Sermon Audio – Cross of Grace

Cross of Grace Lutheran Church

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

  1. 2D AGO

    Easter Slaps

    Matthew 28:1-10 After the Sabbath, while the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. Suddenly, there was a great earthquake for an angel of the Lord came and rolled back the stone from the entrance to the tomb, and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning and his clothing, white as snow. For fear of him, the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid. I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here. He has risen, as he said. Come and see the place where they lay him. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, ‘He has been raised from the dead and, indeed, he is going ahead of you to Galilee. There you will see him.’ This is my message for you.” So the women left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy and they ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly, Jesus met them and said, “Greetings!” They came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him. And he said to them, “Do not be afraid. But go and tell my brothers that I am going ahead of them to Galilee. There they will see me.” I hate to rain on our parade this morning, but please bear with me. I tried hard to find something light and fun and worth a laugh for this Eastertide, but I came up short. And, I decided there is plenty of time for bunnies and chocolates and dresses and bonnets and lilies and laughter and whatnot, over breakfast and Easter dinner. Because the more I spun this Easter Gospel around in my mind, the more I just kept hearing about the fear that seemed to be so much a part of what happened that day. Everything we just heard took place in relative darkness, after all, “just as day was dawning.” An angel showed up in a flash of lightning. The earth quaked. The guards at the tomb shook with fear. The women must have looked terrified because they’re told two times not to be afraid. (But who could blame them, for crying out loud?) And of course there’s this dead man walking and talking and living and moving and breathing and surprising people on the road – after everything we know that happened to him on Friday. So, this Gospel is a reminder about how messy and strange and crazy and terrifying, really, the resurrection must have been, that first time around. And, I have to say, it can suck the cute and the cuddly and the warm and fuzzy, right out of your Easter bonnet. And I decided that’s okay, because it reminds me about how much more serious and weighty all of this can be – in a good way – if we’ll let it. So, again, bear with me, please. Because I have Iran on the brain these days, for all the reasons. Not the least of which was the news a couple of weeks ago about that 19 year old member of their national wrestling team – Saleh Mohammadi – who was publicly executed, by hanging, along with two other young men – Mehdi Ghasemi and Saeed Davoudi – for what many believe to be false allegations at best, and unworthy of such a punishment, regardless. Anyway, all of this reminded me about a story from years ago, also out of Iran, about an Iranian family who spared the life of their son’s murderer, in the moments just before his public execution. An 18 year-old boy named Abdollah was killed in a street fight by another young man, named Balal, who was sentenced – like these three young men more recently – to be hanged in public. (And before we gasp self-righteously about that, it’s worth acknowledging that we do our own fair share of state-sanctioned executions in the US and that there are politicians and activists currently lobbying to televise them for all sorts of reasons.) So, back to Iran. Under Sharia law, a murder victim’s family is allowed to actually participate in a perpetrator’s execution and, in the case of Balal that I’m talking about, the family of his victim would do that by knocking the chair out from under the criminal whose neck hangs in the noose. However, when the time came for Abdollah’s family to finally get their revenge, to enact their justice … instead of kicking the chair out from under the feet of their son’s killer, Abdollah’s mother approached the gallows, asked for a chair of her own, climbed up onto it, slapped the guilty man across the face, and then declared her forgiveness of him for all to see. Photograph: Arash Khamoushi/AP Her husband – the dead boy’s father – then helped his wife remove the noose, and they let the man who killed their son walk away and live. Photograph: Arash Khamoushi/AP There are a million lessons for us here – hard, holy lessons about revenge and retribution; forgiveness and mercy; about guilt and grace. (The victim’s family said living with their anger and hatred and inability to forgive their son’s killer was like living in a prison of their own construction; that their un-forgiveness was like poison in their lives. Islam’s Koran – their book of faith – is said to promise that “anyone who saves a life, saves a whole world,” which is something many people choose to ignore or deny about what our Muslim brothers and sisters believe, a lot of the time.) And I think Jesus would have us wish for and work toward that kind of forgiveness for anyone who hears this story, too. But it’s Easter and, in addition to acknowledging that these are the kind of people being destroyed by the war that rages as we worship safely on this side of the empty tomb today, I think there’s even more for us here, than a command or invitation to live more faithfully; to do better; to be more like Abdollah’s family – or even just to be more like Jesus. Because, as much as I hear a challenge and invitation to see myself on the chair where that grieving mother stood – with all kinds of power to choose vengeance or grace; to choose worldly justice or holy mercy – I feel as inspired as I feel guilty and convicted or worse, because I’m not certain at all that I’d have the faith or the courage or the kindness or the character to do what they did. And it’s Easter, so I’m feeling even more challenged and encouraged to imagine myself standing on the other chair, with my neck in a noose … but surprised and overwhelmed with relief as that rope is slowly and surely, kindly and graciously, loosened and lifted by the goodness of God. See, we may not all be murderers, actually sentenced to a public execution in the town square. But we are all sinners – each of us broken in some way that burdens us and that threatens to keep us from being everything God created us to be. We are liars. We are cheaters. We are self-righteous. We are selfish. We are greedy. We are judgmental. We gossip. We manipulate. We take advantage of God’s creation. We vote with our wallets instead of with our conscience. We are silent while others suffer. We are filled-up while others starve. We could pile it on for hours, couldn’t we? So much so that we can imagine the chair of our lives starting to tip and totter and tilt beneath our feet; the noose around our necks tightening in ways that threaten to undo us with guilt and shame. But it’s Easter. And today’s Good News means those sins never have the last word. The sins that lead to emotional, spiritual, even physical death in so many ways for us, don’t have authority over God’s grace in our lives. Because it’s Easter – and this is the day of our second chance; or third, or fourth, or whatever. It’s Easter – and this is the day of our liberation. It’s Easter – and this is the messy, scary, crazy kind of day when we get slapped in the face by the grace of God and when we realize that our death sentence has been revoked … commuted … undone … and transformed into new life – on this side of Heaven and the next – in the name of Jesus Christ, crucified and risen for the sake of the world. Amen. Alleluia. Happy Easter.

  2. 4D AGO

    Good Friday - Gethsemane Prayers

    Mark 14:32-42 They went to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to his disciples, “Sit here while I pray.” He took with him Peter and James and John and began to be distressed and agitated. And he said to them, “My soul is deeply grieved, even to death; remain here, and keep awake.” And going a little farther, he threw himself on the ground and prayed that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him. He said, “Abba, Father, for you all things are possible; remove this cup from me, yet not what I want but what you want.” He came and found them sleeping, and he said to Peter, “Simon, are you asleep? Could you not keep awake one hour? Keep awake and pray that you may not come into the time of trial; the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” And again he went away and prayed, saying the same words. And once more he came and found them sleeping, for their eyes were very heavy, and they did not know what to say to him. He came a third time and said to them, “Are you still sleeping and taking your rest? Enough! The hour has come; the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners. Get up, let us be going. Look, my betrayer is at hand.” Thursdays are the roughest mornings in my household. On Thursdays, Clive, my three-year-old, goes to “school” for four hours. As soon as he wakes up and realizes what day it is, he starts: “I don’t want to go to school. Please don’t make me go. I want to stay here with you.” The other days of the week he’s spoiled rotten by a mix of grandparents who watch him. So Thursdays have become the hardest day of the week. Who knew playing with friends, eating snacks, going outside for recess, and painting was so tough. When we pick him up, he gleams about his day and the fun he’s had. But drop-off… that’s another story. A few weeks ago I took him, and the whole car ride he kept saying what he had started earlier that morning: “Please don’t make me go. I don’t want to go. You can take me with you.” Finally we got into school, walked to his classroom, and said goodbye, or tried to. Clive gripped me tight, saying again, “Please don’t make me do this.” I peeled him off me, told him it would be okay, and left. And as I walked away, he threw himself on the ground like only a toddler can do and wailed. And I knew he would be fine. The teacher texted later and said he was having a blast within minutes. But as I walked down that hallway, hearing him sob, it hurt my heart. I kept thinking, this is awful. Maybe you’ve experienced this as a parent, hearing your child plead, “please don’t make me do this.” Or maybe you were the child pleading. Whether you have been the child pleading or the parent walking away, you have stood closer to Gethsemane than you realize. All throughout Lent we have been listening to prayers from Hebrew Scripture and the people who prayed them. Again and again we discovered that many of those prayers were our prayers too. Prayers we have prayed without realizing it. Prayers we wanted to pray but weren’t sure we were allowed to pray. Tonight is no different. Because Jesus’ prayer in Gethsemane may be the most relatable, honest, raw, and human prayer in all of scripture. Up until now, Jesus has never wavered in his journey to Jerusalem. He never hints that he wants things to go another way. And so we begin to imagine a Jesus who isn’t afraid, a Jesus who wants the cross, a Jesus who is somehow different from us. But at Gethsemane we discover something important. Jesus is afraid. He hopes there is another way. He does not want to die. Because he is human, as human as you and me. After the meal they shared together and with Judas gone to do what Judas does, Jesus takes the eleven disciples to Gethsemane, which in Mark is more like an olive grove than a garden. He takes his closest companions, Peter, James, and John, a little further in among the trees. And something happens to Jesus there. He begins to shake. He is overwhelmed with sorrow and fear, so much so that he tells his friends, “I am so sad I feel like I could die.” And going a little further, he throws himself on the ground, like a child at drop-off, and he prays: “Father, I know you can change this. Please don’t make me do this.” It is an honest prayer; probably one Jesus hesitated saying out loud because it meant Jesus still had some hope: hope it won’t happen. Hope there is another way. Hope that my Father will save me, because I don’t want to do this. And I wonder what it was like for God to hear that prayer. To hear your child begging you to stop what is coming. To hear your beloved pleading with you to save him. I wonder if it hurt God’s heart, infinitely more than mine on that Thursday. I have to believe it did. And I have to believe God’s heart hurts too when we pray this same thing today. This is the prayer of anyone who has cried out, “Save me.” It’s the prayer of the young couple who finds out for the 10th, 15th, or 20th time that the pregnancy test is negative. It’s the prayer of the cancer survivor driving in for another first round of chemo. It’s the prayer of anyone who has needed friends, desperate for support, for care, only to find them asleep, indifferent to your suffering, leaving you alone while you cry and shake in fear and despair on the ground. Everyone eventually prays in Gethsemane. In desperation we all say to God, “Please don’t make me do this.” “Please don’t let this happen.” “Please take this away.” And sometimes the cup does not pass. And that is why we need Good Friday. Because Jesus’ prayer does not end there. He also says, “Yet, not what I want, but what you want.” I don’t want to do this, God. Yet, I trust you. I am scared, God; yet I will do it. The prayer does not change what is coming. The cup does not pass. But Jesus trusts God anyway. It is the most sacrificial and divine prayer we get in all of scripture, showing us again Jesus is fully God, too. It is a prayer of obedience, yes. But more than that it is a prayer of trust. Not the kind of trust that says everything happens for a reason or don’t worry God’s got a plan. But the kind of trust that says, even here, even now, against all logic and reason, I will trust. Having said his deepest hope, the secret he didn’t want to utter, sharing his greatest fear, Jesus can now trust God with all that is about to happen. I don’t lift this nevertheless part up as something to emulate, as if we just need to be obedient like Jesus was. That’s not the good news of this prayer nor this day. The good news is that this prayer leads Jesus to the cross. Jesus gets up from the ground, walks out of gethsemane, and walks toward suffering, toward abandonment, toward death: for you, for me, and for everyone who has ever prayed this prayer and the cup didn’t pass. Jesus has stood where we stand. Jesus has prayed what we pray; feared what we fear; and suffered what we suffer. And because of that, there is no place of suffering we can go where he has not already been. That’s the good news of Good Friday. That on our roughest day, when we throw ourselves to the ground and plead with God to take the cup away, we remember that Jesus has already drunk from it. The cup may not pass. But we are not alone. Amen.

  3. 6D AGO

    Maundy Thursday - Meals with Meaning

    John 13:1-17, 31-35 Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus answered, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” Peter said to him, “You will never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” Simon Peter said to him, “Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!” Jesus said to him, “One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you.” For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, “Not all of you are clean.” After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, “Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord — and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them. When he had gone out, Jesus said, “Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, ‘Where I am going, you cannot come.’ I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” As many of you know, we’ve been making our way through these Lenten days by praying the prayers of our ancestors, inspired by prayers and pray-ers, particularly, from the Hebrew Scriptures – David, Abraham, Hannah, Jonah, Solomon, and Jeremiah. We’ve prayed for and about some heavy stuff … forgiveness, discernment, justice, despair, and more. And tonight’s worship is loaded with things to wonder about and pray for, too – this Maundy Thursday where Jesus’ command to love one another is modeled by the washing of feet at the table of his Last Supper. Jesus unloads all of these symbols and expressions and practices of faith meant to teach and inspire and command his disciples, and us, to do likewise – to eat, drink, serve, love, remember. And it seems odd that there would be foot-washing during dinner, but I think that’s just a sign that we have a lot in common, still, with Jesus and his people. I mean that it seems a timeless and universal Truth that meals are very often literal and spiritual nourishment for God’s people that bolster our connection and that encourage our mission in the world. See, it was deliberate that those close friends and followers of Jesus met in that upper room to share that Passover meal together, when, where, and how they did. And I like to imagine there was some measure of fun and levity involved, before things got serious. I mean … before Judas sneaked away and before Jesus broke out the wash basin, before all of that praying. I like to imagine they laughed and told stories and made fun of Peter for being late or James for boss-hogging the good seat and that they were glad Martha was in charge of baking the bread this year. Whatever the case, all of it was to remind them of their history, their heritage, their connection – one to another – and their connection to something bigger than themselves; their connection to the love they were being called to put into action. Because Jesus knew they would need that reminder – powered by all of those special effects – the bread, wine, water, and foot-washing, I mean – as they entered into the days, weeks, and years that followed. And can’t we all think of a meal – or moments around food and drink – that connect us with others in powerful ways; that recall holy moments; that feed us physically; and that nourish us spiritually; that remind us that we are part of something bigger? Can you think of what I’m getting at, from your own life’s experience? Maybe it was a wedding reception … a retirement party … a simple dinner that turned into a date ... a supper you didn’t know would be someone’s “last,” at the time? I think about the meals a team shares before a big game, a match, a tournament, the end of a season. Those meals are about comradery and preparation, team spirit, team work, shared goals, and a common mission. (There will be many of those this weekend, downtown, prior to the Final Four, I’m sure.) I think about Joe McCain’s funeral luncheon last Saturday – and every funeral meal we share in this place, really – which are abundant expressions of love and comfort and friendship and faith, that sometimes only homemade cookies and casseroles can convey. I think of the meals I’ve shared in Haiti, prepared by hands, in homes, that have so very little, but that share so generously, with the teams of people who have made those trips over the years. (I’ll never forget the 45th birthday party the sisters threw for me there – September 4, 2018 – somehow finding balloons, baking a cake, and toasting with champagne in mis-matched glasses of every size and shape, for the occasion.) I think about learning how to properly peel, eat and appreciate seafood by way of the heaps of shrimp and crawfish poured out on my Grandma Giraud’s table in New Orleans. And I think about the best rhubarb pie, made by my Grandma Magsig baked for Thanksgiving dinners in Ohio. I think about the countless pizzas – and even more beers – I’ve shared at a place called Plank’s in Columbus – almost weekly in college, and at my graduation from Capital University, for my wedding rehearsal dinner, my 50th birthday, and where we’ll gather again in a few weeks for my son Jack’s college graduation, too. I think about the 18 Christmas Eve dinners I’ve rushed through at the Reece’s home every year between the 7:30 and 11 o’clock Christmas Eve worship services. I think about the “Dinners with the Pastors” we’ve hosted over the years as part of our Silent Auction. I think of Mardi Gras and Oktoberfest. These moments and memories are the kind of thing Jesus was after, I believe, when he broke that bread, passed that wine around, washed all of those feet, and then made his way to the cross. He was connecting a moment in time with a movement of the Spirit. He was connecting an expression of love with a command to share it. He was connecting our physical senses with our spiritual sense of call. He was filling his people with food and purpose and sending them out to fill the world with the kind of love with which he, himself, was filled to overflowing. Jesus knew exactly what he was doing and it’s why he asks us to do the same. Eat this bread. Drink this wine. Do this in remembrance of me. And wash these feet – and those feet – and even and especially those feet – just as I’ve shown you to do. Love one another, the way I’ve already … and always … loved you, first. I hope these young people who’ve learned a new thing or two about Holy Communion, will hold the memory of this night in a way that will find them and fill them for the rest of their lives. I hope the taste and smell of the bread and wine, the familiarity of the words, the sound of the hymns, the sense of the love that surrounds and supports them, and the power of Jesus’ prayer to do this in remembrance of him will be a connection and an encouragement for them in all the days to come for their walk of life and faith in the world. And I hope the same is true for each of us, too. That we’ll always taste and see something new … and familiar … and life-giving … as we do all of this together – and in remembrance – of the grace we know in Jesus. Amen

  4. MAR 29

    Parade of Grace

    Matthew 21:1-11 When they had come near Jerusalem and had reached Bethphage, at the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two disciples, saying to them, ‘Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately you will find a donkey tied, and a colt with her; untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, just say this, “The Lord needs them.” And he will send them immediately.’ This took place to fulfil what had been spoken through the prophet, saying, ‘Tell the daughter of Zion,Look, your king is coming to you,humble, and mounted on a donkey,and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.’ The disciples went and did as Jesus had directed them; they brought the donkey and the colt, and put their cloaks on them, and he sat on them. A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. The crowds that went ahead of him and that followed were shouting, ‘Hosanna to the Son of David!Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!Hosanna in the highest heaven!’ When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, ‘Who is this?’ The crowds were saying, ‘This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.’ What’s your favorite parade? From the Macy’s Day Parade to Mardi Gras, St. Patrick’s Day, and countless Independence Day celebrations, we Americans love parades. Some of my favorite childhood memories are from attending or marching in one. Growing up in Anderson, we had the Midnight Parade. It was on the night of July 3rd, but it started at midnight, claiming to be the first July 4th parade in all the land.  I loved watching the civic groups march along the route, many I would have never known existed had it not been for the parade. I remember the joy of little kids getting so excited about terrible candy thrown at their feet. Who knew Tootsie Rolls and Airheads could make someone so happy? Most special of all was when we surprised my mom with tickets to the Rose Parade in Pasadena. Every New Year’s Day it was on in our house growing up. As we watched, she always said, “Can’t you just smell it? I bet the smell is amazing.” And the parade did not disappoint. The floats were extraordinary, the bands terrific, and the smell indeed was amazing. Every parade tells a story — a story of identity, values, and heritage. Mardi Gras tells a story of joy, indulgence, and fun. Pride tells a story of celebration, love, and identity. The Rose Parade tells a story of creation and beauty. And what makes a parade good is that it draws you in. You don’t want to just watch it. You want to be part of it, not just a spectator. The people of Jesus’ time were no strangers to parades. Because if one ancient people can be credited with the culture of parades, it’s the Romans. They were known for their grand displays of power. One example was called the Adventus. That’s when a Roman governor or emperor entered a city under Roman control. First came the golden eagle — the symbol of Rome. Then banners and battle flags with Roman gods on them. Then the trumpeters announcing their arrival. Then the display of power: cavalry and foot soldiers dressed in full armor. And then finally came the governor or emperor himself, riding a war horse or chariot. And behind him, chained prisoners — living proof of Rome’s power. The Adventus parade told a story that was very clear: Rome is in charge. Rome has power. Rome wins. The Jews of Judea, including Jesus, were familiar with Adventus, because that’s how Pontius Pilate would have entered Jerusalem for Passover. Pilate didn’t actually live in Jerusalem. He lived in a Roman city near the coast. But every year, during Passover, he would come to Jerusalem. Because Passover made Roman officials nervous. It was a celebration of liberation from oppression under Pharaoh. And Pilate knew people might take that opportunity to protest their oppression under Caesar. So to remind everyone who was in charge, who had the power, Pilate would hold an Adventus. Coming from Caesarea, this huge procession would have entered Jerusalem from the west, quelling even the idea of an uprising. But there was another parade into Jerusalem, this one coming from the East.  Jesus and his disciples were in Bethphage when he made an unusual request: Go into the next little town and bring me a donkey and her colt. Matthew even tells us Jesus somehow sits on both of them, which is a little odd and maybe even a little funny to picture. But that’s not really the point. Matthew tells us this happened to fulfill the words of the prophet Zechariah: “Look, your king is coming to you, humble and riding on a donkey.” Jesus isn’t just finding a ride into town. He is making a statement. He is telling the people exactly who he is. He is the one they have been waiting for. And thus begins the parade. With no flags or banners to wave, they take off their cloaks and line the street with them. There are no drums, just the sound of branches snapping off trees and being spread along the road. And the only music is the crowd shouting, “Save us, Son of David! Save us!” That’s what Hosanna means: save us, please. This was a crowd of poor peasants, hurting under the occupation of Rome. And finally here comes their hope — the one they call Son of the king, the rightful heir to the throne; coming to overthrow Rome and restore the kingdom of David, just like his ancestor talked about, like his own mother sang about. Now that’s a story. That’s a parade that draws you in, one you want to be a part of, not just a spectator. I guess that’s why we reenact this parade with palms of our own every year. We find ourselves in that crowd. We may not be poor peasants under Roman occupation, but we still know things are not as they should be.  We need a change. We too want to crown Jesus. We too shout Hosanna — save us, O God. Save us from war and division.Save us from hatred and injustice.Save us from everything that keeps this world from being what you created it to be. I wonder when the crowd realized that their parade was not what they thought it was. When did it register that what they wanted Jesus to do and what Jesus was about to do were two very different things? At some point in the week ahead, the crowd is going to realize that their hope isn’t going to play out like they thought it would.  I imagine at some point they wandered over to the west side of town. Maybe they saw the Adventus, Pilate with all his power entering the city. Or maybe they just heard about it — the horses, the soldiers, the brute force. That parade lured them in. It told them a story, veiled in threats, about how the world works: a world governed by strength and power. Pretty soon after that parade of branches and cloaks, the crowd remembered Jesus on a donkey and compared that to Pilate’s parade, Rome’s parade, and realized he didn’t stand a chance. They weren’t in a parade on the east side of Jerusalem that day. They were in a funeral procession, following the hearse the whole time. So they switch sides. And in just a few short days they will go from “Save us!” to “Kill him,” from hail him to nail him. We are still in that same crowd. It’s tempting to think we would have stayed by Jesus’ side, that we would have understood, that we would have been different. But we are the same crowd. We want a savior who fixes things, who wins, who makes life easier, who proves we are right and our side is right. We want a powerful king, not a crucified rebel. We want victory, not sacrifice. We want resurrection, but we would really prefer to skip Good Friday. And when Jesus doesn’t do what we want, we start looking for another parade to join. But Jesus never wanted to be king, at least not the way the world understands kings. His goal was never to display power, but to redefine it; passing on the crown so that he could pick up a cross instead. So this Holy Week, stay in the crowd. You’ve already started in the parade. You’re already a participant in this story. So go a bit deeper. Gather with Jesus and the disciples around the table as we remember the Last Supper and celebrate First Communion with some young partners in mission.  Walk all the way to Golgotha on Good Friday. Hear the chants of “Crucify him.” See how the same people who shouted Hosanna put Jesus on a cross.But the parade doesn’t stop there. If we follow Jesus all the way, we will find ourselves at an empty tomb. And we will realize the parade wasn’t just a funeral procession, but an inauguration, where Jesus is crowned not as a king, but as the savior; defeating sin and death not by power and force, but by obedience, humility, and above all, grace… Which he hands out like candy, freely to anyone who wants to grab it. That’s my favorite parade. Not one of power. But one of grace. Amen.

  5. MAR 25

    Jonah: Prayer of Despair

    Jonah 2:1-9 Then Jonah prayed to the Lord his God from the belly of the fish, saying, “I called to the Lord out of my distress, and he answered me; out of the belly of Sheol I cried, and you heard my voice. You cast me into the deep, into the heart of the seas, and the flood surrounded me; all your waves and your billows passed over me. Then I said, ‘I am driven away from your sight; how shall I look again upon your holy temple?’ The waters closed in over me; the deep surrounded me; weeds were wrapped around my head at the roots of the mountains. I went down to the land whose bars closed upon me forever; yet you brought up my life from the Pit, O Lord my God. As my life was ebbing away, I remembered the Lord; and my prayer came to you, into your holy temple. Those who worship vain idols forsake their true loyalty. But I with the voice of thanksgiving will sacrifice to you; what I have vowed I will pay. Deliverance belongs to the Lord!” First of all, it’s meaningful to see Jonah’s prayer as one about thanksgiving as much as it is about despair. Oddly enough, Jonah sees his place in the belly of that fish as a sign of God’s deliverance. What most of us would imagine as a great source of despair – being swallowed by a large fish and living in its gut for three days – was ultimately seen as a sign of his rescue, for Jonah. His real fear … the great despair … to which he refers in the prayer we just heard, actually took place on the ship and in the storm that landed him in the sea in the first place. I’ve talked before about what a source of fear and punishment the sea was for ancient people – and for those in Jesus’ day, too. The sea and its depths were as unknown as outer space is – or has been – for us. Without means to deep sea dive, snorkel, or see beyond the depths to which even the best swimmer might swim on a single breath’s worth of air, what lived and moved beneath the surface of the sea was left to the imagination – and that was terrifying. (I’d still much rather swim in a pool than a pond, to be honest.) And not only that, Jonah was under the impression that it was his own disobedience that caused the storm and upset the crew of the ship on which he had stowed away, and that got him tossed overboard into the deadly waters that closed over him, that surrounded him with weeds and darkness, until his life ebbed away with the waves that engulfed and threatened him. In those moments Jonah sounds as desperate as Jesus on the Cross. He talks about being removed from the home and presence of God – the Temple in Jerusalem – where God was believed to live and move and breathe. He laments the prospect of never getting back there. And Jonah wails about the Sea, he bemoans the Pit, and he cries over Sheol – all expressions of utter lostness, insurmountable distance from the Divine, despair upon despair upon despair. It reminds me of Jesus, dying on the cross, when he cries, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me.” The separation, the distance and the lostness sound familiar. And I’m always struck by the way Walt Wangerin describes that moment, which we’ll hear again on Good Friday. He calls it “obliteration,” says, “not even God was there,” imagines that Jesus had been “blotted out of the book of life,” and that “the universe was silenced” by Christ’s cry of despair. So, as we gather on this last of our Wednesday worship services inspired by the prayers of our ancestors … with Holy Week on the horizon … as we wonder about what it means to pray while in the throes of despair … we are in good company. Not just that of Jonah, but of Jesus, too. And, I want our feelings of despair – and our invitation to pray our way with and through that desperation – to serve as an expression of hope and as some inkling of the faith that may seem missing in our most desperate moments... days… seasons… whatever. When the diagnosis seems like you’ve been plunged into the depths of the sea… When the grief feels like you’ve been swallowed up and carried far from anything safe, or sure, or like home… When the pain and suffering literally hurts, burns, and stings like Sheol… When the fear, frustration, and stubbornness of whatever it is that just won’t give feels as insurmountable as the highest mountain or as deep as the darkest pit... When the unknown wraps itself around your heart of hearts like so many weeds and refuses to relent… It may help to know – hard as it is may be to see or celebrate in the moment – what Jonah trusted: that the same sea that caused his despair in the first place was also home to the fish that delivered him to dry land, in the end. I don’t mean for this to sound like a platitude. I’m not implying that God gives us our troubles as a test of faith. I’m certainly not saying our despair is unfounded or unfaithful, or pretending that we don’t have a right to our desperation when it comes. In fact, and this may sound harsh – and hard to hear or believe, coming from your Pastor – and I could be wrong. But I kind of think that if you haven’t found reason to despair at certain times in your life – if you haven’t lost or left your faith or felt lost or left by your faith or by our God at some point – maybe you’re just better than the rest of us; maybe you’re not watching the news; or maybe you’re not living in the same reality as so many of the rest of us. And I’m fairly certain that – no matter how great your faith, how deep your trust – if it hasn’t happened to you yet, despair will find you. And you’ll feel left with nothing but the desire and need to try to pray your way out of it. And sometimes that kind of despair is exactly how, where, and when God shows up for us. In the emptiness. In the void. In the doubt and fear and uncertainty we’re running from or feel so self-righteously indignant about in those moments when we’ve given up, chucked it all, thrown in the towel, felt like our life, our purpose, our hope is ebbing away into oblivion. And that kind of desperation is sad and scary, for sure. Not sinful, mind you. But sad and scary and lonely, as can be. So tonight, let’s acknowledge the despair that has found us – or that will one day. Let’s not be afraid to give it a voice, like Jonah did and like Jesus does, too. And let’s be as patient as we are able, as faithful as God allows, and let’s let love hold us, until hope – however great or small – returns by the grace of God. Because it’s also worth knowing that when Jesus cried “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” He was quoting Psalm 22. He knew his scripture, remember. So, in the depths of his despair, he was praying the prayers of his ancestors, much like we’ve been trying to do. And it’s believed Jesus latched onto that particular Psalm because he knew it ended with the kind of hope he was so desperately clinging to – or trying to find. That Psalm starts with “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”; it begins with words of groaning, mockery, and sneering … it starts with feeling despised and scorned and in need of rescue (just like Jonah) … it points to Jesus feeling poured out like water, bones out of joint, a heart melting in his chest, and being layed out like the dust of death, surrounded by dogs and bulls and evildoers, and more … But that Psalm – that prayer - ends, in spite of all that, with a request for – with hope that – with belief in – God’s capacity and desire for rescue. Hope for a God who will deliver and be worthy of praise. Trust in a God who does not despise… neglect… ignore… or hide. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Though I know you won’t forever! May our prayers be as desperate and despairing; as honest and hopeless; as angry and afraid and as overwhelmed and underwater as we feel more often than we wish was true. And because of that – may they also be tinged with – and leave plenty of room – for God’s rescue to find us, for God’s love to win the day, for God’s grace to lead us to the dry land of our deliverance. Amen

  6. MAR 22

    Bagged Salad, Lazarus, and the Glory of God

    John 11:17-44 When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb four days. Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, some two miles away, and many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha said to him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?” She said to him, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.” When she had said this, she went back and called her sister Mary and told her privately, “The Teacher is here and is calling for you.” And when she heard it, she got up quickly and went to him. Now Jesus had not yet come to the village but was still at the place where Martha had met him. The Jews who were with her in the house consoling her saw Mary get up quickly and go out. They followed her because they thought that she was going to the tomb to weep there. When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?” So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward and said, “Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.” When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.” I hate bagged salad. To this day, I can still remember the: like fermented lettuce soaked in apple cider vinegar and cat pee. It was putrid. Pallets of it were taken to the farm every week. You’ve probably heard me talk about the farminary before: farm plus seminary equals farminary. It was agriculture and theological education wrapped into one. Before my first class started, I had grand ideas about what the farminary would be like: romanticized thoughts about growing a huge, flourishing garden that would compete with Eden. On the first day of class, Nate Stucky, our professor and director of the farminary, led us to our first hands-on agricultural assignment. It wasn’t tilling rows, planting seeds, and certainly not picking any harvest. Instead, he led us to the compost pile and a pallet of bagged salad swarming with flies. Even now, I am convinced you could see green streaks of stench floating above it like in a cartoon. Nate told us, “Today you continue to help bring this farm back to life.” Before the farminary began, the land had been a sod farm and a Christmas tree farm. Both of those stripped the land of the good, rich soil, leaving behind infertile dirt that no one wanted. Nate knew when he began the farminary that the first thing he had to do was bring the soil back to life. Which meant students like me spent much of our time at the compost pile, ripping open thousands of bagged salad kits, dumping the contents onto the pile, and turning it over and over. And it wasn’t just rotten lettuce. Food waste from the dining hall. Coffee grounds from a local shop. Leaves from last fall. All of it together—a giant pile of smelly, dying compost—was what brought life to this barren land. When we stirred it all up and revealed the black soil at the bottom, Nate would say, “That’s resurrection.” The obvious, yet difficult thing about resurrection is that it requires death first. Most of us approach death like either Martha or Mary. Martha approaches it with hope. She is certainly grieved by her brother’s death—“Lord, if you had been here…” but at the same time she remembers the promises she’s heard her whole life about resurrection and life everlasting. So she responds with hope for the future: “God will do what you ask, and I know there will be resurrection someday.” But Jesus wants Martha to have hope in this life, not just the next. So he says, “I am the resurrection and the life. Do you believe this?” Jesus takes those promises we know in our heads and puts a face to them. In moments of loss and crisis and death, what matters most is not just what you know, but who you know—who you trust. You know about resurrection, Jesus says, but do you believe I am the one who brings life now, not just someday? Mary, on the other hand, comes with no speeches, no theology, no future hope. She says the same words as her sister, but without the reassurance: “Lord, if you had been here…” I imagine her angry and sad, crying on her knees, repeating that line over and over. Jesus doesn’t correct her or explain anything. He just meets her tears with his own. I find it comforting that Jesus seems to meet each sister where she is—strengthening Martha’s hope while sitting in Mary’s despair. Because whether we come with hope or with anger, with faith or with tears, Jesus still walks us to the tomb. Because it’s there at the tomb, in deep grief and pain, that Jesus reveals his glory. With the stench of death in the air, Jesus says to Martha, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” What Jesus is telling Martha, and us, is that the glory of God is revealed in resurrection: not just when hearts start beating again, but whenever something we thought was dead begins to live again. Yes, Lazarus is raised, but God’s glory is seen in anything that has been treated like it’s dead but brought back to life. In the things we have grieved, mourned, and wept over, but that somehow lives again. In the stuff that is rotting and stinking, yet somehow comes back to life. We can see this glory all around us. If you’ve ever been out west to Yellowstone National Park, one of the most common trees you’ll see is the lodgepole pine. When fires come through the park, they burn the trees and scorch the earth below. But in the heat, the pines release their resin-sealed seeds onto the ground. The flames melt the resin, the underbrush is cleared away, and out of the ashes rise new trees. What looks like destruction is actually preparation for new life. Death and resurrection. The glory of God. Or consider the Martindale–Brightwood neighborhood right here on the near northeast side of Indianapolis. Once a thriving neighborhood for middle-class Black families, it was systematically devastated by redlining and pollution, left to decay. But for decades now, churches, neighbors, and the Martindale–Brightwood Community Development Corporation have been working together to bring affordable housing, access to food, jobs, and mentoring for youth to the area—all signs of new life. It’s not a story of a thriving area, yet. But I bet Lazarus wasn’t running a marathon the next day. It’s slow, but it’s still death and resurrection. The glory of God. Think of your own life: a relationship once shattered is revived; a career thoroughly burned is brought back from the ashes; a love of God rekindled after years of church hurt and deconstruction. Each one an example of resurrection. The glory of God is seen in the dead, rotten, smelly, sealed-up places because that’s where new life is called forth. If we want resurrection, then we can’t be offended by a little stench. We can’t be too scared of death, because the two go together. And resurrection isn’t something we just witness. We are invited

  7. MAR 18

    Solomon: Prayer for Discernment

    1 Kings 3:4-14 The king went to Gibeon to sacrifice there, for that was the principal high place; Solomon used to offer a thousand burnt offerings on that altar. At Gibeon the Lord appeared to Solomon in a dream by night, and God said, “Ask what I should give you.”  And Solomon said, “You have shown great and steadfast love to your servant my father David because he walked before you in faithfulness, in righteousness, and in uprightness of heart toward you, and you have kept for him this great and steadfast love and have given him a son to sit on his throne today.  And now, O Lord my God, you have made your servant king in place of my father David, although I am only a little child; I do not know how to go out or come in. And your servant is in the midst of the people whom you have chosen, a great people so numerous they cannot be numbered or counted.  Give your servant, therefore, an understanding mind to govern your people, able to discern between good and evil, for who can govern this great people of yours?” It pleased the Lord that Solomon had asked this. God said to him, “Because you have asked this and have not asked for yourself long life or riches or for the life of your enemies but have asked for yourself understanding to discern what is right, I now do according to your word. Indeed, I give you a wise and discerning mind; no one like you has been before you, and no one like you shall arise after you. I give you also what you have not asked, both riches and honor all your life; no other king shall compare with you.  If you will walk in my ways, keeping my statutes and my commandments, as your father David walked, then I will lengthen your life.” Listen to your heart  when’s he’s calling for you. Listen to your heart, there’s nothing else you can do. I don’t know where you’re going and I don’t know why, but listen to your heart, before you tell him goodbye. Yes, that’s Roxette’s 1988 power-ballad “Listen to Your Heart.” Be honest: how many of you wore out the cassette tape, belting it in the car? Songwriter Per Gessle says he wrote the tune after an all-night talk with his best friend whose marriage was crumbling.  That pep-talk became a #1 hit, but here’s my problem with Per: catchy tune. Terrible advice; not only to his friend, but to the millions of people who listen to that song and think, “that’s how I’ll know what to do, I just need to listen to my heart.”  The sentiment has become the go-to cliché for discernment. The motto sounds innocent enough, but its implications are anything but. “Listening to your heart” is really code for turning inward—figuring out what you want, what you think you need—and letting that be the deciding factor.  We say it all the time in different ways: To the student choosing a major, study what makes you happy.  To the friend considering a relationship, be with the one who makes you happy. To anyone eyeing a new city or job, go where you’ll be happy. With this Roxette wisdom, the most important person in the equation is you, and the measure of a good choice is whatever benefits you most.  After all, as the song says, “there’s nothing else you can do.” Except there is. Because sooner or later we realize that turning inward pulls us in a dozen directions.  We don’t really know what we want; we misjudge what will make us happy—and we end up right back where we started, unsure what to do next.  That’s the crossroads where Solomon stood, and his prayer flips the slogan on its head: discernment isn’t listening to your heart; it’s asking God for a listening heart, one attuned to God and to the people around you. That request, a listening heart, is the heartbeat of this prayer. But notice how it starts. God says to the brand-new king, “Ask me for what I should give you.” Translation: Anything you want, Solomon - name it. Solomon responds with a little speech about how great God is and how faithful God was to his father David.  It sounds a bit like a child buttering up a parent before the big ask: “Mom, you’re the best mom; can I have candy for breakfast?” Solomon even calls himself “a little child who doesn’t know how to go out or come in.” Meaning, he has zero military experience; he doesn’t know how to lead an army out or bring one home—let alone guide a nation. That honesty is ironic, given how Solomon reached the throne.   He wasn’t ushered in by popular acclaim like his father David; others were ahead of him. With some help, he muscled his way in, banishing rivals to far-off places, arranging a few convenient deaths. He rose less like an anointed king and more like a mafia boss. Now he admits he’s in over his head. Solomon fought hard to reach the throne, only to realize he suddenly doesn’t know what to do. He could have made a candy-for-breakfast request—asking for the things kings usually crave: a long life, a larger kingdom, protection from rival nations. Had he turned inward and listened to his own heart, that’s likely what he would have asked for. But he doesn’t. Instead, he owns up to his limits and asks for help: “Give your servant an understanding mind to govern your people, able to discern between good and evil, for who can govern this great people of yours?”  Understanding mind doesn’t quite get at the depth of the Hebrew. Solomon is literally asking for a listening heart. In the Old Testament world, the heart was the decision-making center where thought and passion met. Notice he isn’t asking for a good heart, but a listening one: attentive to the petitions of the people he now leads, tuned to God’s voice, able to choose between good and evil—between what brings life and what brings death. This request almost seems surprising to God, who expected riches and long life and the death of enemies. But because Solomon did not ask for any of that, God gives the new king not only what he asked for, but also the very things he didn’t. This is not a story telling us that if we butter God up just right and ask for the perfect thing, God will give it to us and then some. Rather, what I hope you see is that we have all been in something like Solomon’s position. Sure, you haven’t acted like the Godfather to get what you want—or at least I hope not.  But all of us have found ourselves in a situation where others need us, depend on us, and we don’t know what to do. Maybe it’s something you’ve always wanted, something you’ve envisioned a thousand times, but once you finally arrived, you realized you had no idea what you were doing. Or perhaps you were thrust into a position you never wanted, and suddenly people are looking to you for help. It’s the newly married couple with no idea what they’ve gotten themselves into. The new father who is overwhelmed with parenting. The person who just got a promotion—or a divorce, or a diagnosis, or a diploma—but has no idea what to do next. What Solomon shows us is that rather than listen to your heart, we ask God for a listening heart: one that opens us to the needs of those around us, makes us aware of how our decisions affect others, and leads us to choose what brings life, not just for ourselves, but for all people.  That’s true discernment.  And that’s the prayer we carry with us tonight: God, give me a listening heart. In my home, in my work, in every place where others are depending on me. In those moments when I feel over my head and don’t know what to do, teach me to listen to you, and to those around me, so that what I choose leads to life. Amen.

  8. MAR 15

    Love is Not Blind

    John 9:1-41 As he walked along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Jesus answered, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him. We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming when no one can work. As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world.” When he had said this, he spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva and spread the mud on the man’s eyes, saying to him, “Go, wash in the pool of Siloam” (which means Sent). Then he went and washed and came back able to see. The neighbors and those who had seen him before as a beggar began to ask, “Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?” Some were saying, “It is he.” Others were saying, “No, but it is someone like him.” He kept saying, “I am the man.” But they kept asking him, “Then how were your eyes opened?” He answered, “The man called Jesus made mud, spread it on my eyes, and said to me, ‘Go to Siloam and wash.’ Then I went and washed and received my sight.” They said to him, “Where is he?” He said, “I do not know.” They brought to the Pharisees the man who had formerly been blind. Now it was a sabbath day when Jesus made the mud and opened his eyes. Then the Pharisees also began to ask him how he had received his sight. He said to them, “He put mud on my eyes. Then I washed, and now I see.” Some of the Pharisees said, “This man is not from God, for he does not observe the sabbath.” But others said, “How can a man who is a sinner perform such signs?” And they were divided. So they said again to the blind man, “What do you say about him? It was your eyes he opened.” He said, “He is a prophet.” The Jews did not believe that he had been blind and had received his sight until they called the parents of the man who had received his sight and asked them, “Is this your son, who you say was born blind? How then does he now see?” His parents answered, “We know that this is our son, and that he was born blind; but we do not know how it is that now he sees, nor do we know who opened his eyes. Ask him; he is of age. He will speak for himself.” His parents said this because they were afraid of the Jews; for the Jews had already agreed that anyone who confessed Jesus to be the Messiah would be put out of the synagogue. Therefore his parents said, “He is of age; ask him.” So for the second time they called the man who had been blind, and they said to him, “Give glory to God! We know that this man is a sinner.” He answered, “I do not know whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see.” They said to him, “What did he do to you? How did he open your eyes?” He answered them, “I have told you already, and you would not listen. Why do you want to hear it again? Do you also want to become his disciples?” Then they reviled him, saying, “You are his disciple, but we are disciples of Moses. We know that God has spoken to Moses, but as for this man, we do not know where he comes from.” The man answered, “Here is an astonishing thing! You do not know where he comes from, and yet he opened my eyes. We know that God does not listen to sinners, but he does listen to one who worships him and obeys his will. Never since the world began has it been heard that anyone opened the eyes of a person born blind. If this man were not from God, he could do nothing.” They answered him, “You were born entirely in sins, and are you trying to teach us?” And they drove him out. Jesus heard that they had driven him out, and when he found him, he said, “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” He answered, “And who is he, sir? Tell me, so that I may believe in him.” Jesus said to him, “You have seen him, and the one speaking with you is he.” He said, “Lord, I believe.” And he worshiped him. Jesus said, “I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind.” Some of the Pharisees near him heard this and said to him, “Surely we are not blind, are we?” Jesus said to them, “If you were blind, you would not have sin. But now that you say, ‘We see,’ your sin remains.” I’m not proud of it, but I binge-watched two-and-a-half seasons of the Netflix reality show “Love is Blind” over the course of two or three days, following my emergency gall bladder surgery in September. Again, I’m not proud. I confess. I repent. And I blame the pain meds. The premise of this waste of time is that men and women go on literal blind dates, where they spend a period of time dating one another behind walls and closed doors, in private rooms. They sit in pods and have all manner of discussion about all manner of things and decide without ever seeing each other, that they are in love, or not. During all of this, the men live in one shared space and the women in another. So, there’s competition and gossip and lies and drama. Eventually, there are marriage proposals and then face-to-face meetings those who get engaged. Then the lucky, newly-engaged couples travel together for a group romantic getaway where there is lots of sunshine, beaches, swimsuits, hot tubs, and the like. And more competition, in-fighting, gossip, lies, and drama, of course. All of this is build-up to each couple’s potential wedding day, the outcome of which is never known by anyone, for certain, until they reach the altar, dressed in tuxedos, wedding gowns and before very real pastors, priests, rabbis, and justices of the peace – according to their faith tradition, or lack thereof. Neither the viewer, nor the potential brides or the prospective grooms or their families, know for sure … until the very last moment … if the betrothed are going to say “I do.” Of course, the drama really comes when one of the two says “No” or “I Can’t” or “I Don’t” to their partner’s hopeful expression of love and commitment. It’s terrible – once the meds wore off, the pain was gone, and I was on the mend, I didn’t even bother to finish that third season. It’s one of the many signs of the decline of western civilization, I’m sure. It’s one of many reasons, I suspect, that, if there is intelligent life on other planets, they’ve decidedly NOT bothered to make contact. All of this is mostly confession and repentance, but I’ll come back to it – however briefly – in a minute. But first, this miracle story, which is a doozy … and a well-known one at that … the spit, the dirt, the mud pie – and this guy who’d been blind his whole life – who gets his eyesight back. And there are so many others … miracle stories, I mean, in Scripture: the little girl who gets up from a death-bed nap; Simon Peter’s mother-in-law, whose fever breaks; the demons who leave from that guy in the synagogue; the woman who had been hemorrhaging for years, the leper who’s made clean, and so on. And you can’t help but wonder about all those people – in Jesus’ day and in our own – whose healing never comes: the demon that never leaves; the fever that never breaks; the blindness that never goes away, the cancer, the diabetes, the dying that seem to win the day. And because of all that – because so many of us go without the miracles we long for – I can’t help but believe Jesus’ willingness and ability to heal doesn’t have as much to do with ridding people or the world of sickness as much as we’d like to believe or pretend. Just like the Pharisees, we get caught up in the “who, what, how, when, and where” of what Jesus did for this blind guy and we ignore or don’t care so much about what Jesus tells us – right at the beginning of it all – about the WHY of what he had done that day. This guy had been born blind, remember. And to his parents, to his neighbors, to the Pharisees, certainly, and even to the blind guy himself, that meant he was sinful in some way. As we know, medical science back in the day wasn’t what it is for us now – so many generations later. When someone was sick or even just different somehow – whether it was leprosy, leukemia or whatever it is that makes a lame person unable to walk – their difference was understood to be proof that they were being judged by God and punished, then, for some kind of sin. You can hear it in the disciples’ question to Jesus, before the healing occurs: “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents that he was born blind?” (Apparently, on top of all the rest, your physical diseases and differences could also be the result of another person’s sins, as well as your own.) But Jesus doesn’t break out the medical books, give the man an eye exam, make a diagnosis, or chart a treatment plan. He says, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.” (Not only does this imply that there’s nothing wrong with being blind, but it lets us know God was up to something more than just a magic trick.) So, Jesus gets to the business of doing “God’s works,” by way of a little mud and some spit. And if “miracle” means supernatural, irrational, unexpected, unexplainable – or something like that – here is where the real miracle of this morning’s Gospel occurs. The miracle of what God accomplishes through Jesus, not just for the blind man on the roadside that day so many years ago, but for every one of us – and our neighbors out there in the world, too – isn’t so much that God cures blindness; it’s that the eyes of those who can already see are opened to a God who loves without measure and promises eternal life, on this side of Heaven. What the disciples, the Pharisees, the blind man and his family, friends and neighbors were meant to

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5
out of 5
3 Ratings

About

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