September 2019
September 1, 2019
"A Bigger Table," based on Luke 14:1, 7-14
(reading follows the sermon)
When I was young, my family ate our meals around an old wooden table. We lived in a small house, so there was no dining room. The table was in the kitchen. It wasn’t a fancy table. In fact, it had a lot of scratches and dings. One of the legs had been chewed up by a puppy years before—you could still see the tooth marks That table held a lot of memories. On special occasions—like birthday parties or Thanksgiving or Christmas, my mom would have us pull apart both ends of the table to insert an extra leaf in the middle. Which turned it into a table with plenty of room for extra food and dishes and people. A table that seemed much bigger.
In today’s Gospel lesson Jesus talks about another way to make a bigger table. Jesus is having dinner at a Pharisee’s house. And Jesus tells his host that when he gives a banquet, not to just invite the typical guests like relatives or friends. Instead, Jesus suggests a radical party. He tells him to invite “the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind.” The disenfranchised of that time. People who can never repay the favor. This, Jesus says, is what the Kingdom of God looks like.
It’s like that old kitchen table that seems way too small for your own church family. But just insert some of God’s grace in the middle, and suddenly there’s more than enough room. Room for those people who have nowhere else to go. Room for food. For acceptance. For love. Jesus knew that. For that’s where much of the ministry of Jesus took place. Around the tables of friends and strangers, even enemies. We clergy people like to talk about Jesus with fancy words of theology—like salvation and incarnation and forgiveness. But Jesus was more relational than theological. Those who lived and ate with Jesus didn’t gather around tables to hear scholarly lectures. They came to hear stories about God’s love. They came for healing of their bodies. They came for comfort for their souls. They came for relief from their oppressors. That was the kind of bread they longed for. That was the kind of hospitality they dreamt of.
The same is true for us today. For despite the hatred and evil we see all around us in our world, Jesus still teaches us about a Gospel of welcome. The Gospel of a bigger table. This morning’s second lesson from Hebrews begins with the words, “Let mutual love continue.” The word for “mutual love” in the original Greek is “philadelphia”—which most of us have heard means “brotherly love.” Or to use a more inclusive translation, “sibling love.” Which, of course, is metaphorical. It doesn’t just refer to family members who sit around a dinner table. But also to the kind of love that should be the core value of any church. The kind of love people today so desperately need.
A couple years ago, I attended a training in New Jersey for people like me working with new ministries in the ELCA. I was excited to meet LGBTQ pastors like myself, and others working to welcome those who have felt rejected by Christians. Following the words of Jesus, congregations like St. Mark’s are trying new approaches to reach those in need. Strategies and experiments that sometimes mean you might make mistakes along the way.
We heard a story about St. John’s Lutheran Church in Passaic, New Jersey. A few years ago, their church decided they wanted to do something to help the homeless in their neighborhood. So, they decided to offer a free meal after their Sunday service. The members spent lots of time making plans for this new ministry.
The church advertised. They recruited volunteers. And on the Sunday after Easter that year, they prepared the first meal. Then they waited and waited and waited. But no one came. Nobody! The planners couldn’t believe it. They just couldn’t figure out what they’d done wrong. So, the members turned to their pastor and asked her what they should do. Then one of the volunteers said, “Hey, there’s usually a line of men standing outside the Walmart store, looking for day work. Why don’t we take the food to them?” And that’s what they did. So, began their new ministry in a parking lot, serving hot meals to the hungry, along with songs and prayers. Like St. John’s Lutheran, I believe Jesus is calling our congregation to find new ways to bring the Gospel to those who stand outside the doors of many churches. Here in our new space at Temple Beth El Synagogue, I envision God will reveal new opportunities for us and our ministry in the coming months and years.
Today, Jesus is inviting us to build a bigger table. Today God is calling us to create a community of welcome. A church that accepts each person who comes to us no matter what. And you and I are part of that welcome.
And perhaps you are someone who needs to feel that kind of welcome. And if you are struggling with a difficult period in your life, even if you feel lost or forsaken, please know that there are people in this community who can meet you wherever you are in your journey of faith, doubt, or uncertainty. Just know that you are not alone.
Even if religious leaders or other Christians have condemned and shamed you in the past, even if someone has told you that you don’t belong to their faith group, Jesus is here to greet you with open arms. And we are here, too. We have set a special place for you at our banquet table. A table where Jesus gathers us all in together. A table where there’s plenty of room for everyone. Come, for all are welcome. Amen.
+ + +
Luke 14:1, 7-14
On one occasion when Jesus was going to the house of a leader of the Pharisees to eat a meal on the sabbath, they were watching him closely. When he noticed how the guests chose the places of honor, he told them a parable. “When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited by your host; and the host who invited both of you may come and say to you, ‘Give this person your place,’ and then in disgrace you would start to take the lowest place. But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, ‘Friend, move up higher’; then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you. For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”
He said also to the one who had invited him, “When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.”
In today’s Gospel lesson Jesus talks about another way to make a bigger table. Jesus is having dinner at a Pharisee’s house. And Jesus tells his host that when he gives a banquet, not to just invite the typical guests like relatives or friends. Instead, Jesus suggests a radical party. He tells him to invite “the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind.” The disenfranchised of that time. People who can never repay the favor. This, Jesus says, is what the Kingdom of God looks like.
It’s like that old kitchen table that seems way too small for your own church family. But just insert some of God’s grace in the middle, and suddenly there’s more than enough room. Room for those people who have nowhere else to go. Room for food. For acceptance. For love. Jesus knew that. For that’s where much of the ministry of Jesus took place. Around the tables of friends and strangers, even enemies. We clergy people like to talk about Jesus with fancy words of theology—like salvation and incarnation and forgiveness. But Jesus was more relational than theological. Those who lived and ate with Jesus didn’t gather around tables to hear scholarly lectures. They came to hear stories about God’s love. They came for healing of their bodies. They came for comfort for their souls. They came for relief from their oppressors. That was the kind of bread they longed for. That was the kind of hospitality they dreamt of.
The same is true for us today. For despite the hatred and evil we see all around us in our world, Jesus still teaches us about a Gospel of welcome. The Gospel of a bigger table. This morning’s second lesson from Hebrews begins with the words, “Let mutual love continue.” The word for “mutual love” in the original Greek is “philadelphia”—which most of us have heard means “brotherly love.” Or to use a more inclusive translation, “sibling love.” Which, of course, is metaphorical. It doesn’t just refer to family members who sit around a dinner table. But also to the kind of love that should be the core value of any church. The kind of love people today so desperately need.
A couple years ago, I attended a training in New Jersey for people like me working with new ministries in the ELCA. I was excited to meet LGBTQ pastors like myself, and others working to welcome those who have felt rejected by Christians. Following the words of Jesus, congregations like St. Mark’s are trying new approaches to reach those in need. Strategies and experiments that sometimes mean you might make mistakes along the way.
We heard a story about St. John’s Lutheran Church in Passaic, New Jersey. A few years ago, their church decided they wanted to do something to help the homeless in their neighborhood. So, they decided to offer a free meal after their Sunday service. The members spent lots of time making plans for this new ministry.
The church advertised. They recruited volunteers. And on the Sunday after Easter that year, they prepared the first meal. Then they waited and waited and waited. But no one came. Nobody! The planners couldn’t believe it. They just couldn’t figure out what they’d done wrong. So, the members turned to their pastor and asked her what they should do. Then one of the volunteers said, “Hey, there’s usually a line of men standing outside the Walmart store, looking for day work. Why don’t we take the food to them?” And that’s what they did. So, began their new ministry in a parking lot, serving hot meals to the hungry, along with songs and prayers. Like St. John’s Lutheran, I believe Jesus is calling our congregation to find new ways to bring the Gospel to those who stand outside the doors of many churches. Here in our new space at Temple Beth El Synagogue, I envision God will reveal new opportunities for us and our ministry in the coming months and years.
Today, Jesus is inviting us to build a bigger table. Today God is calling us to create a community of welcome. A church that accepts each person who comes to us no matter what. And you and I are part of that welcome.
And perhaps you are someone who needs to feel that kind of welcome. And if you are struggling with a difficult period in your life, even if you feel lost or forsaken, please know that there are people in this community who can meet you wherever you are in your journey of faith, doubt, or uncertainty. Just know that you are not alone.
Even if religious leaders or other Christians have condemned and shamed you in the past, even if someone has told you that you don’t belong to their faith group, Jesus is here to greet you with open arms. And we are here, too. We have set a special place for you at our banquet table. A table where Jesus gathers us all in together. A table where there’s plenty of room for everyone. Come, for all are welcome. Amen.
+ + +
Luke 14:1, 7-14
On one occasion when Jesus was going to the house of a leader of the Pharisees to eat a meal on the sabbath, they were watching him closely. When he noticed how the guests chose the places of honor, he told them a parable. “When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited by your host; and the host who invited both of you may come and say to you, ‘Give this person your place,’ and then in disgrace you would start to take the lowest place. But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, ‘Friend, move up higher’; then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you. For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”
He said also to the one who had invited him, “When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.”
September 8, 2019
"Tree of Life," based on Genesis 2:4b-9, Revelation 22:1-5, and Luke 13:6-9
(readings follow the sermon)
During the summer of my senior year at Luther Seminary in St. Paul, I worked on the grounds crew. One hot summer day that June, a tornado passed right over our campus.The next day, I had to help with cleaning up a number of downed trees. Two students and I were working on one large trunk that was a couple feet thick. After cutting it up, we faced the task of carrying it to a dump truck. Now you would think that three seminary students could figure out how to safely move a tree trunk a few hundred feet. But sometimes graduate-school education doesn’t equal common sense.
Anyway, the three of us decided that it would be a lot easier to just roll the log down the hill. So that’s what we did. But, of course, the log got away from us. Kind of like a scene from an old Laurel and Hardy movie…. It took off quickly, gaining speed, heading right towards a parked car. And all we could do was stand there wide-eyed and watch it happen. I guess you could say it was proof that God really does answer prayers—or maybe just plain old dumb luck—but, about ten feet before reaching the car, the log hit a bump, suddenly veered to the right, and stopped—preventing what could been a very embarrassing accident. Instead, it was an unexpected happy ending. So, that’s my seminary tree story. There are a lot of stories about trees in Scripture. Many with happy endings, others not so much.
Our first reading from Genesis is the introduction to the story of the Garden of Eden, which has two famous trees: the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge—the latter most of us Christians and Jews remember as the tree with forbidden fruit. Fruit that Eve and Adam ate, which led to their expulsion from the garden. (Not a happy ending.) In another story, the prophet Elijah seeks refuge under a broom tree when Queen Jezebel tries to kill him. But God saves Elijah. A life-saving ending.
Again, in our second reading from Revelation, there’s a tree in the passage from the very last chapter of our Christian Bible. The tree of life grows along a river that flows grows by the throne of God, the ultimate home for the faithful. Quite literally, a happy ending. And in our reading from the Gospel of Luke, Jesus tells his story about the fig tree. You don't have to be a genius to understand what this parable is about. The vineyard owner is fed up. It’s been three years, and tree hasn’t produced any fruit. So, why not just cut it down? Give up? However, the grace-filled gardener wants to give it just one more chance. Just a little more cultivation. Just a bit more manure. Just one more year of growing and developing.
But the fig tree story doesn’t have an ending. Jesus finishes his parable with a question mark. We don’t hear what happens. Some of you know I’m a gardener. So, I get this tree story. For we gardeners can be terribly stubborn optimists who believe that growth can happen, no matter what. Even when we don’t know if the seed will actually sprout. Even when planting bushes in our hard, clay soil. Even when facing long brutal North Dakota winters. Even when seeing a dying tree, we still dare to hope for a happy ending.
The late comedian Gracie Allen, the wife of George Burns, once famously stated, “Never put a period where God has put a comma.” And so, it is for all of us. God, the holy Gardener, offers each of us opportunities for new growth. The grace of unexpected endings. The grace of just one more chance. One more time. To begin to view our fellow humans—despite the evil around us—not from the perspective of despair and hopelessness, but faith and possibility—one more time. To choose to treat others not with hatred and judgment, but with compassion—one more time. To see the world not with pessimism, but through the eyes of the One who created it and us—one more time.
Nadia Bolz-Weber, a Lutheran pastor and theologian, commented on this when she wrote, “What if faith is about recognizing that when something is not expected… and 100% surprising—perhaps it’s the work of God. Because honestly, we can manage the expected… all on our own. When it’s weird and seemingly impossible and somewhat out of nowhere—now that feels like a God thing.” I believe St. Mark’s is an example of that. Six years ago, our congregation could have let the story of St. Mark’s end with the sale of our old building. We could have decided to fold and allow others to carry God’s light into our dark world. But this community heard a different voice calling. A voice that uttered strange things. A voice told us that the tree of St. Mark’s is not dead. A voice that spoke a reviving word to us, about God doing something totally unexpected. And St. Mark’s heard God’s voice. And we said, “Here I am, Lord, send me. Send us.”
And now, look where we are today! Thanks to members of Temple Beth El, we have a new home. And instead of a period, God put a comma at the end of our story. A comma that speaks grace for this community. Grace for people here. Grace for someone like me—a gay man who never thought I could be a pastor in a congregation like this. Grace for Temple Beth El, to see life reborn and an exciting partnership unfolding in this place. Grace planted like a seed in our hearts, which will grow into a tree of life. Here. Among us. God’s story for us today—a happy story that has not ended. Amen.
---------------------------------------------------
1 Nadia Bolz-Weber, “Sermon on Empty Tombs and the Suddenness of Dawn”, April 9, 2014; http://www.patheos.com/…/sermon-on-empty-tombs-and-the-sud…/
+ + +
Genesis 2:4b-9
This is the account of the heavens and the earth when they were created, when the LORD God made the earth and the heavens. Now no shrub had yet appeared on the earth and no plant had yet sprung up, for the LORD God had not sent rain on the earth and there was no one to work the ground, but streams came up from the earth and watered the whole surface of the ground. Then the LORD God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being. Now the LORD God had planted a garden in the east, in Eden; and there he put the man he had formed. The LORD God made all kinds of trees grow out of the ground—trees that were pleasing to the eye and good for food. In the middle of the garden were the tree of life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.
Revelation 22:1-5
Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb 2through the middle of the street of the city. On either side of the river is the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, producing its fruit each month; and the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations. 3Nothing accursed will be found there any more. But the throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it, and his servants will worship him; 4they will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. 5And there will be no more night; they need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever.
Luke 13:6-9
Then [Jesus] told this parable: “A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So, he said to the gardener, ‘See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’ [The gardener] replied, ‘Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.’”
Anyway, the three of us decided that it would be a lot easier to just roll the log down the hill. So that’s what we did. But, of course, the log got away from us. Kind of like a scene from an old Laurel and Hardy movie…. It took off quickly, gaining speed, heading right towards a parked car. And all we could do was stand there wide-eyed and watch it happen. I guess you could say it was proof that God really does answer prayers—or maybe just plain old dumb luck—but, about ten feet before reaching the car, the log hit a bump, suddenly veered to the right, and stopped—preventing what could been a very embarrassing accident. Instead, it was an unexpected happy ending. So, that’s my seminary tree story. There are a lot of stories about trees in Scripture. Many with happy endings, others not so much.
Our first reading from Genesis is the introduction to the story of the Garden of Eden, which has two famous trees: the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge—the latter most of us Christians and Jews remember as the tree with forbidden fruit. Fruit that Eve and Adam ate, which led to their expulsion from the garden. (Not a happy ending.) In another story, the prophet Elijah seeks refuge under a broom tree when Queen Jezebel tries to kill him. But God saves Elijah. A life-saving ending.
Again, in our second reading from Revelation, there’s a tree in the passage from the very last chapter of our Christian Bible. The tree of life grows along a river that flows grows by the throne of God, the ultimate home for the faithful. Quite literally, a happy ending. And in our reading from the Gospel of Luke, Jesus tells his story about the fig tree. You don't have to be a genius to understand what this parable is about. The vineyard owner is fed up. It’s been three years, and tree hasn’t produced any fruit. So, why not just cut it down? Give up? However, the grace-filled gardener wants to give it just one more chance. Just a little more cultivation. Just a bit more manure. Just one more year of growing and developing.
But the fig tree story doesn’t have an ending. Jesus finishes his parable with a question mark. We don’t hear what happens. Some of you know I’m a gardener. So, I get this tree story. For we gardeners can be terribly stubborn optimists who believe that growth can happen, no matter what. Even when we don’t know if the seed will actually sprout. Even when planting bushes in our hard, clay soil. Even when facing long brutal North Dakota winters. Even when seeing a dying tree, we still dare to hope for a happy ending.
The late comedian Gracie Allen, the wife of George Burns, once famously stated, “Never put a period where God has put a comma.” And so, it is for all of us. God, the holy Gardener, offers each of us opportunities for new growth. The grace of unexpected endings. The grace of just one more chance. One more time. To begin to view our fellow humans—despite the evil around us—not from the perspective of despair and hopelessness, but faith and possibility—one more time. To choose to treat others not with hatred and judgment, but with compassion—one more time. To see the world not with pessimism, but through the eyes of the One who created it and us—one more time.
Nadia Bolz-Weber, a Lutheran pastor and theologian, commented on this when she wrote, “What if faith is about recognizing that when something is not expected… and 100% surprising—perhaps it’s the work of God. Because honestly, we can manage the expected… all on our own. When it’s weird and seemingly impossible and somewhat out of nowhere—now that feels like a God thing.” I believe St. Mark’s is an example of that. Six years ago, our congregation could have let the story of St. Mark’s end with the sale of our old building. We could have decided to fold and allow others to carry God’s light into our dark world. But this community heard a different voice calling. A voice that uttered strange things. A voice told us that the tree of St. Mark’s is not dead. A voice that spoke a reviving word to us, about God doing something totally unexpected. And St. Mark’s heard God’s voice. And we said, “Here I am, Lord, send me. Send us.”
And now, look where we are today! Thanks to members of Temple Beth El, we have a new home. And instead of a period, God put a comma at the end of our story. A comma that speaks grace for this community. Grace for people here. Grace for someone like me—a gay man who never thought I could be a pastor in a congregation like this. Grace for Temple Beth El, to see life reborn and an exciting partnership unfolding in this place. Grace planted like a seed in our hearts, which will grow into a tree of life. Here. Among us. God’s story for us today—a happy story that has not ended. Amen.
---------------------------------------------------
1 Nadia Bolz-Weber, “Sermon on Empty Tombs and the Suddenness of Dawn”, April 9, 2014; http://www.patheos.com/…/sermon-on-empty-tombs-and-the-sud…/
+ + +
Genesis 2:4b-9
This is the account of the heavens and the earth when they were created, when the LORD God made the earth and the heavens. Now no shrub had yet appeared on the earth and no plant had yet sprung up, for the LORD God had not sent rain on the earth and there was no one to work the ground, but streams came up from the earth and watered the whole surface of the ground. Then the LORD God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being. Now the LORD God had planted a garden in the east, in Eden; and there he put the man he had formed. The LORD God made all kinds of trees grow out of the ground—trees that were pleasing to the eye and good for food. In the middle of the garden were the tree of life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.
Revelation 22:1-5
Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb 2through the middle of the street of the city. On either side of the river is the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, producing its fruit each month; and the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations. 3Nothing accursed will be found there any more. But the throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it, and his servants will worship him; 4they will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. 5And there will be no more night; they need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever.
Luke 13:6-9
Then [Jesus] told this parable: “A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So, he said to the gardener, ‘See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’ [The gardener] replied, ‘Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.’”
September 15, 2019
"Metanoia," based on Luke 15:1-10
(readings follow the sermon)
Jesus said, “There is joy in the presence of the angels over one sinner who repents.” When I read this verse, I’m reminded of a time in my life when I was trying to repent.
Years ago, during my first year in seminary, a friend invited me to attend a service at North Heights Lutheran Church, a Twin Cities congregation known for its charismatic ministry. Charismatics are similar to Pentecostal Christians. They believe in manifestations of the Spirit, like speaking in tongues, prophecy and miracles. Today one out four Christians worldwide are Charismatic or Pentecostal. Towards the end of that service, the pastor invited people to come up to the altar rail for prayer. And I went forward because at that time I was filled with depression and self-doubt related to my sexual orientation. I was hoping God would change me. So, I shared all that with the lay minister who was praying for me. After hearing my disclosure, he leaned over and whispered in my ear that he had faced similar struggles. Then he laid his hands on my head and prayed that the Holy Spirit would heal me of the devil’s power and lead me to a new path of life. He gave thanks that God rejoiced over my repentance.
Now, obviously, that prayer didn’t work. Because here I am today, an openly gay pastor. Yet, reflecting back, I wonder if God eventually found a way to answer that prayer. Just not the way originally intended. That same kind of prayer is still spoken by “ex-gay” ministers to LGBTQ Christians. However, today many of us see the spiritual and emotional harm caused by conversion therapy (which is still legal in 32 states, including North Dakota)—especially to our queer youth—affecting thousands of them each year.
The word “repent” is a loaded term for many of us. Repentance has been interpreted to mean that you must feel extreme remorse or regret. For centuries, this meaning governed Christian theology. Christians were taught that they had repent from their sins and do penance to be saved. Some us grew up feeling exaggerated guilt or shame because our pastors or priests told us we were condemned, because of what we had done or who we were. Because of personal failures and divorces. Because of struggles with chemical dependency. But I don’t believe that’s what God intends for us. I believe there’s a better way to think about repentance.
The Greek word for repent is “metanoia,” which comes from two Greek words. “Meta” means to change, and “noia” means “mind.” So, metanoia means “to change your mind.” It’s similar to our word “metamorphosis,” which means to change one’s form. Like a caterpillar changing into a butterfly. Or a transgender person becoming in their bodies what they feel in their hearts and souls.
Unlike the word repentance, metanoia is not restricted to a narrow interpretation. It’s a change of mind in how we view God’s love and one another and ourselves. Today, I believe that kind change of mind is a central to understanding and living out the Gospel. Normally, repentance is something we humans do. But it can also apply to God. Just look at our first lesson from Exodus. This passage is part of the story of the golden calf. After being freed from slavery in Egypt, the people of Israel arrive at Mt. Sinai. Their leader Moses goes up the mountain and stays there for 40 days, talking with God, and receiving the Ten Commandments and other guidelines for their community.
When Moses comes down, he discovers the people have created a statue of a golden calf to worship. Which makes God angry. So angry, that God is ready to punish them. But Moses intervenes. Moses argues with God. And, as the story goes, Moses changes God’s mind. Now that’s a pretty amazing conversation! Most Christians think of God as all-powerful and almighty and all-knowing. We assume God has it all figured out. But what if that just isn’t true? What if God, like us, doesn’t know how a specific individual’s story will turn out? What if God can’t look into a cosmic crystal ball that foretells each person’s choices and mistakes and faith journey? What if life is as much a surprise to God as it often is to us? What if God is willing even to appear foolish for the sake of love?
When I was in seminary, I first studied the writings of Alfred North Whitehead, who’s known for developing “process theology,” based on the concept that God changes and is responsive to what happens to us as humans. As Whitehead puts it: “[God] saves the world as it passes into the immediacy of [God’s] own life. It is the judgment of a tenderness which loses nothing that can be saved.”
That’s the kind of God that Jesus depicts in parables like those in today’s Gospel reading from Luke. Where God is like an impulsive shepherd who leaves behind a flock of 99 sheep to look for that single missing lamb. Where God is like a poor woman who has nine coins, but still desperately searches for the one that’s lost. And when she finds it, celebrates by spending the money on an extravagant party with her friends. A foolhardy, impetuous God. Guided not by condemnation, but by forgiveness and kindness and undeserved grace. A God who became one with us in Jesus, who was criticized for dining with sinners and outcasts.
A God who even changes her mind for our sake. A persistent God who still calls us to change our minds—and sometimes see others with new eyes. A God who is filled with joy when we choose love over hate, acceptance over racism, peace over violence, mercy over judgment. That’s the kind of metanoia that marks true repentance. And that’s the path Jesus calls us to follow every day of our lives. Amen.
-------------------------------------------
1 Alfred North Whitehead, Process and Reality (New York: The Free Press, 1978), p. 346.
+ + +
Luke 15:1-10
Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to [Jesus.] And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” So, he told them this parable: “Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices. And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and neighbors, saying to them, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.’ Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance. “Or what woman having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it? When she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.’ Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.”
Exodus 32:7-14
The LORD said to Moses, “Go down at once! Your people, whom you brought up out of the land of Egypt, have acted perversely; they have been quick to turn aside from the way that I commanded them; they have cast for themselves an image of a calf, and have worshiped it and sacrificed to it, and said, ‘These are your gods, O Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt!’ ” The LORD said to Moses, “I have seen this people, how stiff-necked they are. Now let me alone, so that my wrath may burn hot against them and I may consume them; and of you I will make a great nation.” But Moses implored the LORD his God, and said, “O Lord, why does your wrath burn hot against your people, whom you brought out of the land of Egypt with great power and with a mighty hand? Why should the Egyptians say, ‘It was with evil intent that he brought them out to kill them in the mountains, and to consume them from the face of the earth’? Turn from your fierce wrath; change your mind and do not bring disaster on your people. Remember Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, your servants, how you swore to them by your own self, saying to them, ‘I will multiply your descendants like the stars of heaven, and all this land that I have promised I will give to your descendants, and they shall inherit it forever.’ ” And the Lord changed his mind about the disaster that he planned to bring on his people.
Years ago, during my first year in seminary, a friend invited me to attend a service at North Heights Lutheran Church, a Twin Cities congregation known for its charismatic ministry. Charismatics are similar to Pentecostal Christians. They believe in manifestations of the Spirit, like speaking in tongues, prophecy and miracles. Today one out four Christians worldwide are Charismatic or Pentecostal. Towards the end of that service, the pastor invited people to come up to the altar rail for prayer. And I went forward because at that time I was filled with depression and self-doubt related to my sexual orientation. I was hoping God would change me. So, I shared all that with the lay minister who was praying for me. After hearing my disclosure, he leaned over and whispered in my ear that he had faced similar struggles. Then he laid his hands on my head and prayed that the Holy Spirit would heal me of the devil’s power and lead me to a new path of life. He gave thanks that God rejoiced over my repentance.
Now, obviously, that prayer didn’t work. Because here I am today, an openly gay pastor. Yet, reflecting back, I wonder if God eventually found a way to answer that prayer. Just not the way originally intended. That same kind of prayer is still spoken by “ex-gay” ministers to LGBTQ Christians. However, today many of us see the spiritual and emotional harm caused by conversion therapy (which is still legal in 32 states, including North Dakota)—especially to our queer youth—affecting thousands of them each year.
The word “repent” is a loaded term for many of us. Repentance has been interpreted to mean that you must feel extreme remorse or regret. For centuries, this meaning governed Christian theology. Christians were taught that they had repent from their sins and do penance to be saved. Some us grew up feeling exaggerated guilt or shame because our pastors or priests told us we were condemned, because of what we had done or who we were. Because of personal failures and divorces. Because of struggles with chemical dependency. But I don’t believe that’s what God intends for us. I believe there’s a better way to think about repentance.
The Greek word for repent is “metanoia,” which comes from two Greek words. “Meta” means to change, and “noia” means “mind.” So, metanoia means “to change your mind.” It’s similar to our word “metamorphosis,” which means to change one’s form. Like a caterpillar changing into a butterfly. Or a transgender person becoming in their bodies what they feel in their hearts and souls.
Unlike the word repentance, metanoia is not restricted to a narrow interpretation. It’s a change of mind in how we view God’s love and one another and ourselves. Today, I believe that kind change of mind is a central to understanding and living out the Gospel. Normally, repentance is something we humans do. But it can also apply to God. Just look at our first lesson from Exodus. This passage is part of the story of the golden calf. After being freed from slavery in Egypt, the people of Israel arrive at Mt. Sinai. Their leader Moses goes up the mountain and stays there for 40 days, talking with God, and receiving the Ten Commandments and other guidelines for their community.
When Moses comes down, he discovers the people have created a statue of a golden calf to worship. Which makes God angry. So angry, that God is ready to punish them. But Moses intervenes. Moses argues with God. And, as the story goes, Moses changes God’s mind. Now that’s a pretty amazing conversation! Most Christians think of God as all-powerful and almighty and all-knowing. We assume God has it all figured out. But what if that just isn’t true? What if God, like us, doesn’t know how a specific individual’s story will turn out? What if God can’t look into a cosmic crystal ball that foretells each person’s choices and mistakes and faith journey? What if life is as much a surprise to God as it often is to us? What if God is willing even to appear foolish for the sake of love?
When I was in seminary, I first studied the writings of Alfred North Whitehead, who’s known for developing “process theology,” based on the concept that God changes and is responsive to what happens to us as humans. As Whitehead puts it: “[God] saves the world as it passes into the immediacy of [God’s] own life. It is the judgment of a tenderness which loses nothing that can be saved.”
That’s the kind of God that Jesus depicts in parables like those in today’s Gospel reading from Luke. Where God is like an impulsive shepherd who leaves behind a flock of 99 sheep to look for that single missing lamb. Where God is like a poor woman who has nine coins, but still desperately searches for the one that’s lost. And when she finds it, celebrates by spending the money on an extravagant party with her friends. A foolhardy, impetuous God. Guided not by condemnation, but by forgiveness and kindness and undeserved grace. A God who became one with us in Jesus, who was criticized for dining with sinners and outcasts.
A God who even changes her mind for our sake. A persistent God who still calls us to change our minds—and sometimes see others with new eyes. A God who is filled with joy when we choose love over hate, acceptance over racism, peace over violence, mercy over judgment. That’s the kind of metanoia that marks true repentance. And that’s the path Jesus calls us to follow every day of our lives. Amen.
-------------------------------------------
1 Alfred North Whitehead, Process and Reality (New York: The Free Press, 1978), p. 346.
+ + +
Luke 15:1-10
Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to [Jesus.] And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” So, he told them this parable: “Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices. And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and neighbors, saying to them, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.’ Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance. “Or what woman having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it? When she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.’ Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.”
Exodus 32:7-14
The LORD said to Moses, “Go down at once! Your people, whom you brought up out of the land of Egypt, have acted perversely; they have been quick to turn aside from the way that I commanded them; they have cast for themselves an image of a calf, and have worshiped it and sacrificed to it, and said, ‘These are your gods, O Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt!’ ” The LORD said to Moses, “I have seen this people, how stiff-necked they are. Now let me alone, so that my wrath may burn hot against them and I may consume them; and of you I will make a great nation.” But Moses implored the LORD his God, and said, “O Lord, why does your wrath burn hot against your people, whom you brought out of the land of Egypt with great power and with a mighty hand? Why should the Egyptians say, ‘It was with evil intent that he brought them out to kill them in the mountains, and to consume them from the face of the earth’? Turn from your fierce wrath; change your mind and do not bring disaster on your people. Remember Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, your servants, how you swore to them by your own self, saying to them, ‘I will multiply your descendants like the stars of heaven, and all this land that I have promised I will give to your descendants, and they shall inherit it forever.’ ” And the Lord changed his mind about the disaster that he planned to bring on his people.
September 22, 2019
"A Great Deal," based on Luke 16:1-13
(reading follows the sermon)
When I was about 10 years old, the president of our hometown bank knocked on our door and asked to talk with my dad. Up until that day, my parents, who were quite poor, had rented the home where we lived. Mr. Johnson told my dad that the previous owner had defaulted on his loan, and our house had reverted to Dassel State Bank. But the bank didn’t want it. So, Mr. Johnson had come to offer my dad a great deal. The bank was willing to sell the house to him for just $1. An incredible charitable act. Something a bank today would never do. My dad signed the paperwork that evening.
A couple years later, there was another knock on the door. This time it was a salesman. With a special offer on aluminum siding for our house. Siding that needed no painting. That would last forever. That would add enormous value to the home. Plus, if my dad signed up today, the salesman could offer a loan with no money down. The salesman was loud and persuasive and pushy. I didn’t like him. Of course, I was just a kid. So, I didn’t say anything. Yet, I was smart enough to know that my family didn’t have the money for a loan payment. But the salesman was very convincing. So, my dad signed the contract for brand-new, olive-green siding. Another great deal!
Today’s Gospel lesson is all about money and loans. It ends with a famous quote by Jesus. “No one can serve two masters,” Jesus says. “You cannot serve God and wealth.” Most translations of the Bible use the word “mammon” instead of “wealth.” Mammon derives from Aramaic—the language spoken by Jewish people at the time of Jesus. Mammon referred to money, wealth or possessions.
Most pastors preaching on this Gospel text focus on this last verse, completely avoiding the parable. A unique opportunity to talk about how we Christians deal with money and possessions. It would be easy for me to preach a stewardship sermon today. Our church council has had recent discussions about the financial needs of St. Mark’s. But you might be happy to hear, that I’m more interested in the story Jesus tells in this passage. Which is one of the most difficult of all of the 46 parables recorded in the Gospels.
In college, I wrote my senior thesis on the parables. With a focus on the surprising and sometimes funny twists that happen in some of them. Parables like the lost sheep and the lost coin and the prodigal son are well-known favorites. And easy to understand. But not this one. This parable about the dishonest manager is much more challenging. Though, it seems like stories of trusted employees embezzling funds regularly pop up in the news.
About six years ago, that’s exactly what happened at the Minneapolis Area Synod of the ELCA. While overseeing the Synods’ finances, their bookkeeper wrote $318,000 worth of checks to herself. Eventually, she confessed to five felony counts of theft by swindle. Which sounds a lot like the story Jesus tells. Except this manager doesn’t just direct money to himself. He also reduces the debt owed by others. The parable talks about jugs of olive oil and containers of wheat, but the amount written off in both cases might have been worth 500 denarii. About $30,000 today. A great deal for anyone!
Back then, interest rates could be 25 or 50%, which sounds extreme. But modern check-cashing businesses (that mostly serve the poor) have very high fees. And those of us with home mortgages, don’t think much about that fact that with a 30-year mortgage, you end up paying nearly 20% of the total in interest—about $70,000 for a typical home. In various places, the Hebrew Bible prohibits a Jewish person from lending money or engaging in any financial transaction that involves charging interest to another Jewish individual or family. In the time of Jesus, you could get around that rule by hiring someone who was not Jewish to manage the loan and charge the interest. Maybe that was the role of the servant in today’s parable. If so, he was writing off his own profits to benefit another person.
Like this parable, throughout the Gospel of Luke, Jesus and others invoke the concept of debt forgiveness, both in terms of money and as a symbol of God’s grace. In the first chapter of Luke, Mary (the mother of Jesus) echoes today’s Psalm 113, when she sings for joy about economic restitution—of the mighty being cast down from their thrones, and the poor being raised up. Later in Luke, after speaking with Jesus, Zacchaeus the tax collector promises to restore four-fold those he had defrauded. In response, Jesus tells Zacchaeus, “Today salvation has come to this house” (Luke 19:8). In the Jewish community, it’s always been considered a “mitzvah”—the Hebrew word for a righteous, good deed—to offer an interest-free loan to someone in need.
We Christians like to separate spirituality from economics. But if you read the teachings of Jesus carefully, that’s not how he saw it. The Gospel was good news for the poor not just for eternal salvation, but for the promise of charity and undeserved love received from God and other believers in this world, here and now.
On Friday morning I woke up with a quote in my head that fits surprisingly well with this reflection. By the way, that’s not a common thing for me. Otherwise, I’d write my sermons in my dreams. Though, my husband Charlie tells me that sometimes I actually preach—out loud—in my sleep. He finds it very annoying. Anyway, here’s the quote: “It's not based on what we owe or own—It's the epiphany of being owned by God alone.” That, friends, is the meaning of today’s Gospel.
That because we are beloved children, owned by and blessed by God in so many extravagant ways—from the day of our birth until now, and in the promise of future years, so Jesus calls us to do the same for others who are less fortunate. Those who are poor. Those who are oppressed by this world’s structures. Those who just need an unexpected act of kindness. A chance for redemption. A surprising word of grace. Which truly is a great deal. Amen.
+ + +
Luke 16:1-13
Then Jesus said to the disciples, “There was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought to him that this man was squandering his property. So, he summoned him and said to him, ‘What is this that I hear about you? Give me an accounting of your management, because you cannot be my manager any longer.’ Then the manager said to himself, ‘What will I do, now that my master is taking the position away from me? I am not strong enough to dig, and I am ashamed to beg. I have decided what to do so that, when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me into their homes.’ So, summoning his master's debtors one by one, he asked the first, ‘How much do you owe my master?’ He answered, ‘A hundred jugs of olive oil.’ He said to him, ‘Take your bill, sit down quickly, and make it fifty.’ Then he asked another, ‘And how much do you owe?’ He replied, ‘A hundred containers of wheat.’ He said to him, ‘Take your bill and make it eighty.’ And his master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly; for the children of this age are more shrewd in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light.
And I tell you, make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into the eternal homes. Whoever is faithful in a very little is faithful also in much; and whoever is dishonest in a very little is dishonest also in much. If then, you have not been faithful with the dishonest wealth, who will entrust to you the true riches? And if you have not been faithful with what belongs to another, who will give you what is your own? No slave can serve two masters; for a slave will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and wealth.”
September 29, 2019
"Holy Wings," based on Luke 16:19-31
(reading follows the sermon)
Let us pray:
Thy holy wings, O Savior,
spread gently over me,
and let me rest securely
through good and ill in thee.
Oh, be my strength and portion,
my rock and hiding place,
and let my every moment
be lived within thy grace. Amen.
When I was a little boy, my family often visited my Uncle Walter and Aunt Lydia. Uncle Walter was a farmer, who always wore bib overalls that smelled of hay and cows and sweat. Uncle Walter was a simple man, but he knew how to be a great uncle. Even though—and maybe because—he and his wife had no children. I used to enjoy sitting on Uncle Walter’s lap at his kitchen table. Together we would chat, or play cards, or tell knock-knock jokes.
Uncle Walter smoked a pipe, which he kept in a pocket of his overalls. Together, we had a pipe-lighting ritual that I loved. First, he’d take out his pipe and fill it with tobacco. Next, he would pull out a matchbook and hand it to me. My job was to tear off a match, strike it, and carefully light the pipe. Finally, I blew out the flame and put the burnt match into an ashtray—just like Uncle Walter taught me. Sitting on Uncle Walter’s lap made me feel happy and safe and loved.
I believe that’s how the poor man Lazarus must have felt in today’s parable, when he died suddenly, and went to the bosom of Abraham. Our text says that Lazarus was at Abraham’s side, but most translations use the word “bosom.” In Greek, the word for “bosom” was sometimes used for a person’s lap—like a child sitting in her mother’s lap. Like I did with my Uncle Walter.
At the time of Jesus, the “bosom of Abraham” was a Jewish term for the place where people go when they die. A place of comfort and grace. Dwelling with Abraham and Sarah, the founders of their faith, along with all the angels in the perpetual light of God. Some Christians use this parable to make a distinction between heaven and hell. Where heaven is the place righteous believers go. And hell is where evil sinners are punished. But I would prefer to focus on the hope in this story. About a loving God, who welcomes a suffering homeless leper into the realm of peace and healing—a complete reversal for Lazarus.
But this parable is not a Christian morality lesson. For we don’t hear anything about what Lazarus believed or did during his life. We don’t even know if Lazarus was a nice guy. He could easily have been an angry, homeless man. During my previous career in social work, I met a lot of ornery clients, even a few jerks.
Yet, this story is not really about Lazarus. It’s a story about God’s amazing grace. About a God who accepts Lazarus just as he is, offering comfort to the poor of this world. About a God who shelters the weakest among us, even in the face of death and tragedy. About a God who welcomes each of you. No matter what you done or have not done. Despite what we do or don’t believe. Even when I feel doubt or sadness or despair. Even on those days when we are overwhelmed by the challenges of daily life, or the grief of losing a loved one in death.
This week, I have been thinking a lot about life and death. Much of it in response to the sudden passing of our church member and friend, John. Often, it can be hard to know what to say when someone dies. Some Christians are quick to offer consolation, with simplistic words of comfort, like: “They are in a better place,” or “You will see them again in heaven,” or “God has a new angel.” Many of us have heard words like that before. But platitudes don’t really help the grieving. Some people say things like that because we think that’s what people want to hear.
One thing I’ve learned as a pastor, and during my life dealing with death, is that the specific words we say to those experiencing grief and loss aren’t really that important (not including, of course, insensitive comments.)
If you think about it, most of us don’t remember exactly what friends and loved ones said to offer their support after a death or job loss or tragedy. What we do remember is who came to be with us. Who was present with you or me during that time. Which is really the best thing any of us can do. To be authentically present in moments of pain. To not walk past the gate of a suffering man like Lazarus, but to reach out a hand of compassion. To sit down with them in the dirt of their pain and loneliness and hopelessness, and hold them in our bosom. To make love real for them.
The Jewish theologian Harold Kushner once wrote the following: “The facts of life and death are neutral. We, by our responses, give suffering either a positive or negative meaning…. If suffering and death in someone close to us bring us to explore the limits of our capacity for strength and love and cheerfulness, if it leads us to consider sources of consolation we never knew before, then we make the person into a witness for the affirmation of life rather than its rejection.”
This past Tuesday morning, I received a phone call from one of the staff at Churches United for the Homeless. A resident named Robert had died the night before at their Bright Sky apartment building in Moorhead. She asked if I could come and talk with those who were having a hard time dealing with his death. So that afternoon, I went to Bright Sky. I sat down with a man (whom I will call Jeff). Jeff was upset by what had happened.
Jeff had met Robert in treatment a couple years before. Both of them had been homeless. Both had lived on the streets here, through many cold winter nights. Both had struggled for years with chemical dependency. Both had recently moved into Bright Sky. Jeff told me that Robert was his friend. Last Sunday, Robert had invited him and others to an afternoon party to watch a football game in his apartment, his new home. Something most homeless people could never do for their friends.
So, Jeff was shocked to hear about Robert’s death two days later. Early in our conversation, Jeff asked me:
“Do you know what happened, why he died?”
“The staff told me,” I offered, “that he had some kind of seizure, maybe a stroke.”
“I wish I could have done something to help him.” Jeff replied. “I think we all feel that way,” I said, when a friend or loved one dies so suddenly.”
Jeff and I chatted for about an hour. He seemed grateful for our conversation. Jeff gave me a hand bump and hug before he left.
I believe the true comfort we people of faith can offer at moments like that is to sit with people in their grief. To offer not simplistic answers, but the promise of our presence, and God’s protective bosom and abiding love among us during difficult times.To pray with them the prayer I read earlier, for God to protect us like a mothering hen in the shelter of her bosom, beneath her strong, holy wings. That prayer is the opening verse of our hymn of the day. I’d like to close by praying it again:
“Thy holy wings, O Savior,
spread gently over me,
and let me rest securely
through good and ill in thee.
Oh, be my strength and portion,
my rock and hiding place,
and let my every moment
be lived within thy grace.” Amen.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=URnTYZV3fec
----------------------------
1 Kushner, Harold S; When Bad Things Happen to Good People (Avon Books, New York, NY), p. 138.
+ + +
Luke 16:19-31
Jesus said: “There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores. The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried. In Hades, where he was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. He called out, ‘Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.’
“But Abraham said, ‘Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony. Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.’ He said, ‘Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father’s house—for I have five brothers—that he may warn them, so that they will not also come into this place of torment.’ Abraham replied, ‘They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.’ He said, ‘No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent.’ He said to him, ‘If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.’”
Thy holy wings, O Savior,
spread gently over me,
and let me rest securely
through good and ill in thee.
Oh, be my strength and portion,
my rock and hiding place,
and let my every moment
be lived within thy grace. Amen.
When I was a little boy, my family often visited my Uncle Walter and Aunt Lydia. Uncle Walter was a farmer, who always wore bib overalls that smelled of hay and cows and sweat. Uncle Walter was a simple man, but he knew how to be a great uncle. Even though—and maybe because—he and his wife had no children. I used to enjoy sitting on Uncle Walter’s lap at his kitchen table. Together we would chat, or play cards, or tell knock-knock jokes.
Uncle Walter smoked a pipe, which he kept in a pocket of his overalls. Together, we had a pipe-lighting ritual that I loved. First, he’d take out his pipe and fill it with tobacco. Next, he would pull out a matchbook and hand it to me. My job was to tear off a match, strike it, and carefully light the pipe. Finally, I blew out the flame and put the burnt match into an ashtray—just like Uncle Walter taught me. Sitting on Uncle Walter’s lap made me feel happy and safe and loved.
I believe that’s how the poor man Lazarus must have felt in today’s parable, when he died suddenly, and went to the bosom of Abraham. Our text says that Lazarus was at Abraham’s side, but most translations use the word “bosom.” In Greek, the word for “bosom” was sometimes used for a person’s lap—like a child sitting in her mother’s lap. Like I did with my Uncle Walter.
At the time of Jesus, the “bosom of Abraham” was a Jewish term for the place where people go when they die. A place of comfort and grace. Dwelling with Abraham and Sarah, the founders of their faith, along with all the angels in the perpetual light of God. Some Christians use this parable to make a distinction between heaven and hell. Where heaven is the place righteous believers go. And hell is where evil sinners are punished. But I would prefer to focus on the hope in this story. About a loving God, who welcomes a suffering homeless leper into the realm of peace and healing—a complete reversal for Lazarus.
But this parable is not a Christian morality lesson. For we don’t hear anything about what Lazarus believed or did during his life. We don’t even know if Lazarus was a nice guy. He could easily have been an angry, homeless man. During my previous career in social work, I met a lot of ornery clients, even a few jerks.
Yet, this story is not really about Lazarus. It’s a story about God’s amazing grace. About a God who accepts Lazarus just as he is, offering comfort to the poor of this world. About a God who shelters the weakest among us, even in the face of death and tragedy. About a God who welcomes each of you. No matter what you done or have not done. Despite what we do or don’t believe. Even when I feel doubt or sadness or despair. Even on those days when we are overwhelmed by the challenges of daily life, or the grief of losing a loved one in death.
This week, I have been thinking a lot about life and death. Much of it in response to the sudden passing of our church member and friend, John. Often, it can be hard to know what to say when someone dies. Some Christians are quick to offer consolation, with simplistic words of comfort, like: “They are in a better place,” or “You will see them again in heaven,” or “God has a new angel.” Many of us have heard words like that before. But platitudes don’t really help the grieving. Some people say things like that because we think that’s what people want to hear.
One thing I’ve learned as a pastor, and during my life dealing with death, is that the specific words we say to those experiencing grief and loss aren’t really that important (not including, of course, insensitive comments.)
If you think about it, most of us don’t remember exactly what friends and loved ones said to offer their support after a death or job loss or tragedy. What we do remember is who came to be with us. Who was present with you or me during that time. Which is really the best thing any of us can do. To be authentically present in moments of pain. To not walk past the gate of a suffering man like Lazarus, but to reach out a hand of compassion. To sit down with them in the dirt of their pain and loneliness and hopelessness, and hold them in our bosom. To make love real for them.
The Jewish theologian Harold Kushner once wrote the following: “The facts of life and death are neutral. We, by our responses, give suffering either a positive or negative meaning…. If suffering and death in someone close to us bring us to explore the limits of our capacity for strength and love and cheerfulness, if it leads us to consider sources of consolation we never knew before, then we make the person into a witness for the affirmation of life rather than its rejection.”
This past Tuesday morning, I received a phone call from one of the staff at Churches United for the Homeless. A resident named Robert had died the night before at their Bright Sky apartment building in Moorhead. She asked if I could come and talk with those who were having a hard time dealing with his death. So that afternoon, I went to Bright Sky. I sat down with a man (whom I will call Jeff). Jeff was upset by what had happened.
Jeff had met Robert in treatment a couple years before. Both of them had been homeless. Both had lived on the streets here, through many cold winter nights. Both had struggled for years with chemical dependency. Both had recently moved into Bright Sky. Jeff told me that Robert was his friend. Last Sunday, Robert had invited him and others to an afternoon party to watch a football game in his apartment, his new home. Something most homeless people could never do for their friends.
So, Jeff was shocked to hear about Robert’s death two days later. Early in our conversation, Jeff asked me:
“Do you know what happened, why he died?”
“The staff told me,” I offered, “that he had some kind of seizure, maybe a stroke.”
“I wish I could have done something to help him.” Jeff replied. “I think we all feel that way,” I said, when a friend or loved one dies so suddenly.”
Jeff and I chatted for about an hour. He seemed grateful for our conversation. Jeff gave me a hand bump and hug before he left.
I believe the true comfort we people of faith can offer at moments like that is to sit with people in their grief. To offer not simplistic answers, but the promise of our presence, and God’s protective bosom and abiding love among us during difficult times.To pray with them the prayer I read earlier, for God to protect us like a mothering hen in the shelter of her bosom, beneath her strong, holy wings. That prayer is the opening verse of our hymn of the day. I’d like to close by praying it again:
“Thy holy wings, O Savior,
spread gently over me,
and let me rest securely
through good and ill in thee.
Oh, be my strength and portion,
my rock and hiding place,
and let my every moment
be lived within thy grace.” Amen.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=URnTYZV3fec
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1 Kushner, Harold S; When Bad Things Happen to Good People (Avon Books, New York, NY), p. 138.
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Luke 16:19-31
Jesus said: “There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores. The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried. In Hades, where he was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. He called out, ‘Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.’
“But Abraham said, ‘Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony. Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.’ He said, ‘Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father’s house—for I have five brothers—that he may warn them, so that they will not also come into this place of torment.’ Abraham replied, ‘They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.’ He said, ‘No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent.’ He said to him, ‘If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.’”