Sermon Audio – Cross of Grace Cross of Grace Lutheran Church

John 15:26-27; 164b-15
Jesus continued… ”When the Advocate comes, whom I will send to you from the Father, the Spirit of truth who comes from the Father, he will testify on my behalf. You also are to testify because you have been with me from the beginning.
But I have said these things to you so that when their hour comes you may remember that I told you about them. “I did not say these things to you from the beginning, because I was with you. But now I am going to him who sent me; yet none of you asks me, ‘Where are you going?’ But because I have said these things to you, sorrow has filled your hearts.
Nevertheless I tell you the truth: it is to your advantage that I go away, for if I do not go away, the Advocate will not come to you; but if I go, I will send him to you. 
And when he comes, he will prove the world wrong about sin and righteousness and judgment: about sin, because they do not believe in me; about righteousness, because I am going to the Father and you will see me no longer; about judgment, because the ruler of this world has been condemned. 
“I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now. When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth; for he will not speak on his own, but will speak whatever he hears, and he will declare to you the things that are to come. 
He will glorify me, because he will take what is mine and declare it to you. All that the Father has is mine. For this reason I said that he will take what is mine and declare it to you.























































































































For the fourth week in a row, we are still in Jesus’ farewell discourse, a long farewell to his disciples. In my mind, it's similar to our midwestern goodbye. You must know what I mean. It starts off with a loud “welp” to initiate the process, followed by saying goodbye in the living room, again at the front door, and then a final goodbye in the driveway with conversation at each point along the way. And believe me, I am not knocking the midwest goodbye! If anything I do it pretty well! And I think we do this long process because saying goodbye is hard.
Finding the right words, the right tone, it’s all hard. Shakespeare was certainly right, “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” Leaving brings pain and yet at the same time rouses a sense of hope and anticipation of coming together again. In his goodbye to the disciples, Jesus says, “I tell you the truth; it is to your advantage that I go away”. When someone is saying goodbye, I don’t think we necessarily always want the truth. The truth can be unnerving, shocking even. Like when someone’s going back for surgery you don’t say, “Well the truth is I might not ever see you again”. That’s not helpful or comforting in any way. We would much rather have a promise, “I’ll be right here when you get back”. 
Here, however, Jesus gives the disciples both. The truth is, it is better for you that I go away. And here we should pause. How can it be better that Jesus go away? For many, if not most, people in the Christian tradition, closeness to Jesus is the most important thing. We long to be close to Jesus, to be in a relationship with Jesus. 
And we wait with great anticipation for Jesus' return, for the time when he will once again be close in a physical, incarnate way as he was. Being far away, separated from Jesus then would be the worst thing for our faith. Why then, is it to the advantage of the disciples that Jesus goes away? And is that to our advantage too? How can Jesus saying goodbye be a good thin

John 17:6-19
“I have made your name known to those whom you gave me from the world. They were yours, and you gave them to me, and they have kept your word. Now they know that everything you have given me is from you; for the words that you gave to me I have given to them, and they have received them and know in truth that I came from you; and they have believed that you sent me.
“I am asking on their behalf; I am not asking on behalf of the world, but on behalf of those whom you gave me, because they are yours. All mine are yours, and yours are mine; and I have been glorified in them. And now I am no longer in the world, but they are in the world, and I am coming to you. Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one. While I was with them, I protected them in your name that you have given me. I guarded them, and not one of them was lost except the one destined to be lost, so that the scripture might be fulfilled.
“But now I am coming to you, and I speak these things in the world so that they may have my joy made complete in themselves. I have given them your word, and the world has hated them because they do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world. I am not asking you to take them out of the world, but I ask you to protect them from the evil one. They do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world.
“Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth. As you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world. And for their sakes I sanctify myself, so that they also may be sanctified in truth.”






























‘Tis the season for goodbyes … and farewells … and “so longs” … graduation season, I mean. Yesterday, I got to offer the Invocation and the Benediction at the commencement ceremony for my alma mater – Capital University, over in Columbus, Ohio. It always brings back all sorts of memories to be on that campus and yesterday, for graduation, was no different – maybe even a little more poignant – to reflect on what all of that meant for me 28 years ago. (I would have bet a million dollars I wouldn’t be the one offering the Invocation or Benediction at a Capital commencement back then. And none of my friends would have taken that bet, either.)
Well, it’s not an Invocation, or a Benediction, or anything like a commencement address, but we call what we hear from Jesus this morning part of his “Farewell Discourse” – his own sort of “goodbye” and “so long,” if you will. Jesus was readying himself for the cross, for his death, for his resurrection, and for his ascension into heaven, too. And all of that gives these prayerful last words some heft, some weight, and some poignancy of their own.
And, even though he knew what was coming for himself – all of that suffering and death, I mean – Jesus’ greatest concern was for his family and friends. He wants to entrust them to God’s care. He wants them to be protected, to be guarded, to be safe. He wants them to know joy; to be “sanctified in the truth” as he puts it. He wants them to go about their lives – in the world, but not of the world – fulfilling their call as children of God. And so he prays these heartfelt, passionate words of love and concern and hope for his people – for his disciples, for these children of God he’s been walking alongside and raising up in the faith until now.
It’s why this prayer from Jesus – as all over the place and stream-of-consciousness as it seems – is perfect for a day like today when I feel like my words have too much ground to cover, in too little time. For one thing Mother’s Day is on the hearts and minds of many of us today. We will also celebrate the confirmation of a handful of our young people as they affirm the promises of their baptism this morning. Plenty of you are getting ready for the end of another school year and for graduations of yo

John 15:9-17
[Jesus continued…] “As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love. I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.
‘This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you. I do not call you servants* any longer, because the servant* does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father.
You did not choose me but I chose you. And I appointed you to go and bear fruit, fruit that will last, so that the Father will give you whatever you ask him in my name. I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another.”






























It was 2012, the evening of Easter. I was a senior in high school. Katelyn had spent the day with me and my family going to church and then for Easter lunch. We had been spending a lot of time together, we both knew there was interest, but we (or perhaps more accurately I) still thought we were in the talking phase, still figuring things out. As we got in the car, I could tell something was wrong, so I asked. And I’m not sure I was ready for the response: so what are we, Cogan? We’ve gone on dates now, I spend all day with your family, what are we? Ah, the moment had come. Time to define the relationship. I was headed to Valpo in the fall while Katelyn would finish her senior year. Would we continue? Or at least try? What kind of relationship was this?
Maybe you’ve been there and had a similar conversation. Defining the relationship happens in the liminal space between acquaintance and closeness. It is a mark of intimacy and trust that was not in the relationship before. This conversation happens because someone in the relationship feels like they aren’t on the same page as the other and there’s a need for clarification.
Or a fast approaching change spurs on the conversation like graduation or moving. And its usually a difficult conversation to have: it risks vulnerability, rejection, but it also could result in deeper companionship and love. We always hear and maybe even say it ourselves that faith, Christianity is about a relationship with Jesus. And that’s true it is, even if you don’t often use or feel the most comfortable with that language. But what kind of relationship is it?
We have all kinds of relationships: think about the varying kinds with your family, or colleagues, or neighbors, or friends. I have a relationship with my neighbor Jo that consists mostly of friendly waves. I have a relationship with Clive, my son, which also has friendly waves. But these relationships are not the same. So what kind of relationship do we share with Jesus? Luckily, he tells us what kind in this passage today.
Toward the end of dinner with his disciples, Jesus thinks it's time to define the relationship. Nothing like a crucifixion to force the conversation. However, Jesus doesn’t really do the DTR the way relationship experts and their articles say. Usually, it’s not a good idea for one person to state what the relationship was and then proclaim it to be something different. It’s something best done or decided on together through Communication, questions, and active listening. Jesus does none of that. Instead, Jesus informs the disciples that their relationship was a master/slave relationship.
In the time of Jesus, master/slave relationships were marked by command, ignorance, and obedience. The master said what to do. The slave, not knowing the details of the task he was doing, simply obeyed out of fear of punishment. This according to Jesus was the one-way relationship between him and his disciples. But somet

Acts 8:26-40
Then an angel of the Lord said to Philip, ‘Get up and go towards the south* to the road that goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza.’ (This is a wilderness road.) So he got up and went. Now there was an Ethiopian eunuch, a court official of the Candace, queen of the Ethiopians, in charge of her entire treasury. He had come to Jerusalem to worship and was returning home; seated in his chariot, he was reading the prophet Isaiah. Then the Spirit said to Philip, ‘Go over to this chariot and join it.’ So Philip ran up to it and heard him reading the prophet Isaiah. He asked, ‘Do you understand what you are reading?’ He replied, ‘How can I, unless someone guides me?’ And he invited Philip to get in and sit beside him. Now the passage of the scripture that he was reading was this:‘Like a sheep he was led to the slaughter,and like a lamb silent before its shearer,so he does not open his mouth.In his humiliation justice was denied him.Who can describe his generation?For his life is taken away from the earth.’
The eunuch asked Philip, ‘About whom, may I ask you, does the prophet say this, about himself or about someone else?’ Then Philip began to speak, and starting with this scripture, he proclaimed to him the good news about Jesus. As they were going along the road, they came to some water; and the eunuch said, ‘Look, here is water! What is to prevent me from being baptized?’ He commanded the chariot to stop, and both of them, Philip and the eunuch, went down into the water, and Philip* baptized him. When they came up out of the water, the Spirit of the Lord snatched Philip away; the eunuch saw him no more, and went on his way rejoicing. But Philip found himself at Azotus, and as he was passing through the region, he proclaimed the good news to all the towns until he came to Caesarea.






























We are all losers, at least that’s what it feels like for most of us. Before you pie me, let me explain! Back in February, Pew Research Center, a nonpartisan organization that conducts public opinion polls on everything from politics to religion, science and more, released updated findings on how folks feel like their side in politics is doing.
And according to that multiyear study, less than a quarter of Americans feel like their side is winning on issues that matter to them. Which means that the rest of us, the vast majority of us, feel like we are losing. No wonder public dialogue, political discourse, or even talking with a neighbor or coworker feels so embittered and tense. Most of us feel like we are fighting a losing battle. In reality though what we are all losing to is tribalism.
Tribalism is the instinct to gather and connect with people who are similar in all sorts of ways: beliefs, interests, experiences, and more. Our tribe tells us who we are, what we’re supposed to do, and what we believe. Now this is not necessarily a bad thing. Having a community that helps give us identity, that surrounds us and supports us is very important.
But tribalism becomes treacherous when it tells us who we should fear. We can so closely identify with our tribe that anyone who is different becomes a threat.
It is dangerous then when a tribe says, “Watch out for them. They aren’t like us. They are trying to take things from you, they only want to hurt you. They are the cause of your problems, of our problems. Be very afraid of them. Be afraid of the democrats. Be afraid of the republicans.
Be afraid of people who are transgender or who do drag. Be afraid of progressives or fundamentalist. Be very afraid.”
Sharon Brous, a rabbi in Los Angeles, writes that “One of the great casualties of tribalism is curiosity. And when we are no longer curious, when we don’t try to imagine or understand what another person is thinking or feeling or where her pain comes from, our hearts begin to narrow.
We become less compassionate and more entrenched in our own worldviews.” Perhaps we

John 10:11-18
“I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. The hired hand, who is not the good shepherd and does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and runs away – and the wolf snatches and scatters them. The hired hand runs away because the hired hand does not care about the sheep.
“I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. I lay down my life for the sheep. There are other sheep who are not part of this fold. I must bring them along also and they will listen to my voice. So that there will be one flock, one shepherd.
“For this reason the Father loves me, because I am willing to lay down my life and take it up again. No one takes it from me. I lay it down of my own accord. I have the power to lay it down and I have the power to take it up again. I have received this command from my father.”






























In addition to it being the Fourth Sunday of Easter, today is also, often called, in many places “Good Shepherd Sunday,” where churches all over the world hear some bit of this portion of John’s Gospel where Jesus waxes poetic about his identity as “the Good Shepherd.”
It’s a popular image, I suspect most of us have seen or heard of before: Jesus, with livestock draped over his shoulders. There are paintings and stained glass windows showing as much. There are a few “Good Shepherd” and “Our Shepherd” Lutheran Churches right here in Indianapolis. I was baptized at a Good Shepherd Lutheran Church, in Vickery, Ohio. But I often struggle with what to say about it – or what new thing to say about it – I guess. On one hand it seems like such an obvious cliché. On the other hand, I’ve never met a shepherd, so…
So, today might seem like a stretch. It’s not the first time you’ve heard that from me, and it won’t be the last, but I found myself wondering about “the hired hand” that Jesus mentions in this morning’s Gospel, this time around, as a way of wondering differently about “the Good Shepherd,” too.
Well, here’s “the stretch.” Jesus’ mention of how “the hired hand” doesn’t know or care about the sheep…? How the “hired hand” sees the wolf coming and runs away – leaving the sheep to be snatched and scattered because the “hired hand” doesn’t care about the sheep, in the same way the Good Shepherd does…?
All of that reminded me of George Costanza. (I told you it was a stretch, but after last week – with Jeannie’s fall and all of my waterworks about my Father-in-Law – I thought we could use a laugh this morning, so I’m going with it.) Jesus’ talk about the “hired hand” made me think of this ridiculous bit of Seinfeld, where George Costanza is at a child’s birthday party.






























In the show, George smells fire, sees smoke in the kitchen, and runs out of the party, knocking over a clown, an elderly woman with a walker, and pushes several children out of his way, trying to get to the door and escape to safety. He gets accosted by the clown, the party’s host, and emergency workers afterward where he tries, shamefully, to explain himself and defend his actions.






























“The hired hand, who is not the good shepherd … sees the wolf coming and runs away…” “The hired hand runs away because the hired hand does not care about the sheep.” Okay. Funny stuff aside.
Part of what Jesus is saying – and had been trying to prove throughout his ministry – is that the world was and is filled with too many “George Costanzas.” I mean, too many “hired hands.” There were and are, it seems to me, too many pretending to share grace, to do God’s bidding, to be Messiah, Savior, GOD … but too many who can’t… who won’t… who don’t… none who could ever measure up to the fullness of love we know in Jesus, the one and only, real, Good Shepherd –

Luke 24:36b-48
While they were talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, ‘Peace be with you.’
They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost. He said to them, ‘Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.’ And when he had said this, he showed them his hands and his feet.
While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, he said to them, ‘Have you anything here to eat?’ They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence.
Then he said to them, ‘These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you—that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled.’
Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, and he said to them, ‘Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things.’






























We all like mercy, just not too much of it. Lindsay Holifield is a singer/songwriter and artist in Alabama, who struggled severely with anorexia for 14 years. She tells a story of being in a treatment facility for her sixteenth birthday. While other girls gathered for dinners and parties,
Lindsay remembers her charge nurse Lupe bringing her a piece of cake and she sobbed at the thought of such high calorie food entering her body. That was the first birthday she’d spend inpatient at a treatment facility, but not her last.
For nearly a decade and a half, Lindsay couldn’t subdue this self-destructive drive that had taken hold of her. She writes, “I desperately wanted to wake up each day without having to submit afresh to the hellish existence of self-starvation and running till my lungs felt on the verge of collapse. But I felt chained to this destructive cycle deep into my bones, despite my best intentions.”
Many treatment providers, likely friends and family too, lambasted Lindsay for not having enough motivation or courage or strength to overcome the voice inside her that demanded self-destruction. Everyone, from doctors to mental health clinicians, told her that if she wanted to get better, really wanted it, she’d have to try harder, pull herself up by her bootstraps and will her way into recovery. But, as Lindsay explains, “After each attempt under this approach, I would fall flat on my face. The despair of my situation began to swallow me whole: there was no way out, because I could not yell at myself enough to make myself well.”
We are all too familiar with the work harder advice, the tough love attitude, the “you just have to want it more” approach. You’ve likely said and received similar sentiments as Lindsay had. When folks are struggling, sad, or scared for any number of reasons, we find it much easier to say “just get over it”, “work harder”, “stop being so weak, or afraid, or fill in the blank”.To the person with anxiety or mental health problems we say deal with it. Or the one grieving we say “how long”? Or the person in an abusive relationship we say “just leave”. That’s the way of our culture. And sometimes it works, sometimes this does the job we hoped it would and we see results. I’m not discounting that. But many times, like with Lindsay, this strategy fails.
At twenty six, Lindsay sat in a green folding chair on a farm in Nashville, TN. In the folding chair across from her sat a woman who fiercely supported her recovery; but there was no yelling or giving a firm lecture. Alternatively, with tenderness unknown to Lindsay, the woman explained how her struggles made sense in light of her own experiences. “Perhaps,” the woma