October 2019
October 6, 2019
"Believing and Belonging," based on Luke 17:5-6
(reading follows the sermon)
A long time ago, when my husband Charlie and I owned our first home, I decided that I wanted a birch tree in our yard. I’ve always loved birch trees, with their white bark and bright yellow leaves in the fall.
So, Charlie and I went to a garden store and picked out a lovely birch clump about seven feet tall. The clerk asked if we wanted it delivered. But we said “no.” Back then, we were young and strong, so we decided to move it by ourselves. The first clue that it might be harder than we thought was when one of the employees used a backhoe to lift the tree into my pickup.
When we got home, we managed to transfer the tree to a wheelbarrow. Then together we started pushing it around the house. But the root ball was so big that, halfway there, it fell off the wheelbarrow. And there was no way to lift it back. Because it was so heavy, the two of us had to roll the tree very slowly across the grass to the spot I had picked out in the yard. It didn’t help that we both started laughing hysterically and couldn’t stop.
Eventually, with a lot of pulling and shoving we finally planted the birch tree. Where we thought it would stay forever.
But a few years later after we had moved, a storm with straight-line winds went over our old house, destroyed the garage, and pulled the birch tree out of the ground. It was even on the evening news—with the local TV weatherman standing in the front yard. I was reminded of that story when I read today’s Gospel lesson, where Jesus says, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”
The metaphor Jesus uses is kind of bizarre. Mulberry trees can grow very tall with deep roots, so you can’t just pull one out of the ground. Plus, I’m a gardener and I know that uprooting a large tree would likely destroy it. Sometimes life can be like that. When faced with an unexpected crisis or major loss, it can be hard to have faith that somehow you will make it through. To not feel like your heart and soul are being uprooted. Wondering if you will survive.
Faced with the death of a loved one or serious illness, a sudden career change or crippling depression, it’s normal to have doubts. To wonder if God is with you. To feel alone. To be overwhelmed with fear and anxiety. To feel like you are that mulberry tree, pulled up and thrown into the sea. Many of us grew up thinking that faith means the absence of doubt. And that faithful people should never feel afraid. But fear is a normal part of life, especially for those willing to take risks and try something new. A new relationship. A new job. A new place to live.
Jesus knew what it was like to be afraid. Just after the passage we read today, Luke tells us that Jesus turns his path towards Jerusalem. He begins his journey to the cross, to his death. He must have felt fearful about that. When the disciples asked Jesus how to increase their faith, Jesus knew their future would bring experiences they could never dream of. Together they would face his crucifixion and resurrection—events would change their lives forever.
Yet, for many of us, when Jesus says to the disciples, “If you had the faith the size of a mustard seed,” it’s easy to read those words as a criticism. As if Jesus is saying, “It’s too bad your faith is so small. If you really believed, your faith could do miracles.” Almost like magic. But what if Jesus is actually saying the opposite. What if we read this as an encouraging remark? Or as we Lutherans like to say, to hear it as Gospel instead of Law. What if faith isn’t really about believing the right things? What if faith means belonging to God? What if faith is most present when we see how we belong to one another?
In his book Future Faith, Wesley Granberg-Michaelson (who spoke at our synod's clergy retreat last month) talks about the struggle we Christians face today in terms of keeping our faith alive and relevant. He tells the story of a young woman named Alyssa, who grew up in a typical Midwestern Lutheran congregation. Her memories were compelling. For her, as a teenager, church services seemed boring. Alyssa also vividly remembers feeling like her questions were not welcome. When Alyssa raised issues about things she didn’t understand, the pastor and others told her that she should have faith and “just believe.” So, Alyssa stopped going to church.
Later in life, after a number of personal crises, Alyssa decided to give her faith one more chance. She found a Lutheran church in Santa Fee, NM. A congregation that welcomed her questions. That didn’t expect her to have everything figured out. That invited her to be part of a community where people walked side by side in their journey of faith. For Alyssa, that’s where she finally felt connected. That’s where she found a sense of belonging she had not experienced before. That’s where she felt accepted for who she was, with all her questions and doubts.
I like to think St. Mark’s is that kind of community. That for us, faith is more about belonging than believing. A distinction that is significant. Some theologians compare it to two ways of keeping a herd of cattle together within a field. One way is to build a fence to keep them in. Where, like for some Christians, everything and everyone is contained within set boundaries, rules and doctrines. The second option is to dig a well in the middle of a field. Any rancher knows that cattle are always drawn back to water. Even without fences to keep them there. Like us Christians, who are drawn back to the waters of baptism, the center of our belonging.
For on the day you were baptized, the pastor sprinkled a few drops of water on your head—not enough water to even satisfy a small seed—but enough to plant God’s grace in your tiny heart and life.
Those drops of waters came with a spoken promise: “Child of God, you have been sealed with the Holy Spirit, and marked with the cross of Christ forever.” Magical-sounding words that welcomed you to the family of God. Of course, it’s not really magic. But it is God’s grace. Grace that brings us together. Grace that makes our faith grow. Grace that gives us a place to truly belong. Grace that welcome us as people redeemed and righteous in God’s eyes.
The sacraments we receive are reminders that faith is not something we do on our own. God uses the simple elements of water, and wine and bread to create faith within us and among us in community. To show us that we are not alone. That we are surrounded and protected by a great cloud of witnesses—faith-filled people who pull up mulberry trees of fear and plant mustard seeds of belief and courage. That we are joined together in our life journey, in following our faithful God. That is our witness here at St. Mark’s. And that is the faith we carry with us this week into our lives out in the world. Even when we feel doubt. Even when we feel afraid. Our God leads us forward together. Amen.
+ + +
Luke 16:5-6
The apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!” And the Lord said, “If you had faith like a grain of mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.’”
So, Charlie and I went to a garden store and picked out a lovely birch clump about seven feet tall. The clerk asked if we wanted it delivered. But we said “no.” Back then, we were young and strong, so we decided to move it by ourselves. The first clue that it might be harder than we thought was when one of the employees used a backhoe to lift the tree into my pickup.
When we got home, we managed to transfer the tree to a wheelbarrow. Then together we started pushing it around the house. But the root ball was so big that, halfway there, it fell off the wheelbarrow. And there was no way to lift it back. Because it was so heavy, the two of us had to roll the tree very slowly across the grass to the spot I had picked out in the yard. It didn’t help that we both started laughing hysterically and couldn’t stop.
Eventually, with a lot of pulling and shoving we finally planted the birch tree. Where we thought it would stay forever.
But a few years later after we had moved, a storm with straight-line winds went over our old house, destroyed the garage, and pulled the birch tree out of the ground. It was even on the evening news—with the local TV weatherman standing in the front yard. I was reminded of that story when I read today’s Gospel lesson, where Jesus says, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”
The metaphor Jesus uses is kind of bizarre. Mulberry trees can grow very tall with deep roots, so you can’t just pull one out of the ground. Plus, I’m a gardener and I know that uprooting a large tree would likely destroy it. Sometimes life can be like that. When faced with an unexpected crisis or major loss, it can be hard to have faith that somehow you will make it through. To not feel like your heart and soul are being uprooted. Wondering if you will survive.
Faced with the death of a loved one or serious illness, a sudden career change or crippling depression, it’s normal to have doubts. To wonder if God is with you. To feel alone. To be overwhelmed with fear and anxiety. To feel like you are that mulberry tree, pulled up and thrown into the sea. Many of us grew up thinking that faith means the absence of doubt. And that faithful people should never feel afraid. But fear is a normal part of life, especially for those willing to take risks and try something new. A new relationship. A new job. A new place to live.
Jesus knew what it was like to be afraid. Just after the passage we read today, Luke tells us that Jesus turns his path towards Jerusalem. He begins his journey to the cross, to his death. He must have felt fearful about that. When the disciples asked Jesus how to increase their faith, Jesus knew their future would bring experiences they could never dream of. Together they would face his crucifixion and resurrection—events would change their lives forever.
Yet, for many of us, when Jesus says to the disciples, “If you had the faith the size of a mustard seed,” it’s easy to read those words as a criticism. As if Jesus is saying, “It’s too bad your faith is so small. If you really believed, your faith could do miracles.” Almost like magic. But what if Jesus is actually saying the opposite. What if we read this as an encouraging remark? Or as we Lutherans like to say, to hear it as Gospel instead of Law. What if faith isn’t really about believing the right things? What if faith means belonging to God? What if faith is most present when we see how we belong to one another?
In his book Future Faith, Wesley Granberg-Michaelson (who spoke at our synod's clergy retreat last month) talks about the struggle we Christians face today in terms of keeping our faith alive and relevant. He tells the story of a young woman named Alyssa, who grew up in a typical Midwestern Lutheran congregation. Her memories were compelling. For her, as a teenager, church services seemed boring. Alyssa also vividly remembers feeling like her questions were not welcome. When Alyssa raised issues about things she didn’t understand, the pastor and others told her that she should have faith and “just believe.” So, Alyssa stopped going to church.
Later in life, after a number of personal crises, Alyssa decided to give her faith one more chance. She found a Lutheran church in Santa Fee, NM. A congregation that welcomed her questions. That didn’t expect her to have everything figured out. That invited her to be part of a community where people walked side by side in their journey of faith. For Alyssa, that’s where she finally felt connected. That’s where she found a sense of belonging she had not experienced before. That’s where she felt accepted for who she was, with all her questions and doubts.
I like to think St. Mark’s is that kind of community. That for us, faith is more about belonging than believing. A distinction that is significant. Some theologians compare it to two ways of keeping a herd of cattle together within a field. One way is to build a fence to keep them in. Where, like for some Christians, everything and everyone is contained within set boundaries, rules and doctrines. The second option is to dig a well in the middle of a field. Any rancher knows that cattle are always drawn back to water. Even without fences to keep them there. Like us Christians, who are drawn back to the waters of baptism, the center of our belonging.
For on the day you were baptized, the pastor sprinkled a few drops of water on your head—not enough water to even satisfy a small seed—but enough to plant God’s grace in your tiny heart and life.
Those drops of waters came with a spoken promise: “Child of God, you have been sealed with the Holy Spirit, and marked with the cross of Christ forever.” Magical-sounding words that welcomed you to the family of God. Of course, it’s not really magic. But it is God’s grace. Grace that brings us together. Grace that makes our faith grow. Grace that gives us a place to truly belong. Grace that welcome us as people redeemed and righteous in God’s eyes.
The sacraments we receive are reminders that faith is not something we do on our own. God uses the simple elements of water, and wine and bread to create faith within us and among us in community. To show us that we are not alone. That we are surrounded and protected by a great cloud of witnesses—faith-filled people who pull up mulberry trees of fear and plant mustard seeds of belief and courage. That we are joined together in our life journey, in following our faithful God. That is our witness here at St. Mark’s. And that is the faith we carry with us this week into our lives out in the world. Even when we feel doubt. Even when we feel afraid. Our God leads us forward together. Amen.
+ + +
Luke 16:5-6
The apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!” And the Lord said, “If you had faith like a grain of mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.’”
October 13, 2019
"Pesky Prophets," based on Luke 17:11-19
(readings follow the sermon)
A little over two years ago, there was an article in the Fargo Forum about Allyne Holz, a retired Lutheran pastor from Moorhead, who boldly stood up for what she believed. I like to think about Pastor Allyne as a pesky prophet. Even though Pastor Allyne doesn’t fit the profile of most Biblical prophets. She doesn’t utter defiant words to kings. She doesn’t shout in people’s faces. She doesn’t foretell doom and destruction.
But she is persistent. Back in June 2018, Allyne waited in line for four hours under the hot sun to see President Trump here in Fargo. Once inside Scheels Arena, after President Trump had started speaking, this old woman stood up in the aisle. Then she silently turned her back to the president. But the crowd didn’t like that. Everyone pointed and yelled. A security guard quickly escorted her out. Back then, Allyne had decided to go against her normally quiet nature. She was having lunch with a friend when their conversation turned to Nazi Germany. They both wondered how a country could go down a path like that, yet have no one speak up. But Pastor Allyne did not want to be someone who did nothing. She wanted her faith to make a difference. So, that’s what she did. Her silent protest spoke loudly.
Well, guess what? This week, that same pesky prophet was back. This time at the Target Center in Minneapolis. Once again, she stood for hours waiting to enter. This time in the cold rain. Inside the stadium, Allyne melted into the crowd. After all, who notices an old white woman? Once again, as the president was speaking, Allyne stood up and turned her back to him. This time, however, she was a little more dramatic. This time, she blew a whistle. Sometimes a pesky prophet can be loud. Once again, a security guard escorted her out through the angry crowd up the stairs. Again, people yelled and pointed. But at this event, Allyne didn’t feel as safe as before. She asked for a security guard to walk in front of her and a police officer behind. It was all broadcast on the big screen and TV.
Later, the police took her photo. Allyne wondered if her hair looked OK. Then that pesky prophet was taken outside and transported in a golf cart to a city street. So ended Pastor Allyne’s prophetic act. Which reminds me of another pesky prophet: Elijah. According to the Book of Kings in the Hebrew Bible, Elijah lived in the 9th century BC (over 3,000 years ago!) in the northern kingdom of Israel. Elijah defended the worship of the Jewish God over that of the Canaanite deity Baal. Some people didn’t like that pesky prophet either. The Israelite King Ahab called him a troublemaker. Ahab’s wife, Queen Jezebel, threatened to kill him. So, Elijah fled to the desert as a refugee. Poor Elijah was deeply discouraged by that threat. He saw himself as the last of the pesky prophets of Israel. But then God told him to anoint Elisha as his successor. And Elisha served as prophet for 60 years.
Today’s first lesson tells us a story about Elisha. About a leper named Naaman, who was the commander of the army of Aram, a country that shared borders with Israel. The two kingdoms had previously fought many battles against one another. So, for Israelites, Naaman would have been seen as a foreigner and enemy. In fact, Naaman had a Jewish slave girl, who was taken as a war prisoner from Israel. Naaman suffered from leprosy, which had no cure. The slave girl told him that Elisha the Jewish prophet could heal him. So, eventually he sends for Elisha. But that pesky prophet Elisha doesn’t make it easy for Naaman. He tells the mighty leader to go wash himself seven times in the Jordan River. But Naaman’s bigotry, his anti-Semitism, becomes a barrier. Why (he asks himself) should he wash in their dirty river, when there are plenty of clean rivers in his own great country?
Again, the nameless Jewish girl intervenes. Quietly she convinces him to give it a try. So, Naaman lets go of his angry arrogance, and follows the directions of the pesky prophet. And Naaman is healed of his leprosy. Naaman the foreigner, the enemy, is healed by a God he does not know. Saved by the words of a poor slave girl. And Naaman is healed not just in his body. But also his soul. He’s healed of his bigotry, when Naaman comes face to face with a gracious God.
A story that ties in with our Gospel lesson. The grateful leper in this story from Luke is another foreigner healed by another pesky prophet, Jesus. In the time of Jesus, lepers weren’t allowed to live with their families. They couldn’t worship with their faith community. They were completely excluded from society. So, it’s not surprising that these ten lepers come to Jesus for help. But when the Samaritan returns, Jesus wonders how it’s possible that only the foreigner comes back to say ‘thanks.’ The Greek word used here for foreigner is allogenes (αλλογενης.) It literally means “other race.” It’s the only place in the New Testament where this word appears. I believe the writer of Luke uses it here to make a point.
Over and over again, Luke presents stories of people that tell us that God’s grace is for everyone. The prophetic theme of the message of Jesus. That God loves each of us, just as we are. No matter your race or ethnicity. No matter your country of origin. No matter your gender identity or sexual orientation. For some of us, it can be difficult to take those words to heart. Especially if you are someone struggling with coming out.
This past Friday was National Coming Out Day. I spoke at chapel at Concordia College on Wednesday night about the coming out process and my own coming out story. And on Thursday morning, I went back to hear a transgender student named Drew from Luther Seminary—the seminary I attended when I was young. When I was there, there were no trans students and no one who was trans was allowed to speak to us. I was surprised to hear Drew share that when he told his friends about coming to Moorhead to preach, they warned him to be careful. They were worried that it might not be safe for him as a trans individual to come here. The kind of risk trans people face every day.
The same kind of risk, whether actual or perceived, that the pesky prophets of our Church also face—when they preach that Christianity is a faith which welcomes the stranger among us. A faith revealed in Jesus, who—when he heals a leper, a foreigner—demonstrates in an undeniable act that God’s grace is for everyone. A grace that can change our inner selves, so that each of us, in this world today, can become God’s pesky prophet. With our own story to share to tell. A story that needs to be told today more than ever. The story of God’s unconditional love. The story of God’s commitment to the marginalized among us. The story of a God who welcomes and embraces the foreigner and migrant. The story of Jesus bringing healing and wholeness to the lepers among us. The story of grace that sets us free to be ourselves—as beloved children, fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of God. Amen.
+ + +
Luke 17:11-19
On the way to Jerusalem Jesus was going through the region between Samaria and Galilee. As he entered a village, ten lepers approached him. Keeping their distance, they called out, saying, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” When he saw them, he said to them, “Go and show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went, they were made clean. Then one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice. He prostrated himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him. And he was a Samaritan. Then Jesus asked, “Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?” Then he said to him, “Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.”
But she is persistent. Back in June 2018, Allyne waited in line for four hours under the hot sun to see President Trump here in Fargo. Once inside Scheels Arena, after President Trump had started speaking, this old woman stood up in the aisle. Then she silently turned her back to the president. But the crowd didn’t like that. Everyone pointed and yelled. A security guard quickly escorted her out. Back then, Allyne had decided to go against her normally quiet nature. She was having lunch with a friend when their conversation turned to Nazi Germany. They both wondered how a country could go down a path like that, yet have no one speak up. But Pastor Allyne did not want to be someone who did nothing. She wanted her faith to make a difference. So, that’s what she did. Her silent protest spoke loudly.
Well, guess what? This week, that same pesky prophet was back. This time at the Target Center in Minneapolis. Once again, she stood for hours waiting to enter. This time in the cold rain. Inside the stadium, Allyne melted into the crowd. After all, who notices an old white woman? Once again, as the president was speaking, Allyne stood up and turned her back to him. This time, however, she was a little more dramatic. This time, she blew a whistle. Sometimes a pesky prophet can be loud. Once again, a security guard escorted her out through the angry crowd up the stairs. Again, people yelled and pointed. But at this event, Allyne didn’t feel as safe as before. She asked for a security guard to walk in front of her and a police officer behind. It was all broadcast on the big screen and TV.
Later, the police took her photo. Allyne wondered if her hair looked OK. Then that pesky prophet was taken outside and transported in a golf cart to a city street. So ended Pastor Allyne’s prophetic act. Which reminds me of another pesky prophet: Elijah. According to the Book of Kings in the Hebrew Bible, Elijah lived in the 9th century BC (over 3,000 years ago!) in the northern kingdom of Israel. Elijah defended the worship of the Jewish God over that of the Canaanite deity Baal. Some people didn’t like that pesky prophet either. The Israelite King Ahab called him a troublemaker. Ahab’s wife, Queen Jezebel, threatened to kill him. So, Elijah fled to the desert as a refugee. Poor Elijah was deeply discouraged by that threat. He saw himself as the last of the pesky prophets of Israel. But then God told him to anoint Elisha as his successor. And Elisha served as prophet for 60 years.
Today’s first lesson tells us a story about Elisha. About a leper named Naaman, who was the commander of the army of Aram, a country that shared borders with Israel. The two kingdoms had previously fought many battles against one another. So, for Israelites, Naaman would have been seen as a foreigner and enemy. In fact, Naaman had a Jewish slave girl, who was taken as a war prisoner from Israel. Naaman suffered from leprosy, which had no cure. The slave girl told him that Elisha the Jewish prophet could heal him. So, eventually he sends for Elisha. But that pesky prophet Elisha doesn’t make it easy for Naaman. He tells the mighty leader to go wash himself seven times in the Jordan River. But Naaman’s bigotry, his anti-Semitism, becomes a barrier. Why (he asks himself) should he wash in their dirty river, when there are plenty of clean rivers in his own great country?
Again, the nameless Jewish girl intervenes. Quietly she convinces him to give it a try. So, Naaman lets go of his angry arrogance, and follows the directions of the pesky prophet. And Naaman is healed of his leprosy. Naaman the foreigner, the enemy, is healed by a God he does not know. Saved by the words of a poor slave girl. And Naaman is healed not just in his body. But also his soul. He’s healed of his bigotry, when Naaman comes face to face with a gracious God.
A story that ties in with our Gospel lesson. The grateful leper in this story from Luke is another foreigner healed by another pesky prophet, Jesus. In the time of Jesus, lepers weren’t allowed to live with their families. They couldn’t worship with their faith community. They were completely excluded from society. So, it’s not surprising that these ten lepers come to Jesus for help. But when the Samaritan returns, Jesus wonders how it’s possible that only the foreigner comes back to say ‘thanks.’ The Greek word used here for foreigner is allogenes (αλλογενης.) It literally means “other race.” It’s the only place in the New Testament where this word appears. I believe the writer of Luke uses it here to make a point.
Over and over again, Luke presents stories of people that tell us that God’s grace is for everyone. The prophetic theme of the message of Jesus. That God loves each of us, just as we are. No matter your race or ethnicity. No matter your country of origin. No matter your gender identity or sexual orientation. For some of us, it can be difficult to take those words to heart. Especially if you are someone struggling with coming out.
This past Friday was National Coming Out Day. I spoke at chapel at Concordia College on Wednesday night about the coming out process and my own coming out story. And on Thursday morning, I went back to hear a transgender student named Drew from Luther Seminary—the seminary I attended when I was young. When I was there, there were no trans students and no one who was trans was allowed to speak to us. I was surprised to hear Drew share that when he told his friends about coming to Moorhead to preach, they warned him to be careful. They were worried that it might not be safe for him as a trans individual to come here. The kind of risk trans people face every day.
The same kind of risk, whether actual or perceived, that the pesky prophets of our Church also face—when they preach that Christianity is a faith which welcomes the stranger among us. A faith revealed in Jesus, who—when he heals a leper, a foreigner—demonstrates in an undeniable act that God’s grace is for everyone. A grace that can change our inner selves, so that each of us, in this world today, can become God’s pesky prophet. With our own story to share to tell. A story that needs to be told today more than ever. The story of God’s unconditional love. The story of God’s commitment to the marginalized among us. The story of a God who welcomes and embraces the foreigner and migrant. The story of Jesus bringing healing and wholeness to the lepers among us. The story of grace that sets us free to be ourselves—as beloved children, fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of God. Amen.
+ + +
Luke 17:11-19
On the way to Jerusalem Jesus was going through the region between Samaria and Galilee. As he entered a village, ten lepers approached him. Keeping their distance, they called out, saying, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” When he saw them, he said to them, “Go and show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went, they were made clean. Then one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice. He prostrated himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him. And he was a Samaritan. Then Jesus asked, “Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?” Then he said to him, “Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.”
October 27, 2019
"Costly Grace," based on John 8:31-36
(reading follows the sermon)
For many of us, truth is based on living our lives with integrity. A value that seems in short supply today. The Reverend Elizabeth Edman is a lesbian Episcopal priest, who once shared a story about what she learned from her mother about being true to oneself. Elizabeth was born in Fort Smith, Arkansas in 1962. Back then, her world was defined by rigid binaries: white and black, rich and poor, north and south, male and female. Being a tomboy, the last one didn’t work so well for Elizabeth. But her family had taught her: “Be who you are, even when people give you guff.”
When she was five, Elizabeth went to a shoe store with her mother to shop for sneakers. But the shoes she liked were in the boy’s section. Elizabeth dragged her mother there, saying, “Mama, c’mere! Let me show you the ones I want!” When they took the shoes to the counter, the store clerk said with a disapproving tone, “Those are boys’ shoes.” But Elizabeth’s mother didn’t hesitate, and firmly told him: “Yes, size four, please.”
I believe Elizabeth’s mother demonstrated the kind of radical acceptance and love that’s central to our Lutheran understanding of grace. I also believe our Christian faith is about accepting yourself. It’s about being the person God created you to be, fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of God.
As Jesus said, “The truth will make you free.”
Of course, sometimes living out that kind of grace in our lives can be challenging and risky, even scary, especially in our modern world. During World War II, Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a German pastor and Lutheran theologian, who grew up in Berlin, where his father worked as a prominent professor. His mother was one of the few gutsy women of her generation to obtain a university degree. Eventually, seeing what was happening around him, Pastor Bonhoeffer gathered up the courage to speak up against Hitler and his administration. Because of his daring witness, Bonhoeffer was executed by the Nazis in April 1943. Before his death, Bonhoeffer wrote and preached extensively about the cost of following Jesus. He challenged Christians to consider what it means to truly live out grace in our lives. Bonhoeffer made a distinction between cheap grace and costly grace.
For him, cheap grace was the blind following of Christian doctrine, or Church hierarchy, or a dysfunctional government, without any questions. In contrast, Bonhoeffer described “costly grace” as: “The treasure hidden in the field; for the sake of it, someone will gladly… sell all [they have]. Such grace is costly… because it costs [your] life, and it is grace because it gives [you] the only true life.”
As Jesus said, “The truth will make you free.”
500 years ago, Martin Luther, the founder of our Lutheran tradition, demonstrated what costly grace really means. During the Reformation, Luther preached that Christians are saved only by the grace of God, and not the institutional church, which he claimed was corrupt and misleading. In response to Luther’s 95 Theses and other writings, the Catholic Pope Leo X charged him with heresy. The pope called Luther to defend himself at the Imperial Diet of Worms, an assembly of political leaders of the Holy Roman Empire. Kind of like an impeachment hearing for Luther. In April 1521, Luther testified and refused to recant his teachings. At the end of his speech, Luther spoke the famous words, “Here I stand; I can do no other. God help me.” The trial ended with Luther’s excommunication. The emperor also declared Luther an outlaw—making it a crime for anyone to give Luther food or shelter, and actually encouraging people to kill Luther without any legal consequence. Threatening words that weirdly echo our modern political discourse.
Not many of us Lutherans today face the kind of threats Luther faced. But I believe God still calls us to live our faith with the risk of losing what is precious to us. The risk of losing our social status because we stand up for the oppressed. The risk of losing friends or family because we dare speak out for immigrants or children in detention camps. The risk of losing a job or career, because we dare to come out of the closet. That’s what is meant by costly grace. That’s the kind of freedom Luther discovered by carefully listening to the Gospel of Jesus. And that’s the kind of freedom we Lutherans can share with one another. The kind of freedom where God calls us to be fully and freely human, despite and even with all our character flaws and past mistakes.
As Jesus said, “The truth will make you free.”
That kind of truth makes it possible for God’s grace to become real here among us. Including those of us who are gay or lesbian or bisexual or transgender. Including those who are often forgotten—the homeless and those struggling with mental illness or chemical dependency. Including those of us in broken relationships or dealing with grief. Including those of us condemned by other Christians. Here at St. Mark’s Lutheran, I believe we are a community that steadfastly lives out the true meaning of costly grace. Something that Martin Luther started so long ago. Something that, by doing what we do here, we stay faithful to the word Luther preached. Something that, as we follow the call of Jesus—both as a community and as individuals—will bring us true freedom.
As Jesus said, “The truth will make you free.” Amen.
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1 "Devotional Classics," edited by Richard J. Foster & James B. Smith; "The Cost of Discipleship" by Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
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John 8:31-36
Then Jesus said to the Jews who had believed in him, "If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples; and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free." They answered him, "We are descendants of Abraham and have never been slaves to anyone. What do you mean by saying, ‘You will be made free’?” Jesus answered them, “Very truly, I tell you, everyone who commits sin is a slave to sin. The slave does not have a permanent place in the household; the son has a place there forever. So, if the Son makes you free, you will be free indeed.”
When she was five, Elizabeth went to a shoe store with her mother to shop for sneakers. But the shoes she liked were in the boy’s section. Elizabeth dragged her mother there, saying, “Mama, c’mere! Let me show you the ones I want!” When they took the shoes to the counter, the store clerk said with a disapproving tone, “Those are boys’ shoes.” But Elizabeth’s mother didn’t hesitate, and firmly told him: “Yes, size four, please.”
I believe Elizabeth’s mother demonstrated the kind of radical acceptance and love that’s central to our Lutheran understanding of grace. I also believe our Christian faith is about accepting yourself. It’s about being the person God created you to be, fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of God.
As Jesus said, “The truth will make you free.”
Of course, sometimes living out that kind of grace in our lives can be challenging and risky, even scary, especially in our modern world. During World War II, Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a German pastor and Lutheran theologian, who grew up in Berlin, where his father worked as a prominent professor. His mother was one of the few gutsy women of her generation to obtain a university degree. Eventually, seeing what was happening around him, Pastor Bonhoeffer gathered up the courage to speak up against Hitler and his administration. Because of his daring witness, Bonhoeffer was executed by the Nazis in April 1943. Before his death, Bonhoeffer wrote and preached extensively about the cost of following Jesus. He challenged Christians to consider what it means to truly live out grace in our lives. Bonhoeffer made a distinction between cheap grace and costly grace.
For him, cheap grace was the blind following of Christian doctrine, or Church hierarchy, or a dysfunctional government, without any questions. In contrast, Bonhoeffer described “costly grace” as: “The treasure hidden in the field; for the sake of it, someone will gladly… sell all [they have]. Such grace is costly… because it costs [your] life, and it is grace because it gives [you] the only true life.”
As Jesus said, “The truth will make you free.”
500 years ago, Martin Luther, the founder of our Lutheran tradition, demonstrated what costly grace really means. During the Reformation, Luther preached that Christians are saved only by the grace of God, and not the institutional church, which he claimed was corrupt and misleading. In response to Luther’s 95 Theses and other writings, the Catholic Pope Leo X charged him with heresy. The pope called Luther to defend himself at the Imperial Diet of Worms, an assembly of political leaders of the Holy Roman Empire. Kind of like an impeachment hearing for Luther. In April 1521, Luther testified and refused to recant his teachings. At the end of his speech, Luther spoke the famous words, “Here I stand; I can do no other. God help me.” The trial ended with Luther’s excommunication. The emperor also declared Luther an outlaw—making it a crime for anyone to give Luther food or shelter, and actually encouraging people to kill Luther without any legal consequence. Threatening words that weirdly echo our modern political discourse.
Not many of us Lutherans today face the kind of threats Luther faced. But I believe God still calls us to live our faith with the risk of losing what is precious to us. The risk of losing our social status because we stand up for the oppressed. The risk of losing friends or family because we dare speak out for immigrants or children in detention camps. The risk of losing a job or career, because we dare to come out of the closet. That’s what is meant by costly grace. That’s the kind of freedom Luther discovered by carefully listening to the Gospel of Jesus. And that’s the kind of freedom we Lutherans can share with one another. The kind of freedom where God calls us to be fully and freely human, despite and even with all our character flaws and past mistakes.
As Jesus said, “The truth will make you free.”
That kind of truth makes it possible for God’s grace to become real here among us. Including those of us who are gay or lesbian or bisexual or transgender. Including those who are often forgotten—the homeless and those struggling with mental illness or chemical dependency. Including those of us in broken relationships or dealing with grief. Including those of us condemned by other Christians. Here at St. Mark’s Lutheran, I believe we are a community that steadfastly lives out the true meaning of costly grace. Something that Martin Luther started so long ago. Something that, by doing what we do here, we stay faithful to the word Luther preached. Something that, as we follow the call of Jesus—both as a community and as individuals—will bring us true freedom.
As Jesus said, “The truth will make you free.” Amen.
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1 "Devotional Classics," edited by Richard J. Foster & James B. Smith; "The Cost of Discipleship" by Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
+ + +
John 8:31-36
Then Jesus said to the Jews who had believed in him, "If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples; and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free." They answered him, "We are descendants of Abraham and have never been slaves to anyone. What do you mean by saying, ‘You will be made free’?” Jesus answered them, “Very truly, I tell you, everyone who commits sin is a slave to sin. The slave does not have a permanent place in the household; the son has a place there forever. So, if the Son makes you free, you will be free indeed.”