Get it Together, Church

I read and reread Bishop Elizabeth Eaton's letter about the Orlando shooting about a half dozen times this morning, and I am left with the same question.

Your words about coming together and admitting where we have "othered" and start working towards a better world - the Kingdom of God are great.  But will I be able to serve in any ELCA church as an openly gay man in a relationship?

No.

Not with our policy of "bound conscience" - the very same policy that allows for the discrimination of women and people of color in our churches, by the way.  Not to mention any number of other possibilities for discrimination which range from physical ability to age.

And all of this discrimination seems to be legally sanctioned by the church.  Each congregation has the ability to turn away a pastor because of any number of these different reasons, because they are "bound by their conscience to not have a pastor that fits into each of these categories because they aren't sure if this candidate is living the appropriate moral life to be a pastor" (I'm paraphrasing many of the excuses I've heard over the years.)

And frankly, I don't know that this policy is going anywhere anytime soon.

Because in 2009, this policy was upheld by the ELCA when it reached a decision that openly LGBTQ clergy could be ordained even if they were in a relationship, but each congregation could make that determination for itself.

And while many were elated that the possibility existed for the first time within our denomination, I felt that it was essentially a step forward and a step backward.  For while LGBTQ folk could become pastors, they could not be comfortable or confident that every church in the ELCA would welcome them as one who has heard God's call - to the point that we still have the designation Reconciling in Christ as a way to identify which congregations will allow LGBTQ pastors.

There was no acknowledgement that sexual orientation had no bearing whatsoever on someone's ability to be a pastor.  That sexual orientation in all of its expressions is not inherently sinful.  And that, most of all, the church still doesn't feel that "it's ok to be gay."

Which is another way of saying, we don't really know what to do with you, but we're not entirely ready to say you are not "other," but we know that we ought to.

Or, in my more cynical moments, "we are more concerned with having a falsely united church that will weaken the gospel, than letting you know that you are God's chosen child and can experience the same call to ministry that any straight person does."

So, if the ELCA is going to be serious about moving forward, I have some thoughts on the matter.

1) Stop requiring pastoral candidates to self identify on the RLP (Rostered Leader Profile).  My gender has absolutely no bearing on my ability to pastor folks.  Neither does my sexual orientation.  Or age.  Making me put this information on the page before the congregation gets the opportunity to meet me (on paper and in person) puts an unfair bias towards me, whether good or bad.

1a) Yes, I'm aware that this means more congregations will assume they are getting paperwork from straight, white cis men, but only by continuing to reverse these expectations will they change.  See also, why feminism is important.

2) Require congregations to say more than "we didn't feel like it was a good fit."  I don't know if I entirely agree with the placement process of our UMC and Catholic sisters and brothers, but I do think that a congregation is able to get away with a lot of discrimination by using those words.  That reason for a good fit could be because the candidate is a woman.  Or black.  Or may be in a wheelchair.  Failing to give reasonable and concrete reasons why the congregation does not feel the Spirit is moving in this direction only legitimizes discrimination that our country claims to not tolerate in any other aspect of the workforce.

3) A resounding statement from the ELCA that revolutionizes and radicalizes our churches by saying, we do not feel that there is inherently anything sinful about the existence of LGBTQ folks.  That being gay, or bi, or transgendered or gender queer does not have anything to do with sin before God and before others.  And that to be a part of the ELCA means to be able to say that, the same way that we confess that we believe in God the Father.

3a) Again, this extends to those who are also "othered" such as people of color, women, folks who are differently abled, older folks, younger folks, etc.

I know this is radical.  I know this will not happen overnight.

I also know this will, to put it bluntly, piss off a lot of people.  The ELCA may lose a lot of members and congregations who cannot abide by any of these (but mostly 3 and 3a).

This does not mean it should not be done.

To not do what is right, even out of fear that others will leave, is not a good enough reason to not do it.

*Disclaimer, not comparing the struggle of LGBTQ folks with the struggle of black people in America ahead*

Abraham Lincoln could have not freed all slaves in the Emancipation Proclamation, and doing so may have prevented the Civil War.  That does not mean he should not have done it.

To do what is right, especially when the Gospel is concerned, is going to make folks angry.  It's going to make people leave.  But that does not mean we should not boldly proclaim the Gospel.

Will we, as a church, do what is right?  Will we proclaim the Gospel boldly, even though folks will get upset and leave our buildings?  Or will we continue to try and walk a middle ground, trying to appease both sides and angering everyone, becoming more and more lukewarm with each passing moment?

I hope, I pray, that we will be empowered to proclaim God's Gospel, regardless of consequence. "Empowered to do this thing by Christ who strengthens us."

And They'll Know We Are Christians By Our Love?

What follows is inspired by my sermon for the people of Word of Hope on Maundy Thursday 2016.  The inspiration for this comes from John 13:35.

"By this everyone will know you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."

In my sermon tonight, I posed the people listening to ask themselves a question as they move throughout Good Friday tomorrow.

"If someone who didn't know God saw you, would they know that you were a disciple of Christ?"

And this, of course, got me thinking.

Would anyone who saw someone who professes to be a Christian, know through them the same radical and crazy love of a God who becomes flesh and blood and washes feet and dies?

 And the answer, quite frankly, is probably not.

And I can already hear your righteous indignation.  So I'm going to ask you to put that aside for just a minute and truly think about this.

Would anyone who didn't know God, look at your life and experience through you, the radical love of God?

Honestly.

I can say that most people who look at me probably wouldn't.

And it's not because I have tattoos.  Or because I swear.  Or because I've known to have a beer or two.  Or because I'm gay.

But it's cause I'm materialist.  I'm selfish.  I'm often scared.  I, too often, put people in categories of "us vs. them."

I'm white.  I'm male.  I'm cisgendered.  I'm abled.  I'm in that sweet spot of being neither too old nor too young.

And while all of those things do a good job of getting me ahead in the fallen world, they don't really help people experience the God of the oppressed through me.

And how many Christians do you know that fit into similar categories?  And in their lives, do you see God's presence?

(Tangent - this is why a white Jesus isn't saving anyone.  That's a post for another day though.  Or just read James Cone, he says it better.)

And not just in our bodies, but also in how we act.

Do we talk to people who are homeless when we see them?  Do we go out and feed the hungry?  Do we work to support justice for all people?  Do we give more than we spend?

Do we love others in a "let me wash your feet" kind of way?

Do we love others enough that we would, without using violence, be willing to die for them?

Do we love others enough to let go of the power we as the majority have held for two hundred years so that others can have a seat at the table?

Do we live in a way that says "I love you the way that Christ loves you.  And I do this because I know Christ loves me like that too,"?

My gut.  No.

Some might.  But Christians as a whole?  Not a chance.

So let's stop kidding ourselves.  Let's stop calling ourselves Christians.  Or Jesus freaks.  Or followers of Christ.  Or disciples.

Cause we're not.

I'm not say we can't be. But we aren't right now.

So let's confess our sin in the presence of God and of one another.  Then let's humble ourselves enough to let Christ wash our feet.  And then humble ourselves even more to start washing the feet of others.

 

What does our Savior Look Like?

Yesterday was Palm Sunday in the Western church.

And what do we do for Palm Sunday?  We read the story of Jesus' triumphant entry into Jerusalem on a colt (or donkey, depending on the year) and follow that up with a one-two punch of the passion story.

Jesus is welcomed as the Messiah by the mob.  And then less than a week later that mob is turning on him shouting for him to be crucified.

It's emotional whiplash, to say the least.

But, is it really surprisingly, given what we know about humanity?

The mob expects Jesus to be the Messiah - to be the military leader and conquerer who will teach them to violently overthrow the Romans.  They probably expected him to come riding in on a mighty stallion.

So what does Jesus do?  He rides on a colt (or donkey, or both) and completely messes with their head.

They roll out the red carpet for him.  They praise him the way they would a returning conquerer.

And what does Jesus do?

He goes to the temple and teaches about justice.  And God's kingdom.  And the different ways that God wants all people to be in right relationships with one another and God.  And most of all - to quote Bob Dylan - that "the times, they are a-changing."

And Jesus' message strikes fear in the hearts of those in power.  Who then, in turn, incite fear into the mob - the very mob who just days earlier was shouting for joy and praising Jesus.

What's the consequence of irrational fear?

Violence.

Those in power and the mob now shout crucify.  Kill the one who wants to bring justice and change to the world.

Kill Jesus.  Kill our Messiah - the one who let us down and failed us.

Lynch him.

But...do it legally.

Let's set him up.

Let's bust him for false drug charges.

Let's beat him up in prison.  Let's call him names.  Let's degrade him and try to take away his humanity.

Let's whip up the jury into a frenzy during his trial.

Let's pressure the judge into giving him the worst possible sentence.

The let's hang Jesus up.

And watch the Messiah die.
Let's watch the Son of God die.

All because the message of salvation that Jesus brings us isn't one of violence.  It's one of peace.  It's not a message of war, but one of a day without death.

All because Jesus isn't about building walls and keeping people out, but building longer tables and letting people in.

And all of this got to me yesterday.

This message.  This story.  And our world.

I thought about how America is going crazy.  How hundreds of thousands of people are pushing for more violence.  For more war.  For more fear.  For bigger walls (quite literally).

And I thought about what the Messiah actually looks like.

She will be the one who simply refuses to get up out of her seat.  The one who climbs the flagpole and removes a symbol of oppression.

She will be the one advocating for longer tables.

She will be the one offering a day of no more death.  No more war.  Justice for all people.

She will be the one who gets beat up.  She will be the one who gets strung up.  She will be the one who gets shot.

And how many of us will miss her?

How many of us will be so afraid that we follow the false Messiah?

How many of us will be open our eyes and look to places where God shows up time after time - the oppressed, the poor, those who are beaten down and enslaved by the system - and look for our Messiah there?

My hope is that we will find her.  And that we will pay attention to her.

And that she will change our lives the same way the empty tomb changed everything.

Baseball and Social Justice

I was having a conversation with a dear friend this morning about baseball.

And I was trying to share with her my love for the Pittsburgh Pirates.  And she was like, "they are so bad, why would I ever want to root for them?"

And my response?  "I love them, precisely because they are so bad.  And because they get no love from anywhere but Pittsburgh folks anywhere else in the country."

(Note: This is a story that is loosely based on one line of a text message, many of the details have been changed to preserve my integrity and to prove my point)

And I started to think about how I was perhaps primed from a young age to be on board with social justice issues.

Growing up, my dad was a big fan of the Minnesota Twins, who are the running joke as being one of the worst teams in MLB.  And then we moved to West Virginia and I myself became a Pittsburgh Pirates fan.  The team, who also has become a running joke among baseball fans.

Neither of these teams has had much luck over the past...oh 20 years or so.  They've had some good runs, but what happens - especially with the Pirates is that their star players get traded off by mid-season, and then things fall apart after the All-Star game.

In all this, though, my love for the Pirates has not changed.  In fact, I think I love them even more because they are consistently the MLB underdog.  They will never be as successful or as popular as the Yankees or the Red Sox (or the White Sox).  It's just not going to happen.

But I love them.  And I want them to do well and to succeed.  And to not be mined out for their best players in such a way that keeps them at the bottom of MLB.

I want them to get respect.

Which is really, what social justice is, at it's heart.  It is loving the groups in our society, not because of what they've accomplished - but because they deserve respect and an actual chance to do well and succeed.

Social justice isn't about bringing the top down to the bottom.

It's about bringing the bottom to the top.

It's about giving everyone a chance to play 9 innings, with their best players.

It's about playing by rules that benefit both teams.

Sadly, we live in a world where the rules benefit only one team.

So let's change the rules.  Let's make the game actually fair.  Let's start treating the other team with dignity and respect.

I mean that's what sportsmanship is all about, isn't it?   Being a good sport means crying out that the rules or calls are hurting the other team.

Same with social justice.  Being an agent of social justice is, at it's heart, means crying out that the rules are hurting the other team.

Of course, in all this, I am also reminded that God's kingdom isn't necessarily like major league baseball.  It's better than that.

It's more like how the kids in The Sandlot play ball.  Especially when they're by themselves.  There isn't a winner, there isn't a loser.

It's just about playing the game.

God tells us to be childlike, because children - before adults get in the way - don't care about winning and losing.  They just want to play the game and have fun.

Let's learn to play together.  Let's learn to let go of needing to win - especially us white men - and let's learn to treat all of the other players on the field with the same dignity and respect we (again, as white men) have gotten for our lives.

Losing Yourself

This sermon was delivered to the people of the Lutheran Church of the Nativity on Sunday, June 1, 2014. The texts for the sermon are Philippians 2:1-13 and Luke 6:27-31.

Before you get too comfortable, I want you to grab a pencil and your bulletins, and jot down some things that make up your definition of “you.”  The parts of you that are foundational to your identity.  Go ahead, write them down -- because we’re going to come back to this, but it’ll take us a few minutes to get there.

As you’re thinking and writing, I want to share this parable from Peter Rollins with you that I came across while preparing for this week’s sermon:

IN THE CENTER OF A ONCE-GREAT CITY THERE STOOD A MAGNIFICENT CATHEDRAL that was cared for by a kindly old priest who spent his days praying in the vestry and caring for the poor. As a result of the priest’s tireless work, the cathedral was known throughout the land as a true sanctuary. The priest welcomed all who came to his door and gave completely without prejudice or restraint. Each stranger was, to the priest, a neighbor in need and thus the incoming of Christ. His hospitality was famous and his heart was known to be pure. No one could steal from this old man, for he considered no possession his own, and while thieves sometimes left that place with items pillaged from the sanctuary, the priest never grew concerned: he had given everything to God and knew that these people needed such items more than the church did. Early one evening in the middle of winter, while the priest was praying before the cross, there was a loud and ominous knock on the cathedral door. The priest quickly got to his feet and went to the entrance, as he knew it was a terrible night and reasoned that his visitor might be in need of shelter. Upon opening the door he was surprised to find a terrifying demon towering over him with large dead eyes and rotting flesh. “Old man,” the demon hissed, “I have traveled many miles to seek your shelter. Will you welcome me in?” Without hesitation, the priest bid this hideous demon welcome and beckoned him into the church. The evil demon stooped down and stepped across the threshold, spitting venom onto the tiled floor as he went. In full view of the priest, the demon proceeded to tear down the various icons that adorned the walls and rip the fine linens that hung around the sanctuary, while screaming blasphemy and curses. During this time the priest knelt silently on the floor and continued in his devotions until it was time for him to retire for the night. “Old man,” cried the demon, “where are you going now?” “I am returning home to rest, for it has been a long day,” replied the kindly priest. “May I come with you?” spat the demon. “I too am tired and in need of a place to lay my head.” “Why, of course,” replied the priest. “Come, and I will prepare a meal.” On returning to his house, the priest prepared some food while the evil demon mocked the priest and broke the various religious artifacts that adorned his humble dwelling. The demon then ate the meal that was provided and afterward turned his attention to the priest, “Old man, you welcomed me first into your church and then into your house. I have one more request for you: will you now welcome me into your heart?” “Why, of course,” said the priest, “what I have is yours and what I am is yours.” This heartfelt response brought the demon to a standstill, for by giving everything the priest had retained the very thing that the demon sought to take. For the demon was unable to rob him of his kindness and his hospitality, his love and his compassion. And so the great demon left in defeat, never to return. What happened to that demon after this meeting with the elderly priest is anyone’s guess. Some say that although he left that place empty-handed he received more than he could ever have imagined. And the priest? He simply ascended his stairs, got into bed and drifted off to sleep, all the time wondering what guise his Christ would take next. - Peter Rollins, The Orthodox Heretic

And as I was reading this parable, and reading this text, I wondered if I would be able to live as this priest lived.  To be open and willing to serve all that came to my door that even in the midst of being taken advantage of, being abused, and even at the risk of letting evil into my heart.  Would I be as kind and hospitable as the priest in this story?  Would I be able to empty myself of the things that I hold near and dear to my identity and allow Christ’s love and grace to flow through me?  

And then I wondered what are those things that I hold near and dear to my identity?  Is it my name?  My job?  My gender?  My relationships?  What were those things that you hold near and dear to your identity -- what did you put on your list?

Does your list read something along the lines of: I’m Jared, a 25 year old male vicar, who is the first born son, and an older brother.  I’m a student and a teacher.  I am a bookworm, tv junkie, and movie buff.  I’m a best friend.  I own a dog, and am comfortably middle class.  I’m an American of Norwegian descent.  I’m a little ADD and a little OCD.   I’m a Lutheran.  

All of these are ways that I identify myself.  All of these are things that I hold near and dear to my heart.  All of these things are things I would be terrified to give up.  I hold on to these things to measure my success and place in the world.  They are how I know where I stand compared to other people.  

Except, Paul calls me, and us, to emulate Christ in all things, to be in the same mind as Christ.  To be of the same love as Christ.  To:

“empty ourselves,

                    take the form of a slave,

humble ourselves

                    and become obedient to the point of death”

That’s terrifying.  To empty ourselves of all of these pieces of our identity.  To let go of the ways that we measure success.  To stand back and let God work in our lives.  To live as the priest lived in the parable I told at the beginning did, giving away everything, holding on to nothing.  Not being afraid, even in the presence of evil and threat of harm.  To have nothing inside his heart but love and grace and forgiveness and joy. To have so much love to be willing “go the extra mile” so to speak.  To have so much forgiveness that we can turn the other cheek.  To have so much grace, that everything we do is a reflection of what God does for us.  

I know it sounds impossible.  It sounds like I (and Paul and Jesus) are talking about something that is ideal, but not realistic.  I mean, what happens when we offer grace?  We get taken advantage of, right?  Or our identities get in the way.  I can’t do this, because of x, y, or z.  I know this, because I do it all the time.  I think that I’m “too busy” to go out and help someone build a house.  Or that I’m “too afraid” for my life to help the homeless person with the cardboard sign because he might be crazy.  Or whatever...we all have our reasons, our identities that we cling so tightly to, and impact how we are able to love one another.  

And still, Paul - who wasn’t exactly the most charitable person at times, writes again and again that we need to emulate Christ.  He even writes at one point that we “lose our identities” in the waters of Baptism.  That we aren’t “ Jew nor Greek” - national identities, “slave or free” - occupational identities, or “male and female” - that one’s a little obvious. That these incredibly powerful cultural, occupational, and gender identities are no longer the things that define us.  That we can let them go, we empty ourselves of them because they get in the way of the work of God flowing through us.  That instead, we are children of God.  

And we see this happen.  We’ve seen people who have let go of their identities to bring love and grace to those they meet.  They aren’t just found in parables, like the one I just read from Peter Rollins.  Instead they are people like Maya Angelou, Mother Teresa, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and Pope Francis. They are the nurses who work at free clinics, the teachers who stay after school to tutor those who struggle, the veterans who worked to build relationships with those who differ from us, the construction workers who dedicate their time to Habitat for Humanity, the people who would rather go unnamed and unrecognized as they offer up their gifts and service.  We all know these people.  These women and men who emptied themselves of their identities and allowed themselves to be vessels of God’s grace.  Women and men, who truly were of the same mind as Christ.  Who weren’t afraid of anything to live into God’s kingdom.  And more importantly, they were just ordinary women and men.

Women and men, like you and me.  They just emptied themselves of their identities and became instruments of God’s grace.  And in the emptying, the humility, the service, the love, the being taken advantage of, the threat of death, they lifted up Christ.  They showed all the world how the power of sin was broken and that God’s kingdom is with us here and now.  Thanks be to God.

An Engagement with Peter Rollins

I'm currently working my way through Peter Rollins' The Orthodox Heretic, and it's given me pause to think about my own privilege and my own relationship with the subversive message that is Christianity.  Which is to say that I'll probably be wrestling with a lot of these parables on here.

So you should go out and buy the book.

No seriously...I'll wait.  It's that good.

Looks like this

Got it?
Ok.  Good.

The first parable is a play on that well known bumper sticker, "If Christianity was a crime, would there be enough evidence to convict you?"

This one

And, true to form, Rollins twists this bumper sticker on its head.

The judge (and the court) look through footage of the one convicted (that's us, by the way) and see what we would consider evidence: reading scripture, speaking in church, praying before meals, etc...

And then...after all of this "evidence" the judge pronounces us "not guilty."

And of course, we as the one on trial demand to know what's going on.  We're left saying, "wait, what?"

The response from the judge is that we haven't done enough to really fight the system, that we aren't actually bothering anybody.  Just making ourselves feel good.

And at the end of the parable, I'm left going...wait, what?

Is that all I'm doing?

Am I just working within a system to keep the status quo alive?
Am I just making myself feel good?
Or...
Am I thorn in the side of an unjust system?

What am I doing?

I think I like to tell myself that I'm the latter, but I have a sneaking suspicion it's actually one of the first two.

And then I wonder...
How do I become the thorn in the side of an unjust system?

Is it by preaching sermons that challenge the status quo?
Is it by preaching sermons that affirm the place of doubt in religion?
Refusing to give in to violence?
Advocating for others to be treated equally regardless of race, creed, or sexual orientation?
Living as if death isn't the defining force in the world?
Fighting to take care of the earth, and all that is in it?
Having a conversation with an ex-drug addict at the YMCA?
Losing my own ego, so that I can be fully present with someone else?
Ignoring the "rules" of retribution and recompense?
Offering forgiveness, not just seven times, but seventy times seven?

If yes, then those are all incredibly easy things to say.
But when I try to live them out, I find myself going, "wait, what?"

Jesus Flips

This sermon was delivered to the people of the Lutheran Church of the Nativity on Sunday January 19, 2014.  The text for the sermon comes from John 2:13-25.

There once was a cat that would find its way into a synagogue on Saturday morning and meow loudly, distracting those in attendance from worshipping.  So one Saturday morning, the eldest rabbi began to tie the cat to a tree outside before worship, so as not to distract the worshippers.  Eventually this rabbi passed, and his sucessor began to tie the cat to the tree.  Eventually the cat died, and so the rabbi found another cat to tie to the tree.  Many generations passed, with cats being replaced as they died until eventually the tree died.  The eldest rabbi planted another tree so that the cat could still be tied to the tree before worship on Saturday morning.  Eventually people began to write books about the significance of tying a cat to the tree before worship.

It’s a little absurd isn’t it?  This practical act, tying the cat to the tree as a way of keeping worshipers from being distracted, soon becomes a ritual in and of itself.  To the point that books are written about how important this small act is for this worship community.

And yet, how frequently do our practical acts become ritualized.  Brushing our teeth when we wake up and when we get ready for bed are done so that we can keep our teeth cavity free - and to make our dentists happy, but this act soon becomes part of our morning and pre-bed rituals.  

Or, here at Nativity, we have Children’s word time.  This started as a way to make visiting parents with small children feel welcome.  They didn’t have to worry about their child making noises or distracting those around them during the sermon.  And now it’s become a part of our Sunday morning ritual.  And, if the preacher were to forget to invite the children to leave, it would throw off the Sunday morning groove.  It doesn’t take much for a practical act to become ritualized.

So when we get to the temple in our Gospel text this morning, we need to remember that the scene we find ourselves in has it’s roots in small practical acts that have become a part of the worship experience.

The temple was divided into many parts, there was the innermost Holy of Holys where God dwelt, then outside of that was the place where the priests would stand and offer up the sacrifices of the men who presented them stood below.  Beyond the men, stood the women and children, who weren’t permitted to stand with the men.  And past the women and children was the outer portico, where the Gentiles were invited to come in and experience God.  And it’s in this outer portico, or porch that we find Jesus in the text this morning.

Even though this outer portico was where the Gentiles were supposed to worship, it was also the only place that men, women, priests, children, and outsiders could all gather together.  And so, as people began to come from further and further away, bringing with them foreign currencies and maybe not unblemished animals, it made sense to allow Gentiles to exchange denarii for shekels so people could pay the temple tax, and for locals to sell unblemished animals so that people could offer up pure and holy sacrifices.  This becomes more and more common until Jesus enters and sees this absurd circus that has become commonplace.

And Jesus flips out when we sees this circus.  I can imagine Jesus walking through the outer porch taking in the moneychangers exchanging coins, and the men haggeling over the price of a particular bull, and the doves cooped up in cages around this sacred space - this place that has been intended so that outsiders might be able to worship God.  As Jesus passes through, his rage builds until finally he can’t take it anymore.  He snaps, grabs a bunch of cords, and starts shaking things up.  He kicks out all the animals and these people who are preventing the Gentiles from being able to worship.

His act tells us that these rituals are no longer practical.  God doesn’t need animal sacrifices at the temple anymore because God dwells in the body of Jesus Christ.  God dwells among the people, not in a heaven light years away or in a stone temple, but in flesh and blood among the living.  These rituals are keeping the Gentiles out, and are no longer helping the Jews experience God wholly.   

Jesus’ anger at these ritualized sacrifices isn’t exactly new.  We have heard the prophets say similar things just a few months ago.  Amos says, “I hate, I despise your solemn assemblies and your sacrifices.”  God has already told the chosen people that what is important are our interactions with one another, not stuffy rituals to “get on God’s good side.”

So Jesus flips out, tangibly reminding those who can see him that God doesn’t care about temple taxes or animal sacrifices.  God wants women and men to be invited to experience God in the flesh and blood.  Not through priests, but through the Incarnated Word made flesh.  

Seeing Jesus flip tables in the temple makes me wonder if he wouldn’t do the same thing if he were to come into our sanctuary.  Would Jesus be angry that our understanding of worship was to come in on Sunday mornings and sing hymns from a hundred years ago and recite words to a creed that were written almost 2000 years ago?  Would Jesus come in, and flip our tables, telling us that there is more to worship than just these rituals that we have been reciting for most of our lives?  Would Jesus say, “Where are you worshipping in the world?  Where are you worshipping at the Welcome Table?  Or at ABCCM?  Or at the pub?  Or in the movie theater?  Where is your living sacrifice?  Your spiritual worship?  Where are you inviting people that are different from you to experience God in their lives?  In the places that God has given them to be sacred?  Why aren’t you there?”

Elie Wiesel tells a story about how ritual is lost in favor of true spiritual worship.

When the great rabbi Israel Bal Shem Tov saw misfortune threatening the Jews, it was his custom to go into a certain part of the forest to meditate.  There he would light a fire, say a special prayer, and the miracle would be accomplished and the misfortune averted. Later, when his disciple, the celebrated Maggid of Mezeritch, had occasion, for the same reason, to intercede with heaven, he would go to the same place in the forest and say: “Master of the Universe, listen!  I do not know how to light the fire, but I am still able to say the prayer.”  Again the miracle would be accomplished. Still later, Moshe-Leib of Sassov, in order to save his people once more, would go into the forrest and say, “I do not know the prayer, but I know the place and this must be sufficient.” It was sufficient and the miracle was accomplished. Then it fell to Israel of Rizhin to overcome misfortune.  Sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, he spoke to God: “I am unable to light the fire and I do not know the prayer; I cannot even find the place in the forest.  All I can do is tell the story, and this must be sufficient.”  And it was.

Isn’t it enough to tell the story of God’s love and grace on the cross?  

Can we hold on to our rituals as long as they help us tell the story of God’s love and grace?  Of course we can.  And we should.  It’s why we continue to baptize, to share in Eucharist, and to share in the words that have shaped what it means to be a Christian for almost 2000 years.  

But, can we let go of rituals that keep us from seeing God in the presence of those outside of our church building?  That’s harder.  It’s harder to see where God is present in a conversation at a pub that can never be repeated and is beautiful and spiritual because of it’s one singular moment.  It’s harder to see where God is present in the ramblings of a homeless man standing on the street corner, how by offering to feed this man, we feed God.  It’s harder to see where God is present in someone whose life looks so different from ours, whose faith seems so strange and foreign.  But then, if it was easy, it wouldn’t be called a sacrifice would it?  Amen.

Check this out!

This sermon was delivered to the people of the Lutheran Church of the Nativity on January 5, 2014. The text for the sermon was John 1:35-51

“They said to him, ‘Rabbi, (which translated means teacher where are you staying?’ Jesus said to them, ‘Come and see.’” - John 1:38b-39a

My friend Sarah and I love to share music with one another.  At least once every couple of days I’ll text her or get a text from her with a song to look up online as soon as possible.  Sometimes these songs are silly, because we know they’ll make the other person smile, like when I texted her “Safe and Sound” by Capital Cities a couple of months ago.  Or maybe it’ll be a deep song, like “A Drop in the Ocean” by Ron Pope, because we’ve been thinking about each other.  Just a couple days ago, Sarah texted me “Farewell December” by Matt Nathanson for me to look up.  I know that I look forward to sending these texts, because I love sharing whatever earworm has been stuck in my head for a few hours.  But really, I think I look forward to sending these texts because it’s a way for me to share one of my passions with a close friend.  

It makes me think about some of my other passions, good food, good movies, good books, good beer, and how frequently I share them with the people I’m close to, whether they want to hear about it or not.  What are your passions?  What are those things that you love to share with the people in your life?  How long was it since you shared one of those things with someone?

If you’re like me, I’d guess it hasn’t been too long since you’ve shared your love for something on whoever’s closest.  We love inviting people to participate in something that we are passionate about.  We’ve loved it since show and tell when we were in elementary school and now that we’re older we love sharing with whoever, whenever.  We can’t resist talking to our co-workers, family, friends, strangers in line at the grocery store about whatever book we’ve just read, whatever movie we’ve just watched, where we had dinner last night, what particular craft has our attention, or which political ideology we align with.  We even share online, using with the heading, “Check this out!”

And that’s exactly what happens in this text this morning.  Philip has been waiting for the Messiah.  And he figures the best place to wait for the Lamb of God is with a prophet, John the Baptist.  And sure enough, Jesus walks by and John proclaims that “here is the Lamb of God.”  So Philip goes to Jesus to find out more.  It only takes Philip the better part of an afternoon to realize that he has, in fact, found the Messiah that he’s been waiting for.  His life project, his passion, has appeared right in front of him, and he runs back home to tell his friend Nathanael about it.

He goes to Nathanael, saying “I’ve found him!  I’ve found the Messiah!” And Nathanael, understandably says back to him, “Really?  I don’t believe you.”

Nathanael reveals the greatest flaw in our strategy to invite people to share about our passions.  We don’t actually want to pick up other people’s hobbies.  We don’t want to have to invest time and energy into something that we don’t really care about.  We’d much rather just talk and talk and talk about whatever we’re really excited about.  We don’t want to have our everyday lives disrupted with something new.

As much as I love swapping songs with my friend Sarah, I must confess that I’m not always as good about listening to her recommendation as she is to seeking mine.  I know that her song for the day is going to be wonderful and awesome and prophetic for a given moment, but I always seem to find an excuse for why I can’t listen to it when she invites me to.

Like Monday, when she texted me about “Farewell December.”  It was completely appropriate for the end of the month, and the beginning of the new year.  But I was playing video games, and so I texted back that I’d check it out later.  It was closer to 3 or 4 the next afternoon before I finally listened to that song, though.  Everytime she’d text me, I’d think…Oh, yeah, I need to listen to that song.  But then I’d have to go into a meeting.  Or I’d have to finish up whatever I was working on.  Or I’d have to take my dog for a walk.  Or I’d have to cook lunch.  Or whatever.  I managed to keep her good taste in music from disrupting my daily life.  

Like all of us, I kept refusing an invitation into something new and awesome by making excuses.  We avoid accepting an invitation when we know that it means our lives are going to be disrupted, even if it’s momentarily.  Even Nathanael makes an excuse when Philip invites him to come see where God is working.

We especially avoid accepting God’s invitations to experience something new, because God’s invitations are the most disrupting.  When we accept God’s invitation to come and see, we learn where God is staying, or to be more faithful to the Greek, where God is abiding.  As we will see through the next few months, where God is abiding is in us, with us, and through us.  God abides with us from the moment we have been baptised like Cleo/Davis were not that long ago.  

And there is nothing more disruptive than having God abide with us all the time.  You see, God has a way of pulling us out of the routines of our day-to-day life and inviting us to come experience God’s work in our lives and the lives around us.  We become invited to participate in God’s work in our neighbors, and very seldom are our neighbors our friends.

When God abides with us, we suffer when we watch the injustice of those whom we would like nothing more than to ignore.  God cries out to us, pleading for us to go to the homeless person and help them get treatment for whatever physical or mental illness is keeping them on the streets.  God cries out, begging for us to go to the person who lashes out in the workplace, to help them cope with whatever’s been going on at home.  God cries out when entire peoples are persecuted because of the color of their skin or because of their religion.  God cries out to us when people are reduced to objects, used by those in power.  God cries out to us time and time again, asking, begging, pleading for us to allow our lives to be disrupted so we can experience another place that God abides.  

But instead, we tend to make excuses.  We say, “It’s not my fault, I don’t have to fix it.” Or “I’ve got to go to work now, I’ll get to it later.” Or “There are hundreds of people nearby, why can’t one of them fix it?”  Or my personal favorite, “I’ve got my own problems to deal with, and no one is helping me with them.”  We keep saying our excuses over and over again, and eventually we believe them.  We let the sin that ruins our relationships with each other and with God drown out God’s shouts to “check this out!”  And we let the fear of having our lives disrupted get in the way of actually experiencing for ourselves where God is abiding in us, and those around us.

And we should be afraid.  God’s disruptions mean experiencing something new.  God’s disruptions mean dying to sin.  God’s disruptions mean being raised to new life on the cross.  But, even though it’s scary, it’s worth it.  It’s worth it to recognize where God abides in our neighbors, in the strangers, in that person we can’t stand.  When we start to pay attention to where God abides in those people, our lives become transformed.  It becomes exciting.  It becomes a passion that we can’t wait to share with the people around us.  And it becomes easier to see that God has been abiding within our hearts the entire time as well.  Amen.  

What's the Word?

This sermon was delivered to the people of the Lutheran Church of the Nativity on December 22, 2013.  The text for this sermon is John 1:1-18.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God,

and the Word was God.

- John 1:1

It seems a little strange to go back to the beginning, now that we are about halfway through our faith journey.  We’ve seen creation, we seen the faith of the Patriarchs, we’ve seen guidance in the wilderness, we’ve seen kings and temples, and seen grief in the time of exile.  And now, as we get ready to see the Messiah, we take a slight detour.  We go “back to the beginning.”

Now while this seems a little disjointed, it shouldn’t surprise us. I think that we love the beginnings of stories best, especially when we’re little.  We love the rhythm of the “once upon a time” or “in a land far away” or “a long long time ago in a galaxy far far away.”  This familiar rhythm helps us get immersed in the story, and this text from John isn’t any different.  It opens like the familiar story from Genesis, “In the beginning…” But then John immediately shakes things up.

John doesn’t follow that next part that we know so well, the “...when God created the heavens and the earth…” instead he says “In the beginning was the Word.”  Right off the bat, John hints that his story isn’t going to be the familiar one that his audience grew up with, instead this story is new.  This story has a different ending.  

In the Genesis story, creation ends with exile from the Garden and being cut off from a relationship with God. That story ends with so much of what we see when we turn on the tv or read the newspaper.  It’s a story that ends with tragedy, disasters, violence, and hate.  It’s a story that requires competition to be successful.  It’s a story that says the lion eats the lamb.  It’s a story that has oppression and darkness.  It’s a story that we have found ourselves in time after time, even as we long for the “happily ever after” ending of the stories from our childhood.  

John’s story is different from the Genesis story though.  John’s story ends with the coming of the light, but not being overwhelmed by the darkness.  John’s story ends with the Word breaking through the darkness of the world that does not know him and still brings light and life to all the world.  John’s story ends with grace upon grace, which reveals God for all people.  John’s story gives us our “happily ever after.”

Our “happily ever after” comes when we hear that the Word is Jesus Christ.  That Jesus is the Word of God, and brought us grace upon grace.  That even though there was darkness, the light of Christ could not be overcome. The light of Christ will fill everyone and shine through everyone, out into the world.  Yep, that sounds like “happily ever after” to me.

Except, we look out into the world, and it still looks like the end to the Genesis story.  We see lives plagued by addiction, loneliness, mental illness, brokenness, violence; lives plagued by darkness.  We look into our world and it seems that “the world does not know him.”  We feel like the light of Christ has been overcome by the darkness.  And so, to find hope in the story we currently see, we push this text from John into the future.  We read it and hope that when Jesus returns, then all of these things will happen.  That’s part of why we celebrate Advent after all, we prepare ourselves for the time when we will get to see things work out “happily ever after.”

Yet, why not prepare the way for Christ’s return now, in our own lives and in our own hearts?  Why not let Christ’s light shine in the darkness through us?  Why do we focus on the Bible as the Word of God, when the Word of God was really flesh and blood?  Why do we shy away from pouring out grace upon grace, so that we can make God’s presence known?  Why do we “testify” or “witness” to the light, when we have become a source of the light through our baptisms?

One of my favorite authors, Peter Rollins, tells a parable about a woman who lives as this light, and as a faithful witness to the Word of God.

There was a once a young and gifted woman who set herself the almost impossible task of setting up a printing press so that she could translate and distribute the Word of God to the people.  Yet such a job would require a great deal of money, and so, almost as soon as she had conceived the idea, she sold the few items that she possessed and went to live on the streets, begging for the money that she needed.

Raising the necessary funds took many years, for while there were a few who gave generously, most only gave a little, if anything at all.  But gradually the money began to accumulate.

However, shortly before the plans for the printing press could be set in motion, a dreadful flood devastated a nearby town, destroying many people’s homes and livelihoods.  Without hesitation the woman used all the money she had gathered to feed the hungry and rebuild lost homes.

Once the town began to recover, the woman silently went back to the streets in order to start all over again, collecting the money needed to translate the Word of God.

Many more years passed, with many cold winters that caused great suffering to the woman.  Then, shortly before the target amount was reached, disaster struck again.  This time a deadly plague descended like a cloud over the city, stealing the lives of thousands.

By now the woman herself was tired and ill, yet without thought she spent the money she had collected on medicines and care for the sick and orphaned.

Then, once the shadow of the plague was lifted, she again went onto the streets, driven by her desire to translate the Word of God.  

Finally, shortly before her death, this faithful woman gathered the money needed for the printing press and completed the project she had set herself many years before.

After she passed away, it is rumoured by some that this godly woman had actually spent her time making three translations of the Word, the first two being the most splendid of all.

I love that line, the first two being the most splendid of them all.  This nameless woman was incredibly faithful and had the light of Christ shine through her into the darkness of the tragedies she found herself surrounded by.  And the darkness could not overcome the light shining through her.  Despite her witness, I cannot help but wonder if this woman also missed the point.  Was she so focused on the literary Word of God, like so many of us, that she couldn’t see that her actions were in fact, the best possible way to translate the living Word of God shining through her?

Did she see her actions, that were filled with grace upon grace, made God known more clearly than any book could ever do?  And even ifher head might not have ever understood it, her heart was transformed by the light.  This light that brings life, and grace, and truth.  The Word is flesh and lives among us.  That “in the beginning” of this woman’s story, the Word was there, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God, and this woman came into being through the Word.  And God was made known through her.

And so, as John reminds us, this isn’t our Genesis story.  Rather it’s a story that happens at the beginning of time, when all things were made.  It’s a story that happens when Jesus first comes into the world.  It’s a story that happens when our lives are joined to Christ in our baptisms.  It’s a story about how things will be when Jesus comes again.  But mostly it’s a story about “grace upon grace” breaking into this world, shining in the darkness, and illuminating our lives and the lives around us, so that God might be revealed.  And in our own translations of the Word, we can demonstrate exactly how things end.  We can show people what it means to live “happily ever after” now.  Amen.

Blurred Lines

This sermon was delivered to the people of The Lutheran Church of the Nativity on Sunday, November 10, 2013.  The text that the sermon is based on is Amos 1:1-2; 5:14-15, 21-24.

What is justice?

Merriam-Webster defines justice as: the maintenance or administration of what is just especially by the impartial adjustment of conflicting claims or the assignment of merited rewards or punishments.

That seems a little lackluster for our text from Amos.  I mean, Amos’ words are full of what we might call “poetic justice.”  It’s language that is rich in imagery and meaning.  It’s full of passion and energy.  Merriam-Webster doesn’t seem to be doing the text much justice.

So then, where can we turn?  What about the justice that we see in movies and television shows?  Is justice something akin to what Robin Hood and Batman do?  Where people get their “just deserts” for lying, cheating, or stealing their way to wealth and prosperity.  Is God’s justice like that of a vigilante, who makes sure people get what’s coming to them, especially when the law fails?

A Batman-esque God seems to work.  Thinking of Batman Gotham City with it’s great disparity between the 1 percenters and the rest of the population is very similar to the Israel that Amos is speaking to in this mighty proclamation.  For both Batman and Amos, we see how the rich and wealthy are crying out because of the “filth and poverty” that surround them.  The wealthy in both cases seem to miss the fact that their misuse of power and money has caused the great disparity in both landscapes.  And both Batman and Amos work to bring about a justice that is comforting for those who have been oppressed, but is anything but comforting to those who have been oppressing the lower classes.

And this view of justice really speaks to us in our society today.  Remember the “Occupy Wall Street” and “I am the 99%” from a few years back?  We see in our very own country a wealth disparity that happens, typically at the expense of the middle and lower classes.  People in these lower classes that have been neglected by society turn to violence, drugs, and crime as a way of making ends meet because it looks like all other doors have been shut by them.  Voices cry out for justice all over the country - those who have money are discouraged by the violence and crimes of those who don’t have money.  And those who don’t have money cry out for a little more equality in the status quo.

This is exactly why heroes like Batman, Robin Hood, and others who “rob from the rich and give to the poor” are so popular.  We all want justice and we see it in Batman and Robin Hood.  

And yet, even this heroic view of justice seems to fall a little flat when we try to understand God’s justice.  God’s justice is filled with mercy and grace.  I’m not sure the last time I saw Batman be merciful to a bad guy.  

So, then what is God’s justice?

This “feels” like an important question.  We see the prophets in particular focus in on living justice.  Amos and Micah in particular focus on the fact that God doesn’t desire people to gather together and worship in a particular setting or by saying a few “right words.”  God doesn’t desire sacrifices.  God isn’t even looking for good singers or beautiful music.  God desires justice.

And if God desires justice, shouldn’t we know what that means?  Shouldn’t we have an idea what it is God is asking of us?  We don’t want to let God down?  

As I’ve been wrestling with this over the past week, trying to pin down an answer to what it means to live God’s justice I realize that it’s not as simple as coming up with a step-by-step guide to living a godly life.  I can’t live out a justice rooted in mercy and grace if I write it down into some sort of moral code or law, because as soon as I think I’ve got it phrased just right, I will immediately run in to some situation that breaks every idea of justice that I’ve just codified.

Try as I might, I will never be able to pin down exactly how to make justice roll down like waters.  I cannot describe how righteousness will flow like an ever-flowing stream.  I can only dream and imagine.

I can dream like Amos dreamed, of a day when the lines between the wealthy and the impoverished will be blurred.  Of a day when there will be no way to distinguish between those who had money and those who have never had money.  There will be no way to distinguish between the 1% and the 99%.  Amos dreamed of a day when no person would go without.  Of a day when God’s justice will come rushing down over the world, wiping away all of the walls that the wealthy have built to keep the poor out.

I can dream like Susan B. Anthony dreamed, of a day when the lines between male and female will be blurred.  Dreams of a day when we no longer look at a person’s gender to make decisions about their strengths and abilities.  Anthony dreamed of a day when no person would be turned away because of their gender.  Of a day when God’s justice will come rushing down over the world, wiping away the walls that men build to keep women out.

I can dream like Martin Luther King Jr. dreamed, of a day when the lines between black and white will be blurred.  Dreams of a day when there will be no way to distinguish between the two races.  Dreams of a day when there is no distinguishing where someone came from.  King dreamed of a day when no person would be excluded based on the color of their skin.  Of a day when God’s justice will come rushing down over the world, wiping away all of the walls that whites built to keep those who are of a different race out.

I dream the dream that women and men have been dreaming for thousands of years.  I dream of a day when we no longer say, “me vs. you” I dream of a day when we no longer exclude someone based on how much money they have, how they look, or who they love.  I dream of a day when no one is turned away because they are “different” or “weird.”  I dream of a day when God’s justice will come rushing down over the world, wiping away all of the walls that we build to keep the “others” out.

I dream the dream Jesus dreamed when he said, “Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.”  Or, to say it better.  “I dream of a day when those who carry my name do their part to tear down the walls that we have built around me and you, so that no matter who they are looking at, they see a brother or sister in the family of God. That those who truly worship me, come to the holy table, are swept up by the waters of justice, grace, and mercy, and flow into the world, creating new rivers and streams and waterfalls wherever they go, that all the world might experience the gift of new life found in the removal of these walls.”

Maybe we can define justice after all.  Maybe justice is being able to welcome our sisters and brothers in Christ all over the world back into the family.  Isn’t that what God wants?  God wants us to all be able to look at one another and no longer see rich or poor, male or female, white or black, straight or gay, Christian or Muslim, but rather to welcome the person we see standing there as a child of God.  To embrace their differences so that our differences might be embraced. To embrace their flaws so that our flaws might be embraced by them. To embrace and be embraced so that we might all find God’s healing and righteousness.

I love Amos’ dream, Susan B. Anthony’s dream, Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream, the dream of all of us who are dreaming God’s dream.  This dream of justice that overflows with compassion.  This dream that tears down walls in the name of God’s love for all people.  This dream of righteousness and relationships that allow all men and women, you and me, to become an “us” that lives in to the grace-filled life we experience in the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.