Sermon Audio – Cross of Grace

Cross of Grace Lutheran Church
  • ٥٫٠ (٣)
  • المسيحية
  • يتم التحديث كل أسبوعين
Sermon Audio – Cross of Grace

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

  1. قبل يومين

    Blue Christmas: The Wound, The Route, The Gift

    John 20:24-28 But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hands in his side, I will not believe.” A week later, the disciples were again in the house, and this time Thomas was with them. Jesus came, again, and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” And he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand put it in my side. Do not doubt, but believe.” Thomas said to him, “My Lord, and my God.” David Brooks, in his book, How to Know a Person: The Art of Seeing Others Deeply and Being Deeply Seen, the inspiration behind our Advent journey this season, tells some beautiful and hard stories about grief and despair and suffering. He gives some sad statistics about how and why we are such a disconnected people these days – and about what it means to experience hardships ourselves, to learn to see them in others, and to walk with others – and each other – through the struggles of this life. If you’ve picked up the book, but haven’t made your way into it, yet – and you’re here tonight – maybe Part 2, Chapter 8, page 97, is a place you could begin reading. (If you don’t have this book – or don’t know or care about any of that – fear not; none of it is necessary. I plan to fill in all the gaps you might be missing.) But in discussing what it means to see one another in our struggles, David Brooks tells part of Frederick Buechner’s story. Buechner was a Presbyterian minister, theologian and very prolific author – a few of who’s books were required reading in my Pastoral Care and Counseling courses back in seminary. When Buechner was just ten years old – and his younger brother, only 8 – their dad peaked in them early one morning in their bedroom before they were set to go on a family outing about which the brothers were quite excited. It was too early that morning to get up so the boys stayed in bed, in their room, anticipating the fun day they had planned. As Brooks writes it, “A little while later, they heard a scream and the sounds of doors opening and closing. They looked out their window and saw their father lying in the gravel driveway, with their mother and grandmother, barefoot and still in their nightgowns, leaning over him. Each woman had one of his legs in her hands. They were lifting his legs up and down as if they were operating two handles of a pump. Nearby, the garage door was open and blue smoke was billowing out. “… their father had gassed himself to death. It took them a few days to find the suicide note, which their dad had scratched in pencil on the last page of Gone with the Wind. It was addressed to their mom, [and said]: ‘I adore you and love you, and am no good … Give Freddy my watch. Give Jamie my pearl pin. I give you all my love.’” Within just a couple of months, Buechner’s mother moved them to Bermuda, where they started a new life, and little Freddy effectively avoided and denied whatever grief he would have/could have/should have probably wrestled with until he couldn’t avoid it any longer – when he became a young adult. His work as a teacher and author helped with that, as did more life experiences and research into his dad’s past and family history. Sadly, and surprisingly, it wasn’t until he reached middle age that Frederick Buechner was able to cry real tears – to actually grieve – the loss of the father he loved very much. I picked this story to tell, because I agree with David Brooks: that the trajectory and experience of Frederick Buechner’s grief is a familiar one for many people. See if this scenario sounds familiar: Some sadness, struggle, or even tragedy strikes. There is a period of shock and grief that feels too great to face or engage, so that grief – and all the emotions that come along with it – are packed away, avoided, denied, whatever. We suck it up and move on, because we think that will be easier. We brave the grief alone, or quietly, because that looks like “strength” to us – and that supposed “strength” is often affirmed as such by the world around us. At the very least, maybe we minimize whatever grief or struggle finds us because we are needed by others – children, parents, spouses – or because we don’t want to appear weak, or to be a burden or a buzz-kill, or something of the like. (Again, not that anyone here would ever … but does any of this sound familiar?) Whatever the case, this can go on for quite some time … until it can’t anymore. In Frederick Buechner’s case, it took decades before it caught up with him and before he was finally able to find meaning and new life through the grief he learned to experience and engage over having lost his father so young and so tragically. Anderson Cooper tells a similar story. (I know I am a broken record about Anderson Cooper and his podcast “All There Is,” and I’m sorry – not sorry – that I bring it up every chance I get. If nothing else I have to say tonight resonates or sounds encouraging or helpful to you, make listening to that podcast part of your holy homework soon and very soon. I propose – I almost promise – it will either help you find some words and wisdom about whatever grief you’ve already experienced, or it will prepare you for the grief that will find you – as it does us all – at some point in our lives.) Anyway, the whole reason Anderson Cooper started this podcast a few years ago, where he interviews others all and only about their grief is because – at the age of 55 – he realized he had never been taught or encouraged to engage, let alone wrestle with or mend, the deep grief he endured by losing his father to heart-failure when he was just 10 years old (like Frederick Beuchner was); or the grief he suffered after losing his 23 year-old brother to suicide when he was just 21. Instead of grieving well, Anderson says as a young adult, he traveled the world, risking his life to report on wars and tragedies and disasters – literally on a global scale – so that, while simultaneously running from and avoiding his own grief, he could subconsciously measure that kind of horrific sadness against his own, and maybe see how other people survived in the face of it. Anderson Cooper embodies Frederick Buechner’s suggestion that, even though we long more than anything to be known fully, grief – even though it is utterly universal – may be one of the things that is most difficult to embrace, admit, or share about ourselves. It’s why what we’re up to tonight is as practical as it is holy to me. It’s why I’m so grateful you’ve showed up. It’s why I wish this place was as full tonight as it will be on Christmas Eve. See, on a recent episode of that podcast, Anderson Cooper interviewed the actor Andrew Garfield, who talked about the loss of his mother. And Andrew Garfield said something so profound it’s been making its way around the internet, lately. Maybe you’ve seen or heard it. “The wound is the only route to the gift.” I wonder if, when Jesus showed up for the disciples after his death – and then again to Thomas, who refused to believe it … I wonder if he was doing even more than proving his identity … if he was doing more, even, than just showing evidence of his resurrection … I wonder if, when Jesus showed off the wounds in his hands and on his sides… If, when he invited Thomas to put his fingers “here” and to see his hands, to reach out his own hands and to touch the wounded sides of Jesus… I wonder if Jesus was offering Thomas healing for the deep grief he surely felt, and if he was showing them all – and us, too – that “the wound is the only route to the gift” that even our grief can be for us, as people of faith. Not that we would ever choose the grief that comes our way … Not that we deserve the deep sadness and struggle that finds us, too often, on this side of heaven … But that, because God shows up in Jesus to walk the way of suffering before and beside us as we go, we can remind ourselves and each other that God does God’s best work in the dark, sad, scary places of our lives. See, I believe God showed up, in Jesus, to remind us that the only way through the grief that finds us in this life – and toward the healing and hope we desire and deserve – is to trust that it won’t last forever; that we don’t need to fear or deny or avoid or pretend that it shouldn’t exist; that we can come to and through the wounds of our sadness and struggle… We can touch and tend to what hurts us most… (“The wound is the only route to the gift.”) And we can share all of that with one another, without fear, shame, or hesitation. And we can let the light of God’s grace – the light that shines in the darkness – shine in our direction, too. And we can let it heal what we cannot, on our own … and we can let it bless our lives with the love that is born for us all, even and especially in our darkest days … with thanks for this Jesus – who was, who is, and who is to come. Amen. Merry Christmas.

  2. ٧ جمادى الآخرة

    The Right Questions

    Mark 8:27-30 Jesus went on with his disciples to the villages of Caesarea-Philippi. Along the way he asked them, “Who do people say that I am?” They said to him, “John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets.” Jesus said to them, “But who do you say that I am?” Peter answered him, “You are the Messiah.” And Jesus sternly ordered them not to tell anyone about him. I hope you remember we’re focusing our time during these Advent days on a book by David Brooks called How to Know a Person: The Art of Seeing Others Deeply and Being Deeply Seen, in which he talks about pragmatic, practical practices to achieve spiritual, holy ways of living in the world. And Brooks devotes a whole chapter to the idea of and the power behind questions. With the aim of growing into the kind of people who want to know others more deeply – to see them for who they really are and to care about that – Brooks proposes that we should be the kind of people who ask questions. And not just any questions, but good, curious, open-ended, thoughtful questions that invite others to respond comfortably … in ways that reveal something about who they are, how they see and experience the world, and how they want to be seen and received by others around them. Brooks goes so far as to say that he’s, “come to think of questioning as a moral practice. When you are asking a good questions, you are adopting a posture of humility. You’re confessing that you don’t know and you want to learn. You’re also honoring a person. We all like to think we are so clever that we can imagine what’s going on in another’s mind. But the evidence shows that this doesn’t work. People are just too different from each other, too complicated, too idiosyncratic.” I learned a long time ago – either from my Psychology and Counseling classes or from watching Oprah – about the danger of certain kinds of questions. Questions like “Where do you work?” or “Where do you live?” or “If you went to college and where?” aren’t the best things to ask when you’re just being introduced to someone. Brooks says those questions imply that you’re about to make a judgment about a person based on their responses. Someone pointed out to me once that, asking someone what they do for a living – which is probably a first inclination for many of us, right? – implies and perpetuates a false notion that what we do for work is the most important, valuable, interesting thing about us. (That may be true for some, but surely isn’t true for most.) We all know, too, how superficial and worthless it is to ask most folks how they’re doing when we greet them – the answer is almost always “fine,” or “okay,” or “good, how are you?” Which is to say, the answer is always incomplete, at its best, and it’s often a lie, at its worst. We’re rarely 100% “fine,” “okay,” or “good.” And there are plenty of days when we offer those answers when we are feeling everything but “fine,” “okay,” or “good.” If you’ve ever participated in our CrossRoads class for folks curious about the ministry here, you know that one of my favorite ice-breaker questions is, “Where did you live when you were in the 8th grade?” I always like the surprising geographical connections made between whoever is in the room. It’s fun to see who has landed in Indiana from the farthest distance. We’ve had people realize they grew up in the same or neighboring towns in other states. We’ve had people who knew the same pastors or who went to the same church, way back in the day. But the connections and common ground are often deeper than that, because it’s hard to talk about where you lived in 8th grade without also, perhaps, mentioning why; or how long ago that was for you; or what your life was like in those days. David Brooks offers up some really good questions in his book that I hope you’ll consider asking folks at your next office Christmas party or family gathering in the days ahead: “What’s working really well in your life at the moment?” “What are you most confident about?” “When was a time you adapted to change?” “What has become clearer to you as you’ve gotten older?” “What’s a Christmas tradition your family keeps? Again, consider those questions in the days to come and be bold about asking them of others to see what comes of the answers you receive and share. Because, remember – and here comes the spiritual, holy part of it all – the point of this sermon series and of this Advent journey together, is to open ourselves to the birth of Jesus in ways I believe God intended from the very beginning. In a world where people are increasingly distant from one another and divided by so many things … In a world where we increasingly let technology do the talking and the working for us … In a world where it’s easier to hide behind screens and so tempting to stick to our cultural, political, theological silos … I believe the Gospel of the incarnation – the good news of God showing up among us as a human being – is as holy, as challenging, and as relevant as it ever was. David Brooks closes his chapter on questions by saying, “Each person is a mystery. And when you are surrounded by mysteries … it’s best to live life in the form of a question.” And I think that’s something Jesus teaches us, too … to live life in the form of a question. People like to pretend that having faith and living a life of faith is about being certain and knowing answers and having black-and-white, yes-and-no, right-and-wrong views on life’s most pressing questions. But more often than not, it seems to me, Jesus responds to the request for those things – certainty… answers… yes/no, black/white, right/wrong propositions – with more questions, or stories, at least, that leave a whole lot up to our interpretation and imagination. When his followers come to him asking that he interpret the signs in the sun, the moon and the stars… when they come hoping for a sign, telling them that the end is near … Jesus doesn’t give a hard and fast answer. He says, “no one knows; neither the angels in heaven, nor the son, but only the Father,” so just keep your eyes peeled, be curious, and get ready. When that lawyer asked Jesus once, “Who is my neighbor?,” Jesus doesn’t give him a list of addresses or a litany of names. He tells him a story about a particular Samaritan that contradicted everything they’d ever been taught to believe about any Samaritans – that they could be good, merciful, kind, loving neighbors – and better and more righteous, even, than a priest and a Levite. And this morning, while he’s milling around the region of Caesarea-Philippi, he asks his disciples to let him know what the word on the street is about him. What are people saying? What have you heard? “Who do people say that I am?” And they tell him what they think he’s after – the rumor, the gossip, the wrong answers and assumptions of the people on the street. And I imagine they take great joy in the foolish things people are saying. “Those idiots think you’re John the Baptist!” “I heard some knucklehead say you were Elijah, come back to life!” “I think people are so dumb and desperate they’ve painted you as some prophet like back in the day.” But all of that just sets the stage for what Jesus is really after – for the question he really wants an answer to: “Who do YOU say that I am?” Because Jesus knows he’ll be able to tell a whole lot about how … whoever … answers that question. And Peter does. And Peter gets it right. Which took some guts. It took some courage. It took some wisdom and understanding and a whole lot of faith. Peter calls Jesus the Messiah, without apology or hesitation, it seems. And it earned Peter a place of honor and respect in the eyes of Jesus. He became “the Rock” on which the Church would stand. And this question matters for us, still. Who is this Jesus we’ll celebrate at Christmas? Who is this Jesus we’re waiting on? Who do we say that he is, was, or will be? There may be as many answers to these questions as there are people listening to me now: He is a Comforter, a Redeemer, a Judge. He is a Savior, a Brother, a Healer. He is a Friend, a Stranger, a Mystery, and more. And what if we were as curious about the way our friends, family and neighbors might answer that question as Jesus seemed to be? What if we sincerely wondered who Jesus is – if anything – to the people in our lives and in this world? And how might their answers impact our relationship to them? So let’s not go about asking any of these questions because we want to prove who’s right and who’s wrong. Let’s ask more and better questions. And let’s be genuinely curious – not at all judgmental – about the answers we might hear from each other and from our neighbors. And let’s listen for the wants, needs, hopes, and longings of those around us – like Jesus would. And let’s respond, through our very lives, with who and how Jesus calls us to be: utterly human; afraid sometimes; hopeful, when we can muster it; full of grace; offering mercy; praying for peace; extending forgiveness; doing justice; and shining light into the darkness of this world God loved enough to show up in it. Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.

  3. ٤ جمادى الآخرة

    Advent Illuminators

    Luke 10:30-37 I suspect most of us have heard Jesus’ response to the lawyer, once, who asked him, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus told him a story: “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan while traveling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, ‘Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.’ Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” He said, “The one who showed him mercy.” Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.” Yesterday Pastor Cogan and I ran into one of our Partners in Mission, Maggie Higgins, having lunch with her grandmother-in-law, Alice Christle. Maggie and her husband, Derrick, live around the corner from me. It’s likely that I drive by their house several times a day; dozens of times a week; too many times a year to count. Yesterday, I complimented Maggie on the fact that they had painted their fence. It was cool, anyway – this new, horizontally-planked, wooden fence – when they installed it a few months ago. And it’s cool now, since they had painted, more recently. I was impressed that I noticed and remembered to tell her. And glad to pay her the compliment. Maggie said thanks and asked if I’d noticed that they had also given their house a makeover. It had been yellow. Now it’s a dark gray. I hadn’t noticed. Then she asked if I’d noticed the house next door – which she and Derrick had helped makeover as well. It, too, had gone from an even brighter, bolder, brilliant yellow to a nautical kind of blue – almost exactly the color of my office here at church. I hadn’t noticed … in spite of the fact that I drive by that house just as often … several times a day, easy; dozens of times a week, for sure; too many times a year to count. And, who knows how many times since this house, like the other, changed colors, right under my un-suspecting, under-appreciating nose. I was shocked. Houses aren’t people, but David Brooks, in his book How to Know a Person: The Art of Seeing Others Deeply and Being Deeply Seen – it’s the book that is the inspiration for this Advent season at Cross of Grace, in case you haven’t heard –might say we make our way around in this world, interacting and sharing space with one another like I apparently drive to and from work a lot of the time: on auto-pilot. (You’ve had that experience – right? – where you’ve gone somewhere, arrived safely at your destination, but can’t remember a thing that happened along the way. “Did I drive the speed limit?” “Use my turn signal?” “Stop at the stop sign?”) Or, perhaps worse, even, than auto-pilot, Brooks might say that, in our interactions with one another we’re too often more worried about our own agenda, more focused on our own needs, more concerned with how we’re perceived or presenting ourselves, so that we aren’t as open to, concerned with, or focused on what’s going on in the hearts and minds and lives of the people around us. While his book isn’t particularly, pointedly religious in nature, Brooks does reference the Bible a few times. And he mentions Jesus and the Good Samaritan to illustrate this point. That priest and that Levite, walking along, minding their own business – at best; or deliberately avoiding the business of their suffering neighbor – at worst; were like me, driving to and from, going about my business, paying no mind to the changing houses of my neighbors. (Again, houses aren’t people – but you get my point.) So, Brooks proposes that we should set – as a goal in life – to learn to live as what he calls “illuminators.” An illuminator is someone like that Good Samaritan in Jesus’ parable, who keeps an eye out for, who pays attention to, who looks for ways to listen to, love, care about, and serve our neighbors – and the strangers in the world around us, too. Illuminators are those people who make the hearts and lives of those around them better, just by being with them – even if those around them aren’t outwardly struggling and suffering, lying by the side of the road. You all know an illuminator or two, right? If you were with us at dinner, I hope you see now that that’s who we were trying to have you conjure in your mind’s eye and converse about with one another: Those people who have a knack for caring about … and seeing … and bringing out the best in who you are. Those people who have a knack for asking great questions; really listening to answers – and to what lies behind those answers; remembering names, maybe; anticipating needs, perhaps; responding in genuinely meaningful, caring, loving, insightful ways. Don’t we all want to be more like those people? When (my wife) Christa was in the throes of her cancer treatments … back when the rest of the world was also in the throes of the COVID-19 pandemic … back when we were still worshiping remotely and doing worship by way of prayer vigils, opening the church for hours at a time so people could come and sit, socially-distanced, in the sanctuary to pray and meditate – “together but separately,” as we liked to say – without singing or shaking hands or speaking face-to-face … do you remember those days? Well, one Sunday, during one of those prayer vigil/open house/socially-distanced worship services, I was sitting in the sound booth, messing with the music, wearing my mask and whatnot; kind of minding my own business. There were one or two other Cross of Gracers here, quietly doing their prayer and meditation thing, when someone I thought was Sara Ostermyer walked in and sat in the back … there … where Laurel is sitting now. A second later, I got a text message from one of my very best friends, Amy, who lives in Orlando, Florida. Along with her text message was a picture of this sanctuary, our altar, and whatever was currently being projected on that wall, from the perspective of someone who was sitting in the back … there … where Laurel is sitting now. I was Gob-smacked. (Amy hadn’t seen me over in the sound booth. She thought I was at home or elsewhere in the building. So I took a picture of her from over there and texted it back, just to mess with her.) As we approached each other, we knew we were smiling beneath those damned masks, even though we couldn’t prove it. And we ignored every social-distancing protocol there ever was, hugged and cried, laughed and wept, and just sat together, crying some more, without saying much of anything. We were too exhausted by our grief over COVID, our fear about Christa’s cancer, our gratitude for our friendship, our frustration and anger that we hadn’t been able to be together until that moment. All the things and all the feels were living and moving and breathing between us – because Amy knew it was time to show up. Now, I have to say, in case she’s watching or hears this, that our friend Amy does like to talk about herself and she loves being the center of attention whenever possible. But she really can be a top-notch illuminator on her good days. She’s curious and compassionate about other people. She asks good, thoughtful questions. And, the day she showed up here, unannounced – in the middle of one of the most anxious, sad, scary times in our lives – was one of her very good days and I won’t forget it. Because after about half an hour here, she spent about twenty minutes standing in our kitchen talking with Christa and the boys – masked and from a distance of course, because of Christa’s compromised immune system. Then she simply got back in her car to drive four hours back to her cabin in Ohio from whence she’d come; all because she knew we were feeling all of the things that had covered us in those days. It was beautiful and generous and kind and compassionate – and illuminating – as David Brooks might say. But the good, beautiful thing about being an illuminator, is that it doesn’t require such grand gestures – and it shouldn’t be reserved just for close friends and family. David Brooks says it means nothing more and nothing less than working to see what another person sees in a way that leads to the greatness of small acts … “the greatness of small acts” … stuff anyone can learn and work to do: …like genuinely welcoming a newcomer to your workplace, to your neighborhood, to your church; like noticing the anxiety or nerves in someone’s voice and asking what might be wrong; like knowing how to host a party where everyone feels welcome and included; like knowing how to give a good gift. And Scripture is full of faithful illuminators – like the Good Samaritan –from whom we can learn these same lessons. I think Aaron was an illuminator for Moses – literally making his words his own and sharing them on his behalf. I think Ruth was an illuminator for Naomi – “wherever you go, I will go,” she promised her in her moment of great need, “w

  4. ٢٣ جمادى الأولى

    Decisions, Decisions, Decisions

    John 18:33-37 Then Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus answered, “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?” Pilate replied, “I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?” Jesus answered, “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.” Pilate asked him, “So you are a king, then?” Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. For this I was born and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.” Decisions. Decisions. Decisions. One of mine this week was to get some long overdue tires replaced on my car before the snow and ice and cold of winter arrives in force. Every day I decide whether I have the time or the discipline or both to get to the gym in the morning before work. I had a seminary professor who packed the same exact thing for lunch every single day of the week so that he had one less thing to think about and decide upon on a daily basis. Decisions. Decisions. Decisions. We’ve been stewing about some big ones as a country and as a congregation, lately, too. Obviously, the election was all about deciding who would be President – among other things. And at Cross of Grace, we’ve asked each other to make a decision about how we will support our Building and Outreach Fund. (I know some of you are still thinking about that. Remember, those commitments are set to begin in December. Hint. Hint. Hint.) Decisions. Decisions. Decisions. Part of being alive is to have decisions to make and the nature of a decision is that there’s usually some kind of pressure to get it made. And if there’s not, time is likely to make your decisions for you. I could have waited a bit longer to get my new tires, but the season’s first snow and a road trip to Columbus helped me make that call – before an accident or a blowout made it for me. And far too often – barring some kind of emergency – the only way to be sure you’ve made the right decision is to make it and then to wait and see. And I can’t read this morning’s Gospel without wondering about Pilate’s decision. Talk about a dilemma! In the moments leading up to Jesus’ crucifixion, Pilate had a job to do – and a decision to make – and it’s been the source of many questions and much curiosity for generations that always come to fore when this reading shows up on Christ the King Sunday. Pontius Pilate was getting pressure from the people on one side and orders from King Herod on the other. And his time and little chat with Jesus didn’t make the decision any easier. “Are you the king of the Jews?” Pilate asks Jesus. “Why do you want to know?” Jesus asks Pilate. “What have you done?” Pilate wonders. “It’s nothing you’d understand,” Jesus explains, “I’m not from this world.” “You are a king, though, right?” Pilate insists. “Whatever you say,” Jesus seems to tease him, “you’ll know the truth soon enough.” “Do what you’ve gotta do.” Decisions. Decisions. Decisions. Sometimes the only way to know if you’ve made the right one is to make it… and to wait… and to see what comes of it. And I get the impression that that’s what Pontius Pilate did. He chose – what the people wanted – and he handed Jesus over to be crucified. And, I wonder when hindsight kicked in for Pilate. I wonder when the moment came that he realized what he had been a part of. I wonder … when Pilate looked back on his decision to let Jesus take the fall … did he rationalize or repent or rejoice? What’s the hardest decision you’ve had to make – or that you’ve made lately? Who to invite to the party? Or who to ask to

  5. ١٥ جمادى الأولى

    Building the Church, Bringing the Kingdom

    Mark 13:1-8 As Jesus came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Then Jesus asked him, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left upon another, all will be thrown down.” When he was sitting on the Mount of Olives opposite the temple, Peter, James, John, and Andrew asked him, privately, “Tell us, when will this be and what will be the sign that all of these things are about to be accomplished?” Then Jesus began to say to them, “Beware that no one leads you astray. Many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he,’ and they will lead many astray. When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.” Hooray for a Gospel text about the impermanence and seeming unimportance of temples, stones, synagogues, and buildings on Commitment Sunday for the Building and Outreach Fund. All of this, will indeed, be thrown down and turned to dust someday. But I hope you agree with Jesus, of course. As focused and as fierce as we’ve been about building this place and paying off our mortgage and all that has gone into that, over the course of our congregation’s short life together, we’ve always tried to be faithful about the truth that the Church is not a building; that our identity and purpose isn’t always, ever, or only about having an address, or about merely what happens inside these walls. We were very much “the Church” before we called any of this home and we are very much “the Church” when we’re not gathered here. We are very much “the Church” even when – especially when – we’re doing our thing, living our lives out there in the world, for the sake of the world. And horray for a text that taps in to so much of the fear, angst and anxiety that so many are feeling about life in the world these days – wars and rumors of wars; nation rising up against nation; earthquakes, famine, natural disasters and more that make you think maybe the beginning of the end might actually be right around the corner. Because of all that, our call is to bring the Kingdom – to see and to celebrate what God has already begun, in Jesus – and work to make God’s will and God’s way come to life among us and through us and for the sake of the world … here on earth as it is in heaven; to make the Kingdom of this world look and be more like God’s Kingdom, on the other side of heaven. Which is why our Building and Outreach Fund matters, as we wonder about and make commitments to support it this morning and in the days to come. Yes, some portion of it all is about the bricks, the mortar, the “stones” that will, one day, all be thrown down and turned to dust, as Jesus promises. But the rest of it is about bringing the kingdom, doing the work, sharing the life and grace and mercy of God wherever and however we are able. Last week, one of my favorite preachers invited us to do a few things in response to the state of things following our country’s recent election, regardless of how we may be feeling about all of that. Pastor Cogan suggested that, if things didn’t go our way, we should share our fear, our anxiety, and our sadness about that with those who did get what they wanted. And he suggested that, if we are the latter – if things went as we hoped they would – we should listen to the concerns and needs of our struggling neighbors who are feeling scared, unseen, and worried about the days to come. In other words, some of what I heard from Pastor Cogan last week was an invitation to listen to each other and get to work. And I’ve done that. I’ve received texts and e-mails. I’ve had sit-downs over lunch, spontaneous conversations in the li

  6. ٨ جمادى الأولى

    Good Government and Scarred Hands

    Mark 12:38-44 As he taught, he said, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets! They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.” He sat down opposite the treasury, and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then he called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.” Psalm 146 Praise the Lord!Praise the Lord, O my soul! I will praise the Lord as long as I live;   I will sing praises to my God all my life long. Do not put your trust in princes,   in mortals, in whom there is no help. When their breath departs, they return to the earth;   on that very day their plans perish. Happy are those whose help is the God of Jacob,   whose hope is in the Lord their God, who made heaven and earth,   the sea, and all that is in them;who keeps faith for ever;   who executes justice for the oppressed;   who gives food to the hungry. The Lord sets the prisoners free;the Lord opens the eyes of the blind.The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down;   the Lord loves the righteous.The Lord watches over the strangers;   he upholds the orphan and the widow,   but the way of the wicked he brings to ruin. The Lord will reign for ever,   your God, O Zion, for all generations.Praise the Lord! I guess we should talk about the elephant in the room… After months and months of ads, hateful rhetoric, campaign appeals, we have selected a new president. And from what I have heard from people in this community, from my family, from my social media feed, folks all over the spectrum as to how they feel about it. Some people are happy and defiant, others sad and even scared. Some are relieved while others are full of worry. Some are angry, surprised, indifferent, or any combination of it all. And my guess is that you find yourself harboring those feelings this morning too. What word, what message, do we all need to hear? and can it be the same one? Is there something that can calm the anxious and scared hearts while also speaking to those who are elated? Can anything speak to those who feel like they have won, those who have lost, and those somewhere in between? Some of you may know this, but Pastor Mark and I don’t select the readings for Sunday mornings. They are selected for us by the lectionary, this 3 year cycle of readings. Sometimes the readings are not what we want nor what we would have picked. Other times, they line up and speak to the moment with divine timing and inspiration. Today is one of those days. Because if there was any psalm we needed this morning, one that we needed to lift up as a reminder and as a prayer today and in the weeks, months, and years to come, it’s this one. It’s the psalm we all needed to hear regardless of who won the election. It is the psalm for all of us, however you find yourself this morning. Usually, Psalms have some sort of context shared with us, a subtitle of sorts telling us who wrote it, when, and in response to what. However, this psalms has none of that and allows us to hear it in our own time and context, like after a major election. Psalm 146 is the beginning of what is known as the “Final Hallel”. It’s the last five Psalms in the whole book, each one opening and closing with the words “hallelujah” — “praise the LORD,”. The Psalmist promises to praise the Lord as long as they live. Many of you did not awake today or the last few days s

  7. ١ جمادى الأولى

    "We Are Loved"

    John 8:31-36 Then Jesus said to the Jews who had believed in him, ‘If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples; and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.’ They answered him, ‘We are descendants of Abraham and have never been slaves to anyone. What do you mean by saying, “You will be made free”?’ Jesus answered them, ‘Very truly, I tell you, everyone who commits sin is a slave to sin. The slave does not have a permanent place in the household; the son has a place there for ever. So if the Son makes you free, you will be free indeed. A little over 20 years ago, Rolling Stone magazine published its first list of the 500 greatest albums of all time. They did so because people were talking about the death of the album, probably in large part thanks to Napster and young teens downloading songs from limewire on the family computer and burning cd’s with random songs. Rolling Stone has updated that list a few times since the original release, most recently just last December, 2023. According to them, Blue by Joahnie Mitchel came in at three, followed by the Beach Boy’s Pet Sounds at number 2, and taking the top spot at number 1 was Marvin Gaye’s “What's Going On”. I am not here to argue about what albums should have been on there or which one’s they got wrong, though I feel I should mention not one Indigo Girls album made the list making one of your pastor’s very sad. The list is quite arbitrary, mainly because it was simply ranked choice voting by a variety of artists, producers, and critics. I think many would argue that like beauty, good music lies in the ear of the listener. And while I agree, there are some things I think great music does to or for a person. Now I am just a pastor who played the Tuba for five years, so take this with a grain of salt, but for me Great music proclaims a truth that we experience in our lives. Through storytelling, the melody, or the art of its composition, It can tell us something that we need to know, a truth we might not have otherwise understood. On this Reformation Sunday we focus on music and the good it does in our lives and faith, because this year we celebrate the 500th anniversary of the first Lutheran Hymnal. In 1524, Luther took four hymns he had written and four from his friend Paul Speratus to make what was called Acht-lie-der-buch, or in english the “Eight Songs Book”. It was nothing crazy to produce a hymnal, but Luther and the reformation as a whole changed the way the church engaged with music forever. Luther wanted songs to be written with simple words, words that everyone would know, not just the highly educated. And he wanted the music to be familiar, something people might already know. So he often borrowed popular folk tunes of the day and set lyrics to them that people would understand, making it easy to sing along with. This was revolutionary, because at the time the catholic mass was done entirely in Latin, most church goers didn’t know the music, and therefore no one but the priests sang in worship. Luther’s approach to music changed all of that. He wanted everyone to sing since that’s how people would not only understand the gospel message, but because the music was catchy and familiar, the good news of Jesus Christ would always be on one’s lips, praising God morning, noon, and night. He wrote on multiple occasions that next to the Word of God itself, music is the greatest treasure in this world. When done right, it helps one’s heart, quiets and cheers the soul because it teaches the gospel and praises God. That’s why Luther loved music. You see Luther suffered from terrible anxiety throughout much of his life. In his early years of being a monk, he would fall into these dark episodes of despair. He felt like God didn’t love him, like God couldn’t love him. He wasn’t good enough, he didn’t keep all the commandments like he should, and didn’t do all

  8. ١ جمادى الأولى

    All Saints On the Brink of Everything

    John 11:32-44  When Mary came to Jesus and saw him she said to him, “Lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping and the other Jews with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said to them, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not the one who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?”  Then Jesus came to the tomb. It was a cave with a stone lying against it. Jesus said to them, “Take away the stone.” But 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 know that you always hear me, but I’ve said this for the sake of those standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.” When he had said this, he cried out 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.” Death and dying have been hanging heavy on my mind lately – and I know that’s true for many of you, too. We had Steve Ellenberger’s celebration of life last Saturday. I had another funeral last Sunday afternoon, for the father of a college friend, down in Southport. We’re getting ready to do the same for Dick Bowen this weekend. On Monday night, our Stephen Ministers did some “continuing education” about what it means to pre-plan your funeral – a session we scheduled months ago. And Wednesday, a group of us wrapped up a seven-week conversation about what it means to die well – to approach, and even embrace, the gravity of getting old … and the nearness and certainty of our own demise. All of these things, each in their own way, were pointing me toward what we’re up to on this high, holy, festival we call “All Saints Sunday” in the Church. We’ve already read our names and tolled our bells toward that end. We’ve been reminded about the power of baptism and we will receive the power and blessing of Holy Communion, in light of it all, too – as we should. But the catch to all of this, of course… the thing that sometimes gets lost in the mix, or glossed over, or denied by the rose-colored glasses of Sunday morning worship; by the bright lights and the white paraments; by the pretty flowers and the rousing music of it all… is that in order to be the kind of saint we’re commemorating and celebrating… in order to become the kind of saints we’re remembering and honoring this morning… a person first has to be dead. And Jesus reminds us this morning, with the help of Mary and Martha and their brother Lazarus, that death and mortality are sad, scary, messy, and mystifying parts of life in this world. But part of life, nonetheless. Even Jesus weeps in this bit of John’s Gospel as he makes his way to his friend’s tomb, and when we find him there this morning, he’s still “greatly disturbed,” even though, presumably, he knew what he was going to try to do for Lazarus. And Martha and her sister Mary are so distraught over their brother’s dying, that they have the nerve to blame Jesus for not coming to the rescue sooner. But Jesus does come. And he’s not afraid of what awaits him there: the mourning of the sisters; the sadness of the crowds; his own deep grief; the improbability of the task before him; the grave clothes; the large stone; the stench of a four-day-old corpse in the Judean heat. So, I feel like I’m being invited, again this morning – in the light of recent events and on this All Saints Sunday – to get up clo

مشاهدة الكل (٨٩)

التقييمات والمراجعات

٥
من ٥
‫٣ من التقييمات‬

حول

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

المعلومات

  • صناع العمل
    Cross of Grace Lutheran Church
  • سنوات النشاط
    ١٤٣٦ هـ - ١٤٤٦ هـ
  • الحلقات
    ٨٩
  • التقييم
    ملائم
  • موقع البرنامج على الويب
    Sermon Audio – Cross of Grace

للاستماع إلى حلقات ذات محتوى فاضح، قم بتسجيل الدخول.

اطلع على آخر مستجدات هذا البرنامج

قم بتسجيل الدخول أو التسجيل لمتابعة البرامج وحفظ الحلقات والحصول على آخر التحديثات.
تحديد بلد أو منطقة

أفريقيا والشرق الأوسط، والهند

آسيا والمحيط الهادئ

أوروبا

أمريكا اللاتينية والكاريبي

الولايات المتحدة وكندا