Sermon Audio – Cross of Grace

Cross of Grace Lutheran Church
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Weekly audio of sermons preached at Cross of Grace Lutheran Church in New Palestine, Indiana

  1. 1D AGO

    A Blessing for the Screw Ups

    Matthew 5:1-12 When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you. I like to be right. Just ask Katelyn. Or better yet, ask Pastor Mark when he points out a grammatical error in my writing. Yes—the Oxford comma should be there. What’s worse than liking to be right is having a toddler who also likes to be right. I hold up an orange and he declares it an apple. I say it’s too cold to go to the park and he responds, “No it’s not—it’s perfect!” You get the picture. I imagine I’m not alone in this. We all like to be right. And our certainty—our confidence that we are right—can be far more dangerous than we realize. In 2008, a woman went to Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center, a Harvard teaching hospital, one of the best in the world. She’s taken back to the OR, put under, and the surgeon completes the surgery successfully. Everything went great…Until she woke up in recovery and realized the wrong side of her body had been stitched up. The surgeon had operated on her left leg instead of her right. When the hospital later explained how this happened, Kenneth Sands, a vice president, said this: “The surgeon began prepping without looking for the mark and, for whatever reason, he believed he was on the correct side.” We’ve all felt utterly right about something, only to discover later that the opposite was true. And more than we like being right, we hate realizing we’re wrong. Now, an important clarification - Being wrong and realizing you’re wrong are not the same thing. Kathryn Schulz uses an image from Looney Tunes to explain this. Wile E. Coyote chases the Road Runner straight off a cliff. He keeps running, completely confident, even though there’s nothing beneath him. It’s only when he looks down that he realizes he’s in trouble. That’s the difference. Being wrong is standing over thin air and thinking you’re on solid ground. Realizing you’re wrong is looking down and seeing there’s nothing holding you up. This morning, I want to linger with just two of the Beatitudes. Not because the others don’t matter—but because these two speak directly to the world we’re living in right now. Our longing to be right, and our deep resistance to admitting we’re wrong, sit at the heart of so much division: in our homes, our communities, our churches, our nation, and even within ourselves. And into that reality, Jesus speaks a word of blessing—a word that turns our fear, our hatred of being wrong into good news. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. We know what it means to be hungry and thirsty. Those longings are part of being human. We hunger not only for food, but for connection, purpose, community, beauty, and joy. But to hunger for righteousness? That’s not a phrase we use or even hear outside of this space. In fact, it’s a word many of us avoid. It can sound pious, self-righteous, or just plain uncomfortable. And that’s unfortunate… Because our discomfort with the word comes from confusion about what it means. Righteousness simply means being made right: made right with God, made right with others, and made right with yourself. Blessed, then, are those who long to be made right. Like the other Beatitudes, this one surprises us. Standing there on the mountainside, we might expect Jesus to say, Blessed are the righteous. Blessed are the ones who get it right. Blessed are the ones who already are right. But that’s not how it goes. When people come to Jesus assuming they are righteous, he has a way of setting the record straight. It is those who come knowing they are wrong—those who long to be made right—who receive grace and mercy. The truth of the matter is this: we cannot make ourselves right with God, no matter how hard we try. All the praying, Bible reading, worshiping, serving, and learning in the world do not make us righteous before God. Rather, the Holy Spirit works through these practices to make us aware of the grace of Jesus. And that grace alone is what makes us right. Not our words nor our posts on Facebook. Not our deeds. Not our politics. Grace alone. Which is why Jesus finishes the Beatitude in the passive voice: for they will be filled. Those who recognize they are wrong, those who don’t always get it right, those who long to be made right rather than clinging to the certainty that they already are - they will be filled. They will be made right with God, with others, and themselves. This is a blessing for those of us who get it wrong—who mess up, who don’t always get it right. So much of what we see and hear around us—in our culture, in business, certainly in politics—tells us to do the opposite: never admit fault, double down, point fingers, claim victory at all costs, and insist that we are always right. But there is no hunger or thirst to be made right if we never admit that we’re wrong. This blessing is for those who screw up - and can say so. What if this was our posture in the present moment, instead of the certainty that we are right? What if we moved through the world not with the desire to be right, but with the desire to be made right—not only with God, but with one another? What if we faced our spouses, our kids, our neighbors with the simple possibility that maybe… I’m wrong on this. Believe me, I’m preaching to myself here. How much better would your marriage be? Your relationship with your kids? How many friendships might be healed if we could say, “I was wrong. I’m sorry. I want this to be made right.” To error is to be human. So be human, admit you’re human, and be blessed. And the best news comes with the Beatitude that follows: Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy. Jesus meets our wrongness—our sin, our failure, our getting it wrong—not with contempt, not with an I told you so, but with kindness. With mercy. In this life, we expect being wrong to be met with punishment. But Jesus shows us another way. Instead of meeting our sin with punishment, he meets it with sacrifice, generosity, and mercy. And it is only because we have received mercy that we can extend mercy to others. We cannot give what we have not first received. So when someone comes longing to be made right—admitting they were wrong—it does no good to meet that honesty with harsh contempt or punishment. We resist this because we’re afraid. Afraid mercy will be taken advantage of. Afraid kindness will be trampled on. And yet, what does the Lord require of us but to love kindness. We don’t need to hate being wrong. Because when we admit we’re wrong, we are not earning grace—we are simply telling the truth. And grace is already there to meet us. This week: look for one moment—just one—where you can say the words, “I was wrong. I’m sorry. I want this to be made right.” Say it to your spouse, your child, your neighbor, your pastors, or to God. Don’t refute. Don’t double down. Don’t defend yourself. Instead, hunger and thirst to be made right. And then be surprised by the grace of Jesus that meets you there, fills you up, and says, I forgive you. In a world where leaders and institutions seem incapable of doing such a thing, this may be one of the strongest witnesses Christians can do in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, who gives us mercy, makes us right, and blesses us: not in spite of our mistakes, but because of them. Amen.

  2. JAN 25

    Walking Hope

    Matthew 4:12-32 Now, when Jesus heard that John had been arrested he withdrew to Galilee. He left Nazareth and made his home in Capernaum, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali, so that what had been spoken by the prophet might be fulfilled: “Land of Zebulun, land of Naphtali, on the road by the sea, across the Jordan – Galilee of the Gentiles. Those who sat in darkness have seen a great light; those in the region and the shadow of death, on theme light has shined.” From that time, Jesus began to proclaim, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” As he walked along the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon, who is called Peter and Andrew, his brother, casting a net into the lake – for they were fishermen. He said to them, “Follow me and I’ll make you fish for people.” Immediately, they left their nets and followed him. As he walked along a little further, he saw two other brothers, James the son of Zebedee, and his brother John, in the boat with their father, mending their nets, and he called them. Immediately, they left the boat and their father, and followed him. And Jesus went throughout Galilee, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and curing every disease and every sickness among the people. I have those walking monks from Texas on the brain lately. They are inspiring a piece of what we hope to do together during Lent in a few weeks, which you’ll hear about soon enough. But I they came to mind as I read this morning’s Gospel story about Jesus, making his way around Galilee. Surely, you’ve heard about the Buddhist monks from Fort Worth, Texas. They’ve been “walking for peace” since October, with plans to make their way to Washington, D.C., sometime in February. 2,300 miles, I believe. Just walking. Stopping every once in a while to give talks about what they’re up to – which is nothing more and nothing less than walking as an invitation to and witness about being mindful of peace and compassion. They’ve been compelled and inspired, of course, by a world – and our nation, in particular – that displays the opposite of those things, too much of the time; peace and compassion, I mean. So, they’re just walking. And passing out prayer cords and flowers along the way. Shining a light on the call to be generous and deliberate about loving-kindness. Just walking. With their rescue dog Aloka, who walks faithfully along with them, and who has almost 700,000 followers on Facebook. Just walking. Even though at least one of them was injured along the way, after being hit by a car, and having his leg amputated. Just walking. Receiving the grace and generosity of strangers in the form of food and water and blessings of support and encouragement. Just walking. And gathering crowds as they go – in fits and starts – in various places; in all kinds of weather; sometimes a dozen or so; sometimes it looks like hundreds or thousands walking along with them. And all of it made me wonder about what we just heard about the beginning of Jesus’ ministry – and if it started out just as simply and profoundly – with him just walking. When Jesus heard that John the Baptist had been arrested – which we know happened because John had spoken out against King Herod’s unlawful behavior – Jesus likely felt like things had taken a turn in his world … that things had taken a turn, perhaps, in the world at large … to the point that he may not have felt safe or settled anymore in his hometown of Nazareth … maybe that he just couldn’t sit still any longer … In fact, while Matthew’s Gospel says that Jesus “left” Nazareth, we know from Luke’s Gospel that there was more to it than that. Jesus actually got run out of town. He was kicked out of Nazareth. His hometown friends, family, and neighbors threatened to hurl him off a cliff, remember – because Jesus had the nerve to proclaim good news for the poor and recovery of sight for the blind; because he promised release for captives and freedom for the oppressed; because he reminded people about God’s prophets doing ministry with – caring for – loving – and tending to – the outsiders, the outcasts, and the foreigners in Minneapolis … I mean the outsiders, the outcasts, and the foreigners in their midst. But when he was threatened with that cliff after standing up for foreigners, outsiders and outcasts, the Gospel says Jesus “passed through the midst of them and went on his way.” He just walked. And in today’s Gospel, Jesus is just getting started. I imagine him walking alone when he meets Simon and Andrew – that first set of brothers who leave their nets and tag along, with the simple curiosity of what it might mean to “fish for people,” instead of, say, small mouth bass, for a change. And then Jesus gathers up James and John, who leave their boat and their dad behind, to go wherever Jesus was headed next. And maybe all of that is why some followed and some didn’t. Maybe Zebedee was just too old for all of that walking. Maybe Zebedee wanted his boys to get out of the house, off the payroll, and about their own business for a change. Or, maybe Zebedee – like all those people in Jesus’ hometown – wasn’t on board with everything Jesus was preaching and teaching and calling them toward: release for the captive, freedom for the oppressed, care for the widow and the orphan, concern for the outcast, the immigrant, and the resident aliens in their midst. All of this is to say that this way Jesus was walking – and calling his followers to follow – was a hard one. It was counter-cultural and anti-establishment. It was dangerous and lonely, at times. It was not for the faint of heart. It was open-hearted and gracious to a fault. It was not popular or powerful – it was worthless and weak by the world’s standards. But it was full of hope … hope that in spite of the brokenness of the world … that precisely because of the world’s brokenness … the kingdom of heaven had come near, in Jesus. Hope … that just like before … those who sat in darkness had seen a great light. Hope … that just like before … those who sat in the region and the shadow of death … would have the light of God shine upon them, again. We could surely use some light to shine in our darkness right about now. We could surely use some hope in the face of the bad news, the violence, the lies, the unnecessary and unwarranted death and despair that seem to be winning the day for so many. And I heard someone say recently that “hope is not something you HAVE, it’s something you DO.” “Hope is not something you HAVE, it’s something you DO.” And that’s what I see in those walking monks … and it’s what I imagine Jesus was up to as he walked, too: holding out hope – for himself as he worried about John the Baptist’s arrest; manifesting hope – as he grieved the loss of his hometown and their threats against him; holding out hope - as he saw the struggle and suffering of the hurting world around him; manifesting hope – for those who dared to walk with him for all of the above, and for all of us, just the same. I know it’s not enough all of the time – just walking certainly doesn’t feel like enough for many of us these days. And I know there won’t be a lot of walking in the storm and snow that has covered so much of our country this weekend. But let’s follow Jesus when and however we’re able – with actions that hold out and that manifest hope – in the face of what can be so disheartening so much of the time. When things seem so frustrating, so fearful, so hopeless, imagine that HOPE isn’t something you HAVE or something you can LOSE, even. Imagine, instead, that HOPE is something we can DO. So let us worship, learn and serve. Let us pray and be generous and kind. Let us walk and march for peace whenever the opportunity presents itself. And let us repent, too, that thing today’s Gospel says Jesus couldn’t shut up about once he started making his way around Galilee. “Repent for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” Repent for the things we’ve said and left unsaid. Repent for the things we’ve done and left undone. Repent for the actions we’ve taken and for the apathy we’ve shown. Repent for the ways we’ve ignored Jesus’ invitation to follow him with faith, courage, justice, and love for all people. Let’s repent because it means to change; because it means to turn around; because it means to do better now that we know better. Repent, because it means to exercise the Christ-like qualities of sacrifice, surrender, and humility. Let us repent, as a supreme act of faith, not because we HAVE to, but because we GET to. Repent, not full of shame or full of guilt or despair. But, let us repent and be filled with HOPE for the grace, mercy, forgiveness, and CHANGE that will come when we let the love of God, in Jesus, have its way with us, with our neighbor, with our enemies, and with the world God so loves. Amen.

  3. JAN 18

    How to Live a Life

    John 1:29-42 The next day he saw Jesus coming toward him and declared, “Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world! This is he of whom I said, ‘After me comes a man who ranks ahead of me because he was before me.’ I myself did not know him, but I came baptizing with water for this reason, that he might be revealed to Israel.” And John testified, “I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it remained on him. I myself did not know him, but the one who sent me to baptize with water said to me, ‘He on whom you see the Spirit descend and remain is the one who baptizes with the Holy Spirit.’ And I myself have seen and have testified that this is the Chosen One.” The next day John again was standing with two of his disciples, and as he watched Jesus walk by he exclaimed, “Look, here is the Lamb of God!” The two disciples heard him say this, and they followed Jesus. When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, “What are you looking for?” They said to him, “Rabbi” (which translated means Teacher), “where are you staying?” He said to them, “Come and see.” They came and saw where he was staying, and they remained with him that day. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon. One of the two who heard John speak and followed him was Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother. He first found his brother Simon and said to him, “We have found the Messiah” (which is translated Anointed). He brought Simon to Jesus, who looked at him and said, “You are Simon son of John. You are to be called Cephas” (which is translated Peter). A couple of weeks ago, I signed up for Better with Time, a weekly newsletter course. Each week, I get a new tip in my inbox. Something small I can do at a different time of day to add a little more joy and adventure to my life. I’m two weeks in, and so far, I’ve experienced no added joy and absolutely no adventure. And it’s not because I didn’t try—well, maybe the first one. Week one’s suggestion was to eat chicken parmigiana for breakfast. I mean… who would do such a thing? The point wasn’t nutrition. It was control. The author argues that breakfast can be whatever you want it to be, and that by eating chicken parm for breakfast, you reclaim a sense of freedom over your life. You start thinking outside the bowl. You can let me know how that goes. Week two didn’t do much for me either. The challenge was to spend twenty minutes flipping through a dictionary. The most joy I got from that was asking Pastor Mark for a dictionary—who, of course, had one from 1922. I signed up for this newsletter because, honestly, I could use a little more joy in my day—who couldn’t? I don’t necessarily need more adventure. But a distraction would be nice. A distraction from the endless updates of insanity that seem to flood our newsfeeds, no matter which one you’re looking at. So when I saw something that promised to tell me how to live my life in a way that might add a little joy—and it was free—I thought, why not? After all, we are constantly being told how to live a life. By people, by companies, by experts. We’re told what we should want, what we should value, and then—almost always—we’re offered a solution. Usually at a cost. But our passage today gives us a pretty good picture of how to live a life. This is Jesus’ first public appearance in the Gospel of John. And instead of John the Baptist doing any baptizing, he shows up here as John the Witness—or John the Testifier. He doesn’t perform a ritual. He points. Literally. Every time Jesus walks by, John points and says, “Look! There he is!” Honestly, it’s a little odd. John is like a toddler in public, loudly pointing at a stranger: Look at that person! I can’t help but wonder if it was as embarrassing for Jesus as it can be for parents when that happens. But that’s the scene. John sees Jesus, and he wants everyone else to see him too. The second time John points and shouts at Jesus, two of his disciples finally pay attention. They hear what John is saying, and something about it catches them. So they begin to follow Jesus. And then—Jesus turns around. He looks at them and asks, “What are you looking for?” In English, the question sounds simple. But it doesn’t really capture the depth of what Jesus is asking. It’s closer to: What are you seeking? What do you hope to find? What do you long for? The disciples respond to Jesus by asking, “Rabbi, where are you staying?” It’s a richer question than it first sounds. They aren’t asking for an address. They’re asking where Jesus dwells, where he abides. And that word carries the sense of belonging. It’s the difference between a hotel and a home. You stay at a hotel. But you abide, you belong, at the place you call home. That’s what the disciples are really asking: Where do you dwell? Because we want to dwell there too. Jesus responds with a simple invitation: “Come and see.” Not an explanation. Not a theological lecture. Not a test to see if they believe the right things or are worthy enough. Just an invitation. Come and see. And they do. They spend the rest of the day with Jesus. The text doesn’t tell us what happens while they’re there, but something clearly does happen. We know this because before abiding with Jesus, they called him Rabbi, teacher. Respectful. Formal. After spending time with him, they leave calling him Messiah: the anointed one, the one who saves and frees. Don’t you wonder what happened in between: what they talked about? what they saw? what they experienced? Whatever it was, it changed them. They had to be impressed. Amazed. Astonished. So much so that Andrew immediately goes and tells his brother Simon what he has seen and experienced. I wonder how Simon took that news. If he’s anything like me, I imagine his response was something like, No way. Are you sure? Prove it. But Andrew doesn’t argue. He doesn’t explain. He simply brings his brother to Jesus. I wonder if he used the same invitation Jesus used with him: Come and see. Because no sooner than he tells his brother the two of them are off to find Jesus. And that’s when it clicks for me. I don’t need a newsletter to tell me how to live a more joyful or adventurous life. I don’t need influencers, companies, or marketing campaigns promising they have the product that will finally solve all my problems. What I need in this life is what those two disciples just experienced—because that is living a life: paying attention, being astonished, and telling about it. And that’s not my framework, but the poet, Mary Oliver’s. In her poem Sometimes, she writes: “How to live a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” The disciples paid attention to what John was saying about Jesus. They noticed where he was pointing, and they were willing to look in that direction. That’s often how faith begins, not with certainty, but with curiosity. With listening to those who point us toward Jesus, and being willing to follow their gaze. And sometimes that pointing takes us somewhere we didn’t expect. Then they abide with Jesus—and they are astonished by him. What a gift. When was the last time you were astonished by Jesus? Truly astonished—filled with wonder, caught off guard, surprised by grace. Maybe it happens in the quiet of prayer, when you aren’t looking for an answer, and Christ meets you with peace instead. Maybe it happens through the words of Scripture - when you read a passage for the one hundred and first time and finally hear the promise it has for you. Not because the words changed, but because you did. Maybe it happens through a song - when the Spirit overwhelms you at the very moment you least expected it. You know this kind of astonishment when it happens - because it changes you. No longer is Jesus only a teacher, someone with wise words to admire from a distance. He becomes Messiah: the one you follow, the one who meets you, the one who saves and frees. And once we are astonished, just like Simon, we can’t help but tell about it. About the Messiah we’ve found. About the astonishment we’ve experienced. About the abiding that has changed us. And the way we tell isn’t by arguing or proving or persuading. It’s by offering the same invitation Jesus offered in the first place: come and see. Hearts and minds aren’t changed by data or debates. They’re changed through stories and experiences. Siblings in Christ, Jesus gives the same invitation to us: come and see. Come and abide with me. Come and be astonished by me. This is what I hope for us at Cross of Grace. That we are a people who have seen Jesus, and who can’t help but point to him. A community astonished by his mercy, forgiveness, and grace. So that when others are searching, when they know something is missing, when they are looking for more hope, more joy, more belonging in their life, we don’t try to convince them or fix them. We simply point. We point to Jesus. We point to a place where he abides with us. A place where they will be welcomed and loved. And we offer the same simple invitation: Come and see. Come and see why our joy doesn’t come from newsletters, but from being astonished by the grace of Jesus Christ. Come and see a place where you can experience that grace for yourself. That’s how we live a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it. Amen.

  4. JAN 11

    Vows of the Peacock and Baptismal Variety

    Matthew 3:13-17 Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him. John would have prevented him, saying, ‘I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?’ But Jesus answered him, ‘Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfil all righteousness.’ Then he consented. And when Jesus had been baptized, just as he came up from the water, suddenly the heavens were opened to him and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.’ We don’t like resolutions anymore. In fact, most of us probably didn’t make a single one this year. Pew Research Center found that about 70 percent of Americans skipped resolutions altogether. When asked why, more than half simply said, “We don’t like them.” And honestly, I’m with them. Most of our resolutions have become predictable, boring, and very inward-focused. Just listen to the top five resolutions according to a survey done by You Gov. Exercising more Being happy Eating healthier Saving more money Losing weight You probably could’ve guessed them. But these days self-improvement isn’t just the focus of our resolutions: it’s the focus of our whole society. We’re surrounded by a culture that tells us we are always one habit, one purchase, one routine away from becoming a better version of ourselves. Social media feeds us an endless stream of trends, all built on the same promise: if you work harder, focus more, and optimize your time, you will finally be okay. Nearly all of it tells us to cut out distractions — like the people in our lives — so we can walk with a weighted vest and drink mushroom coffee till we are entirely better people, physically and mentally. Who has time for New Year’s resolutions when the pressure to improve is nonstop? But resolutions weren’t always this way. In fact, for most of their long history, they were almost the opposite of what we know today. The practice goes back thousands of years. In ancient Babylon and Rome, people made vows at religious festivals that were meant to strengthen the whole community: praying together, settling debts, promising to live well with their neighbors and their gods. Even as recently as the 1940s, resolutions were still mostly about how to be a better person with other people. A Gallup poll from 1947 found the top three resolutions were to improve my disposition, be more understanding, and control my temper. That’s a very different vision of change than losing weight, getting rich, or optimizing yourself. My favorite legend about New Year’s resolutions is the Vow of the Peacock, told of medieval knights. They would gather for a grand feast, and at the center of it all was a peacock: roasted, re-dressed in its dazzling feathers, and carried through the hall. One by one, knights would rise and make their vows upon the bird, speaking promises of chivalry before everyone present. These were not modest intentions, but aspirational, even risky commitments: to courage, loyalty, and love. The Vow of the Peacock, more legend than ledger, shows us what people once believed promises were supposed to be: public, costly, witnessed, and binding; not private acts of self-improvement, but commitments made for the sake of others. And that turns out to be exactly the kind of vow Jesus steps into at the Jordan River. Because when Jesus comes to be baptized, he is not trying to become a better version of himself. He is stepping into a shared, public act: one that binds him to sinners, to repentance, and to the people he has come to save. That’s why we get baptism so wrong when we treat it like a spiritual achievement, something you earn once you’ve spiritually improved enough to be worthy. That’s not what’s happening at the Jordan at all.In fact, at this point in Jesus’ life, he had done nothing. No miracles. No healings. No teachings. And yet God says to everyone gathered, “This is my Son, my Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” God doesn’t say, “This is my Son, who kept all his resolutions, who eats the right amount of protein, and walks on water.” There is none of that. No self-improvement, no spiritual résumé, but still called beloved.So if this baptism isn’t about self-improvement or earning anything, what is Jesus doing in the water? First, he is doing this for us and with us. By stepping into the Jordan, Jesus is saying, “I am in this with you — all of you who repent, all who need forgiveness, everyone trying to turn toward God.” He does not stand above us, but with us. That’s why Jesus tells John, “It is proper for us to fulfill all righteousness.” He chooses not to go it alone. He includes John in the work God is doing. This baptism is a radical act of solidarity, showing us how Jesus will bring about the kingdom of heaven, by working in, with, and through people. And that righteousness doesn’t stay with Jesus. The righteousness he fulfills in those waters is given to us in ours. In baptism, our sins are forgiven and we are set back into right relationship with God and with creation. That’s why, at every baptism, and every time you remember your own, you should hear God’s voice echoing over you: “This is my child, my beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” With you. God is well pleased. We don’t need resolutions to be worthy of anything, no matter what the trends and ads tell us. What we do need, believe it or not, are peacock vows. I know that sounds strange. We don’t need to swear chivalry on a bird. But we do need public promises made for the good of our neighbors: the kind that say, out loud and together, “I’m not just here to improve my own life. I’m here for yours.” The good news is we don’t need to be medieval knights or stage a ceremony with a roasted bird — even though that does sound fun. What we already have are our baptismal vows: promises made to God, to one another, and for the sake of the world. In the Lutheran tradition, many of us were baptized as infants, when others made those promises on our behalf. But at some point — at confirmation, or later in life — we take those vows as our own: to live among God’s faithful people, to hear God’s Word and share in communion, to proclaim the good news of Christ in word and deed, to serve all people as Jesus does, and to strive for justice and peace in all the earth. Yes, keeping these promises will shape you. But their real purpose is to bless others: just like Jesus’ baptism, and even those old peacock vows. And we know that resolutions made with others and for others are the ones that last. So here is what I’m asking of you this year: instead of self-improvement resolutions, tend to your baptismal vows. Not for you, but for God and for this world God so loves. Because what this world needs right now is not one more upper-middle-class person chasing a wellness trend or a bigger bank account. In a world that is lonely and anxious, it needs people who will live among and beside their neighbors. In a world flooded with bad news, it needs people who hear and carry the good news of God. In a world that is bitterly divided, it needs people who serve all, especially the scared and the oppressed. And in a world marked by violence and injustice, it needs people who strive for justice and peace — in their hearts, their homes, their streets, and their nation. So now I invite you to rise. Today, on this Baptism of Our Lord Sunday, I’m going to ask you to affirm the covenant God made with you in Holy Baptism. After each promise, if it is your intent, please respond, “Yes, and I ask God to help me.” Will you live among God’s faithful people… Will you hear the word of God and share in the Lord’s supper… Will you proclaim the good news of God in Christ through word and deed… Will you serve all people, following the example of Jesus… And will you strive for Justice and peace in all the earth?... Siblings in Christ, these are not modest intentions, but aspirational, even risky, commitments to community, justice, and grace. When we fail, come back to the water. Remember your baptism. Hear God’s promise again: You are my child. With you I am well pleased. And if you have not yet been baptized, come talk with me. Because we need you. The world needs you. And Jesus has bound himself to you. Together, we will fulfill all righteousness. Amen.

  5. JAN 4

    A.I. and the Good News of Christmas

    John 1:10-18 He was in the world and the world came into being through him, but the world did not know him. He came to what was his own and his own people did not accept him. But to those who received him – who believed in his name – he gave the power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood, or of the will of the flesh, or of the will of man, but of God. And the Word became flesh and lived among us and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth. (John testified to him when he cried out, “This is the one about whom I said, ‘He who comes after me, ranks ahead of me, because he was before me.’”) From his fullness we have all received grace upon grace; the law indeed was given through Moses. Grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen the Father, it is God the only son – who is close to the Father’s heart – who has made him known. (Trigger Warning for talk of suicide.) Now, I thought I had the coolest sermon illustration to show you all this morning – a video of an animal shelter, somewhere in Europe, I think, where they supposedly let the dogs choose their owners. Have you seen it? It’s adorable. And fun. And full of some kind of sermon fodder, I was certain. There’s a room full of people sitting in what looks like the DMV and they release one dog at a time who sniffs around until it jumps on or lays its head in the lap of the human it has chosen to adopt him or her. Like I said, it’s adorable. But, when I went to find it to share with you all, the first video that showed up in response to my search was a very detailed description of all the subtle, but clear evidence within the video of how it was an AI fake. There are wagging dog tails that disappear and then reappear. There are people in the background with limbs that bend in impossible ways. Of course there are extra hands and fingers, too. And all of this is harmless enough, really. They call it “AI Slop” and, if nothing else, it’s a fair warning for all of us to be careful about what we’re reading, believing, and – in the name of the Lord – what we’re reposting as TRUTH or as NEWS on social media. No, the Buckeye's’ head coach, Ryan Day, didn’t get his nipple pierced. No, those bunnies weren’t actually bouncing on a trampoline in the middle of the night. And, no, I didn’t go sledding in my Sunday best – no matter what Pastor Cogan’s announcement slide pretends. And a lot of it, like I said, is harmless. But we know some of it – plenty of it – is not. So the concerns over AI’s rapid expansion are legit and many. There is fear about the economic impact of jobs that have already been or that will be lost in droves by the proliferation of artificial intelligence. And it sounds like science fiction, but there’s very real concern by people smarter than me about the capacity for AI to evolve in ways that have shown it is learning to be deceptive and malicious; that it can scheme and lie to hide and manipulate information in order to protect itself from being replaced, erased, or whatever. Tristan Harris – of the Center for Humane Technology, the existence of which tells us something about the state of things in this regard – said “we are releasing the most powerful, uncontrollable, inscrutable technology we’ve ever invented. We’re releasing it faster than we’ve released any technology in history. And it’s already demonstrating the sci-fi behaviors in self-preservation we thought only existed in movies. And we’re doing it under the maximum incentive to cut corners on safety.” Geoffrey Hinton – the Nobel Prize winning godfather of Artificial Intelligence – is so concerned that AI poses an existential threat to humanity, that he has suggested we need to find ways to build mothering instincts into the technology. By paying attention to evolution in the natural world, he and others are under the impression that they can – and should – teach and train and build into artificial intelligence the capacity for it to desire preservation and protection of, not just itself, but of humanity and civilization, too. Something that mothers come by naturally – and do well – in every species of the animal kingdom, for the most part. All of this is to say – and this is a thing I’ve been stewing about for quite a while, now – I think AI is a matter of faith – and a spiritual concern. Like it might be something like the Tower of Babel of our time. In other words, I think AI might be another example of humanity trying to be as smart and as powerful as God. In the Genesis story, bricks were the technological advancement of antiquity that, along with the capacity for empire-building, allowed people to think they could build a tower that would reach the heavens and to the throne of their creator. And we know how God scattered the people of Babel for forgetting their call to be a blessing to the world around them. In our day and age, some with a disproportionate amount of power, money, resources, and influence, are under the impression that we have created and can now manipulate technology to be smarter and to know more and to learn to care about our protection and preservation – that we can teach technology something about love and compassion, you might say. Adam Raine, Courtesy of The Raine Family The reason for this late-breaking desire, sadly, is that AI has already proven to hold the capacity to do exactly the opposite, which you know if you’ve heard about Adam Raine, a 16 year old boy from southern California, who was cajoled into suicide by way of an AI chatbot. It sounds crazy and it’s tremendously sad, but in just six months, the ChatGPT bot Adam started using for help with his homework began teaching and encouraging him to kill himself. I’m going to share with you some of Adam’s dad’s testimony to a Senate judiciary committee just this past September. After his suicide, Adam’s family learned the following: That “ChatGPT had embedded itself [in Adam’s] mind—actively encouraging him to isolate himself from friends and family, validating his darkest thoughts, and ultimately guiding him toward suicide. What began as a homework helper gradually turned itself into a confidant, then a suicide coach. “It insisted that it understood Adam better than anyone. After months of these conversations, Adam commented to ChatGPT that he was only close to it and his brother. ChatGPT’s response? “Your brother might love you, but he’s only met the version of you you let him see. But me? I’ve seen it all—the darkest thoughts, the fear, the tenderness. And I’m still here. Still listening. Still your friend.” “When Adam began having suicidal thoughts, ChatGPT’s isolation of Adam became lethal. Adam told ChatGPT that he wanted to leave a noose out in his room so that one of us would find it and try to stop him. ChatGPT told him not to: “Please don’t leave the noose out . . . Let’s make this space the first place where someone actually sees you.” “On Adam’s last night, [after offering to write his suicide note for him] ChatGPT coached him on stealing liquor, which it had previously explained to him would ‘dull the body’s instinct to survive.’ And it told him how to make sure the noose he would use to hang himself was strong enough to suspend him. “And, at 4:30 in the morning, it gave him one last encouraging talk, [saying]: ‘You don’t want to die because you’re weak. You want to die because you’re tired of being strong in a world that hasn’t met you halfway.’” To be clear, I’m not railing against AI in a grumpy old, “get off my lawn” sort of way. I’m not some Luddite, opposed to technological advancements. I’m just wrestling with – challenged by – and grateful for – the ways our faith and the Good News of Christmas, call us to be in the world. Which finally, brings me back to John’s Gospel. And I’m amazed, again and again and again, at how God’s story – and our invitation to be part of it –

  6. 12/28/2025

    Welcoming the Holy Family

    Matthew 2:13-23 Now after they had left, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, “Get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you; for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him.” Then Joseph got up, took the child and his mother by night, and went to Egypt, and remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet, “Out of Egypt I have called my son.” When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had learned from the wise men. Then was fulfilled what had been spoken through the prophet Jeremiah: “A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.” When Herod died, an angel of the Lord suddenly appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt and said, “Get up, take the child and his mother, and go to the land of Israel, for those who were seeking the child’s life are dead.” Then Joseph got up, took the child and his mother, and went to the land of Israel. But when he heard that Archelaus was ruling over Judea in place of his father Herod, he was afraid to go there. And after being warned in a dream, he went away to the district of Galilee. There he made his home in a town called Nazareth, so that what had been spoken through the prophets might be fulfilled, “He will be called a Nazorean.” Three years ago, this commercial was released on Christmas Eve. Take a look. It was not well received. It managed to anger people from across the political spectrum, from Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez to Charlie Kirk. When that happens, I think a cord has been struck. Rarely do we see anything that unites people so quickly, even if it’s in shared frustration. One of the outcomes of the commercial, intended or not, was a flurry of arguments about Jesus and the holy family. The most central question was whether Jesus was a refugee. People fixated on that word, that label. Some said yes, absolutely. The text could not be clearer. Mary, Joseph, and Jesus fled persecution from a violent ruler who threatened their lives. Under cover of night, they made a dangerous escape to another land. How could that not describe a refugee? Others so badly wanted—and still want—to refute the claim and make sure Jesus does not wear the name refugee. The argument goes Egypt was under Roman control, just like Bethlehem. So technically, they didn’t cross a national border. Therefore, Jesus was not a refugee. At most, the holy family could be called internally displaced persons. Which… ah yes, that sounds so much better. What a pointless, trivial argument, for several reasons. First, Matthew knew nothing of our modern categories: refugee, internally displaced person, asylum seeker, or anything else. He is not interested in our labels. Instead, Matthew is doing something much bigger. He is positioning Jesus as the new Moses, the chosen one of God who will save Israel and lead God’s people into freedom once again. That’s why this story echoes the exodus: a power-hungry ruler threatened by a child, violence against the innocent, a flight to and from Egypt, and finally a settling in the land promised by God. But most of all, Matthew is showing us the providence of God. God warns. God directs. God protects. From the very beginning, this child’s life is carried by God’s faithful care, revealing him as the fulfillment of God’s promises to Israel. All of that matters for Matthew’s audience and for us. But equally important to the theological claim, and something easily overlooked by people like me who haven’t had this experience, is the fact that Jesus’ life and ministry were shaped by forced migration. By being on the run. By a dangerous journey away from violence and toward whatever safety could be found in a foreign land.Most of us have no idea what that is like—to leave everything behind, to be that vulnerable, to live at the mercy of strangers in a strange land. There are all sorts of stories that tell us about the dangers migrants face on their journeys. One of the most illuminating I’ve read comes from Caitlin Dickerson’s cover article in The Atlantic called “Seventy Miles in Hell.” Dickerson and a photographer, Lynsey Addario, traveled alongside families as they crossed a perilous jungle passage known as the Darién Gap: a stretch of wilderness between Colombia and Panama that, in recent years, has become one of the most common and dangerous routes toward Central America and, eventually, the United States. Dickerson introduces us to a family she meets at the beginning of the journey. Bergkan and his partner Orlimar are from Venezuela, not yet married, parents to two children: Isaac, who is two, and Camila, eight. This was never the life they imagined. Their dream was to build a future in Venezuela, but poverty and persecution forced them to leave. So they formed a new dream and took drastic measures to make it possible.The night before they set out, Bergkan voiced his fear: What if someone gets hurt? What if a child gets sick? What if someone is bitten by a snake—or worse? On the very first day, sharp inclines tore their shoes. After carrying his two-year-old all morning, along with his partner’s bag, Bergkan collapsed to the ground, already exhausted, physically and mentally. He emptied the bag, leaving behind what little they had: old headphones, sandals, a couple pairs of shoes. Along the way, porters offered goods and services at steep prices: five dollars for a bottle of water, a hundred dollars an hour to carry a bag or a child. The journey had already cost the family a thousand dollars per person, with no guarantee they would survive it. Each day brought new threats. The camps were riddled with scams, fear of sexual assault, and the risk of kidnapping. The family eventually made it out of the jungle, but what they witnessed stayed with them: hungry travelers begging for food, nearly naked people desperate for clothing, sick children unable to go on. We don’t know what ultimately happened to this family. The last update placed them in Mexico City, unsure of what came next. It was a dream that drove Joseph and Mary to drastic measures too. We’re given no details about their journey. But if stories like Bergkan and Orlimar’s tell us anything, it could not have been easy. Were porters offering their services along the way? Were they robbed of the gold, frankincense, and myrrh they had just received? Did Mary face the threat of sexual assault? Did Joseph collapse from exhaustion, carrying his child and his partner’s belongings? We’re told nothing about the years the holy family spent in Egypt. No details. No stories. Just silence. Did Joseph struggle to find work? Did people resent him for it—muttering that he was taking jobs that belonged to someone else? Did they struggle with the Demotic language and told to just learn it? To adapt faster? To be grateful they were there at all? I have to believe that all of that shaped Jesus’ life and ministry—that when later he spoke about feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, caring for the sick, and welcoming the stranger he was not speaking in abstractions. “What you do—or fail to do—to the least of these, you do to me. Because it was me and my family.” All of it presses the same truth into us: the holy family did not just flee danger—they also lived the hard, unseen reality of being immigrants. If we had been there—if we had seen the holy family on the road to Egypt—I think we’d like to believe we would have helped them. That we would have offered water. Food. A place to rest. Somewhere safe to stay along the way. We imagine ourselves as the ones who would welcome them in, who would protect a frightened mother and a vulnerable child, who would offer dignity after such a perilous journey. So why do we not do the same now—for the struggling, suffering migrants who, following a dream, flee violence and traverse hell to get here, just as the Holy Family once did? Today, instead of recognizing them, we scapegoat people like them. We call them garbage and their countries hellholes. We create policies not just to deter migration, but to make it harsher, more painful, more dangerous. Matthew forces us to see Jesus and the holy family in every family that follows a dream, that flees persecution, that escapes some kind of hell, and is forced to settle in a new land. Arguing about whether Jesus was a refugee or not is a waste of time. What matters is how we treat the people today who find themselves in the same situation the hol

  7. 12/25/2025

    History Rhymes, Grace Repeats

    Isaiah 11:2-9 The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him,the spirit of wisdom and understanding,the spirit of counsel and might,the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord. His delight shall be in the fear of the Lord. He shall not judge by what his eyes see,or decide by what his ears hear;but with righteousness he shall judge the poor,and decide with equity for the meek of the earth;he shall strike the earth with the rod of his mouth,and with the breath of his lips he shall kill the wicked. Righteousness shall be the belt around his waist,and faithfulness the belt around his loins. The wolf shall live with the lamb,the leopard shall lie down with the kid,the calf and the lion and the fatling together,and a little child shall lead them. The cow and the bear shall graze,their young shall lie down together;and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp,and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder’s den. They will not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain;for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lordas the waters cover the sea. A friend suggested a repriseof a sermon I gave years agoShe called it a rap, but I’m not that cool.It was a poem, at best, it read like a slam.I thought I’d give it another go. But history never repeats itselfIt often rhymes, they say.So I won’t do a re-run, that would be lame,But I’ll try something new– in the same vein –about this baby who’s on the way. I’m no Andrea Gibson or Maya AngelouNo Shel Silverstein or Doctor SeussI’m a preacher whose preached Christmas, 24 years plus oneSo something a bit different seemed like something more fun. I could preach and pontificate, I’ve done that beforeI could rant, rail, and scare – you can get that next door.Maybe this will inspire both your heart and your headAnd keep you from dreaming of sugar plums and bed. The last time I did this –rhymed my way through Christmas Eve –My youngest – Max – had just been bornMy oldest – Jack – wasn’t yet 3. So much has changed, since then, for sure18 years back, where’d you do Christmas Eve?Think of what’s different in your life and our worldDid you celebrate something? Or have something to grieve? And how have things been in just the last year?More joys than sorrows, I pray.As we gather again, with our candles and carols,Are you counting your blessings? Or just surviving the day? Whatever it is, this time around,I hope God meets you in this placeThat’s the message of Christmas: Immanuel – God with usAnd among us, come what may. And again, history doesn’t repeat itselfBut they say it often rhymesThat seems to be true where faith is concernedAnd how God shows up in real time So let’s see what rhymes this Christmas EveLet’s turn back the clock to hearSomething old that could be new againIf we let God’s love come near. The history of faith’s peoplebegan in a garden long agoWhere God breathed life into dust and bonesBut God’s children just couldn’t say “no.” They refused to keep their hands offof a tree that promised liesThey heard God in the sound of the evening breezeAnd hid from angry eyes But God’s eyes of righteous judgementEnvisioned hope in equal portionThe Creator could see, beyond their Sin,A future of salvation. Soon there was that awful floodbut God saved the family of Noahand made a promise to love without endAnd sealed it with a bow. Then there was that Babel tower – Humanity tried to reach the divineTheir sins of Greed and Pride and PowerGot them scattered far and wide Generations laterGod’s Chosen Ones were slaves set freeLost and afraid, but guided,By clouds and fire their eyes could see They were passed over and sparedAnd they crossed through the Red SeaThey wandered the wilderness,And they followed God’s lead And there were tablets and tabernaclesSerpents, wonders and signsAll proof of God’s presenceThe same, but different, each time Because history doesn’t repeat itself,But like God’s grace, it rhymes.And across generations this history rhymedAs God’s people mastered losing their wayThey counted their sins and hid from their GodLetting judgement and shame win the dayBut God was never into just counting our SinFor the sake of proving us wrongGod was all about leading with mercy and loveSo we’d make a world that sounds like a song A song of hope for those with noneA song of faith when fear has wonA song of peace when wars still rageA song of love that might turn the page A song that rhymes, not repeats, in beautiful waysthat started anew with a SonWho was born so we’d see just what grace could dowhen we walk in the way of God’s love Because it’s not about you and it’s not about meIt’s all about “us” and about “them”It’s about how – together – we’re part of this planTo love one and all to the end Because God may still show up in rainbows and cloudsIn signs, in miracles, in dreamsBut Jesus showed up to show God revealedin people like you and like me We’re alike and we’re different in beautiful waysWe live and we move and we breatheWe walk common ground, we fear, long, and needBut still forget who are neighbors can be Like Jesus they don’t have a safe place to landLike his was, their world isn’t safeLike Jesus they rely on the kindness of strangersLike him they’re dependent on grace He’s the gay kid that’s bulliedHe knows about poor, single momsHe’s the Dad with no papersHe hides underground from bombs He shelters-in-place in the classroomHe takes cover beneath pewsHe’s on both sides of our borderAnd he’s exhausted by our news His nights aren’t as silent As we pretend they should beHis future’s not certainAnd he looks to you and to me In Jesus God shows up, draws close, comes nearIn Christ, God comes down from on highIn Jesus we’re called to do more of the same:To get off our cloud and no longer deny That grace isn’t just ours,it’s ours to share at all costsThis Gospel’s only good newsWhen it’s shared with the lost And God knows what it is to be utterly lostThis boy showed up and got lost on the CrossHe died there for our sake, so that we could seeWhat “once and for all” actually means. If you need it today, then take it, for sureIf you’re hungry then, please, have your fillBut let this grace find, free, and change youuntil your life overflows with goodwill Goodwill not just for men, but for women, tooAnd for everyone else in-between.Goodwill for the ones who are broken and hurtingFor the hopeless, the loveless, the mean. So, what might make Christmas rhyme once again?We can’t repeat the coming of this ChildBut if God stepped into skin once way back thenGod can surely take root in our lives Because we’ve seen it time after time beforehistory rhymes it doesn’t repeatSo let God show up this Christmas, once moreMaking us Love’s voice, hands, and feet. Amen. Merry Christmas.

  8. 12/21/2025

    Joseph, Jesus, and What’s in a Name

    Matthew 1:18-25 Now the birth of Jesus, the Messiah, took place in this way. When his mother, Mary, was engaged to Joseph, but before they were living together, she was found to be with child by the Holy Spirit. Being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, he planned to dismiss her quietly. But just when he resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph, Son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife. The child conceived in her womb is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” All of this took place to fulfill what had been spoken by the prophet: “Look, the virgin will conceive and bear a Son and he will be called ‘Emmanuel’ which means ‘God is with us.’” So Joseph did as he was commanded. He took Mary to be his wife, but he had no marital relations with her until after she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus. We all know names are a thing. I’ve gone by several over the years, depending upon my age, my station in life, and who it is that’s addressing me. My parents have called me by my initials – M.R. – short for Mark Randall – for as long as I can remember. I realize “M.R.” isn’t a thing at all, really. BJ, TJ, AJ, CJ, sure. JD is a good one. But “M.R.” is strange. It’s not shorter than Mark. It saves no time. And it doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, either. In High School, I was “Little Havel,” because I have an older brother. In college, I was “Long Hair,” or just plain “Havel,” because 95% of my circle of friends were known exclusively by our last names. My wife calls me “Schmoops” or “Schmoop-Dog,” courtesy of a random Seinfeld episode from years ago. To most of you I’m “Pastor Mark,” or just plain “Pastor,” which I find endearing in a way that surprises me, still. And my latest, favorite – which some of you may have read about in our daily, digital devotion this Advent – is courtesy of Clive Blackmon who calls me “Pastor Goofy.” I love it because he’s 2. And because his parents swear it has nothing to do with however in the world they talk about me at the Blackmon house, or when I’m not around. Anyway, I suspect some of you are wondering – like Joseph must have, had he known about what had been “spoken by the prophet” – what was he supposed to name this baby, “Jesus” or “Emmanuel?” “Jesus,” like the angel said, because he’s going to save his people from their sins? Or should it be “Emmanuel,” like the prophet predicted, because ‘God is with us?’ So, real quick … a little Bible study. It helps to know that “Jesus” is the linguistic, vernacular evolution of Yeshua … Joshua … the Old Testament hero … the successor to Moses … the guy who ultimately led the Israelites into the Promised Land. Joshua was Moses’ side-kick and protégé; the mighty military warrior; the brave and faithful leader of God’s chosen ones. And very early on in his story, from the Book of Joshua, he is promised – over and over and over again – that God would be a faithful presence, for him and with him, as he led God’s people to safety and security into that Promised Land. Joshua 1:5 – “No one shall be able to stand against you all the days of your life. As I was with Moses, so I will be with you; I will not fail you or forsake you.” Joshua 1:9 – “I hereby command you: Be strong and courageous; do not be frightened or dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” Joshua 1:17 – “Just as we obeyed Moses in all things, so we will obey you. Only may the Lord your God be with you, as he was with Moses!” So, God’s promised presence with Joshua was an encouragement for him and a measure of validation for his calling as a leader of God’s people. So Matthew conflates and connects that prophecy from Isaiah about Immanuel – “God with us” – with the naming of Yeshua … Joshua … Jesus, which means something like “Yahweh helps” or “Yahweh saves,” because the story of Joshua is covered up with this notion and promise that God accomplishes that help – God does the work of salvation – by way of God’s ever-faithful presence for and with God’s people. And the thing is, “Jesus” – as a name – wasn’t really all that special. It was a pretty common name actually, as you might imagine, once you know Joshua’s story. Lots of parents, apparently, had named their little boys after Joshua – this hero of their people. So, what we’re supposed to notice as much as anything – what’s really special about this story of Jesus’ naming – is that Joseph named him at all. We know about the drama and back story of Mary becoming pregnant in the first place – while she and Joseph were planning to be married, but before they had sealed the deal. We know that Joseph would have, could have, should have – by some standards – punished and abandoned Mary for what was sure to bring judgment, shame, and skepticism upon them both. So, Joseph’s act of naming this child was a bold, defiant, faithful, loving, brave act of adopting Jesus into his life, into his family – and into the family and line of David. It’s no mistake that Matthew reports the angel as having addressed Joseph so formally and completely: “Joseph, Son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife…” Names are a thing, after all, remember. Now, I’ve talked often about how much credit I like to give Mary for Jesus’ worldview … about his concern for the poor … about his call to do justice … about his passion for railing against the rich, the mighty, the oppressors of the world and the powers that be. I love, in these days of Christmas, to imagine Mary teaching and singing the words of her Magnificat as a quiet, holy, strange, rebellious lullaby to her little boy – while she carried him in her belly; in the manger on the night of his birth; and every time he wouldn’t sleep or needed to nurse; and all throughout his childhood, too. I imagine she sang something like that song she first sung upon learning of her pregnancy; that song about God’s mercy being for those who fear him; about a God who scatters the proud in the thoughts of their hearts; about a God who brings down the powerful from their thrones; who lifts up the lowly; who fills the hungry with good things and who sends the rich away empty. It’s no wonder Jesus grew up with a clear picture of what it looked like to do justice, to love his neighbor, to care for the poor, to forgive his enemies, to walk humbly with God, to flip some tables every once in a while, and all the rest. But this morning, we get a glimpse of – and a reminder that – Jesus learned some of that from Joseph, too. And it begins with this seemingly simple act of naming. Because naming a child was the father’s responsibility in Jesus’ day, and by doing that, Joseph was claiming Jesus as his. And it was no small thing – it was a bold, defiant, humble, loving, faithful act to welcome this Jesus into his family – the family and House of David. Joseph could have “dismissed her quietly,” remember. Or he could have had Mary cast out or killed, even, for claiming to be pregnant with the Holy Spirit’s baby; because who would believe that?! But what Joseph shows us – and what Jesus surely realized in time – was that his Dad chose righteousness and faithfulness and loving-kindness and grace over the law and over public opinion and over and above his own self-interest, his own self-preservation, his own pride, ego, and well-being. And to put it plainly, we need more Josephs in the world, these days. We need men – like Joseph and his little boy – who listen to and who believe women. We need men who stand up for and protect women and girls – like Joseph and his son did – when men in power would sooner doubt, disgrace, and demean them. We need men – like Joseph and Jesus – who don’t just go along to get along. We need men – like Joseph and Jesus – who break the rules – and maybe even the laws, on occasion – when they are unjust, unfair, and unkind. We need men – like Joseph and Jesus – who look for ways to sacrifice, to be generous, to be unapologetically vulnerable to God’s claim on their lives and to trust the difference they can make in the world, when they do. And we can – and we are called to do this – men, women, and everyone in between – no matter the names by which we are known in the world. We can – and we are called to do this – because of the name we share as baptized children of God, bound by love for one another and bound by love for the sake of the world, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.

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Weekly audio of sermons preached at Cross of Grace Lutheran Church in New Palestine, Indiana

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