February 2022
"Sometimes"
Based on Isaiah 6:1-8, and Luke 5:1-11 (texts at end of post)
February 6, 2022
I didn’t grow up in a religious family. My dad rarely went to church. My mom sometimes. My mother’s family attended a Finnish Apostolic Lutheran Church—which taught that drinking and dancing were sinful, disapproved of birth control, and thought Christians should live holy, sanctified lives in the world.
Sometimes I think the only reason I went to Sunday School as a child was because a Lutheran church was just two blocks from our home. And because back then in a small town, that’s what everybody did—whether you liked it or not.
As a child it seemed to me that Church was mostly about sin and feeling bad about yourself. In grade school, I was part of the Junior Choir, and we sang once a month. I liked the bright blue robe I got to wear, with a big white bow. We always sat in front where everyone could see what their children were doing. And God help you if you misbehaved! (I didn’t!)
I remember how each service started with the confession of sin. Where everyone pulled out the original red Service Book and Hymnal, and together prayed: “Almighty God, our Maker and Redeemer, we poor sinners confess unto thee, that we are by nature sinful and unclean, and that we have sinned against thee by thought, word, and deed.”
How many of you remember that? If you were anything like me, saying it over and over again each week, seemed designed to remind me of how sinful I must be. Even though I was a pretty good kid. Sometimes it seemed to me, God was a condemning judge. Who kept a list of everything you did wrong. Like some kind of heavenly Santa Claus. Back then, I didn’t know much about the Lutheran theology of Law and Gospel. From my perspective, Church was mostly Law and sometimes Gospel.
Today’s lessons remind me of those early beliefs. Because they both seem to be about sin. Like Isaiah, who in his vision sees the Jewish Temple filled with God’s glorious presence—no longer concealed behind the curtain in front of the Holy of Holies. Isaiah’s response is also a confession: “Woe is me!.... for I am a man of unclean lips!”
Which is similar to Peter in our Gospel lesson, who falls down in front of Jesus and utters another confession: “Get away from me, Lord, for I am a sinner!” A weird reaction for someone who has just hauled in a record-breaking catch of fish. You’d think it would be more like the end of an Olympics hockey game, where the winning team high-five’s one another for receiving a gold medal. But Peter sees himself as undeserving, as a sinner.
I remember feeling that way when I was in seminary. As a closeted gay man, I was terrified that someone someday would discover my sinful secret. Sometimes feeling condemned. Sometimes believing God loved me as I was.
In her book, Touching Our Strength, the theologian Carter Heyward compares the coming out process to divine revelation. She writes:
“I have experienced a difficult tension between revelation and concealment of myself. I was raised to ‘tell the truth.’ This little moralism served me well in many ways, such as in my decision to come out as a lesbian, a decision I have not regretted…. There is a profound theological wisdom in the tension between revelation and concealment. The Sacred reveals herself to us when we are ready to see her…. God is, however, in our midst continually, whether we are ready to notice her or not.”*
Like Heyward, I believe there’s a holy balance between concealment and revelation. The balance between things we can’t bear to see, and the sometimes-painful truths we are forced to speak. The balance between not hurting those we love, and bringing justice to those who cause harm. The balance between believing God sees everything we do, and realizing that grace means God loves us even after seeing everything we do.
The balance between learning the true history of how religion has been involved in the abuse of Native American children, the slavery of African Americans, and the oppression of LGBTQ individuals; and the response of people of faith today who are repenting of those sins, and seeking reconciliation and restorative justice. A process with the hope we might reclaim the heart of our faith and its values—in the midst of creating and sustaining welcoming communities.
Today, I believe God is calling us to sometimes be a prophetic voice about the past failures of our Church and society, and sometimes a hopeful vision of what we might become. Where faith and religion are part of the solution.
Of course, along with all that we face today in terms of COVID-19, police shootings, and climate change, I know it can be difficult to see what we might do. Psychologists tell us that the more people learn about what's broken in our world, the less likely we are to do anything. It's called “psychic numbing.” Something that’s difficult to overcome.
There’s an old Jewish story about a rabbi who comes to synagogue with two slips of paper, one in each of his front pockets. Out of one pocket, the rabbi pulls a slip that reads, “You are nothing but dust and ashes.” Then out of the other pocket, he takes another note which says, “The world was created for you.”
I believe our faith is sometimes like those slips of paper. Where our experience of God and ourselves can move back and forth between Law and Gospel. Sometimes believing the promise that God loves me no matter what. And sometimes struggling to be kind and forgiving to my fellow human beings.
We are, indeed, creatures of sin and blessing. Of concealment and revelation. At various times in Christian history and even in our personal and community lives, one or the other of those things has been overemphasized or ignored—to the detriment of the other.
And yet that kind of paradox is what makes us Lutheran. The paradox of sometimes sinner and sometimes saint. The paradox of sometimes Law and sometimes Gospel. The paradox of sometimes death and sometimes resurrection.
It would be easy for any of us to say—and you’ve probably said it yourself sometime during the past couple years—that the current state of affairs feels overwhelming. Making us wonder: What difference can I as an individual possibly make? Or what impact can a small congregation like St. Mark’s really have here in North Dakota?
To which I would say, while it’s true that while we can’t always have a big “catch of fish” like Peter or overcome large oppressive systems, I believe that you and I can still sometimes do something.
Sometimes I can forgive. Sometimes I can love. Sometimes I can pray. Sometimes I can protest. Sometimes I can sit with a friend in pain. Sometimes I can give a ride to an Afghan family. Sometimes I can share disappointments and dreams. Sometimes I can just listen. Sometimes I can get involved in a new project. Sometimes I can just step back and take care of myself and my family. Sometimes I can take time for healing and renewal.
And sometimes I can hear the voice of Jesus saying the same thing he said to Simon Peter in the fishing boat so long ago, “Don’t be afraid. You are my beloved child. And I will be with you, wherever you may go.”
Like Peter, the voice of Jesus is calling us today to share the love of God our Creator. Sometimes revealed in ordinary people like you and me. Sometimes revealed in ordinary bread and wine.
And all we can say in response are words that sound similar to what the prophet Isaiah once said: “Here I am, Lord. Sometimes a sinner. Sometimes a saint. Sometimes, that’s all I have to offer. Sometimes, Holy God, send me.” Amen.
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*Carter Heyward; Touching Our Strength: The Erotic as Power and the Love of God (HarperCollins, New York, 1989) pp. 29-30.
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First Reading: Isaiah 6:1-8
In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord sitting on a throne, high and lofty; and the hem of his robe filled the temple. Seraphs were in attendance above him; each had six wings: with two they covered their faces, and with two they covered their feet, and with two they flew. And one called to another and said: “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.” The pivots on the thresholds shook at the voices of those who called, and the house filled with smoke. And I said: “Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!” Then one of the seraphs flew to me, holding a live coal that had been taken from the altar with a pair of tongs. The seraph touched my mouth with it and said: “Now that this has touched your lips, your guilt has departed and your sin is blotted out.” Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” And I said, “Here am I; send me!”
Gospel Reading: Luke 5:1-11
Once while Jesus was standing beside the lake of Gennesaret, and the crowd was pressing in on him to hear the word of God, he saw two boats there at the shore of the lake; the fishermen had gone out of them and were washing their nets. He got into one of the boats, the one belonging to Simon, and asked him to put out a little way from the shore. Then he sat down and taught the crowds from the boat. When he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, “Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.” Simon answered, “Master, we have worked all night long but have caught nothing. Yet if you say so, I will let down the nets.” When they had done this, they caught so many fish that their nets were beginning to break. So they signaled their partners in the other boat to come and help them. And they came and filled both boats, so that they began to sink. But when Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus’ knees, saying, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” For he and all who were with him were amazed at the catch of fish that they had taken; and so also were James and John, sons of Zebedee, who were partners with Simon. Then Jesus said to Simon, “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people.” When they had brought their boats to shore, they left everything and followed him.
Sometimes I think the only reason I went to Sunday School as a child was because a Lutheran church was just two blocks from our home. And because back then in a small town, that’s what everybody did—whether you liked it or not.
As a child it seemed to me that Church was mostly about sin and feeling bad about yourself. In grade school, I was part of the Junior Choir, and we sang once a month. I liked the bright blue robe I got to wear, with a big white bow. We always sat in front where everyone could see what their children were doing. And God help you if you misbehaved! (I didn’t!)
I remember how each service started with the confession of sin. Where everyone pulled out the original red Service Book and Hymnal, and together prayed: “Almighty God, our Maker and Redeemer, we poor sinners confess unto thee, that we are by nature sinful and unclean, and that we have sinned against thee by thought, word, and deed.”
How many of you remember that? If you were anything like me, saying it over and over again each week, seemed designed to remind me of how sinful I must be. Even though I was a pretty good kid. Sometimes it seemed to me, God was a condemning judge. Who kept a list of everything you did wrong. Like some kind of heavenly Santa Claus. Back then, I didn’t know much about the Lutheran theology of Law and Gospel. From my perspective, Church was mostly Law and sometimes Gospel.
Today’s lessons remind me of those early beliefs. Because they both seem to be about sin. Like Isaiah, who in his vision sees the Jewish Temple filled with God’s glorious presence—no longer concealed behind the curtain in front of the Holy of Holies. Isaiah’s response is also a confession: “Woe is me!.... for I am a man of unclean lips!”
Which is similar to Peter in our Gospel lesson, who falls down in front of Jesus and utters another confession: “Get away from me, Lord, for I am a sinner!” A weird reaction for someone who has just hauled in a record-breaking catch of fish. You’d think it would be more like the end of an Olympics hockey game, where the winning team high-five’s one another for receiving a gold medal. But Peter sees himself as undeserving, as a sinner.
I remember feeling that way when I was in seminary. As a closeted gay man, I was terrified that someone someday would discover my sinful secret. Sometimes feeling condemned. Sometimes believing God loved me as I was.
In her book, Touching Our Strength, the theologian Carter Heyward compares the coming out process to divine revelation. She writes:
“I have experienced a difficult tension between revelation and concealment of myself. I was raised to ‘tell the truth.’ This little moralism served me well in many ways, such as in my decision to come out as a lesbian, a decision I have not regretted…. There is a profound theological wisdom in the tension between revelation and concealment. The Sacred reveals herself to us when we are ready to see her…. God is, however, in our midst continually, whether we are ready to notice her or not.”*
Like Heyward, I believe there’s a holy balance between concealment and revelation. The balance between things we can’t bear to see, and the sometimes-painful truths we are forced to speak. The balance between not hurting those we love, and bringing justice to those who cause harm. The balance between believing God sees everything we do, and realizing that grace means God loves us even after seeing everything we do.
The balance between learning the true history of how religion has been involved in the abuse of Native American children, the slavery of African Americans, and the oppression of LGBTQ individuals; and the response of people of faith today who are repenting of those sins, and seeking reconciliation and restorative justice. A process with the hope we might reclaim the heart of our faith and its values—in the midst of creating and sustaining welcoming communities.
Today, I believe God is calling us to sometimes be a prophetic voice about the past failures of our Church and society, and sometimes a hopeful vision of what we might become. Where faith and religion are part of the solution.
Of course, along with all that we face today in terms of COVID-19, police shootings, and climate change, I know it can be difficult to see what we might do. Psychologists tell us that the more people learn about what's broken in our world, the less likely we are to do anything. It's called “psychic numbing.” Something that’s difficult to overcome.
There’s an old Jewish story about a rabbi who comes to synagogue with two slips of paper, one in each of his front pockets. Out of one pocket, the rabbi pulls a slip that reads, “You are nothing but dust and ashes.” Then out of the other pocket, he takes another note which says, “The world was created for you.”
I believe our faith is sometimes like those slips of paper. Where our experience of God and ourselves can move back and forth between Law and Gospel. Sometimes believing the promise that God loves me no matter what. And sometimes struggling to be kind and forgiving to my fellow human beings.
We are, indeed, creatures of sin and blessing. Of concealment and revelation. At various times in Christian history and even in our personal and community lives, one or the other of those things has been overemphasized or ignored—to the detriment of the other.
And yet that kind of paradox is what makes us Lutheran. The paradox of sometimes sinner and sometimes saint. The paradox of sometimes Law and sometimes Gospel. The paradox of sometimes death and sometimes resurrection.
It would be easy for any of us to say—and you’ve probably said it yourself sometime during the past couple years—that the current state of affairs feels overwhelming. Making us wonder: What difference can I as an individual possibly make? Or what impact can a small congregation like St. Mark’s really have here in North Dakota?
To which I would say, while it’s true that while we can’t always have a big “catch of fish” like Peter or overcome large oppressive systems, I believe that you and I can still sometimes do something.
Sometimes I can forgive. Sometimes I can love. Sometimes I can pray. Sometimes I can protest. Sometimes I can sit with a friend in pain. Sometimes I can give a ride to an Afghan family. Sometimes I can share disappointments and dreams. Sometimes I can just listen. Sometimes I can get involved in a new project. Sometimes I can just step back and take care of myself and my family. Sometimes I can take time for healing and renewal.
And sometimes I can hear the voice of Jesus saying the same thing he said to Simon Peter in the fishing boat so long ago, “Don’t be afraid. You are my beloved child. And I will be with you, wherever you may go.”
Like Peter, the voice of Jesus is calling us today to share the love of God our Creator. Sometimes revealed in ordinary people like you and me. Sometimes revealed in ordinary bread and wine.
And all we can say in response are words that sound similar to what the prophet Isaiah once said: “Here I am, Lord. Sometimes a sinner. Sometimes a saint. Sometimes, that’s all I have to offer. Sometimes, Holy God, send me.” Amen.
----------------------------------
*Carter Heyward; Touching Our Strength: The Erotic as Power and the Love of God (HarperCollins, New York, 1989) pp. 29-30.
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
First Reading: Isaiah 6:1-8
In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord sitting on a throne, high and lofty; and the hem of his robe filled the temple. Seraphs were in attendance above him; each had six wings: with two they covered their faces, and with two they covered their feet, and with two they flew. And one called to another and said: “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.” The pivots on the thresholds shook at the voices of those who called, and the house filled with smoke. And I said: “Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!” Then one of the seraphs flew to me, holding a live coal that had been taken from the altar with a pair of tongs. The seraph touched my mouth with it and said: “Now that this has touched your lips, your guilt has departed and your sin is blotted out.” Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” And I said, “Here am I; send me!”
Gospel Reading: Luke 5:1-11
Once while Jesus was standing beside the lake of Gennesaret, and the crowd was pressing in on him to hear the word of God, he saw two boats there at the shore of the lake; the fishermen had gone out of them and were washing their nets. He got into one of the boats, the one belonging to Simon, and asked him to put out a little way from the shore. Then he sat down and taught the crowds from the boat. When he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, “Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.” Simon answered, “Master, we have worked all night long but have caught nothing. Yet if you say so, I will let down the nets.” When they had done this, they caught so many fish that their nets were beginning to break. So they signaled their partners in the other boat to come and help them. And they came and filled both boats, so that they began to sink. But when Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus’ knees, saying, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” For he and all who were with him were amazed at the catch of fish that they had taken; and so also were James and John, sons of Zebedee, who were partners with Simon. Then Jesus said to Simon, “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people.” When they had brought their boats to shore, they left everything and followed him.