This sermon was preached at Grace Lutheran Church (River Forest, IL) on April 19, the Third Sunday of Easter. You can watch the livestream recording and follow along in the bulletin. The image is Supper at Emmaus by Caravaggio, the second of his two paintings depicting this scene (1606, public domain).
Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen, indeed! Alleluia!
Friends in Christ, grace be unto you and peace in the name God the Father and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
- The beginning of youth baseball season is a time for hope. The inevitable disappointments that come with a game in which failing seventy percent of the time looks like success have not yet begun to pile up. The weeks-long and ultimately fruitless attempt to get dirt and grass stains out of white baseball pants has not yet proved impossible. Why are baseball pants white? So it was with hopeful hearts that we were on the road to Midlothian just after 6:00 a.m. yesterday morning. The hope lasted for most of the thirty-two miles, only to be pulled out from under us when we were almost there. My phone dinged. Word had just come down that the fields were officially too wet from the overnight rains. All games were postponed until further notice. With disappointment, I turned the car around and we retraced our route. The scenery was the same but everything else had changed. Upon returning home, I posted about this on Facebook. As one does. On the plus side, I got to go back to bed. Not long after waking, I read an email from one of you suggesting I work this into my Emmaus sermon for today. So, here you go. I take requests! We’re in this together! The way we see the road depends upon the hope that is, or isn’t, in our hearts.
- My “road to Midlothian” experience is, of course, the inverse of the road to Emmaus experience of Cleopas and his companion. They wake on the morning of that third day without a shred of hope in their hearts. Jesus, the One in whom they’d invested their hopes for the redemption of Israel, was handed over and put to death on a cross. But the drudgeries of life must go on, so they begin their seven-mile walk to Emmaus. Along the road they are joined by a stranger, and their words to him drive home the point: “We had hoped.” Their hope is a past-tense affair. It died and was laid in the tomb with Jesus. But even in hopelessness they offer hospitality. They invite Jesus in, share a meal, and, in the breaking of the bread find their eyes opened anew. The One they saw as a stranger is revealed to be the dearest One of all. Christ, impossibly, is alive. No sooner have they arrived and settled in do they get back on the road, retracing their steps with joy as they return to Jerusalem to tell of what they have seen.
- As it always does in these resurrection stories, the opening of eyes takes a bit of time. Far from presenting themselves as those who instantly got it, the earliest witnesses of the resurrection, and those who wrote down their stories, seem all too happy to tell you that it took them a few moments. In a world where sin reigns, around us and inside us, and in which death always seems to have the last word, what could be more difficult to grasp than the resurrection? I’m reminded of the little story told of the two young fish, minding their own business, just swimming along when they are met by an older fish. Passing them, the older fish says, “Morning, boys. How’s the water?” The two younger fish swim on. Eventually one turns to the other and asks, “What the heck is water?” The point is simple enough. The most obvious things are often the hardest to recognize and understand. To repurpose his fish tale, we are so used to the deep waters of sin and evil and death that we don’t always recognize that we’re drowning in them. To imagine something different is beyond us. But it is not beyond Jesus, who not only opens our eyes but pulls us through the waters of baptism, out of death and into life. A life in which hope is restored. A life in which peace is the hallmark of God’s reign, political chatter and tomfoolery to the contrary notwithstanding.
- If it was difficult for the first witnesses of the resurrection to see and believe, even when Jesus walked alongside them, how much harder is it for us? Perhaps this is why only one of our two disciples today gets a name. Who is the companion of Cleopas? Maybe Luke wants you to see yourself in this story, to see through the eyes and hear through the ears of the disciple as Jesus shows himself to you. Or maybe it’s very much not. Luke tells us so little about this disciple that it could be anyone. And isn’t that just it? That the life of the resurrection is for any and all people? By long habit, most of us probably imagine that Cleopas’s companion is another man. But Luke doesn’t write this. She could be a woman. Perhaps this story depicts the journey of a married couple, and if Cleopas is the same person John names as Clopas, then we even know her name: Mary. Or it could be someone else entirely! Who knows? We, with new eyes, are invited to wonder, for this follower of Jesus could be any person of any gender or orientation or race age or or identity or background. In this unnamed disciple, we are invited to see ourselves, and we are invited to see each other, all welcomed and walked with by our risen Savior.
- Today, we come together again. This world’s roads are still broken, pocked and potholed by sin and suffering, violence and death. The promise of resurrection can be hard to hold. So, first, we keep doing the right thing, the loving thing, anyway. Even without hope, Cleopas and the other welcomed this person they imagined as a stranger, a migrant. Took him in. Made room at their table. We always have room for others, even for those we once imagined didn’t belong, and there’s bread enough to go around. And second, when we do so, Christ shows up. Makes himself present. Gives himself for us. It happens again today. Bread broken, shared. Given for you. And in the breaking of the bread, the opening of our eyes. I recently heard it pointed out that this phrase of Luke’s, “then their eyes were opened,” echoes the words of the fall into sin in Genesis 3. They ate of the fruit of the tree, and then their eyes were opened. Just so, the new vision of life displaces and undoes our old vision of sin. Thanks be to God. Christ was crucified, yes, but he has been raised. Hope is forever restored, and the road need not be long or cheerless ever again. The scenery might be the same, but everything is changed. You walk together, and Jesus walks alongside. And along the way? There’s always a meal to share, and there’s always room for you here. The bread will soon be broken; Jesus, given for you, forever. Amen.
Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen, indeed. Alleluia!
And now may the peace that passes all understanding keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus, this day and forever. Amen.
This sermon was preached on Easter Sunday, April 5, at Grace Lutheran Church (River Forest, IL). You can view the livestream recording and follow along in the bulletin. The photo of the Grace chancel was taken by me. Thank you to all who made Holy Week and Easter at Grace such a powerful, beautiful, meaningful experience!
Friends in Christ, grace be unto you and peace in the name God the Father and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen, indeed! Alleluia!
- This past Wednesday evening, just before 5:30, the boys and I opened up my laptop in our kitchen. While I don’t follow everything that NASA does, this felt different. The Artemis II mission, after all, is the first crewed mission to the moon in my lifetime. And I’m old! It’s been a while since we’ve done this. Tomorrow, their spaceship Integrity will make its lunar flyby, after which the four astronauts will begin their journey home. You know, I heard they were originally going to land on the moon but decided not to when they couldn’t get a dinner reservation. Turns out the restaurant on the moon was full. Probably not a big loss. I mean the food is fine, but the place has no atmosphere. I’m sorry. I did want to have a better joke this morning, but I didn’t have time to planet. But I really did find myself gripped by the launch. Maybe because it’s a powerful reminder of what humanity can achieve. Or perhaps because it underscores just have vast God’s good creation is, and that we occupy a very small spot within it. Maybe it was just nice that humans were launching something without aiming it at someone else. We watched with bated breath as the countdown neared zero, with excitement, yes, but also with fear. These things can go horribly wrong. In that moment, both outcomes – the good and the bad – were possible. What would happen next?
- We come this Easter morning once again to the tomb. We’ve been here before, but this year feels different. We are not, of course, the same people we were a year ago. And Matthew gives us different details. In Matthew’s telling alone, the women do not find the stone already rolled away. In Matthew’s telling alone, imperial guards were present at the tomb. The point, of course, is not to quibble about which gospel gets the facts precisely right. They all point to the truth that matters most. But stepping into Matthew’s narrative makes it all seem so impossible. The stone, seen through the loving, grieving eyes of Mary and Mary, is still very much there, as solid as ever. And so are their Roman occupiers. As if crucifying their friend and Lord wasn’t enough, Rome will police even their mourning in the morning. What will happen next? The women know this story. Jesus is dead and life, bleak and grey, will go on. Until it doesn’t. So has it ever been.
- And then, with a quaking of the earth and an angel come from heaven, everything changes. The once-invincible guards are paralyzed in fear. The so-solid stone is not just rolled away; it becomes a chair for the angel. And Jesus, whom they saw die through tear-filled eyes just days ago? Jesus is not here; he got out before the stone was even moved. The women, with fear and great joy, are met by Jesus on the way. Not an idea or a memory or a theology, but Jesus. Flesh and bone. He who was dead is alive. Nothing will ever be the same. After all, as theologian and friend of Grace Jaroslav Pelikan once said, “If Christ is risen, nothing else matters. And if Christ is not risen – nothing else matters.” Christ risen and everything is changed.
- Thank God. Matthew’s gospel feel like the right one for this year. Because the stone of death and the presence of Empire feel so very real this year. Since last Easter, our congregation has suffered unfathomable loss. Our nation and world seem out of control. We are mired in a war that lacks purpose and direction. Our very faith is being coopted by those who deal in death, not life. For any number of reasons, in the midst of our joyful alleluias, maybe you arrive at the tomb today with a broken heart, a deep fear, a sense that there is no way forward. The stone is so heavy. Death and sin are so real. But Easter is not putting on a brave face or pretending to joy you do not feel. Your grief and sorrow are welcome within God’s grief and sorrow. And precisely because our suffering is taken up into the suffering of our God, the suffering does not get the last word. Stand with Mary and Mary a moment. Take a deep breath. And know the angel’s words are for you: “Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised.” What happens next is that nothing will ever be the same again. Your sins are forever left behind in the tomb. Dawn stretches out forever in the new creation. Death itself is dead, powerless to hold our loved ones, and all the saints, and one day us, too, who will live with the risen Christ.
- Our eyes have been drawn to the heavens this week. As we explore the distant stars, we also remember that we worship the down-to-earth God. Paul encourages us to set our minds on the things that are above. But we need not look far, for the crucified and risen Christ is present here, now, today. Heaven has broken into this world, and its doors forever stand open. As Mary and Mary embraced him on that first morning, so, too, does Jesus put himself into our hands today. The body and blood of the crucified and risen Lord given for you. For each of you. For all of you. Gifts of the God who shows no partiality but makes space for all in the unending reign of the Lamb once slain. What will happen next? Who can say? But I know what will happen last. The risen Christ will be all in all. Death defeated. Sin forgiven. Evil and empire put forever to flight. And this last shall last forever as we, raised with Christ, dwell together in the presence of the God who journeyed from heaven to earth for you. Amen.
Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen, indeed. Alleluia!
And now may the peace that passes all understanding keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus, this day and forever. Amen.
This sermon was preached at Grace Lutheran Church (River Forest, IL) on March 29, Palm Sunday/Sunday of the Passion. You can view the livestream recording and follow along in the bulletin. The image is Ecce Homo by Antonio Ciseri (nineteenth century, public domain).
Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace be unto you and peace in the name God the Father and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
- That escalated quickly. From Sunday’s cheers of “Hosanna” to Friday’s demands to “Let him be crucified!” From a triumphal entry proclaiming Jesus as king to the mocking, twisted crown of thorns. From the adoring crowds to the abandonment by all except two bandits who couldn’t get away. Even God has left him, as far as Jesus can tell in the moment. What went wrong, for palm branches to yield to a cross?
- Perhaps, like me, you remember a time when Palm Sunday was Palm Sunday and that was that. The events of the Passion were left for Good Friday. We children would parade with palms and go home in a buoyant mood. Why the change? There are practicalities to be considered. Not everyone will attend worship on Good Friday, after all, so it’s good to get the message in now. More importantly, as is often the case, what seems new is actually not. Including the Passion on Palm Sunday recaptures a practice from centuries past. But more than the practical and the historical is the truth that the triumphal entry is too easy to misunderstand apart from what unfolds on the Friday following. Because maybe nothing went wrong at all.
- The crowds get it right on Sunday, but as is so often the case, they don’t understand what it all means. Yes, Jesus is the king, the Son of David come among them. But for what does he come into Jerusalem? For conquest? For war? To meet the power of the Roman occupier with power of his own, raising up his own legions to cast them out and set himself in their place? This, no doubt, is what the people are hoping for, and who can blame them, suffer as they have? When faced with one kind of king, it’s hard to imagine something different. Jesus was born under the rule of Augustus, who styled himself a “son of god” and established the Pax Romana. By the time Jesus enters Jerusalem, Tiberius is emperor, with his name and picture on the money to prove it. Tiberius was a deeply paranoid person. Ever more reclusive, he let mid-level functionaries like Pilate and Herod enact cruelty and terror on his behalf. His rule was the sort in which killing innocent people like Jesus was just part of the cost of doing business, as was letting actual criminals like Barabbas go free. He expanded the peace of Rome, but it was hardly peaceful. The Pax Romana was what we might call “peace through strength,” in which Rome was often at war elsewhere and the so-called peace at home was maintained by the unrelenting crushing of dissent by soldiers and centurions who were, you know, just doing their job. This was the peace on earth given by the emperors who claimed to be gods. As the scholar Luis Menéndez-Antuña points out, the Roman emperors were seen as godlike precisely because they ruled with violence and showed no mercy, endlessly taking it out on anyone seen as their enemy. It is, of course, a story that has outlived the Roman Empire in too many places, too many ways.
- And Jesus? Jesus comes to show the whole thing for the lie that it is. The actual Son of God empties himself. Pours himself out. Lets this world have its way with him. Meets hate with love. Goes to the cross willingly to reveal that God is the God of open arms. Dies to undo the power of empire and to forgive us for our participation in it. Dies to unbind us from the power of evil, without and within, and frees us for new ways of life and peace. Dies to undo death and silence the drumbeats of war forever. Dies for us to show that grace and mercy, not terror and vengeance, are the ways of our God. Jesus enters Jerusalem on Palm Sunday so that Good Friday can happen. And we, with the centurion, look upon Christ and his cross and see what the true King looks like. What went wrong? No. By the grace of God, Christ comes to finally make things right. There’s more, of course. Much more. But that’s for another Sunday. Come back next week. For now, let us marvel at the cross and worship Christ, the King who comes to us in the way we need him most. Amen.
This sermon was preached at Grace Lutheran Church (River Forest, IL) on March 15, the Fourth Sunday in Lent. You can watch the livestream recording and follow along in the bulletin. The image is Christ Healing the Blindman by Gerardus Duyckinck I (circa 1725-1730, public domain).
Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace be unto you and peace in the name God the Father and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
- Lying on the wet ground last Friday, I found myself thinking a number of things. Insightful things like, “ouch” and “I should seek medical attention.” But I was also thinking, “I hope no one saw that.” I had just suffered a fall; not a slip or a stumble, but a fall without warning or control. The sort of thing that happens when one takes out the trash while foolishly wearing old flip flops and steps on a garden bed liner slick with rain. Not for the first time will I say that I’m glad a dislocated finger was the worst of it. I was a bit embarrassed, frankly, and truly hoped my accident had gone unnoticed by others. At the same time, I needed to be seen by someone if I was going to get the help I needed.
- We may not always want to look squarely at our own needs and vulnerabilities. At the same time, we yearn to be seen. Not just noticed, and not just for our needs, but to be truly seen. To be found, known, loved. The first thing that happens today in the story of the man born blind is seeing. As Jesus was walking along, he sees this man. Jesus is the only one who does. The disciples only see the man’s blindness and wonder about whose sin is to blame. As the narrative unfolds, the man is tossed about at the center of a theological debate. But Jesus? Jesus sees him. In his need and vulnerability and as the person God created, stamped indelibly with the imago dei. Jesus sees him. And Jesus opens the man’s eyes in every way possible; first to the world around him and then to the reality of who Jesus is: the Light of the world that no darkness can overcome.
- The question asked by the disciples rings oddly in our ears. We don’t tend to think that God hands out suffering or illness because of sin. But perhaps it’s not so different than those cries that emerge in the wake of diagnosis or loss. Why me? What did she do to deserve this? It’s not fair! While Jesus dismisses the idea that the man or his parents are to blame, he does not give us a dissertation on the causes of suffering. Instead, he enters in. He sees and does not stay far off. Jesus, the Word who was in the beginning, speaks. The God who formed us from the dust now makes mud and brings new life to this man. While the miracle of new sight points to Jesus’ identity and power, it is the creation of new eyes of faith to see and know Jesus that shows forth God’s purposes. The healing points to the true grace, which is Jesus’ presence with us in all circumstances. Illness and disability remain part of life, after all, not signs of God’s displeasure. As the preacher Liv Larson Andrews writes, the community gathered around Jesus is “one where all bodies are treasured fully as they are, not as means to an end.” We are all in need of the same thing, and we all receive it freely: Jesus Christ, the Light of the world. His judgment of this world’s sin and blindless leads not to condemnation, but to a new vision to see God at work in this world, and a glimpse, too, of the world to come.
- A few Wednesdays ago, we sang the one of the great American hymns, “Blessed Assurance.” The words were written by Fanny Crosby. Crosby was a prolific writer. She wrote almost 9,000 hymns (about 9,000 more than me), often under pseudonyms because publishers were a bit uncomfortable having so many hymns by one person in the same book. She was incredibly gifted and faithful. She also happened to be blind, possibly from birth or possibly the result of mistreatment for an illness when she was a few weeks old. She never did receive her sight in a miracle, but she saw Jesus clearly. She has helped generations of the faithful sing of “visions of rapture” and “echoes of mercy, whispers of love.” Fanny Crosby was blind, but she saw what was most important with crystal clarity. She saw Jesus and she knew that he is made visible in this world through acts of mercy and love.
- By the end of today’s confrontation, the roles have been reversed. The man born blind sees in multiple ways while the religious leaders – so certain of how God works – are blind to what God is now doing. Such blindness lingers, of course. Humans continue to prefer the shadow of war. Of hate and violence and power and lies and false religion that ignores the cries of the poor. We continue in sin. We continue to walk in death’s dark valley. But Jesus stands before you today once more. He sees you. You who were blind, look! You who were trapped in sin, be free. You are forgiven. You who were dead, live. Living as children of the light, signs of visible mercy and love for all the world to see. Christ calls you, and when Christ calls, new purpose is given. Here at Grace, we live into this purpose, to grow in grace, live with love, and go to serve. Your eyes are open. Live as children of light. Look ever to Jesus and listen as he sends you forth. Amen.
And now may that peace that passes all understanding keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus, this day and forever. Amen.
This sermon was preached at Grace Lutheran Church (River Forest, IL) on March 1, the 2nd Sunday in Lent. You can watch the livestream recording and follow along in the bulletin. The image is a study for Nicodemus Visiting Jesus, by Henry Ossawa Tanner (1899, public domain).
Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace be unto you and peace in the name God the Father and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
- The boys had a half-day of school on Thursday, so we decided to treat ourselves. We got some drive-thru fast food and then made our way to the car wash. Do not accuse of us not knowing how to have a good time! But a strange thing happened to us in the car wash. The conveyor belt kept moving our car forward, just as it should. The car in front us, however, had come to a complete stop. I don’t know if the car wash failed in some way or if the driver had his foot on the brake. I just know that the car wash started ramming our car into the car in front of us. The boys and I were sitting there helplessly through three very low-speed collisions. We couldn’t go back. We couldn’t go forward. And while this only lasted handful of seconds, the seconds were incredibly long. What if we were stuck there forever, endlessly running into the car in front of us? Lifting up our eyes not to the hills, but to the long blue cloths going back and forth across our windshield, we wondered from where our help would come. It certainly wasn’t going to come from us; there was nothing we could do. Driving away when our great ordeal was over, I thought, “Huh. I bet that’s how Nicodemus felt when he was talking with Jesus.”
- Nicodemus, this Pharisee and teacher, gets as far as he can get on his own. He comes to Jesus by night, intrigued by this new teacher, Jesus, but also no doubt confident in his own understanding. But the longer the conversation lasts, the more Nicodemus ends up trapped in a confusing darkness. Jesus throws him off from the get-go, telling him that he won’t be able to see God at work without being born anothen. In our translation today, that’s “born from above.” In others, it’s “born again.” It could also be “born anew.” Jesus likely has all three meanings in mind: If you want to see the reign of God, you must be born again, from above, in a new way. In the dark of night, Nicodemus imagines an even darker place. Must I, he muses, enter into my mother’s womb? If it sounds funny, that’s because it is. Imagine how his mother would feel about that! Nicodemus needs a new birth that he does not understand. He knows he can’t go back, but where is the way forward? He’s gotten himself as far as he can with nothing to show for it.
- We humans have a knack for this. Whatever our intentions, we seem to end up stuck in the same spots over and over again, unable to go back, unable to find a way forward. So, we try the same things over and over again. Like war. I woke yesterday to a flurry of notifications on my phone, each telling me the same thing: We are at war with Iran. My heart sank. Not because I had any love for the Ayatollah or his regime, built on terror and the abuse of human rights. My heart sank because war is always lamentable. Because lives will be lost on all sides. Because it is unclear what we’re even trying to accomplish. I could go on. But the point is that here we are again, humans on all sides committed to the cycles of warfare and violence and death when what God desires is life. How long, O Lord? From where is our help to come? Perhaps God will work through us. Yesterday, Bishop Dr. Imad Haddad of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Jordan and the Holy Land issued a statement, including these words: “Now is the time for the global body of Christ to embody its vocation as peacemaker, seeking not the quiet of managed conflict, but the costly, just peace that transforms hearts, structures, and the life of our region.” Yes. Now is the time to work for life.
- Having seen humanity go off the rails time and time again in the first eleven chapters, God decides to make a fresh start, to call a people who will be the means of blessing all families of the earth. All families. God comes to Abram calling him to journey to a new land, hundreds of miles away, to which he and Sarai have never been. What sense does that make? They don’t even have a child, so “great nation” seems a bit of a stretch. It’s farcical but they go. Why? Because the call makes sense? No. Because they trust the One who calls. It is the very definition of a leap of faith. Either they go or they don’t, and going makes all the difference. Abram and Sarai are living in Haran at this point in time. According to one pastor’s commentary, the name Haran means “crossroads.” And that’s exactly what it was for our forebears in faith. They could have ignored the call, trusting in their own plans for their lives, choosing a different path. Instead, they went, trusting in God’s plan for this whole world and its people.
- Two thousand years later. Nicodemus is at a crossroads. While Jesus’ words don’t make sense according to the ways of the world, Nicodemus is invited to put his faith in Jesus. Jesus is walking his own road, and it is heading straight to the cross. He will be lifted up for all to see, looking for all the world forgotten and shamed. And yet it is here in what seems to be the darkest moment that new life and light burst forth. The Spirit, blowing where it will, calls us to look upon Jesus and gives us eyes of faith to believe, to trust, that this Jesus is the salvation of the world. That in him, even though we will yet die, we will not perish but will receive eternal life. Here is the birth from above of which Jesus speaks – not a second birth from the womb but a new birth from the tomb. We worship the God who has conquered death, and that makes us people of life. For all families and nations of the earth, we are called to the ways of life and peace.
- I’m not sure why Nicodemus came to Jesus by night. Perhaps he was ashamed of his curiosity, or worried about what the other Pharisees would say. Perhaps it’s just good story telling; he was, after all, in the dark. I was reminded this week while reading The Christian Century of Barbara Brown Taylor’s Learning to Walk in the Dark. While we tend to fear the dark or use it for furtive purposes, Taylor reminds us that “new life starts in the dark. Whether it is a seed in the ground, a baby in the womb, or Jesus in the tomb, it starts in the dark.” Our faith begins in at the crossroads in the darkness. We can’t go back; neither can we see a way forward. From where will our help come? In the darkness, a voice speaks: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” Jesus makes the way; Jesus is the way. This is the free gift of grace. Life. For all the world. Life. For you. Life. Forever. Amen.
And now may that peace that passes all understanding keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus, this day and forever. Amen.
