Sermons
Our stories matter to God. Even when we feel like we are on the cross, we are remembered. Because there is no story that God does not remember. Every mistake, every heartache, every sorrow, every joy, every promise, every epiphany. Remembered. Let this be our story and our song: we are loved and remembered by God.
Life keeps moving on. Life in this church, and life outside this church. Even when we feel like we are at the end and there is nowhere to go, when we feel like we cannot possibly begin again. When we feel like we are so deep in the grief of a loved one’s death, or the end of career, or the end of a relationship, or even in the midst of this climate crisis. We feel like we are at the hopeless end. Yet, we remember, by the grace of God and in the reign of Christ, life keeps moving on. There are new beginnings. There is life and resurrection in Christ for all people.
It is easy to live with illusions. That we will live forever. That America is greatest country in the history of the world and will always be so. That the shiny and powerful objects we purchase and worship and carry with us constantly will protect us from the heartache of life. From time to time our illusions are shattered and we see reality—both frightening and liberating. Summer’s vibrant greens morph into autumn’s blazing rusts and oranges and reds—this year leading to the onset of an early snow and biting cold this past week. We wonder what is going on and whether we can endure. Yet we find hope in this sacred place. Solace in the poetry of the hymns. Sustenance in the bread and wine. Courage in the words of faith. Inspiration in the music and the silence. Support in the community. And resilience in the presence of Christ here among us. All we need is here—to endure and to persevere.
There will be times though that this work feels pointless, fruitless, especially when it seems like we are only headed for the end times, or our maybe we feel like our work will never have an end time, and we struggle to sabbath, but even in our most exasperated and exhausted moments we trust that the grace of God covers us all, like a delicious ice cream sundae, no matter our success or failure in life, God’s gives food to all.
We need to be reminded to pray and not lose heart. We get tired, our pleas fall on closed hearts and ears that refuse to listen. We get redirected or told we are too loud or too angry. We get frustrated and we break. We show up to protests and it’s hard to carry our signs and chant our chants anymore. And, so this parable is a reminder to us that it isn’t something lacking within us that we need to get right. We aren’t weak because we feel that the work of justice is hard. We don’t lack faith because we lose heart sometimes. God’s promises to us are written on our hearts, and our God, as persistent as a widow crying out in the street, will stand with us as we cry out to every unjust judge and every unjust system. Our God will join God’s voice with ours as we confront powers that do not fear God and respect no one. Our God will link arms with ours as we call for a world that is better, that is holier, that is full of more goodness, and more peace. Our God doesn’t just know that we cry for justice, our God demands it alongside us.
God is the persistent One who is unrelenting:
desiring your wholeness, but also the healing and well-being of all creation.
When you are worn out, when it is hard to have hope for the future,
when you don’t have the energy to stand up for the widows and marginalized ones in our day and time,
God never gives up. God keeps on.
God’s forgiveness and mercy and grace never run out.
This divine persistence changes your heart,
softens your heart, opens your heart
so that you can get up tomorrow and begin another day.
Jesus shows up at the borders. Where we build walls or draw lines of division, God dwells and erases anything that divides us and them. The Holy One breaks down barriers that divide and embraces everyone. Jesus hears the cries of all who call out for mercy and heals those who recognize and thank the healer and those who do not.
A snake on a wooden stick. Christ lifted on a tree. Matthew Shepard dead on a Wyoming fence. Yet, the human heart is resilient. Lift high the cross. Trust the promise of baptism: that out of death, God births life. Reverence the holy cross. As Luther urged, trace it on your body at day’s dawn and days’ end. Bow as it passes. Eat and drink its mystery each Lord’s Day. Let this sign of beauty be for you, the very heart of God.
Mary is the Mother of all the living. Yet through baptism God calls us to be mothers as well. Everybody gets to be Mary. We are all full of grace. All highly favored. All called to be God-bearers, bringing to birth justice and joy in the world. Whether we have been mothers or not, whatever our gender, whatever complicated relationship we have or had with our mother. And like Mary—at our falling asleep, at our death—God promises to bring us to the glory of our eternal home.
Mary, often called Theotokos – God-bearer, or Mother of God – birthed Jesus, yes, yet even more so, her yes to God was but the beginning of the birth pangs of God’s new creation. In Mary’s womb was, as the old Latin hymn puts it, “heaven and earth in little space. “ What wondrous births might be waiting to come to be through us if we, like Mary, are both humble and courageous enough to say yes to what God wants to do in our lives?
Here’s the ironic thing. Christianity is a materialistic religion. We value the stuff of creation, the stuff of bodies, the stuff of earth. And many of our possessions hold deep memories and connections. Yet, in our day and time, it can seemly nearly impossible to go against the grain and not define ourselves by what we have, what we make, what we do. Jesus warns about being rich in possessions but not rich toward God. Sounds spiritual, but what does “rich toward God” even mean? Maybe simply asking the question is a good start.
We all struggle with shame wrongfully imposed on us by others...for who we are, what we look
like, who we love, our work, our lifestyle. We pick at the specks in each others eyes while the
logs of racism, wealth inequality, environmental degradation, and xenophobia remain firmly
lodged in place. Yet...our infinitely compassionate God hears our cries, receives our
brokenness, and provides us with something greater than we ever could have imagined.
Maybe we’re the ones in the ditch ourselves, paralyzed by anxiety about the future, or broken by abuse and unhealthy relationships, or beaten up by disease and illness. God comes to us in our ditches of despair, stoops to our side to tend to our wounds and wash us with the baptismal waters of grace. God feeds us with a meal that brings healing; and entrusts us to each other’s care. “Who is my neighbor?” the lawyer asks. Anyone. Everyone. For all bear the fresh face of God who is Good.
In today’s reading, Jesus sends seventy people out ahead of him on a mission. Similar to the previous commissioning of the twelve disciples, he gives them specific instructions, “Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals. Greet no one on the road.” One translation says, Travel light. As modern-day disciples committed to God’s work in the word we begin to imagine what it looks like to travel light. What do we leave behind and what do we carry?
When we live outwardly in response to the truth that we have already been set free by Christ’s death and resurrection, we can welcome the stranger without fear, we can celebrate the diversity of love that our LGBTQ siblings express, we can live more gracefully upon this earth without the fear of scarcity convincing us to hoard our resources, and most of all, in the face of death, because of Christ we can still sing our song. That is the true freedom of a Christian.
You’re part of the movement now. The mantle is passed to you. So pray, march, sing. Swing low, sweet chariot. Swing low and pick up all who struggle to be loved and accepted. Swing low and pick up all hated by their families. Swing low and pick up immigrant children separated from their parents. Swing low and pick up those homeless or hopeless. And swing low and pick up even those gripped by fear and hate.
“Take a chill pill. Calm down. Relax.” Easier said than done. We seem hard-wired to freak out when anxiety or fear take over. It’s the “fight or flight” response, we’ve been told. Like animals reacting to threats to their safety, it’s natural for us to respond quickly, too. Calm is something we so fiercely desire, but often eludes us. Inner peace. The sense that everything is and will be okay. The assurance that God is with us. Elijah experiences this calm after the storm…the wild man in the gospel reading is restored to his right mind (what does that even mean?) What is this “holy chill?” And how might we be restored and made ready to on with our lives and our various callings?
So what are God’s pronouns? Our God who is and was is and is to come is all of them, AND more than we can even imagine: He who creates and orders life, she who nourishes and sustains, and they who flows and moves through us and all of creation to proclaim the good news of salvation for all. We are a people of endless potential, who serve a triune God of endless potential.
Holy Trinity is a Pentecost community. Our differences make life interesting and reveal that God loves diversity and is the very source of infinite variety. The Holy Spirit is the energy that unites us and challenges us to not only bang our diversity drum and say what a great church we are because we try to welcome everyone. Rather, we are empowered to move beyond mere acceptance of others to transformation. As we listen and learn from those most different from us—racially, ethnically, religiously, economically, politically—we become more. We discover new ways of thinking, serving, loving. We become transformed by this Spirit of God, this Advocate, the One that abides in us forever.
