Sermons
A “to be” list starts with grace. You are of worth. Simply for who you are. And Christ the shepherd is not like the other power-hungry leaders. He breaks down the walls that divide us. And gives us courage to vulnerable with ourselves and one another. The Risen Christ sees your loneliness. Your stress. Your longings. And looks with compassion on you and all the needy of this world.
Sometimes life is too much. Yet the scriptures give us freedom to lament, and grieve, and question where God is in it all. The traumas and trials of life are part of what it means to be fragile human beings. Yet somehow, we still proclaim, we still sing: Great is your faithfulness. Your mercies are new every morning. Every day is a gift! And that truly is too much. Too much beauty and grace for us even to take in.
The language of the Spirit is beyond words. Beyond belief. Beyond the boxes we religious people put God in. Or other people in. I believe the Holy Spirit is always blowing our minds, enlarging our vision, and calling us to be more than we thought we could ever be. Christ is risen, and with us forever in the Spirit. So let’s learn the language of the Spirit. Don’t just talk. Listen. Groan. Moan. Sigh. Sing. Act. And let’s dream a new world together.
We abide in Christ. And Christ abides in us. There are other branches on the tree. Some weak and withering. What prevents us from going out on a limb, raising our voices and taking risks for all those rejected and forgotten? Nothing. For the gospel is not merely for our personal salvation. It is for the good of all the branches of the tree. The fruit of Easter.
Certainly, we are called to lay down our lives for the sake of others. To lay down our cards, so to speak—to make our intentions known—that is, to live our baptismal faith not only through words but deeds. But sometimes we just want to give up, to lie down and cover up. In such troubled times, Psalm 23 reminds of God’s tender care. We lie down in green pastures. We rest beside still waters. We hear the song of birds. We marvel at buds and shoots, blooms and flowers. The earth restores us. Before we rise and face the daunting tasks before us, lie down. Lie down and bask in divine grace and mercy.
Reverence this earth. Look down at the dirt. Honor the soil. Let’s call a spiritual moratorium on stigmatizing dirt! But also look up this day to Jesus lifted high on the cross. A sure sign of spring and the world becoming new. Hear Jesus’ words to you this day: “And I, when I am lifted up, will draw all people to myself.”
Even in the wilderness, even in the pandemic when we are stuck at home and in the city, even what feels like an endless winter, God shows up. Angels minister to us and then we become messengers of mercy of others. It’s not exactly the trip you probably want right about now, but may God bless your Lenten journey. With the beasts. Where the wilds things are. The presence of Christ always with you.
Pay attention to where you pay attention. We can’t escape the attention economy. But we can look at the ways our attention is manipulated, valued, degraded. The inward-looking season of Lent invites us to take a look at how our minds work, how we value our time and the time of others. How we use our limited resources for the common good.
What do you have to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth.? Everything! At the cross—in suffering—God is revealed! When the demons of injustice try to silence the good news, Jesus comes. When the demons of fear take possession of us, Jesus heals. When the demons of apathy and anger and aggression seize us, Jesus brings peace and reconciliation. When we convulse and resist the new thing that will set us free, Jesus speaks with authority, calling you to become more than you ever imagined.
Being muted is weird. I get it. It is a bit humbling. But it reminds us of the holy work of listening. It involves paying attention, slowing down, being present, being open. As a Sufi musician states, listening is “making an altar out of our ears.” So listen. Listen to the voices of others. Listen to the sound of silence. Listen to the God who knows us intimately—who invites us to come and see. And to come and the word of the Lord—words of grace, justice, mercy and forgiveness. Come and follow this one who comes to us as one unknown, yet in flesh and blood, is Savior and Lord.
Even on this day of fullness, we wait. And yet. And yet, even at empty chairs and empty tables, Christ comes. To empty, sorrowing hearts, Christ comes. Even in a miserable year, Christ is born! From his fullness we have received grace upon grace. This is God’s promise. This is our song. This is our hope. Evermore and evermore.
Even when we can handle no more delays, Christ comes and welcomes you to the feast of life: in your midnights, in your sleepless nights, when you have nowhere else to turn, when your oil is running out, when you are foolish and hoard, when you are tired of waiting, tired of delays. Time is running out. The oil is running out. The darkening days of November reveal this.
Who’s counting? We all are. Who can count the tears shed this year? Alas, we will sing through the tears. We will sing when our hearts are breaking, when the future is uncertain. Even when we can’t sing together, we will sing at home.
For in Christ all things will be made new. With this promise we mark ourselves with a water cross this day. With this promise we share bread and wine as a foretaste of a feast still to come. With this promise we sing, we sing: All of us go down to the grave, but even at the grave we make our song: alleluia.
Let’s be fools in this community. Foolish enough to trust that God is making a new creation out of chaos and waste. Foolish enough be counter cultural. Foolish enough to find joy even when it looks like everything is falling apart.
God’s mercy is foolish, you could say. Despite our fickle foolishness, God is forever faithful.
The plagues were designed to bring Pharaoh to his knees. That he might realize the limits of his power. The plagues of our time bring us to our knees as well. Like an addict who hits bottom. Like someone at the end of their rope. For then there is a spiritual opening. A trust in God or some higher power or presence. Calling us to the reconciliation Jesus speaks about in our gospel. Calling us to fulfill the commandments through love as Paul writes about in our second reading. Calling us to be signs of justice and mercy.
