnerably, frustratingly, painfully loved us.  That command is what we hold on tomorrow as we allow Jesus to walk to the cross.  That command is what we hold on to through Saturday as he sits in tomb.  That command is what we hold onto when we mourn the entirety of his life – “the whole witness of the Word made flesh.”[iii]  That command is what we hold onto even when we joyously and fearfully celebrate what happens on Easter.  But that command is especially what we hold on to in the days and weeks to come – in this year of 2024 as we try to love – just as Jesus has loved us.  Jesus knows loving will be messy.  But Jesus gives us the messy gifts tonight to help us love anyway.  Amen.

[i] Mary Lousie Bringle, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 279.

[ii] James E. Lamkin, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 280.

[iii] Karoline M. Lewis, John:  Fortress Biblical Preaching Commentaries (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 2014), 179.

Sermon – Mark 11.1-11, Mark 14.1-15.47, PS, YB, March 24, 2024

27 Wednesday Mar 2024

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I don’t know if you remember, but back on the first Sunday of Lent about six weeks ago, we said a very long series of prayers at the beginning of the service called the Great Litany – or as my younger daughter calls them, “That time where you talked [sang] a really long time.”  Though I heard a few groans that morning when folks realized we would be praying for a long time, what I love about that Great Litany is that the litany somehow manages to encapsulate every single flaw in the human condition and the way those flaws pull us out of right relationship with God:  pride, hypocrisy, hatred, and envy; hardness of heart and sinful affections; oppression, violence, and war; and maybe the worst – dying suddenly and unprepared.

The list goes on and on, but what really gets me is how everything we started praying about in the beginning of Lent comes to the fore today in our liturgies.  I have always thought what the people do in the palm procession is where the people get things right and everything after in the Passion Narrative is where the people mess up.  But even in the Palm Narrative we mess up:  from pride in what feels like the Messiah coming to take down the powers that be, to a murderous desire to put down the oppressors that they assume Jesus will do when they shout, “Hosanna,” or “Save us,” as “Hosanna” is translated.[i]  And then we hear how the rest goes:  betrayal by loyal followers, to disciples too sleepy to keep vigil and pray, to abandoning Jesus, to mockery and violence, to conflict avoidance, hatred, and definitely a lot of hardness of heart. 

At the end of the Palm Narrative today, we are told that after the procession, Jesus goes into the temple in Jerusalem, and Jesus looks around at everything.  This may seem like a throwaway comment or a passing glance, but scholar Matt Skinner argues this is not a casual looking around at Jerusalem.  He says, “There is power in that glare.”  Jesus is setting his eyes and his heart to the work of provoking that he is about to do and he knows will lead to his death.[ii]  He is preparing for the holy, sacred work of resistance that will lead to both his demise, and ultimately to our redemption – our actual saving.  Maybe not the kind of saving we want, but the saving we need.

And that’s what brings me back to that long Great Litany from six weeks ago.  We did indeed confess a whole bunch of sins.  But you know what we also did?  We asked God to right things.  We prayed for grace to hear and receive God’s word, that God might empower us to go out in the world and share the Good News, that we might – in our several callings – serve the common good, that God might heal the brokenness in all of us and in the world.  This journey of Holy Week is not just about the despair and awfulness of our condition and the condition of the world.  This week, shockingly enough, is also about hope.  Frederick Buechner said of this day, “Despair and hope.  They travel the road to Jerusalem together, as together they travel every road we take — despair at what in our madness we are bringing down on our own heads and hope in him who travels the road with us and for us and who is the only one of us all who is not mad.”[iii] 

That is the messiness of us and of this most sacred week we now enter.  As scholar Debie Thomas writes, “I am known and held by a God who is too big for thin, one-dimensional truths — even my own, most cherished, one-dimensional truths.  I am held by a God who sticks with me even when I won’t stick with God.  A God who accepts my worship even when it is mingy, half-baked, and selfish.  A God who knows all the reasons my heart cries, ‘Save now!’ and carries those broken, strangled cries to the cross on my behalf. 

“Welcome to Holy Week.  Here we are, and here is our God.  Here are our hosannas, broken and earnest, hopeful and hungry.  Here is all that is unbearable, and all that promises to end in light brighter than we can imagine.  Blessed is the One who comes to die so that we will live.”[iv]  That journey starts today.  Your invitation is to join us everyday until we can shout our Easter praises.  Amen.       

[i]  John R. Donahue and Daniel J. Harrington, The Gospel of Mark:  Sacra Pagina (Collegeville, MN:  Liturgical Press, 2002), 322.

[ii]  Matt Skinner, as discussed in the podcast, “Sermon Brainwave:  #954: Palm/Passion Sunday – Mar. 24, 2024,” March 17, 2024, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/954-palm-passion-sunday-mar-24-2024 on March 20, 2024.

[iii] As quoted by Debie Thomas, “Save Us, We Pray,” March 21, 2021, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/2958-save-us-we-pray on March 22, 2024.

[iv] Thomas.

Sermon – Jeremiah 31.31-34, Psalm 51.1-13, L5, YB, March 17, 2024

27 Wednesday Mar 2024

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In just a couple of weeks, Hickory Neck will gather for what is my favorite service of the entire year:  the Easter Vigil.  Now I know, you may be thinking, “But what about Easter Sunday?” or even “But Christmas Eve is the best!”  For me, the very best of the Episcopal Church happens at the Easter Vigil.  The lights are turned down low, a fire erupts as we sing the haunting Exultet, we read stories from scripture that feel like the ones you would tell around a campfire, we baptize new Christians, and then, with bells and singing, the lights come up as we ring in Easter.  The rest of the service feels like celebrating Eucharist for the first time – with the news of the empty tomb and feasting at the family table.

Part of why I love the service so much is those stories we hear by the fire:  what we often refer to as the salvation narrative.  In these stories we hear how we were created in God’s image and made for goodness, and then we hear how time and again we fail to live up to that goodness, but time and again, God meets us where we are, renewing God’s covenantal relationship with us, forgiving us, and getting us back on our feet to serve the world in God’s name.  The repetition of God extending that grace again and again and again, no matter how grave our failings, can make any participant begin to think that maybe, just maybe, we stand invited to receive that hesed or as we translate the Hebrew, that lovingkindness, of God.

Although we do not hear the text from Jeremiah on Easter Vigil night, today, on this fifth Sunday in Lent, just a week before we start the descent into the cross and the grave of Holy Week, we get one last reminder of the kind of redemption that waits on the other side of Easter.  I do not how recently you’ve been reading Jeremiah in your spare time, but just as a refresher, Jeremiah is one of those books that is generally filled with bad news.  Israel disobeyed the law of God, and, as a consequence, they are overthrown by outside forces, the walls of Jerusalem fall, the temple is destroyed, and the Israelites themselves are banished to Babylon.  The situation is bleak, and the prophet Jeremiah has a lot to say in judgment of the people.[i] 

But today, all the way in chapter 31, we get what is called “The Book of Comfort,”[ii] in Jeremiah where, after much shame and judgment, the people are promised a new day where there will be a new covenant between God and the people.  This time, they won’t have to wait for teaching, and they won’t have to store the commandments in a holy place.  The holy word of God will be written on their hearts – able to go with them anywhere, to be not just in their minds or in their temple, but on their very souls – they will be God’s and God’s will be theirs.  For a people utterly destroyed, who have lost their spiritual home in addition to their literal home, this is good news indeed.

When I was in seminary, we went to Chapel everyday – sometimes multiple times a day.  The rhythm of regular worship meant that not only did the liturgy get written into your body, so did the space.  You began to know the particulars of certain seats – which ones experienced more of a draft and which pew had someone’s initials carved in and aged over.  You knew how certain steps would creak when someone would ascend the lectern and you have seen the pulpit sway with a particularly vigorous preacher.  But mostly, you had stared, for years at a time, at the window behind the altar, around which were painted the words, “Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel.”  Consciously and maybe more subconsciously, those words became ingrained in our minds seeing them every day. 

A year and a half after I graduated, that chapel burned down, along with that wall that had been seared into my mind.  I remember feeling bereft – like a part of me had died with the loss of that building.  Even today, when I visit the campus, worshiping in the beautiful new chapel, I still grieve when I see the preserved ruins where an outdoor altar remains.  It took me a long time to realize that although my heart ached for the physical space, those words – those words that Jesus spoke, “Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel,” were gone from the world – but not from my heart.  Though I might miss the building – in the same way so many of us missed the buildings of this campus in those early years of the pandemic, the experience of God is written in my heart.

As we walk this last week of Lent, and as we begin next week to walk steadily through Holy Week, perhaps with sins weighing on our hearts, or feelings of being a failure at faith or at life in general, or even just the restlessness that can come when we find ourselves disconnected from any kind of relationship with God, our worship today is all about renewing that covenantal relationship with God.  Even in our psalm today, we prayed, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.” – those same words a priest prays before she consecrates the sacred meal.  The psalm tells us the very nature of our God is “steadfast love and abundant mercy, a God who is eternally ‘for us’ with the endless love of a mother for her child.  The God who is everlasting love will never abandon us, no matter what our guilt says.  Steadfast love and abundant mercy heal us not only of the stain of sin, but also of the lie of our worthlessness.”[iii]  So likewise, Jeremiah confirms that encouragement.  As one scholar explains, “God will write the capacity for keeping the covenant on the inward hearts of the people.  Hope for such transformed wills will lie with God’s grace, not in any hope for human perfection.”[iv]

Your promise today is blessing upon blessing – blessing of belonging, of permanence, of mercy and lovingkindness.  The invitation today is then up to you.  What will you do with that renewed covenantal relationship?  How will walk differently this week with the covenant of God written on your heart?  How will you treat your neighbors differently, yourself differently, and your God differently?  The blessing is yours to keep deep in your soul.  And the blessing is also yours to share with a world that needs that blessing so very deeply.  Your work this week is to find your unique place to share that blessing.  Amen.

[i] Woody Bartlett, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 123.

[ii] Jon L. Berquist, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 123.

[iii] Elizabeth Webb, “Commentary on Psalm 51:1-12,” March 17, 2024, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/fifth-sunday-in-lent-2/commentary-on-psalm-511-12-6 on March 14, 2024.

[iv] Samuel K. Roberts, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 126.

UJCCM Ecumenical Service Sermon – Matthew 5.17-19, Deuteronomy 4.1-2, 5-9, March 6, 2024

15 Friday Mar 2024

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This sermon was preached at Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church in Norge, VA as part of a seven-week pulpit exchange between ecumenical churches during Lent.

I do not know what your experience with Holy Scripture has been.  I grew up in the South where Scripture was meant to be memorized, and at the very least you needed to know the Ten Commandments by heart.  As someone who is pretty terrible at memorizing scripture, you can imagine how tortured my childhood was.  When I was in grade school our Sunday School teacher quizzed us for weeks, making sure we were memorizing the Ten Commandments.  I vividly remember that dreaded day when each of us had to stand up in front of our peers and recite all ten.  My friend Nathan went before me and recited them perfectly.  My hands started to sweat, and I was fidgeting in my chair.  I could only imagine the whispers around church when everyone found out the minister’s kid (yes, I’m a preacher’s kid!) could not remember all of the Commandments.  I felt like a failure before I had even begun.

For those of you in parishes that follow the Sunday lectionary, you likely heard the Ten Commandments this past Sunday.  The scripture lessons appointed by the lectionary today continue the conversation about the commandments.  In Deuteronomy, Moses is preparing the people of Israel for the Commandments he is about to enumerate in the next chapter.  Meanwhile, in Matthew, Jesus proclaims that he comes to fulfill the law and that whoever breaks the least of the commandments will be least in the kingdom of heaven.  In the verses following the ones we heard tonight, Jesus goes on to describe some of those Ten Commandments more fully. 

But Jesus’ harsh standards about those Commandments are unnecessary really.  All we need is a slow reading of the Ten Commandments, or the Decalogue as they are often called, and we realize how woefully unfaithful we are.  Any deeper dive into the commandments probably has our hands sweating like that little kid in Sunday School.  Likely the only commandment most of us have avoided is the murdering, although we have probably wished we could murder someone at least once.  But all the others sneak in and tempt us.  We may not have stolen something large, but we have probably taken home a pen, paper clip, or notepad here and there from work.  If we have not committed adultery, we have certainly coveted someone else, which the Commandments say is equally bad.  We may think we have avoided creating idols, but when we realize the centrality of money in our lives, we discover that money has become a god for us.  And keeping the Sabbath – forget about it!  We are lucky if we make our way to church three out of four Sundays.  And even when we make it to church, we immediately whisk ourselves away to our busy schedules afterwards – even if those schedules are only packed with watching games or hanging out with friends.  We rarely take a true break in our week for a full day with God.  We prefer Jesus’ summary of the commandments much later in Matthew’s gospel to, “love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and mind, and your neighbor as yourself,”[i] because his summary allows to avoid thinking about all the specific ways we sin against God and our neighbor.  In our minds and in the minds of many, “the Ten Commandments have somehow become burdens, weights, and heavy obligations.”[ii]  We sense their burdensome weight on our shoulders, and we feel like our bodies and our spirits are being physically pushed down by God.

What may help us tonight, then, is to take a step back and look at those troubling commandments and laws that Jesus came to fulfill.  The Decalogue does not start out with the preface, “Here are ten rules that you will obey.”  Instead, the commandments begin with a “breathtaking announcement of freedom: ‘I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery.’”[iii]  God is not the overbearing parent who is saying, “You will do what I say because I am the boss.”  Instead, God is saying, “Remember that you are free.  Remember that I brought you out of a terrible place and now, you are free, my beloved ones.”  As a freed people, God is simply reminding them of how freed people live – in relationship with God and in relationship with one another. 

Jesus’ summary of these commandments later in Matthew is helpful, especially in that the summary reminds us of how we are to attend to our relationship with God – which is presented in those first four commandments, and how we are to attend to our relationship with people – what those final six commandments teach us.  But Jesus’ summary can allow us to forget how interrelated these two relationships are.  As one scholar argues, the Commandments teach us more specifically that, “having ‘no other gods before me’ means that money, sex, and power will not wiggle their way into the altars of our lives, and thus will not be used to exploit others.  Keeping the Sabbath is a reminder that all of creation is a gift and we have a responsibility to be wise stewards of it…‘you shall not murder’ suggests that others are gifts who bear the image of God for us.”[iv]  Those Ten Commandments show the people of God how life should be structured as a freed people, and how that life is an intertwined life of relationships between God and one another.  Out of those commandments comes a way of being.  Out of those commandments comes a full understanding of liberation.  Out of those commandments comes the path of life – a life that reminds us that not only does Jesus come to fulfill the law, but as Stanley Hauerwas argues, “…our discipleship of Jesus entails our fulfillment of the law.”[v]

Several years ago, a hoopla arose around an Alabaman judge who wanted the Ten Commandments posted in his courthouse.  In response, many Alabamans posted small plastic signs in their yards with the Ten Commandments written on them.  I remember visiting my family in Alabama and seeing the signs everywhere.  At the time, I rolled my eyes.  I could not imagine what good posting those rules up all over neighborhoods could really do.  Were they meant to teach others about being a person of faith, or were they meant to be a way of flaunting their Christian identity (and yes, in Alabama, those posting the Ten Commandments were Christian, not Jewish)?  At the time, they seemed to me to be self-righteous or at least condescending.  But as I have been thinking about those silly signs this past week, I have begun to wonder if there is not something to them.  What if instead of being a finger-wagging at the neighborhood, the posted signs are a way for each resident to claim on which path they hope to live – what law they are trying to fulfill through their own life.  What if instead of saying, “You all need to live like this,” the signs say, “I need to live like this.”  What if the signs are a way of saying, “I am liberated by God and want to try to live on the path of life.  Help keep me on that path – and join me if you like!”

Our liturgy tonight in some small way is doing the same thing that those signs had the potential of doing.  Our liturgy tonight, both in our prayers and in our scripture reading, invites us to remember that we are liberated by God, that we have been given the path to life, and that we can rejoice in those gifts tonight.  Our liturgy tonight invites us to shrug off our perceived burdens and to step into the warmth and love of the law and commandments.  Our liturgy tonight invites us to create our own metaphorical plastic yard sign that will remind us to live on the path of life, to do the work of fulfilling the law, and to invite others along the path through our witness of Decalogue-living.  Amen.

[i] Paraphrase of Matthew 22.37-38.

[ii] Thomas G. Long, “Dancing the Decalogue,” Christian Century, vol. 123, no. 5, Mar. 7, 2006, 17.

[iii] Long, 17.

[iv] Craig Kocher, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 78.

[v] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew: Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible (Grand Rapids:  Brazos Press, 2006), 66.

Sermon – John 2.13-22, Exodus 20.1-17, L3, YB, March 3, 2024

15 Friday Mar 2024

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Today’s gospel lesson is one of those lessons in Scripture that is so vivid we find looking away difficult.  All four of the gospels have this story, and three of the gospels use this story to convey Jesus’ righteous anger about how the practice around temple worship and obligatory sacrifice has led to monetary abuses.  Matthew and Luke even have Jesus calling the whole enterprise a den of robbers.  The story evokes images of Jesus flipping tables, or in today’s version, swinging around a whip like Indiana Jones.  We often recall this text when looking for evidence of Jesus’ righteous anger at injustice. 

But John’s version of this story takes us down a different path from the other three gospels.  First, John places this story in a very different place in his narrative.[i]  Unlike the other gospels who place this story toward the end of Jesus’ earthly ministry, John places this incident in the second chapter, right after the miracle in Cana.  And in John’s version, Jesus does not lay into the moneychangers in quite the same way.  Instead of financial injustice, Jesus seems more concerned that those gathered have missed something critical – in the obligatory administering of sacrifices at the physical temple, they have missed the fact that God is no longer tied to the location of the temple – and instead is found in the temple of Jesus’ body.  For John, the incarnation, the word becoming flesh and dwelling among us, is central to the entirety of the good news and in this story specifically. 

We are in a season of flesh.  Lent is that season when we experience Jesus in deeply enfleshed ways.  What our Lenten disciplines or practices do for us is help us remember that we are a people of flesh and our God was willing to take on that flesh to transform our lives.  We do not often talk about the profound reality of an enfleshed God, but I recalled a hymn this week that opens up the reality.  Brian Wren’s hymn Good is the Flesh says, “Good is the flesh that the Word has become, good is the birthing, the milk in the breast, good is the feeding, caressing and rest, good is the body for knowing the world, Good is the flesh that the Word has become.”  The hymn goes on to say, “Good is the body, from cradle to grave, growing and aging, arousing, impaired, happy in clothing, or lovingly bared, good is the pleasure of God in our flesh, Good is the flesh that the Word has become.”[ii]  Now I do not know about your own spiritual language, but I cannot think of anything that talks about Jesus’ flesh so vividly.  The closest I have come has been in imagining the vulnerability of that enfleshed body in the cradle.  But capturing what being enfleshed means for all of life – from cradle to grave – somehow opens up John’s words about the temple of Jesus’ body.  God takes something we often associate with sinfulness – and transforms that flesh into something good.  “Good is the pleasure of God in our flesh,” are powerful words that shift how we experience the fullness of Christ’s humanity.

Once we reconnect with the goodness of God’s flesh – the incarnation of Christ – then we begin to see all of Jesus’ ministry immersed in the flesh of life.  Scholar Karoline Lewis reminds us Jesus’ fleshy life was important, “Because a woman at a well, whose body was rejected for the barren body it was, experiences the truth of neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem; because a man ill for 38 years, his entire life to be exact, whose body has only known life on the ground, is now able to imagine his ascended life; because a man born blind, is then able to see, and to see himself as a sheep of Jesus’ own fold; because Lazarus, whose body was dead and starting to decay, found himself reclining on Jesus, eating and drinking, and with his sisters, sharing a meal once again.”[iii]  Not only is Jesus’ incarnation good, making flesh good, Jesus’ ministry is about blessing, healing, and restoring physical bodies. 

Once we connect with the goodness of God’s flesh, and the power of Jesus’ fleshy ministry, we are forced to see something we do not always feel comfortable with – the goodness of our own flesh.  I do not know about your journey, but my experience in church has not been one in which the church tells me how good my body is.  In fact, today’s inclusion of the ten commandments, not once, but twice, usually reminds me of the opposite – of the myriad ways my body is sinful:  from the words that come out of my mouth, to the ways in which I hurt others and take things with my body, to the ways in which I covet things and other bodies.  And those sins do not even touch the ways in which I hear the message that my body is imperfect – how my body is not the right height or shape or gender, how my body is not fit or strong enough, how my skin color, hair, or nails are not quite the ideal.  But if God takes on flesh and says, “Good is the flesh,” and if that enfleshed God engages in a ministry of blessing flesh, then surely part of what we remember today is how good and blessed our own flesh is – how God made our flesh for good. 

Now, here comes the tricky part.  Once we realize “Good is the flesh,” that ministered to the flesh, that our flesh is beautiful and revered, then we are forced to make yet another leap – that the flesh of others is also beautiful.  Those bodies we would like to subjugate, regulate, and decimate are no longer able to be separated from the goodness of God’s flesh or our own flesh.  Barbara Brown Taylor argues in An Altar in the World, “‘One of the truer things about bodies is that it is just about impossible to increase the reverence I show mine without also increasing the reverence I show yours.’  In other words, once I value my own body as God’s temple, as a site of God’s pleasure, delight, and grace, how can I stand by while other bodies suffer exploitation, poverty, discrimination, or abuse?”[iv]

This week at Hickory Neck has been all about that kind of work.  As we welcomed guests through the Winter Shelter, we affirmed the goodness of all flesh – of God’s flesh, of our flesh, and especially the flesh of those who have no shelter, who work hard all day but cannot secure housing, who live lives of uncertainty, of insecurity, of scarcity.  Once we recall the incarnation of Christ, the dignity of our own incarnation, our work immediately becomes to honor the incarnation of others.  We certainly accomplished the work of honoring flesh this week through the Winter Shelter.  But as we keep walking our Lenten journey, we will struggle with our bodies.  Even our collect today says, “we have no power in ourselves to help ourselves: Keep us both outwardly in our bodies and inwardly in our souls, that we may be defended from all adversities which may happen to the body, and from all evil thoughts which may assault and hurt the soul.”  Our invitation this Lent is to struggle with claiming our body as good – and using the goodness of our flesh to bless other flesh.  Our repentance this week is not just of the sinfulness of the flesh, but we repent this week of the ways in which we do not honor how “Good is the flesh that the Word has become.”  Amen.

[i] Joseph D. Small, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 92.

[ii] I found this hymn in the commentary by Debie Thomas, “The Temple of His Body” in Into the Mess & Other Jesus Stories:  Reflections on the Life of Christ (Eugene, OR:  Cascade Books, 2022), 63. 

[iii] Karoline Lewis, “Body Zeal,” February 26, 2018, https://www.workingpreacher.org/dear-working-preacher/body-zeal as found on March 1, 2024.

[iv] Debie Thomas, “The Temple of His Body” February 28, 2018, https://www.journeywithjesus.net/lectionary-essays/current-essay?id=1675 as found on March 1, 2024.

Sermon – Genesis 17.1-7, 15-16, Mark 8.31-38, L2, YB, February 25, 2024

15 Friday Mar 2024

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I remember in those first months of parenthood, an older mom and educator shared a bit wisdom with me.  “Remember, that your primary job as a parent,” she told me, “is to foster the independence of your child.”  At the time, her advice seemed a little strange – nothing about making the child feel loved, or reading to them every night, or creating safe space:  just fostering independence.  What I did not realize at the time was how incredibly difficult and grueling the work of fostering independence would be.  For starters, fostering independence in your children means giving up control – something I tend to like having.  And as if that is not hard enough, fostering independence means being the victim of your children’s own desire for control.  I cannot tell you the number of times I have been walking in my house muttering the words, “I am raising independent children.  I am raising independent children.  I am raising independent children.”

I think why this aspect of parenting is so tricky for me is parenting gets to the heart of one of the eternal struggles we have in life – and certainly with God:  our desire for control.  So, we should not at all be surprised to discover that during Lent, that is what both our Old Testament and our Gospel lessons are about:  ceding control.  We can start with Abraham’s story.  This is actually the third time Abraham has been promised a son – or at the beginning of our text, he is still Abram, not Abraham.  But we’ll get to that later.  Abram struggles like we do with control.  When he and Sarai are not pregnant at 75, or 86, or now 99 years old, he’s pretty sure God is not going to make good on God’s promise.[i]  So, Abram takes matters into his own hands and has a child with Hagar, Sarai’s servant, hoping he can make Ishmael the inheritor of God’s promise.  Abram and Sarai just could not trust and cede control to God about becoming pregnant themselves, especially since God’s promise is so ludicrously abundant.  In fact, in the verse immediately following what we read today, we are told Abraham falls on his face and laughs at God.  That is how ludicrously abundant God’s promise is for progeny. 

Of course, Peter is not much better when he needs to trust Jesus.  Jesus tells the disciples in Mark’s gospel that he will suffer and die to fulfill his role as the Messiah.  But Peter, and quietly the other disciples[ii], physically grabs Jesus and rebukes him.  The things Jesus is saying are not the way Peter or the others expected a Messiah to function for good.  As one scholar explains, they signed on for a crown, not a cross.[iii]  But Peter’s grasping rebuke of Jesus is about as literal of resistance as one can get:  an utter unwillingness to cede control of how salvation through the Messiah will work.  And so, Jesus says those stingingly harsh words, “Get behind me Satan!  You are thinking not as God thinks, but as human beings do.”[iv]  Peter and the disciples are no better at trusting and ceding control to God than Abraham is.

In some way or another, I think most of our Lenten disciplines, most of the sinfulness that we are praying about or working on in Lent is rooted in this very issue: our issues with control and trusting in God.  We are so deeply rooted in the American ethic of working hard, achieving your goals, of pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and realizing your own destiny that we leave very little space for God in our lives.  We love being endowed with free will, so the notion that we should just trust God or even give up control to God feels like a fool’s errand.  Having this ethic deeply seeded in our core identity, we, as one scholar argues, arrogantly “assume that we know what must be done, so that even a word from Jesus himself cannot dissuade us.  Blinded by our prejudices, presuppositions, and preconceptions of the way things must be, we would not be convinced otherwise, even were someone to rise from the dead!”[v]

Before we get slapped in the face five weeks from now, when Jesus actually rises from the dead, how might we begin to take a harder look at the illogical nature of our resistance to God?  I like to turn toward Abraham.  I’m going have you do what they do in my mom’s evangelical church, and turn back to the Word of scripture found in your bulletin, and grab a pen (or at least a pen in your imagination).  We’re going to look back over that text and literally or mentally circle every word of abundance in this Genesis text.  We find words like, “exceedingly numerous,” “multitude of nations,” “multitude of nations,” (again) “exceedingly fruitful,” “nations,” “kings,” “throughout their generations,” “everlasting covenant,” “offspring after you,” “bless,” “rise to nations,” “and “kings of peoples.”[vi]  Abram turned Abraham may not have much to say in how this covenant with God will unfold.  But everything we read about this covenant is not just blessing, but abundant blessing.  This covenant is oozing with generosity and indulgence.  The abundance of God’s covenant is embarrassingly, overwhelmingly over the top.  Even Abram’s name change is a marker of this abundance.  The Hebrew for Abram is “father;” the Hebrew for Abraham is “father of a multitude.”[vii]

I do not know what you are holding back from God these days.  I do not know where your lack of trust in God is making you grasp onto a sense of control, as though you know better than the Almighty.  But our texts today are inviting us to let go of the death grip on the way we think things should be, and to make space for the ways God is showing us how things can be.  We will not get our say in the matter necessarily – no amount of struggle will make things better.  But the promise is that when we give our lives over to Christ – when we put our trust in the God whose covenants are not just okay – or even pretty good – but are shockingly, unimaginably abundantly awesome, we are promised very good things indeed.  Some of those good things will be so good we find them laughable.  But that is just because our imagination and our abilities to produce abundant goodness are not like God’s.  But God gifts them to us anyway.  Our invitation is to open our hands and receive them.  Amen.

[i] Barbara Brown Taylor, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 51.

[ii] Jouette M. Bassler, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 71.

[iii] W. Hulitt Gloer, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 71.

[iv] NAB, NJB translations as provided by Bassler, 71.

[v] Gloer, 71.

[vi] This notion of abundance in the text presented by Karoline Lewis in “#950: Second Sunday in Lent – Feb. 25, 2024,” Sermon Brainwave Podcast, February 18, 2024, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/950-second-sunday-in-lent-feb-25-2024 on February 23, 2024.

[vii] W. Sibley Towner, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 55.